Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Twenty-eight short stories by Australian novelist, poet, journalist Harold Mercer, 1882-1952. No collection of Mercer's short stories has yet been published in print form. 1: Fear 2: An Enemy of the People 3: The Manor Chamber Mystery 4: The Fangs Of Fate 5: Guilty Conscience 6: The Clock Hands of Fate 7: How Random Won The Cup 8: The Wastrel Son 9: Murder At Moberley Flats 10: Defeating The Favorite 11: The Sound of the Bugle 12: Fingerprints 13: Cargo from China 14: The Load of the Stalwart 15: The Servicetown Mystery 16: The Minute That Mattered 17: Just a Quiet Xmas 18: Fate at the Shrine

THE MANOR CHAMBER

MYSTERY
and other stories

Harold Mercer

1882-1952

Produced and Edited by Terry Walker

2023

Harold St Aubyn Mercer was born in Brisbane, Qld, in 1882, and his first short story was published in the Bulletin in 1900. His varied career included acting, then becoming the company's touring manager. After marrying, he worked mainly as an accountant and auditor, while also becoming involved as a union organiser.

He served in the AIF in World War 1, and after his return to Australia worked principally in newspapers. He wrote prolifically for the Bulletin and numerous other newspapers and magazines. He also wrote under the pseudonym 'Hamer'.

These stories are in chronological order of first publication, 1930-1941

Contents

1: Fear

2: An Enemy of the People

3: The Manor Chamber Mystery

4: The Fangs Of Fate

5: Guilty Conscience

6: The Clock Hands of Fate

7: How Random Won The Cup

8: The Wastrel Son

9: Murder At Moberley Flats

10: Defeating The Favorite

11: The Sound of the Bugle

12: Fingerprints

13: Cargo from China

14: The Load of the Stalwart

15: The Servicetown Mystery

16: The Minute That Mattered

17: Just a Quiet Xmas

18: Fate at the Shrine

19: The Last Day

20: Bad Blood

21: The First Violin

22: The Curse of Scarletti

23: Betrayal

24: Circumstantial Evidence

25: Chance

26: Keeping Killick Killed

27: Getting Rid of Pongo

28: Stonker Badley, Parson

___________________

1: Fear

World's News (Sydney) 15 Oct 1930

IT was born out of that freak of fortune that drew Dearfield back from the pit at a moment when he could fancy nothing but an ignominious death as a period to his difficulties.

He had reached the stage of desperation at which the windows of jewellers' shops have a curious fascination. A man who, money in his pocket, will pass without giving the display of expensive gauds a second glance will pause, being penniless, to stare at the wealth which is shut off from him by a mere sheet of glass, and his respect for the law. Perhaps it is with the hope that desperation may goad him to break both.

Tearing himself from the lighted windows Dearfield wandered aimlessly, his eyes searching the pavements. Money was picked up sometimes; a mere sixpence would give him something with which to assuage that ache for food which now dominated all his other troubles. It was not only his stomach that complained; every bone in his body ached for replenishment.

Keenly conscious of his frayed clothes, and the brokenness of his boots, he had decided that whatever hope there was in the search for work was gone; he tried to shut out the thoughts of his family, his wife's bitterness at his failure to provide. People were sympathetic with women and children, he told himself, desperately, killing a thought about them; they would be looked after.

There was a drizzle of rain; and Dearfield sheltered for a moment under a shop-awning staring at the gleam of the few lights on the wet streets. A shadow edged up to him from a doorway.

" 'Ave you got a coupler spare coppers, mister, to 'elp a bloke get a feed?"

"I haven't got a bean in the world— and no prospect of getting any," said Dearfield. His hand clutched a key in his pocket— his only possession! Two days ago his landlady had told him to go, but last night, when the house was quiet, he had crept in again to enjoy, for a few hours at least, the solace that sleep in the warm bed could give. He had crept out again, locking his door, before the house was astir, so that he still had, possibly, that refuge.

The whines of the beggar, talking of the hardness of the times, irritated his own torments, and he moved off again. As he reached the corner a motor-car, driven at great speed, dashed round the turn, its wheels, striking a puddle, splashing him with mud. He turned to curse with bitterness as this insult added to the injury that the prosperity for which the car stood seemed to him; and something flung from the car window struck him on the chest and flopped at his feet. The car flashed away as Dearfield dived for what had fallen.

It was a bulky wallet. Dearfield jerked it open, his heart leaping, expecting a disappointment. But there were no worthless papers inside; he could see in the dim light that the whole contents were notes. Dearfield had in his hands what was a fortune to him. With the realisation, a panic descended upon him; a panic lest the money that had so strangely come to him would be snatched from him. He thrust the wallet quickly into his hip pocket, glancing back, as he did so, to see the shadowed figure of the beggar standing still under the shop awning; and he turned the corner quickly. A policeman, approaching with a leisured stride, inclined him to turn tail, and run; he had to force himself to maintain an even step and to avoid a look of furtiveness as the police-man passed with a casual glance at him, into which he read suspicion.

Dearfield, obsessed by his panic, hurried his steps. There was bound to be a search for the money, whatever cause had sent it hurtling into his hands; and with a wild idea of baffling pursuit, he took a twisty course through the streets, doubling back on his tracks at times, after passing people who, he thought, had noticed him, and might re-port his direction to any pursuers.

"Oh, it's, all right, I expect," said the hotel keeper. "I'll cash it."

He toyed with the thought of the meal he was going to have; but shortly a fear of losing his new possessions overcame even the clamor of his hunger. He would have to produce the wallet in order to pay; night-mare pictures of people pouncing upon him and claiming the wallet, or demanding how, in his rags, he had become possessed of so much money, came to him. The dread came, too, of men as like a desperate, famished wolf as he had been recently, springing upon him, and robbing him. Every dark corner wakened fear.

Sick for the want of food, still denied, and panting from the fearful caution with which he had crept into the house, he found him self back in his room. With the door locked, he felt comparatively safe. The light of a feeble fag-end of candle which supplied the only illumination of the mean lodging showed him that the notes were all of large denominations.

"Five hundred pounds!" he gasped, when he had roughly counted them, his fingers seeming to go numb over the task. "My God!"

He blew out the light, quickly. His land lady must not find him there, for he dared not pay her with one of those large notes, he who had so recently been penniless. Shortly, when he heard her step, and the handle of the door rattled, he sat on the edge of his bed, holding his breath, until, satisfied that he was not there, she went away.

He dared not light his candle again, even when the silence of midnight descended. In his possession now was what seemed actually a fortune; enough to enable him to set himself up in some prosperous business; but with the knowledge were new terrors, including the terror of disappointment. What was going to happen when he tried to cash one of those notes, the smallest of them twenty-fives? Suppose they were forgeries? In any case, the numbers of such notes were likely to be kept, and whoever had lost them, whether they had been stolen or merely thrown away by accident, would have reported their loss.

The wealth he appeared to have mocked him. Fear had already caused him to continue to starve with enough to pay for a thousand good feasts in his hands; and now the fears grew. Cynically, he could imagine himself starving to death in the terror of exposing his possessions. He contemplated, almost with relief, the idea of searching the papers for a report of the loss of the money, so that he could return it and claim a reward, and, perhaps, future help to employment.

No! Fiercely he resolved that he would hold on to every note. It meant the wherewithal to establish himself firmly in life again, eliminating all the carelessness that had been his undoing in the past. Beyond his terror of losing it were great dreams.

There was wonder, of course, of how the money had come to him. Perhaps it was incriminating evidence cast out from the car by thieves or forgers who sensed pursuit: perhaps there had been a struggle in the car, and the rightful owner had thrown out the money rather than be robbed. It may have been that he had been mistaken by some desperate thieves for an accomplice who was to have been on that spot to receive the spoil, whilst their car drew the pursuit. He tried to remember whether the man who had approached him as a mendicant had seemed interested when he picked up the wallet, and had followed him.

By the morning, if he had not conquered his terror, he had it in control. After much pondering, and many changes, he had found a hiding-place for the bulk of his spoil, beneath a board he had prized up under the shabby linoleum; with merely one note in his pocket, twisted, and crumpled to bear out a story that he had picked it up, should his possession of it be challenged, he descended the stairs, with resolution in his mind.

His landlady came bellicosely to intercept him.

"Here you, Mr. Dearfield!" she cried, as she approached. "This is nice, goings on— you sneaking into the house after you've been told to git out."

He waved the crumpled note at her. "I have the money here to pay you— in full," he said, airily. "But I've got to get this cashed first. I'll pay you to-night."

Her astonishment, her sudden fawning, heartened him; and yet, in spite of that and his resolution, in spite of his rasping hunger, it was not until the afternoon that he had changed the note. He was one who feared to lift the cup lest it should be dashed from his lips. It was only the remembrance of his promise to his landlady, which must be fulfilled, that finally spurred him.

"Glad to see you've struck luck again, Mr. Dearfield," said the publican. After all, there was no difficulty; but that might come; and Dearfield, although happy with the pos-session of money which could not be challenged, cursed himself for his folly in having taken the paper to an hotel where he was known. If that note was checked as one looked for, when it reached the bank, Smith would remember; and he could tell so much about him, including his recent ill-fortune.

The discomfort of that thought remained even after he had dined splendidly, sent ten pounds with a brief note to his wife, with a sense of delight at what her feelings would be upon receiving it, paid his land-lady, and settled in his room to search the papers for a report of robbery or lost money which might account for his last night's adventure. There was none; and that, al-though first of all a relief, worried him. If he could only know exactly what was the danger he felt he risked in holding that money! Nightmare haunted his sleep; and his fears drove him back next day to the hotel to learn the worst. Better learn that than live in constant dread. Smith was in the doorway as he entered.

"You know that twenty-five I cashed for you yesterday?" he asked.

Dearfield's heart missed a beat, as he forced himself to say, jocularly: "I made it myself, of course! Nothing wrong with it, was there?"

"It came in handy," said Smith. "Mr. Stephens went to Melbourne last night; he came in with a pocketful of quids and halves, and was glad to get a twenty-five for them."

Dearfield felt as if he had been given a reprieve; the note would probably not reach a bank for days, and, then, in Melbourne. But his nerve was shaken. It was an effort to be casual, as he put the new note he had placed in his pocked that morning over the bar of a strange hotel, to pay for a drink.

"Sorry, but I've run short of small change; I'd be obliged," he said.

"The publican left the cash-desk, and came over to him, note in hand.

"It's all right, I suppose," he said. "Still, a man's got to be careful about paper— I took a crook tenner a couple of munce ago. S'pose you don't mind me sending it to the bank— it's only a few doors down— to see if it's all right?"

A sick feeling swept Dearfield.

"I didn't know there was a bank so close," he said, forcing a carelessness of tone. "As it is, I may as well go there myself."

"Oh, it's all right, I expect," said the hotel-keeper. "I'll cash it."

Dearfield felt, all the same, that the publican had taken careful notice of him, and was likely to dissipate any lingering doubts he held by sending the note to the bank— the very way to attract attention to it if its number was one for which search was being made. The drinks he had taken were no antidote to the sense of illness and strain he carried away with him. He was paying in torture for every pound of that mystery money.

And he had a feeling, that he could not stand the strain of presenting another of those notes at an hotel. A new plan for disposing of them came to him. With some of the money he had received, he opened a banking account; and although he had vowed, in his downfall, that he would never go to the races again, Saturday saw him on the racecourse.

At random he picked a horse in a race in which there were two hot favorites, whilst the bookmakers were offering frantic inducements about others, to balance their books.

"Ighborn?' said the bookie he approached. "'Ighborn's twenties to you, mister."

"I'll have twenty on it," said Dearfield. "Here's a fifty."

"Why not go the 'ole 'og— put it all on?" suggested the bookmaker.

"Twenty will do me."

"Well what about six 'undred to thirty?"

"Oh, all right," said Dearfleld, impatiently, as he took the ticket. To get only £20 for his £50 was debasing his courage.

"Why not go the 'ole 'og— put it all on," suggested the bookmaker, in a manner that made him feel sick, and he had no better opinion of the horse than did the bookmaker; but he was too timorous for argument.

He, felt no interest in the race. He had changed another note, and was satisfied, although half regretting that he had not brought another— the fear— the worst happened of being in possession of more than one breed deterred him. An explanation about one might be accepted.

Fearful that the old fascination of racing might seize him again, he turned to go, having waited merely long enough to see that the two favorites, with another horse slightly ahead of them, had the race apparently between them as they came, to the turn into the straight; and Highborn was nowhere. Sud-denly the muddled roaring of the crowd changed to a mighty chorused "O-oh!" Some women screamed. He turned back, sharply.

There had been an accident. One of the leading horses had stumbled and fallen, the other two had crashed over him, and the field behind was thrown into confusion. Out of it came one horse with a definite lead, and the crowd howled its name at it cantered past the post, decisively, protestingly. High born!

Dearfield felt that Fate was jesting with him. The unbelievable accident had provided him with a way out of his difficulties. The £650 he paid into his bank included all the mysterious notes which had so plagued him with terror; some of the money he had actually received from the bookmaker was hidden in its place, to follow it into security as occasion offered. If any inquiry was made, now, he had the bookmaker to prove where he had obtained that £650, and how; and who was to tell from whence came the notes a bookmaker had in his temporary keeping?

But there was no question raised about any of the paper money. His mystery fortune was more than duplicated; the money was safe, and so was he. Yet his anxiety remained.

What had happened was too good to be true. By a stroke of luck, quite unaccountable, a fortune had been tossed into his hands. By another such stroke he had been handed a second fortune. It was the second miracle that confirmed his rapidly-grown superstition about the joke Fate was playing.

He invested his capital in a business in which he had been well-trained, and found new success, all the time haunted by a feeling that his good fortune was unbelievable, that he had only been lifted up to be cast down again—that next time his fate would be more terrible than before. He felt the shadows of a nightmare pursuit trailing him, waiting to pounce.

It was the thought of Peggy that added to his forebodings. She was another possession mocking Fate had given merely to tear from him when she was dearest. With prosperity he had re-established his home. Little Peggy had grown greatly since he had last seen her; she had looked at him shyly at first, and then her hand had gone timidly to his arm, and her arms had gone round his neck, when he lifted her. "My daddy!" she had whispered, her soft cheek pressing caressingly against his.

In that moment was born a passionate affection, such as he had never known before; with it, the new fear. There was the possibility now he might lose Peggy's love, her adorations. The love of his wife was tarnished by the knowledge that it had not stood the test of adversity; but he felt that he could not face life again with Peggy lost to him. The idea that he would be found out, that there would be another family break-up, and the child might have reason to despise, even hate him, as a cause of disgrace, was constantly in his thoughts.

He began to feed his disease, something like the effect of an overstrain of the nerves for which doctors in the war found the generic name of "shell-shock," with books about crimes that had gone undiscovered for years, only to bring destruction when the perpetrators considered themselves safe. One day he heard his name mentioned in a crowd.

"Dearfield!" a strange voice laughed. "They tell me he's coining money since he joined up with Farland. Queer how he managed to come back after being right down. Mighty queer! I reckon I could tell a tale about it..."

Holding his breath, Dearfield strained to listen, but the speaker and his friends had moved on.

Possibly it was only one of those remarks that envy and a desire to pose as a know-all prompt those who have made money; yet the incident instilled a new poison into his mind, What if this man had seen him pick up the pocket-book, or was employed in some bank that had handled the notes? What if he knew— had known all along— and was only waiting to strike, held back by some reason of personal gain or malice?

And then there was that policeman, who had called to see him, ostensibly about the electoral rolls.

"Haven't we met before, sir?" the man had asked, his manner civil, even friendly— but what was behind his words? Dearfield had a sharp, agonising vision of himself in rags, but with a precious wallet in his pocket, creeping furtively past a policeman, who looked at him with vaguely suspicious eyes.

Dearfield was sure, the more he thought of it, that this was the same policeman, and afterwards he seemed to be forever meeting him. There always happened to be suspicion in his casual glance; a something at the back of his mind that might one day settle into definite accusation.

"There's something radically wrong with you, Frank," said his friend, Dr. Evans, at last. "I knew you when you were poor; but you were well then. Now, you're rich and ill— and overtaxed. You'd give all your wealth for your old good health, I expect!"

No! That was cant. A man might say impulsively he would rather— than a lot of things— be a beggar starving in the gutter. If he was a beggar starving in the gutter he would think otherwise! And his money had given him back Peggy, the power to make her happy. He was prepared to pay for Peggy. If he could keep her! If!

The trouble was that he did not dare to confide to anybody. His hair greyed quickly.

A scheme to lay his terror germinated in his worried brain. After much hesitation he engineered a meeting with Inspector Beardsley with whom he had become fairly friendly.

"There's a case in a book I've been reading, which makes me wonder what the police attitude would be," he said. "A man finds a sum of money which puts him on his feet. He doesn't know where it came from; but, of course, he ought to have reported the find to the police. The, idea worries him; and finally he goes to the police, handing over the money with the explanation of the circumstances, and interest for the use of it. How'd the police take it?"

Beardsley laughed.

"They'd be mighty suspicious. Conscience plays queer pranks," he said, leaning forward, for Dearfield had switched him on to a subject which interested him. "There's a case something like that on the records— at least the tale told by the main actor was much, the same. His conscience wouldn't let him rest till he got rid of his share of the swag. The police dug back into past history, and finally found his right place. He'd been an associate of men concerned in a series of warehouse thefts. The rest had been caught. He was the missing link in a chain of evidence against them, the absence of which had nearly lost the case. What happened to him?

"He stood his trial. The law demands its pound of flesh. But, considering his reformation, his desire to make restitution, and all that, there was no desire to press the charge. It was the stunt papers punished him, really. They got hold of the story and made the most of it— the very position he had gained made it all the better for them. It ruined him— a damned shame, under the circumstances!"

Dearfield felt appalled; he could see glowing newspaper headings crying his own name.

"Isn't there a chance his story was true? After many years— "

"In such circumstances you can be sure the tale told by the conscience-stricken crook is a parcel of lies— a screen for his share in the business."

Beardsley suspected him— he felt sure of that, especially when, on their next meeting, he recalled the story, and said he would like to read the yarn. Suspicion was written over the man's keen inquiring face. And no wonder; Dearfield thought. Mocking Fate!

Determined to destroy him, it was first driving him mad— mad enough to broach such a matter to a man like Beardsley.

Had the danger not been so shadowy he might have fought and conquered it; but he never knew where, when or how the blow would fall—nothing except that it would fall. His mind drifted worriedly from possibility to possibility. His favorite theory was that he had been mistaken for a con-federate by thieves who had thrown their plunder to him to baffle the police. Imprisonment might have delayed their search for him. So in every nefarious stranger, as well as in every policeman, he saw danger.

One afternoon, as he was returning to his office after lunch, a shabby-looking man accosted him. Dearfield waved him aside; but the man persisted. "Don't you know me?" he asked with what seemed a threatening meaning. Dearfield looked at him dazedly.

"Your face is familiar, somehow."

"It should be. I know you anyhow," said the man. "You've known what it is to be broke, yourself."

Dearfield pushed some coins into the seedy stranger's hand and stumbled towards the lift. Arrived in his office, he sank into his chair. His mind went back to that ragged mendicant who had addressed him on the night his fortune had so strangely changed trying to recall the man's appearance.

What had the scoundrel meant? Was it only blackmail, or did he mean mischief? There was menace as well as scornful derision in his expression, he thought— the look of a man who had waited long, and had at last found what he had been waiting for.

On a sudden impulse Dearfield rose and went to the window. In the street below the man was talking to a policeman. Dearfield watched them with a sick heart, for the policeman was the same whose scrutiny, with its mask of respect, had so often terrified him. His heart fell still lower as a familiar figure swung down the street, and paused beside the pair. Inspector Beardsley!

Fate was closing the trap. Peggy must be saved before the closure was complete. She might slip out of a back entrance, and reach his motor-car. A motor-car accident was easily arranged. There would be no suspicion of suicide; there could be no exposure of a dead man.

Even as he reached the door he paused and darted back for a last look. The police man was moving off now, but Beardsley was already making his way to the office. He would be in the building before Dearfield could reach the ground floor.

He had left his escape until too late. Another few minutes, no doubt, and he would hear the peremptory rap on the door. But he wouldn't let them in! Death was better than the haunted life he had been living, anyhow. And he must save Peggy at all costs.

With a shudder he gazed into the teeming street so far below. Then he hoisted himself on the window-sill, and closed his eyes.

Dearfield's partner, the wealthy Farland, had been musing regarding a letter in his hand.

"It's a delicate matter; I'll have to confide in dear old Dearfield and get him to help. Poor Lucy! She must be suffering, and yet she wouldn't come to me! Yet once I thought she was purely mercenary! I'll never forget how I felt when she refused to touch the money I tried to give her— to pay her off. How mean I felt about it— how I hated myself, and the money I still had in my hand, that she had forced back upon me. In my hatred of it I threw it out of the car— strange things a man will do on an impulse! Five hundred pounds thrown into the gutter!"

He sprang to his feet at the sudden outcry; at the door he met Beardsley, white of face, shaken in manner.

"Threw himself from the window! Into the street! Poor old Dearfield!" he cried, in staccato sentences. "I ought to have been up there to stop him— but I was delayed in the street by an argument a constable was having with a hawker who didn't have a licence!"

________________________

2: An Enemy of the People

World's News (Sydney) 1 April 1931

THE crash of a motor accident hardly startled Martyn— such accidents had become commonplaces. He saw, ahead of him, the crowd gathering around the cars— evidently several had been involved; but there were more people who hung off looking curiously towards the scene of the accident. They had been told in the. sensational reports in the papers that it was in crowds that the mysterious malady that had converted Melbourne into a nightmare city spread itself.

It had begun with a few unexplained accidents in the streets, not immediately connected with the cases of people who suddenly reeled, apparently unable to control their movements, colliding with other people or  with shop-fronts. For the first few days these incidents had seemed isolated; as they grew in number it was realised that an epidemic of an inexplicable nature had smitten the city.

In a few days the newspapers were publishing full pages about the malady and its effects. Every service in the city was affected. Tram-drivers crumpled in their seats, apparently incapable of correlating the muscular actions necessary for their job. Sometimes, feeling the fit coming upon him, a driver brought his car to a standstill with a jerk; several times only the presence of mind of passengers, or conductor, had checked the career of the uncontrolled conveyance. That serious accidents had not been more numerous was miraculous. The danger had already created an outcry for the suspension of traffic, which, in any case, had to be curtailed owing to the inroads the malady had made amongst the staff.

As Martyn gazed along the street, beyond the scene of the accident, he saw that a line of tramcars was held up; a stoppage evidently caused by another driver falling a victim to the epidemic. He jumped quickly as a motor car jolted over the kerb and came to a stop, its driver reeling drunkenly out of the seat. A couple of the Volunteer Ambulance Brigade— a special patrol corps had been formed to meet the emergency; in spite of the title originally given them they did not use ambulances, but guided those who had been smitten to the nearest Aid Station— seized the chauffeur as he tumbled helplessly out.

All along the street were cars like this one, not regularly parked, but run in all sorts of irregular styles into the pavement, and abandoned. The authorities had ceased to try to remove the derelicts.

Something similar to what was happening in the streets was occurring everywhere. In a cafe a waitress might drop her tray, suddenly, stumbling amongst the chairs and tables and over the seated diners; a shop assistant, serving a customer, would reel away from the counter, and drop out of sight; in the very hospitals nurses and doctors, in the act of attending to patients, became suddenly unable to control their movements.

A very slight fever, an even slighter feeling of sickness, were the most disagreeable symptoms of the complaint; some patients, indeed, appeared as incapable of controlling their thoughts as their actions, and their conversations sounded delirious; a few, remaining clear-headed, described their main feelings, apart from the exasperation of being unable to control their muscular actions, as one of mental relief, as though a tight rein in the mind had been loosened.

Martyn, with a horror of the surrender of his faculties that had made him seek to do without chloroform under operations, had a cold dread of the malady. He avoided elbowing in the crowd, and had the intention of turning up the next street to avoid the density of people near the latest accident; but, suddenly, a girl who had been approaching him quite normally, staggered, came reeling towards him, and, evidently making an effort to avoid doing so, would have crashed into him had he not held her. With an involuntary giggle she turned and swayed towards the shop window adjacent, but Martyn's hold steadied her. His repugnance for close contact with the malady was softened by his sympathy for a pretty girl in such a plight.

"Steady," he said. "I'll take you to the Aid Station."

"No, no!" she protested, quickly. "Mr. Martyn, I must not go to the Aid Station. Must not!"

He was surprised that she should know his name; then, recognised in her something familiar, which he could not exactly place. The absolute terror in her voice as she mentioned the Aid Station impressed him; noticing that the nearby shop sold refreshments, he guided her into it and propped her into a backed and armed seat.

"Not in my shop," protested the shopkeeper, when, having brought the soft drinks Martyn ordered, he noticed her futile effort to connect her hand with the glass. Martyn waved him aside with a "Just a minute!"

"What is it you want to do, Miss—?" he paused on the name. "The Aid Station could give you immediate—"

"You evidently don't remember me," she said, with a partly hurt smile. "My name is Dalton— Myra Dalton."

"I remember, of course! Sorrento!" he exclaimed.

Sorrento, of course! He summoned visions of a pleasant holiday there, when he had met the girl, wondering how he had forgotten her, for their few meetings had delighted him. He remembered, too, her father, Professor Dalton, a curious old man who must have married late in life to have so young a daughter.

"We live at Oakleigh; but I have an aunt at South Yarra who could look after me; and her doctor could attend me. If I could only get there!"

"But at the Aid Station the best treatment—"

"No, no! I daren't, Mr. Martyn! Oh, help me get to my aunt's, will you, please? You see, if I go to the Aid Station my name will be noted. They may connect my father with— all this."

A gleam of illumination came to Martyn. Professor Dalton, he recalled, was famous for his work with the culture of disease, was forever experimenting with new germs. Still at sea for reasons, he leaped to the conclusion that some mistake of Dalton's had started the epidemic that was crippling Melbourne; evidently he was terrified at the result of what may have been an accidental release of some germs with which he had been experimenting. But for a man of Dalton's standing it should have been natural to come out honestly with an admission of his responsibility and an effort to assist in checking the harm he had done.

That his name had not even been mentioned in the newspapers was mysterious. On the impulse of the moment, however, the almost frenzied desire of Myra to screen her father was what mattered most to Martyn.

"I'll get you to South Yarra, Miss Dalton," he said. "Shall I ring up to prepare your aunt for you?"

"I've been staying there for the last week; they'll expect me," she said. "I don't know how I'll ever be able to thank you, Mr. Martyn."

Owing to the way the epidemic had attacked the drivers, taxis were at a premium; the driver of the one Martyn secured demanded a pound for the short drive; and the hazards of the journey made the money well earned. Cautious as the driving was, accidents were only avoided narrowly on three occasions, as the drivers of other cars were seized with the rapidly-spreading disease. To look out on the Melbourne streets, with their lines of abandoned cars, the volunteer ambulance men busy escorting fresh victims to the Aid Stations, and the crowds grown much sparser than usual, was a pathetic business. Martyn did not look out; he was mainly concerned in talking to Myra, trying to make her forget the affliction that had fallen upon her.

He was rewarded by her thankful smiles when having, at her aunt's request, helped to carry her upstairs, she lay upon her bed. Her attempt to hold out her hand to him would have been ludicrous had it not be so pathetic; Martyn took the straying hand and pressed it warmly.

"Please don't let anyone know about me," she said. "Father— I don't want them to know."

It was a promise; but Martyn, carrying away her smile in his mind, was resolved to see the Professor himself. He felt convinced that he was at the back of the epidemic; strange as it was that he had not yet entered into the fight against it, he would surely do something when he heard that his daughter was stricken.

The taxi-driver, whom he had re-engaged, ran his car suddenly into the side of the street, and brought it to a standstill.

"The bloody thing's got me; I can't go no further," he said, and sprawled over his wheel. Ahead the sign "Aid Station" hung over the street; all about it, people lounged around in groups like the crowds about a polling booth on election day. With difficulty Martyn helped the man from his car, and, swaying with the effort of directing him, got him to the Aid Station, where volunteers relieved him of. his charge. In a fit of desperation he returned to the taxi, resolved to drive it himself.

A brass plate on the gate saved all difficulty in finding the Professor's house; an old-fashioned be-hedged place. Martyn ran the taxi into a side lane before going to the door.

It was opened by a rough-looking man who held it ajar defensively. Martyn was surprised to see such a man there.

"What d'yer want?" demanded the doorkeeper.

"I've important news for Professor Dalton," said Martyn, crisply.

"Where from?"

"Ob, police headquarters!" retorted Martyn, on the spur of the moment, remembering a slogan that got past many closed doors. The man grinned as he held the door wider, and admitted him. "The Prof.'s in the room behind that landing," he said.

On the landing Martyn paused to look back, puzzled at the familiarity of the man's face. The man was staring after him, scratching his head.

"Gunman Joe!"

The recognition sprang with a note of exclamation into Martyn's mind; he was glad that he restrained his lips from giving expression to it. What, in heaven's name, was a character so well known in the criminal world doing in the house of Professor Dalton?

Instinctively he sought to hide any sign of surprise; he turned, as if his backward glance had been a mere casual action, and made his way into the room from which vague sounds of movement came. It was filled with strange instruments, phials and retorts; and in the centre of it the Professor, rather weary looking, turned from some work to greet him. He gave no sign of recognising the man he had met at Sorrento.

"You have come to know whether the serum— the antidote— is ready," he said. "It is not; you must tell the committee they will have to wait."

"Well, look, Professor," began Martyn

"It's no use being impatient. A delay of days (or weeks for that matter) does not concern us; the thing is to ensure success for our great movement. And, look; I ought to know more about the organisation; I don't know whether I can complete the serum either, unless I have liberty to go out. And you've made a practical prisoner of me here," said the Professor, with heat.

Martyn stared at him; but he did not reply, for he. was aware of the approach of a man who had been sitting in a far corner of the laboratory—a man as villainous-looking as Gunman Joe himself, but not, like him, known to Martyn.

"Who's this?" he demanded, gruffly.

"A man from the Committee, Travers," said the Professor. "About the serum."

Travers looked at Martyn with a questioning truculence; and Martyn suddenly remembered the effect of a phrase on the man below.

"Police Headquarters," he said.

Travers grinned as Gunman Joe had done: but the mumble he gave as he passed out to go downstairs had an element of doubt in it.

"You're mistaking me for someone else. Professor," said Martyn quickly, when Travers, descending the stairs, was out of earshot. "I know nothing of any Committee. My name's Martyn— I met you at Sorrento. What's the matter here, anyhow?"

"The matter?" queried the Professor, looking at him doubtfully.

"Yes— with these men. One of them's a criminal, to my knowledge: and you look to me like a prisoner in their hands."

Dalton gripped his wrist eagerly.

"You're nothing to do with these men. You were surprised to see them?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll tell you. I am a prisoner! Close guarded. How did you come here?"

"I came here about your daughter. She's down with this epidemic."

"My daughter ill!" exclaimed the Professor, alarmed.

"Yes, she went down to-day with this malady that has seized half Melbourne."

"Seized half Melbourne! What are you saying? I have not been allowed to see a paper for a week. What epidemic?"

"People unable to carry out their regulated movements; they stagger about, seem to lose all sense of direction, and then drop—"

"My anti-balance bacilli!" the Professor cried. He made a quick movement to the door, peering down to where Travers and Gunman Joe were engaged in earnest conversation.

Then he turned sharply. "Listen. They were not to free it until I had the antidotal serum ready for them; becoming suspicious, because of the surveillance they put over me, I delayed the preparation of the serum. They have cheated me!"

The telephone in the hall tinkled sharply; it was being dialled for a number. Martyn peered out of the door, the Professor behind his shoulder, to see that it was Travers who was using the instrument.

"I tell you he gave the passport, 'Police Headquarters,'" said Gunman Joe. "Nobody not in the know would think of using that."

"Well, I'm goin' to find out about 'im," said Travers, "an' if he's crook— well, that's the worse for 'im."

Martyn fell back on the Professor.

"I've got to get out," he said. "These are men who'll stop at nothing. And you'd better come, too."

He strode to a window, but, even as the Professor, pulling at. his sleeve, said "It's no good that way," he saw that escape there was impossible. There was a deep drop to a concrete courtyard; and in that courtyard a man reclined lazily in a chair. Yielding to the Professor's prompting, Martyn turned. The Professor showed the way to a side door opening from the room, removing a key and locking the doer from the other side when they went through.

"You remember my lecture on 'The Ideal Community,' " panted the Professor, breathless with his sudden excitement. "That was my idea—a benevolent despotism. Some men came to me, applauding my scheme for improving human conditions. They flattered me. They said I was the man to carry it out. I must have told them something of my anti-balance bacilli which, without inflicting any permanent injury, would make a whole community helpless; they promised to form a committee to organise a movement for a bloodless revolution; my bacilli was to be used; we were to seize the reins of government. And I was to be president."

There was a note of pride, even in the terror-stricken voice, which sounded absurd.

"I looked for a committee of idealists; when I saw some of the men I was called upon to meet, I realised that they were not that; my suspicions became certainties when they began to use compulsion upon me. They have taken possession of my home, now; they forced me to tell my daughter that I wished her to stay with her aunt for a time. I have been helpless in their hands; but I thought that, they would not free the germs until I had the antidotal serum ready"."

Martyn, interested in his explanation, had had ears also for the happenings on the other side of the door. He had heard almost a shout at the telephone below; a sharp ring off and the pounding of quick feet on the stairs; then an exclamation as the absence of the Professor was discovered. As the handle turned Martyn swung a press that stood against the wall in front of the door.

"Open this blasted door!" commanded the voice of Travers, rattling the handle and pressing against panels. "Open it, blast you, or I'll shoot through it!"

There was a hard-breathing pause; then something splintered through the door panels and the cabinet. Glass shattered, and a pellet, partly spent, ricocheted along the floor. It was indubitably a bullet; that there had been no sound of a shot indicated that it had been fired from a revolver fitted with a silencer.

"If it wasn't for shooting the old man, I'd let you have a barrage:" the voice of Travers growled. "The old man's useful, if he does what he's told; and that's what's saving you. Open the door, and you're safe; we'll lock you up till we're ready; but you'll save your life."

Obeying a tap and a whisper from the Professor, Martyn, who had been lending his weight to the press, fell back; he felt something cold thrust into his hand by the old man's trembling fingers.

"It's no good to me; I could not fire straight," whimpered Dalton, his teeth chattering.

Under the crash of Travers' body the door creaked and shivered. The heavy press helped it to hold, but the upper panels gave way under angry blows, and through the splinters leered the face of Travers, distorted with rage. His hand shot up to the opening, and the firearm it held shimmered with black wickedness.

"Well, you dog, you had you're chance; you'll have a bullet now!" roared Travers.

The Professor had been straining, ineffectually, at an iron ring in the floor; desperately realising that it was a trap door offering a way to escape, Martyn bent to help him. As he did so a bullet hissed sharply just above his bent head.

He raised slightly, twisted over his right hand, which held the Professor's revolver, and fired twice towards the shattered door. He did not know whether the cry that came from Travers was of alarm at finding him armed, or of pain from . a wound, for an extra tug had pulled the trap door open, and Martyn found himself with the Professor half falling down a steep and deep flight of steps into darkness.

The panting of the Professor led him on through the darkness, stubbing his toes against debris on the floor, and grazing against the sharp corners of walls. He collided hard with the old man before he clearly realised that he had paused, and that the grating sound was the turning of a rusty lock. He gave his help to Dalton to swing open a door that protested and jarred as it moved.

The day had dimmed as they came into the open, at the foot of a small flight of steps. The Professor hung back timorously; Martyn cautiously ascended the steps and glanced round. They had come to an -egress at evidently the side of the house; and the garden into which they emerged seemed clear. Seizing the old man's arm, Martyn hurried him in a rush for a gateway in the hedge.

There were no sounds of pursuit On the other side of the gate, which, just in time, Martyn prevented from banging behind them, they found the lane in which the taxi-cab had been left

"Why didn't you get out this way, when you found that they had made you a prisoner?" asked Martyn, as he jerked the gears into action.

"They had me intimidated. I could not act by myself. But don't talk— hurry," panted the old man.

The car whirred out into the road, running well; Martyn leaned back with a sense of security won after the whirl of events of the last hour. There was satisfaction, too— satisfaction at having been the cause of rescuing the old man. The thankful smile on Myra Dalton's face flushed into remembrance. He intended to take the Professor direct to his daughter—what he had to say to the police could be said later. Another of those smiles was the immediate prize luring him.

And then the sound of a speeding car behind them brought a new apprehension. Normally these roads should be filled with many cars; the effects of the epidemic that was assailing Melbourne was shown in their emptiness Martyn glancing back, read an intentness of purpose in the speed of the car racing in his wake. Of course! Travers, over the telephone, had aroused the gang for whom he was working; criminals always appeared to have first-class cars at their disposal.

Martyn accelerated, and the taxi seemed to leap forward. As if to remove all doubt about the object of the following car, a shot ripped out. Martyn knew that to set his taxi's pace against that of the speedster was useless. Darkness was now falling, and he resolved to take a chance—one of the only possible chances of escape. The taxi spun round a corner on two wheels, and had hardly righted before he had found the laneway he hoped for, and the car was swung round again—once more to the left. Although the rutty laneway jolted the car from side to side, threatening to tear the wheels off, Martyn pressed the taxi to its highest speed; and when, looking back as he swung to the right into a broader road, he saw no sign of the pursuit, he felt he had given it the slip.

"Stand! Pull up that car!"

The thud of Martyn's heart eased ,when he found that the orders were those of the police patrol. A patrol sergeant who, astonished when he recognised Martyn, whom he knew, had begun to tell how he had come out in pursuit of a stolen taxi, was astounded at the story Martyn, with the assistance of the Professor, had to tell.

"Travers! Gunman Joe! They'll be with Delaney's gang," said the patrol sergeant. "Was the man who put up the reconstruction-of-society scheme named Warrender, Professor Dalton?"

Dalton nodded.

"That'll be Delaney, in one of his benevolent-gentleman disguises. Reorganisation of society!— it looks as though Delaney had got you mixed up in a plot for the biggest wholesale plundering of society, whilst it was paralysed with disease, on record. The only thing Hullo! What's this?"

Martyn recognised the purr of that racing car immediately, as it rushed up with amazing speed, the purr swelling to a roar. The taxi had been brought to a stop under a street light; the patrol car was behind it; and the occupants did not sight that until their car was slowing to a standstill. Matters happened quickly. The police jumped out with orders for the car to stop; but it leaped forward again to full speed. Then shots rang out; and blackness suddenly, inexplicably, fell upon Martyn.

MARTYN came to his senses to find a smile that it seemed had haunted his dreams, bent upon him. His fingers went to the bandage, on his head, and he smiled back; it was in a half-awake fashion that he learnt that he had been unconscious for ten days from the wound in his head, lying in the Professors house; that Myra, recovered rapidly— like the multitude of patients in the Melbourne hospitals— under the use of the serum the Professor had produced, had been his nurse; and that Patrol-Sergeant Foster was waiting for the opportunity to secure his statement for the inquest upon one John Travers.

When next he was clearly aware of his surroundings, he was more than half-way through his conversation with Foster, who was a very elated police officer. Although the magnitude of the criminal conspiracy to paralyse and plunder society could never be publicly known, Authority was aware of it, and Foster, out of it all, was due for much credit.

"But I don't quite understand,' said Martyn. "I can see that these criminals had organised to paralyse society with the aid of the Professor's germs and then clean up the helpless city with colossal robberies. But no extra-special big robberies were reported!"

Foster laughed.

"They'd got hold of phials of the bacilli; the Professor, becoming suspicious, held back the antidote: but they got impatient and released the germs. So many of the gang got the malady themselves that the parties appointed for every one of their big jobs were thrown out of action."

Martyn laughed with Foster at that joke of Fate; his laughing gaze wandered to Myra, and he smiled at her. He felt placidly comfortable; he had garnered satisfaction out of the episode, too.

____________________

3: The Manor Chamber Mystery

World's News (Sydney) 6 May 1931

PAISLEY, his nerves on edge to every sound in the old building, leapt to his feet with a start as he heard a rasping noise from below, which was, he knew, the turning of the lock in the big entrance door.

So they had come! The threat contained in the mystery letter of that afternoon was not, after all, an idle one; and the protection which he had asked had failed.

It was four hours since the man from the C.I.B. had departed, leaving him some faint assurance of safety. He had endured the torture and fear the letter had given him for hours before he had rung up the Detective Office. Former complaints had given him the impression that the whole series of mystery letters were considered a practical Joke, and his nervousness regarding them was regarded as a nuisance. The state of his nerves had made him reluctant to contact with that feeling of impatience again: and yet protection was essential.

Sergeant-Detective Peters had taken from his shaking hands the typewritten slip that had caused his perturbation:—

This is the last message you will receive. The hour has arrived. Death has been decided upon. To-day a watch is set upon you, and whether you remain in your office or seek your home, or leave the city in an effort to escape the vengeance that has pursued you, by midnight you will be a dead man.

That was what the man of law read, and he showed no signs of excitement. It was not his life that was threatened. Paisley reflected bitterly.

"Melodramatic," commented Peters. "But you've received messages like this before. We will see that you are protected; but I daresay there is no more reason to worry than formerly."

"The others were not direct threats of immediate violence. They merely showed I was being watched— shadowed; and the threat was always for some time in the future. Now it is definite. I am convinced that it is serious; but, even if it is not, it is an unpleasant persecution; the police should do something."

"The trouble, Mr. Paisley." said the detective with acerbity, "is that you don't help much. We would deal with people who send threats like this pretty quickly, but except for a few suggestions that have proved quite worthless you have given us no assistance. If you could give us the name of even half a dozen possible enemies we could make inquiries about the paper they use and the little peculiarities of their typewriters and the characteristics of their typing. That would give us something to go on. But without some such lead searching for the author of these documents is like looking for a needle in a haystack. We'd be as glad as you to put an end to the business; but you've got to give us a clue."

Paisley pondered, trembling inwardly. His life had not been a clean one, either commercially or socially. He had thought nothing of the hurt he had inflicted on others in pursuit of his own pleasure or his own interests, and he was conscious that he had more enemies— some of them very bitter enemies— than friends. Amongst the hundreds of them, however, it was hard to select those who might go to the length of threatening his life. It had been obvious, when the police asked for information about those who had reason to hate him, to mention those he had pressed to the point of ruin in his money-lending transactions; other incidents about which he hesitated to speak. He had a feeling that Peters, with his eyes upon him, knew this.

"A man makes enemies," he said helplessly. "All I can say is that I feel that this threat is serious."

"Well, all we can do is to see that you are protected," said Peters. "What time are you leaving the office?"

"I have some work to do to-night," said Paisley. "My car will come for me at ten o'clock. I'll go out for something to eat at five and return immediately."

"We'll have someone told off to watch the front of the building," Peters said; "and he'll make a round of the place before it closes, to see that there's no suspicious characters lurking inside. I'll probably come down at ten myself. We'll watch your home, too. When you wake up safe and sound in the morning you'll realise that these messages are only a foolish joke."

They were no joke to Paisley. At first he had cast them aside, but, with their persistency, terror had grown until at last apprehension held him every time he opened his mail, lest a fresh threat would be in one of these letters. The trouble was that the persecution had begun at a time when the ill-courses of his life had brought the inevitable result of jangled nerves, with decayed self-confidence.

The arrival of the policeman in his office, shortly after six, added to the assurance he had felt in feeling the protector following at his heels when, at five o'clock, he had gone out.

"I've had a run through the building, Mr. Paisley," he said. "There's nobody in the whole place but yourself, and it will be difficult for anyone to get in with us watching."

He had tried to settle down to work, but the assurance given him did not last, even when he went to the window and saw the policeman slowly pacing up and down the pavement opposite.

Peters had taken away the typewritten paper; but the words that were upon it seemed to leap suddenly into every document he held in his hand. Instead of reading what was in reality there, he would see "Whether you remain in your office or seek your home At midnight you will be a dead man."

But for the arrangements for leaving at ten o'clock, which assured his safety, he would have thrown work aside as impossible and gone home, but he was afraid to leave.

The grating of the lock below struck at his heart as the tolling of a bell, announcing that his hour had come, must fall upon that of the man condemned to execution. He made a swift move to the window. His heart went cold. He could not see the policeman anywhere. With jumping heart he glided out of his office to stand above the stairs. Prom the darkness below he heard the sound of the door closing softly; then a whisper of voices. A little pencil of light struck into the blackness at the foot of the stairs, and he heard the shuffle of feet.

"It's an old-fashioned place; the lift goes out of action at six," said somebody.

"So much the better," came the reply. Paisley sped back to switch off the light in his office, hurriedly snatch his automatic from his desk drawer, steal out, softly closing the door. Panic, was upon him, as he saw a ray of light, evidently from a strong torch, playing along the wall at the back of the stairway.

His office was on the first floor; above were three floors in the mouldy old building, besides a sort of attic, sometimes let to artists, higher than that. If he retreated into the upper regions the intruders, finding nobody in his office, might depart.

He stood frantically above the stairs on the second floor, listening Intently to the murmur of voices and the sound of footsteps. The light flashed twitchily in to the blackness of the stairway and turned away. Intent as he was, it was hard to catch what the voices below were saying. Only snatches were distinct:— "There was a light in his office ... the bird has flown—"

His heart Jolting, Paisley fled up another flight, and stood again, breathing with difficulty. For a space there was no sign of the intruders. They had probably made an entry into his office and searched it. The waiting was full of panic regrets.

He should have shut his door, thrown barricades against it, and rung up the police. Help might have come before they forced their way in. Now he had cut himself off from the possibility of calling assistance. If he had dared to cry out, to call for help would be futile in this lonely building.

And he should have stayed below to hear what they were doing Perhaps they had gone, satisfied he had left; but even as. that hope came, he knew that it would be an hour at least before he dared to risk going below again. The intruders might be secreted in his office.

The hope, itself, was quickly slain. Again the shuffle of ascending feet....

"The whole place to ourselves! What a place for a murder. Imagine the old moneylender found dead in the morning!"

Again the torch-light flashed on the stairway. His heart giving him agony, Paisley retreated, more slowly this time, and went crab-ways up the next stairs, slowly watching the grotesque shadows that were thrown by the banisters as the light swept the wall. There was something cruelly Indomitable in this pursuit that was forcing him higher and higher.

The automatic, at first thrust in his pocket, was in his hand as he stood at the top of the next stairhead. He wondered whether his pursuers would imagine that he was armed, and a feeling of ferocious exultation came to him, even as he cursed the jumpiness of his hand. In spite of that, a fusillade might be effective. But the bullets were limited— nine or ten. In his terror he could not even think of the number. The light was thrusting up the stairway again. The pursuit was cruel— cruel!

He was now on the crazy stairs leading to the attic. In that narrow way surely he could be sure of striking his enemies if they still pursued him. But he had no longer any faith In his ability to shoot. He had been backing up the stairs, slowly; but he suddenly fled up those that remained to be scaled, frantically trying the door above. There might be a possibility of escaping by the roof.

The door was fastened. His retreat was at an end!

Perhaps if he called upon them to stop, warning them that he was armed, his pursuers would fall back. He knew at once that the idea was futile. His lips were dry, his throat palsied with terror; he doubted whether he could utter a word, least of all put any conviction into an uttered threat.

No! Directly his attackers appeared at the foot of the stairs he would fire, hoping to kill or maim them. The light of the torch flashed again, on the bottom of the stairs.

In a despairing frenzy Paisley tried to get a grip upon his shaky nerves to put a firmness into his quivering hand. He was going to shoot— to shoot to kill And the moment had come!

WITH EVERY evidence of satisfaction upon his face, Darley entered his more than comfortable mansion. And the satisfaction his smile indicated was created solely because in his car he had driven past the Manor Chambers and had noticed the light in Paisley's window, and the police guard outside

"The old scoundrel will be in an agony, suffering the tortures of the damned," he muttered gleefully. "I've had him on the run with those letters for two years, and I'll bet that his quickly greying hair and the age that had come on his face are due to them. How he must have tortured himself, wondering where the letters came from, and waiting, waiting, for what they threatened to happen."

There was a striking resemblance between Darley and his home. In its general aspect the house was as perfect as money and taste could make it; but there was a coldness overhanging its perfection that denied the very title of home. Darley looked the perfect, prosperous citizen, was even credited with generosity and public spirit, but he had a cold and a cruel soul, which (carefully as he disguised it) delighted in human suffering. He gave, without satisfaction, to charity because that helped to create a screen for his real nature. So skilful was he in disguising his delight in being cruel that, although none of his servants liked him, probably few of them guessed that some of his actions towards them were deliberate endeavors to cause suffering. He would keep an employee in dread of the sack for weeks upon the rack, stimulating his hopes and then dashing them, and all the tune making it appear that a generous hesitation in dismissing the man prompted him, whilst Inwardly he gloated over his anxiety.

Perhaps his wile knew his real character. She had seemed a broken, spoiled woman when she died, quite early. She left a son, and that son represented all. the softness, all the good purpose, in Darley's real character, even if he was unable to forebear from inflicting some of his Sadistic tendencies on the boy in the training he gave him.

In the long ago, when he was struggling upward, Paisley had injured him. It was not a very substantial injury; it had merely been a small check upon his upward climb. But Darley never forgave an injury; and the discovery, a couple of years, before, that Paisley had developed nerves, and was frightened by small things, had given him an idea. He began his system of terrorisation by anonymous typewritten notes, glorying in the signs of increasing nervous agitation he saw every time he met the moneylender. The business was petty and spiteful; and yet it satisfied that hunger for cruelty that was in him.

"Where's my son?" he asked Munro, on entering the house.

"Mister Jeffrey went out half an hour ago, sir," said Munro. "Young Mr. Davis was with him."

