Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Short fiction, some of it longer than usual, from the Life+70 Public domain: A cumulative author index for issues 101-115 is included. 1: The Haunted and the Haunters / Edward Bulwer-Lytton 2: The Clavecin, Bruges / George Wharton Edwards 3: The Time to Go / Hugh Pendexter 4: The Three Grey Men of Mote Hall / Peter Cheyney 5: Lilies of Life / Malcolm Jameson 6: Fintale the Merman / Bertram Atkey 7: Candlelight / Lady Eleanor Smith 8: The Appeal / E. M. Delafield 9: Curtains For Five / Roger Torrey 10: The Story of a Hanged Man / J. E. Muddock 11: The Electro-Hydraulic Bank Protector / Henry Hu

PAST MASTERS 115

Editor: Terry Walker

An anthology of short stories  in the Life + 70 Years Public Domain

9 February 2023

Contents

1: The Haunted and the Haunters / Edward Bulwer-Lytton

2: The Clavecin, Bruges / George Wharton Edwards

3: The Time to Go / Hugh Pendexter

4: The Three Grey Men of Mote Hall / Peter Cheyney

5: Lilies of Life / Malcolm Jameson

6: Fintale the Merman / Bertram Atkey

7: Candlelight / Lady Eleanor Smith

8: The Appeal / E. M. Delafield

9: Curtains For Five / Roger Torrey

10: The Story of a Hanged Man / J. E. Muddock

11: The Electro-Hydraulic Bank Protector / Henry Hugh Simmons

12: Exchange is Robbery / Richard Marsh

13: Blood Pressure / Damon Runyon

14: The Ride / Walter McLeod

15: The Shilling Reef / Ernest Favenc

16: Narcotic Man / Frederick C. Painton

Cumulative Index 101-115

_________

1: The Haunted and the Haunters

Edward Bulwer-Lytton

1803-1873

Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, Aug 1859

A FRIEND of mine, who is a man of letters and a philosopher, said to me one day, as if between jest and earnest, "Fancy! since we last met I have discovered a haunted house in the midst of London."

"Really haunted,— and by what?— ghosts?"

"Well, I can't answer that question; all I know is this: six weeks ago my wife and I were in search of a furnished apartment. Passing a quiet street, we saw on the window of one of the houses a bill, 'Apartments, Furnished.' The situation suited us; we entered the house, liked the rooms, engaged them by the week,—and left them the third day. No power on earth could have reconciled my wife to stay longer; and I don't wonder at it."

"What did you see?"

"Excuse me; I have no desire to be ridiculed as a superstitious dreamer,—nor, on the other hand, could I ask you to accept on my affirmation what you would hold to be incredible without the evidence of your own senses. Let me only say this, it was not so much what we saw or heard (in which you might fairly suppose that we were the dupes of our own excited fancy, or the victims of imposture in others) that drove us away, as it was an undefinable terror which seized both of us whenever we passed by the door of a certain unfurnished room, in which we neither saw nor heard anything. And the strangest marvel of all was, that for once in my life I agreed with my wife, silly woman though she be,— and allowed, after the third night, that it was impossible to stay a fourth in that house. Accordingly, on the fourth morning I summoned the woman who kept the house and attended on us, and told her that the rooms did not quite suit us, and we would not stay out our week." She said dryly, "I know why; you have stayed longer than any other lodger. Few ever stayed a second night; none before you a third. But I take it they have been very kind to you."

"'They,— who?' I asked, affecting to smile.

"'Why, they who haunt the house, whoever they are. I don't mind them. I remember them many years ago, when I lived in this house, not as a servant; but I know they will be the death of me some day. I don't care,—I'm old, and must die soon anyhow; and then I shall be with them, and in this house still.' The woman spoke with so dreary a calmness that really it was a sort of awe that prevented my conversing with her further. I paid for my week, and too happy were my wife and I to get off so cheaply."

"You excite my curiosity," said I; "nothing I should like better than to sleep in a haunted house. Pray give me the address of the one which you left so ignominiously."

My friend gave me the address; and when we parted, I walked straight towards the house thus indicated.

It is situated on the north side of Oxford Street, in a dull but respectable thoroughfare. I found the house shut up,— no bill at the window, and no response to my knock. As I was turning away, a beer-boy, collecting pewter pots at the neighboring areas, said to me, "Do you want any one at that house, sir?"

"Yes, I heard it was to be let."

"Let!—why, the woman who kept it is dead,— has been dead these three weeks, and no one can be found to stay there, though Mr. J—— offered ever so much. He offered mother, who chars for him, £1 a week just to open and shut the windows, and she would not."

"Would not!— and why?"

"The house is haunted; and the old woman who kept it was found dead in her bed, with her eyes wide open. They say the devil strangled her."

"Pooh! You speak of Mr. J——. Is he the owner of the house?"

"Yes."

"Where does he live?"

"In G—— Street, No. ——."

"What is he? In any business?"

"No, sir,— nothing particular; a single gentleman."

I gave the pot-boy the gratuity earned by his liberal information, and proceeded to Mr. J——, in G—— Street, which was close by the street that boasted the haunted house. I was lucky enough to find Mr. J—— at home,— an elderly man with intelligent countenance and prepossessing manners.

I communicated my name and my business frankly. I said I heard the house was considered to be haunted,— that I had a strong desire to examine a house with so equivocal a reputation; that I should be greatly obliged if he would allow me to hire it, though only for a night. I was willing to pay for that privilege whatever he might be inclined to ask. "Sir," said Mr. J——, with great courtesy, "the house is at your service, for as short or as long a time as you please. Rent is out of the question,— the obligation will be on my side should you be able to discover the cause of the strange phenomena which at present deprive it of all value. I cannot let it, for I cannot even get a servant to keep it in order or answer the door. Unluckily the house is haunted, if I may use that expression, not only by night, but by day; though at night the disturbances are of a more unpleasant and sometimes of a more alarming character. The poor old woman who died in it three weeks ago was a pauper whom I took out of a workhouse; for in her childhood she had been known to some of my family, and had once been in such good circumstances that she had rented that house of my uncle. She was a woman of superior education and strong mind, and was the only person I could ever induce to remain in the house. Indeed, since her death, which was sudden, and the coroner's inquest, which gave it a notoriety in the neighborhood, I have so despaired of finding any person to take charge of the house, much more a tenant, that I would willingly let it rent free for a year to any one who would pay its rates and taxes."

"How long is it since the house acquired this sinister character?"

"That I can scarcely tell you, but very many years since. The old woman I spoke of, said it was haunted when she rented it between thirty and forty years ago. The fact is, that my life has been spent in the East Indies, and in the civil service of the Company. I returned to England last year, on inheriting the fortune of an uncle, among whose possessions was the house in question. I found it shut up and uninhabited. I was told that it was haunted, that no one would inhabit it. I smiled at what seemed to me so idle a story. I spent some money in repairing it, added to its old-fashioned furniture a few modern articles,— advertised it, and obtained a lodger for a year. He was a colonel on half-pay. He came in with his family, a son and a daughter, and four or five servants: they all left the house the next day; and, although each of them declared that he had seen something different from that which had scared the others, a something still was equally terrible to all. I really could not in conscience sue, nor even blame, the colonel for breach of agreement. Then I put in the old woman I have spoken of, and she was empowered to let the house in apartments. I never had one lodger who stayed more than three days. I do not tell you their stories,— to no two lodgers have there been exactly the same phenomena repeated. It is better that you should judge for yourself, than enter the house with an imagination influenced by previous narratives; only be prepared to see and to hear something or other, and take whatever precautions you yourself please."

"Have you never had a curiosity yourself to pass a night in that house?" "Yes. I passed not a night, but three hours in broad daylight alone in that house. My curiosity is not satisfied, but it is quenched. I have no desire to renew the experiment. You cannot complain, you see, sir, that I am not sufficiently candid; and unless your interest be exceedingly eager and your nerves unusually strong, I honestly add, that I advise you not to pass a night in that house."

"My interest is exceedingly keen," said I; "and though only a coward will boast of his nerves in situations wholly unfamiliar to him, yet my nerves have been seasoned in such variety of danger that I have the right to rely on them,—even in a haunted house."

Mr. J—— said very little more; he took the keys of the house out of his bureau, gave them to me,— and, thanking him cordially for his frankness, and his urbane concession to my wish, I carried off my prize.

Impatient for the experiment, as soon as I reached home, I summoned my confidential servant,— a young man of gay spirits, fearless temper, and as free from superstitious prejudice as any one I could think of.

"F——," said I, "you remember in Germany how disappointed we were at not finding a ghost in that old castle, which was said to be haunted by a headless apparition? Well, I have heard of a house in London which, I have reason to hope, is decidedly haunted. I mean to sleep there to-night. From what I hear, there is no doubt that something will allow itself to be seen or to be heard,— something, perhaps, excessively horrible. Do you think if I take you with me, I may rely on your presence of mind, whatever may happen?"

"Oh, sir, pray trust me," answered F——, grinning with delight.

"Very well; then here are the keys of the house,—this is the address. Go now,—select for me any bedroom you please; and since the house has not been inhabited for weeks, make up a good fire, air the bed well,—see, of course, that there are candles as well as fuel. Take with you my revolver and my dagger,— so much for my weapons; arm yourself equally well; and if we are not a match for a dozen ghosts, we shall be but a sorry couple of Englishmen."

I was engaged for the rest of the day on business so urgent that I had not leisure to think much on the nocturnal adventure to which I had plighted my honor. I dined alone, and very late, and while dining, read, as is my habit. I selected one of the volumes of Macaulay's Essays. I thought to myself that I would take the book with me; there was so much of healthfulness in the style, and practical life in the subjects, that it would serve as an antidote against the influences of superstitious fancy.

Accordingly, about half-past nine, I put the book into my pocket, and strolled leisurely towards the haunted house. I took with me a favorite dog: an exceedingly sharp, bold, and vigilant bull-terrier,— a dog fond of prowling about strange, ghostly corners and passages at night in search of rats; a dog of dogs for a ghost.

It was a summer night but chilly, the sky somewhat gloomy and overcast. Still there was a moon, faint and sickly but still a moon, and if the clouds permitted, after midnight it would be brighter.

I reached the house, knocked, and my servant opened with a cheerful smile.

"All right, sir, and very comfortable."

"Oh!" said I, rather disappointed; "have you not seen nor heard anything remarkable?"

"Well, sir, I must own I have heard something queer."

"What?— what?"

"The sound of feet pattering behind me; and once or twice small noises like whispers close at my ear,— nothing more."

"You are not at all frightened?"

"I! not a bit of it, sir;" and the man's bold look reassured me on one point,— namely, that happen what might, he would not desert me.

We were in the hall, the street-door closed, and my attention was now drawn to my dog. He had at first run in eagerly enough, but had sneaked back to the door, and was scratching and whining to get out. After patting him on the head, and encouraging him gently, the dog seemed to reconcile himself to the situation, and followed me and F—— through the house, but keeping close at my heels instead of hurrying inquisitively in advance, which was his usual and normal habit in all strange places. We first visited the subterranean apartments,— the kitchen and other offices, and especially the cellars, in which last there were two or three bottles of wine still left in a bin, covered with cobwebs, and evidently, by their appearance, undisturbed for many years. It was clear that the ghosts were not winebibbers. For the rest we discovered nothing of interest. There was a gloomy little backyard, with very high walls. The stones of this yard were very damp; and what with the damp, and what with the dust and smoke-grime on the pavement, our feet left a slight impression where we passed. And now appeared the first strange phenomenon witnessed by myself in this strange abode. I saw, just before me, the print of a foot suddenly form itself, as it were. I stopped, caught hold of my servant, and pointed to it. In advance of that footprint as suddenly dropped another. We both saw it. I advanced quickly to the place; the footprint kept advancing before me, a small footprint,— the foot of a child: the impression was too faint thoroughly to distinguish the shape, but it seemed to us both that it was the print of a naked foot. This phenomenon ceased when we arrived at the opposite wall, nor did it repeat itself on returning. We remounted the stairs, and entered the rooms on the ground-floor, a dining parlor, a small back-parlor, and a still smaller third room that had been probably appropriated to a footman,— all still as death. We then visited the drawing-rooms, which seemed fresh and new. In the front room I seated myself in an arm-chair. F—— placed on the table the candlestick with which he had lighted us. I told him to shut the door. As he turned to do so a chair opposite to me moved from the wall quickly and noiselessly, and dropped itself about a yard from my own chair, immediately fronting it.

"Why, this is better than the turning-tables," said I, with a half-laugh; and as I laughed, my dog put back his head and howled.

F—-, coming back, had not observed the movement of the chair. He employed himself now in stilling the dog. I continued to gaze on the chair, and fancied I saw on it a pale, blue, misty outline of a human figure, but an outline so indistinct that I could only distrust my own vision. The dog now was quiet.

"Put back that chair opposite to me," said I to F——; "put it back to the wall."

F—— obeyed. "Was that you, sir?" said he, turning abruptly.

"I!— what?"

"Why, something struck me. I felt it sharply on the shoulder,—just here."

"No," said I. "But we have jugglers present, and though we may not discover their tricks, we shall catch them before they frighten us."

We did not stay long in the drawing-rooms,— in fact, they felt so damp and so chilly that I was glad to get to the fire upstairs. We locked the doors of the drawing-rooms,— a precaution which, I should observe, we had taken with all the rooms we had searched below. The bedroom my servant had selected for me was the best on the floor,— a large one, with two windows fronting the street. The four-posted bed, which took up no inconsiderable space, was opposite to the fire, which burned clear and bright; a door in the wall to the left, between the bed and the window, communicated with the room which my servant appropriated to himself. This last was a small room with a sofa-bed, and had no communication with the landing-place,— no other door but that which conducted to the bedroom I was to occupy. On either side of my fireplace was a cupboard without locks, flush with the wall, and covered with the same dull-brown paper. We examined these cupboards,—only hooks to suspend female dresses, nothing else; we sounded the walls,—evidently solid, the outer walls of the building. Having finished the survey of these apartments, warmed myself a few moments, and lighted my cigar, I then, still accompanied by F——, went forth to complete my reconnoitre. In the landing-place there was another door; it was closed firmly.

"Sir," said my servant, in surprise, "I unlocked this door with all the others when I first came; it cannot have got locked from the inside, for—"

Before he had finished his sentence, the door, which neither of us then was touching, opened quietly of itself. We looked at each other a single instant. The same thought seized both,— some human agency might be detected here. I rushed in first, my servant followed. A small, blank, dreary room without furniture; a few empty boxes and hampers in a corner; a small window; the shutters closed; not even a fireplace; no other door but that by which we had entered; no carpet on the floor, and the floor seemed very old, uneven, worm-eaten, mended here and there, as was shown by the whiter patches on the wood; but no living being, and no visible place in which a living being could have hidden. As we stood gazing round, the door by which we had entered closed as quietly as it had before opened; we were imprisoned.

For the first time I felt a creep of undefinable horror. Not so my servant. "Why, they don't think to trap us, sir; I could break that trumpery door with a kick of my foot."

"Try first if it will open to your hand," said I, shaking off the vague apprehension that had seized me, "while I unclosed the shutters and see what is without."

I unbarred the shutters,—the window looked on the little backyard I have before described; there was no ledge without,—nothing to break the sheer descent of the wall. No man getting out of that window would have found any footing till he had fallen on the stones below.

F——, meanwhile, was vainly attempting to open the door. He now turned round to me and asked my permission to use force. And I should here state, in justice to the servant, that, far from evincing any superstitious terrors, his nerve, composure, and even gayety amidst circumstances so extraordinary, compelled my admiration, and made me congratulate myself on having secured a companion in every way fitted to the occasion. I willingly gave him the permission he required. But though he was a remarkably strong man, his force was as idle as his milder efforts; the door did not even shake to his stoutest kick. Breathless and panting, he desisted. I then tried the door myself, equally in vain. As I ceased from the effort, again that creep of horror came over me; but this time it was more cold and stubborn. I felt as if some strange and ghastly exhalation were rising up from the chinks of that rugged floor, and filling the atmosphere with a venomous influence hostile to human life. The door now very slowly and quietly opened as of its own accord. We precipitated ourselves into the landing-place. We both saw a large, pale light— as large as the human figure, but shapeless and unsubstantial— move before us, and ascend the stairs that led from the landing into the attics. I followed the light, and my servant followed me. It entered, to the right of the landing, a small garret, of which the door stood open. I entered in the same instant. The light then collapsed into a small globule, exceedingly brilliant and vivid, rested a moment on a bed in the corner, quivered, and vanished. We approached the bed and examined it,— a half-tester, such as is commonly found in attics devoted to servants. On the drawers that stood near it we perceived an old faded silk kerchief, with the needle still left in a rent half repaired. The kerchief was covered with dust; probably it had belonged to the old woman who had last died in that house, and this might have been her sleeping-room. I had sufficient curiosity to open the drawers: there were a few odds and ends of female dress, and two letters tied round with a narrow ribbon of faded yellow. I took the liberty to possess myself of the letters. We found nothing else in the room worth noticing,— nor did the light reappear; but we distinctly heard, as we turned to go, a pattering footfall on the floor, just before us. We went through the other attics (in all four), the footfall still preceding us. Nothing to be seen,—nothing but the footfall heard. I had the letters in my hand; just as I was descending the stairs I distinctly felt my wrist seized, and a faint, soft effort made to draw the letters from my clasp. I only held them the more tightly, and the effort ceased.

We regained the bedchamber appropriated to myself, and I then remarked that my dog had not followed us when we had left it. He was thrusting himself close to the fire, and trembling. I was impatient to examine the letters; and while I read them, my servant opened a little box in which he had deposited the weapons I had ordered him to bring, took them out, placed them on a table close at my bed-head, and then occupied himself in soothing the dog, who, however, seemed to heed him very little.

The letters were short,— they were dated; the dates exactly thirty-five years ago. They were evidently from a lover to his mistress, or a husband to some young wife. Not only the terms of expression, but a distinct reference to a former voyage, indicated the writer to have been a seafarer. The spelling and handwriting were those of a man imperfectly educated, but still the language itself was forcible. In the expressions of endearment there was a kind of rough, wild love; but here and there were dark unintelligible hints at some secret not of love,— some secret that seemed of crime. "We ought to love each other," was one of the sentences I remember, "for how every one else would execrate us if all was known." Again: "Don't let any one be in the same room with you at night,— you talk in your sleep." And again: "What's done can't be undone; and I tell you there's nothing against us unless the dead could come to life." Here there was underlined in a better handwriting (a female's), "They do!" At the end of the letter latest in date the same female hand had written these words: "Lost at sea the 4th of June, the same day as—"

I put down the letters, and began to muse over their contents.

Fearing, however, that the train of thought into which I fell might unsteady my nerves, I fully determined to keep my mind in a fit state to cope with whatever of marvellous the advancing night might bring forth. I roused myself; laid the letters on the table; stirred up the fire, which was still bright and cheering; and opened my volume of Macaulay. I read quietly enough till about half-past eleven. I then threw myself dressed upon the bed, and told my servant he might retire to his own room, but must keep himself awake. I bade him leave open the door between the two rooms. Thus alone, I kept two candles burning on the table by my bed-head. I placed my watch beside the weapons, and calmly resumed my Macaulay. Opposite to me the fire burned clear; and on the hearthrug, seemingly asleep, lay the dog. In about twenty minutes I felt an exceedingly cold air pass by my cheek, like a sudden draught. I fancied the door to my right, communicating with the landing-place, must have got open; but no,— it was closed. I then turned my glance to my left, and saw the flame of the candles violently swayed as by a wind. At the same moment the watch beside the revolver softly slid from the table,— softly, softly; no visible hand,—it was gone. I sprang up, seizing the revolver with the one hand, the dagger with the other; I was not willing that my weapons should share the fate of the watch. Thus armed, I looked round the floor,— no sign of the watch. Three slow, loud, distinct knocks were now heard at the bed-head; my servant called out, "Is that you, sir?"

"No; be on your guard."

The dog now roused himself and sat on his haunches, his ears moving quickly backwards and forwards. He kept his eyes fixed on me with a look so strange that he concentred all my attention on himself. Slowly he rose up, all his hair bristling, and stood perfectly rigid, and with the same wild stare. I had no time, however, to examine the dog. Presently my servant emerged from his room; and if ever I saw horror in the human face, it was then. I should not have recognized him had we met in the street, so altered was every lineament. He passed by me quickly, saying, in a whisper that seemed scarcely to come from his lips, "Run, run! it is after me!" He gained the door to the landing, pulled it open, and rushed forth. I followed him into the landing involuntarily, calling him to stop; but, without heeding me, he bounded down the stairs, clinging to the balusters, and taking several steps at a time. I heard, where I stood, the street-door open,— heard it again clap to. I was left alone in the haunted house.

It was but for a moment that I remained undecided whether or not to follow my servant; pride and curiosity alike forbade so dastardly a flight. I re-entered my room, closing the door after me, and proceeded cautiously into the interior chamber. I encountered nothing to justify my servant's terror. I again carefully examined the walls, to see if there were any concealed door. I could find no trace of one,— not even a seam in the dull-brown paper with which the room was hung. How, then, had the THING, whatever it was, which had so scared him, obtained ingress except through my own chamber?

I returned to my room, shut and locked the door that opened upon the interior one, and stood on the hearth, expectant and prepared. I now perceived that the dog had slunk into an angle of the wall, and was pressing himself close against it, as if literally striving to force his way into it. I approached the animal and spoke to it; the poor brute was evidently beside itself with terror. It showed all its teeth, the slaver dropping from its jaws, and would certainly have bitten me if I had touched it. It did not seem to recognize me. Whoever has seen at the Zoological Gardens a rabbit, fascinated by a serpent, cowering in a corner, may form some idea of the anguish which the dog exhibited. Finding all efforts to soothe the animal in vain, and fearing that his bite might be as venomous in that state as in the madness of hydrophobia, I left him alone, placed my weapons on the table beside the fire, seated myself, and recommenced my Macaulay.

Perhaps, in order not to appear seeking credit for a courage, or rather a coolness, which the reader may conceive I exaggerate, I may be pardoned if I pause to indulge in one or two egotistical remarks.

As I hold presence of mind, or what is called courage, to be precisely proportioned to familiarity with the circumstances that lead to it, so I should say that I had been long sufficiently familiar with all experiments that appertain to the marvellous. I had witnessed many very extraordinary phenomena in various parts of the world,—phenomena that would be either totally disbelieved if I stated them, or ascribed to supernatural agencies. Now, my theory is that the supernatural is the impossible, and that what is called supernatural is only a something in the laws of Nature of which we have been hitherto ignorant. Therefore, if a ghost rise before me, I have not the right to say, "So, then, the supernatural is possible;" but rather, "So, then, the apparition of a ghost, is, contrary to received opinion, within the laws of Nature,— that is, not supernatural."

Now, in all that I had hitherto witnessed, and indeed in all the wonders which the amateurs of mystery in our age record as facts, a material living agency is always required. On the Continent you will find still magicians who assert that they can raise spirits. Assume for the moment that they assert truly, still the living material form of the magician is present; and he is the material agency by which, from some constitutional peculiarities, certain strange phenomena are represented to your natural senses.

Accept, again, as truthful, the tales of spirit-manifestation in America,— musical or other sounds; writings on paper, produced by no discernible hand; articles of furniture moved without apparent human agency; or the actual sight and touch of hands, to which no bodies seem to belong,—still there must be found the MEDIUM, or living being, with constitutional peculiarities capable of obtaining these signs. In fine, in all such marvels, supposing even that there is no imposture, there must be a human being like ourselves by whom, or through whom, the effects presented to human beings are produced. It is so with the now familiar phenomena of mesmerism or electro-biology; the mind of the person operated on is affected through a material living agent. Nor, supposing it true that a mesmerized patient can respond to the will or passes of a mesmerizer a hundred miles distant, is the response less occasioned by a material being; it may be through a material fluid— call it Electric, call it Odic, call it what you will— which has the power of traversing space and passing obstacles, that the material effect is communicated from one to the other. Hence, all that I had hitherto witnessed, or expected to witness, in this strange house, I believed to be occasioned through some agency or medium as mortal as myself; and this idea necessarily prevented the awe with which those who regard as supernatural things that are not within the ordinary operations of Nature, might have been impressed by the adventures of that memorable night.

As, then, it was my conjecture that all that was presented, or would be presented to my senses, must originate in some human being gifted by constitution with the power so to present them, and having some motive so to do, I felt an interest in my theory which, in its way, was rather philosophical than superstitious. And I can sincerely say that I was in as tranquil a temper for observation as any practical experimentalist could be in awaiting the effects of some rare, though perhaps perilous, chemical combination. Of course, the more I kept my mind detached from fancy, the more the temper fitted for observation would be obtained; and I therefore riveted eye and thought on the strong daylight sense in the page of my Macaulay.

I now became aware that something interposed between the page and the light,— the page was over-shadowed. I looked up, and I saw what I shall find it very difficult, perhaps impossible, to describe.

It was a Darkness shaping itself forth from the air in very undefined outline. I cannot say it was of a human form, and yet it had more resemblance to a human form, or rather shadow, than to anything else. As it stood, wholly apart and distinct from the air and the light around it, its dimensions seemed gigantic, the summit nearly touching the ceiling. While I gazed, a feeling of intense cold seized me. An iceberg before me could not more have chilled me; nor could the cold of an iceberg have been more purely physical. I feel convinced that it was not the cold caused by fear. As I continued to gaze, I thought—but this I cannot say with precision— that I distinguished two eyes looking down on me from the height. One moment I fancied that I distinguished them clearly, the next they seemed gone; but still two rays of a pale-blue light frequently shot through the darkness, as from the height on which I half believed, half doubted, that I had encountered the eyes.

I strove to speak,— my voice utterly failed me; I could only think to myself, "Is this fear? It is not fear!" I strove to rise,— in vain; I felt as if weighed down by an irresistible force. Indeed, my impression was that of an immense and overwhelming Power opposed to my volition,—that sense of utter inadequacy to cope with a force beyond man's, which one may feel physically in a storm at sea, in a conflagration, or when confronting some terrible wild beast, or rather, perhaps, the shark of the ocean, I felt morally. Opposed to my will was another will, as far superior to its strength as storm, fire, and shark are superior in material force to the force of man.

And now, as this impression grew on me,— now came, at last, horror, horror to a degree that no words can convey. Still I retained pride, if not courage; and in my own mind I said, "This is horror, but it is not fear; unless I fear I cannot be harmed; my reason rejects this thing; it is an illusion,— I do not fear." With a violent effort I succeeded at last in stretching out my hand towards the weapon on the table; as I did so, on the arm and shoulder I received a strange shock, and my arm fell to my side powerless. And now, to add to my horror, the light began slowly to wane from the candles,—they were not, as it were, extinguished, but their flame seemed very gradually withdrawn; it was the same with the fire,— the light was extracted from the fuel; in a few minutes the room was in utter darkness. The dread that came over me, to be thus in the dark with that dark Thing, whose power was so intensely felt, brought a reaction of nerve. In fact, terror had reached that climax, that either my senses must have deserted me, or I must have burst through the spell. I did burst through it. I found voice, though the voice was a shriek. I remember that I broke forth with words like these, "I do not fear, my soul does not fear;" and at the same time I found strength to rise. Still in that profound gloom I rushed to one of the windows; tore aside the curtain; flung open the shutters; my first thought was— LIGHT. And when I saw the moon high, clear, and calm, I felt a joy that almost compensated for the previous terror. There was the moon, there was also the light from the gas-lamps in the deserted slumberous street. I turned to look back into the room; the moon penetrated its shadow very palely and partially,— but still there was light. The dark Thing, whatever it might be, was gone,— except that I could yet see a dim shadow, which seemed the shadow of that shade, against the opposite wall.

My eye now rested on the table, and from under the table (which was without cloth or cover,—an old mahogany round-table) there rose a hand, visible as far as the wrist. It was a hand, seemingly, as much of flesh and blood as my own, but the hand of an aged person, lean, wrinkled, small too,— a woman's hand. That hand very softly closed on the two letters that lay on the table; hand and letters both vanished. There then came the same three loud, measured knocks I had heard at the bedhead before this extraordinary drama had commenced.

As those sounds slowly ceased, I felt the whole room vibrate sensibly; and at the far end there rose, as from the floor, sparks or globules like bubbles of light, many colored,— green, yellow, fire-red, azure. Up and down, to and fro, hither, thither, as tiny Will-o'-the-Wisps, the sparks moved, slow or swift, each at its own caprice. A chair (as in the drawing-room below) was now advanced from the wall without apparent agency, and placed at the opposite side of the table. Suddenly, as forth from the chair, there grew a shape,— a woman's shape. It was distinct as a shape of life,— ghastly as a shape of death. The face was that of youth, with a strange, mournful beauty; the throat and shoulders were bare, the rest of the form in a loose robe of cloudy white. It began sleeking its long, yellow hair, which fell over its shoulders; its eyes were not turned towards me, but to the door; it seemed listening, watching, waiting. The shadow of the shade in the background grew darker; and again I thought I beheld the eyes gleaming out from the summit of the shadow,—eyes fixed upon that shape.

As if from the door, though it did not open, there grew out another shape, equally distinct, equally ghastly,—a man's shape, a young man's. It was in the dress of the last century, or rather in a likeness of such dress (for both the male shape and the female, though defined, were evidently unsubstantial, impalpable,— simulacra, phantasms); and there was something incongruous, grotesque, yet fearful, in the contrast between the elaborate finery, the courtly precision of that old-fashioned garb, with its ruffles and lace and buckles, and the corpse-like aspect and ghost-like stillness of the flitting wearer. Just as the male shape approached the female, the dark Shadow started from the wall, all three for a moment wrapped in darkness. When the pale light returned, the two phantoms were as if in the grasp of the Shadow that towered between them; and there was a blood-stain on the breast of the female; and the phantom male was leaning on its phantom sword, and blood seemed trickling fast from the ruffles, from the lace; and the darkness of the intermediate Shadow swallowed them up,— they were gone. And again the bubbles of light shot, and sailed, and undulated, growing thicker and thicker and more wildly confused in their movements.

The closet door to the right of the fireplace now opened, and from the aperture there came the form of an aged woman. In her hand she held letters,— the very letters over which I had seen the Hand close; and behind her I heard a footstep. She turned round as if to listen, and then she opened the letters and seemed to read; and over her shoulder I saw a livid face, the face as of a man long drowned,— bloated, bleached, seaweed tangled in its dripping hair; and at her feet lay a form as of a corpse; and beside the corpse there cowered a child, a miserable, squalid child, with famine in its cheeks and fear in its eyes. And as I looked in the old woman's face, the wrinkles and lines vanished, and it became a face of youth,— hard-eyed, stony, but still youth; and the Shadow darted forth, and darkened over these phantoms as it had darkened over the last.

Nothing now was left but the Shadow, and on that my eyes were intently fixed, till again eyes grew out of the Shadow,—malignant, serpent eyes. And the bubbles of light again rose and fell, and in their disordered, irregular, turbulent maze, mingled with the wan moonlight. And now from these globules themselves, as from the shell of an egg, monstrous things burst out; the air grew filled with them: larvae so bloodless and so hideous that I can in no way describe them except to remind the reader of the swarming life which the solar microscope brings before his eyes in a drop of water,— things transparent, supple, agile, chasing each other, devouring each, other; forms like nought ever beheld by the naked eye. As the shapes were without symmetry, so their movements were without order. In their very vagrancies there was no sport; they came round me and round, thicker and faster and swifter, swarming over my head, crawling over my right arm, which was outstretched in involuntary command against all evil beings. Sometimes I felt myself touched, but not by them; invisible hands touched me. Once I felt the clutch as of cold, soft fingers at my throat. I was still equally conscious that if I gave way to fear I should be in bodily peril; and I concentred all my faculties in the single focus of resisting stubborn will. And I turned my sight from the Shadow; above all, from those strange serpent eyes,— eyes that had now become distinctly visible. For there, though in nought else around me, I was aware that there was a WILL, and a will of intense, creative, working evil, which might crush down my own.

The pale atmosphere in the room began now to redden as if in the air of some near conflagration. The larvæ grew lurid as things that live in fire. Again the room vibrated; again were heard the three measured knocks; and again all things were swallowed up in the darkness of the dark Shadow, as if out of that darkness all had come, into that darkness all returned.

As the gloom receded, the Shadow was wholly gone. Slowly, as it had been withdrawn, the flame grew again into the candles on the table, again into the fuel in the grate. The whole room came once more calmly, healthfully into sight.

The two doors were still closed, the door communicating with the servant's room still locked. In the corner of the wall, into which he had so convulsively niched himself, lay the dog. I called to him,— no movement; I approached,— the animal was dead: his eyes protruded; his tongue out of his mouth; the froth gathered round his jaws. I took him in my arms; I brought him to the fire. I felt acute grief for the loss of my poor favorite,— acute self-reproach; I accused myself of his death; I imagined he had died of fright. But what was my surprise on finding that his neck was actually broken. Had this been done in the dark? Must it not have been by a hand human as mine; must there not have been a human agency all the while in that room? Good cause to suspect it. I cannot tell. I cannot do more than state the fact fairly; the reader may draw his own inference.

Another surprising circumstance,— my watch was restored to the table from which it had been so mysteriously withdrawn; but it had stopped at the very moment it was so withdrawn, nor, despite all the skill of the watchmaker, has it ever gone since,— that is, it will go in a strange, erratic way for a few hours, and then come to a dead stop; it is worthless.

Nothing more chanced for the rest of the night. Nor, indeed, had I long to wait before the dawn broke. Nor till it was broad daylight did I quit the haunted house. Before I did so, I revisited the little blind room in which my servant and myself had been for a time imprisoned. I had a strong impression— for which I could not account— that from that room had originated the mechanism of the phenomena, if I may use the term, which had been experienced in my chamber. And though I entered it now in the clear day, with the sun peering through the filmy window, I still felt, as I stood on its floors, the creep of the horror which I had first there experienced the night before, and which had been so aggravated by what had passed in my own chamber. I could not, indeed, bear to stay more than half a minute within those walls. I descended the stairs, and again I heard the footfall before me; and when I opened the street door, I thought I could distinguish a very low laugh. I gained my own home, expecting to find my runaway servant there; but he had not presented himself, nor did I hear more of him for three days, when I received a letter from him, dated from Liverpool to this effect:—

"HONORED SIR,— I humbly entreat your pardon, though I can scarcely hope that you will think that I deserve it, unless— which Heaven forbid!— you saw what I did. I feel that it will be years before I can recover myself; and as to being fit for service, it is out of the question. I am therefore going to my brother-in-law at Melbourne. The ship sails to-morrow. Perhaps the long voyage may set me up. I do nothing now but start and tremble, and fancy IT is behind me. I humbly beg you, honored sir, to order my clothes, and whatever wages are due to me, to be sent to my mother's, at Walworth,— John knows her address."

The letter ended with additional apologies, somewhat incoherent, and explanatory details as to effects that had been under the writer's charge. This flight may perhaps warrant a suspicion that the man wished to go to Australia, and had been somehow or other fraudulently mixed up with the events of the night. I say nothing in refutation of that conjecture; rather, I suggest it as one that would seem to many persons the most probable solution of improbable occurrences. My belief in my own theory remained unshaken. I returned in the evening to the house, to bring away in a hack cab the things I had left there, with my poor dog's body. In this task I was not disturbed, nor did any incident worth note befall me, except that still, on ascending and descending the stairs, I heard the same footfall in advance. On leaving the house, I went to Mr. J——'s. He was at home. I returned him the keys, told him that my curiosity was sufficiently gratified, and was about to relate quickly what had passed, when he stopped me, and said, though with much politeness, that he had no longer any interest in a mystery which none had ever solved.

I determined at least to tell him of the two letters I had read, as well as of the extraordinary manner in which they had disappeared; and I then inquired if he thought they had been addressed to the woman who had died in the house, and if there were anything in her early history which could possibly confirm the dark suspicions to which the letters gave rise. Mr. J—— seemed startled, and, after musing a few moments, answered, "I am but little acquainted with the woman's earlier history, except as I before told you, that her family were known to mine. But you revive some vague reminiscences to her prejudice. I will make inquiries, and inform you of their result. Still, even if we could admit the popular superstition that a person who had been either the perpetrator or the victim of dark crimes in life could revisit, as a restless spirit, the scene in which those crimes had been committed, I should observe that the house was infested by strange sights and sounds before the old woman died— you smile— what would you say?"

"I would say this, that I am convinced, if we could get to the bottom of these mysteries, we should find a living human agency."

"What! you believe it is all an imposture? For what object?"

"Not an imposture in the ordinary sense of the word. If suddenly I were to sink into a deep sleep, from which you could not awake me, but in that sleep could answer questions with an accuracy which I could not pretend to when awake,— tell you what money you had in your pocket, nay, describe your very thoughts,— it is not necessarily an imposture, any more than it is necessarily supernatural. I should be, unconsciously to myself, under a mesmeric influence, conveyed to me from a distance by a human being who had acquired power over me by previous rapport."

"But if a mesmerizer could so affect another living being, can you suppose that a mesmerizer could also affect inanimate objects: move chairs,— open and shut doors?"

"Or impress our senses with the belief in such effects,— we never having been en rapport with the person acting on us? No. What is commonly called mesmerism could not do this; but there may be a power akin to mesmerism, and superior to it,— the power that in the old days was called Magic. That such a power may extend to all inanimate objects of matter, I do not say; but if so, it would not be against Nature,— it would be only a rare power in Nature which might be given to constitutions with certain peculiarities, and cultivated by practice to an extraordinary degree. That such a power might extend over the dead,— that is, over certain thoughts and memories that the dead may still retain,— and compel, not that which ought properly to be called the SOUL, and which is far beyond human reach, but rather a phantom of what has been most earth-stained on earth, to make itself apparent to our senses, is a very ancient though obsolete theory upon which I will hazard no opinion. But I do not conceive the power would be supernatural. Let me illustrate what I mean from an experiment which Paracelsus describes as not difficult, and which the author of the 'Curiosities of Literature' cites as credible: A flower perishes; you burn it. Whatever were the elements of that flower while it lived are gone, dispersed, you know not whither; you can never discover nor re-collect them. But you can, by chemistry, out of the burned dust of that flower, raise a spectrum of the flower, just as it seemed in life. It may be the same with the human being. The soul has as much escaped you as the essence or elements of the flower. Still you may make a spectrum of it. And this phantom, though in the popular superstition it is held to be the soul of the departed, must not be confounded with the true soul; it is but the eidolon of the dead form. Hence, like the best attested stories of ghosts or spirits, the thing that most strikes us is the absence of what we hold to be soul,— that is, of superior emancipated intelligence. These apparitions come for little or no object,— they seldom speak when they do come; if they speak, they utter no ideas above those of an ordinary person on earth. American spirit-seers have published volumes of communications, in prose and verse, which they assert to be given in the names of the most illustrious dead: Shakespeare, Bacon,— Heaven knows whom. Those communications, taking the best, are certainly not a whit of higher order than would be communications from living persons of fair talent and education; they are wondrously inferior to what Bacon, Shakespeare, and Plato said and wrote when on earth. Nor, what is more noticeable, do they ever contain an idea that was not on the earth before. Wonderful, therefore, as such phenomena may be (granting them to be truthful), I see much that philosophy may question, nothing that it is incumbent on philosophy to deny,— namely, nothing supernatural. They are but ideas conveyed somehow or other (we have not yet discovered the means) from one mortal brain to another. Whether, in so doing, tables walk of their own accord, or fiendlike shapes appear in a magic circle, or bodiless hands rise and remove material objects, or a Thing of Darkness, such as presented itself to me, freeze our blood,— still am I persuaded that these are but agencies conveyed, as by electric wires, to my own brain from the brain of another. In some constitutions there is a natural chemistry, and those constitutions may produce chemic wonders,—in others a natural fluid, call it electricity, and these may produce electric wonders. But the wonders differ from Normal Science in this,—they are alike objectless, purposeless, puerile, frivolous. They lead on to no grand results; and therefore the world does not heed, and true sages have not cultivated them. But sure I am, that of all I saw or heard, a man, human as myself, was the remote originator; and I believe unconsciously to himself as to the exact effects produced, for this reason: no two persons, you say, have ever told you that they experienced exactly the same thing. Well, observe, no two persons ever experience exactly the same dream. If this were an ordinary imposture, the machinery would be arranged for results that would but little vary; if it were a supernatural agency permitted by the Almighty, it would surely be for some definite end. These phenomena belong to neither class; my persuasion is, that they originate in some brain now far distant; that that brain had no distinct volition in anything that occurred; that what does occur reflects but its devious, motley, ever-shifting, half-formed thoughts; in short, that it has been but the dreams of such a brain put into action and invested with a semi-substance. That this brain is of immense power, that it can set matter into movement, that it is malignant and destructive, I believe; some material force must have killed my dog; the same force might, for aught I know, have sufficed to kill myself, had I been as subjugated by terror as the dog,— had my intellect or my spirit given me no countervailing resistance in my will."

"It killed your dog,— that is fearful! Indeed it is strange that no animal can be induced to stay in that house; not even a cat. Bats and mice are never found in it."

"The instincts of the brute creation detect influences deadly to their existence. Man's reason has a sense less subtle, because it has a resisting power more supreme. But enough; do you comprehend my theory?"

"Yes, though imperfectly,— and I accept any crotchet (pardon the word), however odd, rather than embrace at once the notion of ghosts and hobgoblins we imbibed in our nurseries. Still, to my unfortunate house, the evil is the same. What on earth can I do with the house?"

"I will tell you what I would do. I am convinced from my own internal feelings that the small, unfurnished room at right angles to the door of the bed-room which I occupied, forms a starting-point or receptacle for the influences which haunt the house; and I strongly advise you to have the walls opened, the floor removed,— nay, the whole room pulled down. I observe that it is detached from the body of the house, built over the small backyard, and could be removed without injury to the rest of the building."

"And you think, if I did that—"

"You would cut off the telegraph wires. Try it. I am so persuaded that I am right, that I will pay half the expense if you will allow me to direct the operations."

"Nay, I am well able to afford the cost; for the rest allow me to write to you."

About ten days after I received a letter from Mr. J——, telling me that he had visited the house since I had seen him; that he had found the two letters I had described, replaced in the drawer from which I had taken them; that he had read them with misgivings like my own; that he had instituted a cautious inquiry about the woman to whom I rightly conjectured they had been written. It seemed that thirty-six years ago (a year before the date of the letters) she had married, against the wish of her relations, an American of very suspicious character; in fact, he was generally believed to have been a pirate. She herself was the daughter of very respectable tradespeople, and had served in the capacity of a nursery governess before her marriage. She had a brother, a widower, who was considered wealthy, and who had one child of about six years old. A month after the marriage the body of this brother was found in the Thames, near London Bridge; there seemed some marks of violence about his throat, but they were not deemed sufficient to warrant the inquest in any other verdict than that of "found drowned."

The American and his wife took charge of the little boy, the deceased brother having by his will left his sister the guardian of his only child,— and in event of the child's death the sister inherited. The child died about six months afterwards,— it was supposed to have been neglected and ill-treated. The neighbors deposed to have heard it shriek at night. The surgeon who had examined it after death said that it was emaciated as if from want of nourishment, and the body was covered with livid bruises. It seemed that one winter night the child had sought to escape; crept out into the backyard; tried to scale the wall; fallen back exhausted; and been found at morning on the stones in a dying state. But though there was some evidence of cruelty, there was none of murder; and the aunt and her husband had sought to palliate cruelty by alleging the exceeding stubbornness and perversity of the child, who was declared to be half-witted. Be that as it may, at the orphan's death the aunt inherited her brother's fortune. Before the first wedded year was out, the American quitted England abruptly, and never returned to it. He obtained a cruising vessel, which was lost in the Atlantic two years afterwards. The widow was left in affluence, but reverses of various kinds had befallen her: a bank broke; an investment failed; she went into a small business and became insolvent; then she entered into service, sinking lower and lower, from housekeeper down to maid-of-all-work,—never long retaining a place, though nothing decided against her character was ever alleged. She was considered sober, honest, and peculiarly quiet in her ways; still nothing prospered with her. And so she had dropped into the workhouse, from which Mr. J—— had taken her, to be placed in charge of the very house which she had rented as mistress in the first year of her wedded life.

Mr. J—— added that he had passed an hour alone in the unfurnished room which I had urged him to destroy, and that his impressions of dread while there were so great, though he had neither heard nor seen anything, that he was eager to have the walls bared and the floors removed as I had suggested. He had engaged persons for the work, and would commence any day I would name.

The day was accordingly fixed. I repaired to the haunted house,— we went into the blind, dreary room, took up the skirting, and then the floors. Under the rafters, covered with rubbish, was found a trap-door, quite large enough to admit a man. It was closely nailed down, with clamps and rivets of iron. On removing these we descended into a room below, the existence of which had never been suspected. In this room there had been a window and a flue, but they had been bricked over, evidently for many years. By the help of candles we examined this place; it still retained some mouldering furniture,— three chairs, an oak settle, a table,— all of the fashion of about eighty years ago. There was a chest of drawers against the wall, in which we found, half-rotted away, old-fashioned articles of a man's dress, such as might have been worn eighty or a hundred years ago by a gentleman of some rank; costly steel buckles and buttons, like those yet worn in court-dresses, a handsome court sword; in a waistcoat which had once been rich with gold-lace, but which was now blackened and foul with damp, we found five guineas, a few silver coins, and an ivory ticket, probably for some place of entertainment long since passed away. But our main discovery was in a kind of iron safe fixed to the wall, the lock of which it cost us much trouble to get picked.

In this safe were three shelves and two small drawers. Ranged on the shelves were several small bottles of crystal, hermetically stopped. They contained colorless, volatile essences, of the nature of which I shall only say that they were not poisons,— phosphor and ammonia entered into some of them. There were also some very curious glass tubes, and a small pointed rod of iron, with a large lump of rock-crystal, and another of amber,—also a loadstone of great power.

In one of the drawers we found a miniature portrait set in gold, and retaining the freshness of its colors most remarkably, considering the length of time it had probably been there. The portrait was that of a man who might be somewhat advanced in middle life, perhaps forty-seven or forty-eight. It was a remarkable face,— a most impressive face. If you could fancy some mighty serpent transformed into man, preserving in the human lineaments the old serpent type, you would have a better idea of that countenance than long descriptions can convey: the width and flatness of frontal; the tapering elegance of contour disguising the strength of the deadly jaw; the long, large, terrible eye, glittering and green as the emerald,— and withal a certain ruthless calm, as if from the consciousness of an immense power.

Mechanically I turned round the miniature to examine the back of it, and on the back was engraved a pentacle; in the middle of the pentacle a ladder, and the third step of the ladder was formed by the date 1765. Examining still more minutely, I detected a spring; this, on being pressed, opened the back of the miniature as a lid. Within-side the lid were engraved, "Marianna to thee. Be faithful in life and in death to ——." Here follows a name that I will not mention, but it was not unfamiliar to me. I had heard it spoken of by old men in my childhood as the name borne by a dazzling charlatan who had made a great sensation in London for a year or so, and had fled the country on the charge of a double murder within his own house,— that of his mistress and his rival. I said nothing of this to Mr. J——, to whom reluctantly I resigned the miniature.

We had found no difficulty in opening the first drawer within the iron safe; we found great difficulty in opening the second: it was not locked, but it resisted all efforts, till we inserted in the chinks the edge of a chisel. When we had thus drawn it forth, we found a very singular apparatus in the nicest order. Upon a small, thin book, or rather tablet, was placed a saucer of crystal; this saucer was filled with a clear liquid,— on that liquid floated a kind of compass, with a needle shifting rapidly round; but instead of the usual points of a compass were seven strange characters, not very unlike those used by astrologers to denote the planets. A peculiar but not strong nor displeasing odor came from this drawer, which was lined with a wood that we afterwards discovered to be hazel. Whatever the cause of this odor, it produced a material effect on the nerves. We all felt it, even the two workmen who were in the room,— a creeping, tingling sensation from the tips of the fingers to the roots of the hair. Impatient to examine the tablet, I removed the saucer. As I did so the needle of the compass went round and round with exceeding swiftness, and I felt a shock that ran through my whole frame, so that I dropped the saucer on the floor. The liquid was spilled; the saucer was broken; the compass rolled to the end of the room, and at that instant the walls shook to and fro, as if a giant had swayed and rocked them.

The two workmen were so frightened that they ran up the ladder by which we had descended from the trapdoor; but seeing that nothing more happened, they were easily induced to return.

Meanwhile I had opened the tablet: it was bound in plain red leather, with a silver clasp; it contained but one sheet of thick vellum, and on that sheet were inscribed, within a double pentacle, words in old monkish Latin, which are literally to be translated thus: "On all that it can reach within these walls, sentient or inanimate, living or dead, as moves the needle, so work my will! Accursed be the house, and restless be the dwellers therein."

We found no more. Mr. J—— burned the tablet and its anathema. He razed to the foundations the part of the building containing the secret room with the chamber over it. He had then the courage to inhabit the house himself for a month, and a quieter, better-conditioned house could not be found in all London. Subsequently he let it to advantage, and his tenant has made no complaints.

________________

2: The Clavecin, Bruges

George Wharton Edwards

1859-1950

I can't find the first publication of this story; Edwards was primarily an artist and illustrator; his short writing career was in the 1890s.  The story was reprinted in 1920 in The Best Pyschic Stories.

A SILENT, grass-grown market-place, upon the uneven stones of which the sabots of a passing peasant clatter loudly. A group of sleepy-looking soldiers in red trousers lolling about the wide portal of the Belfry, which rears aloft against the pearly sky

All the height it has

Of ancient stone.

As the chime ceases there lingers for a space a faint musical hum in the air; the stones seem to carry and retain the melody; one is loath to move for fear of losing some part of the harmony.

I feel an indescribable impulse to climb the four hundred odd steps; incomprehensible, for I detest steeple-climbing, and have no patience with steeple-climbers.

Before I realize it, I am at the stairs. "Hold, sir!" from behind me. "It is forbidden." In wretched French a weazen-faced little soldier explains that repairs are about to be made in the tower, in consequence of which visitors are forbidden. A franc removes this military obstacle, and I press on.

At the top of the stairs is an old Flemish woman shelling peas, while over her shoulder peeps a tame magpie. A savory odor of stewing vegetables fills the air.

