Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: A variety of stories in the Life + 70 public domain: humour, horror (including a zombie tale from 1901), adventure, crime... some names new to the series, including Edward Parrish Ware, a prolific pulp writer, and Herman Howard Matteson. 1: Rats / M. R. James 2: The Artists Story / L. de Chavanne 3: The Man Who Shunned the Light / Arthur Leeds 4: The Fox's Earth / Muriel A. Pollexfen 5: Old Aeson / A. T. Quiller-Couch 6: Thone of Chaos / "J. F. B." 7: With Much Gusto / Herman Howard Matteson 8: The Whispering Shell / Herman Howard Matteson 9: The Thing From Antares / Meyer Krulfeld 10: Rogue's

PAST MASTERS 109

Produced and Edited by Terry Walker ("Pulpmeister") from short stories in magazines, newspapers and other sources, and all in the Life + 70 years public domain.

12 December 2022

Contents

1: Rats / M. R. James

2: The Artists Story / L. de Chavanne

3: The Man Who Shunned the Light / Arthur Leeds

4: The Fox's Earth / Muriel A. Pollexfen

5: Old Aeson / A. T. Quiller-Couch

6: Thone of Chaos / "J. F. B."

7: With Much Gusto / Herman Howard Matteson

8: The Whispering Shell / Herman Howard Matteson

9: The Thing From Antares / Meyer Krulfeld

10: Rogue's Room / Anonymous

11: Detective Death / Anonymous

12: The Mystery of the Thirty Millions / T. F.  Anderson and H. D. Umbstaetter

13: Roll and Go! / Captain Dingle

14: Adventure / Fred M. White

15: Braybridge's Offer / William Dean Howells

16: The Man With the Nose / Rhoda Broughton

17: The Wastrel / Ernest Favenc

18: The Living Dead / Ernest Favenc

19: Fear / Achmed Abdullah

20: A Sleeping Car Tragedy / W. L. Alden

21: Killer's Can't Fly / Edward Parrish Ware

22: Hell's Back Room / Edward Parrish Ware

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1: Rats

M. R. James

1862-1936

At Random, 23 March 1929

"And if you was to walk through the bedrooms now, you'd see the ragged, mouldy bedclothes a-heaving and a-heaving like seas."

"And a-heaving and a-heaving with what?" he says.

"Why, with the rats under 'em."

BUT was it with the rats? I ask, because in another case it was not. I cannot put a date to the story, but I was young when I heard it, and the teller was old. It is an ill-proportioned tale, but that is my fault, not his.

It happened in Suffolk, near the coast. In a place where the road makes a sudden dip and then a sudden rise; as you go northward, at the top of that rise, stands a house on the left of the road. It is a tall red-brick house, narrow for its height; perhaps it was built about 1770. The top of the front has a low triangular pediment with a round window in the centre. Behind it are stables and offices, and such garden as it has is behind them. Scraggy Scotch firs are near it: an expanse of gorse-covered land stretches away from it. It commands a view of the distant sea from the upper windows of the front. A sign on a post stands before the door; or did so stand, for though it was an inn of repute once, I believe it is so no longer.

To this inn came my acquaintance, Mr. Thomson, when he was a young man, on a fine spring day, coming from the University of Cambridge, and desirous of solitude in tolerable quarters and time for reading. These he found, for the landlord and his wife had been in service and could make a visitor comfortable, and there was no one else staying in the inn. He had a large room on the first floor commanding the road and the view, and if it faced east, why, that could not be helped; the house was well built and warm.

He spent very tranquil and uneventful days: work all the morning, an afternoon perambulation of the country round, a little conversation with country company or the people of the inn in the evening over the then fashionable drink of brandy and water, a little more reading and writing, and bed; and he would have been content that this should continue for the full month he had at disposal, so well was his work progressing, and so fine was the April of that year— which I have reason to believe was that which Orlando Whistlecraft chronicles in his weather record as the "Charming Year."

One of his walks took him along the northern road, which stands high and traverses a wide common, called a heath. On the bright afternoon when he first chose this direction his eye caught a white object some hundreds of yards to the left of the road, and he felt it necessary to make sure what this might be. It was not long before he was standing by it, and found himself looking at a square block of white stone fashioned somewhat like the base of a pillar, with a square hole in the upper surface. Just such another you may see at this day on Thetford Heath. After taking stock of it he contemplated for a few minutes the view, which offered a church tower or two, some red roofs of cottages and windows winking in the sun, and the expanse of sea— also with an occasional wink and gleam upon it— and so pursued his way.

In the desultory evening talk in the bar, he asked why the white stone was there on the common.

"A old-fashioned thing, that is," said the landlord (Mr. Betts), "we was none of us alive when that was put there."

"That's right," said another.

"It stands pretty high," said Mr. Thomson, "I dare say a sea-mark was on it some time back."

"Ah! yes," Mr. Betts agreed, "I 'ave 'eard they could see it from the boats; but whatever there was, it's fell to bits this long time."

"Good job too," said a third, " 'twarn't a lucky mark, by what the old men used to say; not lucky for the fishin', I mean to say."

"Why ever not?" said Thomson.

"Well, I never see it myself," was the answer, "but they 'ad some funny ideas, what I mean, peculiar, them old chaps, and I shouldn't wonder but what they made away with it theirselves."

It was impossible to get anything clearer than this: the company, never very voluble, fell silent, and when next someone spoke it was of village affairs and crops. Mr. Betts was the speaker.

Not every day did Thomson consult his health by taking a country walk. One very fine afternoon found him busily writing at three o'clock. Then he stretched himself and rose, and walked out of his room into the passage. Facing him was another room, then the stair-head, then two more rooms, one looking out to the back, the other to the south. At the south end of the passage was a window, to which he went, considering with himself that it was rather a shame to waste such a fine afternoon. However, work was paramount just at the moment; he thought he would just take five minutes off and go back to it, and those five minutes he would employ— the Bettses could not possibly object— to looking at the other rooms in the passage, which he had never seen. Nobody at all, it seemed, was indoors; probably, as it was market day, they were all gone to the town, except perhaps a maid in the bar. Very still the house was, and the sun shone really hot; early flies buzzed in the window-panes. So he explored.

The room facing his own was undistinguished except for an old print of Bury St. Edmunds; the two next him on his side of the passage were gay and clean, with one window apiece, whereas his had two. Remained the south-west room, opposite to the last which he had entered. This was locked; but Thomson was in a mood of quite indefensible curiosity, and feeling confident that there could be no damaging secrets in a place so easily got at, he proceeded to fetch the key of his own room, and when that did not answer, to collect the keys of the other three. One of them fitted, and he opened the door.

The room had two windows looking south and west, so it was as bright and the sun as hot upon it as could be. Here there was no carpet, but bare boards; no pictures, no washing-stand, only a bed, in the farther corner: an iron bed, with mattress and bolster, covered with a bluish check counterpane. As featureless a room as you can well imagine, and yet there was something that made Thomson close the door very quickly and yet quietly behind him and lean against the window-sill in the passage, actually quivering all over. It was this, that under the counterpane someone lay, and not only lay, but stirred. That it was some one and not some thing was certain, because the shape of a head was unmistakable on the bolster; and yet it was all covered, and no one lies with covered head but a dead person; and this was not dead, not truly dead, for it heaved and shivered. If he had seen these things in dusk or by the light of a flickering candle, Thomson could have comforted himself and talked of fancy. On this bright day that was impossible. What was to be done? First, lock the door at all costs. Very gingerly he approached it and bending down listened, holding his breath; perhaps there might be a sound of heavy breathing, and a prosaic explanation. There was absolute silence.

But as, with a rather tremulous hand, he put the key into its hole and turned it, it rattled, and on the instant a stumbling padding tread was heard coming towards the door.

Thomson fled like a rabbit to his room and locked himself in: futile enough, he knew it was; would doors and locks be any obstacle to what he suspected? but it was all he could think of at the moment, and in fact nothing happened; only there was a time of acute suspense— followed by a misery of doubt as to what to do. The impulse, of course, was to slip away as soon as possible from a house which contained such an inmate. But only the day before he had said he should be staying for at least a week more, and how if he changed plans could he avoid the suspicion of having pried into places where he certainly had no business? Moreover, either the Bettses knew all about the inmate, and yet did not leave the house, or knew nothing, which equally meant that there was nothing to be afraid of, or knew just enough to make them shut up the room, but not enough to weigh on their spirits: in any of these cases it seemed that not much was to be feared, and certainly so far he had had no sort of ugly experience. On the whole the line of least resistance was to stay.

Well, he stayed out his week. Nothing took him past that door, and, often as he would pause in a quiet hour of day or night in the passage and listen, and listen, no sound whatever issued from that direction. You might have thought that Thomson would have made some attempt at ferreting out stories connected with the inn— hardly perhaps from Betts, but from the parson of the parish, or old people in the village; but no, the reticence which commonly falls on people who have had strange experiences, and believe in them, was upon him.

Nevertheless, as the end of his stay drew near, his yearning after some kind of explanation grew more and more acute. On his solitary walks he persisted in planning out some way, the least obtrusive, of getting another daylight glimpse into that room, and eventually arrived at this scheme. He would leave by an afternoon train— about four o'clock. When his fly was waiting, and his luggage on it, he would make one last expedition upstairs to look round his own room and see if anything was left unpacked, and then, with that key, which he had contrived to oil (as if that made any difference!), the door should once more be opened, for a moment, and shut.

So it worked out. The bill was paid, the consequent small talk gone through while the fly was loaded: "Pleasant part of the country— been very comfortable, thanks to you and Mrs. Betts— hope to come back some time," on one side: on the other, "very glad you've found satisfaction, sir, done our best—always glad to 'ave your good word— very much favoured we've been with the weather, to be sure." Then, "I'll just take a look upstairs in case I've left a book or something out— no, don't trouble, I'll be back in a minute."

And as noiselessly as possible he stole to the door and opened it. The shattering of the illusion! He almost laughed aloud. Propped, or you might say sitting, on the edge of the bed was— nothing in the round world but a scarecrow! A scarecrow out of the garden, of course, dumped into the deserted room.... Yes; but here amusement ceased. Have scarecrows bare bony feet? Do their heads loll on to their shoulders? Have they iron collars and links of chain about their necks? Can they get up and move, if never so stiffly, across a floor, with wagging head and arms close at their sides? and shiver?

The slam of the door, the dash to the stair-head, the leap downstairs, were followed by a faint. Awaking, Thomson saw Betts standing over him with the brandy bottle and a very reproachful face.

"You shouldn't a done so, sir, really you shouldn't. It ain't a kind way to act by persons as done the best they could for you."

Thomson heard words of this kind, but what he said in reply he did not know. Mr. Betts, and perhaps even more Mrs. Betts, found it hard to accept his apologies and his assurances that he would say no word that could damage the good name of the house. However, they were accepted. Since the train could not now be caught, it was arranged that Thomson should be driven to the town to sleep there. Before he went the Bettses told him what little they knew.

"They says he was landlord 'ere a long time back, and was in with the 'ighwaymen that 'ad their beat about the 'eath. That's how he come by his end: 'ung in chains, they say, up where you see that stone what the gallus stood in. Yes, the fishermen made away with that, I believe, because they see it out at sea and it kep' the fish off, according to their idea. Yes, we 'ad the account from the people that 'ad the 'ouse before we come. 'You keep that room shut up,' they says, 'but don't move the bed out, and you'll find there won't be no trouble.' And no more there 'as been; not once he haven't come out into the 'ouse, though what he may do now there ain't no sayin'. Anyway, you're the first I know on that's seen him since we've been 'ere: I never set eyes on him myself, nor don't want. And ever since we've made the servants' rooms in the stablin', we ain't 'ad no difficulty that way. Only I do 'ope, sir, as you'll keep a close tongue, considerin' 'ow an 'ouse do get talked about": with more to this effect.

The promise of silence was kept for many years. The occasion of my hearing the story at last was this: that when Mr. Thomson came to stay with my father it fell to me to show him to his room, and instead of letting me open the door for him, he stepped forward and threw it open himself, and then for some moments stood in the doorway holding up his candle and looking narrowly into the interior. Then he seemed to recollect himself and said: "I beg your pardon. Very absurd, but I can't help doing that, for a particular reason." What that reason was I heard some days afterwards, and you have heard now.

________________

2: The Artists Story

L. de Chavanne

Countess Loveau de Chavanne, 1861-?

Queenslander, 8 Aug 1903

The Black Cat, June 1903

IT WAS ALMOST dusk, on a wintry afternoon, when I was sitting in my studio wondering if, after all, I had not been a fool in believing I was ever destined to make a living as an artist. My dear old father— a small manufacturer of silks at Lyons— had spared all that was possible from his savings to give me an art education in Paris. I had entered myself as a pupil at the Academy, and had been a most diligent student at the life classes. There the rapidity with which I worked, the general correctness of my drawings, and the truth of colour in my sketches earned for me much praise.

When my funds were almost exhausted— and I knew that, except under the most urgent necessity, I must not ask for more from home— l sought to fill my pockets by selling pictures to the art dealers. They gave me but little encouragement; all that the most favourable was willing to do was to put a picture in his window, and try to dispose of it— in which case I was to receive three-fourths of the purchase money.

Day after day I called to inquire if any discerner of unrecognlsed genius had found out the merit of my work. The same statement was always made to me— "a gentleman had looked at it and promised to call again."

But the mysterious promisera never did return. While I was meditating on my gloomy prospects I heard a low knock at the door. I rose and opened it. The gentleman who stood outside was tall, rather slender, and dressed in black, or very dark clothes— in the dim light I could not tell which.

"Monsieur Jacques Bourdin?" he inquired.

"Yes, Monsieur. Will you not do me the favour to enter?"

He bowed and passed in.

"I must apologise for asking you into a dark room," I said, as I moved towards the table on which stood a lamp. "I had almost fallen asleep in the twilight."

"Pray, do not light the lamp; my eyes are weak, and what I have to say to you I can say better as we are."

My curiosity was thoroughly aroused. My visitor was evidently a gentleman; his manner and accent proclaimed that. In his voice there was a sadness which at once evoked sympathy.

"As you will, Monsieur. To whom have I the honour of speaking?"

"I do not wish to give my name; I am here on business that can be transacted without disclosing it. I must ask you to excuse the customary formality."

I bowed and pointed to a chair. My visitor took it, paused a moment, as if thinking how he should begin, then spoke quickly, almost abruptly, as if he were anxious to lose as little time as possible.

"Monsieur Bourdin, I have been told by some one who knows you well —no matter who—that you can paint from life with great quickness and accuracy, i want a figure painted to-night."

"To-night!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, to-night, and it must be done before daylight to-morrow morning ; that is, the sketch; you can finish it here afterwards. The subject is a strange one, and the conditions on which I shall give the commission are that you submit to be taken to and brought from my house blindfolded ; that you shall not ask any questions; that you shall never tell anyone what you may see there; that you shall never show any one the picture you paint, or reveal its subject; and that if you should ever meet me after to-night you shall make no sign of recognition. l know that these are startling conditions, but I am willing to pay liberally. I will pay you one thousand francs now, and auother thousand when I send for the finished picture. Do you accept?"

For the moment I was stunned. Here was what seemed to be a fortune placed suddenly within my grasp. The conditions were certainly startling, but I was young, I had no fear, and the mystery piqued me. It seemed to me as if I had been suddenly transported back to the days of the Tour de Nesle, in which Marguerite de Valois summoned her lovers, who arrived blindfolded, and were borne away dead by the silent waters. If some such tragedy were in store for me I was poor enough and desperate enough to take all the chances.

"Well," said he, somewhat impatiently, "do you accept?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Good! Here are one thousand francs."

"I will give you a receipt."

"It is not necessary. Now gather your materials and select the largest canvas you have."

I got together what was needed.

"I am ready, Monsieur."

"Thou you must allow me to blindfold you. Give me your handkerchief. There ! Does that hurt you ?"

"No."

My hat was fortuantely a soft one. He turned the brim down so as to conceal the fact that my eyes were covered.

"Now, follow me to the carriage, and remember, Monsieur Bourdin, I trust to your honour as a gentleman to fulfil all the conditions I have imposed."

It was with no little difficulty that I managed to descend the stairs with my load. At the landings the stranger took hold of my elbow and gently guided me. As we passed into the street my companion spoke in a whisper to some one who was evidently awaiting him. I was then put into a carriage and driven rapidly away, but so many turns were made that I could not determine in what direction we were going. Some one was sitting by my side. I presumed it was my visitor, but he did not seem inclined to speak, and I had plenty to occupy my thoughts. Where was I being taken, and for what purpose? The more I pondered the more uneasy I became. My only comfort lay in the certainty that I had a thousand francs in my pocket.

After a while the carriage stopped, and I was told to get out. I was led up a flight of steps, entered a doorway, then up a staircase, and finally along a corridor. I judged from the height and width of the staircase, which was of stone or marble, and the rich carpeting on the passage and corridor, that I was in a grand mansion.

"Sit down, Monsieur Bourdin; there in a chair immediately behind you. When you hear me close the door of this room you may uncover your eyes and begin. You are to paint, precisely as it is, the—  what is lying on the bed. You must finish before 5 o'clock to-morrow morning. When you are ready to go away you must rebandage your eyes, then sound a bell you will find on the table. A person will come and conduct you to your stuaio. In ten or twelve days I will send for the picture; it must be packed so that no one can see it, and you must pack it yourself. The person who will come for it will pay you the second thousand francs. You will find refreshments on the table. Now I leave you. Do not forget the conditions you have promised to keep."

I heard him close the door.

Then I eagerly tore the bandage from my face. The glare of a brilliantly-lighted room oppressed my eyes for a few seconds, and I could only distinguish that the apartment was large and magnificently furnished. As my vision grew clearer, I saw that almost immediately in front of me was a very handsome coffin, standing on a platform, or dais, covered with black velvet.

I had been prepared for something strange, but the sudden sight of the coffin made me shudder. In a moment or two, however, I gathered courage enough to walk toward It. I raised the cover; it was empty. The lid stood by ttrb side, and some of the silver screws had fallen on the floor. I picked one up and looked at it. Evidently the coffin had been opened by some unpractised hand. Where was its occupant? Instinctively I turned toward the bed.

On it was lying the body of a woman. I looked at the face. I think it was the most beautiful I had ever seen. The expression was so calm and happy, and it was difficult to believe she was not sleeping.

I had noticed only the face. As my eyes passed from that to her body, a sight met them which drew from me a cry of horror and rage. Her breast was bared, and through her heart a jewel-handled dagger was buried to the hilt!

I felt ill and faint. I went to the table and took a long draught of brandy. Then I came back to the bedside. It was not, as I had tried to persuade myself, a horrible dream, a phantasy. There was the dagger, driven with unerring aim and deadly force. No blood had escaped from the wound. The bleeding must have been wholly internal. Again I glanced at the sweet, peaceful face. There was nothing in it to indicate the agony which I had been taught to look for in painful and sudden death.

Where am I? Upon what frightful tragedy had I lighted? Had this murdered woman been a faithless wife, or was she some innocent girl who had been enticed here to rneht ruin and death? What should I do? What could I do? My first impulse was to raise an alarm, but a moment's reflection convinced me of the uselessness and danger of such a proceeding.

It was evident that the person or persons who had committed this crime would not hesitate at another to insure safety. I had no idea in what quarter of Paris I was, nor of how to gain egress from the house. Besides, I had heard the door locked behind me, but why should any one desire to perpetuate this terrible eight on canvas? That was a question I could not answer, I though I racked my brain for a response.

Then I looked again at the body, and the frightful fascination of the subject began to enthrall me. Its grim awfulness appealed to something in my artistic nature and urged me with irresistible force to begin work. I had always had a touch of morbidness in my inspirations, yet I had never, conceived such a combination of the beautiful and the horrible.

Yes, whatever I might feel it my duty to do on the morrow, I would work my best this night. An absorbing desire to express not only what I saw but what I felt took possession of me. Never before had I painted so quickly or so well. I obtained with a few touches effects that I had before vainly laboured to produce. It seemed as if it were almost controlled by some overwhelming force; it was an inspiration. The soul and power of a great artist had temporarily passed into me, and my poor hands and eyes were but the means through which another was working.

The hours flew rapidly by, but I laboured strenuously. The figure grew upon the canvas and began to look realistic in its death-like fidelity. At last my aching hands and aims compelled me to rest. I looked everywhere lor eomo mark or sign by which I could discover in whose house I was. Not the faintest clue rewarded my, search— nothing bearing a name, initial or monogram was to be found.

Everything was of the most costly and luxurious description. Monty had been lavishly spent in every direction. The coffin was a work of art— its chased handles and bars were of silver and gold— but the name-plate had not been attached. I noticed every detail with great minuteness, because I determined that the maker of so unusually splendid a coffin could easily be found, and that through him was the clearest and easiest way of bringing to justice the perpetrators of this foul crime.

Then I went, back to my painting and again the fever of inspired work seized me. I was scarcely sensible of the lapse of time till the clock upon the mantelpiece warned me that it was already 5.

After considerable trouble I managed to pack my sketch in a way that would cover it without injuring the moist colours. I collected my brushes and tubes, tied the handkerchief over my eyes, and rang the bell.

Almost immediately I heard the door unlocked and the sad voice whose tones had become so thoroughly impressed on my memory asked:

"How have you succeeded?"

"Well."

"I am very glad. I will now take you to your studio. Come."

He led me through the passage, down the staircase, and to the carriage. When I seated myself he took his place by my side. The horses were urged to a rapid pace, so fast, indeed, that I wondered the police did not interfere. My companion did not utter a word. When the carriage stopped, he helped me to descend, took me as tar as the first staircase, and said:

"When you reach the next landing you may uncover your eyes. I shall send for the picture in twelve days. Remember your promises; keep faith with me, and you may secure a more powerful friend than you imagine. 'Good day."

I heard him go away. The temptation, to follow and instantly denounce him was almost irresistible. But sober second thoughts came to my aid. I refloated that he had at least one and probably two confederates in the carriage, and that at so early an hour it was unlikely I should find any one to render me efficient assistance, should I make an outcry.

I passed upstairs and took off my handkerchief. When I was once safe in my own room, I was torn by distracting doubts as to what I ought to do. If I held my tongue I should make two thousand francs certain, and possibly more in the future. Could I afford to throw away this wonderful opportunity?

If I should inform the police I might very possibly be regarded as a madman, or, if my story were believed and the murderer or murderers traced, I should undoubtedly incur the vengeance of rich and powerful villains. My solemn promise, too, bound me to secrecy. But, then, I told myself I was not compelled to keep that when the doing so would involve the escape of a murderer.

At last exhausted nature, which had been subjected to the most severe tension for twelve hours, claimed her rights. I slept, but my dreams were hideous. The figure of the dead woman rose ever before my fancy. She pointed to the dagger in her heart and seemed to entreat me to speak, although I heard no words and could not distinguish any sound.

It was nearly dusk when I awoke, troubled and refreshed, but with my mind fully made up to tell the police all I knew. I understood the necessity for acting with all possible despatch, but I was hungry, and felt that I needed something to give me strength and confidence before I undertook to make my extraordinary revelation. After I had once decided on a plan of action I felt easier. The dread of the ever-haunting presence of the dead woman began to disappear.

I went to a restaurant I had been in the habit of frequenting when richer. Some of that villain's thousand francs should help to give me strength to denounce him. This idea pleased me, for it seemed to savour of retribution.

I took up Le Figaro,  turned over the pages carelessly, almost unconsciously, and was just about to lay it down when on the last page my eye caught this heading:—

FUNERAL OF THE BEAUTIFUL

MARQUISE DE VALLECOURT

The words startled me, for I had heard of the beauty of the lady about whom all male Paris had been raving for some months. I had never had an opportunity of seeing her, though I had much wished to do so. I did not know that she had been ill, and to learn suddenly that she was dead and burled shocked me not a little.

I read the article with considerable interest. It stated that the Marquise had died four days before of diphtheria after only a short illness. The last part of the article gave a brief description of the lady's appearance.

As I read on I became more and more engrossed, for I could not but believe that the murdered woman whom I had sketched and the Marquise was one. The recognition of this fact frightened me. I could not help seeing that such a charge made against a man occupying the rank and station of the Marquise de Vallecourt would need more substantial proof than was to be found In my extraordinary story.

It was with great difficulty that I could manage to eat a part of my dinner. That done, I went back to my studio, took my sketch, and set off for the office of the Minister of Police. I inquired for him, and after having, stated to one or two minor officials that my business was of the utmost secrecy and importance, I was informed that he had gone home.

"Could I not communicate my wishes to his representative?"

On my replying negatively, I was told that if I particularly desired it I could be taken to the Minister's house, or I could see him at his office the next morning.

I dreaded a night with that fearful secret still undisclosed, so I chose the former alternative. I trembled a little when I was ushered into the presence of the famous Minister, but his calm, quiet manner soon reassured me.

"What is it that you have to disclose, Monsieur?" he asked.

"The secret of a murder, Monsieur."

"Well?"

"I wish to confide to you alone," I said, as I glanced at the gentleman who had accompanied me from the office.

"That is impossible. Monsieur Rousseau is in possession of all the secrets of my department. Even if I were to bear you alone, I should be compelled to confide in others before I could act upon your story. Why do you hesitate?"

"Because, Monsieur, my accusation will appear almost incredible. I charge the Marquis de Vallecourt with being the murderer of his wife."

The Minister, who prided himself on his imperturbability, could not resist showing his surprise. He glanced at Monsieur Rousseau with an air of pity and contempt. I am sure that he thought I was mad.

"Madame la Marquise died of diphtheria. My wife knew her well, and was greatly grieved at her illness and death. On what grounds do you base such a charge?"

I told my story as briefly as I could. Both my hearers listened attentively, but, I felt, incredulously. When I had finished the Minister asked:

"What proof have you of the truth of this extraordinary tale?"

"None," I answered, "except the sketch I made. I had never seen the Marquise in life; if it be indeed her likeness, no other proof of my truth is needed."

"I knew her well," said the Minister. "Show me the sketch."

I unpacked It and placed it before him. He started as If he had been violently struck.

"It is indeed the Marquise," he murmured. Then turning to me he said: "Describe the man who came to your studio."

"I could not see him well. I think he had a moustache; he was tall and slender, and spoke in a low. sad voice."

"That would be a rough description of the Marquis, eh, Monsieur Rousseau?"

"Yes, Monsieur. I have heard that the Marquis was overwhelmed with grief, and that some of his friends feared for his reason."

"A needless fear," said I; "his grief is only remorse, or perhaps dread of discovery." The instincts at the detective, who distrusts everybody and everything, were beginning to be aroused in me.

"Monsieur Bourdin, Justice is indebted to you. All that can be done to-night shall be done. In the morning I shall again claim your aid. Go to your rooms at once, and do not leave them or speak to any one till I send for you; and lest you should be in personal danger, I will have the entrance to your apartment watched."

I thanked him for his courtesy, though I could not help knowing that he was actuated quite as much by a desire not to have me escape as by his wish to protect me.

Monseur Rousseau called for me in the morning. He told me I should have to accompany him to the cemetery of Pere la Chaise, as the Minister had decided to have the coffin of the Marquise taken from the family vault and opened. It had been brought into a room of the mortuary chapel when we arrived. The Minister and two or three assistants were examining the body. The wound had been found exactly as I had described.

I was cordially received by the Minister, and told that the Marquis had been sent for under the pretext that there had been some informality about the register of the Interment. Orders bad also been given to bring tbe doctor who had signed the certificate of death, and also one of the surgeons attached to the Department of Justice. I felt elated at my success and importance, and bad no longer any qualms about my broken promise. All Paris, I was sure, would soon be ringing with praises of my shrewdness and courage.

Presently a gentleman entered, whispered to the Minister, and handed him something wrapped in paper. It proved to be the dagger I had described.

"Let the Marquis be brought in," said the Minister. All eyes were on the door. The Marquis entered, looking pale and thoughtful. When he saw me, his look changed to one I tried hard to think showed fear, but still it seemed to me only like contempt.

"Ah, Monsieur Bourdin! I thought you were a gentleman. I sec I made a mistake. You have betrayed me."

"Is it betrayal to give a criminal to Justice?"

He looked at me, and smiled ever so faintly, yet still perceptibly.

"Monsieur le Marquis," said the Minister, "I regret to be compelled to inform you that you are charged with having murdered your wife."

"Who makes this charge?"

"Monsieur Bourdin, who states that he saw her lying with a dagger buried in her heart."

"That is true."

"He confesses! Officers, arrest him."

"One moment, Monsieur le Minister. When that dagger was driven into my wife's heart it had ceased to beat for more than two days."

"Explain yourself, Monsieur."

"Madame la Marquise had a morbid dread of being buried alive. She made me swear to her that if she died before me, I would not allow her to be buried until her heart had been punctured. After the surgeons had pronounced her dead, I had her interred in the coffin where my beloved now rests; then after the funeral service, I determined that as her lightest wish was sacred to me when alive, so should a solemn request be honoured in death. I removed her body from the coffin, placed her upon a bed, and while her dear lips smiled upon me, in her last sleep, drove a dagger through her heart. Leaving the room where she was lying, I seriously contemplated following her— l thought the thing over, gentlemen, philosophically, and finally determined to live a life which should be devoted to her glorious memory. Then it was that a fear possessed me. 'What if in time to come I should be visited by my dear one?' for I believe in spiritual communication. Then it was that I decided that I should have something to which I could point and say, 'Behold, have I not done as you desired?' In this state I sought out Monsieur Bourdin. He has doubtless told you all else that you wish to know. The reason I desired to keep the matter secret can be easily understood."

The two doctors had arrived in time to hear the Marquis's explanation. They needed only to glance at the body to confirm his words. Oh, how poor and miserable I felt! I crossed over to where the Marquis stood, and I knelt at his feet.

"Monsieur," I cried, " take back your money and the sketch, and try to forgive me."

"Rise, Monsieur— l have forgiven you. I asked and expected more trust than I had a right to believe a stranger could have given to a stranger. Keep the money; finish the picture— and I hope it will not be the last you shall paint for me."

_________________

3: The Man Who Shunned the Light

Arthur Leeds
fl. 1915-1926

The Black Cat, Feb 1915

Author of six or so short stories, about half of them in The Black Cat magazine. Nothing else is known.

I RECOGNISED Langhorn's handwriting the moment I glanced at the envelope; and to say that I was surprised at hearing from him, after so long a silence, is putting it mildly. But my astonishment and curiosity were tripled at the message which the envelope contained.

"Do not be alarmed, my dear Marden," it read, "at the contents of this letter, my first to you in so long a time. But above all, I beg of you, if ever friendship bound us together, do not fail in doing just what I am about to ask of you. If you do this for me you will see me once more; but you will never talk with me again. Yet, I have another and a very important message for you. There is something that you, if not the whole world, should know, and which will be communicated to you when next you see me. I have been living for the past two years and a half at number xo8 West 57th Street— the old Partington residence— and for the past six or seven months I have been entirely alone. Now, Marden, I want you to come to me at this address, any time this afternoon after two o'clock. The experiment upon which I am now engaged will have been fully completed by that time; and I do not wish to have anyone— not even you— disturb me before I have quite finished. You will find the front door unlocked. Admit yourself, and come straight into my workroom, the door of which faces the front entrance. Do not fail me, old friend; there is much that you should learn concerning me and my work."

In spite of Langhorn's admonition not to be alarmed, there were two things in his note which puzzled and even startled me considerably.

What did he mean by saying that if I complied with his wishes I might see him once more? And above all, what did he mean by saying that though I should see him again, I might never talk with him thereafter? Surely my old friend had not, in some strange way, been stricken dumb? Yet, what else could prevent him from conversing with me?

It was then eleven in the forenoon, and I spent the best part of the time until two o'clock making wild guesses as to what Langhorne could possibly mean, and what it was that he so earnestly desired to communicate to me. The taxicab which I engaged took me to the address mentioned in the note in less than half-an-hour; and as I dismissed the driver and mounted the steps, I remembered thinking that, in this great city of New York, a man might very easily become as far removed from his former associates, if he so desired, as if he were to journey to St. Petersburg or Yokohama.

As I opened the door and stepped into the hallway, I noticed that the accumulated dust of many months covered everything. I suppose I am somewhat of a crank on that subject, for on discovering nothing anywhere that resembled a hat-rack or hall-tree, I continued to hold my hat in my hand in preference to laying it on the heavily coated chair standing against the wall on my left. It did not need my old friend's letter to convince me that he had been living alone for a long time!

And what in the name of common sense was the man doing with the whole house— as it seemed to me, if one could judge by the heaviness of the air— sealed up on a stifling August afternoon? The place was as musty and close-smelling as a department store on a Monday morning. I held the street-door open for a moment or two, allowing the bright sunlight and what little breeze was starting to enter, before I advanced farther into the hall.

At the end of this hallway, and facing the front entrance, was another door covered with a heavy damask curtain. I closed the street-door quietly, and advancing toward the rear door, laid my hand on the knob.

I cannot explain what it was that made me hesitate to turn it. I can only compare the sensation to that which one experiences when, having laid a hand on one side of an electric knife-switch, he hesitates to complete the circuit by touching the other side, not knowing the severity of the shock which he may receive. A moment's pause, and then the curiosity to know all that my old friend's letter had meant, urged me on.

I swung open the door and advanced into the room. The stuffiness of the hallway was nothing compared with the odorsome closeness of this apartment. I glanced about, wondering if it were possible that the room was without a window. As my eyes turned to the left, however, I saw that a window was there; but it, like the door by which I had entered, was heavily curtained.

Observing this, I seemed to become conscious, for the first time, of the fact that the room was lighted solely by the electrolier that blazed down from the center of the ceiling— at half past two on a bright autumn afternoon! If Langhorne had recently been at work or reading in this room, why did he choose the electric light instead of the illumination provided by nature?

The intense curiosity, mingled with a vague alarm, that had filled my mind since reading his note. was growing momentarily greater. Where was he now? Why was he not here to receive me?

A second glance around the room showed me almost exactly what I had expected to find there. ln the corner to the right of the curtained window, stood a roll-top desk, before which was placed a three-fold, tapestry-covered screen, in such a way as to hide the greater part of the desk from my view. Shelves, reaching to the ceiling, lined that side of the room opposite the window; these were partly filled with books, portfolios and scientific magazines.

There were, however, several things in the room from which I deduced the fact that Langhorne had been living practically, in this one large apartment, for some time, at least. In one corner stood a rather short Davenport-bed. Not far from it, and connected by a rubber tube with an iron pipe rising a few inches from the floor, was a small gas-stove standing on a little table. It was evident that Langhorne had not only been sleeping in this room of late, but had also prepared his own meals there. I remembered having noticed a first-class restaurant only a block down the street, and my surprise increased accordingly. My friend's epicurean tastes in the past had more than once caused me to warn him against dire results of eating and drinking too well.

Everywhere about were distributed the tools, so to speak, of his trade— a professor of chemistry. Langhorne, wild as he had been in his student days, was always an enthusiast, loving his work as a part of himself. His lapses into dissipation served only to emphasize more strongly the true nature of the man— his determination. his originality of thought and ideas. his firmness in the face of argument, (even of ridicule, when he put forward a theory too startlingly original to be passed over in mere controversy), and his absolute devotion to his life work.

l was aware of the fact that up to the time when l had completely lost track of him, about three years before, he had contributed regularly to various medical and scientific journals; of late, however, I had not seen his name mentioned in any of the reviews, nor, so far as I was aware, had any of his articles been published. But I knew Langhorne was the kind of a man who, having his work to carry on, could readily adapt himself to any part of the world; and for some time it had been my belief that he had gone abroad, without advising any of his old friends, and was now, probably, conducting his experiments and researches in one of the European capitals.

It suddenly occured to me that the professor might have stepped out to make a purchase at one of the nearby stores; that that was his reason for telling me in his note to admit myself upon my arrival. Concluding that this must be the case, I prepared to sit down and await his return.

No chair was to be seen, however; the only seat was the Davenport in the corner. But a glance in the direction of the screen caused me to conclude that there would naturally be an office-chair before the desk which, a I have said, the screen almost hid from view. Advancing, I took hold of it by both sides and drew the folds together, preparatory to putting it to one side. As it closed up, it almost fell from my hands as I stepped back in startled bewilderment.

A chair was there, as I had expected. But in it sat Randall Langhorne. head and shoulders bent over the desk, his face the color of the cigar ash that lay on a little tray at his side. The left arm hung straight down over the side of the chair; the hand was tightly clenched. His right arm was sprawling across the desk, and the hand, which gripped a graduate-glass, was resting against the drawers at the back. There still remained on the inside of the glass perhaps a teaspoonful of dark, purplish liquid, and the fingers which grasped it, as well as the white blotter beneath, were stained a deep brown, recalling the discoloration left by a solution of potassium permanganate.

After the first shock, I had involuntarily reached out to grasp Langhorne's shoulder. But even as I did so, I paused and drew back my arm. His face was turned to the right; his eyes, wide open, seemed fixed with staring fascination at the glass in his hand. And in the corner, close to the hand, an envelope stood upright against the drawer. On it I read the one word— "Marden."

In front of this, flat on the desk, lay a sheet of typewriter bond paper, upon which, in large letters, had been written the startling request: "Do not touch me, Marden! Do not lay a finger upon me until you have read this letter."

In spite of myself, I shuddered as I read the admonition. There was something terrifying, some sinister suggestion in the words. Not that it was necessary to touch the man to tell that he was dead. The ashen face, the wide, staring eyes, the blackened lips, stained with the same brown color which disfigured the hand— from all these signs I judged that at least an hour must have passed since life had fled from this pitiable heap before me. It was the note that I dreaded; some unknown horror seemed to be lurking in its message.

In spite of myself, I felt that I would give almost anything if I could only avoid opening it at all. But Langhorne's last wish, his dying request, in fact, had been that I read this message and share his secret, whatever it was, with him.

With a trembling hand I picked up the envelope and tore it open, and read:

My dear old friend, in this, my last hour, I can turn only to you. Not for pity, though, Marden; pity and sympathy are not for such as l. I seek only your asistance in what will be my final experiment. I have met with considerable success in the past, as you know. I have proved my theories correct, as a rule; only once or twice have my experiments failed. My heartfelt prayer to God, now is, that this last test of my knowledge will be successful also. First, however, I must tell you my miserable story.

"You will remember the night when, just after you had returned from the Pacific coast, we met at the bar of the Cadillac. Kenyon was with me when you came in, and so was young Ludlow— the fellow some of the boys used to call 'the Lucios diamond kid.' You will remember, too, that while you were with us, Ludlow behaved himself extremely well— for Ludlow.

"About ten o'clock, you left us, saying that you were going home. After you had gone, we drifted over to Churchill's ; and it was shortly after one o'clock when Ludlow and I (Kenyon went off about midnight) were requested to leave the back room of a saloon in the neighborhood of Columbus Circle. l can remember passing the monument as we started home. I hadn't told you where I was living, Marden— in fact, I hadn't told anyone. Knowing me as you did in the old days, you know why. When I worked, I worked with all there was in me to labor with. I didn't want to be disturbed; I didn't want to be tempted away when my work called me. I knew my weakness ; so I cut myself off from everyone. I met you three fellows that night by the merest chance.

"But it was the devil in the form of Ludlow who walked with me that night, Marden. As we staggered along, he kept up a running fire of sneering remarks. First I was a 'would-be-famous scientist'. Then I was 'the greatest bluff that ever graduated.' Finally he declared that I was a 'hermit, a recluse merely for the sake of being called eccentric, but clever.'

"The liquor, I suppose, must have made me good-natured, rather than otherwise. for simply laughed at his insults ; and we went on together. Then, two blocks away from here, I said good-night and tned to leave him; but it was of no avail. Again and again, he asked me to take him to where I was living. At last be dared me to take him home with me. Mad, drunken fool that I must have been, I did.

"What followed, I must write down quickly. Even now my hand trembles, and I need all my strength for what is to come.

"Ludlow threw himself into this very chair where I now sit, one leg over the arm, swinging himself in a half-circle. ·At once he recommenced his drunken abuses, and I, as before, laughed at him. Suddenly, he took from his pocket a flask of brandy— I had no idea that he had any liquor upon him— and, after swallowing nearly half of it, be tossed it over to me. With drunken recklessness, I drained lhe flask; and just then Ludlow swung around and faced the desk.

"Marden, you remember the woman in my case? The one woman? I know you do; so I won't disgrace her fair name by putting it into this horrible confession. But her photograph was there, on top of the desk; and as Ludlow saw it he snatched it down. With a laugh that seemed to me like the cry of a beast, he swung around and faced me again.

"I won't— I could not repeat his words, old friend; they were unutterably vile. And be meant that of her, Marden, the woman upon whose grave, every Sunday since God took her from me, I had placed the white roses. I heard only his first sentence or two; from that moment, as God is soon to judge me, I forgot what really happened. I can dimly remember that Ludlow, very suddenly, became silent. Then, like one under the influence of an anaesthetic, I lost consciousness of everything.

"And, now, Marden, the end, but briefly. It must have been the morning sun, falling across my face as it entered this window which you see now darkly curtained, which at last awakened me. The moment I sat up I saw Ludlow; and in that moment I knew that he was dead. Then, in a flash, all came back to me, dimly— all, that is, up to the time he spoke those words. Weakly, I got up and went to him. As I leaned over the body, I saw. with horror, the deep cut in his left temple, and then the empty flask lying on the rug at his feet. That flask had been in my hand as he started to speak of her— the last words he had ever spoken I But he had driven me to it— he, the beast, the loose-tongued idler! Then the greatest horror of all came home to me. No one had seen Ludlow entering the house with me. I could easily tell Kenyon that he had left me and started for his home. I could just as easily dispose of Ludlow's body— which, Marden, I finally did— in such a way that it would never be found. But could I, could I ever again be happy, care-free, unhampered by the guilty chain that I had bound myself with on that accursed night of folly and dissipation? Would not the accusing sunlight, God's sunlight, which now flooded the room, forever cry out and mock me? Would I not hear forever in my ears the words, 'At the setting of one sun you were an innocent man. Life was yours to make what you would of; Fame was yours to win; Honor was yours. and Happiness— the memory of Love, sweeter, often, than the realization, belonged to you. But the night came in between; and at the rising of another sun you were a murderer, a useless thing, an outcast until life shall be over for you. Only then will come peace!'

"Marden, from that day to this, I have never seen the light— God's light. I could not; the horror of the past would only have been intensified. Up to about six months ago, l kept one servant, a combined valet and assistant. He was a good fellow and faithful, but I let him go. Sincethen I have been quite alone. The telephone brought to me all that I required ; but everything was left in the hallway; I never saw the front door open. I have contributed to the scientific journals frequently— you may have read something by 'Franklin Mathison.'

"But, now, Marden, it must end. 'Only then will come peace!' Now, I ask your aid— it will be easily given. For two months I have been working continuously on something which, had I lived an innocent man, might have brought me fame. Years ago, I conceived the idea of a liquid which, when injected into a dead body as we now inject embalming fluid, would have a directly opposite effect to that produced by the latter preparation. In other words, instead of preserving the body, it would destroy it utterly, bone and tissue alike. My theory was that the liquid would be entirely absorbed by every portion of the body, so that, having finished its subtle work of destruction, it would leave the corpse literally a mass of clay in the form of a man or woman— clay that could be almost instantly converted into an unrecognizable heap of dust. The idea was originally suggested by the remarks of a cousin of mine, who had a horror of being buried alive, and who, nevertheless, dreaded the idea of cremation. Again, I thought would not this be the easiest and most practical way of disposing of the bodies of executed criminals? There would also be a dozen different uses to which it could be successfulty put in surgical work of different kinds.

"Well, old friend, I have at last completed my work. I believe I have succeeded— but it will be for you to provethat. The failure or success of this, my last experiment, will never be known to me. But, I pray, you know not, Marden, how earnestly I pray, that it may be as I have hoped.

"By the addition of one other ingredient I have prepared a special fluid which, when I drillk it, as I shall do after signing this, will, I believe, produce in my body the changes of which I have spoken. Thus will I efface myself from the world of men— and of sunlight. Thus, in this death-chair, will I give my life to atone for the taking of his life, unworthy though he was. You will keep my secret, I know. God grant that the keeping of it may not weigh too heavily upon you! And now for the final test, and may God have mercy upon me! May happiness and peace be yours. Marden. Farewell."

TEARS filled my eyes as I concluded this terrible letter, the laying bare of a man's innermost soul. I knew Langhorne's sensitive nature; l realized how the constant brooding upon his crime had so preyed upon him, that the poor. broken, prematurely gray-haired wreck of a man that now sprawled in the office-chair was the result. As for his "experiment"— poor Langhorne. I understood, now, that toward the end. his mind had given away, and that the swallowing of the draught in the graduate-glass had produced no other result than he might have brought about with a well-aimed revolver bullet.

Something seemed to bedim the brightness of the electrolier, and a gloom which penetrated to the depths of my soul filled me as I laid the letter back on the desk and looked around. The Davenport caught my eye; I would lay the remains of my poor friend there while I went out to notify the proper authorities. That part of the letter referring to his crime , I would destroy; and his secret, as he had said, would be safe with me. The other parts of his note would make plain the manner in which he had ended his own life.

I could. of course, have made use of the telephone to get in communication with those who must now be called in, but l longed to get a breath of fresh air, and to escape into the very sunlight that poor Langhorne had apparently dreaded so deeply.

I had laid my hat down on the Davenport; now I picked it up and put it on the table. Then, crossing again to the chair— truly, as he had said, a death-chair— I stopped and placed my left hand upon the man's shoulder, while at the same time l grasped his right hand in an attempt to detach the glass from the cramped fingers.

As I did so, that part of what sat there in the chair, crumpled under my touch and fell away, like the sand falling through an hour-glass, and as I reeled back in unutterable dismay and horror, l saw the right sleeve flatten out limply upon the desk, while in place of the hand which held the graduate was a small heap of gray-black dust!

I closed my eyes. As I opened them again, l saw in the chair only a disordered pile of clothing, with a great deal more of the gray-black dust on the floor and the arms of the chair. Scattered about were little bunches of prematurely gray hair, and I knew, as I gazed, that Randall Langhorne's last experiment had been crowned with success!

__________________

4: The Fox's Earth

Muriel A. Pollexfen

1876-1923

The Grand Magazine Aug 1910

Adventure Sep 1911

A Gray Ghost Story. Pollexfen wrote six tales in this series for The Grand Magazine, commencing in February 1910, which are now hard to find. They were subsequently reprinted in Adventure. They are:

1. The Mystery of the Anne-Maria Petersen

2. A Stolen Navy
3. The Seeds of Destruction
4. The House Behind the Hoarding
5. The Conjurer of the Clouds
6. The Fox's Earth

Episode 5 can be found in Past Masters 83.

THERE were three words ringing in Algy Brett's head, and even in the excitement of his narrow escape from Gray Ghost he repeated them over and over again as the car which had befriended him took him swiftly back to town.

"Phelps, Carmichael Chambers. Phelps, Carmichael Chambers."

It was the address given by Ostermann to his lieutenant, Berne, and to which he had been instructed to go to get the code-chart for the entrance to "the cove."

Where was the cove? And what secret did it hold which was such a great one that even the Emperor Maximilian intended visiting it in person, and which Ostermann boasted the British Government would give all the gold in its coffers to be able to buy? Did the man called Phelps know? Or was he merely a tool employed to trace codecharts?

Carmichael Chambers were in Jermyn Street, and the number, he remembered, was thirteen. He would go himself and interview Phelps, and if Lieutenant Berne recovered sufficiently quickly and completely to be able also to call upon the gentleman at Carmichael Chambers— well, there was plenty of room for two everywhere! The "cove"? Where was it? What was it? Although he still felt ill and shaky, he determined to go to Jermyn Street then and there, brooking no interference from the motorists who had driven him in, though they protested he was mad to undertake such a business instead of going home to bed. But Algy had said Jermyn Street, and he meant it; and accordingly the car was switched round and headed for that direction.

Carmichael Chambers was a large block of flats near the Regent Street end of the narrow thoroughfare, and within five minutes Algy was being deposited at the big main entrance and assisted to alight by the gold-laced commissionaire.

Yes, he thought Mr. Phelps was in; in fact, Mr. Phelps very rarely went out, but an uncommon number of gentlemen visited him at odd intervals— mostly foreigners, too, they looked. But then Mr. Phelps himself was a foreigner, in spite of his English name, so there wasn't much to wonder at in that. No. 13 was on the third floor, and as the elevator was broken he would have to walk up.

The light was switched on in the hall of No. 13 as Algy Brett pressed the bell, and a heavy footfall sounded on the tiled floor.

"I shall get in anyway!" chuckled Algy excitedly as he watched a massive shadow of a hand silhouetted against the ground glass of the door panel. " I shall get in, and I'll be a fool if I can't pick up some little scrap of information concerning this secret 'cove' I've heard so much about to-day! What luck not having to turn burglar!"

The man who opened the door was an enormous creature with a heavy, stupidlooking face and narrow, cunning eyes filled now with a dull suspicion. If Algy had not been informed that his name was "Mr. Phelps," he would have instantly taken him for a foreign subject— probably Prussian or Low Dutch. As soon as the man opened his mouth it was very evident that the English name had been assumed.

Algy asked to see Mr. Ostermann, who, he understood, was sometimes to be found at the flat. He had not taken the risk of Lieutenant Berne's being unknown to Phelps, and had formed a hasty little concoction in his quick-working mind that he would pose as the secretary of a mythical aero club wanting the great Mr. Ostermann's support and patronage.

"Mr. Ostermann? Mr. Ostermann is in America. He vill not be 'ome till a long time. But I am his secretary and I vill forward however any letters through. Eh?"

"Awfully sorry, but I can't wait so long for a reply. But I dare say, Mr. Phelps, that you will be able to help me. May I come in? "

"You know my name, eh? You perhaps know Mr. Ostermann? Hein? But vot you want him for? "

"Why, of course I know Mr. Ostermann! What flying-man doesn't? My name's Marcus Hambledon, and I'm the secretary for the greatest aviation meeting ever held yet. America won't be in it! I want Mr. Ostermann to enter for it. May I show you the papers so that you can the better— ah, thanks!"

The fervently expressed gratitude was caused by the man holding open the door and inviting him to enter. And Algy accepted the invitation with alacrity. He was shown into a small study on the left of the door. There was a strong smell of tobacco in the air, and a tall tumbler with a drink mixed in it stood upon the center-table side by side with a pile of letters and a mass of papers. It was very evident that the man was alone in the flat, and that he had been occupying this room perusing the letters and papers when Algy's ring at the bell disturbed him.

It was an error of judgment that he should have ushered his visitor into this special room, but he was flustered, probably, by the sudden advent of Brett when he doubtless was expecting some one else, and subconsciously led the way back to the apartment he had just vacated. But Algy was hugely delighted. It was the very thing he most desired. He had not expected such luck to befall him as to be taken right in to the holy of holies, the secretary's— and more than probably the master's also— own room.

Gleefully he raked the place with his keen, expectant eyes, although to the mere observer he appeared rather a shy, stupid young man who had come to ask a favor of a very great man and who was apprehensively nervous at the magnitude of his daring.

THE walls were hung with numerous maps and sections of maps— mostly, Algy noticed, of the most sparsely-populated spaces of the world. One section, printed in a light pink coloring, particularly attracted him, and more especially so inasmuch as it had been taken down from its place on the wall and was erected on the table, supported by a pile of books, directly facing Phelps, as though he had been studying it. It was a map of Pennydale Moor, a vast tract of bogland in the extreme northeast of Northumberland and spreading to the coast. Below the map, on the blotter at which the secretary had been at work, was a square of thin tracing paper, and Algy could see the lines and tracings of either a plan or a chart.

As it happened, Algy knew the part of the country depicted on the pink-colored map very well, having an uncle— his father's brother— living at Carter Fell Castle, a place situated in the wildest part of the country and well over the border-line of the moor itself. His heart beat faster as he recognized the wild and lonely spot and realized the possibilities of the place. Could it be that he had so easily discovered the heart of the mystery? Surely not.

And yet in all England where could a man find a more desolate patch of country? Not even Dartmoor could boast of such a continuous stretch of desolation. The isolation of Carter Fell Castle had eaten into his heart when, as a boy, he had spent interminable holidays there, and even now the memory of the bleak and lonely house on the edge of the bog chilled the warm blood in his veins and sent a shoot of nameless dislike through his soul.

And yet a thrill of triumph accompanied the dishke when he realized that perhaps those very holidays of bitter memory were now to prove of the utmost value to him.

What if the "cove" spoken of by Ostermann were somewhere on that wild and barren coast? What more probable? What spot of England more inaccessible? The wild, waste moors stretching away for miles on one side and girt by miles of cliffs and barrenness on the other?

What if Ostermann had a secret haven for Gray Ghost in the very heart of Pennydale Moor? Who would be one whit the wiser? No one. Not in years did a man cross the arid waste of bog and fen; no track indented the miles of desolation; nothing grew save the rank marsh grasses and sedge and black fungus; nothing lived save the croaking marsh-fowl and in the Summer the myriads of mosquitoes and the little blue moths which fluttered continuously above the sedge. The very place in which to hide a secret! Invulnerable! Inaccessible! Silent as the grave! Untrodden!

And then the nearness of the rugged coast! The nearness of the coast! Had he found the secret? Was it there the "cove" was? Should he try and gain possession of the tracing-paper on the blotter and rest content with that?

Phelps's voice speaking in his ear recalled Algy from his brief reverie.

"Iss it a subscription vot you vant, or just Mr. Ostermann's promise to vly? I haf his orders to give subscriptions if I think so good, and I haf power to enter his name to vly if the meeting is recognizable by the Club. If you will give to me particulars I vill take them down and inform you the result within a day or two."

He sat down heavily at the table and picked up a pen. Out of the side of his eye Algy saw that he surreptitiously covered over with a piece of blotting-paper the tracing-drawing upon which he had so evidently been at work at the moment of Algy's unwelcome intrusion.

That Ostermann should employ such an obviously slow-thinking and stupid man as Phelps for his confidant was surprising to Brett, and he found himself wondering whether the notorious aviator really confided in the man or simply and daringly employed him as a draftsman. And yet the fellow had called himself "Mr. Ostermann's private secretary."

Leisurely he gave the man a mass of information concerning an entirely fictitious meeting to be held at a place to be selected later, supplied him with a number of well- known names as references, and begged him to use his influence with his employer to consent to permit his name to appear as a competitor— all of which the secretary carefully wrote down in laborious long-hand.

Then Algy rose to take his leave, and, as he did so, swayed for a moment, uttered a sharp cry, and staggered back into his seat, pressing his hand over his heart as though in sudden pain.

In an instant the secretary was fussing
over him, muttering thickly, a look of annoyance on his heavy, stupid face.

"Brandy, brandy!" murmured Algy from behind clenched teeth, hoping fervently that there was none in the room and that the man would fall into the trap and leave him alone for even a moment while he fetched some. But, to his immense disgust, the fat, self-styled secretary shuffled over to a little side-table in a far corner and Algy could hear the clink of glass as he removed the stopper from the decanter.

He gave a swift look round. The table with the bit of tracing-paper he was so anxious to get hold of was almost within an arm's-length; the secretary's back was toward him. He had but to reach over the table from where he sat and slip the coveted paper from beneath the blotter, and the secret he so urgently desired to discover would be his— he was sure of it! But was it possible to move without the fellow becoming suspicious and turning round? Was it?

He braced himself up for the try; he heard the trickle of the spirit pouring from the decanter to the glass; stealthily he leaned over the table; farther—farther; he heard the man replace the stopper; his finger touched the blotter and moved it an inch aside. The edge of the gray transparent tracing-paper jutted out from under; his fingers closed on it, drawing it swiftly, noiselessly, to him.

As the secretary turned from the side-table, glass in hand, Algy staggered to his feet with a groaning sigh, declaring that he was better and that the air would be the best thing for him, and profuse in his apologies and thanks.

He left the flat with his hand still clenched over his heart, but it held the tracing Phelps had been so anxious to hide, and Algy could scarce control the triumph he felt.

It was blazing out from his eyes as he ran down the steps and sprang into the car which still waited for him.

Looking at his watch, he found there was just time to catch the North Mail.

ii

SIX hours later Algy Brett was standing on the tiny platform of Tarnside station. Such utter darkness reigned that, having turned his back on the feeble light shed by the oil-lamps on the station, Algy felt as though he were about to step off the edge of the world into a limitless abyss.

He had not apprised his uncle of his intended visit and was therefore immensely relieved to find that he could get a lift in a farmer's cart to within a couple of miles of the lodge gates of Carter Fell Castle.

It was a bitter night, and as the chill hours passed he felt his enthusiasm fading and dwindling away as he grew colder and colder. It was a three hours' drive from the station to the castle, and he found himself wishing vainly that he had not been in such a hurry, but had taken the thing more slowly and come north in his car.

He was positively glad when the moment came to alight, and he commenced the long walk to the castle with a feeling of thankfulness that at last he would be able to revive the circulation in his frozen veins and regain a semblance of life in his leaden feet. Yet, at the same time, it was with a distinct sense of dismay that he said good-night to the farmer and heard him drive away, urging his horses through the heavy, rutted mud, and he stood still for a moment watching, till finally the curtain of mist and rain blotted them from his view.