Darley didn't like Davis; still, he supposed a young man had to choose his own friends. Davis was Bohemian, and a light-hearted fool; but he was not the sort of man who was at all likely to lead Jeffrey into any serious trouble.

EVEN AT that moment Davis was leading Jeffrey into trouble, which, had he known it, would have filled Darley's cruel heart with horror.

"It's an ideal place!" Davis enthused. "Right at the top of the most ramshackle old building in Sydney. Just the place for a studio. I've paid a deposit and got a front-door key; not having the money for the furniture, I'm relying on you for that, and I want you to have a look. It will rouse your enthusiasm."

And so the pair entered Manor Chambers.

"Rusty old lock, isn't it?" laughed Davis, as he closed the door. "It matches the rest of the place. Wait till I get my torch going."

Jeffrey grimaced as the torch-light showed the shabby walls.

"There's the lift, I suppose," he said.

"It's an old-fashioned place. The lift goes out of action at six o'clock."

"So much the better," said Jeffrey. "Climbing the stairs, they tell me, is good exercise. Flick that light over so that I can find the stairs."

So they climbed up to the first floor, unconscious of a dangerously-frightened man who fled before them. The torchlight fell on an office door, showing the sign painted on the glass.

"That's old Paisley, the money-lender. They say he's one of the worst screws in the whole business." said Davis. "Funny, I could have sworn, as we crossed the street, that there was a light in his window."

Jeffrey tried the door.

"The bird has flown, anyway," he said, "Let's get on— upstairs."

Davis flashed his light upon several doors, first of all, however, making lighthearted comments on the business habits of the occupiers. "Shark Chambers!" he said.

Up the stairs they went, the torch in Davis' hand showing the way, whilst Jeffrey went ahead. Not a suspicion came to them of a fear-mad figure flying ahead of them, retreating with desperation growing in his heart as they mounted.

"We've got the whole place to ourselves A bit eerie, isn't it?" said Davis.

"What a place for a murder! Imagine the old money-lender, found dead in the morning, one day! It's a wonder such an old shark dares to work in such a place," said Jeffrey.

The stairs took it out of them a bit, and they talked less, and less loudly, the  eeriness of the place oppressing them into whispering whatever they did say. Revolver, in shaking hand, the figure of the man their coming had terrorised backed from their approach.

"This is the top floor. Along to the left are the stairs to the attic."

"Torch-bearer, give me a light for my erring footsteps," said Jeffrey, lightly, and as the beam fell he strode towards the stairs.

"ANYTHING you wish, sir?" asked Munro. "Unless you want me, I'm going to bed;"

"Jeffrey not home yet?" asked Darley, looking up from his book and giving an anxious look at the clock. It was 11.30.

An inexplicable discomfort had oppressed him for the past two hours.

"Not yet, sir," said Munro.

A bell jarred shrilly. It started them both.

"The telephone, sir," said Munro, quite unnecessarily. "Shall I—"

THE MYSTERY of Manor Chambers was never fully cleared up. That Paisley had shot down young Darley in a paroxysm of fear (the police had evidence of the fear), believing him to be one of some mysterious people who had threatened his life, was clear enough; his automatic emptied, he had dashed past the appalled Davis, and, in his frenzied effort to get away quickly, had thrown himself over the stairs, breaking his neck. Davis had a full explanation of the presence, so unfortunate for one of them, of the young men in the building; and no one had the temerity to associate a highly esteemed citizen with the letters which had been the cause of the tragedy.

The secret of the mystery stayed in the mind of a man whose hair greyed in a few days, and whose mind dulled rapidly with the weight of the knowledge of a cruelty that recoiled that went to his grave with him.

__________________

4: The Fangs Of Fate

World's News (Sydney) 20 May 1931

MATHEWS rejoiced with strong drink over the engagement of his daughter, Muriel, to the wealthy young Protherick. It had been a long family persuasion that had preceded the event; a celebration was deserved. Mathews, prosperous to the view of his friends, had been a genial money-spender all his life; dismissed, with a laugh, the thought of a poverty-stricken old age, with nothing saved to meet the time when he could no longer hustle in the market-place, still haunted him discomfortably. Muriel's marriage with a rich man would help to lay that ghost.

"I think it's a damn shame," said Aulton, hopeless sentimentalist, and one with the privileges of a life-long friend. It was a dish of cold water on Mathews' exuberance.

"A shame? I don't get you, Jack." he said, blankly.

"You're a bit of a fraud, Frank; you're cheating yourself," said Aulton. "You know Mure doesn't care a row of pins for Protherick. As a man there's no comparison between him and young Travers "

"Oh, tush!" retorted Mathews. "That was only a boy and girl affair; neither Muriel nor Bob really thought of taking It seriously; Bob'll have to go a long way yet before he's in a position to marry. Of course, as far as that's concerned, I like Bob; but regarding him as a son-in-law— well, Protherick's in a position to marry and give Mure everything that a woman likes."

"Everything? That's why I say you're a fraud, Frank. You try to tell yourself that Muriel's happiness is all you're thinking about. You're trying to make yourself believe that. But you know that, secretly, there are other things."

"What other things?" flared Mathews. "What's wrong with Protherick, anyway?"

Aulton retorted with another question. "What notice would you take of Protherick if he hadn't any money? And Protherick's proud of his money; his attitude seems to suggest a perpetual sneer— that he can buy anything he wants. And that includes Muriel."

The remark cut so deeply into the truth that Mathews was trying to burke that a quarrel flared momentarily between the old friends. Hot words passed, almost the threats of blows; and then Aulton laughed.

"We're a couple of goats, Frank," he said. "Fancy old pals like us quarrelling! As far as that's concerned, I've played with Muriel when she was a tot, and I only hope she'll be happy. All I feel is that matrimony's a difficult proposition; and the one thing that makes it successful isn't money. You married, yourself, without a cent; and with all your ups and downs, and your little squabbles, you've got through fairly happily; that's because Meg and you loved one another. Come on, and have another drink; we'll drink good luck to the happy pair."

It was that interruption to the celebration that made it more intense; the breach in their friendship had to he cemented. Night found Mathews with Aulton, and a couple of other friends, in a very convivial mood, talking on a street corner about money matters, lingering their parting.

Mathews was boisterous.

"Here's a Joke!" he laughed. "See this policeman coming along behind me? When he comes near I'm going to turn, pretend to see him for the first time, and then bolt. It'll be a Joke to see what happens."

"Don't be a fool, Frank; the silly jokes you play when you've a few in will be getting you into trouble," advised Aulton.

But the others approved, with whispered laughter; they were all in that ripe mood. Hardy bet that Mathews could not simulate scared flight well enough to lure police pursuit.

Drunken freak that it was, Mathews did his part very well. The policeman was taken aback when the man in the group he was approaching, turning, gave a start upon seeing him, and then dashed away. Almost at once he was in pursuit, calling "Stand!" Mathews' friends laughed, as he, showing an unsuspected agility, dodged down a laneway and dived through a shop which gave a thoroughfare to the next street. They were following the chase; there would have to be explanations, of course, but a few bob to the policeman would solve his feelings regarding the jest.

Making direct for the main street they came across Mathews, explaining matters to the constable.

"Here are my friends, now," he said. "They'll bear me out that we had made it up to play a joke."

"That's a fact, constable," said Aulton. "It was rather a foolish Joke; my friend's idea was to test whether a perfectly respectable man could excite suspicion by merely running along the street."

"A joke, eh?" said the policeman. "It looks mighty suspicious to me. Anyway, any explanation he likes to make can be made at the police station."

"What charge?" demanded Mathews belligerently.

"Oh, we'll find a charge," said the policeman loftily. "Drunkenness will do; if there's nothing else, you must have been drunk to think that was a joke!"

Protestingly they walked together towards the station, Mathews making boisterous attempts to see humor in the situation, whilst the policeman added a growing anger to his suspicion under the sarcasms of his following friends.

"What's all this?" demanded the charge sergeant at the station, looking up from the writing that charge sergeants always find to do. Then he added, "Here, do you gentlemen think this is your, club?"

"Sergeant," began Aulton, heatedly, "my friend tried a joke— a rather foolish joke, I'll admit, and the constable "

"Hold your horses," said the sergeant. "Let's hear what he has to say first."

"At nine-fifteen I was doing beat duty in Elizabeth Road. This man was one of a group of four gathered at the corner of the road. Directly he saw me approach he ran away. Considering that a suspicious circumstance, I gave chase, calling upon him to stop. He failed to do so. I eventually caught him at the top of Herbert Street, where he said that he had run away for a joke. The explanation did not satisfy me, so I decided to bring him to the station. I charge him with being drunk and disorderly. His friends followed, endeavoring to induce me to release him; their language was distinctly abusive."

"Abusive!" cried Aulton, indignantly. "My friend's a respectable man; there was no need to put this indignity upon him just because of a Joke. His name's Mathews—Frank Mathews, of the Ritz Court "

A great light swept the sergeant's face as he stared intently at Mathews.

"Mathews is the name, is it?" he said. "Yes, he looks like it! Well, we're wanting to have a talk to Mr. Mathews. Walker, get headquarters on the 'phone and tell them to send that warrant along at the toot; we're detaining their man here. You've done good work, Thompson, and I'll take your charge."

And charged the astonished Mathews was in spite of his protests and those of his friends.

"It's all very well for you gentlemen," said the sergeant, "but we've got our work to do, and it's not a simple matter of leaving the money for his fine. We've got other business with Mathews. If you like to stay you can see what it is. You have been residing at Wallington Flats, Kensington?" he demanded of Mathews.

"My address is Ritz Court "

"That's all right," snapped the sergeant, "but what about the woman you were living with as your wife at Wallington Flats, Kensington?"

"That's an insult, sergeant," said Mathews, hotly. "All this is ridiculous."

"Is it? Well, we'll see. Get him in a cell, Thompson!"

Mathews' friends were still trying in spasms to argue the matter with the sergeant, who persisted in avoiding explanations, when a motor cycle panted to the door as an introduction to the entrance of a man they recognised, through much evening-paper publicity, as Detective Waller. He turned from a whispered conversation with the sergeant as Thompson brought Mathews back again, in a condition of indignant protest.

"It's him all right. Your name's Frank Mathews, is it?"

"Yes, it is; and—"

"And that's your photograph, isn't it?" He thrust before Mathews a photograph he had been showing to the sergeant.

"It's very like me; but it can't be me. I've not had a photograph taken for ten years. There are other people who are very like me— it might be one of them. Barker, the solicitor, for instance."

"I'm satisfied it's you," said the detective curtly. "That photograph was found in a flat at Wallington Flats, Kensington, where a woman was found dead by poison this afternoon. She was known as Mrs. Frank Mathews. I'm going to arrest you, Frank Mathews, for the wilful murder of Emily Carden, commonly known as Emily Mathews, of Wallington Flats, Smith Street, Kensington. Anything you say may be used in evidence against you."

"Good God! What's all this damned mummery?" cried Mathews, starting up. He had dropped, he was convinced, into a nightmare and must wake up. The indignant outburst of his friend Aulton, and his suppression, seemed part of an absurd dream; and the interrogations of the detective were also a part of a vague, foolish delirium. His name was Frank Mathews, certainly. No; he didn't know Kensington— didn't know a single street in the place. He lived at Ritz  Court, Treble Bay. He never knew a woman named Emily; he wasn't Interested in any woman but his wife, who's name was Margaret, and his daughter.

It was all absurd—a dream! He made the assertion time and again. But that heavy clank of the cell door, which had such finality about it, was a real thing; so had been the bare surroundings of the police station, with its worn dock,, its atmosphere of cold cruelty, and its hanging files.

In the cell, he tried to doze, satisfied that, if he waited, he must wake up; but restlessness was in his mind; he had run' away from a policeman for a joke and was now charged with murder! What a damned piece of absurdity it all was! He cursed himself for that bit of tomfoolery; then he reflected that after all, if the police were looking for a man named Prank Mathews who looked so like himself, though, of course, in spite of the name, it couldn't be himself, they would have found him.

Curious how in a moment the whole structure of a man's life could crash! Only that afternoon he had been celebrating the engagement of his daughter, congratulating himself that the future was assured— how would that young snob Protherick take the publicity? He could see a break-up of all things; after the struggle to pay off the mortgage on his house, the expenses of his defence would mean a new encumbrance upon it; a new load to carry when he was free again. What would have become of his business by the time he had to attend to it once more?

Perhaps he would never get back to it again! Perhaps that again heavily mortgaged house would be all his wife and daughter would have with which to face the world— alone. The thought smote suddenly, throwing him into a cold sweat.

No! No, that couldn't happen! An innocent man couldn't possibly be hanged! Hanged! He shuddered, feeling a creepiness on his neck, as if a loose rope touched it.

Right through to the time he was awaiting his trial, with the direct finding of the coroner against him that Emily Carden had been wilfully and feloniously slain by Frank Mathews, the impression of nightmare lay upon him. Every act of it had the nightmare touch; the frequency with which he was placed into line in the prison yard with an assortment of men and picked out inevitably each time by men and women who, he was prepared to swear, he had never seen before; the solicitor who said impatiently to his denials:  "It would be a damn sight better if you told the truth! I'd know where I was then"; his wife, who accepted his anguished assurances of innocence so doubtfully, and when he thought he had overcome her doubts, cried in a choking voice: "Oh, Frank! I always tried to be good to you. I never thought you'd want any other woman!" His daughter, too, who seemed restrained, forcing herself to a dutiful sympathy, but outraged by an underlying belief about his infidelity to her mother. Even Aulton— although Aulton had resolved to be loyal, his eyes repeated every time they looked at him the words he had used: "You're a bit of a fraud, Frank." Only the diminution of the statement was not in his eyes.

Bob Travers, he was the only one that gave him any sort of a comfort. He had come with Meg and Muriel, and his handgrip had been warm; then he had stood aloof; but at Mathews' request he stayed behind when the women went.

"Anything I can do at all— you know I'll do anything I can."

"Thanks, Bob," he said. "It's good of you. I think I'm going mad— everybody seems to believe this monstrous tale about me, except you."

"You're Muriel's father, Mr. Mathews; I don't care what you did, or what you didn't; that's all that matters to me!"

It left Mathews a bit dashed; but the declaration was honestly friendly, and Mathews was satisfied. "Where's Protherick?" he asked. It was a question he had not liked to ask Muriel.

"He has been called to Melbourne on business," said Bob Travers, with a scornful lip; then he added, fairly: "I think he told Mrs. Mathews that if any money was wanted it would be there."

Then there had been the coroner's inquest; the nightmare, again, of his identification by people he had never met before; the doctor who had been called in when the woman was found dead, remembered being called in before, and recognised him as the man- he had seen in the flat, spoken to, and imagined to be the dead woman's husband; the chemist who had sold poison to a man he declared without hesitation to be Mathews; the publican who swore that he had been in the habit of buying bottles of whisky at his hotel, and that the bit of wrapper adhering to the bottle was portion of one of those used in his establishment— the long chain of them, with the evidence of those who had overheard quarrels in which the woman had made demands for money and threatened exposure—exposure of what the witnesses could not say.

Against all this Mathews could put nothing but his denial that the man they accused was himself— that he did not know the dead woman, had never been to Kensington except in passing along the boundary road to Randwick and Coogee, had never bought poison in his life, and, so far as he knew, although a whisky drinker, had never touched a drop of Claymore brand— which the publican of the hotel he denied having entered had sworn he always asked for— in his life. In his helplessness against the assertions of all the witnesses it seemed to him that that trivial fact was one of importance; he registered a mental note to fill the court with witnesses to prove the whisky he asked for when drinking was never Claymore.

Even his indignant outburst that he prized his family life and was too fond of his wife and- daughter to carry on any intrigue made the case blacker against him; it supplied a strong motive for the removal of a woman who had threatened to expose him.

Mathews was not suprised at the coronial verdict; he was too stunned with the weight of the evidence to be surprised at anything; but the idea that he must sooner or later wake up from the nightmare persisted. He began to doubt his own innocence, too. Did, he questioned in his mind, these stories of dual personality have foundation in actual fact, and was it possible that, without any recollection of his actions as the other man when he was in his own rightful person, he had really lived a double life?

This fancy, which supplied an explanation of what was otherwise inexplicable nightmare, was maddening in itself—he was a monstrosity with an evil half of himself that could do all sorts of ill without check from his sane consciousness. That was a direfuly horrible possibility!

Mathews tried to dismiss it, but that only meant a return to the nightmare He felt that the whole position was hopeless when even his own solicitor, Braddock, definitely thought him an obstinate liar.

"Did this woman, Emily Carden, ever show any signs of suicidal tendencies?" he asked, suddenly, one day, when he came out to see him.

"I tell you, Braddock, I never saw the woman!" protested Mathews, too tired of it to be vehement.

"Oh, well," sighed Braddock, "if we could show suicidal tendencies, we might set up a theory that, the poison being left about the house, she found it and put it in the whisky herself. The poison was bought a fortnight before the woman's death; that fact would help. We might demand the reason why, if you had made up your mind—"

"Braddock, you will persist!"' Mathews cried. "I tell you there's a mistake in identity. I'm not the Frank Mathews concerned in this dreadful business.'"

"If you'd only own up to me I'd have something to work upon!" grumbled the solicitor resignedly. "We've got nothing to go on. If you could only remember where you were on the day the poison was bought, and we could show that you  couldn't have been the purchaser because you were elsewhere, it'd be something. We'd make 'em prove all their times and dates and bring evidence in rebuttal. But you can't help us."

"I go up and down the town; I can never remember next week where exactly I have been at any particular time in this one."

"I brought Mr. Travers with me," said the lawyer. "He wanted to come out to see you, so I told him he could come with me. He's got an idea, but it doesn't appeal to me much."

It had heartened Mathews to see Bob Travers there; he had been hurt particularly by the deliberate absence of Protherick, although he had expected nothing else. Travers had stood aloof whilst the lawyer talked.

"My idea," he said eagerly, "has been to try and find out if there's anyone at all resembling you who is fond of the Claymore whisky. I remembered you making the point that you didn't touch it. I've been going into the hotels, working systematically and asking for it; then I ask if there's any regular customer who calls for it. There are lots of hotels don't handle the brand at all. I thought I'd struck it in an hotel up in Oxford Street. They told me a man used to come in there often and call for Claymore. He was about their only customer for the brand.

"Did they know his name?" cried Mathews eagerly.

"They said his name was Frank Mathews."

Mathews's heart fell.

"But when I talked to them I found out that they had not known him by any name until they saw a snap of you in the papers. They said he used to just drive up in a car, have his nip, and drive off again."

"I never owned a car in my life!" exclaimed Mathews.

"I fancied that," said Bob, exultingly.

"I didn't know that bit of it." said the solicitor, interested.

"I wanted to ask Mr. Mathews," went on Travers. "It seemed to me that it was a point. That's not all I got, either. At an hotel I called at this morning, when I asked for Claymore, a man looked at me queerly. We got into conversation after he had heard me asking the barmaid my usual question; and he said that the only other man he knew who asked for Claymore was a damned swindler."

"What did he say his name was?" demanded Mathews.

"He had forgotten. It appeared that he had taken down a friend of his, with whom he had met him. He said that his friend was very sore about it, and he promised to find out the name and meet me at four this afternoon."

The solicitor consulted his watch.

"Keep the appointment, and see me afterwards," he said. "'Say four-thirty. There probably isn't anything to it, but it's worth following up. If we can fasten on to someone very like our friend who can be identified as a regular drinker of the kind of whisky found in the flat— why, it's a winning point! I just want a word or two with Mr. Mathews, and I'll join you if you wait at the gates."

Bob went out, with Mathews's thanks ringing in his ear. He was warmed and exhilarated by the youngster's interest and loyalty.

"A fine young fellow; I've always liked him," he remarked. "He's capable, too; it's a pity he was never put to something definite."

"He is capable," assented the lawyer.

"I've noticed that. He'd be a valuable, man— earn his oats anyhow; and if he wins out with the line he's taken up on this case I'll give him a chair in the office. He'll have his salary to keep him going, and he'll have his chance of studying and qualifying. I'll back him to be a first-class lawyer if he does."

For the first time since the amazing calamity had fallen upon him Mathews felt at ease that night; the mosquitoes that haunt. "A" hall at Long Bay, where the men waiting trial are kept, did not keep him awake. As a reaction from despair, hope sprang high within him. Someone was at least doing something definite to clear him!

It would mean so much to Meg, whose hair had begun to grey since the trouble fell, and in spite of her attempts to maintain an air of loving sympathy carried a look in her eyes reproaching him for infidelity; it would mean so much to Muriel, who, although he hoped she would never again look at Protherick, the man who deserted in the hour of trouble, would be free of shame and scandal— so much to everybody! His heart glowed towards young Travers.

The six o'clock bells stirred the prison into wakefulness; he heard the rattle of the night-tubs as they were removed; the clank of locks and chains, and the tread of feet. In a few hours he would hear news—news he hoped would be good. Hours dragged tediously, and the disappointment of each waiting minute seemed to add its weight to an increasing load until, when sunset came, his despair was as great as ever.

Hope returned with the dawn, and, then, faded again.... The prospect upon which he had pinned faith had evidently proved futile; and now even the people upon whom he depended had failed him. Darkness had fallen in again; the nightmare was intensified.

He felt that he was really mad, now, so deeply had the disappointment sunk in, so strongly had despair at the hopelessness of any escape taken possession that he felt he was already dead... the rope tight about his neck.

JACKSON was in Braddock's office; in the background were Bob Travers and a grey man with a drawn, lined face, sitting uncomfortably on the edge of his chair. The detectives had been listening to the lawyer, impressed by what he had been saying.

"Let me introduce, Mr. Travers," he said. "He has joined my staff, and you'll probably become well acquainted with him; the case he has prepared is remarkably well done. He discovered this gentleman here, Mr. Wray, had a grievance against our gentleman. He acted for him in a case, and recovered a verdict for £350. The money had been paid over. Wray had not been given a penny; he was fobbed off with tales of witnesses' expenses and costs. This being his first experience with solicitors, he disgustedly decided that it was no use to go to another; he just went about, grumbling about being swindled Mr. Travers discovered from him the names of others who used to call regularly, anxious for their money, at the office, where he met them; there's an old lady. Mrs. Beecham. who, it seems, has been diddled of the main portion of her husband's estate Here is a list of the people, with notes about the transactions with our man. Mr Travers interviewed them all. Undoubtedly he has been mishandling trust funds in a wholesale fashion."

"He's got a reputation as a religious man; he's a big supporter of the church!" objected Jackson.

"Isn't that the sort?" retorted Braddock. "Secret vices and the blackmail of women— those are the expensive items. Wray's prepared to lay an information now."

"You'll have to act quickly," said Travers. "I've been watching him; followed him to the passport office and the shipping company. The American boat leaves to-day."

"Where I score," said Braddock, "is that here's your man for the Kensington murder; his discovery lets my client, Frank Mathews, out. Travers got on to it all by hunting down a man resembling Mathews, who was partial to Claymore whisky— the whisky found in the flat.

"They are as alike as two pins— all your witnesses will identify Barker just as surely as they did Mathews, but Mathews never tasted Claymore whisky in his life, and Barker always bought it. You've got that, and two women noted on this list— they called at his office, evidently to blackmail him. And one at least will say he lived with her under the name of Mathews!"

"He used the name of Frank Mathews!" commented Waller.

"Naturally! He knew that the double was perfect. If there was any discovery the blame would naturally go to the man whose name he had taken. People would certainly suspect, the happy-go-lucky knock-about chap, rather than the pillar of the church!"

"Well, he crashes," said Waller, rising. "We'll get busy."

As one who had wakened suddenly from a bad dream. Frank Mathews walked out into the free air and the sparkling sunshine to the car waiting outside the prison gates, weary with the oppression of the dream; but his heart singing. His wife's hand was in his, conveying to him a tender regret that she should ever have had any suspicion of him; he had so nearly suspected himself that he had no resentment for that, but the repentance was sweet to him. All was well with the world!

"I must thank Travers," he said, suddenly coming out of a daze.

But Travers, helping Muriel into the front seat, where he evidently intended to sit beside her, was preoccupied And again Mathews was glad.

That cad Protherick could be damned!

___________________

5: Guilty Conscience

World's News (Sydney)  10 June 1931

RODRICK, fumbling with the table furniture as he took his usual seat at the restaurant, where the chair was daily tilted for him, found the slip of paper under his plate. Rodrick felt that it was absurd that, his hands should shake after reading it; his nerves were all awry, and anything might upset them. The sight of Challoner, standing on the other side of the table, was a new shock.

Challoner's manner was full of geniality.

"Why, Rodrick!" he exclaimed. "Fancy running across you, here, after all these years. We haven't met since the beginning of the war. Why, what's the matter, man? Your hand's shaking. Feeling ill?"

"Not been feeling too well, lately. Nerves to pieces, somehow. You look well."

"Nothing wrong with me," responded Challoner, as he .seated himself. "Now we've met, you must lunch with me. I'm sorry you're seedy. You're still shaking, and as white as a ghost."

"It's only this," said Rodrick, holding out the paper, desperately eager that Challoner should not think the meeting with him was the cause of his agitation. "However foolish it is, the least thing seems to set my nerves going nowadays. Finding it, here, gave me a stupid shock."

Challoner took the slip of paper and laughed as he read the typewritten lines.

" 'Vengeance is mine; I will repay.' "

Silly stuff! Probably the work of some religious crank, thinking he's doing good by scaring sinners to repentance! Have you any godly visitors here who make a practice of leaving things like this under the plates of customers?" he asked, turning to the waiter, who had come for orders.

The waiter, staring blankly at the slip, denied having seen anything of the sort before; and Challoner, twisting the paper up lightly, tossed it aside. Rodrlck, in his first confusion, had associated the paper and his old friend; although he would have preferred not to have met Challoner under any circumstances his manner gave him a sense of relief.

"Do you know, we haven't met since my trouble— I mean my wife," Challoner was saying. "Strange how a man kicks against what proves the best thing in the world for him! I nearly went mad when Helen left me. It seemed that the whole world had dropped to pieces. I enlisted with the idea that it was just as well to make a good finish; perhaps it was my recklessness about whether I lived or died that won me my quick promotion. My rank in the A.I.F. secured me a good Job when I got back."

"You're married again?" suggested Rodrick.

"Of course— you must have seen it in the papers. It's a different affair altogether to my marriage with Helen. You saw so much of us that I can speak to you about it. You'll meet Dora, too, perhaps, some day. I married Helen when I was poor, and I could never have gone very far with her— she was too exacting; always more a passionate disturbance than a help in my life. Dora is just as fond of me; but she sees the reason of each going his or her own way. Perhaps having money helps her; she's on a trip to England now; when she comes back we'll both be glad to be together again; but she never worried me about going, knowing I have my work. Helen would have."

"You've done well," commented Rodrick awkwardly.

"Yes," responded Challoner, with a laugh, "I didn't know any more than he did how much I was indebted to Chalmers for running off with Helen. Of course, I never blamed Chalmers. The trouble started long before him. Some other swine, who played on Helen's discontent, encouraged her idea of my neglect— even suggested that I was unfaithful. Helen told me about that in the letter she left, though she didn't mention his name. That hound wasn't man enough to take her away; he wanted his pleasures cheap. He was the one to blame; he started her on the track she followed. Possibly my thanks are due Chalmers; but as for the other—"

Rodrick's pouchy eyes were glued to his plate; his flabby lips twisted as he played with his bread.

"What became of Helen?" he asked.

"She got a divorce, you know— I let it go when she applied on the grounds of desertion. I never knew what had become of her until the other day; never really worried. One of my clerks fell ill and I thought I'd go to see him. Helen was there— drudge-wife of a cheap boarding-house keeper, who loafs whilst she works— worn out and spiritless."

"Well, I suppose she made her bed." mumbled Rodrick.

"We were real lovers once, and I can't help feeling sorry," said Challoner. "Not since the first year after she left me did I feel so like killing the man who started the business as when I saw her last week! She never told me. You were a great friend of ours then; did you ever—"

"I? No, certainly not," said Rodrick, sitting up with a start. "How should I?"

"Oh, well," said Challoner. with an indifferent laugh, "friends often see much more than the husband. I suspected nothing— therefore, nobody."

Rodrick, although he could not altogether shake off the feeling of restraint and apprehension that fell upon him when Challoner first spoke to him, experienced relief when he turned to a fresh subject. Helen was only one of the episodes in the debauched life that had left him with flabby heart and jangled nerves; but now it was much more comfortable to discuss those nerves than Challoner's wife.

"What you want," said Challoner, "is to get away from the city for a while. What about coming up to-morrow afternoon to my place in the mountains? The air's a tonic there; and the week-end would do you a world of good."

"I don't think I can get away."

"Rot! You and I were old friends, weren't we? Having met again, is there any reason why we should not be as good friends as ever?"

Out of Rodrick's desperate desire to give Challoner no idea that he wished to avoid him came a half-promise to meet him— which he did not intend to keep. A last-minute telegram would make his excuse. But. within twenty-four hours events happened which changed his intention. In what had been very nearly a bad accident, a powerful car had scraped against the side of the taxi in which he was riding; during the morning, after his meeting with Challoner, he had a hair-breadth escape from being run down by another car at a street crossing. With a mind from which he could not efface the effect of the note he had found in the restaurant, he read in each incident malignant intention rather than accident. And again a typewritten slip had been under his plate at the restaurant. The waiter was unable to explain it.

The accusations of Rodrick's conscience churned the terror of his nervous disorder; the city shrieked of danger and vengeance to him. In his selfish life he had injured many; he could not think of one particular quarter from which the danger might come; it was potential from many. His suitcase was ready in his office; he had intended going away, avoiding Challoner's invitation, but, somehow, the loneliness of the trip appalled him. Challoner, apparently, had no suspicion; and when he came in, and, seeing the suitcase, took it for granted that he was prepared for the mountain Journey, Rodrick did not object.

"Lord, man, you look ill!" had been Challoner's greeting as he took a shaky hand. And he felt ill; sick at the idea of the embarrassment that being with Challoner would cause him. sick of the dread of giving any appearance of reluctance to accompany him: more sick still of the prospect of loneliness with the nameless terrors that were fast mastering him.

Challoner's easy friendship was disarming, and, as he never referred to his wife. Rodrick found his companionship a relief as the train sped towards the mountains. The twilight fell; the night closed in; conversation languished and drowsiness came: and Rodrick started to his feet with something like a squeal as the sound of a deafening crash smote upon his slumber. The window beside him was broken, with the glass still falling, and the cool night wind was blowing upon him: and Challoner was picking from a seat, a stone which had apparently done the damage.

"Your typewriting friend seems to be still pursuing us," he said, pulling off a string which tied a paper around the stone. "He's not a bit original, either— it is just the same message as before: 'Vengeance is mine; I will repay.' "

Rodrick felt his heart fluttering, his breath coming painfully.

"There was another of those at the restaurant yesterday," he said, hoarsely.

"What?" exclaimed Challoner. "Then it is plain enough that this is no mere freak, but a deliberate attempt to terrorise you. It's a silly, theatrical idea, and there is no real reason to be alarmed —anyone who intended really to harm you would not advertise the fact. Haven't you got any idea of who is doing it? Has anyone threatened you?"

"No, no— none." said Rodrick, through chattering teeth.

"Whoever threw that must have carefully noted this compartment, followed in a motor car, and been a good shot into the bargain." remarked Challoner, handing Rodrick a flask of whisky to steady him. "As I say, I don't think it's serious: but it's unpleasant. If you feel you'd sooner go back to town, you could get a train back at Springwood, after waiting a little time."

But Rodrick, with a terrified vision of a wait in a darkened station, and a lonely return journey, elected to go on. The loneliness of the small station at which they ultimately alighted, having reported the stone-throwing at the first intermediate stop, sank a new shadow upon his heart.

A man who saluted Challoner with a suggestion of military precision tools charge of their suitcases and led the way to an old car. While the luggage was being stowed, an exclamation came from Challoner.

"Your messages, again, Rodrick! Look here, on the seat! And once more the same wording."

They looked round quickly. The few people hurrying away from the station seemed preoccupied and indifferent to the car and the three men about it.

"Did you see anyone about who might have put this here, Bates?"

"No. Mr. Challoner. I've been on the platform for some time, but I've had my eye on the car. and there was no one near it."

"No suspicious characters at all?"

"Well, there was a man who came to the house to-day to ask if Mr. Rodrick was coming. I said I didn't know— you often brought friends and we were always ready."

Challoner looked at the pale Rodrick, who was trembling.

"Queer?"

"It's more than queer! How "did anyone know I was coming?"

"Whoever it was must have been near us when we were speaking in the restaurant," said Challoner; then, to Bates: "What sort of a man?"

"Queer-looking bird; dark featured with a scar on his face. Sort of mad-looking he looked to me, with twisting eyes; and his laugh was mad, too, as he went away."

Challoner looked at Rodrick questioningly; but he merely shook his head, not trusting himself to sneak.

"We can't wait here for the next train back— the next that stops here won't be along for hours— and the old flivver might strand us on the journey, so it's impossible to see you back to town," Challoner said. "We'd better get to the house; I've got a 'phone there, and we can ring up the police."

Rodrick, feeling his whole body trembling, and hating the black shadows of the tree-lined road, found some reassurance in the lights of the two-story bungalow which they eventually reached; but his sense of the distance they had had to travel and the apparent isolation of the place filled him with new foreboding. Shadowed in the trees there seemed something sinister about the building.

"I'll try the 'phone right away," said Challoner; but no tinkle sounded in the instrument as he rang. He rang again: then took a swift stride to the door.

"The wire's been cut!" he exclaimed.

Rodrick, following the pointing finger, could see a cut end of wire hanging down in a break of the trees that lined it against the silvered sky, looking malignantly like a hangman's rope.

Challoner closed the door sharply.

"It looks serious to me, old man," he said. "Is there nobody you suspect? Who is there most likely to have a grouch against you?"

Rodrick could get no words through his chattering teeth; he shook his head.

"Anybody you have wronged in any way?"

"Of course, there may be someone. You never know when a man will get an idea like that."

"Any woman, for instance?" Challoner's voice had suddenly a stern note.

"No. no! Of course, I haven't been a saint, but "

"Well," said Challoner, relaxing, "you're safe in here, anyway. We'll brace with a spot before I show you your room. After dinner Bates can take the flivver and go for the police— we don't boast any in this little village."

Rodrick's jangling nerves refused to recover their composure. As he unpacked his suit-case in the comfortable upper story room his hands still shook; and the sharp tintibulation of the gong was a new shock. On top of it, as, taking control of himself, he moved to descend, came a sudden uproar from below of scuffling and upset chairs.

"Dash out the back door— I'll take the front," cried Challoner's voice, as he and Bates rushed through the-hall.

Paralysed with terror at the unexplained uproar. Rodrick was still gasping, halfway down the stairs, when they came back, panting.

"A man in the dining-room," Challoner explained. "Bates had brought in half the dinner, and swears he wasn't there: returning, there he was! What was he like. Bates?"

"No mistaking him, sir. He was the queer chap who called to-day."

"Well, he got away; but I shouldn't think he'd come back in a hurry. We'd best have dinner; it'll be getting cold."

vet in the very act of serving the dinner, of which the shaking Rodrick felt that he could never touch a mouthful. Challoner paused. "Wait!" he said, and from his own plate passed down a morsel of meat to the cat, which was rubbing itself around his chair. It was seized voraciously.

Fascinatedly, the eyes of the three men were upon the cat. It swallowed the meat in a hurry, looking for more; then it stopped with a look of queer uncertainty, changing to pain. Its body quivered, and, between wheezy coughs, foam commenced to form on its lips. With a complaining cry it flopped suddenly on its side, struggling spasmodically, as if in a fit.

"Poisoned, by God!" cried Challoner. "I got the idea when I thought of that man being in here. The matter has become too serious— evidently this man will stop at nothing! He doesn't care who else he gets, as long as he gets you, Rodrick! Bates, take this stuff away and put it where it will be safe; the police will want it. And warn Nelly about it. You'd better get out the flivver and go for all you're worth for the police. Tell them how urgent it is."

Rodrick, shaking like a leaf, full of accumulated terrors, had his head leaning on his arms, while he whimpered, when the banging of the shutters, as Challoner closed them, startled him anew.

"It's fortunate we have shutters to all the windows. You'd better come round with me while I fasten them. It's plain we can't take any risks. I've told Bates to take Nelly— that's the cook, the only other servant in the house— away with him. It's no use having a woman in the house if there's anything doing. Come on, man! Try another whisky and pull yourself together!"

Fainting with terror, Rodrick dogged Challoner as he made the rounds of the house, fastening the shutters, and examining every room before he left it. Rodrick's room was the last they reached; and a fresh sickness of terror struck the nervous wreck at Challoner's exclamation when he saw the ladder leaning against the window. Challoner heaved it away, to crash down in the garden, as he fastened the shutters.

"I wonder what that ladder meant?" said Challoner, surveying the' room with a puzzled frown. Then he suddenly pulled Rodrick from the bed, where he had seated himself in sheer limpness, and tore off the upper bedclothes.

Pressing down the mattress he showed to Rodrick's sickened eyes the point of a knife protruding from the mattress under the pressure of his hand. Challoner twisted the mattress over, and a wrench tore out the evil-looking weapon from its concealment.

"Ingenious, by George!" he cried. "Placed there, upright, so that, as you lay down, your own weight would kill you! No doubt, Rodrick, this man, whoever it is, intends to get you."

"My God, yes! My God!" moaned Rodrick.

"Well, we're shut in safe enough now," said Challoner, cheerfully, "and Bates should be back in a couple of hours, with the police. I'll just go down and bring some whisky up, and some books, and a bit of food."

"Food! I couldn't eat anything!" moaned Rodrick.

"We must eat, and I'm hungry," said Challoner. "I may be half-an-hour—  there's bound to be a few chops and I'll grill them. Come down, if you like."

Rodrick could have pleaded with him piteously to remain; but, in the stupefaction that new terror after terror had brought him, he felt too moribund even for that. So Challoner went alone, without protest; his guest, string-halted by terror, remained along with his feelings, all the more poignant because he could not express them. He felt like the man who, fleeing in a nightmare, has his feet clamped to large weights. For some basis of reason, he tried to imagine who it was who, in this fiendish way, was pursuing him; but composed and ordered thought was beyond possibility. Hovering on the rim of delirium, he groped with terror, until, from a horrible comatoseness, he woke to a new sensation.

A light from without was playing, behind the blinds, upon the slats of the shutters; there was a gentle grating sound as of a file applied to the hard  wood.

Rodrick's shriek brought Challoner rushing to meet him as he fled downstairs. Hearing what he gabbled deliriously Challoner dashed up to the room. He came back to find Rodrick a huddled, moaning heap on the stairs.

"Pull yourself together," he said, scornfully. "Going on like this won't help. There was nobody there; but the ladder was back. I've thrown it down again; and, more, I've locked the room. You'd better come to my room; but, first, help me bring up the food and the whisky."

The nightmare of that night dragged with racking slowness. With the sick horror of the narrowly missed poison upon him, Rodrick, in spite of hunger, could not face the food which Challoner ate voraciously, but seized the whisky eagerly, without gaining any surcease from his ever-pressing terrors. He shank also from lying down, or even sitting; every chair and cushion had suggestions of the hidden knife he had seen on his bed. The snores of Challoner, stretched half-dressed upon his bed, were a fresh terror to him. How he lived through the long drawn agony he did not know; but a grey light was coming through the shutters when Challoner, surprised to find him asleep, shook him to consciousness.

"I've got to go," said the host. "Bates hasn't returned— something must have happened to him. My nearest neighbor is a quarter of a mile away. I'll get to him and ask him to go for the police— evidently Bates didn't arrive there. I ought to be back in half an hour."

Rodrick must have been in a moribund condition to have let him go without protest. With the quiet slam of the door he realised that he was alone with his terrors. His shrieks to Challoner to return did not bring any answer; they only ceased when his own voice frightened him. He was alone In a house where every shadow was a terror, and yet he did not dare to open the shutter to let light in: where every seat, every couch, was a death-trap holding secret daggers; all food was poisoned. Desperately hungry, the grilled chops, now cold, Challoner had cooked for him were the sort of torture that water held before a thirsty man's lips, but denied him, must be. Sometimes, with heart palpitating and head twisting to detect dangers with every movement he made Roderick approached those chops but as he touched them the vision of the cat writhing in the agony of poisoning came with a feeling of nausea. Finally, in madness, he took the chops, and, cautiously opening a window, forced them out through the slats of the shutters— and was immediately sorry.

Challoner did not return in half an hour. In his eternity of fear-tortures Rodrick judged the time by the changing light. It had seemed like years, but he knew hours had passed, when the very despair of his terror built up a courage of resolution. Feeling every breath a burden, he stole to the front door with the idea of making a dash from the terror-thronged prison. With a burst of determination he was outside. A sharp "whizz" as a bullet passed him and a "smack" as it hit plaster above his head, and he was back again, the doors banged behind him, sprawled upon the hall carpet in spasm of whimpering terror.

His mind was in too great a chaos to consider why Challoner and Bates had not returned. As for as he thought of it, the trap closing in upon him had caught them; he whimpered merely over the, loneliness in which they had left him.

As the shadows began to crowd in again he wanted to shriek to heaven to delay the fall of the night, but he was afraid to shriek.

And then a worse turn came. Challoner had had the house fitted with electric light; as the shadows grew, Rodrick tried the-switches. No light came to combat the gathering darkness. It fell upon him on every hand, every foot of it whispering of hidden dangers, of vengeance for past offences.

The torture stretched into new eternities. Startlingly there came at last the crunch of shod feet on gravel before the door. Rodrick had leapt forward to open it, but, with a fresh fear in a heart he had thought had no room for more, he checked himself.

"Is that you, Challoner?" he shrieked.

There was no answer; the silence added grimness to the situation.

"For God's sake, Challoner, is it you? Bates, is that you?" he screamed.

The grim silence held, and an icy grip was on his heart. Was it a key or some pick-lock that was being fitted into the lock? Or, if it was a key, who was holding it? Who had secured the keys of Challoner or his servant?

"My God, can't you answer? Is it the police?"

There was no response but the rasp of the turning lock. Rodrick raced sobbingly for the stairs as a shaft of light shot out. It appeared as an accusing finger, following as he climbed higher.

"Challoner! Challoner! Say if it is you, for God's sake!"

There was nothing but the pursuing finger of light, a deadly malignant thing. He fled up the higher stairs, thought suddenly of the ladder in a box-room, and, stumbling up it, in spite of hurts, reached the garret. They found him gibbering in the corner when they came upon him— Challoner and Bates.

"Fool and coward, as well as cur," vociferated Challoner, bitterly. "I wanted to get the last ounce of torture out of you or I would have replied. This is for Helen— for the hash you have made of the life of a woman I loved once. Bates, too— his wife was the Nelly Cummings you played with while he was away at the war. When he came back he forgave and married her. Still, he has not forgotten."

"But you, you coward! Frightened by such easy things! Slips of paper! First of all reaching you by the aid of a bribed waiter; then by my own sleight of hand. The little tricks, so easily worked, we played on you here, even waiting to shoot, watching in ambush— to frighten, not to hit— if you showed enough courage to try to escape. Laugh at yourself, you swine, when you try to heal your frayed nerves! You can go back now and enjoy them."

"It's not to town that bloke will be going back, Mr. Challoner," said Bates, with pointing finger.

Challoner saw what triumphant rage had hitherto hidden from him; a meaningless stare in the eyes above a gibbering mouth that spoke of nothing but madness.

___________________

6: The Clock Hands of Fate

World's News (Sydney) 12 August 1931

THE lighted face stared mockingly at Peters as he looked out of the window. There seemed derision in the hands as they pointed to the time—11.30. And 12 was the death-hour!

He called it that involuntarily, in spite of the effort to throw the suggestion from his mind.

That morning Dr. Burton had put him through a thorough examination, and had testified that, organically, he was sound, good for another twenty or twenty-five years.

"Something's upset you, man!" he had exclaimed on his arrival. "You're ghastly, and shaking, too. What's wrong?"

"I'd like you to give me the once-over first, doctor. We'll talk about things afterwards," Peters said, and stuck to that. Burton was giving a final examination of his heart when he became startled.

"Good God, man, what's wrong?" he exclaimed.

"That blasted clock!" exclaimed Peters. The timepiece on the mantelpiece was still chiming the hour. As he dressed he began an explanation of the sudden acceleration of his heart-beats.

"You know the planchette, doctor— the contraption used by spiritualists for spirit writing?"

The doctor nodded.

"I've never actually seen it. I've heard of it, of course."

"A bit of light wood fixed to hold a pencil over paper, moving on small wheels to give it free action. You put your hand on it and it moves. It was away back, a long time ago, when spiritualism was fashionable. It was for a joke I tried my hand at it, at a party. Nearly everybody present was trying; it moved with all of them as far as I can remember, but merely made weird scrawls over the paper for some; it gave definite answers to the questions of a few of the others. When I took a turn I asked jokingly how I was likely to die. The planchette moved under my hand. Jerkily at first, and then it went ahead steadily; and there on the paper was the distinct word, 'Violence!'

"We still made a joke of it, except a few who took the spirit-writing seriously; but in spite of my jesting it gave me a jolt. I asked again, 'When?' and the board started to run this way and that over the paper. Then it steadied. When it stopped suddenly there, plainly written, was '24th July 1931, midnight.' "

"To-day! So that's the cause of your trouble! You're letting an old joke of years ago prey upon you until you're in the condition you're in to-day! You surely don't place any credence upon this planchette business?"

"It was a joke at the time, of course; but, although it never appealed to me as more than that, the incident stuck in my mind. You must admit that that definite date is queer, to say the least."

"Now, look here, old man," said Doctor Burton gently, "sit down quietly, and look at the matter reasonably. "I've heard of these planchette writings; I've also heard of table rappings, tables and chairs made to move mysteriously under joined hands, and all that bunk. When people get together intent upon experiencing manifestations they will get some, somehow! When you were working that planchette your mind, either on your own inspiration or impressed by the thoughts of others, keep upon a joke, subconsciously guided your hand in scrawling that word 'Violence.' Then, in the same way, you put down the date— a comfortably far-distant date at the time. And because that : date has arrived you're letting a little trick in mental or nerve mechanics worry you so much that you send for me to examine you in case violence may mean a sudden collapse. Let me assure you, old chap, you're as sound as a bell. Your heart Is all right, lungs sound, and apparently there's nothing wrong with you but nerves. You've simply let this idea take possession of you. Been worrying over it for weeks, perhaps?"

"Ye-es. As a fact, I have."

"Well, you'll laugh over it to-morrow, when the fatal day has passed. I'll call at the chemist's and get them to send up a tonic that will brace up your nerves a bit; and, as for to-night, I'll give you a sleeping draught "

"That can't be done, doc," said Peters with apparently restored cheerfulness. "I've invited a few friends along, and I can't very well go to sleep with friends in the house."

"So much the better. Keep your mind off this absurd business, anyhow. I bet you can't think of anyone who would want to harm you."

"No; I can't. Of course, there are these armed housebreakers, who seem to think nothing of "

"Oh, forget it, Peters!" cried Burton briskly. "You won't have housebreakers in the place when you have your friends. Enjoy yourself to-night, and forget a silly fear; there's nothing to worry over."

The courage the breeziness of the doctor had implanted soon ebbed. It was easy enough for Burton to tell Peters not to think about that planchette warning of long ago; it was hard to forget it. As a matter of fact, Peters had not been fully candid with the doctor; he had never been fully candid with himself. In his younger days a haunting feeling of the insecurity of life had fallen upon him, following the sudden deaths of several friends, shortly before the end in the enjoyment of robust health. The thought of how unexpectedly death might fall appalled him. From his jesting planchette experience he gleaned comfort that he never really admitted. To be told, in 1905, that the year of his death would be 1931 was consoling to one with his haunting fears— that meant twenty-six years of good life, anyway. Peters, whilst he told himself that the planchette was a joke, was really glad of the assurance. Without owning it, he believed.

Because of that the memory of an incident he tried to insist was only a trifle, endured; it became less comforting as the years fled. It became impossible to forget an idea he had once nursed. He would wake in the morning and his heart would thud suddenly as he recalled the date. July 24th! Only ten years now— only nine years— only eight! The gripping fear became worse with each year. To dismiss it with the thought that seven good years was something to look forward to was easier than when the span was reduced to six. But it could be dismissed. It was only when this July arrived that he became like a condemned man, counting off the days to his execution.

Yet, here he was, on July 24, a hale man, but for the state into which he had allowed a single thought to drive his nerves. He was a popular man, too— there was no one likely to wish him injury; a careful man, he was not likely to meet with accident. Why, even if burglars broke into his house he could lock himself in his room, avoiding them. Life was of more value than the trifling possessions any house-breakers might take.

He told himself all this, time and again, yet the oppression of doom hung over him. It was futile to attempt to lose himself in a book; he had failed to rivet his attention on the paper that morning. After the doctor had gone he took it up again, determinedly resolved to interest himself in its contents.

The chiming of the clock once more brought him to his feet with thudding heart. Another hour gone— another hour nearer to the fatal time!

He strode to the clock, and with a peevish action put the chimes out of gear. Not a single, line of what he had been reading remained in his mind.

The whole day passed like that; his thought overridden by that nightmare fear, in spite of every interest he sought. With painful care at every crossing, as he looked up and down for fear of cars, he had gone to the bowling green. When he left he could hardly remember the men with whom he had spoken. Only Danvers— it was a remark by Danvers which lashed the dull ache of his fear into positive pain.

"One o'clock!" cried Danvers, suddenly. "I'll have to get home to lunch— friends coming. By jingo, how time flies!"

Time did fly, in spite of the painfulness of moments. One o'clock— eleven hours to go! was how Peters' thudding heart registered an echo to the exclamation of Danvers.