"What do you wish, sir?" Many shrugs, gesticulations, and sighs of objurgation, which are covered by a shining new five-franc piece, and she produces a bunch of keys. As the door closes upon me the magpie gives a hoarse, gleeful squawk.

A HUGE, dim room with a vaulted ceiling. Against the wall lean ancient stone statues, noseless and disfigured, crowned and sceptered effigies of forgotten lords and ladies of Flanders. High up on the wall two slitted Gothic windows, through which the violet light of day is streaming. I hear the gentle coo of pigeons. To the right a low door, some vanishing steps of stone, and a hanging hand-rope. Before I have taken a dozen steps upward I am lost in the darkness; the steps are worn hollow and sloping, the rope is slippery— seems to have been waxed, so smooth has it become by handling. Four hundred steps and over; I have lost track of the number, and stumble giddily upward round and round the slender stone shaft. I am conscious of low openings from time to time— openings to what? I do not know. A damp smell exhales from them, and the air is cold upon my face as I pass them. At last a dim light above. With the next turn a blinding glare of light, a moment's blankness, then a vast panorama gradually dawns upon me. Through the frame of stonework is a vast reach of grayish green bounded by the horizon, an immense shield embossed with silvery lines of waterways, and studded with clustering red-tiled roofs. A rim of pale yellow appears— the sand-dunes that line the coast—and dimly beyond a grayish film, evanescent, flashing— the North Sea.

Something flies through the slit from which I am gazing, and following its flight upward, I see a long beam crossing the gallery, whereon are perched an array of jackdaws gazing down upon me in wonder.

I am conscious of a rhythmic movement about me that stirs the air, a mysterious, beating, throbbing sound, the machinery of the clock, which some one has described as a "heart of iron beating in a breast of stone."

I lean idly in the narrow slit, gazing at the softened landscape, the exquisite harmony of the greens, grays, and browns, the lazily turning arms of far-off mills, reminders of Cuyp, Van der Velde, Teniers, shadowy, mysterious recollections. I am conscious of uttering aloud some commonplaces of delight. A slight and sudden movement behind me, a smothered cough. A little old man in a black velvet coat stands looking up at me, twisting and untwisting his hands. There are ruffles at his throat and wrists, and an amused smile spreads over his face, which is cleanly shaven, of the color of wax, with a tiny network of red lines over the cheek-bones, as if the blood had been forced there by some excess of passion and had remained. He has heard my sentimental ejaculation. I am conscious of the absurdity of the situation, and move aside for him to pass. He makes a courteous gesture with one ruffled hand.

There comes a prodigious rattling and grinding noise from above— then a jangle of bells, some half-dozen notes in all. At the first stroke the old man closes his eyes, throws back his head, and follows the rhythm with his long white hands, as though playing a piano. The sound dies away; the place becomes painfully silent; still the regular motion of the old man's hands continues. A creepy, shivery feeling runs up and down my spine; a fear of which I am ashamed seizes upon me.

"Fine pells, sare," says the little old man, suddenly dropping his hands, and fixing his eyes upon me. "You sall not hear such pells in your countree. But stay not here; come wis me, and I will show you the clavecin. You sall not see the clavecin yet? No?"

I had not, of course, and thanked him.

"You sall see Melchior, Melchior t'e Groote, t'e magnif'."

As he spoke we entered a room quite filled with curious machinery, a medley of levers, wires, and rope above; below, two large cylinders studded with shining brass points.

He sprang among the wires with a spidery sort of agility, caught one, pulled and hung upon it with, all his weight. There came a r-r-r-r-r-r of fans and wheels, followed by a shower of dust; slowly one great cylinder began to revolve; wires and ropes reaching into the gloom above began to twitch convulsively; faintly came the jangle of far-off bells. Then came a pause, then a deafening boom, that well nigh stunned me. As the waves of sound came and went, the little old man twisted and untwisted his hands in delight, and ejaculated, "Melchior you haf heeard, Melchior t'e Groote— t'e bourdon."

I wanted to examine the machinery, but he impatiently seized my arm and almost dragged me away saying, "I will skow you— I will skow you. Come wis me."

From a pocket he produced a long brass key and unlocked a door covered with red leather, disclosing an up-leading flight of steps to which he pushed me. It gave upon an octagon-shaped room with a curious floor of sheet-lead. Around the wall ran a seat under the diamond-paned Gothic windows. From their shape I knew them to be the highest in the tower. I had seen them from the square below many times, with the framework above upon which hung row upon row of bells.

In the middle of the room was a rude sort of keyboard, with pedals below, like those of a large organ. Fronting this construction sat a long, high-backed bench. On the rack over the keyboard rested some sheets of music, which, upon examination, I found to be of parchment and written by hand. The notes were curious in shape, consisting of squares of black and diamonds of red upon the lines. Across the top of the page was written, in a straggling hand, "Van den Gheyn Nikolaas." I turned to the little old man with the ruffles. "Van den Gheyn!" I said in surprise, pointing to the parchment. "Why, that is the name of the most celebrated of carillonneurs, Van den Gheyn of Louvain." He untwisted his hands and bowed. "Eet ees ma name, mynheer— I am the carillonneur."

I fancied that my face showed all too plainly the incredulity I felt, for his darkened, and he muttered, "You not belief, Engelsch? Ah, I show you; then you belief, parehap," and with astounding agility seated himself upon the bench before the clavecin, turned up the ruffles at his wrists, and literally threw himself upon the keys. A sound of thunder accompanied by a vivid flash of lightning filled the air, even as the first notes of the bells reached my ears. Involuntarily I glanced out of the diamond-leaded window— dark clouds were all about us, the housetops and surrounding country were no longer to be seen. A blinding flash of lightning seemed to fill the room; the arms and legs of the little old man sought the keys and pedals with inconceivable rapidity; the music crashed about us with a deafening din, to the accompaniment of the thunder, which seemed to sound in unison with the boom of the bourdon. It was grandly terrible. The face of the little old man was turned upon me, but his eyes were closed. He seemed to find the pedals intuitively, and at every peal of thunder, which shook the tower to its foundations, he would open his mouth, a toothless cavern, and shout aloud. I could not hear the sounds for the crashing of the bells. Finally, with a last deafening crash of iron rods and thunderbolts, the noise of the bells gradually died away. Instinctively I had glanced above when the crash came, half expecting to see the roof torn off.

"I think we had better go down," I said. "This tower has been struck by lightning several times, and I imagine that discretion—"

I don't know what more I said, for my eyes rested upon the empty bench, and the bare rack where the music had been. The clavecin was one mass of twisted iron rods, tangled wires, and decayed, worm-eaten woodwork; the little old man had disappeared. I rushed to the red leather-covered door; it was fast. I shook it in a veritable terror; it would not yield. With a bound I reached the ruined clavecin, seized one of the pedals, and tore it away from the machine. The end was armed with an iron point. This I inserted between the lock and the door. I twisted the lock from the worm-eaten wood with one turn of the wrist, the door opened, and I almost fell down the steep steps. The second door at the bottom was also closed. I threw my weight against it once, twice; it gave, and I half slipped, half ran down the winding steps in the darkness.

Out at last into the fresh air of the lower passage! At the noise I made in closing the ponderous door came forth the old custode.

In my excitement I seized her by the arm, saying, "Who was the little old man in the black velvet coat with the ruffles? Where is he?"

She looked at me in a stupid manner. "Who is he," I repeated— "the little old man who played the clavecin?"

"Little old man, sir? I don't know," said the crone. "There has been no one in the tower to-day but yourself."

_______________

3: The Time to Go

Hugh Pendexter

1875-1940

Adventure  1 Oct 1927

THE SUCCESSIVE terminal towns of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe were so many lurid explosions. Each marked a pause in the crawling progress of the road across Kansas. In each sprang up saloons, gambling-places and dance-halls; and the last mushroom civic growth, making the head of the road for a brief time, took over from its predecessor the honor of being the "bloodiest town on the map."

Some of these railroad settlements were dilatory in living up to the required reputation, so that there was room for argument as to which was the liveliest and worst. But in all truth, Newton, Harvey County, in 1871, fulfilled all expectations. Not only was it the head of the railroad but also the new terminus of the Texas cattle trail. One Texan quaintly expressed it—

"This burg can give hell a two minute handicap an' win in a walk."

Perhaps this was an exaggeration, yet the speaker was not Kansas-born and was impartial in his judgment. Regardless of individual merits of the various termini, it was unanimously conceded that no railway extension ever was characterized by more lawlessness than in that of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe.

Among those who had kept up with the road were Joe Laws and his pretty wife— and their portable eating-house. Almost from the start, his wife, Mary, abhorred the life. When she urged him to go into
some business back east he would point to the day's profits and would insist they would be foolish to abandon a small fortune.

At Newton, however, Joe found himself feeling uneasy. The town was overrun by gamblers and "sure thing" men. Nearly all the men were proud of their shooting ability. He began to wonder if his wife were not far too pretty to take into such a hodgepodge of recklessness. Until he opened his restaurant in Newton, Joe believed himself capable of defending his own. Then came the wild cattlemen with the first of the forty thousand head that they were to drive up from Texas during the short season. They quickly wove a new viciousness into the red warp and woof of the town. As gunmen, they quickly collided with Kansas desperadoes, and the shootings occurred in the street as well as in the resorts. Famous gun-toters were being killed almost daily. Joe realized that the six-shooter was the only law. He suggested to his wife that she go back East.

"I won't go unless you go," she stubbornly told him. She was a Banner, and all the Banners usually meant what they said.

He thought of the fat receipts for the day and temporized:

"Probably we've seen the worst of it. As soon as the rails get a little closer to the next town, this place will quiet down. They've already named it. Larned."

"And when the rush is made for Larned— you'll be keen to go there?" she asked.

"I don't think so. Mebbe I'll call this our last move. But we're a lot rougher here than in any of the other places. A woman was killed in the street by a wild bullet from Tim Shea's dance-hall. She was a dance-hall girl, but it might have been you, Mary. I do wish you'd go back."

"No," she quietly told him, "it's no worse for you to worry about me than for me to worry about you."

"Well, we'll wait a few days and see if it don't quiet down. But you mustn't go out unless I'm with you."

"I never go out except to run into Stillwell's store next door."

"Darned hard on you, being cooped up here and keeping house in that back room. Mebbe we won't wait till the rush to Larned comes. But I'll never get another chance to get big money quick."

The girl's life was virtual imprisonment. The eating-house did a lively business late into the evening. She seldom entered the dining-room except in the early morning hours. Their living-room was at the back of the house, and all the partitions were thin. She grew to hate the room, but the outside world was worse. The loud talk of drunken desperadoes caused her face to bum, and often she lay on the bed with a pillow muffling her ears. She kept that part of her misery from Joe, fearing lest he act the censor. Did he do that, she was convinced, he would be sentencing himself to a bloody death.

ONE NIGHT a tall, rangy herder, with butternut pants tucked into long boots, with two guns in his belt and with his Mexican hat pushed back from his forehead, grossly insulted Joe. The man's companions, some of whom had ridden with Quantrell, laughed uproariously. Joe ate crow. To save his self- respect he could have made a defiant gesture and died at the muzzle of a smoking gun. But there was his wife.

After the reckless group departed he went to the back room and broke down and wept. His wife comforted him, or attempted to, and insisted that words could not hurt him.

"But they do! They did! They hurt like—" he groaned. "Oh, if you only was back in Burlingame! If I could only handle guns like Hanse!"

She grew deadly pale and her eyes widened with the old misery. Instantly he was contrite and almost forgetful of his wounded pride.

"There, there, dear, never went to hurt the girl. But your brother would be a humdinger in a place like this. That tall devil never would 'a' called him that."

"And what has Hanse's wildness fetched him?" she whispered. "Where is he tonight? What will be the end of his wickedness? Oh, Joe, if he'd only died when a little boy. To think he's scarcely more than a boy this night."

Joe attempted a defense of the brother- in-law, whom he had never seen, but whose lawless acts comprised two years of wild history on a wild border. All Joe could say was:

"Hanse Banner can take care of himself. He could protect a wife if he had one."

"Take care of himself," she bitterly cried. "Scarcely out of his teens and in hiding most of the time."

"He'd never stand for what I had to stand for tonight," bitterly insisted Joe.

She almost told him what she had "stood for" when compelled to overhear the rough talk on the other side of the thin partition. Instead, in a flare of passionate protest, she shrilly insisted:

"Take me away! Take me back East! Now! Leave everything!"

Believing she was concerned on his account, he quieted his own rage and more philosophically reasoned:

"Still, I'm alive. I stood for the abuse. I won't care what the rotten scum say. I wear no guns. The Texan knew it, and he had two. So, he's the coward. That particular bunch will be pulling out soon. Some will remain here, planted. This town's going to quiet down. We won't follow the road any farther. I'll get a good offer and sell and go back East."

The next few days brought no trouble to the eating-house. The Texans had been running the town for several days, and now the Kansas gunmen were planning to assert their supremacy. Each faction was sniffing the impending battle; each was planning to take the other at a disadvantage.

As Joe listened to the gossip at his tables, his hopes were high. The ideal consummation would be for both factions to be exterminated. He hoped the tall, rangy man would not patronize him again. He often pictured himself picking up the gun behind the counter and shooting him; only, the picture persisted in his going down before a volley from the man's companions.

As he stood behind the counter, dishing up for the Mexican waiter, he was always seeing the man with the low-crowned hat of enormous brim pushed back and revealing the lighter complexion of the forehead. The man's weathered face reminded him of a dark red mask. But what was hurting his pride tremendously was his hesitancy to go out on the street. It was shameful— but there was Mary.

WHEN it was predicted that the showdown between Kansans and Texans was imminent, the latter ceased their night revels and returned to their camp. Hearing this, Joe ventured forth late in the afternoon, or early evening, and endeavored to make himself believe he was free to come and go. Then came a day when he entered his restaurant and was horribly shocked to behold his wife standing on the threshold of their living room, her gaze that of a mad person. In her hand, held gingerly, as if there were blood on the handle, was one of the revolvers.

With a low cry, he ran to her, and for a moment she stared at him as if she did not recognize him. Then she pointed to the floor. His eyes were almost as wild as hers as he beheld— a dark stain.

"My God!" he gasped.

"He came to this door," she shrilly said. "He tried to enter. I shot him."

"You've killed some one?" he whispered.

She slowly shook her head and backed into the living-room. He followed her and closed the door. She cautiously placed the revolver on a stand and held her hand before her face, the fingers stiffly spread apart.

He seized her by the shoulders, shook her roughly and hoarsely demanded: "Who? Who? Who?"

She went to the wash-stand and poured water over her hands, although they were unstained, and scrubbed them desperately. He stared and waited. She told him—

"The tall Texan."

He leaned against the thin partition and stared at the opposite wall. He noticed several old bullet-holes. He observed that the boards were beginning to warp. And, all the while, he was telling himself that he must get a horse and ride out to the Texans' camp and do his best to kill the man. Of course he never would come back. But it was one of those times when a man must go, when the question of returning was of little matter. With a little shiver, which he tried to disguise by shrugging his shoulders, he took the towel from her and gently dried the slim hands. His voice was quiet, almost casual, as he asked—

"Where did you hit-him?"

"His left hand. He stayed— to wrap it up. He said he would come back."

He was frightened by her voice, by her set expression. He fiercely commanded:

"Mary, you kick out of this spell. You stop it! He won't bother you again; he won't come back."

"He said he'd come," she monotonously repeated," said he'd pay me off by getting you. Then he'd take me away."

She was clapping her hands over her mouth to stifle a scream. She would have fallen had he not caught her in his arms. He placed her on the bed and said:

"I'll hunt up a doctor. There's one who hangs out in Shea's place."

"No, no. Don't leave!"

"Mary, I must get a doctor unless you stop this. You've been frightened. You've scared a cheap rascal away. You haven't been hurt—just frightened."

"Promise me you'll start back East tonight," she whispered.

"That means I must give my business away."

"You can sell. Stillwell would like to buy you out. But give it away—anything, only get me out of this."

"All right, you win. Get your nerve back. I'll make a trade with Stillwell if I can. If I can't, I'll leave it. We've made quite a bit of money. We'll call it quits. There's no chance of that man coming here again today. If you'll say you're all right, I'll go and fix it."

She eagerly assured him:

"I'm myself. I'm all right. The happiest moment of my life since we started with the railroad will be when we're traveling back home. See, my hand is steady. The fear's left me. Go now. Give, or sell; then hurry back."

"It'll take a bit of time," he gently warned her. "I must act as if I wasn't over-keen, you know. We have plenty of time. No one will bother you while I'm gone."

"Dear, I've been weak and foolish. Now I'm all right. You stop worrying. Now, go. I'll be calm."

He held her at arm's length, and she believed he was doubting her ability to keep up. He stared long and earnestly, then kissed her good-by and wheeled about. Stepping behind the counter, he watched the closed door; picked up his Colt revolver and thrust it under his coat.

Gaining the rough street he walked rapidly by Stillwell's store and made for a small corral back of the hotel, where he knew he could secure a horse. And all the time the thought was parading through his mind:

"You must go, even if you can't come back. You can't come back, but it's time for you to go."

Like one in a trance he heard himself calmly dickering for the hire of a horse and insisting on leaving the worth of the animal. Like a voice coming from a great distance he heard the man expostulating:

"But, doggone! You ain't goin' to steal this nag. Laws. Well, well, if that's your notion I'll hold the money till you come back."

LAWS found himself in the saddle, riding from town and keeping wide of the construction crew. He had no plan; he felt no fear. He was embarked on the inevitable. He felt cold; he felt calm. His thoughts were projected ahead, to the camp of the cowboys. He had lost all sense of self and was impersonal. And ever the refrain—

"You can't return, but you must go." His perceptive faculties were dulled, for he was hardly conscious of the graders, shouting profanely to their work- animals. Then he beheld a man clinging to his horse's bridle and heard an incisive voice crying—

"Are you deef 'n' dumb?"

He blinked at the man standing at the head of his horse and quietly asked:

"See here! What do you mean by stopping me like this?"

"I'm buying your nag, stranger. Hop down and be smart."

He stared at the man— about his own age, slim of build and wearing two ivory- handled guns. It came into his mind that he had met the fellow somewhere. But there was the business ahead, and he was not curious.

"You mean you're going to take my horse?"

"I need the critter more'n you do, stranger. Name your price. I'll fork over. I'm no hoss-thief. And a hand dropped on an ivory handle, while the other fished among gold pieces. "I'm mighty hard pressed."

Laws felt no resentment against the fellow. All his hatred was concentrated on the tall Texan. He said:

"I refuse to sell. You can't take my horse by force."

"Sure's you're a foot high, I'm goin' to take your hoss."

"There's a time to go, even if you can't come back," muttered Laws and he lifted his gaze to stare toward the smoke which marked the Texan's camp.

"Hi! What's that? Time to go? You hit it square on the nail. That's why I'm goin' on your hoss, stranger." The fellow laughed recklessly, but with a glint of humor in his dark eyes.

Laws puckered his brows. There was no need of mad haste in reaching the camp. The lean brown hand on the big revolver could draw and shoot him from the saddle before he could reach for his own gun. He had no desire to shoot the young man. There was only one crime in the world—the affront to his wife. He patiently said—

"If you'll follow me a quarter of a mile— and I'll ride slow— I'll give you this horse."

"Er-huh? Just as easy as that. What's the rest of your game?" dryly asked the man.

"I'm on my way to the camp of some Texan herders. I'm going to find and kill one of them. He insulted Mary. Mary's my wife."

The hold-up man stared blanklyforabit.

"Going alone and carrying a fight to a parcel of bad Texans?" he curiously asked.

"Yes."

"Then you must be some rare hellion. I must know you by the speech of people. What's your handle?"

'Laws. Joe Laws."

"Oh! Laws. So it's Laws, eh," mumbled the man. "How long you been out here, Mr. Laws?"

"Came along with the road. Run an eating-house. Tall herder talked bad to me t'other evening. Because of my wife I stood for it. He came this afternoon while I was out and insulted my wife. She shot him through the left hand. I found her nearly crazy."

The man gaped for a moment and murmured—

"Your wife, Mary— Mary Laws potted the bad man?"

"Yes. Don't repeat things after me, please. I promised my wife I'd go back East with her this very day. She thinks I'm out now, selling my place. Of course she couldn't understand it was a time when a man has to do a certain thing. I didn't try to explain it. But you see how it is. That's what I meant by saying it's time I must go, even if there ain't any arrangements made for my coming back. I'm bothering to make this plain to you, so you will understand that I can't give up my horse. I must ride into that camp, hell-for-leather, and get my man before I'm riddled by his friends."

"I see. I see. 'Fighting' Joe Laws."

"No, no," disclaimed Laws seriously. "I've never claimed to be a fighter. Run an eating-house. I'm doing something now I simply have to do, even if it isn't in my line."

The man nodded gravely and, still holding the bridle, turned and glanced toward the west.

"Yeah, I can see the smoke from their cooking-fires." Facing about, he said, "I'm proud to meet such a conscientious cuss as you be. Fighting Joe Laws. But drag your eyes to the south a trifle. Those hossmen are Texans."

Laws shifted his gaze and beheld a compact group of riders heading for Newton. They had left the camp while he was talking with the stranger. He shaded his eyes and studied the man in the lead. There was no mistaking the tall, gaunt figure.

"Damn! You've held me here and they've started back to the town. They're making for my place. The man ahead is the one I'm after. Stand clear, or—"

He did not finish the threat. With incredible quickness the man yanked him from the saddle and darted a hand inside his coat and plucked forth the revolver and hurled it far to one side. Then he was on the horse and galloping on a long diagonal to reach the town ahead of the Texans. He rode well, as if part of his mount. And, as he rode, he recklessly shotted:

"A time to go! Well, let's hope the goin's good, with lots of company."

The Texans were in no haste and gave no heed to the horseman passing by on their left, who, in turn gave them no attention. He entered the town and hitched his mount in front of the nearest store. Of the storekeeper he inquired the location of Law's place. Securing the information, he took to the middle of the road and sauntered leisurely toward the restaurant. Coming to Stillwell's store he surveyed the interior through a window and then stepped inside. When the proprietor came forward he curtly explained:

"Sent by Joe Law's. Some Texans are coming to bedevil his wife, Mary. He wants you to hide her in your store till they can be coaxed away. They'll be here soon. Fetch her in the back way."

WITH a startled exclamation Stillwell ran through the store and out of the back door. The young man lounged to the comer of the building and cautiously peered between it and the eating-house. Soon he saw the storekeeper and a young woman crossing his narrow range of vision. He glanced down the street. None of the Texans were in sight.

"Prob'ly stoppin' for a snort of strong water," he mumbled.

He bent low, ran bet ween the buildings and entered the back door of the eating- house. The Mexican waiter was just leaving and jabbered something excitedly before starting to place the greatest distance between himself and the restaurant in the shortest space of time.

Whistling softly, the young man entered the dining-room and secured an apron from the counter and tied it over his guns. Then he ventured to open the door of the living-room and for a few moments surveyed it. Returning to the main room he stepped behind the counter and thrust his hands under his apron and drew two guns; and, with the weapons thus concealed, he leaned carelessly against the counter and waited.

Five of the Texans had left their horses and were coming up the street. The leader had a bandage around his left hand. Some distance behind them, and walking with a staggering, drunken gait, came Joe Laws. He was nearly exhausted by his long run. Overhauling Laws was a gaunt, sunburned man, who was finishing his third horse and a sixty-mile ride from the Kansas and Pacific line.

"THERE'S a time to go, no matter if you don't come back," murmured the man behind the counter. His hands were under the apron. "Who'd thought of him havin' guts enough to believe that?"

He was in a negligent pose when the door flew violently open and ihe tall Texan stepped in with four men at his heels. He gave a single glance at the man behind the counter, undoubtedly taking him to be a waiter.

"I'll fetch her out. Hold the young fellow if he shows up," he told his comrades.

He was striding the lengt h of the room to gain the living-room at the back of the house.

"Just where you 'low you're headin' for, stranger?" drawled the man behind the counter.

The tall man gave no heed to the question, but a bow-legged herder ambled forward. There came a metallic click- click. The tall man twisted about and was infuriated at the waiter's show of resistance. One hand had come from under the apron and was holding a forty- five. With a roar of rage the Texan reached for his gun and barely touched the handle before the booming crash of the forty-five was echoed by the crash of the tall figure striking the floor.

Another echo was the bow-legged man's gun. The waiter jerked about as if struck a heavy blow and shot the bow-legged man through the heart. The man was dead before he collapsed to his knees, his hands scraping the edge of the counter. The second gun came into view, and the two guns began answering and silencing the spurts of flame at the sides and the front of the room, as the waiter, leaning against the counter, fired rapidly and with deadly precision.

The horseman and young Laws came through the smoky doorway, as the survivor of the terrible tragedy sagged half across the counter. He made a futile effort to cock the left hand gun; then he grinned faintly and greeted—

"Howdy, Sheriff."

Laws stared wildly at the slaughterhouse. The sheriff ran behind the counter and wrenched the two guns from the feebly resisting hands.

"Hanse Banner, you've cheated me! You're dying!" he cried.

The sheriff caught him and eased him to the floor.

"Hanse Banner? Mary's brother?" gasped Laws as he ran behind the counter, uncertain what to do.

"No-good brother," mumbled Banner.

"He robbed the Kansas-Pacific single-handed," said the sheriff.

"Oh, my God! Here comes Mary— my wife, his sister," groaned Laws.

Banner made a supreme effort.

"I'm dying," he told the sheriff. "You've got the loot I dropped. Have pity for my sister."

Mary Laws came through the doorway and opened her mouth to shriek; then she discovered her husband.

"Your brother Hanse took the fight away from me," he told her, and he led her around the counter.

She gave a little cry as she beheld Hanse. Then she was on her knees and lifting his head to her lap—

"My little brother, my little brother," she moaned as she bent over him.

His mouth twisted in a little smile, as he recognized his sister.

"Just dropped in behind some skunks. Reckoned I'd help you folks out, after hearing what they come for. Glad to help a bit. But you was always right, Mary— L'arn 'em to 'suit my sister— There's a time to go—" And he was gone, with the whimsical, twisted smile deceiving them for a few moments.

Leaving the girl with her dead, Laws took the sheriff aside and whispered rapidly. The officer listened with no expression on his craggy face. He could have informed Laws that his brother-in- law, dead or alive, was worth five thousand dollars to the Kansas-Pacific. When Laws had finished, the sheriff returned to the girl and, awkwardly twiddling his big hat in his fingers, he told her:

"Your brother, ma'am, had fighting guts. He was a brave man. Trifle careless'n reckless, but nothing to hurt. A straight-shootin', brave man. We thought a heap of him up on the Kansas an' Pacific, ma'am. The boys will be sorry he pegged out this way."

"He was a good brother," she sobbed. "He sent the storekeeper to hide me. Then he came in here, waited, and fought them all alone."

"Nerviest damn play I ever see, ma'am," mumbled the sheriff. "He was a dead-game, wholesome lad. The boys up on the Kansas an' Pacific line will sure miss him."

He motioned for Laws to follow him, as he backed to the front door. And he whispered:

"I've got to rustle round right smart an' tear down the reward-notices I put up. If you take her back East at once she'll never know how that young hellion has pestered me."

___________________

4: The Three Grey Men of Mote Hall

Peter Cheyney

1896-1951

Queenslander, 19 June 1926

Early Cheyney, a decade before he hit the big time with Slim Callaghan and Lemmy Caution. He wrote many of these swift-moving Alonzo MacTavish tales for newspapers and magazines.

THE ATMOSPHERE of the Lyon's Tea Shop was restful. Outside, the busy traffic in. Southampton Row, and the summer heat, made life unendurable. Alonzo had already consumed three pots of China tea, mainly as an excuse for staying on, in order to consider the problem which, for the last hour had engrossed his attention. He propped the newspaper up against the tea pot, and read, once again, the paragraph which had caught his eye early that morning.

MOTE HALL MURDER MYSTERY.

BODY IDENTIFIED.

The body of the man who was found murdered in the entrance hall at Mote Hall, the deserted Sussex Mansion, was today identified as that of Carl Kleiner. This information serves to deepen the extraordinary mystery which has puzzled Scotland Yard and the Sussex Police for the last fortnight.

Kleiner is a clever American crook, who landed in this country only three days before he was found stabbed to the heart in Mote Hall. His presence in the empty house is unaccountable. He had been staying at Carret's Hotel, Mayfair, and had told the hall porter that he was going to Sussex for two days and would return to the Hotel.

Robbery was not the motive for the crime, as his watch and a large diamond ring were found on the body. The medical evidence at the inquest stated that the force which drove the dagger to Kleiner's heart must have been practically superhuman.

Alonzo ordered a fourth pot of tea, and considered the mystery. Carl Kleiner was a clever American crook, who had managed, very successfully, to evade the police for the last five years. What was he doing down at Mote Hall, in Sussex? An expert burglar does not usually amuse himself inspecting deserted country mansions, Alonzo thought, and Kleiner was very expert, besides which be was a man of imagination, and something told Alonzo that there was more in the sudden visit to the empty mansion than was obvious at the moment.

A slim, dark young fellow entered the tea shop, and, catching sight of Alonzo, made his way to the table. "Hullo, Mac," he said cheerfully. "I got your 'phone message all right, but I had to jump about a bit to get the job done, but I think I've got the dope on Kleiner."

"Where did you get it, Lon ?" asked Alonzo, signalling for another cup.

Lon Ferris grinned. "Do you remember Lopey Steve, Mac?" he asked. "Well, he wasn't particularly fond of Kleiner, but he knew more about him than anybody this side of the Atlantic. Here you are..."

He threw a folded paper across the table, and drinking the cup of tea which Alonzo had poured out for him, put on his hat.

"So long, Mac," he said. "I'd like to know what the game is. but I know it's no use asking. Till next time. So long!"

Alonzo, left to himself, opened the slip of paper and read :—

"Kleiner came over three days before he was found croaked in Mote Hall. He was believed to have some game on down there. Said he was thinking of buying the place, but that was all eye wash. There must have been something big on, for Kleiner only went out for big stuff. Hertz, a Dago, who used to be Kleiner's 'side stepper landed in England the day after Kleiner arrived. He had it in for Kleiner, who, he said, had twisted him on their last deal. Hertz may have done Kleiner in. He will stick at nothing. Photo herewith."

Alonzo examined the photograph of Hertz carefully. He came to the conclusion that he had never seen such a villainous-looking face in the course or his adventurous career..

After some further consideration, Alonzo came to the conclusion that there was nothing for it but to go down to Mote Hall and investigate. He was certain that there was something tangible in Mote Hall, and that Kleiner had been after it.

An A.B.C. borrowed from an adjacent chemist's shop told him that there was a train for East Shallock— a station about five miles from Mote Hall— at four-thirty. He took a cab to his flat at Earl's Court, and packing a suitcase, into which he slipped his automatic pistol, he caught the train and was soon en route for Mote Hall.

East Shallock was a small country station that boasted of no cabs or other means of conveyance. Alonzo learned that there was an inn two miles further along the road where he could find accommodation. Gripping his suit case he swung cheerfully along the road, his brain busily endeavouring to evolve some scheme of action.

Presently he inn came in sight. It was a prepossessing-looking, old-fashioned place, where Alonzo obtained. a hearty greeting from the landlord, who, he was glad to find, was inclined to be talkative.

"Terrible thing, this 'ere murder, sir," he volunteered presently, as Alonzo was eating his dinner in the tiny dining room. "We ain't 'ad a murder in these parts for nigh on 30 year. A strange business for a man to be found stabbed m a 'ouse that 'asn't been lived in for two 'undred years. But Mote 'All's a strange place—l wouldn't like to spend a night there, and many's the strange tales they do tell about the old house."

"Haunted?" queried Alonzo, with a smile.

"They do say so, sir," replied: the landlord. "You see, the 'all used to be a monastery in the olden times, and the monks as were in it never came out of the place. When they died they were just buried by the others. Well, the story goes that at last there was only three of 'em left, an' these three used to take turn and turn about to guard the treasure that was supposed to be in the vaults underneath. Some rapscallion in the neighbourhood, thinking to get the treasure, climbed the monastery wall one night. He was never 'eard of again, but years after they found, what was left of 'im in the 'all, just the same as this 'ere Mr. Kleiner. There's old folk about 'ere who swear they've seen the ghosts of the Three Grey Men of Mote Hall— as they are called— walkin' about the grounds at night with daggers in their 'ands, and tho' it may sound silly like. I've often thought I've seen a light in the windows late at night myself."

Alonzo, his dinner finished, lit a pipe. It was strange, he thought, that Kleiner should have met his death in the manner of the old legend, for although. Alonzo did not believe in ghosts, he had encountered strange coincidences in his time. After a few minutes he strolled into the passage between the dining-room and the private bar. He looked through the bar door, then drew back quickly out of sight, for, sitting against the bar, drinking a whisky and soda, was the man whose photograph was in Alonzo's pocket― Hertz!

Alonzo, back in the dining-room, considered the situation. What was Hertz doing at Mote Hall? Was it merely curiosity to see the scene of his late partner's death, which had brought him here, or was there some other and more sinister motive?

A glance at the inn's register showed him that Hertz had registered as a "Tourist." with an address in Paris. Alonzo smiled gently to himself, and, knocking out his pipe, went up to bed.

IT WAS 3 o'clock the next morning. The moon had sunk behind the clouds, and the night was dark as Alonzo ascended the bracken-covered path which led to Mote Hall. The outline of the old mansion, ghostly in the dim light, brought to Alonzo's mind the landlord's story of 'The Three Grey Men." A convenient tree helped him to scale the wall, and ten minutes afterwards he forced the dusty shutters which covered a ground floor window and made his way into the house.

Walking on tiptoe he quickly found the entrance hall and examined the spot where the body of Kleiner had been found. The ominous red stain was still on the wooden floor, and, as Alonzo's electric flash lamp travelled over the walls of the old place, he wondered whether the story of the treasure was true, and whether Kleiner had. thought the tale worth investigating. After a few minutes' search he left the hall and, mounting the wide staircase, examined the rooms on the first floor. Empty and thick with dust, they told him nothing, and, after some fifteen minutes' fruitless search he returned to the entrance hall.

He flashed his lamp round the place once more, and as the white beam of light fell on the back of the ancient fireplace he stifled an exclamation. Almost hidden behind a projecting stone was a piece of white paper. He picked it up, and a soft whistle of astonishment escaped him. The handwriting was the same as that in the inn register. The note in his hand had been written by Hertz. He opened the folded paper and read:

"Dear K.,—The stuff is in the third vault next to the old torture chamber. Wall facing the door. Fourth stone from the ground upwards, sixth stone from the wall sideways. . Press. When wall opens out, you will, find oak cupboard inside. Press middle rose in bunch of flowers carved on right panel, and the cupboard opens. Meet you as arranged. Good. luck. H."

So Hertz had been in the game with "Kleiner! And, the stuff was downstairs in the vaults!' Alonzo sat for. a moment, his torch switched off, staring straight, at the darkness in front of him. Then a smile curved his lips, and he nodded his head, in silent amusement.

After a minute he rose and, walking as quietly as a cat, made his way by the winding stone staircase down to the vaults. The light of his torch enabled him to, find the middle vault—the one next to the small square room which had been used, as a torture chamber in the olden times. He walked to the opposite wall and, carrying out the instructions in the note,  threw his weight against the brick indicated., A moment pawed, then, with a creaking noise, a square of the stone wall moved outwards, disclosing, as the note had said, the door of an ancient oak-carved cupboard.

Alonzo stepped back, every nerve strained to catch the slightest sound. Suddenly he switched off his torch, and, moving quickly and silently to the stone staircase which led upstairs, he ascended halt a dozen steps. Above him he heard a slight shuffle. Descending quickly, he switched on his torch again, and making his way to the treasure cupboard, he found the middle rose in the bunch of flowers carved on the right panel. He put his thumb on the rose and pressed, and, an the cupboard doors slowly commenced to open, he sprang backwards.

A second later an iron bar, worked by come hidden mechanism, came downwards and outwards from the cupboard. Affixed to the top of the bar was a gloaming knife. The bar struck suddenly at the place where Alonzo had been standing, then disappeared back into the cupboard. Alonzo switched off his torch and dropped it with a crash ; then, giving a deep groan, he moved into the shadows. As he did so the light of an electric torch appeared on the stairs and; a moment later, his face working with excitement, the figure of Hertz appeared at the bottom of the stairway.

Alonzo stepped forward into the circle of light.

"Good evening, Mr. Hertz!" he said, smiling into the astounded countenance of the other. "How disappointed you must be at the failure of your little scheme. Your annoyance at not seeing me lying dead on the floor must be acute, I am sure!"

"What the hell do you mean?" gasped Hertz, his face white with fear and anger.

"I'll tell you, my friend, exactly what I mean." replied Alonzo. "You knew of the existence of this treasure and you wanted to get it ; at the same time you were aware that the doors were guarded by this device of the olden time monks, and that if any one attempted to open the door without knowing the actual secret they would be stabbed by the mechanical knife. I've seen another, exactly like it, in Strasbourg. But you had to got the doors open somehow, and so the idea came to you, that you might kill two birds with one stone. You put Kleiner on to the job, and when he was stabbed you came down to Mote Hall and moved the body upstairs carrying away just as much of the treasure as you could.

"You saw me enter the Hall tonight, and you wrote out that note, which I found in the fireplace, whilst I was on the first floor. You knew that I would descend to the vaults and carry out the instructions in the note, and you hoped to get me out of the way and the treasure chest open a second time. Luckily for me I realised that the note which I found had been written only a few minutes before. I have good eyesight, and I realised that that note was not three weeks old. Hard luck, Mr. Hertz!"

"Who are you, any way?" asked Hertz angrily. "My name is Alonzo MacTavish," replied Alonzo quietly.

Hertz gave an exclamation of surprise. "MacTavish," he ejaculated, "Why Kleiner often told me about you— the cleverest crook in the world, he called you. Now, look here, MacTavish, you've got me beat. I guess you're right about Kleiner. I had to get him out of the way, but he'd have done the same to me. Help me get this stuff away, and we'll go halves. There's a king's fortune in that cupboard. Well, what do you say?"

"I don't do business with murderers, Hertz," replied Alonzo, quietly.

"Say, don't be a fool,'' Hertz pleaded. "Do you know what that stuff is in the cupboard? Well, I'll tell you. Don't you believe any old stories about monks' treasure— the stuff in that chest is the jewels brought from the Russian Churches during the revolution. There's diamond crosses and things worth thousands. I guess some refugee royalists put it here for safety, so that the Bolsheviks shouldn't claim 'em, thinking that nobody would ever find 'em out. I found out anyway, and I'm. going to have my whack at 'em."

"Oh, no, you're not, Mr. Hertz," said Alonzo. "I've done some funny things in my time, but I don't work with murderers, and I don't rob churches. This stuff is going to stay exactly where if is for the moment."

Alonzo took out his cigarette case and lit a cigarette. Then he looked up—straight into the barrel of the heavy automatic which shone in Hertz's hand.

"Oh, you think so, my chivalrous friend, do you?" answered Hertz. "Well, I'll tell you what I'm going to do. You know too much, and I'm going to see that you don't talk. I'm going to shoot you, my friend, and your body is going into that cupboard when I've cleared it of some of the stuff that's in it. Dead men tell no tales, and―"

Something whizzed past Alonzo's head, and Hertz, dropping the revolver, staggered back, his eyes wide with fear. A long knife, unerringly thrown, had transfixed his right arm. Alonzo spun round then stepped back with an involuntary gasp of astonishment. Half of the wall which separated the vault from the torture chamber had swung back, and in the opening stood the Three Grey Men of Mote Hall!

The dim light from the chamber beyond showed faintly on the long grey monk's gown and the hoods which concealed the faces of the wearers. The tallest of the three stepped forward and spoke to Hertz.

"Do not be alarmed, my burglaring friend," he said, speaking with a slight accent. "We are not ghosts, but very much flesh and blood."

He bowed to Alonzo.

"Sir," he said, "may I introduce myself— Colonel Count Stefan Ketivra, late of the Russian Imperial Life Guard." The next grey-gowned figure stepped forward— "Lieutenant Kapek Packski, of the Sharpshooters, and"— as the third figure advanced— "Lieutenant Karolis Ivanoff, of the same regiment."

Alonzo returned his bow.

"I am Alonzo MacTavish," he said— "gentleman adventurer, night of the road, or, if you will, plain crook!"

Ketivra held up his hand.

"Sir," he said, "crook or not, you would have protected the holy treasure which we guard, and for that we salute you. For years we have guarded this, the remnants of our churches' treasure, and, but for the conversation which we overheard, this murderer would have succeeded in his foul plot. We shall deal with him in good time. As for you, you must leave Mote Hall at one, and never set foot in it again. This you must swear upon your honour, also that you will never mention what you have seen this night."

"I give you my word," said Alonzo.

"Good," replied the Count. "We have found the ancient legend of The Three Grey Men most useful for our secrecy, and it must be guarded. And now. Good-bye. Kapek will see you safely away."

Alonzo bowed and followed the silent lieutenant of Sharpshooters.

AS THE VILLAGE clock struck five and the dawn broke, Alonzo, whistling quietly to himself, walked along the country road towards the inn. The mystery of Kleiner's death was solved, and Alonzo's curiosity was satisfied. He stood on the crest of the hill and looked back at Mote Hall. Suddenly, on the quiet morning air, a shot rang out: then all was silence. Alonzo raised his cap.

"Good-bye. Mr. Hertz," he said, and, singing, strode off to the inn.

____________

5: Lilies Of Life

Malcolm Jameson

1891-1945

Astounding Feb 1945

THE test tube dropped to the floor with a crash. A wisp of acrid vapor trailed up from it.

Parks, ignoring it and gripping the edge of the table, moaned, "Something's happened to my schedule— this isn't due for an hour yet—"

He broke off, shivering.

Maxwell looked sharply at him from where he sat, and then glanced at the clock. It was only two. Their next shots were due at three o'clock. But there was no doubt that Parks was working himself into a seizure. Already his hands were twitching and jumping convulsively, and the telltale tics of the deadly Venusian swamp jitters were commencing to go to work. Parks's face was no longer his own, but a travesty of a human countenance— a wildly leering, alternately staring and squinting, mask of agony.

With a sigh, Maxwell rose and pushed back his chair. If Parks was going that way, so would he, soon. Unhurriedly he walked to the medicine cabinet and took out two shiny syringes. He filled them both from their supply of ampules. Paracobrine was not much good, but it was the best men knew. Then he laid them by the "wailing wall"— an iron railing firmly secured to heavy stanchions— and went to where the now whimpering Parks huddled on his stool.

"Come on, old man," he said gently, "let's get it over with."

Parks allowed himself to be led to the place, and long practice did the rest. By the time Maxwell had the needle in and the plunger thrust home, Parks was gripping the rail as if he meant to squeeze it flat. Maxwell took a deep breath. It was his turn. He rolled up his sleeve and forced the amber liquid into his own veins.

For five interminable minutes the two men clung there, writhing and sobbing as the fiery stuff coursed through their bodies— molten iron, searing acid, soul-destroying agony. And then it passed. Fingers relaxed their deathlike hold, muscles untensed, and their gasping again became breathing.

"I... won't go... through... this... again—" began Parks through clenched teeth, "I—"

"Oh, yes you will," said Maxwell grimly. "We always say that... everybody says it... but still we go on. You know the alternatives don't you?"

"I know them," said Parks dully. Without paracobrine the jitters became a permanent condition, not a recurrent one, and one that ended necessarily in madness. The other course was the rope, or the jump from a high place, or a swifter poison.

"All right, let's get back to work then. What was in that tube?"

"Experiment eleven-o-four. It doesn't matter now. I used the last of the snooker bark. We haven't the stuff to duplicate it with. Not unless Hoskins smuggles in another supply."

"Forget it, then. Let's have a look in the ward. Maybe eleven-o-three did the trick."

Parks followed silently, gradually pulling himself back into his normal self. Next time he would know enough to advance the clock. Paracobrine was no fun, but it was less hard to take in a calm mood then after the attack had begun.

The ward brought the usual disappointment. The monkey in the victim cage was gibbering hideously in his last convulsions. Within a minute it would be as dead as the limp piles of inoculated guinea pigs in the pens beyond. The last try at the formula had not worked. Two thirds of the human race would have to go on suffering for a while, for a better answer to the swamp jitters than paracobrine was not yet invented.

Maxwell looked at the other cages. There were still some monkeys and guinea pigs, and there were a few other combinations yet to try. Men in vital research must be resilient. A thousand or so failures was nothing. It is a part of the business.

"I think," he started to say, "that we had best—"

"I'll get the door," Parks interrupted, as a discreet tapping broke in on them. "Sounds like Hoskins."

IT WAS HOSKINS, Hoskins the interplanetary smuggler. He carried a heavy satchel and wore a sour grin.

"Bad news, fellows," he said, setting down his bag. "No more stuff out of Venus from now on. They've trebled the off-planet patrol and tightened up on port inspection. Tony was pinched, and his ship and the stuff for you with it. They threw him in the clink, of course, and burned the cargo. That means you won't get any more snooker bark, or gizzle bugs, twangi-twangi, melons, or any other of that stuff. Shan Dhee has chucked his job, which leaves me without a buyer. I'm going out of business. Sorry."

"There's nothing for us?" asked Parks, aghast. He clung fiercely to his theory that the specific for the jitters would be found only in some organic product of Venus, where the disease originated. It would be there, if anywhere, that the virus's natural enemies would have evolved. But lately other Venusian maladies had been turning up, and the quarantine authorities must have ordered a stricter embargo. Without smuggled organics, his and Maxwell's hands would be tied.

"I've got this stuff," said Hoskins, opening the bag. "It's not the sort you usually order, but I happen to have it on hand and want to close it out. It's loot Shan Dhee got out of a Tombov temple he once robbed. It ought to go to a museum, but the stuff's hot and they ask too many questions. Could you use it?"

He dug into the bag and came up with a figurine. It was a piece of the curious coffee-colored semi-jade regarded as a sacred stone by the savage Tombovs, and, considered as Tombov work, was extraordinarily well executed. Its subject was a rotund, jolly old Tombov godlet, sitting comfortably on a throne with his pudgy hands clasped across his belly. About his neck hung a rope of what appeared to be large pearls, and he was crowned with a chaplet of swamp lilies. Lily plants grew all about the throne, and there the jade had been cunningly colored green by the application of a kind of lacquer—the pale-yellow lilies being similarly tinted.

"Shan Dhee says it is the Tombov God of Health, and the temple was the big one in Angra Swamp where the Angra tribes hold their orgies."

"Ugh!" shuddered Parks. Those who had seen them reported the Tombov ritual was not a pretty thing to watch. "No, it's no good to us."

"I don't know," said Maxwell slowly. "God of Health, you say? M-m-m. Come to think of it, most Tombovs are immune to the jitters, or were until our pioneers went there. Maybe we ought to study it. How much?"

"Nothing, to you," said Hoskins. "You've been good customers. Take it for cumshaw. But I'll have to ask money for these."

He dug again into the bag and came out with a double handful of beautiful, iridescent spherelets. They were each about the size of a golf ball, and looked for all the world like so many soap bubbles—thin, fragile, and shimmering. Yet when Maxwell examined one he found it to be exceedingly hard, though almost weightless, and it appeared to be made of the toughest imaginable crystal.

"What are they?"

"Gems, I guess," shrugged Hoskins. "They came out of the temple, too. Shan Dhee said they hung around the neck of the big idol like a necklace—roped together with wisps of grass. See, the little idol wears a replica of it."

Maxwell considered the jewels, frowning. Hoskins added that the price would be a thousand for the lot. That was a lot of money, but what was money to men doomed to a lingering, fearful death? The baubles were somehow linked to the Tombov health rites, and the wild Tombov—though a filthy beast—was notoriously healthy. It was only the civilized ones who withered and died. It was doubtful that the gems themselves had any therapeutic value, but they came out of a temple. Therefore they were symbolic of something or other, a possible clue to the real secret.

Maxwell hauled a drawer open and swept the glistening spheres into it.

"Make out a check, Parks. I'm going to play a hunch."

PARKS, still dazed from his premature seizure, nodded dumbly. And after Hoskins had gone, they took out the spheres again and huddled over them. Then they divided up the work and went at it.

Tests were applied, with results that were largely negative. The iridescent balls were acidproof, shatterproof, and exceedingly hard. But Maxwell managed to saw one in half, and found it empty, though as the saw first bit through the thin shell there was a sharp hissing as trapped inner gases escaped into the room. Parks was quick to catch a sample of the foul-smelling stuff, only to be baffled by the analysis. The organic gases of Venus have most complex molecular structures.

"Hey," yelled Maxwell a little later, taking his eye away from the microscope. "I have some of that sawdust here. It isn't crystalline at all. It's definitely a cellular structure. These balls are certainly not minerals, but they are not plant or animal tissue, either— not as we know them. They're just—"

"Just Venusian," Parks completed for him, sighing. Anything that lived on Venus was a headache to the investigator. There was no perceptible borderline between flora and fauna, and there were times when both encroached into the mineral zone. Venusian life cycles made those of such devious transformations as the human tapeworm on Earth seem as bleakly simple as the reproductive processes of the amoeba. Parks knew of a sort of aquatic ant, to name just one, that was fertilized by clinging to the skin of eels, and which then crawled ashore and laid its eggs, the eggs subsequently growing up into masses of moss. Weird, featherless birds ate that moss and developed intestinal parasites. Those, upon deserting their host, became crawling ants, sprouted wings, and then took off for the ocean. It was merely the usual Venusian complicated symbiotic setup: the ants being somehow necessary to the survival of the eels, and, in their later forms, to the birds, both as food and as digestive enzymes. Scientists who attempted to follow through lost themselves in a maze of still other ramifications.

Maxwell and Parks stared at one another.

"There's only one thing to do," said Maxwell. "Hoskins can't bring any more stuff to us; we'll have to go to it. I want to know why wild Tombovs don't have jitters, and why lilies are sacred to them, and what these things are. We're going to Venus."

Their arrival at Port Angra was not a cheerful occasion. Their arms and legs were puffed and aching from scores of prophylactic shots. Moreover, they had had to sign away most of their civil rights. Despite all precautions, white men rarely could remain more than three months on Venus without picking up one or more virulent infections, any of which would prevent his ever returning to sanitary Earth. People therefore went there at their own risk, absolving in advance the government and all others concerned.