"At least he was company— some one to speak to!" muttered Brett dismally as the farmer's tuneless whistle sounded down the wind. "I wish I'd not been in such a hurry to leave London. It would have been better to have waited and told old Schlesinger my plans and asked for some one to accompany me. I shall wire for some one from the Yard the first thing in the morning. I don't hope for the luck to find the cove and be present at his August Majesty Maximilian's interview with Ostermann at midnight to-night; but the secret will still be there, I suppose. If I locate the place by this time to-morrow it will be as much as I can do, and by this time to-morrow I'll take care to have a couple of the biggest fellows from the Yard to back me up. My stars, what a country! Not fit for beasts in this weather!"

It was almost an hour later when he sighted the towering bulk of the castle rising densely against the sky, its numerous towers and thick buttresses protruding grotesquely into the ebony night. Late though it was, a thin strip of light glimmered faintly through the narrow slit of window beside the solid, inhospitable-looking, fast-closed door. It was unlike his uncle to keep such— for that part of the world— late hours. Algy had counted upon having to rouse old Jacobs to admit him and get him supper. The old servant always slept in a little room to the right of the hall-door, and Algy had been about to make for that window when he espied the light shining through the hall.

Observing mentally that his uncle must have become giddy in his old age, Algy rang the bell and waited expectantly.

Nothing happened.

He rang again, the bell sounding like an army of clangorous demons shrieking through the stillness of the night. Still nothing happened and he rang a third time. It seemed an age before he heard a movement on the other side of the door, and he rapped impatiently with his knuckles. Then the noise of heavy chains being removed came to him, and finally the great door opened slowly and as though reluctantly, and a thin, yellow, wrinkled face peered through the narrow space. It was his uncle himself, but so cadaverous, so aged, so hideous with the weight of years, so changed from the hale and hearty man he had known in his boyhood that Algy could scarce repress a cry of astonishment.

"Uncle!" he cried, thrusting out his hand and stepping forward as though to enter. "Uncle, don't you remember me— Algy?"

The old man's foot shuffled against Algy's intruding one as though he would force ham to retire, and his little eyes, enveloped in a roll of wrinkles, glared maliciously up at him.

"What do you want? Where have you come from, eh? You can't come in at this time of night!"

He made as though to shut the door, but Algy forced it wider open and stepped inside, patting his uncle affectionately on the arm as he did so.

"Why, Uncle Stephen, you wouldn't turn your own nephew out into that awful night again, would you? Come, come, Uncle! Why, I don't believe you remembered me for a moment, did you? "

"No, no— that's it! I did not remember you, boy! You see, I was expecting some one else— not you at all— at least, I was expecting some one else in the morning, not to-night. You frightened me— ringing at the bell like that. Yes, that's it— I wasn't expecting my friend till the morning, and you frightened me. You must not heed an old man's tantrums, Algy. Come into the library. Now you are here you had better have some food. Sit there and tell me what has brought you here."

" Why, I came to see you, Uncle Stephen! " cried Algy, marveling at the tremendous change that had come over the old man, and resenting, though trying to fathom, the air of deep suspicion with which he so evidently regarded him.

"To see me, eh? What for? You— you haven't heard anything, eh?"

"Heard anything? What on earth do you mean, sir?" asked Algy, a doubt as to the old man's sanity becoming a certainty in his mind. "What is there to hear?" he repeated.

"Oh, nothing, nothing!" muttered his uncle, though his crafty eyes still shot looks of suspicion, and an uneasy nervousness was momentarily becoming more and more pronounced. "Nothing— but Jacobs talked— Jacobs became very unsatisfactory and unsettled the whole house. I've been much easier in my mind since I sent them all away."

"DO YOU mean that you've sacked old Jacobs?" cried Algy, remembering suddenly that he had not so much as seen or heard a sound or footfall in the great silent house since he had entered. Could his uncle be in earnest when he said that he had sent all the servants away? And old Jacobs too! Surely not old Jacobs who had been his uncle's right hand?

"I've not exactly dismissed him altogether," explained the old man hesitatingly. "I've packed him out of the house, and he lives in a little cottage behind the stables. He was very prying— very."

"And you're all alone at night? Quite alone? I don't think that's right for an old gentleman like you, sir, do you? "

"I like it; it suits me better. Jacobs did nothing but pry, pry, pry all day and all night long, and Mr. Ostermann and I objected very strongly— very strongly indeed. What did you say?"

What Algy had said was merely one word. But the emphasis with which he said it attracted the old man's attention. Ostermann! Ostermann! Here!

"What did you say?" he queried, peering into Algy's face. "Eh?"

"I'm horrified to think that you are living in this enormous place all alone!" explained Algy. "It's not right. If you had a friend it would be different. I must speak to my father to come and remonstrate, with you," he added, speaking with design to try and make the old man repeat the name he had uttered a moment since. For Algy could scarcely bring himself to believe that fate— or luck— had so played into his hands as to bring him and the man he so keenly desired to trace under one roof so early in the search. And the ruse worked successfully, for his uncle started up in a quick agitation, his face working convulsively and a wild excitement chasing the doubt and- suspicion from his eyes.

"No, no!" he cried quickly, his words tumbling one on top of the other. "No, no, don't bring John up here. I'm all right, and Jacobs is very comfortable where he is. Every old man has his likes and dislikes, and I'm saying money— much, much money by doing without a lot of useless servants. No, don't tell John. Besides— besides, I have a friend with me. He's gone to London to-day, but he'll be back to-morrow or the day after, and then I shall not be alone again. He's a very clever man, and we amuse ourselves pottering about with experiments— and we read books together."

"And Jacobs pryed upon you, eh? Too bad of him!"

"That's what my friend said. It was really most danger— most uncomfortable. So we sent him off. You see, boy, there is no need to worry John about me, after all. Besides, you're here now— for how long did you say? Till morning?"

"Well, sir," returned Algy slowly, preferring not to notice the old man's unflattering desire to get rid of him at the speediest possible moment, "I could stay with you until your friend— Mr. Foster, did you say? — returns. Did you say his name was Foster, uncle?"

"Yes, yes— Foster. Alsopp Foster is his name; he's a peculiar man, but a genius, and he likes to be alone a good deal, so you will see that I can not have you here after he comes back. You quite see that, don't you, my boy? "

"Quite uncle, quite!" said Algy, meekness in his voice, but triumph trumpeting in his breast. "I shall stay until Mr.— er— Foster returns, then. Now shall we have some supper and then get to bed? It's late."

He went to his room with his head in a whirl.

His uncle had lied to him! Ostermann, that beast Ostermann, the man of mystery, the man he had come north to hound down, the man the War Office wanted, had been staying for months past at Carter Fell Castle!

The proximity of that waste of moor and fen to the castle— did it mean anything? The proximity of the sea— the coast— the towering cliffs— did that mean aught?

The fact that Alsopp Ostermann was living in penurious discomfort with the master of the castle— did that mean aught?

The mysterious paper tracing which the secretary, Phelps, had been to some pains to cover lest it should tell its secret to inquisitive eyes—the paper Algy Brett had stolen but could make nothing of— was that paper the outcome, one of the results of Alsopp Ostermann's residence at Carter Fell?

Was Stephen Brett in collusion, in conspiracy with Ostermann? Could he divulge the secret traced so finely, with such exactitude, with such simple lines and yet such complicated results upon that paper which now reposed in Algy's pocketbook?

Surely where Ostermann had lived for months, was still living, there also was his secret!

iii

ALGY BRETT could not have been asleep for more than an hour when he was awakened by a hand shaking him gently and cautiously, and was aware at the same moment of a second hand placed over his mouth.

He struggled up in bed in quick alarm and amazement, staring into the dim gloom to see the face of the man who thus awakened him.

"Jacobs!" he ejaculated under the smothering hand. "Jacobs!"

"Yes, Mr. Algy, it's Jacobs!"

Algy threw off the hand from over his mouth and sat up straight, wide awake and ready for the adventure that seemed promised.

"What's the matter, Jacobs, and how on earth did you know I was here?"

"It is my habit, since the master took the freak into his head that I should not sleep in the house, to take a last look round every night before going to bed. Leastways, sometimes I go to bed and then gets up in the small hours and prowls round the castle. I happened to be on the veranda under the library window and heard you talking to your uncle. Lad, I was glad to know you'd come! Did my letter surprise you?"

"Letter? I got no letter from you, Jacobs. What did you write for?"

"The old master worries me— and that sneaking foreign gentleman he has here. They— he worries me, Master Algy! He's up to no good, though I can't find out what it is. It's all so mysterious! Everything all so open and aboveboard in the daytime, and Mr. Ostermann so polite and affable. But when it gets dark— then the mystery begins, and it's so great a mystery that I sometimes feel like I was mad! So I wrote for you to come. I wrote two days ago, and addressed the letter to your club."

"I never got it—probably waiting for me now. Anyway, I'm here now, so that's good! As a matter of fact I came to make inquiries regarding this same Mr. Ostermann of whom you speak, but I was never more surprised in my life than when I discovered he was staying with my uncle. Do you think-"

"Master Algy, I'll speak to you as plainly as if you were a youngster once again and myseff your humble friend and ally, as I used to be when you spent your holidays here. But it'll be plain speaking, and I want you to give me your word you won't be offended with anything I say."

"Fire away, Jacobs! I promise you I won't get angry even though you tell me my uncle is an unmitigated blackguard and miser and-"

"And that he and this fellow Ostermann, as they call him, are brother-conspirators in some horrible plot!" finished the servant quickly. " I felt a strong dislike against Mr. Ostermann the first day he came here, and the dislike grew every day. Then I got suspicious, somehow. He and the master were forever hiding things and prowling about at night, and they had at one time a lot of strange workmen here— all foreigners they were, and not a word of English among them."

"Workmen?" interrupted Algy excitedly. " What did they do?"

"That's what I couldn't make out for the life of me. They made an alteration in the chapel wing— put in a colored window and repaired the fireplace— but that was all I could ever see they'd done. They were here six months on and off, and a lazier set of chaps I never set eyes on. Six months in the chapel wing, and only doing odd jobs as a couple of men from Tarnside could have done in a month!"

"How long have they been gone?"

"That's the mystery, sir," whispered Jacobs in a voice thick with excitement, his faded eyes alive with the fire of enthusiasm. "That's why I sent for you! I don't believe they have gone!"

"What? They're here still and yet you don't know it? Impossible!" cried Algy, though his eyes belied the incredulity of his words. "It's impossible, Jacobs!"

"Impossible or not, sir, I have reason to suspect that the varmints are still heret Let me tell you all. It was soon after they arrived with all their traps and bags and vanloads of stuff— what stuff it was and what they used it on beats me— that the master grew more stingy than ever, and then one day dismissed every servant in the place except me. When there was any cleaning to be done extra he got in old Mrs. Simpson from the village. He even sent the Cains away from the lodge and put in one of those foreign beasts.

"I was astonished that he still kept me on, but I'd been with him for so long that I think he disliked the idea of not having me to make him comfortable. But I knew my day was coming, and coming soon, for Ostermann hated the very sight of me. He said I pryed on him, and perhaps I was a bit curious to know what he and the master were after, and at first I thought it my duty to keep an eye on the workmen. Well, very soon he influenced the master to get rid of me; they had quite an argument over it, and it was finally settled that I could stay here in the daytime and sleep out at nights, and there was nothing for it but to obey.

"A month ago the master told me that the workmen had gone away, and he and Mr. Ostermann seemed to allow me a little more freedom than they had done during the past six months, and I began to hope that the old state of things was coming back. But I was wrong.

"Two days after the master had told me that all the men had left I saw one of them crossing the shrubbery beneath my pantry window. A week after that I met another in the disused chapel wing, and the day I wrote to you I saw no less than five of them coming down the moor track, which, as you remember, Master Algy, leads nowhere but to the edge of the moor. Well, I remember how fond you were of that unhealthy spot, where the track ends in swamp—"

"And where the finest specimens of moths were to be caught. I remember it too, Jacobs, and the nets and cases you used to be everlastingly making for me, like the good old sport you were. But go on!"

"THERE isn't much more to tell, save that I overheard that Mr. Ostermann was to go to London and was to be away for a day or two. It was then that the idea came to me of sending for you. With him away and the coast fairly clear I thought we might probe the mystery of those infer— I beg your pardon, sir—  those foreign workmen who appear and disappear like jumping jack-rabbits! Where are they? Not in the castle, I'll take my oath; not in the village, that goes without saying; and not in any village within twenty miles of us, as I've taken pains to find out. And yet, where are they hidden? Where do they get food? How do they live? "

Even in his excitement Algy could not help laughing at Jacobs's puzzled expression and awed voice. "You speak as though you had been seeing ghosts, Jacobs," he said with a subdued laugh.

"Ghosts, sir?" said the man seriously. "I've seen one ghost! Don't think I mean those men— they're real enough in all conscience. The ghost I saw was a rushing, flying, noiseless gray thing that swept past me in the darkness a week ago! It was a huge gray cloud— a monster bird— a ghoul! I told the master of it, and he laughed and said it was one of these new-fangled airships or something. I don't believe it was, all the same. It was more like a giant. I was taking a midnight look round when I saw it. It scared me above a bit, I can tell you!"

"Gray Ghost!" murmured Brett softly, triumphantly. " Gray Ghost! Oh, if I could but unravel it all! In what direction was the thing you saw traveling, Jacobs? Do you remember? "

"I remember well. It disappeared over in that direction— going toward Berwick and the sea. It was more like a sea-wraith than anything else, and I remember thinking at the time that it would have passed at a little distance for a dump of floating fog— a fog like you get in seaport towns, thick and white and oddly-shaped. Do you say it was a ghost, sir? "

"It's Ostermann's airship; Gray Ghost is the name it goes by— and it was to discover where he kept the thing that brought me here. By the way, Jacobs, have a look at this paper; it's a plan of something or other, but I can't make out what. I think it concerns Ostermann, and thought it might— Good gracious, Jacobs, what's the matter?"

"It's a plan of the chapel wing, sir!" said Jacobs slowly, raising his head till his age-dimmed eyes stared straight into Algy's keen blue ones. "So that's what the villains were so busy about, is it? And yet— and yet I don't understand it quite, do you, Master Algy? "

"The plan of the chapel wing? What on earth do you mean, Jacobs? "

"Look— the staircase leading up from the oval landing and the big turret? It's the chapel wing, sure enough, sir!"

"You're right, I believe. And I couldn't make head or tail of it!"

"What gave me the clue to it, sir, was seeing a torn plan which had been left or dropped in the oval landing, and Sir Stephen told me that it was merely a builder's plan which must have been dropped by one of the workmen. What I don't understand is all this part of it "— indicating a more elaborate portion of the traced plan. "Such a staircase as this one here doesn't exist! The chapel wing ends here."

At Jacobs's words Algy took the plan out of his hand and, drawing the candle to his side, studied the intricate tracing with the deepest attention. That portion of it which Jacobs had so easily recognized as being the facsimile of the incomplete one he had found some time since was simple enough, and a child could easily understand it. But the second half was indeed a thing of intricacy and bewilderment, and Algy's heart sank lower and lower as he tried in vain again and again to solve the mystery.

Certainly till this moment he had not had the clue given him by Jacobs to guide him, and he bent over the flimsy paper now with a grim earnestness which boded ill for his enemy should he be fortunate enough to read the" riddle.

iv

IT WAS more than half an hour later that he pushed the flickering  candle away from him and sat back.

" I've guessed it! " he whispered exultantly. "I've guessed it!"

He slipped off the bed and began to dress silently and hastily. When he was ready he handed a pistol to Jacobs and slipped a second one into his own pocket. "Follow me!" he said in a tense whisper, and turned toward the door.

But before he could reach it a sound as of gravel being thrown against the window arrested them, and they half turned, looking anxiously into each other's faces.

What was it? Who was out there on the lawn tossing gravel at their dimly-lighted window as a signal? Could it be Ostermann? No, surely not. Impossible! Ostermann had the run of the house and kept his own set of keys. Who, then, could it be?

Brett ventured to the casement and threw it open.

"Who is there?" he asked softly, and saw as he spoke, a dark, slouching, sinister figure of a man hiding in the shadow of a bush.

"Who is there?" he called again, still in the same soft but carrying voice. And this time the man in the garden answered.

"It's me, Hafner!" he whispered sibilantly and clearly. "It's me! Come down; I want yer!"

"However did you get here? " asked Algy in intense astonishment when they were face to face on the soft turf of the lawn. "Have you also tracked Ostermann here?"

"No, I 'aven't. 'Ive 'ad enough to do tracking you. Call it fair giving me the slip like this 'ere when yer promised me yer solemn word yer'd let me do 'im in? Didn't I let you know when I had 'im copped in that 'ouse at Dartford? And now yer give me the slip and do yer 'unting alone."

"But I didn't give you the slip, Hafner—"

"No, 'cause why? I saw yer visiting the rooms where Ostermann stays sometimes, and knew yer was up to something— pumping old Phelps, no doubt. So when yer come out I followed yer— and 'ere I am."

"And jolly glad I am of your company, old chap!" cried Algy, shaking the man's hand in spite of his sulkiness. "You're a stout fellow, and just the man to help us to-night when we meet Ostermann!"

Hafner's mad eyes lighted up with a delirious gladness at this announcement.

"Meet 'im to-night? Where? 'Ere?"

"At a place not very far from here. At midnight he has an appointment with a very great personage indeed, and if you care to come also, you can be present at the interview. Come?"

"Come? I'd come if I was dead! An' mark my words, it will be the last interview 'e'll ever 'old this side of—!"

v

DOWN! Down! Down!

It seemed ages since they had found the secret spring in the bogusly-repaired fireplace in the half-mined chapel wing and had commenced to descend the long, long, seemingly unending flights of rough-hewn steps which had been cut out of solid rock foundation and which had yawned beneath them when the little hidden door in the chimney had opened silently as their fingers touched the spring.

After an eternity of time they stopped to rest on a slab of stone wider than the others.

"Shall we ever stop, think you, Master Algy? " whispered Jacobs, gasping for breath and thankful for the brief rest.

"Yes, yes, we're nearly at the end now. Do your poor old bones ache? Here, take a pull at this— and you, too, Hafner. You both need it. And when we reach the bottom see to it that your revolvers are where you can easily lay a hand on them! What? You have not got one, Hafner? Good gracious, man, why didn't you say that up there, and I could have given you one? What have you got? "

Hafner grinned in reply— a grin which made the blood freeze in Algy's veins and made old Jacobs shudder.

"I've got this, thank yer! It will do my business all right, I'll take my oath on that!"

He turned back the flap of his ragged coat and showed the hilt of a heavy knife bulging up out of his leather belt— a great curved knife sheathed in a stitched case shaped to the blade like an Indian Ghurka knife.

Algy turned away, a feeling of horror and realization making him suddenly sick.

It came to him in that swift moment when he turned his eyes and looked at Hafner's weapon that he was actually leading a murderer to his victim. And yet— and yet Ostermann was doubly, trebly a murderer, and he himself would have been an unrecognizable victim now but for a fortunate escape. It was impossible that such men should be allowed to live, and to save thousands, to save a nation, it was necessary for some one to lead the van.

So he turned away his eyes from the knife of menace and spoke in a whisper to Jacobs. "How many miles do you think it is from here to the sea, Jacobs— to Berwick, say? "

"To Berwick about three miles as the crow flies," replied the old man, commencing the descent again as he spoke. "Yes, just about three miles. But to Watershole it's barely one. Nay, indeed, it can only be three-quarters or so. I can sometimes hear of a night the sound of the sea and sometimes— by heavens, sir, the caves, the smuggler's caves! Why didn't I think of them before! They say as how there's a clear passage right from Watershole into the old part of the castle. Is that the secret, sir? Smuggling? The old master? "

"No, no Jacobs; you've guessed only half the secret, I'm afraid, old man. At least, I think so. That plan I showed you traces a direct passage from the blocked-up cellars under the old keep and the chapel wing to the smuggler's caves at Watershole. For reasons of his own Uncle Stephen has had a new entrance made to the tunnel through the fireplace in the monks' room— probably because the old one is some distance away and inconvenient for all hours of the day and night. The story is too long a one to tell you now, but if you're game to come with us to the cove at Watershole you'll be in at the finish. And I don't think the finish is going to be half so tame a game as smuggling— not by a long chalk! We're going to fathom a secret to-night that to-morrow might betray England into the hands of her enemies! Are you game to come on? "

"As long as you don't think the finish will be my finish, too, Master Algy, I'd like well to come," said the old fellow with grim humor. "But you and— you and yon chap anticipate danger, eh?"

"To speak the plain, blunt truth, Jacobs, we do! We are tracking down a murderer, a man who has sworn he won't be satisfied until he has murdered me, a man who has it in his power this moment to sell England for two million pounds! Think of that and realize what danger there's likely to be."

"Danger for Alsopp Ostermann— not for us!" growled Hafner deeply, his fingers feeling for his knife, his lips twitching at the vision the words conjured up before his darkly burning eyes. "Danger for 'im and more— death for 'im— death! 'E's mine at last; I feel it 'ere!"

He smote his breast with his free hand, and they could hear his heavy breathing as he crept along beside them in the darkness, and the constantly repeated mutterings of his twisted lips.

What an endless journey that bare mile seemed to them as they crept slowly, silently along, groping their way as best they could with but the faint rays of a horn lantern to light them; with water dropping at intervals with startling, icy unexpectedness upon them; with rats racing and scurrying and swarming beneath them as they trod, with fingers that clutched at slime and dank and filth-grown walls, and felt strange creatures crawl and squirm and dart from beneath their groping palms! A journey which was as a lifetime to them all, a time of horror and imagination and torture. Till quite suddenly a dull, far-off roar sounded in their straining ears and a fresh, wet breath of new air filled their nostrils and acted like an elixir to their quivering nerves.

"The sea!" cried Algy, gasping his relief. "The sea, Jacobs! The sea, Hafner! And at the sea the cove and Ostermannl We must be nearly there. Have your revolver ready, Jacobs, in case of surprise, and, Hafner, stay close beside me and keep quiet! Ah!"

They had come to a great wall that was not rock, a great dividing wall, and, directly facing them, a little door in it, left ajar.

vi

IN SPITE of Brett's restraining hand Hafner stepped through it, and instantly his arm beckoned them after him.

One after the other they stepped in his wake through the tiny door and realized that Ostermann's great secret lay bare under their gazing eyes, the message of it plain for all to read who viewed.

The great secret! The secret Ostermann had boasted of! The secret he had sold for two millions, and which was to be used in vengeance against England within a week!

The great secret, the great mystery was stored in a mighty arena— the huge workshop of Ostermann's inventions, where his genius held pitiless sway and fashioned things of evil and death and destruction and red murder out of the depths of his tremendous brain.

The vast subterranean workshop was quite empty and unguarded, and Brett and Hafner and the old man stood stock-still by the door, looking like pygmies in the colossal bigness— three parasites clinging to one another for some promise of protection and strength, awed to the soul by the enormity of the tiling revealed to them and the unveiling of a superman's inventions.

A flood of light poured down from numerous floats of electric bulbs run across the natural roof of the rock, and under its vivid brilliance everything stood out with startling distinctness and assumed even a greater magnitude than it in reality possessed.

A monster— long, gray, sinuous and sinister— lay in the center of the vast place, reaching from end to end of it, and bulging out like a giant at rest after a surfeit of success.

It was Gray Ghost.

Gray Ghost! Algy shivered and reeled as he recognized her and remembered his ordeal of not twelve hours ago. Gray Ghost, still armed to the teeth, ready and cleared for action, should action be signaled; ready for war at a moment's notice, ready for more feats of stupendous magnitude the instant the master's fingers pressed the levers which would send her rearing and soaring into the limitless heavens!

But that was not all.

On all sides, in every stage of construction, some scarce commenced, some ready to fly out into the night equipped with full complements of machine-guns and bulks of ammunition; some abandoned in the making, some broken in their trials, and others scarred and patched and weather-beaten and bearing all the marks of victorious, strenuous battle with the elements, were numberless airships, duplicates of Gray Ghost! Children of a wonderful parent, a fleet of them, sixty or seventy at least, each and all armed with the appliances of war, and each a messenger of death!

It was like a nightmare. A perfected fleet of aerial ships of war secreted in the bowels of the earth in England— in England, and yet the fleet of another country! In England, and not a soul dreamed of it or would believe it when they heard of it! Only that brave man, Sir Dean Densham, had ever admitted the possibility of such a thing, and even he had not anticipated such a colossal discovery as this. Surely it was beyond a man's conception! It was unbelievable, a monster hallucination, and yet the truth— and Algy was face to face with it in stern reality. No impossibility, no hallucination— but true!

"What does it mean, sir?" whimpered Jacobs, his ruddy face gray in the glaring light.

"Treachery!" hissed Algy through his clenched teeth. "Treachery— base, black treachery, Jacobs! Uncle Stephen a traitor, a servant to Ostermann, selling his soul for money! A secret airship-base controlled by a foreign country here! Think of it!"

"I don't understand," said Jacobs, but his mouth was quivering and there was fear in his eyes. "What are those things— those monsters?"

"Battleships, Jacobs. Aerial battleships. Financed by Uncle Stephen, built by Ostermann, bought by aliens! When there is war— but it will be no war; it will be a holocaust! S-s-h! Stand behind this stack! Some one is coming! Listen!"

With straining ears they caught the sound of heavy metal folding and sliding back, and Algy craned his neck to see what was happening. He all but cried out in amazement at what he saw.

The whole of the end wall, which he had noticed was made of armor-plates, was gliding back, folding into sections as it moved. And as it rolled away there was revealed a space of inky blackness filled with the ceaseless boom of breaking surf.

And from the ebony darkness, into the white light of the electric radiance which flooded the giant workshop, stepped Alsopp Ostermann.

For a brief moment he scanned the place with his eyes, and then, satisfied that it was empty of workmen, stood to one side and bowed obeisance to a short, stout man wrapped to the eyes in a black cloak who followed close upon his heels.

"The whole fleet is here, your Majesty," said Ostermann, a proud ring in his voice, and triumph lighting up his eyes. "The whole fleet, even to Gray Ghost, as these English call her, and she is, of course, the, largest and most perfect of them all. Fifty are ready for service immediately. They could be manned and out of this workshop within twenty minutes. Ten more will be ready in time for your business next week. That makes sixty, your Majesty.

"Each can carry ten men and at least eight tons of ammunition— not counting the weight of the four guns allotted each ship. When you signal me the word 'Go!' I guarantee to send at least sixty— perhaps seventy— of my little pigeons to your aid. Certainly fifty, even if the call comes sooner than you have arranged for. Best of all news is that, in spite of the escape of that young Brett and the knowledge that he is still at large, there has not been the slightest trace of a leakage. The secret has been magnificently kept by our men. A splendid specimen of what can be done under the very noses of our enemies, eh? "

"And Sir Stephen Brett? Quite safe still?"

"Quite, your Majesty. At one time he was inclined to back out and die in the odor of honesty, but your check for fifty thousand pounds quieted him wonderfully."

"AND in case of surprises? You've allowed for them? We could get out from here if the entrance to the cove were discovered and we were trapped? Remember that, although Phelps swears young Brett did not get the chart of the cove, he admits he did get another paper, though he professes ignorance of what it was. Are we safe?"

"Quite safe, your Majesty. I would not invite your Majesty into a place where there was danger of being caught like rats in a trap. I have a loophole of escape in Pennydale Moor, and that passage on the other side of that little door there leads into the castle. So you see, your Majesty, we are fairly well safeguarded."

"It does you credit, Ostermann, and I will see you are remembered for it, perhaps even beyond the two millions we owe you! And now show me the new motor you think such a lot about. Is it really so very, very wonderful?"

"So wonderful, indeed, your Majesty, that I have been able even to improve on the powers of the birds of the air. I have mastered their art with such completeness and success that now they appear clumsy and incapable beside me. See, here is one!"

They stooped low over the machine, Ostermann engrossed in explaining the mechanism, the other listening intently to the story of its marvelous powers.

They were not twenty yards from the three men crouching behind the stack of girders. Algy was so intent on watching them that for a moment he did not notice that Hafner had slipped away from him and was gliding like a snake along the floor toward them. Old Jacobs' touch on his arm directed his attention to him, and together, breathless and horror-stricken, they watched him, Brett knowing what was about to happen, the servant realizing nothing till the last moment when it was too late.

The gliding man approached them nearer and nearer, creeping along the floor like an animal to the bending body of Alsopp Oster- mann and the stout, clumsy figure of the stranger stooping over the revolving, whirring motor. Then a sudden leap into the air— a black, sinewy body crouching on Ostermann's back; an arm raised high in the air and striking downward with terrible force; raised again and again and again, and still descending with the same unnatural force!

A long, smothered, coughing sob from Ostermann, and he turned round with a last final effort of desperate, dying strength to look his enemy in the face. His own face, always the color of gray chalk, now took on a death whiteness, and his green coyote's eyes fixed themselves on Hafner with a strange, menacing glitter. His thin, bloodless lips drew in over his teeth in a venomous snarl.

Even as he looked he tried to spring at Hafner, but the work had been done too well, and he fell back against the engine he had the minute before been extolling. The glitter went out of his eyes with the rapidity of an extinguished light, yet leaving them green and menacing still and still wide open, bulging from their sockets as they habitually did, and staring, continuously staring, till the end.

Silas Hafner had waited a long while, had suffered many defeats, but he had revenged himself at last.

v

THE stout man stood looking on like one in a trance till Brett ran up to him.

"Go-go at once!" Algy commanded unceremoniously, and pushed him toward the ladder up which he had climbed barely half an hour since. "Go at once, and remember— I know everything! Everything! Remember that the secret of this cave is England's and she will use her new-gotten power without mercy if there is need of it! There will be no quarter given. If you so much as advance one step with ill-intent, we act! Remember! And also remember that I know you, your Majesty!"

Algy bowed mockingly as the man stepped backward down the steep ladder and disappeared slowly from his view into the deep abysmal darkness in which the only sound was the beating of the waves and the rushes of gusty wind. He remained watching until he heard the stout man whistle a short, shrill signal, heard the puff-puff of a launch ride up to the ladder's foot, and, after a moment's wait, puff away again out to sea.

Seizing the enormous lever which was close to the little landing on to which Ostermann and his visitor had emerged from the depths below, Algy Brett worked it downward with all the strength he possessed, and uttered a gratified whoop of joy as the great plates of steel unrolled, the sections glided back into place piece by piece, and within three minutes the armor-wall was once again in place and not a crevice left. Before the space had quite filled up, Brett had removed the handle from the outside lever, and, after the last plate had locked into position, he unfastened the one from the inside.

"Just to make sure that our friend wouldn't gain anything if he changed his mind and brought back an army with him to seize what I suppose he thinks rightfully belongs to him.

Then he raced back'to Jacobs and Hafner and caught them both by the arms, trying to rush them into the passage through which they had come from the castle.

"We ought to get back as fast as we can!" he panted, exhausted by his energy. "They may come back again, and I don't guarantee that the trick I've played them will work, and if it doesn't, we'd be done for! Come on, Hafner!"

But Hafner hung back, clinging to Gray Ghost.

"Gray Ghost?" he asked wildly. "Gray Ghost— I want 'er! She's mine now! I've won 'er; I've wrung 'er back from 'im— she's mine! I won't leave 'er! I killed 'im for 'er, and I'm the only man of you what understands 'er! I know why yer want me to follow yer; you're going to give me in charge for a murderer, you are! I know the law as well as you do, and yer don't catch me that way. No, yer don't! I stay 'ere with Gray Ghost, and if yer try and take me, I'll destroy 'er, so 'elp me God, I mean it!"

Algy stepped back to him and laid a hand on his arm. He realized instantly that the man's brain was hovering in the balance of utter and complete lunacy, that the excitement of his attack on Ostermann was still seething in his veins, buoying him up. He saw that he must succeed in cajoling him away from the scene of the tragedy, from the dramatic surroundings and the hideous, compelling magnet of the murdered man's still staring, menacing eyes. Otherwise, the scale would tip down the wrong side, and England would lose the one man who could be trusted to initiate and educate her airmen in the mysteries and colossal powers of Gray Ghost and her seventy duplicates. The one man who was cognizant of Alsopp Ostermann's methods, of numberless secrets, of an amount of dangerous knowledge which would automatically become more dangerous if left to chance discovery!

"My dear Hafner, you've got to come back with Jacobs and me for your own sake!" he said soothingly, patting the man's arms he spoke. " I know as well as you do that you're the only man who is capable of being the future skipper of Gray Ghost, and the Government will be the first to realize the fact and appoint you. Why, they will want you to act as instructor probably! It's not likely they'll risk wrecking Gray Ghost by giving her into the charge of some fellow who doesn't know the first thing about her!

"No, no, they'll want you, Hafner, and I'll see to it they treat you well. After all, they're no fools, and it would be cutting off their noses to spite their faces if they tried to do without you. As to what has happened to that fiend Ostermann— well, the only thing that can be said about it is that it's a very fortunate and desirable thing for us all that it did happen! And now I have persuaded you that I am only asking you to come back to the castle as a temporary precaution? It is madness for us to stay here and run the risk of Sir Stephen or the workmen returning. Will you come?"

Hafner's eyes were still sullen and suspicious, but he suffered Algy to lead him away into the passage.

"Oh, I'll come with yer now— but, remember, if they don't hush up this 'ere little deal of mine with Ostermann and let me go free they'll regret it! I'll see to it, mind that! If they don't let me show 'em how it's me, and me alone, can manage Gray Ghost, I'll be revenged on them the same as I was on 'im! Mind that! You talk about their payin' me well an' being obliged an' all that, but 'ow do I know it's right? If it ain't, mind yer, I'll get at Gray Ghost the same as I got at 'im, no matter where you hide 'er, and if I do they'll be left sucking a dry orange! Tell 'em that from me! Tell that, young sir, and tell 'em I mean it! I can destroy Gray Ghost within a minute, and I'd do it and die happy with 'er rather than leave 'er! So that's plain, ain't it?"

THE discovery was the talk of the world. They tried their utmost to keep it quiet and did all they could to hush the thing up. There was such a lot to explain, and explanations were obviously awkward, and they were afraid that the Jingo element might lead the cry for war, which was the last thing that was wanted— even with such weapons— by the Government. But, in spite of all precautions, things leaked out. The wildest reports got abroad and the presence of men-o'-war keeping ceaseless, vigilant guard over the entrance to the caves, the posse of police ever scouring the moors and searching the castle, and the gangs of foreign workmen and mechanics who were daily beaten from cover and taken away in custody, confirmed and strengthened them.

Then on the top of the rumors came the news of Sir Stephen Brett's suicide, and, to crown all, there came a day in which all England rushed out of doors to watch a stately fleet of seventy giant-winged airships of war sail through the heavens in two long, unswerving lines. Seventy cloud-gray torpedo-nosed airships manned by crews, every man of whom had been trained and drilled by Silas Hafner! And that he had done his work well was evident in the way the two long lines of ships kept to their course and rose and fell at the word of command. The fleet of aerial warships which now belonged to England and made her omnipotent, all-powerful, safe against the world!

To Sir Dean Densham they raised a mighty monument, and it reared its height into the skies in memory of a man who gave his life for his country.

Of Algy Brett they made a hero, and on the day he and poor Carlile Darien's sister, Eva, were married they cheered him to the echo, and presented him with a little model of a luminously gray, cigar-shaped airship in full flight, and bearing in letters of gold on the base the little name, Gray Ghost.

___________________

5: Old Aeson

A. T. Quiller-Couch

1863-1944

All-Story Weekly, 27 April 1918

The Speaker,  25 Oct 1890

JUDGE between me and my guest, the stranger within my gates, the man whom in his extremity I clothed and fed.

I REMEMBER well the time of his coming, for it happened at the end of five days and nights during which the year parsed from strength to age; in the interval between the swallow's departure and the redwing's coming; when the tortoise in my garden crept into his winter quarters, and the equinox was on us, with an east wind that parched the blood in the trees, so that their leaves for once knew no gradations of red and yellow, but turned at a stroke to brown and crackled like tinfoil.

At five o'clock in the morning of the sixth day I looked out. The wind still whistled across the sky, but now without the obstruction of any cloud. Full in front of my window Sirius flashed with a whiteness that pierced the eye. A little to the right, the whole constellation of Orion was suspended clear over a wedgelike gap in the coast, wherein the sea could be guessed rather than seen. And, traveling yet farther, the eye fell on two brilliant lights, the one set high above the other— the one steady and a fiery red, the other yellow and blazing intermittently— the one Aldebaran, the other revolving on the lighthouse top, fifteen miles away.

Half-way up the east, the moon, now in her last quarter and decrepit, climbed with the dawn close at her heels. And at this hour they brought in the Stranger, asking if my pleasure were to give him clothing and hospitality.

Nobody knew whence he came—  except that it was from the wind and the night— seeing that he spoke in a strange tongue, moaning and making a sound like the twittering of birds in a chimney. But his journey must have been long and painful; for his legs bent under him, and he could not stand when they lifted him. So, finding it useless to question him for the time, I learned from the servants all they had to tell—namely, that they had come upon him but a few minutes before, lying on his face within my grounds, without staff or scrip, bareheaded, spent, and crying feebly for succor in his foreign tongue; and that in pity they had carried him in and brought him to me.

Now for the look of this man, he seemed a century old, being bald, extremely wrinkled, with wide hollows where the teeth should be, and the flesh hanging loose and flaccid on his cheek-bones; and what color he had could have come only from exposure to that bitter night. But his eyes chiefly spoke of his extreme age. They were blue and deep, and filled with the wisdom of years; and when he turned them in my direction they appeared to look through me, beyond me, and back upon centuries of sorrow and the slow endurance of man, as if his immediate misfortune were but an inconsiderable item in a long list. They frightened me. Perhaps they conveyed a warning of that which I was to endure at their owner's hands. From compassion, I ordered the servants to take him to my wife, with word that I wished her to set food before him, and see that it passed his lips.

So much I did for this Stranger. Now learn how he rewarded me.

He has taken my youth from me, and the most of my substance, and the love of my wife.

From the hour when he tasted food in my house, he sat there without hint of going. Whether from design, or because age and his sufferings had really palsied him, he came back tediously to life and warmth, nor for many days professed himself able to stand erect. Meanwhile he lived on the best of our hospitality. My wife tended him, and my servants ran at his bidding; for he managed early to make them understand scraps of his language, though slow in acquiring ours— I believe out of calculation, lest some one should inquire his business (which was a mystery) or hint at his departure. I myself often visited the room he had appropriated, and would sit for an hour watching those fathomless eyes while I tried to make head or tail of his discourse. When we were alone, my wife and I used to speculate at times on his probable profession. Was he a merchant—an aged mariner—a tinker, tailor, beggarman, thief? We could never decide, and he never disclosed.

Then the awakening came. I sat one day in the chair beside his, wondering as usual. I had felt heavy of late, with a soreness and languor in my bones, as if a dead weight hung continually on my shoulders, and another rested on my heart. A warmer color in the Stranger's cheek caught my attention; and I bent forward, peering under the pendulous lids. His eyes were livelier and less profound. The melancholy was passing from them as breath fades off a pane of glass. He was growing younger. Starting up, I ran across the room to the mirror.

There were two white hairs in my forelock, and, at the corner of either eye, half a dozen radiating lines. I was an old man.

Turning, I regarded the Stranger. He sat phlegmatic as an Indian idol; and in my fancy I felt the young blood draining from my own heart, and saw it mantling in his cheeks. Minute by minute I watched the slow miracle— the old man beautified. As buds unfold, he put on a lovely youthfulness; and, drop by drop, left me winter.

I hurried from the room and, seeking my wife, laid the case before her.

"This is a ghoul," I said, "that we harbor; he is sucking my best blood, and the household is clean bewitched."

She laid aside the book in which she read and laughed at me.

Now my wife was well-looking, and her eyes were the light of my soul. Consider, then, how I felt as she laughed, taking the Stranger's part against me. When I left her, it was with a new suspicion in my heart. "How shall it be," I thought, "if, after stealing my youth, he goes on to take the one thing that is better?"

In my room, day by day, I brooded upon this— hating my own alteration, and fearing worse. With the Stranger there was no longer any disguise. His head blossomed in curls; white teeth filled the hollows of his mouth; the pits in his cheeks were heaped full with roses, glowing under a transparent skin. It was Aeson renewed and thankless; and he sat on, devouring my substance.

Now having probed my weakness, and being satisfied that I no longer dared to turn him out, he, who had half imposed his native tongue upon us, constraining the household to a hideous jargon, the bastard growth of two languages, condescended to jerk us back rudely into our own speech once more, mastering it with a readiness that proved his former dissimulation, and using it henceforward as the sole vehicle of his wishes. On his past life he remained silent; but took occasion to confide in me that he proposed embracing a military career as soon as he should tire of the shelter of my roof.

And I groaned in my chamber; for that which I feared had come to pass. He was making open love to my wife. And the eyes with which he looked at her, and the lips with which he coaxed her, had been mine; and I was an old man. Judge now between me and this guest.

One morning I went to my wife; for the burden was past bearing, and I must satisfy myself. I found her tending the plants on her window-ledge; and when she turned I saw that years had not taken from her comeliness one jot. And I was old.

So I taxed her on the matter of this Stranger, saying this and that, and how I had cause to believe he loved her.

"That is beyond doubt," she answered, and smiled.

"By my head, I believe his fancy is returned!" I blurted out. And her smile grew radiant as, looking me in the face, she answered, "By my soul, husband, it is."

Then I went from her, down into my garden, where the day grew hot and the flowers were beginning to droop. I stared upon them, and could find no solution to the problem that worked in my heart. And then I glanced up, eastward, to the sun above the privet-hedge, and saw him coming across the flower-beds, treading them down in wantonness. He came with a light step and a smile, and I waited for him, leaning heavily on my stick.

"Give me your watch!" he called out as he drew near. "Why should I give you my watch?" I asked, while something worked in my throat.

"Because I wish it; because it is gold; because you are too old, and won't want it much longer."

"Take it!" I cried, pulling the watch out and thrusting it into his hand. "Take it— you who have taken all that is better! Strip me; spoil me—"

A soft laugh sounded above, and I turned. My wife was looking down on us from the window, and her eyes were both moist and glad.

"Pardon me," she said, "it is you who are spoiling the child."

___________________

6: Thone of Chaos

"J. F. B."

All-Story Weekly, 1 Sep 1917

Effectively an anonymous story, the only one known attributed to this writer.

WHETHER or no I am doing wisely in giving to the world a full and true account of the mysterious death of Fred Ryder may be open to question, but having given the subject the most careful consideration of which I am capable, and being sustained by the opinion of the dead man's wife, I am moved to reveal the stupendous facts of the immediate circumstances of the tragedy.

Fred Ryder was my brother-in-law and my closest friend. We had known each other from early boyhood, and, as the years sped, our friendship waxed to the full development of a complete understanding.

Ten years ago he married my only sister, Alice, and the bond of their mutual love had been tightened by the advent of their two children— John, now eight years old, and Annie, six. My brother-in-law had an income from real estate sufficient to provide him with all the necessities and most of the luxuries of life.

Alice, too, has an independent income of her own, so Fred was wholly free to devote all his time to the study of applied science, particularly chemistry, which was his pet subject.

Shortly after the birth of Annie the family went to reside in a house which had been built to Fred's specifications on a little estate he owned on the slope of Overlook Mountain in the Catskills. There was nothing remarkable about the house except in its prevailing feature of comfort, the work of housekeeping being reduced to a minimum by a host of electrical appliances installed by Fred.

The power for these was supplied from an immense turbine on a mountain river a few hundred yards away which operated a powerful dynamo, and this also furnished electrical energy in Fred's laboratory, which was located conveniently at the end of the garden in the rear of the house.

Situated as it was, the place, of course, was a little lonely, but the solitude appealed to Fred, for it insured freedom from interruption in his work. My sister, however, felt the lack of human companionship; and it was this, I believe, which actuated her and her husband in giving me a pressing invitation to come and live with them, an invitation of which I was glad to avail myself.

I speak, therefore, with intimate knowledge when I say that the family life of my brother-in-law and sister—of all of us, in fact—was one of almost unmitigated felicity. Up till that day, now nearly two months ago, when the dreadful blow fell, not a cloud bigger than a man's hand had appeared in that domestic heaven.

For a few months before the catastrophe we had observed that Fred became more and more absorbed in his work. Day after day he would spend all his time in the laboratory, remaining there until far into the night. My sister would have been alarmed at his complete absorption had I not reassured her.

I knew Fred well, with the less intimate, more detached, but more observant knowledge of a lifelong friend. I believed I saw in the abstracted eagerness of his manner that he was on the trail of some discovery. I did not pretend to him that I noticed anything unusual in his conduct, nor did I question him.

Often before I had observed him in moods of exaltation only a little less lofty than the one in which he was now soaring, and I knew that at such times he hated interference. So now, though he told me nothing— indeed, he rarely even spoke to me— I was not surprised, for I was well aware that I was quite unable to follow him into the intricate recesses of science where he stepped with confidence.

And then suddenly his manner changed. One morning he came down to breakfast, and was again to all of us the same unabstracted, normal Fred as of old. He looked haggard and wan, but he was in high spirits as he joked and laughed about commonplace things.

But though his manner was superficially the same, yet it seemed to me that there was a subtle, an indefinable, difference. To me he was more companionable than ever; to his wife and children he was even more tender than usual, with now and then an unwonted wistfulness in his affection.

After breakfast he took John and Annie out with him to the garden, and Alice seized the opportunity to tell me she was very much worried about him. The night before, she said, he had left the laboratory and gone to bed much earlier than had been his custom of late. She could not tell the exact time, for she had been asleep, but she thought it was before eleven o'clock.

At midnight he had wakened her by rising in a state of excitement which he endeavored vainly to subdue, and as he dressed he had explained that there was an important phase of the work he was engaged on which he had overlooked, and that he could not rest until he had satisfied himself of the result of certain reactions.

She did not see him again till nearly six in the morning, and then he had returned cold, fatigued, and dejected. He had come and put his arm around her, sitting beside her on the bed, and kissed her with profound— almost solemn— devotion.

She had simply urged him to come to bed and snatch a few hours of sleep to relieve his nervous emotion. He had got into bed, and, although he could not sleep, he had grown gradually calmer, and when the first gong sounded for breakfast in the morning he had insisted on rising to join the family.

Looking out of the dining-room window which gave on the garden, we could now see Fred and the two children enjoying themselves in boisterous amusement around a bonfire he had built under the copper beeches near the laboratory.

He had gathered a great heap of dead leaves and twigs and set fire to it. As we watched, we were surprised to see him enter his workshop and emerge a moment later with an armful of scientific instruments, which he threw, recklessly on the pile.

Several times he reentered the laboratory and came out again with his arms full of books, papers, and instruments which he heaped upon the blaze, to the shrieking glee of John and little Annie.

We attached no special significance to his action, he having many times recently referred to the antiquity and inefficiency of his scientific outfit, and we were satisfied that he was simply cleaning house in preparation for a more modern equipment.

During the next six days Fred retained his accustomed manner; he was himself again. Only one thing did we notice that struck us as a little strange, which was that after the morning of the bonfire he never again entered the laboratory. Most of the day he spent in his smoking-den, and after dinner, in the evenings, he would sit with me before the open fireplace in the dining-room, a baizecovered table between us, on which were a tantalus, a box of cigars, and a chess-board. Happy evenings they were to me, and I know they were happy, too, for Fred.

On the night of the sixth day, after he had checkmated me in the most brilliant game I had ever seen him play, he remarked casually to Alice and me that he thought he would go out for a tramp in the moonlight.

Alice did not oppose him, although I knew she always held such expeditions dangerous. As for me, I felt a bit chagrined that he did not ask me to go with him, but, feeling that he might want to be alone for a quiet meditation, I said nothing about it.

The following morning, as I was taking a pipe in the garden after breakfast, Peter, our chauffeur and coachman, brought me my letters. The superscription of one of these, I observed with a shock, was in Fred's handwriting.

I felt immediately that something was wrong; many little things in Fred's conduct which I had only half observed, or to which I had attached no importance, came crowding on my memory.

In trepidation I tore open the letter, and this was what I read:

I know that the very receipt of this note from me will, to some extent, have prepared you for a shock. You may, indeed I know you will, believe me when I say that the only regret I have in doing what I am about to do is the grief it will bring to Alice and you. As for my children, they are fortunately as yet too young to be affected by this trouble, and there is none else for whom I care. When you are reading this I will be dead. You will find my body lying beside the black pool over Echo Lake, near the summit of Indian Head Mountain. Break the news gently to my wife, and, when you have done this, give her the enclosed note.

All my affairs are in order. I have made you executor of my estate. You will find my will in the safe. I need not admonish you to take care of Alice and my children, you would do that in any case.

I enclose also two sealed copies of a memorandum— one for Alice and one for you— in which I set forth the awful, the sublimely horrible experience which befell me, and which has driven me to self-destruction. These are not to be opened until a week after the inquest, when my fate will have been forgotten by the gossips. I leave to Alice's judgment and to yours the question of making known the contents.

Remember me always as your affectionate brother,

FRED.

There is no need to intrude on the grief-stricken privacy of my sister. Peter and I went to the place indicated in Fred's letter. It was a small pool of semi-stagnant water. I knew the spot well, and often had admired the thick profusion of its broad fringe of sedge.

As we approached it now we were mystified to observe that the pool had dried up and that all around it the sedge and grass had been burned up and scorched for a distance of many yards. At another time this would have aroused in us the most profound astonishment, but our thoughts were diverted by the sight of Fred's body lying at the edge of the scorched zone.

The head had been almost torn from the trunk by some disruptive force applied, apparently, within the mouth. But the extraordinary fact was that expert medical testimony at the subsequent inquest declared that the disruptive force had been produced by no known human agency.

I believe I have now told all the salient incidents in this case as they were observable to us who were so closely in touch with the central figure, and, having in mind the grave possibility, if not likelihood, of error creeping into the record were I to continue the narrative in my own words, I think it best to produce here the memorandum left by Fred exactly as he wrote it:

...the fruit

Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste

Brought death into the world, and all our woe.

And it came to pass that I, too, did eat of the fruit of the forbidden tree—the Tree of Knowledge—and the veil was lifted from the mystery of this world's destiny, and I saw death and destruction. I have stumbled, or I have been led, into the hideous arcanum of nature, which is chaos.

It is difficult for me, almost impossible, for I am but mortal, to tell you my story. An experience which transcends all human experiences defies description. But I will try. I must, however, disclose only so much as will set up the truth of what I relate. I may not be too precise, for that would be to defeat the very object for which I am about to immolate myself.

For months past I have been engaged on many scientific problems, chiefly of a chemical nature. The exigency of the times led me to conceive the possibility of being able to provide for the safety of our United States by presenting her with a potent instrument of defense. The object I had in view was to produce an explosive substance which would be at the same time abundant, easy of production, altogether safe to handle, and available for all purposes.

You know that the prices of the ingredients of every known explosive have increased enormously since the outbreak of the European war. Some chemicals necessary to the manufacture of explosives, hitherto commonplace, are almost unobtainable, and others, being mineral derivatives, are monopolized by the countries in which these mineral deposits occur. But in any event, even in normal times, the manufacture or production of explosives is always costly.

The first object I had in mind was an explosive compound, the component parts of which would exist in superabundance, and the production of which would be cheap. My second object was safety—both before and after explosion. It is a point generally overlooked in discussing the ethics of the use of poisonous gas, that all explosives in common use give off gases which are either highly deleterious or poisonous.

In this sense they are all dangerous after use. Before use, they are all dangerous because there is none of them proof against either the fool or the foolhardy. To overcome this I aimed at producing an explosive which would give off no poisonous gases, and which would respond neither to severe shock nor to direct inflammation.

Finally, I wanted to make an explosive in which I could regulate both the rate and the resultant force of the explosion, so as to make it usable for every purpose.

All explosions may be regarded as processes of quick combustion, in which the residual gases are hundreds of times greater in volume than the original explosive. The only difference between combustion and explosion is in the length of time occupied in the disintegration.

When an explosive action has begun in any substance, the phenomenon is propagated throughout the whole mass by being reproduced from molecule to molecule. It is the rapidity with which this propagation proceeds that determines the nature of the consequent reaction, and it may vary from the rate of ordinary combustion to the inconceivably high velocity of detonation.

Roux and Sarrau were, I think, the first to differentiate between explosives and to divide them into two classes. These they called explosions of the first order, or detonations, and explosives of the second order, to which ordinary explosions belong. The detonation of an explosive, such as nitro-glycerin, guncotton, or picric acid, is obtained by exploding with fulminate of mercury; and in this case the explosive substance is disintegrated almost instantaneously.

Ordinary explosions may be produced either by direct application of fire, or sufficient heat, or by a small quantity of gunpowder. It is this kind of explosion which takes place in firing a projectile from a rifle or cannon. In fact, such an explosion is the only suitable one for the purpose because detonating explosion would probably burst the breech.

The phenomenon of varying rates of combustion or disintegration may be observed sometimes in the same substance. You can, for instance, burn a stick of dynamite; you can also burn a bit of celluloid, but if you heat it and strike it with a hammer it will explode.

Guncotton, however, affords about the best example: When wet and closely compressed, guncotton burns slowly; if loose and uncompressed, it will flash off; if spun in threads, it can be used as a quick fuse; and dry guncotton can be exploded by a fulminate.

Many mixtures and compounds which are capable of explosion are less sensitive than those I have just mentioned, and require a very powerful initial impulse to cause them to explode. Some of these substances, such as ammonium nitrate, trinitro-naphthalene; and potassium chlorate, were until recently regarded as non-explosive, because the method of exploding than had not been discovered. The explosiveness of potassium chlorate was. I think, first discovered at the fire which took place at the Kurtz works, St. Helens, in May,1899, when 156,000 kilograms of the chlorate, which up till then had been regarded as a combustible merely, exploded with terrific force, bringing death to unwitting bystanders.

Many years ago, acting on the assumption of the universal applicability of the hypothesis of evolution, I had begun to study the chemical elements with a view to finding out the nature and course of the evolution taking place in these elements themselves. Collaterally with this there was another problem which I regarded as the main object of my investigations. It is not necessary, nor is it advisable, for me to do more than outline this problem.

It was suggested to me a long time ago by an address delivered by Ramsay, and it had to do with the discovery or isolation of the primal or fundamental element in all matter. I do not know whether I have actually succeeded in doing this, for my experiments have come to an abrupt, a terrible, ending; but a few days ago I did finally succeed in breaking up one of the most familiar elements into two more fundamental than itself, and it was this discovery which laid open for me, and for all of us, the path of absolute ruin. But I anticipate.

Meanwhile, I had synthesized a great number of unstable chemical compounds composed of elements readily obtainable. These, from their very nature, were, I knew, readily capable of disintegration, but I had hitherto failed to find a suitable impulse, or an impulse sufficiently strong to effect the disintegration of any of them with explosive violence.

When, however, I did finally succeed in breaking up the element of which I have spoken into two more fundamental than itself, I found that one of these two, which I have named mortifier, effected the result at which I had aimed on some of the compounds I had synthesized, and on further investigation I discovered that this was due to the extraordinary affinity of mortifier for the hydrogen elements in those compounds. Its affinity for the hydrogen atom was so intense, so powerful, that the disruption of the whole mass took place with detonating violence.

Satisfied at last that I was on the right track, that I had practically achieved the object I had set out to achieve, I decided that night, not yet a week ago, to make this a pausing place in my labor.

For many weeks day and night had ceased to have any special meaning for me. I had prosecuted my research restlessly, relentlessly, snatching now and then an hour or two of fitful sleep. I had felt, I had known, I was on the right trail. As game is to the pointer, so had my quarry been to the distended nostrils of my intellectual being.

As a weasel pursues the hapless rabbit, so had I followed fast and ever faster the elusive object of my chase, until at last I had caught up with it, grappled with it, and beaten it to subjection. I felt the fierce, primitive, passionate triumph of the hunter. But, over and above all, I felt the intense pleasure which attends alone the fruitful exercise of the rational faculty.

Yes, to-night I would go to bed early. Although it was not yet eleven o'clock, I had become quite drowsy, which was not to be wondered at, I reflected, considering the severe strain to which I had been subjected for so long. So I wrote down rapidly a few notes in a manner unintelligible to any one but myself. These I locked carefully in my bureau, and then, as a final precaution, I doublelocked the door of my laboratory, and stepped out into the garden.

The night was chill and clear, and a million eyes of heaven peered down upon me with the calm serenity of infinite mystery, as if to chide me for the pride I had taken in wresting one little secret from reluctant nature. Chastened by this thought, I entered my house, went up straight to my room, and crept into bed beside my wife, who was already asleep.

For a moment I thought of waking her to tell her of my discovery, but she being so sound asleep, and I being so jaded in mind and body, I postponed that sweet pleasure till the morning.

And now, how can I, who am no writer—  I, who am ever conscious of the clumsy awkwardness of my literary expression— hope to tell you through the medium of the written word the infinite horror of the tragedy which befell me that night?

On going to bed I had fallen quietly asleep, but my mind could not detach itself from the problems on which it had labored so long and actively. I know that I dreamed long and wearily, but I remember definitely only the final portion of my dream.

I seemed to have marched in a long night tediously over an arid desert until I came to the edge of a precipice whose depth my vision could not penetrate. Still as I stood gazing out over the void, it seemed to me that I saw a little star shoot forth from its celestial setting and approach me; and as it came nearer it grew into a huge, blue ball of intense brilliance, becoming bigger and bigger until at last it burst into a glorious spray of surpassing splendor, illuminating by its glittering refulgence the surrounding waste. In an instant I saw that I stood at the edge of the earth beyond which there was naught.