Billiards in the afternoon, after a lunch that was a nightmare, was equally a failure as a distraction. He had no interest in the scores; his opponent, obviously, when his lapses became marked, regarded him as a nuisance. Something seemed to be dragging at him, telling him he was wasting time, that he ought to be setting his affairs in order.

He hated the idea of thinking of that. It was pandering to the panic that had taken possession. Well, all his affairs were in order, anyway. He was a methodical man. All but one, perhaps. He had probably treated Stella rather roughly. Her marriage with young Hatherway he had bitterly opposed, and, after had taken place, he had doggedly ignored the young couple. It had upset his plans, and that was unforgiveable. A month ago Stella had written to him. John, she said, did not know she was writing, but she knew that he was in difficulties as the result of the hard times, and £100 would place him on his feet. She thought her father might help.

"Of course he is in difficulties— young waster! They've made their bed, and they'll have to lie on it. I'll not give a penny," he had told himself.

It was different to the mood he was in to-day. Hatherway was not a young waster; he was rash, no doubt, to marry with his insecure prospects, but, since she was fond of him, he would probably make Stella happier than any other man was likely to make her.

He would deal with them fairly. It was not, he told himself rebelliously, that he really believed that this was his last day, but it was as well to get a good deed done as quickly as possible.

He was about to call a taxi to take him to his lawyers; a sharp thought that there were dangers in the city streets came, and he used the telephone.

"I want It done this afternoon," he said, at the end of his instructions. '"Get the codicil engrossed, and send somebody out with it for my signature."

Then he went down to the bank, drew out notes for £200, and, going to the post office, sent them off to Stella, in a registered letter. Somehow the concluding paragraph of his covering letter pleased him: "Bring John out with you to see me at the week-end," he had written. In a way it expressed a confidence that there would be a week-end for him.

He was pleased, also, in reflecting upon the comfort that would come to the struggling, harassed couple. Afterwards when the solicitor's clerk had come with the codicil to his will that placed Stella again on her old footing, and had departed, he told himself that the whole business had been merely a filling-in of time. Still, he wasn't sorry it was done.

He was standing on his verandah when a clock in some house opposite began to strike the hour of five. His heart jolted afresh.

SEVEN HOURS ONLY!

The awful impression refused to be shaken off. He was glad when his friends arrived; but even they brought only a partial forgetfulness. To entertain them, talk to them, was sometimes an effort, with his thoughts dragging back- to his fear. They noticed the worry upon him, and their looks we're curious. It was one thing explaining the situation to the doctor who had the care of your health; another entirely to put it before these people, whose sympathy might have covered a secret derision.

Even when he flattered himself that he was free from the nag of the terror, it was suddenly restored.

"Egad. Peters, that clock of yours is out of commission," said Pritchard, and he looked at the watch on his wrist "It's gone nine o'clock!"

Peters' heart pounded afresh.

ONLY THREE MORE HOURS.

And then again, the Sampsons: "Jim and I will have to go, I'm afraid. The children have gone to a party, and we arranged to pick them up," said Mrs. Sampson. "Why, it's ten o'clock!"

Two more hours— two only!

They did not know, of course, the agony that that proclamation of the hours brought to him. He tried to ignore it.

They were a bright crowd, used to taking, possession of his house and amusing themselves. It was that that gave him opportunity for a quiet talk to Palmer— the one man to whom he could speak in confidence in the whole company. An old crony.

"What's the matter with you to-night, Harry?" Palmer asked. "You seem upset— several have noticed it. Look how that whisky's shaking in your hand!"

"Tom, I'm under sentence of death," said Peters," with a forced laugh. "That's the feeling I can't get away from."

"Doctor?"

"No. Burton says I'm sound as a bell, through and through. Nerves the only trouble." He hesitated, and then he plunged into the story.

"What's the use of troubling about a foolish idea like that!" demanded Palmer, robustly.

"It's easy to ask what's the use. I've said the same thing to myself a hundred times to-day. The fact is the idea won't be got rid of. If I wake up to-morrow well and alive the spell will be broken; but—"

"Now, look— what's likely to harm you? Nothing! If you like— I pass the police station on the way home— I'll call in and ask them to tell a man off to watch the house. I'll say some suspicious characters have been hanging about. That'll stop the only possibility."

"I had half hoped you'd hang on until after twelve," said Peters.

"Right— I will!" said Palmer, heartily. "And so will some of the others. We'll make an all-night session of it."

Peters felt more comforted than at any time in the evening, but when the arrangements went astray the failure was, in itself, ominous. Peters' parties usually lasted until late; to-night the guests began to depart early. They all had urgent reasons for being home. Perhaps the atmosphere, lacking the usual geniality, had deprived them of a desire to stay. And then a 'phone call came for Palmer. His wife, a chronic invalid, had taken a bad turn; she wanted him at home.

"I'll come back if I can," said Palmer, awkwardly. Peters knew that the querulous invalid would see that he didn't. "Anyway, I'll drop in at the police station, as I said. Put that idea out of. your mind, old chap; you'll be all right!"

Palmer's departure was the signal for the last of the others to go, too. Why, on the night of all others that he wanted people with him, should his friends go like that? Wasn't there ill-omen in that? There was less than an hour now to midnight, and all the terror of the day swamped into the soul of Peters.

"You won't want me any longer, Mr. Peters?" queried his housekeeper.

"No— yes," said Peters, suddenly changing his mind. "I wonder if you mind, Mrs. Hansford, waiting up for a while— just in case anyone comes back. Mr. Palmer said he might. Until a little after midnight—12.15 would do. I don't like troubling you "

"Oh. it's no trouble. You're not feeling too well, sir? If I might suggest a tonic. there's nothing like "

"I've got the one Doctor Burton sent me. He sent a sleeping draught, too. didn't he? You might mix it for me."

But when she had handed it to him he furtively threw it into the grate. Of all things he did not want to sleep—not until the fatal hour was past. He felt that he would be able to sleep well enough when the ordeal of the night was over., A consciousness of cowardice was upon him as he began to ascend the stairs. He was flying from terror, and leaving a frail old woman to face what he feared. He slipped a revolver from his desk drawer into his pocket before he went.

"The house is locked up securely?" he asked, with his foot on the stairs.

"I always see to that," returned Mrs. Hansford.

What an insupportable terror it was that was upon him as he entered his room! He could have shrieked out against it like a frightened child. The blind was up and the clock in the tower seemed to grin at him— malevolently, derisively.

It was 11.30! Half an hour of torture before he could hope to put aside the horror superstition had placed upon him!

He shrank back from the window in the act of approaching to let down the blind. Here was a loophole for disaster. Some murderous maniac, with a firearm in his hands, might seize the opportunity for a killing if his figure showed in the window. He switched off the light he had only just turned on, and stood in a darkness only relieved by the pale light of the moon.

His heart was pulsing furiously, painfully. A new idea came to him. If it was possible that anyone should have evil designs upon him, he would trick them. He tossed cushions into the bed, pulling the clothes over them to give the impression of a sleeping form. Then he stole soft-footed from the room, closing the door behind him.

He 'half expected some attacker to spring out at him from the darkness; but, swift-footed, he moved across to a seldom used guest-room. The light gleamed as he touched the switch, showing the room to be safely empty. He turned the light off again, locked the door, and leaned against it, panting in sheer fear.

This room had the same aspect as his own. It seemed to him that the lighted clock-face was stooping to leer at him through the window. Its hands were surely derisive fingers, pointing out to him the swift passage of time to the hour of his doom. It was close upon the quarter-to, now.

All foolishness, of course! Only another fifteen minutes, and the time would be up, and he could laugh at his fears.

His heart stopped suddenly; then beat more furiously than ever. There was undoubtedly a step— a man's step— on the stair; a step stealthily made, as if by one who did not wish to be heard.

So the wild improbability had happened, after all! His ear against the door panel, he heard again the soft fall of a foot; he heard the handle of his door turned, and the faint creak the door made as it opened. Somebody had entered his room. But who— who?

Perhaps Hatherway, rendered desperately mad by the business worries he had so long refused to relieve, had come with murder in his soul. Perhaps someone had watched him at the bank that day, and, believing that he still had the money he had drawn, had waited until his friends had gone before making an entrance.  What had happened to Mrs. Hansford?

As he listened, with a desperation so intense that it seemed his heart was making a loud drumming that might drown other sounds, he clutched his revolver tightly in his hand.

Fear filled each second with agony almost insupportable. Again he heard the sound of a soft footfall. Whoever the intruder was he had left the room that held the dummy sleeper. Peters recognised the faint creak of the loose board outside his doorway. Another door was opened, as softly as the first.

Peters' eyes threw a quick glance at the clock face. It was more jeering than ever; there was a sort of demonical triumph on it. Seven minutes to! He knew now that planchette had written truthfully. Midnight was his death time. The revolver in his hand could not save him from that. The ruse by which he had delayed the marauder was only lengthening time to fulfil the prophecy. Everything had worked to that end— even the departure of his friends, the querulousness of Mrs. Palmer. Of what use was resistance? It was only prolonging the agony of seconds that each held a year's torture.

And then the handle of the door against which he was pressed moved stealthily. There was a gentle pressure from without, which the lock resisted.

Peters' heart froze with horror; the cold sweat covered him. A shot rang out just as the chime in the lighted tower began to toll out the midnight hour.

"WHAT THE deceased had told me in the morning," said Doctor Burton, at the inquest, "worried me. Having had a late call elsewhere, I decided to look in upon him before I returned home. Mrs. Hansford hearing my step on the verandah, opened the door for me. She seemed to be expecting me, and relieved that I had come. Hoping he had gone to sleep, and fearing to disturb him, I went upstairs softly. Deceased was not in his room, but had piled cushions on his bed.... Still hoping he was asleep in another room, I went on quietly looking for him... I would say that he was goaded to temporary insanity by superstitious fear when he shot himself."

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7: How Random Won The Cup

World's News (Sydney) 11 Nov 1931

THE car turned abruptly into a laneway, was run right into the dark shadows thrown by a tall bushy hedge. There, with the lights switched off, it was lost in the mass of blackness from which two figures emerged furtively.

With a quick run they crossed the moon flooded main road to the shadow of the trees and shrubs that hedged the remote side, and in that hiding passed along swiftly until they reached a padlocked gate. With a look about them they scrambled over, cursing a little as the nails which studded the top caught them.

With another dash they crossed to the shaded side of a square building, one side of which gleamed starkly in the moonlight. They whispered softly as they stood there, and then, whilst one of them stayed, the other commenced to steal along the side, pressing into the shadow. He disappeared around a sharp edge.

"What the hell are you doing there? Stand!"

The cry was as sharp as the pistol shot that followed it. There was a shuffle of running feet, and the heavier, more certain one, of a pair that pursued; sharp oaths; the scuffling sound as the two figures threw themselves at the gate and over into the road again; another shot, and quick, gasped oaths, and then the purr of a moving motor car.

Tom Haywood, his revolver still in his hand, walked with an anxious step into the stable yard. A girl, finely figured, charming of face, followed him. It was not until he had opened the upper half of the stable door, and was answered by a comforted whinny from its inmate, which had been stirring restlessly, startled by the sudden disturbance, that he turned.

"I've got a lot to thank you for, Hilda," he said. "Heaven knows what those brutes would have done if you had not warned me."

"I saw them scrambling over the gate and knew they must be after Random. Dick told me you had brought him here."

"We did the moving so quietly last night that I thought nobody but ourselves knew— that the horse was safe from interference. The whole thing's more like a war than a sport," he said, grimly.

"There are big issues— money issues, of course, I mean," she said. "It is a pity that money should be so much concerned in a splendid sport."

His face flashed a smile at her.

"Yes, isn't it?" he laughed. "But Random's win means a lot to me that way, too."

"I know," she said, a tone of regret in her voice. "Dick told me. It means much to Dick, too."

"Not as much as to me," he said, his voice suddenly stern. "We moved the horse so quietly out here last night, that I thought he was safe; but we must have been watched. I'll see that no chances are run, now. Here, Brady," he called to the man who stood some distance off, diffidently. "You take this revolver and watch the stable until I relieve you. Tm going to arrange for a guard."

Keenly interested herself in the arrangements for the safety of the horse. Hilda went with him into the house, and sat near as he made urgent calls on the telephone. It was her brother, Dick Eady, who had been engaged to ride Random, and his heart was set upon capping his racing career with a Cup victory. It would be a bitter blow to him if his hope was dashed.

As he finally put up the receiver, Tom turned to the girl with a smile.

"When this guard comes, that should put the kybosh on any idea of getting at the horse. But it was lucky for me you dashed in with your warning just in time. I was resting in perfect serenity, thinking no one knew the horse was here. It was lucky for me, too, they didn't see you, or they might have dodged into hiding and waited until you had passed."

"They were scrambling over the gate when I came round the corner. I had switched off my headlights to enjoy the flooding of the moonlight ahead of me; and the silver color of the car, and its noiselessness, probably saved it from being observed, in their hurry. I guessed at once what they were after, and dashed in. It would break Dick's heart if anything happened to the horse, now."

"It would break more than my heart," he commented.

"You mean?"

"It would break me." He looked at her quizzically.

"Of course you're joking," she said.

"The worst of it is that I may joke about it, but the fact is sober earnest," he said.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said. "I didn't think you were the sort of man to lose his head over the racing business. You took it as it should be taken— as a sport."

"That's the way I try to take it," he laughed. "I never intended to become involved as I am to-day. When I first decided to own a racehorse it was just for the fun of the thing. The unexpected discovery that I had a possible Cup winner took me off my feet. The worst of it is that I'm really a mug at the racing business, and I know nothing about working the market, so, instead of winning what I might have won, I'm very little in; and I've been led on until everything I own is involved. Random wins— I come out with a substantial fortune, and will take damned good care I don't get involved this way again; Random loses— well, that's the finish!"

"It sounds very foolish."

"It is foolish— damned foolish!" He had tried to speak with some levity; but perhaps the steady regard of her clear eyes disconcerted him, making him see how actually foolish was the position into which his enthusiasm for his horse had led him. Uncomfortably, he rose, dashing his fist upon his palm as he spoke, and paced the room.

"But Random can't lose— fairly!" he said fiercely, turning. "Not with your brother riding him!  I might have some qualms if I didn't have Dick booked—  and if he wasn't as keen as I am. The horse is queer; just a few people he regards as friends can handle him. It was because he showed such a preference for me that made me-stick to him when I might have made a fortune selling him And it was his queerness with a strange jockey up that lost me a thousand I couldn't afford in the Stakes— and set me chasing it."

"Well, Dick will be there, anyway."

"Of course. Good old Dick! You've no idea the respect I have for your brother, Hilda. To me, however, he seems a queer bird— you won't mind my saying it? A master of a horse, but hates the racing game!"

"He hates all that Is involved in it; he loves horses. Racing has just been a means to an end with him. His idea has always been to study: so, being good with horses, he became a jockey as a means of making money to satisfy his ambition. And look how good he has been to all of us with the money he's made!"

"And you think he'll chuck the whole game, when Random has won?"

"I'm certain. He's just waited for this chance to give a finish to his career. He wants to be able to say that if he was not only just a jockey, he was a Cup-winner."

"I hope Random wins— for his sake." Tom flashed one of those debonair smiles of his at her.

"I hope Random wins— for your sake. Mr. Haywood. Especially after what you've told me."

She had risen, and he went with her outside, towards her car.

"He can't lose," he said buoyantly.

"I hope not. But if you have a fortune to win, there are others who have a fortune to lose; and they are not, like yourself, merely desirous of a fair issue."

"Thanks to you, they've lost the only chance they'll get," he said, buoyantly, as he handed her into the car. "There's only one thing wanted to ensure success to all of us."

"Yes?" she asked.

"A kiss for luck," he said banteringly. leaning towards her.

It took her by surprise. After a moment's hesitation she lifted a laughing face towards his, taking his own mood.

"We're both going to lose for the sake of a kiss!" she smiled.

A strange gravity fell upon Tom suddenly. It was almost a formality, that cool touch of their lips; but it thrilled him, and flooded him with the light of revelation.

"I will ask for the real kiss when the victory is ours!'' he said, trying to keep the light humor in his voice. He wondered whether, as she drove away suddenly,0 she had the same feeling that that kiss was something much different to the light Jest that had been intended. Suddenly the load of anxiety at which he had been trying to jest became heavier. There was something else that mattered now, if Random went down— Hilda. He had always liked Dick Eady's sister; but only to-night he had realised how much she meant to him. And if Random was beaten....

He had tried to make a half-jest of his position. It would have been impossible to explain to Hilda how serious it was. Defeat would mean not only an utter crash, a loss of all he possessed; when his affairs came to be examined, it would mean disgrace. He had meant no wrong; what he had done had been done in rash optimism. There was no dishonest intent, and yet…

What a fool he had been! Before, when he had allowed himself to face the possibility of Random's defeat, he had supposed that, at the worst, he could scrape through somehow. There was still life, and a man with strength and energy could make a living. Now there was the thought of the loss not only of Hilda herself, but of her esteem.

That seemed worse than anything else he had contemplated. He had had that feeling when, during their conversation, the regard of her clear, cool eyes had stirred him to an exclamation against his foolishness.

He crossed the yard to talk to Brady, and found him alert; and soon the men for whom he had sent arrived.

The horse would be well guarded, anyway; and incidents which followed showed that the precaution was very necessary. The attempts that had already been made to induce Tom to come to an understanding with those who would be hard hit by his horse's victory had led him towards a full understanding of the unscrupulous ramps that could be worked when fortunes were at stake. The public could be made the pigeon, and Tom himself could come out with safety and money. Tom was not the sort of man to listen to such proposals, which outraged him. Then he found financial pressure brought upon him from unexpected quarters— pressure he could not doubt came from the gang he had to fight... it was in these circumstances, finding resources upon which he depended suddenly withdrawn, that Tom had taken rash risks.

Tom had said jestingly that the whole thing was more war than sport. It was in grim earnest. Other fortunes besides his were involved, and they were the fortunes of those who would stop at nothing.

So the load sat heavy on Tom's mind as he waited for the big day; sometimes he felt he would crash with the weight of it. It was difficult for him to maintain his poise as a cheerful optimist who worried about nothing.

He was glad when the big day arrived; another twenty-four hours, he felt, would have crushed him. Deliberately he put aside the nervousness which had seized him; went into town, and to his club, mixing with his friends, and jesting as if the prospective winning of the Cup was merely an incident in his life, not the serious matter it really was

Probably no one guessed the anxiety that was eating his heart. He did not go to the course until just before the second race. It pleased him only slightly to, hear the whispers around him, "That's Hayward, owner of Random;" but when there was added, "He's the winner, to-day," his heart leaped gratefully.

Hilda was one of the first he met. He noted approvingly that she stood out finely from the crowd. There was breed in the Eady's, he had heard: and Hilda justified the rumor.

"I feel I could run away and hide until the Cup race is over," she confided to him, tremulously. "Oh, I hope Random does win!"

"It's as safe as if the Cup had already been handed to me," he retorted, cheerfully, wishing he really could feel like that.

"Oh, you're marvellous!" she cried, in admiration of his sangfroid.

"Dick here yet?" he asked.

"No; he said he would not come until later. I was here for the Hurdle."

"Been losing money?" he bantered.

"No; I've got a small amount on Coonabie for this; its colors are like yours."

"So that's a good reason for backing a 25 to 1 shot!" he laughed. "Well, I'll have a bit, myself, for luck."

It seemed to him that it was a lucky omen when he was a hundred pounds better off after the race. He hastened to tell her. The incident elated him, small as the matter was compared with what he had at stake.

But, later, anxiety fell with a new load upon him. He had discovered that Dick had not yet arrived.

"He's never cut it as fine as this before," he said, coming to Hilda with an anxious brow. "We've rung up home,' but there's no one there, apparently."

"There wouldn't be," said Hilda, distressed. "Everyone was going out— mother to a show. She can never bear to see Dick in a race. But he should have been here before, according to what he said."

"He may have come, now. I'll go and see," said Tom, restively.

A bell donged, and gave him a start of apprehension. It was a reminder of quickly passing time.

And Eady, whose hands were needed to make Random a real champion, was still absent!

THERE WAS NONE of the palpitating anxiety that worried Tom Haywood's spirit in Dick Eady that morning; rather, there was a glow of exultation. Today he would triumphantly close a chapter of his life which he had never cared about, but which had been useful to him. He had no doubts of himself or of the horse he was to ride; no doubt of his ability to watch for and forestall all the tricks that would be tried to put him out of the race. Dick prided himself upon being a heady rider, and, with a horse like Random under him, he knew that he could defeat all the attempts of those crooks whose existence made him hate the racing business.

All the morning he allowed himself to luxuriate in the vision of the future; the studies he would undertake, and the profession he would adopt. He would enter upon a new life, the life that could have been his had not poverty interfered with a studious career and enforced a battle for sheer existence.

To-day only the one race, the big one he was in, interested him; and when at last the time came he got into his car with a feeling of reluctance at leaving his dreams temporarily behind him.

The car ran swiftly and silently along the road; and really, for the first time, Dick began to visualise the massed crowds, and to exult actually in the work of the day. He could picture the cheering as Random came in after the great victory.

The roads that a short time before had been crowded with cars and other vehicles, making towards the great carnival, were now practically deserted. Dick lived well in an outer suburb, where the houses were scattered; and even the houses he passed at intervals seemed to be shut up and emptied of their usual occupants. If the races had not attracted them, the spirit of holiday had led them abroad.

Suddenly Dick put the brakes hard on and veered in his course sharply into an embankment in the side of the road. A car, without sounding any warning horn, had come round the bend, taking the centre of the road in such a manner that, but for Dick's swift action, there must have been a bad collision. As it was, a ripping of metal sounded with the scream of the brakes, as the cars bumped and scraped against each other, before coming to a standstill.

"You've done us, mister!" cried one of the three men who jumped out of the car. "Oh, cripes, we know it ain't your fault, but you know more about cars than we, I daresay. We only borrowed this one. Just step out and 'ave a look- at this, will you?"

Willing to be of what use he could, Dick swung himself out of his car.

Crash!

Something struck him heavily on the head. A dizzy blindness rushed upon him, but he felt himself struggling desperately in spite of it. The odds were too many, however, and the blow he had been dealt was a savage one. The blackness fell upon him as a curtain.

He woke to continue the struggle in a motor car, jolting over a rough road— evidently a by-way— but he was bound, and more bonds were being put upon him by two men who, in the cramped space, handled him none too gently.

"Look!" he gasped feebly, "if you men want money you can have it—and my word to take no action. I've got to ride at the races this afternoon."

"We blanky well know you have— but you're not going to be there!" growled one of the men.

Dick had been trapped; he knew that. As he renewed his struggles and tried to cry out, a gag was forced into his mouth. A new jolt to his neck brought the blackness of unconsciousness upon him again.

He was lying, alone, trussed so' that he could not move, on the floor of an unlighted shed or barn, when consciousness came again. The gag in his mouth half-suffocated him.

When the swoonings that followed his early consciousness passed, and he came to a realisation of his position, he was filled with a black dismay. Bitterly he reproached himself for having allowed himself to be trapped in so simple a manner. He had made matters easy for his captors by delaying his departure for the course until the roads were empty of traffic. Knowing how keen were the plans to prevent Random winning the Cup, he should have been more alert.

He hoped desperately that Random might behave kindly for the emergency jockey Tom would have to secure; but he knew the horse, and doubted the hope. Beyond that were all the dangers of the tricks during the ride, which he doubted that any spare jockey, hastily engaged, would be able to meet.

He groaned. By allowing himself to be caught like this he had thrown away a certain victory. He thought little of himself, although his own loss he would feel; but he had betrayed Tom, for whom so much depended on a win by Random. And in a vague way he felt that he had betrayed Hilda, too.

Something like a frenzy seized him at the thought. He worked his muscles frantically under his bonds, torturing' himself with efforts that were quite unavailing, whilst the breathing difficulties occasioned by. the gag gave him agony. He swooned again, and woke with a new desperation to renew his struggles.

In his agony and nightmare it became difficult to sort out which was real— the desperation of his struggling or the queer, hallucinations that came to him when they ceased. He must get to the races in time for the Cup— he must! He had flung himself free of his bonds now, exulting at the feel of freedom; he had found his car again, somehow, and was tearing along the roads, reckless of all traffic laws.

He must have driven subconsciously, for the sounds of the racecourse roared in upon him. After all his effort, he had arrived too late. The race had started.

No! He was in the race! Somehow, without knowing that he was doing it—  that hit on the head must have affected him— he had donned his riding clothes. He could feel Random moving under him, grudgingly, bad-temperedly. He coaxed him, as they moved, and exultingly he felt the horse responding.

But how the hell had he allowed himself to get jammed in like this? His head, of course— he had been dopey. They had got him jammed, and they would ' keep him like that— unless he could spring to some hair-breadth opportunity, making all there was of it. They were bumping, too, trying to take the steam and temper out of the horse— buffet him to defeat.

He had done it! Somehow he had won through from the ruck, and Random was responding generously as he sent him after the leaders, bringing him off the rails for an open run. Random was everything he had thought of him; he felt alive with the determination to hurl himself forward. The hindquarters of Mavis appeared just by Random's shoulder; was passed, soon, like the yellow sleeves of its rider; and now the head of Mavis was behind his elbow, and Random was on terms with Alpenstock, who was on the inside.

The music of heavy breathing and creaking saddles was in his ears, with the roars of the crowd as a Background. Stride by stride Random was gaining inches on Alpenstock, had a full neck's advantage; but that horse and Mavis, with two others on the outside, whose presence he sensed, although he dared not look round, were sweeping up in his rush on to Paramon and Copley, who held the lead.

His head was reeling! Could he…?

The crowd was roaring. The race was over. And the burden of its roar was "Random! Random!"

"Let's get the cow back to his car. The race is over by this time, and we've done our job. Someone will find him there."

Dick came to his senses with a jolt. He was lying, still trussed up, on the shed floor; and the three men had returned. One snapped his watch shut before putting it away.

Yet the vision had seemed so real! Sickened with disappointment, Dick lapsed again into comatoseness.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Haywood. I feel as if I am partly concerned in doing you an injury."

"Oh, that's rot Hilda! Dick would be here if he could possibly have come Immediately after the race we'll find out what has happened. Anyway this boy may be better than he looks; he's ridden some good races they say. Of course, he's not in your brother's class, but even with a bad Jockey Random's a good horse."

As they stood in the stand he tried to talk jauntily, but the smile on his face, really, was pathetic. Hilda looked at him and sympathised. Tom had already said good-bye to all he possessed. He would have to get .used to jesting at the loss, until, away from the course, he had time to think and make up his mind what he should do in the future.

"Random looks as much in love with his rider as a cat is with water. Wants to throw him, if he can," said Tom, looking through his glasses at the horses drawn up at the winning post. "Regards it as an insult Dick not being there, I expect."

In the saddling paddock Tom had looked with despair at the jockey he had to accept in the emergency of Dick's absence: Random, whilst nuzzling his own hand, had twisted away with nervous dislike from the strange jockey.

"What a beautiful animal—" began Hilda; but the roar of the multitude, proclaiming that the great event had started, cut short her remark. Tom could not suppress an involuntary groan, which was echoed about the course. Random, moving sluggishly and rebelliously, was leading the tail of the hunt and showing no tendency to improve his position.

"That's the end of it!" exclaimed Tom involuntarily. "I wish I'd hedged a bit on Alpenstock."

"Look! Random's coming up!" cried Hilda, encouragingly.

"Right into the ruck!" commented Tom. "I told the fool to keep out. He'll be knocked to death in there! Ah, well, he didn't have a chance— without Dick,"

He did not want the girl to see his unwillingness; but he did not want to look at the race. He felt too sick, with the way events had shaped, and his eyes were bent towards the ground. The mass of horses swept by, with four ahead of a mighty elongated bunch; and somewhere towards the rear of that bunch was Random.

"The favorite's out of it!" cried someone. It did not improve his spirits.

"What's that moving up?" asked a neighbor, suddenly.

A man on the other side answered for him, "That's Random."

He took heart to survey the field again. It was stretched out, but now amongst a forward bunch behind the three or four who were making the running, he saw his own colors flashing.

"By Jove, Hilda!" he cried, "Random's moving well, now. Seems to have got over his sulks with the jockey. But the fool's got him hemmed in, and they'll settle him there. If it was Dick, he'd find a way out of it."

In a storm of hoof beats the horses swept round the course, coming towards the straight, and from the apathy that' had held him Tom was seized by a thrill of excitement as he stood, with his glasses glued to his eyes, bent upon them.

"Why, that boy can ride!" he exclaimed. "He's riding just like Dick does, coaxing, coaxing, urging all the time! And Random likes it! Hilda, we've got a chance— at all events, something near an even chance!"

His anxiety was the position of the horse, hemmed into a bunch that was evidently there to keep him back.

It was at the bend into the straight that it happened— so quickly that even Tom did not see the actual event. One of the horses just in front of him ran wide in making the bend; and like a flash Random was through the opening. His rider seemed to shoot him forward with a mighty spring, as if that was an opportunity for which he had been waiting; and as he swept forward, leaving his recent companions as if they had been standing, cries of "Random! Random!" began to arise joyfully from the crowd. The cry rose to one vast convulsive roar as, with ease, the great horse cut down Mavis and Alpenstock, and, with others in pursuit, but hopelessly out of the hunt, flew like an avalanche of energy after the leaders.

"It's Dick! Damn it, it's Dick!" roared Tom, beside himself with relief and excitement. "How did he get there? But I'll swear that's Dick in the saddle!"

And then, as a mightier roar than ever proclaimed a popular victory, Tom lost his head altogether. In spite of the surrounding crowd his arms were flung around Hilda, and he kissed her. He laughed as he released her, but made no apology.

"That's the kiss I said I would ask for— or the first one!" he said.

Then he went down to meet the jockey as Random paced proudly in, amidst the jubilant demonstration of the multitude. It surprised him to find it actually was Morley, looking more stupid than he had thought him— as if he was dazed.

"I don't know how I done it," he said, in answer to congratulations. "Seemed to me someone else was with me, tellin' me just what to do."

Afterwards, when Dick was found, and told his story, Tom held to the view that the man who not long afterwards became his brother-in-law had really ridden the winner.

_________________

8: The Wastrel Son

World's News (Sydney) 6 July 1932

MONA'S heart stood still as she listened to the sound of the scraping at the window of the outer room. She drew her breath painfully, lying for a moment petrified with terror.

She had been awakened by the sound of footfalls passing her window to a terror she tried to subdue by assuring herself that it was made by some animal, probably a-stray cow or horse, which had forced its way into the garden. But sounds could easily be followed in the tense silence of this quiet spot; and it was undoubtedly the fall of a booted foot on the back verandah that came to her intent ear a moment later. And now the sound of that scraping—the application of a knife to push back the catch she had fastened so securely.

The place was so lonely. It had been a brave adventure coming here, but she did not feel brave now, only terrified and helpless, too frightened even to scream. Why, the intruder might be the only one to hear her screams, and they might drive him to fury and desperation.

Taking a grip upon herself, she moved softly out of the bed. Disturbed, little Mona slumbering at her side, murmured "Mummy" protesting; alarmed lest the whisper he heard. she hushed the infant to sleep swiftly. Standing by the door she could hear the rasping of the knife at work. She had taken a double precaution by fastening the window with a nail; this bar had evidently been discovered and the knife was busily employed in working the nail out

The housebreaker was evidently determined and cool. He was doing his work methodically. Palsied with terror, Mona softly shut the door and as softly turned the key, fearful of making the least sound; and then she crept back into bed, feeling a great desire to coil up with little Mona in her arms, endeavoring to forget all outside the room which was the sanctuary of herself and her children. There was nothing there that would attract the burglar, and, finding the door locked, he would probably leave it alone. It was old Dannan's valuables he would be after.

Having that kind of womanly superstition, she wondered whether it was some sort of premonition that had kept her tossing about, unable, to fall into a really heavy sleep.

It had seemed merely worry at the time.

There had been cause for worry. The chance of getting this cottage in the little mountain hamlet had appeared like a providence to her, an escape provided from a abuse in which there were too many reproaches for her marriage with man who had left her a penniless widow, and where her children too frequently appeared to be regarded as a nuisance. The queer old man who was prepared to let her have rent free, the use of his elegant, if small, mountain cottage rather than that it should be unoccupied when he was not using it, seemed a God-send. Surely, she could carry on the needle-work, upon which she had embarked, in the little hamlet with sufficient profit to keep herself and her little family going.

But hard times had come to the world; the hamlet was hard-hit itself, and there was little money for the work she offered. She sometimes wondered if it would not have been better to have endured the unpleasantness of her mother's house. Food for the children, was assured there, at least.

Old Darman had stipulated that when he wished to use the cottage she was to undertake the duties of housekeeper. At first she had regarded that as a drawback to the arrangement; but that night she had been would ring when he was likely to come again. He provided the supplies when he was at the cottage, and there was no fear of the shortages which she now regarded with dismay.

Now she was frightfully shirking the very purpose for which the old man installed her in the house. She could hardly be expected to deal with a burglar, however.

He had gained an entry. Mona could bear him moving about the kitchen, with no attempt to conceal the sound of his movements. He probably knew something about the place and about the treasures old Darman had in it; but it was evident he was not aware that it was occupied. He moved as one who considered he had the place to himself, and all the night in which to carry out his robbery.

Shivering in her bed, Mona decided that she could not help old Darman being robbed. It might be a breach of trust, to make no effort to prevent it; and telling old Darman about it later would be difficult. As long as little Mona and Jack were safe with her she could not help what happened to old Darman's property.

Then she sat up in bed, suddenly, her terror converted into a wild courage. The sounds outside indicated that the burglar had opened the door of the little pantry.

Deeming that he was beyond disturbance, he was plainly seeking for food. The thought that he was about £o raid the few supplies she had was one of desperation.

The burglar turned sharply at her command to "Put his hands up!" Mastering herself, she had tried to make it as authoritative as possible. He had lighted the lamp and the gleam from it fell upon the lower part of his face. An intense relief came to Mona. He was shabby, perhaps, but not the brutal-looking monster conjured by her terror.

"Hallo!" he said. "'I thought the place was empty."

"Naturally," she said, trying to appear mistress of the situation. "But it's not. And I'm not alone here. My husband will be home at any moment."

He grinned suddenly, and the hands he had raised above his head were allowed to fall.

"You bluffed me," he said. "I really thought that was a revolver you held in your hand— for a moment. Revolver or not, though, you've no need to be frightened of me. Matter of fact, I'm sorry if I've scared you by entering the place. I had no idea the old chap who owns this place had let it."

"Well, go!" she said. "If you will go at once I'll tell my husband not to tell the police, and you will be safe— as long as you keep away."

"Now, that's good of you!" he said, moving towards the door as a better means of exit than the window by which he had entered, and turning the key as a prelude to opening it. "Look! You'll probably think it funny, a burglar talking like that, but I'm really dreadfully sorry to have given you any alarm."

She noticed a longing look in his eye as he glanced at the teapot on the table. The kettle had been singing on the embered stove, and, little time as he had been in the house, he had made a pot of tea.

"I wonder if it would be possible for me to have just a cup of tea before I go?" be said.

Mona felt the situation an extraordinary one; she was relieved of her terrors; and, reflecting that the perfectly polite burglar who fronted her was hungry, she felt a glow of sympathy for him.

"It is because you were hungry you have taken— to this?" she asked. "Well, you can have a cup of tea, if you'll go away immediately afterwards, and not attempt to take anything."

He needed no further permission, but commenced to pour out the tea, whilst from the doorway she watched, a little frightened still in spite of her relief.

"Aren't you going to have a cup yourself? You're shivering a bit," he said. He poured out another cup, and pushed it across the table.

There was an interlude, a patter of feet indicating that little Jack, disturbed by the sound of voices had left his bed, and, calling to his mother, was approaching. She turned to pick him up.

"You must go back to bed, Jackie. Daddy, when he comes home, will like, to see you asleep," she said, for the benefit of the burglar.

"But Daddy's dead, Mummy," she said, wonderingly.

Mona carried him back to bed, hoping the burglar had not heard. When she returned she saw that the intruder had helped himself to cold meat, and bread and butter from the pantry.

"I didn't say you could have that!" she said, fiercely. "It's my children's food."

He stared at her.

"I'm sorry, but I'm hungry," he said.

"I'm sorry if you are, but my children may be hungry, and they can't burgle houses to help themselves," she said, with the courage of her fierce feelings.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, staring at her with a startled face. "I heard what the little kiddie said, ma'am. Of course, I thought it was a bluff when you said your husband would be home any minute, but—"

"Yes, it was a bluff," said Mona, desperately. "I'm here as a caretaker for Mr Darman, the owner. You don't look a bad man, if you are a burglar; and so I tell you that if you steal anything from this house, I and my children may lose our home. We're short of food, and I have practically no money. We're poorer than you are. You'll go and leave us alone, won't you?"

She had become almost pleading.

"I'm going to go, ma'am," he said, "but I'm coming back. I noticed the cupboard was pretty bare, but I thought I'm going to get a few things. You see!"

He went out of the door suddenly, closing it behind him. Directly he had gone Mona felt a curious reaction from the relief she had felt. The strain the night had put upon her had brought her close to hysteria; and the idea that the intruder should return became terrifying again. The comparative lack of fear she had experienced in his presence vanished.

Slipping into a coat and slippers, she slipped out into the sleet-drizzling night to the fence which edged the property of her nearest neighbors. Awakened by her call, the neighbors heard her excited story, and they promised to despatch one of the boys to the police station, with a word to the solitary constable who had charge of the district.

Immediately she was sorry for her panicky act. Her burglar had been remarkably well-behaved; it was probably desperation that had driven him to housebreaking. She did not want the agreeable-looking young man to fall into the hands of the law.

Her terror rose again, however, as she heard his footsteps outside. Quickly she turned the lamp down to its lowest, and when he pummelled at the door, and rattled the handle, she remained silent, holding her breath.

She wished he would go away before the policeman came to find him, but he showed no intention of doing so. She started as his knuckles rattled against the panes of the re-closed window. She saw the outline of him standing there holding before him a huge parcel.

'"Go away, quickly; the policeman is coming," she called loudly through the window. He shook his head, smiling, and tapped the parcel. It sickened her to think that he should be caught in a trap because of an impulsive act of kindness. She had to impress his danger upon him, give him a chance of escape.

He entered quickly when the door was opened, and, dumping the heavy parcel on the table, ripped off the cover so that the things he had brought poured into a tumbled pile. A happy mood had seized him; he laughed lightly, talking through her attempt to warn him.

"Here is stock for the larder," he said. "It's an apology for the upset I must have given you."

"You must go." she said. "While you were away I got the people next door to send for the policeman; but I don't want him to catch you here."

Perhaps be did not believe her; he locked at her with some surprise, and laughed.

"Of course you want to get rid of me." he smiled, "but I thought, when I'd brought these things and showed I meant no harm to you, you might let me stay to have something to eat. I'm pretty hungry."

"No; you must go. Take the things with you. Where did you get them?" she added the question in sudden curiosity.

"How would a burglar get anything?" he demanded quizzically; but he noticed the quick protest in her. "No; they're not stolen. It's- only about ten; there was a light in the back of the store, so I knocked the people up. They're wonderfully obliging in these country stores."

"But the money— did you have money?"

"No— they're wonderfully credulous, too," he laughed, shaking his head. "A story of having taken Darman's cottage and wanting an account managed the business."

She was dismayed, and showed it

"Oh, I didn't use your name," he said. "There's nothing against you. I didn't know your name anyway; and they can't blame you. The things are here and you want them— your kids want them; so why make a fuss about how they were secured? Old Berry, the storekeeper, is rich. It won't hurt him."

The sound of another step in the front of fee house came to her, and she put her hand on his arm imperatively.

"There's the policeman now. You have meant to be good, and I don't want him to catch you. While I speak to him at the door, and bring him into the house, you get away."

There was a look of disappointment and hurt on his face, but he made mo attempt to go

"I thought you were bluffing again" he said. "All right, I'll slip out"

To Mona's dismay, however, he was still there when she brought the policeman through the house, explaining to him, with some reservations, details of the disturbance of the night. The man of the law looked curiously at the stranger, who was cool and unperturbed.

"I called out when the burglar was trying to make an entrance," said Mona, quickly, speaking in an agony, "and this gentleman, hearing me, came in to my assistance."

"See anything of the man?" demanded the policeman.

"Not a sign. He must have got away when the lady screamed."

"What's your name?" asked the policeman, his notebook ready.

"Harry Jackson. I'm staying with the Martins."

"People further down the Lookout Road? I'm only new in this place— been here two weeks on relief; but the Martins' is that green and white place, isn't it?"

By and bye the policeman went, with a promise to watch the house; and Jackson was still there.

"Thank you, ma'am, for letting me out," he said, gratefully.

"Why didn't you go when I urged you?"

"The cop might have heard me and given chase; then I'd have been in the soup. I reckoned that you would help me to bluff through. Before I go, now, do you mind if we have a bit of a feed? I told you I was hungry."

Mona found herself, shortly, in the extraordinary position of sitting down with her burglar, actually enjoying a feast. She had been stinting herself recently, and the food was gratifying,

"You're as hungry as I am," he commented, watching her eat with satisfaction. "A strange adventure— this! I'm glad you've got over being frightened. There's nothing to be frightened of, about me."

"I don't think there is," she admitted. "You don't look like a regular burglar."

"I'm not. I'm the weakest of amateurs. I happened to know about Darman's place, and, thinking it was empty, I came along hoping to find something to eat and a place to sleep for the night. It's a pretty rotten night outside."

"Not to steal?"

"You never know what a man will do when he's up against it," he laughed.

"But why are you up against it?"

"Aren't most people, now? I've been a wanderer; and the wanderers are suffering, too. I don't get on with my people. I was to have been a solicitor, but I didn't like it and I cut away from it even after I'd qualified; that made a breach with my relatives. So here I am, a vagabond, intruding upon a scared woman in a lonely cottage. Well, I'm glad I came, anyhow, if it was only to get these things when they were wanted."

She found herself talking to him about herself, quite easily. A sympathy seemed to grow between them as they talked.

"The old screw ought to pay you something for looking after his place," he said. "Your services are worth something to him. Look how you've checked the burglar to-night!"

"And the burglar," she responded with a smile, "instead, of stealing has brought manna into the wilderness."

"It's a dam shame, a young woman like you, having to struggle so hard to keep your kids. That one who came out to-night was a fine little chap! I love kiddies myself. That's the way things are in the world; some women spoilt by luxury, unable to enjoy happiness because they are cloyed with bought pleasures, while others.... You're as pretty as any of them, too."

Afterwards it seemed difficult to turn him out into the dismal night. He had come for shelter, and— well, there was a stretcher in a spare room.

"I promise you I won't steal anything," he said smilingly.

Behind her locked door Mona thought of him as she lay waiting for slumber to come. She felt a strong sympathy for the agreeable young man, with all the evidence of cultivation he showed, a derelict. And sleep came suddenly.

THE NOISE of a motor car arriving in front of the little bungalow came into her waking dreams. She woke surprised to find the sun shining; and, hastily donning her clothes, made her way to the door.

The arrival was old Darman.

"I left town before daybreak this morning," he said. "You've had some disturbance here, haven't you, Mrs. Leslie? Have you seen anything of a young man hanging round the place?"

Mona was dismayed. Evidently the policeman had given old Darman information by telephone of last night's happenings. What was he likely to say about her having allowed a burglar to sleep all night in the house? She hoped, the day being fairly advanced, the young man had left.

She began to explain as they walked into the house. Then her heart stood still. Harry Jackson, emerging from his small room, was in the kitchen.

"So it was you!" old Darman said. "The storekeeper, Berry, rang me up last night to say you'd been there, getting some goods. Well, Henry Jackson Darman, what does it mean? I told you when last I saw you that unless you cared to knuckle down to the law business and the path I'd mapped out for you, you couldn't come upon me for a penny. You know my terms. Does this mean you've decided to come to them?"

"Well, Dad," said the burglar, "last night it didn't; that's candid. I happened to be more hard-up than usual, and it struck me there might be a bed and some food here. But I've changed my ideas in a few hours. I'm in a mood to knuckle down, as you call it, now."

Mona, astonished, watching the two men as they faced each other, saw a gleam of delight in the usually stern eyes of the old man.

"You know the full conditions," he said. "I'm not going to have you going on with this vagabondage. You must marry and settle down."

"Come, Dad," said the burglar lightly, "you know you're glad I've decided to do the prodigal son act! Let's leave the question of the marriage out for about three months."

As he spoke he threw a glance at Mona which brought a flush to her cheeks and set a strange pulse beating in her heart.

___________________

9: Murder at Moberley Flats

World's News (Sydney) 9 Nov 1932

AS Ormond turned the corner the signs of sensation around the front of Moberley Flats came into view. There were vehicles drawn up there; and the variegated admixture which always makes a suburban crowd, babbling and whispering, was between them and the building entrance. Across the street curious people stood in watching groups; but what Ormond noticed most was the peaked police caps showing in the crowd.

With a heart that jumped painfully within him, he leaped back; and his heart began a new series of gymnastics. He turned quickly into a shop entrance, with face bent towards the displayed goods, and another policeman headed tor the disturbance, almost brushed the back of his coat in passing. Giving him time to reach the corner, he moved sharply off, putting the scene behind him as quickly as he dared, since it would be fatal to attract attention. He turned into the next street and crossing it, made his way down a lane. A panic was upon him; his only idea was to make a twisted trail to baffle pursuit.

So he had killed Hermia; it was not all the nightmare he had hoped. That crowd before Moberley Flats could mean but one thing— the discovery of the body. However a man may desire to die, he will still struggle against death That is why Ormond fled at a time when death would be an easy escape from the nightmare that had fallen upon him.

He had murdered Hermia! It seemed unbelievable. He was very fond of Hermia, and he had certainly had no intention of even hurting her. Poor little, irresponsible Hermia! Of her love for him he had a thousand proofs. She had given up her brilliant stage career for him, because going on tour meant severance; in spite of his comparative poverty, she had given ardent and wealthy suitors the go-by for him. But apparently she could not break from the raffish, party-loving set with which she had become associated; and Ormond, thinking of the future, saw disaster in the extravagance of the life they were living.

Hermia was frequently repentant. She would agree with him that it was all foolishness, when a great deal of money had gone foolishly; declare that all she wanted in life was himself, and suggest that they should break away— go to Brisbane, where he had better prospects, and they could settle down, away, from unsettling friends, to a quieter domesticity. Then another party would loom, and, if Ormond opposed it, she would remind him of the bright life she had sacrificed for him.

It was this changeableness that irritated Ormond almost beyond endurance. In that last argument he had put his hands on her throat. It had been a bluff— he had not meant even to hurt her. It had startled him when she vent limp before him, falling back on the couch.

As Ormond recalled the scene, he held out his big, strong hands in front of him, accusingly. His grip must have been more powerful than he intended.

He thought, at first, that she was shamming, but terror rose within him when, as he shook her she remained inert, her pretty head waggling in a horribly uncontrolled fashion.

"Hermie! Don't be foolish! What's the matter, darling?" he had cried. Kissing her in a frantic effort to force an acknowledgment that this was all pretence.

Then panic came upon him. He was thinking only of Hermia when he fled from the flat; a doctor was necessary. It was as he stood at the doctor's door that a full realisation of the consequences to himself came to him. If he took the doctor to the flat, and efforts to restore Hermia were unavailing, he would be a self-confessed murderer.

The doctor was out, but was expected back any moment, so Ormond waited, all the time haunted by the horror of his position, all the time trying to build a hope that this was all a nightmare; he had left the flat too precipitately. Hermia was really shamming, and he would find her all right when he returned. But the assurance was a weak one.

"A woman may be dying. The doctor's wanted at once," he said, calling the nurse-attendant after waiting impatiently for some time.

"He ought to be back now; but If it's so urgent there's Dr. Paton at Brandon Flats."

He felt like a man reprieved when he left; yet he hurried to the other doctor's address. It seemed like an intervention of fate when he found that doctor absent, too. He had tortured himself unnecessarily; he would return, before he worried further about doctors, to find Hermia safe and well.

So well had he recovered himself that the sight of the sensation-drawn crowd before Moberley Flats was like a blow to him. When he found himself in Victoria Street it seemed that his mind had only just recovered from a state of numbness, in which that swift instinct of flight had been the only clear thought.

Now he wished he had stayed; had gone back again to kiss the cold cheek of the woman he loved, and give himself up as her murderer. Her cold cheek! He shuddered at the thought.

What had life left for him now? How, in any case, could he endure to go on living with the knowledge that lie was a murderer? To live as a hunted man would be a horror in itself; but there would be forever the pathetic eyes of the life-loving Hermia, whom, loving, he had slain.

But suicide, perhaps, would be better than surrender to the cold formalities of justice and the shameful ending.

A shock came to him when he saw the figure of a policeman at the corner of the street. He turned quickly to walk in the other direction, and, afar off, saw another policeman approaching.

A taxicar driver pulled up to allow him to leap in. Leaning back, with the blind drawn down, he swept past the policeman on the corner, and felt relieved.

As the taxi raced towards Watson's Bay, a new thought came to him. If the hue and cry was out for him, an anticipation of suicide would naturally come to the police. To go to the Gap would be to walk into the arms of the law, The thought postponed that swift idea of suicide that had come to him. He must escape, first, the possibility of the long-drawn torture of imprisonment and trial and a hateful end. Brisbane, the objective of many past hopes, leaped into his mind again He would probably end things when he got there: but if he died, it would be by his own hand.