There was also nothing reassuring about their fellow passengers. A few were desperate scientists like themselves, stragglers in the procession that had been going by for years. Others were missionaries, gone to relieve brothers whose three months were about up. For similar reasons there were relief quarantine-enforcement officers along, and representatives of the Radioactive Syndicate, come to take their turn at keeping the uranium mines going. Most regarded their assignments with unalloyed distaste.

They came down in the inevitable sticky, yellow, hot mist and landed in a clearing made in a lush jungle. Awaiting them was a pathetic sight—rows and rows of grounded palanquins with the weathered and mildewing white and red insignia of the Red Cross. In litters lay the men they were coming to relieve, mere wrecks of what they had been a few short weeks before. For not a few of them, their coming to the port was no more than a hopeless gesture. Whether they were accepted for the passage home would depend upon the doctors.

"This is some place," growled Parks.

"When the jitters hit you again," reminded Maxwell grimly, "it won't matter. Any place you happen to be in will be that."

He studied the ranks of tamed Tombovs standing patiently beside the grounded chairs. They were the bearers, the helots of this hole. They stood gaunt and shivering, for they were sick men, too, sicker even than the whites. It was thought profitable to keep Earthmen alive by periodic doses of paracobrine, but a waste of good drugs when it came to natives. The swamps were full of them, and the promise of tobacco— the one nonnative commodity valued by the savages— always filled up the ranks again. As Maxwell looked, one of the chair bearers jerked into violent convulsions and fell writhing and howling to the muddy ground. No one noticed. It was too routine. Tomorrow, maybe, the scavengers would attend to it.

The Tombov was remarkably humanoid, grotesquely so, more so than the great apes of Earth. The salient difference was in the feet, huge splayed pedals that served as mudshoes, distributing the body weight over a larger area so that the Tombov could walk safely on the thin crust that topped the viscous mire of the swamplands. They were ducklike feet, mostly membrane spread between long, tapering toes.

The port captain came up and called litters for the new arrivals, one each for the men, and additional ones for their equipment. Then he barked out an order in the harsh Tombov tongue, and the bearers picked up their loads and went on splashing away.

Despite the poor visibility, Maxwell found it an interesting ride. There was a feeling of luxuriousness in being carried along over impossibly sloppy ground on the bare shoulders of a half-dozen jogging slaves. And he was interested and at the same time appalled at the riot of vegetation he glimpsed on all sides. There was an infinitude of species of every kind of living thing, an overwhelming field for scientific study. With human mortality rates what they were, man would probably never know much about Venusian life forms. For the animals, if they were animals, that peered out from time to time were as weird and incredible as the fantastic flowering lianas, smoking bushes, and trees that gave off metallic, cracked-bell, clanking sounds.

His momentary sense of well-being abruptly departed from him as their caravan hove into a clearing and moved past a low mud wall. Over the group of buildings beyond the wall flew the drab banner of the U.M.— United Missions. He saw the corrals into which newly arrived Tombovs were being herded preparatory to their being "processed" for the slave market. For since Earthmen could not work and survive in that vile climate, they had to have natives as the beasts of burden. It was natives who dug the uranium, who did the building and the hauling. And heathen Tombovs would not do. They were too intractable.

Maxwell thought cynically of the conversion statistics, of the thousands run through the salvation mills each year. It was not basically an evangelical proposition. It was an economic necessity. For all Earthmen, whatever their faith, agreed on one point— the Tombov in the raw was a lazy, lascivious, irresponsible rascal. The wild native was a chronic liar, a congenital thief, and what displeased him he was prone to kill out of hand, and his means of doing it were rarely nice. He saw no point in working, for natural food was on every hand. He was tough; therefore physical punishment meant nothing. His philosophy was virtually nil, so he was deaf to abstract appeal. In short, to be useful, he had to be Christianized.

A TURN OF the road put behind them the mission and its hateful appendage— the labor mart. Ahead were the first straggling huts of An-gra. They passed the inevitable dispensary, with its white-coated attendants and wailing wall. Then they stopped beyond at a low building whose sign read:

BUREAU OF RESEARCH COORDINATION

The doctor in charge was a haggard, sallow man with woebegone eyes. His hopeless expression did not change while Maxwell was outlining his theory. When he stopped, the doctor shook his head.

"A chimera," he said, "a waste of work. Others have come to Venus with the notion that it was something the Tombovs ate or drank that made them immune to jitters. Every item of their diet has been analyzed many times, even the foul fen air they breathe. The results were always negative. Nor is there any appreciable difference between Tombov blood types and ours, or their vitamin reactions. We think now that the so-called Tombov immunity is due to nothing more mysterious than natural selection. The ones now in the swamps are descendants of those who simply could not be killed by the disease, and therefore have great resistance."

"Nonsense," said Maxwell, nettled by the negativeness of the man. "What becomes of their natural resistance when they are converted? Baptism has no effects on antibodies. Did it ever occur to you that there may be something they do at their secret rites which makes the difference?"

"Religion," said the doctor stiffly, "is a subject I never discuss, and the less said about the abominable rites of the swamp savages the better. I assure you, sir, if you knew the Tombov as well as we here do—"

Maxwell snorted and turned away.

"Let's go, Parks. It's the 'old China hand' story all over again. When a scientist lets himself be blinded by prejudice, he isn't a scientist any more."

At the dispensary they asked the whereabouts of Hoskins' former scout, Shan Dhee. According to Hoskins, Shan Dhee was a convert who backslid after living with the whites a while, and turned native again. It was because he had promptly contracted the jitters and had had sense enough to run away. The result of being apostate from both camps was that he became a sort of pariah, tolerated, but distrusted, by both races. Yet he served well as a go-between because he was the one heathen Tombov who knew the ways of Earthmen and spoke their language, though Hoskins warned it would be in a variety of code.

"Shan Dhee?" said the interne, lifting an eyebrow in surprise that a respectable person should inquire about one so shifty and disreputable. "Why, in jail, probably. If not, you'll find him hanging around one of the dives down at the Edge, loaded to the gills with zankra. Take my advice and have a patrolman go along, if you have to see him. When a convert goes bad, he's bad."

"Oh, we'll manage," said Maxwell. The anti-Tombov prejudice seemed well distributed. He was still inclined to rely on Hoskins' recommendation.

THE ZANKRA joint was not a savory place. It was dark and dirty and very, very smelly. Its patrons, white men who couldn't stand the gaff and had been barred from going home by reason of their condition, lay all about on dirty mats. They were dead to the world, even if their muscles did occasionally knot up in spasmodic twitchings. This was the way they chose to ease their doom—they had gone the zankra route. For zankra, though not a cure for anything, brought blissful anesthesia, being as it was a natural elixir— a blend of protomezyl alcohol and a number of potent alkaloids. It was cheap, too, since the gourds of which it was the juice could be had for a copper coin or so. A gourd of it was just being broached as Maxwell and Parks walked in. They saw a native squat by the door and jab a hole in the fruit so he could insert a sucking quill.

"We're Mr. Hoskins' friends," Maxwell said to him. "Where can we find Shan Dhee?"

The Tombov studied him shiftily. There was some hesitation, and then,

"Me Shan Dhee."

Maxwell had also been studying him. He was gratified to note that the fellow seemed to be magnificently healthy. There was none of the residual tremor that persists even after paracobrine shots. Yet Shan Dhee's shoulders and arms bore mute testimony that he had been a fitters' victim at one time. They were covered with the scars of self-inflicted bites, usually a sure sign of an untreated case. The scars were very old and confirmed, in a way, what Maxwell wanted to believe. The man had evidently been cured— a thing believed to be impossible. But how? By his reversion to his former pagan practices?

Shan Dhee turned out to be a poor subject. It was bad enough that he spoke the barbarous pidgin brought by the first missionaries, but he was also suspicious, stubborn, and evasive. By Maxwell's questions Shan Dhee at once divined that Maxwell knew that he had once robbed a temple, and he knew that if other Tombovs ever found that out he was sure to die horribly.

"No know what lily flower good for," he would say, averting his eyes. "Tombov no eat. Tombov wear. Lily flower no good Earthfel-low. Kankilona come out of lily flower. Earthfellow kankilona no like. Earthfellow priestfellow say kankilona horres... horrejwous monster. Earthfellow priestfellow wantchee kill all kankilona. Kankilona die, Tombov die. Die no good for Tombov. More better Earthfellow no see kankilona."

That was that. No amount of questioning could elicit more. They had to guess at what sort of "horrendous monster" a kankilona might be. On Venus it could be anything from an ambulatory flytrap to a fire-breathing dragon. All that was clear was that there was a relation between the lilies and the monsters, that the missionaries did not approve of them, and that the monsters were somehow necessary to Tombov well-being.

Questions as to the iridescent, gas-filled spheres brought little that was comprehensible, though much later it did come to have meaning. Shan Dhee tried desperately to duck the question, for evidently he had lied about them to Hoskins.

"Littily shiny balls no gems," he confessed at last. "Littily shiny ball no good at all. Littily shiny ball one day pretty... six, eight, day more ... no more littily shiny ball. All gone. Maybeso litilly shiny ball papa-papa-fellow kankilona."

"He's lying," said Parks. "We've got eighteen of 'em at home in our vault. We studied 'em a lot longer than a week, and none of them vanished. I'd call 'em pretty permanent."

Shan Dhee refused to amplify. Maxwell noted the hinted link to the mysterious kankilona but let it pass and went straight to the purpose of his call. Would Shan Dhee fix it so they could attend a Tombov orgy?

Shan Dhee's reaction was close to terror. Tombov temples were strictly taboo to Earthmen at all times. They were even taboo to Tombovs, including the priesthood, except during the days of actual festival. The Tombovs would hardly dare slaughter the Earthmen if they were found desecrating the place—the Tombovs had learned that hard lesson long before— but what they would do to Shan Dhee was too dreadful to think about. Shan Dhee would steal, smuggle, even murder for them— if enough tobacco was to be had— but not that.

"Don't Tombov priests like tobacco, too?" Maxwell asked softly.

It was a lucky question. It rang the bell. Shan Dhee reconsidered. He sipped zankra and made calculations on his fingers. In the end he yielded.

"Maybeso can do," he admitted uneasily. "Maybeso Tombov priest-fellow letchee Shan Dhee hidum Earthfellow godhouse-side, but priest-fellow no likee Earthfellow in Tombov godhouse. Earthfellow no likee see Tombov eatchee kankilona. Earthfellow get sick. Earthfellow pukum. Earthfellow get mad. Earthfellow smashee Tombov godhouse. Earthfellow in godhouse no good. More better Earthfellow hidee outside."

Both investigators promised faithfully they would watch unseen. They would be the soul of discretion. And they would pay any reasonable price. They were not scoffers or reformers. They wanted only to know the secret of Tombov health. Shan Dhee relaxed. He even grinned a crooked grin.

"Tombov priestfellow more better Earthfellow priestfellow. Tombov wantchee long life now, swampside. Tombov no wantchee long life bimebye, Heavenside. Heavenside no good. Too far. Swampside more better."

Parks and Maxwell smiled. After all, they couldn't blame the poor devil. How could the warped missionary doctrine preached them be any solace for hard labor and suffering? Better good health now, and let them take their chances on Heaven. So they argued no further, but tolled up the quantities of tobacco Shan Dhee said would be required.

It took three weeks of dreary slogging over slimy mud, sometimes proceeding by dugout canoe, before they came to the place of the Festival of Long Life. Shan Dhee showed them the markers that set off the sacred areas. Until they were removed three days later, it was forbidden for ordinary Tombovs to pass them. But Shan Dhee shot the clumsy craft ahead. His coming had been arranged. He directed the canoe past the tripods of saplings with their warning plumed skulls. The sluggish lagoon narrowed. Presently they came in between two lily fields. Shan Dhee explained that there were only a few places where such lilies grew and that the penalty for taking one off holy ground was death.

Maxwell studied the plants with interest but saw little to distinguish them from the Terran variety except their great size and yellow color. And then he was startled to see monstrous hairy creatures crawling around among them. For a long time he got only glimpses, and then he saw one entire. It was a sort of giant tarantula— a horror of mottled silky hair hanging from a bulbous, palpitating body as large as a basketball. There seemed to be a score of arching legs, each hairy and clawed at the tip. There were ugly, knifelike fangs, too, from which a greenish poison drooled. A cluster of luminous eyes were set above them, glaring venomously in shifting reds and violets.

"Kankilona," said Shan Dhee.

Parks shuddered. It was upsetting even to look on one. Had Shan Dhee said that the Tombovs ate them?

The lagoon shoaled and narrowed. In a moment Shan Dhee drove the dugout nose up onto a muddy bank. It was the island hummock of the temple grounds. They climbed out and dragged the canoe into the underbrush and hid it under broad leaves. Then they gathered up their baggage and went up onto the hummock.

It was a glade surrounded by heavy cypress, and under the trees were hundreds of little huts. In the distance stood the temple —an astonishing structure of gray stone, astonishing because the nearest solid ground was more than a hundred miles away. Only stubborn devotion could have carried those massive stones to where they were. But the temple's great portal was closed and barred. The whole place was deserted.

Shan Dhee disregarded everything until he could build their hiding place. It was a two-roomed hut he made for them, considerably apart from any other. As a tolerated outcast Shan Dhee said he was permitted to attend the festival, but he must keep his distance from the truly faithful. As it happened, his status was most convenient, for the two Earthmen could live in the rear, watching the show through peepholes, while Shan Dhee sat stolidly in the doorway, sure that no wild Tombov would venture near an untouchable. Shan Dhee said they could see all there was to see from there until the night of the culmination of the revels. By then the Tombovs would be blind drunk and would not notice if they were being spied on from the darkness outside the temple door.

Maxwell and Parks laid out their gear. There were their food pellets and their store of tobacco twists that must be given to the priests. There was also their scientific paraphernalia— beakers and test tubes and reaction chemicals, and their all-purpose spectrographs camera. But the most essential item was their supply of precious paracobrine, for Parks was slipping fast and needed shots at hourly intervals. They stowed that safely and settled down to wait.

The subsequent week was not especially instructive, nor was it entertaining. During the first days the Tombovs began straggling in, filthy with swamp mud encrusted on them. They brought their women and children with them, and a tremendous number of zankra gourds. Each family settled into its own hut and then proceeded to the tribal reunion. The affair was much like barbaric gatherings anywhere in the Solar System— attended by the monotonous banging on tom-toms, by wild, uninhibited dancing, by gorgings with food and drink. There were scenes of reckless drunkenness, but until the beginning of the fifth day it was essentially a social gathering. It was not until the fifth day that the priests showed up.

The activities thereafter took on a different tinge. No longer did the Tombov braves lie around in drunken stupor until mid-afternoon. They were put to work. And their women were put to work.

They went out into the swamp, paddling along on their splayed, webbed feet. The men carried curious nets made of twisted small lianas. The boys trailed them, bearing roomy cages made of a sort of wicker. For the women's part, their job seemed to be the gathering of lilies. They stripped the plants methodically, taking blooms and leaves alike, leaving little more than pulpy stubble behind. It was not until evening came and the men came back that Maxwell knew what they had gone for. They returned triumphantly with scores upon scores of captured kankilonas, the trapped arachnids ululating horribly in protest at their restricted movement. The priests opened the temple doors long enough to receive the spiders, and then closed them again.

THAT WENT on for three days more, but as the swamps were stripped of their leafy covering and crawling monsters, Maxwell made an astounding discovery. For a few minutes one day the sun came through —a rarity on cloudy Venus—and as it did a miracle seemed to happen. The dull mud flats became beds of scintillating fire. What he had bought from Hoskins as jewels lay thick everywhere. They were as numerous as the dead leaves of fall. Then the clouds took over again and the glow died.

"What do you make of it?" asked Parks, who was looking on in wonder. "Could they be lily seed?"

"Hardly," said Maxwell. "They are too light and airy. Seeds have to sink into the soil to germinate. Those things won't even sink in water."

At last the final day of the festival came. Men and women dressed themselves in gala garments made from lilies. There were chaplets and leis, garlands and leafy headdresses. And they were drinking zankra in colossal doses. All afternoon there was unrestrained dancing, and toward dark the drunken choruses became a bedlam of hideous howling. Then the temple doors were thrown open wide and torches lit inside.

"Pretty soon you Hoskins friendfellow see kankilona feast," remarked Shan Dhee. He looked worried, as if repenting the deal. "No letchee priestfellow catchee looksee," he warned. Maxwell and Parks repeated their promise.

It was near midnight when they decided the worshipers were so drunk that nothing would matter. Maxwell and Parks stole out of their hut and across the glade, being careful not to step on the many Tombovs who had already passed out. They stopped close to the great door and looked in. The orgy was at its height. They saw now how the feast was conducted. Two acolytes would hand up a squirming kankilona, stripped of its legs. The high priest would receive it and then defang it with two swift jerks. The slimy fangs he would hurl into a basket at the foot of the chief idol; the carcass he would throw to the yelling celebrants. There would be a scramble for it, then a howl of disappointment as the unlucky ones watched the Favored sink his teeth into the soft venom sac of the mangled tarantula.

Parks gripped Maxwell's arms.

"I... I've got to go back to the hut," he gasped.

"What's the matter?" asked Maxwell sharply. "Can't you take it? We're not squeamish missionaries."

"T-that's not it. I forgot my shot. See how I'm jumping? But you stick around. I'll be back in a jiffy."

Maxwell let him go. It was routine, more or less, and he did not want to miss any unexpected feature of the rites before him. He watched Parks disappear into the dark, and then started to turn his gaze back to the orgies.

He did not complete the movement. A surprisingly strong arm encircled him, and a husky knee entwined and gripped his. He knew from the wide flat foot that it was a Tombov that assailed him. Then there was a mocking voice in his ear— it was Shan Dhee's voice, and Shan Dhee was crazy drunk. His breath stank of zankra, and worse.

"Earthfellow wantchee long life, huh?" he taunted. "Okeh, okeh. Earthfellow catchee long life. Earthfellow catchee kankilona juice."

Maxwell felt himself being bent irresistibly backward, to the peals of the maddened Tombov's maniacal laughter. A disgusting gob of hairy, mushing something was slapped down on his face. He could not get his breath. He struggled and tried to cry out. It was what Shan Dhee wanted him to do. His teeth broke the tender membrane of the kankilona's venom sac. There was a gush of indescribably nauseating oily stuff. It stung his cheeks and shoulders. Maxwell felt utterly defiled and ashamed. He wanted to die then and there. And then something happened to him.

In one swift instant all the nausea and revulsion was swept away. In its place there was heavenly exhilaration, an exaltation that exceeded any ecstasy he had ever known. He was no longer a sick man; would never be one again. He was strong, well— a champion among champions. Life was wonderful. It had to be expressed. Maxwell cut loose with a war whoop that shook the glade. Then things went madly round and round. Lights flared up and faded. The howling within the temple died, dwindling into an infinitude of distance. After that, Maxwell did not remember.

HE AWOKE in what he thought must be the gray dawn of the morning after. He was lying face down in the muck outside the temple door. He lay very still for a moment, wondering when the inescapable headache would begin to rack him, for after the heady intoxication he now faintly remembered, it was unthinkable that there would not be one—and a super one at that. But there was no headache. There was no foul taste in the mouth. Maxwell had to admit he felt fine, which, under the circumstances, was humiliating. He wondered if he was altogether sane. He started gingerly to get up, expecting to find himself full of Charley horses. There weren't any. He was fit as a fiddle. He quit worrying and arose briskly, but promptly regretted it. His head thumped into something, and there was a crash. He stood amazed and aghast at what fell. It was three long sticks of wood lashed together and tied with a bunch of plumes. A skull lay grinning at him from the wreckage. During the night someone had erected that dire symbol over him— the warning that he was taboo— under a curse!

Maxwell shot a glance at the temple. Its doors were closed and barred. It was that way also in the glade. The huts were empty, the celebrants gone. The festival was over. Now everything was taboo. Maxwell's wrist watch said it was late afternoon. He had slept more than the night.

Then his heart jumped as he belatedly remembered Parks. Parks said he would come back. Where was he? Had Shan Dhee assaulted him, too? Maxwell looked around, but there was no sign of him. He started off across the glade in great strides.

Before the hut he was brought to an abrupt stop. Another taboo tripod stood there. But there was more besides. On a stake nearby there was the grinning, newly severed head of a Tombov, and scattered about the foot of the stake were freshly picked bones— near-human bones. The head was Shan Dhee's head. It meant that Shan Dee had transgressed somehow, and Shan Dhee had paid the penalty. It was ominous. Maxwell feared to think of what he might find inside.

WHAT WAS inside was bad enough. Both rooms were a shambles of smashed possessions. Most of the scientific equipment was hopelessly ruined, and food pellets were mixed indiscriminately with spilled chemicals. Every scrap of tobacco was gone. But far worse, the whole interior reeked of paracobrine. Shattered ampules and broken syringes explained that readily enough. The looters, Nazi-like, had destroyed what they did not value themselves.

At the moment none of that bothered Maxwell overmuch. It was Parks he wanted to find. And find him he did, half hidden beneath a pile of torn clothes. Maxwell uncovered him and knelt beside him, staring at him in bitter dejection. He felt like a murderer, for Parks had never been keen about this wild-goose expedition. It was Maxwell who insisted on playing the hunch. Now Parks's tense face had a deathly pallor, and the few weak tremors were eloquent of the complete exhaustion that must follow a night and day of uncontrolled convulsions. Parks had been late for his shot and must have fallen, out of control. Maxwell should have foreseen that, and returned with him. Now it was too late. There was no more paracobrine. By morning Parks would be dead.

Maxwell sat for minutes, torturing himself. Then, of a sudden, a great light dawned on him. Why, he himself had missed at least two shots, and he felt fine! Unbelieving, he stretched out his arm. There was not so much as a hint of a tremor. What... why...

In another instant Maxwell was outside, ransacking abandoned huts. In a little while it would be deep twilight, and he had no time to lose. In the third hut he found a kankilona net. In another a broken cage, which he speedily repaired. Then he set off for the swamp's edge.

Maxwell quickly discovered that catching wily kankilonas alive was work that required men in gangs. The first several he spotted eluded him. The fourth one squared off and circled, warily fighting back. Maxwell was in no mood to quibble. Did kankilona venom lose its potency when the spider died? He couldn't know. But he knew he had to have some— of any strength— and quickly. He hurled his knife into the monster and watched it die. Then, lacking any kind of container, he tore off part of his shirt and dipped it into the dripping poison. He ran back to Parks with that.

"Open your mouth, old man," he coaxed, but there was no response. Maxwell pried the jaws apart and blocked them. Then, drop by drop, he wrung nauseous oil out of the rag. Parks winced and tried to avert his head, but he was too weak. He gulped the stuff down, perforce. Maxwell fed it all, then waited.

The reaction was mercifully quick. Within seconds, Parks's almost imperceptible breathing deepened and his absent pulse returned. Slowly the iron-set neck muscles softened, the face relaxed, and there was a show of warming pink. In a little while Parks was sleeping peacefully. Maxwell examined him carefully from head to foot. There were no tremors. Not any. Maxwell heaved a big sigh of relief. Then he lit a torch. He had to do something about retrieving those food pellets.

Miraculous as the new-found remedy was, Parks's convalescence was slow, either because he was so far gone in the beginning or because the venom was not strictly fresh. His complete recovery was a matter of weeks, not hours or days, and in that time Maxwell had the opportunity to observe many things.

He kept a sharp watch on the swamp. He wanted to see what happened to the crystalline spheres which Shan Dhee had said would vanish after a while. He put on mudshoes and gathered a few and stored them in the hut. Then he maintained a vigil at the hummock's edge.

Nothing whatever happened for almost a week, and when it did happen, it happened at night. It was by the purest chance that Maxwell couldn't go to sleep and walked out into the glade for more air. It was then he saw the shimmering violet light that seemed to pervade the entire swamp area. It was as if the mud flats were a bed of smoldering anthracite dimly lit by flickering bluish flame. Maxwell went back to the hut for the torch and mudshoes. Then he investigated.

What he discovered was a horde of sluggish crawlers, creatures not too distantly related to the queer Australian platypus. Many were feeding noisily on the lily stubble, but most just lay, as if entranced, staring at the crystalline spherelets. It was the light of their violet eyes that furnished the illumination, a fact that did not astonish Maxwell. The majority of Venusian fauna had luminous eyes. What did bowl him over was what the light did to the shimmering balls. They shrank and shrank. They dwindled to mere pellets, hard and relatively heavy. Then they were no more. There were only bubbles to mark the spot where they had sunk into the mire. Maxwell pocketed several of the shrunken balls just before they disappeared.

The next day he dissected one. It was now obviously a seed, perhaps a lily seed. It was one more curious example of the deviousness of Nature. Apparently in its first state it was infertile and therefore of a shape and weight which would keep it on the marsh surface. Then, perhaps by symbiotic impulse, the platypus creatures were attracted to it, gazed upon it with their violet rays, and somehow fertilized it. Whereupon it planted itself by gravity.

Maxwell followed through on that theory. That night he went into the swamp differently armed. He carried a bundle of dry sticks and the spectrographic camera. He recorded the exact composition of the violet light and noted the duration of exposure. Then he marked a number of the bubbly places with his sticks. If lilies came up there, the spheres were lily seeds.

The next day he reversed his camera, making it a projector. He duplicated the platyputian light and shed it on the crystalline balls he first retrieved. They did shrink into seed. He had at least one bit of positive proof. Then he planted them at a marked spot.

SLOWLY PARKS IMPROVED. For several days Maxwell sought and found more spiders, but each day they grew scarcer. There came a day when there were none at all. The festival apparently had been timed to coincide with their greatest density. When would the new crop of them come, and from where? Maxwell thought about that, and began the study of the small pile of carcasses piled outside the hut. He hoped to learn something about the reproduction methods of the kankilona.

All but one of his dissections were negative. In that one he found an object that definitely jolted him. It was obviously an egg. But the kankilona egg was one of those crystalline balls! He now had one more link in its life cycle. He would have to wait for the rest of it to

He had to wait for another reason. Parks was gaining, but he would not be able to travel under his own steam for some time to come. On the way back they would not have the assistance of Shan Dhee. Maxwell wondered whether the angry priests had left them the canoe. He dashed off worriedly to investigate.

The dugout was safe where they had left it. Maxwell eased it into the water and tried it out. And while he was learning the trick of handling it, he paddled it part way down the lagoon. He backed water vigorously as he neared the tripod taboo signs that marked the boundary of the lily reservation. Just beyond, there was an encampment of Tombov braves. It was a troubling discovery.

But a moment later he was a little bit relieved. A Tombov had spotted him just as he sighted them, and for a long minute both men stared at each other. Other Tombovs got up and looked, stolidly inexpressive. They made no outcry or hostile gesture, and as Maxwell turned the dugout about and headed back toward the temple clearing, the savages sat down again, as if the incident was closed.

It was Parks who guessed the purpose of the outpost. He was strong enough to talk, then, and was following Maxwell's theories with great interest.

"This kankilona business is the Tombov's big secret. They know by now how selfish the Earthman is and how ruthlessly and wastefully he exploits. They don't want to kill us— if they had, they would have done it the night they left. But they are not going to let us get back to Angra with a live spider, or its egg, or any other thing they value. If we leave here alive, it will have to be barehanded."

"I get it," said Maxwell gloomily. "They know, as you and I do, that if our race learned about spider venom, swarms of humans would invade these swamps and exterminate the genus in a single season. There just aren't enough kankilona. They would go the way of the bison and the dodo. And then we would be in a fix."

"Right," agreed Parks. "What we ought to do, of course, is analyze that poison and see what ingredient makes it work. But our stuff is smashed. If we can't take back a specimen of it, all this has gone for nothing."

"We'll see," said Maxwell.

MEANTIME lily plants were sprouting where the ball-seeds had sunk. Soon the plants would be maturing. Then it would be time for another festival. They wanted to leave before that came, and they had to leave for a still more urgent reason. If they did not get back to Angra soon, their stay would overstretch the six-month time limit. Nothing would convince stupid quarantine officials that they weren't crawling with every variety of Venusian virus.

The first lilies were well in bloom the day they climbed into the dugout for the trip back. Maxwell shunted the canoe over close to a stand of the flowers and plucked one. It was a very curious blossom, lacking both stamen and pistil. It was a sexless plant. But he observed a fatty swelling in one of the lush petals. He slit it open and laid bare a small tumor. He cut into that. Dozens of tiny black objects scuttered out, like ants from a disturbed hill. They were baby kankilona!

"Well, that's that," said Maxwell, dropping the torn lily into the lagoon. "Now we have the whole story. Lilies beget spiders, spiders lay eggs, friend platypus comes along, and the egg becomes a lily seed. That is where we came in."

"And," supplemented Parks, "kankilonas are health-giving, so after they have laid their eggs, the Tombovs come and eat them. The so-called temple jewels, I suppose, are simply a reserve seed crop in case of a drought."

"Drought on Venus," laughed Maxwell. "You're crazy." But he got the idea.

At the edge of the lily swamp the Tombovs looked them over. They were grave and silent and offered no violence, but they were thorough. Their search of the boat revealed no contraband. A surly chieftain waved in the general direction of Angra. Maxwell dipped his paddle in and thrust the dugout ahead.

"It's tough," remarked Parks regretfully, "but at least you and I are cured. On another trip we may have better luck."

"We're not cured," said Maxwell grimly. "Our cases are arrested, that's all. The Tombovs do this twice a year, you know. But we have succeeded better than you know. The proof of it is here."

He tapped the notebook where he had noted the spectrum of the platypus gaze.

"At home," he said, "we have a lot of kankilona eggs, and we know how to activate them. We can start in a properly humidified hothouse for our first few batches. After that we'll expand. The world need never know that what they're taking is a distillation of kankilona poison. They'll probably label it Nixijit, or something cute like that."

"Oh, well," said Parks irrelevantly, "I suppose the Congo valley won't be so bad."

"Nothing is ever as bad as it seems," said Maxwell.

A month later he made the same observation in a different form. They were on the homebound liner and were among the few well enough to sit up and enjoy the lounge. A pest of a missionary came over and dropped into a seat beside him.

"It's great to be getting back to God's footstool," he wheezed. "What a cross I've had to bear working with those beastly Tombovs. Ugh! A race of brutes, steeped in the vilest superstitions and practicing the most abominable rites. Our own primitives had some horrible customs, but the Tombov culture hasn't a single redeeming feature."

"Oh," said Maxwell, screwing up one eye and smiling faintly, "I wouldn't say that."

____________________

6: Fintale the Merman

Bertram Atkey

1880-1952

Blue Book, Jan 1932

EVEN as charity covers a multitude of sins (a matter, one assumes, for the clergy), so the sea covers a multitude of freaks, misfits and outsizes— a matter, obviously, for a nature specialist like me.

Thus we have disporting themselves in the quiet and retired marine haunts which they frequent, that perambulating ink-container, the giant squid, the hammer-headed shark, the giant ray sometimes called the sea-bat, the manatee or sea-cow, the happy family of sharks,— including the white, the ground, the basking and other notable members of the family, all of whom love their fellow denizens of the deep,— the whales and the whelks, the bottle-nosed dolphin and the John Dory; the oar-fish, the anchovy-sauce fish, and many another.

Of most of the foregoing everyone has some knowledge. For they do not as a rule confine themselves wholly to the deepest parts of the sea nor to the loneliest. But things are otherwise when we turn our inquiring minds to the deeper parts— to those gigantic abysses in the sea-floor whose colossal depths have never yet been plumbed, despite the well-nigh frantic efforts of those immersed in that branch of scientific research. It is at this point that science is reluctantly compelled to step quietly out and Bertram Atkey butts airily in.

It is here in these incredible depths that we find the more remarkable inhabitants of the ocean— for instance, the mighty wedge-fishes, who always work in pairs, one to act as a wedge in splitting the rocks in the crevices of which it seeks its prey, the other to act as hammer to drive its companion well home.

Here too in these profundities dwells the lantern-fish, who distributes free a many-candle-power glow through his hide wherever he goes, and the sea-rabbit, that quaint little furry fish, never yet seen by mortal man, but one or more of which is possessed by the children in every merperson's back yard. There also exists the mouthfish, sometimes called the sea-politician, which is remarkable for swimming with its enormous mouth always stretched wide open to the uttermost limits, though nothing worth recording ever issues from that yawning cavern.

And this swift side-glance, as it were, at the marvels and mysteries of the Great Deeps would not be complete were it to refrain from mentioning that amusing little creature known as the leap-frog fish, which plays leapfrog all day long over its own back; the sea-goat, which eats chalk with passionate zest, drinks immense quantities of water and produces far better milk than any New Yorker has ever yet tasted; the music-fish, which twangs like a harp when irritated; and that most amazing crustacean the jigsaw lobster, a melancholy monster which remains in its cave all day solemnly taking itself apart and putting itself together again— never twice alike.

But the lord of this dim and fascinating realm is the Merman— for here is the metropolis of Merdom. Here, for incalculable eons of time, has existed Mermanchester, with its teeming thousands of merfolk, the Mecca of all the art, fashion, beauty and talent in the Seven Seas. With a population of just under a million, Mermanchester is situated upon the lowest terrace of a mighty slope of craggy rock some miles below the surface— and to any but a dweller therein would seem a dream of beauty.

But many of those who live there think otherwise. There is a strong progressive party on the city council who claim that the place is behind the times, old-fashioned and out-of-date. Among these was that dashing young mergentleman with whom this story deals— Fintale. But Fintale's reasons for considering Mermanchester one of the dullest holes in the Deep were of a different nature from those of the progressive city councilors.

Fintale did not grieve because the sanitation system was old and out-of-date— it was the social system that bored Fintale. There were few if any of the pleasures of Mermanchester which the rich young merman had not tasted— and they were of such a simple nature that already, at the age of twenty-four, Fintale was weary of them.

The merman's trouble was of a rather complicated nature. Ata period when a young merman's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love, Fintale had come to the conclusion that mermaids and mermatrons alike bored him into a trance. They possessed every attribute of beauty but one— variety. They all looked alike to Fintale. They all had golden hair, blue eyes and doll-like complexions ; they were all fair, all beautiful, all graceful, and all their tails were the same shape. The babies were but exact copies in miniature of their mammas, and the mammas were more or less duplicates of their mammas, though perhaps more slender.

Now it is a curious fact that, like man, the merman is by nature contrary and never satisfied. Fintale's grandmamma, a very wealthy and experienced mermatron, to whom he bore his trouble, explained this to him, one evening as she sat upon a seaweed-padded rock combing her hair.

"You are bored, Fintale, my dear boy, because you— like most mermen— possess an imperfect appreciation of beauty. All your life long you have been surrounded by wealth, luxury and beauty. Look at your mother and— er— me, and the result is that you are 'oppressed with a feeling of sameness. You swim down Grand Avenue, and you see so many beautiful faces and figures that if you suddenly came upon a black mermaid, with kinky hair, a figure like a manatee and a face like a walrus, you would fall in love with her instantly. You would say: 'What a little sea-peach she is! A perfect little beauty!' And you would believe it. Whereas what you would really mean is: 'What a little sea-change she is! A perfect little variation from the eternal normal.' And probably you would elope with her! Just because she is different."

Fintale wiggled a fin unbelievingly.

The old merlady nodded her head.

"In a place where every merwoman is beautiful, the ugly one is queen," she said wisely. "Because she's different."

She looked at Fintale shrewdly.

"You want a change," she said. "Why don't you and your friend Scaliend go off big-game hunting for a time? They say the net-fish are very plentiful this year over in the Great Ooze country."

But Fintale shook his head.

"There's no fun in gouging the life out of a few fish, Grandmamma. I want a change."

The old merlady chuckled.

"Why don't you marry Gracilis Glyde—she's had a big fortune from her mother; she will have more from her father; and they say she has the temper of a wildcat-fish. She would probably make things interesting for you. And she's only waiting to be asked. She adores you, you know."

But Fintale shook his head, and swam off to his club.

He was very thoughtful that night—so lost in thought, indeed, that when some hours later he leisurely propelled himself home to the ancestral cave, he nearly lost his life to a wandering Orca, or killer whale, which dived like a leaden arrow for him.

He dodged mechanically—one learns the art of dodging very thoroughly in Mermanchester; and the killer had to satisfy himself with one of the street-lantern fish which hung motionless in its position along Grand Avenue, now deserted save for a belated reveler or two. (Mermanchester was lighted throughout by trained lantern-fish.)

But late though it was, Fintale did not immediately go to sleep on his return home. Instead, he carefully drew the thick portiéres of seaweed across the entrance to his bed-cave, curtly ordered the little lantern-fish to come and shine over his shoulder, and settled down to read—what, dear reader? Nothing more or less than a copy of the Daily Dope, that famous tabloid newspaper, a copy of which Fintale had found, undestroyed, in the wreck of a German submarine.

It was dated some three months after the Armistice, and in spite of many missing parts made interesting reading. Saturated and blurred and falling to pieces as it was, Fintale had yet been able to read enough of it to know that life on land was not unattractive. There were restaurants, theaters, motors, the whirl of life; and above all there were those adorable, gracious, vivacious and so widely and beautifully varying creatures— the ladies.

Fintale leaned back, staring entranced at the photograph of a beauty-prize winner which gazed out from the sea-water-sopped page at him. She seemed to squint slightly, and her nose was a trifle out of plumb; her hair was scrambled, and compared with that of the mermaids, it looked as if it had been brushed with a currycomb. A strong committee of artists and painters had solemnly given their verdict that she was the most beautiful lady in the country, and Fintale agreed with them.

If only he could see these wonderful folk— if only he could get ashore— if only he could be the darling of one of these queens!

"Well, why don't you take a whirl at it, sir?" said a voice.

Fintale turned with a start.

It was the lantern-fish who had spoken.

"What's that?" said Fintale, overlooking the presumption of the menial. "What did you say ?"

"Why not go up aloft, sir, and take a look at these land-beauties? You've got the time and the means. I know it's against the law, but if you say you're going on a big-game-fishing expedition, who'll be any the wiser ?"

Fintale nodded.

"It's an idea," he said coldly, for he hated familiarity. "I'll consider it. You can go now."

The lantern-fish extinguished itself and swam away to rest, while Fintale settled down— not to sleep but to plan.

Fintale the Merman

Three days later he left Mermanchester, equipped for a three-months' big-game-fishing expedition— that is to say, he carried a large, sharp, uncomfortable trident.

Not a soul in Mermanchester dreamed whither he was bound. It was considered the correct and honorable thing for the well-to-do and otherwise idle young men of Merdom, whether in the capital or the provinces, periodically to issue forth and kill a few monsters. It was held at the bottom of the sea that the menfolk who had the best caves and the biggest sea-parks and so forth, really ought to do something for them. So Fintale had long ago put up a magnificent record in this direction, as he liked biggame fishing for sake of the sport. Nothing, when he was in normal mood, gave him greater pleasure than to introduce his trident into the digestive apparatus of that huge and greatly dreaded deep sea monster the sawfish. This was not the comparatively harmless sawfish familiar to anglers and amateur harpoon-throwers of Florida, Santa Catalina and such places— whose sawfish puts in his fine work with the yard or so of flat horn, studded at the edges with ivory teeth, which grows horizontally out of his face. No— the sawfish that Fintale hunted was the deepsea circular sawfish, which, by revolving itself upon its own axis at some thousands of revolutions a minute, can and does— if only he catches one at the right angle— snick one in half like a radish.

Fintale had killed hundreds of them—from babies of ten feet in circumference to mammoths of eighty feet round. He may have been something of a mer-nut, but nobody ever denied that he had pluck. He was the youngest by ten years of the mermen who had ever killed one of that other awful sea-brute, the ropeor netfish, the terror of merfolk. This singular and highly intelligent denizen of deeps unknown to all save students like me is a thin, long fish shaped like a piece of boxcord. It is as thick in its thickest part as the thin end of an ordinary beer-pump handle, and in its thinnest part is as thin as the thick end of an automatic corkscrew. The adults are rarely more than twelve thousand feet long and hardly ever less than ten thousand. They know the system of knots, including the granny, the half-hitch, the bowline, the carrick bend and many others. They patiently weave themselves into a comfortably large-meshed net of half an acre or so in size, and cunningly hang themselves up in the lanes among the great gardens of kelp, waiting for something to turn up—usually a pair of mer-lovers. Only the most experienced hunters can hope to kill these. But Fintale had done it. He had come upon a young one who had woven himself up with the wrong kind of stitch and was awkward.

It will be seen, therefore, that the young merman's departure was in no way remarkable and attracted no comment— excepting a private one from Gracilis Glyde, who bad-temperedly caught her maid a back-slash with her tail when she heard that Fin had gone hunting again.

LITHELY the young merman shot through the water on his journey. He had thought long about the adventure, and he had carefully studied the faces of a number of men whose photographs had been reproduced in that now perished copy of the Daily Dope.

"I suppose each one of those men is the darling of one of those beautiful land queens," he told himself, as he sizzed through the green water. "And I don't think I need fear to compete with them. I'm sure I'm as graceful and good-looking as they are."

For he was young yet, and he had much to learn....

He came up not far from Bar Harbor upon a strip of narrow beach which ran down to the sea from the stonebuilt terrace at the bottom of an expensive-looking lawn and garden belonging to a seaside villa, small but very elaborately built. The sunblinds, the flowers and the bright-hued garden-furniture formed a feast of color which delighted Fintale.

He lay for a while in the warm shallows admiring it all. Then he paddled in. A small boy skulking apparently in some sort of ambush behind a boat— presumably for sea-gulls— perceived Fintale and went gray-green, then blackish purple, in the face with excitement. His eyes bulged out until they seemed to be growing on stalks. He pulled himself together with a grunt, and deftly planted a catapult .pebble on Fintale's arm. The merman uttered a sharp yelp of astonishment, wondering where on earth or in hell the pebble had come from. He took two or three vigorous strokes and came ashore with a run. The boy's nerve failed him and so he went away. He was tired of that part of the beach apparently— at any rate he left it at a speed which Fintale, watching him, thought remarkable for land traveling in one so young. The boy speedily became a dwindling speck in the direction of the town — where he subsequently earned for himself the reputation of being a thorough-paced liar by saying he had seen a man-fish.

Then Fintale's attention was distracted permanently from the fleeing boy, for down the short flight of stone steps which led from the terrace to the sands came a vision of such exquisite beauty that Fintale gasped with the sheer pleasure of beholding it.

It was she— that queen of whom Fintale had dreamed so intensely, and whom he had come from such an immense depth and distance to find. She was so dazzling that, unused to the land of the humans though Fintale was, he knew instinctively that he was lucky to have come to this spot at the first landing.

She was about to go swimming— evidently an early morning dip. She had given her wrap to a maid at the terrace and came tripping across the sands in the prettiest of bathing suits— a dainty trifle in pale blue and white that cost some sixty-odd dollars.

She did not notice Fintale, lying by the boat, so that he was able to watch her undisturbed. She was, he saw, of quite a different type of beauty from the mermaids. She wore no cap, and Fintale saw that she possessed deep red-glowing hair, very prettily bobbed.

Bobbed hair was a novelty to Fintale— for a mermaid would as soon think of having her tail bobbed as her hair. He thought he had never seen anything so charming.

And her face was perfect— with figure to match. Fintale was sure of that, quite sure. Had he lived on earth a little longer, he would perhaps have been less frantically enthusiastic. That is to say, he would have been more accustomed to the sight of that bobbed red-gold hair, that flowerlike face, that graceful figure— for Miss Dorene Daream had been a famous beauty for at least five years, and every half-inch of her features, at every angle, was familiar to everyone in the country who had ever bought picture postcards, read an illustrated paper, studied advertisements of soap, fountain pens, memory systems, perfumes, cigarettes, and so forth, been to the theaters or movies, or, in short, seen anything or been anywhere.

Dorene had just completed a long spell of work in "Gosh!" the famous jazz revue, and had now come down, with the swallows, to her villa to recuperate, though it is but fair to state that that overworked individual her publicity manager had told a wide circle of press acquaintances that she had really left town in order to avoid the attentions of his ex-Majesty the was-King of Garlica, who had recently landed in New York with a carpet-bag containing a piece of his crown, a telescopic alpenstock, an odd pair of socks, a knuckle of ham and a half a Dutch cheese. Some said he hoped to marry Dorene; others said that he hoped to get the berth of chauffeur with her. Everyone was very much worried as to which was right.

But these things Fintale did not know and would not have understood if anyone had told him of them. All the merman knew was that Dorene was the sweetest thing that he had ever seen— and he wanted only to be her darling.

Dorene was a good and graceful swimmer for a woman —but compared with the lissome mer-ladies gliding dreamily through their native element she was about as competent as a mermaid would be on a bicycle or a pair of skates.

Before she was more than twenty yards out of her depth, Fintale awoke from his dreams with a violent start to the belief that she was drowning. He was sure of it from the way in which she splashed and threw her arms about. He was not used to the human method of swimming— and so, in a flash, he was shooting toward her.

Now it is not to be denied that Johnny Weismuller is a grand little swimmer; and Annette Kellerman had the gift of getting up a pretty good gait through the water; the seal, too, is good at it; and there are few who will contradict the statement that the salmon is at home in the water; but for really fine work you have got to hand it to the merman. He glides through the waves like a wave—he is one of them, in fact, though faster.

Fintale poured himself through the water at a speed which rendered him indistinguishable from a dolphin. In a fraction of time he was out to Dorene. For a moment she was startled. But there was nothing the matter with her nerves, and she recovered herself in an instant.

"I entreat your pardon, beautiful lady," said Fintale— English, quite fittingly, is the language used in Merdom. "Do not fear. Fintale is here, and he will save you from drowning."

Dorene looked at him for a moment. She evidently thought he was an ordinary human swimmer.

"Thanks, but I'm not in any danger," she said coldly. "Please don't touch me."

Instantly Fintale swerved clear of her— and then she saw with whom she was dealing. She opened her mouth in a little gasp, inadvertently took in a spurt of water, gasped again, and turning round, headed for the beach.

She landed, Fintale following her.

"How dare you bother me when I am swimming?" she demanded, surveying him. He looked rather effective. The upper half of him was by no means bad. He looked a gentleman— the front half of him, at any rate. His tail, long, extremely graceful and tapering, was really a beautiful thing in dark, glowing green, shot with wonderful living flames of silver, gold and many tints of blue and blue-green, splashed with purple and silver, and over all a shimmering elusive sheen of old rose. It was, in short, some tail, and would have made a peacock depressed for days.

"Why— why— you're a merman!" said Miss Daream accusingly, with wonder in her eyes.

Fintale admitted it, and proceeded to apologize abjectly for attempting to foist an entirely superfluous rescue from drowning upon her.

And here it may be remarked that Fin took from the start an entirely wrong attitude with her. He shouldn't have been meek. It was a fatal mistake. Nor should he have wagged his beautiful tail so very humbly at her. He practically handed himself over to her as a free gift. He was wrong— thousands of men had done that; thousands were waiting to do so. For she was a popular beauty— with the soul of a keen business man and a consuming ambition to retire as soon as she was worth a modest half-million or so. She was in love— had been in love for years, with a casual person who kept what he called a poultry farm on Long Island and spent most of his daytime smoking a big briar pipe in the stable doctoring one or the other of an ancient hunter's legs, and his evenings in reading the classics with a large tankard at his elbow. A queer-tempered, good-looking man, who had collected a varied assortment of shrapnel splinters in his arm in 1918, and had retired to meditate and keep hens and study bees and the classics. A pretty good judge of things, on the whole. He treated Dorene much as he might treat a mosquito that was too exquisitely pretty to be killed but was apt to be rather a nuisance buzzing around. She adored him for it. She invariably went to him with a full account of her "part" every time she appeared in a new revue or musical comedy, and used to spend a most thrilling evening listening to him while he told her just exactly what Sophocles, Cicero, Marcus Aurelius and a few old gentlemen of that kidney would have thought of her and her part. For she had real talent, though she was not above utilizing it in revues.

Fintale should have adopted the— same tone. Instead of this, he set her on a pedestal as high as the Eiffel Tower— and received in due time, what he asked for....

"Yes, beautiful lady, I am a merman, with your gracious permission," he said.

"Oh, don't ask me," she said, smiling. "Where have you come from?"

He told her about Merdom.

"Describe it,' she commanded, and when he began, stopped him.

"Describe it at breakfast. Have you breakfasted? Do you care for eggs and bacon— waffles— that sort of thing? Or is— er— seaweed—"

He assured her that anything would do, and she invited him to the villa. But first she brought him a dressing-gown.

Her maid was surprised to find Fintale on the terrace.

"Mr.— er— Merperson has swum over to breakfast," said Miss Daream airily. "Tell them to lay breakfast for two." She followed the maid in, warning her to say nothing to anyone about the poor gentleman's deformity,— his tail, — about which he was extremely sensitive. She sent out a box of cigarettes. Fin tried one, in three puffs brought himself to the very brink of violent illness, and gave up smoking.

Perhaps an hour later he was sitting with Dorene, who was now most charmingly arrayed, on the terrace, telling her about Merdom, and the uniform beauty of the Mermanchester girls.

"They are very lovely— but there is not one to compare with you, O beautiful lady. Even 'the milk-white pearls they wear do not—"

Dorene brightened up suddenly. She did not interest herself very much in things that were out of her reach, and Merdom sounded chilly and not very interesting. Her thoughts were wandering to a man in shabby tweeds probably at that moment engaged in rubbing evil-smelling lotions into a horse's legs—but—

"Pearls, did you say?" she inquired.

"Pearls— oh, yes, beautiful lady."

"Are there so many pearls in Merdom, my dear man?" she inquired, thinking that Fintale's face reminded her vaguely of a seal's, though rather better-looking.

"The children play marbles with them, beautiful lady," he said.

"What horrible waste! I love pearls—the larger ones." She smiled at him very sweetly. "Do you think they would suit me—pearls?" she asked. "A necklace of large pearls— a rope of them. That is, a large rope that would loop round my neck four— no, say six, times."

"Would you like some pearls, beautiful lady?" bleated Fintale.

"Oh, thank you so very much. I can't possibly give you the trouble— I suppose it's no trouble, really— you just pick them up like pebbles, no doubt. If you insist, of course, but don't put yourself out. That would be very delightful— thank you so much. When do you think you will start? Can I offer you anything before you go? No? Very well, I insist on being permitted to come to the water's edge with you. But you really are too kind!" And so saying, the lady arose vivaciously.