I awoke. Calmly I awoke, and my opening eyes again met the cold, mysterious scrutiny of the unlidded eyes of heaven.

And, as I looked, there came to me as if from an immeasurable distance a wail of infinite pathos— such a wail as might arise from the souls of a myriad unconceived babies sighing for existence. Whence and from what the wail came I do not know. I heard it only for a moment, and then it was lost in the slow and churchyard tones of the great hall-clock striking the hour of midnight.

Suddenly I sat upright as if electrified, every nerve and muscle in my body racked and taut in a paroxysm of terror. I felt— I could almost see— the hideous specter of an infinite, black doom crowding in on me as if to overwhelm me. Choking with dread, I craned forward eagerly to clutch at something—anything—to take hold of an object fixed and tangible. For a thought—Oh, God, what a thought!—had seared itself into my soul and left me numb with horror!

Many a time before in a dreary vigil of the night had I been stricken with a vague, an indefinable, terror. This I remembered now; and I remembered, too how the first glimpse of russet dawn had soothed my weary spirit, and with the remembrance I felt a little easier.

The thought I had conceived, I argued, was monstrous, impossible. Such a thing could not be. Yet, I could not remain one moment longer abed. I felt I could not put off for a minute the absolute proof to myself that my thought was nothing but an hallucination.

I arose, therefore, at once. And as I did so, my wife awoke, and, while I dressed I explained to her, in as quiet a manner as I could assume, that I wished to test the effect of a reaction which I had overlooked in my researches.

My heart bled for her, my darling Alice, in pity for the extreme worry which I knew my ill-concealed excitement and unusual conduct would arouse in her, and I felt inexpressibly grateful to her for the implicit trust she had always placed in me, no matter how eccentric my actions might appear.

Fully dressed, I left the house, and, walking down the garden, the bracing, nipping air of early winter whipped me into renewed vigor. Collected now in mind, and refreshed in body, I entered the laboratory, turning on the switch as I closed the door carefully behind me.

Taking up a test tube, I walked over to a water-faucet and allowed a few drops to trickle into it. Under the full light of a Tungsten lamp I dropped carefully an infinitesimal quantity of mortifier into tie water in the tube, and the water flashed of almost instantaneously!

Repeating the experiment, this time will a few drops of water of normal salinity, I introduced once more a particle of mortifier into the water; and the result was, as I had anticipated, not a flash but an explosion, which shattered the test tube in my trembling fingers!

To describe my sensations at this moment would be wholly impossible. There are no words in any language to describe them, for no man had yet conceived the infinite import of my experience.

Rooted in sublime dismay, I stood there in horrid contemplation of the destiny of the world as revealed in the fragment of broken glass gripped tightly in the fingers of my outstretched hand.

I do not know whether I have yet made clear to you the reason for my utter perturbation. Remember I have told you that I had found that the substance mortifier had an extraordinary affinity for hydrogen. Its affinity for this element was so great as to disrupt with extreme violence the water molecule, made up, as it is, of two atoms of hydrogen with one of oxygen, and the violence of this disruption was such as to propagate its influence through the whole mass of the water.

More than this, I knew from the inherent nature of the reaction that its violence was, within certain limits, commensurate with the salinity of the water on account of the sodium element in the salt. In short, I had achieved what I had set out to achieve. I had discovered an explosive, abundant, easy of production, and of such a nature that I could regulate the force of the explosion— and that explosive was water!

How long I stood in contemplation I cannot tell, for the notions of time and of eternity had already blended into each other and become indistinguishable. But as you would measure time, I stood there as if petrified for probably only a few minutes.

And then a faint ray of hope that this chalice might yet be removed from my unwilling lips pierced the blackness that encompassed me. It was possible, I thought, that though an explosive effect had been produced by mortifier on a small quantity of water, yet the reaction might not take place where the quantity of water was very great. Urged by this faint glimmer, I resolved to put the question immediately to the test of actual experiment.

Far up on the flank of Indian Head Mountain there was, I remembered, a pool of stagnant water formed by the rain in a cup of the hill. The pool was isolated, and, after the week of drought which we had just had, I knew that the earth all around it would be quite dry. Here, I decided, would be just the ideal place for the momentous experiment.

Taking a minute quantity of mortifier, I incased it carefully in a soluble capsule, making the capsule of such thickness that it would take about ten minutes to dissolve in cold water. Then, donning a light overcoat and a cap, I locked the door of my laboratory and went out into the night.

Walking as quickly as I could, running even where the ground permitted, I breasted the slope of the mountain, and, aided by the clear light of a crescent moon, arrived at last, panting, at the side of the pool. It was then two o'clock.

As I stood there for a moment with open mouth to take breath, I could feel and hear in my throat the throbbing of my overstrained heart. Knowing that no living thing, save, perhaps, a few small animals, would be in the vicinity at that hour of the morning, I lost not a moment, but took the capsule of mortifier from my pocket and placed it carefully in the water at the edge of the pool.

Then I walked to a knoll a few hundred yards away, from which I could have an unobstructed view of the pool should anything happen.

Nor had I long to wait before something did happen!

From the spot where the pool lay there rose up into the highest heavens a column of blue flame of miraculous volume which almost scorched me with its intense heat, and all around me there were innumerable cracklings and minor explosions; and I felt my face and hands bedewed by a mist of reformed water vapor— produced, as I knew, by the recombination of the dissociated hydrogen and oxygen elements set free by the initial flashing of the water in the pool.

As I have said, the initial effect of the mortifier on the water was a flash; there was only wanting the presence of the sodium element to have produced an explosion.

Aghast with terror, I cried aloud in the night and fell upon the ground in a transport of unutterable woe. Who was I, or what was I, that fate should have singled me out from the uncounted human beings of the earth to be the fortunate recipient of a secret so titanic? Blind fool that I was! But a few hours before I had prided myself on "wresting one little secret from reluctant nature." But now I knew that I had been made the luckless victim of a monstrous confidence, thrust on me by a ruthless nature only too terribly eager to impart it.

I, who had believed myself to be a free agent in my investigations, had penetrated a forbidden mystery to my own undoing. I had discovered a substance of such hideous potentiality as to invest me with all the attributes of a malignant god of destruction!

Lying prone upon the ground, my mind grasped gradually more and more fully the vastness of the awful secret, until at last the full truth swept over me with cataclysmal effect. Only to step to the seashore— to cast a particle of mortifier on the moving waters— and in a moment the earth would be a nebula. Like Lucifer of old, roaming with his legions through the trackless universe, so, too, could I, in imagination

... behold the throne

Of chaos, and his dark pavilion spread

Wide on the wasteful deep! With him enthroned

Sat sable-vested night, eldest of things,

The consort of his reign.

For some reason I now became tranquil. I do not know why or how this was so, but I think it was due to the sublime, if Satanic, grandeur of my reflection. Rising up, I essayed to walk back to the pool, but the ground around it over a wide zone was still so hot that I could not come near it. This did not trouble me, however, for I could realize well enough what there would be to see, so I bent my steps toward home, where I arrived about six o'clock in the morning.

As to the course of action I would follow, my mind was now fully determined. Plainly I could not live. It would be impossible for me to go my accustomed rounds as if nothing had occurred. Such a secret as weighed on me would, I knew, inevitably bear down upon me and crush me with its intolerable burden. I might of course, for a time preserve my counsel absolutely within myself. But the time would surely come when I would be driven to madness, and, in that condition, what might not I do?

And, even if I were able by superhuman force of will, to preserve my sanity, how could I provide for the possibility of falling sick, or meeting with an accident, and subsequent delirium blurting out the whole facts of my infernal discovery? No, there is no way out for me, but to die.

But before I should die, it was necessary for me to remove all vestiges of my researches. You remember that morning after breakfast when I brought the children out with me into the garden, and danced with them around a bonfire of my books, instruments, and papers. That was the first part of the holocaust offered up for the safety of the world— a sacrifice that is now complete in my own immolation.

The philosophy, the fundamental knowledge of the world and of the destiny of the human race has been revealed to me. I see now that we are but the playthings of nature— a picture puzzle— a set of blocks, provided for her amusement. Already she has completed one design of which she has become aweary, and, like a wanton child, she is crying to have the blocks jumbled up again to begin another picture. The world is but as a drop of water which condenses in the air, falls to the earth, and. in the passage, becomes tenanted by countless organisms. Then the sun dries up the drop. The organisms are no more. And the eternal cycle goes on forever.

Sometimes I have felt tempted to use my knowledge for my own aggrandizement, to exercise my power, or, rather, to use the threat to exercise it to impose my will up the world.

Compared with my power, what would be the strength of potentates, princes, kings, or emperors? At my word wars would cease, or be enacted with ten-thousandfold ferocity. I had nothing to do but to prove, to demonstrate, the efficacy of my terrible secret, and from a houseboat on the Hudson I could dictate my pleasure to the world. I could crush the human race in absolute bondage. To tell with the thought! But this I believe, of this I am fully convinced, that somewhere, soon, some one else, if not many others, will stray along the path which leads to destruction. Man is afflicted with the curse of reason, and many men are using that reason in a manner and in a direction which will lead with certainty to ultimate total disaster.

There are, I know, scores of chemists on the face of the earth who are engaged in just such a pursuit as I followed. It may be a year, it may be a century, but the day of wrath— that dreadful day— is fast approaching.

And now I go from you. To-night I will go up into the mountain beside the pool where the final proof of my damnable experience was established. For a sentimental reason I would like to die there and, besides, I want to give myself a final demonstration.

I will take with me a small soluble capsule containing the last particle of mortifier now in existence. This I will put in my mouth as I sit beside the pool, and I will then fill my mouth from a flask of salt water.

That will be the end.

__________________

7: With Much Gusto

Herman Howard Matteson

1876-1951

All-Story Weekly, 8 March, 1919

DON RAMON AVILLA— every peon patriot in Sonora is a don at least— one hand resting upon the cantle of his saddle, stood glowering at General Jose Cuchillo.

General Cuchillo, unaware of his underling's malevolent look, walked slowly, pompously about a clustered group consisting of one young white woman, two little white girls, and a dozen Mexican and breed women and girls.

With languid, imperious hand, General Jose beckoned to the young white woman to follow him, when she, who, within the hour had become the widow of the young white ranchero, drew a sobbing breath, licked up with avid tongue and lips the brown powder that she had held secreted in a clenched hand— fell to the earth.

General Jose, both annoyed and chagrined, uttered a short laugh and walked on.

Madre de Dios! Good enough. Don Ramon's black eyes glittered.

Within a twelve-month, the cutthroat band had had no less than half a dozen generals, chieftains. Each, until the unhappy choice fell upon Jose Cuchillo, had justified the honor by acquiring a white woman.

Cuchillo had tried and tried, all but succeeded— failed. Which was a sign, communed Avilla, that the sun of Jose Cuchillo was toward the setting. It was high time that the band swore eternal fealty to a new chief, and that chief might as well as not be Don Ramon Avilla, with first choice of captives, first hand into the bag of loot.

Possession of a gringo white woman brought a man good luck. Besides the matter of luck, no small item to Avilla's skulking soul, his inclinations lay that way mightily, for he was beginning to find, with his elevation to the colonelcy, odious in the extreme the crude blandishments of the starveling camp followers who came fluttering about the bivouac like hungry crows in search of carrion.

Meditating thus, Don Ramon took a pace or two back and forth, lifted his head smartly, proudly. He was resolved. He would go upon a journey.

Before a ragged patch of tent— the army's commissary— Don Ramon proceeded to outfit, filling a leather bottle to the bubbling top with the ardent drink called pulque, packing full two lizard-skin pouches, one with strong tobacco of Oaxaca, the other with dried leaves of the marihuana, or courage plant.

As an afterthought, he slipped a couple of greasy frijoles and a double handful of leached corn into the saddle-bag. Then he mounted, drove the long spurs into the horse's torn flanks, bore away toward the north.

EVELYN Warner, a dab of chalk across one check, her blue eyes zealously alight, was striving earnestly to impress upon the mind and soul of Pedro Torres the fact that six times seven is forty-two, and never forty-six. Pedro couldn't see it, which seems rather remarkable, for Pedro was anything but stupid, even though, at the age of twenty, he was struggling with problems of the second grammar grade.

Nor was Pedro stubborn, or intractable. Why, since her first request he had never once rolled or lighted a cigarette within the school's domain; further, with lofty magnanimity, he had foreborne to pack within the temple of learning the seven-inch bowie-knife with which, formerly, he had gone embellished.

Pedro was as one traveling in a Socorro sand-storm, from whom all nearer things of earth are hidden, but who is permitted to look upon the crest of the lofty peak ahead. That was it. Upon that high pinnacle, Pedro saw the yellow-haired school-teacher, with whom he was deeply, abysmally in love.

Of this fact, Schoolmistress Evelyn was all unaware, though she might easily enough have guessed it had not her own tender fancies centered upon the biweekly arrival of the Eastern mail. Even when Pedro began to appear garbed in his braided, black velvet coat— worn previously at bull-fights and upon fiesta days only— she never suspected, nor, when, to the coat he added the wide-brimmed, cone-crowned hat with the thick silver cord representing one season's toil in the cotton-field, did she remotely dream or suspect.

Evelyn, before she had started from the East, had heard that the Mexicans were cruel, treacherous. She didn't believe it. Every morning her little, black-eyed folk— her scholars, except for three white children, were Mexicans or breeds— would come with dirty hands filled with offerings of ripe guavas, dates, or cactus-apple.

When the bell dismissed them from their seats they would gather about her like bronze mountain butterflies hovering over a bush of sweet pedisporum. Her every kindness they flashed back at her out of sparkling, grateful eyes. Upon their soft tongues, her name, Señorita Evelyno, was as a phrase from a lullaby. From these children, she, gentle born and bred, was learning true courtesy and politeness.

A little fellow, no higher than her waist, would fly down the aisle to retrieve for her a pencil that she had dropped. When the gringo teacher would have a drink from the porous, cooling jar, some witch of a child would first scrub out the drinking-cup with the corner of a bright, ragged serape. And Pedro. To her lightest request, he would sweep her a bow, accompanied, at first, before he had much English, with a ceremonious "con muchisimo gusto," which, as time went on, he would declaim variously as "with muchisimo pleasure," or "con much gusto."

Evelyn began to fidget over Pedro, not because he stared at her so owlishly, but because he wasn't learning his lessons. Day after day he went down to inglorious defeat before the table of sevens and employed his geography solely as a covert from behind which he might peer at Evelyn.

"You must, must study, Pedro, study hard."

Pedro laid a brown hand over his heart.

"With much gusto, Señorita Evelyno."

But Pedro didn't study, save to meditate, without impiety, how very like her golden hair was to the hair upon the head of our Lady of the Angels in the mission chapel. He didn't study, and he didn't, and had to stay after school, which was as severe as punishing an Indian with a bottle of mescal. She stepped around a desk, to point out pertinent facts touching the multiplication of nine by seven, and found Pedro upon his knees, both her hands clasped in his own.

Then, as a caballero of old Spain might have made his plea, Pedro poured out his heart. He loved her. For her, he would spill his blood like December rain. He would be her true caballero, he would, he would. Gently, wishing that Jimmy Haworth, of Galena, Illinois, might have borrowed some of Pedro's Latin fire for his wooing, she withdrew her hands. Why, Pedro was but a boy; she was old, very old.

Pedro was not a boy. Would he not, come blessed day of Santa Barbara, be twenty? She old? Angels never grew old.

Then his soft, black eyes became the hard, glittering eyes of a wronged rattler. Had she, then, a lover, a caballero? None thereabouts, certainly. Pedro arose to his feet, set a bit more jauntily the velvet coat about his shoulders, marched out with the stride of a grandee.

Beside a clump of Turk's head cactus, where, during hours of instruction he was wont to secrete the long-bladed bowie, he sank to the earth from sight, tried the edge of the blade against his thumb, slid it into its sheath. No lover thereabouts. But somewhere, a lover. No matter. There were hopes. He'd win yet this angel of the golden hair; he'd learn the accursed table of sevens, eights, and nines; he'd slit the throat—

Clattering hoof-beats sounded from the cañon trail which led to the Mexican line a mile south. A gay serape fluttering from his shoulder, resplendent in the gaudy uniform of a bandit colonel, a rider dashed up alongside the tile step of the adobe school-house, threw the reins over the horse's head, dismounted, entered. There came sound of a smothered scream. The bandit reappeared, a squirming bundle wrapped about in the serape in his arms. He was in the saddle, the bundle before him. The cruel spurs stabbed the horse's flanks. He was away, speeding down the cañon trail.

Leaping from rock to rock like a goat, the naked blade in his hand, Pedro ran after, screaming threats, blistering oaths. Where a tiny monument marked the limits of the United States, Pedro stopped, stared at the cloud of dust that lay ahead on the edge of the desert.

The desert!

Back Pedro ran with all speed to his own adobe house, yanked a canvas water-bag from a rafter, filled it from the cooling jar, tore down the trail, across the line, into the waste of hot sands.

Hour after hour he pressed on, following the deep hoof marks of a horse, that any momentary flurry of hot wind might obliterate forever. The distance between the marks of the reaching forefeet and the spurning hind feet, began to lessen.

Good! Pedro had been watching for the sign, for, in the desert, a good man, with a burning purpose, will overhaul a horse. On Pedro went, and on until the darkness hid the hoof marks from his sight. Then, on hands and knees, he felt out the direction of the tracks, ran a distance, located the tracks anew, then on.

FOR SEVERAL MILES, until the spent horse began to stumble, Don Ramon spurred the wretched beast unmercifully. Then, for fear the animal would drop down for good, the bandit dismounted for a brief breathing spell, and lifted the girl to the earth.

"Señorita got knife, poison?" he demanded, padding with his hands about her person. Her face flamed at the indignity. Ah! If only she had had poison— or knife.

Don Ramon took a gulp from the leather bottle of pulque, rolled himself a cigarette, half of tobacco, half of the dried courage-plant, also called variously, "the liberator of sin," "loco," or "wild hemp."

The man's eyes began to glow like moistened match-heads in the dark, and, swelling to the mad exhilaration of the pulque and the loco, he took a few strutting steps back and forth. Bowing with mock gallantry, he lifted the girl to the horse's back, mounted, urged the beast forward.

Again the horse began to stumble. Darkness was falling. Avilla reined in. "We eat now food," he said, "rest un poco, go on." From the saddle-bag he searched forth greasy frijoles, a handful of leached corn, spread his serape upon the sand for a cloth. Seating himself, he proffered the leather bottle to the girl.

She refused. The don took a generous drink, a bite of a frijole, and laid out the lizard-skin pouches preparatory to rolling another cigarette.

She knew something about this loco, or Mexican opium. Until she had peremptorily stopped the practise, some of the children even had chewed it as other children chew gum. She had heard of Mexicans, maddened by overindulgence in the weed, when no human victim was at hand, running amuck, slashing horses and cows with their knives— anything to shed blood, to kill. The frenzy of a loco drunk, soon over, is followed by stupor, sleep. But in that period of madness what unspeakable deviltry might not be done. She'd risk it. She would have to. Leaning slightly, she began to feel about her in the sand.

At last she found it, a stone no larger than her thumb. Watching for her opportunity, she flung the stone, struck the horse upon the neck. It plunged, ran forward a few steps, the Mexican after it, cursing vilely. In an instant she had seized the pulque bottle, had emptied into it all the loco she could gather in her hand. Then she shook the bottle vigorously, placed it back upon the serape.

Avilla, seating himself once more, took a pull at the bottle, a bit of frijole, lighted his cigarette. In the flickering yellow light of the vesta match, his eyes looked like black points. Again he offered her the bottle, laughed at her refusal, took another drink.

Presently he leaped to his feet, began to pace back and forth nervously. As he came to a stop, standing over her, she arose, backed away a step. Now, courage. Oh, for the sharp, longbladed knife of Pedro, a hatpin, anything.

"Señorita, I—"

"Please," she stammered, searching desperately for some time-saving subterfuge, "please, I— really, if you will give me just a taste of the pulque, I feel very ill."

"Perfectamente! Stupid pig that I forget the Señorita. Pardons a million." In playful simulation of self-punishment for his neglect, he struck himself upon the chest, handed her the bottle. She tilted it to the lips, pretended to drink, handed it back. Don Ramon drank after her, and drank again.

"Señorita!" He was leaning toward her, fumbling in the darkness to find her hand.

"Please," she protested. "I am feeling wretchedly ill and weak." She drew her cold fingers from his hot grasp, shrank back.

"Cruel, Señorita! One kiss— one!" He came lurching toward her, flung both arms about her.

Striking, thrusting him away, like a fury sinking her teeth into the back of the hand that grasped her arm, she fought free of him. Again and again she broke away from him, to be seized anew. But she was young, vigorous, armed with a strength inspired by terror supreme. She fell to her knees upon the serape.

Her groping hand found the leather bottle. Into his face and eyes she dashed the fiery stuff.

Screaming with pain, his hands clapped over eyes that were as two burning coals, he ran blindly back and forth. Evelyn was gone. Heedless of the barbed cactus that pierced her thin shoes, she ran, ran until it seemed her heart would burst from her bosom.

At last, when she could no longer run, she fell, lay panting upon the sand. Her ear close to the earth, she listened. Away in the distance, she could hear the bandit calling to her, cursing, then babbling senseless, whirling words. At length his voice was still. She struggled to her feet, pressed on, ignorant of all direction, but on, away from what lay behind.

For miles she fought her way, her feet and ankles bleeding from the cactus through which she blundered. Then, as the sun arose like an inflamed eye to peer along that waste of sand, and spines, and horrid, creeping things, her heart sank. When she should have been traveling north and east toward the line and safety, she had been going south and west, deeper still into the bandit country.

Summoning, from the uttermost parts of her being, her last vestige of strength and resolution, she set forth, making a detour to avoid the spot where the bandit had pitched his temporary camp. By this time of the morning the lethal effect of the loco would have worn off, leaving an aftermath, of nervous irritability, more dangerous than its exhilaration.

Up, up, climbed the flaming, red eye, changing to yellow, to an incandescent-white. The world, under that terrific heat that grew and grew still hotter, must become, it seemed, a waste of fire. The desert rabbits, pocket mice, kangaroo rats, hovered in the precarious shelter of elephant wood, their sides heaving, their red mouths gaping piteously.

On her knees, with bleeding, spine-torn hands, she dug desperately to find roots of the desert water-nut plant. She found a pitiful few, swallowed the drops of hot, acrid fluid. Further on, but slowly, oh, so slowly. She was getting dizzy. Things were turning black. Her last thought was a realization that if she lay out in that destroying sun, it would be the end.

Crawling into the shelter of an elephantbush, she fell forward upon her face— unconscious.

SOME ONE lifted her head gently, poured blessed drops of water into her parched mouth.

"Gracias, Madre de Dios!" exclaimed a fervent voice. "Opens now the blue eyes! More water! There!"

Pedro, his face the color of the dead, bleached branches above him, was leaning over her. There was a clean hole through the black velvet jacket, which was stiff with dried blood. He was breathing rapidly, shallowly, with a terrifying rattling noise. He let her head sag back upon the sand, for he had not the strength to support it.

"Listen, carita mia," he said, pointing weakly to the north, "keep the sun at your back— a league on— you are safe. All night," he panted, "I trail the hoof-tracks. This morning I came upon him— raving. Madre de Dios, how he rave. Muchishmo we fight. There, and there— and there, with much gusto, my knife finds his buzzard flesh.

"Me, twice, he stab, here, and here. Does he die? No. He falls to the earth. I take the riata from his saddle.

"With my bloody knife I cut it in pieces four. One foot of the carne envenenada I tie to root of tough yucca— the other foot to another—one wrist to a third— a wrist to a fourth— there he lies— crucified— like a thief, but without a cross. He lives an hour, a day maybe, more— perhaps. Quien sabe?"

He shoved the broad-brimmed hat from his sweating brow.

"Then I find her, carita mia, Madre de Dios, I find her. Gracias, Lady of Heaven, that for a space, I serve her— her caballero— with much gusto, I serve her. Go, now, carita mia— take the water-bag— a league—"

He flopped over onto the sand, but still smiled up at her bravely.

"It is soon over," he whispered. "Go now. Santa Margaret bless the golden hair of her— Santa Ysobel bless and keep the two blue eyes— Santa—"

A spasm shook his breast. The lips opened dryly. He crossed himself. The hand fell limply across his chest.

The caballero soul of Pedro Torres had taken flight.

___________________

8: The Whispering Shell

Herman Howard Matteson

All-Story Weekly, 8 May 1920

HUNUI, at one time or another, had supplicated nearly all of the forty evil Polynesian gods. Hunui proposed to wreak suitable vengeance upon Amanu, the five-minute diver. One by one, as the plan of her revenge took definite form, she abandoned all the gods save two— Tababa, the shark god, and Mite O-fua, the god of the giant mollusk that would close down its shell upon a man’s hand or foot, and hold him until he drowned. To Tababa and to Mite O-fua the girl prayed every morning and evening, and made lavish votive offering.

The thick gray of early morning still hung over the sleeping village when Hunui crawled from the thatched hut, made her way through the pandang shrubbery to the edge of the sea. She surveyed the deserted beach, crept back into the wood, hid herself, waited.

Presently she heard the thud of naked feet hurrying along the path. Amanu, the five-minute diver, for all his craft and cunning, was eager for the bait. Derided, humiliated because a girl had beaten him at the diving, had for a fortnight piled up nightly before the chief a greater take of pearl shell than he, Amanu had spied upon her to discover what bank of pearl shell she had found. Now he knew.

Hunui’s basket, filled beyond capacity, spilling a shell here and there along the trail, had told the secret. This was the place of Hunui’s rich store.

Amanu had come early, very early. By the custom, the place was his for the day, for he had come first. Hunui, black eyes glittering, breast heaving, watched from her hiding-place while Amanu stood upon the brim of rock, made ready.

He wadded the fiber basket into a ball, tucked it into his girdle. Then he lifted his face to the sky and uttered the diver’s propitiating prayer. He leaned from the edge of the cliff, dropped into the sea with a soft plash.

Hunui counted. One minute— two minutes. She moved from the covert of pandang, stole a step nearer the edge of the cliff. Three minutes. Any Polynesian will remain below water three minutes. Amanu was a five-minute diver, best diver of any island of the far Tuamotus. Four minutes. A little nearer the edge of the cliff she crept. Four minutes. Amanu was a diver; not a doubt of it. Four minutes and a half. Four minutes below had been the best that Hunui had ever been able to do. Amanu had been below four and a half, Five minutes. Five— No swirl of water marked the return of the diver. Five minutes. Her lips parted, an image in bronze save for the rhythmic lift and fall of the counting hand, Hunui stood upon the cliff. Five minutes. Five minutes and a half. No diver of the whole Pacific had ever remained below so long, and lived. Five minutes and a half. Six minutes. Hunui leaned from the edge of the cliff, stared into the depths of uneasy waters. Six minutes— more than six minutes.

Hunui dropped from the rock, swam in under the overhang. In a moment she reappeared. She climbed the bank, flung her arms, burst into hysterical screams, ran to the woods, into the trail, and still ran, sobbing, laughing, to her hut.

In a corner of the hut, as if in a shrine, rested a shell of the great mollusk, Mite O-fua. Before this Hunui flung herself, bowed her head to the earth, and uttered fervent thanks.

THE GOVERNMENT pilot books describe Marutea Island as one of the most dangerous in the archipelago. Twenty miles long, the whole southwestern aspect is bordered by a submerged reef. Only at the northwestern extremity of the island was there an opening in the reef, and this was marked precariously by a jutting bit of coral that looked like a dead man’s hand. More often than not even this small mark of guidance was awash in the seas.

The master of the tops’l schooner Faraway, sighting the coral hand, began to wear his ship. A roller higher than its fellows buried the guiding coral hand. The quartermaster spun the wheel a spoke too far. The Faraway took a sheer, rose to the heave of a swell, flung itself upon the reef. And there she balanced, grinding, turning.

Almost, when the waves hogged the Faraway at stem and stern, was she able to slide from the reef, but when the waters sank the entire weight of ship and cargo rested upon the fulcrum of sharp coral.

Creaking, groaning, the seams began to open. The old oak ribs began to fetch away. The masts began to roll in their steppings. There came a series of higher waves, with the alternate deeper abyss.

The old Faraway broke fairly in two, slid into deep water, her fo’c’s’le within the reef, her afterpart without.

Here and there a human figure spun madly for a moment in the vortex of a tide rip, then went down with the sucking undertow. One with a shock of red hair went down, came up, went down. Clinging with one hand to a shattered bit of spar, he flailed the waters with his free arm, fought his way out of the spume of breaking seas to the sirupy, undulating smoothness that marked the opening of the reef. But the undertow caught him, sucked him under, flung him far back, whence again he began to swim doggedly toward the haven of the lagoon.

High upon the side of the pinnacle that arose from the border of the lagoon stood a girl, a pointed conch shell clasped in her hands. This was the eeo shell of the Polynesian maiden into which she whispers her secrets, to which she lays her ear while it whispers back the mystic answer.

A score of times had Hunui climbed the cliff to where she could be alone. At first the eeo had been stupid, stubborn, and would only drone back murmuring, inarticulate reply. Then, finally, the eeo began to speak in words that were no more different from her own words than an echo differs from the voice that provokes it.

But Hunui’s heart and mind were the dreaming, imaginative heart and mind of the superstitious islander. The eeo had answered, twice and thrice had answered, and had said that he would come from the east, tall, strong, fair of skin, with flame-colored hair, a god to be her very own. Three times the eeo had answered Hunui.

Exalted, light as a bird, she had hurried down the cliff side, had sped through the pandang to the open in the midst of the village huts where Old Motu was beginning to thump out the measure of the meke-meke dance with the raau stick.

From across the circle of eager, laughing faces Amanu, the five-minute diver, had nodded for Hunui to come to his side. Often Amanu had boasted that what maiden of the island he desired was his. Imperatively he bobbed his head toward Hunui.

She burst into shrill, derisive laughter, seated herself on the opposite side of the ring, disposing her short lava-lava skirt about her graceful body.

Publicly, Hunui had flouted Amanu, the five-minute diver.

Amanu glowered, sulked; Hunui laughed, danced as she had never danced before. Every day the girl sought the cliff side, the eeo shell clasped in her hands. She loved to whisper over and again the words, to hear again the promise that he should come from the east, tall, strong, fair of skin, with flame-colored hair, a god to be her very own.

From the cliff side, clapsing the eeo shell to her bosom, Hunui had watched the coming of the Faraway. Shrilly she had screamed when she had seen that the skipper had veered the ship a fatal fathom from the true course.

In an instant the sea had broken its plaything. Fighting his way toward the lagoon was a man with hair of the color called by the islanders uraura.

Recklessly Hunui slid down the declivity of the cliff, dragged an outrigger canoe to the surf, thrust it into the water, swam alongside until it had topped the third roller. Then she climbed over the rail, picked up the paddle. Paddling with all her wiry strength, maneuvering the craft with all her sea-born cunning, she came finally to where she could reach, seize the shock of uraura-colored hair.

Careening the canoe, she drew him in. Hers, all hers. The man god had come to her from the east as the magic eeo shell had promised. Tenderly she gazed upon him where his vast form lay huddled inertly against a thwart.

What a wonder, that aureole of reddish hair! Upon the backs of his hands and upon his face were tiny brown spots. His skin, where the neckband of his flannel shirt had been torn away, was as white as the flesh of a young coconut. Hers, to be her very own. The eeo shell had promised her. She had but gone into the sea to claim her own.

BILLY DANNER, able seaman, blinking up wonderingly at the thatch of a cone-shaped roof above him, began to meditate painfully that he had been badly stove up. He felt himself over tentatively, discovered that he had cracked a rib amidships. Also he felt a bit light in the tops. But very shortly youth and an amazingly robust constitution began to assert themselves. If he could just stow a fairish cargo of lobscouse and tea, and then have a good sleep, he would be quite all right.

Lobscouse and tea are strangers to the Tuamotun Island bill of fare. But roast pig and yams and sweet coconut milk are not.

A sweet, lisping voice sounded in Billy’s ear. A firm hand supported his head. He was eating three-finger poi, nibbling at roast meat and yam, drinking milk through a hole gouged in the end of a coconut.

It was rather dark in the hut. Billy wanted a look at his benefactress. Her voice was mighty promising. Billy palavered his gratitude, started to rise, but the girl thrust him back upon the sleeping mat. There in the hut the big, young sailor slept, ate, slept again.

Then he crawled to the open, stood a bit wabbly to his feet. A native girl with the most wonderful, big, soft black eyes Billy Danner had ever looked into, stood by smiling, appraising Billy’s great frame with an air of proprietorship. Billy talked sign-talk to Hunui, who, rather reluctantly, finally let herself understand that the white man with the uraua-colored hair desired speech with the chief of the village.

It is amazing how lucidly one may talk, under necessity, without words. Billy made the chief understand finally, and the chief answered. An iruwa pahi, or foreign ship, touched at Marutea Island once a year sometimes. Sometimes it missed a year, or two years. The Iruwa pahi was owned and skippered by a little, capering French trader from Papeete. The ship was a ten-ton schooner and picked up pearls, copra, and small logs of hard wood in exchange for calico, rum and knives. The Frenchman had just been at Marutea, therefore would not come again for many months.

Billy Danner set himself to space out philosophically the waiting months. But time hung intolerably heavy.

Why wait? Billy had ever been a man of action. Hunui trotting beside him, Billy had done the island. Where the open Pacific pounded the coral to powder much drift had accumulated. Here were fir logs that must have traveled thousands of miles from the Oregon coast, logs that the fretting waves had worn to a piano polish. Here and there were bits of plank.

A year seemed a mighty long time to wait. Anyway, the sight of the Oregon fir had made Billy homesick. Besides, they— that is, some one on that Oregon coast— before a year was up would be mourning him as dead.

The Maruteans possessed a few rude implements, and these Billy borrowed. With infinite pains he began to fashion from a log a keel for a ten-ton yawl. Finally he got the keel laid, notched for the ribs, and began to fashion the latter in rude form. The ribs that he had set in place at sundown he found floating in the lagoon the following morning. The old adze and a saw-toothed draw-knife rested upon the coral bottom in forty feet of water.

Billy bribed a native to recover the tools for him. His unimaginative man’s wits pondering every explanation of the interference with his work but the right one, he set the ribs back into place. In the morning the tools were again in the lagoon, and the ribs afloat. Thrice was his day’s work undone while he slept.

The fourth night, determined to bestow upon some Marutean the drubbing of his life, Billy kept watch. A girl slipped from the shelter of the pandang shrub, tore at the frame of the yawl like a fury, flung the ribs into the ocean and the adze and the draw-knife after them.

When Billy laid his broad hand upon her quivering shoulder she gave a startled yelp. Then she flung her arms about Billy’s neck. Moaning, crying, she clung and clung. One reiterated word he could detect in her sobbing, hysterical speech, and the word was eeo. Feeling confoundedly foolish, deeply thankful that it was night and no one looking on, Billy stood while Hunui, half crying, ran her fingers through his hair, saying over and again, “Eeo, eeo.”

Teetering to and fro with that bearlike awkwardness that comes upon a man embarrassed, Billy could only mutter: “I swear. Well, now, I swear.”

Then he began to understand. Gently he released her grasp from about his neck, gave her round shoulder a little pat, striving to comfort her with:

“There there— don’t you blow a clew, little matey.”

To the respective owners Billy returned the adze and the haggle-toothed draw-knife. He toiled no more at the ten-ton yawl in which it had been his design to trade a while in the Tahitis, then make into Papeete, and traffic both ship and stores for French francs and Louis d’or, then for the Oregon coast.

Then, the months of hurricanes coming on, the keel of the ship all but disappeared from view in the sand and broken coral washed over it by the seas.

Hunui followed him about like his shadow. He had accumulated sufficient store of the simple Polynesian dialect to understand now the miracle story of the eeo shell. But the wonder of it, the perplexing state of being regarded as a god gift to this girl with the big, wonderful black eyes, abided with him.

He would look at Hunui, who would smile gloriously, then stare away over the sea while he worried his thatch of red hair and muttered:

“I swear. Now, I swear.”

But with the ceasing of the storms, the resumption of the faithful, gentle trades, stronger than ever there came upon him the longing for home. His manhood revolted at the lazy, pampered, voluptuary life that he had led. Playfully, Hunui had thrust a sprig of the flaming, scarlet hibiscus over his ear.

Like a man caught in some shameful act, he blustered an oath, hurled the flower to the sand, ran down the slope and with his bare hands began hurling away the sand and silt that had buried the keel of the ten-ton yawl. Again he borrowed adze and drawknife, and set to work.

Never again did Hunui disturb the timbers of the slowly shaping craft. Always when he ceased work there was ready for him smoking hot yams, roasted meat, a bowl of pink, three-finger poi. When not engaged in gathering, or preparing food for the white man god, Hunui would sit in the edge of the pandang shrub, supplicating the spirit of the eeo shell, threatening it with direful punishment if it mocked her or played her false.

FOR FIVE MONTHS jealousy had been festering in the heart of Amanu, the fiveminute diver, like the poisonous spine of the sea urchin in the heel of a fisherman. A dozen times Amanu had sought to engage Hunui in talk, but she would stare at him with her big, black eyes as if he were one she had never seen before.

Amanu, reasoning that the white man was building a craft for two, and not for one, came often to look on while the white man scattered chips with the broad-bladed adze. Standing beside Billy, Amanu considered the height, the length of arm, the thickness of the white man’s wrist. Amanu had the greater girth of chest and waist. That man who can remain below water five minutes has lung space. Amanu had the greater beam; Billy Danner length and reach.

Once, in deadly earnest, though the white man had taken it in fun, Amanu laid his hands upon Billy’s shoulders in the attitude taken by the island wrestler.

Billy whipped a hand beneath Amanu’s arm, seized the native’s chin, at the same time clasping the other hand into the small of Amanu’s back. For all his struggles, Amanu bent backward, slowly backward. Then Billy gave him a twist, a throw that landed him on his head spinning like a top.

Hunui, sitting in the edge of the pandang shrub, laughed shrilly. Fishermen, standing upon the rocks near by, also laughed, called to Amanu mockingly.

The ship’s frame now ribbed astern and amidships, Billy began to ponder the matter of obtaining a knee and short, natural crooks for the bow. He began to search the woods, ask the natives where he might find distorted trees that would answer the purpose.

Amanu, as Billy was coming from his hut in the early morning, met the white man half-way to the ship. Amanu knew where there was a tree of tough kao wood that would answer. The tree grew upon the cliff, far below the village. There was a short cut through the woods to the place.

Billy followed Amanu into the jungles. Presently the trail emerged upon the beach. Amanu waved his hand. The place lay further on. Where the upper end of the island broke away abruptly from the north, and the smooth beach became a tangle of piled boulders and broken coral, Amanu pointed to the cliff side.

There, surely enough, was a twisted, gnarled tree that might answer. Amanu reached, took the adze from Billy’s hand, pointed for the white man to climb the cliff, decide whether the tree would do.

Amanu’s eyes glittered wickedly. If the white man found that the tree would answer, Amanu would climb after him with the adze, help him cut it, get it to the beach. The nichelike space between two jutting rocks appeared to be the only feasible route from which to climb.

Billy walked forward, turned the edge of the rock. There followed a threshing sound, a squeaking almost human in timbre. The tentacles of the giant, south Pacific devilfish flailed themselves about the white man’s body.

Amanu, uttering a laugh, dropped the adze, ran down the beach to where he had left his outrigger canoe, embarked, paddled in the direction of the pearl-shell banks.

Wrapping, unwrapping, tensing, the hungry suckers of the tentacles feeling for a holding spot upon the white man’s flesh, the monster began to heave and undulate its vast bulk back, back into its den in the rock niche. The tentacles, thick as a man’s thigh where they joined the thing’s body, tensed tighter still.

A groan issued from the victim’s lips. There was a crack as of breaking sticks. Both thigh bones had broken under the terrific embrace.

A mad scream echoed along the shore.

Her bronze skin an ashen hue. shrieking like a fury, striking with desperate strength, yet with an accuracy truly marvelous, Hunui hewed away with the adze at the great fleshly arms that were crushing the life out of the precious white body that the god of the eeo shell had given to her.

The crevice of rock looking upon the waters became a shambles. Severed tentacles, still wriggling, lay upon the bloody sands.

Hunui flung the adze from her, gathered the broken, inert body of Billy Danner into her arms, drew it to the open beach. With the hair of her head she wiped the foam from the white lips. She ran her fingers through the thatch of red hair, whispered to him, laid her ear to his breast.

There was a flutter. Still he lived. He would not die. No, the eeo shell had promised her a living white man god. He would live, and not die.

His eyes opened. A groan escaped his lips. He would live.

STANDING with arms widely flung. Hunui faced the open sea where dwelt the twenty good gods, and the forty evil ones of her Polynesian faith. To the forty evil gods she swore an oath, pledged her body and soul to even up with Amanu, the five-minute diver, for the breaking of the beautiful body of the white god that the eeo had given her.

Again she knelt beside Billy Danner.

He was rolling his head, muttering. But he would live. Hunui sped back to the village, crying that a devil-fish had got the uoyu tane. The uoyu tane was badly hurt, but would live.

“For once, hurry, snail men!” she screamed.

The islanders bore Billy Danner back to the village, laid him upon the sleeping mat in the fare of Hunui. There, while Billy in delirium struggled with a devil-fish that he called Amanu, raved of the green hills of Oregon, of one who dwelt there.

Hunui watched beside him. With infinite love and tenderness, she cared for the stricken man. Never did she leave him save to fetch him food and drink, or to stand for a moment while she whispered into the eeo shell that whispered back. But Hunui had begun to doubt. Again and again she threatened to abjure the eeo shell forever, and all her faith, if the little, magic thing of pink and white and brown should lie to her.

Slowly Billy Banner recovered from the effects of his hurt. Within two months he had regained his health and strength, perfectly regained them save that his once tall, straight form was now squat, hideous, moved grotesquely like a sand crab scuttering over the rocks. The thigh bones, the fractures unreduced, had healed and set themselves arcwise, one bowed in, the other out. His hands hung below his knees. His gait was shuffling, rolling, simian.

Hunui watched Billy as he went sidling over the beach to where lay the incompleted ship. A moment the man stood regarding his handicap. With a snarl, followed by bitter, booming oaths, he tore the thing asunder with his bare hands and hove them into the sea.

Hunui clasped her hands to her bosom, called down a blessing upon the spirit of the eeo shell. Hers, all hers. Billy Danner was never going to leave Marutea Island. Softly she followed after him, as he made his way up the slope, to the cliff side. She watched him as he seated himself upon a rock. For a long time he stared into the open, to the eastward where lay the Oregon coast. Then he gathered his face in his hands and wept. Silently Hunui withdrew.

To the Polynesian nothing is so sacred as the grief that brings a strong man to tears.

And day after day Billy Danner repaired to the same cliff side, to gaze te hitia o-tera, or “the place that is to the east.” The countenance of Hunui lost gradually all its softness and tenderness. The lips that had been always warm with smiles set themselves into sinister lines. The black eyes took on an ophidian glitter.

In reckless mood she joined the pearldivers. Anointing her slim, wonderful body with coconut oil, she dove with the men, taking hazards from which even Amanu, the five-minute diver, shrank back.

At first Hunui was able to bring up pearl shell from only three fathoms of water. Then she dove in four fathoms, five, six, eight. At first she had been able to remain below but a minute. This she increased gradually to two minutes, three. Four was her extreme limit.

Once having brought up bottom in eight fathoms, having remained below a full four minutes, she began to taunt, ridicule and challenge Amanu.

She dared him to dive in the outer lagoon where the gray tiger sharks were.

When he refused, she dived alone, came up unharmed. The other divers and the idle onlookers laughed Amanu back to the village.

It was the custom for the divers every night to lay before the chief what pearl shell they had taken during the day. From the piles upon the earth the chief counted out every tenth shell for himself. There came shortly a night when the number of the shell piled before the chief by Hunui exceeded the count of the pile of Amanu.

And day after day, while Amanu glowered sullenly under the chaffing of the natives, the number of Hunui’s shell exceeded his own. Only, had Amanu but known, the private store of Hunui’s shell in her fare, or hut, grew but negligibly slow.

But Amanu did not know. Jealous, enraged, all his old strong fancy for Hunui changed into hate, Amanu began to spy upon Hunui to learn what new, secret store of pearl she had discovered. Every night she brought her basket overflowing. Now Hunui dove always alone. She had found some new rich deposit of pearl.

But Hunui was crafty. She left her fare before daybreak. One night she would return to the village by canoe, another night by the trail from the west, on still another from the east.

With each succeeding day Amanu took up his watch at an earlier hour. In the gray of late night Amanu saw Hunui steal from the hut, enter the woods.

He followed. A distance inland, the trail split into three trails. At fault, he returned finally to the village. That night, the number of Hunui’s pearl shell exceeded any take ever made on Marutea Island.

Again he followed her, but in vain. Somewhere she left the beaten trail.

That night, when Hunui came in, she gave Amanu a patronizing toss of her head. Looking Amanu evenly in the eyes, she declared that she would no longer dive during the entire day, but would come in with her shell when the sun was high.

As she had walked from the woods Amanu had noted that a shell had rolled from her too full basket, lay unheeded at her feet.

Amanu pondered. True to her boast, Hunui came to the village at noon on the day following, her basket heaped high.

Amanu waited. Toward night he slunk into the forest. There, in the trail, lay a pearl shell, still wet. A distance on, lay another, then another.

His nose to the ground like a hound, Amanu hurried on. He found a third shell, a fourth. The sixth shell brought him to where a by trail led to the beach. Halfway down the slope he found another. Upon a flat rock that rose abruptly from deep water lay a little, scattered pile of shells.

This was the place. He had found the store of Hunui’s treasure.

Poised upon the edge of the rock, he looked about him apprehensively. This was dangerous diving. This water would be a good eight fathoms deep. The rock shelved inward forming a cavern, no telling how wide in extent. This would be a favored haunt for dreaded sea monsters. His heart weakening, he leaned to stare down into the depths. Dangerous business, diving there alone. Anyway, it had grown too dark. A sudden flare of rage against the girl who had publicly flaunted him scattered his timid, faltering thoughts. What a girl could do, he could do.

Morning’s first light found him at the place. His feet braced to the outer brim of the rock, he puffed out his enormous chest, drew a deep breath. Slowly he leaned forward, dropped into the sea with a soft splash. From the edge of the woods stepped Hunui, her eyes glittering, bosom heaving. Her lips snarled away from her white teeth as she lifted her hand, began to count the seconds.

One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes.

She drew nearer the edge of the rock, turned her head to listen for the swirling sound that marked the return of a diver to the surface.

Four minutes.

Four and a half. Amanu, to grant him his due, was the greatest diver of the archipelago.

Four minutes and a half— three-quarters. To the very edge of the rock Hunui drew.

Four minutes and three-quarters. Leaning, she noted how a shaft of yellow light slanted into the water like a long, pointing finger.

Five minutes. Five was the very limit of human endurance. No diver of the Polynesians had ever exceeded five minutes and lived.

Five. Five and a quarter.

Five and a half. At the girl’s feet the water lay quiet.

Six minutes. It was over. Amanu had dived his last.

Hunui spread her arms, thanked the forty evil gods for heeding her prayer. Then Hunui, in her turn, poised herself upon the rock brim. Down, down went her slender body, undulating, to the stroke of her arms as she went deeper, deeper. A distance under the overhang of the rock she swam, turned, swam swiftly out, came popping to the surface.

Cunningly for love of the broken white man god she had matched one terror of the sea against another, the giant ostrem shell fish against the devil squid with eight arms. Along the outer edge of the ledge Hunui had lain a train of pearl-oyster shell. Feeling over the find, Amanu had followed it beneath the rock where it was dark, and thrust his hand into the maw of the great, rock-anchored bivalve that, at the least touch, closes down its inexorable jaws. Amanu, the five-minute diver, his wrist held between the edges of the shell as in a vise, swung gently to and fro as the current ebbed and flowed.

THE CAPERING French trader’s ship rode in the offing. Ashore, the little man was trading knives, rum, calico for pearls and copra. Banteringly he invited Hunui to bring forth her fabulous store of shell concerning which he had heard so much.

But she shook her head. In truth, Hunui had no store of shell. What shell she had taken from the deep she had used to bait her trap of the giant ostrem.

The bartering over, the Frenchman and Billy Danner engaged in earnest speech. The Frenchman was telling Billy of the famous Paris surgeon, resident for a while at Papeete. The famous surgeon, some weeks before, had broken the bone in the crooked arm of a man, had restored it perfectly. The surgeon would do as much for Billy Danner’s case.

From the cliff side Hunui watched the little trading schooner wear into the offing. From its deck a white man with a shock of red hair had waved to her. She lifted her hand, waved in return. Then, as the ship became a speck upon the horizon, Hunui leaned far out from the cliff, dropped the eeo shell into space. Upon the rocks far below it broke into a thousand fragments.

_______________

9: The Thing From Antares

Meyer Krulfeld
fl  1937-1942

Thrilling Wonder Stories, Feb 1940

Another of the many essentially anonymous non-professional writers who had brief careers in the pulps. He produced around 10 stories.

THE sudden lurch of the Comet which accompanied the shrill whine of the alarm buzzers jerked Les Warren from sleep. His glance went to the space ship’s visual plate, a dark oval of glass directly in front of the navigator’s chair in which he had dozed off. Suddenly awake, a chill prickling his spine, he stared at the strange object which blazed from the center of the plate.

It was perfectly spherical, and about the size of an apple on the screen. Every detail was sharply etched in a subtly glowing light that made a nimbus around it. Round black spots were scattered over it like monstrous eyes. Almost invisible against the star-scattered blackness of space, faint purple beams shot out from the black spots, merging with the empty blackness as they went away from the glowing sphere.

It was like no known human vessel. No ship built by men had ever had that shape or that strange method of propulsion, apparently independent of rocket blasts. It was one of two things— an outlaw ship built unknown to the space authorities and powered by new methods, or an alien vessel come from the cold far depths of space outside the solar system!

Even as he watched it seemed to grow larger on the visual plate, glowing more brightly, the purple beams more intense. His fingers flew to the controls, manipulated the levers and switches which controlled the blast jets. With a thunderous roar, energy crashed from the side rocket and the Comet veered sharply from her course.

Like a startled fish, flanks silvery in the distant light from the sun, the Earthly space ship turned and fled. Blast after blast burst from her rear rockets. She shook and quivered under the strain of it, while Warren sat tensely staring at the round, glowing image on the visual plate, erratically shifting with the ship’s changing direction.

It steadied as the Comet settled into her new course. The rhythmic shudder of the ship became greater as the blasts became more and more rapid under Warren’s guiding fingers. A low metallic whine quavered through the metal of the hull, though the ship rose rapidly to a sustained note under the high vibration. Hard blue eyes intent on the image of the pursuer, Warren paid no heed. Was the Comet fast enough to escape?

Minute melted imperceptibly into minute. Slowly the image on the visual plate changed, swelled larger. The alien vessel from space was fast overtaking him. There was nothing more he could do. He could not even fight effectively if they were unfriendly. The Comet was an exploring vessel headed for the uninhabited planet Saturn, and he carried only a few hand blast-guns, more for emergency propulsion than for fighting.

NOW that it was decided, he was suddenly cool. He pulled out the log of the Comet and wrote a detailed account of what had happened, glancing at the rapidly swelling image on the visual plate from time to time as he described the strange vessel and his position in space.

“I am changing my course so that the aliens, if they are dangerous, will have no clue to the position of my home planet,” he finished.

He put the ship’s log away and then bent over the visual plate. The glowing alien vessel had swollen to vast proportions, filling one-fourth the area of the plate. In fifteen or twenty minutes it would reach the Comet. There was still time for a few preparations.

He went to the emergency lock, a small cell of metal directly off the outer air lock. A hurried inspection showed that the space suit which hung there was in good shape, loaded with emergency rations and a synthetic air supply sufficient for a week’s stay in space. There was also a small compass, two blast guns for propulsion, and a few odds and ends of tools fastened to a belt around the space suit’s middle.

By the time he got into the space suit the alien ship filled the visual plate completely. Even as he watched, several of the black holes in the glowing sphere flared yellow with golden light.

A split second later he was hurled violently to the floor as the Comet came to a shuddering, quaking stop.

When he got to his feet the aliens had arrived.

One of the gray metallic walls of the navigating chamber glowed suddenly with yellow light, a round patch of it, a patch that grew! Suddenly it was no longer merely round, but a convex and solid thing, like the strangely misty outline of a great golden lens set in the flatness of the wall. The lens pushed forward, grew into a bulbous spherical thing of misty gold.

Another minute and it dropped, hovered near the floor, a sphere about a yard across, hazy and subtly blurred about the edges. In the center of it was a thick purple line which shimmered and sparkled with silent, rhythmic emissions of energy. It began to drift across the floor toward him. The walls of the chamber were leprous with other splotches of yellow, splotches that grew and pushed forward and became other spheres. They were around him, silent, all drifting closer in an intent and ominous circle.

His heart hammered thunderously. A cold prickling thrilled through his nerves. Heat came from the things, heat in little dry waves that touched his body like the aching caress of fever. And there was a more subtle radiation, something he could not quite define at first.

Now they were less than a foot away. They were a solid circle around him, the blurred and hazy golden auras inter-penetrating one another until they seemed like a single solid mass. Only the purple bars in the centers remained the same, flickering, fading and growing sharper to a definite rhythm. He stirred. The golden circle stirred with him. He was still in the center. One arm, clumsy and slow within the casing of the space suit, poked out at them. Effortlessly the whole circle swayed and evaded it.

His throat went dry. His tongue seemed swollen, stuck to the roof of his mouth. It was hard to breath. Strange, alien sensations thrilled through the cells of his brain, through the delicate network of his nerves. Something alien was within him, trying to take possession of his brain.

FOR a moment he remained like that, frozen. A sudden curse ripped through his lips. Red anger took possession of him. He exploded into action despite the hampering effect of the space suit he wore. He plowed into the circle, a human animal gone berserk with flailing arms and kicking legs. His hands and feet passed through the golden auras again and again with movements too swift for the massed aliens to escape. Hot prickling passed through the flesh within the aura, followed by a queer numbness that did not seem to impair movement.

Apparently his blows at the golden haze did not harm the spheres. Yet quite obviously his sudden attack disconcerted them. The circle broke and scattered swiftly into its component spheres. They darted upward over his head, hung there like a flock of great golden toy balloons safe out of his reach.

Eyes glaring, breath hissing through his open mouth and distended nostrils, fingers within the fabric of the space suit twitching, Warren slowly subsided. On his body was a cold sweat. His flesh ached dully where it had passed through the auras of the aliens.

A moment the spheres hung above his head, the purple centers flickering excitedly. Then, suddenly, utterly without warning, one of them flashed down. The aura of it enveloped part of one arm and shoulder. As it touched him the color of it altered, became for an instant the deep red of blood.

A moan of agony bubbled from his lips. His eyes closed and a wave of weakness quivered through his body. It was pure pain, as if every nerve within the red haze had turned suddenly to liquid flame. The sphere darted upward again. His arm hung beside him as useless as a limp, inanimate rag.

Another sphere darted downward to cover his other arm. Another dropped to one foot. Another and still another....

Until he became a huddled heap on the floor, moaning and helpless. The red haze around him seemed to turn black. Everything faded from sight and feeling. Slowly the blackness lifted from his senses. When full clarity came to his mind and eyes he knew that he was not in the Comet. The aliens had moved him to their own vessel. He was on a raised dais, his body held down by an interlaced mesh of glittering and inflexible lines. He was held as fast as a petrified bug in amber. Around and above him were the hazy golden outlines of the spheres. Their vessel was a vast hollow globe. Shining girders, whether of matter or of energy he could not tell, ran from the inside of the vast curving hull toward the center, where they braced up and held a complicated globular nest of machinery. From the nest came a constant humming with a faint, regular rhythm to it. It seemed to him, in the few seconds of clear thought that were granted him, that purple pulsations ran through the girders in time with the humming. Probably it was the source of the purple rays which propelled the strange space ship through the cold reaches of interstellar emptiness.

BEFORE he could notice more he was plunged again into purgatory. Ten times intensified, it came again, this time a searching, ruthless dissection of his mental processes which almost drove him mad. And this time he could not fight. He felt he was insane. The purple pulsations within the yellow globes came faster and faster, emitting surges of energy, pulsating in concert. And with each strong surge from them, it was as if a vast hand plucked resistlessly at his brain. Without rhyme or reason thoughts and emotions which had been thrust beneath the level of consciousness came forth, horrible and foul in their nakedness. Each changing, reasonless emotion and image that came up from the depths of his being he experienced for that moment in which it was uppermost to full intensity. One second he was shrieking with laughter over some obscene picture. The next his face was awed at the breathtaking beauty of space, made of flame and absolute blackness. Again he repeated senseless words whose meaning he had almost forgotten, tags from his long forgotten school days. At first his will was passive, overwhelmed by the flood of madness, by the potent power of the pulsing purple spots which were the aliens. Then, in revulsion, it began to struggle with the saturnalia raging within him. Sweat stood out on his face in big drops that rolled down and mingled. His eyes glared. Every muscle in him twitched futilely. His insane laughter would choke in the middle as his will gained the upper hand for a moment, then break out again.