Again the idea of the twisted, baffling trail came to him. The taxi-car dropped him in Oxford Street, neat Centennial Park, and immediately he leaped on a tram, which took him into the city. It was with many misgivings that he approached the bank; even as he put over the cheque which would close his account and place in his pocket the money he had preserved for the establishment of himself and Hermia in real domesticity, a moment's delay filled him with an apprehension that the bank officials had been warned and that they were detaining him whilst the police were notified of his presence

But there was no trouble. Of course, the police would not know where he banked! A minute later, relieved, Ormond was ringing up his office with the information that he would not attend again. The protests from the other end filled him with suspicion

"It can't be helped. I've got to go to Melbourne— at once. I'm going by car," he added.

"Where are you ringing from?"

There seemed a suspicious anxiety in the demand.

"Burwood," he lied, glibly; but he remembered immediately he left the booth that an inquiry of Exchange might locate his call. He leaped into another taxi.

His plans were quickly formulating themselves. At the railway booking office at Challis House, into which he dashed with some trepidation, lest a police watch should be there, he leaned well back against the partition whilst he secured his ticket for Brisbane, so that the clerk would not see him. The taxi then took him to St. Mary's Cathedral, outside which, as if he intended to enter, he waited until the taxi had gone. A few minutes later he was in the Gardens. It was the safest place to spend the time of waiting. The police would never think of looking for him there.

It was a bright day, with the Gardens looking at their best; and yet a day of torture to him. Always the reproachful eyes of Hermie haunted him.

Was it all worth while, this frantic effort to escape from justice? In his mind's tumult the idea of surrender came with a suggestion of peace, only to change to the contemplation of immediate suicide. But he might be checked in that, and that would lead to his arrest. No, he would get away to Brisbane, and then....

Brisbane! If only they had gone before, together, happiness and hope with them! At times his thoughts were those of simple anguish for his loss.

He paced unfrequented paths, and as the day progressed he found an abandoned evening paper, of the early edition, left on one of the lawns. He scanned it eagerly for a report of Hermia's death, expecting scare headlines. There was nothing.

Perhaps the police had secured the suppression of the news, hoping it would give him a sense of security that would lead to his capture.

As he walked along the palm paths near the hothouses, he paused with a sudden shock. Coming down the path from the upper Gardens were two men he recognised as detectives.

He dashed into the shrubbery, finding a bush that offered adequate cover. Behind it he stood, peering out furtively, with panting heart.

The detectives passed. But the sight of them had awakened fresh fears. Why, if he went to join the train at the Central he would be walking right into a trap. He could picture the crowds, with the police mixing amongst them; the sudden fall of a hand on his shoulder....

The taxi he took carried him to Mosman; there he found another, which would take him to Hornsby. He bad the blinds drawn, and every time he saw a policeman his heart jolted.

At Gordon a fresh shock came to him as, with a rush, a car swept past his taxi. A P.D car, in a hurry. Perhaps Hornsby was a trap, just as the Central Station would have been. Desperately be resolved to risk that possibility.

It was only at the last minute that he dashed towards the station. A policeman was standing at the station gate.

He hesitated when he saw him, and the officer of the law turned in his direction.

Again panic, seized Ormond. It was a mad panic which carried him, before he knew what he was doing, across the overhead bridge and into a train just leaving for Sydney.

It was a relief to feel the wheels moving; but with the sense of safety from pursuit came a new reaction. Life was a torturing emptiness— something unendurable If he threw himself from the train— that would be an easy, swift way out.

The resignation to his fate brought a calm upon him. He was almost happy in the prospect of ending the uncertainty. when be reached Sydney

It all happened with astonishing swiftness. A girl who had been huddled despondently on a seat leaped suddenly before him almost at the moment he noticed her presence.

"Ormond!"

"Hermie! Why, how the deuce—"

"They said you had gone to Melbourne at the office; but I knew it would be Brisbane. I came to the action hoping to catch you. I was determined to find you and ask you to forgive me. I know I have worried you, but you know I didn't mean to do it— I love you. And when I found you'd really left me—"

"But I thought— I thought I had killed you! I was coming back; but when I saw that crowd around the flats— I thought they had discovered your body."

"That crowd! The time-payment, people made a raid on the flats to seize the furniture— that's what drew the crowd. You poor boy! I had no idea that my acting was so good!"

__________________

10: Defeating The Favorite

World's News (Sydney) 5 April 1933

"THE year of Sensation—I mean when Sensation was the hottest favorite on record—I was right in the business. The public never got the real inwards; a strange thing, with all that's written about racin', they don't. I felt sore, in a way; so the facts was allowed to stand Jest as people thought they knew them."

Buley's eyes sparkled with reminiscent excitement; his fat hand fell impressively on my arm. A great deal of his genial garrulity was about horses, his enthusiasm and, to a large extent, his occupation since boyhood.

"Right up on Cup week, that year, it became plain that they wasn't going to let Sensation win; not if they had to shoot him.

"Y'see, a popular victory in ther Caulfield had made it a life-an'-death matter with ther books that Sensation shouldn't finish off the double. I'm not going to say how much money was involved, but some of the biggest pencillers in Australia was due to take the knock, sell up their happy homes, and pop their missuses' jools if the public had a win.

"They tried ter get at Phil Langton, who owned Sensation, all sorts of ways to stop the horse. Langton had set his heart on winning a Cup, an' he'd put so much on him that he stood to win a fortune himself— or finish broke. Of course, he could have made himself safe as houses if he'd come to terms; but Langton wasn't that sort of bloke, an', besides, a man only gets the chance of winning a Cup once in a lifetime.

"If they want to make a war of it, I'll fight 'em,' he declared. 'Sensation's goan' to run to win in spite of them— an' it's goin' to win, too!'

" 'It's a war, all right,' says Tom. Tom Harkins, the trainer, is my brother-in-law; that's how I came into it, although I only handled horses for the minor courses, myself. Ever since I knew of Sensation's Cup chances I'd been spendin' more time at Tom's place than at my own. 'Keeping the horse safe till we get  'im to the post is one thing; they'll do all they know to smother him in the race. Or they'll shoot him as he's runnin'. There's nothin' ther crooks'll stop at!'

" 'Jimmy Storey is a good boy, an' he'll do all a boy can do to keep the horse out of trouble,' says Langton. 'We've got to pull it off. I'm hopin' to hear the weddin' bells ring in January; if we go down that's off, I can't marry if I'm broke— well, bent, anyway, if not broke,' he said, with a laugh.

"I knew Tom had the wind up; the responsibility was on him; an' this was addin' to it.

" 'By Jingo, Mr. Langton,' he says, 'I want meself to have a Cup winner to my credit. I'd feel inclined to cave in— make myself safe, and let them have their way. You're a sport, Mr. Langton; but when it comes to the chance of losing a lady like Miss Doris '

" 'An' how do I come off if I stop Sensation?' demanded Langton. 'I've told Doris the trouble; if Sensation is stopped, she'll know I've dropped my bundle. You say I'm a sport; well, that's what she thinks me; an' it'll be no good to me if she knows I'm not. No; it has to be a win or we go down doing our best.'

"I didn't wonder at Tom being nervy; I was nervy myself, knowing all that would be done to put Sensation out. litre's bookies I know who are as good sports as any; but, y'see, wherever there's big money concerned, there's money to be made for those crook enough to go after it. The books had been looking for a soft place to fall, trying for a chance to lay-off against their losses, an' they couldn't find a way out anywhere. There was the chance for the worst crooks ter get in for a big cut. Directly the bookmakers found a man ready to take their money to put them safe, they didn't ask questions, but went in with their ears back. You can't blame 'em! The man working the racket was the nearest thing to a Chicago gangster that's ever been associated with the Australian turf— Issy Burke. He had a hand in every ramp ever worked, made a fortune out of them, and was after more. All the turf crooks knew him as a paymaster, and he knew just where to lay his hands on the right feller if 'e wanted a murder. If he was out to take a risk on Sensation, you can bet it wasn't a risk as far as he worked it out— in other words he'd make up his mind to out Sensation, one way or another.

"You can't wonder we felt nervy, discussing matters down by Sensation's stable. You'd think Sensation was in it himself, and knew what he was up against. It was only a few could handle him. If a stranger as much as brought him a bucket of water, he'd sniff it, and look at the bloke as if wondering if he was dinkum. As intelligent as he was handsome! Mr. Langton had got him just by chance, and when he found he had a possible Cup winner he'd gone nearly barmy over it.

"They'd been several attempts to get at Sensation as it was. We had a regular guard on jest as if it was a real war, an', even as we're talking, we hears one of them call out, sharp, 'Hey! you behind that shed! What you doin' there Come out, an' hands up, or I'll plug yer!'

"Then there was a shot.

"We all rushed over to the guard, who fired another shot. It was evening, but the light was good, and saw a bloke going over a wall. I rushed down to the gate, myself, to find it locked; but there was a tin there, that gave me a rise, and I went over the top, droppin' into the street. I hear the hum of an engine going, and saw a feller running; his feet made no sound, showing he was wearing rubber shoes. After him I dashed, picking up a loose stone I happened to spot, and letting it fly. The gibber whizzed by his head, an' hit the car; I heard a splinter of glass; but he leaped in, and the car went off with a jump. A shot spat out of it. It zipped past me ear like a wasp.

" 'You cows, I owe you something for that! And Sensation's goin' to win!' I  yelled after them. My blood was up; I was in the war now, whatever happened. Cripes! as I told the police over the 'phone, they'd only have to look for a car with a broken wind-screen.

" 'Bill,' said Langton when I turned from the 'phone; he and Tom had been talkin'; 'there seems just one thing for it, if you'll take the responsibility. It's only a few days to Cup day now; we'll hide Sensation out at your place. We can dummy for him here.'

" 'We'll give you a guard,' says Tom. 'You owe us something— if you hadn't talked about him, when he was coming on,.there wouldn't 'ave been such a run on him— an' not all this trouble.

" 'Me talk!' I said. 'I can be quiet as an oyster-if I like. I may have talked a bit about Sensation, but you needn't rub it in!'

" 'Well, have the sense ter keep mum over this,' 'e says. 'You'll have to miss the Derby; that'll be the time they'll must likely pick. And nobody, mind you, to go near the horse except ourselves and the men we send you.'

" 'If you undertake the responsibility,' began Langton.

" 'Undertake it!' I cried. 'I'm just as much in this as you are. It'll be the first Derby I've let go; but I'll stop a bullet even to keep Sensation safe.'

" 'You'd better take a holiday while you can, then,' said Tom. 'Running into town, weren't you? Be here at 3 o'clock in the mornin'— we'll move the horse over then.'

" 'I went into town— jest to the club; down there you can guess how I felt, with everyone discussing Sensation an' me knowin' what I knew. Of course, the fellows there were mostly in the know; the talk was all about Sensation's chance of getting a fair run. But I kept mum— except with old Joe Seymour, who had put his wad on early, on my tellin' him of the horse's chances. He had heard things, and was nervous.

" 'Don't lose sleep over it,' I told him. 'We've put up a trick to fool 'em.'

" 'Well, I heard there was a shot fired— wonderful how news will travel—  and it put the wind up me.'

" 'I'm not at liberty to talk, Joe,' I said; 'but I'll tell you that Sensation's going to be kept safe. If you hear one morning that I've been murdered, you can have reason to fear about Sensation; if you don't, there's no reason to worry.'

"That was the way I felt myself, with a few drinks in; but the responsibility was a darn sight more than I expected with the horse in my stables. The way we shifted him was neat. First we sent out another horse with attendants to draw off watchers; it wasn't till they was well away that we moved off with Sensation, who was nervy, wondering what'd happened. It was an uncanny feeling, moving through the night, an' I was mighty glad to have Sensation safelv in the stable.

"There was so much hanging to his safety that me nerves were all on edge. Derby Day dragged, you can bet —Sensation was scratched for 'is appearance that day. Then the late evening paper had an article headed, "Sensation Mystery: Horse Shot." Up at Dalby's place a horse had been killed, and it was suggested that those who had shot it reckoned it was Sensation. The report finished with an interview with Langton, in which he said ' his horse was safe.

"That showed that the crooks had cottoned to the removal of the horse; it also showed how far they'd go. No wonder my nerves felt jarred! I woke up several times in the night and wandered into the horse-yard to see that all was correct; and when Tom came over, early Sunday, to take Sensation for exercise, I felt like asking him not to take the horse out of my sight. Sunday seemed worse than Saturday; minutes draggin' with me unable to think of anythin' but those crooks. Nothing happened, though, till evening, when a ring takes me to the 'phone.

" 'Langton, here'— the valet sounded strained. 'Anything happened to Sensation? I've got a feelin'…'

" 'The horse is as right as rain, Mr. Langton,' I said. 'I was down at his stable only a minute ago.'

"Just as I was going to ask 'im what had caused him to worry, the 'phone rang off. Wondering, I walked away, attracted to the window by the sound of a motor car outside. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw Langton and Tom. As I told them, I could have sworn that the voice on the telephone was Langton's.

" 'They tricked you simply,' said Tom peevishly. 'After the mistake at Dalby's they wanted to make certain; an' you fell for it like a mug!

" 'No need to blame Bill; in his place I might have fallen for it,' said Langton. 'We've got to think what can be done. Look at that car passing— isn't it Slater's?'

"By God, it was! 'Biter' Slater was a regular hanger-on of issy Burke!

"Although, later on, they decided to let matters stand, giving the guard special warning, you can fancy how I felt, especially after I'd had to bring the police up after seeing a couple of fellers loitering around the place. The police, after warning the blokes away, promised a special watch, which was something; but that night I didnt take my clothes off; an' every time I felt myself dozing I woke up in a cold sweat

"In the early morning they came again and took Sensation off for his gallop. They had a bunch of horses, and put Sensation in the centre as a precaution; but again I felt that another danger had been passed when the horse was back in his stall.

" 'Don't let anyone go near him; don't go near him yourself. He's used to Bobby, who can look after him,' says Tom. 'If you keep away there's no excuse for anyone else goin' near. And, look; we're not to come for him. You'll bring him over yourself, starting at 3 o'clock to-morrow morning, taking the same precautions as we did when we shifted him here— another horse sent ahead as a decoy and all that.'

" 'And don't take notice of any messages, phone or otherwise,' said Langton. 'If we've anything to say well come and say it, personally—one of us.'

"It was just as well 'e said that. The 'phone messages I wouldn't have taken any notice of anyway, and I just told the people who gave them they was blanky liars, and rang off; but the cove who came with the message that I was to shift the horse round at six o'clock seemed so genuine that I might have been deceived. As it was, I just drew back an 'plugged him square in the jaw, so that he went toppling down the steps. As he picks himself up he takes one look at me, an' turning tail, bolts for the gate. Just to make sure, I rang up to see whether I'd made a mistake.

"'Good man!' says Langton at the ether end of the wire. "That's the way to treat 'em.'

It was a treat to hear 'im laugh.

" 'You're a sport, Mr. Langton,' I says. It must be costing you a fortune to keep this guard. I hope you get it all back'

" 'It's costing more than you think,' he said. 'But, never fear, well get it back! I'm more confident now than I've ever been.'

"I took that as a sort of vote of confidence; but it didn't keep me from worrying.

"I was damn glad when the time came to move the horse. Monday had been a nightmare— even with the police lookout on top of our own. I can understand 'ow the blokes felt in France, waitin' for an 'op-over.

"We all felt it, after seeing a couple of crocks I had with me off along the road; with their cloths on no one could say in the darkness what they was. A couple of the guard went with 'em; and Mick Burns, who I'd sent along, trailin' 'cm, came back excited to say that after they passed he'd seen a couple of shadows spring up from the roadside an' make for a gate out of which, immediately, a motor-car had shot into the road.

"It sounded good ter me, meaning we'd drawn the cows with our dummy, and, feelin' darned relieved I gave the word to start. There was four of us— me, two of the guards, and Bobby, all prepared to fight if need be; but our business was to avoid trouble. Sensation snorted at the night air and played up a bit, but Bobby, leading 'im, soothed 'im.

"We turned up a lane that would take us through to where I reckoned, doubling about a bit, we'd be as safe as.houses. With the watchers lured away, nobody would guess the way we was taking. The only thing I was frightened of was that we might be waited for near the end of our journey. I had a feeling of triumph— relief, too.

"Then, all of a sudden, it happened. The very fact that I had felt safe must have been against us. It was a particularly quiet spot of the road where we found figures all round us.

" 'Ands up, the blanky lot of yer; and keep quiet, or we'll plug you!' it was. You could see the glint on the guns in their hands. The horses, snorting, bunched together, an' I saw the hands of Bobby and the other blokes go up. Meself I made a reach for the gun at me hip; but I was grabbed and jerked off me horse.

"The fall dazed me; an' as I rose, staggering, a coupler fellers jumped upon me, Sensation an', mighty roughly, a cloth was jerked into my mouth an' tied behind my neck before I could yell. Me hands were tied, too.

" 'Blanky fools!' panted one of the fellers, 'did you think we was going ter be dummied twice? It was we that dummied you— with the car that follered the other mob!

"So that was the way of it— they'd made me think the road was clear, an' laid an ambush. They'd won! The idea threw me into a passion that made me try to tear free; all it brought me was a crack that knocked me silly.

"Nightmare! I hadn't my senses, really, until I found myself lying on the floor of a shed without windows, but with a grey light in it that told me the day had come.

"There I was, trussed up; Sensation stolen. There'd be no Sensation for the Cup that afternoon; Langton, the good sport, was ruined, an' his affair with Miss Doris spoiled; our own good dough was murdered; an' the rottenest gang of crooks in Australia had got their victory. There was no satisfaction in thinking of what'd happen to them afterwards. Whatever we knew, w'd have no possible chance of putting anything on to Issy Burke an' his crowd. All we could get at was the fellers who had mishandled us; and Burke'd stand behind them an' pay 'em well fer anything they had ter suffer. They might've killed us or the horse— but they hadn't, and all they could be had for probably was minor charges.

"It was maddenin' knowin' everything I was gone, to think of that. I wasn't glad they hadn't killed me; I'd sooner be dead than living, knowin' that I'd lost the Cup for Langton; an' if they'd killed me there would've been a chance of some of them getting the hanging they deserved. In ihy rage I twisted at my bonds so that I rolled over, bumping on the floor.

"A door flung open, showing a strong daylight outside; an' a feller came in who looked down at me. His hat was drawn right down over his eyes, but I could see his grin.

"'No use your struggling, you blanky fool,' he said. 'You're cooked, and your party's diddled. But I owe you one for that stone you heaved at me.'

"He kicked me in the ribs, more than once. With the gag in me mouth, I couldn't even groan; but I tried to show in my eyes what I felt of the cow.

"He left me alone soon, an' went to sit on a box in the doorway, smoking. I was half-choking and mad; but I could do nothing. I was afraid of moving too restlessly; he might apply the boot again. Me ribs were sore as it was.

"But I did work at my bonds, and, to my delight, I found that they gave a little. It gave me occupation and hope. It might take me hours to get free, but it could be done! If I could free me hands the rest would be simple. Wild thoughts that if I could get away I might find where they'd put Sensation— all sorts of mad thoughts— came to me.

"Then another thing happened that pleased me. Sitting in ths sun made the man drowsy. I saw him nodding. He woke himself with an effort; came in, an' looked at me. I lay still. He gave me another kick for luck, and then went out. I heard the bolt drawn out side.

"Immediately I started to work me hands for all I was worth, but it must 'ave been an hour before I was free. Even then, getting the ropes off my legs was hard work, but at last I stood up, feeling groggy, but with a sort of strength of resolution in me.

"The way out was by prising out a couple of planks at the back. I got to work, chipping away with me penknife, softly as I could. It was slow work. At last, when I'd eased out one plank, my impatience got the best of me as I worked at another. It gave a creaking crash as I tugged, and it came away.

"It had disturbed the man outside, as I knew from the sounds. I jumped out, and hid behind the door as he pushed it.

"He never knew what was comin' at him, when I leaped. He went down under me, an' I heard his head crack on the stone. He lay there still; but I wasn't worryin' about him. I owed him one, anyway.

"The driver of the car I hailed looked scared when he saw me, and seemed likely to pass on, but I stood right in his way.

" 'What's up?' he asked. I told him.

" 'Get in an' I'll drive you to the police station,' he said; an' when I jumped in he set the car goin' as if he wanted to get rid of me as soon as possible.

" 'What part of the world are we in?' I asked.

" 'Edithville.'

"Edithville! My God! Miles out; an' it was past noon, by the sun. I hardly listened to the curious questions he asked me; but when we got to the police station dashed inside.

"Then I wished I'd never gone there. I thought they'd drive me mad before I'd get through with all they wanted to know. But at last they let me get through on' the wire to Tom's house and Langton's; I found them both gone to Flemington. It was Tom's daughter, Lily, I got on his 'phone.

" 'But the horse— Sensation— it's lost!' I said.

" 'It's at the racecourse, isn't it?' she said.

"Then I guessed it. They would go to the course expecting that I'd been held up, but trusting me to get through; hoping on to the last moment. A frenzy filled me to get there an' explain the whole matter, even if it was to blast their hopes. One of the John Hops seemed to get my feelings; an' he helped me get a motor car.

"It was a nightmare run, an' there was a rotten despair in my heart. We had lost; but I had to get to the course, see Langton and Tom, an' explain.

"It seemed hours had passed -before we caught glimpses of the course, an' a murmur in the air grew to. the babble and roar of a racecourse crowd. I looked at my watch. The horses would be at the post now. As I jumped out and commenced to run, the full-throated roar of 'They're off!' came to me.

"I heard the thud of the horses' hooves above the babble of the crowd as the horses swept by. A few people I brushed past turned to look at me. I must 'ave looked a strange sight; dishevelled, dusty, a bit blood-covered.

"Although we had lost, something of the fascination of the race caught me; I'd leave lookin' for Mr. Langton and

Tom till the race was over. I was disconsolate—broken-hearted; an' yet I  wanted to see what did win, even if our own interest was killed. It was hard getting a place where the horses looked anything but a moving blur, but I struggled to get a view.

" 'Sensation! Sensation! 'E's comin' like a beaut!'

" 'God!' I thought I was mad when I heard that, an' madder still when I heard the crowd keep on babblin' 'Sensation! Sensation! Here he comes!' Then, lookin' up at the crowd above me, I saw, in the maze, the face of Issy Burke chewing the end of a cigar to bits. The look of it made me think I wasn't dreamin', after all.

"Yet it must be a dream, I reflected. Sensation had been in my charge and I had lost him—he couldn't be here!

"An' yet there he was! I got a good possie jest as the horses swept into the straight. If that wasn't Sensation, and if those weren't Langton's colorswhy, then, I was mad! Jimmy Storey had kept him out, free of interference, and brought him round the field; an', now, he was cutting down the leaders of the bunch, an' the way he was going after the three 'orses ahead left no doubt about it. In another few strides he was shooting past Mayflower and on the girth of Dandy; and then the whole place burst into a roar of 'Sensation!'

"I don't know how the hell I found Langton and Tom, an' I don't remember what they said except that they were very anxious about me and relieved to see me.

" 'How the hell did you do it?' I asked, between tears an' laughin'— what I'd been through had made me weak and hysterical.

" 'You talk too much, Billy,' said Tom. 'When we made up our minds to dummy with Sensation's brother— very like him, but no trace of his quality— at your place, we decided to make the illusion better by saying nothing to you. On Monday morning; after the exercise, it was the other horse went into your stable— Sensation went home, where no one thought of looking for him. Only you talk so much, we might have told you.'

" 'I'm sorry you had a rough time; it's good to know you're safe, anyway, Bill,' said Langton, like a sport. 'What happened to you may have won the Cup for us. The crooks, thinking they had the horse, were taken by surprise; he didn't get the rough run that might have been given him.'

"I reckon he was right," concluded Buley. "The public knew that Sensation had to be guarded, and he was shot at; they knew that, afterwards, Issy Burke went broke and was gone for, legally, by a lot of books trying to make him cough up; they knew there was some armed assault cases in which the blokes concerned got what they deserved; but they never knew my share in winning Sensation's Cup.

"I was too sore about me being deceived like that, and spoken of as talkin' too much, to speak about it," he explained.

_____________________

11: The Sound of the Bugle

World's News (Sydney) 26 April 1933

WE knew nothing about any Anzac Day commemoration as the S.S. Karoa plunged through the seas of the Indian Ocean, on its way back to Australia, on April 25, 1919. As far as we on board were concerned, the day was not one of special recollection, although stories of the Landing naturally passed amongst those who had Gallipoli memories.

Although there was that choppy sea that presages storm, the sun was. hot, and we sprawled on the warm deck, enjoying a game of curds, when Hartopp, who was dealing, put down the cards suddenly, said stiffened to what was, although he was sitting, attention. I followed suit. There was a sound in the air that impelled it. It brought back memories.

CHARLEY was called "the pocket Cupid" for two obvious reasons; he was small, and he was prodigiously ugly. So diminutive was he that there was a perpetual wonder about how he had managed to enlist in the A.I.F. His ability to sound the bugle was the only explanation; and even in that he fell short. There was always a peculiar flat note in his bugle call which frequently caused the exclamation, "Cripes! There's the pocket Cupid again!"

Charley, however, was a war enthusiast, and he got to Gallipoli. Seeing the number of men who were left out it was remarkable how he did it. But there he was, on the beach at Gallipoli, past the storm of bullets that were hitting up little sprays of water, as rain does. It wasn't so bad on the sands, although occasionally a man fell, and little wurlies of sand were kicked up; but Chorley fell headlong on the sands.

"Hit, Chorley?" I asked.

"Gawd! It's hell!" he cried. "A man can't face this!"

He wasn't hit; he was only flaccid with terror. I couldn't forbear the taunt, "Well, you wont be the first in Constantinople at this rate!" It had so often been his boast. But there was no time to waste upon a man who had dropped his bundle; whatever misgivings were in our hearts, the slopes had to be faced; and we formed hastily and went up. None of us knew it was to be chronicled as "one of the most gallant feats in the history of war." There was rather the idea that we must clear the heights of the men who were firing down upon us, or be wiped out. No time to think of a skite whose courage had failed at the last moment!

Grasping tufts of grass or stunted bushes, as an aid to the climb, men occasionally slithered down with a moan, or fell backwards and tumbled downwards like sacks of grain falling from an ill-stacked heap. Yet the heights wore gained; bloody work it was, when we got there, but; aided by the impression the mere fact that we had advanced -against all odds had on the spirits of the foe. Once something like a level was reached, matters were easier, for we had the defenders on the run. Defending still, some of them, but shaken by the fear inspired by those who gave way. Hot work still.

Then, suddenly, in the midst, as we surged forward upon a finally resisting Turkish post, was Chorley, berserk and brave. When a little later we were dug in, I came upon him again, nursing a bugle, which he was not supposed to have, since he had not come over as a bugler. He was blowing softly into it, so that there was scarcely any sound, something that would have been a peal of triumph if it had been in real bugle notes.

"When the war Is through, I'm going to sound that," he said.

It had been on the point of my tongue to remind him about how he had flung himself on the beach, overcome by terror. There was wonder in my heart about how he had overcome his terrors, and joined in with the assault.

Chorley, without his bugle, became a subject of jest amongst the Diggers. His aspirations were so great, and his performance so little, the flesh being weak.

"There's a talk about a raiding party, Chorley," someone would say to him. "Volunteers wanted. It's your chance, Chor."

"Too right; I'll be in it!" Chorley would respond, but he was never in any of the adventurous enterprises. He'd hang back, rather, in the ordinary work; and the M.O., to get rid of a nuisance, finally invalided him from the Peninsula.

Then there was the evacuation, and the trip to France; and we had not long been in camp in France before, issuing from a house in which some of the battalion had been billeted, I heard the subdued notes of a bugle, with a curious flat note.

"There's a chap named Chorley here, isn't there" I said, as I pushed my way in.

"Here I am!" said Chorley. "Why, hallo, matey! I was just tellin' the blokes how I'm going to play this bugle of mine in Berlin. Fightin' on this side is much more in my line. This is the road to Berlin."

"It may be a long road to Tipperary, but Tipperary's not in it compared with Berlin," I said.

"It don't matter," he retorted. "I'll be there! I'll ring out the notes on the finish of this war, see if I don't!"

There was no idea that that we would have two years more of it before the finish; no knowledge of the deluges of bursting shells we would have to endure, with our courage beaten down in the mud, and tensed heroes feeling as if they must burst under the strain of endurance. We, heroes of Gallipoli, as we knew we were hailed now, had been brought to France to finish off the war. A simple matter, on the flatter country, to the task we had on Gallipoli!

It was almost with eagerness that we waited for the push we knew, in an indefinite way, was ahead of us. A bloody business it would be, of course; but war was a game in which every man hoped to be the winner. The glory won, the stakes others had thrown in, would be his; and the war would be near its ending. Afterwards, there would be the march to Berlin ....

Whenever the laugh arose at the sound of that flat note in Chorley's bugle, I pondered. What would the little man, who was so ambitious of deeds do when the push came? He would be out with the details, I concluded, whilst the main force did the fighting; there was always a "nucleus" left upon which to form new strength, in case a unit should be wiped out. At the time when it was necessary to translate courageous dreams into real action, Chorley would probably find that his size, and the fact that he was a bugler— buglers being not wanted in the line— would help him to stay behind.

In the meantime, however, Chorley's bugle rang out, at the regular calls, with a particularly defiant note. The pocket Cupid was translating into it the flamboyancy of his own spirit.

On the morning that the news of our move forward had rumored itself through the camp, I passed the pocket Cupid on his way from the orderly room.

"You staying out when we move up to-morrow, Chorley?" I asked him.

"No fear!" he retorted, valiantly. "They were going to place me with the neuters; but that's no good to me. I'm going in; and so is the bugle. When we've gone through the Germans it'll be me that'll give some calls on the other side. And, in a couple of weeks, in Berlin!"

"You can't take it with you; you'll have to hand it in," I commented.

He winked.

"What about wrapping it in my ground sheet?" he said.

That baptism of fire of the Australian troops on French soil was, as everybody knows, no simple matter of going through the Germans. It was a nightmare struggle, in which every foot of advance was bought dearly with blood, and yet with indomitable vim, the troops pushed on, wiping out the remnants of defenders, who fought with a tenacity equally as unconquerable, only to have to hold the conquered territory under a rain of shells and machinegun fire that made air and ground seem a mangled mass of. eruption.

Under cover of darkness, we made our way forward. The line ahead was restless, with an apparent knowledge of big events coming; the sound of sudden outbreaks amongst the artillery was that of a disturbed menagerie, with many animals in chorus roaring, and then subsiding into vengeful growlings.

There were some sharp muttered exclamations ahead of me, and I found myself bumped by someone who, coming from the direction in which we were going, had blundered, into our ranks. He bumped me so squarely that he recoiled; and even in the darkness I had a glimpse of his face.

"Chorley!" I exclaimed; but In a moment he had passed on, running, his breath coming in the short pants of terror. The pocket Cupid's heart had failed again, apparently.

"Squib!" the man beside me muttered. "I hope, the 's shot! They deserve to shoot such cows as him!"

Yet, as we marched, and as we waited in the shelter of the chalk pits, a compassion, mingled with wonder, arose for the craven. He was not satisfied to be a craven, I knew; the sense of failure must have been torture to him. Not 50 per cent. of the Diggers, when they discussed the war, had any enthusiasm for it. They were there to do their bit; but they would be glad when it was over, and they considered that It would, be sensible to end the slaughter on any terms. The Pocket Cupid, however, had rushed to enlist at the first call, and fiercely he declared that nothing but a complete victory would be a satisfactory ending.

His war enthusiasm made his failure ludicrous.

It was understood that we were in reserve in our chalk-pit position; the tenseness that had been upon us when we arrived, relaxed as a quietness fell on the line. It seemed that the action might, after all. be an easy one; there was a rumor that we might not be involved at all.

And then the battle suddenly burst ahead of us. The rattle of rifle fire and machine-guns, the whine or shriek and the crash of shells— hundreds of shells; the crash of shrapnel, like the tearing of linen accentuated many times. An indescribable pandemonium.

"It probably sounds worse, down here, than it really is," said Simpson, beside me, with chattering teeth. He was trying to give his soul courage for the ordeal ahead.

Overhead, the air whined with bullets, a menacing sound In very little time, we knew that we would have to go up into that rain of death; for, already, the stretcher-bearers were busy, glad to get into the shelter behind the chalk-pit face; and the walking wounded staggered beside them almost in a continual line. The quick arrival of oils orders to move was another indication of severe losses.

Once in the battle, on the ground above, there was no thought of time or of anything, but doing the thing immediately to be done; even doing that became pure instinct You shrank and cowered away from a shell explosion on your left, and, amazed at finding yourself unhurt, you blundered forward; you tripped over dead men or men who groaned as you touched them; you became aware of a direction from which a rain of bullets was coming, and you rushed; you found yourself facing yellow-faced men in grey with open mouths, sagging jaws, and a bayonet thrusting at you; and then they were gone. You had no idea of what you had done. And you found yourself digging, making cover in a broken and earth-filled trench, without being aware of having received an order. You shrank from the shell explosions that seemed to be right against you; but in a little time the shell-bursts further off seemed something normal.

The trench we reached ultimately was crumbled so badly that its fallen sides afforded small cover. There were dead Germans in the bottom of it, and we heaved the bodies onto the parapet to heighten the cover. We dug desperately. and then dropped entrenching tools, to fire frenziedly at grey figures that came leaping at us through the dust and smoke. We hardly realised that we had beaten a strong counter-attack, when the last grey figure crumpled right at the top of the trench; we were again digging frantically.

Lieutenant Fellowes was standing a few yards from me; there was a burst of explosion, and the lieutenant, strangely, was not there.

Lieutenant Hunt was in command. He fell against me, clutching his shoulder, with a sharp cry. Faintly he staggered against the trench side, drooping.

"One of you!" he said, "We can dress this. Tell Sergeant Knox he's in command in the meantime."

"Knox is killed," I said. I don't know how I knew; but he was dead,

And, then, as he was about to speak again, Hunt was dead. A shell piece, whizzing into the trench, crushed his head. Sergeant Hill was in command; then there was no Sergeant Hill. An officer strange to me was commanding. With a few reinforcements, he had reached us.

As strangely and unreally as everything else happened, we were out of it all— relieved. I had no memory of any incident of that relief, no idea of the time we had spent in that purgatory before it came. To find myself helping „a man who could scarcely stand to the First Aid Station was just like the shifted scene in some wild dream.

Just as we reached the torture-overcrowded place, a bugle call sounded from somewhere in the confusion, in which there was a strange, bustling order.

"Silence, there!" came an imperative, stern order; but I had caught that curious flat note. I handed over my man quickly.

Chorley, blood on his face and mud and blood on his clothes, was clinging to his bugle, pleading that he would not sound it again, when I reached him. He grinned a ghastly grin at me, for his face, but for the mud and blood, was a ghastly white.

"I went back," he gasped at me, eagerly. "I did go back; and I got knocked badly." He pointed a weak finger to a leg that seemed useless. "But I'm going to blow my bugle when the war is over, and there's victory."

They pushed me out; the hustling, overworked M.O.'s assistants had reached Chorley's case, and there was no room for any intruder in that crowded place. My last vision of Chorley was of a man facing with fear the operation ordeal ahead of him, but hugging his bugle to him. Afterwards I tried to find out what had happened to the pocket Cupid, but I was never able to obtain any exact information. I ceased to remember him.

We had gone through all the murk of the war until towards the end of it. We were at Meteren, having taken over a sector from which the Germans had been pushed back immediately before.

The battalion was down to half strength, and everybody was overworked badly. Support trenches had to be dug; wire had to be put down— and the wire had to be brought up before it could be laid out; we had been working double fatigues in close supports when we took over our strong post. We felt dog-tired as the night advanced.

"You can take what rest you can," said Lieutenant Vucars, "but you've got to be ready; and the chaps who are on sentry'll have to be about. The enemy may choose any moment for an attack to regain ground; and there's practically no wire to stop him.".

That idea hung over us; but sleep be came dominant. With me it was a fear haunted sleep. When I had taken my turn on post, I had found the sentry I relieved half dozing. If Fritz had come, our position would have been hopeless.

"Wake up! Do you hear that?" cried Mellon. The match he had: struck to find his rifle, which had slipped from its place beside him, showed the scar on the side of his face. Appalled at the sound I heard, I dashed after him as he left the dug-out.

We leapt to fire-steps, as others were doing. Apparently there was nothing moving ahead of us. But somebody fired a shot, and there was a smothered cry somewhere in the darkness that told that a man had been hit. Firing became general.

We detected it suddenly— some grey moving line in the darkness, coining towards us. A frenzy of rifle and Lewis gun fire awakened in our trench. In spite of it, that grey line became more definite, advancing quickly. An attack in force, with men apparently shoulder to shoulder—and there were only 18 of us in the trench! And no wire sufficient to seriously delay the attack.

"Bombs! Bombs!" cried lieutenant Vucars, running down the trench. "Two each, and back to your rifles."

The bombs caught the attackers Just as they reached our paltry wire; and the grey line melted. But, more accustomed to peering into the darkness we saw another shadowy line. The second wave of the attack.

And there was a third wave, too. It was frenzied work, reloading and firing as quickly as we could, hurling bombs, firing again. And always it seemed that an attack in such force must succeed. But we beat it off.

"Cripes," said Mellon, turning to me, when it was all over, wiping his powder-grimed face, "it's just as well we didn't have to wait for the sentry's call. Did you hear that bugle?"

"It sounded to me like a bugle," I said, puzzled. "But there are no bugles in the line. When I heard it, it reminded me of a bugler named Chorley we had. It might have been Chorley— it was like his blowing; but I don't know what has become of Chorley since—"

"I know the bloke you mean. It was like his bugling all right! But Chorley's dead! He died beside me under an operation in the aid station, where I was getting this face business fixed."

We stared at one another; we found others discussing the queer call that had wakened them in time. But at the back of my puzzling was a memory of the enthusiasm of Chorley's war spirit, even if he was physically unable to live up to its zeal. Perhaps that spirit of his was fighting on with us, watching us.

The other strong posts had had a similar experience to ours. The Germans had actually entered one of the trenches, but had been beaten in a hand-to hand struggle.

A ghostly Chorley's bugle seemed to be the only solution of the problem of our salvation.

"THAT'S Chorley's bugle!" whispered Hartopp, and "Get an earful of that flat note!"

Others were affected as Hartopp and I were; but the rest of the Diggers stared at us, and some laughed. "Some of youse blokes gone mad?" demanded one of them.

It is a matter that cannot be explained; perhaps Chorley's bugle had a note only for the members of his own battalion.

The dead Chorley had declared, that he would blow that bugle when the war was over. Perhaps even during the war his spirit had achieved a triumph of which his physical being was incapable.

________________

12: Fingerprints

World's News (Sydney) 21 June 1933

THE amazing ease of his escape gave Eric Sorley a queer feeling of terror. It was impossible for anything to be so easy unless Pate was baiting a new, terrible trap for him.

Through the dark night he looked back with a shiver across the silver sheet of the river, at the dark huddle of the prison camp on the other side. One light twinkled there; that was in front of the guard house. The whole place was silent, undisturbed. His absence had not yet been detected; the way he had piled his blankets would satisfy the warder, if he looked in, to see whether a man who had been a model prisoner was still in his place. It had been part of his plan, a plan which had passed from nebulous visions into concrete resolve, to be a model prisoner.

It was good to be free; so good that the fear of losing his freedom again added to the nameless terror within him. There was a lot to do before he could feel himself safe; the imperative first tiling was to place miles between himself and the prison camp, get clothes in exchange for the betraying prison garments, and put more miles between himself and the place of exchange, for the clothes would have to be stolen, and their loss would be reported. All that would have to be done before daylight, before his escape was discovered.

Sorley set off at a steady jog-trot, between a walk and a run; it was a quick pace that would cover distance, but could be maintained, and it helped to dry his trousers, the legs of which were uncomfortably wet. He bad stood knee deep in the water to push the boat back into the stream so that, when it was discovered, miles down the river, It might give a wrong due to pursuers. Every fence or hedge he passed was a mile post on the road to safety.

As he hurried, he thought. If he was recaptured it would be to suffer punishment in addition to the sentence from which he, an innocent man, was escaping; and he would not again have the easy, healthful conditions of the prison camp. It would be a pent-up weariness within hard walls for him. But, at all events, he would have the opportunity, before he was recaptured, of telling Mary the truth.

Her people had probably been telling her to forget him, urging that he was a convicted thief and unworthy of her loyalty. It was that that had prompted this desperate venture, the madness of thinking that she would yield ultimately to argument. It would be easier for,, them, with her believing that he actually was a thief.

He must make her understand that he was not, give her a faith upon which to base her loyalty. It was Heyland who was the thief, who had ingeniously fastened the embezzlements on to him; and it was because young Ted, Mary's brother, had been involved, as a tool of Heyland, that he had not had a chance of showing that he was innocent. He had hoped, of course, until it was too late, that he would escape conviction without making exposures that must involve Ted. An absurdly quixotic resolve to shield his wife's young" brother had been the cause of his own undoing.

HE would have liked Mary to know that, but with police always in attendance at interviews, and letters censored, he had had no opportunity; and, if he had explained the full circumstances to the lawyers they would have thought more of proving his innocence than of the screening of Ted, which had become an obstinate obsession with him.

If he could bind Mary to him firmly by making her aware that he was not a criminal, but was suffering in defence of her brother, he would be satisfied.

Even if he was caught, and had to go back to prison! It was his fear of  losing her that made prison a purgatory.

Sorley had been avoiding the roads, fearful of encounters; he crossed them, when he had to, with a quick dash. His progress was good. Occasionally dogs barked in some distant yard, and once a bull threatened him. He ran on, ignoring the threat, and the bull did hot pursue him.

He had glanced up and down the road before dashing across; but he had not taken particular notice of the bend in the road and the possibility of it hiding an approaching car. This one made surprisingly little noise as it came speeding round the bend, and was upon Sorley even as he made his dash. Sorley's first realisation was the blinding flash of the headlights and then, with a screaming of brakes, the car was upon him.

It struck him; but the brakes had acted, and the blow merely knocked him aside, winded him, and left him unable to obey his impulse of flight, standing besides the stationary car whilst the driver leaned out and inquired whether he was hurt.

"Hallo!" exclaimed the car-driver. "Why, you're—! You don't want to be wandering about in those clothes, old chap! They'll get you, damned soon, if you do! You want to get a change. When did you get away?"

"I escaped a couple of hours ago," returned Sorley, relieved at the way the man spoke. He was not by any means a pleasing-looking man; but evidently the thought of handing an escaped convict to his keepers was far from him. "Of course, I'll have to get some clothes— When I can."

"I think I can help you," said the car-driver. "There's an old man lives over yonder; you've only to go back two hundred yards round that bend to find the gate. There are no dogs. The old man lives by himself, and once he goes to sleep he sleeps like a log. I called in just now and couldn't wake him. The door is merely on the latch though. The old man's asleep in the room to the left as you go through the living-room. In the room behind that he has several suits hanging behind the door.

"You could take one without it being missed, possibly for days. It's all simple. And, look, here's a couple of quid that may be useful..."

When Sorley, with infinite caution, made his way into the cottage, he still had a feeling that all that was happening was unbelievable. Yet he had the two crisp notes in his pocket; and here was the cottage.

The door opened as he turned the handle. A minute later he was feeling his way through the dark of the house, steadying and guiding himself with hands that touched the wall, fell on the table, or the back of a chair. The room with the clothes was there, too.

He was not finicky about his toilet. Directly he had secured the clothes, he stole out of the cottage, as cautiously as he had come in; and he did not wait until he had gone some distance before, heart-beating, he made a change. The suit he had secured was a surprisingly good fit. He carried his convict clothes with him for some time until he came to a creek, which opened with a water hole; and, here, in deep prater, he sank them, tied round heavy stones to weight them down.

Still, it was not until he had travelled for another mile more that sufficient confidence came to him to take boldly to the road. Even so. he avoided contact with the lorries that began to appear on the roads as dawn approached. He might easily have secured a lift from one of the wagons that passed him; but he was taking no risk.

HE was staggering with fatigue when he came upon a little township, when the hotel was just opening. The fatigue suggested to him that it would be best to sleep during the day and recuperate his strength and travel again that night. Some misgiving came to him and he hesitated; then he walked up to the hotel.

"I'll want a room for the day," he told the girl from whom he ordered a drink in the bar; "you'd better take for it out of that."

He put down one of the notes the car-driver had given him.

Feeling a great deal better after sleep and good food, Sorley set off again in the afternoon, walking. He might have taken the train, but he decided that, on a quiet country platform, a strange passenger was likely to be too closely observed and remembered. He could, walking easily, reach Parramatta as the evening became misty, have another meal there, and then catch the train to Sydney.

It was when he had fulfilled his programme up to that point that a shock came to him, shattering all his growing confidence. A man entered the car with a paper crumpled in his hand and fell into a seat beside him.

"Queer thing, this murder of that old man at Orton," he remarked. He thumped the paper with the back of his fingers.

"Orton? Where's that?" asked Sorley.

"Little place between Parramatta and Penrith," said the stranger. "This old chap went to the bank yesterday, it seems, and drew out a big lump of money; he lived alone in his cottage on a little farm and this morning the cottage was found open, and the old man dead on his bed— strangled— and the money gone."

At first Sorley had listened indifferently, but a horror began to steal through his veins.

"The police are linking up the affair with the escape of a prisoner from the Penrith Prison Camp. He was reckoned a good prisoner; but he'd probably be desperate for clothes and money. Anyway, whoever did the thing left fingerprints all over the place, and—"

The man went on talking, but Sorley's mind was swooning. As casually as he could, he asked the man to allow him to see the paper. The print danced before his eyes; but in the dazzle the headline seemed to dance over all the rest: "Fingerprints Found."

Fingerprints! Undoubtedly his fingerprints would be everywhere; on the door; against its lintel, along the wall, as he had crept cautiously on, on the furniture! Apparently the old man had been dead when he entered the house.

The cold horror of it froze his blood. He had been right in his dread that Fate, making his escape easy, had only baited a worse trap for him. Murder! And again he would have to answer for the guilt of another.

Of course the man in the motor-car, whose face he had disliked, was the murderer. His unbelievable kindness Was now explained; he was sending the eager escapee to create a situation which would divert any suspicion from himself, make himself secure by fastening the crime upon an innocent man. Just as Hey land had done! And what a tale for sneering disbelief would be the only one Sorley could tell— about the meeting with a man in a motor-car he would be unable to describe, who had directed him to a cottage where he could get some clothes!

Sorley dropped off the train at Burwood when he heard the officials shouting that that was the last stopping place before Sydney. At Sydney, most certainly, there would be detectives watching the arrivals by all the trains. He left the "all-stations" train at Newtown and took a tram.

It was hopeless to think now of escape if he was taken by the law. His innocence was nothing against the evidence that could be marshalled against him. His escape from prison had placed him in the position of having to hide forever from the law. With luck he might be able to smuggle out of the country. But first of all he must see Mary.

IT was fortunate that, when he rang the flats where his wife was living, she came herself to the telephone. The tone of her voice when she heard him speak made his heart leap. It told him that, whatever she thought of him, she still loved him, and was in terror for his safety.

He knew she would take all the precautions he had urged upon her of doubling about on trams before coming to the trysting place; and he waited in the shadowed corner of an out-of-the-way café with patience.

"Eric, you did not do it! I will not believe you did it!" she cried passionately as she greeted him.

"Ssh!" he warned her. "I did not do either that or the embezzlement."

He told her then all that he had wanted to tell her; adding the story of his escape. She pressed his hand and kissed it to show her sympathy.

"Always I felt that you were incapable of stealing," she assured him. "I could not understand. Ted is my brother; but you are my husband. I will make speak—"

"What is the use?" he said, despairingly. "It can do me no good— now, and it will only add trouble to you and your people."

"But it is because people look upon you as a criminal that the case in regard to this murder looks blacker against you."

"It will make no difference; an innocent man, desperate to escape, might as reasonably have committed the murder."

Sorley was despondent; but the despondency seemed nothing with the assurances of Mary's faith, love, and loyalty in his ears. They made plans for his escape from Sydney and formed hopes for her to follow him wherever he went; and he was ultimately so heartened that he saw real glimmers of hope for the future.

They were dashed as they left the cafe together. There was no inkling of the danger to either of them until two men stood directly in their path.

"Eric Harper Sorley, we want you. Sorry, Mrs. Sorley, but...."

In spite of all her carefulness, Mary had been followed to the meeting, which the police knew was inevitable.

FINGERPRINTS! They mocked Sorley's dreams, tortured his waking thoughts, as he lay in prison or sat in the court hearing witnesses state the plain facts that, pieced together, made such a damning case against him. There was the story of his escape from the prison camp; of a trail of footsteps found in a field; of the prison clothes found in a pool; of the arrest of the prisoner in clothes that had belonged to the dead man; of his stay at a hotel in a township some miles from Orton, paying with a £1 note which was of the same issue as those paid out the previous day to the dead Jenkins by a small branch bank. The evidence of the fingerprints held all these scattered points of evidence together. Against it all, Sorley could only tell his vague story of a motor-car which had run him down and a driver who, with seeming kindness, had directed him to the cottage.

Sorley had to admit to himself that the story sounded ridiculous; he could not even give a description of the car which had rushed upon him. As he sat, dully listening to the chain of evidence, he knew in his heart that he would have convicted, himself, any man against whom the circumstantial evidence was so strong. The motive seemed fully evident; a desperate escapee, seeking clothes and money to save himself from capture, might be capable of any murderous deed.

There was no hope. The whole proceedings were a nightmare, in which the word "fingerprints" seemed to be taken up in even the court whispers. It was a solace to him that Mary was every day in court, and, when he looked over to her. trying to veil the dark despair of his heart, she smiled at him encouragingly. But it was a piteous smile, really. How she must be suffering!