Rather reluctantly Fin did the same. This was rather quicker work than the way they set about things in Merdom.

"How charming it must be in Merdom!" prattled the lady as they crossed the sands. "Do you have— er— diamonds and emeralds and that sort of thing there too?"

"My friend Scaliend's spearhead is made of diamonds, sweet lady," said Fintale. "He is very fond of experimenting with his spears. We usually prefer emerald blades, with a heavy gold shaft, and a big rough ball of ruby on the end. They balance better like that, beautiful lady." He paused at the boat and picked up his trident.

It blazed in the sunlight with all the fires of a rainbow. It was as he said—wedge-shaped prongs of solid emerald, gold shaft and a ruby boss the size of a very large golf-ball.

Dorene Daream gasped, and her beautiful blue eyes changed slightly into a gentle green.

"That is the loveliest thing I have ever seen," she said.

"That!" ejaculated Fintale, genuinely amazed. "Why, beautiful lady, that is but a rough hunting tool— a thing for use. It is without beauty, being intended for use, star of my soul! Do you love beautiful things—gems, -sweet lady?" He hesitated, then took a plunge. "Could you care for one who brought you really lovely gems? Such as the mazuma, that strange and weirdly beautiful stone of scarlet fire, ringed with a flashing edge of green and its center silver white with a sheen that dulls the finest pearl in the sea. A necklace of these! Could you try to care a little for one who brought you that? Or an arm-ring of gleaming black spondulique— that rare and noble metal that is bespangled with little sparkling stars of gold. Would you make an effort to be fond of one who brought you such a bracelet ?

"You speak of pearls— pearls with which the merurchins play marbles, dearest lady. But what of that grand and hauntingly beautiful sea-gem which is only found among the débris of the rocks which the giant wedgefish has wedged to pieces— the gaurbalimei, which burns with a ceaselessly changing procession of colors— colors that change daily and are never repeated— new colors— marvelous hues that one has never seen before and will never see again. I know where one of these may be found, sweetest lady. Do you think if one brought you a gaurbalimei, you could make him your—er—darling?"

Dorene Daream drew a deep breath.

"I could, dearest merman—indeed I could."

Fintale reverently kissed her hand. His lips were rather clammy, but he did it gracefully— for a semifish. "I will return with all those things in seven days, O gracious one," he said— and disappeared before she had time to ask whether it was worth while taking his trident with him for so short a time.

She stared at the water for a long time.

"It's a dream," she said, presently. "How could I possibly accept jewelry from a thing like a seal?"

But she spent the whole of the next seven days on the beach, and most of the next seven nights... .

Fintale returned to Mermanchester, secured the deep-sea jewels he had spoken of, and was on his  way back, swimming with arrowy speed within the next five days.

Then on the morning of the sixth day he ran full tilt into a gigantic malletor bludgeon-fish— another denizen of the extreme depths. This rare beast is built somewhat on the lines of the giant octopus, but is furnished with twelve powerful arms or tentacles, each of which terminates in an oblong block of very hard horny substance, shaped like a large brick. It is normally a very quiet, good-tempered fish, provided that no living thing approaches nearer than five miles or so to it. But should any hap-
less creature venture nearer than that distance, the mallet-fish is instantly transformed into a raging demon, its rage and cunning increasing with every yard its disturber draws nearer.

The one into which Fintale ran was large and active, and its clubs were in good working trim. The merman succeeded in destroying the brute, but not until he was bruised in a thousand places and was so studded with big bumps and swellings that he looked like a sea-warthog.

In the struggle he lost some of the gems he was bearing so swiftly to Dorene Daream, but more serious than that, he had to rest for some days before he was able to move. So when eventually he approached Bar Harbor, he was almost a week late.

He bobbed up at a point east of Bar Harbor. It was night. He saw he had slightly miscalculated, glided along on the surface a little distance, assured himself of his whereabouts, and so dived again to return out to sea and farther down the coast. But he was unlucky, for he dived into a salmon net which the proprietors thereof were just about to haul. By no means recovered from the effects of his fierce encounter with the mallet-fish, the unfortunate merman's frantic struggles were of no avail— they were not sufficiently frantic. He did his best, but it was not enough. He lost consciousness a few moments after being dragged ashore.

DREAMILY he heard the fishermen discussing him, wrangling about what he was, swearing at him and each other; as from a distance he heard voices describing him variously as a sunfish, a bottle-nosed seal, a sea-cow, and lastly, a "mermaidman." He heard vaguely a harsh voice which spoke of "Lloyd George," Sells-Floto, Barnum and Bailey's, the Zoo, and an aquarium.

Then he fainted...

When he awoke next, he was in a species of tank— a cramped homemade affair of wood with a glass top which, had he but known it, had once been the top of a cucumber-frame.

There were three fishermen outside, talking to a fourth man— a hard-faced person, with something remotely suggestive of circuses about him. They were all arguing and staring in at him.

He thought swiftly and wisely decided to lie low for a space—until he heard or saw how things were shaping. He was not kept long in the dark. The discussion was going on hotly.

"I tell you he's pretty near all in," said the hard-faced man— the proprietor of a small circus which had chanced to be in the neighborhood. "You can't fool me with no merman—I've been used to handling 'em all my life— mermaids too. They're tetchy things to handle— delicate. Must have salt water fresh from the sea every day— and where are you going to get it when you get to Indianapolis and Des Moines? We got to think of sich things in the circus profession, see. These here mermen aint easy stock, nohow, and when I tell you that I got the offer of three others at different places in Italy and Spain,— mostly imported mermen, we use,— you'll see that I aint falling over myself to buy this one. Ill own that he's a well-bred merman— very near thoroughbred, I reckon; but give me a good, stout cross-bred 'un. They last. These thoroughbreds aint up to the work. I been in the circus profession all my life, and I know what I'm talking about. He's worth thirty dollars to me— and I'm not begging you to take it, either. I doubt if I shall get my money back on him. Mermen don't draw folk like they used to, neither. Forty years ago, you could have got a hundred for him, but times is changed. However, there tis," :

He feigned to move away with an admirable assumption of indifference. The fishermen failed to notice the glittering light of sheer excitement in his hard eyes, and they muttered among themselves.

"I don't want him really— I don't want him at all," said the circus man over his shoulder. "I don't want to part with no money for him. I'd sooner swap with you. I got a nice little tiger-cub I'll give you for him—as pretty as a kitten. Or a pair of wildcats. Or I'll give you a couple of cobras, a diamond-back rattlesnake and a horned stinging lizard for him. Or, as I said, thirty dollars. But I'll do no more. Take it or leave it!"

They took it.

"Look after him for half-an hour," said the circus man, "and I'll send a tank down for him. Chuck him in a bit of seaweed— fresh, mind."

And he hurried away.

"If I haven't made a fortune this morning my name is Merman J. Mud," he muttered as he went.

But he was wrong.

Fintale had missed nothing of the extraordinary stream of untruths with which the man had hypnotized the fishermen. Unused though he was to the ways of man, nevertheless he was well aware that his new owner boded no good to him. He must escape— and quickly.

The fishermen, talking rudely about the circus man's ideas of value, slouched off to collect some seaweed, and as they went, Fintale gently forced up the lid of his tank. It was quite simple. He peered out, and to his wild joy perceived that the tank was in a small garden bordered by a channel. The tide was high.

Like an eel, he slipped out of the tank and shuffled across the garden, forcing his way through a row of early green peas.

A woman's voice suddenly rose.

"Bill! Bill! Quick! That merfish is at the peas—"

Fintale heard a clumping of heavy boots— and slid into the water just as Bill charged down the garden, shouting. The man raced to a boat tied up close by, but long béfore he pushed off, Fintale was out of range... .

He hovered about off the coast all that day, and it was not till moonlight that he emerged on to the beach near the villa of Dorene.

Everything was silent. Fintale stole out on to the beach. Just as he reached the boat, which was still in its accustomed place, he saw two figures moving down off the terrace.

He crouched down in the shadow and watched them.

"And it was here, you say, that merthing came ashore?" said a man's voice— that of the poultry-amateur from Long Island.

"Yes, dear," replied Dorene Daream,

"And it fell in love with you?"

"It said so— practically."

"And of course you fell in love with it?" a touch of sarcasm in the man's voice.

Dorene laughed.

"Don't be mad, my dear— the thing seemed half-witted, and its face was like a seal's. It bleated something about loving me and began to brag about the jewels in the deep seas. So I sent the idiotic thing to fetch some. It promised to return in seven days— but it didn't."

There was

"No? And I don't suppose it ever will. You must have dreamed it, Dorene."

"Yes," she said reluctantly. "I must have. But what a beast of a dream!" They moved on, strolling through the moonlight.

FINTALE had heard every word— and every word had been an education.

He crouched in the shadow of the boat, thinking, for a moment. Then, in a low tone of bitter fury, he said, "Oh, very well!"—hesitated a moment, and finally slid again into the sea. He was homeward bound. The mermaids no doubt were alike in their beauty— but they were usually free from any suspicion of being mercenary— and they were less "modern" than Dorene.

"That lovely creature may indeed be a queen— queen of vampires!" he said. "But she's not for me— no, not for me. I have learned something in the last few days. The deep sea, and Gracilis Glyde, in spite of her temper, for me!"

And with one last glance at the shore, he upended and began his long dive home.

________________

7: Candlelight

Lady Eleanor Smith

1902–1945

The Story-teller, March 1931

IT WAS during dinner on Saturday night that Mrs Marriage first admitted to herself that her weekend party could not possibly be described as going with a swing. The party was small and select. It consisted of a married couple, Mr and Mrs Lethbridge, and of a young man, an ex-Guardsman, named Roderick Noakes. There was also Mr Marriage, but somehow he really did not seem to count.

Briefly, the position of these five people was as follows: Mrs Marriage understood Mr Lethbridge to be strongly attracted towards her, and Mr Lethbridge wasn't at all sure that she was not right. Mrs Lethbridge, on the other hand, had no objection to her husband amusing himself with Mrs Marriage provided he did not interfere between herself and Mr Roderick Noakes, whom she had brought with her to the party because she really could not bear to be separated from him. Mr Noakes frequently told Mrs Lethbridge that she was a living reincarnation of La Belle Dame Sans Merci, and he much enjoyed shutting her wild eyes with kisses. Mr Marriage was in love with no one, but he ignored his wife and idolized his garden.

Mr Marriage, a retired stock-broker, was a short, thick-set man of about forty with a face like an intelligent mastiff, and discreet, short-sighted eyes. Mrs Marriage, who was fond of hunting, was tall and willowy, with long legs, like a boy's, ash-gold hair, and swimming, greenish, sentimental eyes. She frequently focused these eyes, with a certain amount of effect, upon Mr Lethbridge, who was by profession a sculptor, a tall, burly man of florid good looks. Mrs Lethbridge, lovely, untidy, and rather slovenly, allowed her bronze hair to cluster in masses upon a broad white forehead, talked in a husky voice, like a sigh, and honestly imagined that her eyes were violet. Mr Roderick Noakes, who stared at her pensively from time to time, was a sturdy, sunburnt youth with white teeth and a toothbrush moustache. Before meeting Mrs Lethbridge he had devoted himself exclusively to hunting and polo. He had not been on a horse for some time.

The dinner-party had begun to be a failure for the simple reason that Mr Marriage was so indisputably the odd man out. He was inoffensive, certainly, but at the same time it was really impossible to ignore him completely, and unfortunately, although he seemed unaware of it, he had the effect of making his wife feel self-conscious when she would rather have been listening undisturbed to the ardent conversation of Mr Lethbridge. Mrs Lethbridge, seated on the right hand of Mr Marriage, was singularly untroubled by any such nonsense as good manners, and devoted herself exclusively to Mr Noakes; he, on the other hand, at times felt slightly uncomfortable and insisted upon addressing occasional remarks to Mr Marriage, who replied in polite but vague monosyllables, conscious, no doubt, of being a bore. Mr Lethbridge, on the left of his host, turned right round in his chair to face Mrs Marriage, and appeared to find her husband's face distasteful. Anyway, he did not bother to look at it.

They were dining on the veranda, for the June night was soft and radiant. A slip of young moon drifted through a film of racing clouds; but there were not many clouds, and the dark vivid sky was brilliant with banks of stars. The lawns below were grey and dewy; in the distance a waterfall splashed with a tinkling sound, and here and there, above the eaves of the veranda, wheeling bats whistled faintly from time to time. The dinner-table, illuminated only by a cluster of winking candles, resembled a little gay and brightly lighted island in the dusky vastness of the night. It was unreal, like a scene at the theatre. A perfect setting for romance, and yet somehow everything was going wrong.

MRS Marriage, bending her face close to the face of Mr Lethbridge, became suddenly irritable. Really Amos was intolerable, sitting there like a deaf mute, glum, impassive, a skeleton at the feast! She should have invited another woman, but women bored him, unless they knew all about rock gardens; and anyhow, everything was spoiled. She wanted to be out there in the dark quiet garden with Ian Lethbridge, and she wanted Ian Lethbridge to kiss her. Damn Amos, ruining her weekend party! Mr Lethbridge, on the other hand, was wondering whether or not she was cold. He was prepared to bet she wasn't. He, too, wanted to go into the garden. Mrs Lethbridge, half-closing her eyes, fixed Mr Noakes with a swooning siren glance and wondered vaguely if La Belle Dame Sans Merci had had bronze hair with gold shades in it. Perhaps she was the only one of the five who was honestly enjoying the dinner-party, although, of course, nobody could possibly diagnose the mental state of the silent Mr Marriage. Roderick Noakes, wrenching away his gaze from the heavy-lidded eyes of Mrs Lethbridge, addressed one more desperate remark to his host.

"Your garden must be attractive in the daytime, sir. Unfortunately, I arrived too late to see it."

The word garden had at once the effect of a stimulus upon Mr Marriage. He roused himself immediately.

"Well, of course," he said, almost cordially, "it's not looking its best at the moment— not enough rain— but the herbaceous border and the rock garden are well worth a visit. You really ought to get up before breakfast tomorrow and—" He paused, for somehow he didn't really think that Mr Noakes would be up for breakfast next morning.

The ex-Guardsman persevered.

"What's that dark mass of trees at the end of the lawns?"

"That's the forest," answered Mr Marriage in a melancholy tone of voice.

"The forest?"

"Yes. The oaks and beeches are supposed to be very fine. In the old days it was said to be a haunt of witches and evil spirits. Nowadays it's infested with tramps." And he sighed gustily, as though he regretted the witches and deplored the tramps. Once more he relapsed into silence, but conversation having languished round the table, every one had heard his last remark.

"Witches!" whispered Mrs Lethbridge, and she thought again of La Belle Dame. Perhaps she, too, had been a witch.

"Such nonsense!" said Mrs Marriage, and looked indulgently at Mr Lethbridge. But he, for the first time condescending to notice that there were others at the table, observed to the world in general, in a drawling tone of voice:

"Such superstitions die slowly. Even now in many remote villages no doubt children throw stones at harmless old women who profess to cure ailments with herbs."

"Must witches always be old?" inquired Mrs Lethbridge in a petulant tone of voice.

"Probably not," replied Mr Lethbridge indifferently. He added, in a lower voice: "Personally, I've always imagined them to be young, with long limbs, and yellow hair. That's your true sorceress— irresistible."

"If only Amos would go to bed!" sighed Mrs Marriage to herself.

Mr Marriage then surprised her; his hearing must have been more acute than she had hitherto supposed. He said, in a conversational voice:

"Not at all, Lethbridge. Your true witch is, on the contrary, invariably dark. A fair witch indeed!" He tittered and relapsed once more into silence.

Mrs Marriage felt that she loathed the sight of him. She turned once more to Ian Lethbridge.

Port was handed round, and brandy. The party drank, and in ten minutes or so every one except Mr Marriage became a little more friendly towards one another. Even Mrs Marriage, fascinated, repelled, and thrilled by a whispered remark made to her by the audacious Mr Lethbridge as he lighted his cigar, felt suddenly less irritated by her silent and embarrassing husband.

"Poor Amos!" she observed at length, in a high unnatural tone. "It's too sad for him; he makes the odd man tonight at dinner. Really, I should have asked another woman to make the party complete. Will you forgive me, Amos?"

Mr Marriage nodded his head politely.

Oh, he's impossible, she thought, once more exasperated; was there ever such a wet blanket? Why can't he warm up like every one else? She decided to be bold; soon, when he had finished his brandy, she would ask Ian Lethbridge to stroll in the garden with her.

And then Mr Roderick Noakes proceeded to startle them.

"What's that?" he cried suddenly, and sprang to his feet, peering forth into the garden as though by staring he would pierce the darkest shadows, those that lay thickest upon the lawns beneath the trees.

"What's what?" asked Mrs Marriage sharply, and Mr Lethbridge wanted to know what the hell was the matter with him and his blasted nerves. Mrs Lethbridge looked beautifully apprehensive, and even Mr Marriage put down his cigar. But Mr Noakes remained firm.

"Over there," he said obstinately, pointing to a rosebed near the fountain, "there's something moving. I saw it distinctly. Look, now… can't you see?"

They gazed, but the shadows were impenetrable, and they laughed incredulously.

"Come and see, then," proposed Mr Noakes defiantly.

"Oh, yes," said Mrs Marriage eagerly, thinking of the garden, "let's hunt the ghost, all of us! Come on, Ian."

Like shadows themselves, they stole forth from the brilliant veranda into the secretive gloom of the garden, the men's cigars like glowing fireflies, the women sprites, one white, one silver.

"We must spread out," said Roderick Noakes excitedly, "and surround the rosebed. Then we'll catch it."

"Ian," whispered Mrs Marriage beneath her breath.

"The dew's thick; I shall get my feet wet," protested Mrs Lethbridge peevishly.

Slowly, warily, they stalked their prey, creeping nearer and nearer to the low bed of the rose-trees. Mr Noakes was first; he reached the ambush before them and his shout of triumph echoed over the sleeping garden as he bent, seeming to seize hold of something that wriggled; but the moon was behind a cloud, and they could not see very clearly.

"What did I tell you?" he cried aloud. "Wasn't I right? Look, I've caught it; a nymph or a ghost or some dam'fool thing, but here it is, and kicking me, blast it!"

They stole nearer, forgetting for a moment their own personal preoccupations, and perceived on closer inspection that Mr Noakes grasped the arm of a young girl, or woman, who was wrapped in a long cloak. Mr Marriage lighted a match.

"Gipsy," he said in a disapproving voice; and then the match went out, but not before Mrs Marriage had a brilliant idea.

"Oh, listen!" she said excitedly, pinching Mr Lethbridge's arm— "we've found exactly what we wanted, the extra woman for Amos! Could anything be better, I ask you? Roddy, she's got to come back to the veranda and have a drink— tell her she makes the party complete."

"Fool," muttered Mr Lethbridge disgustedly, "just as we'd got out into the garden."

"Nonsense," she retorted; "there's plenty of time, and this is fun. Now we'll tease Amos."

And the party returned to the veranda, headed by the triumphant Mr Noakes, who still grasped the arm of the unknown, and by Mrs Lethbridge, who did not seem very pleased with him.

They reached the little glittering island of the dinner-table rather like shipwrecked mariners, flung ashore from the dark ocean of the garden. In the candlelight Mr Noakes, still clutching his captive, turned eagerly to examine her, while the others, drawing close, stared with a sort of bantering curiosity at this creature found crawling in the blackness of the night.

The gipsy was young, a wisp of a woman, wrapped in a patched cloak of poppy-red; her thin legs were bare; her head, too, was bare, a mane of coal-black waving hair; her face might have been beautiful had it not been wilder, more savage, than that of an animal; her great eyes smouldered, unafraid, and her skin was burned to the brown tint of bracken. She wore necklaces of red berries, like ropes of coral about her throat; bits of fern and grass adhered to her black snaky locks; her feet were naked save for rough sandals that looked as though she had fashioned them herself.

She had ceased to struggle, finding such efforts useless, and stood calmly there, eyeing them with that air of cunning defiance common to her race. Perhaps because she was as fierce as a young wolf, she made the other women, both better-looking than herself, seem temporarily uninteresting, commonplace, like a pair of wax dolls. Mrs Marriage, in spite of white satin, assumed rather the air of a hobbledehoy, altogether too angular for her graceful and feminine draperies; Mrs Lethbridge, who had seemed wild before, now appeared, by the side of this tigress, rather tamer than a plump tabby-cat on a hearthrug.

The silence, hilarious to begin with, had become slightly hostile when it was suddenly broken by Mr Lethbridge.

"And might we ask," he demanded, thrusting his hands into his pockets, "what you were doing creeping about this garden spying on us?"

The gipsy asked, in a curious, gruff little voice: "Is this your garden?"

Mr Marriage, hovering in the background, now intervened.

"The garden is mine," he announced, stirred to the core of his being. "What were you doing, trespassing here at this time of night? You weren't"— he almost choked— "you weren't trying to steal my— my rock plants?"

The gipsy slid her eyes towards him, eyeing him speculatively, shifting one foot.

"Stealing? I wasn't stealing. I come in from the forest, seeing your lights. I hid there, back in the bushes, watchin' you eat. I meant no harm. I was goin' in a minute."

Mr Marriage asked suddenly: "Are you hungry?"

"Hungry?" She gave an odd husky laugh. "I'm more'n that— fair clemmed, I am, for sure."

Mrs Marriage clapped her hands.

"Oh, this is marvellous! Amos shall feed her! Let's sit down again. And ring the bell, Roddy— the gipsy must have something to eat. Get a chair, Amos, for your lady friend."

And once more they sank into their seats, lighting cigarettes, passing round the liqueurs, while the gipsy sat, with great self-possession at Mr Marriage's left hand, waiting for the butler to bring her food. It came at last, a plate of cold duck, with salad and potatoes, followed by gooseberry tart and Devonshire cream. (The butler was damned if he was going to resurrect the fish for a dirty tramp!)

The gipsy was really astonishing; she bolted her food in two or three gulps, as a dog does, and drank some wine, wrinkling her nose as though it was medicine. Once more they all stared at her, as though she were something behind bars; and she returned their gaze with a defiant and brazen scrutiny.

"Well," said Mr Noakes, at length, pouring himself our some more port, "surely, now that she's eaten, the lady ought to do something to amuse us? Don't gipsies dance, or sing, or tell the future? What are your parlour tricks, madam?"

Mrs Marriage interrupted. She had, oddly enough, been watching her husband, and she was struck by the docility with which he had accepted the intrusion of the gipsy into their ill-assorted party. She could have sworn that he would have protested, he who was always so drearily conventional; but he hadn't. He had raised no objection, and he had actually, during the last ten minutes, made two or even three brief remarks. She said gaily, and let Mr Lethbridge give her a glass of Grand Marnier:

"Of course she'll amuse us, like a good girl, won't you, gipsy? Why, only just now we were talking of witches, and here we've got one, dropped from the skies at our feet; for every one knows that all gipsy women meddle in witchcraft. Can you tell fortunes?"

The gipsy nodded. "Fortunes? To be sure I can, by the palms or by the crystal, any way you please, lady. You want I should tell yours?"

"Mine and every one else's," commanded Mrs Marriage imperiously.

From some secret fold of her shabby cloak the gipsy now produced a shining ball of glass, that glowed like white fire in the moonlight and caught, too, reddish glints from the dwindling candles on the table. Pushing away her plate, she laid the crystal before her and waited patiently. She had had her supper; she must pay for it; this, she seemed to think, was fair.

"Me first," said Mrs Marriage eagerly.

The gipsy cast an eye round the dinner-table.

"They goin', the other folk?"

"Not us," said Ian Lethbridge.

"Of course not; it's half the fun to listen to other people's fortunes," Mrs Lethbridge declared in her husky voice.

Mrs Marriage, emboldened by Grand Marnier, shrugged her shoulders.

"Oh, well, I don't care! Let's be brave. Go on, gipsy."

But the gipsy fixed her with eyes that were like dark pools.

"I canna say what I see with all of them listening. Secret, fortunes should be. That's what my granny taught me years ago, up on the heath near Norwich."

"Nonsense," said Mrs Marriage. "If I don't mind, it's not your business, is it? But"— and she addressed her guests— "if I do it in public, then so must you. Is that understood?" And as they nodded agreement, she turned once more to the gipsy: "Come on, then. And the truth, mind— tell me all you see."

The gipsy shrugged her shoulders. Let them all go to hell, she seemed to say. Bending over the crystal, cradling it with her long tawny hands, she mused for a minute, then looked up, great eyes blazing with some demon's light that made her seem indeed a sorceress, burning, perhaps, with fire and brimstone straight from hell, or from Satan, her master.

"She gives me the creeps," whispered Mrs Lethbridge, and shuddered.

The gipsy began to speak, in her low, rather hoarse voice.

"You're for runnin' off with that gentleman over there," and she jerked her head towards the galvanized Mr Lethbridge. "You should— you'd be well mated. You've got gold, and he ain't. He likes you fine, for the moment, and he'd be faithful for as long as he could; that's two, maybe three years. After that, you'd leave him; but you're one as tires soon of any man. You wasn't that way once, but you had a kid, and it died, and you was funny ever after. You don't know yet if you'll run off or not, and I can't tell you, for the clouds come when I try to see. Maybe you will, for you're terrible weak where this gentleman's concerned. If you do, you'll cross the seas… Now show me your palm: I might see more."

During the terrible and frozen silence which succeeded this prophecy, Mrs Marriage snatched away her hand as though she feared being bitten by a scorpion, her face blanched save for its spots of rouge, her heart beating wildly. She cast one glance of panic towards the shadows where Mr Marriage sat quietly, so quietly that she prayed God he might be asleep, or dreaming of his garden. Mr Lethbridge, pulling himself together with an effort, laughed loudly and rather unnaturally.

"You damn little liar!" he said to the gipsy. "Who's been stuffing you with that pack of nonsense, eh?"

The gipsy, glancing at him contemptuously, remained silent. Mr Lethbridge, anxious to divert attention from himself, hastily pointed an unsteady finger in the direction of his wife.

"You now, Chloe. Come on, my angel, listen to the oracle. Let's hear some of your charming secrets for a change."

"Not I," said Mrs Lethbridge, not at all in her society voice. "What I've heard of yours— you cad— is quite enough to last me for tonight… and for God's sake don't let that gipsy come near me… she makes my flesh creep, like a snake… Roddy, give me another liqueur."

But Mr Noakes had left his chair and was approaching the oracle. Slightly drunk, he still maintained a gentlemanly demeanour.

"Me now," he said firmly. "Come on, you little devil. And make it snappy—see?"

"Don't you dare, Roddy, you fool!" protested Mrs Lethbridge hysterically. "Not with that brute Ian about the place…"

"Oh, shut up, Chloe! Now then, gipsy, step on it!"

The gipsy once more bent her black head low over the crystal. When she raised her eyes again they smouldered, like the eyes of a great cat, within a few inches of Mr Noakes's heated face. They held him for a moment, those eyes, seeming to pierce like searchlights to the very core of his being. Then she began to speak.

"That fancy-lady of yours, the lady over there, she likes you plenty better than you likes her. At the moment you don't think so, but just you wait a bit… six months today you'll meet another lady, one you wants to splice up with this time, and then your fancy-lady's goin' to make trouble…"

A short smothered exclamation from Mrs Lethbridge. The gipsy turned, glanced at her briefly, and resumed:

"Letters, that's what's goin' to cause the trouble. Letters of yours. It's no good… you've written 'em already, and she's got 'em. It's black ahead for you, my gentleman, and more'n once you'll be tempted to do away with yourself, but don't you… Have patience, an' you'll get the young lady in the end. Cards isn't lucky for you either… Why, only the other night…"

Mr Noakes's face had grown curiously mottled. With a sudden abrupt movement he flung out his hand and sent the crystal ball rolling heavily off the table on to the floor. Then he laughed, an ugly defiant laugh.

"That's about enough from you, you little liar! Damn your eyes! Who's been putting you up to this, eh? I've got a pretty good mind to wring your neck."

The gipsy said listlessly, sullenly, all the fire dying out of her face:

"You asked me for the future. I told you. I don't make up. It's all there."

And she dived beneath the table to find her crystal, while Mrs Marriage, under cover of all this disorder and confusion, slipped like a swift ghost into the garden.

Amos had heard nothing— he hadn't even awakened when Roddy knocked the crystal off the table! It was too wonderful; never again would she scold him for falling asleep after dinner. And so she fled, and Mr Lethbridge, after one last scowl at the gipsy, ignored his wife and glided away in unobtrusive pursuit. Mrs Lethbridge was too agitated to notice his departure; pale and tearful, she walked away to the French-windows and stood there motionless, staring unhappily into the drawing-room. Here Mr Noakes joined her, considerably ruffled.

"Chloe! For God's sake don't make a scene! You surely don't believe that gibberish?"

Mrs Lethbridge muttered: "She knew all about us. She was right about that, wasn't she?"

"Oh, that!" He stuffed his hands into his pockets. "She made a lucky guess, that was all. They're wonderfully sharp, gipsies. But, Chloe…"

"She knew about that money you lost. That money you can't pay. She knew about Ian and Phyllis. Was that guessing?"

"Oh, drop it, Chloe! You know I only like you— that there's no one else. Can't you be reasonable?"

"I'm going to bed," she said petulantly, and swept away through the drawing-room. Mr Noakes paused, swearing beneath his breath. He shook his fist at the gipsy, hesitated once more, and then hurried into the house after Mrs Lethbridge.

The veranda was now very silent. The gipsy had retrieved her crystal; still on her knees, she rubbed it gently with her cloak and was about to return it to her pocket when it occurred to her to examine the dark aloof figure of Mr Marriage, bowed in his chair. She considered him for a moment in silence, then addressed him.

"Don't you want your future told, too?"

Mr Marriage roused himself.

"No, thank you," he said, and his voice was weary; "you'd better go home now, hadn't you?"

She ignored this remark.

"Was you asleep just now?"

"No, I was awake."

"What I said was true, wasn't it?"

"I fancy it must have been," agreed Mr Marriage.

"The one with yaller hair's married to you, ain't she?"

"Yes."

The gipsy said, in a caressing tone of voice: "You should have been asleep, my gentleman."

And she rose, swiftly, wrapping herself in her cloak.

"Wait a minute," he said, and walking across to the table, he brought a candle and held it close to her face, where it struck with a flickering light upon her tawny skin, her white teeth, and her black snaky locks. "You're a strange girl. I wonder what you think of all this, of these people. Have you ever seen anything like them before?"

"Ah," she said reflectively, "many a time! At the races."

And a curious smile curled her lips.

"Do your own people ever behave like— like that?" inquired Mr Marriage, who felt that he must talk to some one or go mad.

"My folk? No, not as I knows on. Only swells goes on that way."

"Are you married?"

"No."

"And what," next asked Mr Marriage unhappily, "would a gipsy husband do if he found that his wife was unfaithful to him?"

"I dunno. Out with his knife, I suppose."

Her impersonal indifference, her complete lack of interest in these domestic problems, coming so soon after her diabolical performance as a prophetess, interested him not a little. Was she really filled with some witch's fire when she gazed into the crystal, or was she merely a superb actress?

He observed, after a pause: "If I took a knife to that fellow Lethbridge, I should be tried for wilful murder."

"Go off, yourself, then," suggested the gipsy casually.

"I haven't got anywhere to go," he confided, after appearing to consider this proposal. "That's the best of being a gipsy like you. You have no roots—one place is as good as another."

But the gipsy would have none of this.

"No," she said firmly, "that it ain't. Some is much better'n others."

"Where are you going tonight?" he asked.

"Me?" She sank down cross-legged on the veranda, playing with her crystal, holding it up so that the moonbeams caught it like silver spears. "Me? I'm off at dawn to the crossroads beyond the forest. There'll be a swift horse waitin' for me, held by a lad of our race, and I'll be off an' away before the sun is up, carrying a bag of something that doesn't concern you, my gentleman."

"Where will you go?"

"To a heath fifty miles away from here. There, where the gorse grows thick, I'll find my nest an' hide what I'm carryin'. I'll water my horse, sleep there in the heather, and be off again by dawn."

"And where to?"

"To find my tribe, that'll be campin' in a green lane the other end of nowhere."

"It all seems very vague," commented Mr Marriage. "Suppose you don't find them?"

"Oh," she answered, "I'll find 'em for certain sure, even if they lie like foxes in the earth. I'll trace 'em along the roads by the patrin they leaves behind, handfuls of grass, crosses made of sticks, knots of fern. Those'll point the way."

"And will your tribe be pleased to see you?"

"That they will. There'll be a feasting off stolen meat, and singing, too, I shouldn't wonder, and fiddles. All for me."

She sighed, and he guessed that she was homesick for all this gaiety and music; she who had crept, starving in the night, to watch them feed in their bright circle of candlelight.

"Then where will you go?" he asked rather wistfully.

"Over the border."

"What border?"

"Wales. Among the mountains. There we'll run wild till summer's over. I'll be weaving baskets, and out all day tellin' fortunes to servant girls, and then at sundown, I'll be back like a pigeon to the thickets where we live hid away. None can find us there, only the conies and the swallows. Our homes is always secret."

She paused, and he was sorry, for her voice had become deep music, and she had smiled, showing a gleam of white teeth.

"I'll be off now," she said.

"No, wait a minute," said Mr Marriage, again. "When you're out, earning money, what do the men of your tribe do?"

"Them?" she considered, and smiled again. "They has a fine time. They trade horses, an' gossip, and smokes pipes, and play the fiddle a bit, or they fish for trout in the stream, or box with the gloves— they're handy men with their fists."

"Idyllic," said Mr Marriage, and sighed. "But when winter comes, what do you do? That's a very different matter, isn't it, now?"

She shook her head.

"It's all right. We camps in barns, or in the shelter of haystacks, an' builds up roaring fires. We don't feel cold, like you folk, an' we can smell spring a mile away. Oh, winter's not bad!"

She got up, put her crystal away, and stood looking out at the garden. The young moon seemed paler, the stars were less brilliant.

"It'll be dawn in an hour," she said, "and I must start for the crossroads."

Mr Marriage came across to her and plucked at her cloak.

"Look here," he said, "take me with you."

"You?"

"Yes. I— I want to get away. I'm sick of all this. Let me come with you."

She turned her eyes towards him.

"In them fancy togs?"

"No, of course not. I could change— I wouldn't be a minute. But, please— won't you let me come?"

"And what about all them others as is kissin' in the garden? The yaller-haired one?"

Mr Marriage repeated obstinately: "I want to get away. I'm tired of them, all of them."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Well, you know best. I'll take you— I don't care one way or t'other. And we can ride turn about on the horse. But you must be quick."

"I won't be ten minutes. But please wait."

And he went inside the house.

The gipsy waited, while the stars grew fainter, and a streak of rose appeared in the sky. She realized that she was unobserved, and being one who seldom neglected opportunities, she presently crept through the French-windows into the drawing-room, where she filched several antique jewelled snuff-boxes, which she concealed beneath her cloak. She then returned to the veranda.

Mr Marriage meanwhile changed into his gardening-sweater and a pair of flannel trousers. He slipped some loose change into his pockets, tied up some handkerchiefs and a pair of socks into an untidy package, and tiptoed away from his bedroom like a conspirator. In the passage he almost collided with Mr Roderick Noakes, who seemed somewhat disconcerted by the encounter, and who stammered out something about having been sent to procure aspirin from Mrs Lethbridge.

"I have always noticed," said Mr Marriage pleasantly, "that the amount of headaches contracted by people at country-house parties is out of all proportion to the amount of wine previously drunk at dinner. However, I mustn't detain you. Goodbye, Noakes," and he held out his hand.

"Goodbye?"

"Yes. I'm going off with the gipsy, and we've got to be at the crossroads by dawn. After that our movements are uncertain. But you must get my wife to ask you again."

And he hummed as he ran downstairs.

The gipsy was still waiting, wrapped in her cloak.

"Ready?" asked Mr Marriage.

She nodded.

"Come on, then."

Together they walked across the lawn, past the rose-beds, and beyond where the waterfall splashed. Suddenly, near a grove of yew-trees in the midst of which stood a marble seat, there was a startled exclamation as Mrs Marriage brushed past them like a wraith. Behind her a glowing cigar-end indicated the whereabouts of Mr Lethbridge.

"Well, Phyllis," said Mr Marriage.

She gasped, and put her hand to her side.

"I thought," she said, "that you'd gone to bed, Amos. I couldn't sleep—it's stifling, and I came across Ian here. It must be very late."

"It is," said Mr Marriage. "In fact, you mustn't detain us. We've got to be at the crossroads by dawn."

"What are you talking about?"

"I am running away with the gipsy," explained Mr Marriage contentedly. "First of all, we're going to a heath, then to a green lane, then, I think, over the border. Isn't that right?" he inquired of the girl, who nodded her head in silence.

"I don't understand a word of what you're saying," said Mrs Marriage vaguely.

"Do try to pull yourself together. Aren't I speaking plainly enough? The gipsy and I are going away together, possibly for good. Is that clear?"

She recovered her wits with an effort.

"Not a very funny joke," she said angrily.

"It isn't a joke," Mr Marriage explained patiently. "I swear it's true. I'm sick of you and of Lethbridge, and of this house, and of my life, and even of my garden. So I'm going to start a new life, and the gipsy's coming with me. I'm sorry, Phyllis, but I really can't stand it any longer."

"Oh, I see!" she said furiously, "you're trying to humiliate me with that tramp girl, so as to make me give up Ian! Well, let me tell you you couldn't have done anything more tactless, more idiotic. I won't…"

Mr Marriage interrupted her.

"You misunderstand the whole thing," he said warmly. "Why, even if you never saw Lethbridge again it wouldn't have the slightest effect on my plans. I've made up my mind. Phyllis, don't you see I'm serious?"

Mr Lethbridge now stepped forward.

"Look here, Marriage…"

"Shut up," said Mr Marriage rudely. "I've had quite enough of you. I suppose if you were sculpting me you'd stick a pair of horns on my head—well, the worm's turned, and I wish you joy of Phyllis with all my heart."

The gipsy, who had been standing motionless during this conversation, now addressed Mr Marriage over her shoulder.

"Come on," she said indifferently.

"I'm coming," he answered. "Goodbye, Phyllis, I hope you won't have any more trouble with the servants. Goodbye, Lethbridge. Tell Noakes I hope his headache will be better tomorrow."

The gipsy, without casting another glance behind her, set off at once towards the gate that led into the forest. He caught her up with one stride, barely conscious of the fact that on the lawn Mrs Marriage was laughing hysterically, only partly calmed by the encircling arm of Mr Lethbridge. They walked together in silence until they reached the road. Then he spoke to her.

"It's odd, you know," he said, "I've waited nearly forty years for this sort of adventure."

"The crossroads is a mile away," observed the gipsy, who was plainly a woman of one idea.

They quickened their pace.

In ten minutes or so they were passing down a ride, tunnelled over by arching beech-trees. The night was silent; their footsteps fell softly on the sward.

"This is fine, isn't it?" asked the gipsy suddenly, and she smiled at him like a comrade.

Mr Marriage, retired stock-broker, drew a deep breath.

"Yes," he agreed, "fine is precisely the word I should have chosen."

Then they passed like dark shadows among the darker trees and were gone, leaving no trace behind them.

_______________________

8: The Appeal

E. M. Delafield

Edmée Elizabeth Monica Dashwood, 1890-1943

Eve, 9 April 1924

THIS ISN'T a story. It's an attempt at reconstruction.

Given my knowIedge of the principals— Mary Jarvis and her mother, Mrs. St. Luth— I think I can do it. Mary Jarvis was my mother, and Mrs. St. Luth, of course, my grandmother. Thank God, I'm a modern, and can look at them impersonally— judge each on her own merits, as it were.

My mother and my grandmother made scenes as other women make jumpers. It was their form of self-expression. I imagine— although I never knew for certain— that it was my father's inability to maintain himself a la hauteur in the perennial melodrama that was my mother's idea of life, that led to my grandmother being invited to live with them.

She came when I, their only child, had barely reached the stage of exchanging my baby frills for first knickerbockers. (I am certain, although I don't remember it, that my mother wept and said she felt that she had lost her baby for ever.)

Already my parents were unhappy together. Mary— I call her so here for convenience, but she would never have tolerated it in reality— Mary, although really affectionate and impressionable, was fundamentally insincere, with herself and with everybody else. She lived entirely on the emotional plane, and when genuine emotions were not forthcoming she faked them by instinct. Her mother, who belonged to the same type, although with more strength of character and far less capacity for affection, had always played up to her. They had their violent disputes and violent reconciliations— neither could have been happy without— but they did respect one another's poses. But my father never played up.

He couldn't. Worse still, if he could have done so he wouldn't— on principle.

Again I can't remember, but I can imagine, almost to the point of certainty, short and searing passages between my parents.

'Robert, I want you not to ask me to play the piano to- night.' (He so seldom gave her an opening that she had to force them.)

'Off colour?'

'It isn't that. I heard to-day that Mrs. Thorndyke's child is dead. It— it upset me.'

'But you didn't know the child.'

'I know Katherine Thomdyke.'

'You've met her once or twice, I remember. And didn't we hear that if the poor child had lived it must have been an idiot?'

Probably, at that stage, my mother burst into tears. She'd been heading for that, of course— although she didn't know it consciously. But my father did, and had made her aware that he did in a rather brutal fashion.

That was the way they reacted on one another.

It was better after grandmother came. Curiously enough, my father liked her, although she and Mary had so many of the same characteristics. But I think he regarded her as a sort of lightning conductor.

For Mary herself, however, it was different. Like so many people who manufacture continual unhappiness for themselves, she had a frantic craving for happiness and an irrational conviction that happiness was her due.

She told me herself, long afterwards, that she never had any thought of infidelity towards my father, nor did she ever meet any man who could or would have caused her to break her marriage vows. But— and this she didn't tell me; it's part of the reconstruction— she was constantly obsessed by a vague and romantic expectation of some such encounter. I imagine that she could not believe the world to have been created without a special application to her yearnings.

And then, undoubtedly, the nervous wear and tear that she imposed upon herself and upon us all, told on her spirits. Her scenes with grandmother, although they may have served as a safety valve, were too frequent. They may also have served to throw into painful contrast her husband's stolid opposition to any form of emotional stimulus.

However that may be, grandmother had formed part of our household for rather less than a year when Mary suddenly ran away.

It was, I suppose, the only dramatic thing that she could think of in a wet and dreary February, and I have no doubt at all that she did it on impulse. That is to say, she gave herself time to write an immensely long letter to my father -in which, perhaps, she set forth that view of herself which he never gave her adequate opportunity for putting into words— but she gave herself no time to pack up her things. She simply took her dressing-case, and I am sure that that was mostly filled with photographs in folding frames, and packets of letters tied up with ribbon, and little manuals of devotion heavily underscored in several places. Then she walked out of the house and to the station, and eventually got to Assisi. And they traced her there almost at once, partly because she took no pains to cover up her tracks, and partly because my grandmother— who under- stood the processes of her mind— found a copy of a Life of St. Francis on the drawing-room sofa, face downwards, with one page all blistered, as though tears had fallen upon it.

My father, for his part, found the long letter that no doubt told him how little he had understood a sensitive nature, and possibly to what point their life together had become intolerable.

And this had the strange effect of making him resolve, and declare aloud, that nothing would induce him to try and get her back again. There must have been a stormy scene between him and grandmother, w^ho had all the con- ventionally moral instincts of her day, and was genuinely shocked and disturbed at her daughter's abrupt and violent casting off of her obvious responsibilities.

'For the child's sake, at least, Robert...' she must have repeated many times.

(Neither she nor my mother ever understood the futility of repeating, again and again, words which had already failed of their appeal.)

'A child whose mother can leave him at three years old is better without her.'

'It was madness, Robert, but you know she's not a wicked woman— my poor Mary. If you go and bring her back now no one will ever know what has happened, and you can start a new life together and try again.'

'It would be useless.'

'Don't, don't say that.' The tears must have been pouring down her old face by that time. 'Oh, Robert, give her another chance. This will have been a lesson to her— won't you forgive her and take her back?'

Well, in the end she prevailed to a certain extent— that is to say, my father would not seek out the culprit himself, but he would allow grandmother to do so, and if she brought Mary home again properly repentant he would not refuse to receive her and give her the 'chance' of starting their married life afresh. 'For the boy's sake.'

My grandmother must have repeated that phrase a hun- dred times at least, and it was certainly her pièce de résistance in the scene at Assisi with Mary.

I've had a version of that scene from each one of them, and, on the whole, the accoxmts tally, although, of course, each viewed it— as they viewed everything— exclusively from the personal angle.

My mother saw only a young, beautiful, misunderstood woman, goaded to frenzy in the grip of an uncongenial marriage, taking a desperate step in search of freedom. And then, even stronger and more touching in her relinquishment, finding the courage for love of her child, to return to the house of bondage.

And my grandmother, with equal inevitability, saw only a sorrow-worn woman, no longer young (but infinitely interesting), courageously undertaking a solitary journey on a mission that should restore its sanctity to a shattered home. And even as her urgent plea had shaken Robert's defences, so her eloquence, her boundless influence and unfaltering understanding, must prevail with the slighter, more trivial, personality of her daughter. The achievement of persuading Mary to return to her husband and child was, my grandmother told me, the ultimate justification of her existence in her own eyes.

As a matter of fact, I doubt if she, any more than the rest of us, felt her existence to be in any need of justification whatsoever— but she was addicted to phrases, and this one at least served as an indication to the magnitude of her effort.

For Mary did not capitulate without a struggle. And it is in the details of that struggle that my reconstruction work comes in, for although each of the protagonists has quoted to me whole sentences, and even speeches, of brilliant oratory from herself and inadequate rejoinder from the other, I do not believe either of them. Accuracy, with that type, can never co-exist with emotion— and emotion, real or imaginary, is never absent.

But this, I imagine, is more or less what took place in the sitting-room of the tiny albergo at Assisi.

'I've come to fetch you home, my child. You shall never hear one word of reproach— Robert only wants to begin again— a new life.'

'Never, mother. It's impossible. I've borne too much. I can't ever go back to it. I must live my own life.'

(Probably Mary had been reading The Dolls House. People were discovering Ibsen in those days.)

'Mary, it's not five years since you and Robert were married, in the little country church at home, by our dear old Vicar, who held you at the font when I took you, a tiny baby, to be christened.'

It may have been at this stage that Mary began to cry. Anyway, I'm certain that my grandmother did. Any allusions, however irrelevant, to little country churches at home, and Mary as a tiny baby, were always apt to bring the tears to her eyes— and I'm sure that neither of them had thought for an instant of steadying their nerves by sitting down to a solid meal. So that tears must have been easier even than usual.

'Robert doesn't understand me— he never will.'

'Darling, don't you remember your early days together? The little things— little jokes and allusions and happinesses shared together? Does one ever forget?'

'No' Mary sobbed. 'But I can't go back to him.'

I think that here, if my grandmother gave her a chance, she probably did make one— or part of one— of the speeches that she long afterwards quoted to me.

She was intensely unhappy. Robert did not understand her, and she could not live in an unsympathetic atmosphere. She should go mad. All that she had ever asked of life was peace, beautiful surroundings, and the ideal companion.... If she went back to Robert now, after having found courage to make the break, it would be a repetition of the misery that had broken her heart during the past three years.

(The hearts of my mother and grandmother both suffered innumerable breakages throughout their lives, neither of them ever seeming alive to the physiological absurdity of the expression.)

'It's braver to stay away than to go back and try and patch up something that can never be anything but a failure,' quavered Mary, with a momentary flash of insight.

But, of course, grandmother couldn't leave it at that. She had the justification of her own existence to think of, for one thing. I am quite sure that a fortuitous street musician rendering 'Santa Lucia' or 'Silver Threads Amongst the Gold' in the distance would have broken down Mary's frail barrier of honest thought and have materially assisted my grandmother to her victory. Accessories were so abso- lutely essential to them both.

But, so far as I know, grandmother had to win on points, as it were, and received no extraneous help in the shape of sentimental appeals from without.

She made her supreme effort.

'For the boy's sake, Mary... your little, little boy. Is he to be motherless?'

'Wouldn't Robert let me have him?'

'No, my dear. How could he? I myself— the mother that bore you, Mary— I couldn't think it right that a woman who had deliberately deserted her husband and home should have the care of a little innocent child.'

'Oh, my baby!'

She sobbed and cried, but she had not yet capitulated. Grandmother, however, had gauged pretty accurately the force of the baby-motif.

'Before I came away, on my long, lonely journey,' she said slowly, 'I went up to the nursery, to say good-bye to Bobbie. He had on his blue overall— the one you embroidered for him last summer, Mary— was it only last sum- mer?— and he was playing with his engine, on the nursery floor, his dear, round face was so solemn...'

'Oh, don't— don't—'

But grandmother, the tears streaming from her eyes, relentlessly continued: 'Darling, his big blue eyes looked up at me, and his little voice asked: ' "Where's Mummie?" ' Did grandmother's— even grandmother's— conscience misgive her at the quotation? That it was verbally correct, I have no doubt— but what of the intonation?

My grandmother's poignant rendering of ^ Whereas Mum-- mieV no doubt contained all the pathetic appeal of bewil- dered and deserted childhood throughout the ages...

But mine— the original 'Where's Mummie?'  have no recollection of it, of course, but I do remember myself at four years old— a stolid, rather cynical, child, utterly independent by temperament, and reacting strongly even then against a perpetually emotional atmosphere. And one knows the way in which small children utter those conventional inquiries which they unconsciously know to be expected of them... the soft, impersonal indifference of the tone, the immediate re-absorption, without waiting for a reply, in the engrossing occupation of the moment...

Mary held out for a little while longer, but the heart went out of her resistance after the pitiful sound of that 'Whereas Mummie?' as my grandmother rendered it.

She gave in— 'for the boy's sake.'

And my grandmother had justified her existence.

They travelled home together, and Mary averted an anti-climax by quite a real nervous breakdown, that overtook her after she got home, before my father had had time to forgive her in so many words.

So they began again— literally.