But in the end he was silent, rigid, strained to the breaking point. Nevertheless he was immune to the pulsing energy which tore at the secret places of his mind. The pulsing of the purple spots became swifter, more intense. Filled with triumph, his will held.

At last the violent throbbing of the purple centers within the hazy globes stopped. For a moment Warren lay there, rigid, before he realized that his mind was free. He lay still, panting and relaxed, but still on the alert for another attack.

It did not come. He was conscious of something trying to reach his mind, striving to impress a thought. For an instant he froze into hostility. Then he realized that they were trying to communicate, not to attack. Warily he allowed himself to relax a little more, to try to understand.

Slowly, as the minutes passed, a halting flow of thoughts went between him and the strange monsters. Little by little, periods of clarity broken by exasperating blurs, he learned a few facts.

THEY were alive, but not made of matter. They were composed of electrical energies, meshed together in a complex, frail harmony which was their life, and permitted of sensation, thought, and action. They, proper, were the purple centers of energy that throbbed rhythmically, like the beating of a heart.

The hazy golden globe of energy which surrounded each of them had all the functions which animal life gave over to hands, skin, and the organs of sensation. Through it they acted, felt, heard, saw, tasted, smelled. At will they could alter it so that it could be attracted or repulsed by various forms of energy, one of the forms being that of matter.

Through it they also analyzed the different types of energy, so that they could understand their nature, and how to deal with them. They caught his thoughts by analyzing the faint electrical emanations of his nervous system and brain cells. They made themselves understood by impressing similar electrical impulses upon his brain.

They fed, if the bizarre process could be called feeding, upon minute quantities of a substance which Warren recognized as radium. The slight loss of energy which accompanied their life process was compensated for by the raw energy poured from the disintegrating radium atoms.

For a long time he tried unsuccessfully to learn the region of space from which they came. At last he received vague descriptions of a star which he recognized as probably being Antares, and was told that it was from a planet of that star that they came.

When he asked why they had left he received no answer. Instead his brain was flooded by insistent questions. He persisted, repeated his question again and again.

They refused to answer, continually bombarded him with questions concerning himself, his kind, his planet. At his refusal to answer a threatening note crept into the electrical emanations. But it was not until they asked if there were large quantities of radium on his home planet that the truth flashed suddenly upon him.

He cursed himself for a fool for not guessing more quickly. What other reason could there be for the perilous journey of the globes through space except desperate necessity? All the available radium on their own stellar system had been used by the Antareans. If they wished to live they had to find another planet containing the strange food upon which their life depended. Among his instruments were a few containing cheap radium salts, which the golden globes had doubtless found.

They sensed his thoughts, tried clumsily to coax him into giving them the location of the Earth. They told him they would find it sooner or later anyway. He realized they were lying. They were too urgent in getting the secret from him. Probably their supply of radium or propulsive power was running low. Time must be an essential factor in their search. The thought stiffened his resolve.

Suddenly and savagely the attack came again, without warning. Fiercely the pulsations from the purple centers of the golden globes darted energy at him. Again he went through all the stages of violent madness. His features twitched convulsively, contorted between laughter and tears. His mouth opened, poured out a mad babble of nonsense. His limbs twitched, the muscles knotting and loosening as they tried vainly to throw his body about under the restraining bright mesh which held him to the dais.

HIS will struggled titanically. His brain was an inferno of conflicting emotions, a stage where his own will and the fierce compulsion of the Antareans battled for dominance over himself. Finally he was once more in a rigid trance, his strained will triumphantly holding in check the careening mad emotions which the invisible pulsations of the Antareans strove to build in him.

But this time the onslaught of the things within the golden globes did not stop. Minutes passed. Hours passed. It seemed to Warren that days and months and years passed, eons, infinite weary stretches of time.

His will began to crack under the strain. Flesh and blood could not withstand the unrelenting emanations. Cold panic came on him as he realized he was beginning to give way. Desperately he strove against the torpor which beckoned so sweetly to his tortured mind.

He conquered for a time, but it came back, more and more insistently. He knew that soon his will would sink back, defeated, would give way to the focused compulsions radiated into his brain by the golden globes.

Sweat cold on his body, heart pounding like a vast drum which threatened to burst, he sought for some way out. Torpor numbed his intelligence, threatened to swamp all feeling in delicious submission. He rallied, fought above the engulfing tide of mental and physical weariness for a last desperate endeavor.

It came to him then, what he must do. His mind stopped its struggling, its vain resistance to the will of the Antareans. It concentrated on a planet and the facts about it— but the planet was not Earth. It was Saturn!

Before his own exploring expedition to that sterile planet he had learned all that human science and the investigations of previous explorers could tell him about it. So he readily told the Antareans its position, its volume, its mass, the distance between its ring and the planet. He added only one thing. The core of the planet, he said, was a vast mass of the heavy metals, including radium. As that falsehood filtered from his brain into the intelligence of the Antareans, the attack upon his brain ceased. The sudden release was too much for his mind, tense to the breaking point. A whirlpool of blackness sucked him into unconsciousness and rest.

When he came to himself he felt weak and helpless. He had been sunk in torpor a long time, how long he could not tell. With his first moment of consciousness he sensed the fact that the globes had turned hostile.

They were about him, as before. But the purple centers no longer pulsated energy into his brain. They were ominously still, as if they had been waiting for him to wake. A little quiver of apprehension went through him. He was too weak now, too weary. What were they going to do? Coldly words formed themselves in his brain:

“You have lied to us. We reached the planet you described. There is no radium. It is only an emptiness of centers of energy of the type you call matter, useless gases. Therefore we have decided to leave you here, within the Ring of Saturn, upon a large mass among the circling dust and rubble which makes up the Ring. We will find your planet by voyaging toward your sun.”

THAT was all. Two of the globes dipped low over the dais. There was a flickering of the golden garments of energy they wore, and the bright mesh which held him fast disappeared. He rose to his feet. Obediently he followed one of the globes to a port in the vast curving wall of the alien space ship. It slid open, revealing an expanse of rugged rock which faded away into blackness a short distance from the glowing vessel.

To the Antareans, creatures of pure energy, the emptiness of space had no terrors save for the drain upon them of radiated energy. But if Warren had not been wearing his space suit he would have died, exploding like a distended balloon from internal pressure, to say nothing of the lack of air.

Weakly a thought from the Antarean globes above him impressed itself upon his brain:

“We have hurled your space ship into Saturn. It is deep under the gaseous surface now, where you cannot conceivably find it. You cannot escape. You must wait for us.”

He leaped out onto the naked mass of rock. The port slithered back into place. Silently a purple beam thrust out from the vast globe which loomed above him. He could feel the rock under him tremble. Then the globe was gone and he was alone.

How long he remained like that, a hopeless dark huddle on the sterile bareness of rock, he never knew. At intervals he slept, ate, and drank. The darkness was absolute.

It was not until it became suddenly difficult for him to breath that he came to a real awareness of his situation. A thrill of pure terror shook him when he realized that one of the two cylinders which contained his store of air was empty. The one that remained would last about three days longer. And then? Warren had once seen a man who died for lack of air in space. It had not been a pretty sight.

Feverishly he sought for a way out. For hours, while a trembling nervousness shook his body, he considered every loophole of escape. One by one he discarded them as impossible. Suddenly a thought came to him.

In the space suit, his specific gravity was almost the same as that of the Comet. The metal hull of the latter had inevitably been magnetized, partially at least, by the electrical rays used upon it by the Antareans. Warren knew that Saturn had no magnetism, but that fine particles of solids were scattered in suspension all through the swirling gases of the planet, among them particles of iron. Inevitably then, the Comet would leave behind her a magnetized trail wherever she went. And among the things in the belt around the space suit’s middle was a small compass!

That meant he could follow the trail. And then he realized that in addition to that the planet’s rotation would tend to throw him in a line, together with the Comet, around the equator. If he could only once get to the planet—

His heart constricted at the thought. He knew the inner edge of the Ring of Saturn was about six thousand miles from Saturn’s surface. He might even be able to leap so short a distance! The rock was only a small mass, and the great gravitational pull of the planet itself would help him get away. If he crashed into anything on the way, or was too far from the surface— well, he would smash to a smear or be burned to a crisp by friction, and that would end it.

HE set his teeth. Blindly he walked straight ahead, until he came to a point where his weight grew suddenly lighter. He had passed the shoulder of the mass of rock, and the pull of Saturn, instead of holding him more firmly to the rock, was now trying to pull him away from it.

He drew a great breath and leaped upward.

Blackness, absolute and blinding. He hung in space. Now that the rock had disappeared in the black murk made by the countless particles of fine matter which composed the Ring of Saturn, he had nothing by which to judge his progress.

Time passed on leaden feet. He could feel the space suit grow slowly warmer, the result of friction against the stuff of the Ring.

Suddenly it was behind him. He was in blackness still, but now it was blackness spattered with pin points of flame that were stars, the intolerably flaming ball of the sun at one side, ahead of him a vast gray mass which seemed to swallow the space around it, growing vaster and vaster with each passing second. It was Saturn.

Nearer it came. Faster and faster he plunged. It became terrible in its vastness, blotting out the sky and the sun. Closer, still closer, until gray murk was about him. He had reached Saturn, was hurtling down into the gaseous, swirling mass.

Rapidly, as he felt himself beginning to slow up with the increasing pressure of the gas opposing him, it became warmer. Slowly, terribly, heat began to creep in on him. His flesh was almost burnt where it touched the hot metal of the space suit. The air he gulped into his nostrils might have come from a furnace. He fought for each breath, and when it entered his lungs it was agony!

But his mad plunge ended at last, and the swirling gases of Saturn rapidly conducted off the excess heat until he was comfortable again, though his skin felt raw and tender. For a little while he remained still, gulping in deep breaths of air.

Then he shook his head, turned the light of a tiny, battery-operated bulb on the compass, and set grimly to work.

Made thick by great pressure, the gas had almost the texture of liquid. He could paddle through it with the same ease as he could swim through water. But until he touched the magnetic trail, his swimming had to be at random.

With the ferocity of despair he struck to his task, plowing through the thick gas, a world of black mist in which the only light came from the tiny bulb. Hours passed, hours during which the dull ache of fatigue piled up in his muscles until they became numb, hours during which his eyes, fixed intently on the compass, ached and smarted like raw flesh stung by needles of pain.

Suddenly he stopped, the beat of his heart thunderous in his own ears, his breath coming thickly. Almost imperceptibly the tiny black needle of the compass had moved. He turned back, eyes intent. Again it moved. He had found the magnetic trail of the lost space ship!

He disdained weariness after that, disdained rest and sleep. He was an automaton, arms and legs working like machinery, pain and fatigue buried beneath a numbness which could not keep his muscles from moving. On and on, following the fluctuating needle of the compass, the fluctuations getting stronger and stronger. Hour after hour. Still he moved, a purposeful black mote plowing through blackness.

A SUDDEN crash. A stunning blow which vibrated through the metal of the space suit. He could not realize at first that he had reached his goal at last, that he had found the Comet.

Slowly the thought penetrated. Slowly he began to creep around the ship until he reached the outer door of the air lock. He fumbled and fumbled before he could open it. It seemed hours before he was in the navigating chamber, before he was rid of the space suit. It was done at last.

With a great sigh he stretched out on the floor and went blissfully to sleep.

Whether it was hours or days later that he woke, he could not tell. He felt like a man reborn. Shed was the fear of the Antareans, shed the numb stupor in which weariness had held him, gone the dullness that had weighed down his brain until he could scarcely think one clear thought.

He put away the space suit, restocked it with air and food, then went back into the navigating chamber and sat down in the chair before the control panel and the visual plate, which now showed only a black murk, the stuff of Saturn.

He must get back to Earth. Even unguided the Antareans might find the planet. If men were forewarned they might not be destroyed. Once established, and with an ample supply of energy, the energy things would soon rule the world.

He bent over the control board, his fingers swift and sure. A blasting explosion and the Comet surged upward. Again and again, until finally the ship shot into clearness and the sky showed black, spangled with the bright flames of stars. He took his bearings, checked and rechecked every figure.

Then another flare of energy rocked the ship of space as she veered and teetered, jockeying for direction. Then, trailing long plumes of incandescence behind her, the Comet flashed away from Saturn for the second time and headed once more for her home planet.

On through black emptiness she blasted, while time and distance melted behind. She hurtled past gigantic Jupiter and on toward Mars. Warren’s eyes ached from constant watchfulness on the subdued light of the visual plate.

He reached Mars, looped past the newly colonized planet, and slanted down on the course followed by the Earth-Mars liners. Only a scant week more and they would hiss through the atmosphere of Earth again.

And it was then that the tiny point of light showed suddenly on the visual plate. Warren stared at it, face whitening. It was no star, no comet. It was the Antareans’ globe again! On their way to Earth!

A fierce hot hate consumed him then, a hate such as he had not known even while they tortured him. His pulsing blood hammered in his veins. His eyes were like the eyes of a wounded, snarling animal. His teeth showed.

It was his Earth they were going to destroy and render sterile of life! Little inconsequential things popped up in his mind again— the fat chortling laughter of his sister’s youngest boy, the hissing white curl of a wave racing through green water, the smiling warm lips of a girl he had once kissed.

If the Antareans reached the Earth these things might never be again, soft lips for kissing, white waves through which to dive into clean greenness, the laughter of children.... The planet would become a bizarre place where energy floated alive in an inhuman, destroying wave. It would feast on the world until the planet was barren of radium, and then leave it behind, sterile and naked of all life.

THE wave of anger passed, gave place to a cold insistent ferocity in which his mind was crystal clear. He pondered plan after plan of attack, discarding one after another. Patiently he probed the nature of the aliens, sought for some weapon to which they were not immune.

And at last he found it. It was absurdly simple. The glowing golden mantle of energy which surrounded the living energy centers of the Antareans was their buffer. With it they analyzed and filtered out alien forms of energy, absorbing only those that were not harmful, neutralizing others. Matter, all kinds of matter, were forms of energy to them. If he could shoot at them matter and energy of sufficient variety to all of which they could not adjust at the same time, it would blast past the halo and kill.

Methodically he got ready. He rigged up electrical apparatus which would add mixtures of conglomerate matter to the rocket blasts of the Comet. He did the same with his blast guns. Then, tight-lipped, hard-eyed, dressed once more in the space suit, blast guns ready, he returned to the controls. The Comet shook and shivered with the recurrent rocket blasts as he flashed through space toward the vast, glowing globe of the aliens.

When he was sure that his aim for the Antarean space ship was good, he cut off acceleration. The globes might detect the flare of his rocket exhausts if he persisted in using them at too close a range. But his momentum hurled him on at terrific speed. The globe of the aliens grew larger and larger on the visual plate, looming directly ahead.

He was braced for the crash, but the sudden impact hurled him from the chair, smashed him agonizingly against one wall. He could feel bone crack, feel the searing stab of pain in a rib and one leg. The next instant he hurtled to the wall again. Blackness plucked at his senses. His teeth set, he fought stubbornly to retain consciousness, crawled agonizingly back toward the controls. He could tell by the sudden clinking as loose pieces of metal flew to the walls and clung there, that an alien energy ray had brought him to a halt. He had crashed through into the vessel of the energy things—and now they were holding him there, a prisoner!

The thick face-plate of the space suit had been smashed to splinters and glass dust, had raked his face into a bleeding smear. Agony pierced through his rib and leg with each movement. But he went on.

He reached the control board, pulled himself into the chair in sweating agony. Just as he reached it a yellow spot showed on the wall and began to grow. The Antareans were attacking in person!

In the visual plate he could see the Comet within the vast alien space ship, yellow globes forming a fuzz over her as the aliens burrowed in. At one side of the Antarean vessel was a gaping hole where the Comet had crashed through. The great girders which held the central mysterious mechanism in place were snapped and broken in places, and the nest of machinery sagged.

He set his teeth, pressed buttons and moved switches. Blasts of energy and miscellaneous scrap matter spewed from the rocket exhausts. They swept into the aliens. The golden halos flared through the spectrum in the effort to protect the vital energy centers within. Some turned black, and a moment later disappeared in a blinding white flash of energy.

HIS body was aflame with a thousand points of pain as the Comet rocked and reared and plunged. Dazedly, determinedly, he fingered the controls again.

More of the aliens died, but their death flares were blasted out of sight by the sudden release of energy which followed when one of the exhausts spewed energy and junk matter directly into the sagging central mechanism of the alien ship. The visual plate flared white, blinded him. When he looked again, it was black.

The aliens themselves were still to be reckoned with. Most of them had died. But five had almost penetrated the Comet, and two others were just starting through. The first were already sending out waves of energy, heat waves that shot through the metal of the space suit and concentrated viciously on his flesh. It was as if living flame rioted through him. His eyeballs ached in the bright beams.

Dimly he could still make them out. With hands that seemed heavy as platinum he pulled out one of his blast guns. It held three shots. A dazzling flare of energy leaped out at the wall where the last two globes were struggling through. The adjustments of the halos in going through the wall handicapped them, and this new burden of variegated energy was too much.

They flared, left behind two round black spots. Again and yet again came the flares. Two of the globes within the chamber were caught, flared into death. He hurled the heavy blast gun toward the three remaining, followed it up with three more searing shots from his remaining blast gun. Hazily he could see two more blasts of dying light. But one golden globe, dimmed, ravaged, was still floating on. Slowly, haltingly, it was coming for him, emitting intermittent beams of heat at him.

He flung things at it: a screw driver among the tools; a heavy space sextant; even rolled-up charts. The dimmed yellow halo around the faintly pulsing purple center caught them, deflected them all. And it came on.

There was nothing left to throw. He tottered to his unhurt foot, hands spread forward. He hopped, once, twice. The globe was nearer, nearer, inches away. Its heat beam blinded him, flicked his raw optic nerves like knives. He closed his eyes and leaped forward.

He was in it, within the halo. Heat wrenched his muscles, sent agony thrilling through his nerves. The numb paralysis which had come upon him before when within the halos of the Antareans was not effective now— the Antarean was almost as weakened as himself. Blindly, mechanically, instinctively, his clawed hands threshed feebly within the hot agony of the halo. His muscles jerked like dead things through which electricity sent shocks of life.

Came a sudden shock worse than all the rest, agony unspeakable.

Blackness engulfed him.

He came to, prone on the floor. Dully he realized that in his mechanical pawing he must have touched the pulsing center of the Antarean and killed him. Slowly, an inch at a time, he crept across the floor. He reached the controls, pulled himself into the seat. Weakly his fingers fumbled with the buttons and levers and switches.

The Comet crashed through the dead bubble which had been the space ship from Antares. The course of the Earthly ship wobbled a bit, but straightened at last into a direct course for its home planet.

Days passed.

The sun lit the Earth’s flank into a bright, curling sliver of silver on the visual plate. Slowly it grew larger, nearer, a serene world filled with light and warmth. Soon he would be there.

Warren looked back, but could see nothing. The alien globe which had glowed so brightly and flashed so swiftly through space was still now and shrouded in somber black. Within the vast and empty maw of space it was hidden from human eyes. No man would ever see it again.

__________________

10: Rogue's Room

Anonymous

Mail (Adelaide) 6 Dec 1924

WHEN Lord Campion was a child of four his father had risen from a whist table in St. James'-street, excusing himself politely because of an important appointment. In the raw morning a little string of post-chaises had galloped over Putney bridge, one of them daring him to fight because of a woman. An hour later they brought him back again over the bridge with a bullet in his groin.

Racing and cards and women for the father, and the same straight line for the son. In the early sixties there was a daughter of a noble house, famous for her beauty (though here her name is of no concern) and two men vied for the love of her. Lord Campion, the son of the duellist, and an ordinary quiet gentleman, Philip Scovell. All one night they gambled at Campion's home at Hawkhurst, these two hating one another silently, and Dick Helstone, a friend of both. Helstone was the maddest of the three, and it was Helstone who rose at last and, laughing, said he would never play again. But he stood white-faced and watched the others.

At 2 o'clock Lord Campion dealt the last hand, and it was for this stake: the winner to have a clear field to court her they both desired. Lord Campion won, and a shout came from his dry lips. Scovell congratulated him and left the room, and disappeared altogether from the places that had known him.  The day after there were servants who heard Dick Helstone and their master quarrelling, their voices big with anger.

"You won't help me, then?" they heard Helstone say.

"I'll be shot if I do," replied Campion.

Presently their master himself came down the wide stairs with the man who had been his friend.

"You'll hear of me again," streamed Helstone, turning in a blind rage to the open door behind him

"Get out!" said Lord Campion, and slammed the door.

IN the week that followed Helstone tried to find Scovell, but failed. None knew of him; the quickness of his vanishing made club-talk.

For all the jest he had made of it, Dick Helstone had been ruined by that night's play. Men wondered why he was so anxious about Philip Scovell. On the last day of the week he started from the Old Shop at Brighton for a moody ride His horse took fright at the dull, leaden surface, of a little pool in the downs, and bolted down the rough road over Ditchling Beacon. From his youth up that horse had been a puller, and Helstone could not hold him. Halfway down the hill the horse was galloping alone, and Helstone was flung on the high bank with a broken neck. When Lord Campion heard the news he drew in his breath quickly and muttered "Thank God!"

Lord Campion married the girl who in this story has no name. Her father desired it, and his house was poor. From her mother, who was faded and tired, and wept bitterly to see her go to such a man, she went with her lips set close.

He was not the man for her. She had not known till she married him how black his life had been before she came into it. Now, little by little, she learned As a subordinate question, her eyes had been long turned to another— to the man who had disappeared.

So, little by little, too, her husband knew that sometimes the winner may be the loser— in cards or love or both. For six months they lived in silence, and then, one morning when she was dressed for riding he tried to strike her. I think the cause of his resentment was wounded pride at having made so poor a bargain. He came in under a lifted riding whip, and she gave him such a slash across the forehead that he carried it as a sign through life.

Dressed as she was, troubling for nothing, she left the house at once At home her father was the first of her family she saw.

"You are rich through me,' she said. "I will not live with that man."

And for her, all argument was done. He began to upbraid her, but she would not answer. Drawn by the harsh voice, her mother appeared at the door.

"Mother!" she cried, and crossed the room swiftly. She had not written home, but that word told the whole chapter, and the elder woman was laughing in all happiness as she strained her daughter in her arms. Her father could put no argument side by side with that. He left them there.

A bitter, soured man was my Lord Campion, for they laughed at the story in the clubs. To his wife he never spoke again; she drove past him many times, cold, unnoticing. Once she was so close to him that she could see plainly the scar, and at that her young heart leapt.

He was more than a soured man. He was a soured coward; no man could be otherwise who had taken such a blow from a woman and ended the chapter there. The very fact that his wife lived (and none ever whispered a word against her) was a hateful thing at which he cursed when he was alone.

And before he was 50 the fear came.

Some of his old companions of the cups had died— some even of that crew had shunned him when they learnt the story, and shunned him still. His fear was greater than a part of him. It was a separate thing that trod always on his heels and whispered in his ear continuously, and would not let him go. Every day the scenes of his black life galloped by him and left him groping blindly,  hating everything he had done or left undone, sick and afraid.

His weighty secret was a thing he could not lose. He engaged a secretary to be always with him.

"You are my own age," said he. "You have read the books I have read. If I go out in the streets I want you to be with me; in a crowd I want you by my side. Oh, more than anything, in a crowd."

The secretary was a quiet man of culture, with a great knowledge of books and a little of medicine, and he perceived that had Lord Campion been left to himself he would have raved within the year. He helped him a great deal.

One morning Campion, looking at the calendar, professed a sudden whim to go to Hawkhurst. They arrived in the bleak afternoon. Hawkhurst Common was swept with a cold wind as they drove along its side. In a great room a fire blazed in the wide old hearth, and Lord Campion shivered as he looked round the walls before he walked over to it and rubbed his cold hands at the flame.

By his orders they made his bed in a small room opening out of this one.

"It is the little room I used to have," said he.

Tonight he seemed more than ever haunted by his black shadow, and it was in vain that his companion tried to rally him to cheerful talk. He retired early, but threw himself fully dressed on the bed.

The secretary stayed in the little room, reading beside the red-heaped fire.  He had been there an hour when a handle clicked and the door of the little room opened.

It needed but one glance of the secretary to tell him that Lord Campion had been fighting with his fear. He came into the big room with nervous, shaking hands.

"You are not tired, then?"

"Not very," said the secretary. "And my book is good."

"I cannot sleep," said Lord Campion. He sat down, and his dull eyes stared into the fire.

"I think I shall not sleep again. I have tried, day after day, to weary my body till I was worn out. How can a man weary his mind as well? Tell me that..."

"You are restless with the change. If you were to try again perhaps?"

"I'm afraid," said Campion. "There are eyes that watch me there, and voices that whisper, 'Tell, tell....' So I got up. I must tell somebody tonight. I came to tell you."

"Sir," said the secretary, 'if it is something that in the morning you will wish you had not told— will it not be as well tomorrow?"

"No," shouted Lord Campion. "It won't do. Do you know the story— my wife and I?"

"I have heard a little."

"I tried to strike her. She was too quick, and she gave me this— this devil's mark. I have not spoken to her since. But it's before that, Dick Helstone. Scovell, and I. It was in this room we played. It was this night, years ago." He looked up at the clock. It was a few minutes to 12.

"Dick Helstone got up in the morning— tomorrow morning— and laughed, and said he would play no more. We had been playing high, and he was broke and ruined. He was of no more account then, he knew, than the beggar who sweeps the road by the clubs. Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes. And Philip Scovell?"

"What's that?" said Lord Campion. "Of course. We played on— I won and won. I said to Scovell, 'Shall we go on?' and he said. 'Yes, yes,' just as you said it then. He was always impatient. I won more. The clock struck. God— it's the same clock there now. I cried, 'The last hand, Scovell. If I win, you clear out, and it is for me to marry her if I can. If you win, I do the same.' He looked at me and nodded. I dealt and won. He shook hands with me and went away. For all anybody knows of him he has been dead since then.

"The next day Dick Helstone came into my room. The Jews were round him like bees, and he wanted money. He wanted much more than I could give him. I said I could not do it. 'You can,' he said. 'Not I,' I told him. 'You will,' he swaggered. 'Yesterday you cheated in that last hand with Scovell.'

"I told him to get out. He blustered and threatened when I turned him from the house. Surely there was a curse on us three who played that night, for within the week he was thrown from his horse at Ditchling, in Sussex. I married, but my wife never loved me. Scovell was not out of her mind a day."

Lord Campion stopped, still staring into the now dying fire.

"Well," questioned the secretary, "I don't see clearly. Except for Helstone's accusation— many beside yourself have been unfortunate in marriage."

"I have not quite finished," Lord Campion's voice was level. "It was true. I worked the cards."

He stood up, and looked again at the clock on the mantelpiece. 'It happened in this room. We are even near the time. Scovell sat within a foot of where you are sitting now." His voice rose. "At this hour, in this room— it's a rogue's room, by Heaven!"

It was the secretary now who sat staring, with his chin on the palms of his hands. When he looked up Lord Campion had gone back into the inner room as abruptly as and quickly as he had come. For a long time the secretary sat by the cold, black hearth.

It was not a whim then, but a call not to be denied, which had brought Lord Campion to Hawkhurst in the forbidding winter afternoon. On this anniversary of the cross-roads the call had brought him; and it was the call which had made him rid himself of his burden, if, indeed, he were rid of it even now. Not quite destitute of feeling, then, had been Lord Campion, and the secretary saw how much he must have suffered for that deliberate shuffle of the cards of that night long ago: how he must have repented of that arrangement of the counters of his life. But the secretary could find no pity in his heart as he sent his mind back along the record of the man.

Tonight the rogue had come home to roost. and the shadow of the long-kept secret was still upon him. Suddenly a hand tugged furiously at the handle of the door to the inner room. The rogue stood there for the second time, with ashen face and shaking hands. The secretary turned round.

"Water," cried Lord Campion. "My throat burns. In the dark there, I swear, a hand grinned me by the throat. I can't get away from it tonight."

"One minute," said the secretary. A little squat phial came from his pocket, and there was a faint pop of a tiny cork. He held the glass toward the trembling hand.

"Drink," said he.

Lord Campion was gripped by a sudden and greater fear.

"What's this?" he shouted, in a ridiculous treble.

The left hand of the secretary plucked at his trim beard. The movement left a clean face, a strong face with a wide mouth  and a square-set chin.

"Philip!" cried Lord Campion.

"Many years I have lived in hell, and in the dark. Not because of that, but for the hell you gave Her...

"Drink," paid the secretary again, and the rogue drank.

__________________

11: Detective Death

Anonymous

Western Champion (Barcaldine, Qld), 22 Dec 1928

I can find nothing about this story or its author, although from the sentimental style it appears to date from Victorian times. There is also a reference to "Her Majesty", which can only be Queen Victoria.

"WIFE, wife, can ye not hear it?"

"Aye, aye; but It's an awful night!"

It was blowing a hurricane. The wind swept along the straggled streets of Sandbank with tempestuous violence, and howled dismally at the corners. No one could say whether it were easterly or northerly, southerly or westefly. The weathercock on the old church had long since been blown down. Trees, giants of acres, were uprooted in all directions, and the wind shrieked in demoniac glee over the mischief it was causing.

Out at sea, as for as the eye could the darkness, the white crested waves wreathed themselves in weird, threatening circles, indoors the frightened folk buried their heads underneath the sheets— such, at least, as were not called upon to turn out that awful night.

"God help our poor fellows at sea!" said the minister, and many a heart in the Mace was unconsciously saying "Amen" to that same prayer.

Inside one of the humbler dwellings— low thatched and quaint— a middle-aged couple held a strange discourse. The man— a lean, gaunt creature— was sitting up in bed.

"Bridget, Bridget, ye must hear it. 'Tis the death tick. I ha' heard my own mother tell on it. Tick, tick! They say when father died he heard the same tick. They stopped the clocks, but they could na stop the tick, and he died. Tick, tick! Bridget, it's death for you or me."

"It's sinful man! The good Lord takes no heed of clocks."

"Sh—sh. It's louder now! Louder! Tick, tick!"—and the frightened man tumbled on his knees and prayed aloud.

Mrs. Bridget, now herself alarmed, was out of bed instantly. She put back the blind; the wind howled more dismally than before. She tried to cheer the trembling sinner on his knees. She got him cordials and chafed his icy hands. Her patience and tenderness relieved him and he grew quieter and less fretful. She persuaded him once more to seek his warm bed, and herself set the good example by falling into a sleep sound enough to defy the storm.

Not so the man. Filled with a dread, superstitious awe he lay awake untilil day dawned, when only did he cease to hear the warning tick.

Husband and wife were early astir and the woman busy in her household work.

Woolnor, one of the most respected and popular men in the neighborhood, joined to the labors of shoemaking the more ambitious calling of sexton. He eyed the row of dilapidated boots waiting repair, but he had no stomach for them to-day. Putting down the soleless shoe, he said "He thought he'd go and see what damage the storm had done."

He wandered out. The good soul Bridget bustled round the cottage with thorough housewife's energy, she cleaned and polished the household goods, happy to be so industrious. With dusty kerchief over her head and all a British matron's deshabille she was giving the finishing touches to the busts of Milton and Shakespeare ornaments— selected by the frugal couple for their market cheapness, not their other value— when Dame Brooke called.

How magical is the power of sympathy. To Dame Brooke, ordinarily a most distant acquaintance, Mrs. Woolnor poured out her strange tale of fright. They were certainly not very willing ears, and she was much piqued it when was suggested, "t' ould man had been drinking."

Truth to tell Dame Brooke had her own budget oft woes. Her son Steve was to be tried on the morrow on a charge of larceny, and it is peculiar to sorrow that our own cut finger outweighs our neighbor's worst malady. Good Mrs. Woolnor was so annoyed with her gossip's evident lack of sympathy that she could not forbear to be spiteful, and criticised Steve somewhat freely; she pronounced an unsolicited opinion that he was a "ne'er-do-well," was born to be hanged, concluding eagerly that she had predicted it from the first. If her heart relented at the dame's evident grief her tongue did not. Poor Dame Brooke's consolation was a flood of tears.

Then the true woman showed itself. Mrs. Woolnor would have given anything to recall her cruel words. She twisted the plaster nose of the divine William in a manner dangerous to contemplate. "Don't cry, dame. I won't say anything agin to hurt a mother's heart, but if ever a boy ought to have !)6SP hanged—"

"No no," sobbed the

"Don't ye wish him that. The poor lad has a power of friends, and it's breaking his mother's heart it is."

"Don't cry, Mrs. Brooke; I didn't mean it," and with illogical interest she began to laud the very individual she had before so roundly rated.

Why recount all that passed? They were two old gossips on common ground. Each thought herself the most injured of mortals.

NIGHT came, but no Woolnor. His good wife marvelled exceedingly and— somewhat uneasy— bestirred herself to further unnecessary household duties She dusted things speckless of dust. She removed chairs to replace them in the same place, and indulged in a dozen other similarly useless tricks, the while carefully striving to avoid looking the old Dutch clock in the face.

It was so unlike Woolnor— the steady, sober, regular soul.  All the dusting in the world, hwoever, could not disguise from the wife that it was exceeding late and when the famous clock— a family relic— chimed twelve, she never once thought of questioning it.

"T' ould man ha' gone to Lunnun," she murmured. Woolnor had never been to London before save once to her knowlege but it needed something equally marvellous to explain his absence. Then her mind filled with awful storles of disaster and accident and she finally cried herself off to sleep. But she could not fly from her grief; it followed her in her dreams. She tossed and turned— a dozen times she awoke, and cruel the night seemed!

At last the morning came and she rose to prepare the customary copious breakfast for two. The hot coffee simmered on the hob, the fat round eggs and luscious bacon invited eating, yet no Woolnor came to do justice to the meal. For the first time in her life her appetite failed her.

She could no longer bear to be indoors, and sauntered down the town, halting by the police station to pop in and tell the sympathetic policeman "T' ould man" had not been home all night, and she feared summat had happened." With a friendly nod she was off, and failing aught else, bethought her of her promise to Dame Brooke to see Steve's trial.

THERE was a prodigious stir outside her Majesty's Court of Assizes, the session being somewhat heavy. Lawyer Sparkin had driven over in his trap, and was the first figure she recognised. He was talking to a big smooth-shaven man she did not know, but when all sat inside the court house she saw him in a grand wig and gown, and knew instinctively that he was the "barrister from London" who was to defend Steve Brooke.

The court was a melting crush. With real difficulty Mrs. Woolnor got near the widow and was by her side when after much commotion and a deal of "hushing" and disorderly cries for silence, the son was put into the dock to answer the grave charge of breaking and entering certain premises and stealing therefrom sundry and other's properties of divers of her Majesty's lieges. Plain folk call this burglary. When the man in court read out the charges it seemed that they included every misdeed under the sun. What a miscreant this Steve must be!

Yet how brave and handsome the prisoner looked. Tall and dark, a picture of health and— twenty. His quick black eyes roved round the court lighted on judge and jury, and then, meeting his mother's anxious look, beamed with such love and affection that all the women folk would there and then have acquitted him. Alas, that women may not serve on Juries!

The real jury— a hard-featured dozen of the farmer class— saw little interesting, if the truth be told, in the prisoner's bearing. Steve Brooke was born to be hanged. They had an heard it so often, they almost believed it.

Certainly the case against the lad was of the weakest, The witnesses were emphatic enough as to the loss of their property, which, having so mysteriously disappeared they were inclined to apprise at extraordinary value. An evil star undoubtedly attended the prisoner, for after every robbery he was proved to have been somewhere in the district. It was very well to attempt to explain his presence by purely natural circumstances, but there was no gainsaying the fact that the property had been stolen. If he did not steal it, who did?

At the beginning of the trial poor Steve was painfully attentive, but it grew so tedious and prosaic that his attention altogether wandered. He heard the buzz of the words but I their meaning was intelligible to him no longer. He was thinking of the warm sunshine out of this dark, dreary court. Why could they not let him out to enjoy the pure air while they hashed this dismal business by themselves? Then the poor boy's eyes lighted, on a spider. The people talked and the spider spun. He watched its industrious efforts to build a home, never heeding at the same time that the human spiders were spinning a whose mesb.es were to entangle and ruin him. It was rare fun, this tiny spider. Then buzz, buzz! What a noise!

A great movement in court called back his wandering attention. The Jury were going out, more for form's sake than aught else, to find their verdict. They were not long to the finding. They took their place again. The audience was this time quiet without reproof, and the prosy clerk alone broke the silence,

"Gentlemen of the Jury, are you agreed as to your verdict?"

The foreman said, "We are."

"Do you find the prisoner 'Guilty' or 'Not Guilty?' "

"Guilty!"

There was a rustle of dress and a noisy stir in court. For once even the men even pitied the prisoner. Twelve good men and true had found that Steve Brooke was a thief. Loud above all, however, was heard one voice:

"Don't you mind them, Steve. Your poor old mother don't believe them."

How great is a mother's love!

"Sh-sh!" bawled the ushers, but the cry found a responsive echo in the gallery. A loud sob and a young girl had fainted: Steve's own little sweetheart.

Unmoved and stern sat the Judge. Silence was soon restored, and while the people held their breath the wigged justice spoke:

"Prisoner at the bar—"

He said no more. A police inspector moved hurriedly to the front and whispered. The judge paused, and everyone was on the tip-toe of expectation as for a few moments they conversed. Such an unusual incident. 'What had happened?' was the thought in every mind. They strained their ears with an eager curiosity when the Judge resumed:

"Prisoner at the bar. The Jury, after a patient hearing, have found you 'Guilty.' Their verdict in consideration of the evidence was a just one, but a providential circumstance just communicated to me places that verdict under a strong suspicion of doubt, it is my duty to remand you back to prison that the circumstances may be more fully inquired into."

THE court cleared, and people formed into little knots and, asked what this circumstance could be. Sandbank had never known such an excitement. Only one person seemed apathetic— Bridget Woolnor. She had been carried out by the stream of people, and now parted from the Dame, experienced to the full her awful loneliness. What mattered Steve Brooke to her? Where was Woolnor?

Then, eager to avoid the crowd, she hurried along, scarcely knowing where she went. The day was most pleasant. The sun gilded humble dwellings with the gold of palaces.  She looked before her to see the sacred spots where Woolnor courted her. Memory flew back over years. The middle-aged woman had romance in her heart still. There was the land where they kissed; there the church where they were married; Woolnor was sexton to it now.

lt seemed as though the crowd, she was fleeing from now approached her  from the front. Curiously enough it began at the distant church. Originally only three or four people bearing some strange burden— it swelled every corner— each idler joined its ranks, till presently, as it neared the woman, the crowd had become a goodly multitude. There was something strange in the general bearing . Ordinary crowds gesticulate and talk much. Here all were cionstrained and strangely silent. Decidedly it was curious. Surely another excitement in Sandbank.

Nearer and nearer came this multitude, ever growing. As it passed by her she could not forbear to approach. Strange! All seemed to draw back. She recognised the voice of the clergyman who said, "She must not see it."

"Must not see what?" demanded she. "Is there anything to be refused to a broken-hearted woman?"

Full of unaccountable fear she approached. The crowd parted on either side. Even the minister no longer attempted to stay her. She reached the heart of the throng and shrieked aloud. There on a bier was the white face of her husband. The unclosed eyes were gazing upwards at the smiling skies but they could see no more. Woolnor was dead.

The explanation soon flew round. That morning the minister had found Woolnor, the sexton, in the church. He was lying flat on his face with blood oozing from his mouth. The minister sent for a doctor who could only pronounce him stone dead.

In his hand he grasped some trinkets easily identified as a portion of the property Steve Brooke had been found, guilty of  stealing. A search revealed, dreadful to relate, that the old church had long been the receptacle of stolen property.

The tick had prophesied too well; Detective Death had betrayed the mysterious robber.

The over-hasty condemnation of Steve was quashed and he was restored to the arms ot his mother and to the loving girl who had followed him to the court house. The tide of public opinion, till then so much against him, turned completely in his favor. He married and was given fair start in life.

Bridget Woolnor was much pitied, but pity could do her no good; the shock of that awful encounter completety unhinged her mind. She could not be brought to understand "t' ould man" was dead. Her lunacy was harmless, however, and she spent her days waiting and watching for him who could never return. Her constant cry was; "He was a good man to me."

Even a thief may leave loving memories.

_________________

12: The Mystery of the Thirty Millions

T. F.  Anderson and H. D. Umbstaetter

(fl 1890s;  1851-1913)

The Black Cat, April 1896

AT eight o'clock on the morning of March 14, 1903, the Anglo-American liner, the Oklahoma, left her dock in North River on her regular trip to Southampton.

The fact of her departure, ordinarily of merely local interest, was telegraphed all over the United States and Canada, and even to London itself ; for there was a significance attached to this particular trip such as had never before marked the sailing of an ocean steamship from these shores. It was not because the great vessel numbered among her crowd of passengers a well-known English duke and his young bride, the grand-niece of a world-famous New York railroad magnate, that her sailing was heralded by such a blowing of trumpets, nor because she also had upon her lists the names of the august British ambassador to the United States, returning home on a brief furlough, the noted French tragedian, fresh from his American triumphs, and a score of other illustrious personages whose names were household words in a dozen countries.

The presence of all these notables was merely incidental. What made this trip of the Oklahoma an event of international interest was the fact that at this, the apparent climax of the great gold exporting movement from the United States, now continued until it had almost drained the national treasury of its precious yellow hoard, and had precipitated a commercial crisis such as never before had been experienced, the Oklahoma was taking to the shores of insatiate John Bull the largest lump amount of gold ever shipped upon a single vessel within the memory of man.

Not even in the memomble gold exporting year of 1893, ten years previous, had any such sum as this been sent abroad at one time.

It was not the usual paltry half million or million dollars that she was carrying away in her great strong room of steel and teak wood, but thirty million dollars' worth of shining eagles and glinting bars, hastily called across the ocean because of the adverse "balance of trade" and the temporary mistrust of American securities by the fickle Europeans.

The mere insurance premium on this vast sum was in itself a comfortable fortune. Business men wondered why such a large amount was intrusted to one steamer. Suppose she should collide in the fog and sink, as one great ship had done only a few weeks before— what would become of the insurance companies then?

Suppose some daring Napoleon of crime should hatch a startling conspiracy to seize the steamer, intimidate the crew and passengers, and possess himself of the huge treasure?

"It would be a stake well worth long risks," thought some of the police officials, as they read the headlines in the evening papers.

The Oklahoma was a fast sailer. Her five hundred feet of length and her twelve thousand tons of displacement were made light work of by the great clanking, triple-expansion engines when their combined force of fifteen thousand horse power was brought to bear upon her twin screws. Under ordinary conditions she ought to have made port on the other side in time to let her passengers eat late dinner on the sixth day out. Incoming steamers reported a brief spell of nasty weather in mid-ocean, however, and so her failure to reach Southampton on the sixth and even the seventh day was not paticularly remarked.

The great American public had been busy with other weighty matters in the interim, including a threatened secession of the silver-producing States; and the departure of this modern argosy with her precious freight had almost passed into history. For history in the year 1903 was anything that had happened farther than a week back— a day, if it was not of overwhelming importance.

If the big ship's arrival had been cabled on the eighth day, or even early on the ninth, it would still have found the public in a comparntively calm state of mind, for the mid-Atlantic storm would naturally account for a multitude of lost hours; but when the ninth lapped over onto the tenth and the tenth onto the eleventh and twelfth, with no tidings of the tardy steamer, surprise grew into anxiety and anxiety into an international sensation.

Of course all sorts of plausible theories were tu.l vanced by the steamship agents, the newspapers, and other oracles, including that of the inevitable hroken shaft ; and these might have sufficed for a day or two longer had it not been for another and much more startling theory that suddenly came to the surface and threw two continents into a fever of trepidation and suspense. It was the following announcement in a leading New York morning paper that roused excitement to fever heat:

"A new and most astounding phase has come over the case of the mysteriously missing Oklahoma. It has just been given out from police headquarters that 'Gentleman Jim' Langwood, the noted cracksman and forger, whose ten years' sentence at Sing Sing expired only a few weeks ago, was in the city several days previous to the sailing of the Oklahoma and went with her as a passenger, under an assumed name. Even at that very time the central office detectives were looking for him, as a tip had been sent around that he was up to some new deviltry. One of those clever people whom nothing ever escapes had seen him go aboard almost at the last minute, and gave an accurate description of his personal appearance, which was evidently but slightly disguised.

"Langwood is probably the only criminal in tho country who would ever conceive and try to execute such a stupendous undertaking, and it is something more than a suspicion on the part of the New York police that he has smuggled on board a couple of dozen well-armed desperadoes, who could easily hold the crew and passengers in check and make them do their bidding, for a time at least. The idea is so replete with thrilling possibilities that the entire community stands aghast at it."

It is to be noted that the public always "stands aghast" in such a case as this; but it is more to the point just now to say that the article went on, through a column or more, to describe in minute detail the circumstances attendant upon the departure of "Gentleman Jim" even to the number and shape of the bundles he had in his arms. The famous robber was very boyish in appearance, and one of the last persons in the world whom a chance acquaintance would think of looking up in the rogues' gallery. Evidently he was "out for the stuff," in most approved stage villain style, with more millions in the stake than even Colonel Sellers, of nineteenth century fame, had ever dreamed of. Of course this theory, which was already accepted as a fact, especially in police and newspaper circles, was quickly cabled across, and created such a profound sensation on the other side that even the London papers had to give it that prominent position which is usually reserved for American cyclones, crop failures, and labor outbreaks.

Upon the phlegmatic British government it acted much like an electric shock and nearly threw the foreign office into a panic; for was not the British minister plenipotentiary himself a passenger on the ill-fated Oklahoma, and possibly at that very hour being butchered in cold blood by a lot of Yankee cut-throats?

The thought was too horrible for a moment's endurance, and forthwith the cablegrams began to flash thick and fast between the foreign office and the British legation at Washington. The result was that, within a few hours after the appearance of the paragraph, one of the fastest and most powerful of her majesty's cruisers, quickly followed by a second and a third, hastily steamed from Portsmouth Roads, the three spreading out north, west, and south, like a great marine fan, as they hurried to the rescue of the Oklahoma and the British ambassador.

Meanwhile, at the Boston, Brooklyn, and League Island navy yards three or four of Uncle Sam's white war dogs were getting up steam for a similar errand, and a small fleet of ocean-going steamers, specially chartered by New York, Boston, and Chicago newspapers to go in search of the absent leviathan, were already threading their way through the Narrows. Not for years had there been such world-wide interest in an ocean expedition. The newspapers commanded an unheard of sale, for everybody was on the tiptoe of expectation concerning the fate of the missing steamer, her six hundred passengers and her thirty millions of gold.

While the public was thus feverishly awaiting the news, certain discoveries were being made by the New York police, which only went to confirm their previous suspicions. Four or five other hardened graduates from state prison were found to be absent from their accustomed haunts in the East Side slums, although known to have been in the city just before the Oklahoma sailed, as was "Gentleman Jim," himself. These discoveries had their natural effect upon the public mind, and the friends of those on board the steamer began to despair of hearing that even human life had been respected by the piratical band.

As to the British foreign office, this cumulative evidence threw it into a perfect frenzy, and it was only by a miracle that a declaration of war against the United States was averted. Three days passed by after the departure of the big searching fleets, during which time all incoming steamers reported that they had not found a single trace of the Oklahoma either in the northern or southern route. Vessels from the Mediterranean, the West Indies, South America, all made the same ominous report. The tension was terrible. Thousands could not even sleep on account of the mental strain, and the minds of some of the weaker actually gave way beneath it.

The public by this time was convinced beyond a reasonable shadow of doubt that the robbers had successfully carried out their fiendish plan; but how? and when? and where?

When they opened their newspapers on the morning of the eighteenth day of suspense, they found the answer to the question, and the greatest marine mystery of centuries was solved.

In the small hours of the night there had flashed aeross the European continent, and under the dark waters of the Atlantic, this startling message from the representative of the Union Press Association:

LISBON, April 1.

The missing Oklahoma is disabled at Fayal, Azores, where she was discovered by the Union Press special expedition. Many of the half-starved crew and passengers are on the verge of insanity. The officers tell a most astounding story of the steamer's exciting and almost fatal adventures. On the third night out, the Oklahoma suddenly came under some mysterious but irresistible influence by which she was carried rapidly out of her course towards the south. Every effort was made by the officers to bring the ship hack to her course, but the big liner seemed drifting helplessly at the mercy of some powerful current. The compasses were useless, and the wheel no longer exercised the slightest control over the steamer's movements.

Naturally the anxiety of the officers was in no way diminished when on the morning of the next day, which was then the fomth day out, another vessel— a long low-setting craft of shining steel— was discovered off the Oklahoma's starboard bow, about a mile ahead, hut moving in the same direction. By careful obervations it was discovered that the course of the two steamers was identical. Both were apparently under the same mysterious influence. Instead of sighting a rescuer, the Oklahoma had, so it seemed, only discovered another victim of the irresistible current!

Time and again the Oklahoma attempted to signal the companion ship, but the latter made no reply. Close observation revealed that she was built on the whaleback principle, with nothing above deeks save ventilators and sigual mast, but failed to discover any sign of human being.

By afternoon their continued failure to bring the liner back to her course had so wrought upon the minds of her officers that their anxiety infected the spirits of the passengers, who were now aroused to the real danger that menaced them.

When the fifth day dawned, with the Oklahoma hundreds of miles out of the regular transatlantic course, the gravity of the situation could no longer be concealed. Distress signals were kept flying, and all possible steam was put on with the idea of overhauling the companion ship and giving or receiving aid. To the amazement of both officers and passengers, however, in spite of every effort, the Oklahoma failed to gain a single inch on the other vessel. Before they had time to attempt an explanation of this remarkable feat, amazement gave way to consternation . For just a moment a third vessel had appeared on the horizon like a messenger of hope; but no sooner had she been sighted than with the swiftness of lightning the mysterious companion craft turned half around and darted away to the southeast, with the Oklahoma following as helplessly as though she were in tow. In that moment the awful truth was revealed. The steel vessel was nothing more nor less than a floating loadstone, which by some mysterious power was dragging the great ocean monster  hither and thither as easily as a magnet draws a toy ship fmm one side to the other of a mimic pond!

Who was she, and what was her motive? Almost before those on board had asked the question, the answer flashed upon them. The thirty millions of gold! Beyond a doubt, it was their capture which she was planning to accomplish, either by luring the Oklahoma from the regular path of ocean travel, and looting her and her passengers at leisure, or by compelling her to run aground upon some remote rock or shoal.

With this revelation a new horror unveiled itself. Equipped as they were only with the supplies for a short trip across the Atlantic, the overwrought minds of many saw starvation looming up before them. That night not a soul sought his berth. From time to time consultations were held between the chief officers, and many-colored rockets spit and blazed their signals of distress incessantly across the sky.

At length, soon after dawn of the sixth day, orders were given to bank fires and hoist sail in the hope that the Oklahomta as a sailing vessel might free herself from the awful influence that chained her.

But the effort was in vain. Wind and sail proved as useless as wheel and compass against the fatal power of that mysterious craft which drew the Oklahoma after her as irresistibly as though the two vessels were united by an unseen hawser.

The steamer had now become a seene of indescribable horror. Mealtime, bedtime, all the customary routine was disorganized; and daily prayer meetings were conducted among the more emotional of the passengers.

Finally, seven days after she had left New York, the officers of the big liner united in one last desperate effort to offset the magnetic influence of the mysterious 'pirate.'  The fires were revived in the engine room, the steam pressure in all the boilers was run up to the blowing off point; then, suddenly, the re versing mechanism was applied and a shudder ran through the great floating city as the twin screws began to back water.

For a few minutes there ensued a titanic tug of war such as the beholders had never before witnessed. The water astern was lashed into a lather of foam, and for a brief moment the triumph of steam over magnetism seemed assured.

Only for a moment, however, for the cheer that had ascended from the anxious scores on the deck of the Oklahoma when she slowly began to back had scarcely died away when with a mighty crash a vital section of the overtaxed engines gave way, followed by a hoarse yell of consternation from the excited engineers and stokers— and both screws were helpless and still.

With this failure hope was well-nigh extinguished; and the Oklahoma, with her precious freight and her 643 human souls, abandoned all active effort to escape. With not a sail of any kind in sight, she passively rolled and plunged southward for seven days after her strange and terrible pilot, from which, to add to the horror of the situation, no human sign had yet been given. The supply of rockets was now exhausted, and food was doled out in minute portions as to members of a shipwrecked crew in order to husband supplies.

On the afternoon of the fourteenth day, when the passengers had reached the verge of distraction, a gleam of hope appeared on tlte horizon in the shape of a solitary steamer, bearing down from the south west. A glance through the telescope proved her to be a fast and formidable British cruiser, evidently en route from South America to England.

At this news a mighty shudder, half of hope, half of fear, seized the crowd assembled upon the deck. Would the British cruiser come to their assistance, and if so, would she, too, become a victim of the magnetic craft? For a moment their fate hung in the balance ; then from three hundred throats rang out a hoarse ery of joy as the mysterious craft swerved, turned sharply and shot away over the surface of the Atlantic due north.

The spell was broken. The big liner with her six hundred human souls and thirty millions in gold was freed from the power that had for so long held her captive. But crippled as she was by the accident to her machinery she was unable to proceed unaided, and was taken in tow by the British steamer, the Midlothian, and a day later was brought safely into port at Fayal.

The Union Press steamer is the first to bring the thrilling news. The first officer of the Oklahoma and the saloon passengers, including Sir Gambrel Roufe, the British ambassador, accompanied your correspondent to Lisbon . A relief steamer is urgently needed, as the Oklahoma's engines are both disabled, and she will not be able to proceed for several weeks.

The passenger thought to be 'Gentleman Jim' Langwood, proves to be the Duke of Medfordshire, now on his wedding trip with his young millionaire American bride."

Hardly had the excitement caused by this startling intelligence subsided, when it was once more aroused by a despatch from Providence, R. I., announcing the capture in the act of robbing a jewelry store of "Gentleman Jim" Langwood, and a gang of four other oldtimers, and by the following even more important cablegram from the Russian representative of the Union Press:

ST. PETERSBURG, April 2.

The identity of the mysterious craft by which the Oklahoma was drawn from her course has been established beyond a doubt. The vessel is a Hypnotic Cruiser, recently completed by a Russian inventor, named Slobodenski, and possessed of an electric apparatus by which any vessel can be brought completely unde its control.

Whether the Hypnotic Cruiser's bedevilment of the Oklahoma was merely a trial of power, or whether plunder was intended, can only be surmised. But naval lawyers say that this marvelous new invention will revolutionize naval warfare and necessitate the passage of stringent laws to cover a crime for which at present no penalty exists.

_______________

13: Roll and Go!

Captain Dingle

Captain Aylward Albert Dingle 1879-1947

Everybody's Sep 1927

FLYING fish glittered about the bows of the Leda, homeward bound from Hobart Town. Little clouds like tufts of wool mottled the blue overhead. Tiny white wavelets speckled the deep blue of the sea. White wavelets, and little golden streamers of weed, and the silver shafts of the flying fish. In the west a faint film against the horizon faded with the passing of a liner. In the east, a slanting gleam of sail seemed to hang suspended, so motionless was it. Midway, a barnacled old bull whale lazily rolled, every now and then slapping the water with the broad flukes of his tail. The report of it echoed and reechoed from horizon to horizon.

The ship wore her thinnest, most threadbare dress: the old, light weather sails of the tropics. Bleached white they were, by years of use; they held the sunlight gloriously, all gold and mauve in the soft swelling of their curves; the gentle breeze filled them with whisperings; the ship was a soft narmony of color and sound, slipping through the azure seas with the gentlest of ripples at the bow, the softest of gurgles at the run, where the divided waters met again after her passage.

For all the softness of the breeze the Leda sailed fast. She was that sort of ship. Men liked to sail in the Leda. She had many a fine passage to her credit; since she was built to try to stem the encroachments of steam, she had splendidly justified her builder's boast that it would be many a year before the Leda was forced from the freight runs by steamers. More than once she had beaten a steamer across. Her original owner, old Cappy Gurney, maintained to the end of his life that she would pay a profit as long as she was sailed as he sailed her. And his twin sons, Bob and Joe, were the lads to make good on that. While he lived and commanded his ship, the sons learned their craft with him. They got their certificates: masters both before twenty; and sailed as mate and second mate under him, knowing that when the old sea warrior was weary of the sea the ship would be theirs to command.

It was a queer arrangement right along. So that no jealousy might creep into the intimate relationship of the twin brothers, old Cappy made them alternate in the senior position voyage by voyage. It was queer after the old fellow died. He died peacefully at sea in a Cape Horn gale; was buried off the Ramirez in a blizzard with a gentle smile frozen on his face. But that was as he preferred to go. Bob and Joe launched him in his canvas shroud without a qualm other than the natural one of filial bereavement. And by that time, so used to the alternating arrangement had they become, they saw nothing queer in the last wish he had expressed in the simple will they found in his navigation tables. It was queer, just the same.

The Leda was theirs, to own and sail in common. If one died, the survivor inherited the share of the deceased brother. That was all right. And it seemed quite all right that they continue to alternate in command, voyage by voyage, as they had alternated the position of chief mate before. Nothing had ever entered their healthy young lives to cause the slightest irritation between them. Nor did it seem likely anything would. Still, a man who sails master one voyage, and mate the next, master and mate, voyage after voyage, in a ship of which he is half owner, needs to be a remarkable character to survive and retain his equable balance.