THE news that he was likely to be proved innocent of the charge of embezzlement which had sent him to prison seemed merely like the mocking of fate. Such a haze of despair had settled in his mind that he was only dimly aware of being informed that the reckless young Ted had been fatally injured in a car smash and before his death had made a confession. Heyland had been arrested and committed for trial; the new angle given to the old embezzlement matter was likely to completely exculpate the innocent victim of a previous injustice. Sorley noted that the court had became more crowded in the hearing of the case in the higher jurisdiction. He was indifferent, almost unaware, that a wave of sympathy had arisen for a man who, wrongly imprisoned, had fallen into a worse trouble in a desperate attempt to escape.

What did it matter? It was a jest of fate.

He was aware that his lawyer and the barrister he had briefed were making heroic efforts with a hopeless case. He woke for a moment from his listlessness as young Forsyth cross-examined a police witness.

"The finger prints photographed were not all those of the accused?"

"There were some others," admitted the witness.

"Some others! Were these others investigated? Were the police merely satisfied with having secured the finger prints of the man they suspected?"

"All the finger-prints were investigated. No facsimiles were found of the others in the police records."

"I put it to you that, of the fingerprints, taken, not one. traced to the accused was found within the room where the deceased was found dead?"

"One finger-print was on the door."

"The outside of the door?"

"Yes, the outside; it might have been left in the course of the cautious opening of the door."

"Some of the other finger-prints were found in the room. Not the accused's?"

"That is so. No trace of similar prints can be found in police records."

No hope. The glimmer that had sprung into Sorley's mind died out. All this was only prolonging the agony.

He looked over again to Mary to refresh his courage with the picture of pathetic loyalty she presented to his mind. Something like a blow seemed to smite his head. A face appeared to stare out of the crowd behind her.

He did not believe his eyes. He turned them away, and then looked again. A sort of terror seized him; a feeling that he must show cunning caution to prevent the escape of a wild hope that had come to him. He allowed a couple of minutes to elapse before he signalled to his lawyer.

"Don't look round," he said. "The man who was in that motor car is in the court. Almost in a line with my wife's head from here, two rows of seats back. The dark man."

When Neville Carter looked round it was as if he was giving a smile to Mrs. Sorley.

"You don't mean Bayliss? Dark man with a scar on his cheek? I know Bayliss. A bad egg. I have a dishonored Cheque of his he gave a client of mine, I'll see about getting him up as a witness."

Carter disappeared; Sorley noticed his absence from the court; but, as the case droned on, the excited hope that had come to him dwindled away. Bayliss, if brought to the witness booth would certainly deny having met him. With that denial there was nothing to link him with the murder at Orton.

By the time the court adjourned. Sorley felt that his late was sealed. It was a mere matter of being brought back the next day for the verdict and the inevitable sentence of death. The night was full of delirious half-awake dreams, in which pictures of finger-prints haunted him.

He was haggard when he faced the crowded court in the morning. He was allowed a moment with Mary as he was taken to the dock; but she only squeezed his hand and breathed, "Be brave!" in a choking voice. Evidently her hope was gone, too.

He braced himself to face the final act in the drama, to hear the dread sentence that was to be passed upon him.

SUDDENLY he was aware that Forsyth was speaking.

"Crave the indulgence of the court. A fresh development .... necessary to recall police witnesses for certain new evidence."

Sorley, his brain reeling, gripped himself to listen attentively.

"Last night a man was arrested on a fraud charge. His fingerprints have been taken and it will be shown that they correspond with some of those found in the cottage— in the room where the deceased was slain! The man is married to a niece of the deceased, who will inherit the deceased's money; he will be shown to be in very severe financial difficulties. Accused will swear that he was the man in the motor-car "

What followed seemed to be a wild dream, in which, above even the knowledge that his innocence was established, that old friends and new ones were crowding round him offering him sympathy and help, was the delight that Mary, who had stuck to him so loyally, was clinging to him and that their parting was over.

"I am not sorry," said Bayliss in his written confession that he made just before he was hanged, "for the knowledge that an innocent man had gone to his death for my crime would have haunted me all my life. But I might have escaped if it had not been for an over-powering impulse to attend the court and see how the trial was going. I resisted it, time after time, but it was too strong for me. They say that a similar impulse comes to all murderers; I only say, now, that I am glad."

_____________________

13: Cargo from China

Australian Women's Weekly 5 Aug 1933

THE house at Cremorne has a window with a fair outlook on Sydney Harbor; and, sitting there with the old man, I commented upon the lines of a sailing vessel lying over towards Double Bay, graceful even in her bare poles—a survival of the times that all old sailormen speak about in regretful tones.

"Don't know her name," said the old man, "but there was a time when I knew the names of every sailer that entered the harbor. I knew the lines of all of them, so that I could tell them by sight— knew the officers and some of the men, too. Those were the days when the sea held romance, and brave tales the men of some of the ships had to tell. Romances that you could make a book of; and some of them I knew of personally, which worked themselves out in Sydney, here. But I was only mixed up with one of them, myself."

He was a quaintly prosaic old man, dry, and patterned by his long life of careful shopkeeping, which had given him affluence in his retired age. He gave the gene-ral appearance of a precise machine, worn out by long use, which had been placed upon one side. It was difficult to asso-ciate him with romance.

That made the suggestion all the more interesting.

"A romance?" I prompted.

"Only once," he said, as it seemed, excusingly. Then, as my attitude showed my interest, he looked halfnervously over his shoulder towards the room in which his wife was talking with her friends. For a moment he paused irresolutely; then his chair moved over to mine, and he leaned forward.

IT was when I had just started in business for myself, he said. I got my training with a ship's chandler and general merchant— a regular old screw; but there was not much in business that he did not know, and I learnt all I could. His old place is still standing in George Street North, but it's a second-hand shop and marine store, now, I think. Sydney had gone back a bit, then; Melbourne was booming with the goldfinds in Victoria, and Sydney had slumped.

The country had become full of men who had come out to pick up a
fortune in a few weeks, on the dig-gings, and, getting disappointed, had drifted into the towns, prepared to work for anything offering; there were no wage awards in those days. So there was I, getting well up in my twenties, and knowing all about the business; working from sun-up to candle-light, and putting in any spare time writing up the old man's books; and only twenty-five shillings a week was my reward.

My boss was easy enough with his hints about prospects, but very hard with the fulfilment. At first I stuck hard, and worked constantly, for from what he said to me, I thought there might be a partnership for me in time.

But it was hard to get money from him. When I asked him for a rise, I had to repeat the request three times, and each time he said he'd think it over; and then he gave me a shilling a week increase, to commence in a month's time !

When I tackled him again, he looked at me as if my greediness appalled him, and reminded me that it was less than a year since he had recognised my increasing usefulness by giving me a hand-some increment. That shilling!

"A whole two pounds twelve per annum, young John," he said— I can hear still the rasp of his voice and the creak of his chair as he turned to look at me through his glasses, as if to assure himself that he was not imagin-ing my audacity. "Beware of the sin of avarice, young John— beware of it!"

When I made up my mind to start for myself, he treated my announcement as a threat to extract more pay, laughing at it with that dry, rasping chuckle of his which had no real sound of enjoy-ment in it. Afterwards, when I had started— some money an uncle let me have, and the promise of sup-port from some skippers I had met through doing his business, and a little money I had saved, started me— he wanted me back; but it was too late. He treated my refusal as an act of personal enmity.

I found the business a struggle because my late boss was out to beat me. In spite of the fact that I could get well ahead of the new men, who, with the growth of the business, he had to employ, he often slipped in quietly and took right from my hands business I thought was mine. So that drove me to do more than I would otherwise have done, a business on the side, which was very profitable in its way.

There were sailors, especially in the boats that came from China to load up our wool for the home run. who were anxious to do a bit of trade on their own account. They picked up— some-times, I expect, they stole— goods of China or the Straits, and smuggled them on board. The masters did not approve of this at all; it was stealing freightage, for one thing; so the sailormen were glad to get any price, and sometimes the profits to be made were large. This business got me known among the crews, and because, whatever price I gave them, I always acted squarethere were times when I could have done the double on them to my advantage— they learned to trust me.

It was because of that, I suppose that one afternoon three men came into my shop. Two of them I knew— one was second mate on the Cynthia, a young fellow named Dawson, with whom I often did business; he was saving up desperately to marry a little girl he knew somewhere in England, but mainly dissipating his savings when he got the craving for a spill— and Touchell, the supercargo.

"Landers," said Dawson, half whispering, as if the weight of a mystery awed him. "This chap, here, has some business for you. He's a Cho— a Chinese gentleman, Mr. Landers— Mr. Yat Sen Yung."

He'd been all muffled up in a coat and slouch hat, and I noticed for the first time when his name was men-tioned that he was Chinese in appearance, though a good deal differently to the Chows who were common enough in Sydney, coming and going. He was dressed like a European, but in loose clothes that were anything but fashionable, rough, and common. There was a dignity, however, in the way that he bowed, greeting me, that made an impression.

"May I speak to you— in quietness?" he asked. He spoke English well, with a slight trace of difficulty.

"Take him in the office; we'll leave him with you," said Dawson, and he and Touchell walked out.

That was not altogether surprising similar introductions had happened before; but there was something in the atmosphere, as it were, that made me wonder, as I led the Chinaman into my office, at the back.

He gave quick, searching glances, assuring himself of our privacy, before he shut the door, and sat himself upon the chair I had cleared for him. The office, gloomy at any time, was dark with the door closed, and I turned up the dim lamp standing over my desk before I sat down.

The yellow light, streaming down, showed me a face that was young and fine, in spite of the Celestial cast. The lines were clear-cut and refined, and there was a fire of eagerness and intelligence in his eyes. I noted that his hands were thin and well-shaped as he extended a little bag, and, gripping it so as to control the current of coins, poured 20 sovereigns on to the table in front of me.

"Monee talk," he said. "I hear 'bout you. I trust."

"But"— I started, amazed at this start to our interview.

"The matter welly simple," he said. I noticed that his astoundingly clear English sometimes lapsed to an approach of the ordinary Chinese pidgin. "It is simple— but welly most important. There is good monee— much good monee. This is for the start, but more will be— afterwards. But this you better take now."

"What for?" I inquired.

"On Cynthia is a box— big case. I want you to get it— bring it here. You have room, upstairs?"

"I live above; and there is a store," I said.

"Good! These papers will help you claim big case. Be careful with it. Keep it up welly carefully the way it stand. Then bring it here. Keep it —I will come and pay. If I cannot come, I will send."

I STARED. The papers in my hand showed that a case described as containing china vases was consigned to me from a firm in China, of which I had no knowledge except in the Chinese that of a vague hearsay.

It was a strange way— as strange as the way in which the money was paid— of conducting business, and I said so. He simply replied that there were reasons which made the methods adopted essential, and shortly had extracted from me assurances that in any way I could assist him I would. He left me satisfied that I had struck a remarkable payment for a simple bit of work, and cogitating over what could be at the back of it.

I was still wondering when Dawson and Touchell returned. They had some business of their own with me, which they thought of the first importance—Dawson had an ivory god for which he was glad of five pounds but which I subsequently sold, priv-ately, to His Excellency the Governor for eighty guineas. It did not take long to settle it.

"Queer bird, that Chinaman," said Dawson, casually. "He pays well though; and he's a decent sort of fellow."

"We have a case for you, I understand," said Touchell. "It's a mystery—"

He stopped suddenly, as Dawson's arm went across his chest, forcing him backward from the doorway, in which they were both standing. I leaned forward to see that at which they were both staring. Two to me very ordinary Chinamen were walking past.

"It's them!" cried Dawson. "These two coves seem to have a remarkable interest in our Chinese friend!" This was in explanation to me. "They seemed to be shadowing him on the way out, and they've followed him since he left the ship."

"They saw him come here?" I asked with a sinking feeling in my heart, for I had no inclination to be involved in any Chinese mystery, in which, according to all I had heard, quick knife-thrusts often took a part.

"No," said Dawson. "We did not come ashore with the Chow, but ar-ranged to meet him. But we saw these men following him. Then he went into a shop, and they waited. We could see them from the place of our appointment, when, suddenly, coming behind us from the other direction, Yat joined us. He had on a great-coat, which he had not before he entered the shop. He must have bought it and slipped out through a back entrance!"

"Say, Will, suppose we do some shadowing? I'm curious to know the game of those coves," said Touchell.

The idea appealed to Dawson, and they left me feeling that I did not half like the business in which I was involved, and without the knowledge of what had to be said about the case. Still, I felt no desire to draw out now.

NEXT DAY I went to the wharf, and took delivery of the case— a huge, awkward affair, the top of which was above my head as I stood beside it.

the sides covered with thin veneer, much like Chinese tea-cases, although I guessed that under this was something more substantial in so large a case. The whole affair was as simple as taking delivery of any case should be; yet so impressed was I that my heart nearly leapt into my mouth whenever it seemed that the greatest care was not being used in handling it, and I was amused at myself for expending more of my profits over the transaction than seemed necessary to ensure its safety.

When it was in my room overhead I felt satisfied, the more so because I had had a word with Touchell, and he had told me that, half an hour be-fore my coming, Yat Sen Yung had left the ship, with those who had been shadowing him, following. As the time of my coming had been arranged, this seemed like a planned thing, and it relieved my mind, somehow, to think that those Chinese shadows had been absent.

Daring the day I waited curiously and impatiently, expecting Yat Sen Yung. He did not come. The fact rather preyed upon me, and feeling that my growing irritability was due to need of food, and that, with the money won over the deal, I could afford to treat myself, I locked up and took my way to Cox's hotel, where, in those days, a dinner of a higher order than the ordinary was obtainable.

I was on my way back in the gathering dark, feeling more contented with life, when a scuffle in the entrance of one of those dark laneways still frequent in that end of George Street North, startled me. On an impulse, I sprang forward, and three men detached themselves and fled in various directions. I rushed to the one who stayed, who seemed the victim of the attack. It was Yat Sen Yung.

"I am unhurt. Recognise me not. You not know me. I come soon," he whispered, urgently; and I found I had let him go and was hastening home before, in my bewilderment, I knew what was happening.

I waited again, expecting that he would come; but again he did not, and, exasperated by curiosity, I could not forbear going to the room in which the case stood, and staring at it, as if it could give me enlightenment. Then I put the lamp down on a box near, and started feeling over the smooth veneer, marked over with Chinese characters. What made me put my ear against the case I do not know; but what I heard made me tear at the packing until I had ripped the light outer covering right off its face. Then underneath I found one long plank of smooth wood, which seemed to have a bolt cunningly let into its surface; and I was not wrong in judging so, for, when I moved it, the whole case-front swung open like a door.

For a moment, I held it, ready to press all my weight for fear of some terrible thing that might come out, but the sharp cry of alarm from within left no room for mistake— it verified the thought that had prompted my precipitous assault; that I had heard the sobs of a woman. And the next minute I was drawing into the light of the lamp the shrinking form of a beautiful woman.

THE old man was interested himself, now, as if he was living again in the scene he was describing. His pipe had gone out, and he did not notice it. And it was not because his story did not grip me, that, thinking of that situation, I took a glance at his comfortable, but prosaic-looking wife, and smiled inwardly in recalling the nervous, backward glance he had given before commencing his story.

YES, she was beautiful, even in the Chinese clothes which, though rich, looked exotic to my eyes on a woman. Distinctly, she was not a Chinese, for she was more fair than dark in coloring, though her hair was brown; yet there was a slight touch of Chinese in her expression.

"Do not be frightened: I am a friend," I said, for she was shrinking from me. Immediately her air changed, and she leaned towards me eagerly.

"Then, where is he— Yat Sen Yung? Where is he?" she demanded.

"Is he— a friend?" I asked, for a dark thought had naturally come to me about what this woman in a case would mean.

"He is the sun of all the flowers of my hope," she said, earnestly. "Where is he? Why is he not here?"

"He is coming. He has promised to come. He should be here— any time," I said.

She gave a little sigh of satisfaction, and, satisfied, seemed to let her-self go, and showed signs of faintness. Then I remembered that she must have suffered a lot and be in need. I led her to a chair and hastily brought her wine and some biscuits which I had handy. Then, as she ate, I sought to explain myself. I told her of my transactions with Yat Sen Yung.

"Did you come all the way from China in there?" I demanded, at last.

"Yes."

"But why?"

"To escape," she answered, simply; and then, rather haltingly, she told me. She had been taken to China as a very little girl by her mother. As I caught the story, reading what she could not tell me with what she said, her mother had been left a widow with the one child, and life was a struggle, and, meeting a wealthy Chinaman in England for some reason, who offered to marry her, she had married him. And the life in China had been that of a prisoner in a very gilded cage. The mother had trained the child in English ways, secretly, with an awful horror haunting her that she had brought her daughter into the same sort of life of luxurious slavery she had found her own to be. Rose— her name was Rose— spoke of names which gave me no illumination, but the way in which she mentioned them implied that they belonged to people who were mighty in their land, and all-powerful.

Then the all-powerful ones had arranged a marriage for Rose, and the mother's remorse for the position she had brought upon her arose to frenzy. But Yat Sen Yung offered a way out— Yat Sen Yung, the nephew of her husband. Yat Sen Yung, who had been to England for education, and becoming Anglicised, had re-turned to China with a sympathetic knowledge of what the English woman, brought out to a life so different, would feel in the Celestial environ-ment. The fact that she and her daughter were English, and Yat was Anglicised, brought them together in a sympathetic bond.

Rose's whole tone spoke of him with reverence, love, and gratitude. It was he who, when the nuptial celebration was imminent, had proposed a way out— a way out that meant the greatest of risks to himself.

As Rose told me, her voice choked with sobs. Her going meant the death of her mother, who, having arranged for the smuggling away of her child, suicided by poison to remove any tie which might cause the child to stay. Yat Sen Yung had arranged everything; had arranged her escape, and packed her like merchandise, as she came to me. The box was ventilated and roomy, and allowed for movement and rest; and he had arranged for her release quietly during the midnight hours for exercise, and for supplies of food.

To me it did not seem understandable that all the trouble was necessary. Had she, once aboard an English ship, been placed in charge of the captain, she would have been safe. But she was almost frantic at the very idea. Her Chinese stepfather was all powerful; her intended husband, too, was of great wealth and influence, and her return would be demanded and secured. If it was not secured, kid-napping would be resorted to by agents who would never hesitate to use the knife. Remembering what had hap-pened, even in Sydney, I began to be convinced that it was only by becom-ing completely lost to her pursuers that she could find safety.

"Miss Rose," I said, "I am your friend. Whatever I can do for you, I will."

"But where is he? Why does he not come?" she demanded piteously, repeating a question she had reiterated time and again while telling her story.

This time I had no time to answer her, for, at a sharp tapping at the door downstairs, I hurried down, and, after due caution about opening, let in Yat Sen Yung.

I shut and bolted the door with a quick apprehension directly he had entered.

"She is safe upstairs. She is out of the box and asking for you," I said.

"Ah !" He looked at me with a snakish gleam in his eyes that made me tremble; but in an instant the look passed to one of confidence, and he smiled in his aloof way.

"It was necessary for you to know But how did you learn?"

I told him. as we went upstairs, how it happened, and he seemed satisfied; but when they met I withdrew; I felt that in such a scene I was an intruder. Yet shortly he called me, and her face looked sad, but resigned as he faced me, with her clinging to his arm, and the yellow gleam of the lamp falling on them.

"I must go and lead away the chase that follow her," he said. "To you I must leave to hide her— make her English girl. Buy English clothes. Find some place she can live as safe as little English girl."

"My uncle has a squattage. My aunt would be glad—" I began.

"Good. You will go," he said to her, and it was like an order. Then he led me away a little and pushed a heavy money-bag into my hand. "That is her monee. Use it for her. There will be more."

Half I was inclined to refuse the money, and chivalrously declare that I felt the adventure now as much mine as his; but his will was imperious.

"I trust," he said, looking into my eyes, so that the only thing I felt I could do was to hold out my hand, which he gripped in white man's fashion, "if they find her they will take her back to punishment and terrible death. You must protect."

"But in this country—" I protested.

He smiled at me as one with knowledge may smile at the ignorance of another, and I read behind it an understanding of the myriad ways of Chinese vengeance. "She— and I— have made a disgrace which must be avenged; and I, by going, may lead them away from her and make her safety. Some day I may come back and meet her."

"But you love her!" I blurted out. His eyes flashed fire upon me— the fire of an extraordinary passion.

"I love her!" he proclaimed. "When for her it is safe, I will go anywhere with her— any way will be our heaven, together. I will let this go"— his hand indicated the pigtail coiled on his head—"and where our hearts are will be our country. But love that is real love can wait."

He went, after she had rather frantically held him when he made his farewell. It was a simple matter to get Rose English clothes and smuggle her away to my uncle's where my aunt, given a slight outline of the circumstances, and sworn to secrecy, was glad to greet her as a daughter. She was a winsome English girl of seventeen, and although some slight touch of Chinese lingered for a time— probably a stamp of environment upon her—it faded quickly. I felt called upon to visit my uncle and aunt more frequently than before, to watch her progress and safety.

It was six months before I saw Yat Sen Yung again. He looked haunted, brought more money, which he forced upon me, and hurriedly inquired after Rose. And the day after some Chinamen passed my shop continually, and hung around as if watching it.

My alarm, which was now not a personal one, but for Rose, kept me from visiting her so often, and, when I did, I took all sorts of precautions to avoid being followed. Then, one day, Yat Sen Yung came again suddenly, and I told him about the watchers.

"They only do not kill me because they hope, following me, to find her," he said, gravely. "Some day they will give up the search for her; then they will kill me. It will be the sign."

"Don't you want to see her?" I asked, touched by his devotion. "It could be arranged."

"Want?" He flamed for a moment, then dropped back into the Celestial's habit of reticence. "Love is a good thing; it can wait. I would not endanger her."

"But if they saw her they would not identify her," I said. "She is so changed."

"Is she changed in every way?" he asked, gravely scrutinising me.

"No," I answered steadily. But I knew what he meant— and I lied. She was no longer the half-Chinese girl I had heard cry in her grief when he left her: "If Heaven is very good to me I may one day be honored as the wife of Yat Sen Yung!"

The habit of curiously stilted Chinese phrases had left her, and she could no longer say a thing like that. Nor feel it. There was a well of pity in my heart for Yat Sen Yung, who had sacrificed his country and his safety for her sake; but at the time she had worshipped him she had not known people of her own race, and he had stood out god-like among a mass of aliens who only oppressed her. Moreover she had been but a girl; that her feelings in her environment should change was inevitable.

Hardly had Yat Sen Yung left my shop before two Chinese passed, following in the direction he had taken. The incident gave me an uneasiness I tried to forget, but could not. And in the morning I heard of the Chinaman whose body was found floating in Sydney Cove with a knife in his back. Because Yat Sen Yung, for Rose's sake, would have wished it, I left the body unidentified.

THE old man sighed softly, remembered his pipe, and reached for the matches. "What became of Rose?" I asked.

He looked sharply, nervously, over his shoulder at the talking women.

"S-sh!" he said. "Never let out that I told you! You see, she doesn't like me to tell the story, because she hates it to be known that her mother married a Chinaman— even if he was a mandarin."

Then I recalled that he called his wife Rosie.

___________________

14: The Load of the Stalwart

World's News (Sydney) 23 August 1933

DARKNESS had come with a chill mist from the sea and menacing shadows hung about the narrow lanes of Surry Hills. There was silence, broken only by the distant sound of quarrelling voices. Uncertain footsteps sounded. The noise of a scuffle followed, the dull thud of a blow, a stifled cry, the ring of a dropped stick, the crash of a breaking bottle. Then the pad, pad of running feet. A young man was making in the direction of the even more sordid streets, towards the Railway Station.

And now came another man, much like him, but in working clothes, walking rapidly, as though in agitation. In his distraction he brushed past two people, who hailed him. They were puzzled.

"Somethin's wrong with Snowy Walker," said one. "Somethin' muster 'appened."

Snowy's wrath had been stirred by a little thing; the news that his brother Jack had been seen wearing his (Snowy's) new suit of clothes. The information exacerbated the brooding resentment which his mother's preference for her younger son had implanted in Snowy's heart.

Since boyhood he had worked to maintain his mother and her home. But all her love was for Jack. Snowy, an honest worker himself, knew, in his heart that Jack was a thief and a loafer; but his mother made eager, voluble excuses. It was not Jack's fault that he could not get work, she claimed; and Snowy thought bitterly of what would have happened to the household if he had made a similar excuse. He had to get work and keep it.

But he was powerless. When he swore to turn his wastrel brother out of the house his mother tigerishly reproached him, defied him, saying that she would go, too. And Snowy, believing her, dropped the subject. Yet he raged when he thought that he, working hard and giving everything, was passed over in affection for a waster whose nature knew nothing but selfishness.

In spite of his sacrifices, too! He would have been much nearer marrying Amy— might have married her long ago but for his care for his mother, and the tribute she drew from him for his brother. And now the suit he had bought to please Amy— who was irritated sometimes at his self-abnegation— had been soiled by the same wastrel relative!

He came to a door, and his hand went into the darkness for the key which was usually outside. It had gone. He thumped on the panels, and fancied that a silence fell within. He called, "It's Bill!" and then his mother opened the door.

In the kitchen, in his shirt-sleeves, and before a wash-basin, stood a young man much resembling himself.

"What the hell do you mean by wearing my clobber?" began Snowy; and then he suddenly sensed something that smote his heart with fear. His mother was agitated and tear-stained; his brother's face was white; and his hands, as he wiped them on a towel, were shaking. He saw that the water in the basin was red.

"My God! What's the matter?" he demanded.

"Aw— nothin'. Just a fight."

"No, no, Jack; tell 'im; 'e must know," said the mother, tearfully.

"Well, it's this," said Jack, with peevish resentment. "It's all because I never 'ad enough money. I wanted money, that's what. And that's why it 'appened. If I'd 'ad money it wouldn't."

"Damn you," said Snowy. "Can't you say what happened?"

"I'm tellin' you. I was talkin' to Chiller Mack and the mob, when ole  Purvis, the grocer, went by, boozed as usual I says it would be easy to get 'is roll, an' I went after 'im. But 'e struggled, an' I 'it 'im on the 'ead with a bottle."

"My pore, pore boy," sobbed Mrs. Walker.

Snowy drew a gasping breath. His eye went to the reddened water in the basin.

"You mean you killed him?"

"No, I didn't. Any'ow, I didn't mean to. I jest 'it 'im on the 'ead with a bottle like any other bloke might have done. It was 'is fault fer puttin' up a fight; an' what does a man want goin' round boozed for, with a roll of notes in 'is pockets? It's 'is fault, I tell yer! What are you lookin' at me for? I didn't go for to kill 'im!"

"But he's dead!"

"Well, why was 'is 'ead that soft that it would break when it was 'it by a bottle?"

Snowy turned to his mother. "How can you love him?" he raged. "This cur, who knows he's killed a man, but can't say it straight out, even to us; who's been a thief and a blackguard, and made his friends amongst thugs all his life, and is now a murderer."

"Oh, Bill, Bill, don't say such things! He's not bad— you know that. 'E was different to you. 'E wasn't made for work."

Snowy turned to his brother. "What are you going to do?"

"Do?"

"Yes— do. I know you won't do what a man would— give yourself up, and face it out. You haven't the guts. What are you going to do?"

"The Johns might not find out I done it."

"If they rope in your pal, Chiller Mack, you're gone a million. He'll lose his block and give you away for certain. And serve you damn well right."

"Perhaps you'll turn pimp and give me up?" sneered the other, white-faced. "I know all you care for me."

"No, no, no, Bill; you'll help him! For his mother's sake," pleaded Mrs. Walker piteously.

Snowy put his arm around her.

"He's my brother," he said, "an' I ain't going to put him away. But—"

The handle of the front door rattled.

Jack's face went whiter as his brother pushed him out of the kitchen. They remained silent, and after another rattling whoever was at the front door left.

"Mrs. Walker! Mrs. Walker!"

A scraggy young woman, breathless with excitement, appeared at the kitchen doorway, opening from the small yard. She entered quickly, closing the door behind her.

"Mrs. Walker, old man Purvis 'as been picked up dead in Ann Street, an' the Johns have took Chiller Mack. Artie Stevens came up to say as how your son was mixed up in it, and asked me to warn you to tell 'im to keep clear."

"My son wouldn't do nothin' like that."

The girl looked at Snowy.

"I saw 'im comin' along the street lookin' excited," she said, "an' I was afraid somethin' 'ad 'appened.

Jack crept back as the door closed behind her.

"You're my brother," Snowy said to him, "an' I'll see you through. Get off them clothes and into your own clobber."

Jack saw the point. There was nothing quiet about his brother's best clothes, and if anybody had seen him in that array he would soon be identified. Quickly he climbed the creaking stairs those rose out of the narrow hallway.

The scraggy woman burst in again, more excited than ever.

"Mrs. Walker," she gasped, "there's a John watchin' the end of the lane. Thought you'd like to know!"

Mother and son looked blankly at each other as she scuttled off.

"Oh, Bill, Bill, me 'eart's broke," sobbed the woman. "Save 'im, now— save 'im; if 'e's took I might as well die!" He felt the hurt— the same hurt that had been in his heart for all the years that he could remember. Yet for her embrace, her very appeal to him, he was grateful. Gently, very gently, he put her on a chair.

"Mum," he said, "I'll do what I can. Let me think."

As he paced the floor his ears were pricked for the sounds that would tell of the approach of the police. He knew the net they would set, once the quarry was marked; and he believed that arrest was inevitable, even if for a time his brother would get away. Living in the home of the under-world— how he had tried to induce his mother to leave, the chains of old associations holding her— he knew the weak points in its supposed unity against the law. The nefarious businesses of some of the neighbors would make them eager to gain favor with the police— and the claim to immunity it would bring— by betraying the fugitive. It would be done privily, of course; and the persons who did it would be most loud-mouthed in their denunciation of police informers.

Suddenly he remembered the way Ellen had looked at him. Clearly, she thought he was the guilty man. An idea came to him. Surely if, only for a time, he made a sacrifice, while his brother, like a sneak, stood by, their mother would give him a share of the love that all his life he had tried and failed to win!

"Mum," he said, "Jack was wearing my clothes. The Johns will have been told what they're like. When they come, if I'm dressed in those clothes they'll take me and when they're gone he can get away."

"Bill! Bill!" she cried. "Oh, Bill! I knew you would save my boy! You will, Bill, you will, won't you?"

Not a thought for him! There was a stab for his heart for each word she spoke. Yet as she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him he felt that, even though her kisses were only an expression of gratitude for the saving of another, they made his sacrifice worth while.

When the police came, a man in a flashly-cut grey suit opened the door. They were puzzled. They had come expecting to find John Walker in those clothes.

"I'll go quietly. I expect it's me you want," said Snowy. He walked away with them exultantly. His sacrifice must win his mother's affection; and later, when the brother who was cowering in the room above had gone away, and his own innocence was established, they would live together happily.

With Amy. He knew that Amy would stick to him. They would take Mum away to the home they would make; it was a great deal
xxx
from Jack,  who had strengthened her desire to stay here.

"I don't believe you did it!" Amy flashed, when she came to see him. "I know you, and it's not in you to do anything like this."'

He smiled, pleased at her loyalty; but there was warning in his looks as he glanced towards the warder, standing near the grille through which he had to speak to her.

THE FIRST BLOW Snowy experienced was when he saw the brother who, he hoped, had escaped, sitting in court beside Chiller Mack. He had looked to this as the day of his vindication; had dreamed happy dreams about it; and, now, if he was vindicated, his brother would be caught. Why was the fool there?

Amy was there, too, white-faced but smiling at him. He tried to smile back, but his courage was daunted by the presence of the brother who should have been far away.

The evidence began. What was happening? Chiller Mack had vanished when witnesses were ordered out of the court; now, pimp and perjurer, he went into the box amongst the first. He had been speaking to Walker, the man in the box. He was wearing his grey suit. Yes; it was William Walker. He had said when Purvis came along..."

And then came Ellen. Walker had rushed past her. He seemed agitated. She did not notice his clothes, but knew it was William Walker.

And Barnes. He had hailed Walker, who brushed past without answering.

Snowy saw that a monstrous case was forming against him. He dared no longer look at Amy. But his mother would clear him— his mother, for whose sake he had gone to prison. They were calling her now. He roused himself.

She gave her evidence with sobs, her face down, as if in shame. Yes; she knew the suit, produced. It belonged to her son, William Walker. She had first noticed the stain on the sleeve on the night of May 10th. He had been wearing the suit.

Great blows were beating in Snowy's brain, smashing all his dreams into dust. He saw it now; he was still as nothing; their mother's love remained for the sneak-thief and murderer. To make him safe she was prepared to give perjured testimony against the son whose heart had starved for her affection.

The drone of the court went on, but his. stunned ears heard nothing. He knew, he would be condemned.

"You, Jack Walker! You are the murderer! You admitted it to me. You were drunk, but you admitted it. You said that, if it came to that, you would not see your brother suffer to shield you!"

Snowy roused again to the sensation in the court. Amy was speaking fiercely, determinedly.

The assault had taken Jack by surprise. He had sprung to his feet to find all eyes turned upon him. The accusation he thought that indicated struck terror into his rabbit soul. He rushed to escape. There was a tumult at the door.

The court was adjourned in the whirl of confusion, which ended when Snowy found himself being assured that, as his innocence was established, he would soon be free. Amy was there.

Jack was dead. Dodging police who tried to check him, he had rushed out into the street, right under a motor car. He had gasped a confession before he died.

His mother was there, too, sobbing.

"I lied. I could not help it. You were so strong; he was so weak— he could not bear the trouble," she wept. "But I am ashamed; it is hard to ask you to forgive me."

Snowy put his arm around his mother to show his forgiveness. And he smiled at Amy. There, at least, was incomparable love for him.

_________________

15: The Servicetown Mystery

World's News (Sydney) 15 Nov 1933

"I HAVE IMPLICIT confidence in Mr. Sorrell," snapped Macintosh, the general manager. Evidently the attitude of the detectives annoyed him. "It's a queer case altogether. Mr. Sorrell has come to me with a fancy he may be robbing the bank; yet strict investigation has shown nothing out of order. It was at Mr. Sorrell's request that the investigation was made. He is still not satisfied, so you gentlemen come into the business."

Ron. Dwyer recalled that scene in the bank manager's office when, some time later, Rhoda Sorrell spoke to him on his arrival in Servicetown. Whilst his chief, Detective-Sergeant Tonkin, asked keen questions, he had felt a vague sympathy for the obviously worried, fidgety Sorrell, with his fine face and prematurely grey Hair. An acquaintance with Rhoda Sorrell had made the sympathy positive.

It would be appalling to think that there was anything crooked about the father of such a girl as Rhoda. Yet the matter which had brought Dwyer in the guise of a special investigation officer of the bank to the manager's quarters at Servicetown was certainly a queer one.

Sorrell had left the table after breakfast, when Rhoda turned to him suddenly.

"Mr. Dwyer, there's a question I want to ask you; don't be offended. You are not merely a special man from the head office; you're a detective, aren't you?"

Dwyer felt a momentary chagrin, not that he was ashamed of his calling, but that he prided himself on his ability to be able to pass as anything but a detective. He laughed awkwardly. "I am here at your father's invitation."

"I know that," she returned. "My father has been worried for some time. He's not been himself at all; he used to be so calm; not at all the nervous man he is to-day. He has told us all about his dreams; but mere dreams shouldn't make the change in him. Of course," she added, "it is impossible to imagine that father would be concerned in anything wrong."

"There's no suspicion," said Dwyer.

"But something is worrying him," persisted Rhoda. "I'd give anything to have the load removed from his mind, whatever it is."

Dwyer let his hand fall on hers assuring#, and thrilled as he did it. Rhoda had more than beauty; she had charm; and the young detective had felt Its influence Strangely since he arrived in this household. If there was anything that Rhoda would regard as a service, he would be delighted.

Was there anything to be done? Dwyer's mind harked back to the conversation in the bank's head office. Sorrell, of whom his chief, Macintosh, spoke so highly, had been worried by what seemed to be hallucinations.

"But last night." he said, "I found myself in my car away out in the country; later, I discovered that it was the other side of Penrith, past Emu Plains. It was as if I had suddenly wakened out of a sleep. And there I was surrounded by hold-up men!"

"A hold up!" exclaimed Tonkin, Dwyer's chief. "But you made no report at Penrith?"

"I was confused. Even afterwards, it seemed like a dream. You see I had no idea how I had got where I was, and I was amazed when one of the men put his hand into my pocket and took out a roll of notes. I didn't know I had the money. It worried me. It filled me with a fever to get home and find out where the money came from; and when I found my way back I made investigations. The money had certainly not come out of my account; but the bank cash was all right; and I have been able to find no discrepancies at all."

"How much was in the roll?" demanded Tonkin.

"That's one of the things that is worrying me, confusing me. I don't know. It was just a roll of notes— pounds, I think; I can't even guess the amount. All I know is that the men were threatening me— trying to force me to take them to some place where there was money, and I was so dazed, I don't know what I said. Then one of them said, 'He's hopeless! Let's take what money he's got, now,' and put forward his hand into my pocket, bringing out the notes."

"And you didn't know it was there?" said Tonkin, scepticism in his voice. "Surely you have some sort of idea of how you reached the place near Penrith."

Sorrell, trembling and agitated, leaped to his feet; and Macintosh, rising too, interposed.

Macintosh showed a shade of resentment at the tone Tonkin was using to Sorrell. "Mr. Sorrell is a man in whom the bank has the greatest faith. He has explained that what went before is like a dream."

"It was a dream," said Sorrell. "You try to remember, the details that were so vivid; you remember that they were vivid, but what they were you don't know. The dream was that I had done something at the bank (I can't for the life of me recall what it was), and was in my car with some fixed intention of going somewhere to hide some money. Suddenly I noticed a car following me. I speeded to get away, but it speeded also. Then the dream became a nightmare. I was going for dear life, but could not shake oft that pursuing car. I dashed down side roads-going away from the track I had intended. The other car still followed. A nightmare! At last the car at the back gave a spurt. It came up, past me, with a roar; and then, suddenly, I was awake, with a lot of men around me— held up!"

"And all before that seemed only a dream?" demanded the detective.

"The worst of it is the actual happening fits in so well with other dreams that have been worrying me for months."

"Eh?" cried Tonkin sharply. "The same sort of dream?"

"Yes, only that, always before, I have wakened up in bed. The other dreams were always about doing something in the bank, then going a long distance in the car and hiding money— counting up an incredible amount of money hidden away. It was all very vivid; but I could never remember the details. Yet often, when I had a look at my car, there was mud on it, and the petrol was low."

"So your car had been used?"

"Yes; I suspected someone had secured a key that fitted my garage and had taken my car for joy-riding. I had new padlocks put on, but the car still had the appearance of being used, when I had no recollection of using it."

"How many times have you had these dreams?"

"I can't say. You see, at first they were only just dreams, and forgotten. Then they began to worry me. The thought that I might be defrauding the bank, subconsciously, has become a torture! I tried to dismiss it; but last night's incident, brought matters to a climax. You see, the men said: 'If you don't want to be a dead man, lead us to the place where you've been burying the money." '

"Sure the hold-up men were not a dream, too?" demanded Tonkin.

"I'm certain of that."

The detective pondered.

"Look here, Mr. Sorrell," he said, sharply. "You're a good penman, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes, I am, particularly good."

"I mean— skilful. It would be no great difficulty for you to imitate signatures— the signatures of clients, I mean."

"I daresay I could do that. I know I could." said Sorrell, rather dumbfounded by the question. "I've often imitated signatures, just for a joke. But, of course, I wouldn't think of—"

"What exactly is the point?" asked Macintosh.

"The point is just this," said Tonkin, incisively. "The tale is the sort of thing a man might concoct to fall back upon if he fears some clever fraud can't be carried on any further. It. would supply a neat and original defence against a criminal charge!"

Sorrell, trembling and agitated, leaped to his feet; and Macintosh, rising, too, interposed.

"Pardon me, Mr. Tonkin," he protested. "I've told you that the bank has no suspicions about Mr. Sorrell! It was at his own request that we sent to the detective office."

"Precisely!" said Tonkin, grimly. "It helps to build the defence."

"That may be your way of looking at it," said Macintosh, warmly. "I may say the bank's faith in Mr. Sorrell is in no way affected."

"Thank you, Mr. Macintosh," murmured the agitated branch manager.

"Where do we come in?" asked Tonkin, with some asperity. "There is, of course, the hold-up. That should have been reported at Penrith. What sort of a car was it that these men had?"

"I haven't got the slightest idea, except that it was big and powerful. No. I can't even attempt to give a description of the men."

Tonkin shrugged Ills shoulders.

"Well, what's to do, then? You say there's nothing wrong at the branch or your bank; therefore, there's no charge. We can't charge a man on a confession of his dreams," he added, sarcastically

He spoke to Macintosh, but it was Sorrell who answered, eagerly.

"I'm haunted by the dread that somehow, without knowing it, I may be doing something wrong."

"Why not take a holiday? It would probably cure you of your dream habit."

"It's not only that," protested Sorrell. "I want the whole thing investigated to ease my mind. Evidently these men who held me up are watching me. If, by some means, I have secured and hidden some money; supposing I do, in a subconscious fashion, go to the place where the money is hidden; these men may follow me and secure the money that is not theirs. Then there will be no chance of recovery, if that happens-if any money is missing."

"But you say no money is missing," persisted Tonkin.

Sorrell looked at him helplessly.

"You see, it's as I say, a queer case altogether. The affair is worrying Mr. Sorrell to death, and he's too valuable and trusted an officer for the bank to wish to lose him," said Macintosh. "We want his possibly foolish suspicions about himself dispelled, and we would like police aid. If it is necessary, the bank is prepared to pay."

"DWYER," said Tonkin, that afternoon, "you're to go out to that bank at Servicetown and take up quarters there with the bank manager. There's something queer about this business; the chief has decided that it's worth looking into. We've got reports from Penrith that last night two cars did dash through the town at break-neck speed, as if one was chasing the other. That part of Sorrell's story wasn't a dream, anyway."

"What do you make of it?" asked Dwyer,

"Think of it? I think there's something crook and that a man who's grown scared of a clever fraud is building up a defence with this subconscious stuff. Well, I've put the matter to the chief and we're going to call the bluff. This Sorrell chap has asked for someone to put a watch on him, and you're going out to do it."

Not liking the job at first, Dwyer became reconciled when he met Rhoda. He discounted Tonkin's suspicions about Sorrell, who seemed genuinely relieved to have him on the premises. His term seemed likely to be uneventful, however.

On the sixth night of his stay, however, his pulses were thrilled into action. He had gone to bed, when a sound of movement brought him to wakefulness, all his senses alert. In a moment he was peering through his half-open door. Someone, he could swear, had just passed it.

He was not mistaken; a shaft of light, as from a small torch, showed on the stairs, at the end of the landing; a figure, holding the torch, was descending. It was Sorrell— and fully clothed. With the utmost care Dwyer followed Sorrell, who, with every aspect of confidence, made his way to the private entrance to the banking chamber, and, unlocking the door, entered. He switched the light on immediately; Dwyer stood back in the shadow outside, watching him, as he went to the safe and, extracting a ponderous ledger, opened it. He seemed to study the figures for some time.

Dwyer advanced and stood opposite to him.

"Mr. Sorrell!" he said. For a moment the banker did not look up; not, indeed, until his name was spoken again. There was a glassy look in his eyes that gave the young detective an uncanny feeling. Then suddenly his aspect altered. The change was that of a man waking up.

"My God!" he cried. "Dwyer! What are we doing here?" He passed his hand across his forehead. "I seemed to dream I was here— it was like the dreams I have so often had. I was going to do something; but I can't remember." He stared at Dwyer. "No, I can't remember at all!"

Dwyer, letting nothing escape him, watched him curiously as he put the ledger away. As they went upstairs together an idea struck him.

"Give me your car keys," he said. "And you go to bed, Mr. Sorrell, and sleep. I'm Just going to make a little investigation."'

He approached a window in the front— the sitting-room was there— and, without turning on a light, peered through the window. A little way down the street a car was parked.

A few minutes later he drove Sorrell's car out of the garage. As he moved off he looked cautiously back. The car he had noticed had begun to follow. He accelerated, and the car in the rear moved faster, also; he slowed again, and its pace declined. Then he stopped suddenly. Afar off the following car stopped too.

Dwyer was satisfied; but he did not wish to "wake up" too much thought. His pulses beat with the feeling that his work here was likely to be a real thing. Getting the car into action again he swerved round and made his way back to the bank. The action seemed to take the occupants of the rear car by surprise. They were about to move, but came to a standstill again. Dwyer noticed all he wanted to notice as he passed; there were several men in the car, and that they shrank back in the darkened interior.

Tonkin was with him when he went into Sorrell's office to see the banker, having avoided much talk over the last night's happening at breakfast.

"You remember last night, Mr. Sorrell," Dwyer asked.

"Perfectly. One of those dreams of mine had come to me. "Then I woke up to find myself talking to you— just outside there."

"You were asleep all right, when I wakened you," said Dwyer. "Have you been telling many people about these dreams of yours?"

"Oh, a pretty good number. At first I thought them curious, the same dream recurring, and I mentioned them just as that. Then I might have spoken of them because they began to worry me."

"A good many people might have got to know of them then? Even about the idea of your going out in the motor car? These dreams were pretty regular, eh? Would they be once a week?"

"They came too often for my liking," said Sorrell with an uncomfortable laugh. "Sometimes I didn't know whether I'd had the dream again, really, or was only imagining it."

"Why I am asking," said Dwyer, "is that, last night, I went out in your car— you remember my getting the keys? And there was a car parked across the way that followed me."

"My God!" cried Sorrell agitatedly.

"If you have been in the habit of talking about your dreams, and really did go out at night— in your sleep— it is understandable that a watch might be kept for you by evil-minded persons in search of spoils. But there were no spoils, apparently. Your auditors—"

"The auditors found nothing out of order," said Sorrell quickly. "That's the puzzle. Yet there were those notes I had with me."

"How about the ledger account you were looking at last night when I woke you?"

"Ledger account? Oh, yes, of course; I had a ledger out. I don't remember what I had it out for."

Sorrell would have been a good actor if his bewilderment was assumed.

"Do you happen to have an account for R. E. Sarfie? Curious name, isn't it?"

"Why, yes! Of course. I know that account! It's a big one— at least it's a big credit to carry on current account."

"That's the account you were looking at last night. Dwyer made a note of it," said Tonkin sharply. "Let's have a look at it."

There were peculiarities about the account, as the three men conned it. A sum of over four thousand pounds had been paid in three years ago, and had remained untouched for many months; then there had been withdrawals of amounts of £20 and £25, which had recently become weekly, after being sporadic. Cheques were produced which coincided with the entries.

Sorrell said that he could not remember having seen R. E. Sarfie since the day he had opened the account; the nature of the deposit naturally fixed the memory. Sent for and questioned, none of the other officials could give a distinct recollection of having seen Sarfie.

"Curious, isn't it?" said Tonkin. "A man draws out £20 or £25 a week, and nobody remembers."

"It is queer!" assented Sorrell. "It surprises me. Of course, this is an industrial centre, with a lot of small factories going. Thursday and Friday there are a regular number of withdrawals; although most of those who cash the cheques become known, it is quite possible, if the messengers sent to cash cheques are altered, for some of the people to be unfamiliar. Still this Sarfie being so unknown to the clerks seems peculiar. It has made me feel curious." He pressed a bell and one of the clerks appeared. "When Mr. Sarfie comes in next time, or if anyone comes with one of his cheques-I want him told that I would like to speak to him."

Tonkin looked at him queerly.

"There's nothing wrong in this account seemingly; but it seems a queer one-a mail depositing such a large sum, and only operating after a long lapse of time. The name's queer, too." He handed over the ledger and took a note of the date when the account was opened. "By-the-bye," he said, "have any of these friends you've spoken to about your dreams got mesmeric powers by any chance?"

"No-o," said Sorrell, doubtfully.

"You've never been mesmerised?"

"No. Oh, no, certainly not,"

"Well, after last night, this case certainly seems interesting/' said Tonkin.

He had been staring at Sorrell, wondering if he was a supreme hypocrite, or was really genuine; and he drew Dwyer out of the office with him. "I'm coming down to-night. Last night you interrupted something; it may take place to-night. Don't interfere this time: just watch. Keep watching and let Sorrell go ahead with what he is doing. If he takes his car out, let him, but follow out into the street, keeping unobserved as much as possible."

That night Sorrell's car glided out into the darkness of the street and made off at a good pace; it was followed immediately, by the same car that Dwyer had observed the previous night. Hardly had that gone than a big car came noiselessly to the bank.

"There, Dwyer?" Tonkin called in a swift whisper, and the figure of the young detective sprang out of the dark wall of the bank building. "Jump aboard quick!" The car was in swift movement again, almost as Dwyer's foot landed on the footboard.

The red tail-lights of the two cars ahead gleamed a long way ahead as the police car rushed through the night.

"Well? What happened?"

"I was disturbed by Sorrell going down to the banking chamber. This time I waited outside, just watching. The man was moving as if in a sleep; and yet he seemed to know exactly what he wanted to do. He got a cheque out of a locked drawer, and seemed to fill it in; he got a roll of papers— like a mass of cheque forms-from the safe, and he put this one with them. I could not see all he did, but, as he came towards the door, he undoubtedly had a number of notes in his hand, which he thrust into his pocket. I got back into the shadow as he came out; but he didn't seem to have an idea of being watched. He went straight to his car, got it out, and dashed away. The other car followed."

Tonkin checked off the details. "That's what I expected," he said. "It will interest you to know regarding that queer name in the bank ledger, R. E. Sarfie, that a man named E. I. Fraser received seven years for the Macedon bullion robbery. You may remember: £5000 in gold was taken. The robbery took place oh August 23, 1923; the Sarfie account was opened here on August 31. Fraser was identified as the armed bandit, and get his sentence, but the money was not recovered."

"R. E. Sarfie is E. I. Fraser in reverse!" cried Dwyer.