It wasn't, in fact, possible for them to be happy together, and they never were so. I grew up in the midst of scenes, tears, and intermittent periods of reconciliation. There was no stability about my childhood, and no reality. Un- doubtedly I was the victim— far more so than my father, who presently sought and found consolation elsewhere, or than Mary, whom he thus provided with a perfectly legitimate grievance that lasted her until he died fifteen years later. After that, she was able gradually to forget that there had ever been unhappiness between them, and to assume the identity of a heartbroken widow.

Mrs. St. Luth, my grandmother, lived to be very old. 'But useless old woman though I am, God gave me the opportunity of justifying my existence when He let me bring a mother home to her little child...'

I wonder.

Thank God, I'm a modern.

____________________

9: Curtains For Five

Roger Torrey

1901-1946

Dime Detective, 1 July 1934

BLEYER said: "Just a minute, Mrs. Kargen!" to the woman across the desk from him, then called: "Miss Jorgenson!" through the open door to the outer office. When a blond girl came to the door he asked: "You raise him?"

The blond girl said: "He's on his way."

Bleyer said: "Fine!" and after the blond girl had stared at the woman at the desk for a moment, went out, he said: "He'll be here right away."

The woman shrugged trim, tailored shoulders, said: "I'll wait then." Her voice suggested she wasn't used to waiting. She looked at Bleyer for a moment, opened a brown cloth handbag that matched her jacket, reached inside it without taking her eyes from Bleyer's and took out a man's flat billfold. She reached inside this, still without looking away, and took out three yellow bills. She held them across the desk, said: "For a retainer."

Bleyer waved them back, said: "We're not retained yet!'' in a short voice. His dark face looked angry and he drummed on the desk with his fingertips as he added: "I've got a partner to consider or I'd tell you now that we won't be."

The woman shrugged again, looked down at the desk and spread the money out across in front of her. She said: "I didn't know private detectives were so— careful."

She accented "careful" and Bleyer said impatiently: "Now I've explained that. We'll go for some things and leave some things alone and this looks like one we leave alone. We've just started in and we got a license to lose and a fee ain't worth taking a chance on." He looked at the money, saw the small 100's in the corners of the bills, added: "But we'll see what Mr. Olson thinks," a little hastily. He looked up as he heard a door in the outer office slam, said: "Here he is now," and to the man that came in, "Oley, this is Mrs. Kargen. Mrs. Kargen, this is Mr. Olson, my partner."

Oe was short, blond, almost pudgy, wore a constant smile that fitted his china-blue eyes. He said: "Meetcha!" with a bow, saw the money on the desk and opened his eyes wide. He sat down at the end of the desk, said: "Ingrid said you wanted me in a hurry!" and looked again at the three bills that fronted Mrs. Kargen.

Bleyer said: "Maybe, Mrs. Kargen, it would be better if you told this to Mr. Olson. We had decided not to accept divorce cases but it depends entirely upon what Mr. Olson decides about it." He looked at the money in turn.

The woman turned to Olson, smiled confidently, said: "It's really simple. I'm married."

She paused a moment and Olson said: "Yes'm!"

"My husband, for this past year, has been away from home a good many times without any explanation. I think he's—" She hesitated again.

Olson, still looking at the money, supplied: "Cutting corners!" in a helpful voice.

"Yes, that's it. Exactly."

"And you want us to find out and prove it to you?"

"Yes."

"Prove it to you or to a court?"

She hesitated and Bleyer broke in with: "I told Mrs. Kargen, Oley, about our rule for divorce cases. I explained to her what we'd do and what we wouldn't."

The woman said: "Understand, Mr. Olson, it isn't a question of having to manufacture evidence. If I wasn't sure in my own mind I wouldn't ask for proof. I've got to have proof."

Olson asked: "But Mrs. Kargen! Why be so insistent on us taking this?"

"My husband has a violent temper and I'm afraid that when he finds out I'm having him followed ... I'm afraid of him. He's— well, I'd rather have some- one I can depend on, is all."

"You mean he's liable to get tough?"

"He's liable to do anything. This last year he's not been himself. He even carries a gun all the time."

"Why don't you get out?"

She said: "I'm afraid to." Olson looked at her and she hesitated, shrugged sharply and said: "I might as well show you so you'll believe me," in a resigned voice. She stood up, took the brown jacket off and showed both arms covered with greenish-black bruises. She redonned the jacket, said: "My back is worse," very simply. "I told him I was going to leave him and he— objected. He swore to me there is no other woman, but there must be."

Olson looked from her to the money on the desk, said to Bleyer: "Well, we might as well take it." Then he asked: "Where do you live?" and when she told him: "Nine Twenty-six El Cerrito Ave- nue," he made a note of it on a desk pad.

She said: "I didn't tell you before, but he's an amateur aviator. He goes in his plane to meet this girl so she must live out of town." Her voice was suddenly vicious.

Olson looked up sharply, asked : "What was the secret about that?"

She caught herself, answered him with, "I thought that might make it harder to follow him and that it might influence you not to take the case."

Olson grunted, asked:  "Where does he keep the plane?"

"Glendale Airport. I followed him once but he went away in the plane and I couldn't follow that." She stood up and Bleyer went to the door with her.

"Shall we mail you the reports?" he asked.

"Tt would be better if I stopped here after them."

Bleyer said: "You're probably right. Wait about a week." He watched her go down the corridor with an ugly dis- satisfied look on his face, swung back into the office and saw Olson showing the blond girl the three hundred-dollar bills and said: "Damn it, Swedes! This is dynamite."

"Where's he

OLSON said: "The money's good and we need it." He waved one of the bills in the air, said: "Rent!'' waved another, said: "Groceries!'' waved the last and said: "And liquor!"

Bleyer reached out and took the last, said: "No liquor. Won't you ever learn?" and to the girl, "Wha'd you think of her, Ingie?"

Ingie said: "In the first place I'm a Dane not a Swede!" and thoughtfully, "She's about thirty-three— maybe thirty- five. She's harder than nails. She used to be a swell-looking gal and can still get by. She's got at least five hundred dollars' worth of clothes on her back so she's got money. That's all."

Bleyer said: "No, it ain't! You should put in that she's lying by the clock, but I don't know where. If she's so damn scared of her old man, she'd get the hell out where he couldn't find her instead of getting evidence for a divorce. For that matter, she could get it on cruelty right now. Her whole story's screwy."

Ingrid Jorgenson said: "It's you that's screwy!" in a scornful voice. "AIl's the matter with her is that she's nerts over her papa and she's hoping to find out he's chiseling and praying to God she won't. She's so jealous she's about hali crazy."

Olson said: "Why'd she pick us?" and Bleyer handed him a printed card that read, Los Angeles Police Department, and in the corner, Lieutenant-Detective Paul Kowalski. The card was scrawled across in ink with Kowalski's signature and Olson said: "That's a good Pole. Always gives a pal a break! Did I ever tell you about the time me and him went to pinch—"

Bleyer said: "You have! Suppose you give your old pal a ring and see what he knows about this. I got a hunch."

He listenéd to Olson talk to Kowalski, said irritably when this was over: "Then all he knows about her is that he found a stolen car for her once, and that when she asked him to recommend someone he picked us. He don't know anything about her. I'm scared of this and I don't know why."

"We still need the money. This may be all right."

"Yes, it may."

The blond girl said: "Just a big scaredey cat, eh?"

Bleyer looked over, saw her sitting on the desk and swinging her feet. He said impatiently : "Who asked you in this, Ingrid?"

The blond girl smiled, showing very even white teeth, said: "Miss Jorgenson to you, mugg! Does pay day come out of the three hundred? I missed last month and I eat, too."

Bleyer grinned back reluctantly, wad- ded up and tossed her the bill he had taken from Olson and said: "You get Oley's whisky money, Miss Jorgenson!"

She caught it, said: "And a very good thing, too." She smiled nicely again, said: "I'll take you both to lunch!" and started to put the bill in her purse.

Bleyer grunted to Olson: "Damn this weakness of mine for Swedes." He looked at the girl, added: "But what a pretty Swede!"

The girl looked up, said: "Dane, honey, and you know it."

Bleyer grinned at Olson, spread his hands, told her: "Well— Dane, then."

LEAVING Olson to watch Kargen's house, Bleyer made inquiries at the Glendale Airport. He learned that Kargen's ship was a low-winged monoplane, heavily powered and painted a dark gray, almost a black. Casual questioning told him Kargen was tall and dark and heavy and possessed of a notorious temper.

The attendant he was talking to volunteered: "Mr. Kargen, he takes that ship out all hours of the day and night, and the Lord knows where he goes. He never says." Bleyer made his eyes blank and vacant and the man went on with, "And always by himself. He acts like he's got to get someplace right then and there."

Bleyer looked sly, offered: "Maybe he's got some gal on the string in some other town." He nudged the attendant in the ribs with his elbow. "Maybe he's married and can only get away at odd times."

The attendant said: "Well, maybe!" in a doubtful voice and Bleyer turned the conversation away from Kargen.

Bleyer hung around the main part of the afternoon, succeeding in buying the man several glasses of beer during the course of it, and was on hand with him in the status of an old and valued friend when a heavy coupé drove up.

The attendant said: "Here's Kargen now."

Bleyer saw the battered roadster he and Olson jointly owned stop a half block down the parking space, and wandered over to Kargen's plane with the attendant as it was run out of the hangar. He heard Kargen's curt, "Is it filled up?" and the answering, "Yes sir!" Then casually he moved away and met Olson by the car and told him: "We can't do anything here because they don't know where he goes. I've figured how to find out, though." He drew a list of towns from his pocket, with the plane's license number, said: "You can get Kowalski to make a few asks for you, can't you? He can find out if the plane lands in any of these where we can't."

Olson agreed this was likely and they drove back to the Central Station, found Kowalski, and after overruling a few objections persuaded him to send inquiries to all the landing fields within a radius of two hundred miles. With Kowalski's promise to call them as soon as he had any information they drove back to their office.

Ingrid Jorgenson met them as they came in, said: "Well, thank the Lord! All afternoon I've been trying to find you. Mrs. Kargen called and wants either one of you— the first one to come in— to call her. She's called four times."

Bleyer grunted: "Get her, hunh?" and when the girl got the number, said: "Mrs. Kargen! This is Otto Bleyer." He lis- tened a moment, said: "But why did...." listened a moment more and slammed the phone down. He turned to Olson, said: "This gets me," in a puzzled voice. "She says drop the whole thing."

Olson said: "Drop the whole thing!" and gloomily, "The first case and the first dough we get our hands on in a month and more."

"She says keep the dough."

"Then we win." Olson brightened.

Bleyer's dark face was mystified. "And after her being so hot for us to take it. Did she say anything to you, Ing, about why she changed her mind?"

The blonde said: "She did not. I told you she was half crazy and jealous. Her old man probably called' her 'honey' by mistake so she changed her mind."

Bleyer said: "Well, we make the difference between the three hundred and the wires we sent so we should fret. She probably told him she hired us and he talked her, or scared her, out of it."

Olson grunted: "Well, that's that. Let's the three of us go in the inside office and play some pinochle while we wait for an- other customer with three hundred bucks. Ingie's got some dough to play for now and we might as well get it."

WHEN two hours later the door to the anteroom slammed, Ingrid had just melded a run of trumps and a hundred aces. She said: "And a club marriage makes two-seventy. Somebody world come in when I've got the best hand I've had yet!"

She went to the outer room, closing the door after her, and Olson said: "If this hand's the best yet, it's a pip. I'm four and a half in now," in a sorrowful voice.

Bleyer held up his hand for silence and they heard heavy feet tramp through the outer room, saw the door open and frame a man. The blond girl was hanging to his arm and they heard her say: "But maybe they don't want to see you!"

Olson laughed and said: "It's all right, Ingie! This is Paul Kowalski."

Ingrid gave Kowalski's arm a jerk, snapped: "Is that any reason he can walk past me like that?"

Kowalski ignored her, blurted out: "I told you! I told you guys I didn't want in on that wire deal."

Both Bleyer and Olson stared at him and Ingrid dropped his arm as he went on with, "I'll go before the board for this."

Bleyer asked: '"What's happened?"

Kowalski sat on the desk, mopped his forehead with his sleeve and said: "Plenty. And then some. A guy delivering groceries reported a stiff in the alley back of the nine-hundred block on El Cerrito and the homicide boys go out and find it's Kargen's chauffeur. That's all. They'll be looking for Kargen and find out I sent those wires and that'll fix me up."

Bleyer asked: "How?"

Kowalski snapped: "I'm not supposed to be digging up stuff for you guys. I signed those wires as if I was on a case. I get private information on the strength of my badge and pass it on to you."

Bleyer argued: "But you didn't get us anything yet!"

"What difference does that make? I signed the wires."

"I guess that's right."

"Sure, it's right. All you ever did is work for agencies. Ain't I right, Oley?"

Olson said: "You are. Anybody know about the wires yet?"

"No. They'll find out as soon as they begin to check up on Kargen."

"Have they talked to Mrs. Kargen yet?"

"They're all up there."

"You get us in and we'll get Mrs. Kargen to back up a yarn that'll clear you. If she claims she was sick and just had to get hold of her old man and asked you to do it for her you'll get over. Your story is that you knew you shouldn't do it but you was sorry for her and couldn't see any harm. It'll only mean a reprimand."

Bleyer looked bewildered, asked: "But what difference does it make whether he did it for her or for us?" Olson snapped:

"Just our license. That's all. It's a damn sight different doing a favor for someone with an address on El Cerrito than it is helping out two private detectives on their first case. They'll take our ticket if they catch us off side and they'll suspend Kowalski for playing on our team." He grabbed Kowalski by the shoulder, said: "Come on! I know what I'm doing!" and started for the door. He said to the girl: "If anybody calls, tell 'em we'll be back pretty soon."

"O. K. What about my four and a half?"

"Damn your four and a half." to Bleyer, "Come on, Otto."

"Shall I tell em where you're gone?"

"Tell 'em you don't know."

The blond girl watched them go through the door, turned and stared at Bleyer's desk, still littered with the pinochle deck. She stuck out her lower lip, said: "I know where you can go and your four and a half with you." She went to the desk, picked up her discarded hand, said: "I'll never get another one like that!" in a mournful voice.

NINE TWENTY-SIX E1 Cerrito Avenue had three police cars, one morgue wagon, and at least fifty other parked cars in the street before it. The drivers of these last, attracted by the sight of police ears and the possibility of witness- ing a raid, had practically blocked the street in front of the house and Olson, swinging the roadster close to the clustered cars was waved back by a uniformed man who was trying to clear the tangle. Olson grunted to Kowalski: "Do your stuff!" and the uniformed man, seeing Kowalski's badge, grudgingly allowed them to park.

Kowalski got out, asked: "Who's on it?" and the policeman growled: "Casey and Loward!" Kowalski said: "Thanks!" and Olson explained to Bleyer: "If you don't know it, one's a good Joe and the other's a heel. I know Loward too damn well. Did I ever tell you about when me and Shorty Collins was on—"

Bleyer said: "You have! We going to have trouble getting to talk to Mrs. Kargen?"

"Dunno. If only Loward wasn't..."

They came to the door of the house and Kowalski took them past the guard on the door and just inside they met a tall, very thin, man.

Olson said: "Hi, Loward!" and the thin man smiled unpleasantly, asked: "And what's a private shamus doing on a homicide case? Riddle me that."

Olson said: "We got a client here. Any harm in seeing a client."

Loward saw Kowalski behind Olson and lost the smile. He said: "And have you got a client here too? Or are you just along for the ride?" He said to Olson: "Out and stay out!" and to Kowalski: "Tf you're still on car recovery you don't belong here. Play around me and you'll hear me meauw later on, where it'll do some good." He turned and said to another man who came into the hall: "We got company, Pat."

Casey was as tall as Loward but at least twice as heavy. His nose had been broken and set crookedly and this gave his face a pleasant leer when he smiled. He smiled now, said: "What the hell, Lowey! What skin off your neck is it if Kowalski wants to come and see real detectives work. He wants to learn something." He grinned at Kowalski, shook hands with Olson and, when Olson introduced Bleyer, said: "Glad to know Oley's partner. I've known Oley a long time. You know he rated second man on the pistol team and they brought us plenty of medals."

Bleyer said: "Yeah, I've heard that. Several times."

Casey laughed and patted Olson on the shoulder and said: "Just an artist with a gun!"

Loward growled: "He may be an artist but is that any reason we should let him talk to Mrs. Kargen?"

Casey turned on him, asked: "Why not? What's the harm?"

Loward muttered something and. went out the door and Casey said: 'Poor Lowey! He hates Olson's guts and he hates private agencies and he don't think a hell of a lot of me."

Olson said: "Listen Pat! Is Mrs, Kargen in on this?" in a serious voice.

Casey reached up and fumbled his nose, looked sidewise, asked: "Is she? You'd know more'n we do." He gave his nose a vicious yank and admitted: "Until we find out something to go on, we don't know who's in it. Her old man may be able to tell us something and we're going—" He saw the slight grin on Olson's face and stopped.

Olson said: "We looked for him a while ourselves, if that's what you mean." He turned, saw that Loward was out the door, said softly: "If you'll keep that heel of a Loward out of it and see that you and Kowalski split the credit I'll give you a tip."

"Go on."

"Stake out the Glendale Airport. That's your only chance. Get it?"

Casey leered and said: "Thanks, Oley! I'll remember this."

He followed Loward out the door and Olson told Bleyer: "He hates Loward's guts but he's got to work with him. He's boss of the pair else we wouldn't be here." He saw a maid down the hall, called: "Hey, sister!" and when the maid stopped, told her: "We want to see Mrs. Kargen."

The maid looked doubtful and said: "I don't know," and Olson nudged Kowalski.

Kowalski pulled his badge from his pocket, said: "I'm sorry but it's impor- tant."

They followed the girl to a library, waited a few moments and when Mrs. Kargen came in explained the purpose of the visit.

She said: "Why surely. I'll tell the same story you gentlemen tell." Olson, at her side, caught the jerk of her head and leaving Bleyer and Kowalski followed her to the other side of the room. She said: "I didn't want Mr. Kowalski to hear this. Can I see you tomorrow? At your office?"

"We'll be there, one of us, all day. Why not have Kowalski hear it?"

She hesitated for a moment, said: "Just a notion. Will anyone stop me?"

"Why should they?"

"Well— with the chauffeur being killed."

"We told the man in charge you were our client. You might be followed but it won't mean anything."

She said: "Some time tomorrow then!"

They drove the relieved Kowalski back to the Central Station and went back to their now closed office. Bleyer unlocked the door and when they went in Olson saw a note lying on the typewriter, said: "I guess somebody must've called." He picked up the note, read it and grinned: "Our Ingie's mad!"

He read aloud: "Oley. It's still four and a half you owe me in spite of the rush act. You'd make me pay."

Bleyer said: "You'd think she was a Yid instead of a Swede!"

Olson corrected him, said: "Dane, Otto. She says so herself."

MRS. KARGEN came in the office at twelve the next day. She hurried in, glancing behind her, pulled back a heavy veil, and Olson said: "If anybody's fol- lowing you that ain't going to help a bit. Did your husband get back?"

He motioned to a chair and she sat down, said: "No. I knew he wouldn't. That's why I wanted to see you— that is, about him." She looked around the office questioningly.

Olson said: "They've gone to lunch on my four and a half," in a sour voice.

She looked blank and he said hastily: "Office politics! Just what is it?"

"It's about my husband again."

"Why all the hush stuff about coming up here?"

"I don't want anybody to know you're working for me."

"I didn't know we were. You called that off."

She said: "I know the police think my husband killed the chauffeur. Don't they?" Olson shrugged, didn't answer for a moment, and she insisted: "Don't they?"

He said: "Very likely they do now. I don't know as I'd blame 'em. The plane he went away in hasn't landed at any field within four hundred miles of here, as near as can be found out."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Kowalski just called me. They figure he landed on the Mexican side of the border but there's not much chance of finding out where."

The woman watched Olson's face as she said: "But he couldn't have killed Jerry. I saw Jerry after he left."

"Jerry ?"

"The chauffeur." She caught Olson's smile, said: "I really did." Her eyes were anxious, worried.

Olson said: "I don't doubt it but if it comes to a trial a jury will." He asked: "Who do you think did do it?" and believed her when she said: "I don't know. I didn't sleep last night trying to think who would have."

"What do you want of us?"

"I want you to find out who did it."

"Why? You're in the clear. This beats divorcing your husband. It's less trouble for you,"

She looked down at her hands, twisted a handkerchief between them, said: "I know that," very low. "I've changed my mind about that. I don't want to divorce"— she started to cry— "him."

Olson turned his light blue eyes to the ceiling, whistled softly, said: "Well, you ain't divorced him yet so why cry about it. What made you think he wouldn't be home last night?"

"He never comes home the same night he goes away like that."

"If he's heard about this, he won't be home for some time. Even if he is in- nocent."

"I know he's innocent."

Olson stared at her, said: "What if he ain't? If he did it and we find it out, it ain't going to make any difference whether we're working for you or not. You realize you're taking a chance when you start this, don't you?"

"I'm not. You forget I saw Jerry after he left. I know that."

Olson shrugged, said: "It's going to cost dough. People that kill other people in alleys are bad people to play around with."

"I've got money. How much will it be?"

"That depends on how long it takes. If there's trouble"— he shrugged again, watched her face— "it'll be plenty."

"You've got to find out. No matter what it costs."

They heard the door in the outer office open and Ingrid called: "Your four and a half went—" Then they saw her in the open door. She said: "Oh excuse me," went to one side and they heard her whisper to Bleyer.

He came in, stood just inside the door, said: "Hello, Mrs. Kargen—" and they heard Ingrid scream, shortly, harshly. At the sound Bleyer swung. As he faced the outer office they saw an arm shove him in the chest as he was off balance. He stumbled backward and Olson came to his feet and jerked at the gun under his arm, and at the same time another man took Bleyer's place in the door, a man who held a short black automatic in his left hand. The man moved the muzzle of the gun, said: "Unh!" and Olson jerked his hands up. The man said: "O. K., Joe! Come on in!" and stepped clear of the door.

Ingrid backed in followed by another man who held his hand in his side coat- pocket. Ingrid turned her head, said to Olson: "We never saw them come in. They must have followed us in the door—"

The man with his hand in his pocket had a smooth, very pale face. His eyes seemed everywhere in the room, flashing from Olson to Bleyer to Mrs. Kargen, and to Ingrid. He said: "Shut up, tart!" in a very soft voice and she glanced at Olson and Olson nodded his head. The man said: "Over against the wall!" in the same smooth voice, moved his coat pocket in the direction of the wall across from the desk and Olson and she backed over there. She stood straight against it with her hands at her sides. Her hands were clenched so the knuckles showed white, she looked more angry than afraid.

Mrs. Kargen stood up. She wore a surprised look, said to Olson: "Why, what is—"

The pale man said: "You too!" and she stopped, stood still and looked at him. He took a step forward and slapped her across the face with his right hand, the blow sounding loud in the quiet room. He said: "Jump!" But he didn't raise his voice ; it still held the same soft tone.

She moved to the wall beside Ingrid, felt of her cheek, said: "Well..." in a startled, still unfrightened way.

Ingrid said: "Ain't this a bang!"

The man said to Olson: "You too!" and to Bleyer: "Line up!"

Olson saw the man at the side of the door swing the automatic his way, saw the pale man's eyes tighten. He said: "Yes you bet!" and moved to the wall and stood by Mrs. Kargen, and at the same time Bleyer lined up alongside of Ingrid.

The pale man said: "Very pretty picture!" stood in front of them with his head on one side studying them.

Olson said: "What's the idea?"

The pale man said: "Shut up and listen!" He moved his coat pocket toward Mrs. Kargen, said: "She's poor pipples to play with. Get it!"

Olson snapped: "And why?"

The man said: "I say so, that's why!" He said to the man at the door: "Shake 'em down, Andy."

Andy came over, the gun still in his hand. His hair was flaming red at the edge of his soft hat, his eyes wore a queer unfocused look. He took a gun from un- der Olson's coat, patted Bleyer all over in search of one, said to the pale man: "Ix-nay gun." He turned again, jammed the muzzle of the gun he still held into Bleyer's stomach so hard Bleyer bent double, said: "Where's your gun, stupid!"

Bleyer gasped: "Got none on me!" and the pale man said: "Now, Andy!" re- provingly. Then, "Look in the desk!"

Andy dug in it and found a heavy gun wrapped around in a shoulder harness and put it under his coat along with the one he had taken from Olson. He sat down on the desk with his own gun holding on the line of prisoners and the pale man said to Olson: "So lay off! You fool with this gal and it'll be just too bad."

The red-head asked: 'What she want ? You to find out where her old man is?" The pupils of his eyes were so wide they seemed to focus on all four against the wall at the same time.

Olson jerked his head to the side, snarled: "Ask her, you high——!" and the red-head said: "I will, ——!' He used. the same name Olson had called him, accenting it, slid off the desk over to Ol- son and raised the gun in his hand and slammed the muzzle into Olson's cheek. Olson had tipped his head te one side as the blow fell but the muzzle caught him on the cheek bone and he went to his knees, blood welling from a two-inch gash under his eye.

The red-head said: "Crack wise on that!"

Olson looked up at him, said: "I'll remember that and your ugly face!" The man raised the gun again and Ingrid felt Bleyer tense at her side, cry out: "No! Otto!"

The pale man said: "That's plenty, Andy! You're higher than a kite!" He didn't raise his voice but Andy let his gun drop and stood back. The pale man said: "You get the idea, boys. Just lay off." He spoke to Mrs. Kargen, said: "And you, lady, you lay off too. Just say that your old man killed the guy and leave it at that. You're giving him a break when you do." He said to the red-head: "O. K., Andy. Let's go,"

The red-head said: "O. K., pal!" and the other man said : "Don't chase us out of here untess you want trouble, boys. We got guns and you ain't." He looked at Olson who was wavering to his feet, said: "I'm sorry about that!' in an apologetic voice. "Andy gets screwy when he's high."

Olson muttered something under his breath and the red-head said sharply: "What's that ?"

The pale man said: 'Now Andy! We'll be going!" in the same quiet voice and the red-head stopped and turned to the door and the other man followed him, backing out. He said again: "Don't follow us, boys !"

THEY heard the outside door slam and, with the noise, Olson jumped for the closet. He dragged out a handbag, jammed it open and took out a long-barreled pistol.

Bleyer said: "Oley! That's a twenty- two. Leave 'em go." He caught Olson by the shoulder and Olson jerked free, ran through the door into the outer room and to the hall. Bleyer reached the phone on the desk just as Ingrid screamed and he snapped out: "Quiet!"

They heard Olson call out: "Andy!" and Bleyer dropped the phone, said: "Oh God!" started toward the door. When he got to it he heard the roar of a heavy gun, then the lighter crack of the target pistol. In the second it took him to get across the outer office he heard two more heavy re- ports and then again the lighter gun. He got to the hall and saw Olson running down the hall toward two figures on the floor, raced after him, and saw him suddenly stop and shoot again. He came up to him as Olson stood over the two men.

The red-head was lying on his stomach with his face turned enough to show a small hole just at the side of the bridge of his nose. His eyes were open but had lost their unfocused look and were vague and blurred. Bleyer saw this, saw the pale man lying across the red-head's legs, saw the pale man jerk slightly and try to raise himself to his elbow. Olson kicked the gun from his hand, bent and lifted him by the shoulders and the man said: "Ugh! Ugh!" and choked. He tried to speak again and his throat filled with blood that gushed from his mouth and over his chin and shirt front. He slumped in Olson's arms and Olson let him down on the red- head. He looked up at Bleyer, said: "Hell! I tried to give him a break." He poked the red-head, said: "When Andy turned around and cut loose I was all set and I took him in the face. Then this guy started shooting and I popped him in the leg but he wasn't satisfied." He appealed : "You saw him start to get up."

Bleyer said: "You damn fool! Start out after two guys like that with a twenty- two target pistol."

Olson looked a little bewildered, argued: "But a little slug'll stop 'em just as well as a big one if it's put in the right place. It was all set and—" He stopped, said: "Well, see!" triumphantly and pointed to the two men on the floor.

Bleyer said: "Oh Lord!" He looked around, saw office doors opening on the hall with scared faces peering out. "Well, it might make us an ad for more busi- ness."

They heard a voice quaver: "H-h-has anybody c-c-called the p-police?"' heard someone say: "Yes!" and Bleyer said to Olson: "You better go back to the office and take a good big snort and straighten out the women. I'll stay here till the law comes and bring 'em in. Tell Mrs. Kargen to tell just what happened and not to try to stall."

Olson nodded. "This is no time to make up yarns!" He stared down at the two men on the floor, then pushed through the gathering crowd and went back to the office. He frowned at Mrs. Kargen, said: "When they talk to you, just tell the truth!" And to Ingrid's excited questioning: "Never got touched. I was standing still, see, and all set. They were just turning around and couldn't connect."

Mrs. Kargen asked: "Is he dead?" and he snapped: "They're both dead!" and turned to the desk and reached in it for a bottle. He heard a bump, turned and saw Ingrid on the floor and said to Mrs. Kargen: "Get me a glass of water."

He took the bottle and held Ingrid's head from the floor, and when Mrs. Kargen handed him the water dashed it in the blond girl's face. He poured a drink into the glass and when she fluttered her eye- lids and made protesting motions he held the whiskey to her lips and she drank, gagged, and sat up.

She said: "I'm all right now," then felt of her face and said: "My God! My make-up !"

Olson grinned at Mrs. Kargen who seemed entirely unexcited, said: "She's O. K. now." Still holding Ingrid close to him he reached down and poured an- other drink, offered it to Mrs. Kargen and, when she shook her head, drank it himself.

Ingrid said: "That water act was lousy," and started to get to her feet.

He asked: "What in the devil was the matter with you?"

She said: "You said they were both dead, didn't you? And that you weren't hit." He said: "Yes!" in a puzzled voice and she said tartly: "Well! I was thinking you were maybe shot. I was really hoping."

Olson shook his head, said: "What a girl! Us Swedes!'

She started to speak and he altered it hastily to: "I mean us Swedes and Danes!"

THERE was no action for three full days. A coroner's jury brought in a verdict of justifiable homicide over the death of the two men. Kowalski reported no progress in the search for Kargen. A check-up of the past of both the two men killed in the hall, and the chauffeur, revealed nothing, and the few discreet inquiries Bleyer and Olson made about Mr. and Mrs. Kargen ended in blind alleys. They were both in the office when Mrs. Kargen came in hurriedly.

She said: "I've got news!" in a hasty, excited voice, sat down and continued with, "I've heard from my husband. Just today."

Bleyer asked : "How ?"

She looked suspiciously at him, said: "The police are looking for him. Will you promise not to tell."

Bleyer nodded and she said: "It was through a friend. Another flyer. A friend of Mr. Kargen's. He called me and asked me to meet him and I did and he told me he had a letter from Jack. Jack wants me to meet him."

"You going to."

She nodded.

"Who's this friend?"

"His name is Arthur Truax. He lives at the Clinton Hotel." She hesitated, confessed: "I've never liked him. I've never thought he was as good a friend of Jack's as Jack thinks he is."

"Why that?"

"Well he— well, you know. When Jack isn't around. And then he calls me all the time when Jack is out of town."

"Whyn't you tell Jack this?"

"He'd kill him. He's got a terrible temper."

"You told us that. Do you believe this Truax now?"

"Why yes. He says Jack knows the police are looking for him and: can't come and get me himself. I'm to go in the plane and meet him with Arthur."

Olson got up and walked back and forth across the office. He stopped in front of Mrs. Kargen, said: "Are you telling the truth?"

She said: "Why yes!" stiffened, got to her feet, started to speak but Olson stared at her, snapped: "If you are, somebody else ain't. This letter was to Truax, you say. Not to you?"

"Why no. Arthur read it to me."

"Then you didn't even see it. You don't know whether it was from your husband or not."

She looked troubled, said: "Why no. But then he couldn't write me. The police would get the letter and find where he was," She brightened, said: "Don't you think that's it?"

Olson said' seriously: "I don't. Listen! There's been three men killed now, all of them over some deal that you don't know about. You've played ball with us and we believe you when you say you saw the chauffeur that was killed, after your husband had left. See! Where you meeting this husband of yours."

She fooked doubtful, undecided, and Olson said: "We haven't let you down yet. We'll keep it quiet. It's just protection for you."

"I'm supposed to go with Arthur and meet hint about twenty miles east of a place caffed Trona. It's over in the desert. Jack explained where."

Bleyer said bluntly: "I think you're crazy if you go but you'll go just the same."

She smiled, said: "Yes, I will." Then, "Has anything happened?"

"Not a thing. These things take time."

"Unless you find out who did it and clear my husband we'll lose everything we've got here. We'll never be able to come back, and we own the house and some other property."

Olson said: "We'll keep at it. If worse comes to worse, he can give somebody a fake bill of sale and get his dough out when the stuff is sold." He walked to the door with her, said: "Now don't worry! Something'll break soon. You keep in touch with us, Mrs. Kargen," and went back into the office.

He mopped his forehead, said to the blond girl and Bleyer: "When she comes busting in like that, I thought sure as hell she was going to take us off the case again. She seems to have a yen for that old man of hers. Ingie, I guess you were right.

The blond girl sniffed and said: "I'm always right."

OLSEN put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, said to Bleyer: "Oh God!" and to the phone: "Yes Paul ... wherebouts... Clinton Hotel on East Main... I get that... Yeah!" He listened a moment more, slammed the receiver down, said: "Mrs. Kargen got stabbed to death in the Clinton Hotel. They found her about an hour ago all whittled up. Kowalski called the minute he found it out."

"They get this Truax?"

"Hell no, they've got nobody. The room was registered under some phony name. When she told us I knew it was a phony."

"Shall we call Casey and tell him about Truax?"

Olson said harshly: "Why? We're still working for her. We still got part of her dough we ain't earned. We'll get him ourselves." He jammed his hat on, snapped: "We'll pick him at the airport. If he's gone, it'll be time to tell Casey."

He slammed out of the office with Bleyer hard at his heels and the blond girl watched them leave, her face worried, and reached for the telephone.

She thought a moment, said: "I'd better not. If they should call this Casey and find I'd already done it they" —she stuck out her lower lip— "would raise hell."

At the airport, Bleyer picked the same attendant he had made friends with while waiting for Kargen, showed him his badge and a five-dollar bill, asked: "Arthur Truax. Is his plane still here?"

The man said: "Yeah, but not for long." He pointed down the runway, said: "That's it, the cabin job warming up there. The guy that's fooling around the motor is Truax."

He took the bill and Bleyer said: "Walk down that way easy with us then. We don't want fim to think we want him at all."

They walked together to within fifty feet of the plane and Bleyer said: "O. K., keed, and thanks!" He jerked his head backward and the man stopped and stared after them as they walked toward the plane, looked down at the bill in his hand and shrugged his shoulders and started back.

Bleyer said: "Let's go!" slipped his gun free from the holster under his coat and, when the man by the plane turned and stared at them, snapped: "O. K., Truax. We're going to take a trip."

Truax said: "What's the idea?"

Bteyer cleared the gun, held it so the muzzle showed, said: "Get it." Truax said: "No!" and Bleyer told him: "It's either make a trip or go back to town and see whether the clerk at the Clinton recognizes you as. the man that rented the room Mrs. Kargen was killed in. D'ya get that."

Truax motioned toward the cabin of the ship and Bleyer said: "You first!" and followed him in with the gun jammed against his back.

Truax said: "Where you want to go?"

Olson, following Bleyer in, said: "We won't take you out of your way. Twenty miles east of Trona to meet Kargen."

Truax asked: "You federals?"

Bleyer caught Olson's wink, "What do you care. Get going."

Truax settled into the control seat and Bleyer told him: "We been through that country in a car so don't make any mistakes." He grinned at Olson as the plane roared into life, said from the side of his mouth: "Just like shooting fish!"

TRONA, approximately one hundred and fifty miles away in an airline, took them an hour and half to reach. Ten minutes later Bleyer pushed his gun into

Truax's back, shouted : "You know where to land. Don't make any mistakes." Truax shouted something back, lost some altitude and a moment later waved his hand and pointed. They started to settle and Bleyer saw Kargen's plane on the ground, saw a figure standing beside it. He pointed this out to Olson and Olson grinned, shouted : "Won't he be surprised!"

They landed a hundred yards away and Truax taxied closer until Bleyer reached past him and turned the ignition switch. He said: "End of the line!" and motioned with the gun and Truax climbed sullenly out. As Bleyer followed him he growled: "I don't get this. Making me bring you out here—"

Bleyer grinned: "That's right, guy! Make up a story and stick to it."

Kargen's plane had the prop ticking over, with Kargen still standing at the side and a few feet from the cockpit. He saw Olson follow Truax and Bleyer from Truax's plane and started for his own ship and Olson called: "Hold tight!" and jerked his gun from under his coat. He  called again: "Stay there!" and Kargen stopped and watched them come up.

He saw the gun in Bleyer's hand, looked from this to Truax, snapped out: "So I'm the goat, huh!"

Truax said: "Wait Jack! Don't fly off the handle. I couldn't..." As he spoke he came closer to Kargen and Kargen took a step forward, slammed him with his right fist and Truax went down to the sand.

Olson said: "Hold it!" and swung the gun toward Kargen.

Kargen stood back, said: "The dirty double-crossing rat!"

Truax got to his feet as Bleyer said: "He's more than that, Kargen!" and when Kargen looked away from Truax and at him, Bleyer told him: "He had a room at the Clinton Hotel. An hour before we started for here your wife was found there all cut up with a knife. Get the picture!" He stepped close to Kargen as he spoke, saw Kargen's face tighten, said: "Get it!"

Kargen said: "Dead?" and when Bleyer nodded, Kargen looked back at Truax, took a step that way.

Bleyer said: "Easy! It's all under control!"

Kargen said: "The ——!" in a choked, sick voice.

Bleyer said: "We thought maybe you got him to do it. This was one way to find out."

Kargen kept his eyes turned toward Truax and Bleyer stepped between them, said: "He'll hang for it if he did it."

Kargen said: "I guess so!" in the same odd voice.

Bleyer said: "And now, what's in that plane?"

Kargen waved his hand, said: "Make a look!"

Bleyer said: "No, you look." He waved his gun toward the cockpit, ordered : "Just unload and we'll take a look."

Kargen stepped up onto the plane and Bleyer stood to one side with Olson, watched him toss a small handbag out on the sand. Kargen straightened and Bleyer asked: "That all?"

Kargen said: "Not quite!" bent again into the cockpit and Bleyer caught the flash of light in his hand as he straightened and called harshly: "Drop it!"

He swung up his gun as Kargen turned but Kargen fired point blank at Truax when he was but half around, and, as Truax pitched forward on his face, shot again.

Olson shouted: "Drop it!"

Kargen looked down at Truax, said: "I might as well!"

Bleyer kicked the gun to one side and motioned Kargen down, turned and saw Olson on his knees by Truax.

Kargen asked: "Did I?"

Olson looked up from Truax, said: "You did!"

CASEY stared at Olson, said: "Then you didn't really know what was going on until it was all over."

Olson explained: "Come right down to it, we don't know now. That is, everything. All we know for sure is that Kargen was running dope and aliens and what have you, and meeting Truax on the desert where they'd reship. They got away from any spotters on the other side that way. That's all we know for sure. Kargen wasn't here during the fireworks and everybody that was here is dead and can't talk. All we can do is guess."

"It sounds reasonable."

Bleyer said: "It's the only way it can be. The two guys that Oley killed with the pop gun were the distributors. Kargen's chauffeur was in it and must've jammed with them and got himself killed. Then after they got killed, Truax was the only one left and he figured he'd cross Kargen all the way around. I don't doubt a bit he was planning on killing Kargen when he met him out there, but of course we stopped that when we went along."

Casey said slowly: "I get all that but what about Mrs. Kargen. Why'd Truax kill her?"

"We thought first that maybe Kargen was to blame for that. We knew she was dingy about him and we thought he might be trying to get rid of her so's he could pick some other gal. See, we didn't know the dope angle until Truax cracked about whether we were fedcrals. Kargen was just as erazy about her as she was about him though. We figure now that Truax thought she knew about the dope and might squawk. Either that or he killed her because she wouldn't run away with him. He was dingy about her himself, so my guess is the last. We'll never know."

Casey stood up, said: "He must've been crazy about her to bust Truax the way you say he did. The whole thing fits all right. I put out that Kowalski was helping me on the whole thing and we're aces now. You ought to hear Loward cry. You'd think his throat was cut." He said to Olson: "Just what in the devil is he sore at you about? He won't tell me."

"I beat him out of his place on the pistol team when I was on the force. He's never got over it."

Bleyer laughed and said: "And neither has Oley!"

They walked to the door with Casey and when he had gone, Bleyer said: "That's that. I guess we really closed that case." He said to the blonde: "And what do you think of the bosses now?"

Ingrid Jorgenson said: "What I always thought. Two muggs."

"Now Swede!"

"Dane to you!"

Olson said: "You can go home if you want. One of us'll be here if the phone rings."

She looked at her watch, said: "Three o'clock!" to herself, then, "If you're both still pinochle players and if Oley's got as much as four and a half why—" She stopped, waved her hand toward the in- ner room.

Bleyer nodded and Olson said: "I'm one of the best, and I have."

She jammed the cover over her typewriter and started toward the other room but stopped and turned around. She said cautiously: "Is it cash?"

________________

10: The Story of a Hanged Man

J. E. Muddock

1843-1934

From Stories Weird and Wonderful, 1889

Probably published first in Strand Magazine, as by Dick Donovan, but I haven't been able to confirm this.

MY NAME is Phelim Connor.

By parentage I am Irish, but I was born on August 2, 1820, at or near a little town called Troy, in the State of Pennsylvania, America. My parents, who were highly respectable, kept a store in that place; and being naturalised Americans, and as I passed thirty years of my life in the States, never having been out of the country from the day of my birth until I was a little past thirty, I suppose I have a right to call myself an American. On January 8, 1849, I was put upon my trial for murder. The trial took place at Philadelphia. It lasted four days, and, although I was very ably defended, a verdict of guilty was returned against me, and I was sentenced to death. For a whole year I languished in prison, for in America there are so many legal quibbles that a prisoner under sentence of death can avail himself of, that he may postpone the carrying out of his sentence for a considerable time, even if he does not succeed in setting it aside altogether. In my case every artifice that the cunning of the legal mind could suggest was resorted to, but without avail, and at last the warrant for my death arrived. Thereupon the scaffold was erected, and on February 4, 1850, I was taken from my cell to the exterior of the prison walls, and in the presence of an enormous concourse of spectators I was duly hanged. I am aware that this is a startling statement, and will be received with incredulity ; but read what follows, and I will give you such facts and figures that you will no longer doubt. Moreover, the story I have to tell is so strange and startling, and withal so true, that it would be hard to find a parallel to it.

I was tried before the Hon. Aaron Osgood, one of the Supreme Judges of the Criminal Courts in tbe State of Pennsylvania, and the well known author of  American Criminal Law, which is the standard work in America at the present day. He is also the author of the more widely-known American State Criminal Trials, which is likewise a standard book of reference. The leading lawyer for the prosecution was Salim Isaac Shinier, Esq., Public Prosecutor for the State ; and his juniors were Mark Phelps, now a Judge of the New York Bench, and Henry Walford Lane, subsequently of the State Criminal Procedure Offices at Washington, but since dead. My defending counsel was the Hon. Washington Cleveland, admitted to be one of the most powerful pleaders in America, and he was assisted by Gifford Jefferson, Esq., who has since become famous by his great work, American Laws, and the Men who Founded Them. Anyone who is at all acquainted with America will know that the trial in which I was the chief actor must have been of no ordinary kind to have brought together such a galaxy of legal talent as is represented by the names I have mentioned. The incidents that led up to the trial had kept the whole country in a state of excitement for months ; and the trial itself was one of the most sensational on record. During those four memorable days the business of the town almost came to a standstill, and all day long both inside and out of the Courthouse military guards were posted to keep the excited crowds in order. When the verdict became known so high did partisan feeling run that a riot broke out, and was not suppressed until blood had been shed. There was a very large following indeed in my favour, and, considering that I had been unjustly condemned, they allowed their feelings to get the better of their discretion, with the result I have stated. During the twelve months that I lay in prison my friends were very active, and they left no stone unturned to try and save me from the hangman; but the Government declining to interfere the law was allowed to take its course. On the morning of my execution, notwithstanding that a heavy snowstorm was raging, and the cold was intense, something like twenty thousand people had assembled to witness the last act of legal vengeance. Troops had been drafted into the town to preserve order, and the police and warders of the gaol were strengthened by a large addition to their number. The fellow who acted as executioner was a notorious rascal, whose real name was Silas Bronner, but who was known as 'Chowder Sam.' How he came to be so called I don't know. I believe he had been condemned to life imprisonment for murder, but had been released on condition of his undertaking to execute criminals when called upon to do so. I shall have more to say about him presently.

With these preliminary remarks I will now tell the story of the strange events that led up to my condemnation and execution. I have already said that my parents were highlyrespectable people. They were both natives of the county of Cork. My father was employed as a clerk in a Cork bank; and my mother was the daughter of a farmer at Inishannon, a little village about ten miles to the south of Cork city. She was remarkable for her beauty, being of the true southern Irish type, which, as is well known, approximates to the classical Spanish type. She had a mass of blue-black hair, eyes of sloes, and a pink coral complexion, with a figure that left nothing to be desired. My father was a good-looking, well-proportioned man, and the two met through my mother visiting at the house of some friends in Cork. It was a case of love almost at first sight, and in spite of much opposition on the part of her relatives she married my father six months later. A year after that a girl was born and died. Then my parents emigrated to America, and after some little wandering about they finally settled down at Troy, where I was born. I had two sisters of whom I shall speak by-and-by. One of these sisters was destined to play a prominent part in the great tragedy in which I was the leading actor.

My parents, having succeeded to a little money through the death of a near relative, opened a general store in Troy, and did so well that they were enabled to give their children a good education. I was intended for a doctor, and, having spent some years at school, I was sent to Boston to study for the medical profession. And now let me refer again to my sisters. The eldest, Mary, was as sweet and gentle a creature as ever the good God put life into. She had all her mother's beauty, with something of it heightened. She could shake her hair out until it touched the ground, and enveloped her like a veil. She had a magnificent head delicately poised on a swan-like neck. I do not mean to say that she had actually a neck like a swan, but the expression as a figure of speech suggests its perfectness. She had dark, languid eyes, with long silken lashes, and a complexion that one could scarcely overpraise. Allied to this physical beauty was a sweet, trusting nature that won every person with whom she came in contact. Well and accurately indeed might I describe my dear sister in the words of the poet:

Dark her hair as the winter night,

White her neck as the Alpine snow,

Red her cheek as the morning light,

Bright her glance as the artless roe.

My second sister, Norah, took more after my father. She hadn't the same wealth of hair, nor the same brilliancy of complexion, as Mary. But had Mary not overshadowed her so, Norah would have been pronounced an exceedingly pretty girl. Nor was she quite so gentle and patient as her sister, but she was a dear little woman—quick, impulsive, warmhearted, generous to a fault, somewhat self-willed but withal very lovable. And I doted on them both. We were a very united family, and at one time a happier one could not have been found in the United States.

These two girls were well brought up for people in our station of life, and they were fitted and qualified to take a good position in the world. Between Mary and me there was a difference in age of five years, and between Mary and Norah two years, so that I was seven years Norah's senior.

When I went to Boston to pursue my studies I was a man. I had been what is usually termed 'a little wild.' But whatever follies could be laid to my charge, they were the follies of boyhood only. I went to Boston full of noble resolve and high purpose. I talked of distinguishing myself, and of writing my name on the annals of fame. My intentions were good. They were the outcome of youthful enthusiasm, and my aspirations were ennobling. There was one weakness, however, in my composition. I lacked that one essential to steady progress— dogged perseverance. I was somewhat of a romantic turn of mind, and could not reconcile myself to anything that partook of a humdrum existence. I had, in fact, an excitable and enthusiastic temperament; that temperament that enables soldiers, sailors, explorers, and pioneers in all works of adventure, to distinguish themselves in trying moments, and perform great deeds. I had a passion for books of travel and adventure. The wonder is, therefore, that I was content to remain stationary as long as I did. But our destinies work themselves out with clockwork regularity and mathematical precision, although sometimes it is difficult to believe that that is the case; though any man who will carefully examine the details of his life will be surprised to find that each act, no matter how trivial, and each deed, has been but a link fitting into a perfect chain, and that no link could be taken away without destroying the harmony of the whole. This is a truism that may astonish many, but its soundness cannot be gainsaid.

Notwithstanding the restlessness that always seemed working within me I spent over three years in Boston, and made good progress with my studies. In fact, I may state thay I succeeded to some extent in distinguishing myself, for I was possessed of an individuality that would not allow me to be content to remain a mere mechanical nonenity— a human sheep, as it were, that baaed with the flock. That was a position that would not have satisfied my longings or my restlessness.

I made many acquaintances and numerous friends in Boston; but there was only one with whom I became really intimate. The one was Defrid Zadwaski. By nationality he was a Pole, but he had been in the States the greater part of his life. He occupied the important position of professor of languages in the college. In age he was only a few years older than I was. His disposition and temperament approximated pretty closely to my own in one or two respects. He was restless, for instance, and always seemed to be yearning to constantly change the surroundings of his life. He was ambitious and capable of enthusiasm; but there the parallel ceases; in other respects he was my antithesis. He was a dreamer for the most part. He was a mystic. His philosophy was tinged with scepticism and morbidness, and he held extraordinary views with regard to the relations of the sexes one to the other. He argued that woman, neither as an actual fact, nor as a potentiality, was, nor could she become, man's equal; that being his inferior both mentally and physically, she was, theoretically at least, man's servant, and that it was her duty to administer to his wants, his pleasures; to afford him gratification and to anticipate his wishes. That when she ceased to do any of these things, she could, and should, be put away, as any other hired servant might.

Now, although this peculiar doctrine was to me heresy as compared with my own way of thought on the subject, I conceived an unaccountable liking for the man. That he was clever goes without saying, for only a clever man is capable of such distinct individuality as he displayed. But it was not exactly in his cleverness, and certainly not in his physical attributes, that his attractiveness lay ; for he was somewhat under the medium height, with a sallow complexion and a rather shrunken figure. It was in a peculiar fascination of manner. Of course, it will be argued from this that only weakerminded men could fall under his sway, and that consequently I was weak-minded. I am not prepared to admit that that is altogether correct, but it is no part of my purpose to enter into any critical argument on the subject here. Defrid Zadwaski fascinated me as he fascinated hundreds of others. Moreover, the liking seemed to be mutual. He averred that I charmed him, and that there was an originality about me that he liked. The result was we became close companions. It was not until about the year after we had become really intimate that I took him down one vacation to my home.