Bob and Joe were remarkable characters. Bob was skipper and Joe mate on this fair passage when, at starting, the flying fish, the breeze and the blue sea sported in a golden splendor and the ship sailed fast without a tremor. Bob and his twin were as unlike as daylight and dark, physically. Bob was dark, debonair. Joe had developed a sturdier body than his brother; was a decided blond, and to anybody not knowing him seemed unfriendly, grim. Yet men liked Joe best. His sailors believed he was the Old Man come back again. Men got along with Bob, too, for Bob was a fine seaman. But Bob Gurney was rather of the sort to attract women, although women had never before bothered him to the extent of making him less brotherly or less of a sailorman. It was as natural as day following night for them to succeed one another as master of the Leda; as natural as night following day for one to succeed the other as mate, and no more jarring.

JOE GURNEY'S face was grimmer than usual as he superintended the shifting of a split mainsail. The sails were old. But the tropics are fine for old sails. The canvas is lighter; more susceptible to the gentler breezes. An air that would not stir the heavier canvas bent for the Horn 36

Everybody's
could fill to soft rotundities the threadbare old stuff and send the ship along like a ghost. The big mainsail was made up in stops, all ready to be hoisted. Men waited on the footropes of the mainyard, while the bosun hitched the gantline. And along from the poop floated the voice of skipper Bob.

"Start a song as you send it up, m' lads."

Unthinking, eager to please, a young ordinary seaman piped up lustily:

"Way-hay, up she rises!

Way-hay, up she rises!

Hooraw, up she rises,
early in the morning!"

"Stow that!" ordered Chief Mate Joe angrily. He was able to supervise the job without help from aft. The youngster stopped singing, and hauled with the rest of the men, silently, grinning a bit.

"What's wrong, there?" Bob called out. "Carry on singing. Miss Jean wants to hear a chantey."

"There's nothing here to call for a chantey," Joe shouted back, and bade his men get a move on.

The sail was bent and set in silence. But the little passage of arms showed how the wind blew.

Standing beside Bob on the poop was a girl; a very pretty, sunny, pleasant girl: and Captain Bob Gurney had laid himself out to gratify her every whim. It was the first time he had ever been interested in a girl to any extent. When an old friend of their father's had asked them to give his niece Jean a passage, the brothers had considered before agreeing. Perhaps had Joe been master that voyage Jean Shane might have gone home by steamer. But the old friend said the girl needed a long sea voyage without the routine of liner life; Bob caught one glimpse of Jean at a moment when she looked past him at the glorious fabric of the old clipper, and swung his weight on her side in the ensuing discussion with Joe. He was certain that the light dancing in her eyes had been lit by him.

But it was to Joe she first went after settling down on board, full of vivacious curiosity to know all about sailing ships and how to sail them. For two days all seemed to go well. Bob sparkled, shone at his best. Joe, the mate, was too good a sailor to let a girl's, presence in the ship make him forget his position. He kept aloof, answering the girl's bubbling questions civilly but with brevity. Only when Bob began to dress up, to put on an air of gallantry, to unblushingly set out to make a hit with Miss Jean Shane, did Joe begin to resent the disagreeable change that had abruptly come into the tranquil policy of their joint command.

Bob Gurney developed a wonderful liking for the big tropic moon, the dazzling tropic stars. Jean liked them, too. Romance to her was, at present, more a matter of such externals than anything of a personal nature. She would stand or sit with Bob for hours, bathed in moonlight, following avidly as he pointed out the constellations. And as day followed day, and the ship sped on homeward with fresh, fair winds and smooth, kindly seas; and night followed night with its stars and its broad waxing moon, those little studies in astronomy took on a comfortably intimate aspect which made Bob Gurney preen himself like a pouter pigeon. He began to raise a smart mustache. He allowed Jean to steer the ship, for the Leda was as sea kindly as a small yacht in the ladies' weather that persisted.

Sometimes it was in Joe's watch that she wanted to steer. Joe stood behind her as she handled the big wheel, looking so small and dainty as she reached up for the top spoke; he watched over her like an old quartermaster watching a green hand; he made suggestions, not often, for Jean was an apt pupil; but when necessary, in terse, officerlike terms. The girl tried at first to stir him into something like human life with her merry spirit, but she gave that up. Leaving the wheel, she gave the course to the relief in tones as terse as Joe's, making a mock salute with great gravity. And Joe sometimes gazed after her with smoldering fires in his eyes which were not fires of anger.

IT WAS when the winds began to blow with stouter gusts that the Leda showed her quality. Old sails gave place to heavy new canvas; running gear that had been good enough for the milder breezes was replaced with new yellow manila that shone like gold against the black of the rigging. There was a croon in the wires and a roar in the seas; spray on the air, and a taste of salt on the lips of hardy folks who faced it. Jean Shane faced it, bright-eyed and eager, watching the sailors at their dizzy work, high on the reeling spars, listening with rapt ears and moving lips to the time-mellowed chanteys that helped the work. As yet no other change had come into the weather than just a hardening of the breeze. The sun still shone in a blue sky; birds took the place of the flying fish, truly, and perhaps the blue was a bit steely; but there was no storm imminent, and the Leda spun the knots astern of her like a racer.

"Ho, Sally Brown's a bright mulatto.

Way-hay, Roll and go!

Ho, she drinks rum and chews tobacco:

Spend my money on Sally Brown."

Four men briskly pumped the trifling leakage of twenty-four hours at the midship pump. Other men aloft bent the last of the stout sails to the main upper topgallant yard. By the time they were finished the pumps would suck, and the pumpers be ready to man the halliards to hoist the yard.

"Oh, Sally Brown I long to see you:

Way-hay, Roll and go:

I tell you true I'll not deceive you;

Spend my money on Sally Brown."

Far out on the lee beam a feather of smoke seemed to hang in the blue of the sky like a curl. It had been there all day. The day before it was ahead.

"When will the sailors sing again?" Jean wanted to know as Captain Bob joined her. He turned from scanning that distant smoke through the glasses.

"They'll chantey that t'gallant yard aloft, then you'll see that smoke slip away astern," he smiled proudly. "That's the steamer that sailed same day as we did, Jean. She passed us by in the light winds, but—watch our old lady go now!"

Bob strutted. He was proud. There was Joe overlooking the work; solid, grim, perhaps as proud, but incapable of strutting.

"Is Joe shy?" Jean asked with a laugh. She had caught the eye of Joe, and Joe scowled, turning away with a gruff command to the men.

"Shy?" echoed Bob. "Sore, I should say! Never mind him. There they go! They're going to hoist away."

Men tailed on to the halliards and the chanteyman started. Jean could no longer bother with Joe and his scowl. To her,
a chantey was breath of the sea. She missed none of them that were sung in waking hours. She knew some of the choruses already.

"As I was a-walking down Ratcliffe Highway,

To my Way-hay-hay Ho!

A saucy flash packet I chanced to espie;

'T was a long time ago!

I tipped her my towrope and took her in tow;

To my Way-hay-hay Ho!

And yardarm to yardarm away we did go;

'T was a long time ago!"

"Darned if you can't sing as well as my sailors," chuckled Bob, laying a hand on Jean's shoulders. She had scarcely known she was joining in. "Next time we have any hoisting on the mizzen you ought to be chanteyman. How about it?"

The girl laughed not quite happily. Captain Bob had developed a habit of putting his hands on her lately, and she was not sure she liked that. Not that Bob Gurney was offensive; he was all right; later on, perhaps, she might not have felt it worth while to object. She had quit taking astronomy lessons on account of it, though. When Joe returned to resume his watch on the poop, the work being finished and the ship now foaming under full sail, she moved across to walk beside him, heedless of the frank displeasure on the skipper's face.

"Do you think we can pass that steamer now?" she smiled up at Joe. He tried to seem detached; but a tiny deepening of the rich color of his cheek betrayed him. He did like the girl to come to him for her information.

"If we can't, Miss Jean, I'll sell my share soon as we get home," he said. It was a pleasant theme for Joe. The old Leda to him was a sea queen, perfection, unbeatable. He glanced at the steamer's smoke, stepped to the binnacle for a bearing of it, and showed her how to determine how fast the steamer was being beaten by watching the bearing change.

And it did change. When Joe left the deck to the second mate at supper time the feather of smoke was well over the lee quarter. Jean watched him pass her door, and felt glad that he could look so cheerful. Joe's door was heard to open after he shut it; and the saloon seemed to be filled with angry voices. Jean put her head out, scarcely believing. But there could be no doubt. Above the creaking of woodwork, the tinkle of glass; running through all the hum of racing seas outside the ship's skin, and the stress of the leaning hull was the sound of wordy quarreling. The old steward, relic of Old Cappy Gurney's best days, stood in his pantry doorway staring across at Joe's door; and, seeing the girl, glowered at her in a fashion which plainly said he blamed her for the brothers' first quarrel.

At the table, a few minutes later, Bob laid himself out to entertain Jean. He was debonair, sparkling. Joe sat silent and gloomy, eating as much as ever, but looking in front of him unless spoken to, when he answered gruffly with the briefest of glances. It was clear that Captain Bob was doing nothing to calm the troubled waters. Jean sat in uneasy apprehension, always expecting an outburst. But Joe finished his supper, waited for her to rise, then went to his room. Bob took her on deck to look for the steamer again.

BUT it was grim, shy Joe to whom Jean went when she was lonely; Bob was too much given to sentiment, or to outward show of it. He would answer her eager questions about ships and the sea, but always with a hint that there were more interesting topics. Joe never sheered wide of the course of conversation. His deep, somber eyes glowed as he told her little bits of old sea lore. There was no more interesting topic to Jean: nor to Joe.

"If somebody aboard a ship forgot to pay his laundry bill before sailing, that ship meets bad luck," said Joe with a quiet grin one early morning.

"Oh, is that why the steamer passed us after all?" she laughed. The steamer had gone out ahead the day after the Leda first passed her, the wind falling light. Joe laughed too as he answered her.

"Put two and two together, Miss Jean." He glanced toward the galley, where the doctor was sharpening a long knife, and at the pigsty in the longboat. "But that'll be changed after the pig's killed."

"Oh, now you're fooling me! " cried Jean, looking straight into his eyes. Joe colored a bit; but he warmed to that look.

"Wait and see," he said. "Kill a pig with his head to the nor'west, and if it don't bring a fine breeze— you'd better run down below if you don't like to see,it. Hope
you won't refuse to eat a bit o' fresh pork for dinner."

Perhaps the pig's squeal did it. Whatever the cause, the wind came fair and bustling before the first joint of pork was on the table. Jean jested with Joe about it over the meal. She did not refuse roasted fresh pork either. But Brother Bob was unpleasantly sarcastic concerning chief mates whose heads were full of nonsense, and who filled other people's heads with the same.

"I don't care, I like to hear those old stories," Jean said, decidedly. "You only tell me about stars and moons and stuff I can read in books. I want to hear all about things that are passing from the sea with the clipper ship. Joe tells me lots of things that are priceless."

It was unfortunate. The brothers had another wordy set-to after dinner; and it was bitter. The old steward shook his grizzled head sorrowfully as Joe's door slammed and the skipper stamped up the stairs determined to look all over the ship for something to hang a reprimand on. He had told Joe he neglected his duty to fill a girl's head with nonsense. Joe had slowly retorted to that:

"Not as mate to master, Robert, but as partner to partner, you're a durned liar. I neglect nothing o' my duty."

And Bob, in his swifter, more glittering way had snapped:

"Not as master to mate, Joseph, nor as partner to partner, but as one man to another, I'll hammer seven-bells out o' you if I catch you talking to Jean in your watch on deck again! "

It was big, stolid Joe's contemptuous snort that sent Bob up seeking trouble. The steward started up the stairway after him. He knew the twins from babyhood, through boyhood, to manhood; knew their little faults and their many virtues; had made them their first toy ships out of soap, with macaroni spars and sails made of the silver paper from raisin boxes. They had eaten the raisin crew he shipped, informing him in all childish seriousness that a big whale had swallowed the sailors. Surely such an old servant might speak a word or two to one of those boys grown into a very angry man.

Yet the steward paused. Captain Bob was very angry. He could be heard at that moment, above the rising song of the strong wind, berating the second mate for something or other about the ship's trim. The ship lurched heavily, clattering the dishes in the pantry, and a sharp scattering spray rattled against the skylight and companionway. The steward ran to take care of his gear. That was enough for him to attend to. Let navigators take care of their own business.

The second mate came below at eight- bells, irritable and restive. The skipper remained on deck, still watching for a chance to trip up Joe. But Joe ignored him, attending to his job as mate, seeing to it that the ship lost no advantage given by the increasing gale. As evening came on the Leda was plunging through steep seas under leaning spars and cracking canvas, her maindeck roaring with broken water from time to time. Still Joe kept the royals on her. He knew the old clipper; what she could do; how much she could stand; and he thrilled to the leap of her.

Jean appeared, bright-eyed and buoyant, wrapped against cold and eager to enjoy the tremendous spectacle of a lofty ship full-sailed in a quartering gale. She made a funny little stumbling run over to Joe, laughing joyously as he caught her at the rail.

"Have we caught up with the steamer yet?" she cried. The gale whipped her scarf across her eyes and Joe had to hold her until she could see to stand alone. He felt very big and protective then. She panted from her unexpected run, too.

"What did I tell you?" shouted Bob, striding across the poop. His face was dark with passion. "Get the royals off before you lose me some spars! Miss Jean, you must not speak to the officer of the watch. Here, I'll help you to the weather screen."

"I don't need help," Jean cried, and made another tottery little run to the shelter of the canvas dodger to prove it. Bob bit his lip. His growing black mustache bristled. And as if conspiring to flout him before her Joe retorted to his outburst:

"Our agreement says, neither one interferes with the other in matters o' watch keeping or sail carrying. She can carry the royals, easy."

Bob turned pale with fury. He made a step as if to attack Joe, thought better of it, and rushed to the mizzen royal halliards, flirtging down the coil and starting to cast off the turns from the pin, bawling out to the watch huddled in the lee of the galley.

"Let-go fore and main royals and furl 'em!"

"Keep all fast!" roared Joe, and plunged headlong across to where Bob was about to snatch the last turn free. The two men were mixed in a tangle of rope and striving bodies; Jean looked on, half puzzled, half afraid. The man at the wheel grinned. The watch stood gaping. The steward, his gear secure, raryjp in time to see the brothers struggling together, and the girl looking on wide-eyed.

The mizzen royal flapped. Bob had started the halliards, and the yard jerked down a foot, slackening the sail and making the lofty, slender spar whip and quiver. Bob cursed. Joe strove in grim silence. All he wanted to do was to stop the yard coming down farther. Then the rope surged, slipped from the pin, and the coils leaped upward. What exactly happened was doubtful; but Bob's feet suddenly flew up, his head flew down, and in thirty seconds he lay on the deck stunned and to all appearance dead. Jean and the old steward bumped together at his side.

"A crool blow, it wos! I 'eard 'is 'ead come wop on the blessed 'ard deck!" the steward declared, raising Bob's head and finding the small hand of the girl already there.

THEY carried Bob to his room, and Joe set the mizzen royal again before going down to see him. Jean was there. She gave Joe a look of dark reproach as he entered. The steward's expression plainly told that something serious was the matter.

"I think it's concussion," Jean whispered. "Why did you do it? He's very likely going to die."

"I? I didn't do anything," Joe stammered, looking on like a great boy caught in a childish fault. The girl only shook her head, devoting her attention to Bob, who lay there like a corpse, pallid and still.

There was wind enough that night. Joe remained on deck long after he was relieved, seeming dazed. He carried sail like a madman. The foretopgallant split in the middle watch; the royal and the spars were almost gone before the men could get aloft to secure them.

"Bend a new t'gallants'l and set it. Set the royal again," said Joe. And men battled up there in the howling blackness, cursing the mate who had gone mad, so they believed. Joe went to Bob's room again in the early dawn, and found Jean still there, looking wan and weary, but still able to show him unmistakably that she thought him guilty.

"Bob'll die unless you get him into skilled hands quickly," she said. "He's rigid. Paralysed. He hasn't moved a muscle since he was brought in."

The saloon hummed with the roar of the seas. On the main deck men sought what shelter they might against the lean gray combers that crashed aboard in the waist. The carpenter hammered wedges into the storm doors of the saloon; and in the reeling interior the motion grew terrific. Every crash of sea was echoed by some smaller crash of rolling or falling gear. And the pale daylight held only promise of more wind. Joe stood gazing down at his brother with somber eyes. Jean watched him secretly. She could not pretend to understand every phase of this big, grim, shy man. But she saw his furrowed brow, and his moving lips. She knew the situation existing between the twins; and from all the old steward had told her she gathered that never before this voyage had they ever quarreled seriously.

"Couldn't you put him on a steamer?" she asked. "He'll surely die if he doesn't have attention. I saw a case like it once before."

"I'll get him under care as quick as I can," muttered Joe, and went on deck again to drive the old Leda as she had rarely been driven. Through a day of rising squalls, each leaving the gale a bit harder than it was before, the ship stormed forward. She was a driving, drenched, staggering thing, her decks awash so that the galley could not be opened, her bows hidden in a cloud of flying sprays, roaring like thunder in the overturn of the lee wave. Fourteen knots she was logging. Except for the flying jib and gaff topsail she carried everything she could set; men shivered at sight of her straining upper spars; two men fought with her kicking helm, sweating though wet to the skin with water growing more bitterly cold hourly; Joe Gurney stood braced against the poop rail, scowling darkly, his powerful hands white at the knuckles from the desperation of his grip on the teak. The man was like a rugged effigy in granite rather than a human being, so fixedly stony was his gaze, so rigidly unbending his attitude. He never left the deck all day; the steward brought him food where he stood.

In late afternoon the steamer they had so often sighted was seen again ahead. A good, honest old ten knotter she was. And black greasy smoke belched from her stack. The sea was churned yeastly under her stern. She squattered and wallowed and rolled. Still the Leda foamed up to her. In two hours she was near enough to speak with flags. Joe gave her but a glance.

"Signal to ask her if there's a doctor aboard," he told the second mate, and turned to give all his attention to his own ship. Jean had come up on hearing of the steamer's nearness, and she looked indignant at what she considered his indifference. Joe never looked at her. A jib exploded in the driving spray mists forward, and the flogging of it shook the foremast. Men were out there muzzling the fragments almost before Joe could utter the order.

"Save the sail!" he roared. "Bend a new one and set it. Get a move on!"

The second mate and a seaman hoisted the signal. The steamer had no doctor. She had no wireless. She was just a small freight tramp without much of anything except shame at being overhauled by a windjammer.

"But you'll put Bob aboard, surely?" Jean stammered. "We're beating the steamer now, but she will beat us in the end."

Joe looked at the turmoil of sea running between the vessels.

"Can't shift him in this sea. And I can beat that steamer. Go below and rest. A lot'll depend on you."

When darkness fell, the sailing ship had passed the steamer. Joe himself watched the log hove. Fifteen knots she was making. But men grumbled. One timorous soul would have let-go the royal halliards, thinking that Joe was going off watch. But Joe told that man something. No halliards were started. Joe himself lay down in the chartroom for two hours; then was out again. And the steamer's lights were astern. The wind blew tremendously. A sea lopped over the rail and picked up the Ibngboat, taking it back to the sea in a bundle of staves, straws, and squealing pigs.

And Bob Gurney lay like a corpse. His lips were blue. He had no more semblance of life than the figurehead at the clipper's stem. Only a mirror held to his lips told of lingering life. Joe went to look at him for just a moment on waking again, and Jean watched the grim face bent upon the stiff figure in the bed. Bob's skin was like plaster. His small, black, growing mustache looked pitiful. There was nothing on Joe's face to betray his innermost feelings. Grim, salt puckered, tight lipped, he gazed at his twin for the space of a long breath, then made room for the girl who waited with aromatic salts and hot water cloths to renew her efforts to arouse Bob. At the door Joe half turned for a brief instant. He glanced at Jean's small figure, bent low over Bob, he could see her dainty hands fluttering; her fine profile was like a cameo of pain. Joe closed the door and went on deck, his lips a bit tighter, his face a bit more grim.

IN THE chartroom he examined the old reading with the regular entries in the mercurial barometer, comparing the log. He read and set the aneroid, not that he depended on any such newfangled gadget, but that he might miss no aid in his weather readings. That night, at the darkest hour, the mizzen topgallant mast went, and with it t'gallants'l and royal, with their staysails, and the braces of the upper yards of the main.

Joe drove both watches to the verge of mutiny. Not merely to secure the wreckage did he drive them, himself doing the work of two men; but a jury spar must be fitted and sent aloft, yards crossed again, and every stitch of lost canvas replaced before one man dare take breath. Through the night the ship battled her stormy way. At dawn the men were given grog; and the weary sea warriors flung themselves down to snatch a few winks of sleep before something else was carried away by the driving of the sleepless madman in command. Once more, at dawn, Joe entered Bob's room. Jean slept on the settee, but arose as he entered.

"He hasn't moved," she whispered. Joe almost smiled. And she wondered. He nodded and returned to the deck.

As if to mock him, the wind abruptly fell away to a mild breeze with the sunrise. By noon the ship made a bare four knots and by evening the steamer flaunted her greasy smoke once more on the sternward sky. The steward brought coffee and biscuit up to Joe; saw the smoke; in five minutes Jean appeared, heavy-eyed, drooping with weariness, looking at the smoke. Joe stood at the chart table, his somber eyes fastened upon the barometer as he gulped scalding coffee. Amidships, now the decks were free of water, a gang of men ground around the pump wheel.

"Oh, farmer Brown I love your daughter,

Way-hay, Roll, and go:

For her I'd. cross the stormy water,

Spend my money on Sally Brown!"

Jean touched Joe's arm, a little bit timidly; but there was something like resolution in her small, delicate face.

"Joe, you'll send Bob to that steamer now the wind's fallen, won't you?" .

Joe crunched on a flinty pantile, gulping noisily a mouthful of softening coffee. He did not look at her, but Jean could see the furrows deepen between his eyes. The steamer came up swiftly, traveling nearly three fathoms to the Lecta's one. And there was a red glow in the sky. There seemed to be every sign of fine weather. Perhaps some of the red was coppery; maybe the lower clouds had the tufted, greasy form which in greater degree would presage hard winds and stormy weather. But it would need an expert and solicitous eye, a close study of the mercury during the foregoing twenty-four hours to see anything but fine weather in that twilight sky.

"How much do you care?" he demanded hoarsely. Hard biscuit and weariness had much to do with the hoarseness, truly; but to Jean it was eloquent of something else. She had not missed any of Joe's somber looks. Perhaps when she first stepped aboard the Leda she had never given serious thought to the ways of men with a maid. Jean was full woman, and possessed feminine allure in a delicious degree. Perhaps she knew it, perhaps not. But she could never remain ignorant of the fact that the twins had quarreled because of her presence there. The old steward took care she knew that. And it was the old steward who told her that ship and command went to whichever brother survived the other. Joe's sudden question raised all sorts of dark suspicions in her mind. It would be so easy to let Bob die. Just keeping him aboard the Leda would do it.

"How much do you care, Jean?" he asked again.

"Why," she said, embarrassed, "I care the same as any decent person cares when a friend is suffering. I'm not sure that Bob will ever recover consciousness, but he might have a chance if you do your part, Joe."

"Go down and do the best you can for him," Joe answered shortly, and left her there in the chartroom staring after him dubiously.

The steamer passed. By midnight the Leda rolled dizzily on a steep swell, her sails slapping hollowly. There was just air enough to move her; and Joe altered course, heading her away toward a blacker line in the dark horizon.

Rain came, and Joe almost smiled. Then calm; and squall after squall of rain. But as yet only sickening spells of rolling calm between. In the saloon Jean and the old steward talked in murmurs, of Joe, of Bob, of the chances. Jean was unhappy. She half muttered her thoughts aloud.

"Don't you think nothin' like that!" the old steward cried. "Joe ain't that sort of a swab. Maybe we don't understand wot's in his mind, but never you believe he's goin' to do Bob dirt. No ma'am!"

Jean looked glad, rather surprisingly. She had done all her limited nursing knowledge suggested, and Bob lay without a tremor. She was beginning to be frightened. The only dead man she had ever seen before had looked dead. There lay Bob Gurney, not so much like a dead man as a plaster figure miraculously imbued with power to breathe faintly. Then the old steward's chatter had not been reassuring until she herself uttered half formed suspicions. The ship rolled, too. The rain squalls slashed against the skylights, drummed on the deck overhead, hissed in the sea all around. It was darkest night. She was weary to death. Altogether Jean was in receptive mood for gloomy fears. The old steward's surprising championship of Joe revived her. She drank tea which he gave her and lay down once more in Bob's room, trying to clear her mind of unpleasant things.

But through her sleep ran the certainty that the Leda was rolling on a glassy swell, while the steamer that might have saved Bob, ploughed on far ahead. She was awakened by being hurled from the couch to the floor, to find the ship heeling giddily, and to hear uproar overhead with Joe's powerful voice dominating all. She put on a coat as soon as she found her feet and clambered up the companionway to the deck. An awful grandeur enveloped her there.

JOE stood at the helm himself. The skies were sooty black, great seas had arisen magically, they roared high above the rails as the ship was hurled onward. On mastheads and yardarms blazed blue corposants, wavering, running along the spars to the ends. All hands clustered either on the poop or the ladders leading to it. Even the doctor was there; and when a ship's cook emerges of his own free will at midnight to face the elements, those elements must be uncommonly forceful.

Jean clung to the handrail against the companion-house. Joe stood like a rock, holding the wheel in a coldly steady grip, his eyes aloft, striving to penetrate the murky blackness so vividly emphasized by the flickering glow of the corposants. Out of the night a fiercer squall shrieked. The ship heeled. Untold tons of sea poured over the lee rail, and one of the poop ladders unshipped and spilled its occupants helter-skelter into the chaos of the waist.

"He's drowned us all!" screamed the doctor. As if to prove him right a sea burst the galley from its fasts and tossed the pieces out to sea. A piece of the roof, with stovepipe still stuck through, fouled the lower part of the main brace and hung there like an evil bat of night.

"Gorn mad to spite 'is bruvver!" piped a half crazed sailor whose head was wrapped in a bloody bandage ever since the last stupendous piece of rigging work aloft. And like periods sent to punctuate his moan the three royals burst in swift succession, one, two, three, like gunshots.

"Up and cut them adrift!" roared Joe. "Quick, before the spars go!"

The steward crawled up, said something to Jean, and she in turn clawed her perilous way to the helm.

"The cabins are flooded! Steward says it'll kill Bob!"

Joe uttered a crazy laugh. Never looked at her.

"Bob don't know," he rasped. "Nothing'll hurt him. Go below, sister."

Jean shivered. She stayed but a moment, then obeyed him. She could do nothing.

"Oh, Sally Brown's the queen of ladies,

Way-hay, Roll and go!

Her house is full of yaller babies,

Spend my money on Sally Brown!"

A gang of muttering men pumped through the night. And the Leda flew. Voices shriller than the rest told of men in an extremity of stress.

They saw the steamer once more. In the midst of a tearing blast of wind, shot through with lightning, bitter with hail, so murky with flying spume that the steamer looked like a gray ghost, her lights like evil eyes, the storming clipper roared past so close that men's voices could be heard bawling in terror.

The lee wave of the clipper thundered against the iron side of the steamer, flinging sprays high over her bridge. Then she was swallowed in the sternward pall of storm, to be seen no more by the Leda. And Joe Gurney stood there at the helm until he could not stand longer. When his eyes shut in spite of him he lay down right there at the wheel. Men slept as they might in the lee of the companionway. The steward gave them rum four times a day. When a sail burst, it was secured and the ship carried what was left until another went. When a towering sea picked up the lee lifeboat from the gallows and floated it through the lee corner of the poop rail and so to sea, Joe bade the men make the remaining boat more secure. Down below Jean watched Bob with fascinated eyes. She held the mirror to his lips more often now. The slight dulling of the glass grew less perceptible.

So in the morning of a blusterous, snowy day, the Leda rounded the Horn, heading up for the Falklands. Joe muttered for the wind to hold. But his haggard face told of his physical distress. Men had ceased talking about him. They did their work like automata, afraid to disobey the gaunt specter who drove them. And they came to Port Stanley on the dying blasts of the gale. Flags flew from her rigging, calling a medical man out to the Leda. One glance satisfied the doctor.

"He's dead," he said. Jean told him of the mirror. He smiled patiently. "It must have been your own breath, miss. Sorry I can't do anything for him."

Joe uttered a grim, rattling laugh and sat down heavily. Jean looked into his drawn, heavy face and was shocked. Only then did she know what Joe must have endured to drive the ship to port.

"And I thought—" she stammered.

"I know," rasped Joe. "But I did my best to save your man for you, Jean. 'Twasn't my fault he died. And it wasn't by me he was hurt, either."

"I know, the steward told me the rope knocked him down," said Jean with a moist glow in her pitying eyes. She placed her hand on Joe's bowed head. "We couldn't save him. You did right in refusing to put him on that steamer, Joe. But Bob wasn't my man. I liked him, but—"

Joe looked up, meeting her soft gaze that held so much of womanly sympathy for him in his distress. She took his hand in both of hers and pressed it so that he stood up, straightening his drooping shoulders. And there was light of hope, encouragement, in his weatherbeaten face as he turned to give the necessary orders concerning his ship and the brother neither he nor the grand old Leda had been able to save.

_________________

14: Adventure

Fred M. White

Townsville Daily Bulletin, 9 Nov 1935
Roy Glashan's Library (on line), 2014

SHE stood in the dock, barely conscious of her environment, clinging to the rail in front of her as if it were some sort of Rock of Ages cleft between her and the sea of troubles that overwhelmed her.

A thief— that was what they said— a thief. Shoplifter? A mean pilferer of unguarded trifles! Not that a compact gold manicure set was by any means a trifle.

She had come up from Shepperton for an afternoon's shopping. She, a young married woman with money in her purse, and in a social position which should have rendered her impervious to temptation. The mistress of a delightful home, with a mate occupying a sound position in the City. Holding her head high as she entered the mammoth store of Bronsons, intent upon the purchase of some expensive trifle— a wedding present for a friend who had been her bridesmaid less than a year ago. Happy and wholly care free.

What followed was like some evil dream. A long glass counter strewn with tempting objects in silver and gold, half a dozen women hanging over them in patent admiration— women, like herself, adumbrating prosperity. Then, like the flashing change of a kaleidoscope, a different and more terrible picture. A sudden stir, a commotion, the arm of a policeman grabbing a vanity bag (hers), and producing therefrom, like some grim conjuror, a gold manicure set which only a few moments before had been lying on the crystal surface of the table.

The kaleidoscope flashed once more on a prison cell, with a widely protesting woman passionately proclaiming her innocence. A long, distracting night in the cell, and now another and no less trying ordeal in the shabby police court whilst a trim, self-assured young woman from Bronsons was giving her evidence.

"No, your Worship," she said in answer to a question from the bench, "I did not actually see the theft committed. But my suspicions were aroused. Being one of the firm's lady detectives, it is my duty to keep a sharp look-out on certain counters. But I did see a hand move, and immediately I noticed that a certain article was no longer on the counter. I also saw a woman's open bag on the counter, and came to the conclusion that the missing article was inside it. I stopped the accused as she was leaving the shop without making a purchase and told her she would be detained. When the policeman came to examine the bag, the manicure set was discovered inside. Whereupon, acting on instructions, I gave accused into custody."

Very terse and to the point, but none the less damning for all that. Hopelessly, Elsie Squire lifted her eyes and glanced round the court. She met the glance of a man sitting behind the solicitors' table and forced a smile. She could see no condemnation in her husband's eyes, only a world of sympathy and suffering. It was good to know that one man in the world believed in her innocence, though all the rest of creation was against her. But here was the policeman giving his evidence.

"When called in," he said, "I found the prisoner detained in the office. In her bag I found the article which is the subject of the charge, and produce it in evidence."

"Is the prisoner represented?" the magistrate asked.

A little man in glasses bobbed up from his seat.

"She is, your Worship," he said. "I represent her. I hope to have an answer to the charge, however black appearances are against her. I ask for a remand for a week, bail being fixed as your Worship desires."

"Very well," the Bench decided. "The prisoner in £50 with a further surety in £100. Next case."

Outside in the sunshine a large saloon car was waiting. Into it Evan Squire handed his wife tenderly.

"You poor darling," he whispered passionately. "God, how much you must have suffered!"

"Then you don't believe, Evan?"

"That you would even dream of such a thing? Of course not. There is some diabolical trick of fate here. But, darling, how came your bag to be open on the counter?"

"I was taking out my handkerchief," Elsie explained. "Do you think it possible that, in replacing it, I swept the gold set into my bag? It was quite a bijou set."

It was possible, Squire admitted to himself. But all the theory in the world was so much beating of the wind.

"Are we going— home?" Elsie asked.

Impossible to face that, she was telling herself. Yet sooner or later such would have to be done, The home she loved so well! All those artistic treasures. The rose garden in the sun, the velvet tennis lawn. Never again could she see life from the same perspective. And the neighbors? The tennis club, the golf and badminton? She would have to resign, all these social amenities.

"I— I can't go back, Evan," she said piteously.

"Not until this ordeal is over, darling," Evan reassured her. "I have arranged all that. Last night and early this morning. I packed everything you need, all of which is in the luggage carrier behind us. We are on our way to Brighton now, where we shall stay until you... And I am taking a week off from the office. Garden has got a theory—"

"Garden? Who is he, Evan?"

"The little lawyer man who has your case in hand," Evan explained. "The thieves lawyer they call him. He knows the underworld better than anyone in London. Enormous practice in police courts. Recommended to me. And he's got a theory. He wouldn't say more than that. Cheer up, dear heart."

MONTAGU GARDEN, attorney at law, sat in his office interviewing a client. A youngish-looking woman in the early thirties with a personality all her own. Attractive undoubtedly, and dressed with that subtle mixture of simplicity and smartness one associates with one to the manner born. A cigarette was in her scarlet mouth, her legs crossed with easy abandon.

"In trouble again, Lil?" Garden asked with easy familiarity.

"You said it, Monty," the woman, known as Liverpool Lil in certain circles, replied. "Returning to my flat just now I smelt police. And there were the blighters. Search warrant probably. They didn't pipe me so I got out whilst the going was good."

"Expecting to be arrested any moment?"

"And here I am."

"You can put your shirt on that, Monty. And there's lots of stuff in the flat lifted from half the leading stores in the West End. Oh, I'm for it all right."

"Now how many times have I warned you..."

"Oh? cut it out. Monty, I knew I was spotted last week in Savages, only the lady tec was not dead sure, funking a possible action for damages. You know the game."

Mr. Garden nodded. He most certainly knew the game.

"So they dropped the Yard a hint, and the Yard, knowing your record, has been shadowing you."

"The boy guessed right the very first time. I'll be for it any old time now, so the rest is up to you, Monty. Guilty, my Lord, and all that. Six months' hard, I expect— what?"

Mr. Garden shook his head doubtfully.

"Don't forget that this will be the third time of asking, so to speak," he said. "When they trace all that stuff in your flat there will be a dozen charges to meet. Of course we can plead guilty to the lot before they get their oar in and fight for summary jurisdiction. If his Worship is in one of his melting moods, we might get off lightly. By the way, is there anything of Bronsons in that little— er— collection of yours? Have you been a 'customer' there?"

"Only casually, Monty. The day before yesterday I did drop in there, and a jolly narrow squeak I had. When you have been at the game as long as I have, you learn to spot the lady tecs, by instinct, and keep your eyes skinned accordingly. I guess I gave that young woman something to think about."

Mr. Garden helped himself to a cigarette.

"Something original, eh?" he asked. "If you don't mind I should like to hear that story."

Liverpool Lil proceeded to tell it. There was a queer light in the eyes of the little attorney, though his fascinating client was unaware of that. When, at length, she had finished, he turned to her with a smile on his lips.

"How often have I told you— all your gang for the matter of that— how important it is to tell me everything? You are keeping something back. Something you are ashamed of, I am sure. Now, listen to me carefully. In the circumstances, I can't save you, because this will be the third time you have stood in the dock. But I might be able to get you away with six month in the second division if you will tell me everything— mind, everything, just as it happened when you dropped in at Bronson's the day before yesterday."

"You are a devil," the fascinating Lil exclaimed. "You spotted it at once, did you?"

"My dear girl, that's what I am here for. Half you people get into trouble and suffer because you won't even tell your own solicitor the whole truth about anything. Now, to begin with, how did you know that the police had a search warrant?"

"Oh, as to that," Lil said lightly. "I have friends in the force."

"Yes, I suppose you have, only we need not go into that side of the question now. What you have to do is to play the penitent. When you leave here, go straight to Scotland Yard and make a clean breast of it. I suppose I can take it that in your flat is more than one article that Savage's people can identify? In other words, you have not disposed of the whole of the loot you picked up during your visit to that establishment. Careless, careless, just like the rest of them. Are you never going to learn the necessity of getting rid of the stuff at once?"

"Guilty, my lord," Liverpool Lil laughed. "There were one or two things that I couldn't bear to part with. Well, there they are in my flat, or rather, there they were when I got the office about the search warrant. All that splosh is in the hands of Scotland Yard by this time, you bet."

"Yes," Garden grunted. "You can see it now, can't you? And you can see why I have got a bit of a task before me. And you can see why, when you get to Scotland Yard, you must disguise nothing. Why, the thing that you are ashamed to tell me is the very thing that is going to get you out of trouble. At least, I hope it will have its effect when we come before the Bench. You are a bit of an actress, aren't you, Lil? Play the penitent and shed tears without any special effort?"

"I can do all that," Lil boasted.

"Ah, that's what I want. Now we are getting on. You have to go to Scotland Yard with tears in your eyes, not dancing. Quite the humble transgressor seeking grace. But take care not to let whoever examines you know that you were put wise as to the raid on your flat. What you told me just now is going to help us both. Can't you see that?"

"Since you put it in that way, I can, but I should never have thought of it myself."

"Of course you wouldn't. If you and your kind always thought of those little things, it would be a poor look out for lawyers like myself. Now be off. Don't stand about here any longer. I am not in the least anxious to have my office visited by detectives. You are not supposed to have seen me at all, so far. You've got to assume that I know nothing until I am called in on your behalf and visit you in your cell. And, if I were you, I shouldn't take much trouble to avoid arrest."

FOR some time after his engaging client had left. Garden sat at his desk busy writing. Then he called up one or two people on the telephone and, locking his roll-topped desk, informed his confidential clerk that he was going off on business for the day, and would not be back before the following morning.

Half an hour later, he was on his way to Brighton. In the seclusion of a private hotel there, Evan Squire and his wife were passing the days dreading the hour when Elsie would once more stand in the dock with a certainty of shame and disgrace before her. So far, they had heard no more of the defence at which Garden had hinted, and were miserably speaking of it when the attorney himself walked into the room. There was a quiet smile on his face, at the sight of which Elsie's heart began to beat a little faster. Evan jumped on his feet.

"Any news?" he asked anxiously.

"News in plenty," Garden said. "For all I say it myself as shouldn't, it was one of the best day's work you ever did, Mr. Squire, when you decided to place your wife's case in my hands. I think I can say, without boasting, that practically all the swell mob in London have passed through my hands at one time or another. And a certain young woman of fascinating appearance and most beautifully dressed happens to be one of them. I assure you, Mr. Squire, if you met her in the street, or in a private house, you would be sure that she was to the manner born. As a matter of fact, she first saw the light in a Liverpool slub, though, to-day, you couldn't pick a flaw in her equipment."

"What's all this to do with us?" Evan asked.

"Well, the young woman in question is a client of mine, as I told you, and, at the present moment, is probably enjoying the hospitality of Scotland Yard. When you came to me, Mr. Squire, and told me the story of the gold manicure set, my mind at once jumped to a certain conclusion. Not a coincidence, because I know the underworld so well, and I know their ways so intimately that in 99 cases out of 100 I could put my finger upon the real delinquent without much trouble. That happens in the present instance. I have to be careful what I say, because the woman in the case is a client of mine as well as your wife, who, of course, is quite innocent."

"If we could only prove it," Evan sighed.

"That is exactly what I came down here to do. Now, this Liverpool expert, knowing that she is for it, and having had her flat searched for valuables lifted from various big stores, has by this time, told the authorities everything. I wonder if you can cast your mind back a little, Mrs. Squire. When you were standing by the jewellery counter at Bronsons, were there other women about you? Did you notice, for instance, one in an expensive sable coat who stood very close to you?"

"Oh, so I did," Elsie said. "A very distinguished looking woman— quite the aristocrat, in fact."

"Otherwise— well, you can guess. I mean, somebody who hailed from Liverpool. It was she who was the cause of all the mischief. Being very nearly caught by one of Bronson's lady detectives, she slipped the manicure set out of the palm of her hand into your bag. It was her one chance of getting away in safety. I got that out of her, because, indirectly, it is going to lead to a lighter sentence for her than she would have had otherwise. The conscience-stricken girl who read all about your case in the paper and has come forward, regardless of consequence to herself, because she could not bear to see another suffer for the crime she had committed herself. That you will hear from her own lips when your case comes up for hearing on the adjournment. Only never even think of this again."

"Oh, what a relief," Elsie sighed. "But do I really have to go to that dreadful court again?"

"Why, of course you do," Garden smiled. "I can arrange for Liverpool Lil's case to be taken just in front of yours. Then, the woman in the dock, with— ah— tears running down her face, will vindicate you completely. My dear lady, you will be news! Every daily paper in London will have a column about it. And, because my client has behaved so magnanimously. I am hoping that the magistrate will put her on probation, although she has been before him more than once. But the great point, Mrs. Squire, is that you will be entirely vindicated, and not even the most evil-minded person will be able to throw a stone at you. I think, in the circumstances, you won't mind facing a police court again. Instead of a criminal, everybody will be making a heroine of you."

"I don't want to be a heroine," Elsie wept happily. "All I want is to have this dreadful stain removed from my character, so that I can go home once more and face my friends, without any feeling of shame. I cannot quite understand how you managed it, Mr. Garden, but that does not make to feel any the less grateful. Oh, what it is to feel free once again!"

____________

15: Braybridge's Offer

William Dean Howells

1837-1920

Harper’s Monthly Magazine Jan 1906

WE HAD ordered our dinners and were sitting in the Turkish room at the club, waiting to be called, each in his turn, to the dining-room. With its mixture of Oriental appointments in curtains, cushions, and little tables of teak-wood the Turkish room expressed rather an adventurous conception of the Ottoman taste; but it was always a cozy place whether you found yourself in it with cigars and coffee after dinner, or with whatever liquid or solid appetizer you preferred in the half-hour or more that must pass before dinner after you had made out your menu. It intimated an exclusive possession in the three or four who happened first to find themselves together in it, and it invited the philosophic mind to contemplation more than any other spot in the club.

Our rather limited little down-town dining club was almost a celibate community at most times. A few husbands and fathers joined us at lunch; but at dinner we were nearly always a company of bachelors, dropping in an hour or so before we wished to dine, and ordering from a bill of fare what we liked. Some dozed away the intervening time; some read the evening papers, or played chess; I preferred the chance society of the Turkish room. I could be pretty sure of finding Wanhope there in these sympathetic moments, and where Wanhope was there would probably be Rulledge, passively willing to listen and agree, and Minver ready to interrupt and dispute. I myself liked to look in and linger for either the reasoning or the bickering, as it happened, and now seeing the three there together, I took a provisional seat behind the painter, who made no sign of knowing I was present. Rulledge was eating a caviar sandwich, which he had brought from the afternoon tea-table near by, and he greedily incited Wanhope to go on, in the polite pause which the psychologist had let follow on my appearance, with what he was saying. I was not surprised to find that his talk related to a fact just then intensely interesting to the few, rapidly becoming the many, who were privy to it; though Wanhope had the air of stooping to it from a higher range of thinking.

"I shouldn't have supposed, somehow," he said with a knot of deprecation between his fine eyes, "that he would have had the pluck."

"Perhaps he hadn't," Minver suggested.

Wanhope waited for a thoughtful moment of censure eventuating in toleration. "You mean that she—"

"I don't see why you say that, Minver," Rulledge interposed chivalrously, with his mouth full of sandwich.

"I didn't say it," Minver contradicted.

"You implied it; and I don't think it's fair. It's easy enough to build up a report of that kind on the half-knowledge of rumor which is all that any outsider can have in the case."

"So far," Minver said, with unbroken tranquillity, "as any such edifice has been erected, you are the architect, Rulledge. I shouldn't think you would like to go round insinuating that sort of thing. Here is Acton," and he now acknowledged my presence with a backward twist of his head, "on the alert for material already. You ought to be more careful where Acton is, Rulledge."

"It would be great copy if it were true," I owned.

Wanhope regarded us all three, in this play of our qualities, with the scientific impartiality of a bacteriologist in the study of a culture offering some peculiar incidents. He took up a point as remote as might be from the personal appeal. "It is curious how little we know of such matters, after all the love-making and marrying in life and all the inquiry of the poets and novelists." He addressed himself in this turn of his thought, half playful, half earnest, to me, as if I united with the functions of both a responsibility for their shortcomings.

"Yes," Minver said, facing about toward me. "How do you excuse yourself for your ignorance in matters where you're always professionally making such a bluff of knowledge? After all the marriages you have brought about in literature, can you say positively and specifically how they are brought about in life?"

"No, I can't," I admitted. "I might say that a writer of fiction is a good deal like a minister who continually marries people without knowing why."

"No, you couldn't, my dear fellow," the painter retorted. "It's part of your swindler to assume that you do know why. You ought to find out."

Wanhope interposed abstractly, or as abstractly as he could: "The important thing would always be to find which of the lovers the confession, tacit or explicit, began with."

"Acton ought to go round and collect human documents bearing on the question. He ought to have got together thousands of specimens from nature. He ought to have gone to all the married couples he knew, and asked them just how their passion was confessed; he ought to have sent out printed circulars, with tabulated questions. Why don't you do it, Acton?"

I returned, as seriously as could have been expected: "Perhaps it would be thought rather intimate. People don't like to talk of such things."

"They're ashamed," Minver declared. "The lovers don't either of them, in a given ease, like to let others know how much the woman had to do with making the offer, and how little the man."

Minver's point provoked both Wanhope and myself to begin a remark at the same time. We begged each other's pardon, and Wanhope insisted that I should go on.

"Oh, merely this," I said. "I don't think they're so much ashamed as that they have forgotten the different stages. You were going to say?"

"Very much what you said. It's astonishing how people forget the vital things, and remember trifles. Or perhaps as we advance from stage to stage what once seemed the vital things turn to trifles. Nothing can be more vital in the history of a man and a woman than how they became husband and wife, and yet not merely the details, but the main fact, would seem to escape record if not recollection. The next generation knows nothing of it."

"That appears to let Acton out," Minver said. "But how do you know what you were saying, Wanhope?"

"I've ventured to make some inquiries in that region at one time. Not directly, of course. At second and third hand. It isn't inconceivable, if we conceive of a life after this, that a man should forget, in its more important interests and occupations, just how he quitted this world, or at least the particulars of the article of death. Of course, we must suppose a good portion of eternity to have elapsed." Wanhope continued, dreamily, with a deep breath almost equivalent to something so unscientific as a sigh: "Women are charming, and in nothing more than the perpetual challenge they form for us. They are born defying us to match ourselves with them."

"Do you mean that Miss Hazelwood—" Rulledge began, but Minver's laugh arrested him.

"Nothing so concrete, I'm afraid," Wanhope gently returned. "I mean, to match them in graciousness, in loveliness, in all the agile contests of spirit and plays of fancy. There's something pathetic to see them caught up into something more serious in that other game, which they are so good at."

"They seem rather to like it, though, some of them, if you mean the game of love," Minver said. "Especially when they're not in earnest about it."

"Oh, there are plenty of spoiled women," Wanhope admitted. "But I don't mean flirting. I suppose that the average unspoiled woman is rather frightened than otherwise when she knows that a man is in love with her."

"Do you suppose she always knows it first?" Rulledge asked.

"You may be sure," Minver answered for Wanhope, "that if she didn't know it, he never would." Then Wanhope answered for himself:

"I think that generally she sees it coming. In that sort of wireless telegraphy, that reaching out of two natures through space towards each other, her more sensitive apparatus probably feels the appeal of his before he is conscious of having made any appeal."

"And her first impulse is to escape the appeal?" I suggested.

"Yes," Wanhope admitted after a thoughtful reluctance.

"Even when she is half aware of having invited it?"

"If she is not spoiled she is never aware of having invited it. Take the case in point; we won't mention any names. She is sailing through time, through youthful space, with her electrical lures, the natural equipment of every charming woman, all out, and suddenly, somewhere from the unknown, she feels the shock of a response in the gulfs of air where there had been no life before. But she can't be said to have knowingly searched the void for any presence."

"Oh, I'm not sure about that, professor," Minver put in. "Go a little slower, if you expect me to follow you."

"It's all a mystery, the most beautiful mystery of life," Wanhope resumed. "I don't believe I could make out the case, as I feel it to be."

"Braybridge's part of the case is rather plain, isn't it?" I invited him.

"I'm not sure of that. No man's part of any case is plain, if you look at it carefully. The most that you can say of Braybridge is that he is rather a simple nature. But nothing," the psychologist added with one of his deep breaths, "is so complex as a simple nature."

"Well," Minver contended, "Braybridge is plain, if his case isn't."

"Plain? Is he plain?" Wanhope asked, as if asking himself.

"My dear fellow, you agnostics doubt everything!"

"I should have said picturesque. Picturesque, with the sort of unbeautifulness that takes the fancy of women more than Greek proportion. I think it would require a girl peculiarly feminine to feel the attraction of such a man— the fascination of his being grizzled, and slovenly, and rugged. She would have to be rather a wild, shy girl to do that, and it would have to be through her fear of him that she would divine his fear of her. But what I have heard is that they met under rather exceptional circumstances. It was at a house in the Adirondacks, where Braybridge was, somewhat in the quality of a bull in a china-shop. He was lugged in by the host, as an old friend, and was suffered by the hostess as a friend quite too old for her. At any rate, as I heard (and I don't vouch for the facts, all of them), Braybridge found himself at odds with the gay young people who made up the hostess's end of the party, and was watching for a chance to—"

Wanhope cast about for the word, and Winver supplied it: "Pull out."

"Yes. But when he had found it Miss Hazelwood took it from him."

"I don't understand," Rulledge said.

"When he came in to breakfast, the third morning, prepared with an excuse for cutting his week down to the dimensions it had reached, he saw her sitting alone at the table. She had risen early as a consequence of having arrived late, the night before; and when Braybridge found himself in for it, he forgot that he meant to go away, and said good-morning, as if they knew each other. Their hostess found them talking over the length of the table in a sort of mutual fright, and introduced them. But it's rather difficult reporting a lady verbatim at second hand. I really had the facts from Welkin, who had them from his wife. The sum of her impressions was that Braybridge and Miss Hazelwood were getting a kind of comfort out of their mutual terror because one was as badly frightened as the other. It was a novel experience for both. Ever seen her?"

We others looked at each other. Minver said: "I never wanted to paint any one so much. It was at the spring show of the American Artists. There was a jam of people; but this girl— I've understood it was she— looked as much alone as if there were nobody else there. She might have been a startled doe in the North Woods suddenly coming out on a twenty-thousand-dollar camp, with a lot of twenty-million-dollar people on the veranda."

"And you wanted to do her as The Startled Doe," I said. "Good selling name."

"Don't reduce it to the vulgarity of fiction. I admit it would be a selling name."

"Go on, Wanhope," Rulledge puffed impatiently. "Though I don't see how there could be another soul in the universe as constitutionally scared of men as Braybridge is of women."

"In the universe nothing is wasted, I suppose. Everything has its complement, its response. For every bashful man, there must be a bashful woman," Wanhope returned.

"Or a bold one," Minver suggested.

"No; the response must be in kind, to be truly complemental. Through the sense of their reciprocal timidity they divine that they needn't be afraid."

"Oh! That's the way you get out of it!"

"Well?" Rulledge urged.

"I'm afraid," Wanhope modestly confessed, "that from this point I shall have to be largely conjectural. Welkin wasn't able to be very definite, except as to moments, and he had his data almost altogether from his wife. Braybridge had told him overnight that he thought of going, and he had said he mustn't think of it; but he supposed Braybridge had spoken of it to Mrs. Welkin, and he began by saying to his wife that he hoped she had refused to hear of Braybridge's going. She said she hadn't heard of it, but now she would refuse without hearing, and she didn't give Braybridge any chance to protest. If people went in the middle of their week, what would become of other people? She was not going to have the equilibrium of her party disturbed, and that was all about it. Welkin thought it was odd that Braybridge didn't insist; and he made a long story of it. But the grain of wheat in his bushel of chaff was that Miss Hazelwood seemed to be fascinated by Braybridge from the first. When Mrs. Welkin scared him into saying that he would stay his week out, the business practically was done. They went picnicking that day in each other's charge; and after Braybridge left he wrote back to her, as Mrs. Welkin knew from the letters that passed through her hands, and— Well, their engagement has come out, and—" Wanhope paused with an air that was at first indefinite, and then definitive.

"You don't mean," Rulledge burst out in a note of deep wrong, "that that's all you know about it?"

"Yes, that's all I know," Wanhope confessed, as if somewhat surprised himself at the fact.

"Well!"

Wanhope tried to offer the only reparation in his power. "I can conjecture— we can all conjecture—"

He hesitated; then, "Well, go on with your conjecture," Rulledge said forgivingly.

"Why—" Wanhope began again; but at that moment a man who had been elected the year before, and then gone off on a long absence, put his head in between the dull-red hangings of the doorway. It was Halson, whom I did not know very well, but liked better than I knew. His eyes were dancing with what seemed the inextinguishable gayety of his temperament, rather than any present occasion, and his smile carried his little mustache well away from his handsome teeth. "Private?"

"Come in, come in!" Minver called to him. "Thought you were in Japan?"

"My dear fellow," Halson answered, "you must brush up your contemporary history. It's more than a fortnight since I was in Japan." He shook hands with me, and I introduced him to Rulledge and Wanhope. He said at once: "Well, what is it? Question of Braybridge's engagement? It's humiliating to a man to come back from the antipodes, and find the nation absorbed in a parochial problem like that. Everybody I've met here to-night has asked me, the first thing, if I'd heard of it, and if I knew how it could have happened."

"And do you?" Rulledge asked.

"I can give a pretty good guess," Halson said, running his merry eyes over our faces.

"Anybody can give a good guess," Rulledge said. "Wanhope is doing it now."

"Don't let me interrupt." Halson turned to him politely.

"Not at all. I'd rather hear your guess. If you know Braybridge better than I," Wanhope said.

"Well," Halson compromised, "perhaps I've known him longer." He asked, with an effect of coming to business, "Where were you?"

"Tell him, Rulledge," Minver ordered, and Rulledge apparently asked nothing better. He told him in detail, all we knew from any source, down to the moment of Wanhope's arrested conjecture.

"He did leave you at an anxious point, didn't he?" Halson smiled to the rest of us at Rulledge's expense, and then said: "Well, I think I can help you out a little. Any of you know the lady?"

"By sight, Minver does," Rulledge answered for us. "Wants to paint her." "Of course," Halson said, with intelligence. "But I doubt if he'd find her as paintable as she looks, at first. She's beautiful, but her charm is spiritual."

"Sometimes we try for that," the painter interposed.

"And sometimes you get it. But you'll allow it's difficult. That's all I meant. I've known her— let me see— for twelve years, at least; ever since I first went West. She was about eleven then, and her father was bringing her up on the ranche. Her aunt came along, by and by, and took her to Europe; mother dead before Hazelwood went out there. But the girl was always homesick for the ranche; she pined for it; and after they had kept her in Germany three or four years they let her come back, and run wild again; wild as a flower does, or a vine— not a domesticated animal."

"Go slow, Halson. This is getting too much for the romantic Rulledge."

"Rulledge can bear up against the facts, I guess, Minver," Halson said, almost austerely. "Her father died two years ago, and then she had to come East, for her aunt simply wouldn't live on the ranche. She brought her on, here, and brought her out; I was at the coming-out tea; but the girl didn't take to the New York thing at all; I could see it from the start; she wanted to get away from it with me, and talk about the ranche."

"She felt that she was with the only genuine person among those conventional people."

Halson laughed at Minver's thrust, and went on amiably: "I don't suppose that till she met Braybridge she was ever quite at her ease with any man or woman, for that matter. I imagine, as you've done, that it was his fear of her that gave her courage. She met him on equal terms. Isn't that it?"

Wanhope assented to the question referred to him with a nod.

"And when they got lost from the rest of the party at that picnic—"

"Lost?" Rulledge demanded.

"Why, yes. Didn't you know? But I ought to go back. They said there never was anything prettier than the way she unconsciously went for Braybridge, the whole day. She wanted him, and she was a child who wanted things frankly, when she did want them. Then his being ten or fifteen years older than she was, and so large and simple, made it natural for a shy girl like her to assort herself with him when all the rest were assorting themselves, as people do at such things. The consensus of testimony is that she did it with the most transparent unconsciousness, and—"

"Who are your authorities?" Minver asked; Rulledge threw himself back on the divan, and beat the cushions with impatience.

"Is it essential to give them?"