"Exactly; I didn't think you'd miss that. An easy way to enable a man to remember the name under which he planted the money."

"That's interesting!"

"Yes; what's more interesting is that Fraser, whose handwriting looks to me identical with the Sarfie signature, is still in Parramatta Gaol!"

In the midst of a whistle, Dwyer had to catch his breath and hang on. The red lights ahead had disappeared; but the swift, silent, moving car lurched swiftly around a sharp turn and the red dots glowed ahead once more.

"He couldn't sign the cheques, then," he remarked, dreading the reply. .

"No; Sorrell did that. He admitted to me his ability to forge signatures. The untouched account has given him the opportunity. Very probably he discovered that the money, was lost and Fraser was in gaol. Everything was cleverly worked. Fraser is due to come cut of gaol shortly and there is, likely to be trouble; Sorrell prepares for his defence of subconscious actions."

Dwyer felt intensely sorry, especially for Rhoda, but the evidence seemed damning.

The lights had disappeared and the car swerved in rounding another sharp bend to pick up the trail again. There was an element of danger in rushing through the night with the headlights turned off.

"Sorrell isn't the type of a crook," he protested.

"Any man is likely to go crook," said Tonkin, cynically, "when opportunity presents a temptation strong enough. That untouched account must have tantalised him. Now, no doubt, he is sorry. Net being a crook, the business worries him."

The cars, going at a fast pace, had covered miles, and were well out in the country now. A clouded moon gave sufficient light to enable the driver to see the roadway. Like phantoms, the cars sped through the night.

The idea that he was involved in running Sorrell to earth made Dwyer feel sick; there would be no thanks from Rhoda for that! But there was something else. At least they were protecting Sorrell, as well as pursuing him. There was something extremely sinister about the way the men in the other car had shadowed Sorrell's.

He was used to the reticence of Detective-Sergeant Tonkin; and, indeed, the swift movement of the car over rough roads, and its consequent jolting, gave little opportunity for talk.

"Have you discovered anything about these men?" he said at last.

"We traced the registration, from the number you gave us. The owner is—"

He was interrupted by an exclamation from the driver. The red dots ahead had disappeared again, and the driver, picking them up once more, had found that the two cars had left the road. The two red dots were close together, stationary, in an open patch of bush.

The driver had brought the car noiselessly to a standstill. Its occupants, peeling out, could see a group of shadows moving away from the cars. Tonkin leaped out, followed by Dwyer, and the uniformed man who had been seated by the driver.

"That's Sorrell a little ahead. I can tell him by the droop of his shoulders," whispered Dwyer. "He seems to be perfectly unconscious of the men following him as if he was in one of those subconscious moods he told us about."

A hope of Sorell's innocence had leapt again on his heart, but Tonkin demolished it.

"Or in league with them," he commented cynically. "That's a clever story of his, of course; but I don't believe it."

Soft-footed the three crept over the ground, trailing the shadows, and, when possible, keeping trees between them and the pursued. The ground fell steeply and shortly the shadows had disappeared. The representatives of the law went on cautiously.

"This way!" ordered Tonkin in a whisper. Following him, they moved sideway along a gully into which they had come. Around a hanging bluff they came suddenly upon a hut, showing darkly against the moon-greyed bushes.

There was no alarm as they approached until they were able to peer into the hut, in which a small light twinkled.

It came from a lamp, which Sorrell very evidently had lighted. Just inside the doorway three men were grouped, watching with intent interest Sorrell as he worked in the remote corner. He had dragged aside a canvas stretcher which had covered the spot where he was digging. Shortly he threw aside a spade and heaved open a box, which was lying in the hole revealed. There were piled bundles inside, that looked like notes.

A gasp came from one of the men in the hut, and he turned towards his companions.  As he did so, his eyes looked out and saw figures beyond the open door. Uttering an exclamation, his hand shot towards, his hip pocket.

"Put those hands up!" commanded Dwyer, the quickest of the three, his service revolver in his hand.

But the man's hand thrust forward, and there was a flash. Dwyer's revolver flashed out the same moment, and with a cry of pain the weapon was dropped.

There was no more resistance, as Tonkin took an authoritative hand. Sorrell, disturbed, was facing the group now, staring limply and wonderingly.

"What's happened? Where am I?" he demanded.

"That's fair acting, Sorrell," sneered Tonkin. "You'd better come over here and join your friends. Partridge, get that box of notes out; we'll take it with us."

"You've got nothing on us, Tonkin," protested one of the men. "My mate here fired a shot, certainly; but he didn't know you were police."

"We've got the Macedon hold-up on you, Bryant," retorted Tonkin. "That's what we've got. Fraser's doing his term, but you were the fellows who were with him, and we can fit you, now."

Bryant laughed hoarsely.

"Well, go your hardest," he said. "I don't care so much as long as Fraser doesn't get the loot. The cow was trying to double-cross us and get away with the lot. He knew we'd be after his tail directly he leaves Parramatta. so he was getting the cash away. He'd told us that the loot was safe in the Servicetown bank, but, of course, we couldn't get hold of it. We didn't know the name of the account."

"Shut up, Darkie!" vociferated the man who had been wounded. "You'll—"

"I tell you, I don't care, as long as Fraser doesn't get that cash when he comes out. I'm out to beat him, if I have to do ten years! Mesmerism— that was what did it! One time I came back from Brisbane, when I was doing well there, just on a sort of impulse, and Fraser laughs at me. Tells me that he wanted me and he willed me to come. Always practising mesmerism, he was; he reckoned he could influence a man miles away by concentrating on him; and Peters, who was in Parramatta with him, says he was concentrating on it there. To beat us."

"That let's Sorrel out, doesn't it?" said Dwyer, joyfully, as the party made its way back towards the cars. When Tonkin nodded, he dropped back to talk comfortingly to the bank manager, who was dazedly stumbling along with the party. He was thinking mainly, however, of the delight of being the one to break the news of the solution of the mystery to Rhoda Sorrell.

________________

16: The Minute That Mattered

World's News (Sydney) 29 Nov 1933, page

THE sound of a clock striking in a house, as he passed, caused Mathers to quicken his step, his heart jolted by the sound. As he reached the main street of the suburb, however, he checked, with the laugh of a man who has allowed his fear to make a fool of him. The clock in the front of the tailor's shop showed that It was five and twenty minutes to the hour. There was plenty of time.

"If you do not come to me by eleven o'clock I will know that, really, you do not care. At one minute past I shall be a dead woman. Going on like this is no good; and, if you do not care, there is nothing in life for me."

There was a great deal more in the letter; that was what mattered. Poor, tempestuous little Eily! Really he cared a great deal, was gripped by a haunting fear, ever since he received her note, that she would carry out her threat. She might not have meant it seriously; but in her rash, turbulent fashion, she was quite capable of destroying herself, partly in a frenzy of despair, partly to show him that she was in earnest. But Mathers reflected that to rush pell-mell to her in answer to her dramatic call would only be to pamper her inclination for histrionics. He would reach her before eleven, but only a minute before. Let her realise that the unrestraint of her character was a dangerous thing; the waiting would be a lesson to her.

Still, there was an anxiety in his heart; involuntarily he had quickened his step and, as a tram came towards the stopping place, he moved into the road.

"No," he said, making back to the pavement again; "I'll walk. There's ample time. If I take the tram I'll be too early."

Almost the next moment, however, as the clock in the tower of the suburban town hall came into view, his heart seemed to be turned to ice. The hands on the dial showed five minutes to eleven!

The panic that fell upon him, as he looked wildly round for a taxi, passed quickly. Again he laughed, jerkily, still feeling the pain in his heart. The clock across at the post office showed 10.35; since it was at least two minutes since he had seen the tailor's timepiece, one or the other must be wrong. As for the town hall clock, that was obviously out of order again. It was always out of order. The last time it had been adjusted one hand had been faultily fixed, so that it was difficult to say which hour it indicated. It had stopped at what should have been five minutes to ten.

As, reassured, he walked down the hill, he smiled tenderly. He would be in time, but poor little wild-hearted Eily would be counting every second now. There was a strange mingling of regret and satisfaction about the punishment his delay was inflicting. She had made a tempest of their lives which, seeing how they loved each other, should have been full of happiness; that was why they were separated-the separation only one of a chain that was spoiling their lives. The idea, that her wayward impulses should destroy their serenity, simply because she loved him so much— he could have no doubt of that— had maddened him. "She deserved punishment for her folly; punishment that would beat the folly out of her. What she was enduring, now, might help.

The rising warmth that was in the day reminded him of her. Even the breeze which warmly fanned his cheeks seemed half-asleep, and, somehow, had brought right into the city the fragrance that the sun distills from the bushland.

IT WAS just such a day as this that he had met her at Bondi.

The girl who boarded the tram hurriedly as he was making the homeward journey smiled; then he remembered her. They had met in the third breaker, almost colliding as they came in on the crest, and some laughing conversation had arisen between them as they sported in the water. There was no stand-offishness about her; she talked brightly all the way into town.

"It's a bit of a coincidence our meeting again in the tram," he remarked, for about the fourth time.

"Isn't it?" she laughed, her eyes sparkling at him.

"I hope you don't mind my suggesting it, but it would be rather jolly if you'd have some tea with me," he said.

"I'm ravenous,"— she replied, rather to his astonishment. "I'll have to ring up home and explain, first."

There was not only tea; there was a picture show afterwards. It seemed to fall out quite naturally; so did the arrangement for the further meeting when he saw her home. The block of flats by which she paused suddenly, expressing in her whole attitude a regret that the time of parting had come, hinted that her people were well to do. He had gathered as much from her conversation.

'There's going to be an AWFUL row when I go in," she said with a nervous laugh.

"Do you want me to help you face it?" he laughed.

"That would be scrumptious! But you'd better not come in; that would only make the row worse. Reg will be there; that's his car."

"Reg?" He looked, with some astonishment, at the magnificent car she indicated.

"He's the man I'm engaged to marry. My people want me to marry him. He's got tons of money. He drove me down to Bondi to-day."

"The stout chap who came over while we were yarning in the surf?"

Mathers felt some amusement, remembering the stout man's look of annoyance, which, was now explained.

"Yes; we had a quarrel afterwards."

"That was why you went back by tram?"

I saw you get into the tram, and I raced to get it. I wanted to speak to you again!"

She laughed out at him and fled suddenly, leaving him astonished. After that he had doubted whether she would be at the appointed meeting next day; but she came to the trysting place with an eager step and a face that was all brightness. There had been a row, she said; but she was not worrying; she had never wanted to marry Reg; her people had only persuaded her to become engaged to him. Now she was determined that she would not.

The gardens were unusually beautiful that day; the vision of how they appeared to his eyes returned, too.

It was the interference that came to their ecstatic, strangely bloomed romance that precipitated matters. They had been wandering together, lost in their happiness, along a quiet road which led towards her home, when that car he had seen before the flat building ranged alongside the kerb, and Reg, furious of face, stood before them.

"What's the meaning of all this?" he demanded. "Here, you! Do you know that this lady is engaged to marry me?"

"I'm not! I broke the engagement," she said, quickly.

"It's a matter on which, I suppose, the lady can please herself," said Mathers.

There were heated words, in the course of which Mathers heard himself described as a penniless vagabond. She had laughed; he was not wealthy, of course, but he was neither penniless nor a vagabond. Reg had finally left them, discomfited.

"Did you mean that— that we were going to be, married?" he found Eily breathing into his ear, as if she found rapture in the thought.

"Eily, I have nothing to offer, compared with all you are used to, and can have," he said.

"What does it matter?" she had returned. "All I want in life, Jack, is you! It's been all I've wanted ever since the moment I saw you. I'd rather starve with you than live in luxury with anyone else."

It was all very amazing; her voice was vibrating with the sincerity of deep passion. Afterwards Mathers told himself that he ought to have known what to expect; the price of such a passion as Eily gave him was turbulence. She had sacrificed wealth, even the affection of her furious parents, who had . told her they wanted no more to do with her, on the altar of her hot impulse; it was not to be wondered at that their own peace was often sacrificed on the same altar.

She would cling to him almost exultingly when one of their quarrels had been brought to an end. "It is almost worth while to have a quarrel; it is so beautiful to make it up again," she had told him.

That sort of tiring irritated him. Sometimes he felt that she was impossible to live with. Their lives, and his money— which should have gone to stabilising their future— was being wasted on their eternal wrangles. Yet at the back of it. were her stages of infinite tenderness, the flattering obsession of her love for him.

It was a chilling thought that all this warm impulse, this passionate waywardness, might be frozen in death; something unbelievably horrible, that must have caused Mathers to quicken his step again, involuntarily. The clock in the produce store showed 10.40. He must have walked very quickly.

He sauntered for a time. Eily must have her lesson to the last moment; that was the only hope of peace in their lives. He fought again the impulse that had been deep down within him, ever since he received her note, to rush to her side.

His heart jumped again. The clock in the little refreshment shop showed less than five minutes to eleven!

He was breaking into a run, and the perspiration was streaming from his face as he reached Taylor Square. There are two clocks there, and they both reassured him. The one above the hotel gave him nine minutes to spare; the one at the tram stop gave a minute longer.

Damn these clocks! Mathers wondered how many tragedies their warring lies had wrought; but that wonder did not move him from his resolve to exact the ultimate minute of Eily's punishment. He would catch her just in the moment of despair. This time, he hoped, the reconciliation would be final.

The tram clock should be right; yet in spite of its reassurance he felt like one who was walking on the brink of a precipice. He was gambling with minutes, feeling that the gamble was necessary to win future happiness; but the strain was heavy.

His faith in the tram clock could not fend off a fresh shock when a clock in a jeweller's window indicated three minutes to the hour; the hurry into which he broke died out at the sight of another which showed nine minutes.

He had plenty of time— even although this clock, also, was wrong. He had reached the hotel, which stood on a corner within a hundred yards of the cheap residential where Eily had made her abode. He pushed one of the doors ajar, to look at the clock hung on the bar wall.

A full four minutes yet! Mathers hesitated; then, gripping himself, he walked inside, and ordered a drink.

"Ding-dong, ding-dong, dong-ding—"

The sound of the silver peal struck an his heart like a sledge-hammer.

"Dong-ding, ding-dong, dong-ding—"

For a moment Mathers seemed petrified; he was in the street, his feet pounding on the pavement, as the peal, as if mockingly, sounded the last quarter.

"Dong! Dong! Dong!..."

The hour was booming out remorselessly. Mathers' feet seemed weighted with lead, hard to lift from the ground. Damn the lying clock in that hotel! Damn his pigheaded delay to the last moment! Poor little broken-hearted Eily....

"Dong!" With a quivering note the
bell finished its count of the hour. It was like a note of doom.

He was at the house now, at last; but the sound of the chimes had died into silence— an ominous silence. The door was open and he rushed in. An astonished residential keeper barred his way.

"Mrs. Mathers?" he demanded, his breath coming in painful gasps.

"What flat?"

"Number five, first floor. But what—"

He pushed her aside and tore up the stairs. He beat at the door with "5" on it, and found it resisting him, as, calling "Eily! Eily, darling!" he rattled and pushed at the handle. A frenzy was upon him; ignoring the protest of the residential proprietress, who had followed the apparent madman up the stairs, he hurled himself against the barrier.

With a crash of rending wood the door yielded, and he was in the flat— a mere apology for a flat. He found Eily on the bed; there was froth on her lips and a distorted look of agony on her pretty face, a despair in her staring, apparently dead, eyes. Beside her on the counterpane was the little bottle with the red label which meant poison.

Even as he leapt towards her he noticed the wristlet watch on the extended arm. It had been his gift to her, a cheap thing, but Mathers had never thought of the possibility of tragedy in the cheapness.

The hands showed 11.20.

With a new sickness in his hear, he seized his arms, drawing her up to him.

"Oh, Eily, Eily, my darling!" he cried.

To his amazement there was response in her.

"Jack! I am not dead, then! And you have come! It was terrible; I was frightened, and I spilt most of the poison; but I thought there was still enough. When you did not come I wanted to die."

"Thank God, you didn't," he cried fervently. There was the thankful thought in his heart that the future, after this lesson, would be fairer for them.

__________________

17: Just a Quiet Xmas

Australian Women's Weekly 23 Dec 1933

EVEN as the Israelites fled from the land of Egypt, the Stodgers fled from home on the Eve of Christmas, leaving, they hoped, the plagues behind them. The ambition of Tom and Marie Stodger was a quiet Christmas.

People are attracted to goodnatured folk like the Stodgers, especially when they can treat their house as a home and help themselves as they like to the plenty it provides; and last year the Stodgers had lived in a state in which the headache of the last party was only lost in the excitement of the one that followed.

Relatives who wanted a holiday had taken it for granted that the Stodgers would shelter them; and Stodger had found himself sleeping more than once on the hind verandah owing to the failure of other Christmas-time guests to depart while they had a chance of getting to distant homes. On one occasion an extra guest had returned, his heart having failed him at the prospect of going home to his wife, in the early hours, and shared Stodger's rug.

To avoid accidents, the Stodgers started early, two days before Christ-mas. They handed over the care of their home to the inevitable invading relatives, and, with a feeling of exalta-tion in their escape, moved off in the car which, in a few hours, would bring them to the peaceful calm of Bantry Bay, far from the hectic excitement with which previous Christmases had been associated.

Mrs. Stodgers had to pause in town for some-thing she had forgotten When she returned from the shop Tom was standing beside the car, talking to Simpson.

"Do you think it fair," said Simpson, banteringly, "to steal away from all your friends at Christmas? Tom's been telling me. Its a good idea! There's nothing like a quiet Christ-mas. But if you've no objection, Tom and I are going to have a drink— just for old times' sake. We've always had a drink at Christmas!"

"Why certainly; I'll wait," said Marie genially. Being an amicable lady, she waited patiently, although when she saw Peters and Hendry pass in she knew it would be more than one drink. She smiled at the picture of Tom telling his friends boastfully about the quiet time they were going to have this Christmas, describing the pleasant isolation of the cottage they were taking at Bantry Bay (without mentioning its name; they had agreed not to do that) and the beauty of the surroundings.

She was suddenly receiving the greetings of Don Taylor, who paused as he passed— towards the same hotel.

"Tom's in there," she said, "and you're not to keep him any longer. Tell him to hurry up; we've a long way to go."

Tom had scarcely gone when Mrs. Chilvers almost fell into the car in the enthusiasm of her greeting.

"You dear thing! How lucky to meet you! I'm just hurrying for an appointment at Darmers, to see my Brenda fitted for her wedding gown," gushed Mrs. Chilvers.

What woman can resist the fitting of a gown, least of all a wedding gown? Tom found the note on the seat telling him to bring the car along and wait for her outside Darmers. In a most praiseworthy way, Tom, hav-ing detached himself from his friends, resisted the temptation to return to them; but outside Darmers it was Marie who found a note on the seat of the car. Thomson and Jones had seen Tom waiting.

They met at lunch, though. Marie had nearly finished hers when Tom, in obedience to the instructions in the latest note on the seat of the car, joined her. She was not as annoyed as he expected.

"I met Mrs. Chalmers," said Marie. "I wonder if it will matter if we don't leave town until after 4 o'clock?"

"Well, we'll get to the Bay some time, I expect," said Tom non-committally. "What's the idea?"

"Mrs. Chalmers is having a few friends to tea at the 'Chivalry' and she wanted me to go along," said Marie.

"That means half-past four; I'll call for you, then," said Tom. He must have known something he reflected, when he arranged to meet Thomson and Jones and Lowan again at half-past three, if he was still in town.

WHEN Stodger woke, it was with a feeling of surprise, and certainly of relief, that he sat up in bed and looked around him.

"Hooray, we're here!" he cried. His wife muttered. "I said 'Hooray, we're here.' "

"It's a wonder," remarked Marie, rather aridly, "with you meeting all those friends of yours."

"You met a few friends, yourself; and, anyway, I wouldn't have met them if you hadn't wanted to do a bit more shopping in town. I was dead against staying on to go to that party at the Brannigan's, anyhow."

"Well, once you were there you wanted to stay. You wouldn't have left at ten o'clock, only I wanted to be sure you were fit to drive the car."

Tom laughed. It was good to discover that Marie didn't even suspect that he had no recollection of leaving the Brannigan's party or of anything that had happened since. When next they met he would be able to tell Thomson and Jones of that feat in car-driving.

"You were not too right as it was," said Marie. "I expect you'll have to pay something for the damage to that baby car you ran into."

"Er-yes," said Tom. His mind went blank for a moment. There was in it some vague recollection of a car accident. Then he laughed. "Well, anyway, old girl, it took a lot of get-ting here, but here we are, for a nice quiet Christmas— just the two of us."

"There's Elvie," said Mrs. Stodger, quickly. "You surely remember Elvie coming with us."

"Oh, yes — Elvie." He did remember, now that he was reminded, that there had been someone else in the car. "What in heaven's name made you bring her?"

"I had to. The poor child's broken-hearted. Harold has simply been ne-glecting her all the week, talking about being held up by work. When he didn't turn up at the party she swore that she would have no more to do with him—and quite right; if he neglects her now, what will he do later on? The tragedy is that she's deeply in love with him. Well, she said that all she wanted was to spend Christmas quietly; and when she begged me to let her come with us, what could I do?"

To have a love-crossed young woman in the party was not so good; but Tom spoke cheerfully.

"By jove she snores! Fancy, a pretty girl snoring like that. Listen to her!" He had heard that sound once or twice in his sleep, and it had worried him. Now he laughed. "Well, it doesn't matter about El-vie. We're here, away from riot-ing neighbors and all the noise. No more neighbors' gramophones and radios, no more—"

He paused, shocked by sounds that came on the air as if to chal-l e n g e him. Somewhere not very far off a gramophone, and a very bad one, had burst into melody. A steel guitar, on which someone was playing an entirely dif-ferent air, joined it. Stodger leaped out of bed; and just as he did so there was a tinny crash in the front of the house.

It was the milkman. He had seen the car parked in front of the cottage, but as there was no milk jug out, he had called back when he had com-pleted his round. Yes; of course they would want milk; but when Tom had brought out a jug, he stared, again, past the milkman and at the surroundings. They had staggered him at first sight.

"When I saw this place last January," he said, "there were none of those cottages."

"The place has progressed a lot this year," said the milkman, deep satisfaction in his voice.

PROGRESSED! On the strength of that January inspection, made during an excursion prompted by a desire to get away from friends who were continuing the Christmas festival. Stodger had booked the place with an agent a month ago without a further visit.

The peaceful calm that had been its appeal was certain to be spoilt by this colony of camps, which would be the natural lurking place of gramophones and banjos— probably concertinas and mouth organs, too.

Tom nearly dropped the jug of milk when he returned to break the news to Marie. Bill was there.

"Bill!" he cried. "What on earth are you doing here?"

Marie's brother-in-law turned to him sheepishly. He had been talk-ing to Marie.

"Annie reckoned I'd better come out here and fix the place up for you; she thought you wouldn't come out till to-day. She'll be here her-self with young John this after-noon. You got here ahead of me; but you left the door open; so I found a doss on the sleep-out."

So the snoring did not come from Elvie! Tom gave a suspicious look at Marie, but Bill anticipated his question:

"Annie reckoned it would be Bantry Bay you'd be coming to; you were al-ways speaking about it; and when we rang the agent up he told us you'd taken the place. Annie said she knew you wouldn't mind having us. A quiet Christmas is just the thing she wants."

IT was all a shock; but, after all, it wasn't so bad. Young John was his favorite nephew; and the prospect of having a few people with them for Christmas dinner, even if one was a girl with a broken heart, was not unpleasing. The sound of mixed melody started to intensify in the camp during the afternoon, but, by that time, Annie and the boy having duly arrived, they had found the plea-sures of a splendid surfing beach.

It wasn't so bad after all. They would have a modified quiet Christmas.

The beach was so alluring that they lingered there; when, with the sun casting its last gleam on the water, they had their final dip, Marie, turn-ing towards the beach gave an ex-clamation. Tom turned also, surprised by that and what he saw; and a dumper caught him nicely.

He emerged from the water, spluttering, to be greeted by Thomson and Jones, laughing at what had happened to him.

"Well you see, old man, we've arrived. We've brought stacks of fishing tackle," Jones said. "Tom told us all about the splendid fishing here, Mrs. Stodger."

"I don't know what Tom knows about the fishing," laughed Mrs. Stodger, but the laugh was hard, and Tom flinched from the look of her eye.

"I told Bert and Joe that if they happened to be up this way during the holiday, we could put them up," he said, meekly.

As they walked back to the cottage, Marie had no chance of talking to him alone: Tom regarded it as almost fortunate that they should find two women, one elderly, sitting on the verandah when they returned.

"Here we are, Mts Stodger," cried the elder woman. You don't know how much we appreciate the invitation you gave us last night. So sweet of you. It was almost as if you knew that there is nothing Doris and I love more than a quiet Christmas!"

Tom was relieved. He flashed a look of triumph at Marie, and she laughed suddenly. "We can't help ourselves, dear," she whispered, a moment later, when they were mo-mentarily alone. "We simply have to be hospitable— both of us. But I do hope you haven't asked anyone else; there seemed to be plenty of beds in the place when we came; but they'll be nearly all full now."

"No— no, of course I didn't," said Tom hastily. He hoped fervently that he had not, anyhow; but actually he had no definite recollection of inviting Thomson and Jones.

Still he and they, and Bill, too, pos-sibly could go fishing. The women would be company for Marie. They would have a moderately quiet Christmas— still.

In spite of the camp cottages which they heard breaking into greater and still greater sound, after they had sat over a very pleasant tea together, Tom hoped the camps would not keep the revelry up until too late, although it was Christmas Eve. The noise they were making was not unbearable while they, themselves, were awake. Thomp-son and Jones had revealed that they had bought a plentiful supply of a concomitant of fishing that is not tackle; and Doris Charters revealed an artistry on the piano that made even the rattle-trap furnished cottage instrument give some harmony. It was very pleasant, without being rowdy.

A SUDDEN chaos of sound; hooting motor horns, a rush of cars, shouts of greeting. It seemed that an avalanche of people had fallen on the house.

"You old runaways!" Hilder Brannigan cried, the first to reach the verandah. "Did you think you were going to get away from us? What could be better than this— a real Christmas Eve party in the bush! Oh, don't be afraid; we've brought a few bottles with us."

It was arriving even as she spoke; and soon it was circulating. Tom found himself liking it— he always did like parties until they were over —and Marie's eyes were shining with excitement and pleasure. Elvie had forgotten a mournfulness to which she had returned conscientiously all day. It was really great to have friends round you passing round the good wishes on the minute which ushered in the Christmas Day. You knew then, what a glad time Christmas really was.

And those old-time melodies, sung with a swing by everybody, were a great success.

"Hey! Hey!" It was a voice from the darkness. Warned that someone was calling him Tom went out, down towards the front fence.

"Hey, aren't you people ever going to bed, to give other people a chance to get a bit of sleep?"

It was a delegate from the camp cottages, now wrapped in silence.

TOM woke up on the hard boards of the verandah, a rug under and another over him— and someone sharing the rugs. His head was aching, and his body was sore.

There was consolation in his heart over what had been said during the progress of the party. Most of the people had their own Christmas dinners to go to; some had gone already.

When he heard the engine of another motor he thought it was another body of guests making off. It was not. His sister Kate, her husband and their three kids had arrived. Kate and Harry had been left in charge of their home. So was the car of their neighbor, Rogers, borrowed for the occasion, that had brought them.

"Mr. Rogers kindly offered the car, and we thought it would be splendid to spend the day somewhere near the sea," explained Kate. "And we couldn't think of any better place than with you. So we put the turkey you left us and the puddings and things on the car and came early, to be in time to cook them."

And then the Carters arrived, also with provisions. "We thought you wouldn't mind, dear Marie," said Mrs. Carter. "This idea of yours of a quiet Christmas appealed so much to us."

MARIE and Tom were in their car, making their way homeward; and Elvie was with them. She had made a last minute appeal to be taken back to town.

"I can't stand all this noise and festivity, when I think of the happy
day I ought to be having with Harold," she had said, grievously.

She had forgotten her sorrow the night before and well into the morning; and her hosts felt more cheerful when she dropped to sleep. They looked at one another and laughed.

"That was a prime idea of yours," said Tom, "to say that Kate and Harry had arrived with news that made it urgent for us to return home I hope they stick to the story."

"Well, you've handed over the cottage to them and given them enough money to carry on the festivity," said Marie.

"I wish we knew what to do with Elvie," said Tom, uncomfortably.

The problem was solved for them when they reached home. A wild-eyed young man who had been sitting on the verandah steps rushed towards them.

"Elvie!" he cried. "I heard you had gone away with the Stodgers. I've been waiting here, feeling that some-one was bound to come home, even if I had to wait until midnight."

Tom and Marie walked into the house hugging each other, and laughing softly. They had come home for their quiet Christmas.

___________________

18: Fate at the Shrine

World's News (Sydney) 3 January 1934

TRAMP, tramp, tramp—not the defiant tread of the parade ground, but with a curious muffled sound about it; the result of the way we learnt to march in France, lest the noise of collective movement should attract the attention of the enemy. An occasional clang of rifle barrel on tin hat, or a rattle of equipment, followed promptly by a sharply whispered "Quiet there!" A whisper of "Side of the road!" and a movement of dark shadows to a momentary rest under the dark hedge, while a chain of vehicles, limbers and ambulances, passed, or perhaps stretcher-bearers carrying back someone wounded ahead; even the horses, as they champed their bits, making the same ghosts of normal noises as if they, too, had been trained to subdue sound. Occasionally the whine of a shell and an explosion somewhere along the road, which explained the stretcher-bearers.

We were "moving in" in the darkness, marching quickly, for there was a distance to cover quickly. The prevalence of enemy 'planes "scouting" overhead had made it advisable to delay movement until there was no visibility; and the troops in the line had to be relieved at schedule time-the Australians never failed.

Spells were welcome, for, besides our ordinarily heavy equipment, each man had been issued with a hundred extra rounds of ammunition, an unpleasant hint of hot work ahead, and the "buckets" of charges for the Lewis guns— now two to each diminished platoon— was a burden that had to be shared. The occasional breather and a whiff of a cigarette were needed.

"Halt-spell-oh!" The order, passed from far ahead in a chain of whispers, brought an abrupt pause and a sound of rifle butts brought to earth as they were dropped from chafed shoulders. But there were mutters of disgust at the halt.

"At the cross roads! The swine always halt us at cross roads!"

There was a substantial objection to a pause at such a spot. German shells were always most likely to fall at cross roads, where, of course, they were more likely to meet traffic than elsewhere. There was probably not a platoon in the A.I.F. that did not nurse the idea that it was maliciously halted, more than any other platoon, in such danger spots.

Among the mutterings one reached me that was alarming.

"Clarkie's got the wind up-badly."

Clarke! If Clarke had the wind up the contagion might spread to anyone in the platoon. Everyone felt some reluctance about going back to the mud and life uncertainty of the line; but, normally, Clarke was one who seemed to be immune to fear— a fatalist who was sure of his own survival. "The shell hasn't been made with my number on it," he would laugh, when prospects of a "full issue" were discussed.

I found Clarke seated on a rise on the bank at the side of the road, his head buried in his hands; when my hands fell on his shoulder. I knew he was trembling.

"What's the matter, Clarkie?"

His hand went out, pointing, as he lifted his head. A green light like the flash of ground lightning— it came either from the flash of our artillery, firing on the hill-slope, or from a Verey light away on the line, though it was a long distance off came at that instant. Clarke was pointing to, and staring with ashen face at, the image of the Madonna in a wayside shrine, set into the side of the now broken house that stood at the corner of the cross roads; one of those shrines that are common in France.

"Christ!" he cried. "Look at that!" Before I replied the order came back for a move. Collins, Clarke's, mate, helped me to pull Clarke to his feet. I moved beside him, Collins on the other side, as the march recommenced.

"What's wrong with that? It's not like you to be like this, Clarkie," I said.

He gave a short, shaky laugh.

"When I was a kid," he said, "I used to have a nightmare. I was always having it. I was being run over— horses' hooves and the wheels fell over me; and always, as I looked up, there was an image above me. Just the same image as that one!" He looked, back, frightenedly, over his shoulder, and seemed more himself at the realisation that the corner had been left behind.

"It gave me a shock, seeing it. It was just as it appeared in my dream. I had that nightmare from the earliest I could remember; and it gave me a sort of feeling that I was fated to be killed by being run over. That's the way I've always felt about this war; I was safer here than I would be at home or in England, where there's more chance of being run over. Then, seeing that— it gave me a jolt!"

He laughed again, more assured, almost himself.

"It would, I suppose," I said, relieved by the change. "Anyway, put it out of your mind. You won't see that image again; it's ten to one we'll come out by another road, when we're relieved."

"I'll take my oath that I will," he said.

Reassured, I dropped back. But the jolt Clarke had received had evidently shaken him; in the line, later, when we had taken over, the cocksureness in his survival seemed to have deserted him.

Strangely, I had not hitherto known that the superstition regarding his nightmares had been the basis on which he had built; for I knew a good deal about Clarke, and his mate Collins, too, as a man will about those who are with him for any length of time in a platoon in a fighting army. They had been mates even before the war, and all through it they had been together. Away back in Australia, both had loved the same girl. Clarke had been the successful lover; but it did not seem to have interrupted their friendship.  When mail came to the line Collins would look hungrily as Clarke opened, his letters.

"Mary sends her love to you, Bill," Clarke would say. "So do the kids. Here, have an eyeful of the letter."

It was as if they shared those letters. In the line Clarke was easily the-best man, although nobody could have anything against Collins as a soldier. He lacked Clarke's indifference to danger, that was all. Candidly he did not like the war, although he was prepared to do all that was asked him. He was not the eager volunteer for extra risks that Clarke was.

Equally, out of the line, Collins was the best man. Sometimes I wondered if he had Joined up mainly to look after Clarke. Clarke wanted a good deal of looking after when the mood of reckless festivity which was the natural reaction of the line experiences was upon him. The two men sometimes nearly came to blows over the restraints Collins put on his mate; and yet the friendship endured.

I had once met the two in a village well back from the line. They were arguing fiercely.

"You're a cad if you do, Dave," said Collins. "You want to play the game to Mary...."

Well, It wasn't my business what the argument was about. I passed on.

This time in the line it was Collins who seemed the better man. The dash had gone out of Clarke, although he was all there when the Germans attacked just before daybreak. It was a massed attack, and for a time matters looked pretty black for us, especially as we had nothing but trip wire in front of a new position, our strength was down to half, and the Germans were trying massed forces with the carelessness for life, as opposed to objectives, which was a German characteristic. It was plain murder to send men over in that close formation, where they presented a clear line of target for our frenziedly-fired rifles and Lewis guns. There was something terrifying, however, to our handful, in the manner in which, as the advancing men were mown down, the gaps were filled, and the officers— behind their men, revolvers in hand to shoot any who flinched in the advance— forced them forward. It seemed that by sheer determination and weight of numbers we must be overwhelmed. And although one wave was swept away, and the one that, followed it, a third, catching up the remnants of the others, reached our trip wire and seemed about to avalanche upon us when we let them have our bombs-two each.

If anybody wants to know how long five seconds can be, he needs to be in the position we were in whilst we waited to hear the crack of the Mills bombs— which are fused to explode five seconds after the release of the pin. For fear of injury ourselves, we had to keep low, unable to see our attackers; and while we waited, not knowing whether the next moment the bayonets of the Germans, outnumbering us many times, would be thrusting down upon us, a lifetime of thoughts and memories flashed through my mind.

The cracking of the Millses relieved the tension. We were able to look out to find how splendidly hey had done their work. We brought into the trench three Germans who stood with uplifted hands; the attack had vanished!

You feel a strange reaction after a tense situation like that; but we had to stand-to, still, for fear of further attacks. It was almost a relief when the Germans began to send over sporadic shells— signs that the attack was abandoned, for at least a time.

But Clarke had disappeared into his dug-out directly the attack was over. Walking along the trench I noted that, but did not , think it necessary to comment upon it to Collins, who stood alertly"; on the fire step opposite their dugout. Hardy, however, edged up to him.

"Hear Clarkie's got the wind up," he observed. '

"Anyone says that, I'll plug him fair on the nose," said Collins fiercely.

They were loyal, those A.I.F. mates

The slaughter the Germans suffered in that attack must have been enormous; after it, matters, as far as fighting was concerned, were quiet. There was some unpleasant burying to be done, as much for our own benefit as in reverence for fallen enemies, and a great deal of wire had to be put out to strengthen the position. The work had to be done in the darkness under the constant fear of machine gun bursts. We had had trifling losses, either in the front line posts, or in supports, when the night of our relief came.

Clarke, who had been doing his share adequately, if not with his old dash, was, strangely, newly nervous as the time came for handing over. I had prepared my own gear and walked over to Collins and Clarke who were fixing theirs, Just outside the dug-out they were vacating.

"Buck up, for God's sake, Dave," I heard Collins say to him. "You don't want to show yourself like this to the other blokes."

"I feel I'd sooner stay here for good than do the march out," said Clarke. I  heard his teeth chatter; and his face was green as he turned, hearing my footsteps. "Which way do we go out, Corp?" he asked eagerly.

"How the hell do I know?" I retorted. "It's pretty certain to be a new way. But why let that damned silly dream of yours worry you?"

"Is it damned silly?" he, muttered.

"Anyway, how the hell is the run-over business to come in?" I rallied him.

When the relief came, we lost no time in moving out. No troops ever did; for the enemy might wake at any moment to the knowledge of movement and reap a harvest of death with their shell fire amongst men away from the sanctuary of trench cover. To my relief, thinking of Clarke, the route we took was unfamiliar. Clarke, when I moved forward to pass a word to him, was in better spirits, although tensely eager to get the march over.

Then, suddenly, the surroundings became familiar again. I recognised some of the shadowy landmarks with a shock of dismay. We had verged back upon the road by which we had come in, and were, I judged, about 100 yards from the cross-roads that had stirred such fears in Clarke's mind.

Directly I realised it, I moved up to speak with Clarke; but Clarke was not there. I found myself beside Collins.

"He's cutting across the field to avoid that. corner. He'll be all right," said Collins. "He got panicky when he saw where we were going. Don't say a word, Corp."

"He's got a bee in his bonnet," I said. "He's married to the finest woman in the world," said Collins. "If anything was put up against him, it would hurt her."

The whine of shells in the air and their crashes started suddenly. We moved quickly, instead of waiting to take cover. We were shortly at the cross-roads, and had rounded the corner. I looked up at the Madonna, standing calmly in its shrine, as we passed. It was as well, perhaps, that Clarke had taken the cross-fields cut, since the image inspired him with such fear. I looked forward to picking him up a little way ahead.

What happened to him I learnt after wards.

Panic-stricken, he had broken through the hedge at the roadside, and dashed across the field, with the sudden whine of a shell in the air spurring him.

Right ahead of him a spurt of red showed in the darkness, and around it the greater darkness of the mud thrown into the aid by the shell explosion. He flung himself on the ground to avoid the flying shell pieces; then he was up and, with fear-pumping heart, turned aside and ran. The air seemed full of whining now; he almost ran into the burst of another shell explosion, felt the  heat of it in his face, flung himself down again and, then, again rising, dashed off at a right angle. Another explosion occurred in front of him; a further one on the right. It was as if the shells were shepherding him, driving him this way and that way. He was crying in his terror he ran, his feet like lead, his heart panting.

The shells still came, playing about him. He marvelled at not being hit. He could only guess his bearings blindly now, but fancied he had crossed the corner, as with another shell screaming in the air behind him he burst through the hedge again.

Men shouted at him; there was a beating of the hooves of panic-stricken horses, and the rumble of wheels. A limber driven at full speed to get through the area of the shelling was coming breakneck down the road, and the driver saw Clarke emerging into the road too late to do anything— if he could have one anything— to check the fear-mad horses. As Clarke went under the hooves and the wheel passed over him he saw the face of the Madonna looking down at him pityingly from the shrine.

Fate had led him back to his death at the spot which, had he stayed with us, he would have passed minutes before.

AS WE SPELLED under the hedge, men carrying a stretcher came to a standstill, and placed the stretcher on the ground.

"Chap named Collins here— Bill Collins?" one of the bearers asked. "This poor chap is asking for him."

That was when we heard about what had happened to Dave Clarke. The poor fellow was done.

"Bill, you'll look after her— and the kids?" he gasped. "It'll be better after all for her. She ought to have married you, Bill, at first."

The rest of us turned away. The mates were clasping hands in a final hand grip.

__________________

19: The Last Day

World's News (Sydney) 17 Jan 1934

THE last days had come; the realisation fell heavily upon me. This beautiful world, the love and affection of its inhabitants, human hope and endeavors, all must end. As a clergyman I should have no fear in facing it; nor did I. Yet it was something very terrible to contemplate— because of others.

All the morning a sense of impending calamity had laid upon me heavily;  indeed, it had been with me when I had wrestled with my sermon until far past midnight. Somehow I had postponed the task of writing the sermon until the last minute; I could not help thinking that it was an intuition of some message which I was to deliver, the purport of which was as yet unknown to me.

It was a sense of this that made the preparation difficult. Every phrase I prepared seemed a futility compared with the words that I ought to say. Yet on the Sunday morning there seemed nothing untoward in the general aspect of the day. It was one of those bright mornings on which the whole of the world seems to be praising its Maker; the one queer thing about it seemed to be the sweet flight of time. When my wife reminded me that it was time to get to the morning service her call was almost a shock.

The sensation of that morning's sermon I am unable to describe. What I said was impromptu, put into my lips by the Unseen Agency that had been trying to press its message upon me. All through the service I had been grappling, with a sense of futile comprehension, with the something that I felt to be in the air; but soon after I had ascended the pulpit I put aside my notes and commenced to pour out words of earnest entreaty to my congregation to repent while they had time, to endeavor to bring, all they knew to repentance before the calamity that was to come, so that they would be fit to meet it. What I said I cannot remember; but I know that the sweat drops fell from my forehead. and. at one point. I cried in the earnestness of my appeal.

The congregation was stirred, and afterwards the wardens and some of the other leaders gathered round me, alarmed out of their smugness. The effort had exhausted me, and immediately I reached the rectory I fell into a weary sleep. I did not sleep long, but when I awoke the world was in darkness. Yet my watch showed that it was but half-past two.

A realisation of what was impending fell upon me with a shock. A sense of dreadful unreality gripped me. With swift steps I went to the balcony, which takes in a widespread view, of roof-tops, above which the glowing towers of the Post Office and the Town Hall jutted into the night. The world was flooded in a weird green atmosphere, which was not yet complete darkness; above it hurried ominous thin clouds that were silver and heavy blackness, and through the silvered portion floated a pale moon, to disappear now and again behind the black masses. The clouds scurried as if pursued by fear.

The clocks of the city confirmed my watch, a trusted timepiece, which had never failed either myself or my father, who was its first owner. A sense of an awful change in the world came to me. The life in the street below destroyed the swift hope that I had only imagined the shortness of my sleep, and had

A sense of awful unreality gripped me; with swift steps I hurried to the balcony. I really slept to until early evening; there were there the young men in their white trousers, the picnickers with their parcels. who had been desecrating the day, and were now hurrying home. I noticed some of their apprehensive looks at the sky, a sense of their panic filtering in and augmenting my own.

There was no intimation of any eclipse to explain the phenomenon. With the scientific knowledge of the day there must have been a radical change in the conditions of the world to have brought this phase unannounced; something new upsetting the whole basis or order upon which estimates are based;

It immediately came to me that It was a warning of this, and of worse things to follow, that had been sent to me.

Was it, indeed, the approaching end of the world, of all things? I was, I hoped, ready to meet my Maker whenever He should call; there is nothing dreadful in individual death, but when I thought of the destruction of all the world, the sinful, the children— the extinction of life— I was crushed by the weight of horror.

Immediately thinking of my family, I hurried down to them. They crowded around me their horror and alarm only too evident. Two of my wardens were there, too, pale-faced and agitated.

It was the time for religious strength to rise above human weakness. . Calling upon them to be of good courage, I commanded them to kneel, and  together we poured out a supplication to the Almighty to, if it were possible in His will, avert the calamity that, apparently, was to fall upon mankind, but if that was not in accordance with His will to help us to meet the end with fortitude. The sound of the frightened sobbing of my children tugged at my heart as I prayed. Almost it stirred in me a feeling of rebellion against the Divine omnipotence.

The wardens nodded when I asked. them if the people had assembled in the church. It gave me a glow to hear that they were assembling; naturally in their hour of need they would turn to the Power so many of them, had neglected. My wife clung to me as I turned to go; my children also. A sense of sacrifice was natural as I put them aside, preferring to follow my path of duty, to remaining, where my heart would have liked to be, to comfort my loved ones. The wardens also, who appeared, paralysed by the circumstances that had arisen, seemed reluctant that I should go.

"I am a minister of the Gospel, and I will do my duty to the end," I told them solemnly.

The church was crowded as I faced the congregation; the spirit of excitement and apprehension conveyed itself to me directly I entered. An effort was made to start the service in a formal manner, but I promptly suppressed it. It was no time for the formalities of religion, but for waking in the hearts of my people that spirit of true repentance which would enable them to face whatever was to befall. Yet, so used had they become to formalities, that it seemed to me the choir looked astonished as I interrupted them to plunge immediately into my exhortation.

An exact idea of what was happening had only come to me whilst I had prayed. The world had accelerated, and was now spinning through space in a manner that "abridged" the days as we are accustomed to know them. Unfortunately my knowledge of the sciences, much as they have interested me, were elementary and nebulous; still I was able to sketch to my people some idea of what was to happen. Perhaps, I told them, the impulse that had been given to the earth by some unseen force was only a temporary impetus which would gradually lose its effect, allowing the world's motion, by the mercy of God, to return to normal; but, if this was to be the end of the world, it might be that the increased, friction of the earth in the surrounding atmosphere would create a condition of heat which would result in its destruction, as we knew it. In that event— or in any other, for it was not for us to say how God was working— there would probably be days, for repentance and setting their souls at peace. With tears in my eyes I exhorted them to that repentance.

There were moans, gasps of horror, and sobs from the congregation as I continued; looking round, I could see the blanched faces of people I loved as my personal friends and my parishioners; loved for their sins, even, as well as for their dear, kindly hearts.  And a voice from the midst of the "congregation" cried out in anguish: "Stop him! For God's sake, stop him!" I knew from cries like these that I was ploughing their hearts with the fears of the horror, that was on the world; but it was my duty.

When the sermon was over, they crowded around me; there were those who sobbed as they pressed my hand; the dim, big lights shone on the horrified, pale faces all around me. "Peace be unto you!" I cried, almost sobbed.

Dr. Thomas was in my house when I returned; he was one of my church's best men, and it startled me to remember that I had not seen him at the church. But immediately I knew that he also had his mission, trying to bring peace to those who could not come to church, checking what might have become a disorderly panic amongst the people. Even iii my house he had used the explanation he had evidently employed elsewhere; they had altered the clocks in the house to make it seem that all the effects in the world's motion were in our imagination. He went away, saying he would return, after imploring us all to be calm and to rest.

It seemed good advice to my family; and, one by one, reluctantly, the poor, terrified souls obeyed my command to retire. As for myself, I could not go, although occasionally, from sheer exhaustion, I dozed. Sometimes when I stood up I could feel the quiver of the earth in its new madness of speed— sometimes a sort of jolt that made me anticipate a sudden end. Almost I regretted having dismissed my family; it would have been a comfort, when the end did come, for us all to die together.

It seemed dreadful that God should put upon mankind the torture of the waiting. Shocked, I quelled such rebellion in my mind; yet it recurred. I stole, around the house, creeping to the bedsides of my loved ones. My daughter, my eldest daughter, my favorite, was sobbing. "Father, oh father!" she cried out in her sleep as I stood beside her. The cry sent a pang to my heart. In another two months she was to have married; her lover was on the point of taking his vacation from his mission in China. Only God knew what was happening to him now. That she should go, with all her bright hopes before her, seemed the essence of cruelty. Why had the Creator made the vast machinery of human life— of the universe— simply for its destruction?

Weariness must have driven me sleep again; when I awoke Dr. Thomas was standing before me. He tried to smile cheerfully, but it was in reality a wan smile; evidently the horror of what the world was facing had fallen upon him also.

There was a grey light in the room, that told me the day had come. I plucked frantically at the watch in my pocket. It showed that the time was five and twenty to eleven. A cry of anguish was forced from me. Since sunrise the previous morning the world had spun round in 14 hours. If its speed had increased by 10 hours in one day, at what rate would it be revolving to-morrow?

"No, no!" Dr. Thomas said as I held the watch up to him. "By the look of things it is only seven o'clock."

For answer I caught him by the arm, and, throwing back the heavy curtain,. led him on to the balcony. With new horror I saw the sun just appearing in., the east, hanging in the sky like a red orb of wrath.

"Look!" I cried. "The clocks show it is five and twenty minutes to eleven!. Normally it should not be dawn, but approaching midnight!"

And then the horror became too much for me and I fainted, to awake in that awful chaos of events which came with the end.

But at last, out of the chaos, peace was given to me. I am here, secluded,  but not with ease upon my soul. Heaven is not what I expected to find it; I had looked. for enlightenment upon all the mysteries that puzzle the human mind; but still I am blind. But sometimes the spirits of those I loved are permitted to see me. And, as I say, there is peace.

"THE BASIS of his peculiar hallucination," said Dr. Thomas as he handed the curious document to me, "was his faith in his watch, which had gone wrong for the first time in its fifty years' history. Of course, he was due for a mental breakdown; but that is what the madness fastened upon. By a coincidence the tower clocks showed ten past six when his watch stood at half-past two; and eight minutes to seven when his watch showed five and twenty minutes to eleven; it was easy for him to mistake the hands. After his first mad outbreak in church, news of which brought the crowds, as they will flock to any promised sensation, to the evening service, everything, including the grief of his family and the agitation of his wardens— even the pleasure-seekers hurrying home to avoid a threatening storm helped the hallucination. The poor, lovable old fellow imagines the earth has finished; but he is happy."