It may seem singular, and I will confess that it was singular, that I, the brother of two young women, who were conspicuous for their beauty, and no less for their loving and confiding dispositions, should have brought them under the influence of a man who held such remarkable views as to woman's position. But how often do we do things in life which do not strike us as being outré until after— perhaps long after— they are done? He spent a fortnight at our house on that occasion, and before returning to Boston I asked my sisters what they thought of Zadwaski.

Norah answered impulsively, 'I don't like him'; but Mary more guardedly, and with an obvious reserve, said, 'He's a little peculiar, but still he is not objectionable.'

'Did he tell you,' I said laughingly, 'that his idea of woman is that she should be an absolute slave to man?'

'No,' she answered quickly, and changing colour—this change of colour being due to indignation, for Mary had a high opinion of her sex, and her idea was that woman was man's equal in every respect.

'Oh, well, you know, Mary,' I returned, 'men in their youth often say things that are not worth serious consideration. Zadwaski is not a bad fellow, and he is clever.'

'Yes,' she answered in a strangely thoughtful manner, 'he is clever,'

Six months later I took Zadwaski down home again, and that time he was three weeks with us. We were, as it seemed, perhaps literally so, a happy party, though the most perfect happiness is at times only but a thin veneer, as it were, that hides unending sorrow. Nature oft-times weaves the beautiful and the deadly, the attractive and the revolting together. In the most beautiful of tropical forests, where the eye is ravished by grandeur and sublimity, the deadly serpent lurks, and life and death go linked together. When Zadwaski and I were on our way back, I observed that he seemed much more contemplative than usual. He was frequently given to fits of abstraction, but somehow, now, he appeared to be altogether unusually absorbed.

'What is sinking into your ponderous brain now, Defrid?' I asked, with a laugh. He started like one who starts suddenly from a dozing condition on being shaken, and he answered me ambiguously, apparently, though his answer was the key-note to the solution of his mood:

'I've been thinking that my views in regard to woman require modifying.'

' Oh ! 'I exclaimed in surprise.

'Yes.'

'Since when did you begin to change your doctrine?'

'Since I met your sister Mary.'

'Indeed,' I answered, a little seriously, as a new light dawned upon me, 'am I to understand from that, my friend, that you have fallen in love with Mary?'

He did not answer my question immediately. He pondered upon it before he spoke.

'You may understand this much. Mary has exercised an influence over me such as no other woman has ever done before.' He paused again before asking this question, as a correlative to his remark: 'Are you glad or sorry to hear that?'

'I cannot say at the present moment, but I am either the one or the other,' I replied. 'Perhaps I ought to have guessed that something of this kind was all but inevitable, if you and my sister became acquainted. That may be a compliment for you both. But my happiness is so bound up in the happiness of my sisters, that I should like to be sure— very sure— that, before giving my approval of any engagements, the men who sought them for wives were beyond all question of doubt calculated to enhance their happiness, to respect them as wives, to honour them as women.'

I saw by the expression of his face that my remark displeased him. There was a point in it, as I intended there should be, and it pricked him a little. He thought, no doubt, that it implied doubt of him.

'Well, let us drop the subject for the present,' he said ; and so we did not discuss it again.

For many days after that, however, I was troubled about this matter, and at length I wrote a long letter to Mary asking her to tell me candidly what her feelings were for Zadwaski. Her answer was brief and displeased me. This was about the substance of it:

'You ask me a question that at present I am unable to answer. I am not even sure of my own feelings; and, moreover, dear brother, I am not disposed to make you my confessor, at all events until there is something more definite to confess.'

Mary in writing thus could have had no possible intention of paining me, but she did pain me, nevertheless. Some days later Zadwaski approached me and said:

'Pray, my dear fellow, do not attach any importance to what I said the other day. I was under the impression then that I had a growing love for your sister. I have examined my heart since and find I am mistaken. I shall always regard her with great respect, but I shall carefully avoid seeing her again.'

I confess to a feeling of some relief as he told me this, for much as I had been charmed with the man, when it came to the possibility of his marrying my sister I viewed him in a different light. After this we resumed our old relations, and Mary's name was never mentioned. But I was struck by one thing. Zadwaski seemed to change. He went about like a man who had something preying on his mind, and I was under the impression he shunned me somewhat. The result was there was a gradual and almost imperceptible breaking off of that close intimacy that had existed, until at last, without any rupture of any kind, or any explanation, we seemed by mutual consent to avoid each other.

A few months after this change had come about, it chanced that I was standing in the hall of the college when the morning mail was delivered. I was very anxious to receive letters, as I had had none from home for several days, and the last one had spoken of my mother being slightly indisposed. I therefore eagerly examined the bundle of letters to see what there was for me, and in doing so I came across one addressed to Zadwaski, and the handwriting was that of my sister Mary. My heart leapt into my mouth, for this letter pointed to a secret correspondence, and my distrust of the Pole had become a very real thing now. I said nothing to Zadwaski. I knew too much of him to suppose that he would give me any in- formation. But as soon as I could get away I went down home, and told Mary what my suspicions were. At first she prevaricated, but at last admitted that she had been carrying on a correspondence. I was hurt and distressed, for I saw that the fascination this man had exercised over her must indeed have been great when it could lead her to deceive, or even to attempt to deceive, her only brother. I went back to Boston full of determination, and feeling as if a crisis in my fate had arrived. I sought an interview with Zadwaski, and accused him of treachery and deceit. He refused to plead guilty to the accusation, and said he should resolutely decline to consult me as to the course he should pursue in regard to my sister. This defiance and impudence irritated me beyond control, and forgetting myself I struck him a severe blow. He did not attempt to return it, but he at once brought my conduct under the notice of the authorities, and I was called upon to make a public apology. This I declined to do, and I was told that expulsion would follow if I did not. But I did not wait for them to expel me. I went that very night, and, smarting from a sense of unmerited injury, and of a wrong done me by my sister whom I had worshipped, I turned my face westward to those lonely regions where danger and excitement might make a man forget almost that he had lived before.

For over two years I wandered about those western wilds, and threw myself heart and soul into the adventurous existence peculiar to them. I might fill a big volume with all I went through during that period. I literally carried my life in my hands, but the very excitement begotten by this sort of thing pleased me, and I became oblivious to almost everything else. Then one day an old newspaper came into my hands, and amongst the obituary notices I read of the death of my mother. If an Indian's arrow had suddenly quivered through my body, I could not have experienced a keener pang, or a more sickening sense of faintness, than I did when I read that announcement. Oh, how I reproached myself for my long silence, and for the way I had left my home ! Home-sickness came strong upon me at that moment, and I hurried to my native place, to find what? Not the peaceful, happy home I had left, but a desolation, a wreck. My father prematurely aged and well-nigh distracted, my mother dead, and my sisters gone.

'Where are Norah and Mary?' I asked of my father in a choking voice, and feeling as if my heart was literally swelling up and going to burst. I knew something dreadful had happened. It was written in his face, which was wrinkled and haggard. His eyes were sunken, his hair white. My question caused some colour to come into his pale cheeks, and fire into his dimmed eyes.

'I don't know,' he said, as he ground his teeth and clenched his hands.

'What?' I gasped, like one who was suffocating,

'I don't know,' he repeated with greater emphasis, and speaking like a man who was swayed by some mighty passion, which he only kept in check by a still mightier effort. I looked at him; his eyes met mine and in his gaze I read much. Then before I could recover myself and speak he broke into sobs, and with a reproach in his tone exclaimed:

'Oh, Phelim, why did you leave us as you did ? Ours was a happy home before you went away. Now look at it. Your dear mother lies in her grave. And your sisters—'

That look of passion came back into his face, and his eyes blazed. 'I feel inclined sometimes to curse them,' he added, hissing the words out, as it were, fiercely.

'Hush,' I said, ' curse not, but tell me all.'

'Mary went first,' he began, but as he spoke something came up in his throat and seemed to choke him.

He made an effort to control himself, then added,

'And Norah followed her.'

The terrible truth flashed upon me now like an inspiration, and I said with unnatural calmness, 'And Defrid Zadwaski is responsible for Mary's going away?'

'How do you know?' asked my father passionately.

'I guess it,' I returned.

'Yes. He took her away.'

As my father said this, he was a study of concentrated and yet controlled passion, but had Zadwaski stood there at that moment it would have been his last. It was terrible to see my father now— gentle, generous, and confiding as he had always been— so utterly changed, to see the fierce passion that was shaking him, and the craving for revenge that blazed forth from his eyes. But the tigress robbed of her young is doubly dangerous, and had not my father been robbed of his daughters, upon whom he had doted? When he grew calmer he told me the whole pitiable story. After I went away Zadwaski renewed his visits to our house, until my father took a strong dislike to him, and forbade him to come again. He returned no more, but kept up. a secret correspondence with Mary, who suddenly left her home. The shock of her going away in this manner was awful; it shattered my mother's health, and almost deprived my father of reason. But, notwithstanding that, Norah disappeared soon after. This last blow crushed my mother into her grave, and turned my father into a lonely, broken-hearted old man, whose one prayer, one thought, one hope was— Revenge!

I listened to this terrible story without sign, without motion, without any outward expression of the passion that was almost tearing me into pieces. But that strange calm which precedes the bursting of the tropical typhoon is not more surely indicative of the coming storm than was that unnatural calm which possessed me as my honoured father told me of my sisters' shame, and of Zadwaski's perfidy. At such a time as this a man— or, at any rate, most men, and I was one of them— looks not beyond his human sphere, nor turns his eyes to that mystical hereafter, when, as we are taught, man's wickedness to man shall be divinely judged and divinely punished. He who has no craving for revenge in such an hour of humiliation and shame must have something of the divine element in him. Judged by this, then, I had no such element in me, for in my brain there seemed to ring a voice that cried ceaselessly, 'Revenge! revenge!'

On the table in the room in which my father had told me the story of shame was the large old family Bible, from which my beloved mother was in the habit of daily reading to us when we were children. I placed my right hand on the sacred book, and standing erect I raised my left arm at full length with the index finger pointing to heaven, and still, outwardly calm, and with wonderful self-possession I spoke, and this is what I said. I can repeat the sentence word for word with unerring accuracy, for every word burned itself into my brain:

'Father, here in your presence, with my hand on this Bible, and in the sight of Heaven, I swear to search the earth, if necessary, to find Defrid Zadwaski, and, when I have found him, to kill him.'

A cry of fierce joy broke from my father's trembling lips, and, tottering to me, he threw his arms round my neck and embraced me, saying the while: 'Now, indeed, are you my son. While the destroyer of your sisters lives the earth groans from the presence of a foul monster. Slay him, and every honest man in the world to whom honour is more precious than life will bless you.'

'And now tell me,' I said, 'know you where Zadwaski is?'

'No.'

'Then from north to south, from east to west, will I wander until I have found him,' I answered.

An hour later I started on my quest, and I went direct to Boston in order to try and get a clue to the man I was now sworn to hunt down and kill. The return to the scenes of my happy college days affected me deeply, as many golden memories were recalled. But my heart softened not, my purpose never wavered; the voice in my brain still rang out 'Revenge! revenge!'

I learned in Boston that the last known of Zadwaski was that he was resident in New York as a teacher of languages : that night I was on my way to New York. I had no difficulty in finding Zadwaski's address, as it was in the directory. I accordingly made my way to 104th Street, at the top of the 5th Avenue, and near Central Park. But, on arriving there, it was only to find that he whom I sought had gone away six months before, without leaving any address. He had occupied rooms in a flat, and the proprietor of this flat was a man. To him I addressed myself, asking many particulars of his erstwhile lodger, and from the landlord's lips I learned the following particulars, which I give in his own words: 'He had two ladies with him when he came here. One he represented as his wife, and the other as his wife's sister. But I found out afterwards that one was just as much his wife as the other. In short, he was not married to either, but he treated them both, poor things, as if they had been his slaves.'

There is a common expression— 'my blood boils'— used to convey some indication of unutterable indignation and anger at wrong or insult done to one. It is a figure of speech, of course, but there are times when outrage to one's feelings is so great that it literally seems as if the blood bubbled up in the veins. Such a feeling as this did I experience as I listened to the landlord's words. And yet outwardly I was calm, but mentally I repeated the oath Iliad taken in my father's house, and the dumb voice in my brain cried with accentuated emphasis, 'Revenge!'

But all the story was not yet told; and dreaming not that I was the brother sworn to avenge the wrongs done to his sisters, by shedding the blood of the wretch who had destroyed them, the landlord gave me a sequel. 'The younger of the two ladies— Norah she was called— seemed always to be in a state of great despondency, and she suffered greatly from hysterical outbursts. In that state she used to curse Zadwaski, and call constantly for Phelim. Who Phelim was or is I don't know, for the three of them were very reticent, and never spoke of their connections.

'Phelim,' I answered quietly, 'is the name of Norah's brother, and should he and Zadwaski ever meet, Zadwaski's life will not be worth a minute's purchase.'

'Ah!' exclaimed the landlord, in a gratified way, 'he deserves killing, for two more charming girls I never knew, and yet he treated them shamefully. Poor Norah got so bad at last that she was removed to the Fifth Ward Lunatic Asylum.'

This statement caused me for the first time to betray my feelings. It was as if he had struck me a violent blow, causing me to stagger. He looked somewhat surprised, and asked: 'Are you any relation?'

'Yes,' said I, 'her brother Phelim.'

'Good God ! exclaimed the landlord, 'is it possible!'

I was calm again as I answered, 'Yes, I am her brother, and I have sworn on the Bible to kill Zadwaski.' The landlord grasped my hand and wrung it. He was much moved.

'The villain deserves it,' he said; 'but the taking of life, even the life of one who has wronged you, is by the law of our country murder, and the punishment for murder is an ignominious death.'

I smiled contemptuously, but I know that I had the landlord's sympathy, for he wrung my hand again. Then we parted, and I at once made my way to the Fifth Ward Lunatic Asylum. I was told that Norah Connor— the name she was known by there— was a hopeless lunatic; that her mind was quite shattered. Not without great difficulty did I obtain permission to see her. How can I describe my feelings as I was ushered into her presence, and saw before me a haggard, pale, old-young woman? The eyes vacant and staring, the face puckered with an imbecile grin; the head clean shaven and covered with a closely-fitting skull-cap. All day long, I was told, she paced up and down the room to which she was confined, muttering to herself, and occasionally crying out 'Phelim, Phelim, Phelim.' If ever man's heart bled, as the saying is, mine did. Her mind was such a blank that she utterly failed to recognise me, and as I went away I said to myself, 'May Heaven trebly curse me if I let Zadwaski live!'

I ascertained at the asylum that for a short time after Norah had been taken there, a lady, her sister, called occasionally to see her. But these visits ceased, though for a little while a sum of money was sent regularly to enable Norah to be supplied with extra comforts. But the remittances suddenly stopped also. 'From what part of the country did the remittances come?' I asked.

'From Philadelphia,' was the answer.

Four hours later I was on my way to Philadelphia. On arrival there I immediately consulted a directory, but searched in vain for Zadwaski' s name. There was an agency, however, for teachers of languages in the town, and thither I went as a sort of forlorn hope. But fate served me, and I found that the agency had the villain's name on their books. He was staying in Philadelphia, and his address was given to me. At last, then, I had run him to earth, and his hours were numbered. But I did not rush off there and then to slay him. Such impulse would not have accorded with my temperament. I must kill this man slowly and deliberately, so that in his dying moments there should be compressed some of the agony that he had inflicted on me and mine. My first step was to ascertain something of his habits, and if my sister Mary was with him. I soon found out that she was not. She was elsewhere. That elsewhere was an obscure grave, marked only with a number, in the cemetery. That number corresponded with a number in the books of the cemetery, and against the number was written, 'Mary Connor, native of the United States. Date of birth unknown. Supposed to be between twenty-five and thirty years of age at time of death. Class of grave H2, in Roman Catholic portion of cemetery.'

This class of grave, as I was informed, was the very poorest class, and in that part of the cemetery no stones were allowed to be placed over the dead. Here were gathered the waifs and strays; the unknown dead; the suicides, and the like; and in this spot lay the remains of my once beautiful sister.

To that humble grave I went in the gloaming of the sombre October day. In the low, blurred sky was no gleam of light; from the trees the withered leaves were falling, and over those nameless mounds the wind wailed and sobbed. Kneeling down, I renewed my oath, and then, falling across the grave, I wept tears of phosphorus, or some other scalding matter, for I had no ordinary tears to shed. And in that supreme moment of agony my heart broke in twain. I arose and turned away. The night had come, even as the night of my life had come. The world was naught to me now. It contained only two persons as far as I was concerned. The one myself, the other Zadwaski, and when I had killed him I should be a lonely man in a lonely world.

This man lodged in a respectable house. He occupied two rooms, and his habit was to go every evening to a well-known saloon, where he sat playing chess— a game of which he was inordinately fond— until a late hour. To that saloon I repaired, and then, for the first time since I last saw him in Boston, I gazed upon his accursed features, and a fierce, mad joy filled me. He had altered greatly. There were traces of dissipation on his face, and a restless, pained expression in the eyes that looked like remorse. Was it remorse? Could such a monster, who had wrecked a happy home and destroyed two dear women, feel remorse? No. I was wrong; it was not remorse: it was fear. For three long hours I sat in a corner and watched him; and I thrilled with a sense of exquisite joy that at last my quest was ended, and that never again would I lose sight of him until his black and rotten heart had ceased to beat. Midnight struck from the town clock, and a few minutes later he rose to go. I rose too. He was in the shadow of death, but he did not know it then. He shook hands with his companions, and he laughed, but it was not the laugh of a man who was happy. Then he lit a cigar and went out into the dark night, and towards his grave. Rain was falling. A bitter wind was sweeping through the deserted streets, and pulling his coat about his throat, and battering his hat down upon his head, he hurried along. And I followed noiselessly, as if my feet had been shod in wool. Up the many flights of steps that led to his lodgings he went, and I was within a few yards of him. He opened the door of his house with a latch-key. I had by a subterfuge previously provided myself with a key, and ten minutes after he had entered I softly opened the door, closing it as softly after me. Then I crept to his room. He had thrown off his coat, wrapped himself in a rug, and was finishing his cigar. As I entered I turned the key in the door, and the noise caused him to glance round, and, seeing a stranger in his apartment, he sprang up and exclaimed:

'What is the meaning of this? Who are you?'

'I am Phelim Connor,' I answered slowly and solemnly. He staggered back. His face turned ashen. The half-burnt cigar fell from his blanched lips, and a look of mortal fear came into his eyes.

'What do you want here?' he gasped out hoarsely.

'I have come to kill you,' I answered.

A look of unutterable, absolutely indescribable, terror swept over his ghastly face. He east a nervous glance at the door of his bedroom, but between it and him I stood. No doubt in his room he had some weapon, but he could only reach it over my dead body, and in my hand, which was firm as a rock, I held a revolver.

'You wouldn't kill me in cold blood,' he whined. I laughed a mocking laugh of derision.

'You wrecked my home in cold blood,' I hissed. 'You sent my mother to her grave in cold blood. You drove one of my sisters mad in cold blood, and in cold blood you broke the heart of the other, and cast her body into a pauper's grave. A man, when he sees a snake crawling at his feet, crushes it in cold blood. To my mind you are infinitely more loathsome and more horrible than the most deadly of reptiles, and I shall slay you in cold blood, as you call it. That is, I shall kill you without the slightest compunction.'

'God pity me!' he moaned.

'No,' I replied, 'God will not pity you. You are accursed even of Heaven.'

In the madness of his despair he seized a chair, to hurl at me, but, with never a nerve of my body quivering, I fired, purposely striking him in the shoulder, just below the neck. He reeled and fell against the table; and the sight of his blood pouring out filled me with savage delight.

'Pity!' he gurgled.

'Yes,' I returned, 'the pity you accorded to my dear sisters.' Again I fired, shattering his right arm, and he sank to the floor with a groan. He was not dead, not even insensible, but I had a conviction that his life was fast ebbing away, and so I did not fire again, but kneeling down I put my lips to his ear, and hissed: 'I curse you, Defrid Zadwaski! Die with all your heavy sins upon your soul.' By this time the household was aroused. There were the shrill screams of women, the cries of men, who were thundering at the door. I turned the key, and, flinging the door open, confronted the clamouring and affrighted people.

'There lies a human reptile,' I said; 'and I have in cold blood, and deliberately out of malice aforethought, killed him. Here is my weapon, and all I ask is that you will let me witness his dying agony.'

My revolver was taken, and I was seized by men, but I wrenched myself free, and stepped back to where Zadwaski was lying. He turned his dying eyes upon me. Then I saw them glaze. I heard a gurgle in his throat, saw his breast flutter, and knew then that he was dead. I confronted the people and said:

'My revenge is satisfied, as far as it can be on earth. And now you can do as you like with me.'

There is no purpose to serve in dwelling upon all the details of my arrest; my lodgment in prison; the weary waiting for the trial ; and the trial itself to which I have alluded. At first a public cry of rage went up against me. Zadwaski was supposed to have been highly respectable. He was spoken of as 'a quiet, inoffensive gentleman,' and the Press said my crime, if crime it was, 'was deliberate, brutal, and fiendish.' Gradually, however, some of the particulars of the story of shame and wrong began to leak out, and it was found that the saint-like Pole had been a devil in disguise. My friends, and I am happy to say I had many, took my case up very warmly, and one of the most ardent defenders of my act of vengeance was Dr. Silas King. This gentleman was for some years on the surgical staff of the New York Infirmary, but had been settled in Troy for a long time, and had been our family doctor. He knew my dear sisters intimately, and had once asked Mary to become his wife. He was a widower with two children, and, as there was considerable disparity of age between him and Mary, my people opposed the marriage, although they much admired Dr. King. He said that if he did not get Mary he would never marry again, and he kept his word. Now, when he learned the dreadful fate of my sisters, he threw himself heart and soul into my defence. He was an eloquent speaker, and a good writer, and he both wrote and spoke in my defence, sparing no time, trouble, or expense. He gave Zadwaski's history to the world, and showed what a black-hearted villain he was, and how shamefully he had treated my sisters, driving one to madness and the other to an untimely grave. But Zadwaski also had powerful friends amongst his compatriots, and so there were two strong parties formed. I have already spoken of the great array of legal talent that was gathered on both sides during my trial ; but, in spite of all that was done for me, the verdict was adverse, and I was sentenced to die. The verdict was received with great disfavour by my supporters, and, losing control of themselves, they came into collision with Zadwaski's partisans, and there was much fighting and bloodshed.

When my poor old father heard of the verdict he was seized with a fit of apoplexy, from which it was thought he could not rally. He did, however, subsequently recover, but he was a wreck, physically and mentally. During the terrible year following my trial and the execution of my sentence, Dr. King never once relaxed his exertions. I had no fear of death myself. I had no clinging to life; but I did shrink from the ignominy and shame of a public execution. When at last it was found that all the appeals that had been made in my favour were rejected, and the law was to take its course, Dr. King visited me. He was burning with rage and indignation, and he told me that he would save my life yet, and he proposed a plan to that end. During subsequent interviews he unfolded this plan to me, and by means of considerable bribes of money which my father found, for he was well off, Dr. King secured the co-operation of two of the warders, the sub-governor of the prison, and of Chowder Sam, the executioner, who would have sold his own mother for a few dollars. Without Chowder Sam's assistance Dr. King's daring scheme could not have been carried out. In virtue of a solemn oath I took to Dr. King never to reveal the precise means he resorted to in order that I might be saved from the effect of the hangman's rope, I cannot disclose his plan. The object he aimed at was to prevent suffocation, and a singularly ingenious arrangement was adopted by the executioner, acting under Dr. King's instructions, whereby too great pressure on the neck was prevented.

I must mention that execution at this time in the United States was by sheer strangulation, not by a drop, and therefore Dr. King's plan was calculated to produce the desired effect. Had the drop been in force the plan would have been useless. On the morning of my execution the weather was in my favour, for it was snowing heavily, and though it did not prevent the people from assembling in enormous numbers, it did prevent them seeing the scaffold clearly, and Chowder Sam was enabled to do his part of the work without attracting attention. All being ready I was strung up, and though the pressure of the rope was but slight it was sufficient to produce insensibility. At first I suffered pain. Then there stole upon me a delightful sense of dreamy languor, and all that had been most joyous and beautiful in my life passed before me as in a vision ; and then I saw my sister Mary, her dear face wearing a smile of ineffable sweetness, and her shoulders invested with great white pinions. After that came a blank, and what followed I subsequently learned from Dr. King.

As soon as I was cut down he claimed my body, and had brought a shell, secretly ventilated. Into this my body was put, and then Dr. King had the coffin placed on a vehicle he had provided, and with all speed he conveyed my supposed corpse to his house. There he at once began means to bring about my resuscitation, and in the course of half an hour his efforts were successful. For some time after recovering consciousness I suffered much pain; I could not bear the light in my eyes; and I seemed so morbidly sensitive to sound that the slightest noise almost drove me mad. In the course of a few days, however, these symptoms wore off, and I gradually returned to my normal condition. Then I was secretly conveyed to Canada, where, in a little while, my father joined me, and I remained there until his death, four years later, and after that I came to England, where I have resided ever since. I am a lonely old man now. My dear friend, Dr. King, and poor Norah have long been dead, and many another who made my wrecked life worth clinging to has likewise passed away, so that the world is to me now a blank. The end cannot be far off, and I am impatient for its coming. Death, whenever he comes, will come to me as a friend. It has been said that we make our own fate. He who reads this startling, but true, record can form his own opinion whether I made mine, or it was thrust upon me.

_______________

11: The Electro-Hydraulic Bank Protector

Henry Hugh Simmons
fl. 1927-28

Amazing Stories, Dec 1927

This author had a brief career producing a short series of farcical tales involving crackpot inventions, under the general heading "Hicks' Inventions With a Kick". This is the 3rd of the four known stories.

THE maid brought in a card. I took it, read it, and threw it in the waste basket.

"Tell him I am on my vacation," I said in a voice loud enough to be heard three rooms off. And just at that moment Hicks entered.

I tell you I sat in my chair like petrified. Since that episode of the Automatic Apartment, I had not seen Hicks— at close range, at least. For nine months I had been daily kicking myself for having allowed him to talk me into fixing up another demonstration for him— and that after the first one had resulted in disaster. I had been dodging those people on the street myself ever since, and in my walks about town I was in a continuous sweat lest I meet one of them face to face. Guess my feelings, then, at that man's colossal nerve when he appeared uninvited just as I was throwing his card into the waste basket.

As I sat there speechless, Hicks advanced and proffered me a small flat package done up in fancy paper and tied with red string. Mechanically, I took that package and undid the thread. Methodically, slowly I unwrapped it. Hicks, in the meantime, had sat down in my easiest chair and gravely lit a cigarette. Inside the package there was a fancy box. I opened it. A golden cigarette case came into view. In the middle of the cover, beautifully engraved, my eye read my name "Fred C. O'Keefe." With fastidious care, I lifted the cover. Twenty cigarettes of the well-known super-expensive brand "Abdullah" were neatly arranged in two rows. The click of the box, as I snapped it shut, brought me back to my senses.

"Hicks," I said hoarsely, "get! Get out— this instant!"

And I shoved the case toward him on the table. I had expected a brazen smile and a smart answer, but I was mistaken. Hicks looked sad as he replied:

"O'Keefe, won't you let me apologize? Won't you give me a chance to make repairs? I never did you any harm intentionally, and I want to make good that which I did unwittingly. Can't you pardon a man? Say so if you will and I will go, right now. Even so I wish you would accept my little peace offering—I picked it, as you see, especially for you."

Appeal to my generosity and I am sunk. I suppose it s that Celtic blood in me or something, but that's the way it is. I knew he had won right then.

"I'll go if you say so," Hicks resumed, rising. "I came here only to..."

He seemed overcome with emotion.

"Stay!" I said. "Don't think that I am ungenerous. Give me your hand— I know you meant no harm."

Hicks shook hands with me so hard that I got a headache.

"But,"I said, "that cigarette case— I really cannot take it, old man, such a costly present— I really cannot."

"You must!" eagerly returned Hicks. "Can't let you refuse— absolutely can't. On my account, you spoiled a suit...."

"Two suits," I said, reminiscently.

"Two suits," said Hicks, reddening a little, "you are right. Now I know you wouldn't let me pay for that suit— I mean, those suits— so you really must take the load off my mind by accepting this little present from me."

"Well," ... I said.

"And besides, there is something else about that case. You haven't seen all. Turn it over and have a look."

The Reason Why

I TURNED the cigarette case over. On the back of it I found engraved: Commemorating the Initiation of the Hicks Electro-Hydraulic Bank Protector, I read and below was the cryptic emblem:

"What, been initiating another invention?" I said. "How did it come off this time ?"

"Er... not been, exactly, O'Keefe," said Hicks, "but going to. Now just a minute,— don't say anything yet— this is different," he went on hastily, as he noticed clouds forming on my brow. "This is different. The burnt child dreads the fire, O'Keefe, and I have learned my lesson. This is all right, and I think you will believe me, when I tell you that I have a banker backing me, and that the installation of the Protector in a bank is just being finished. And— I don't want you to invite anybody— I am doing the inviting myself this time."

"Where? What bank? What banker?" I asked, my interest aroused, for you know bankers are serious men— the most serious men in the world.

"E. F. Croftitt, of the Surburban National," said Hicks.

He couldn't have said more if he had talked a month. I knew E. F. Crofntt. In fact, he had recently refused to extend my note and that under aggravating circumstances. A more bloodless, coldhearted, pigheaded tightwad surely never trod the earth. If he had committed himself so far as to allow anything to be installed in his bank, surely it must be all right. Taking chances was not in E. F. Croffitt's dictionary. All the sporting blood in his system, diluted with one hundred parts of distilled water, would have made exactly one small teaspoonful.

"If you want me to be there, Hicks, count on me. Where E. F. Croffitt takes a chance, I will, any time."

"Thanks, old boy!" Hicks heartily responded. "I am glad to say that the others seemed to feel the same way. You know, O'Keefe, life means nothing to me unless I have the esteem of my friends. That's why I came here. And that's why the others, sending each of the men a golden cigarette case like yours and each of the women a golden vanity case. I have heard from four, and 1 expect to hear from the rest to-day. I am sure I will."

The Great Day

AS we agreed, I made my appearance at the Fourth Street branch of the Suburban National Bank at 9 o'clock Friday morning. There was one drawback— it was Friday— and I don't like Fridays ; and on my way to the bank I noticed it was the 13th. I am not superstitious, but I was worried for a while about that combination. But finally I told myself that it was all nonsense. Besides, I was soon too deeply interested in what there was to see to be worrying about a silly matter of dates.

The Suburban National had been adding to its floor space, and the new division was all but ready to be thrown open to the public. Part of the space was made a long room parallel with the street, and this was faced by the usual row of some twelve or fifteen clerks' and tellers' windows. To my cursory glance, indeed, everything looked very much like in any ordinary bank, though I remember being struck by the fact that the partition ran right up to the ceiling and though of ornate design, was unbroken except for the windows, and had an uncommonly solid appearance.

My attention was also arrested by what appeared to me as an unusual number of electric-light columns, also of highly ornamental character, grouped along in front of the partition. My reflections on the reason for all this were presently terminated when Hicks, who had espied me as I entered, came rushing up and led me to meet the company.

Some twenty people were present, of whom I already knew about half. I braced myself for a shock as I came face to face with Irvine. But he shook hands with me quite amicably. So did Hicks' uncle Jeremiah, who had also been present at the inauguration of the Automatic Apartment. I nearly backed out as I met Smith— he is a violent man, you know— but even he took my proffered hand. It's wonderful what those cigarette cases had done, I mentally reflected.

This time I had promised myself not to bring anyone along, and so neither aunt Zelinda nor aunt Eulalia were there. Professor Dinker and his fiancee also were missing. I guess their experiences with the Automatic Apartment had been too much for their dignity. However, this lack was made up for by the company the banker had supplied. There were two other presidents of banks. One was Mr. Quague, a little skinny, hungry-looking individual, who had the appearance of not being able to count ten, but had on numerous occasions been known to multiply his assets by that figure. The other was Mr. Kragg, who was fat, coarse, wide, and an incessant talker.

Three skinny females to whom I was introduced proved to be his wife, who was gushing about art, and his daughters, who had their father's face and their mother's form, with the addition of bandy-legs— not the best possible combination, I thought.

Among the remaining people, I knew Mr. Schmaltz. the chief teller of the Suburban National. And then there was E. F. Croffitt himself, a tallish, bald- headed man of forty-five, who wore glasses and whose peculiar mincing gait contrasted strangely with his big feet and ungainly figure, and whose painful attempts at an engaging smile immediately rought to mind the picture of an amiable and tender- hearted snake beaming upon its intended victim. He was here, there, and everywhere, conversing in an oily and yet rasping voice, full of pride and anticipation.

And now he addressed the company. He enlarged upon the crime situation in general and bank- holdups in particular, and at the end of his sonorous remarks, introduced Hicks.

"Unaccustomed as I Am—"

"I REALLY must apologize when I address I you," modestly began the inventor. "I am no orator, and Mr. Croffitt has presented better than I could, the underlying reasons for the invention of the Hicks Electro-Hydraulic Bank Protector. But I wish to sketch to you the central idea back of the invention itself. Mr. Croffitt has referred to the fruitless attempts of the police to curb robberies. The police are doing all they can under present conditions. But they are undermanned and therefore handicapped to a great extent. And a more serious condition even, is the absolute failure of the courts to adequately punish those criminals whom, often at great expense and risk of life, the police do apprehend. When I say this, I am only repeating facts with which you are all but too familiar.

"Now what," inquired Hicks, "is the remedy in the face of a situation such as this?" He paused for a moment, waiting for an answer. "If the police are unable to catch the criminals, and the courts are unable to mete out proper punishment to instill sufficient respect ijt the minds of those who intend to do evil, then it is up to the citizens to catch the criminal, so utterly and unfailingly defeat him, that even after he has served his term, he will remember the experi ence with feelings of unalloyed and unforgettable terror."

Hicks had raised his voice and emphasized these last remarks, and now he stopped to take a breath. E. F. Croffitt and the other two bankers nodded gravely in a pleased way, and a general murmur of assent ran through the company.

"The more I thought of this idea," Hicks continued, "the more I was taken with it. How to defend the bank and its treasures against the holdup man became the subject of my thoughts by day and my dreams by night. What complicated the problem was that while apprehending the wrong-doer with unfailing certainty and creating in the mind of every criminal the feeling that the bank, instead of being a lit prey for his nefarious activity, was a place to be shunned like the plague, it was necessary to guard the public and the bank employees from injury. For a while, I will frankly admit, it seemed hopeless. It would take too long to even sketch an outline of my labors, the many false scents I followed, as it were. Let it suffice that after a vast expenditure of concentrated mental effort, I finally developed the Hicks Electro-Hydraulic Bank Protector, a system of bank protection totally differing from others, a weird combination, you may think at first blush, yet I am sure you will find it a logical remedy. Strange diseases call for strange medicines.

"You may wonder, for instance, at the idea of hydraulics, of water under pressure, for a purpose such as this. At first it seems odd. But let us consider for a moment. When there is a riot, and it all seems hopeless, when the police, with night sticks and revolvers, are unable to cope with the situation, when the unreasoning mob is no longer deterred by fear of death and injury, then who is called in? Why, the Fire Department !" As Hicks made this pronouncement, a pleased hum of approbation could be heard. The idea had struck home. "When the inmates of a jail or a madhouse grow rebellious and raise pandemonium in their cells day and night, and no punitive measures seem to take effect, when isolation, starvation, straightjackets are of no use, then what is?"

Hicks continued, and answering his own question:

"Why, water, streams of cold water, big cold streams under high pressure. As soon as the water hose is brought in, the fight, the riot, ends. No fight has ever been known to last one minute after the fire hose began tu play on the fighters. Men will fight in a hail of bullets, they will brave death from bombs and grenades, they will keep on fighting after they are bleeding from a dozen wounds. But turn a big, powerful stream of cold water on them, and the most ferocious fighter quits."

"I use electricity to bring about that sudden re lease of the water that is necessary to obtain the desired effect. However, it also operates the armor-plate shutter I have provided for each window. The idea of so protecting the tellers' windows is not new. It has been tried out, but, for one reason or another, has met with only partial success. One of the most serious troubles is that, in his rage and disappointment, the hold-up man is apt to run amuck and kill people at random. Such a system, therefore, becomes positively dangerous. Yet, combined with the proper complementary idea it makes a splendid deice. I will show you how I found this combination. I beg your pardon for a moment."

"Number nine down, Daniels," Hicks called.

In a flash, our view through the window in front of which we were assembled, into the interior of the banking room, was shut off. There was a hiss and a click, and we were face to face with grey steel.

Scientific Facts

"IT may interest you," commented the inventor, "to know this shutter is made of a new chromeniolybdenum steel, which, when heattreated, develops extraordinary properties. The minimum tensile strength is 180,000 lbs., and it shows a Brinnel hardness of about 600. In a plate such as this, which has a thickness of an eighth of an inch, no bullet from any pistol will make more than a slight dent."

Respectful silence greeted this announcement. Everybody looked serious. Somebody whispered "tremendous." Croffitt and Kragg gravely wagged their heads. There is nothing better than scientific facts to make people think, I say.

"What is more interesting, right now, however, is that the face of the shutter is formed with a number of slightly concave indentations similar to a magnifying mirror. Such a mirror is used to reflect and concentrate light. The purpose of these concavities also is to reflect and concentrate;— not light, but water."

There was a ripple of excitement The interest was rising. Apparently ignoring this, the inventor went on:

"So we now come to the hydraulic part of system. Let us pause for a moment and see what we want to accomplish. We want to catch the criminal, that is true. But first and foremost, we want to defend ourselves against him. In these days of gang banditry, we must be prepared for a condition where one or two of a company of robbers undertake the hold-up, and other members stand ready to start a general attack if things do not go as intended. The tellers' windows, of course, present the only profitable point of attack. The modern bank bandit is a desperate and quick-witted individual. Seeing a comrade foiled by the shutter, other members might, for instance, place an explosive against some of the windows. It has been tried. So they must be warded off—absolutely prevented from even getting near a window.

"Now suppose we had a four-inch stream of water, under a pressure, say, of two hundred pounds per square inch. If we were to direct this stream against this shutter from a distance, of, say three feet, then what would be the effect?

"The effect would be tremendous. The power of a stream of water like this is something that cannot he imagined until one has seen it. Presently I shall give you a practical and convincing demonstration of what such a stream will do. In the meantime, let us reason out just what will take place. The water will be deflected by the surface of the shutter. As that surface is divided up into a number of concave surfaces having their foci placed at a variety of slightly different angles, the four-inch stream, now divided into two dozen smaller streams, will be thrown back with tremendous force from the shutter, right in the face of the attacker,— a blinding, unescapable, elemental rush of water against which there can be no thought, of fight,— in the face of which resistance becomes a mere ridiculous fantasy, and action of any kind, whether concerted or not, a preposterous joke."

Why Smith Got Scared

The inventor paused to wipe the perspiration from his face, it was clear that Hicks' logic was hitting the mark. The whole thing had at: first seemed odd, but now it turned out to be a wonderful piece of reasoning.

Just then Smith nudged me and drew me aside. I looked at him. Worry was sitting on his brow.

"I am going," he said.

"What for?" I asked, astonished. "What for! Why, because I am afraid of this nut and his stuff. Here he's got water again— and look at the force. Under 200 lbs. pressure per square inch. Why, I don't feel safe near those pipes even. It's a long time since I went to engineering college, but I...."

"Why, man, you mean to say you studied to be an engineer?"

This from me, for that study fascinates me beyond anything else.

"Yes, I did, and..."

"And now you are content to be a cheesemonger... er, er... I mean, you know... I don't mean ... I meant to say... Well, now..." I stuttered. I wonder will I ever get over that confounded impulsive way of mine of putting things. I didn't think at that moment that Smith always seemed supersensitive about that business of his— got a delicatessen store, you know.

For forty seconds Smith said nothing, but re- garded me with a gaze of fierce intensity.

"You were saying," I gently urged. "Yes, you were saying...."

Gradually Smith's face relaxed and his glance lost some of its steely fierceness. After a pause that seemed like a month, he ground out slowly: "Well, as I meant to say when you interrupted me, this stuff doesn't look safe to me. Pressure way too high. Too much trigger business about those electrical controls. Why, that stream of water turned on a man would be enough to throw him fifty feet, O'Keefe! I am going."

"May he so, but I am staying," I announced. "Maybe it is too high. What of it? We can always get out. We are on the street level. The room is big. There are doors. You will he missing something, if you go. If I were you, I'd stay. Come on, stay!"

Smith did not reply. Whether my argument or fear of being thought afraid changed his mind, I don't know, but he stayed. He was uneasy, though. Meanwhile this conversation had lost me a part of Hicks' speech.

Wonderful Reasoning

"VALVE practically hidden in the top of this of column, and designed to throw the water at an angle of forty-five degrees to the wall surface, the water being actually deflected, however, in a general horizontal direction and straight out, by reason of the inclination of the concavities in the shutter to which I referred. While the stream as it issues from the nozzle will therefore miss the head of the person standing in front, his face and the entire upper portion of his body will be the target of the rebounding water at a distance of two feet. But even six feet away, though spread out wider, the power of the spray will still be so great that it will be impossible for any human being to hold his ground.

"You may wonder why I first direct the stream against the window. It might seem more practical and simple to direct a number of streams from the window against the intruder. But that would complicate matters instead of simplifying them. Instead of one valve I would need at least a dozen, and they would have to be built in around the window. You can see some of the complications already. And then, while such a system would ward off the bandit, it would still he incomplete protection. A bomb, with the fuse burning, for instance, might still remain on the window sill.

"With the present arrangement, not only are all complications avoided, but the torrent of water, boiling over the window, would immediately sweep away and render ineffectual any explosive charge. After all, as you see, the indirect way here proves the best and the simplest way out."

HICKS smiled a little as he noticed how his neat piece of reasoning was being appreciated by his audience. Remarks such as "sure is good," "wonderful fellow," "Isn't he just fine"— this from the women— more or less subdued, were to be heard on every side. You can bet that I shared in the general appreciation. Only Smith seemed aloof, and looked sullen and  worried.

"A general switchboard," resumed the inventor, "back in the tellers' room, and which you can see through these windows in the inner banking room, takes care of all electrical controls. It is now exposed to allow final adjustments to be made, but later it will be covered by a box and locked to prevent untoward happenings. One of the controls on this board is for the operation of the shutter, from the action of which results the opening of the overhead valve. But what I have so far pointed out to you is only the first line of defense. You will rememher that we do not merely want to scare the holdup man away, but that we want to apprehend him— we want to utterly confound him, all along the line. And so we come to the piece de resistance of the Hicks Electro-Hydraulic Bank Protector, namely, the Hydraulo-Centrifugal Rotating System. It is here that the punitive features of my invention come in."

With Hicks pointing out things I quickly began to see system in the arrangement of the columns. There were four grouped in front of each teller's window to form a square having sides of about two feet and a half,— all four meeting in graceful gothic curves overhead, where they were topped by a beautiful cluster of lights. Two of the columns were within a few inches from the partition, and, in fact, ran through the counter, the other pair being set out further into the room. In the left hand one of these there was located the four-inch nozzle. And centered between them on the floor, there was a raised circular step, about eighteen inches in diameter upon which anybody would have to stand in talking to the teller. I had paid no particular attention to this before.

Some Technical Data

"THIS round step," Hicks said, "is in reality a revolvable platform. I say revolvable, not revolving, because ordinarily, it is fixed. But as soon as the shutter has dropped, it is free to revolve. You have already seen that one of these columns is really a standpipe. I want to add that the remainder are the same. And as you see here, each one of them has, at a height of frpm three to five feet, and under the guise of ornamental excrescences, a row of three short nozzles with a twoinch opening, Now, if you'll look closely," continued Hicks, "you will notice that these nozzles are pointed in a direction that would be about tangent to the body of the person standing on the platform. Now what is the idea here?

"Suppose we were to direct four tangent streams at the round platform on which the person stands," continued the inventor, "what would happen? Why, it would revolve— it would start to spin at a speed of which the ratio would be determined by the diameter of the platform, the area of contact, the force of the water stream, and the frictional coefficient between the water and the peripheral surface of the platform."

"Good!" I cried. "Go on!"

Some of the company turned round and looked at me, but I simply can't help it, I am gone on that stuff. Some day, when I have time, I'll take a course in engineering.

Hicks looked around him, pleased, and continued:

"So, when we apply the four triple two-inch streams, each under two hundred pound pressure per square inch, to the body of a person standing on a platform —mounted, I will add, on roller bearing's—and when we consider that the muzzle velocity of the stream is approximately 173 feet per second, and figure the mean diameter of the average person, the frictional area presented by the clothing, and the coefficient of friction of the clothing and water...."

"Good!" I broke in. "Good! Fine!"

"Why then I find that, after all necessary deductions are made, an average rotational speed of approximately three hundred and forty revolutions per minute should be obtained."

I restrained myself with difficulty from patting Hicks on the back. Inwardly I swore he should have one of those two bottles of Hennessy Five Star I had at home. As for the company, they were humming with remarks. President Croffitt wore a broad, hard smile on his face. The other two presidents were whispering in that impressive way that bankers have.

What Happens to the Robber

"NOW," resumed Hicks, "picture the situation. The hold-up man enters. He steps on the platform—there is no other choice. The suddenly looks into the muzzle of a gun. 'Slip me five thou', or you're dead,' is the demand. The teller steps on the button. There is a crash— all the shutters in the room are down. Perhaps the burglar shoots— no matter, the sbutter can stand it. And it would be bis last vicious act, for within three- tenths of a second after the shutter is down, the twelve valves open simultaneously. The water is under 200 lbs. pressure. Escape is impossible— you cannot cross such a stream ten feet away from the nozzle, and here it is only two. At the end of the first second, the robber is spinning around at the rate of one hundred and twenty revolutions per minute. After one hundred revolutions, however, or in time, seventeen seconds, the water is shut off. We don't want to kill him, you know. Dazed, unconscious, he collapses on the floor. Meanwhile the remaining tellers' windows have automatically been closed. The rotating system is here inactive, but tremendous sprays of water from the first line defense are playing into the room. Some of the customers, of course, will get a scare, and all of them will get a wetting, but that is a matter of trivial moment compared to the fact that the attack is foiled and a decisive setback given to future nefarious schemes. As for the robber, he is beyond escaping by his own effort. There is still one possibility— he might be carried out by accomplices. But even this, his last ray of salvation, is annihilated by the final and crowning feature of the Hicks Electro-Hydraulic Bank Protector— the Adhesive Reaction.

"If you will look overhead"— we all did and for the first time I noticed, in the ceiling above us, what looked like a semi-spherical metal ornament about two feet in diameter— "you will see, corresponding with the row of tellers' windows, and exactly above each platform, a corresponding row of my patented Adhesive Droppers. Each of these bowl-shaped affairs is made in four sections, which are hinged at the top. When closed, each bowl contains—you will he surprised to hear it— one hundred pounds of the strongest adhesive known— Le Page's Liquid Glue."

There was no question that this was indeed a surprise. Some one laughed. Banker Croffitt smiled a hard, pleased smile.

"It might look like a humorous touch," said Hicks, also, smiling, "but it is, in fact, from the standpoint of the bank, the needed final link of protection, and from the point of view of the gangster, the final link in the chain that will bind his wrists. The glue is contained in an envelope of celluloid so thin that it will just suffice to keep it togther so long as it is in the bowl of the dropper, but instantly bursts into fragments when the ball is dropped. Now complete the picture: The burglar, unconscious, has collapsed on top of the platform. One of his colleagues undertakes to carry him out. Before he can even raise him, or to he exact, in two and a quarter seconds after the rotating streams have been shut off, the bowl opens and a solid ball of glue, two feet across, and weighing one hundred pounds, drops from a height of twelve feet. The effect, I need hardly say, is final, insofar as escape is concerned. Did you ever, in fastening things together, get a little glue on your fingers and then try to do anything? If you did, then you have some faint idea of what a man can do, or what can be done with him, after one hundred pounds of liquid glue have been dropped all over him."

A Case of Cold Feet

FOR a few moments there was silence, and then there was clapping of hands, led by E. F. Croffitt, himself. Everybody crowded around him and the inventor, congratulating one or both, asking questions, expressing admiration, Only Smith stood aside, with a scowl on his face.

"I am going," he said.

"Why, man, what is biting you now ?"

His wife had overheard us, for she chimed in, "You are going, Billy? What for?"

"Don't like that stuff, I told you. I have a sort of a feeling... I am afraid of that high pressure and that fool mechanism. And that centrifugal stuff—remember the Automatic Dining Table. As for those electric controls— think of the Automatic Apartment and what it did to us. You come along."

"But I am enjoying this," Mrs. Smith objected. "I am going to stay."

"Then stay if you want to, but I am going!"

For a moment I hesitated myself, but I quickly recovered.

"Stay, Smith," I urged. "Come on, be a man. You wouldn't leave Mrs. Smith here alone, anyway, would you? Don't spoil the fun—do us a favor. You aren't really afraid, are you?"

That settled him. He stayed. But he was looking no more cheerful— less so, if anything.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," Hicks' brisk voice was saying, "we will have a practical demonstration. In the rear of the room and far away from the scene of action, I have had built a platform a foot from the floor from which you may watch proceedings, dry footed, when the water starts to play. It will be confined to the opposite end of the room. I have had prepared a dummy"— here lie patted the shoulder of a life-size doll, intended to represent a muffled hold-up man— "which we will put through its paces when it comes to turning the water on. But first we will need some dry action. Mr. Kragg has volunteered to play the sinister burglar, and Mr, Schmaltz will take his place at the window and represent what he is in real life— a teller."

Schmaltz, a small, round man, was immediately installed behind the teller's window. Mr. Kragg, to the general amusement, was tying a handkerchief across his face.