"Oh, no. I merely wondered. Go on."

"The authorities are all right. She had disappeared with him before the others noticed. It was a thing that happened; there was no design in it; that would have been out of character. They had got to the end of the wood-road, and into the thick of the trees where there wasn't even a trail, and they walked round looking for a way out, till they were turned completely. They decided that the only way was to keep walking, and by and by they heard the sound of chopping. It was some Canucks clearing a piece of the woods, and when she spoke to them in French, they gave them full directions, and Braybridge soon found the path again."

Halson paused, and I said, "But that isn't all?"

"Oh, no." He continued thoughtfully silent for a little while before he resumed. "The amazing thing is that they got lost again, and that when they tried going back to the Canucks, they couldn't find the way."

"Why didn't they follow the sound of the chopping?" I asked.

"The Canucks had stopped, for the time being. Besides, Braybridge was rather ashamed, and he thought if they went straight on they would be sure to come out somewhere. But that was where he made a mistake. They couldn't go on straight; they went round and round, and came on their own footsteps— or hers, which he recognized from the narrow tread and the dint of the little heels in the damp places."

Wanhope roused himself with a kindling eye. "That is very interesting, the movement in a circle of people who have lost their way. It has often been observed, but I don't know that it has ever been explained. Sometimes the circle is smaller, sometimes it is larger; but I believe it is always a circle."

"Isn't it," I queried, "like any other error in life? We go round and round; and commit the old sins over again."

"That is very interesting," Wanhope allowed.

"But do lost people really always walk in a vicious circle?" Minver asked.

Rulledge would not let Wanhope answer. "Go on, Halson," he said.

Halson roused himself from the reverie in which he was sitting with glazed eyes. "Well, what made it a little more anxious was that he had heard of bears on that mountain, and the green afternoon light among the trees was perceptibly paling. He suggested shouting, but she wouldn't let him; she said it would be ridiculous, if the others heard them, and useless if they didn't. So they tramped on till— till the accident happened."

"The accident!" Rulledge exclaimed in the voice of our joint emotion.

"He stepped on a loose stone and turned his foot," Halson explained. "It wasn't a sprain, luckily, but it hurt enough. He turned so white that she noticed it, and asked him what was the matter. Of course that shut his mouth the closer, but it morally doubled his motive, and he kept himself from crying out till the sudden pain of the wrench was over. He said merely that he thought he had heard something, and he had— an awful ringing in his ears; but he didn't mean that, and he started on again. The worst was trying to walk without limping, and to talk cheerfully and encouragingly, with that agony tearing at him. But he managed somehow, and he was congratulating himself on his success, when he tumbled down in a dead faint."

"Oh, come, now!" Minver protested.

"It is like an old-fashioned story, where things are operated by accident instead of motive, isn't it?" Halson smiled with radiant recognition.

"Fact will always imitate fiction, if you give her time enough," I said.

"Had they got back to the other picnickers?" Rulledge asked with a tense voice.

"In sound, but not in sight of them. She wasn't going to bring him into camp in that state; besides she couldn't. She got some water out of the trout-brook they'd been fishing— more water than trout in it— and sprinkled his face, and he came to, and got on his legs, just in time to pull on to the others, who were organizing a search-party to go after them. From that point on, she dropped Braybridge like a hot coal, and as there was nothing of the flirt in her, she simply kept with the women, the older girls, and the tabbies, and left Braybridge to worry along with the secret of his turned ankle. He doesn't know how he ever got home alive; but he did somehow manage to reach the wagons that had brought them to the edge of the woods, and then he was all right till they got to the house. But still she said nothing about his accident, and he couldn't; and he pleaded an early start for town the next morning, and got off to bed, as soon as he could."

"I shouldn't have thought he could have stirred in the morning," Rulledge employed Halson's pause to say.

"Well, this beaver had to," Halson said. "He was not the only early riser. He found Miss Hazelwood at the station before him."

"What!" Rulledge shouted. I confess the fact rather roused me, too; and Wanhope's eyes kindled with a scientific pleasure.

"She came right towards him. 'Mr. Braybridge,' says she, 'I couldn't let you go without explaining my very strange behavior. I didn't choose to have these people laughing at the notion of my having played the part of your preserver. It was bad enough being lost with you; I couldn't bring you into ridicule with them by the disproportion they'd have felt in my efforts for you after you turned your foot. So I simply had to ignore the incident. Don't you see?' Braybridge glanced at her, and he had never felt so big and bulky before, or seen her so slender and little. He said, 'It would have seemed rather absurd,' and he broke out and laughed, while she broke down and cried, and asked him to forgive her, and whether it had hurt him very much; and said she knew he could bear to keep it from the others by the way he had kept it from her till he fainted. She implied that he was morally as well as physically gigantic, and it was as much as he could do to keep from taking her in his arms on the spot."

"It would have been edifying to the groom that had driven her to the station," Minver cynically suggested.

"Groom nothing!" Halson returned with spirit. "She paddled herself across the lake, and walked from the boat-landing to the station."

"Jove!" Rulledge exploded in uncontrollable enthusiasm.

"She turned round as soon as she had got through with her hymn of praise— it made Braybridge feel awfully flat— and ran back through the bushes to the boat-landing, and— that was the last he saw of her till he met her in town this fall."

"And when—and when—did he offer himself?" Rulledge entreated breathlessly. "How—"

"Yes, that's the point, Halson," Minver interposed. "Your story is all very well, as far as it goes; but Rulledge here has been insinuating that it was Miss Hazelwood who made the offer, and he wants you to bear him out."

Rulledge winced at the outrage, but he would not stay Halson's answer even for the sake of righting himself.

"I have heard," Minver went on, "that Braybridge insisted on paddling the canoe back to the other shore for her, and that it was on the way that he offered himself." We others stared at Minver in astonishment. Halson glanced covertly toward him with his gay eyes. "Then that wasn't true?"

"How did you hear it?" Halson asked.

"Oh, never mind. Is it true?"

"Well, I know there's that version," Halson said evasively. "The engagement is only just out, as you know. As to the offer— the when and the how— I don't know that I'm exactly at liberty to say."

"I don't see why," Minver urged. "You might stretch a point for Rulledge's sake."

Halson looked down, and then he glanced at Minver after a furtive passage of his eye over Rulledge's intense face. "There was something rather nice happened after— But really, now!"

"Oh, go on!" Minver called out in contempt of his scruple.

"I haven't the right—Well, I suppose I'm on safe ground here? It won't go any farther, of course; and it was so pretty! After she had pushed off in her canoe, you know, Braybridge— he'd followed her down to the shore of the lake— found her handkerchief in a bush where it had caught, and he held it up, and called out to her. She looked round and saw it, and called back: 'Never mind. I can't return for it, now.' Then Braybridge plucked up his courage, and asked if he might keep it, and she said 'Yes,' over her shoulder, and then she stopped paddling, and said 'No, no, you mustn't, you mustn't! You can send it to me.' He asked where, and she said, 'In New York— in the fall— at the Walholland.' Braybridge never knew how he dared, but he shouted after her— she was paddling on again— 'May I bring it?' and she called over her shoulder again, without fully facing him, but her profile was enough, 'If you can't get any one to bring it for you.' The words barely reached him, but he'd have caught them if they'd been whispered; and he watched her across the lake, and into the bushes, and then broke for his train. He was just in time."

Halson beamed for pleasure upon us, and even Minver said, "Yes, that's rather nice." After a moment he added, "Rulledge thinks she put it there."

"You're too bad, Minver," Halson protested. "The charm of the whole thing was her perfect innocence. She isn't capable of the slightest finesse. I've known her from a child, and I know what I say."

"That innocence of girlhood," Wanhope said, "is very interesting. It's astonishing how much experience it survives. Some women carry it into old age with them. It's never been scientifically studied—"

"Yes," Minver allowed. "There would be a fortune for the novelist who could work a type of innocence for all it was worth. Here's Acton always dealing with the most rancid flirtatiousness, and missing the sweetness and beauty of a girlhood which does the cheekiest things without knowing what it's about, and fetches down its game whenever it shuts its eyes and fires at nothing. But I don't see how all this touches the point that Rulledge makes, or decides which finally made the offer."

"Well, hadn't the offer already been made?"

"But how?"

"Oh, in the usual way."

"What is the usual way?"

"I thought everybody knew that. Of course, it was from Braybridge finally, but I suppose it's always six of one and half a dozen of the other in these cases, isn't it? I dare say he couldn't get any one to take her the handkerchief. My dinner?" Halson looked up at the silent waiter who had stolen upon us and was bowing toward him.

"Look here, Halson," Minver detained him, "how is it none of the rest of us have heard all those details?"

"I don't know where you've been, Minver. Everybody knows the main facts," Halson said, escaping.

Wanhope observed musingly: "I suppose he's quite right about the reciprocality of the offer, as we call it. There's probably, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, a perfect understanding before there's an explanation. In many cases the offer and the acceptance must really be tacit."

"Yes," I ventured, "and I don't know why we're so severe with women when they seem to take the initiative. It's merely, after all, the call of the maiden bird, and there's nothing lovelier or more endearing in nature than that."

"Maiden bird is good, Acton," Minver approved. "Why don't you institute a class of fiction, where the love-making is all done by the maiden birds, as you call them— or the widow birds? It would be tremendously popular with both sexes. It would lift a tremendous responsibility off the birds who've been expected to shoulder it heretofore if it could be introduced into real life."

Rulledge fetched a long, simple-hearted sigh. "Well, it's a charming story. How well he told it!"

The waiter came again, and this time signalled to Minver.

"Yes," he said, as he rose. "What a pity you can't believe a word Halson says."

"Do you mean—" we began simultaneously.

"That he built the whole thing from the ground up, with the start that we had given him. Why, you poor things! Who could have told him how it all happened? Braybridge? Or the girl? As Wanhope began by saying, people don't speak of their love-making, even when they distinctly remember it."

"Yes, but see here, Minver!" Rulledge said with a dazed look. "If it's all a fake of his, how came you to have heard of Braybridge paddling the canoe back for her?"

"That was the fake that tested the fake. When he adopted it, I knew he was lying, because I was lying myself. And then the cheapness of the whole thing! I wonder that didn't strike you. It's the stuff that a thousand summer-girl stories have been spun out of. Acton might have thought he was writing it!"

He went away, leaving us to a blank silence, till Wanhope managed to say: "That inventive habit of mind is very curious. It would be interesting to know just how far it imposes on the inventor himself— how much he believes of his own fiction."

"I don't see," Rulledge said gloomily, "why they're so long with my dinner." Then he burst out, "I believe every word Halson said. If there's any fake in the thing, it's the fake that Minver owned to."

________________

16: The Man With the Nose

Rhoda Broughton

1840-1920

Temple Bar Oct 1872

This creepy tale has recently been uploaded to Project Gutenberg, and recommended to me by Matthias Kaether.  Rhoda Broughton was born in Wales, and wrote numerous novels, often involving strong women. She was a niece of noted author Sheridan Le Fanu.

____________

[The details of this little story are of course imaginary, but the main incidents are, to the best of my belief, facts. They happened twenty, or more than twenty years ago.  R.B.]

Chapter 1

"LET US get a map and see what places look pleasantest?" says she.

"As for that," reply I, "on a map most places look equally pleasant."

"Never mind; get one!"

I obey.

"Do you like the seaside?" asks Elizabeth, lifting her little brown head and her small happy white face from the English sea-coast along which, her forefinger is slowly travelling.

"Since you ask me, distinctly no," reply I, for once venturing to have a decided opinion of my own, which during the last few weeks of imbecility I can be hardly said to have had. "I broke my last wooden spade five and twenty years ago. I have but a poor opinion of cockles— sandy red-nosed things, are not they? and the air always makes me bilious."

"Then we certainly will not go there," says Elizabeth, laughing. "A bilious bridegroom! alliterative but horrible! None of our friends show the least eagerness to lend us their country house."

"Oh that God would put it into the hearts of men to take their wives straight home, as their fathers did," say I, with a cross groan.

"It is evident, therefore, that we must go somewhere," returns she, not heeding the aspiration contained in my last speech, making her forefinger resume its employment, and reaching Torquay.

"I suppose so," say I, with a sort of sigh; "for once in our lives we must resign ourselves to having the finger of derision pointed at us by waiters and landlords."

"You shall leave your new portmanteau at home, and I will leave all my best clothes, and nobody will guess that we are bride and bridegroom; they will think that we have been married— oh, ever since the world began" (opening her eyes very wide).

I shake my head. "With an old portmanteau and in rags we shall still have the mark of the beast upon us."

"Do you mind much? do you hate being ridiculous?" asks Elizabeth, meekly, rather depressed by my view of the case; "because if so, let us go somewhere out of the way, where there will be very few people to laugh at us."

"On the contrary," return I, stoutly, "we will betake ourselves to some spot where such as we do chiefly congregate— where we shall be swallowed up and lost in the multitude of our fellow-sinners." A pause devoted to reflection. "What do you say to Killarney?" say I, cheerfully.

"There are a great many fleas there, I believe," replies Elizabeth, slowly; "flea-bites make large lumps on me; you would not like me if I were covered with large lumps."

At the hideous ideal picture thus presented to me by my little beloved I relapse into inarticulate idiocy; emerging from which by-and-by, I suggest "The Lakes?" My arm is round her, and I feel her supple body shiver though it is mid July, and the bees are booming about in the still and sleepy noon garden outside.

"Oh— no— no— not there!"

"Why such emphasis?" I ask gaily; "more fleas? At this rate, and with this sine quâ non, our choice will grow limited."

"Something dreadful happened to me there," she says, with another shudder. "But indeed I did not think there was any harm in it— I never thought anything would come of it."

"What the devil was it?" cry I, in a jealous heat and hurry; "what the mischief did you do, and why have not you told me about it before?"

"I did not do much," she answers meekly, seeking for my hand, and when found kissing it in timid deprecation of my wrath; "but I was ill— very ill— there; I had a nervous fever. I was in a bed hung with a chintz with a red and green fern-leaf pattern on it. I have always hated red and green fern-leaf chintzes ever since."

"It would be possible to avoid the obnoxious bed, would not it?" say I, laughing a little. "Where does it lie? Windermere? Ulleswater? Wastwater? Where?"

"We were at Ulleswater," she says, speaking rapidly, while a hot colour grows on her small white cheeks—"Papa, mamma, and I; and there came a mesmeriser to Penrith, and we went to see him— everybody did— and he asked leave to mesmerise me— he said I should be such a good medium— and— and— I did not know what it was like. I thought it would be quite good fun— and— and— I let him."

She is trembling exceedingly; even the loving pressure of my arms cannot abate her shivering.

"Well?"

"And after that I do not remember anything— I believe I did all sorts of extraordinary things that he told me— sang and danced, and made a fool of myself— but when I came home I was very ill, very— I lay in bed for five whole weeks, and— and was off my head, and said odd and wicked things that you would not have expected me to say— that dreadful bed! shall I ever forget it?"

"We will not go to the Lakes," I say, decisively, "and we will not talk any more about mesmerism."

"That is right," she says, with a sigh of relief, "I try to think about it as little as possible; but sometimes, in the dead black of the night, when God seems a long way off, and the devil near, it comes back to me so strongly— I feel, do not you know, as if he were there— somewhere in the room, and I must get up and follow him."

"Why should not we go abroad?" suggest I, abruptly turning the conversation.

"Why, indeed?" cries Elizabeth, recovering her gaiety, while her pretty blue eyes begin to dance. "How stupid of us not to have thought of it before; only abroad is a big word. What abroad?"

"We must be content with something short of Central Africa," I say, gravely, "as I think our one hundred and fifty pounds would hardly take us that far."

"Wherever we go, we must buy a dialogue book," suggests my little bride elect, "and I will learn some phrases before we start."

"As for that, the Anglo-Saxon tongue takes one pretty well round the world," reply I, with a feeling of complacent British swagger, putting my hands in my breeches pockets.

"Do you fancy the Rhine?" says Elizabeth, with a rather timid suggestion; "I know it is the fashion to run it down nowadays, and call it a cocktail river; but— but— after all it cannot be so very contemptible, or Byron could not have said such noble things about it."

"The castled crag of Drachenfels

Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,

Whose breast of waters broadly swells

Between the banks which bear the vine,"

say I, spouting. "After all, that proves nothing, for Byron could have made a silk purse out of a sow's ear."

"The Rhine will not do then?" says she, resignedly, suppressing a sigh.

"On the contrary, it will do admirably: it is a cocktail river, and I do not care who says it is not," reply I, with illiberal positiveness; "but everybody should be able to say so from their own experience, and not from hearsay: the Rhine let it be, by all means."

So the Rhine it is.

Chapter 2

I HAVE got over it; we have both got over it tolerably, creditably; but after all, it is a much severer ordeal for a man than a woman, who, with a bouquet to occupy her hands, and a veil to gently shroud her features, need merely be prettily passive. I am alluding, I need hardly say, to the religious ceremony of marriage, which I flatter myself I have gone through with a stiff sheepishness not unworthy of my country. It is a three-days-old event now, and we are getting used to belonging to one another, though Elizabeth still takes off her ring twenty times a day to admire its bright thickness; still laughs when she hears herself called "Madame." Three days ago, we kissed all our friends, and left them to make themselves ill on our cake, and criticise our bridal behaviour, and now we are at Brussels, she and I, feeling oddly, joyfully free from any chaperone. We have been mildly sight-seeing— very mildly, most people would say, but we have resolved not to take our pleasure with the railway speed of Americans, or the hasty sadness of our fellow Britons. Slowly and gaily we have been taking ours. To-day we have been to visit Wiertz's pictures. Have you ever seen them, oh reader? They are known to comparatively few people, but if you have a taste for the unearthly terrible— if you wish to sup full of horrors, hasten thither. We have been peering through the appointed peep-hole at the horrible cholera picture— the man buried alive by mistake, pushing up the lid of his coffin, and stretching a ghastly face and livid hands out of his winding sheet towards you, while awful grey-blue coffins are piled around, and noisome toads and giant spiders crawl damply about. On first seeing it, I have reproached myself for bringing one of so nervous a temperament as Elizabeth to see so haunting and hideous a spectacle; but she is less impressed than I expected— less impressed than I myself am.

"He is very lucky to be able to get his lid up," she says, with a half-laugh; "we should find it hard work to burst our brass nails, should not we? When you bury me, dear, fasten me down very slightly, in case there may be some mistake."

And now all the long and quiet July evening we have been prowling together about the streets. Brussels is the town of towns for flâner-ing— have been flattening our noses against the shop windows, and making each other imaginary presents. Elizabeth has not confined herself to imagination, however; she has made me buy her a little bonnet with feathers—"in order to look married," as she says, and the result is such a delicious picture of a child playing at being grown up, having practised a theft on its mother's wardrobe, that for the last two hours I have been in a foolish ecstasy of love and laughter over her and it. We are at the "Bellevue," and have a fine suite of rooms, au premier, evidently specially devoted to the English, to the gratification of whose well-known loyalty the Prince and Princess of Wales are simpering from the walls. Is there any one in the three kingdoms who knows his own face as well as he knows the faces of Albert Victor and Alexandra? The long evening has at last slidden into night— night far advanced— night melting into earliest day. All Brussels is asleep. One moment ago I also was asleep, soundly as any log. What is it that has made me take this sudden, headlong plunge out of sleep into wakefulness? Who is it that is clutching at and calling upon me? What is it that is making me struggle mistily up into a sitting posture, and try to revive my sleep-numbed senses? A summer night is never wholly dark; by the half light that steals through the closed persiennes and open windows I see my wife standing beside my bed; the extremity of terror on her face, and her fingers digging themselves with painful tenacity into my arm.

"Tighter, tighter!" she is crying, wildly. "What are you thinking of? You are letting me go!"

"Good heavens!" say I, rubbing my eyes, while my muddy brain grows a trifle clearer. "What is it? What has happened? Have you had a nightmare?"

"You saw him," she says, with a sort of sobbing breathlessness; "you know you did! You saw him as well as I."

"I!" cry I, incredulously—"not I. Till this second I have been fast asleep. I saw nothing."

"You did!" she cries, passionately. "You know you did. Why do you deny it? You were as frightened as I?"

"As I live," I answer, solemnly, "I know no more than the dead what you are talking about; till you woke me by calling me and catching hold of me, I was as sound asleep as the seven sleepers."

"Is it possible that it can have been a dream?" she says, with a long sigh, for a moment loosing my arm, and covering her face with her hands. "But no— in a dream I should have been somewhere else, but I was here— here— on that bed, and he stood there," pointing with her forefinger, "just there, between the foot of it and the window!"

She stops, panting.

"It is all that brute Wiertz," say I, in a fury. "I wish I had been buried alive myself, before I had been fool enough to take you to see his beastly daubs."

"Light a candle," she says, in the same breathless way, her teeth chattering with fright. "Let us make sure that he is not hidden somewhere in the room."

"How could he be?" say I, striking a match; "the door is locked."

"He might have got in by the balcony," she answers, still trembling violently.

"He would have had to have cut a very large hole in the persiennes," say I, half-mockingly. "See, they are intact and well fastened on the inside."

She sinks into an arm-chair, and pushes her loose soft hair from her white face.

"It was a dream then, I suppose?"

She is silent for a moment or two, while I bring her a glass of water, and throw a dressing-gown round her cold and shrinking form.

"Now tell me, my little one," I say, coaxingly, sitting down at her feet, "what it was— what you thought you saw?"

"Thought I saw!" echoes she, with indignant emphasis, sitting upright, while her eyes sparkle feverishly. "I am as certain that I saw him standing there as I am that I see that candle burning— that I see this chair— that I see you."

"Him! but who is him?"

She falls forward on my neck, and buries her face in my shoulder.

"That— dreadful— man!" she says, while her whole body is one tremor.

"What dreadful man?" cry I, impatiently.

She is silent.

"Who was he?"

"I do not know."

"Did you ever see him before?"

"Oh, no— no, never! I hope to God I may never see him again!"

"What was he like?"

"Come closer to me," she says, laying hold of my hand with her small and chilly fingers; "stay quite near me, and I will tell you,"— after a pause—"he had a nose!"

"My dear soul," cry I, bursting out with a loud laugh in the silence of the night, "do not most people have noses? Would not he have been much more dreadful if he had had none?"

"But it was such a nose!" she says, with perfect trembling gravity.

"A bottle nose?" suggest I, still cackling.

"For heaven's sake, don't laugh!" she says, nervously; "if you had seen his face, you would have been as little disposed to laugh as I."

"But his nose?" return I, suppressing my merriment; "what kind of nose was it? See, I am as grave as a judge."

"It was very prominent," she answers, in a sort of awe-struck half-whisper, "and very sharply chiselled; the nostrils very much cut out." A little pause. "His eyebrows were one straight black line across his face, and under them his eyes burnt like dull coals of fire, that shone and yet did not shine; they looked like dead eyes, sunken, half extinguished, and yet sinister."

"And what did he do?" ask I, impressed, despite myself, by her passionate earnestness; "when did you first see him?"

"I was asleep," she said—"at least I thought so— and suddenly I opened my eyes, and he was there— there"— pointing again with trembling finger—"between the window and the bed."

"What was he doing? Was he walking about?"

"He was standing as still as stone— I never saw any live thing so still— looking at me; he never called or beckoned, or moved a finger, but his eyes commanded me to come to him, as the eyes of the mesmeriser at Penrith did." She stops, breathing heavily. I can hear her heart's loud and rapid beats.

"And you?" I say, pressing her more closely to my side, and smoothing her troubled hair.

"I hated it," she cries, excitedly; "I loathed it— abhorred it. I was ice-cold with fear and horror, but— I felt myself going to him."

"Yes?"

"And then I shrieked out to you, and you came running, and caught fast hold of me, and held me tight at first— quite tight— but presently I felt your hold slacken— slacken— and though I longed to stay with you, though I was mad with fright, yet I felt myself pulling strongly away from you— going to him; and he— he stood there always looking— looking— and then I gave one last loud shriek, and I suppose I awoke— and it was a dream!"

"I never heard of a clearer case of nightmare," say I, stoutly; "that vile Wiertz! I should like to see his whole Musée burnt by the hands of the hangman to-morrow."

She shakes her head. "It had nothing to say to Wiertz; what it meant I do not know, but— —"

"It meant nothing," I answer, reassuringly, "except that for the future we will go and see none but good and pleasant sights, and steer clear of charnel-house fancies."

Chapter 3

ELIZABETH IS now in a position to decide whether the Rhine is a cocktail river or no, for she is on it, and so am I. We are sitting, with an awning over our heads, and little wooden stools under our feet. Elizabeth has a small sailor's hat and blue ribbon on her head. The river breeze has blown it rather awry; has tangled her plenteous hair; has made a faint pink stain on her pale cheeks. It is some fête day, and the boat is crowded. Tables, countless camp-stools, volumes of black smoke pouring from the funnel, as we steam along. "Nothing to the Caledonian Canal!" cries a burly Scotchman in leggings, speaking with loud authority, and surveying with an air of contempt the eternal vine-clad slopes, that sound so well, and look so sticky in reality. "Cannot hold a candle to it!" A rival bride and bridegroom opposite, sitting together like love-birds under an umbrella, looking into each other's eyes instead of at the Rhine scenery.

"They might as well have stayed at home, might not they?" says my wife, with a little air of superiority. "Come, we are not so bad as that, are we?"

A storm comes on: hailstones beat slantwise and reach us— stone and sting us right under our awning. Everybody rushes down below, and takes the opportunity to feed ravenously. There are few actions more disgusting than eating can be made. A handsome girl close to us— her immaturity evidenced by the two long tails of black hair down her back— is thrusting her knife half way down her throat.

"Come on deck again," says Elizabeth, disgusted and frightened at this last sight. "The hail was much better than this!"

So we return to our camp-stools, and sit alone under one mackintosh in the lashing storm, with happy hearts and empty stomachs.

"Is not this better than any luncheon?" asks Elizabeth, triumphantly, while the raindrops hang on her long and curled lashes.

"Infinitely better," reply I, madly struggling with the umbrella to prevent its being blown inside out, and gallantly ignoring a species of gnawing sensation at my entrails.

The squall clears off by-and-by, and we go steaming, steaming on past the unnumbered little villages by the water's edge with church spires and pointed roof, past the countless rocks with their little pert castles perched on the top of them, past the tall, stiff poplar rows. The church bells are ringing gaily as we go by. A nightingale is singing from a wood. The black eagle of Prussia droops on the stream behind us, swish-swish through the dull green water. A fat woman who is interested in it, leans over the back of the boat, and by some happy effect of crinoline, displays to her fellow-passengers two yards of thick white cotton legs. She is, fortunately for herself, unconscious of her generosity.

The day steals on; at every stopping place more people come on. There is hardly elbow room; and, what is worse, almost everybody is drunk. Rocks, castles, villages, poplars, slide by, while the paddles churn always the water, and the evening draws greyly on. At Bingen a party of big blue Prussian soldiers, very drunk, "glorious" as Tam o' Shanter, come and establish themselves close to us. They call for Lager Beer; talk at the tip-top of their strong voices; two of them begin to spar; all seem inclined to sing. Elizabeth is frightened. We are two hours late in arriving at Biebrich. It is half an hour more before we can get ourselves and our luggage into a carriage and set off along the winding road to Wiesbaden. "The night is chilly, but not dark." There is only a little shabby bit of a moon, but it shines as hard as it can. Elizabeth is quite worn out, her tired head droops in uneasy sleep on my shoulder. Once she wakes up with a start.

"Are you sure that it meant nothing?" she asks, looking me eagerly in my face; "do people often have such dreams?"

"Often, often," I answer, reassuringly.

"I am always afraid of falling asleep now," she says, trying to sit upright and keep her heavy eyes open, "for fear of seeing him standing there again. Tell me, do you think I shall? Is there any chance, any probability of it?"

"None, none!"

We reach Wiesbaden at last, and drive up to the Hôtel des Quatre Saisons. By this time it is full midnight. Two or three men are standing about the door. Morris, the maid, has got out— so have I, and I am holding out my hand to Elizabeth, when I hear her give one piercing scream, and see her with ash-white face and starting eyes point with her forefinger—

"There he is!— there!— there!"

I look in the direction indicated, and just catch a glimpse of a tall figure, standing half in the shadow of the night, half in the gaslight from the hotel. I have not time for more than one cursory glance, as I am interrupted by a cry from the bystanders, and turning quickly round, am just in time to catch my wife, who falls in utter insensibility into my arms. We carry her into a room on the ground floor; it is small, noisy, and hot, but it is the nearest at hand. In about an hour she re-opens her eyes. A strong shudder makes her quiver from head to foot.

"Where is he?" she says, in a terrified whisper, as her senses come slowly back. "He is somewhere about— somewhere near. I feel that he is!"

"My dearest child, there is no one here but Morris and me," I answer, soothingly. "Look for yourself. See."

I take one of the candles and light up each corner of the room in succession.

"You saw him!" she says, in trembling hurry, sitting up and clenching her hands together. "I know you did— I pointed him out to you— you cannot say that it was a dream this time."

"I saw two or three ordinary looking men as we drove up," I answer, in a commonplace, matter-of-fact tone. "I did not notice anything remarkable about any of them; you know the fact is, darling, that you have had nothing to eat all day, nothing but a biscuit, and you are over-wrought, and fancy things."

"Fancy!" echoes she, with strong irritation. "How you talk! Was I ever one to fancy things? I tell you that as sure as I sit here— as sure as you stand there— I saw him— him— the man I saw in my dream, if it was a dream. There was not a hair's breadth of difference between them— and he was looking at me— looking—"

She breaks off into hysterical sobbing.

"My dear child!" say I, thoroughly alarmed, and yet half angry, "for God's sake do not work yourself up into a fever: wait till to-morrow, and we will find out who he is, and all about him; you yourself will laugh when we discover that he is some harmless bagman."

"Why not now?" she says, nervously; "why cannot you find out now— this minute?"

"Impossible! Everybody is in bed! Wait till to-morrow, and all will be cleared up."

The morrow comes, and I go about the hotel, inquiring. The house is so full, and the data I have to go upon are so small, that for some time I have great difficulty in making it understood to whom I am alluding. At length one waiter seems to comprehend.

"A tall and dark gentleman, with a pronounced and very peculiar nose? Yes; there has been such a one, certainly, in the hotel, but he left at 'grand matin' this morning; he remained only one night."

"And his name?"

The garçon shakes his head. "That is unknown, monsieur; he did not inscribe it in the visitor's book."

"What countryman was he?"

Another shake of the head. "He spoke German, but it was with a foreign accent."

"Whither did he go?"

That also is unknown. Nor can I arrive at any more facts about him.

Chapter 4

A FORTNIGHT has passed; we have been hither and thither; now we are at Lucerne. Peopled with better inhabitants, Lucerne might well do for Heaven. It is drawing towards eventide, and Elizabeth and I are sitting hand in hand on a quiet bench, under the shady linden trees, on a high hill up above the lake. There is nobody to see us, so we sit peaceably hand in hand. Up by the still and solemn monastery we came, with its small and narrow windows, calculated to hinder the holy fathers from promenading curious eyes on the world, the flesh, and the devil, tripping past them in blue gauze veils: below us grass and green trees, houses with high-pitched roofs, little dormer-windows, and shutters yet greener than the grass; below us the lake in its rippleless peace, calm, quiet, motionless as Bethesda's pool before the coming of the troubling angel.

"I said it was too good to last," say I, doggedly, "did not I, only yesterday? Perfect peace, perfect sympathy, perfect freedom from nagging worries— when did such a state of things last more than two days?"

Elizabeth's eyes are idly fixed on a little steamer, with a stripe of red along its side, and a tiny puff of smoke from its funnel, gliding along and cutting a narrow white track on Lucerne's sleepy surface.

"This is the fifth false alarm of the gout having gone to his stomach within the last two years," continue I, resentfully. "I declare to Heaven, that if it has not really gone there this time, I'll cut the whole concern."

Let no one cast up their eyes in horror, imagining that it is my father to whom I am thus alluding; it is only a great uncle by marriage, in consideration of whose wealth and vague promises I have dawdled professionless through twenty-eight years of my life.

"You must not go," says Elizabeth, giving my hand an imploring squeeze. "The man in the Bible said, 'I have married a wife, and therefore I cannot come;' why should it be a less valid excuse now a days?"

"If I recollect rightly, it was considered rather a poor one even then," reply I, dryly.

Elizabeth is unable to contradict this, she therefore only lifts two pouted lips (Monsieur Taine objects to the redness of English women's mouths, but I do not) to be kissed, and says, "Stay." I am good enough to comply with her unspoken request, though I remain firm with regard to her spoken one.

"My dearest child," I say, with an air of worldly experience and superior wisdom, "kisses are very good things— in fact there are few better— but one cannot live upon them."

"Let us try," she says, coaxingly.

"I wonder which would get tired first?" I say, laughing. But she only goes on pleading, "Stay, stay."

"How can I stay?" I cry, impatiently; "you talk as if I wanted to go! Do you think it is any pleasanter to me to leave you than to you to be left? But you know his disposition, his rancorous resentment of fancied neglects. For the sake of two days' indulgence, must I throw away what will keep us in ease and plenty to the end of our days?"

"I do not care for plenty," she says, with a little petulant gesture. "I do not see that rich people are any happier than poor ones. Look at the St. Clairs; they have £40,000 a-year, and she is a miserable woman, perfectly miserable, because her face gets red after dinner."

"There will be no fear of our faces getting red after dinner," say I, grimly, "for we shall have no dinner for them to get red after."

A pause. My eyes stray away to the mountains. Pilatus on the right, with his jagged peak and slender snow-chains about his harsh neck; hill after hill rising silent, eternal, like guardian spirits standing hand in hand around their child, the lake. As I look, suddenly they have all flushed, as at some noblest thought, and over all their sullen faces streams an ineffable rosy joy— a solemn and wonderful effulgence, such as Israel saw reflected from the features of the Eternal in their prophet's transfigured eyes. The unutterable peace and stainless beauty of earth and sky seem to lie softly on my soul. "Would God I could stay! Would God all life could be like this!" I say, devoutly, and the aspiration has the reverent earnestness of a prayer.

"Why do you say, 'Would God!'" she cries, passionately, "when it lies with yourself? Oh my dear love," gently sliding her hand through my arm, and lifting wetly-beseeching eyes to my face, "I do not know why I insist upon it so much— I cannot tell you myself— I daresay I seem selfish and unreasonable— but I feel as if your going now would be the end of all things— as if—." She breaks off suddenly.

"My child," say I, thoroughly distressed, but still determined to have my own way, "you talk as if I were going for ever and a day; in a week, at the outside, I shall be back, and then you will thank me for the very thing for which you now think me so hard and disobliging."

"Shall I?" she answers, mournfully. "Well, I hope so."

"You will not be alone, either; you will have Morris."

"Yes."

"And every day you will write me a long letter, telling me every single thing that you do, say, and think."

"Yes."

She answers me gently and obediently; but I can see that she is still utterly unreconciled to the idea of my absence.

"What is it that you are afraid of?" I ask, becoming rather irritated. "What do you suppose will happen to you?"

She does not answer; only a large tear falls on my hand, which she hastily wipes away with her pocket handkerchief, as if afraid of exciting my wrath.

"Can you give me any good reason why I should stay?" I ask, dictatorially.

"None— none— only— stay— stay!"

But I am resolved not to stay. Early the next morning I set off.

Chapter 5

THIS TIME it is not a false alarm; this time it really has gone to his stomach, and, declining to be dislodged thence, kills him. My return is therefore retarded until after the funeral and the reading of the will. The latter is so satisfactory, and my time is so fully occupied with a multiplicity of attendant business, that I have no leisure to regret the delay. I write to Elizabeth, but receive no letters from her. This surprises and makes me rather angry, but does not alarm me. "If she had been ill, if anything had happened, Morris would have written. She never was great at writing, poor little soul. What dear little babyish notes she used to send me during our engagement; perhaps she wishes to punish me for my disobedience to her wishes. Well, now she will see who was in the right." I am drawing near her now; I am walking up from the railway station at Lucerne. I am very joyful as I march along under an umbrella, in the grand broad shining of the summer afternoon. I think with pensive passion of the last glimpse I had of my beloved— her small and wistful face looking out from among the thick fair fleece of her long hair— winking away her tears and blowing kisses to me. It is a new sensation to me to have any one looking tearfully wistful over my departure. I draw near the great glaring Schweizerhof, with its colonnaded, tourist-crowded porch; here are all the pomegranates as I left them, in their green tubs, with their scarlet blossoms, and the dusty oleanders in a row. I look up at our windows; nobody is looking out from them; they are open, and the curtains are alternately swelled out and drawn in by the softly-playful wind. I run quickly upstairs and burst noisily into the sitting-room. Empty, perfectly empty! I open the adjoining door into the bedroom, crying "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" but I receive no answer. Empty too. A feeling of indignation creeps over me as I think, "Knowing the time of my return, she might have managed to be indoors." I have returned to the silent sitting-room, where the only noise is the wind still playing hide-and-seek with the curtains. As I look vacantly round my eye catches sight of a letter lying on the table. I pick it up mechanically and look at the address. Good heavens! what can this mean? It is my own, that I sent her two days ago, unopened, with the seal unbroken. Does she carry her resentment so far as not even to open my letters? I spring at the bell and violently ring it. It is answered by the waiter who has always specially attended us.

"Is madame gone out?"

The man opens his mouth and stares at me.

"Madame! Is monsieur then not aware that madame is no longer at the hotel?"

"What?"

"On the same day as monsieur, madame departed."

"Departed! Good God! what are you talking about?"

"A few hours after monsieur's departure— I will not be positive as to the exact time, but it must have been between one and two o'clock as the midday table d'hôte was in progress— a gentleman came and asked for madame—"

"Yes— be quick."

"I demanded whether I should take up his card, but he said 'No,' that was unnecessary, as he was perfectly well known to madame; and, in fact, a short time afterwards, without saying anything to any one, she departed with him."

"And did not return in the evening?"

"No, monsieur; madame has not returned since that day."

I clench my hands in an agony of rage and grief. "So this is it! With that pure child-face, with that divine ignorance— only three weeks married— this is the trick she has played me!" I am recalled to myself by a compassionate suggestion from the garçon.

"Perhaps it was the brother of madame."

Elizabeth has no brother, but the remark brings back to me the necessity of self-command. "Very probably," I answer, speaking with infinite difficulty. "What sort of looking gentleman was he?"

"He was a very tall and dark gentleman with a most peculiar nose— not quite like any nose that I ever saw before— and most singular eyes. Never have I seen a gentleman who at all resembled him."

I sink into a chair, while a cold shudder creeps over me as I think of my poor child's dream— of her fainting fit at Wiesbaden— of her unconquerable dread of and aversion from my departure. And this happened twelve days ago! I catch up my hat, and prepare to rush like a madman in pursuit.

"How did they go?" I ask incoherently; "by train?— driving?— walking?"

"They went in a carriage."

"What direction did they take? Whither did they go?"

He shakes his head. "It is not known."

"It must be known," I cry, driven to frenzy by every second's delay. "Of course the driver could tell; where is he?— where can I find him?"

"He did not belong to Lucerne, neither did the carriage; the gentleman brought them with him."

"But madame's maid," say I, a gleam of hope flashing across my mind; "did she go with her?"

"No, monsieur, she is still here; she was as much surprised as monsieur at madame's departure."

"Send her at once," I cry eagerly; but when she comes I find that she can throw no light on the matter. She weeps noisily and says many irrelevant things, but I can obtain no information from her beyond the fact that she was unaware of her mistress's departure until long after it had taken place, when, surprised at not being rung for at the usual time, she had gone to her room and found it empty, and on inquiring in the hotel, had heard of her sudden departure; that, expecting her to return at night, she had sat up waiting for her till two o'clock in the morning, but that, as I knew, she had not returned, neither had anything since been heard of her.

Not all my inquiries, not all my cross-questionings of the whole staff of the hotel, of the visitors, of the railway officials, of nearly all the inhabitants of Lucerne and its environs, procure me a jot more knowledge. On the next few weeks I look back as on a hellish and insane dream. I can neither eat nor sleep; I am unable to remain one moment quiet; my whole existence, my nights and my days, are spent in seeking, seeking. Everything that human despair and frenzied love can do is done by me. I advertise, I communicate with the police, I employ detectives; but that fatal twelve days' start for ever baffles me. Only on one occasion do I obtain one tittle of information. In a village a few miles from Lucerne the peasants, on the day in question, saw a carriage driving rapidly through their little street. It was closed, but through the windows they could see the occupants— a dark gentleman, with the peculiar physiognomy which has been so often described, and on the opposite seat a lady lying apparently in a state of utter insensibility. But even this leads to nothing.

Oh, reader, these things happened twenty years ago; since then I have searched sea and land, but never have I seen my little Elizabeth again.

________________

17: The Wastrel

Ernest Favenc

1845-1908

Sydney Mail and New South Wales Advertiser 27 Feb 1907

BEANDABAR was a township that prided itself upon being one of the intellectual townships— I beg pardon, towns— of this State. Collectively speaking, perhaps, the main body of the townspeople attended strictly to business, not intellectual. But a certain section of the social upper-crust threw itself vigorously into mental and moral culture.

Truth to tell, their disciples found that the intellectual strain involved in trying to keep up with their leaders was a bit of a tax, but still they heroically plodded on. The names of the different societies and gatherings were many, considering the size of the place and its population. There was first, the Loyal and Political League of Beandabar, president, Mrs. Seymour Skinnah; then the Literary and Historical Society, with Mr Ropah, a local bank manager, president; the Temperance and Moral Suasion Society, presided over by Miss Smileover; and, many others.

Let it not be thought that the plebeian and business residents of the town were not also proud of it. They were. They were proud of their town hall, their police station and lock-up, and. above all, of their annual pastoral and agricultural show. On the showground the Cults and the Philistines could meet on a common ground, and work towards the same end. The editor of the local biweekly paper, instead of being, as he ought to have teen, a leading light of culture, was a Philistine of the Philistine. Moreover, there was a feud between him and the Cults.

Mr. Ropah had written a charmingly clever essay on the name of their town, proving its derivation from the aboriginal word, Beyondabar, meaning (so he said) the beautiful hereafter. It was full of poetical similes and graceful allegories, and the editor published it. Everyone read it, and felt el levated in snirit and fitter to live. But in the following issue he printed a letter signed by the local hotel-keeper, who was quite the oldest nhabitant, stating that from his knowledge of the aboriginals (niggers he called them), they neither knew nor cared about any hereafter, beautiful or otherwise. The name of the town was taken from the brand of the cattle station that formerly stood there. The brand was B and a bar, formed thus, B— , and that was all there was about it.

This was bad enough, but when in addition, the editor declined with thanks a lengthy ode on the duck-billed platypus, by the local poetess, and the first of a long series or articles entitled "The Education of Our Statesmen" from the pen of the son of the local solicitor signed "Politicus," the breach was past healing

Thus matters stood on the eve od the annual Show.

Now the Philistine party also prided themelves on the possession of a literary genius in their ranks,  who could, in their own vernacular, run rings around the poetess. He was a wastrel, a derelict, whom many a good-hearted skipper had tried to tow into port, but in vain. The hawser always parted, and he was hopelessly afloat once more, drifting merrily upon a rosy sea.

The pastoral show promised on this occasion to be one of extra importance, not only on account of the exhibits, but because the Committee had captured a loose Minister on tour with the usual dangling attendance of fussy little members. The Minister, although, of course, his political faith was all wrong, was a man of education, so his coming would afford the various societies an opportunity to "strut and fret" a little. Also, the coming of the Minister was an opportunity to settle a burning question, then flaming fiercely as he happened to be that much-to-be-pitied individual, the Minister for Works.

A line of railway had been surveyed, to come within a mile or so of the town, and the Philistine party wanted the plans corrected and a deviation made so that the railway should come through the town. On the other hand, the cultured party wanted the survey to stand good. Progress and prosperity was the watchword of one, beauty and refinement the warcry of the other; needless to say, both parties had axes of their own to grind.

A deputation was formed from both parties to wait upon the Minister; but, unfortunately, that busy individual had notified, when accepting the invitation, that his coming to open the show at all would interfere with other arrangements, so he hoped they would cut everything as short as possible, as his stay would be limited to a few hours.

Then arose the fruitful bone of contention: Which deputation was to have the first innings? Seeing that there was scant time for both, and the first might so fritter away the time that there would be none left for the second, the matter was vital.

The only man not moved by the quarrel was the Derelict. He had no property, and therefore rejoiced, for at times of excitement like this the editor found a little space for his clever skits and pars.

The reception committee finally decided on their programme. The opening ceremony of lunch, with no speeches, save a word of welcome from the mayor; after that, the deputations— but they must fight the matter of precedence out amongst themselves.

There was a meeting of the deviation party, and the Derelict arose and said, "Let them go first."

The editor seconded, and, under the impression that these two had a card up their sleeves, it was agreed to. The non-deviation party was elated, and set to work preparing their programme, and by the time the preparations were finished they had a bill of fare that would take seven or eight hours to go through; but the opposition must see to that. The first item was an ode, setting forth the primitive beauties of Beandabar compared to what it would be when defiled by the dirt, noise, and hurry of a railway.

The ode was to be read by Mrs. Seymoure Skinnah, and was supposedly the work of the poetess, but all the influential members had contributed alterations and improvements until the poor little author was reduced to the verge of shrieking hysterics. Mrs. Skinnah proposed that the ode should be at once printed, for presentation to the Minister and his friends, and after this was agreed to the other items were hurriedly disposed of. Mrs. Skinnah had gained her point, she would shine first as the star; after that the others could be cut short or not.

The Derelict and the editor sat in conclave, which conclave was interrupted by no less a person than Mrs. Skinnah, who brought down the ode herself, in order to give some directions about it. These directions she gave, in the character of a lady of quality giving instructions to a common printer, making great play with her gilt pince-nez.

The editor, who was part proprietor, soon brought her to vulgar earth by mentioning terms, and an argument ensued, in which she showed herself a veritable haggler. The editor was beaten, of course, and the president sailed away triumphant. The Derelict cast his eye over the copy (which was tied together in a roll, with a piece of blue ribbon), but he had not got through a dozen lines before he threw it across to tbe editor, and fairly "chortled in his joy."

"Give me ten minutes to think it over," he gasped.

Now the Derelict's original scheme was a simple one, nothing better than bribing the coachdriver to frighten them with a false start. But the ode opened up undreamt-of possibilities. He confided his amended scheme to the editor, and the two started to work it out.

THE NEXT DAY dawned auspiciously, and at 11 a.m. sharp the coach, with its Ministerial burden, arrived. The town was quickly deserted for the showground, and the opening ceremony commenced. All went off well, and an adjournment was made to the hotel for lunch.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Skinnah and the rest of the non-deviation deputation, were on hot bricks, if such a term may be used to express the feelings of such refined people. Lunch was nearly over, and the ode had not arrived. A proof had been duly sent, and the little poetess had touched the bounds of madness and gratification mingled trying to correct it. She was a literary lady, it is true; but, sad to relate, she had not been much accustomed to proofs, and the present one being more pie than proof she, after a few tears, failed to make much of it, and concluding that it was all right and the correct thing, she proudly wrote her name under it in full with a great flourish, and sent it back.

Time moved relentlessly on, and then, when the eve of adjournment was reached, a breathless messenger arrived with an instalment of 100 copies. There was no time to examine them. Outwardly they looked well, and the first words were right enough. Copies were hastily distributed amongst the visitors, and everybody flocked upstairs to the big room to hear the deputation.

Mrs. Seymoum Skinnah advanced, amidst a murmur of applause, to read the ode. In a few well-chosen words, as the correct term runs, she gave a short precis of it. She pictured the town in its present lovely state, and then what it would be like if polluted by a railway. She began:—

Where smiling peace and tranquil beauty meet,

Shall drunken navies reel along our streets?

'Navvies, not navies,' whispered the temperance president, who stood next. Mrs. Skinnah glared at her copy. 'It's navies here. Who is reading the ode— you or me?'

Having withered her corrector, regardless of grammer, she went on defiantly. Everyone who had a copy looked at it while these amenities passed.

Where the sweet eucalyptus buds are sprouting,

Shall shilling tourists come out for an outing?

Our youths, in classic groves— renowned afar,

Go courting pretty Jessie at the railway bar?

This was too much. The wretched poetess went off into the long-pending hysterics, screaming out, 'I never wrote it.' Mrs. Skinnah looked round at everybody in choking wrath, and everybody looked hard at their copies, amid ill-concealed mirth. '

In the middle of all came up from the street the clatter of hoofs, the crack of a whip, and the coachman's voice shouting: 'All aboard, gents!'

Never was interruption more welcome. The visitors crammed their copies into tbeir pockets, and, effusively and hurriedly saying good-bye, crowded down the stairs. But at the bottom they were met by the mayor, who turned them aside into the now vacated dining-room.

'Plenty of time, gentlemen. Coachman mistook the time. Let me introduce to you the members of the deputation for the proposed deviation of the surveyed line.'

They were all there. It was impossible to go back after saying good-bye to the demoralised deputation above stairs, so they remained, listened leisurely, promised everything, drank, and departed. As they turned the corner every outside passenger was seen to be absorbed in the ode. A rush was made for the balance of the copies, but some quick-witted member of the cult had secured them.

It was too late. A full report, with the ode in full, came out in the paper next day, and though Mrs. Skinnah threatened legal proceedings she could do nothing in the face of the corrected proof, signed by the luckless poetess, and of which no person could make head nor tail. With wicked ingenuity and misplaced cleverness the derelict had interpolated the ode with rhymes and readings of his own, being careful not to commence his travesty too abruptly, and arouse the suspicion of the reader, but to lure her on until she suddenly found herself reading bathos.

The editor took the Derelict in tow once more out of gratitude, but the hawser parted again, and the Derelict is a derelict still, but quite happy.

_________________

18: The Living Dead

Ernest Favenc

Evening News (Sydney) 21 Dec 1901

1: James Hunter's Story

THAT the following story must appear wildly impossible, I am quite aware, but I simply relate it as it occurred, and as plainly and truthfully as can.

It was in the year 1881 that three of us left the Cloncurry diggings intending to push through to Port Darwin, prospecting as we went. We reached to within 100 miles of the Roper River when the strange event happened which completely altered all our plans. My two companions were named respectively Davy and Hawthorne.

Davy was an old friend, but Hawthorne was a comparative stranger, a well-made, handsome fellow, middle-aged, with dark eyes of peculiar force and brilliancy. He had a habit of looking intently into your eyes when speaking, with a weird stern took, that would, without doubt, confuse any man of nervous temperament. His face was marked with a scar extending in a diagonal direction across his upper lip; his moustache partly covered it, but you could trace the course of the seam by the unequal growth of the hair.

Davy and I made his acquaintance by accident about a fortnight before leaving the Cloncurry. He had expressed a great wish to accompany us when our proposed expedition was spoken of, and it ended in his doing so. For the first few weeks we agreed together capitally. Our new mate made himself an agreeable companion, and turned out a capital bushman. After a time, however, the novelty of the situation seemed to wear off, and he showed decided symptoms of laziness— that most prolific source of quarrels in the bush— besides assuming an authoritative, dictatorial tone when any of our movements were under discussion.

At last he fairly shirked his share of the common work of the camp, and quarrels between him and Davy became more frequent than pleasant. I was an older man, and kept my temper better than did my friend. At last Davy and Hawthorne ceased to speak to each other, and the day's journey was generally performed in a moody, discontented manner, and I was thinking of proposing to abandon all attempts at prospecting and making straight for Port Darwin, when the whole aspect of affairs was suddenly altered altogether.

We had been out between four and five weeks; our horses were in capital condition, and our supply of rations still good. Since leaving the last Queensland township we had not seen a white man. We had no trouble with the natives, and thought we were about 100 miles from the Roper River, without having seen a sign of payable gold. This was the state of affairs on the last day of November, when we unsaddled for our midday camp on the bank of a small creek.

The country through which we had been travelling for the last three days had been of a poor sandy description, covered with forest tea-trees and stunted ironbarks. The ridges were badly grassed, but here and there, on small flats on the banks of the creeks we found good food for the horses, and it was on such a small flat that we turned out on this particular day.

After unpacking, Davy went down the creek to fill the billies. He was away for some time, and when he came back he put the billies down and said:

"I saw fresh horse tracks in the bed of the creek."

Hawthorne, who was kneeling down lighting the fire, looked up eagerly, but did not speak.

"Many?" I asked.

"Seems only two," he replied; "one of them has been rolling in the sand."

"Who on earth can be out here?" I conjectured.  "People prospecting or looking for country, I suppose. But if so there must be other tracks about, for  they would have more than two horses."

"They may have left or lost these two, higher up the creek, for they seem to have come down. They are not far off; the tracks are quite fresh."

Hawthorne had not before spoken. He now remarked, in a strangely amiable tone, that Davy was probably right; the horses must have come down the creek, and if we followed it up we should have probably come to the camp of the owners."

Davy, who at any other time would have opposed any proposition made by Hawthorne, now seemed struck with his altered manner, and agreed with him that perhaps it would be as well to spend the remainder of the day in following up the creeks and finding the owner, or owners, of the horses. I gave my consent, and in an evil hour we started.

Davy and Hawthorne went to catch our horses, which had been turned out to feed while we had our meal, and found that the two strangers had joined them. As we expected to find the camp they had strayed from, we drove them on with our spare horses. We proceeded about five miles up the creek, the country getting more broken, and barren. Small, white sandy hills covered with scrub, and here and there huge piles of granite boulders, were on either side of the creek. The creek itself grew considerably deeper and narrower during the last two miles, the bed being full of holes of white, milky-looking water. The tracks of the horses were plainly to be seen the whole way crossing and recrossing the creek.

Hawthorne was riding ahead; Davy and I were driving the spare horses after him. Presently we saw him pull up and point forward. We looked, and saw in the distance a bough shade. We drove the horses on, and left them to feed about. The three of us rode up to the camp. No fire was burning; a few crows rose as we approached, and flew away, cawing loudly. Davy rode his horse close to the gunyah, and peered -through the boughs.

"There's someone asleep inside," he said as he dismounted. Hawthorne and I did the same, and Davy entered the rude shelter unceremoniously.

"Asleep, mate?" he called out. There was no answer.

"Hi!" he called again, then stooped and looked in the apparent sleeper's face.

"The man's dead," he said quietly.

Hawthorne and I crowded in, and saw a man lying on a blanket spread over some dry grass, his head pillowed on some articles of clothing neatly folded up. He was lying upon his back, his eyes half open; no trace of decomposition visible; life seemed to have but lately fled. Lifting my eyes from the dead man, I happened to notice Hawthorne, and was startled by the look of combined joy and recognition visible in his face.

Again I looked down at the corpse, and the dread fancy seized me that the dead and senseless body was aware of the evil glance directed upon it, and that, a fearful, haunted, terrified look was now visible in the glazed eyeballs. I could stay no longer, but calling to Davy I hurried out; Hawthorne, with a half-concealed smile on his face, following.

What were we to do was the next question. Examine the camp, and see if we could find any clue as to his name, and what brought him there, was the unanimous opinion. We did so. Outside the humpy were a riding and pack saddle and a bridle and halter. Inside were some ration bags, containing the usual supplies, an empty phial labelled 'laudanum,' a quart-pot with some tea in it, and a pint-pot, smelling strongly of the drug. That the man had poisoned himself was evident. His body was well fed, free from any marks of violence. We next removed the articles of clothing from underneath his head, and in the pockets found about twelve pounds in notes and silver, and two horse receipts in the name of George Seamore. Underneath the clothes, as though pushed hastily beneath, was an ordinary enough diary, well scribbled in. There were also such slight articles, as a pipe, tobacco, and matches.

We carefully examined the body, and made quite sure of the absence of life. The man had been in life a fine man, with a determined-looking face, grey eyes, which would not remain closed, and the shrinking look I still fancied I saw in them did not, agree with the resolution expressed by the rest of the features.

We now unpacked and unsaddled, our horses, and, after arranging our camp, proceeded to dig a grave, this, of course, being easy with the aid of our prospecting tools. That task finished, as it was growing dusk, we carried the body to the grave, where Davy, who was the son of a clergyman, repeated all he could remember of the burial service. The sandy soil, had proved easy digging, and the grave was about 4ft deep. The body was simply rolled in the blanket on which we found it lying.

It fell dark as we finished filling in the grave. I can see the whole scene before me as I write, the desolate-looking hills, an unnaturally large, red moon rising behind them making the fantastic-looking piles of boulders show black and grim against its light; my two companions and myself standing silent beside the mound of earth ere we turned away.

Now, during the time that we had been digging the grave, Hawthorne had left us, and went to the camp, where the body was then lying. Soon afterwards I called to him, and asked him to bring some water with him when he came back. Receiving no reply, I went to the camp myself, being thirsty from digging. On passing through the camp I saw Hawthorne inside the bough humpy making what looked like mesmeric passes over the dead body. I called out sharply to know what he was doing. He started, and stammered out that he was only making sure that there were no indications of breathing. I said crossly that there seemed to be no occasion for that, and he returned to the grave with me.

After our evening meal I tried to decipher the writing in the diary, but it was too illegible to be read without much time and trouble, so I put it away under my head when I went to sleep. From what I had been able to make out, it seemed to be an account of the life of the man whom we had just buried, written by himself during his last hours. We talked for some time over this strange affair, dropping off to sleep one by one. We were sleeping round the fire, having been too busy to pitch our tent.