______________________

20: Bad Blood

World's News (Sydney) 31 Jan 1934

TOM SHERIDAN'S buggy dashed into the township and pulled up at the hospital. A little later Tom, always a good mark for hangers-on, was at the Commercial Hotel. It leapt to sudden life with his arrival.

''Sorry to hear about the youngster," said Dr. Bruce, who had drifted in upon the information that Tom was about. Bruce, the derelict medico, who had been there since the township was young, was a sort of courtesy member of the hospital staff. Nobody depended upon him, although everybody liked him.

"It's my fault," said Sheridan. "Have another whisky."

Bruce had it.

"Can't see that it's your fault," he said. "The boy's got simple pulmonary trouble."

"Look at the way I married," said Tom moodily. "Never thought of the consequences! Well— I married! . And now I have a whole brood of them. I suppose this is only the start! And I was fool enough to think that the blood of the Sheridans was good enough to overcome all weaknesses."

"What bee's got you?" demanded Bruce.

"You know as well as I do— me marrying Dolly. When a man's young he doesn't think, though he'd be as careful of the breeding of his stock as if his whole life depended on it. The guv'nor was always talking to me about the need of keeping the blood of the Sheridans pure. Yet I go and marry Dolly— and here I am!"

"Here we are!" agreed Bruce with an idea of distracting Sheridan from his melancholy. "And the whisky's good!"

"It's all very well to joke," glowered Tom. He stopped. "Here, Ted, fill 'em again. I'm going out for a time. I'll be back again shortly."

With Tom gone Bruce could dwell upon his drink. Presently, however, he went to the door, hesitated, came back swiftly, and drained his glass. Then he, too, went out in a hurry.

He had sense that there was something strange about the way in which Tom had taking the illness of the boy. It filled him with vague apprehension The trouble was old enough, of course. The blood of the Sheridans allowed for no human frailties; and Tom was blaming for his boy's illness the vitiated blood he had brought into the family when he married Dolly. Dolly had come inland to a job as a barmaid because of a chest weakness, and she had made little resistance when dashing Tom Sheridan decided that the barmaid at the Commercial was the right and proper person to become Mrs. Sheridan.

Bruce remembered the ferment in the district when Tom impetuously carried out his will. His own sympathies were all with Dolly. Had Tom, the elder, been alive the marriage might never have taken place, but his restraining influence had been removed quite early. He had been found lying on the bush road near the entrance to the homestead with marks on his head which showed how a hanging branch of a tree, broken down by the storm of. that wild night of long ago, had swept him from the saddle.

Dolly had taken the coldness of the families in the surrounding districts philosophically, and had settled down contentedly with her home and her children. As for Tom, he was several times a father before doubt of the wisdom of his action began to assail him.

Bruce had discovered their existence when the family had first been caught by an epidemic.

"No need to let it worry you, Tom," he had said. "All children pick up these things at one time or another.

"I didn't," Tom had retorted.

Whenever the children had made a quick recovery the blood of the Sheridans was responsible. When they didn't, Dolly's miserable constitution was to blame.

Tom was very fond of his children. The idea that there should be anything physically imperfect about any one of them was torture to him. In his own herds he was ruthless about weeding out the unfit-stock perfection had been a Sheridan tradition. "Only the best are good enough for me to keep," had been old Tom Sheridan's dictum. And so with humans; only the best deserved to live. The rest were a misery to themselves and others.

The idea that he had been less careful of the breeding of his children than of his cattle was a worry to Tom. It maddened him to think that bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh, should be doomed to future suffering. He was fond of Dolly, too, in a queer way, that had something of hatred in it, regarding the affection she had inspired as a trap that had caught him.

Bruce wandered down to the hospital to have a talk to the matron and a look at the boy, for whom he had a peculiar affection. Half delirious, little Tom only partially recognised him, but smiled wanly when the doctor's whisky-palsied hand lay for an instant on his forehead.

"Mind he doesn't have anything to eat," he said to the matron. "His father may bring him lollies, but he is not to have them."

Conquering the thirst that was in him, he kept away from the hotel for a time. When at last he did go there it was to find the bar almost deserted.

"Tom Sheridan gone?" he asked Burns, the publican.

"About half an hour ago. He's been heavy on the booze to-day— even for him. Seems to be worrying about that kid of his. I tried, the way he was, to get him to stay, and go back to-morrow. He'll be breaking his neck one of these nights."

Bruce wandered down to the hospital again. A stack of picture books and toys was on the locker by little Tom's bed. The child was sleeping the fitful sleep of fever.

"There's these chocolates, too," said the nurse. "I didn't leave them where he could see them."

"I'll take them," said Bruce, and stood talking on the verandah for a while with the box in his hand. The expectant look of a mongrel that had followed at his heels from the hotel caught his attention. Opening the box, he laughingly tossed the dog a chocolate, which it adroitly caught and swallowed at a gulp.

"Storm working up to-night, nurse," Bruce said. There was a quality of yellow in the fading light, and the tops of the trees in front of the hospital were tossing wildly. "My God! Look at that dog, nurse!"

The dog's prick-eared expectancy had changed suddenly to almost ludicrous puzzlement. The hair about its neck and shoulders bristled slightly, and a whine came from its throat. It turned, staggered a few steps, and collapsed. Bruce burst into the hotel bar, gasping.

"I want a horse, Burns," he cried. "Now! Not a moment to spare."

"What's the hurry, anyway, Doctor?" asked Burns.

"Tom Sheridan," said Burns. "He's been trying to poison that kid of his. I want to get to his home before he can reach it. There may be murder if I don't."

Bruce's indecision was all gone. Friends volunteered to go with him, but he was the first to mount, the first to gallop out of the township.

The night had closed in quietly and the wind had risen, but through the racing clouds the moon threw a pale gleam on the road. The track was tree lined and the branches tossed and groaned In the rising gale. It gave an eeriness to the surroundings as the group of horsemen sped recklessly along.

It was a long ride to Campbell Downs. Bruce felt the irk of the saddle; he was insecure in his seat, but he took a grip on himself and pressed on. He had a horrible dread of what might be happening ahead; thinking of it, his heels kicked sharply into his horse's side. Charteris's horse loomed up alongside.

"Tom seems to have been driving erratically," he shouted, "Watch the tracks from side to side of the toad. See there! He went over that stump."

"I hope he's smashed himself up," said Bruce, gritting his teeth. He recalled the queer look he had seen in Tom's eyes that, morning. It was pregnant with meaning now. The illness of little

A smudge came in sight at the end of the road. There had been a smash; that brought a sense of relief

Tom had brought a crisis in the father's mind. Having tried to destroy his son, his next move would be to destroy his family. Bruce had an agonising picture in his mind of gentle little Dolly facing a determined maniac in defence of her children.

Charteris gave a "Hullo!" as a smudge came into sight on the road ahead. There had been a smash, then; the knowledge brought a sense of relief to the doctor's heart.

Charteris, a better rider, had pushed ahead and was off his horse and standing by the broken buggy when the others arrived.

"It's a wreck," he said. "He must have driven into the tree full rip. But Tom evidently wasn't hurt; he's not here."

"Come on!" shouted Bruce. "He's taken the horse and ridden on!" He could picture the maniacal determination with which it had been done, and the thought re-awakened his terrors.

Wobbling, in his saddle, Bruce clung on desperately. The thud of the horses' hoofs and the panting of their, breaths, the creak of the saddle-girths, made a note of alarm, amid the eerie noises of the storm.

"That's where old Tom Sheridan was found, isn't it?" yelled Charteris, with a sweep of his arm.

Bruce nodded. He remembered starkly that night of tragedy, for it was he who had found, the body, lying spread out on the road. And he feared there was going to be another night of tragedy.

The gate was wide open, and he dashed through it, ahead of the others. A frightened scream from the house, long-drawn and pitiable, gave him hope. If she could scream, she was still alive.

He threw himself against the front door. It did not yield.

Within there was a sound of splintering wood, renewed screams, and the whimpering of children.

"Come on— all together!" cried Charteris, at his shoulders. Under a concerted rush the door gave.

An oil lamp, hanging from the ceiling, gave a yellow glow on a long hall. Sheridan was pounding on a closed door with an axe. In his left hand he held a revolver. He turned sharply to meet, the intruders, and Bruce winced as the revolver went up in the air.

"So the boy's dead— poor kid!" Tom cried exultantly. He evidently believed that' these men had come to capture him on that account. "I loved that boy, but I'd rather see him dead than grow up to be a weakling. That's one good thing done, anyhow."

A shot rang out as the men, who had hesitated for a moment, rushed forward, too late to seize the revolver, which Sheridan had turned or himself.

"THE BLOOD of the Sheridans!" "said Bruce, explaining matters to Charteris later. "Poor Tom was so proud of it; but it's the common-sense stolidity of Dolly that will be the salvation of those children. They haven't a sign of the Sheridan hysteria, which was marked in Tom, even as a baby. Tom's mother was a highly-strung woman— the very, worst type to be the wife of one of the Sheridans, with their strain of hereditary insanity."

"Hereditary insanity!" exclaimed Charteris.

"Yes; Tom's father suicided knowing it was coming on him— it develops toward middle-age. So did his grandfather. We kept it from. Tom in the hope that ignorance might save him."

__________________

21: The First Violin

Australian Women's Weekly 17 Feb 1934

THE fat landlady lowered herself awkwardly down the stairs, puffing angrily. At its foot a frightened-looking girl waited for the opportunity to ascend.

"Before you go up, Tilly," said the fat woman, "you take a message to that father of yours from me. Ask him why he doesn't pay the rent. Tell him," she added, as if she had been stating a riddle, "that the answer is 'Booze!' "

The landlady trod heavily along the dingy hallway towards where the young woman was waiting under the sign "Office."

"He came home drunk, again." she grumbled in an explanatory fashion. "I ain't no wowser; I don't mind no man drinking, but 'e's got no right to drink me rent. Ho! That sister of yours 'as forgot to write again?" she remarked acidly,

The girl's face flushed.

"Well, yes, Mrs. Tooser; I'm sorry, but—"

"So am I sorry. This being sorry doesn't pay my bills. This sister of yours who's always goin' to send you money seems bad at correspondence, Miss Halpin. If there is a sister!"

"I'll be getting some work next week, Mrs. Tooser. If you will wait—"

"Oh, all right! If you can't pay, you can't pay; anyway, you don't drink me rent," said Mrs. Tooser, tolerantly. "Only I don't like being told tales. And, moreover, I don't 'old with girls lookin' for jobs. Get 'old of a young man an' marry 'im, and go 'im for maintenance, an' be independents— that's the respectable way!"

"You're really a good soul, Mrs. Tooser."

"Of course I'm a good soul! How else would I have an 'ouseful of tenants, all of 'em owing me rent?" asked the grumpy lady.

HATTY had moved out of sight, along the verandah, so that her presence would not be an additional humiliation. Yesterday, she had seen Harry Hasted enter this house, appalled at the sordidness of it. There was a sickness in her heart as, when Miss Halpin passed out, she put her finger to the bell.

"Bell doesn't ring," said Mrs. Tooser, seeing her, "but I'm here. What's it you're wanting?"

"Have you a Mr. Hasted living here?"

"That's his flat," said Mrs. Tooser, tapping a "To Let" card hung over the bell fixture.

"Then it's not vacant?"

"It will be to-morrow if his rent's not paid," said Mrs. Tooser grimly. "His flat's No. 10, top floor, where it's hard for me to get at him. You can go up."

"No, No!" Hatty cried hastily. The sickness in her heart had increased. It was awful to think of Harry, the man who a short six months ago had seemed so fine, reduced to this— owing money in a shoddy residential. Only after much mental battling she had decided to come to the house; now her inclina-tion was to run away. But Harry had been very dear to her; she could not leave without at least finding out something about him. What had hap-pened that he should have come to this?

She found herself in the stuffy office of Mrs. Tooser, which was also her apartment, and as she learnt more about him, she felt more than ever the reluctance to meeting Harry. To see him in his derelict condition would surely be a last humiliation if he had any of his fine feelings left.

"I'm sorry for the poor fellow," said Mrs. Tooser; "I wouldn't like to turn him out, him with nowhere to go to. And a musician, too! Me husband was a bandsman in the Salvation Army, an' I allus have a soft spot for musicians. He's clever, he is; it's something to hear 'im playin' his fiddle. 'E ought to be able to make somethin', if it's only busking. But he don't seem to care about nothin'—only drinking. If you're a sister of his, Miss—?"

"Never mind my name: I don't want him to know I've been here. I'm not his sister."

She was glad to get away, after leaving a couple of pounds with Mrs. Tooser to save the immediate worst that could happen to Harry. She was bewildered in heart and head. The whole business seemed unbelievable; every word Mrs. Tooser had spoken had been a blow to her heart; her pity, itself, a humiliation. Harry! So fine, so artistic! "Busking... seems to care about nothing… Drinking."

How far was she responsible ? Or was it that, in resisting his eagerness for their marriage, she had had a lucky escape? A lucky escape! She could not feel that way. She loved him. even if her idol had shown feet of the worst kind of clay.

IT was on a South Yarra tram that she had smiled at him, noticing his intent look, feeling that she had met him somewhere. Eagerly he had taken advantage of the encouragement.

"I was afraid you would regard it as a liberty if I spoke," he said. "I saw you at the theatre; you were in the second row of the stalls, and I couldn't help noticing you. I'm afraid you must have thought me rude the way I stared."

She remembered then. He was the first violinist in the orchestra, whose constant regard had rather disconcerted her.

It was an unorthodox introduction, but matters fell out easily. The meet-ing, as they alighted from the tram, with Mrs. Andrews, who was giving a party on Sunday night and was eagerly glad to add the musician to her list of guests, helped. There was the way his violin throbbed and thrilled that night; her personal pride in having been responsible for the introduction of this guest. And then, when he saw her home through the beauty of the moonlight night...

"How magnificently you play!" she had said. "I had no idea—"

"It was you," he had retorted simply. "Music has been my sweetheart; I have never worried about women, but since I saw you in the theatre I seem to have had something to say that was never in music before."

What he said thrilled in her heart that night, the next day; and they were suddenly lovers. A strange ecstasy that had seized her. The season was one of grand opera, and she was in the theatre every night. Of course he could not secure passes; he paid for the tickets in the money-careless way that she learnt was part of him.

"I want you there every night; I feel that I can put more into my music," he had said. It was wonderful watching him, with his fine head, his splendid eyes, his delicate fingers mov-ing on the strings of his instrument, with the assurance that she was the inspiration of the work of a man who, as she discovered, was so fine an artist that he had been the first selection for that orchestra— a man who was entitled to his place without dispute.

During those halcyon days they seemed merely satisfied to be in love; there were demands for nothing more. The glorious happiness of each day was sufficient. But the grand opera season was drawing to its close.

"You must marry me, darling," he said. "Then you can come to Sydney with me. Afterwards there will be New Zealand. It will be a honeymoon for us."

"But the expense," she had protested. "Can you afford it on your salary?"

"Of course I can afford it," he had laughed. "And I must have you with me. Without you my music will fall flat. They might sack me!"

She was suddenly frightened— of his money-carelessness, which was one of his fine characteristics. She knew he had saved nothing; his pocket was open to everybody who needed help; he followed every whim. Her father had been money-careless, too. The love that had been between her parents had not stood proof against the unfinancial difficulties that had engulfed them. Hatty had been brought up in a life of bicker-ings.

So she had been frightened. The dread of poverty— not of poverty itself, but of the bitter misunderstandings it might produce— was bred into her by experience. She had her office job, a good one, and she hesitated to lose it. Together, in Melbourne, they could have a happiness unalloyed by any thought of poverty. He could easily obtain employment in Melbourne.

"You don't understand what you are suggesting!" he had exclaimed. "You are asking me to give up grand opera work for—what? A place in a picture show orchestra!"

"Well, couldn't we wait until the grand opera season is over?"

"WAIT! Wait!" he cried, impatiently. "If you loved me as I have loved you ever since that night you leapt into my heart at the theatre..."

He had carried her off her feet; she had consented to the marriage. That was her real mistake. Afterwards, when she was alone, away from his influence, the old fear returned.

All the determination that was in her came to her assistance to insist upon a delay. It was an agony to have to tell him of her changed mind; she was fighting also against her own heart.

For the first time she discovered that there could be fury as well as passion in Harry Hasted. He had already plunged into making arrangements for the sudden wedding when she phoned him, telling him that she must see him.

"You have been playing with me! In everything in life there is a risk, but you do not care enough to take a simple risk with me. Very well; but I do not want to see you or hear from you again," he said.

He was a man who would stick to what he said. That was another of his good qualities that made for her unhappiness, as, with an absence of response to her letters, she realised the strength of it. It was only when he had gone that she knew how much he meant; how blank life was, without him. If, after he had gone, he had written her giving her a chance to join him, she would have jettisoned all her caution.

Her only consolation was the thought that his love was the sort of passion that could not be killed. He would return to Melbourne some time; they would meet, and then... She was certain that she could win him again; yet, there were agonising doubts.

The money that came to her, unexpectedly, after the death of an almost unknown uncle, seemed like a mockery. A few months before lt would have saved the parting with Harry.

So she was in Sydney with the idea of finding him. The company had finished its New Zealand tour long ago.

It was just after she had engaged her Darlinghurst flat that she saw him. Her heart leapt. He was strid-ing along some distance away, and she followed, hesitating on the impulse to attract his attention. He had turned suddenly into one of the buildings.

She checked the impulse to follow.

It was a shock to find him living in such a frowsy place. She hesitated outside, and then walked haltingly, doubtfully away. Perhaps it would be better to write to him, saying she had come to Sydney to find him, and arrange for their reunion in her own dainty flat. It would make a more fitting setting. But by the morning she had decided again to see him.

Now her heart was filled with hor-ror. She did not want to meet the mockery of what he had appeared that Harry Hasted had become. The change seemed incredible; the only explanation could be that Harry, hurt more than even she had imagined, had turned to drunkenness for solace, and it had destroyed him. Perhaps his dis-missal from the grand opera, which he had jestingly suggested, had come to help his downfall.

An over-burdening sense of responsibility settled in her heart. She had been the cause of the destruction of a man who had been in every way fine.

"And I love him still! I will always love him! Perhaps, if I marry him now I will be able to lift him up again. I will write to him to come!" she told herself.

But she did not write. Much as she wanted to see Harry, her heart shrank from meeting the apology for what Harry had been. Yet it was horrible to think of him, foodless perhaps.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Tooser, "he won't argue too much about where the money has come from. I'll just grab the cash. But what's the good of giving him money? He'll only boose it!"

"Perhaps!" suggested Hatty, "you could see that he has some meals— good meals. That will pull him to-gether! You could tell him that a friend— a male friend, mind— left the money for the purpose. But I would like you to give him some money, too. He might want his boots mended, or something!"

Hatty had noticed an unwonted shabbiness in Harry in her short glimpses of him in the street.

" 'Im git 'is boots mended!" grunted Mrs. Tooser, scornfully.

She agreed to be the agent for Hatty's benefaction, however. Hatty had to help him, but the help put the man she had once loved further away from her. He had reached a stage when he could accept charity without ques-tion, and a frowsy landlady could despise him. It was piteous.

The wise thing was to forget him: to go back to Melbourne; take up the threads of her life there. But the helplessness of the derelict Harry tor-tured her. Distasteful as it was, she must see him.

"I told you it was no good giving 'im money!" said Mrs. Tooser, when again she went to the shabby residential. " 'E made a proper mess of 'imself last night. 'E was shakin' like a leaf when 'e went out not 'alf-an-hour ago— to the 'orspital, 'e said, but I know where's 'is orspital!"

Hatty made a sudden resolution. She was being maddened by indecision.

"I want to see him!" she said.

"I don't expect it'll be long before he's back. 'Is door's bound to be left open, because the lock's gone. You can go there and wait. Or you can wait here!"

Hatty elected to climb the dingy stairs. She wanted privacy for her meeting with Harry. The further she proceeded into the house the more it appalled her. It was choking with musty smells. The door of No. 10 was ajar, and she went in. The "flat" was merely a bedroom with an attached kitchenette, which was a disorder of bottles and unwashed dishes. The tumbled bed was still unmade, and, except for a decrepit brush, and a broken comb on the dressing table, there was nothing but the furniture in the room. Harry had evidently parted with all his natty possessions. With an ache in her heart she sat on a creaking cane chair that— many years ago— had seen better days.

She knew the footsteps directly. Momentarily she was thrilled. It was not the faltering step of a drunkard, but the old, familiar, happy gait by which her ear had always been able to identify Harry's approach.

He stood in the doorway, astonishment on his face.

"Hatty!" he cried. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"I had to come!" she said. "I came over from Melbourne to find you, and—"

"Hatty!" he cried again. Unbelievably she found herself caught in his arms, and thrilled at being there. She should have been repulsed by him. but found nothing repulsive. He was the man she loved.

SHE was sobbing on his shoulder.

"Oh, Harry, I am sorry!" she cried. "I'm sorry for everything— for the pain I have caused you, and all that had brought you to this!"

"On the contrary!" he said, with a laugh, pressing her again to him. "I am very glad to have come to this!"

"I have been here several days, but I was frightened to meet you, when I heard— of your drinking!"

"Drinking!" He laughed strangely. "What else is there for a man to do, whose sweetheart has turned him down, except to drink!"

"I left that money with Mrs. Tooser because I was sorry to hear of how things were with you. It was all my fault. But I've got money now, of my own; and because of the harm I have done you—"

"Why then!" he said, "we both have money. You see, I've been saving first to be able to go back to you and show you what a little fool you were with your fears. I told myself I wouldn't see you until I had saved a pile. I've gone a bit shabby on it, in my clothes, I'm afraid. I was going to Melbourne this week. And I find you here!"

She was bewildered. He was nothing like a broken drunkard should be. He was just like the old Harry, with a face a little older and sterner perhaps.

"I don't know how you came here—"

"Three days ago I saw you enter this house. Oh, Harry, it hurt me to think you should be living in such a place!"

His laugh had all the old buoyancy. "One has to live somewhere!" he said. "But, as a matter of fact, I don't live here! This flat— they call it a flat— belongs to a cousin of mine—Jim Hasted. He's rather hopeless, I'm afraid; but I look in upon him sometimes and do what I can for him!"

In her relief, her fears seeming ridiculous now, she hugged him passionately.

"Oh, I say!" he said. "Let's get out of here. I can see old Jim some other time. Let's get to some place where I can make love to you properly!"

___________________

22: The Curse of Scarletti

World's News (Sydney) 7 March 1934

"TWO people who have looked upon this picture have died, their deaths remaining mysterious and unexplained, whatever suspicions there may have been about them. I have kept the door locked, as it has been for ages; Naturally, there is a feeling of fear about the room itself. Yet it is dreadful to live in a house with such an unexplained mystery."

Rayson, greyed about the temples, and rather hard of face, had one hand on the handle of the door; in the other he was holding a key. His attitude was that of a man fearful of the next step.

"That's why, when Ray suggested your name, I decided to investigate the room. If you are game "

The half-sneer produced a laugh from Kitson; but the third of the little group was resentful of the evidence of dislike for his young detective friend.

"You needn't worry about Harry, dad," he said. "Open the door."

The lock grated, as a sign of its little usage, and, Rayson, senior, hesitating, Kitson led the way into the room. There was a keen look an his young, strong face as he glanced about, sniffed the air, and, then, striding to the window, threw it open. The room had a musty smell, and Kitson, in view of what he had been told, was not taking any risk with a tainted atmosphere.

Scarletti insisted upon working in a locked room.

The three men gazed curiously at the compelling full-length portrait that hung over the old-fashioned mantelpiece. There was something weirdly fascinating about this picture of a fresh young woman with a look in her eyes, and on the partly-parted lips, that was midway between gaiety and intense passion. The face was alive in a startling fashion; but it was an indefinite something in the working of the background that excited most interest.

As if to emphasise the importance of the picture, the room was practically bare of furniture. A few chairs stood soberly against the walls; but the only prominent furnishing was a large old-fashioned easy chair, placed squarely in the centre of the rich, velvety carpet, facing towards the picture.

A breath from Kitson broke the silence.

"It's some picture," he remarked, "but I can't see anything deadly about it. Nothing to make anybody frightened."

"There seems to be something hidden in the picture— some secondary idea that cannot be seen at once, but suggests that it will show itself if you puzzle long enough. Like a picture puzzle," said the elder Rayson.

His hand had been resting on the solitary chair; he came to the front of it, and sat down, his eyes still glued upon the picture. Kitson understood the fascination, feeling it himself.

It had been about this picture that young Ray Rayson had come to him the day before.

"I want your help," he had said.. "I mentioned you to dad, and if you can do anything to elucidate the mystery that is trembling us, it will help you, Mabs. Dad has been up against you, I know; but he'll have to alter his views if you are responsible for giving him ease of mind."

"I don't see why your father should object to me," Kitson had returned. "I'm clean— I've always kept myself clean; they say my prospects are good, and Mabs is fond of me. Anything that will help me to overcome the old man's prejudice I'll be glad to do."

"The Rayson estate case was settled two months ago," said Ray; "and we get the property. We took over the old house; but it is an uncomfortable place to live in, with a locked room, and a mystery of two unexplained deaths hanging over it. You have heard the details of those deaths, I daresay; they were mentioned once or twice during the estate dispute."

"Vaguely," said Kitson.

"Rex Rayson was a cousin of my father— of a previous generation. He made a fortune as a chemist, lived a fairly gay life, and didn't think of marrying until he was well in the sixties. He was immensely proud of the beauty of the young woman he induced to marry him; and when an Italian artist of some reputation as a portrait painter became a visitor to Australia he desired to get him to paint her portrait. It is characteristic of old Rex that he would prefer to have the work done by a foreigner rather than a local man.

"Scarletti, although he was offered any fee he liked to name, was holidaying, and was not at all enthusiastic— until he saw Mrs. Rayson. He was  charmed by her beauty, and, undertaking the commission, became a regular visitor to the mansion Rex had built for her.

"You can guess what happened. Poor Mrs. Rayson was married to an elderly husband who watched her with a jealous eye, objecting to her going out any where except in his company. She was provided with every luxury, and yet was in a way, a prisoner; but, strangely, Rex did not develop any suspicions about the artist, giving the pair long interval together undisturbed, until he began to wonder at the length of time it was taking to complete the picture. The artist always made excuses. The picture had to be a masterpiece, and he was always dissatisfied with this or that painting out some detail which had to be done again.

"One day when the artist came for his usual sitting, and went, as was his habit straight to the room where Mrs. Rayson usually awaited him, he found her sitting as usual in her chair, but was astonished when she made no response to his greeting.

"She was dead— sitting in her chair, bolt upright, as she might have done in life. A coronial inquiry found that heart failure was the trouble; yet then were hints of all sorts of suspicions in the evidence at the Inquest. It was revealed, for instance, that Rex was bitterly suspicious about a love affair between the artist and his wife; and the fact that he was a very clever chemist was not forgotten.

"Scarletti passionately charged Rex with murder; but he lingered in Sydney and when all the pother had been forgotten, he wrote to Rex apologising for his accusation, and pleading for an opportunity to finish the portrait. He did not want the portrait himself, he said; he just wanted the satisfaction, as an artist, of completing what he felt was his greatest work.

Rex consented; he had worshipped his wife's beauty, and the opportunity of gazing on it again was strong enough to make him forget other matters.

Scarletti insisted upon working in a locked room, keeping the key himself. Then he disappeared suddenly. Just when Rex was thinking of having the door of the room burst open, the key arrived by packet post. In a wild, passionate note which accompanied it, the artist admitted that he had loved the woman, and pronounced a curse upon all of Rex's house who gazed upon the portrait that would be found in the locked room.

"The curse fell immediately upon Rex.

"He was seen to enter the room, and, his protracted stay there causing alarm, he was found dead in a chair, facing the portrait. Although the extraordinary circumstances of the case were investigated, no traces of violence or poison being discovered, and the medical evidence favoring heart failure, it was decided that that was the cause of death, aided probably by excitement and a state of apprehension arising from the letter of the artist— who, incidentally, did not reappear in Italy, and could not be traced.

"The room was locked up; in fact, the whole house was practically unused. A son had been born before the artist had appeared on the scene; but he spent his young life in the house of his guardian or at school. It was only when he attained his majority that he took charge of the house; and naturally the locked room and the story of the painting excited his curiosity.

"Alarmed by strange sounds coming from the room, which young Arthur had announced his intention of entering, servants rushed towards it, just in time for Arthur, staggering through the doorway, to fall into their arms. They rushed him to bed; before the doctor came he was dead. Again the coroner was mystified to find any reason for the death.

"It looked as if the curse of Scarletti was a real thing. The room was kept locked after that; in fact, Arthur haying left no will, there was a dispute over the property, which has only just been settled in my father's favor, you can understand how we feel about that locked room and its mystery."

That was the strange story Kitson remembered as he gazed on the weird portrait, trying to make out what there was in it beside the face and figure of a very beautiful woman. Was it fancy or was that another figure that had been . worked into the picture, the face that of a handsome demon with a smile of mocking malice peering through the bright curls of the lady of the portrait? It was a fancy that fitted the macabre story of the portrait.

His own exclamation mingled with the startled cry of Arthur. Rayson had slumped forward in the chair, and was struggling to rise. Both young men moved to assist him; but before they got him from the room Rayson was dead. The curse of Scarletti was still working.

The coroner was puzzled. The medical evidence gave no assistance. No trace of poison had been discovered in the body, the whole symptoms of death pointing to heart failure; yet the history attached to the case was too grave and mysterious for a simple verdict of death by natural causes to be recorded.

"I would like to see this picture and the room of these tragedies," said the coroner.

The coroner and the retinue of the court, including curious pressmen, filed, in an awed fashion, into the room, and grouped just inside the door. Arthur definitely refused to enter.

"I'm one of the Raysons, and under the curse," he said. His sister, Mabel, however, looking very sweet in her simple black, entered by the side of Harry Kitson.

"It's a curious-looking picture— strangely fascinating. Seems to hold you," remarked the coroner. "I'd like to sit here in front of it and hear the story again."

To make more room, Kitson pushed aside the big chair, and, bringing some of the smaller ones from the wall, placed them in position. He stood at the back of the coroner's chair as he went over the story of the picture, as he had heard it from Arthur. With the fascination of the picture, occasional comments, and puzzled guesses at a solution to the mystery, the sitting seemed likely to be protracted.

"The lady is standing," commented one of the pressmen, and began to push forward the big chair which had been thrown back into a corner. Mabel gave a word of thanks as she prepared to take a seat.

"Wait!" shouted Kitson, holding her with a restraining hand. His face was suddenly white; he unclasped a knife, and, as if smitten with a sudden madness, he attacked the chair, ripping off the upholstery.

"Nothing has happened to any of us here, looking at that picture," he explained, pantingly, as he worked, "but this chair was placed cunningly as an invitation to anyone who wanted to look at the picture to sit in it. And people who have sat in this chair have died. Ah, I thought so!" he exclaimed.

"Look!"

From the top of the chair, Just where the neck would fall if the head was thrown back, he had torn a little phial, with a thin needle projecting from its neck. It was half filled with a greenish white fluid.

"See how that was fixed!" he cried excitedly. "The pressure of the head on the upholstering would bring forward the needle; the puncture on the neck would leave no more sign than that of a flea-mark; probably occasion no more hurt than a bite. What the fluid is will be for experts to decide; it is probably something with a swift action on the heart, leaving no trace elsewhere."

The experts did justify Kitson's explanation of the diabolic plan of revenge of the Italian artist for the death of the woman he loved. It added to the credit of a smart young detective; what mattered more to him was the realisation of the girl he loved that she owed her life to him.

__________________

23: Betrayal

World's News (Sydney) 21 March 1934

AS Tom Worsley turned the corner into the dinginess which is the 'Loo, the shadow detached itself, with a greeting, from a dark doorway. Worsley gave a rather grudging response, but the shadow took step with him.

"Longie's in the soup," he said. "We got to help him out. You know the park shooting? Well, it's that."

"He had no right to go and shoot at a cop," said Worsley, uncomfortably.

"Well, he done it!" said Ernie Bell, somewhat impatiently. "He had some stuff on him, and knew the Johns were out to get him; so he tried for a break. Now, with the cop likely to die, they're out to get him. We've got him in smoke, but they're liable to raid at any moment. We've got to get Longie somewhere they won't suspect."

"It's a damned pity Longie should get himself in a mess like that," said Worsley.

He felt uncomfortable; it was obvious that a demand for aid was being put to him. Old loyalty called for a response; but Worsley was unwilling to give it.

"I don't want to get mixed up in anything," he said. "I swore off the game three years ago, when I met Jennie; and I'm going to keep off."

"There's a difference between keeping out of the game and helping a friend," said Ernie Bell. "The cops know you're straight, and'll never think of your place. With a little spell, till the police think he's already been got away, we'll be able to smuggle him to Melbourne or somewhere. It may be a hanging matter if he's copped."

Only the pad of the men's feet sounded for a moment. Worsley, stubbornly silent, was thinking regretfully of his resistance to Jennie's passionate desire to get away from the 'Loo and its associations for a life in one of the outer suburbs. Worsley had been born, like his father before him, in the 'Loo and, however changed the place had become, the associations held him.

"Bill Long used to be your mate; you were chums at school together. You're not the sort of man to let a. cobber down, are you?"

Worsley, pausing suddenly, turned to face him.

"Oh, all right, Ern," he said, ungraciously. "I suppose I'll have to help. When will you bring him along?"

"Some time after dark. Cripes, I knew you'd do the right thing!" cried Ernie Bell.

Tom Worsley felt that it was anything but the right thing; it was something that might "get him in bad" with the police again. He had never cared for what some of the men he knew euphemistically called "the game"; it was a mere indifference to anything but the call of mateship that had connected him with. one or two episodes in the days before he made that promise to Jennie, which, with a passionate intensity, he desired to keep. There was the risk in sheltering Long, not only of trouble for himself, but of constant suspicion from the police afterwards, and, worst of all, a shattering of Jennie's faith.

Still the risk might be slight, and it was one that had to be taken in the name of an old friendship, such as the one he had for Long. Breaking the news that there would be a visitor to Jennie was a little difficult.

She was immediately alarmed.

"Who is it?" she demanded. "Why does he want to stay quietly here for a few days without anyone knowing? Is it anything wrong?"

"There's all sorts of reasons why men have to keep dark for a time," said Tom, evasively. "Look at the poor chaps who get unfair treatment under the maintenance laws and have to dodge warrants when they can't pay up! I'm not going to ask Bill Long what's the trouble. He's one of my oldest friends. You wouldn't expect me to turn a mate down, Jennie, would you?"

"No," she returned, uncertainly. "No; of course, not. But I wish we could get away from here-away to where life is cleaner and better. I'm always frightened of some danger."

"Not of me?" he said, tenderly putting his arm around her waist. She smiled at him. "We'll need money to make a start elsewhere," he went on. "Unless we can get a place of our own to start properly, we might as well stay here. It'll mean a few hundred quid but you never know; we might win the lottery. Or we can save; but it'll take a hell of a lot of saving."

Long arrived with a swiftness which was in itself alarming. There was the purring approach of a motor-car, and sharp rap at the door, and Long was in the house, the car disappearing around the corner, and silence in the street again.

"It's good of you, Tom," said Long, extending his hand. He checked in a surprised fashion when he saw Jennie; knowing that he would meet Tom's wife, the encounter with someone so fresh-looking and sweet was evidently expected. "This'll be the wife! Glad to meet you, missus! Tom's a dashed good fellow-fine mate and all that, and he deserves a lot; but I must say he's done damned well for himself!"

She answered him a little coldly, resenting something in his self-confident air; but he made himself at home at once. He could talk, and he did talk. There was a strange comparison between the men; for, awkward, embarrassed and fearful, Tom, neatly but shabbily dressed in comparison to the showiness of Long's outfit, might have been the one who was needing the shelter from the law. Long, cool, assured, was a picture of easiness.

Except when there came a sharp rapping upon the outer door. Long stopped suddenly in his conversation, his mouth closing like a trap, a tigerish gleam in his eyes.

Then he laughed. It was only Ernie Bell, perturbed, panting a little. He was careful about the closing of the door when he had entered.

"We were only just in time in getting you away." He delivered his news in a chattering surge. "The Johns arrived a quarter of an hour later— a whole six of them— Fatty Thomson, Kennedy, and four others. They weren't taking any chances, either; they had their shooters ready when they rushed, and handed up the lot of us before, almost, we knew they were coming. They, must have known something; they've been to May Andrews' and Domphy's places, too. They're going—"

Tom's sharp nodding drew his attention to Jennie. At Ernie Bell's entrance, sensing that he had something to say that was not for her, she had turned to some of her duties, but she was now standing in the doorway, her eyes dilated, alarm on her face.

"Doesn't she know?" Ernie Bell whispered hoarsely.

"No," returned Tom; then he lifted his voice, "whatever Longie's done, you can trust Jennie as you can trust me. She's loyal. We don't want. to know what it is: I promised that Longie would be right here; and he will be right.''

Tom had spoken in a frenzy, prompted by a look in Jennie's face that seemed one of reproach; she turned away again as if satisfied, and free of any desire to intrude.

''It's* pretty good that we've got you here," Ernie whispered. "They'll never think of this place; . they've forgotten that you and Tom were friends, if they ever knew it-you haying had so little truck for three years. . And that reward they've put up for you is going to increase the difficulties. Two hundred quid." :

"They ought to place a bigger value on me than that," remarked Long, with a laugh.

They talked in undertones for a time, until Bell went; there had been a brief discussion of proposals for getting Long away, in which Tom, who was very anxious upon the point, was willy-nilly attached.. But Long had laughed, when Ernie Bell had impressed upon him the necessity of keeping absolutely to the house.

"I'm not a prisoner— yet," he laughed, nonchalantly. "I'm not going without my bit of air. I'll slip out for a walk, later, when there's no likelihood of a man being seen, yet not so few people about that I'm likely to be specially noticed. I know my way about; you can trust me."

There was a weight of anxiety upon Tom's shoulders; there was the fear that Long might be caught, with the effects of that capture upon Jennie and himself; there was dread also of being alone with Jennie, having to face the battery of her questions.

"It won't be more than a couple of days before Long goes," he observed.

She had no inclination to ask him questions, however; her attitude seemed to be an anxiety to show him that his certificate of her loyalty was justified; she did not want any further confidence than he was prepared to give her. He glowed to her, as she dropped to sleep beside him.

But his own heart was full of dreads; he could not sleep. On the rack of anxiety he lay pondering on all the dangers, until a subdued click of the door-latch below and other stealthy movements told him of Long's return. Even then, every footfall in the street seemed to tread on his heart.

Tom was a worried man when he went to work next day. At breakfast Long's laughing indifference brushed away some of the haunting nightmares that lingered in his mind. While Jennie was busy at the stove, Long, with a laugh, passed over a folded copy ot the morning paper, his finger marking a paragraph. It was under the heading "City Park Shooting."

"The offer of a reward has already brought the police valuable information. They expect to make an early arrest of the wanted man," was the passage specially noted by Long.

He was sprawled upon a couch, reading, when Tom left, but he dropped his book when Jennie came near him.

"I suppose you know you're a damned pretty woman. Come and sit down here and let's have a yarn."

She stared at him in astonishment, indignation. His air was that of a man who believed he had "a way with women" and a very small opinion of their fidelity.

"You're a girl who looks as if she could enjoy life. You must find Tom rather a dull chap."

'"If you think Tom a dull chap, you've got a different idea to mine," she fired warmly. "I love the dull chap very much indeed. So much that no other man in the whole world matters tuppence to me."

She turned from him abruptly.

"You're supposed to be a friend of his, and he's helping, you," she flashed over her shoulder.

He rose with a laugh and followed her.

"Sorry," he said, coolly. "No, I apologise; but I'm not sorry. I'm glad. I'm glad because Tom has such a loyal little missus. He is a friend of mine; but I'm one who thinks that anything is Justified when a woman's concerned. That's not to say I don't admire a woman who's true-when I meet one."

Tom, full of anxiety to get home, was delayed at his work. When ships are being loaded the job has to be done quickly, and an extra lialf-hour's work cannot be carried over until the morrow. The light was dim when he turned into the dingy street leading to his home. It was empty, most of the inhabitants being within doors, busy over the evening meal. When he reached a lane the shadow there seemed to burse into figures. There were four men standing menacingly all about him; and one of them was Ernie Bell.

"Why, Ernie," he began. "What's

"You pimp! Longie's been took— nabbed, to-day, by the cops. You blasted put-away!"

So that was it the cause of this sudden menace. A blank horror was in Tom's heart; if Longie was taken he would naturally be suspected as an informer; there would be no safe life in the 'Loo for him again. He knew too well the spirit of vendetta in the underworld. Even now this assault was intended to be murderous. Tom knew in a moment that Ernie Bell was wasting words merely to hold his attention while the attack was made by the assailants from the rear.

Partly that, partly a fury of resentment at the charge against his loyalty, spurred Tom into action which saved his life. As he sprang at Ernie Bell the heavy batten that had been swung at his head missed.

Ernie was no fighter; he hardly offered a resistance to the blow that sent him reeling to the ground; and, wheeling, Tom was face to face with all his attackers. He was hard with constant work; a blow that caught big Humphries on the throat sent him back gasping and coughing, effectively out of the skirmish; Tudehope gave some difficulty, but when he, too, fell back, with blood pouring from a cut cheek, the fourth man, who had been ineffectively looking for an opportunity to wield the batten again, dropped back, too.

"I am no pimp!" panted Tom. "I'm not a gangster either; but I never put anyone away in my life."

''That's why Longie's in the cooler!" sneered Ernie, who had risen. "The reward was too much for you"

Tom made a pace forward, as if he would attack him again. He checked himself, however. People were coming to their doors, drawn by the sound of the scuffle, and the men, also, had no wish to resume the fight.

"Leave him alone now; we'll get him, sooner or later," said Ernie Bell.

They disappeared into the shadow of the lane, going quickly. Tom went on his way; but now that the excitement was over he saw the whole inwardness of the situation and was full of a bitter anger. Against Jennie. She had betrayed Long; Tom connected her longing for a home away from the city with ! the probable overhearing of remarks about the reward offered for Long's apprehension. But her betrayal of Long was less bitter than her betrayal of himself.

Her action would place upon him forever the stigma of a betrayer— the stigma that, in the standards he had learnt in the 'Loo, was the worst of all. She had spoilt the life between them; for she could enjoy the blood money, possibly, which he could not touch. He tried to find excuses; but ever a surging, mad anger against her sprang up within him. He must go home; what would happen there he did not know; but it would mean the finish of all the happiness between them.

He hurried his footsteps; someone else was ahead of him, however. When Jennie heard the opening of the door she had thought it was Tom. It was Long.

White-faced and with that tigerish gleam in his eyes, he strode in, a smirking, malignant grin on his face. The scream she wanted io utter was stifled in her throat as she moved backward.

"Didn't expect to see me again, you female Judas, eh? Well, it takes a lot to hold Bill Long; and I took advantage of a little carelessness to take leg bail. Bill Long doesn't go under without paying his debts; and I owe one to you, my fine lady."

She was still shrinking from him, i^ing around the table. He gloated upon her terror.

"A man might as well be, hung for a sheep as a lamb. There's little chance I have of getting away now; but before they nab me I'll have the satisfaction of making you pay!"

With impatient strength he jerked the table aside, making his path open and her a prisoner. A little scream rose in her throat, as, in sheer desperation, she reached, still with fear-fascinated eyes, upon him, for a weapon— her scissors. Her grasping hand sent her workbasket toppling, to the floor from its little stand, spilling its contents; but she had the scissors in hand, standing facing him with a pitiable defiance.

To her amazement his advance stopped. His eyes fell from her face to the spilled work-basket. He stooped to pick up a couple of the articles; there was a curious softening as he held out the little bits of baby clothes.

"So that's the way of it?" he queried. "I wanted to get away from here— all this— before the baby came," she said, desperately. "I could not see why I should not get the money. You are Tom's friend— supposed to be; but you only make use of him. If I had been willing, you would have made love to me this morning, though you are his friend."

"I told you I was glad you didn't let me," he said.

It was just then that Tom came in. His face was so black that when Jennie, taking advantage of the interruption to push around the table, flew to him, she shrank back, as he began to pour out a torrent of anger. But then he saw Long.

"You here!" he cried. "Why—"

"Yes, they got me," said Long, calmly, the same nonchalant Long who had first entered the house. "I managed to give them the slip; and I came here because there's something I want to clear up before they get me again."

All other thoughts but the protection of Jennie were swept from Tom's mind.

"You think that Jennie put you away. She didn't."

"Oh, yes, she did!" retorted Long, easily. "She did, because I told her to do it."

Giving an exclamation, Tom stared at him incredulously.

"You see," said Long, nonchalantly, "I reckoned it out that I was bound to be caught in time; it was only a matter of hiding like a rat until they got me. When I heard of the idea of the missus here for the little place out in the suburbs and the money she wanted to get it, it struck me that it would be a damn sight better for friends—  friends who've been good to me— to get that reward than somebody else. So I made her go and give the information. That's the gospel, Tom— I made her."

Tom had put his arm about Jennie, whose tear-stained face was buried on his shoulder.

"We don't want money got like that," cried Tom, warmly.

"You've got to take it, now," said Long, coolly. "Treat it as a gift from a grateful friend. I thought, afterwards, that everything might not be clear. That's why I took an opportunity to break away; and I came here first to make up any misunderstanding there might be between you and her. And now I'll have to make the boys wise, too, in case they're inclined to make trouble."

Head in air, calm and debonair, with a smile on his lips, Long strolled out, back to certain arrest, as easily as if he was going to a party.

___________________

24: Circumstantial Evidence

World's News (Sydney) 11 April 1934

THE fools seemed to think that they could treat me as they liked; but I am one who has ever prided himself on avenging every insult, every wrong. You may be sure that I was determined to be even with Hal Travers, who had superceded me in Helen's affections, the old man. her father, who had encouraged him. and Helen, who had snubbed me.

Then the idea came to me by which I could exact a most thorough vengeance. Old Mathers would die in such a way that it would be certain that the blame for his death would fall upon Hal Travers. It was easy enough to create a chain of circumstantial evidence that would hang him; and Helen would suffer, as she deserved, in the general calamity, in grief for both her father and her lover. When she was broken, disconsolate. I would marry her; and she would never know the hand I had had in, the matter

Once my decision was made, there was no need for hurry; I could gloat over the details and the ultimate result, preparing the way gradually.

Hal Travers had roused my hatred from the first time I saw him, even before I realised that the interest Helen was showing in him was something more than that. He was handsome in a way, but it was his easy manner, and his constant laugh that made him most attractive to her. I am not one of the fools who laugh easily, and I felt my disadvantage.

There had been, nothing definite between Helen and myself; but my position in the house was almost that of one of the family, and the general , anticipation was that, in course of time, we would be married. It was almost as a matter of course that I took Helen about, proud to be seen with the bright young beauty; when the arrival of Travers put me into the background, I was naturally inflamed by jealous anger.

It was an ill-advised impulse that prompted me to warn Mathers against Travers. I had got hold of a story of a young Travers, a bank clerk, who had received a sentence of three years' imprisonment in Brisbane for embezzlement a few years before. His admissions, at his trial, of the loose living that had dissipated the money was salt to the dish of scandal I took to Mathers. The grave, although disbelieving, way in which he listened made me believe that I had scored a point; in the rash folly of my anger I had not realised that he might make inquiries. The way he spoke to me a week later was positively offensive.

"Martin," he said— in friendly moments he called me "Mart"— "I am surprised that you should have told me that story about Travers. You must have known it was false. Travers is as fine as his family history; a brave chap, too— he was merely a boy in the war, but he won distinction, and he holds medals for life-saving... I think you're dangerous, Martin. I'm sorry to say that. I don't know that I care about your coming to the house."

That had come after a lapse in which my temper had got the best of me; I did not notice what he was saying, and I did not care what I said myself.

"Why, you damned old fool!"— I cried. "Do you think I'm going to be thrown aside like an old shoe? I'll have Helen if I have to wipe out both you and Travers!"

It was foolish saying anything like that, especially before the servants, who came when, in my passion, I refused to leave the house. It was a tactical error which I regretted when I had formulated my plan.

However, I hoped it was all forgotten when I made my apologies. I laid myself out to be a personal friend of Travers, succeeding so well that we went surfing together, and I became a regular visitor at his camp cottage at Palva Bay.

I took a revolver out, and laughingly challenged him to a shooting match on the rocks under the cliffs. I was a crack shot once; but, ot course, my frequent drinking orgies and drugs have played the devil with my nerves. Anyway I wanted Travers to win.

It gave me an opportunity to make him a presentation of a revolver with an inscription on it— "In recognition of superior markmanship to my own poor shooting—" It was with that revolver that Mathers was going to be shot; that tribute to Travers's markmanship was a clever point

It was at the club that I made the presentation; the point was to see that there were many who would admire the little weapon, and know that it was his.

"Thanks, old man. Now I will be able to shoot the old man if he won't let me have Helen," he laughed.

My heart almost leapt. Naturally I took pains that that light remark would not be forgotten.

"That was rather a queer remark for Travers to make; I hope he doesn't do any harm with the revolver," I said to Carr and Horley, who had been with us.

"What remark was that?" asked Horley.

"Why, 'I will be able to shoot the old man (that's Mathers, of course) if he won't let me have Helen,"' I said.

"It was a joke," said Carr.

But I knew they would remember. Travers was a fool who never suspected anyone; he had unconsciously made Mathers easier for me., I wrote Helen a letter on the pretext that I found it difficult to say what I wished, asking her to marry me. The result was, of course, certain— "If you cannot think of me as a lover I hope you can still address me as friend," I said. I also made some references to her father, which she would be forced to answer.