"All ready, Daniels!" cried Hicks. There was no answer. "Must have gone out for a moment," said the inventor.

"Try your button, Mr. Schmaltz, and see if the shutter is acting. It's all safe— the water is shut off!"

A Practical Demonstration of Hydraulics

I COULD see Schmaltz moving slightly side- ways as he fumbled for the button with his foot. There was a little jerk and the shutter moved, as if it were trying, but it did not come down. And then with a hiss, with the suddenness and force of an explosion, a mighty stream of water issued from the overhead nozzle and struck the counter just in front of Schmaltz. It was all so quick that I noticed Schmaltz was still smiling when the deflected stream, now flattened, hit him right under the chin. Even in that tiny fraction of a second the thought shot across my brain that Hicks had said he would give a convincing demonstration of the inconceivable power of such a stream of water,— and here it was. The next moment the rebounding stream had lifted the unfortunate teller in the air. A doubled-up ball of humanity, he was turning a rearward somersault over a table right behind him. One, two, three, four turns, executed with fantastic rapidity; the broadening stream of water playing on the periphery of the human ball that was Schmaltz and accelerating his rotation. And then abruptly, he landed, sitting down, but with a sliding motion, on the switchboard. The last thing I remember seeing were miscellaneous pieces of the bottom of his pants adhering to various levers and other protuberances on the switchboard. What became of him from that moment on I do not remember, for I was busy elsewhere.

Even before any of the women had time to give vent to a shriek, the inventor's despairing yell resounded through the room, piercing the crash of the tumbling body and the roar of the water: "The switchboard— God help us— must get at it— doors locked!" And with incredible speed he made for the nearest window— the shutters had all remained open and the whole thing was evidently out of gear, for nothing was happening the way it should. Even as I wondered at Hicks' presence of mind, I noticed that Smith was also about to climb through another window, and I distinctly recall in that moment regretting that I had ever thought him a coward, for here he was one of the only two men of action in the crowd— the others were paralyzed. I was too.

The Hydraulic Rotating System in Action

ALL this happened in a fraction of a second. As I have observed before, in emergencies, the human mind works with lightning speed. As Hicks was lifting one knee to get into the window, I heard a distinct loud "click," and at the same moment I saw ten thousand stars and found myself sitting twelve feet away on the floor, yet on something remarkably soft. I distinctly recall noticing this detail. And then I noticed that I was getting hit at rapid intervals and that I was wet, and getting wetter.

I had hardly had time to associate these various facts with the tangential streams from Hicks' window, when my dazed senses were stung into wide-awakeness by the spectacle which now presented itself to my one good eye. Of Hicks nothing was to be seen, but there was a tall column of water which was whirling around with incredible rapidity, and from which at frequent irregular intervals there issued offshoots in the form of mighty spurts of water in four directions.

Simultaneously, a roar as of a high-power turbine, punctuated by staccato splashes as the branching streams hit something or somebody, was to be heard. The room all over was one mass of horizontal geysers and everybody present was floored, some of the company lying in heaps over each other and crawling about in their misery from one place to another, only to get into worse trouble. I only noticed these things by the way, for my horrified gaze was riveted on the upright whirling maelstrom, which I knew contained Hicks. And then suddenly, I remembered that Smith behind me had tried to get through a window too, and turning half around on where I sat— I was quite unconscious that I was sitting on Mrs. Kragg, and as I afterwards realized, was merely feeling an undercurrent of irritation at the shrieks of agony proceeding from underneath— I saw another whirling waterspout a few feet away, with a dark core which I knew to be Smith.

"Poor, heroic fellow," I remember saying to myself, and then one of the tangential streams branched off and liit me on the ear so hard that I was knocked off my perch. "And I was the one that urged him to stay!" I thought as I turned over and rolled off.

A little shiver ran down my spine— it was not due to the water. I say there is nothing like the human mind— strangest thing in all the world.

WHAT I have related so far took place probably in no more than four seconds. The surprise attack had been so sudden and so fierce that only a few screams, for the most part quickly muffled by fierce darts of water, had been heard. But long before the two unfortunates ceased their involuntary mad-dervish whirl, shrieks, curses, maledictions, advice to get out, orders to do this or that, demands to stop it, filled the air. Somebody had crawled to the door and tried it. I knew it was no use— Hicks had said it was locked— it had been his last remark. Logical too— part of the scheme. I knew we were caught, even as I was ineffectually trying to dodge the fierce intermittent shots of water that were assail- ing me from two sides.

It had just dawned on me that I might slightly better my situation by crawling elsewhere, when I suddenly noted that the streams had ceased. Instantly the thought flashed through my brain that a hundred revolutions had been completed— part of Hicks' system was working, anyway. My head was turned in the inventor's direction, and even as I was looking, the envelope of water suddenly dropped from him, and Hicks, no longer sustained by the tremendous gyratory force of the vortex, collapsed between the four columns, a wet, deformed mass.

I heard a piercing scream behind me and turned round. Mrs. Smith was draping her wet but opulent form over the prostrate body of her husband, who was dazedly trying to raise his

"Oh, my poor, curly-headed baby!" Mrs. Smith was saying, in a pitiable tone, as she put her arm tenderly around her husband's neck. It's funny how I am built, but even half-dazed though I was, I knew that that appellation was not altogether correct, for Smith is bald, forty years old, and weighs over two hundred pounds. This didn't seem to matter to Mrs. Smith, though stifled, as a big gob got lodged in his mouth. swallowed hard— down it went.

The Power of Glue

"OH, my poor, little curly-headed boy. . ." she was saying for the second time. She got no further. There was a rush as of something soft and heavy. A dark, shadowy form swept by, there was a dull, heavy "sap!" and Mrs. Smith seemed to crumple upon her husband, while her head and shoulders were blotted out by a greenish mass about two feet in diameter. It was one of the Adhesive Reactions— I knew it instantly.

"Help! ... gob... gob... gob..."

I turned to see whence the new cry of alarm issued and saw Hicks, who had managed to sit upright, looking like a humorous sketch of a deep-sea diver. His head appeared six times its natural size, enveloped as it was in a hundred-pound gob of liquid adhesive. In that moment I knew what he had meant when he talked of the psychological effect of the thing— it was awful. And yet I knew only the beginning.

E. F. Croffitt sprang to the aid of Mrs. Smith. All bankers are chivalrous. He could not make her hear, for the adhesive had enveloped her entire head in a coat an inch thick and was slowly spreading in heavy greenish streams down over her body or dripping off, here and there, in big drops,— but he sought her hands with his and succeeded in raising her.

Just then Mrs. Smith blew an opening through the coat of glue over her mouth. A blood-curdling shriek rent the air, as she fell around Croffitt 's neck. The banker tried to get away, but there was no getting away. Instead the lady drew him closer and closer to her bosom, blindly seeking protection, where she knew there was human flesh.

It was in vain that Croffitt exerted his utmost strength to escape the viscous embrace. His struggles only got him mixed up more, and it was not long before he was smeared with glue from head to foot. The adhesive by this time had worked down on both their garments and was all over their shoes. The two, Mrs. Smith holding the banker in a tight embrace, were executing a strange two-step on the mosaic. Their shoes got stuck on the floor by the heavy, sticky mass that was running off them, and this made their efforts increasingly more frantic.

Under Croffitt's superhuman struggles to wrench his feet free, first one Oxford, and then the other, followed by both his socks, remained adhering to the floor. As they stumbled about in their weird and sticky dance, they backed into the inventor, who had made a breathing hole in his glue mask by swallowing a quart or so and, in trying to claw some of the stuff off his head and neck, had enveloped his hands in sticky gobs eight inches in diameter. Under the impact, he now put these out blindly and closed them from behind over the banker's face. Croffitt's roar of rage at this new injury shook the ceiling, but was almost instantly stifled, as a big gob got lodged in his mouth. swallowed hard— down it went.

Schmaltz Does His Bit

WHILE I was watching this new development with a sort of nightmare interest, I realized subconsciously that all this time the thundering of water had not ceased. I turned my head towards the partition and instantly I knew the reason. It was only the tangential streams that would cease at the end of seventeen seconds— the four-inch line of defense was going full force, but as the shutters had refused to act, they were blazing away through the windows into the interior banking room.

What had become of Schmaltz? The question struck me with a sickening mental thud. Had he been killed? Was he drowned? I raised myself and looked cross- wise through one of the windows. Fifteen enormous streams were playing against the opposite wall, from which they were rebounding with a frightful roar. A subdued, powerful hum, I noticed now, was shaking the room— the noise caused by the tremendously fast travel of the water through the pipes. But where was Schmaltz?

There, in the midst of a boiling water volcano issuing from the opposite wall, up to his waist in water, he was,—I saw a head and arms. He was alive! He was doing something, too— fumbling with the switchboard. Good! Fine! I almost cried to know that he had not been killed. And just then another thought struck me with annihilating force.

The switchboard!

Let him fool with it and only the Almighty knew what would happen next!

"Shut up! Get out! Leave it alone!" I screamed. He did not hear. The noise was too much. But I shouted again. I gesticulated. He did not see. I turned round in despair. Kragg was standing near me.

"Got to get him to leave that switchboard alone," I yelled,— "he'll raise the devil if he don't."

Kragg proved a man of action.

"Let's both yell at him— he may hear that"— he roared at me, as he went as near the window to me as the oblique stream from above would let him. "Now!"

I LET out my yell— but got only half through it. Beneath the roar of waters, I heard a sharp click. There was a black flash, and I would instantly have known that the shutter was down, even if the tremendous spray of the recoiling water which barely missed me, had not apprised me of the fact. The realization that I had escaped came simultaneously with the knowledge that Kragg had not. He must have had his head right in line with the rebounding spray. There was an explosion of water as the boundless hydraulic force made contact with his face. This lasted but the hundredth part of a second, however. Then Kragg, head backwards, with inconceivable speed and the force of a battering ram, was shot out into the room. With a sickening thud, his head bored itself into Irvine's stomach— he had been standing right in line. Irvine shut up like a jack-knife, and the combined bulk of the two men landed on Quague. The sigh of the escaping air from the little banker as the three hundred and fifty pounds abruptly sat on his stomach, could be heard even through the thundering and hissing of the water.

Elsewhere in the room, the water was raising indescribable havoc. After the first baptism had ended, most of the people had instinctively backed against the wall opposite the partition, in their desire to get as far away as possible from the source of those tangential torrents. They now, however, found themselves in the very worst place, for by the time the four-inch streams had gone nearly across the room they had spread enough so that the entire expanse of the opposite wall was, to use a paradoxical expression, under fire— the remainder of the room being under water anyway— which was now two feet deep.

Under the relentless play of those mighty fountains nobody was able to keep his ground. Some, on their hands and knees, were crawling out toward the partition again, others were crouched with their faces against the wall. Hats, sticks, and gloves, ladies' handbags and other articles were floating around in the boiling sea. I was one of the few who had remained near the partition and was therefore comparatively comfortable, for I was merely sitting in water up to my chest.

I was still, in a dazed and detached way, admiring the strange effects produced by the mighty spray playing upon the Kragg-Irvine-Quague trio and wondering about their seeming inability to get disentangled from each other, when abruptly the streams ceased flowing and the roar of the waters ended. The stillness which fol- lowed, by comparison, seemed like the stillness of death.

The Field of Battle

HERE and there, half-crazed human beings, women with their dresses sticking to them, men with wilted collars and clothes from which the water was running in rivers, were raising themselves from the deluge. The fierce tune of the water discharge was replaced by a tune in a new key. Women wept and sobbed. Men cursed, as yet weakly, but as if they meant it. As reason began to return, ominous glances were focused in the direction of Hicks. So far as he was concerned, the water display had been a benefit, as it had to Mrs. Smith and Croffitt, by washing some of the glue off them.

Smith himself was propped up against the wall. His face was pale, but his glance was ferocious, and it was bent upon me. I regretted to see how quickly he was recovering. Mrs. Smith's face was clean, but her hair was a solid mass of adhesive. Croffitt had risen. He had a thick wad over his neck and ears, and his entire front elevation was still besmeared with the stuff. As he stood there in this array, minus shoes and stockings, I decided he did not make a very impressive figure. But his glance at Hicks was absolutely frightful. The water was rapidly draining off— that part of the system was working, anyway. With my mind still in a reel, I dully, vaguely wondered what would happen when those people really woke up. And then the thought flashed through my mind that after all, we— this company— were the best proof of the efficiency of the Hicks Protective System. How could robbers hold up a bank such as this?

A Little Surprise

THERE was a pounding at the door.

"Help is coming!" cried Mrs. Kragg, jubilantly. "We are rescued!"— A fool remark— what in the devil did we need rescuing for, anyway. All we had to do was to walk out. I might even slip out—ahead of Smith. I felt better. The door opened. Four men entered. They closed it behind them. I was surprised to note how carefully they closed it. The four men advanced.

At first blush, these rescuers did not look inspiring. Two were little skinny, ferrety -looking individuals with hard, shifty eyes and harder mouths. The third was a brutal-looking, heavy-set young man who chewed a quid, and the last man who entered, a lank, hatchet-faced individual, had a positively evil look.

"Hold up yer hands an' line up agin de wall, if yer don't wanna be killed," ordered the lank individual. And he jerked out a big pistol, which he waved in our general direction. "Now don't make no noise. Shoot de foist guy wot makes a wrong move, Butch," he said casually to the heavy-set man.

"Sure will, Jake," replied that worthy. "Now go t'rough deir clothes, yer two," ordered the leader, for none less was the lank man. At this, the two ferrety-looking yeggs started a business-like survey of our clothing. They worked fast, yet took time to be thorough, and it was surprising to see how much they collected. Watches, rings, bracelets, jewelry worth thousands of dollars, were stripped from us in a few moments, and this was joined by an equally large sum in cash.

"Now, ole Baldy," the leader disrespectfully addressed E. F. Croffitt, "show us de way to yer strong room an' open it fer us. Dere's a good guy— yer don't wanna have de sexton t'row de doit on yer nose in a coupla days, does yer, now?"

"Why, I have no vault here... at least, the money isn't in it. It's in the other part of the bank," stuttered Croffitt.

"Quitcher lyin', yer big stiff," snarled the leader, "an' show us de coin."

"I ... I ... I assure you," said Croffitt.

"Lemme put a knife atween 'is ribs, jes' lemme," chimed in Butch. "I's jes' a-achin' ter do it, Jake, an' it ain't gonna make no noise."

"Get busy sudden or yer'r dead," snapped Jake, and shoved the muzzle of the big pistol right under Crofntt's nose. The banker's face grew ashen.

"I will," he whispered.

While the two rat-faced men held the rest of us at bay with drawn revolvers, Jake and Butch entered the inner room. I could see, from the point where I was standing, how with trembling hands, E. F. worked the combination. He stepped back, and Butch by him, pistol pressed to his side. The leader went in and presently came out'with several bundles of bank notes. Evidently he was an expert who did not care to encumber himself with heavy stuff. E. F. Croffitt groaned.

"Don't take it— there's a hundred thousand dollars. Please don't— I am a ruined man," he moaned.

"Course we ain't gonna take it, Baldy," observed the facetious Butch. "Jes' gonna look it over an' see if it's all dere and den give it back to yer. Jes' bank examiners, dat's all we is, ain't we, Jake?"

"Sure," that worthy responded. "Jes' a-takin' care o' the interests o' de dee-positors, dat's wot we is."When Croffitt had been conducted back among us, the four hold-up men backed away a few steps and the leader addressed us.

"We been a-watchin' yer li'l game fer a while," said Jake. "Kinda kep' me eye on de joint. Le's see how dis 'ere bank pertective stuff woiks, I says ter me li'I playmates here. An' it sure woiked. Ain't youse de guy wot invented it?" he suddenly asked, turning to Hicks.

The inventor, pale, slowly nodded.

"Say, buddy, I likes yer," Jake said, impulsively. "Yer done us a good toin. I likes yer, an' here is four bits what says I does," and diving in his pocket, he fetched out a half-dollar and pressed it into Hicks' hand. "Now, Gummy, do yer stuff ! We gotta be a-goin'," he commanded.

At this word, one of the rat-faced men drew out a small parcel, which he deftly lighted and threw in the air. Almost at once the room was filled with dense black smoke.

"Stay dere, an' don't raise hell or yer'll all suffer," was the parting command, as the four crooks went out through the door. We heard them lock it from the outside, and then the cry

"Fire! Bank's afire! Ring de alarm!" which was immediately taken up by other voices outside.

The Morristown fire department is celebrated for its efficiency. It seemed that we had hardly had time to stumble about in the dense smoke to try the door and find it really was locked, before we heard the clanging of the bells and the shriek of the sirens.

In a jiffy, in less time than it takes to tell, plate-glass windows were smashed in, and six tremendous streams of water played into the room, searching every corner. In vain were our shrieks, yells, curses. There was smoke, and where there is smoke, there must be fire. That was enough. The Morristown fire department know their duty.

It was only after our company had been flooded for the time, after we had been utterly confounded and beaten down, and were crawling around in two feet of water in a condition of absolute and abject misery, that a fireman climbed through to investigate.

I was not present to hear what was said. Neither was Smith. Neither was Hicks. For we were going down the street. Smith was running like a long distance champion. But over my shoulder I saw he was hopelessly outdistanced— I was ahead of him, you know. And I looked back a number of times to reassure myself, for Hicks, who was ahead of me, was going so fast that I seemed to be running backwards.

And I wasn't trying to catch him at that— maybe Smith was.

I reached my apartment and locked myself in— and next day I left for the West. I needed a vacation.

__________________

12: Exchange is Robbery

Richard Marsh

1857-1915

The Idler Dec 1893, Jan 1894

"IMPOSSIBLE!"

"Really, Mr. Ruby, I wish you wouldn't say a thing was impossible when I say that it is actually a fact."

Mr. Ruby looked at the Countess of Grinstead, and the Countess of Grinstead looked at him.

"But, Countess, if you will just consider for one moment. You are actually accusing us of selling to you diamonds which we know to be false."

"Whether you knew them to be false or not is more than I can say. All I know is that I bought a set of diamond ornaments from you, for which you charged me eight hundred pounds, and which Mr. Ahrens says are not worth eight hundred pence."

"Mr. Ahrens must be dreaming."

"Oh no, he's not. I don't believe that Mr. Ahrens ever dreams."

Mr. Golden, who was standing observantly by, addressed an inquiry to the excited lady. "Where are the diamonds now?"

"The diamonds, as you call them, and which I don't believe are diamonds, since Mr. Ahrens says they're not, and I'm sure he ought to know, are in this case."

The Countess of Grinstead produced from her muff one of those flat leather cases in which jewellers love to enshrine their wares.

Mr. Golden held out his hand for it.

"Permit me for one moment, Countess."

The Countess handed him the case. Mr. Golden opened it. Mr. Ruby, leaning back in his chair, watched his partner examine the contents. The Countess watched him too. Mr. Golden took out one glittering ornament after another. Through a little microscope he peered into its inmost depths. He turned it over and over, and peered and peered, as though he would read its very heart. When he had concluded his examination he turned to the lady.

"How came you to submit these ornaments to Mr. Ahrens?"

"I don't mind telling you. Not in the least! I happened to want some money. I didn't care to ask the Earl for it. I thought of those things— you had charged me £800 for them, so I thought that he would let me have £200 upon them as a loan. When he told me that they were nothing but rubbish I thought I should have had a fit."

"Where have they been in the interval between your purchasing them from us and your taking them to Mr. Ahrens?"

"Where have they been? Where do you suppose they've been? They have been in my jewel case, of course."

Mr. Golden replaced the ornaments in their satin beds. He closed the case.

"Every inquiry shall be made into the matter, Countess, you may rest assured of that. We cannot afford to lose our money, any more than you can afford to lose your diamonds."

Directly the lady's back was turned Mr. Ruby put a question to his partner. "Well, are they false?"

"They are. It is a good imitation, one of the best imitations I remember to have seen. Still it is an imitation."

"Do you— do you think she did it?"

"That is more than I can say. Still, when a lady buys diamonds on Saturday, upon credit, and takes them to a pawnbroker on Tuesday, to raise money on them, one may be excused for having one's suspicions."

While the partners were still discussing the matter, the door was opened by an assistant. "Mr. Gray wishes to see Mr. Ruby."

Before Mr. Ruby had an opportunity of saying whether or not he wished to see Mr. Gray, rather unceremoniously Mr. Gray himself came in.

"I should think I do want to see Mr. Ruby, and while I'm about it, I may as well see Mr. Golden too." Mr. Gray turned to the assistant, who still was standing at the open door. "You can go."

The assistant looked at Mr. Ruby for instructions. "Yes Thompson, you can go."

When Thompson was gone, and the door was closed, Mr. Gray, who wore his hat slightly on the side of his head, turned and faced the partners. He was a very young man, and was dressed in the extreme of fashion. Taking from his coat tail pocket the familiar leather case, he flung it on to the table with a bang. "I don't know what you call that, but I tell you what I call it. I call it a damned swindle."

Mr. Ruby was shocked.

"Mr. Gray! May I ask of what you are complaining?"

"Complaining! I'm complaining of your selling me a thing for two thousand pounds which is not worth two thousand pence!"

"Indeed? Have we been guilty of such conduct as that?" Mr. Golden picked up the case which Mr. Gray had flung down upon the table. "Is this the diamond necklace which we had the pleasure of selling you the other day?"

Mr. Golden opened the case. He took out the necklace which it contained. He examined it as minutely as he had examined the Countess of Grinstead's ornaments. "This is— very remarkable."

"Remarkable! I should think it is remarkable! I bought that necklace for a lady. As some ladies have a way of doing, she had it valued. When she found that the thing was trumpery, she, of course, jumped to the conclusion that I'd been having her— trying to gain kudos for giving her something worth having at the cheapest possible rate. A pretty state of things, upon my word!"

"This appears to be a lady of acute commercial instincts, Mr. Gray."

"Never mind about that! If you deny that that is the necklace which you sold to me I will prove that it is— in the police court. I am quite prepared for it. Men who are capable of selling a necklace of glass beads as a necklace of diamonds are capable of denying that they ever sold the thing at all."

"Mr. Gray, there is no necessity to use such language to us. If a wrong has been done we are ready and willing to repair it."

"Then repair it!"

It took some time to get rid of Mr. Gray. He had a great deal to say, and a very strong and idiomatic way of saying it. Altogether it was a bad quarter of an hour for Messrs. Ruby and Golden. When, at last, they did get rid of him, Mr. Ruby turned to his partner.

"Golden, it's not possible that the stones in that necklace are false. Those are the stones which we got from Fungst— you remember?"

"I remember very well indeed. They were the stones which we got from Fungst. They are not now. The gems which are at present in this necklace are paste, covered with a thin veneer of real stones. It is an old trick, but I never saw it better done. The workmanship, both in Mr. Gray's necklace and in the Countess of Grinstead's ornaments, is, in its way, perfection."

While Mr. Ruby was still staring at his partner, the door opened and again Mr. Thompson entered. "The Duchess of Datchet."

"Let's hope," muttered Mr. Golden, "that she's not come to charge us with selling any more paste diamonds."

But the Duchess had come to do nothing of the kind. She had come on a much more agreeable errand, from Messrs. Ruby and Golden's point of view— she had come to buy. As it was Mr. Ruby's special rôle to act as salesman to the great— the very great— ladies who patronised that famed establishment, Mr. Golden left his partner to perform his duties.

Mr. Ruby found the Duchess, on that occasion, difficult to please. She wanted something in diamonds, to present to Lady Edith Linglithgow on the occasion of her approaching marriage. As Lady Edith is the Duke's first cousin, as all the world knows, almost, as it were, his sister, the Duchess wanted something very good indeed. Nothing which Messrs. Ruby and Golden had seemed to be quite good enough, except one or two things which were, perhaps, too good. The Duchess promised to return with the Duke himself to-morrow, or, perhaps, the day after. With that promise Mr. Ruby was forced to be content.

The instant the difficult very great lady had vanished, Mr. Golden came into the room. He placed upon the table some leather cases.

"Ruby what do you think of those?"

"Why, they're from stock, aren't they?" Mr. Ruby took up some of the cases which Mr. Golden had put down. There was quite a heap of them. They contained rings, bracelets, necklaces, odds and ends in diamond work. "Anything the matter with them, Golden?"

"There's this the matter with them— that they're all paste."

"Golden!"

"I've been glancing through the stock. I haven't got far, but I've come upon those already. Somebody appears to be having a little joke at our expense. It strikes me, Ruby, that we're about to be the victims of one of the greatest jewel robberies upon record."

"Golden!"

"Have you been showing this to the Duchess?"

Mr. Golden picked up a necklace of diamonds from a case which lay open on the table, whose charms Mr. Ruby had been recently exhibiting to that difficult great lady. "Ruby!— Good Heavens!"

"Wha-what's the matter?"

"They're paste!"

Mr. Golden was staring at the necklace as though it were some hideous thing.

"Paste!— G-G-Golden!" Mr. Ruby positively trembled. "That's Kesteeven's necklace which he brought in this morning to see if we could find a customer for it."

"I'm quite aware that this was Kesteeven's necklace. Now it would be dear at a ten-pound note."

"A ten-pound note! He wants ten thousand guineas! It's not more than an hour since he brought it— no one can have touched it."

"Ruby, don't talk nonsense! I saw Kesteeven's necklace when he brought it, I see this thing now. This is not Kesteeven's necklace— it has been changed!"

"Golden!"

"To whom have you shown this necklace?"

"To the Duchess of Datchet."

"To whom else?"

"To no one."

"Who has been in this room?"

"You know who has been in the room as well as I do."

"Then— she did it."

"She?— Who?"

"The Duchess!"

"Golden! you are mad!"

"I shall be mad pretty soon. We shall be ruined! I've not the slightest doubt but that you've been selling people paste for diamonds for goodness knows how long."

"Golden!"

"You'll have to come with me to Datchet House. I'll see the Duke— I'll have it out with him at once." Mr. Golden threw open the door. "Thompson, Mr. Ruby and I are going out. See that nobody comes near this room until we return."

To make sure that nobody did come near that room Mr. Golden turned the key in the lock, and pocketed the key.

ii

WHEN Messrs. Ruby and Golden arrived at Datchet House they found the Duke at home. He received them in his own apartment. On their entrance he was standing behind a writing table.

"Well, gentlemen, to what am I indebted for the honour of this visit?"

Mr. Golden took on himself the office of spokesman.

"We have called, your Grace, upon a very delicate matter." The Duke inclined his head— he also took a seat. "The Duchess of Datchet has favoured us this morning with a visit."

"The Duchess!"

"The Duchess."

Mr. Golden paused. He was conscious that this was a delicate matter. "When her Grace quitted our establishment she accidentally"— Mr. Golden emphasised the adverb; he even repeated it— "accidentally left behind some of her property in exchange for ours."

"Mr. Golden!" The Duke stared. "I don't understand you."

Mr. Golden then and there resolved to make the thing quite plain.

"I will be frank with your Grace. When the Duchess left our establishment this morning she took with her some twenty thousand pounds worth of diamonds— it may be more, we have only been able to give a cursory glance at the state of things— and left behind her paste imitations of those diamonds instead."

The Duke stood up. He trembled— probably with anger.

"Mr. Golden, am I— am I to understand that you are mad?"

"The case, your Grace, is as I stated. Is not the case as I state it, Mr. Ruby?"

Mr. Ruby took out his handkerchief to relieve his brow. His habit of showing excessive deference to the feelings and the whims of very great people was almost more than he could master.

"I— I'm afraid, Mr. Golden, that it is. Your— your Grace will understand that— that we should never have ventured to— to come here had we not been most— most unfortunately compelled."

"Pray make no apology, Mr. Ruby. Allow me to have a clear understanding with you, gentlemen. Do I understand that you charge the Duchess of Datchet— the Duchess of Datchet!"— the Duke echoed his own words, as though he were himself unable to believe in the enormity of such a thing— "with stealing jewels from your shop?"

"If your Grace will allow me to make a distinction without a difference—we charge no one with anything. If your Grace will give us your permission to credit the jewels to your account, there is an end of the matter."

"What is the value of the articles which you say have gone?"

"On that point we are not ourselves, as yet, accurately informed. I may as well state at once— it is better to be frank, your Grace— that this sort of thing appears to have been going on for some time. It is only an hour or so since we began to have even a suspicion of the extent of our losses."

"Then, in effect, you charge the Duchess of Datchet with robbing you wholesale?"

Mr. Golden paused. He felt that to such a question as this it would be advisable that he should frame his answer in a particular manner.

"Your Grace will understand that different persons have different ways of purchasing. Lady A. has her way. Lady B. has her way, and the Duchess of Datchet has hers."

"Are you suggesting that the Duchess of Datchet is a kleptomaniac?"

Mr. Golden was silent.

"Do you think that that is a comfortable suggestion to make to a husband, Mr. Golden?" Just then someone tapped at the door. "Who's there?"

A voice— a feminine voice— enquired without, "Can I come in?"

Before the Duke could deny the right of entry, the door opened and a woman entered. A tall woman, and a young and a lovely one. When she perceived Messrs. Ruby and Golden she cast an enquiring look in the direction of the Duke. "Are you engaged?"

The Duke was eyeing her with a somewhat curious expression of countenance. "I believe you know these gentlemen?"

"Do I? I ought to know them perhaps, but I'm afraid I don't."

Mr. Ruby was all affability and bows, and smiles and rubbings of hands.

"I have not had the honour of seeing the lady upon a previous occasion."

The Duke of Datchet stared. "You have not had the honour? Then what— what the dickens do you mean? This is the Duchess!"

"The Duchess!" cried Messrs. Ruby and Golden.

"Certainly— the Duchess of Datchet."

Messrs. Ruby and Golden looked blue. They looked more than blue— they looked several colours of the rainbow all at once. They stared as though they could not believe the evidence of their eyes and ears. The Duke turned to the Duchess. He opened the door for her.

"Duchess, will you excuse me for a moment? I have something which I particularly wish to say to these gentlemen."

The Duchess disappeared. When she had gone the Duke not only closed the door behind her, but he stood with his back against the door which he had closed. His manner, all at once, was scarcely genial.

"Now, what shall I do with you, gentlemen? You come to my house and charge the Duchess of Datchet with having been a constant visitor at your shop for the purpose of robbing you, and it turns out that you have actually never seen the Duchess of Datchet in your lives until this moment."

"But," gasped Mr. Ruby, "that— that is not the lady who came to our establishment, and— and called herself the Duchess of Datchet."

"Well, sir, and what has that to do with me? Am I responsible for the proceedings of every sharper who comes to your shop and chooses to call herself the Duchess of Datchet? I should advise you, in future, before advancing reckless charges, to make some enquiries into the bona fides of your customers, Mr. Ruby. Now, gentlemen, you may go."

The Duke held the door wide open, invitingly. Mr. Golden caught his partner by the sleeve, as though he feared that he would, with undue celerity, accept the invitation.

"Hardly, your Grace, there is still something which we wish to say to you." The Duke of Datchet shut the door again.

"Then say it. Only say it, if possible, in such a manner as not to compel me to— kick you, Mr. Golden."

"Your Grace will believe that in anything I have said, or in anything which I am to say, nothing is further from my wish than to cause your Grace annoyance. But, on the other hand, surely your Grace is too old, and too good a customer of our house, to wish to see us ruined."

"I had rather, Mr. Golden, see you ruined ten thousand times over than that you should ruin my wife's fair fame."

Mr. Golden hesitated; he seemed to perceive that the Duke's retort was not irrelevant. He turned to Mr. Ruby.

"Mr. Ruby, will you be so good as to explain what reasons we had for believing that this person was what she called herself— the Duchess of Datchet? Because your Grace must understand that we did not entertain that belief without having at least some grounds to go upon."

Mr. Ruby, thus appealed to, began to fidget. He did not seem to relish the office which his partner had imposed upon him. The tale which he told was rather lame—still, he told it.

"Your Grace will understand that I— I am acquainted, at least by sight, with most of the members of the British aristocracy, and— and, indeed, of other aristocracies. But it so happened that, at the period of your Grace's recent marriage, I happened to be abroad, and— and, not only so, but— but the lady your Grace married was— was a lady— from— from the country."

"I am perfectly aware, Mr. Ruby, whom I married."

"Quite so, your Grace, quite so. Only— only I was endeavouring to explain how it was that I— I did not happen to be acquainted with her Grace's personal appearance. So that when a carriage and pair drove up to our establishment with your Grace's crest upon the panel–-"

"My crest upon the panel!"

"Your Grace's crest upon the panel"— as Mr. Ruby continued, the Duke of Datchet bit his lip— "and a lady stepped out of it and said, 'I am the Duchess of Datchet; my husband tells me that he is an old customer of yours,' I was only too glad to see her Grace, because, as your Grace is aware, we have the honour of having your Grace as an old customer of ours. 'My husband has given me this cheque to spend with you.' When she said that she took a cheque out of her purse, one of your Grace's own cheques drawn upon Messrs. Coutts, 'Pay Messrs. Ruby and Golden, or order, one thousand pounds,' with your Grace's signature attached. I have seen too many of your Grace's cheques not to know them well. She purchased goods to the value of a thousand pounds, and she gave us your Grace's cheque to pay for them."

"She gave you that cheque, did she?"

Mr. Golden interposed, "We presented the cheque, and it was duly honoured. On the face of such proof as that, what could we suppose?"

The Duke was moving about the room— it seemed, a little restlessly.

"It didn't necessarily follow, because a woman paid for her purchases with a cheque of mine that that woman was the Duchess of Datchet."

"I think, under the peculiar circumstances of the case, that it did. At least, the presumption was strong upon that side. May I ask to whom your Grace's cheque was given?"

"You may ask, but I don't see why I should tell you. It was honoured, and that is sufficient."

"I don't think it is sufficient, and I don't think that your Grace will think so either, if you consider for a moment. If it had not been for the strong presumptive evidence of your Grace's cheque, we should not have been robbed of many thousand pounds."

The Duke of Datchet paced restlessly to and fro. Messrs. Ruby and Golden watched him. At last he moved towards his writing table. He sat down on the chair behind it. He stretched out his legs in front of him. He thrust his hands into his trousers pockets.

"I'll make a clean breast of it. You fellows can keep a still tongue in your heads— keep a still tongue about what I am going to tell you." His hearers bowed. They were coming to the point— at last. "Eh"— in spite of his announced intention of making a clean breast of it, his Grace rather stumbled in his speech. "Before I was married I— I had some acquaintance with— with a certain lady. When I married, that acquaintance ceased. On the last occasion on which I saw her she informed me that she was indebted to you in the sum of a thousand pounds for jewellery. I gave her a cheque to discharge her liability to you, and to make sure that she did discharge the liability, I made the cheque payable to you, which, I now perceive, was perhaps not the wisest thing I could have done. But, at the same time, I wish you clearly to comprehend that I have every reason to believe that the lady referred to is, to put it mildly, a most unlikely person to— to rob any one."

"We must request you to furnish us with that lady's name and address. And I would advise your Grace to accompany us in an immediate visit to that lady."

"That is your advice is it, Mr. Golden? I am not sure that I appreciate it quite so much as it may possibly deserve."

"Otherwise, as you will yourself perceive, we shall be compelled to put the matter at once in the hands of the police, and, your Grace, there will be a scandal."

The Duke of Datchet reflected. He looked at Mr. Golden, he looked at Mr. Ruby, he looked at the ceiling, he looked at the floor, he looked at his boots— then he looked back again at Mr. Golden. At last he rose. He shook himself a little— as if to shake his clothes into their proper places. He seemed to have threshed the pros and cons of the matter well out, mentally, and to have finally decided.

"As I do not want a scandal, I think I will take your excellent advice, Mr. Golden—which I now really do appreciate at its proper value—and accompany you upon that little visit. Shall we go at once?"

"At once—if your Grace pleases."

iii

THE DUKE of Datchet's brougham, containing the Duke of Datchet himself upon one seat, and Messrs. Ruby and Golden cheek by jowl upon the other, drew up in front of a charming villa in the most charming part of charming St. John's Wood. The Duke's ring— for the Duke himself did ring, and there was no knocker— was answered by a most unimpeachable-looking man-servant in livery. The man-servant was not only unimpeachable-looking— which every servant ought to look— but good-looking, too, which, in a servant, is not regarded as quite so indispensable. He was, indeed, so good-looking as to be quite a "beauty man." So young, too! A mere youth!

When this man-servant opened the door, and saw to whom he had opened it, he started. And not only did he start, but Messrs. Ruby and Golden started too, particularly Mr. Golden. The Duke of Datchet, if he observed this little by-play, did not condescend to notice it.

"Is Mrs. Mansfield in?"

"I believe so. I will enquire. What name?"

"Never mind the name, and I will make my own enquiries. You needn't announce me, I know the way."

The Duke of Datchet seemed to know the way very well indeed. He led the way up the staircase; Messrs. Ruby and Golden followed. The man-servant remained at the foot of the stairs, as if doubtful whether or not he ought to follow. When they had reached the landing, and the man-servant, still remaining below, was out of sight, Mr. Golden turned to Mr. Ruby.

"Where on earth have I seen that man before?"

"I was just addressing to myself the same enquiry," said Mr. Ruby.

The Duke paused. He turned to the partners.

"What's that? The servant? Have you seen the man before? The plot is thickening. I am afraid 'the Duchess' is getting warm."

Apparently the Duke knew his way so well that he did not think it necessary to announce himself at the door of the room to which he led the partners. He simply turned the handle and went in, Messrs. Ruby and Golden close upon his heels. The room which he had entered was a pretty room, and contained a pretty occupant. A lady, young and fair, rose from a couch which was at the opposite side of the apartment, and, as was most justifiable under the circumstances, stared: "Hereward!"

"Mrs. Mansfield!"

"Whatever brings you here?"

"My dear Mrs. Mansfield, I have come to ask you what you think of Mr. Kesteeven's necklace."

"Hereward, what do you mean?"

The Duke's manner changed from jest to earnest.

"Rather, Gertrude, what do you mean? What have I done that deserved such a return from you? What have I done to you that you should have endeavoured to drag my wife's name in the mire?"

The lady stared. "I have no more idea what you are talking about than the man in the moon!"

"You dare to tell me so, in the presence of these men?"

"In the presence of what men?"

"In the presence of your victims— of Mr. Ruby and of Mr. Golden?"

Mr. Golden advanced a step or two.

"Excuse me, your Grace— this is not the lady."

"Eh?"

"This is not the lady."

"Not what lady?"

"This is not the lady who called herself the Duchess of Datchet."

"What the dickens do you mean? Really, Mr. Ruby and Mr. Golden, you seem to be leading me a pretty fine wild goose chase— a pretty fine wild goose chase! I know it will end in kicking— someone. You told me that the person to whom I had given that cheque was the person who had bestowed on you her patronage. This is the person to whom I gave that cheque."

"This is not the person who gave that cheque to us."

"Then— then who the devil did?"

"That, your Grace, is the point— will this lady allow me to ask her one or two questions?"

"Fire away— ask fifty!"

The lady thus referred to interposed, "This gentleman may ask fifty or five hundred questions, but unless you tell me what all this is about I very much doubt if I shall answer one."

"Let me manage it, Mr. Golden. Mrs. Mansfield, may I enquire what you did with that cheque for a thousand which I gave you? You jade! To tell me that Ruby and Golden were dunning you out of your life, when you never owed them a stiver! Tell me what you did with that cheque!"

The Duke seemed at last to have said something which had reached the lady's understanding. She changed colour. She pressed her lips together. She looked at him with defiance in her eyes. A considerable pause ensued before she spoke.

"I don't know why I should tell you. What does it matter to you what I did with it— you gave it me."

"It does matter to me. As it happens, it matters also to you. If you will take my friendly advice, you will tell me what you did with that cheque."

The look of defiance about the lady's lips and in her eyes increased.

"I don't mind telling you. Why should I? It was my own. I gave it to Alfred."

The Duke emitted an ejaculation— which smacked of profanity.

"To Alfred? And, pray, who may Alfred be?"

The lady's crest rose higher. "Alfred is— is the man to whom I am engaged to be married."

The Duke of Datchet whistled. "And you got a cheque out of me for a thousand pounds to make a present of it to your intended? That beats everything; and pray to whom did Alfred give it?"

"He gave it to no one. He paid it into the bank. He told me so himself."

"Then I'm afraid that Alfred lied. Where is Alfred?"

"He's— he's here."

"Here? In this room? Where? Under the couch, or behind the screen?"

"I mean that he's in this house. He's downstairs."

"I won't ask how long he's been downstairs, but would it be too much to ask you to request Alfred to walk upstairs."

The lady burst into a sudden tempest of tears.

"I know you'll only laugh at me— I know you well enough to expect you to do that— but— I— I know I've not been a good woman, and— and I do love him— although— he's only— a— servant!"

"A servant! Gertrude! Was that the man who opened the door?"

Mr. Golden gave vent to an exclamation which positively amounted to a shout. "By Jove!— I've got it!— I knew I'd seen the face before— I couldn't make out where— it was the man who opened the door. Your Grace, might I ask you to have that man who opened the door to us at once brought here?"

"Ring the bell, Mr. Golden."

The lady interposed. "You shan't— I won't have it! What do you want with him?"

"We wish to ask him one or two questions. If Alfred is an honest man it will be better for him that he should have an opportunity of answering them. If he is not an honest man, it will be better for you that you should know it."

Apparently this reasoning prevailed. Mr. Golden rang the bell; but his ring was not by any means immediately attended to. He rang a second and a third time, but still no answer came.

"It strikes me," suggested the Duke, "that we had better start on a voyage of discovery, and search for Alfred in the regions down below."

Before the Duke's suggestion could be acted on the door was opened— not by Alfred; not by a man at all, but by a maid.

"Send Alfred here."

"I can't find him anywhere. I think he must have gone."

"Gone!" gasped Mrs. Mansfield. "Where?"

"I don't know, ma'am. I've been up to his room to look for him, and it is all anyhow, and there's no one there. If you please, ma'am, I found this on the mat outside the door."

The maid held out an envelope. The Duke of Datchet took it from her hand. He glanced at its superscription.

" 'Messrs. Ruby and Golden.' Gentlemen, this is for you."

He transferred it to Mr. Golden. It was a long blue envelope. The maid had picked it up from the mat which was outside the door of that very room in which they were standing. Mr. Golden opened it. It contained an oblong card of considerable size, on which were printed three photographs, in a sort of series. The first photograph was that of a young man— a beautiful young man— unmistakably "Alfred." The second was that of "Alfred" with his hair arranged in a fashion which was peculiarly feminine. The third was that of "Alfred" with a bonnet and a veil on, and a very nice-looking young woman he made. At the bottom of the card was written, in a fine, delicate, lady's hand-writing, "With the Duchess of Datchet's compliments."

"I knew," gasped Mrs. Mansfield, in the midst of her sorrow, "that he was very good at dressing up as a woman, but I never thought he would do this!"

THE DUKE of Datchet paid for the diamonds.

____________________

13: Blood Pressure

Damon Runyon

1880-1946

The Saturday Evening Post, 5 April 1930

IT IS MAYBE eleven-thirty of a Wednesday night, and I am standing at the corner of Forty-eighth Street and Seventh Avenue, thinking about my blood pressure, which is a proposition I never before think much about.

In fact, I never hear of my blood pressure before this Wednesday afternoon when I go around to see Doc Brennan about my stomach, and he puts a gag on my arm and tells me that my blood pressure is higher than a cat's back, and the idea is for me to be careful about what I eat, and to avoid excitement, or I may pop off all of a sudden when I am least expecting it.

'A nervous man such as you with a blood pressure away up in the paint cards must live quietly,' Doc Brennan says. 'Ten bucks, please,' he says.

Well, I am standing there thinking it is not going to be so tough to avoid excitement the way things are around this town right now, and wishing I have my ten bucks back to bet it on Sun Beau in the fourth race at Pimlico the next day, when all of a sudden I look up, and who is in front of me but Rusty Charley.

Now if I have any idea Rusty Charley is coming my way, you can go and bet all the coffee in Java I will be somewhere else at once, for Rusty Charley is not a guy I wish to have any truck with whatever. In fact, I wish no part of him. Furthermore, nobody else in this town wishes to have any part of Rusty Charley, for he is a hard guy indeed. In fact, there is no harder guy anywhere in the world. He is a big wide guy with two large hard hands and a great deal of very bad disposition, and he thinks nothing of knocking people down and stepping on their kissers if he feels like it.

In fact, this Rusty Charley is what is called a gorill, because he is known to often carry a gun in his pants pocket, and sometimes to shoot people down as dead as door-nails with it if he does not like the way they wear their hats— and Rusty Charley is very critical of hats. The chances are Rusty Charley shoots many a guy in this man's town, and those he does not shoot he sticks with his shiv— which is a knife— and the only reason he is not in jail is because he just gets out of it, and the law does not have time to think up something to put him back in again for.

Anyway, the first thing I know about Rusty Charley being in my neighbourhood is when I hear him saying: 'Well, well, well, here we are!'

Then he grabs me by the collar, so it is no use of me thinking of taking it on the lam away from there, although I greatly wish to do so.

'Hello, Rusty,' I say, very pleasant. 'What is the score?'

'Everything is about even,' Rusty says. 'I am glad to see you, because I am looking for company. I am over in Philadelphia for three days on business.'

'I hope and trust that you do all right for yourself in Philly, Rusty,' I say; but his news makes me very nervous, because I am a great hand for reading the papers and I have a pretty good idea what Rusty's business in Philly is. It is only the day before that I see a little item from Philly in the papers about how Gloomy Gus Smallwood, who is a very large operator in the alcohol business there, is guzzled right at his front door.

Of course, I do not know that Rusty Charley is the party who guzzles Gloomy Gus Smallwood, but Rusty Charley is in Philly when Gus is guzzled, and I can put two and two together as well as anybody. It is the same thing as if there is a bank robbery in Cleveland, Ohio, and Rusty Charley is in Cleveland, Ohio, or near there. So I am very nervous, and I figure it is a sure thing my blood pressure is going up every second.

'How much dough do you have on you?' Rusty says. 'I am plumb broke.'

'I do not have more than a couple of bobs, Rusty,' I say. 'I pay a doctor ten bucks to-day to find out my blood pressure is very bad. But of course you are welcome to what I have.'

'Well, a couple of bobs is no good to high-class guys like you and me.' Rusty says. 'Let us go to Nathan Detroit's crap game and win some money.'

Now, of course, I do not wish to go to Nathan Detroit's crap game; and if I do wish to go there I do not wish to go with Rusty Charley, because a guy is sometimes judged by the company he keeps, especially around crap games, and Rusty Charley is apt to be considered bad company. Anyway, I do not have any dough to shoot craps with, and if I do have dough to shoot craps with, I will not shoot craps with it at all, but will bet it on Sun Beau, or maybe take it home and pay off some of the overhead around my joint, such as rent.

Furthermore, I remember what Doc Brennan tells me about avoiding excitement, and I know there is apt to be excitement around Nathan Detroit's crap game if Rusty Charley goes there, and maybe run my blood pressure up and cause me to pop off very unexpected. In fact, I already feel my blood jumping more than somewhat inside me, but naturally I am not going to give Rusty Charley any argument, so we go to Nathan Detroit's crap game.

This crap game is over a garage in Fifty-second Street this particular night, though sometimes it is over a restaurant in Forty-seventh Street, or in back of a cigar store in Forty-fourth Street. In fact, Nathan Detroit's crap game is apt to be anywhere, because it moves around every night, as there is no sense in a crap game staying in one spot until the coppers find out where it is.

So Nathan Detroit moves his crap game from spot to spot, and citizens wishing to do business with him have to ask where he is every night; and of course almost everybody on Broadway knows this, as Nathan Detroit has guys walking up and down, and around and about, telling the public his address, and giving out the password for the evening.

Well, Jack the Beefer is sitting in an automobile outside the garage in Fifty-second Street when Rusty Charley and I come along, and he says 'Kansas City,' very low, as we pass, this being the password for the evening; but we do not have to use any password whatever when we climb the stairs over the garage, because the minute Solid John, the doorman, peeks out through his peep-hole when we knock, and sees Rusty Charley with me, he opens up very quick indeed, and gives us a big castor-oil smile, for nobody in this town is keeping doors shut on Rusty Charley very long.

It is a very dirty room over the garage, and full of smoke, and the crap game is on an old pool table; and around the table, and packed in so close you cannot get a knitting-needle between any two guys with a mawl, are all the high shots in town, for there is plenty of money around at this time, and many citizens are very prosperous. Furthermore, I wish to say there are some very tough guys around the table, too, including guys who will shoot you in the head, or maybe the stomach, and think nothing whatever about the matter.

In fact, when I see such guys as Harry the Horse, from Brooklyn, and Sleepout Sam Levinsky, and Lone Louie, from Harlem, I know this is a bad place for my blood pressure, for these are very tough guys indeed, and are known as such to one and all in this town.

But there they are wedged up against the table with Nick the Greek, Big Nig, Grey John, Okay Okun, and many other high shots, and they all have big coarse G notes in their hands which they are tossing around back and forth as if these G notes are nothing but pieces of waste paper.

On the outside of the mob at the table are a lot of small operators who are trying to cram their fists in between the high shots now and then to get down a bet, and there are also guys present who are called Shylocks, because they will lend you dough when you go broke at the table, on watches or rings, or maybe cuff-links, at very good interest.

Well, as I say, there is no room at the table for as many as one more very thin guy when we walk into the joint, but Rusty Charley lets out a big hello as we enter, and the guys all look around, and the next minute there is space at the table big enough not only for Rusty Charley but for me, too. It really is quite magical the way there is suddenly room for us when there is no room whatever for anybody when we come in.

'Who is the gunner?' Rusty Charley asks, looking all around.

'Why, you are, Charley,' Big Nig, the stick man in the game, says very quick, handing Charley a pair of dice, although afterward I hear that his pal is right in the middle of a roll trying to make nine when we step up to the table. Everybody is very quiet, just looking at Charley. Nobody pays any attention to me, because I am known to one and all as a guy who is just around, and nobody figures me in on any part of Charley, although Harry the Horse looks at me once in a way that I know is no good for my blood pressure, or for anybody else's blood pressure as far as this goes.