About the middle of the night, the moon then, shining brightly overhead, I was awakened by feeling something moving beneath my head. Rousing myself, I saw Hawthorne bending over me, feeling under my pillow. Angrily I asked him what he was doing? He made no answer at first, but glared savagely at me, looking straight into my eyes, and seeming as though he would awe me. by the very fierceness of his gaze, but my nerves were strong, and I looked back boldly and defiantly, and saw his eyes, drop baffled. But his strange, almost superhuman, look had affected me more at the time, than I had imagined.

"I was feeling for your matches, mine are all gone. I am sorry I disturbed you," he said apologetically. I handed him my matchbox without a word, and he went back to his blankets and lit his pipe.

After a short time I fell asleep, first feeling for the dead man's diary, which I felt sure was the real object of his search. It was still there where I had placed it.

Once more was I disturbed. Davy shook me by the shoulder, and called me by name. I raised myself and looked around. The cool breath of the coming dawn was making itself felt, the moon sinking low in the west gave but a dim half-light, and, threw long shadows of the stunted trees upon the white, sandy soil around us, a few white gum trees on the bank of the creek standing out white and spectral-like.

Davy was beside me, evidently greatly excited.

"What do you think," he cried, "Hawthorne has gone away with the dead man."

I stared at him in astonishment.

"l saw him go, and as I live, the dead man rode with him."

I hope I possess the ordinary courage of men in general, but I must confess that when this weird communication was made to me in that ghastly, dawning light in the desert, far from our fellow men, a thrill of superstitious terror ran through me. I placed my hand an my companion's shoulder, and at the human touch the cowardly feeling of terror that I had so weakly given way to left me, and my courage returned.

"What can you mean, How could he take the dead man with him?"

"I tell you I saw them go. Listen, can you hear anything?"

We both listened, holding our breath, but the grim stillness was broken by no sound, not even the natural and familiar night cries of the bush.

"No," said Davy, "they are out of hearing. A short time ago I awoke and thought I heard the horses galloping in their hobbles, away down the creek.  Thinking the blacks might be about, I took my revolver and crept quietly in the direction of the horses. When I got near the horses, I saw two men amongst them catching and saddling some of them. Saw them mount and ride towards where I was watching, I had my revolver ready, and was about to step out and accost them, when I saw that it was Hawthorne, and—" he pointed towards the new made grave.

"The man could not have been dead."

"What time is it?"said Davy in reply.

"Half-past four or so," I said, and stooped for my watch.

"And what time was it when we buried the man?" my companion went on.

"About 6 o'clock or so!"

"Say that he was in a trance when we buried him, would not the weight of earth have been sufficient to suffocate him in less than one hour let alone seven or eight?"

I could only answer, "Yes— but—"

I was going to say, could not Hawthorne have dug the man up again as soon as we went to sleep? Then I remembered that I had seen Hawthorne in the camp in the middle of the night. I looked for the book, with the horrible dread in my heart that the dead man might have been feeling under my head for it, and was relieved to find it still there.

I told Davy of the circumstance of Hawthorne trying to get it, as he was on his knees busy reviving the  fire, and its bright cheery blaze seemed partly to  scare away the dismal horrors that lingered round our haunted camp.

All Hawthorne's traps were gone; he and his unearthly companion must have carried them down to the horses.  We both shuddered at the thought of the living corpse' moving about the silent camp, and perhaps stepping across our sleeping bodies.

Our horses were all there; Hawthorne's two and the strangers we had picked up being absent.

"Shall we track them up?" I asked, when we were ready to start.

"No, no," said Davy.  "Let us get away from here. I don't feel myself. I feel quite nervous and cowed."

So we started, first inspecting the grave, which we found tenantless.

We pushed on during the ensuing few days, and in my spare time I managed to decipher the blurred manuscript.

The history revealed by it coincided so strangely with our late experience that we could doubt the evidence of our senses no longer. But it was so unheard of and incredible and brought back all the horrors of that night so forcibly and vividly, that our only wish was to speedily reach a settlement of our fellow-beings in order that our minds would cease to dwell and brood upon what we had seen.

In a little more than a fortnight we reached the overland telegraph line, and, following it along northward, came to a working party, and there Davy fell sick, and could not travel. He rapidly grew worse, and although everybody was most kind, we could do but little, and I soon saw that the end was not far off.

I was sitting by his side one night, when he roused himself and spoke to me.

"I have told you all that I want you to do, old fellow, except one thing, which I have left to the last. When I am dead, watch over my grave for at least a week. Promise that, you will save me from that horrible fiend. Make sure of it before you leave me."

I pressed his hand, and told him that I would.

"Goodbye, old friend; it's hard to die like this, but what we know of would be harder still."

Before morning he died, and I was left alone, the possessor of the horrible secret. We buried him before sunset; all hands knocked off work and attended, and then my watch commenced. They thought me mad, the men on the line,  thus to carry out a whim of my dead comrade's, and if they had known what I sought to guard his body against they would have been sure of my insanity, but I did not tell them.

With snatches of broken rest in the daytime, I kept my promise for more than a week, and then; when all semblance of life must have long departed from the tody beneath,; I relinquished my armed watch, and bade farewell to the kind friends who had behaved so hospitably.

From what I could learn, no strangers but ourselves had struck the line for many months. Where, then, did Hawthorne and his dread companion go to?

I have never learned.

I left poor Davy in his lonely grave, with the silent messages, that had travelled so many thousand miles, flashing over him, and hastened to port.

Change and travel and a busy life obliterated to a certain extent my hideous experience; then suddenly the other day it was all brought back to me. My resolution is taken; I will keep silence no longer. In a few days, if I live, I will leave Australia, and if the body of that unhappy wretch found no peace in the wilderness, perhaps the depths of the ocean will be more kind to me when my time comes.

The reason I have come to this resolution, and publish my story after so many years of silence is that the other day, in Sydney, in busy George Street, I met the man called George Seamore, the dead man we buried in the bush, face to face, and he turned and followed me. Here, to further show my reason, is the dead man's diary, as we found, it in the camp:—

2: George Seamore's Manuscript

November 29, 1881

To-morrow is the anniversary of the day I was born, and on that day I have determined to die. Why I should have been singled out to be one of those unfortunates who have learned that there exists such people in the world as the living dead I know not. But it is in the hope of escaping from their unhappy fate that I have sought this lonely place to die in.

Death I fear not in itself. Would that the, doctrine of the soul's total annihilation were true, how I would welcome death. But if my wretched soul should be forced to reanimate my body, and the baneful influence that has embittered my life finds me out even here, in this desolate desert, O! what unutterable woe will be mine!

Now for my story:

I can say little for myself beyond the fact that I have always been moderately well off and fond of travel. When I was 25 years old two people entered into my life, who affected it I greatly. They were Fanny Berrimore and Francis Hawthorne.

Miss Berrimore I met through her brother, an artist, whose acquaintance I. had made when travelling abroad; the other, Hawthorne's, was a chance acquaintanceship, which, how I know not, from no particular wish of mine, developed into intimacy, but not friendship. Towards Miss Berrimore I soon felt more than friendship; but at the present moment I do not feel inclined to enter into the relation of any of the incidents of our love story, unhappy as it was, excepting the tragic circumstances of her apparent end and after-life, for she was— and thankful I am to say "was"— one of the living dead.

I am Devonshire born; but the incidents I am going to relate occurred in London— London of the sixties and seventies, not London of to-day. I was then living in London, as were both Miss Berrimore and Hawthorne. Miss Berrimore was living with an aunt in the suburbs, for she and. her brother were orphans; and Hawthorne, like myself, lived in chambers. On one of my visits to Miss Berrimore I found that she was very anxious about her brother, from whom she had not heard for more than twelve months. I promised to do my best to obtain any information about him; but as I knew he was of a roving disposition I did not anticipate that any evil had befallen him.

A night or two afterwards Hawthorne came to see me, and we strolled to his rooms, and there the conversation turned upon spiritualism, in which we both expressed our entire disbelief. Presently Hawthorne got up, and, standing-with his hand on the mantelpiece, spoke as follows. Every word, for good reason, is printed on my memory:

"Spiritualism! pooh! Mere jugglers' tricks. I believe in what I have discovered myself— or, rather in my realisation of my father's discovery, which an unfortunate accident did not allow him to complete. It is a marvellous secret; but I will tell you nothing of it now. I will tell you something of my. ancestry. Have you ever heard of the white Malays?"

"Never. I have, of course, heard the various traditions of white races being found in various unknown parts of the world; but never of a white Malay race."

"Few people have. They are small, but powerful and rich, and are more among the sea Dyaks than the land-dwelling Malays. My father was a chief amongst them. Do I show any trace of mixed blood?'

"I looked at him earnestly, thinking this was all humbug.

"Your eyes are peculiar. Not Caucasian, certainly. Peculiar is the only word I can find; although I have travelled much, I cannot locate them."

"No, of course not. My father was an educated man, who had also travelled much, and married an English lady of good birth, whose family never dreamt that he was of pure Malay stock. Why should they; not half a dozen Europeans know of the ancient race of the White Malays, and they are merely scientific ethnologists pure and simple. My father was on the eve of a wonderful discovery, which would have been actually the consummation of what our ancient priests had been long striving after, when death intervened. A violent death, I need scarcely say; but he had taught me, and I have reached the result he did not live to attain."

"Well" I asked.

"Nothing more at present; the time has not yet come. Would you like to see my servant? I don't think you have met him."

I gave assent, and he rang the bell. The man who came in answer could scarcely have been told from a European, except that he had eyes like Hawthorne's, but covered with a sort of film that deadened them somewhat.'

"Take down that kriss," said Hawthorne, pointing to some Eastern weapons that decorated one of the walls. The man obeyed.

"Draw it."

He took it from its sheath

"Why is it not clean?"

"Your orders, Mr. Hawthorne," came the reply, in a dead level voice, without intonation.

"Kiss those rusty old bloodstains."

The man bent his head and kissed the discoloured blade, then replaced the weapon, and left the room, without having taken note of my existence.

"That man was my father's murderer, and that was the kriss he killed him with."

I rose from my seat, disguising what I really felt.

"I confess I did not at first believe in your story; but now, somehow, I do. At least, you ought to have Malay blood in you, unless you are only an actor, and a clever one."

Hawthorne only laughed.

"Come to-morrow at 10 o'clock. I am going to see a man in the condemned cell at Newgate. I want you to come with me. Will you come? The visit partly bears upon what I have been telling you."

I hesitated, but consented, and left. I slept soundly that night— no ghostly visitant haunted my couch— and I was only just in time to keep my appointment. On our way to Newgate we talked of the man and his crime. It was a notorious one, principally from the disappearance of a large sum of money which the victim had lost his life in defending, and the stolidity and indifference to his fate of the culprit.

After the usual formalities we found ourselves in the condemned cell, and in the presence of two warders and the prisoner. Strange to say, I recognised the man at once, but could not determine where I had seen him, nor who he was. Then I noticed that he had the same set, filmy eyes as Hawthorne's servant. Some trivial conversation passed between my companion and the man— enough to justify the order of admission Hawthorne had obtained— and we left. But the man never once looked in my direction, although I was anxious for him to do so, to account for the likeness which I could not fix.

Wild suppositions began to course through my brain, for it suddenly struck me that he resembled George Berrimore, the missing, artist brother of Fanny.

"Did you ever hear if the criminal's name of Darcy Blake is an assumed one or not?" I asked as we made our way to the restaurant where we had agreed to lunch.

"I believe that it is his proper name. It is the name under which I had the pleasure of his acquaintance. Why do you ask?"

"Because," I replied, led on by blind impulse, "I heard somewhere that his real name was Berrimore," and I looked hard at my companion.

He started perceptibly. "Berrimore; George Berrimore? He is dead. He died in Marseilles a year ago."

"You knew him, then?"

"Slightly. Did you know him?"

"Pretty well; and that man bears a strong likeness to him. I know his sister, and she has not heard of his death; so she is anxious about him. I promised to make Inquiries for her."

"And you commence by looking for him in the condemned cell in Newgate. Very complimentary to Miss Berrimore."

I could have bitten my tongue out.

"No, but the resemblance was so striking and strange."

"What I know of George Berrimore is this. I met him in Marseilles, where he was ill and friendless. As a countryman, if you can call me one, I looked after him, and finally saw to his burial. I have still In my possession a few sketches of his, which he consigned to my care to deliver to his sister, whose address I have lost. You seemingly know her, and I can now fulfil my mission."

I felt very disinclined to introduce him to Miss Berrimore, but there was not a loophole of escape; and I had to consent to go out with him after lunch. During lunch, I could not help talking about Blake, and the missing money. Hawthorne seemed to dislike the subject, so I dropped it, and, at the proper time we went to call on Miss Berrimore.

It was naturally not a pleasant visit. Miss Berrimore was grieved to have her worst fears about her brother confirmed, and I was sulky at hating been the means of introducing Hawthorne to her. I was glad when the time came for us to leave.

"Seriously speaking," said Hawthorne, as we parted. "I have something of Importance to submit to you. Will you dine with me to-morrow?"

"Something about this wonderful secret?"

"About the wonderful secret."

"Then I'll come. By the way, that poor devil Blake is to be executed to-morrow. I wonder what became of the money?"

Hawthorne turned livid. "I wish you would talk of pleasanter subjects," he stammered, as he turned away.

Hawthorne's dinner the next evening was admirable, and he seemed in exceedingly good spirits; and talked and rattled on as gaily as possible. But when everything was cleared away, and we were by ourselves, his manner became more serious.

"What would you say," he presently said, "if I asked you to swear, never to confide the secret I am about to reveal to you?"

"l would swear, if you desired it; and if the secret to be learned justified the importance of taking an oath."

"Then swear." he said; "or give me your word. I hold that as good.

"The secret is connected with science?"

"The secret is connected with the most abstruse science."

"Then you have  my word."

"Never to reveal to living man what I am about to tell you."

"It shall not be revealed by me during my life."

"My reason for telling you is, that I want a coadjutor. I might look long before I found a man to suit me as well as you would. You possess every requisite, of firm nerves, strong will, and vigorous health; Will you assist me? Will you share with me a dominion greater than man ever dreamt of before? A dominion over the dead."

"What can you mean? You are mad," I sternly replied.

"I mean that I have realised my father's dream. I have found the true source of existence. Not the elixir of life, but almost the opposite. I can bring to life those who are called dead, if I can obtain possession of their bodies within twenty-four hours of their decease, or apparent decease."

"Pshaw! You are fooling me!"

"Fooling you? Was I fooling you when you saw my father's murderer kiss the bloodstains on the kriss? A man whom I killed, and then brought to life again."

"You ask me to believe that you possess the prerogative of the Almighty. That we still live in the days of miracles. I cannot believe it."

"Then you shall have proof; but if I give you proof will you consent to join me?"

"To what end?"

"I will communicate the results to you. Know that the men by me restored to life, for good or evil, know no will but mine. They are my slaves forever after. My influence permeates their new being, and they, they live again but to carry out my wishes!"

"Grant that you are not raving; still, I do not see the end."

"Not see the end!" he cried, his dark eyes blazing with excitement. "Not see the power it puts into the hands of two such men as you and I are— with life growing strong enough within our veins to revivify a hundred dead men! Not see the end to which such abject slaves could lift us— men who, at our bidding, and for our sakes, would dare and endure all the evils and dangers that beset life, would go at our command to the ends of the earth— and the foot of the gallows!"

"Wretch!" I cried, starting up. "Do I read you aright? Was that poor man who died this morning a death of shame one of your victims ? And was his crime committed at your instigation?"

"He died as you say, at my command. Now do you believe?'

"And his name was, as I thought, George Berrimore?"

"His name when he died at Marseilles a year ago was George Berrimore.'

"And you received the missing money?"

"Certainly. I did not get the man hanged for nothing. Since I killed the man you saw acting as my servant, I cannot return to my people to claim my father's wealth."

Conviction was forced upon me.

"And you ask me to join you in a career of robbery and murder!" I cried in blind rage and indignation. "Rather do I esteem it my duty to humanity to kill you where you sit."

He started visibly as I advanced towards him, and I saw where his weak point was— that he was a coward. In spite of the terrible knowledge that he possessed, I was physically and morally his master, by reason of my higher courage and firmer nerve.

"Stand back!" he cried. "You have sworn never to reveal my secret, and I defy you to break your oath."

"I did not pass my oath to keep such horrible crimes as yours secret."

"Do you want Miss Berrimore to learn that her brother perished on the scaffold? Do you wish the criminal's real name, and her name, too, to be made a public scoff?"

He was right, however he had guessed it. For her sake, I made the sad mistake of not taking that wretch's life on the spot. He saw my irresolution, and springing to his feet sought by quick mesmeric passes to subdue me to his influence. But my will was too strong for him to cope with, and I laughed contemptuously.

"No, no. I am mot to be made one of your slaves quite so easily. I leave you, this time, unharmed, but do not cross my path again, or seek to exercise your unhallowed arts any more, if they are aught else but wild dream. If we again meet, it will be as bitter enemies, so beware;" and I caught him by the collar and shook him till he trembled in every joint when I released him.

Such a fierce  gust of passion had never before possessed me, and I felt strong enough to defy Hell itself; and if ever a fiend from Hell stood before a mortal man; it was that man.

As I turned to go, he mustered up some little courage and said, "Beware in your turn. Your spirit now is more powerful than mine; but if I find you when that life, now so strong and fierce within you, is ebbing weak end low, then it will be my turn. Beware of death and my power after death, wild dream as you call it."

I only laughed in derision, and left him.

I saw Miss Berrimore a few days afterwards, and found her somewhat   recovered from the shock of the news of her brother's death. Now that I knew the truth about Hawthorne and her brother, I felt in a difficult position. I could not well warn her against the man who, she believed, had befriended her brother in his last moments, without giving her some potent reasons, and the real reason was too horrible and Incredible to even hint at. I had to go home to my parents for a short time, and on my return we were to be married. In that brief space it was not probable that Hawthorne, after the thorough fright I had given him, would venture upon anything do bring down my vengeance on his head, so I left on a three weeks' visit to my home. After a week I became restless and uneasy, and on the tenth day could restrain myself no longer, but hastened back to  town, and my first visit was to Miss Berrimore.

The house was but a pretty suburban cottage, for her aunt's income was limited, and when I reached there I found, to my surprise, the door ajar, and the servant apparently out, for no one responded to my ring. I entered, therefore, unannounced, and, proceeding to the drawing-room, found Hawthorne and Fanny alone together. A look of deadly fear came over him at my appearance, but, forgetting everything in the violent wrath excited in my mind by seeing Fanny and Hawthorne on apparently affectionate terms, I simply sprang at my enemy, and the next moment he lay on the floor with his upper lip split open.

There was no struggle worth speaking of, for the craven made no resistance. Fanny cask into a chair, and, even in the midst of my fury, I could not help notice her listless manner, and even indifference to what had just taken place.  I looked from her to the man who lay on the floor, afraid to move, and, spurning him with my foot, I left the house, choking with rage. I walked quietly home when I got in the street— my rage was too deep for any outward demonstration. All idea of Hawthorne's pretensions to infernal or demoniac powers was lost sight of utterly is the whirlwind of jealous frenzy excited in my breast by what I thought to be Fanny's duplicity. I left town, and returned home, but could not persuade myself that I had not been misled during the dreary months that followed. So wretched did I get that I went again to London, determined to seek an explanation which I thought might be forthcoming.

I went to the cottage, and was received by her aunt, who was dressed in deep mourning. She refused my hand, and asked me stiffly what brought me there. I stammered out that I called to inquire— to see Miss Berrimore.

"You will find my niece in Kensal Green Cemetery," she said, bitterly. "Where you sent her."

My amazement must have been visible in my I face, for she went on, "Without cause or reason you neglected and left her, and, in her state of health, that killed her."

What could I say! Her aunt was evidently in complete ignorance of my visit and discovery, and, rightly enough, judged me with the greatest harshness. I said something about there having been a misunderstanding, but she stood coldly and silently awaiting my departure, bad I could do nothing but leave, writhing under the feeling chat I had been made a dupe of by Hawthorne. I visited Kensal Green, and saw her grave. With deep penitence in my heart for the girl I had wronged, and a determination to wreak the utmost vengeance on Hawthorne when I found I him, even if it brought me to the gallows, I left the cemetery.

Months passed, and I sought my enemy high and low, but could find no trace of him. He and his living dead men were too cunning for me. One day I saw him, or thought I did, and turned to follow him to make sure. Directly afterwards I was run against violently by a well-dressed person, who apologised for his clumsiness. But the accident was enough. I had lose my man. It was no accident, I knew, for I had recognised the peculiar face, and the set eyes, of the man who had kissed the kriss, in the person who had bumped against me.

A few days after this incident I was loitering I moodily on one of the bridges one night. The hour was late, and the crowd was thinning, and I stood for a moment looking at the lights of the town, and the shipping, and the dark water running beneath me.

A policeman was watching me furtively, evidently expecting me to take a header over the parapet. A female figure hastily approaching brushed close to me, almost touching me, a strange thrill passed through me, and I an uncontrollable impulse made me spring after her. I overtook her just as she was passing under a lamp.

It was Fanny! The woman whose body I thought lay in Kensal Green Cemetery was by my side! My exclamation of surprise and horror seemed not to affect her in the least, for she kept steadily on her way, and I by her side. The policeman looked keenly at as. He little thought that it was a dead woman I was walking beside. The merry party who made room on the pavement for her would have had their mirth suddenly checked had they known the girlish form that flitted through them had stepped from amongst the buried. Steadily she kept on, and the joyous thought flashed through my brain that by following her I should find Hawthorne, so I dropped a step or two behind. On we went— the living and the dead— until she turned down a narrow blind alley, reached a door in the wall, I opened it with a key, and passed in. Before she could close it, I had pushed in too, into a small courtyard, surrounded by high buildings rising in the gloomy night.

She did not notice my entrance, but hurried into one of the houses— I still close behind her— Up a narrow stairway into a lighted room, where three men were sitting. They took no notice of either of us. A hasty glance assured me that my enemy was not amongst them, but I felt assured that I had found the lair of himself and his slaves.

Fanny opened a door leading to an inner room, and in it I saw a man lounging indolently in an easy chair. I had found him. She handed him a note, and then sat down. He tore the note open, and read it, while I stood behind his chair, my heart leaping gladly. Having read the communication, Hawthorne tore it up, and stooped to cast the fragments in a basket, and in doing so he caught sight of me. The scream of terror he gave was such music in my ears; and the next moment he was calling loudly to the men in the next room for help, for he saw murder in my face.

They came rushing in, but before they could do anything I had hurled him half strangled to the floor, and was standing over him with a hastily snatched-up decanter in my hand.

"Order them back," I cried, as they were rushing at me, "or your life pays forfeit first. I'll beat your brains out quickly."

"Back! back!" he cried in an agonised voice. "Don't kill me, Seamore."

"Send them out of the room. Now, what have you done to her?" I pointed to Fanny, who was sitting in a listless and indifferent attitude.

"What do you want? What shall I do?"

"Remove your power from over her. If you can. Give her back to me."

"I cannot.  She will die again if my influence is removed. She knows you no more. Her name is Caroline Booth now."

"I care not whether she lives or dies, so that she is no longer your victim. I will give you but a few moments to make up your mind. Consent!"

"I consent to anything," he said, cowering and I shrinking.

"If I spare your life, you will relinquish any hold you may have over her mind or spirit, and allow me to take her away wherever I like."

"I will, and never again seek to interfere with I her."

"This is the second time I give you your life for Miss Berrimore's sake; but if we meet a third time, when she is dead, and beyond your reach or power, I promise nothing. I do not trust your word, but I do to your cowardice. I fear no more the punishment I should incur through I murdering you than I do you yourself."

"She will die, I tell you; but you shall have your wish."

He went over to her, and made some mesmeric passes, and she shuddered slightly, and looked a little more like her old self.

"You will go with this gentleman; do you I know him?"

She looked at me dreamily, as though some confused remembrance still existed, then took my hand, and said, "I will go with him," and I looked in my face curiously

I had locked the door when I allowed Hawthorne to rise, and now stood with my back I against it, while I asked him another question.

"Was it through some of your devilish arts I that I was misled that day?"

"It was. Miss Berrimore's aunt was out and I tried a mesmeric experiment on Miss Berrimore, and had just succeeded when you interrupted us. She knew nothing of what passed, and I without doubt it was your desertion killed her.  She could imagine no reason for your leaving her without a word of explanation."

I took Fanny away, and have never seem Hawthorne since, hard as I have striven to find and I kill him. But the last glimpse I caught of him standing looking at me with sullen, deadly hate is ever present to my imagination.

His prediction was, true; Fanny soon faded away, and died about three weeks after I rescued her. I visited her constantly in the home I found for her, but she had lost all resemblance of her real life, Me she remembered, more by some mysterious influence I appeared to possess over her than by reason at our being formerly acquainted.

She died, painlessly and quietly; and I buried her in the same cemetery where, even then, her body was supposed to be resting, and I let her sleep under her assumed name.

How Hawthorne obtained possession of her body in order to bring her back to life I cannot conjecture. By means of so many devoted adherents, it would not, perhaps, be a hard task.

Since then I have been a wanderer, and am now weary of it. Often I have recognised the living dead men, and I fancy I am always watched, and the thought has become unbearable. Were it not for his want of physical courage, the power of this strange creature would he immense, for I am convinced that he claims no more than he can accomplish; and, as I cannot find him, I am going to seek rest in this solitude. My body will, I trust, meet no worse fate than to moulder and decay unnoticed and unburied. Still, before I take the last step, I have put these crimes on record.

This is my birthday, and in a few hours my life will be spent, and, hundreds of miles from my fellow men, I will render up my soul, In the hope of at last finding peace.

________________

19: Fear

Achmed Abdullah

1881-1945

Detective Story Magazine 4 Feb 1919

THE FACT that the man whom he feared had died ten years earlier did not in the least lessen Stuart McGregor's obsession of horror, of a certain grim expectancy, every time he recalled that final scene, just before Farragut Hutchison disappeared in the African jungle that stood, spectrally motionless as if forged out of some blackish-green metal, in the haggard moonlight.

As he reconstructed it, the whole scene seemed unreal, almost oppressively, ludicrously theatrical. The pall of sodden, stygian darkness all around; the night sounds of soft-winged, obscene things flapping lazily overhead or brushing against the furry trees that held the woolly heat of the tropical day like boiler pipes in a factory; the slimy, swishy things that glided and crawled and wiggled underfoot; the vibrant growl of a hunting lioness that began in a deep basso and peaked to a shrill, high-pitched, ridiculously inadequate treble; a spotted hyena's vicious, bluffing bark; the chirp and whistle of innumerable monkeys; a warthog breaking through the undergrowth with a clumsy, clownish crash— and somewhere, very far away, the staccato thumping of a signal drum, and more faintly yet the answer from the next in line.

He had seen many such drums, made from fire-hollowed palm trees and covered with tightly-stretched skin— often the skin of a human enemy.

Yes. He remembered it all. He remembered the night jungle creeping in on their camp like a sentient, malign being— and then that ghastly, ironic moon squinting down, just as Farragut Hutchison walked away between the six giant, plumed, ochre-smeared Bakoto warriors, and bringing into crass relief the tattoo mark on the man's back where the shirt had been torn to tatters by camel thorns and wait-a-bit spikes and saber-shaped palm leaves.

He recalled the occasion when Farragut Hutchison had had himself tattooed after a crimson, drunken spree at Madam Celeste's place in Port Said, the other side of the Red Sea traders' bazaar, to please a half-caste Swahili dancing girl who looked like a golden Madonna of evil, familiar with all the seven sins. Doubtless the girl had gone shares with the Levantine craftsman who had done the work— an eagle, in bold red and blue, surmounted by a lop-sided crown, and surrounded by a wavy design. The eagle was in profile, and its single eye had a disconcerting trick of winking sardonically whenever Farragut Hutchison moved his back muscles or twitched his shoulder blades.

Always, in his memory, Stuart McGregor saw that tattoo mark.

Always did he see the wicked, leering squint in the eagle's eye— and then he would scream, wherever he happened to be, in a theatre, a Broadway restaurant, or across some good friend's mahogany and beef.

Thinking back, he remembered that, for all their bravado, for all their showing off to each other, both he and Farragut Hutchinson had been afraid since that day, up the hinterland, when, drunk with fermented palm wine, they had insulted the fetish of the Bakotos, while the men were away hunting and none left to guard the village except the women and children and a few feeble old men whose curses and high-pitched maledictions were picturesque, but hardly effectual enough to stop him and his partner from doing a vulgar, intoxicated dance in front of the idol, from grinding burning cigar ends into its squat, repulsive features, and from generally polluting the juju hut— not to mention the thorough and profitable looting of the place.

They had got away with the plunder, gold dust and a handful of splendid canary diamonds, before the Bakoto warriors had returned. But fear had followed them, stalked them, trailed them; a fear different from any they had ever experienced before. And be it mentioned that their path of life had been crimson and twisted and fantastic, that they had followed the little squinting swarth-headed, hunchbacked djinni of adventure wherever man's primitive lawlessness rules above the law, from Nome to Timbuktu, from Peru to the black felt tents of Outer Mongolia, from the Australian bush to the absinth-sodden apache haunts of Paris. Be it mentioned, furthermore, that thus, often, they had stared death in the face and, not being fools, had found the staring distasteful and shivery.

But what they had felt on that journey, back to the security of the coast and the ragged Union Jack flapping disconsolately above the British governor's official corrugated iron mansion, had been something worse than mere physical fear; it had been a nameless, brooding, sinister apprehension which had crept through their souls, a harshly discordant note that had pealed through the hidden recesses of their beings.

Everything had seemed to mock them— the crawling, sour-miasmic jungle; the slippery roots and timber falls; the sun of the tropics, brown, decayed, like the sun on the Day of Judgment; the very flowers, spiky, odorous, waxen, unhealthy, lascivious.

At night, when they had rested in some clearing, they had even feared their own campfire— flaring up, twinkling, flickering, then coiling into a ruby ball. It had seemed completely isolated in the purple night.

Isolated!

And they had longed for human companionship— white companionship. White faces. White slang. White curses. White odors. White obscenities.

Why— they would have welcomed a decent, square, honest white murder; a knife flashing in some yellow-haired Norse sailor's brawny fist; a belaying pin in the hand of some bullying Liverpool tramp-ship skipper; some Nome gambler's six-gun splattering leaden death; some apache of the Rue de Venise garroting a passerby.

But here, in the African jungle— and how Stuart McGregor remembered it— the fear of death had seemed pregnant with unmentionable horror. There had been no sounds except the buzzing of the tsetse flies and a faint rubbing of drums, whispering through the desert and jungle like the voices of disembodied souls, astray on the outer rim of creation.

And, overhead, the stars. Always, at night, three stars, glittering, leering; and Stuart McGregor, who had gone through college and had once written his college measure of limping, anemic verse, had pointed at them.

"The three stars of Africa!" he had said, "The star of violence! The star of lust! And the little stinking star of greed!"

And he had broken into staccato laughter which had struck Farragut Hutchinson as singularly out of place and had caused him to blurt forth with a wicked curse:

"Shut your trap, you—"

For already they had begun to quarrel, those two pals of a dozen tight, riotous adventures. Already, imperceptibly, gradually, like the shadow of a leaf through summer dusk, a mutual hatred had grown up between them.

But they had controlled themselves. The diamonds were good, could be sold at a big figure; and, even split in two, would mean a comfortable stake.

Then, quite suddenly, had come the end— the end for them.

And the twisting, gliding skill of Stuart McGregor's fingers had made sure that Farragut Hutchison should be that one.

Years after, when Africa as a whole had faded to a memory of coiling, unclean shadows, Stuart McGregor used to say, with that rather plaintive, monotonous drawl of his, that the end of this phantasmal African adventure had been different from what he had expected it to be.

In a way, he had found it disappointing.

Not that it had lacked in purely dramatic thrills and blood-curdling trimmings. That wasn't it. On the contrary, it had had a plethora of thrills.

But, rather, he must have been keyed up to too high a pitch; must have expected too much, feared too much during that journey from the Bakoto village back through the hinterland.

Thus when, one night, the Bakoto warriors had come from nowhere, out of the jungle, hundreds of them, silent, as if the wilderness had spewed them forth, it had seemed quite prosy.

Prosy, too, had been the expectation of death. It had even seemed a welcome relief from the straining fatigues of the jungle pull, the recurrent fits of fever, the flying and crawling pests, the gnawing moroseness which is so typically African.

"An explosion of life and hatred," Stuart McGregor used to say, "that's what I had expected, don't you see? Quick and merciless. And it wasn't. For the end came— slow and inevitable. Solid. Greek in a way. And so courtly! So polite! That was the worst of it!"

For the leader of the Bakotos, a tall, broad, frizzy, odorous warrior, with a face like a black Nero with a dash of Manchu emperor, had bowed before them with a great clanking of barbarous ornaments. There had been no marring taint of hatred in his voice as he told them that they must pay for their insults to the fetish. He had not even mentioned the theft of the gold dust and diamonds.

"My heart is heavy at the thought, white chiefs," he said. "But— you must pay!"

Stuart McGregor had stammered ineffectual, foolish apologies:

"We— we were drunk. We didn't know what— oh— what we—"

"What you were doing!" the Bakoto had finished the sentence for him, with a little melancholy sigh. "And there is forgiveness in my heart—"

"You— you mean to say—" Farragut Hutchison had jumped up, with extended hand, blurting out hectic thanks.

"Forgiveness in my heart, not the juju's," gently continued the negro. "For the juju never forgives. On the other hand, the juju is fair. He wants his just measure of blood. Not an ounce more. Therefore," the Bakoto had gone on, and his face had been as stony and as passionless as that of the Buddha who meditates in the shade of the cobra's hood, "the choice will be yours."

"Choice?" Farragut Hutchison had looked up, a gleam of hope in his eyes.

"Yes. Choice which one of you will die." The Bakoto had smiled, with the same suave courtliness which had, somehow, increased the utter horror of the scene. "Die— oh— a slow death, befitting the insult to the juju, befitting the juju's great holiness!"

Suddenly, Stuart McGregor had understood that there would be no arguing, no bargaining whatsoever; and, quickly, had come his hysterical question:

"Who? I— or—"

He had slurred and stopped, somehow ashamed, and the Bakoto had finished the interrupted question with gentle, gliding, inhuman laughter: "Your friend? White chief, that is for you two to decide. I only know that the juju has spoken to the priest, and that he is satisfied with the life of one of you two; the life— and the death. A slow death."

He had paused; then had continued gently, so very, very gently: "Yes. A slow death, depending entirely upon the vitality of the one of you two who will be sacrificed to the juju. There will be little knives. There will be the flying insects which follow the smell of blood and festering flesh. Too, there will be many crimson-headed ants, many, ants— and a thin river of honey to show them the trail."

He had yawned. Then he had gone on: "Consider. The juju is just. He only wants the sacrifice of one of you, and you yourselves must decide which one shall go, and which one shall stay. And— remember the little, little knives. Be pleased to remember the many ants which follow the honey trail. I shall return shortly and hear your choice."

He had bowed and, with his silent warriors, had stepped back into the jungle that had closed behind them like a curtain.

Even in that moment of stark, enormous horror, horror too great to be grasped, horror that swept over and beyond the barriers of fear— even in that moment Stuart McGregor had realized that, by leaving the choice to them, the Bakoto had committed a refined cruelty worthy of a more civilized race, and had added a psychic torture fully as dreadful as the physical torture of the little knives.

Too, in that moment of ghastly, lecherous expectancy, he had known that it was Farragut Hutchison who would be sacrificed to the juju— Farragut Hutchison who sat there, staring into the camp fire, making queer little, funny noises in his throat.

Suddenly, Stuart McGregor had laughed— he remembered that laugh to his dying day— and had thrown a greasy pack of playing cards into the circle of meager, indifferent light.

"Let the cards decide, old boy," he had shouted. "One hand of poker— and no drawing to your hand. Showdown! That's square, isn't it?"

"Sure!" the other had replied, still staring straight ahead of him. "Go ahead and deal—"

His voice had drifted into a mumble while Stuart McGregor had picked up the deck, had shuffled, slowly, mechanically.

As he shuffled, it had seemed to him as if his brain was frantically telegraphing to his fingers, as if all those delicate little nerves that ran from the back of his skull down to his fingertips were throbbing a clicking little chorus:

"Do— it— Mac! Do— it— Mac! Do— it— Mac!" with a maddening, syncopated rhythm.

And he had kept on shuffling, had kept on watching the motions of his fingers— and had seen that his thumb and second finger had shuffled the ace of hearts to the bottom of the deck.

Had he done it on purpose? He did not know then. He never found out— though, in his memory, he lived through the scene a thousand times.

But there were the little knives. There were the ants. There was the honey trail. There was his own, hard decision to live. And, years earlier, he had been a professional faro dealer at Silver City.

Another ace had joined the first at the bottom of the deck. The third. The fourth.

And then Farragut Hutchison's violent: "Deal, man, deal! You're driving me crazy. Get it over with."

The sweat had been pouring from Stuart McGregor's face. His blood had throbbed in his veins. Something like a sledgehammer had drummed at the base of his skull.

"Cut, won't you?" he had said, his voice coming as if from very far away.

The other had waved a trembling hand, "No, no! Deal 'em as they lie. You won't cheat me."

Stuart McGregor had cleared a little space on the ground with the point of his shoe.

He remembered the motion. He remembered how the dead leaves had stirred with a dry, rasping, tragic sound, how something slimy and phosphorous-green had squirmed through the tufted jungle grass, how a little furry scorpion had scurried away with a clicking tchk-tchk-tchk.

He had dealt.

Mechanically, even as he was watching them, his fingers had given himself five cards from the bottom of the deck. Four aces— and the queen of diamonds. And, the next second, in answer to Farragut Hutchison's choked: "Show-down! I have two pair— kings— and jacks!" his own well simulated shriek of joy and triumph:

"I win! I've four aces! Every ace in the pack!"

And then Farragut Hutchison's weak, ridiculous exclamation— ridiculous considering the dreadful fate that awaited him:

"Geewhittaker! You're some lucky guy, aren't you, Mac?"

At the same moment, the Bakoto chief had stepped out of the jungle, followed by half a dozen warriors.

Then the final scene— that ghastly, ironic moon squinting down, just as Farragut Hutchison had walked away between the giant, plumed, ochre-smeared Bakoto negroes, and bringing into stark relief the tattoo mark on his back where the shirt had been torn to tatters— and the leering, evil wink in the eagle's eye as Farragut Hutchison twitched his shoulder blades with absurd, nervous resignation.

Stuart McGregor remembered it every day of his life.

He spoke of it to many. But only to Father Aloysius O'Donnell, the priest who officiated in the little Gothic church around the corner, on Ninth Avenue, did he tell the whole truth— did he confess that he had cheated.

"Of course I cheated!" he said. "Of course!" And, with a sort of mocking bravado: "What would you have done, padre?"

The priest, who was old and wise and gentle, thus not at all sure of himself, shook his head.

"I don't know," he replied. "I don't know."

"Well— I do know. You would have done what I did. You wouldn't have been able to help yourself." Then, in a low voice: "And you would have paid! As I pay— every day, every minute, every second of my life."

"Regret, repentance," murmured the priest, but the other cut him short.

"Repentance— nothing. I regret nothing! I repent nothing! I'd do the same tomorrow. It isn't that— oh— that— what d'ye call it— sting of conscience, that's driving me crazy. It's fear!"

"Fear of what?" asked Father O'Donnell.

"Fear of Farragut Hutchison— who is dead!"

Ten years ago!

And he knew that Farragut Hutchison had died. For not long afterward a British trader had come upon certain gruesome but unmistakable remains and had brought the tale to the coast. Yet was there fear in Stuart McGregor's soul, fear worse than the fear of the little knives. Fear of Farragut Hutchison, who was dead?

No. He did not believe that the man was dead. He did not believe it, could not believe it.

"And even suppose he's dead," he used to say to the priest, "he'll get me. He'll get me as sure as you're born. I saw it in the eye of that eagle— the squinting eye of that infernal, tattooed eagle!"

Then he would turn a grayish yellow, his whole body would tremble with a terrible palsy and, in a sort of whine, which was both ridiculous and pathetic, given his size and bulk, given the crimson, twisted adventures through which he had passed, he would exclaim:

"He'll get me. He'll get me. He'll get me even from beyond the grave."

And then Father O'Donnell would cross himself rapidly, just a little guiltily.

It is said that there is a morbid curiosity which forces the murderer to view the place of his crime.

Some psychic reason of the same kind may have caused Stuart McGregor to decorate the walls and corners of his sitting room with the memories of that Africa which he feared and hated, and which, daily, he was trying to forget— with a shimmering, cruel mass of jungle curios, sjamboks and assegais, signal drums and daggers, knobkerries and rhino shields and what not.

Steadily, he added to his collection, buying in auction rooms, in little shops on the waterfront, from sailors and ship pursers and collectors who had duplicates for sale.

He became a well-known figure in the row of antique stores in back of Madison Square Garden, and was so liberal when it came to payment that Morris Newman, who specialized in African curios, would send the pick of all the new stuff he bought to his house.

IT WAS on a day in August— one of those tropical New York days when the very birds gasp for air, when orange-flaming sun rays drop from the brazen sky like crackling spears and the melting asphalt picks them up again and tosses them high— that Stuart McGregor, returning from a short walk, found a large, round package in his sitting room.

"Mr. Newman sent it," his servant explained. "He said it's a rare curio, and he's sure you'll like it."

"All right."

The servant bowed, left, and closed the door, while Stuart McGregor cut the twine, unwrapped the paper, looked.

And then, suddenly, he screamed with fear; and, just as suddenly, the scream of fear turned into a scream of maniacal joy.

For the thing which Newman had sent him was an African signal drum, covered with tightly stretched skin-human skin— white skin! And square in the center there was a tattoo mark— an eagle in red and blue, surmounted by a lopsided crown, and surrounded by a wavy design.

Here was the final proof that Farragut Hutchison was dead, that, forever, he was rid of his fear. In a paroxysm of joy, he picked up the drum and clutched it to his heart.

And then he gave a cry of pain. His lips quivered, frothed. His hands dropped the drum and fanned the air, and he looked at the thing that had fastened itself to his right wrist.

It seemed like a short length of rope, grayish in color, spotted with dull red. Even as Stuart McGregor dropped to the floor, dying, he knew what had happened.

A little venomous snake, an African fer-de-lance, that had been curled up in the inside of the drum, been numbed by the cold, and had been revived by the splintering heat of New York.

Yes— even as he died he knew what had happened. Even as he died, he saw that malign, obscene squint in the eagle's eye. Even as he died, he knew that Farragut Hutchison had killed him— from beyond the grave!

_______________

20: A Sleeping Car Tragedy

W. L. Alden

1837-1908

The Idler Feb 1896

THE THROUGH express, consisting almost entirely of sleeping cars, had just passed through Jericho Station. The station master gazed after the rapidly receding train which, at a little distance, was nearly hidden by a following cloud of dust. Then turning to me, and dropping heavily into a chair, he remarked, "That's what people nowadays call 'comfort in traveling,' but gimme an old fashion ordinary car every time."

"Then you don't like sleeping cars?"

"No, sir! I don't. When I'm traveling by night I want to be my own master. If I want to smoke, I want to be where I can smoke, and if I want to sit by the window and chew tobacco, I want a window accordingly. Now when you travel in a sleeping car at night what happens? Why you have to turn into a berth whether you want to or not, and you have to give up your boots and you can't get 'em again till morning; and you can't smoke, and you haven't got any air to breathe, and some fellow is sure to snore so loud that the seven sleepers mentioned in Ephesians couldn't get a wink if they were there.

"Why, speaking of snoring, I've known lots of what you would call tragedies to happen in sleeping cars on account of snoring. You don't hear of 'em in the papers, for the men that do these tragedies don't care to talk about 'em, and the company naturally wants the thing kept quiet. You read in the papers every little while about the mysterious disappearance of some man who started on a railway journey and was never heard of again. The next time you read anything like that you can just make up your mind that the missing man was a snorer, and that he was rash enough to take a sleeping car where there were a lot of other travelers. Oh! I'm not trying to hoax you. When you go back to Chicago you go to a public library, and you ask for a file of the Chicago Tribune for last year, and if you go through it carefully you will find that at least a dozen men who are missing were last seen entering a sleeping car on such and such a road. You'll have to admit that if what I'm telling you isn't true, it is certainly a curious coincidence that the missing men were all traveling in sleeping cars.

"The company put a sleeper on this line in the days when the Jericho mines were having their boom. It was the first sleeping car ever seen in the Northwest, and for a time it was very popular; that is on the eastward bound trip. You see, miners that had made their pile at the mines always took the sleeper when they started for the east, and sometimes we'd have every berth in the car engaged. They were that anxious to spend their money that they would have taken any sort of a car that we might have put on the line and charged an extra price for. I was brake man of that sleeper, and I used to get a lot of amusement out of the miners, except when they happened to start a difficulty, and then I would bolt for the other end of the train till the shooting was over. It was curious to see how those miners that didn't care for any sort of law would knock under to the nigger porter, and obey his rules. I suppose it was because they didn't want anybody to think that they didn't know the ways and manners of sleeping cars. The porter would come at nine o'clock, and say, 'Time to make up the beds, gemmen,' and they would stand around till the beds were made up as meek as if they were children. Then when the beds were made they had to turn in, for there wasn't any place for them to sit down, and they'd take off their boots and hand them over to the porter, without ever dreaming of telling him that they weren't in the habit of taking off their boots at night, and that if he wanted those boots he had better try and take them off himself. Take 'em by and large, those miners were generally better behaved on the sleeping-car than the average commercial traveler is nowadays, for all that he gives such airs, and lets on to be at the top of Chicago society.

"There was one thing that the miners wouldn't stand, and that was snoring. They got the conductor to post up a notice in the sleeper, 'No Snoring Aloud,' and any man who wanted to snore after that was expected to do it so quiet that it wouldn't disturb anybody. If a man snored in a loud, tempestuous sort of way, he would be waked up and warned once. After that, if he began again, strong measures would be taken with him. I've seen a chap that persisted in snoring, dragged out of his berth and made to sit on the wood box, with a man in front of him stirring him up with the poker every time he began to nod. The miners would take turns at this duty, and relieve each other every two hours, and the snorer wouldn't get a wink of sleep the whole time he was on that train. I've known of a man being kept awake in this way on a Central Pacific train all the way from 'Frisco to Chicago, and that was five days and nights at the time I'm speaking of.

"But this was only mild treatment compared with some of the things that were done to passengers who would snore, I remember one chap who had a porous plaster put all over his mouth and nose. He didn't snore any more, and in the morning he was found to be suffocated, and the boys just dropped his body off a bridge while the train was crossing the Missouri. There hadn't been any intention of suffocating him, you understand, but nobody was dissatisfied with the result, except perhaps the friends of the man who had so mysteriously disappeared. Lots of men were gagged for snoring, and when they showed fight, as they did for the most part, they were knocked on the head, and occasionally the knock was a trifle too hard, and then of course there was another mysterious disappearance.

"Did you ever notice the kind of men that snore? Perhaps you haven't had the opportunity for studying the subject that I have had. Well, in the first place it's always a big man, put together kind of loose and careless, that snores. Your small, tight built nervous chap never snores. Now I'm a snorer myself, and I don't deny it. That's one of the reasons that I don't travel on a sleeping car; but if I could reduce my weight by, say, eighty pounds, there wouldn't be any more snoring about me.

"Then a man's business, and his religion, and his politics have a good deal to do with the snoring question. I'll back a Methodist to out-snore any two men of any other denomination, while it's mighty seldom that a Presbyterian can be heard to snore. Ministers of the Gospel are hard snorers as a rule, and next to them come professional musicians. If you look at a man's politics you'll find that a Democrat and a Republican are about equal when it comes to snoring, but that a Prohibitionist will out-snore anybody that ever tried to compete with him. I don't understand why these things should be as they are, but there is no denying the facts."

"Do women ever snore?" I asked.

"Not often, that is to say in sleeping cars. What they may do elsewhere, I can't say, not being myself a married man. Speaking of women, a curious circumstance happened in a sleeping car about the time I was telling you of, when we used to carry the car full of miners that had made their pile. I suppose by this time you are getting middling tired of listening to my yarns, but it's something I can't help. Telling anecdotes was always my strong suit, and I play it out whenever I get a chance. If anybody don't want to listen to me, it's always open to them to tell me so, and to get up and get out."

I assured the station master that his anecdotes were the one thing that reconciled me to life in Jericho.

"That being the case," he replied, "I'll tell you about thishyer circumstance. It's true, for I was brakeman on the sleeping car at that time, and I saw the whole proceedings.

"We left Athensville one afternoon about four o'clock with the car chock full. The whole lot were miners except a Jew pedlar— a chap who had come up from Chicago to assay silver— and a young woman. Naturally the young woman attracted a great deal of attention, women, old and young, being mighty scarce at the mines. It appeared that she had come to Athensville to prospect for a school, some of the leading residents having decided to start a school for the benefit of their children, and having applied to have a teacher sent down to take charge of it. When a handsome young woman turned up and said she had come to teach school, everybody felt that she wasn't fit to grapple with the Athensville boys, who required an able bodied man who could handle three or four of them at once if the occasion should arise. At the same time nobody wanted to send the young woman away, and the upshot was that it was decided to start a Sunday school and to put her in charge of it, paying her the same that they would have paid her to run the regular school. Of course she didn't object, the berth being a mighty easy one, and when I met her on the sleeping car she was on her way to Chicago to lay in a stock of Sunday school books, and a magic lantern.

"The miners treated her as if she was a genuine first class angel. Not a soul of them dared to speak to her, but they kept bringing her cakes and apples and candy and heaving them into her lap without speaking a word. When they wanted to smoke they went into the smoking car instead of smoking in the sleeper, which had been their usual practice, though it was against the rules. When there was a nice bit of scenery to be seen, one of them would say something about it in a loud tone of voice, and then they would all get up and go to the end of the car, so that the girl could look out of any window that she might select. There wasn't a single swear word spoken in that car, and once, when two of the fellows showed an inclination to quarrel about something, the other chaps put them out of the car so quick and so quiet that you would hardly have noticed that there was any argument in progress.

"When night came, and the darkey porter started to make up the beds, the boys all went into another car, so as to give the girl a chance to go to bed in an unostentatious way. When they came back, which was about ten o'clock, everything was quiet, and there was no girl to be seen. The boys then turned in themselves, making no more noise than they could help, and mentioning to the Jew pedlar, who had the air of a snorer, that if he cal'lated to do any snoring that night, he might as well prepare to meet Moses and the Prophets at once.

"About an hour later as I was sitting just inside the door where I could hear the whistle handy, and at the same time get a few winks myself, somebody began to snore. It was a very small and inoffensive snore at first, but it kept growing stronger and louder, and bimeby it settled into one of the loudest and the most strangulating snores that you ever heard. The boys stood it for a few minutes, and then two of them got up, and going to the berth where the Jew slept, which was a lower berth in about the middle of the car, they pulled the curtains open and gave him a good shaking, telling him that unless he slopped that snore, and slept more like a Christian and less like a pedlar, his days were numbered. The man was considerable frightened, and he allowed that he was very sorry and wouldn't do it again. But the boys hadn't left him alone more than ten minutes before the snoring broke out worse than ever.

"Thishyer insulting of innocent young women has got to be stopped," says one of the miners. "Get that cuss out of his berth, somebody, and set him up on the wood box. I'll attend to him for the first two hours, and after that one of you fellows will relieve me." So saying the miner gets on his legs, and two other miners having roused up the Jew and set him on the wood box, the chap that took the first watch sat down in front of him with his pistol in his hand and told the Jew that if he snored a single snore he would find himself where the climate was too warm for the ready made clothing trade.

"There had been considerable noise made in the process of waking up and hauling him out of his berth, for it appears that he was dreaming at the time, and took a notion that the boys were attempting some kind of violent action. He was quiet enough when he saw the miner with the revolver sitting in front of him, and for a little while the car was as quiet as you please. It wasn't long before the miner who was on guard began to nod, and presently he was sound asleep. The Jew seeing this, leaned back against the side of the car, and settled himself for another nap; and to tell the truth, I dropped asleep myself.

"I was waked up by a scream from the Jew. The miner had him by the throat and was choking him pretty considerable. Feeling that it was my duty to protect passengers from harm, I asked the miner what the Jew had been doing. 'Snoring,' says he, 'and he knows very well that we ought to drop him off the train without any more words. Don't you know that, you ruffianly insulter of women?' he adds, letting go of the Jew's throat so that he could answer.

"Well! the Jew, he swore that he hadn't snored the least particle in the world; that is, since he had been sitting on the wood box. 'I was wide awake ail the time,' says he, knowing that the miner had been asleep and couldn't contradict him. 'It's somebody else that's doing the snoring and I was listening to him when you woke up and grabbed me.' 'This is worse and worse,' said the miner. 'Not content with snoring like a low beast, and keeping an innocent and beautiful young lady awake with your disgustin' uproar, you are trying to lay it on to gentlemen. You'll now point out the man you charge with snoring, and I'll tell you right here, that unless you prove your accusation that there man will take you out on the platform and hang you without any further nonsense.' 'I can't tell you the precise man who was snoring,' said the Jew, 'but I can show you the berth where the snoring came from. It's the berth just above mine, and if you gentlemen want to show fair play you'll wait a little while, and see if the snoring begins again. If it does you can catch the guilty man red handed; and if it doesn't, all I can say is that I am ready to take an oath before any magistrate that I'm not the man who has been snoring in thishyer car.'

"The boys considered over the matter for awhile, most of them being for hanging the Jew at once, and paying no attention to his charges. But the leader of the gang remarked that a grave charge, affecting their honor as gentlemen, had been made, and that although nobody had any doubt that it was a lie, it must be judicially investigated. So it was agreed that everybody should wait for half an hour, and if at the end of that time no snoring was heard, the Jew should be disposed of in any way that the majority might select.

"They hadn't very long to wait, for in about ten minutes the snoring began again. It came from the identical berth pointed out by the Jew, and you never saw a more disgusted looking set of men that the dozen or so miners that sat and stood and listened to the sound. They were ashamed of having made a mistake in accusing the Jew, and they were still more sorry that any one of their own number should have been guilty of disturbing the whole car load of passengers, and especially the young woman.

"Whose berth is that?" said the leader.

"Nobody knew, though it was generally thought that it was Old Plunkett's. Just at that minute, however, Old Plunkett turned out from a berth near the end of the car, so it was clear he wasn't the guilty man.

"'It doesn't make any difference whose berth it is,' said one of the men. 'There is some heaven forsaken vagabond who is snoring in that there berth in the presence of a young lady, and if he was my own brother I'd be the first one to convince him of the error of his ways. I propose that we go to that there berth and catch the miscreant red nosed, as our Jewish friend here remarks. Just take him by the feet and drag him out. We can then hold a little Lynch court in this end of the car, and settle the thing in decent

"This satisfied the views of the other miners, and the whole gang of them went softly to the berth. The snoring was worse than ever, for it had got to be of the choking variety. You'd have sworn that the snorer was choking to death to hear the gaspings, and the stranglings, and the sighings that came from that berth. However, that kind of snoring is never directly fatal, though it is followed by fatal consequences on sleeping cars, as I've already given you to understand.

"One of the miners was just going to give the word for hauling the snorer out of the berth, when all of a sudden the curtains opened, and a young woman looked out with a sort of scared expression on her face. If you will believe what I say, that there snorer wasn't any miner whatsoever, nor yet any other sort of masculine miscreant, as you might say. The whole of that snoring had been done by that identical pretty young woman that the boys had been wanting to protect.

"She saw in a minute that something was up, but put on a stern sort of countenance, like a school mistress addressing a lot of bad boys, and she said, "G'way! or I'll call the conductor." The boys didn't wait for any further orders, but they just bolted out of the car. The Jew went to his berth chuckling to himself, and remarking that he meant to sue the company for damages. As for me, I kept out of sight round the corner of the washroom, for I didn't seem to care about being mixed up in the business. The girl sat up a little while, as if she was waiting for another interview with the boys, but as they didn't seem to have any further desire to cultivate her acquaintance, she drew the curtains together again, and the concert recommenced. The Jew, and she, and I had the sleeping car to ourselves for the rest of the night, and when we got to Chicago, the miners sneaked out of the smoking car on to the platform as if they had been caught picking pockets, and were afraid of the police.

"This story that I have been telling you goes to show that women can snore even when they're young and good looking. I wouldn't have believed it unless I had heard it with my own ears. In my opinion, however, it is a thing that young unmarried men ought to know. If I hadn't happened to have been aboard that there sleeping car on that identical night, I might perhaps have been a married man myself before now. What I say to you is, never despise any sort of knowledge. It's always liable to work in handy at some time, and protect you from one sort of harm or another."

_______________

21: Killer's Can't Fly

Edward Parrish Ware

1883-1949

Thrilling Adventures, March 1939

Prolific American pulp writer from the 1920s until the mid-1940s.

WHEN Tom Hale, U. S. Public Lands patrolman, looked out from under the weighted branches of his sheltering juniper and saw that the first snowstorm of the winter in the Arkansas L'Anguile Swamp was over, it was exactly midnight.

He shouldered rifle and pack and pushed off through a twelve-inch blanket of snow. Snow which would make his immediate job even more hazardous than he had anticipated— would inject desperate risk into an already dangerous undertaking.