The plan succeeded admirably.

"Dear friend," she wrote— I knew she would accept the hint as an act of kindness— "it is impossible for me to say 'yes' to you; it would be impossible for us to marry.... Certainly my father has some hostility to you, which I do not clearly understand..."

Had I dictated what I wanted it could not have been better for my purpose. I found an envelope covering a note Helen had written about some theatre appointment in Travers's flat, and slipped it into my pocket when he wasn't looking.

Into that envelope I placed Helen's letter, keeping it in my pocket ready to drop in his camp cottage, where it could be found— in the drawer where he kept his revolver. When that revolver was found near the shot body of old Mathers, the letter in the drawer— a significant place— seeming as if it had been written to him, would be linked up with the remark he had made before myself, Carr, Horley, and others in the club. Altogether, I had reason to chuckle over a good chain of circumstantial evidence.

The Monday on which Travers was to go to the Empire League's dinner suggested a good opportunity for finding Mathers alone; Helen, I understood, would be out with some friends that night. On my way to kill Mathers I would give a 'phone call in a feigned voice to Travers at the dinner, telling him that Mathers wanted to see him urgently, if he could run out he could return in half an hour-time to hear the speeches. Travers would arrive In the midst of the turmoil created by the shooting of Mathers and, while I made good my flight, his appearance of innocence would look like a desperate bluff. There would be the evidence of people at the Empire League function about his abrupt departure to go to Mathers, no doubt looking a good deal worried at the mystery call.

It was all pretty perfect. On Sunday we surfed, and I challenged Travers to a shooting match. He beat me easily.

"What about my having a turn with your revolver. See how we go with different shooters," I suggested.

He beat me again; with the job I had in view my quivering, unsteady hand perturbed me. However, I had possession of his revolver, and hoped that he would not notice that we had not re-exchanged the weapons. He had actually tossed my revolver into the usual drawer, and was about to close it, when he hesitated.

"I say, Mart, you've got my shooter; here's yours," he said. "I value that as a tribute to my skill, you know."

That was only a mild disappointment, however. It was easy enough to go to the camp cottage on Monday, when it was empty; and I knew it so well that there was no difficulty about making an entry. Once inside. I left the front door ajar to dissipate the suspicions. of any who might see me that I had made a secret entry.

But the sudden opening of the door as I was examining the little weapon was a shock; a greater shock to see a tanned, shabby man looking strangely at me.

"I didn't expect you to be here, Mr. Dark," he said. "Mr. Travers said yesterday he would let me have some fishing tackle; he said he would leave it on the table."

It was there, to prove his statement.

"Travers asked me to fix this revolver; something went wrong with it. He particularly wanted it by this afternoon," I explained, making the best of the situation.

It was awful, waiting for the time to arrive. I tried to use the brandy, which was my recourse, sparingly; when I set out, it made me feel that I was my own man.

I knew from the way the coins rattled as I inserted them in the slot of the isolated public telephone near the Mathers' house, to give the ring to Travers, that I was very shaky. It was with difficulty that I assumed the voice of Mathers' manservant.

Hardly had I left the box when a car pulled up near me with a hail.

"Hallo, Martin!" cried Small. "Going up to the Mathers', are you? If you like, you can jump in; it's only a hundred yards, but..."

"No; I'm not going to the Mathers', thanks," I said. "And I'm out for a walk, because I want a walk."

Bowen, the man servant, was standing on the porch; I hid behind a shrub to avoid being seen. Directly he disappeared, I crept to the house. The window of the old man's library was slightly up, but the curtains hung down out of reach. The room was lighted, however, and through them I made out a figure,  standing, which, suggested Mathers.

I was shaking— frightened, unusually frightened, that if I delayed I would let go forever the beautiful revenge I had planned. The shadow behind the curtain moved forward, and I fired. The cry that followed, and the disappearance of the shadow, assured me of success. I fired again, however, at the floor where the body would be: and then I fled through the night, every nerve jangling.

"Hey Martin, what's the hurry?" Somebody I did not recognise, but who evidently knew me called. I only fled past him, not pausing until, from sheer panting exhaustion. I stopped at the foot of the hill, leaning against the stone wall of the little bridge under which the gully stream flows.

It seemed that I was in a nightmare; its extreme point was reached when I found that I still held, clutched in my hand, the revolver I had intended to be such good evidence aganist Travers. In my pause I had forgotten my plans.

Petulantly I tossed the weapon into the water; and as it splashed, a policeman, one I did not know, loomed out of the darkness with a sharp, "What was that you threw into the water?"

My shaking condition naturally roused his suspicion; I knew the water would be searched, and the revolver found; and it would be known that I had had it, and had thrown it there.

My plans had failed. Well, I killed old Mathers. Why should they torture me with the waiting for the trial, telling me lies? I have been waiting for years, and still they keep the shadow of the rope over me. The torture has become unbearable. I am writing this confession so that I can be tried, and a finish will be made of all my suspense.

"HE IS QUITE mad," said the lunacy official who showed me the document. "Murder was on his mind, and he thinks he is a murderer. As a matter of fact, he fired his shot at the shadow of the Mathers's manservant, moving forward to close the window, and although Bowen jumped aside when he heard the  shot, to avoid any more, he missed by miles."

________________

25: Chance

World's News (Sydney) 20 March 1935

"THE auditors will be in tomorrow, Bob. I suppose you will have everything ready."

Old Bolls was fussy and self-important; only his garrulity inspired the remark, Imlay decided, after a quick look at him. Imlay laughed his "Of course!'' not letting a quiver of his hand or a slackening of the smiling cheerfulness of his face show his disturbance. The words, however, were a sledge-hammer blow on his heart.

It was the showdown. Bolls knew, as assistant manager of the big concern, what he was talking about. This was not the usual monthly check, but the complete examination to check off the year's balance, in which the evasion that had carried Imlay through, on a desperate chance, would no longer avail. It was Imlay's ruin, meaning disgrace, the loss of his job— and gaol.

There was the State Lottery being drawn that morning. If Imlay crushed, the thought out with a despairing scorn. It was such reliances as that that had landed him in his present position.

That, and swank. Bob Imlay's soul cried out fiercely that he was not a criminal; his desire had always been to make an honest restitution. Even now he would be as honest as it was possible for him to be. He would finish off his work cleanly, clearly. The auditors would have it plainly shown, when they came, just how much were his defalcations. There would be a clean breast of it, no shuffling. What he would do himself he had not decided. He might not want to face it.

He had been a fool, of course. Quite easily the madness of suspense of the last few months, and the agony of the position that had been reached, could have been avoided. Marie herself had been willing to help.

("Bob, darling," she had told him, "I wish you were not so careless with money. Don't you think we ought to he careful— save a little? You never know what will happen; and we would he quite happy without a lot of things."

"Little worries!" he had laughed, teasingly. "it's my concern to find the money; I don't want you to worry about it."

"But I didn't expect to have all this when I married you! I married you because I loved you."

That was partly the trouble. Marrying Marie in the face of the hostility of her parents, who,had virtually engaged her to the prosperous Warner, he had wanted to show, that she had suffered nothing by her choice. He wanted to show them that, also. Early sneers had gone to his head; the desire to swank had carried him away. The elegant bungalow they lived in was merely nominally their own; a few weeks' failure to pay the existing dues upon it would cause it to slip from their possession. Everything within it, the elaborate furnishings, was upon the same basis. They owned nothing but liabilities; but an appearance of prosperity, however hollow, was given to their lives.

Imlay liked it. No misgivings struck him, even when he began to sag financially under the load. There was further promotion ahead, and then the financial equilibrium would be easily established. In the meantime he felt rather proud of the way he juggled with his ' difficulties. Mario's occasional anxiety, her desire to be economical, seemed a challenge to his. cleverness. What a damned fool he had been, he muttered, thinking of how easily the supreme difficulties could have been avoided with her co-operation.

In his job as head of the Delivery Branch the money poured through his hands. It was fatally easily to keep amounts out of the day's accounting, making them good from the cash that came in with the next day's returns.

Only a small amount, that could easily be made good on pay-day, was his first mishandling. But it was not made good. The idea of really agreeing with Marie for a careful pruning of the too great expense-rate crashed on the wall of his pride. A small win from the State Lottery, or on the races, would put him straight. With a discovery ot the ease with which it could be done, the defalcations grew, more so because the gambling to retrieve them became reckless. There was always the idea of replacement; but the defalcations reached a stage when they became a nightmare.

It was no use to think of careful saving to retrieve the position now; long before the amount had been made good, after the humiliation of explaining matters to Marie, the discovery would come. It was only gambling luck that would save him. Imlay felt desperately that luck must turn his way, sooner or later.

It did not. Efforts to obtain the money in other ways only showed him how little he possessed. There was not a thing that money lenders would accept es security; he did not even have a friend— one that he could go to without exposing his desperate position— whose name was good enough.

His lottery tickets did not win even a small prize. That reed had proved as rotten as he should have known it was.

Night found him in the office, working back. He had put aside the decision of what he was to do during an afternoon when his mind seemed numbed to everything but the work he was doing. Now the decision had to be faced.

Was it worth while going on? Everything was gone— or in the morning would be gone. He— for a paltry sum, after all— would be crushed and broken. He would go to gaol and his wife, perforce, back to the parents who hated him— back to their triumph in their objection to him She might forgive him even that humiliation; but he felt that their life was spoilt.

He took out the revolver which, being the custodian of much money, he was licensed to carry. It seemed the clean way out. He had worked out his defalcations to the last penny; he had written and signed his statement that would make everything clear. Best to take the step that would wipe out the disgrace, free Marie!

But it was Marie's face that he saw as he pondered. She seemed to be pleading with him, tears standing in her eyes. He fancied, almost, that he heard her say, "Don't be a coward, Bob; face it out, and I'll help you to fight through."

"There's only one way, after all," he said decisively, rising.

He drew the revolver out of the drawer with a quick gesture.

He had hardly raised it before he felt a sharp sting in his wrist, a numbed pain that caused him to release his grip on the weapon, which clattered to the top of the table, and then to the floor. The blood spurted from his wrist.

"Put them up!" cried a voice, gruffly. And another one added, "You've winged him."

Imlay wheeled. Three men, masked, etood at the door of the room; one of them held something in his hand. An automatic with a silencer evidently; Bob had not heard even the click of the pin on the cap.

"Any trouble from you and you're a dead man," said the taller man of the three, coming forward. "Thought yourself smart, did you, pretending you hadn't heard us, but goin' for that revolver."

These robbers, now tugging at the safe, evidently with the intention of removing it bodily, were solving the problem that a short time before seemed only to have a tragic solution for him.

His defalcations went with the safe; if they got it clear away and were not stopped before it was broken, and the contents removed he was cleared.

He watched the movements of the robbers greedily. They had the safe in the office now; but it was heavy for even three of them; they swore and grunted in undertones as they struggled with it. Once they were safely away he would be a man freed of fear for the result of his folly, honored a little for the wounded wrist-one of the robbers had tied Bob's own handkerchief about it— which, with his bound condition, would tell of an attempt to defend his employer's property.

It was a mean escape; Bob felt that; but a man who had been in so desperate a position could not pick and choose his means of escape. He was saving Marie; and in the future he would plan his life— their lives— with more sanity. He had been depending on Lottery luck; and a chance more wonderful, if less desirable, than that was working his salvation.

With startling suddenness the telephone bell rang sharply.

The men, who had reached the door, rested the safe, and paused, waiting for the ringing to stop. It went on. Black despair came to Imlay. At the very moment when he had considered safety restored to him this interruption was discomfiting.

The bell went on ringing insistently.

For a moment Imlay thought the robbers would leave their work uncompleted, and run for it, taking from him the salvation that had seemed to have come. The big man, however, suddenly strode over to the telephone, which stood on Bob's desk, and within a few feet of where he was bound. As his hand went to the receiver he paused.

"If we merely take the receiver off and there's no response," he said, "the alarm will be raised. Take the gag off this bloke; if he calls out put a bullet through him. Bill, poke your automatic into his ribs. You hear that?" he said, grimly to Bob. "Now, you answer whoever is calling; Just as il everything is all right. You give any warning, and you're a dead man."

He took the receiver and held it to Bob's ear, holding the Instrument so that the mouthpiece was before his mouth.

Marie was speaking.

"I felt I had to ring you up, darling," she said. "Somehow - I've been terribly anxious about you; I had a feeling that something was going to happen to you."

"I'm all right— I'm here," said Bob. His voice seemed to choke a little.

"How funnily you are speaking! Is anything wrong?"

"Play the game, or you know what happens," said the tall man, fiercely.

He did not know how badly Bob wanted to play their game, which would leave him safe.

"Nothing's wrong," said Bob. "Don't worry! I'll, be home In an hour."

Something of a madness came to him at that moment, however. The vocal nearness of Marie perhaps roused the spirit within him; he felt a surge of hot rebellion against being doubly mean. He had not only been dishonest to his employers, but was consenting, almost, to the robbery of their property.

"Tell the police!" he shouted. "Robbers in the office! They—".

Unconsciousness rushed upon him as the tall man crashed the telephone against the side of his face.

HE WOKE to find himself lying awkwardly, on the floor, still bound to the chair. He was full of aches, but there was no feeling that would suggest that he had been shot, as threatened.

Old Bolls was at the head of the rush of police which entered the building. They unbound him and listened to his disjointed but guarded tale of what had happened.

"They were trying to get the safe away when the telephone call came from my wife," Bob said.

"They've got the safe away, all right," said the sergeant. "As a matter of fact, they were seen putting it into the car. A man in the street saw them. We got a call from him almost as soon as we got one from Mr. Bolls."

"Your wife couldn't get Mr. Snagins; she rang me," explained Bolls.

They had got the safe away! The thought ran gladly in Imlay's mind.

"We've got the man with us. He has a good description of the car, and the number— although that's probably bogus. We'll get them in no time!" said the sergeant.

Fear settled in Bob's mind again. How soon would they catch the men and recover the safe? If it was retrieved unopened—

Marie arrived to fall into his arms, and then, treating him tenderly, as a nurse, take him home; they went in a police car. But in Bolls's mind there was a gnawing anxiety, besides that about the recovery of the safe.

It was not until he got home that he remembered the statement he had written for the auditors. He had left it on the desk in his office.

It was not there when he arrived next day. He came early to retrieve it. Later Snagins and some of the directors arrived, with old Bolls. There was no sign of any of them having seen the betraying document; their praise shamed Bob. Later still Bob Imlay was called to attend the police station to identify some men who had been arrested.

He did it with a lack of certainty that was prompted by unwillingness.

"I was faint with the wound in my wrist," he explained to Detective-Sergeant Wallis. But really there was a cold fear in his heart. The statement he had written might turn up at any time to tear him from the hero's pedestal upon which he had been placed, to the mire of shame.

Whatever he felt about it, he had to face the ordeal when the men appeared before the lower court to face the preliminary hearing of the charges against them. The feeling that he might very well be in the dock with them was in his heart as he gave his evidence, and submitted to the cross-examination of Burke, the solicitor for the defence.

"How much, Mr. Imlay, do you say was in the safe at the time of the robbery?" demanded Burke.

Bob gasped inwardly; it sounded like a threatening challenge.

"According to the figures of the accounts paid in, there should have been £247/15/," Bob said evenly, controlling himself.

"In cheques and cash? How much in cash?"

"About £69 in cheques and the balance in cash," responded Bob.

"Ah! That's what I can't get at! Because the police found certain money upon the defendants they claim it to have been the proceeds of this robbery. You have no check on the numbers of notes which you handled, and which should have been in the safe?"

"No."

"Well the amounts found in the possession of the defendants total £64. There is a big difference between that and the sum of £158/15/,  which- according to your account, should have been in this safe in cash?"

Bob's head felt giddy and sick; and his hands gripped the ledge of the witness-box.

The magistrate intervened. He could not see what bearing the witness's reply to such a question had on the case. The witness was ill, hardly recovered from the wounds he had received. He should be spared unnecessary questions.

Marie came to him as he left the box, solicitously, with a great tenderness for the illness that had settled suddenly upon his face. The shaken Bob, shorn of his flamboyance, seemed to have become a great deal more precious to her than he had been before. And. Marie, so sweet in his trouble, so tender, had become dearer to him. Not again would he risk their happiness, if—

The trial intensified his strain. The firm had given him promotion in salary, and his financial troubles were at an end; but it seemed, at times, like a gift of fortune that would only make his fall more bitter. Bob lived through the trial in an agony of suspense; but he did live through it. The verdict of the jury against each of the accused, Watts, Sanderson, and Jones, was "guilty."

Bob found himself in an anteroom, with old Bolls holding a glass of water to his lips.

"I saw what upset you. Bob," he said kindly. "I should have mentioned it to you long ago; but I thought it might be the best to say nothing. The night of the robbery I found a paper on your desk. I had a glance at it— and I put it in my pocket. I destroyed it afterwards."

"Then you know," began Bob, astounded.

"Yes. But I reckoned you were a good man, and had had your lesson. The firm lost nothing; they were insured against burglary, and the insurance company deserved to pay."

"It was very good of you, Mr. Bolls," said Bob, gratefully and humbly. "You had no idea "

"But that's just what I did have! I was young myself once— and swanky, and I got into a mess. I know all about it! Ah, here's that sweet girl-wife of yours."

Marie had been searching, full of anxiety, about Bob's sudden disappearance from the court. She had attended in the role of nurse, treating Bob still as an invalid.

"You young people are going to have lunch with me," said old Bolls, beaming upon them through his glasses. "We'll have a bottle of wine, too, to drink to the happiness of the future."

_________________

26: Keeping Killick Killed

World's News (Sydney), 12 May 1937

YOU would think that when his friends have gone to the trouble of killing him, a man out of sheer gratitude, would remain dead. But you never know. Killick only seemed half pleased about dying; he must have known it was the best— indeed, the only— thing that could happen to him; but he never worked up any real enthusiasm for it.

The idea was Palty's. It was the end of an idea that shows that if he hadn't been tied down to a regular job as a wholesale fish salesman he would have made a great mark in the world as the leader of a band of international crooks, or something like that— a politician, perhaps.

Killick was a man who periodically worried his friends with the thought that he really would commit suicide some time; he usually compromised by accepting a small loan, sometimes as low as two shillings, and as many drinks as he could get. Saving Killick from suicide was apt to become expensive to his friends. There was an occasion when his references to a desperate end had been pointed by the reiterated wail that he had been compelled to pawn his  second-best suit. It so impressed one that I made a hole in a badly-needed cheque in order to save him. Then I remembered that I had no second-best suit myself, although the only one I have to wear looks like one.

The night that Killick sat on the edge of one of Palty's chairs with his head in his hands, and moaned out his troubles, it didn't look as if small loans would do any good

"I can't understand," said Palty, as he sympathetically poured another whisky into his'glass, "why Pecksniff and Parsons sacked you for lack of thorou ghness. You've certainly made a thorough mess of things."

Killick groaned. It looked thorough enough to me. He'd lost his job and kept it dark until he'd dissipated his last bean; on leaving, he owed the petty cash a few quid (that was the way he put it), and it might be regarded as embezzlement, although (of course) he had intended to pay it back; he expected that if he went home he would find the bailiff in for the rent, and that the wireless people had repossessed the wireless; but, as he had assured his wife that both rent and wireless instalments were paid, he didn't dare to go home, though he had nowhere to sleep and not a bean in his pocket. Such items as the fact that the gas was cut off and that he had managed, for a small sum to mortgage the wireless that wasn't his to somebody who would be annoyed to find his security gone, were merely incidentals to a somewhat comprehensive story of difficulty.

And late at night he had dropped  into Palty's flat, where there is always a bottle of whisky (Palty sees that hotel employees get free fish at his employers' expense and they reciprocate), to distress his friends.

"I wish I was dead!" moaned Killick.

"The very idea!" cried Palty.

"We'll help you, my boy. We'll see that you are properly killed.  You'll be free from all your troubles."

Killick looked startled. When Palty, who had been putting his fingers into his waistcoat pocket, produced a knife and started to open a blade, he shifted quickly to the other side of the table.

"Did anyone see you when you came into these flats?" Palty asked. I

Whitefaced, Killick sprang to his feet.

"No, but they'll hear me, if you start any funny business!" he cried.

It wasn't till then, when he had found his tobacco— Palty sticks to plug— that he realised the scare he had given Killick, and laughed. Then he explained his plan. But Killick, wasn't quite satisfied even when assured that the process would be quite painless and would relieve him of all his troubles.

"Perhaps if you two could make up a quid I could scrape through," he suggested.

"Nothing doing," said Palty, decisively. "We've got to see you right out of your worries, or not help at all. You've gotta die."

Of course, luck helped us; it always helps the adventurous. If there hadn't been that unidentified body lying at the foot of the cliffs at Boulder's Bluff, with the clothes all torn to ribbons and the face beyond identification through bumping against the rocks and bushes on the way down, there'd have been something else. We made Killick write a pathetic farewell letter, and we drove out in Palty's car to place that and the contents of Killick's pockets under a stone on the top of Boulder's Bluff.

There were a lot of people sightseeing there, getting a thrill from looking at the place where a fellow-creature had gone over the edge; and it was simple tor me to say to one of them:

"I say! Doesn't that look like some papers under that stone on the ledge?" He discovered them, feeling like the hero of the moment, without our coming into the picture at all; and in a few hours Killick was as dead as any man could wish to be.

Palty had nearly jumped up to the ceiling when he examined those papers from Killick's pockets. They would explain anybody's suicide— police court summonses, bills and demands for payment, reminders of ten years' unpaid income tax, and all that sort of thing. They not only showed that the man who committed suicide was Killick; they showed the reason for his death.

Killick was the most troublesome corpse you ever saw. He'd given all sorts of promises, if we'd only help him out of his troubles; but, as I said, he was never enthusiastic about dying, and he proved a handful. You'd think that a man would do his best to help friends who were kind, enough to kill him; but Killick was what you'd call captious.

Of course, he wasn't Killick any more. Palty had once been on the stage; as a matter of fact, it was at a time when the company he was with played at a little' fishing town on the South Coast that he got his first insight into the fish business. That was after the audience had pelted the actors with fish. Palty collected and sold them. He gave Killick a splendid disguise, with a little help from discarded fish scales, christened him Sam Billings, and got him a job in the fish markets. The ungrateful hound said he wasn't used to working in the fish markets, but Palty reminded him that it was much better to work there than in a gaol.

That was Killick— or Sam Billings— all over; raising difficulties instead of trying to help. Not satisfied at being relieved of all his troubles, he seemed to suspect that we were trying to cheat him, because he had no chance of getting hold of any of his insurance money. His wife had kept the insurances going; and the fact that the wife would be provided for had been one of the advantages of his death; but, mind you, he wanted to share in it. Then, although he'd always said she had been impossible to live with, he wanted to ring his wife up and break the news of his own death to her.

One way and another, there was a lot of anxiety with him. We were always afraid that he would get drunk and forget that he was dead, and go wandering back to his old pubs proclaiming, his revival. We thought the limit was reached when he wanted to go to his funeral.

"Who's damn funeral is it?" he asked, passionately. "I've got a right to be there. It wouldn't be respectful for me to stay away from my own funeral."

That was a point of view, of course. The circumstances were unique; it was quite natural that when he had the opportunity a man would like to see what happened at his obsequies. After consultation, in which we considered the possibility of Killick getting drunk and turning up whether we gave him permission or not, we decided that he should go with us as his own uncle, who nobody had seen. That would explain any resemblance in appearance, manner and voice which Palty's art and his own sense were not able to disguise.

I wish Palty and I had enjoyed that funeral as much as Killick, or Killick's uncle, did. We caught him saying to Pittock, who had declared that Jim Killick was one of the finest fellows who ever lived, in spite of his peculiarities.

"Yes, I am a fine fellow. I never realised that people thought so much of me before. It's worth being dead."

When he heard Darby sigh, "I wish I'd lent him that quid he asked me for a couple of weeks ago," he suggested that we might get up a subscription for the widow and get away with it for his benefit; while at the graveside we had difficulty in restraining him from hopping on to an adjacent tombstone and returning thanks to those who had attended his funeral, and for their floral tributes and their words of appreciation.

At that time he had only had a few drinks; the real trouble began when a a few select-friends returned to the house of mourning and Killick's uncle insisted on regarding the affair as his own party— "and a jolly fine party, too," as he declared once— making shameful love to his nephew's widow, and offering to sing some of those rollicking Irish songs he had been fond of singing when he was Killick in a drunken mood. Several times we tried to get him away, but he was getting more and more out of hand when the end came.

Palty, who had left us for a moment, came back with an agitated face.

"Your real uncle has arrived," he said shortly. "He's just come down by car from Queensland."

That sobered even Killick. We got out quietly by the back gate; and Killick reverted to the role of Sam Billings.

I don't know how Palty explained the existence of two uncles. He must have done it, somehow; for Palty, as a friend of the family, was often at the house of mourning, helping the widow to adjust affairs; and he kept on going there.

It was difficult for Sam Billings to get on, with a large thirst, on a small wage. He kept turning up, with threats of coming to life again, with requests for money.

"You fellows killed me," he complained. "You wiped out all my friends; I can't go to them and borrow money when I'm short; I've got to come to you."

"Do you know," said Palty to me one day, "the man's blackmailing us! I'm not going to stand that!"

The next time Killick came, Palty charged him with the offence.

"You can call it what you like. Tou know you've committed a criminal" offence," said Killick, coolly.

"You ungrateful swine!" I said. "We did it to get you out of a hole, and now!— Well, you're in it, too."

"Me? They can't charge a man with a criminal offence for being dead," retorted Killick.

The man had no moral principle. His unrestrained thirst was a danger. When he got well shot he rebelled against the stale fish scales that were part of his disguise as Sam Billings. Palty and I suffered heart palpitations when we heard stories about Jim Killick's ghost having been seen about town.

Old Tomsitt, who had seen him buried, had a fit in Hunter Street when the ghost walked up to him with outstretched hand. Once Palty and I saw the ghost ourselves in the Blue Lion.

We were with a group of friends, and the conversation had turned upon the poor departed Killick, when the glass dropped out of Harvey's hand to shatter on the floor, while his eyes became like saucers.

"My Gawd!" he yelled. "He's there!"

Palty, I admit, showed great presence of mind; I showed a little of my own. While he leaped towards the apparition I, with horror, threw myself backwards against those who seemed likely to advance; and several of us fell to the floor and had to be picked up. Palty, who had disappeared, as had Killick, came back again as we were talking awefully about the incident.

"Did you fellows think you saw Killick?" he asked. "I thought I did, too; I leaped forward to seize him, but he seemed to vanish into thin air. I went out to see if I could find him. He had gone-simply vanished!"

"It cost me a quid to get him to vamoose, after I'd pushed him out," he whispered to me.

"This sort of thing can't go on," I remarked.

"It can't. It's not going to go on, as far as I'm concerned," he retorted, grimly.

It was pretty tough, when you come to think of it; we had tried to help a friend, and this is what we suffered for it. As if Killick wasn't bad enough, there was another complication.

A conscience is an uncomfortable thing; it's usually a darn sight more uncomfortable for others than for the one who has it. A man with a conscience had reported himself to the police. He insisted that he had committed a murder by throwing a man oyer the cliffs at Boulder's Bluff. It couldn^t have been as bad if he had merely left it at that. He said the man's name was James Dowling, and gave full details of where he had lived and air about him. The police were making inquiries.

Directly I got this news I set out to see Palty, to consider what was to be done-if anything. But on my doorstep I saw Killick's ghost— no, Killick. And he hadn't the excuse of being drunk. .

"Good heavens, man!" I cried. "What do you mean by going about like this? Are you mad?"

"If you don't like it, you can get rid of me. There's a boat leaving for New Zealand in half an hour," he said. "Give me twenty quid— you can get half of it back from Palty; he'll be equally glad to get rid of me— and I'll leave by it."

The relief seemed well worth the money. I bustled Killick into a car and pulled down the blind.

When I had seen him safely on the boat I used the car to drive to Palty's.

To my amazement, he was locked in his flat, and, pummelling at the door, I had to get the caretaker to open it; it had a quaint external lock for emergency use.

"You blinded fool!" yelled Palty when I had told him the news I thought would delight him. "Why didn't you insist upon coming here first? The swine locked me in! I was going to travel by that boat; and now I've missed it. Did the hound say anything?"

"Something I didn't quite understand," I said. "He said his wife thanks us both for helping her to get that insurance money. And he said his wife wanted her love sent to you; although how—"

"Curse it!" he screamed, as if in agony. "His wife was on that boat!"

I suddenly saw the light.

"And you were going to run away with her— and the insurance money— but he cut you out!'' I cried. "It serves you damned well right!"

It's a wicked world. For my part, I have accepted that travelling job in the islands my firm has offered me. It seems best to be away from Sydney for a time.

_______________________

27: Getting Rid of Pongo

Sydney Mail 14 Dec 1938

A Story from the Shades

'YOU'VE got to choose between that dog and me,' said Maria.

Maria was strong on this choose-between business. It had come out in regard to horse-racing, smoking, my men friends— in fact, in a score of ways. Maria was cock-sure that there can be only one answer. If I only had had the courage to express my real choice I might have been happy. It was the sad reflection that, again, I might not that had made a coward of me and kept me silent.

I was very fond of dogs. Maria said I was very like one myself, only that a. dog is a faithful animal. Pongo was quite an accident. He simply arrived one day, chased the cat over the fence, and gave Maria's pet poodle such a fright that he spent most of his time for three days under the wardrobe. He then lay down on the mat. The next day he was quite at home. He defied the milkman to enter, bit the baker, and badly scared a policeman who called about some municipal business; and — this may have helped the development of my affection for him — he frightened my mother-in-law away when she called to pay a visit. It was all done, of course, to show us what a. valuable watchdog he was.

THE mat didn't satisfy him when he was sure of his footing. 'What's good enough for you is good enough for me,' seemed to be his genial philosophy. He thought our bed was a nice comfortable place for a snooze, and he chose times when he was wet from rolling in tne grass ana a nice new cover had been put on. An easy chair would do him if he was found and turned off the bed. He liked playing with Maria's shoes, too, in a way that was not good for the shoes. There were a hundred things he liked which Maria didn't like at all.

But there was something about him. If you scolded him, he looked with such pleading in his eyes while he knocked over vases and pot-plants with his flogging tail that you had to forgive him. At least. I did, not Maria. Women are hard.

SHE showed that when she raked up an old kennel and chain and attached them to Pongo. Poor Pongo was a friendly dog who didn't like being shut away from companionship. He objected vocally. Neighbours rang us up on the telephone to tell us about it, as if we didn't know. I knew especially. I suppose if Maria told me once that I would have to get rid of that dog she mentioned it fifty times. Finally I went out and slept in the kennel — a roomy one — to keep the poor fellow company. My idea was that it would show Maria how hard she was. She told me next day that it only showed the condition I had been in when I came home.

Finally I decided that for the sake of peace Pongo would have to go. Maria was hinting drastically about poison; and I couldn't think of that about a dog that was certainly fond of me. r didn't like the way the poor dog was insulted— chased out with a broom, or heaved out of a door by the scruff of the neck.

THE difficulty was to get rid of Pongo. He was given to a friend in the next suburb; but that was easy. He came back after two days, trailing a broken chain; and he was so glad to be back that he came right into the house through a closed window to let us know about it. Try as I would, it was impossible to make Maria see that the animal's faithfulness and enthusiasm might be set against the cost of the broken window.

Smith, who lives in a suburb very remote from ours, about fifteen miles away, mentioned that he wanted a watchdog. He got Pongo. The first we knew of his return was when we heard him biting the milkman— or rather we heard the milkman. Pongo had got used to the regular milkman, but this chap was doing relieving work.

Smith told me later, coldly, that if ever I gave him a dog again it would be the end of our friendship. He did not deign to explain, when I asked him what the dog had done; his look implied that I dashed well knew the sort of things Pongo would do. I did, in a way.

LATER I took Pongo out for a ride in a car and dropped him about forty miles away. He was pretty footsore when he got back, but he didn't entertain any malice. He treated his dropping in the wilderness as if it had been an unfortunate mistake.

Pongo might not have been much to look at; I would hardly say that he was one dog in a hundred, although you might say he was a hundred dogs in one, his breeding being very mixed; but a dog that could get back in that way had some points in intelligence. Trying to make Maria feel that she should admire him, however, was wasted effort.

When Maria's conversation began to be really unpleasant somebody mentioned th Dogs Home. The Dogs Home people were quite amiable, but they didn't know Pongo. Certainly a dog was destroyed, but it was another dog that the man caught after Pongo had escaped from the dog-box; heaven knows how anyone could mistake any other dog for our Pongo. He came home wagging his tail nearly off at seeing us again. He may have realised that he had had a close call. The owner of the other dog found out what had happened, somehow, and was very unpleasant, and the Dogs' Home did not want anything more to do with Pongo.

Maria's references to poison became definite. It was cold-blooded murder, of course, with an affectionate animal like Pongo. But women don't mind a murder or so if they can get someone to do it for them.

It was after Pongo had made the mistake of thinking that a cold chicken on the kitchen table had been left there for him that the poison was bought. I was not given time to ponder on the enormity of the crime. Maria stood in the background like a Lady Macbeth as I— under her fierce supervision— shut my eyes and handed Pongo his poisoned meat.

IN the morning Pongo greeted me with joyful barking and a great appetite. I was relieved but puzzled.

Some time later Tomkins, who owns racing dogs, looked over the front hedge.

'Hey,' he remarked, 'have you heard that dog poisoners have been about? Two of my dogs got a bait last night. They were stiff this morning. Worth a hundred quid apiece those dogs were. I wish I could find out the cow who did it.'

I knew when to be silent; so does Maria occasionally, although it seems hard to believe that. I only said: 'A man who poisons a dog deserves to be hanged! And anyone who instigates such a crime deserves to be hung, drawn, and quartered,' I added for the benefit of Maria, who was on the verandah.

When I learned that the cat next door was dead, also, I remembered certain sounds I had heard, and reconstructed the tragedy. Two cats had been curious to see what I had given Pongo. While Pongo had strained as far as the chain would allow to reach one on the fence the other had made off with the meat. A lengthy dispute and chase between the cats had taken the bait well away from our home.

Maria seemed afraid to even mention poison after that, but she began, shortly, to talk about other methods.

'If I tried to borrow a revolver,' I said nastily, 'people might mistake what I wanted to do with it, knowing about us.'

'What do you mean?' she said.

'Nothing,' I replied vaguely.

It wasn't that that made the real trouble. No: it was Pongo himself. The discovery of some feathers sticking out of a cushion, a new and expensive one, roused all his playful, sporting humour. Scattered feathers certainly do not improve the appearance of a sitting-room; some were still there when I came home. In spite of my efforts to argue with Maria on the lines that she had been a girl herself once, which only seemed to annoy her, I slept in the kennel with poor Pongo again that night. I felt it was his last night on earth and I wanted to spend it with him.

I DIDN'T go home at all the next night, nor the next. If Maria was going to insist on a tragedy she could do the dark deed herself. My intention was to wait until it was all over; and I tried to forget. To some extent I succeeded.

But Maria always left the dirty work to me. What happened was that poor Pongo was only left chained up. Even Maria's hard heart softened about that after a time. When she let him off the chain he leapt and tumbled about her as if he regarded her as a real friend. Then he took the fence in a stride, chased the Binks's cat through their premises, found the Bloggs's dog, which had grown incautious after Pongo's temporary absence, and gave him the hiding that had long been delayed, and then discovered that an open gate admitted him to a poultry yard.

Pongo always regarded fowls as great fun. He had hardly been chased out before the passing of a motor cyclist aroused all his hunting instincts. The cyclist, dodging him, went right into a stone wall.

ALTOGETHER he had a great day. I know what it feels like to be let off the chain myself, so I had a sympathetic understanding when I heard about it. His adventures led him a long way away, and it wasn't until rather late that he made his way home, rather doubtfully. He had remembered that he hadn't seen his master for some time and there was a chain waiting for him.

He gave a joyful bark when he realised that the figure sitting on the kerbing hugging the telegraph-post was me. I had been trying to make up my mind to go home; and it was nice to have a greeting like that. There was a bond of sympathy between us; we were both subject to the harsh tyranny of woman. Maria found us in the morning sleeping together on the doormat, locked in one another's arms, so to speak.

It was shortly after that that the people began to arrive— Bloggs about his dog, Simpson about his fowls, a worse-for-wear motor cyclist about sundry damages. Long before the last of them had paid his visit I decided that Maria was right. We would have to part with Pongo.

Feeling like an executioner, I took Pongo, a big sack, and some chloroform down to the river; there were some boulders there to weight the bag, and the chloroform made the final act humane.

But a dog who had come through all that Pongo had come through was not finished as easily as that. To my amazement, in spite of the weights, the bag came back to the surface, moving convulsively. It wrung my heart. Then Pongo began to emerge. He was making a struggle to get away from the bag which encumbered him.

I couldn't let an old companion die like that. I plunged in to the rescue, and I was drowned. Pongo wasn't. The ungrateful hound swam to the shore, leaving me to it. At the inquest circumstantial evidence served to make a newspaper canine hero of Pongo. The dog had heroically plunged to my rescue.

That brings the queer result. My wife makes a pet of the canine hero she once wanted me to poison. He tried to rescue her dear husband. On the anniversary of my death she ties crepe round his neck and feeds him with chicken. He enjoys it immensely.

The great point about it, perhaps, is that the commemoration thoroughly annoys Maria's second husband.

______________________

28: Stonker Badley, Parson

Sunday Mail (Brisbane) 26 Jan 1941

BRADLEY dropped from the end of his rope of blankets, and, as his feet touched the ground, shot himself outward. In a split second he was lying under cover.

As cabbages, those long-stalked vegetables in the gaol garden were not much good; but as cover they were excellent.

He lay for a moment, with heart seeming to choke him by its quick beating. It seemed incredible that he should have come so far without being detected, yet there was no sound of an alarm.

On the wall above the warder nonchalantly came to the end of his beat, and stood outlined against the starry sky.

Directly he turned Bradley, lifting himself no higher than was absolutely necessary for movement, made a short dash and dropped again when instinct told him that the warder had reached the end of his beat and would be returning.

It took merely a few such dashes to bring him to the lower wall surrounding the prison vegetable garden. He was very cautious now. waiting for the exact moment when the warder's back was turned as he looked inward over the gaol yards.

It came, and, dropping over into the lower ground, where he could move screened from observation, Bradley was free.

'As free as a rabbit, with all the dogs in the place on his tail!' he soliloquised, bitterly.

Strangely, the hopelessness of escape had not presented itself to him until he was outside the walls. In all the delectable dreams leading to this desperate venture his thought had gone no further than the freedom that could be his once the cage was broken.

Now he saw the hazards, the almost futility of that freedom. He would be recaptured— that was fairly certain— and a penalty for his escape would be added to the few months he still had to serve. He wished he had stayed in his cell.

Still, there was some satisfaction in feeling free, if only for a little time. Now he had his liberty, he would make it last as long as possible.

Clothes were the first consideration. If he was still wearing prison garb when morning came, there would be no hope for him. He moved awav quickly, placing distance between him and the cage from which he had broken.

The world seemed full of dogs. Bradley hated dogs more than he had ever hated them before. He was chased out of three premises by animals, which only revealed their presence when he seemed safely within the fence. A big fellow, one of those accursed Alsatians, he thought, had kept a strip of trouser leg, which would be a dead put-away if it was found and linked up with the escaped convict.

But the glad thought that, after all, fate was helping him came when a half-opened gate led him to a door that had been left open. There was no dog. A cautious entrance showed him the interior of a house laundry, with linen set out to be aired. In the midst of it, suspended on a coat-hanger, was a suit of clothes.

The dim light was sufficient to let him see also a safety-razor and some old toilet accessories piled on the window-ledge beyond the wash tubs.

The sound of footsteps approaching along the path drove him to cover in a corner behind some hanging bed sheets. His heart beat wildly. The newcomer paused only long enough to turn the key in the door he had shut behind him, and walked through, oblivious of the intruder.

Bradley wasted no time. He took what he wanted and fled. By a creek in the park he shaved with an old razor and mirror that was part of the loot. Then he dressed, amazed and perturbed by a discovery. It brought the mirror into use again.

'I look like a parson!' he exclaimed. 'The Reverend Stonker Bradley!'

There was something amusing about it; but it wouldn't be amusing if he were caught. The escape from prison and the theft of the parson's rig-out would be linked, he imagined, very quickly. His one hope was to get as far away as possible without allowing himself to be spotted.

He walked straight and hard when he lound a good road, thankful that there were not many passing vehicles to drive him to cover. He dared not seek a lift from people who would be bound to talk. When he reckoned that he had put ten miles between himself and the scene of his escape he felt more comfortable.

IT was probably because he was heavy with sleep, and less alert, that the motor car caught up to him before he could slip aside from the road. The night was lightening to dawn. The driver pulled up.

'Out early, padre,' he remarked genially.

Bradley felt he had to play the part for which the clothes had cast him. He did not know much about it; his meetings with parsons had been rare, and his knowledge of their habits had been derived from the vaudeville stage; but he would chance it.

'The business of the Lord calls at all hours.' he droned. 'That wasn't your car five or six miles back, was it, padre? The single-seater at the side of the road?'

Heaven seemed to have provided a first-class explanation for the fugitive's presence on the road.

'It was. deah brothah,' he explained, hastily.

'Had a break-down?' asked the driver, sympathetically. 'Perhaps we could fix it for you. It wouldn't take in a quarter of an hour to drive back with you. ir we can't fix it we could give you a tow to the garage at Bungerville. Going there, I suppose?'

'No, no, deah brothah.'

The idea of going back had caused him some painful agitation. 'The car is ah— hopeless, I fear— feah. I can arrange to have it— ah— attended to. My mission is— ah— beyond Bungerville.'

'By jove, you must be the padre who was coming out to my sister's place for the marryin'. My name's Dowling, brother of Mrs. Burton, or Craiglea. Jump in. uadre! Lucky we happened along. It's a hell of a— pardon padre!— it's a pretty long sten to Bungerville.'

Because Bradley was dog-tired, he fell into what he soon realised was a trap out of which escape would be difficult. The man in the back seat genially made room and friendly hands dragged him in, as though making- up his mind for him. Yet their few remarks were full of respect for the cloth he was wearing.

Bradley was so weary that the motion of the car and the cramped comfort of his cushioned seat soon lulled him to a doze. He woke up spasmodically, however, and during a wakeful interlude, his eyes still closed, heard the driver murmuring to the man beside him:

'They expected him to arrive by train. I think. My sister, may you know, has a derry on the local parson because he drinks a glass when he wants it. She told me she was going to invite this padre. Met him in Sydney. From what she says he's T.T., and the right man for the splicing.'

'Doesn't seem a bad chap for a parson.'

'Hates licker like poison.'

It was news to Stonker. Bradley stirred. The scream of the brakes and some shouting shook him up in time to see the narrow averting of a smash with a heavily-laden truck, which had veered out ahead of them.

'Close call, that!' exclaimed the two men beside him in one breath.

'Damn close!' agreed Bradley. They looked at him curiously, Bradley, remembering his part, added hastily: 'The Lord was with us. dear brothah!' Strangely, it seemed that there evolved an added respect for the parson who could swear.

When they arrived in Bungerville and pulled up at a refreshment shop, the driver suggested tea. They would have breakfast when they got to Craiglea, he said.

Bradley was thinking hard. He was in a mess. When he got to Craiglea the parson he was supposed to be would turn up, and there would be an exposure. He agitated on ways of escape, including making a bolt from these friends. That would give the show away at once, of course. Finally he decided to allow matters to go on. awaiting a more favourable opportunity.

ONLY Johnston was drinking tea with him. He had hardly wakened to this fact before Rogers came in. When the latter sat down, Johnson got up with a brief, 'Excuse me a moment.'

Watching him surreptitiously, Bradley saw him making for the hotel across the road. That was the reason for all the signs and looks he had noticed. It was tea out of deference to the parson: but the others were taking turns to get all the beer they felt they needed. Blast 'em! Bradley's suggestion that he should try to hire a car for himself was scouted by the hospitable Dowling.

'You couldn't get a car in Bungerville, anyway,' he explained.

The stranded car? Dowling said he had arranged with the local earage for it to be towed in and attended to. Bradley did not see reason to worry about the surprise likely to be given its real owner.

Several times Bradley contemplated a leap from the car, and a quick get-away in the bush, but it was travelling too fast.

Craiglea. a roomy homestead at which the whole neighbourhood seemed to be gathering, did not at once present the troubles he had been anticipating, with occasional gushes of frenzy.

'DEAR Mr. Sampson, it is so good of you to come all this way,' said the tall, austere woman who came to greet him, looking at him keenly through her glasses in a way that showed that she was, providentially, short-sighted. 'It must have been tiring— the journey. I would hardly have known you!'

'Travel— ah— makes some— ah— change in the appearance, deah sistah!'

'Oh, yes; and you must be weary and hungry. We thought you would come by train. I've only just sent a car to the station for you. You got my cheque?' she added in an undertone.

'Ye-es. Thank you, deah sistah.'

Hope sprang in Bradley's breast. The only person who might be expected to know he was an impostor was short-sighted. The real parson would not arrive for a time, at least. The open door of a big loughboy in the room into which he was shown for a spruce-up showed an array of suits, one of which would not immediately be missed. A quick change, and a hurried departure were in his mind. His disappearance would create astonishment, but...

His hand upon a suit was suddenly withdrawn as the door opened.

'Going to have a brush-up, myself,' said Dowling. genially. 'Breakfast is waiting for you, padre.'

Bradley found himself gripped as by a nightmare. There was always the idea of seizing an opportunity to steal away, but whenever ho made an effort to lose himself Mrs. Burton called him to introduce him to some new arrival. She was showing him off.

A desperate idea of abandoning the suit notion, jumping into one of the cars parked before the homestead, and driving off, ignoring the astonishment of the assembly, was checked in a similar manner as he stepped down from the verandah.

'It is very near the time for the ceremony, dear Mr. Sampson.' said Mrs. Burton. 'It is to take place in the drawing-room. Would you like to see the arrangements?'

Bradley went cold. He had dreaded the arrival of the real parson; but if the real parson did not arrive, or was very late, he, Bradley, would be expected to perform the ceremony. The bride was a nice sheelah. and the groom seemed a decent voung bloke, why it would be criminal! An idea came to him:

'It is— ah— careless of me. deah sistah.' he said. 'I left my— ah— prayer book in the car — my own car. Is there some township where—'

'Oh. don't worry about that, Mr. Sampson.' returned Mrs. Burton, cheerfully. 'I'll find a prayerbook. We are religious people,' sha added, proudly.

DESPERATELY Bradley sought to make use of the opportunity given by her departure. He was back in the room with the loughboy, and, with a suit hurriedly gathered, he hastened to the window, only to find that the wedding party grouped outside made escape that way impossible.

It was then, as he stared out of the window, that he saw the real holy man arrive. Bradley made for the door. In the confusion he might get out... He was held spell bound.

'Here are the books, dear Mr. Sampson,' he heard Mrs. Burton say.

'But I have my own books, Mrs. Burton,' the Reverend. gentleman returned in astonishment. 'I am ready at once; but first may I have ten minutes alone? I like to prepare myself with prayers for an occasion like this.'

'Why certainly! In that room, Mr. Sampson. I'll see you are not disturbed.'

Bradley hid himself behind the door. It closed a minute later, and Bradley found himself facing an astonished minister of the gospel, who saw before Mm something like a comic edition of himself.

'What's this?' exclaimed the clergyman, sharply. The thoughts that flooded Bradley's mind drowned coherency. He found himself telling the parson everything, pleading with him for a chance.

He scarcely believed his ears when he grasped what the minister was saying: 'The conventionally right thing to do would be to hand you over to the police. I'm not going to do that. I'm going to let you escape.'

]'You mean it?' Bradley gasped.

'Listen,' the clergyman went on. 'In that suit of clothes you have in your hands you can get away unnoticed. Start to change now, and be quick. And here's a pound.'

'No, mister,' Stonker was amazed to hear himself say it: but something inside him had been touched.

'Take it, and go straight. I believe there's good in every man— I'm giving you a chance. I can't be a party to stealing, but borrowing doesn't matter: so promise me to return the clothes you are taking. Return them as soon as you can. You can send them back anonymously.'

There was a kindness in the parson's voice that made Bradley feel as though it was melting. He was not used to kindness.

'I'll do that, mister,' he said, eagerly. 'You're a sport!'

'Too much of a sport, I am afraid,' the clergyman said. 'But I'll have to answer for it. When I have left the room, slip out and get away; and God go with you!'

Bradley was a sport, too, in a way. and he experienced a thrill of righteousness a few days later as he posted back the pawn ticket for the ten-guinea suit he had taken from the loughboy.

End

Table of Contents

- 1: Fear
- 2: An Enemy of the People
- 3: The Manor Chamber Mystery
- 4: The Fangs Of Fate
- 5: Guilty Conscience
- 6: The Clock Hands of Fate
- 7: How Random Won The Cup
- 8: The Wastrel Son
- 9: Murder At Moberley Flats
- 10: Defeating The Favorite
- 11: The Sound of the Bugle
- 12: Fingerprints
- 13: Cargo from China
- 14: The Load of the Stalwart
- 15: The Servicetown Mystery
- 16: The Minute That Mattered
- 17: Just a Quiet Xmas
- 18: Fate at the Shrine
- 19: The Last Day
- 20: Bad Blood
- 21: The First Violin
- 22: The Curse of Scarletti
- 23: Betrayal
- 24: Circumstantial Evidence
- 25: Chance
- 26: Keeping Killick Killed
- 27: Getting Rid of Pongo
- 28: Stonker Badley, Parson