Five miles northwest of the sheltering juniper his trek would come to an end—

Hale stopped abruptly. Crossing the unbroken expanse of his trail ahead, like holes punched in a sheet of white paper, were newly laid tracks. Fresh tracks of a human being. He thrust his fingers down into one of them, touched hard-pack with no fluff on it.

"Five minutes ago, maybe ten," he surmised, standing still and scanning the snow in all directions. His survey was hindered by a heavy growth of swamp juniper, the trees suggesting rotund, sheeted ghosts, with here and there a green undergarment showing. He could see no movement, hear no sound.

He walked on, covered three hundred yards, then stopped again. Cutting across the line of his course was another set of tracks, pointing in the same general direction as the first set had done. But the second trail had not been broken by the person who laid the first. The stride of this one was much shorter, the punctures in the snow-sheet less deep. No snow had fallen in them either. They had been made at or near the time the first set was laid.

The patrolman shrugged and struck out, but not in the direction the tracks pointed. He continued to head toward his objective on the east bank of Little Redbone Bayou. The puzzle of the two snow trails could work itself out. Perhaps was doing so, somewhere in the jungle's cover.

Little Redbone lay two miles ahead. And Shawnee Hargett was holed up on the east bank of the bayou in Frenchy Ladue's abandoned cabin. Hale's information on that point was certain. And holed up with the coldblooded slayer of two railway mail clerks was the loot he had taken from them— one hundred thousand dollars in currency. The Federal authorities wanted Hargett badly, and the loot along with him.

The patrolman stopped at length at the east side of a small clearing, and looked across the snow at what was visible of the old Ladue cabin. A black huddle was all he could see.

He sprinted across the short distance between the brush and the door of a lean-to kitchen— and two black-and-tan hounds gave savage alarm. He jerked the latchstring, a jump ahead of them, slapped the door open and leaped into the house. A dark, silent house. Closing the door, he moved on silent feet through the darkness. He located the doorway into the remaining room, then found a table on which was a lamp. He laid a hand on the chimney, then jerked it away quickly. The globe was hot!

"If you come closer, I'll shoot!"

The threat, vibrant with fear, suspense, desperation, came out of the darkness across the room. The voice was a woman's!

HALE remained against the table, hand on the bowl of the lamp.

"I won't come closer," he assured her. "And don't you shoot. We need a light!"

He removed the chimney, touched a match to the wick, and turned to find the woman.

She stood crouching in a corner— and if ever the patrolman had seen stark fear in a human countenance hers had it. As he stood staring, the look of fear lessened on her features. Surprise took its place. Whoever she had feared, it was not Tom Hale. Her right hand, inside the front of a woolly jacket, relaxed and was nearly withdrawn. She was not going to pull her pistol.

A girl of the swamp country, trousered and booted. Her black eyes, under a low forehead crowned with a cap of red wool which confined her closely cropped black hair, were demanding now. Her small, pointed chin was lifted stubbornly, and the set of her red-lipped mouth was as suggestive as the chin. In her late 'teens, probably, but already seasoned by the swamp woman's unflagging resistance. She continued standing there in the far corner, looking at the patrolman from questioning eyes.

"Here all alone?" Hale asked, his scrutiny finished.

The girl tried to speak, choked— then pointed to the floor in front of the fireplace.

Hale had already seen the body. A man lay there, eyes open and fixed on the shingles above. There was a ragged hole in his forehead where a bullet had torn through. Hale walked to him.

He checked closely enough. Hargett, no doubt. A small hole at the base of the brain indicated the caliber of the revolver used. A .38.

"Where are you from? Barwick's Settlement, up the bayou?" he asked the girl.

SHE jerked her small head affirmatively, but made no other reply. She just stood and waited, eyes again fear haunted.

"Acquainted with Lance Barwick, up there?"

The girl's eyes jumped, her lids flickered, and her small hands, already fists, clenched tighter still.

"Lance Barwick is my father," she admitted, a tremor in her voice.

"Pretty well acquainted with Shawnee Hargett?" he asked, nodding toward the body on the floor.

"Cliff Bonner!" she contradicted promptly.

"My mistake," Hale apologized meekly. "Please excuse it! How long have you known Harg—pardon me again, Bonner?"

"About six months, right after he came in here."

Tom Hale seized her wrist quickly, thrust a hand inside her woolly jacket and plucked out a .38 revolver. He walked to the front door, opened it and looked down at the doorlog. The snow on it had been trampled by human feet and those of the dogs. He could read no clear sign there. But day had dawned bleakly, and his survey of the snow-sheet in the clearing told him a very definite story. The two black-and-tans, not savage now, slunk inside, tails tucked, shivering from cold. Hale closed the door.

"What's your first name?" he asked the girl.

"Ruthie," she choked, her eyes less hot. "Ruthie Barwick!"

"Ruthie," he said, "one man crossed the clearing into this cabin after the snow began falling last night. He didn't go out again. You came in later, went away, lost yourself in the timber, and came back here. No other tracks, except those of the dogs, in the snow until I came. The chap you call Bonner is dead. Murdered. Do you deny that you killed him?"

"I didn't! He was dead, right there on the floor," she cried, pointing an unsteady finger. "He was still warm! I left, and then got scared I'd meet Pap on the bayou. If he'd missed me, he'd be after me, and he'd figger out exactly where to look. I got lost in the storm, trying to go back home a new way, and backtracked to the cabin to get a new start. That's all. He was dead when I came first, just like you see him now!"

Hale's smile lost nothing of its skepticism.

"So this Bonner committed suicide, eh?" he suggested sarcastically.

"He could have!" she sobbed. "Kind of awkward, shooting himself in the back of the head. Besides, the death gun was a thirty-eight— just like yours— and Bonner's is a forty-four. He was murdered. Why did you come here, in the first place?" abruptly.

"Cliff and me was going to run away together last night," she managed through the sobs. "I hid out in a willow thicket below Pap's cabin, and waited for him. He didn't come, so I went down the bayou to find out why. And— and he was dead, like I told you!"

"While you were lost and trailing around in the timber," Hale asked abruptly, "did you have a feeling that somebody else was out there? Somebody who trailed along with you—"

The effect on the girl was astounding.

"No!" she shrieked, her eyes distended agonizedly. "Nobody did! Nobody was out there! Please," in supplication, "say there wasn't nobody follering me last night!"

One of the hounds lifted suddenly from the floor, growled throatily and trotted to a window on the west. Hale followed. The girl, Hale's eyes off her for the moment, darted swiftly into the kitchen. She was tearing at the door latch when he overtook her and carried her bodily back into the big room.

"Who are you so afraid of?" he asked, putting her down in a rocker. "Please let me go," she panted. "I don't want to stay here— and— and be killed! I want to go home. Please— can't I go?"

Hale stood by the window, watching. The hound was barking in short, throaty yaps. As yet he saw nobody.

"Nobody will kill you here," he assured her. "I'll take care of you. Who are you afraid will try it?"

"You won't take care of me!" Ruthie accused hopelessly. "You think I killed Bonner!"

"No," Hale told her. "I don't think you did. The tracks in the snow declare that you and you alone could have done so, but I'm convinced you didn't. But that isn't enough. I've got to prove you didn't— else take you to jail. I don't like the thought of that."

"Jail?" she queried, almost whispering. "Why— they don't put women folks in the jailhouse, do they?"

"For murder, yes."

Both hounds broke into a fury of barking.

Hale wheeled, a gun drawn. The front door latch clicked, and the door slammed back.

"Drop it!" Hale snapped— and thrust his six-gun forward. A tall, bulky, well wrapped man had stepped from doorlog to sill. Startled, his relaxed fingers dropped the gun he had in his hand. He stared at the patrolman, his dark eyes wide, his lips peeled back from strong, white teeth. Hale had never seen the man before.

"All right," he said, "come in and close the door!"

"So here's where yuh are, huh?" the swamper snarled at the girl, walking in and closing the door.

"Where I am ain't any business of yours, Lee Ruffner!" Ruthie scorned shrilly. "Howcome you here, anyhow?"

"Hunting for you, if yuh must know! And I done found yuh, too, ain't I?"

"After you lost her trail in the timber last night?" Hale put in quietly. "That about right?"

"Was it you that follered me last night, Lee Ruffner?" Ruthie demanded accusingly.

"I didn't foller nobody!"

"You're lying," Hale told him calmly.

THEN Ruffner saw the dead man on the floor. His long body jerked stiffly erect. He stared hard, walked over and looked down at the dead face.

"So," he shrugged, turning away, "the damned skunk's dead, eh? Good riddance to bad rubbage, if yuh ask me!"

"Murdered," Hale said laconically. "Who done it?"

"Ruthie."

"I didn't!" Ruthie wailed protestingly.

"Of course Ruthie didn't!" Ruffner cried in angry support. "And yuh, want to be careful, feller, how yuh accuse the gal I'm aiming to marry!"

"But I ain't aiming to marry with you, Lee Ruffner!" Ruthie blazed indignantly.

"Yuh will, though," confidently. "Your pap and me has done fixed that up. Far as that goes," boastingly, "I picked yuh for myself when I first come into this section, six months ago. I take what I want. But that ain't important now. What's all this about killing that trash yonder?"

He nodded contemptuously toward the dead man on the floor.

"I'll tell you about that later," Hale told him. "Sit down. I'll look things over a bit. Pretty soon we'll all go up to the village."

Ruffner gave the patrolman a sour look, but sat down as ordered. Hale picked the newcomer's gun off the floor and pocketed it. The swamper grinned bleakly, but said nothing.

Hale saw very quickly that the two rooms had recently been searched. In the kitchen he found that packages had been opened, a sack of flour probed, the woodbox emptied of its contents. No possible hiding place had been overlooked. And the patrolman knew what that meant. Hargett's loot had been hunted for— and probably found. He started back into the big room, and noticed more distinctly a crumbly substance underfoot which he had been vaguely aware of before.

He glanced down at the floor, then bent over for a closer look. Sawdust. A heap of new sawdust was on the floor near the table.

That was odd. For there was nothing in either room which showed signs of having been recently cut. Yet something certainly had been. Hale poked at the dead ashes in the fireplace, and discovered some charred bits of wood which certainly looked like parts of the frame of a chair. The charred bits had been varnished as was the still remaining chair. Somebody had sawed up Hargett's kitchen chair— and had then burned the sections in the fireplace. That just did not make sense!

His glance rested idly on something which he had marked before, but which had not made any specific impression. Suddenly it did. What lay, on the table was a nickeled belt buckle, a thin strip of leather adhering to it to show that the belt of which it had been a part had recently been cut. Hale's glance dropped to the body of the man before the fireplace.

THERE were no suspenders over the shoulders, and the belt was missing from about the middle. In a flash the chair, the belt buckle, and the leather belt all came together and made sense to the patrolman.

Hale was suddenly wary. He needed nobody to tell him that what he now knew amounted to a warrant for his own swift and sudden death. One man had been killed; the death of another would be neither here nor there to the murderer.

The black-and-tans gave tongue loudly. Hale leaped to a window and glanced out. He was barely in time to see a figure glide into cover back of a bush. Over the top of another clump of shrubbery he saw a shapeless black felt hat. He wheeled to ask Ruffner a question— and found Ruthie at his elbow. She, too, had been looking out the window.

Her face was paler than ever, and there was abject fear in her eyes.

"Pap's out there!" she whimpered. "He's back of that clump of buck brush. I saw him. I'm afraid of Pap, Mr. Patrolman— awful afraid!"

"And with mighty good reason to be!" Ruffner spat angrily. "Afraid of him and me both— or yuh oughta be!"

Hale walked to the door, threw it open and called: "Come in, Lance Barwick! No use skulking out there. The man you want is dead!"

A moment of silence, then two men emerged into view and walked swiftly into the cabin. Both of them were known casually to the patrolman. Both started when they saw the dead man on the floor, but concerning him neither made comment.

Lance Barwick, shaggy haired, pig eyed, in middle life, had a savage, threatening look on his swarthy face. His hot eyes found the girl who cowered in her chair, and he swore savagely. Joe Brant, the young native, spoke warningly to him, then looked inquiringly at Hale.

With customary native stoicism the three men listened attentively while Hale sketched briefly the situation up to that moment. When he made his point about the telltale trails outside in the snow, he saw that the impression made went deep. The evidence against the girl was conclusively direct. But they made no comment.

"Now," Hale went on briskly, "the single trail made in the snow by the man who came in was not that of the man called Cliff Bonner. Bonner had not been out in the snow. That nearly filled trail was made by the person who murdered Bonner."

"Well— where at is he now?" young Brant asked, his face puzzled. "If he come in here and killed Bonner, then how did he go out of here again without laying a trail?"

"He couldn't!" Barwick declared. "Killers can't fly, no more than us fellers can. The patrolman is talking foolishment!"

"Patrolmen mostly always does talk foolishment," Lee Ruffner contributed. "This 'un ain't no different than his pardners!"

Hale merely grinned. "This man shot Bonner down, and then searched the house. Hargett, the bandit, was known to have rich loot with him, and this killing was done for the loot. After the search, the killer determined he would create a mystery which would forever put investigators off his trail— and he'd do that by going out of the cabin without leaving a trail!"

"Unless he had wings and could fly—" Barwick started to protest.

"He did it very simply," Hale cut in. "He sawed up a kitchen chair, and using the posts, plus a leather belt and a few nails, he fixed up a contraption which did the trick. In short, men, the killer walked away from here on a pair of stilts!"

THE faces of the men looked blank. As though they couldn't quite accept the amazing statement.

"Exactly that way!" Hale insisted. "He laid a trail to the bayou which looked exactly like the trail of a dog, a deer, or a wolf."

"Hell, yes!" Joe Brant shouted then. "Well— I'll be danged if that wasn't a cute one! His stilt holes looked exactly like the lugholes them dogs made all over everywhere!"

"And he got away with the loot that was hid here!" Lance Barwick broke in excitedly. "Yore job ain't done yet, Hale. Yuh figgered out how the killer got away, but yuh ain't got the loot."

"There was no loot here," Hale said queerly. "The search was just for a stall. The man you knew as Bonner—"

"Who was he," Lee Ruffner rasped, "if he wasn't Bonner?"

"At a guess," Hale said thoughtfully, "I'd say he was Dud Ballew, Shawnee Hargett's sidekick who faded out of the picture a few months ago. When Shawnee came here and killed him last night," he went on calmly, "he did so for two reasons. One was to keep the loot all for himself. The other was because he thought Ruthie had fallen for him."

"Yuh claim that Shawnee Hargett is somewheres about, and that he done this here killing?" Brant demanded in astonishment.

"Yuh shore have lost yore mind!" Barwick offered in a daze.

"He's feeding us bunk!" Lee Ruffner snarled. "That dead man on the floor is Shawnee Hargett— and unless he killed himself, then Ruthie done it. Howcome yuh figger Hargett is alive, and hereabouts?"

"That stilt trick told me so," Hale obliged quietly. "An old Indian trick— to walk on forked sticks in snow and mud to conceal their trails. Hargett is half Indian— Shawnee."

"Pretty smart, mebbe," Ruffner scoffed. "But how d'yuh aim to pin the job on Hargett, granting there still is a Hargett alive?"

"A pair of boots will do that," Hale answered calmly. "Those chair posts he used for stilts were varnished. The killer's boots, where they rubbed the posts, will be smeared with it!"

UTTER silence greeted that astounding angle. Brant's jaw fell, and he stared steadily at the patrolman while comprehension took full hold. Barwick swore excitedly, and jerked his shaggy head in confirmation. Lee Ruffner seemed frozen in his chair.

Then, a savage oath blasting from his lips, he whipped one booted leg upwards, glanced at it, then flung the other up and looked at it. His black eyes swept straight to Hale's, flaring with a wild animal look, as he came to his feet in one pantherish motion, his gun flashing from his shirt bosom.

The patrolman's six-gun, drawn so swiftly as to elude the eye, roared once. The outlaw, his weapon muzzle up and exploding harmlessly toward the loft above, jumped convulsively in answer to the stunning report of the patrolman's gun, and his weapon thudded on the floor.

Hale's bullet had smashed through his right shoulder, stunning him by its force. Hale was on him instantly. He pushed him savagely back into the chair, and snapped cuffs on the killer's wrists.

Ruthie gave one wild, frightened cry— and flew to the opened arms of young Joe Brant, who folded her tight. Barwick walked over, stooped, and squinted inquiringly at the swamper's boots. He snapped erect.

"Hell's fire, Hale!" he bleated. "There ain't no varnish on them there boots!"

"Varnish doesn't rub off, unless a chemical is used," Hale informed him quietly, with a grin. "But Shawnee Hargett didn't know that. So he walked right into the trap and gave himself away. Now," he finished, yanking the wounded killer to his feet, "we'll go to the village and have a look in the cabin of Hargett, alias Ruffner. Ten to one we'll find the loot hidden there."

And they did.

________________

22: Hell's Back Room

Edward Parrish Ware

Thrilling Detective Oct 1934

1: "One Drop Kills!"

"IT IS not the usual snatch racket we are up against, Dugan," Fred Hammond, Cave City's chief of police, explained when I arrived in answer to his S.O.S. "Morris Leffenwell, wealthy department store merchant, disappeared six months ago. Cordell, a lawyer, disappeared shortly thereafter. Burke, a taxi driver, went during the second month, to be followed a month later by Gant, a miner. Lastly, "Red" Wharton, star halfback of our Brownell College football team, vanished two weeks ago. They just disappeared, and no word of any kind has come from them.

"At two o'clock yesterday morning, Patrolman Kine picked up a man at the corner of Calumet and Main. He was a walking skeleton, face wasted and skin-drawn, hair and beard matted and long, and as white as cotton. He was naked except for the trunks of a pair of bibless overalls, and his feet were bare.

"Kine took his catch to Captain Rhulin, night chief of the dicks, but Rhulin was up a stump, too. He finally called in a barber, had the man's hair cut, his face shaved—  and recognized in him the lost merchant, Morris Leffenwell. Leffenwell was dying on his feet, his mind completely gone. His vocabulary consists of this one sentence: 'One—  drop— kills!'

"He mutters that and not another word. Now, Pat, that's the dope. What are you going to do about it?"

"I'll have a look at Leffenwell," I told him, "as a first step."

Leffenwell's family, as well as the public in general, had been kept in ignorance of his return, and the man himself was then in the emergency hospital at City Hall.

I had a look at him, and never have I seen anything in human form that aroused pity in me more than he. He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, lips moving silently.

Police Surgeon Lowe, who had first examined Leffenwell, came on call.

"Leffenwell cannot survive," he informed me. "I don't know to what his pitiable condition is due. His body has been poorly nurtured for a period of months, but I think the real seat of his trouble is mostly mental. That is all I can tell you."

Dr. Stanley Fyke, of Brownell College, came in shortly after Lowe arrived. He -was a tall, powerfully built man of forty or so, who had turned a highly trained mind upon subjects of psychological study, and his papers on his finding were widely read. He had viewed Leffenwell before.

"Unique in my experience," he told me. "Leffenwell has no conscious mind. It retains only one thought, and that is the thought he puts into words: 'one drop kills.' There is yet a center of the brain that functions, and in that center those three words are indelibly impressed. What caused it? Your guess, Dugan, is as good as mine."

In the office which had been put at my disposal during my stay at City Hall, I spent half an hour trying to think out a line of action. Then, at exactly an hour after midnight, the case began to break with startling rapidity.

AT half past twelve the office door crashed open, revealing Detective Captain Braden, greatly excited.

"Dugan," he exclaimed, "there's something wrong out at Professor Fyke's house! Central reported to the desk that a telephone out there had been knocked over and she can't get anybody to answer. She thinks she heard sounds of a fight!"

In just ten minutes running time, Braden parked his high-speed roadster on the campus before the modest cottage occupied by Doctor Stanley Fyke. There was a light in the hallway, and the ivory-hued curtains in the living-room betrayed a dim glow. We found the front door unlocked, and hurried in. The door of the living-room, on the left, stood ajar.

On a rug near the fireplace lay the limp form of Dr. Fyke. His eyes were closed, and he breathed laboriously.

"Grab that phone off the floor, Braden," I said. "Get Doc Lowe out here pronto. Tell Headquarters to send a squad car full of dicks."

Braden leaped to obey, and I gave closer attention to the man on the floor. He appeared to be asleep; no sign of a wound on him. Drugged, that was it. Another moment and I spied a hypodermic, glass shattered and needle snapped off, lying between an andiron and a side wall of the fireplace. I retrieved the hypo and sniffed at it cautiously. Chloral!

Fyke, who was coatless, had had his shirt torn almost from his body. There had been a struggle in the room.

There was nobody in hiding inside the house, no servant there, and we found no windows unlatched. The kitchen door, however, was unlocked. We quickly determined that no robbery had been committed.

When' the police arrived, Dr. Lowe made a quick examination.

"Drugged," he announced. "Acts like chloral, and that hypo smells like it. He's deep down, and will continue so for a considerable time."

Why had Professor Fyke been attacked? Did it hook up with the Lefffenwell case? Was it in the cards that the snatcher of men had not' finished yet, and that others were slated to go?

I could only believe that such was the case. That an attempt had been made to carry off Fyke, and that the falling of the telephone, which might give alarm, had balked it.

But for a lucky break, Fyke might even then be entering that silence from which Leffenwell had just returned !

2: Death Makes an Entrance

DR. FYKE, when he awakened that morning, could tell but little.

"He was hiding behind the draperies of the sitting-room bay window," tle professor related. "A big man, near six feet in height. He wore a tightly buttoned coat of some kind of rubberized black cloth that came to his ankles. A mask, probably of the same material, and a black beret of shiny cloth was pulled low over his head. He wore gloves. There was not one part of him unconcealed, but, during the struggle, I got the notion that a short beard covered his chin under the mask. An injection ended my resistance quickly. That is all I can tell you."

I got a bit of information from Fyke that sounded good to me. 1 learned that Dr. Hardwick Cantrell, nationally known psychiatrist, formerly practicing in Kansas City, now retired, was living in Cave City. If Leffenwell's condition had a name Cantrell should certainly be able to identify it. I had a slight acquaintance with the famous man, and decided to call on him.

Following directions, I drove out to the Cantrell home, a big stone mansion which stood in gloomy solitude on the brow of a hill.

A negro butler showed me. into a small sitting-room, and a.few minutes later Dr. Hardwick Cantrell came in.

Hardwick Cantrell was a large man of forty-five or fifty, standing just under six feet in height. His shoulders were broad, waist line narrow, no fat upon him. Eyes, hair and Vandyke were coal black, without so much as a thread of grey. His manner was stiff, formal, chilling. He recognized me, but was not at all pleased when I stated my business and requested his aid.

"IT is utterly out of the question,"  came the brusque refusal. "I am at this time engaged in certain laboratory tests vital to the final chapters of a treatise I am finishing. I can permit no foreign matter to intrude."

"Okay, Doc," I replied. "Sorry to interrupt your work."

I removed my objectional person from the doctor's house, and would have been off his grounds in another couple of minutes but for a pair of swift feet which overtook me. They bore the bewitching person of Miss Lacy Cantrell, only child of the widowed .specialist.

"Mr. Dugan," she said, drawing me around where the car would screen us from the house, "I want to apologize for father's rudeness a moment ago! I'm sorry!"

"That makes everything all fine again," I told her.

"And," she went on hurriedly, "I want to talk with you about the thing that brought you here. Red- Jack Wharton, and I have been engaged for almost a year. I know he did not disappear of his own accord," she said earnestly. "He— he cared too much for me. You will find him for me, won't you?"

"I'll do my best," I assured her, "When you saw Red last, did he appear worried about anything?"

"NOTHING, except he was blue over father's forbiding him the house. Father objected to our engagement, and for no reason in the world except that he thinks I'm too young for marriage. You will get him back for me, won't you?"

"I'll get him for you, my dear," I told her. "In the meantime, I'm down at City Hall, if you want me."

Five minutes after I returned to my office, Captain Braden barged in. His red face had taken on a deeper crimson.

"Dugan," he exclaimed, kicking the door shut behind him, "we got more grief! There's a stiff parked in a vacant house on Chataqua Road— and he's naked as a picked sparrow, except for a pair of them same kinda overalls, hacked off above the knees, that Leffenwell had on! Laying right in the middle of the front room floor, with his hands crossed on his chest, just like he'd been laid out by an undertaker!"

"Who discovered the body?" I snapped, reaching for my hat.

"A tile setter named Powell. Somebody called him up last night and told him to call at the house and size up a job of tile work in the fireplace in the sitting-room. He called, found the door unlocked, and the stiff like I told you."

We drove to Chataqua Road with siren blaring, and pulled up five minutes later in front of an isolated frame house of two stories and an attic. Powell, the tile setter, awaited us on the porch.

Lying in the center of the floor of the sitting room, was the body of a man of middle age. His face was a mask of agony. The eyes were wide open, fixed in the stare of death. The thin lips were drawn back, exposing clenched teeth, yellow and stained. His body was bare, except for the mutilated overalls about his middle.

"It's Sam Gant, the missing miner!" Braden said croakingly. "Shave off the beard, and it's him! We got a picture of him!"

Sam Gant was the third man of the five to disappear.

"POISON," Police Surgeon Lowe declared, when he arrived. "Cyanide, strychnine, aconite, prussic acid. All act like that. God, Dugan, what's happening, anyhow?"

"It's our job to find out," I answered quietly. "Powell, here, was steered to the place this morning for the sole purpose of discovering the body on the floor. The pretense of a tiling job was obviously a stall. Whoever put the body here, wanted it discovered today, and arranged for it."

That it was not suicide was immediately plain to the trained observer. There was nothing in the room that might have contained the poison. Gant, dying in agony as his face betrayed, lay with his body composed and his hands folded on his breast That shouted loudly of the presence after death of a second person.

Braden and I made a minute investigation of the house and the grounds around it, but learned nothing. We returned to Headquarters.

Directly after I entered my office, I sent for "Silent" Jim Brady. He was the most insignificant looking
sleuth the Police Department had on its roster— and one of the ablest.

"Brady," I said, "get me all you can about Dr. Hardwick Cantrell. You can't be too soon with the dope."

"Gotcha, Pat," said Jim, and went out as silently as he had come in.

Some time later, Dr. Lowe, police surgeon, called. His face wore a worried look, and he gave me a wry grimace.

"I've got to bust things all up on that poison conclusion," he said regretfully. "There is not the slightest trace of poison of any kind in Sam Gant's body."

That was a jolt!

"How about the condition of the heart?" I asked.

"Nothing serious there."

"The stomach— anything there?"

"Food in sufficient quantity to sustain life."

"Then Sam Gant died at the hands of a murderer," I snapped. "Verify your findings beyond dispute, and let me know what you find that's new, if anything. Murder cannot be done without leaving at least a slight trace, and it's up to you to find it!"

3: The Snatcher Comes—  and Goes

ALL the daily newspapers that afternoon informed the public of the attack on Fyke, and the finding of the body of Gant. Since the Gant autopsy had revealed death from natural causes, the information was to that effect. That was as I wanted it.

Just before I departed for supper that evening, at six o'clock, Charles Loubin, a druggist doing business in the slum section, who had long been suspected of trafficking in narcotics, made an interesting report to the detective bureau.

Mr. Loubin reported the theft, three months in the past, of a case of six hypodermics and a quantity of chloral hydrate. Queried as to why he had not reported the theft sooner, he was vague in his explanation.

Had the reported appearance of a hypo in the Fyke case a bearing on Loubin's decision to report the theft? At any rate, I had Loubin trailed.

It was while I was eating supper that night that I got a hunch. Maybe I could learn something by doing a bit of prowling on the Cantrell estate. Right after dark I parked my car on a rutted country road back of an iron fence which enclosed the property, cooned the fence and took my bearings from a cover of a patch of shrubbery, sharp eyes out for Silent Jim Brady. I did not want to seem to interfere with his end.

BELOW me, in a depression, the waters of a small lake glimmered in the light of an early moon. In the distance I saw the roof and chimneys of the house, the lower portions being masked by thickly growing trees.

Something moved among the trees and presently a woman appeared, walking toward the lake. She walked slowly, contemplatively, and sat down on a bench near the water. A closer view revealed her identity. She was Lacy Cantrell. Her presence there would afford me an opportunity to buzz her about certain things in my mind.

At that moment, from a spot farther up the lake, a man appeared. He stood gazing an instant, then slipped back into the brush.

In the brief glimpse I had of him I could determine only that he was a big man. In build he suggested Doc Cantrell.

I waited where I was. Three or four minutes later I saw the skulker again. He was creeping up behind Lacy Cantrell careful not to betray his presence. I got a clearer view, of him, then, and saw that he answered the description Fyke had given of his attacker, raincoat, mask and snugly fitting beret. Then I got into action.

Running swiftly, making as little noise as possible, I circled the east end of the small lake, gained cover in the growth of trees on its edge, and made my way toward where the young girl sat. But the snatcher was there before me.

"Help! Help!"

The plea, followed instantly by an ear-piercing scream, came from the lips of Lacy Cantrell.

I sprinted forward. As I broke from cover near the bench, I caught sight of her. Lacy was running like the wind toward the upper end of the lake, and the black-coated figure was in swift pursuit.

I whipped a gun up and fired. Not at the pursuer, for to do that would put the girl in danger.

The effect of the report on the snatcher was immediate and as I had hoped for. He stopped dead in his tracks, shot a glance back in my direction, then plunged aside into cover. The girl disappeared from view at the same time, having reached the grove of trees which bordered the rear of the house.

On my right grew heavy clumps of bushes, and I leaped to cover among them, intending to circle toward the place where I last had seen the running man— but I didn't reach the place.

SOMETHING leaped upon me from behind. I heard guttural growls of rage— and the next instant a vicious blow on the crown of my head sent me to the ground in a limp heap.

Sirens were wailing when I came back to consciousness. I sat up, gathering my wits again. Whoever had attacked me had disappeared. Strange, I thought, that he should have gone without finishing me. Had something scared him off before he had time to make the job final?

I GOT up, wiped the blood off my face and out of my eyes, and went off on erratic legs toward the house. Captain Rhulin and a squad of dicks had arrived, and a second police car, containing Braden and two more sleuths, was coming up the hill, siren going, when I rounded onto the porch.

"Where is Miss Cantrell?" I demanded of Rhulin, who stood staring at me with mouth open.

"I'm not knowin'!" he exclaimed. "We joost got here! She telephoned, but th' connection was busted before she finished talkin'. What th' hell's been goin' on, Pat?"

"The Snatcher," I replied grimly. "He came— and he went. He chased Miss Cantrell, but she got away. Has anybody here seen Silent Jim Brady?"

"No. An' he hasn't reported tonight," Rhulin informed me.

That looked bad. What had happened to Brady?

At that instant a car rolled up the drive, stopped, and Dr. Hardwick Cantrell got out. The doctor was in a rage.

"Why this intrusion?" he demanded, his eyes fiery. "Is there no way in which I can protect my place from intrusions on the part of the police?"

"I suggest that you pipe down. Doctor," I told him. "Miss Cantrell has just barely escaped being kidnaped. That explains the cops."

"You are all worked up over nothing!" Cantrell fumed. "My daughter has been reading the wild reports in the newspapers. She has imagined an attempt—"

"No, Father! I was sitting by
the lake, and somebody attempted to catch me!"

Miss Cantrell stood in the door, eyes frightened, face pale.

"But surely. Lacy—" Cantrell began to protest.

"I saw the attempt," I interrupted.

"And somebody cut the telephone wire before I got through talking to Headquarters," Lacy informed him.

Cantrell's face became grave, at that, and his anger appeared to cool.

"If that is true," he said, "precautions must be taken."

"And will be," I assured him. "I shall leave men on guard."

Cantrell started to object, but thought better of it. He nodded.

"By the way, Doctor," I asked, "Where were you when the attack took place?"

"It is none of your business," he answered stiffly, "but I was calling at Professor Fyke's. He was not at home, however. Any more impudent questions?"

"No. You can trot along, Doc," I answered. "That's all."

Lacy Cantrell accompanied me out on the porch, bidding me good night.

"What is the nature of the work upon which Dr. Cantrell is engaged?" I asked her.

"It's another of those scientific books of his, Mr. Dugan."

"And the title, do you know it?"

"Yes," came the answer. "It is entitled: 'Reactions of the Human Brain.' A dry and tiresome subject, don't you think?"

MY reply did not come at once. The darkness hid the expression on my face, and the girl did not see to what extent her information had startled me.

"On the contrary, Miss Lacy," I said, "I think it a very interesting subject. The title of the book, too, is most striking. I might say that it stirs my curiosity deeply."

I returned to Headquarters, pulse beating high with eagerness for action. Action, I foresaw, would not be long in coming!

4: "This is Murder"

I BECAME more uneasy about Silent Jim Brady as the hours passed. I knew it was likely that Brady had prowled the Cantrell grounds in preparation for a secret entry to the house that night. Had the Snatcher met Brady there in the seclusion of the big estate? And if so, had Brady come to harm?

I ordered out every man available, with instructions to comb the city. Everything possible must be done to find Brady— before a terrible fate overtook him.

Captain Rhulin took personal command of the searching squads, and I lay down on a couch in the office to get what sleep I could.

At four o'clock Rhulin aroused me.

"Come a-joompin', Pat!" the big fellow exclaimed wrathfully. "We've found anither wan!"

"Anither what?" I demanded. "Anither dead wan! A boonch that was searchin' for Silent Brady found this wan in anither vacant house. Dead on th' flure, arms folded acrost his chist, same as Gant's was. But there's more of it. There's a note av some kind pinned to him. Pinned through th' skin av his chist!"

We were off at once for the house in which the dead man was. On the way, Rhulin delivered his opinion of the whole matter:

"Thim five lads has bin right down into hell, Pat. Wan come back, minus his brains. Two more are back, with nothin' at all, at all! Five has wint, an' three has returned— all three wit' th' mark of th' divil upon thim! An' take me word for it, whin we get thim other two lads back from hell, they'll have thim same divil's marks on thim, too!"

We drew up before a vacant house in the suburbs, and went in.

On the floor of the basement, lying with body composed, hands crossed on his breast, was the corpse of a man.

"It's Burke, th' taxi driver, and th' fourth wan to vanish!" Rhulin declared.

I knelt down and scanned a piece of limp paper which had been afi fixed to the dead man's breast by means of a pin thrust through the skin.

On the paper were these printed words:

You poor dumbells— this is murder!

That note let in some light. Whoever was doing this business took pride in it. Wanted the people to know that what had been termed, in Gant's case, death from natural causes, was murder!

What sort of fiend was this killer, anyhow?

THERE was nothing I could do there, so I returned to my office. On my desk was the report basket from the detective division. I started sorting through the reports, and almost at once a sidelight of humor was played across the grim events of the day. It was in the nature of a report from Detective Sergeant Holt. It read:

Captain Braden:

I was called to the storage warehouse of the Leffenwell Department Store at two o'clock this afternoon. Informed of a queer theft that took place nobody knows even approximately when. Twelve dummies, show window display figures, all males, were stored there six months ago. They became old and out of date. Nothing else is missing. Just the twelve male dummies. I assigned Carpenter and Hale to the case, and respectfully report same.

Holt, Sergt. 2nd day relf.

That report gave me a hearty laugh. And then, abruptly, I ceased to laugh. Leffenwell's storage warehouse had been entered and twelve old and useless store dummies taken. Was it just a coincidence that the dummies had been stolen from Morris Leffenwell, who was himself but little better in mind and body than his own lay figures? How, in the name of sanity, could there be any connection between the disappearance of the dummies and the snatching of their owner?

A call came through, and I lifted the receiver.

"Pat," Captain Rhulin informed me excitedly, "Inspector Bell has just reported a thrace, or possible thrace, av Silent. He thinks he's afther havin' him turnin' up two hours ago at th' upper end of th' Siventeen Hundred block on Wather Sthreet. Will ye be afther takin' th' run, or will I?"

"Call Thompson, Cap," I instructed. "I'll make the run myself."

Thompson was the chauffeur assigned to me.

I would trust nothing so porten- tious in possibilities to anybody else— for I had a hunch that when Silent Jim Brady was found, if found he should be and in possession of his senses, the case would be in the bag.

5:  10-27-32-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10

WATER STREET is a short thoroughfare which begins three blocks south of the Missouri River and it ends on a high bluff over-looking the stream. Its old shells of houses have long been given over to squatters, homeless dogs, and rats. Inspector Bell and his assistant met me halfway down the block.

"An old chap living at the upper end of the block told me that he saw a man answering Silent's description at about eleven o'clock last night," he reported. "He passed under the light at the corner right after a big sedan had gone this way. That seems to check. Only two old shells in this block are occupied. The one where the old man lives, and Number 1754, down the block and across the street. Rabbit Sam, a dwarf, lives there."

"Let's go see the rabbit hombre," I said.

Number 1754 stands well back from the walk, and Inspector Bell hammered on the front door until it was opened. Rabbit Sam stood in the dim light of a single dirty incandescent in the hall.

A DWARF, Bell had designated him, but he was a dwarf in height only. About five feet tall, he was almost as broad as he was long. His arms reached far down toward the floor, ending in hands like a giant's. His head was a huge bullet in shape, with seagrass hair standing erect all over it. Blue eyes, set close together, twinkled beneath heavy grey brows, and his mouth was a wide, loose-lipped gash.

"Sam," Bell told him, "we're police officers, and we're looking for a man."

"I ain't got none here, mister," Sam whined in a high, squeaky voice. "Nothin' here, sir, but rab- bicks. Yuh mebbe take some rab- bicks? Fine an' fat, they be, sir."

I pushed by him, and was nearly floored by the disgusting odors that assailed my nostrils. Rabbits in hutches everywhere. We prowled the house from cellar to attic, and found nothing whatever.

I questioned the dwarf closely, but could not get him to admit having seen a man that night who answered the description of Brady.

"He was along here about eleven o'clock," I urged. "Try and remember—"

"Good gosh, mister!" Sam exclaimed. "I went to bed nigh about ten, las' night, an' ain't been outten bed since then. I couldn't of seed no man."

I WAS standing near a small table which was littered with papers, soiled dishes and other articles. With my glance resting on something I had discovered there, I asked: "Sure you went to bed at ten, and have not been up since?"

"I done just that, mister," Sam declared. "Never even heared no sound, ontil you gent'mens wokened me up. So help me God!"

I sat on the edge of the table for a moment.

"All right, Sam," I said. "Sorry we had to wake you up. You can get back to bed now."

When we reached the car again, I took something out of my pocket and turned the light of a flash upon it. It was a telegram, sent locally, addressed to Sam Bockman, 1754 Water Street. It had been filed at twelve o'clock at the Princess Street office of the telegraph company. It bore the date of the night just passed.

It was clear that if Sam had retired at ten o'clock, and had not got out of bed again until the cops came, the telegram would not have been lying on the table in his room. That was clear— but the text of the message was not. Far from it.

10-27-32-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10

The thirteen numerals constituted the sole text of the message. It was not signed.

I studied the cryptic message intently for a moment, then gave Bell an order.

"Watch the rabbitry front and rear, until I send you a relief. Don't let Sam get a glimpse of you. If he goes out, tail him."

Back in my office, I spread the telegram on the desk. I had seen at a glance that the first three numerals referred to month, day and year. The 27th day of October, 1932. The day just dawning. Since the message had been sent to a man of the dwarf's evident small mental capacity, it had to be a simple code. Unquestionably, the following numerals indicated the hours between one and ten, inclusive. But which of the numerals was the right one, and how determine upon it?

The message probably made an appointment. If the appointment was to be kept at the rabbitry, it likely would be after nightfall. 8-9- 10. Those three hours, I thought, only needed considering. The sender, as I doped it out, had notified Sam that he would call at the rabbitry at eight, nine, or ten o'clock that night.

MORRIS LEFFENWELL died during the day, without having spoken other than the three words: "one drop kills."

After considering the matter, I gave an order withdrawing the guards from Cantrell's premises for the coming night. I left only one man, and he inside at the door of Miss Cantrell's room. I wanted the doc to feel free to act. I also took the tail off Druggist Loubin, and for the same reason.

The day dragged slowly to a close, night coming in a ominous calm.

Braden and Rhulin were in my office when Dr. Lowe came to report that the autopsy on Burke showed he had died from natural causes. It was about seven o'clock in the evening, and we were summing up the developments of the day. Before anybody had time to comment, the door was flung open and Professor Stanley Fyke entered hurriedly. His face was white, his eyes anxious.

"Pardon the intrusion, gentlemen!" he gasped, dropping into a chair. "But I fear something terrible has happened!"

"What?" I cut in, rising.

"Lacy Cantrell— has— has disappeared!"

I FELT a shock go through my nervous system.

"Spill it, man!" I snapped. "Give us the details— and be quick with them!"

"Yes. I shall be brief," Fyke said jerkily, making a strong effort at control. "Cantrell and I have long had a strong admiration for each other's work. He has, in the past, consulted me when working on a book or treatise, and I have done so with him. He phoned this afternoon a request for me to call at his house for the purpose of discussing a matter of importance.

"After our talk, which lasted about an hour, Miss Lacy asked me to drive her to Carbaugh's department store, the Cantrell town car being in a shop downtown for repairs. She would get the car later and drive it home. Cantrell was pleased to have her go with me, but enjoined her to return well before nightfall. I drove the young lady downtown and dropped her at Carbaugh's. Then I went home.

"A few minutes ago, Cantrell telephoned me. Miss Lacy had not returned from town. She had not called for the car, which was ready and waiting for her, nor could Cantrell get trace of her at Carbaugh's. Miss Cantrell has completely disappeared!"

"She may have only been delinquent in returning," Braden suggested harshly.

"She promised faithfully to be in the house before six. It is now seven. Lacy is not the girl to break so important a promise as she gave her father. Believe me, something has happened to her— and I shall never forgive myself if harm comes to her!"

"Take some orders!" I snapped abruptly. "Braden, throw out every man available with instructions to patrol the whole city until further orders. Rhulin, send two men to check up at the department store; then go yourself to the garage where Cantrell's town car is. Grill every man there."

The moment I was alone, I snatched up the phone, called the number of a prominent restaurant where I had been taking my meals, and got the proprietor on the wire.

"Potter," I said, "I'm ordering half a dozen dressed rabbits sent to your place at half-past eight. Rabbit Sam will bring them. Accept the rabbits, and do not let on that you did not order them yourself. Do what you like with the rabbits. I'm footing the bill. Get it?"

"Surely, Mr. Dugan," Potter returned. "I'll do just as you say."

I hung up. Then I got the desk and ordered a messenger boy sent to Rabbit Sam's with the order for Potter. Everything was set. Descending to the squad room, I beckoned Thompson, and we drove off.

I was betting that I had correctly spotted the hell to which the missing six had been taken. I was staking everything on it.

6: "The Very Back Room of Hell"

THOMPSON and I peered through the cobwebby and dusty window panes of a vacant house across the street from Sam's rabbitry. A dim light showed through a dusty transom above the front door of Number 1754, and light showed at the edges of a drawn shade over a front room window. Sam the dwarf, was at home. Not for long, however, did he remain there.

The door opened at exactly halfpast eight, and the dwarf came out. He locked the door, and went at a waddling gait toward the city.

"Going to deliver those rabbits," I remarked to Thompson. "That makes it certain ten o'clock is the hour. Let's get busy."

ENTERING the rabbitry from the rear, we descended to the basement. It was there we had to search. What I searched for was an entrance to a sub-basement, and I had good reason to believe we found it. We did.

An old shell of a hot-air furnace stood in a corner. It was pipeless, the fire-door sealed by rust. The furnace had been cleverly divided in two parts by hinges at the back. One upright section was stationary, the other opened out. Opened, the section disclosed a trap-door in the floor.

I lifted the door, and looked down at a set of steps which lost themselves in darkness. A dank odor of sour earth and rotting wood came up.

"Stick here, Thompson," I ordered. "I'll prowl."

In the sub-basement I found that the west wall had a door, and the door was secured by an iron bar across it. I opened the door and looked down a narrow passage which had been dug for some distance in the earth. It led, as I now knew, to a tier of sub-cellar vaults once used by the Heimback Brewery which, in days gone by, had occupied the now vacant tract just west of the rabbitry. A survey of a map of that section during the afternoon had recalled the brewery to my mind.

I went through the passage and emerged in a big cellar room. It was walled with crumbling bricks, solid earth forming the floor. I flared my flashlight and directed it around the room— to leap back into the mouth of the passage, the butt of a gun snug in my hand.

The rays of the flash had disclosed a singular scene. In the cen- ter of the vaulted room stood a table with a heavy stone slab for its top. At the left of the table, on a raised platform, were the vaguely seen figures of a group of blackgowned, masked and hooded men!

There was no movement in the group, no sign that any man there had noticed the light of the flash. Presently I risked anther look. Then I stepped inside, holding my light upon the group, and slowly approached the platform.

Standing beside the marble topped table, I counted the figures in the first row. There were five. One was seated in an armchair, with two others on each side. Back of the first row were seven more black-robed figures, all standing.

"The twelve dummies, stolen from the Leffenwell warehouse," I ejaculated softly.

I lifted the mask from the face of the figure in the chair, and stared into a badly damaged waxen countenance. No need to examine the others; all twelve of the dummies were there.

PASSING beyond the grouped dummies, I found a door set in the wall. It was barred. I opened the door softly— then closed it again quickly. The odors from the space beyond were almost more than I could stomach. That place was the very back room of hell!

I hurried back into the sub-cellar beneath the rabbitry, climbed the steps and found Thompson waiting beside the furnace.

"I've found it, Thompson," I said, "and it's as bad, even worse, than I expected it to be. Now, come down here with me, and I'll tell you what you must do."

Thompson followed me into the sub-basement and to the door which gave out of it into the passageway to the old vaults.

There I stopped.

"I'm going inside," I told him. "You will close this door and bar it. Then you will go back into the cellar of the rabbitry, close the trap-door carefully, and as carefully put the furnace back as you found it. Make certain that nobody will suspect it has been tampered with. On that, Thompson, much depends. The lives of at least five persons— including my own.

"You will then go outside and hide in the house across the way. If I have not joined you by halfpast ten, go to a phone and summon help. Then wait until eleven sharp. If I have not appeared then, crash the joint and come down. Remember, do not make a move until eleven sharp."

"I'll do as you order, Dugan," Thompson protested, "but it's not because I'm willing to. Good God, alone down there—"

"Thompson," I broke in, "there are only two men concerned in this business. The dwarf, Rabbit Sam, is one. The other is not now known to me. I can handle the situation alone. Two men might be one too many. Get at your end of it, and leave mine to me."

"Right, sir."

I PASSED into the narrow corridor, and heard the door shut back of me, the heavy bar fall in place. I was a prisoner underground, locked in with twelve inanimate dummies— and at least four living human beings!

There was not a moment to lose. Every move I made from that time on must be swift, direct, certain. I hurried across the vaulted room in which the dummies were, opened the door to the deeper rooms, and flashed my light around.

On my left were two doors, one at each end of the wall, each with a narrow hole cut in the panels about chin high. On my right were two similar rooms, and I suspected there would be others beyond. I chose the first room on my left, and went to it. A bar secured it. Dropping it, I entered.

ON a bed of loose straw lay the inert form of Lacy Cantrell. She was breathing deeply, easily, her eyes closed in a sound sleep.

Doped. I felt her pulse, listened to the beating of her heart. Just dead to the world— and unhurt.

I went out, replaced the bar as I had found it, and passed to the other room on that side.

A pair of red, glittering eyes peered at me through the hole; eyes that did not close when the light smote them.

"Back, are you?" a voice snarled. "If I ever get my hands on you, I'll break every bone in your cursed carcass—"

"Hold it!" I halted him. "It's the cops—"

"The cops! God, man— at last!" Red Wharton, the football star, cried brokenly. "Let me out! That fiend has brought Miss Cantrell here and means to treat her as he has done the rest of us! Let me out— for the love of God!"

"You are all safe now," I told him soothingly. "Only a little while, and you'll be free again. Lacy is unharmed. Who is the fiend, Red?"

"I only wish I knew! I have never seen him unmasked. Why not let us out now?"

"Because I mean to take him red-handed tonight. I haven't time to discuss things with you now. Don't betray the fact that I have been here, and all will be well."

I crossed the room, and found the lawyer, Curtis Cordell, a sad wreck of a man, in a room over there. Cordell still retained his mind, but it was. near to slipping.

"You will probably be taken into a large room soon," I told him. "A room in which you will see other men. A dozen of them. They are only dummies, placed there for the sinister effect. The stage has been set, in other words, to strike fear into the minds of those not in the know. But you will not be harmed. I'll be on hand, and at the first indication of harm to you I'll stop him with lead. Will you go through with it, under my guarantee?"

"Yes," the poor wretch choked. "I'll do anything to help you nail him, whoever he is."

"Good. Act as though I had not talked with you. Act frightened, and leave the rest to me. Don't give things away."

"HELLO, Silent," I called through the slit of the fourth door.

" 'Lo, Pat," came back to me. "Damned near gave you up."

"How did you get caught?"

"I was snooping the Cantrell grounds. Saw a bozo, a dwarf, clout you in the brush. He saw me, too, and beat it. I tailed him in my car. He drove into the back yard of 1754 Water, and later I cooned the fence. Blooey! Somebody sapped me when I lit on the ground— and here I am. That's all there's to it. Let me out."

"Later. If you should be missed, Silent, my plans would go wrong. Everything is okay. I'll free you within an hour. Lie doggo until then."

I looked no farther, but hurried back to the door into the vaulted room, stood there for an instant, then slipped into the darkness that served to envelop the postured dummies.

7: The Dummy in the Chair

HARSHLY, a strong white from a hooded lamp shone down upon the slab-tooped table that stood in the center of the vaulted room. Strapped back to the table, able to move only his head, lay the figure of a man.

The man was Curtis Cordell.

The light above the table diffused its glow sufficiently to reveal the sinister black gowned and masked group on the raised platform to the right. It also disclosed a group of three persons near the wall on the left-hand side of the table. Handcuffed one to another, further secured by a chain attached to a ring in the wall, the three crouched there, faces expressing fear, loathing, horror.

They were Jack Wharton, Silent Jim Brady and Lacy Cantrell.

Between the three and the table stood the dwarf, Rabbit Sam, his monstrous features alight with unholy pleasure.

Beside the table stood the Snatcher— big, powerful, masked and coated, a black beret covering his head. He spoke, and the voice, muffled and disguised, rang hollowly in the vaulted room.

"Originally you were five. Five men, carefully selected and brought here to serve me in a great work. Three have already passed out— just as I have told you who are left that you will pass. The fourth, yourself, Cordell, will die very shortly. Have I not told you so during the past long months? Now my word shall be made good.

"As I have informed you and Wharton, once each day since you were brought here, I am at the head of a secret society of master chemists. We are gathered here tonight," the speaker went on, waving a hand toward the grouped figures on the platform, "to test for the fourth time the efficacy of a poison which has no antidote, and of which no man outside our organization has ever heard.

"Three men have succumbed to it here in this room— just as you, Cordell, will succumb. It is a distillation from the blood of the cobra—  and one drop kills. One drop spilled upon the tongue, kills instantly, and leaves no trace. That is the marvelous character of the potion. One— drop— kills!"

"One— drop— kills!" The high squeaky voice of the dwarf echoed the masked man's words. "Ah, but I am proud of my brother. What an honor it will be, when it is disclosed to the world!"

A CHOKED scream came from the blue lips of Lacy Cantrell, and an oath broke from those of Silent Jim.

The masked man dipped a hand into a pocket of his coat, brought up a small vial and held it in the light. It contained a thick, green liquid, at sight of which the dwarf shouted in glee.

Cordell, strapped and helpless, groaned in anguish.

The masked man drew a strong bladed spatula from a pocket, moved closer, stood directly above the frantic victim.

"There will be a quick sharp shock— and all will be over." he said gloatingly. "Prepare, Cordell, to die."

He uncorked the uottle, thrust the blade of the spatula between Cordell's teeth, pried his mouth open, then, while the dwarf howled in glee, slowly tipped the phial downward.

"Help, Help!" Cordell screamed the words.

"For God's sake, Dugan— where are you?" Silent Jim's voice roared.

And then— the dummy seated in the chair on the platform, flanked by two others of his kind, appeared to move. Did move, in fact. One hand raised and snatched hood and mask away; the other flashed out, gripping the butt of an automatic.

"Back from that table, you lousy killer, or I'll send you to hell where you belong!"

CLOTHED in the black robe which I had taken from the dummy, automatic gripped in extended hand, I must have been a terrible sight to all who saw me.

"Kill the crook, Pat— and save spoiling a good rope!" Silent Jim Brady called.

The man in the beret backed slowly away from the table, eyes flaming lights back of the holes in his mask. The dwarf shouted a high- keyed note of terror, then, realizing that the seeming dummy was in reality a man, crouched on the floor, lips curled, fang-like teeth bared.

"Unmask!" I snapped. "Quick— or I'll chuck lead into your stomach !"

A black gloved hand reached upward, dropped down with the mask grasped in long fingers. I stared into the rage-congested face of Professor Stanley Fyke!

"You blundering ass!" Fyke fairly screamed. "You would stop me from giving the world the greatest scientific discovery ever made since time began! Dolt! Idiot! I, Stanley Fyke, am the one man alive who can save the human race from ultimate extinction! I have proved my power. Here in this room I have slain two men— with no other weapon than my mind!

"If I can cause death with my mind, does it not follow, imbecile, that I can prevent death too? I have not sought to kill, but to cure!"

"You are going to be called a murderer, stood on a gallows trap, and shot downward with a rope around your neck," I snapped. "Order your Man Friday to release these victims— and don't let me have to tell you twice!"

"Think, Dugan— think what you are doing!" the professor cried in a pleading voice. "Think of what you are about to snatch from the hungry grasp of a suffering, dying world—"

"Kill! Kill! Kill!"

The dwarf, roused into a frenzy, slavering, eyes rolling, leaped for me, a ponderous hand gripping the butt of a pistol. With a flip of my wrist, I trained my gun on him, and fired once.

The dwarf stopped suddenly, his face working in pain, horror, surprise. Then he fell forward, dead.

In the split second of my diverted attention from him, Fyke snatched an automatic from under his cloak. Silent Jim Brady cried a warning.

Two heavy reports rang in the vaulted room, but only one shot took effect. My lead caught Professor Stanley Fyke center in the heart, killing him where he stood.

AFTER Dr. Lowe had examined Wharton and Cordell, and announced that they needed only rest and food to make them entirely normal, and when Lacy Cantrell had gone home with a very much chastened father, Chief Hammond gave his terse opinion of Fyke.

"Nutty as hell, Pat!"

I leaned back in my desk chair and surveyed the faces of the cops gathered in my office.

"I don't agree," I replied to Hammond. "Fyke was simply a coldblooded scientist. He was completely sold on his specialty. Believed that the human brain was all-powerful, and that he had the most powerful brain of all. He conceived the idea of demonstrating his power to commit mental murder, and went about it in a coldly efficient manner.

"With the aid of his brutish brother, Sam, he captured his victims, brought them to the vaults, kept them separate so none would know what was happening except as it happened to him. On the verge of collapse from fear and anxiety, poorly fed, abused, his victims were gradually worn down. He planted the thought of death by a peculiarly subtle poison in their minds and kept it there.

TWO of the victims died of shock on that table. One, Leffenwell, went crazy before the test was applied. Fyke probably released him just for the pleasure of horrifying the people.

"Crazy? I'll say not! Witness the cunning of the man. He stole the hypos, intending them to be traced to Loubin in case one should come into the hands of the police. He staged that fake attack, knowing that the cops would think that he himself was in danger.

"Having tried his brain weapon on men, he wanted to test it on a woman— so he got Miss Cantrell merely by shooting her with a hypo while she was in the car with him. In every act, he was cold-bloodedly intent upon his own purposes, regarding human life and human suffering as nothing, when weighed in the balance against the successful demonstration of his ability. And, gents, I reckon that's all there is to say."

"Except that dope in the bottle," Silent Jim said. "That stuff Fyke said was poison. What was it, Pat?"

I grinned. "Nothing but colored water. But for his purpose, it was as deadly as the deadliest poison known!"

End

Table of Contents

- 1: Rats / M. R. James

- 2: The Artists Story / L. de Chavanne

- 3: The Man Who Shunned the Light / Arthur Leeds

- 4: The Fox's Earth / Muriel A. Pollexfen
- 5: Old Aeson / A. T. Quiller-Couch
- 6: Thone of Chaos / "J. F. B."
- 7: With Much Gusto / Herman Howard Matteson

- 8: The Whispering Shell / Herman Howard Matteson

- 9: The Thing From Antares / Meyer Krulfeld
- 10: Rogue's Room / Anonymous
- 11: Detective Death / Anonymous

- 12: The Mystery of the Thirty Millions / T. F.  Anderson and H. D. Umbstaetter

- 13: Roll and Go! / Captain Dingle

- 14: Adventure / Fred M. White

- 15: Braybridge's Offer / William Dean Howells

- 16: The Man With the Nose / Rhoda Broughton
- 17: The Wastrel / Ernest Favenc
- 18: The Living Dead / Ernest Favenc
- 19: Fear / Achmed Abdullah
- 20: A Sleeping Car Tragedy / W. L. Alden

- 21: Killer's Can't Fly / Edward Parrish Ware

- 22: Hell's Back Room / Edward Parrish Ware