Well, Charley takes the dice and turns to a little guy in a derby hat who is standing next to him, scrooching back so Charley will not notice him, and Charley lifts the derby hat off the little guy's head, and rattles the dice in his hand and chucks them into the hat and goes 'Hah!' like crap shooters always do when they are rolling the dice. Then Charley peeks into the hat and says 'Ten,' although he does not let anybody else look in the hat, not even me, so nobody knows if Charley throws a ten, or what.

But, of course, nobody around is going to up and doubt that Rusty Charley throws a ten, because Charley may figure it is the same thing as calling him a liar, and Charley is such a guy as is apt to hate being called a liar.

Now Nathan Detroit's crap game is what is called a head-and-head game, although some guys call it a fading game, because the guys bet against each other rather than against the bank, or house. It is just the same kind of game as when two guys get together and start shooting craps against each other, and Nathan Detroit does not have to bother with a regular crap table and layout such as they have in gambling houses. In fact, about all Nathan Detroit has to do with the game is to find a spot, furnish the dice and take his percentage, which is by no means bad.

In such a game as this there is no real action until a guy is out on a point, and then the guys around commence to bet he makes this point, or that he does not make this point, and the odds in any country in the world that a guy does not make a ten with a pair of dice before he rolls seven, is 2 to 1.

Well, when Charley says he rolls ten in the derby hat nobody opens their trap, and Charley looks all around the table, and all of a sudden he sees Jew Louie at one end, although Jew Louie seems to be trying to shrink himself up when Charley's eyes light on him.

'I will take the odds for five C's,' Charley says, 'and Louie, you get it'— meaning he is letting Louie bet him $1000 to $500 that he does not make his ten.

Now Jew Louie is a small operator at all times and more of a Shylock than he is a player, and the only reason he is up there against the table at all at this moment is because he moves up to lend Nick the Greek some dough; and ordinarily there is no more chance of Jew Louie betting a thousand to five hundred on any proposition whatever than there is of him giving his dough to the Salvation Army, which is no chance at all. It is a sure thing he will never think of betting a thousand to five hundred a guy will not make ten with the dice, and when Rusty Charley tells Louie he has such a bet, Louie starts trembling all over.

The others around the table do not say a word, and so Charley rattles the dice again in his duke, blows on them, and chucks them into the derby hat and says 'Hah!' But, of course, nobody can see in the derby hat except Charley, and he peeks in at the dice and says 'Five.' He rattles the dice once more and chucks them into the derby and says 'Hah!' and then after peeking into the hat at the dice he says 'Eight.' I am commencing to sweat for fear he may heave a seven in the hat and blow his bet, and I know Charley has no five C's to payoff with, although, of course, I also know Charley has no idea of paying off, no matter what he heaves.

On the next chuck, Charley yells 'Money!'— meaning he finally makes his ten, although nobody sees it but him; and he reaches out his hand to Jew Louie, and Jew Louie hands him a big fat G note, very, very slow. In all my life I never see a sadder-looking guy than Louie when he is parting with his dough. If Louie has any idea of asking Charley to let him see the dice in the hat to make sure about the ten, he does not speak about the matter, and as Charley does not seem to wish to show the ten around, nobody else says anything either, probably figuring Rusty Charley isn't a guy who is apt to let anybody question his word, especially over such a small matter as a ten.

'Well,' Charley says, putting Louie's G note in his pocket, 'I think this is enough for me to-night,' and he hands the derby hat back to the little guy who owns it and motions me to come on, which I am glad to do, as the silence in the joint is making my stomach go up and down inside me, and I know this is bad for my blood pressure. Nobody as much as opens his face from the time we go in until we start out, and you will be surprised how nervous it makes you to be in a big crowd with everybody dead still, especially when you figure it a spot that is liable to get hot any minute. It is only just as we get to the door that anybody speaks, and who is it but Jew Louie, who pipes up and says to Rusty Charley like this:

'Charley,' he says, 'do you make it the hard way?'

Well, everybody laughs, and we go on out, but I never hear myself whether Charley makes his ten with a six and a four, or with two fives— which is the hard way to make a ten with the dice— although I often wonder about the matter afterward.

I am hoping that I can now get away from Rusty Charley and go on home, because I can see he is the last guy in the world to have around a blood pressure, and, furthermore, that people may get the wrong idea of me if I stick around with him, but when I suggest going to Charley, he seems to be hurt.

'Why,' Charley says, 'you are a fine guy to be talking of quitting a pal just as we are starting out. You will certainly stay with me because I like company, and we will go down to Ikey the Pig's and play stuss. Ikey is an old friend of mine, and I owe him a complimentary play.'

Now, of course, I do not wish to go to Ikey the Pig's, because it is a place away downtown, and I do not wish to play stuss, because this is a game which I am never able to figure out myself, and, furthermore, I remember Doc Brennan says I ought to get a little sleep now and then; but I see no use in hurting Charley's feelings, especially as he is apt to do something drastic to me if I do not go.

So he calls a taxi, and we start downtown for Ikey the Pig's, and the jockey who is driving the short goes so fast that it makes my blood pressure go up a foot to a foot and a half from the way I feel inside, although Rusty Charley pays no attention to the speed. Finally I stick my head out of the window and ask the jockey to please take it a little easy, as I wish to get where I am going all in one piece, but the guy only keeps busting along.

We are at the corner of Nineteenth and Broadway when all of a sudden Rusty Charley yells at the jockey to pull up a minute, which the guy does. Then Charley steps out of the cab and says to the jockey like this:

'When a customer asks you to take it easy, why do you not be nice and take it easy? Now see what you get.'

And Rusty Charley hauls off and clips the jockey a punch on the chin that knocks the poor guy right off the seat into the street, and then Charley climbs into the seat himself and away we go with Charley driving, leaving the guy stretched out as stiff as a board. Now Rusty Charley once drives a short for a living himself, until the coppers get an idea that he is not always delivering his customers to the right address, especially such as may happen to be drunk when he gets them, and he is a pretty fair driver, but he only looks one way, which is straight ahead.

Personally, I never wish to ride with Charley in a taxicab under any circumstances, especially if he is driving, because he certainly drives very fast. He pulls up a block from Ikey the Pig's, and says we will leave the short there until somebody finds it and turns it in, but just as we are walking away from the short up steps a copper in uniform and claims we cannot park the short in this spot without a driver.

Well, Rusty Charley just naturally hates to have coppers give him any advice, so what does he do but peek up and down the street to see if anybody is looking, and then haul off and clout the copper on the chin, knocking him bow-legged. I wish to say I never see a more accurate puncher than Rusty Charley, because he always connects with that old button. As the copper tumbles, Rusty Charley grabs me by the arm and starts me running up a side street, and after we go about a block we dodge into Ikey the Pig's.

It is what is called a stuss house, and many prominent citizens of the neighbourhood are present playing stuss. Nobody seems any too glad to see Rusty Charley, although Ikey the Pig lets on he is tickled half to death. This Ikey the Pig is a short fat-necked guy who will look very natural at New Year's, undressed, and with an apple in his mouth, but it seems he and Rusty Charley are really old-time friends, and think fairly well of each other in spots.

But I can see that Ikey the Pig is not so tickled when he finds Charley is there to gamble, although Charley flashes his G note at once, and says he does not mind losing a little dough to Ikey just for old time's sake. But I judge Ikey the Pig knows he is never going to handle Charley's G note, because Charley puts it back in his pocket and it never comes out again even though Charley gets off loser playing stuss right away.

Well, at five o'clock in the morning, Charley is stuck one hundred and thirty G's, which is plenty of money even when a guy is playing on his muscle, and of course Ikey the Pig knows there is no chance of getting one hundred and thirty cents off of Rusty Charley, let alone that many thousands. Everybody else is gone by this time and Ikey wishes to close up. He is willing to take Charley's marker for a million if necessary to get Charley out, but the trouble is in stuss a guy is entitled to get back a percentage of what he loses, and Ikey figures Charley is sure to wish this percentage even if he gives a marker, and the percentage will wreck Ikey's joint.

Furthermore, Rusty Charley says he will not quit: loser under such circumstances because Ikey is his friend, so what happens but Ikey finally sends out and hires a cheater by the name of Dopey Goldberg, who takes to dealing the game and in no time he has Rusty Charley even by cheating in Rusty Charley's favour.

Personally, I do not pay much attention to the play, but grab myself a few winks of sleep in a chair in a corner, and the rest seems to help my blood pressure no little. In fact, I am not noticing my blood pressure at all when Rusty Charley and I get out of Ikey the Pig's, because I figure Charley will let me go home and I can go to bed. But although it is six o'clock, and coming on broad daylight when we leave Ikey's, Charley is still full of zing, and nothing will do him but we must go to a joint that is called the Bohemian Club.

Well, this idea starts my blood pressure going again, because the Bohemian Club is nothing but a deadfall where guys and dolls go when there is positively no other place in town open, and it is run by a guy by the name of Knife O'Halloran, who comes from down around Greenwich Village and is considered a very bad character. It is well known to one and all that a guy is apt to lose his life in Knife O'Halloran's any night, even if he does nothing more than drink Knife O'Halloran's liquor.

But Rusty Charley insists on going there, so naturally I go with him; and at first everything is very quiet and peaceful, except that a lot of guys and dolls in evening clothes, who wind up there after being in night clubs all night, are yelling in one corner of the joint. Rusty Charley and Knife O'Halloran are having a drink together out of a bottle which Knife carries in his pocket, so as not to get it mixed up with the liquor he sells his customers, and are cutting up old touches of the time when they run with the Hudson Dusters together, when all of a sudden in comes four coppers in plain clothes.

Now these coppers are off duty and are meaning no harm to anybody, and are only wishing to have a dram or two before going home, and the chances are they will pay no attention to Rusty Charley if he minds his own business, although of course they know who he is very well indeed and will take great pleasure in putting the old sleeve on him if they only have a few charges against him, which they do not. So they do not give him a tumble. But if there is one thing Rusty Charley hates it is a copper, and he starts eyeing them from the minute they sit down at a table, and by and by I hear him say to Knife O'Halloran like this:

'Knife,' Charley says, 'what is the most beautiful sight in the world?' 'I do not know, Charley,' Knife says. 'What is the most beautiful sight in the world?' 'Four dead coppers in a row,' Charley says.

Well, at this I personally ease myself over toward the door, because I never wish to have any trouble with coppers and especially with four coppers, so I do not see everything that comes off. All I see is Rusty Charley grabbing at the big foot which one of the coppers kicks at him, and then everybody seems to go into a huddle, and the guys and dolls in evening dress start squawking, and my blood pressure goes up to maybe a million.

I get outside the door, but I do not go away at once as anybody with any sense will do, but stand there listening to what is going on inside, which seems to be nothing more than a loud noise like ker-bump, ker-bump, ker-bump. I am not afraid there will be any shooting, because as far as Rusty Charley is concerned he is too smart to shoot any coppers, which is the worst thing a guy can do in this town, and the coppers are not likely to start any blasting because they will not wish it to come out that they are in a joint such as the Bohemian Club off duty. So I figure they will all just take it out in pulling and hauling.

Finally the noise inside dies down, and by and by the door opens and out comes Rusty Charley, dusting himself off here and there with his hands and looking very much pleased indeed, and through the door before it flies shut again I catch a glimpse of a lot of guys stretched out on the floor. Furthermore, I can still hear guys and dolls hollering.

'Well, well,' Rusty Charley says, 'I am commencing to think you take the wind on me, and am just about to get mad at you, but here you are. Let us go away from this joint, because they are making so much noise inside you cannot hear yourself think. Let us go to my joint and make my old woman cook us up some breakfast, and then we can catch some sleep. A little ham and eggs will not be bad to take right now.'

Well, naturally ham and eggs are appealing to me no little at this time, but I do not care to go to Rusty Charley's joint. As far as I am personally concerned, I have enough of Rusty Charley to do me a long, long time, and I do not care to enter into his home life to any extent whatever, although to tell the truth I am somewhat surprised to learn he has any such life. I believe I do once hear that Rusty Charley marries one of the neighbours' children, and that he lives somewhere over on Tenth Avenue in the Forties, but nobody really knows much about this, and everybody figures if it is true his wife must lead a terrible dog's life.

But while I do not wish to go to Charley's joint, I cannot very well refuse a civil invitation to eat ham and eggs, especially as Charley is looking at me in a very much surprised way because I do not seem so glad, and I can see that it is not everyone that he invites to his joint. So I thank him, and say there is nothing I will enjoy more than ham and eggs such as his old woman will cook for us, and by and by we are walking along Tenth Avenue up around Forty-fifth Street.

It is still fairly early in the morning, and business guys are opening up their joints for the day, and little children are skipping along the sidewalks going to school and laughing tee-hee, and old dolls are shaking bedclothes and one thing and another out of the windows of the tenement houses, but when they spot Rusty Charley and me everybody becomes very quiet indeed, and I can see that Charley is greatly respected in his own neighbourhood. The business guys hurry into their joints, and the little children stop skipping and tee-heeing and go tip-toeing along, and the old dolls yank in their noodles, and a great quiet comes to the street. In fact, about all you can hear is the heels of Rusty Charley and me hitting on the sidewalk.

There is an ice wagon with a couple of horses hitched to it standing in front of a store, and when he sees the horses Rusty Charley seems to get a big idea. He stops and looks the horses over very carefully, although as far as I can see they are nothing but horses, and big and fat, and sleepy-looking horses, at that. Finally Rusty Charley says to me like this:

'When I am a young guy,' he says, 'I am a very good puncher with my right hand, and often I hit a horse on the skull with my fist and knock it down. I wonder,' he says, 'if I lose my punch. The last copper I hit back there gets up twice on me.'

Then he steps up to one of the ice-wagon horses and hauls off and biffs it right between the eyes with a right-hand smack that does not travel more than four inches, and down goes old Mister Horse to his knees looking very much surprised indeed. I see many a hard puncher in my day including Dempsey when he really can punch, but I never see a harder punch than Rusty Charley gives this horse.

Well, the ice-wagon driver comes busting out of the store all heated up over what happens to his horse, but he cools out the minute he sees Rusty Charley, and goes on back into the store leaving the horse still taking a count, while Rusty Charley and I keep walking. Finally we come to the entrance of a tenement house that Rusty Charley says is where he lives, and in front of this house is a wop with a push-cart loaded with fruit and vegetables and one thing and another, which Rusty Charley tips over as we go into the house, leaving the wop yelling very loud, and maybe cussing us in wop for all I know. I am very glad, personally, we finally get somewhere, because I can feel that my blood pressure is getting worse every minute I am with Rusty Charley.

We climb two flights of stairs, and then Charley opens a door and we step into a room where there is a pretty little red-headed doll about knee high to a flivver, who looks as if she may just get out of the hay, because her red hair is flying around every which way on her head, and her eyes seem still gummed up with sleep. At first I think she is a very cute sight indeed, and then I see something in her eyes that tells me this doll, whoever she is, is feeling very hostile to one and all.

'Hello, tootsie,' Rusty Charley says. 'How about some ham and eggs for me and my pal here? We are all tired out going around and about.'

Well, the little red-headed doll just looks at him without saying a word. She is standing in the middle of the floor with one hand behind her, and all of a sudden she brings this hand around, and what does she have in it but a young baseball bat, such as kids play ball with, and which cost maybe two bits; and the next thing I know I hear something go ker-bap, and I can see she smacks Rusty Charley on the side of the noggin with the bat.

Naturally I am greatly horrified at this business, and figure Rusty Charley will kill her at once, and then I will be in a jam for witnessing the murder and will be held in jail several years like all witnesses to anything in this man's town; but Rusty Charley only falls into a big rocking-chair in a corner of the room and sits there with one hand to his head, saying, 'Now hold on, tootsie,' and 'Wait a minute there, honey.' I recollect hearing him say, 'We have company for breakfast,' and then the little red-headed doll turns on me and gives me a look such as I will always remember, although I smile at her very pleasant and mention it is a nice morning.

Finally she says to me like this: 'So you are the trambo who keeps my husband out all night, are you, you trambo?' she says, and with this she starts for me, and I start for the door; and by this time my blood pressure is all out of whack, because I can see Mrs. Rusty Charley is excited more than somewhat. I get my hand on the knob and just then something hits me alongside the noggin, which I afterward figure must be the baseball bat, although I remember having a sneaking idea the roof caves in on me.

How I get the door open I do not know, because I am very dizzy in the head and my legs are wobbling, but when I think back over the situation I remember going down a lot of steps very fast, and by and by the fresh air strikes me, and I figure I am in the clear. But all of a sudden I feel another strange sensation back of my head and something goes plop against my noggin, and I figure at first that maybe my blood pressure runs up so high that it squirts out the top of my bean. Then I peek around over my shoulder just once to see that Mrs. Rusty Charley is standing beside the wop peddler's cart snatching fruit and vegetables of one kind and another off the cart and chucking them at me.

But what she hits me with back of the head is not an apple, or a peach, or a rutabaga, or a cabbage, or even a casaba melon, but a brickbat that the wop has on his cart to weight down the paper sacks in which he sells his goods. It is this brickbat which makes a lump on the back of my head so big that Doc Brennan thinks it is a tumour when I go to him the next day about my stomach, and I never tell him any different.

'But,' Doc Brennan says, when he takes my blood pressure again, 'your pressure is down below normal now, and as far as it is concerned you are in no danger whatever. It only goes to show what just a little bit of quiet living will do for a guy,' Doc Brennan says. 'Ten bucks, please,' he says.

_____________

14: The Ride

Walter McLeod
fl. 1930-1931

Popular Magazine 7 June 1930

THE dark-green Cadillac sedan purred through the crowded street. The evening was dark and rain streamed down the closed windows of the car so that the men inside had difficnity in seeing through them. The fur-coated man with gray fedora, who sat next to the driver, had half risen from the seat and turned around in an attempt to look out through the rear window.

"Look, Sam! Is that car still tailin' us?" He addressed one of the three men who sat in the darkness of the back seat.

"Veh, that's the same one," the man replied after peering through for a moment. "You sure that was McCaf- ferty, the dick, you saw, Tony?"

"Step on it, Luis." Tony rapped out the order to the driver. 'Yeh, that was McCafferty, all right. I don't like the way that car keeps hangin' onto us. I got a hunch somethin's goin' to happen to-night."

On the outskirts of the town the traffic decreased and the car leaped for- ward like an unleashed greyhound.

"Give her all she's got, Luis," Tony ordered, and they tore along regardless of traffic signals and gesticulating cops. "Look out again, Sam. Is she still there?"

"Yeah,"' Sam answered.

"Then it's the bulls, sure. How in hell did they come along like that? You saw McCafferty, didn't you, 'Pug'?" He was speaking to the big man in the back seat.

"Sure, I reckernised him. He saw us, too. He's been layin' for us since you pulled that dumb act last week."

"You keep your trap closed, Pug."

Suddenly the youth, who sat in the middle of the seat, half rose to his feet. There was a note of panic in his voice.

"Where you fellers takin' me?" he cried. "This isn't the way to—"

The men on either side of him pulled him back violently into the seat.

"Keep quiet, 'Kid,' " Pug said.

Tony turned around in his seat.

"So you put the bulls after us, huh, Kid?" he demanded.

"The hell I did? What d'you take me for?" the youth retorted.

"How come they picked us up like that? Accidental? Like hell!" He turned in his seat.

"I don't know. Anyway, what's the big idea? Where you takin' me?" Kid O'Brien asked anxiously.

"That's a good one, Pug," Tony laughed.

"Yeh," said Pug curtly.

"What's the idea?" O'Brien persisted.

"Aintcha ever been ridin' before?" asked Sam. "We're goin' for a ride, see?"

A cold dread came over the Kid, a fear he had fought off many times in the past week. A month ago he could at least have met the situation without betraying much emotion. He had been schooled well. Now his thoughts were with Millie, his wife of a week, back there waiting for him.

"You ought to know, Kid," said Tony. You been out on these parties before, only then you wasn't the guest of honor." His voice hardened. "You rumbled the bulls. What did you tell 'em?"

"I tell you I didn't," O'Brien persisted.

"You been blabbin'. What did you tell that broad of yours?"

"Nothing at all. Jeez, you know me, Tony."

Behind them came the faint blare of a horn.

"Hear that? The bulls— an' a fast car, at that. Did that moll know where you were goin' to-night?"

"Course not. She worried me to tell her. She was kinda upset. She kept at me all evenin'. I think she sort o' figured I was comin' to see you."

"Damn right she did. That's why we got those bulls behind us. It's on account of that moll you're ridin' with us now, see?"

"What d'you want to bump me off for?" O'Brien was cooler now. He had always shown nerve. Even now it was the thought of Millie which tortured him rather than his own fate.

Nobody answered him.

They were out of the city and speed- ing -at sixty along the almost deserted road. Away behind they could hear the distant roar of an automobile. The driver crouched over the wheel, peering through the rain ahead. Passing cars and occasional houses sped by them like blurred streaks of light.

Against his right side, grasping his wrist lightly, O'Brien could feel the bulky form of Pug Brodie, quick in action, slower of wit. "Killer," they sometimes called him. Sam Giacchino, small, lithe, implacable, held O'Brien's left arm in a tight, metallic grip. Sam was a junky. He was always doped up before he went out on a job. The Kid could tell from his steady hand that he had taken his usual shot. He shuddered slightly.

"Say, fellers." The Kid was cool, though his heart pumped painfully. "Why don't you give me a break? I haven't squealed. I came clean. I told you I'd get right out of the city. I just wanted to quit the racket account o' Millie. I'm through with it, now. I got to be. You can see that, can't you?"

Nobody answered him for several seconds. Sam peered out through the rear window, which was streaming with rain.

"What about them bulls tailin' us back there?" he asked.

"I tell you I done nothin'. d'you know they're bulls?"

"For God's sake, Luis, can't you open her up any more?" Tony asked anx- iously.

"I'm telling you the truth, fellers," O'Brien went on. "Haven't I always been a regular guy?" He addressed Tony's back. Tony did not move, "Haven't I, Pug?" He turned to search for Pug's face in the darkness.

"Yeh, you was all right, I guess."

Pug's remark brought Tony quickly around. He put his left arm over the back of the seat.

"Is that so? Well, listen, that goin' straight stuff don't go with me. I've heard it before." His eyes found Pug's. "Gettin' soft, Pug?" he sneered.

"Aw—"  Pug mumbled contemptuously.

O'Brien sat back helpless. He knew the road along which they would take him. Once before he had been there with three of the men who rode with him now. There had been another with them, a squealer. He hadn't liked that part of it much.

He realized that he should have beat it a week ago, when Millie had finally induced him to quit the racket. They could have left town unnoticed and gone right away. He should have known better than to expect a hard devil like Tony Vitale to understand that he was only trying to break with them clean and on the level. He had hoped o avoid any trouble with the gang, afterward, for Millie's sake. He had been stupid.

"That car is still hanging onto us," Sam said.

Above the pur of the motor and the steady swish of the wheels through the mud he could hear the dull roar of the surf on the beach. The other car was well behind. Only occasionally the sound of the horn came to them as gusts ef wind heavy with salt spray swept along the bare road.

With a start the Kid recognized the stretch of road vaguely through the dripping windows. They had stopped about here before. He shivered.

"Gimme a cigarette," he asked.

No one replied. He knew he hadn't long now. His brain throbbed. His throat and chest ached. He thought of two blue eyes and a soft voice that meant so much to him, and he swore blasphemously under his breath.

"Okay," Tony suddenly said to the driver. The Cadillac slowed up violently with a harsh grinding of brakes. It skidded and came to a stop at the edge of the road, which was lined with low, wind-beaten bushes.

"What d'ya stop for?" said Pug.

"Get busy, you bums," Tony ordered.

As the order was given, the hands on O'Brien's wrists tightened. He was wrenched to his feet. With all his strength he tried to twist free and kicked viciously at their legs. The door was opened.

"You lousy rats!" he cried. He tried to clutch at the sides of the door. "You dirty—" He felt the hard metal of an automatic jabbed in his back. He struggled with the fury of despair. "You'll burn!" he cried.

There was a muffled crack. Something struck him in the back— once—  twice, like the blows of a sledge hammer. His grip relaxed. The gun cracked again as he hurtled forward out of the car.

Tony leaned back over the seat. Aiming carefully, he raked the dark mass of the bushes which had swallowed up the body of O'Brien.

"Let's go." The door slammed to and the car shot forward as the roar of the other car sounded with increasing clearness down the road behind them.

"Step on it, Luis," Tony said in an urgent tone. "Those bulls'll be on us." He peered anxiously back through the rear window.

"Where's that flask?" Sam asked.

"Here," Tony sneered, handing back a pint flask. "Some o' you guys got the heart of a louse till you got liquor or hop in you."

"He wasn't a bad kid," Pug said slowly, as he took the flask and pulled at it.

"Good kid nothin'?! He was a squealer!" Tony's voice was impatient. "How'd those bulls come on us to-night like that? Another thing: How did the Kid know we were goin' to put him on the spot?"

"He didn't know," said Pug.

"He did, only the bulls were too slow. If they'd been two minutes earlier we'd all be in stir."

"You got the bull horrors to-night. I believe the Kid was on the level."

"You do, huh?"

"What the hell's the matter with you guys?" asked Sam.

"The matter is that Pug's gettin' soft," Tony said with a sneer.

"Yeh? When d'ya find that out?" Pug's voice was hard.

The driver turned from the wheel for a second.

"What's gettin' you? Snap out of it! We gotta shake them bulls off."

"Quit arguing," Sam broke in. "We're in a jam now, without you two guys fightin'."

"You say quit it, huh?" Tony remained leaning back, his left arm over the back of the seat. "I got something to say first. I want to know how that kid was put wise to us. How did he come to put those bulls on us?"

"What the hell's gotcha? Losing your nerve just 'cause we got bulls tailin' us?" Pug spoke impatiently.

"I tell you we been framed," Tony said. "That kid knew what was comin', He was just unlucky the cops were slow."

"The Kid told the truth," said Pug angrily. "Gimme that flask."

"Yeh, you believe him. Well, I don't. Somebody tipped the Kid off. That's why those birds are tailin' us right now. Think they'd have a fast car like that just accidentally in that exact spot where we picked the Kid up?"

"Aw forget it," said Pug.

"What I want to know is who tipped the Kid off, see?"

"See here, Tony," Pug said deliber- ately, "what's on your mind? You got the horrors all right."

"Say," Sam cried, "we're losing speed."

There was a faint knock in the purring engine of the Cadillac. The speed dropped appreciably. They peered through the rear window. Down the straight stretch of road they could see plainly the lights of the pursuing car.

"We've been double-crossed!" Tony shouted. "Those bulls'll get us. If I knew who did it I'd shove this gat in his trap and a

"For God's sake, lay off!" Pug interrupted angrily. What's eatin' ya?"

"I know what's eatin' me, you big, dumb, chicken-hearted boob. Killer, they called you?" Tony's voice rose shrilly. "You were sorry for that kid, weren't you? How do I know it wasn't you who tipped him off?"

Pug's hand shot from the darkness of the back seat. Tony's head was dragged back as his collar was twisted about his throat. A hard muzzle drove into his back.

"You wop louse!" Pug's automatic cracked and lead tore into the body of Tony Vitale. The Italian's left arm slithered off the back of the seat. His gray fedora toppled over his eyes as his head fell forward.

"What the hell!" The driver turned with a scared look on his face. Sam's hand caught Pug's wrist and held it. Pug wrenched himself around.

"Let go!" he said threateningly. He grabbed at Sam with his free hand.

"What ya do that for?" gasped Sam.

"No guy talks like that to me an' gets away with it," Pug shouted. "What d'ya think you're doin'? Take your dirty mitts off me!" Vainly he struggled to free his right arm.

"Are you crazy?" panted Sam.

The driver turned.

"Quit that," he cried urgently. 'We'll have to jump for it in a minute."

Sam whipped his right arm free for a second. Before Pug could gain a second grip on the forearm, his hand was under his coat on his left side. Pug tried to turn him so that he could not use the gun on him.

There was a muffled crack. The gun of Sam Giacchino spat from beneath his coat, tearing through the cloth. The bullet grazed Pug's arm. There was a crash of breaking glass as the windshield shattered. The driver pitched over the wheel, a spot of blood on the back of his head.

Pug, with a fierce back-handed swing, freed his right hand and smashed the butt of his automatic into Sam's face. At that moment the Cadillac, tearing blindly along, hit the brick wall of a bridge, end-on.

There was a deafening crash as the car struck, a dull rumble as the brick wall was torn away, the thudding of the bricks falling on the bank below, and the Cadillac rose up, turned over on its side and fell thirty feet onto the rocks.

The road was lit with a blinding glare. The car which had followed so relent- lessly came to a halt with a grinding of rakes. A fur-coated man descended from the back seat and walked to the bank. Lighting a torch and cursing volubly, he clambered down toward the wrecked Cadillac. A man wearing a chauffeur's cap climbed out of the driver's seat of the Rolls-Royce and stood in the road. In a few minutes the first man reappeared.

"Four of them— all dead," he said shortly. 'Damn it, this would happen just when I'm in a hell of a hurry."

"Four more, sir? Blimey, I'd call it a reg'lar massacre," the chauffeur remarked in a broad cockney accent.

"Come on, Johnson," his master said. "We've got to move. Let's get on."

They entered the Rolls, Johnson slipped the clutch in, and they shot off.

"Johnson," said the fur-coated man, as they sped along, "I can't lose any more time. It's a matter of life and death. You'll have to get out at the next town and report this business to the police. Give them one of my cards and tell them I'm on my way to a patient who is dangerously ill. Tell them I'll get in touch with them to-morrow if they want me. Then hand over to them the youngster in the back. Tell them he's shot up badly, but he'll probably pull through if they rush him into the hospital quickly. Tell them I've fixed him up temporarily. D'you understand?"

"Yes, doctor, I'll attend to that. We've 'ad an excitin' ride to-night, 'aven't we?"

__________________

15: The Shilling Reef

Ernest Favenc

1845-1908

Tasmanian 22, 29 Sep 1894

THE English language does not contain sufficient objectionable adjectives to adequately describe old Monson. He was simply a human blister who made  life unbearable, not only for himself but for all those who had the ill fortune to be forced to put up with him. He lived seemingly for one object, to find fault with anything and everything, with anybody and everybody.

The family of this amiable old gentleman consisted of his wife, who took her daily bullying as an unfortunate dispensation of Providence which was not to be evaded, and without which, indeed, she would have felt uncomfortable ; a daughter, who, fortunately for herself, was a chip of the old block and held her own valiantly, having, moreover, the advantage over her father of a woman's greater fluency of speech; there was also a son, adrift in the world somewhere, for, after putting up with his irascible parent for many stormy years, Tom Monson had shaken the dust of his childhood's home from off his feet, and that home knew him no more. He had faded away into that vague region known as 'up country,' but whenever a bank was stuck up, or a particularly notorious swindle perpetrated, old Monson always informed his wife that the culprit was their son Tom under a false name. This was a very ingenious mode of torture, for if there was anything in the world the poor woman had left to cling to, it was Tom, or his memory.

Cornelia Monson was by no means a bad-looking girl, although, as before stated, she inherited her father's temper in addition to the share Nature had bestowed on her by right of sex; consequently she did not want for admirers. Tom having been cast into outer darkness, it seemed fairly patent that Cornelia would eventually come in for the old man's money, which was reported to be considerable. So many bold men ignored the obvious fact that the young lady had the makings of a very pretty spitfire in her, and laid siege to the affections of Miss Monson. As the damsel was not in possession of what is popularly supposed to be a heart, it came about that the favoured suitor was an elderly widower of means, a man after her father's own views, a recommendation sufficient to condemn anybody. Her mother's opinion was not asked in the matter

Everybody who knew Monson predicted that he would depart this life in a fit induced by an outbreak of temper, and for once what everybody  said nearly came true. Cornelia had been married nearly six months, when a stranger called one morning at Monson's office and intimated a wish to see that gentleman. He was a sunburnt, keen-eyed man of sinewy' build, who gave his name as Hazel.

'I have the pleasure of knowing your son Tom,' he said, when seated opposite Monson.

'Then, sir, I cannot compliment you on the choice of your acquaintances, retorted the old man, fiercely. 'If he owes you any money you won't get it out of me, I can assure you.'

His visitor was quite unmoved.

'Tom does not owe me any money; on the contrary, I owe him my life,  which he once saved at considerable risk to himself. I was led to understand that your opinion of him was a most unjust one, and that you were quite undeserving of such a son; but for all that I have come here to say what I intend to say.'

'Did that disgraceful scamp dare to insinuate that I did not deserve to have a son like him?' bellowed Monson.

'I say so,' returned Hazel, 'but keep quiet; an old man like you should know how to behave himself.'

Monson choked with ire, and stared at the cool intruder with eyes nearly   starting from their sockets. The other leaned forward in his chair and shook an audacious forefinger at him.

'Tom is as fine a young fellow as there is in Australia, and I am here to-day without his knowledge, for he is far too proud to approach you himself.'

'Finish what you have to say, quick!' gasped Monson.

'Tom would be on my place now; but I have suffered the fate of many more, and my station has been foreclosed on.'

'I am delighted to hear it,' interrupted his listener.

Hazel went on unheeding. 'We are now off together to try our luck at the new gold-fields in Western Australia, and, as you may suppose, cash is not too plentiful. Considering that your son has never received anything from you but unmerited abuse, I think it is only just that you should open your heart, or your cheque book, which I presume to be the same thing, to the amount of a hundred or two, to give him a start. I undertake to say that if things turn up trumps, he will pay you with interest.'

'You undertake to say! A bankrupt squatter! Now, listen to me; if you have quite finished.'

Hazel intimated, with perfect calmness, that he had.

'Then all I have to answer to your insolent request is, that if Tom were waiting for the rope at the foot of the gallows, and a hundred or two would save him, I would not find it. He was a disobedient, rebellious fool from his boyhood. This is what I will do,' he went on, with somewhat unnatural calmness. He paused, took a shilling from his pocket and laid it on the table, Hazel looking on with a scornful smile. 'Give him this, all he shall ever have from me, unless'— and once more he paused and laughed, harshly and discordantly— 'unless be can turn this shilling into a couple of thousand pounds with in twelve months. I will put a clause in my will that, if by the aid of this shilling he can make two thousand pounds within the next twelve months, I will leave him all I die possessed of.'

Hazel picked up the coin.

'I had not intended to tell Tom of my visit, nor what a low brute you have become. Now I will, and give him this'— and he put the shilling in his pocket. 'I have not yet told you that your son is married and has a child— your grandchild. It was to get some ready money to leave with his wife that I made this application.'

He stopped and looked hard at the other; but in the sullen, scowling face of the old man there was no sign of relenting.

'I dare say, went on Hazel, 'that I can fix things up financially without ' your assistance, although I am only a bankrupt squatter. It is lucky that I am not your son instead of easy-going Tom; for I would take you by the scruff of the neck and shake you until the money jumped out of your breeches' pocket.'

Speechless with fury, Monson lifted his fist, and brought it down with a crash on the little hand-gong.

'Turn this man out !' he roared to the clerk, who came hastily in. The clerk smiled sadly, and, glancing at the stranger, rubbed his hands apologetically, as if he did not quite understand the order in a literal sense.

Hazel laughed. 'Good morning, 'Mr Monson. You'll go off in a fit one of these days if you don't keep your temper under,' he said, as he walked out of the room.

Then Monson let loose the vials of his wrath upon all and sundry of his dependents, and when he had cursed them to a standstill . he went but and ate a hearty luncheon.

Next he visited his lawyers, and finally, when he went home in the evening, he had the fit that everybody had long predicted. All through a weary night he fought with death, at intervals vainly trying to say something, to utter words his disobedient tongue refused to form. As nobody could understand the strange language that came bubbling inarticulately from his lips, nor read the unmeaning strokes; and dashes his useless fingers tried to write, his message remained undelivered until the morning, when Death let him off for a time

A very different Monson got up out of the bed where he had had such a tussle for his life. True, his fits of rage were worse than ever, but that was because he found his memory failing. Sometimes he could not remember from the morning to the afternoon, and at other times he was quite his old self again. Gradually his son-in-law, the man after his own heart, and not very far off his own age, slipped into his place in the office, and by the time the next fit came, and Death was the victor, had pretty well got the reins of power into Iris hands.

Mrs Monson had positively kept a secret from her husband during the last months of his existence, for she had actually seen Tom when he was in Sydney with Hazel, and not alone that, but had made the acquaintance of Tom's wife and taken a great liking to the girl, and never mentioned it to her husband. The secret was also at first jealously guarded from Cornelia, as well as the fact of Mrs Tom's residence in Sydney. For Cornelia was rapidly developing into one of the shrewest of shrews— a feminine reproduction of her father, as her husband, the more than middle-aged Mr Witton, knew, to his cost.

When Monson's will was brought to light the curious clause last inserted relative to Tom caused some discussion. The old man had made a fair provision for his widow, the bulk of his fortune going to Cornelia, provided that absurd last clause was not fulfilled. Witton treated the matter scornfully, as something that could be easily set aside on the plea of unsound mind, but his lawyers were not very hopeful. Nay, they were so unkind as to point out that if Tom heard of the will and his father's death he might find an unscrupulous speculator to advance the necessary two thousand pounds; and this, with a plausible story, might necessitate a compromise at any rate.

This made Witton and his Cornelia very uneasy, and they prayed earnestly that Tom might be located beyond the reach of any news of any sort. Judge, then, of Cornelia's dismay when she found out, by accident, that not only was there a Mrs Tom and son in Sydney, but that the traitress— her own mother— was on terms of close friendship with the enemy. Needless to say their efforts at secrecy had all been thrown away, as Mrs Monson, senior, had told Mrs Monson, junior, everything; and, of course Mrs Monson, junior, had written to her husband all about his father's, death and last will and testament.

Having been told to hold her tongue for thirty years of her life, Mrs Monson, senior, had, on becoming independent, developed hitherto, undreamed of resources of garrulous loquacity. Her loose tongue revealed the existence of Mrs Tom to her daughter, and Cornelia's keen cross-examination did the rest. The Wittons had a very uneasy time of it, and nobody ever more ardently desired Time to hurry up his hour-glass than did this worthy couple.

ii

ONE glorious star blazed in the east, killing with its brilliancy the lesser lights around— the star of Lucifer, the beautiful, radiant forerunner of the morn. Underneath it the horizon was brightening with the first cold, grey light of dawn, soon to change to warmer tints of pink and glowing scarlet.

In the growing light the silhouette of a low range was visible, a square topped range cleft here and there with jagged rifts. This vanished as the sun rose, and when daylight grew strong nothing was to be seen but the hazy line that marked the limit of sight on what appeared to be a boundless plain. An unhealthy-looking plain. A plain which seemed to have been afflicted with the mange, for spinifex grew on it in patches only, leaving naked, pebbly spots uncovered with any growth. Two men who had been riding during the late watches of the night looked weariedly at the desolate outlook before them.

'How far do you reckon that range is we saw just now?' said Tom Monson.

'Between twenty and thirty miles,' returned Hazel.

'It's a bare chance that we may get a rock-hole there, but it's ten chances to one that our horses give in first.'

He looked anxiously around as he spoke. Suddenly his gaze became! fixed on one point, and with, an exclamation he drew his companion's attention to a column of smoke rising, apparently, only a few miles away.

'White smoke by Jove! That means, grass; spinifex always burns black,' said Hazel after regarding it for a few minutes.

'May be only niggers travelling,' suggested Tom.

'Possibly, but there may be a dip in the country which prevents us seeing the timber, if there is any.'

He was right. A short five miles took them over an imperceptible rise, and before them lay some scattered patches of mulga with the filmy white smoke rising from their midst. Here they found a low mound of granite and at its base the remains of what had once been a fine supply of water in a rock hole. So scanty was it now that it barely sufficed to relieve their thirsty horses and fill their water bags. Some blacks had camped there the night before and one of their fires had ignited the short dry mulga grass; fortunately for the two men, who would otherwise not have found the place.

The horses watered and turned out and their meal finished, the two friends discussed the situation.

'If we go on,' said Hazel, 'and get no water at the range we are done for, as there is no more here to help us back.'

'I've brought you awful bad luck, old man,' returned Tom. 'Here we are on our beam ends. We have not made five pounds since we came here, and now this prospecting trip appears likely to put the finish on everything.'

'Don't whip the cat. I don't like turning back, but it is a great fluke to go on.'

'I wonder whether that range we saw is the one the fellows were talking about.'

'What about the fellow coming in with the specimens, and then going out again and never coming back?'

'Yes, he brought in some yarn of a range.'

'Well we must speedily settle the question of going or turning back. Which is it to be?'

'We're dead, broke, so it does not seem much use going back; but, then, our luck is so bad, that we shall probably come to grief if we go on.'

'Let's toss up for it.'

The two looked at each other and burst out laughing.

'We haven't got a coin between us,' said Hazel, as though it were a brilliant joke.

'Stay,' said Tom, gravely, 'I have a coin.'

'What! The shilling!'

'Yes; I have stuck to it.'

'We shan't get much luck out of that; but never mind, up with it. Heads, go on; tails, turn back.'

Tom spun the coin, and it fell jingling on the flat rock.

'Heads it is,' he cried stooping down.

It was a characteristic of the men that as soon as the oracle of chance had decided their movement not another word was said about going back. The horses were soon packed and saddled, the last drop of water scraped out of the hole, and a start made about noon. That night they camped in a scanty patch of scrub, with short commons of water and little feed for their horses; Next morning the low range rose black and forbidding in front of them. Tom seemed depressed by the desolation around, but Hazel was in high spirits.

'I dreamt of your governor last night, Tom. He looked as black as thunder, so I think there's some luck for us ahead,' he said.

By midday they were, at the foot of the range, which was of inconsiderable height, with low scrub growing over most part of it.

'Right or left?' asked Tom, as they sat on their tired-out horses and gazed at the gloomy, lifeless wilderness before them.

'Toss again,' returned Hazel with a reckless laugh.

Tom took out the fateful shilling and clapped it on his thigh.

'Heads, right; tails, left!' cried Hazel.

'Head again,' said Monson, uncovering the coin.

Hazel turned to the right and rode slowly on; skirting the scrub. Tom drove the pack horses after him. On one side a barren desert on the other a stony thicket. So they kept on until the sun sank low, and it was evident that unless they soon came to water their horses would give in.

THE sun was about an hour high when Hazel pulled up and waited for his companion.

'I am going to see if I can get up the range to look around,' he said; 'but I am afraid the scrub is too thick to see anything.'

He dismounted and went into the scrub. Tom sat down and lit his pipe. He had become pretty well acquainted with adversity, but this seemed about, the tightest fix he had yet been in; and the worst of it was that Hazel was in it too. The man who had, stood by him always.

Suddenly a melancholy, wailing note sounded above his head, and there  was the beat of broad wings— wild geese and flying low.

He sprang up, and was just in time to seethe last two or three birds disappear over the scrub. He shouted and called loudly. In about ten minutes Hazel returned.

'Can't get a sight at all,' he said. 'What were you singing out for?'

'A flock of wild geese went overhead; they were flying quite low, in the direction we are going, only a little to the left. I don't believe they were going half-a-mile away; let's go on while it's light.'

'There must be a salt lake about,' returned Hazel, as he mounted and rode on.

Suddenly the scrub rounded away to the left following the range, which, also turned abruptly. Hazel was right, and so were the geese. Before them lay the salt lake, a broad belt of mud with a centre of clear water, which was covered with wild fowl. On one side some desert gums showed where a small creek found its way from the low range to the salt pan, for the lake was little more. In this watercourse they were lucky enough to find a small soakage spring of fresh water, quite sufficient for their wants.

Both men slept the sound sleep of fatigue and relief that night. In the morning Tom, when he returned with the horses, remarked that they were not the first party that had passed the salt pan, as there were old horse tracks about. The range being no distance away, they started for it on foot, so as to make a close examination of it and see if the country was worth 'trying.'

About half a mile from their camp they came to a larger water hole than the one they had struck the night before. Here was also an old, torn tent, still standing, though sadly rent and damaged by the wind. By the look of the tracks, no one had been there for some weeks. The hobbles for two horses were lying on the ground, but neither saddle nor pack horse could be seen. In the tent were a pair of blankets and a good supply of rations; but the surrounding desert held the secret of the mystery of the disappearance. Some unhappy wretch it must have been who, after a long search for fortune, had fallen with the prize within his grasp, for in the tent were several rich  specimens of stone.

'Tom,' said Hazel, 'we have got to stop here until we find where these came from. I think it's a good way off, by the look of the country, but it is evident that this is the nearest water.'

'How about the owner of them?'

'It's too late, I'm afraid, to look for him: it must be weeks since he left this camp.'

THREE WEEKS after that Hazel and Tom were gazing admiringly at some specimens from what promised to turn out one of the richest reefs in the district. In another three weeks the place was alive with men and eager agents of Eastern syndicates were offering large sums for a share in the famous 'Shilling Reef' as it had been named, in honour of the coin with which Monson had cut off his only son.

'Tom,' remarked Hazel, about this time, 'if that stern parent of yours, whom we can afford to laugh at now, really inserted that clause he spoke of, I should imagine that your claim to his property at his death is indisputable.'

Tom, who was slow, looked in enquiry.

'Why, was it not by the aid of that shilling we got here, and dropped on, this reef; and isn't it worth, a good  deal more than two thousand; and the twelve months is not nearly up yet?'

Two days afterwards one of the intermittent mails common to new goldfields arrived, and had received letters which put him in possession of the information that his father was dead, and had inserted the clause in his will.

iii

IT IS ONE of those perverse things so characteristic of this uncertain life that after devoting many busy days and sleepless nights to the accomplishment of one object, another man, by a mere fluke, steps in and snatches the coveted prize from within an inch of our grasp. Certainly, that was the feeling of Mr and Mrs Witton when the fame of the 'Shilling Reef'— considerably exaggerated, of course— was duly wired over to the eastern colonies, together with the names of the discoverers.

Neither of them doubted for an instant that Tom would avail himself of the windfall to claim his inheritance. Already a garbled and distorted story of the romantic finding of the reef and the mysterious fate of the first prospector had gone the rounds of the papers, and the public sympathy would probably be in favour of the disinherited son, should the case ever come into the courts. Even if the most favourable view were taken it would mean an interminable lawsuit, which would swallow up the best part of the estate. Under the circumstances, it was evident that a friendly compromise would be the best thing.

Here, however, they had to reckon with Mrs Tom, whom Cornelia, unfortunately, had treated with contempt and neglect. Naturally she resented the sudden attempt at friendship inaugurated on receipt of the astonishing news from the west, and was evidently determined to use her influence to make Tom insist on his rights. Matters were in this state of doubt when Hazel persuaded Tom to take a trip home, leaving him to stay and watch over the development of their property; and Tom, nothing loth to return a rich man, in prospect, to the spot where he had most undeservedly been exiled, consented. His presence was expected with much anxiety by the people interested.

Three months still had to pass 'ere twelve months from the signing of the clause elapsed when Tom stepped ashore at Sydney, and was received with rejoicing by all his relatives and friends, who quite ignored the previous, cold shoulders they had offered him.

Everything went on smoothly and on greased ways, until a thunderbolt suddenly burst in the shape of a telegram that the original prospector of the 'Shilling Reef' had turned up and laid claim to the ground held by Hazel and Monson. His story was that, in making his way to the nearest camp to report the find, he had lost his way, killed his horses, and nearly died, himself. He had been rescued by some natives, and had lived with them until the rain fell, and he was enabled to get back on foot.

The yarn had a new chum flavour about it that rendered it somewhat unworthy of credence. Under the strong circumstances, the deputy-warden referred the matter to headquarters for consideration, and the result was that, as the twelve, months was drawing to a close, the title to the mine was in dispute. Although there was little doubt as to how the affair would end Tom would not be in a position to say: he was in indisputed possession of two thousand pounds unless the case were speedily decided.

Urged on by the infatuation of greed, the Wittons now scorned the idea of a compromise of any sort, and gave Tom to understand that he was nothing more or less than a daylight robber.

Witton was seated in his office, lording it after the style of the deceased Monson, when Tom was announced. As it was now only a matter of days to the end of the year, he naturally jumped at the idea that Tom had come to beg for a settlement of some sort. But he was rather undeceived when young Monson, whose somewhat sluggish nature could be roused on occasions, strode in with his hat on, and, throwing a telegram on the table, said fiercely—

'There, you infernal scoundrel— look at that!'

Witton took it up with shaking hand, for he guessed, that he had been bowled out, and for good.

'It strikes me that there's something like a good sentence of penal servitude hanging to that,' went on Tom, sternly, regarding his trembling enemy.

OUT at the 'Shilling Reef' Camp Hazel was fuming, and inactively waiting for the expected decision which, of course, could have been given at once, when he was accosted one day by a new-comer on the field, one of his old station hands, who had lately arrived from the East. Jim Blackwell and his mate had been just as unlucky as his former employer at the start, and was what is popularly known as 'dead broke.' He had been years with Hazel in the old days, and naturally the latter at once helped him and advanced him enough to keep him going until times changed.

A few days afterwards he came hastily into Hazel's tent, and, collapsing on to his stretcher, began to laugh as though he had come across the finest joke out. Hazel concluded that he had made a lucky find, and, accordingly asked the question, at the same time becoming conscious that there was an unusual stir and bustle in the camp.

'They going to hang that fellow who claims the reef,' he admitted at last, for he could hardly speak for laughing,

'Hang him— what for?'

'Dick and I spotted him for the first time, this morning. God bless you, he came over in the Australian same time as we did!'

The noise now increased, and Hazel thought it was about time to go out and take a hand.

'It's all right,' said Jim, as they went towards the crowd. 'They only intend to give him a jolly good fright.'

The man had been fool enough to talk big and flourish a revolver, so he had been a little roughly used and his nose was bleeding, which did not improve his personal appearance,although even an innocent man does not always look innocent under the pressure of circumstances. Hazel, whose genial way and open handedness had naturally made him popular in the camp, was hailed with congratulations on his arrival. The culprit, who was without tact, continued to bluster, and accused Hazel of setting the men on to him.

'Divil a tree is there tall enough about here,' said a big Irishman, who might have 'stood' for Terence Mulvaney.

'Let's put him against a tree and practice at him,' suggested another.

'No, I'm bint on the hanging,' returned the Irishman. 'There's a mulga there will about take his toes off the ground.'

Immediately the crowd started for the tree indicated; a sailor struck up a shanty, and the rolling air was taken up by them all as they marched along, the culprit in their midst.

By the time they had reached the tree, the poor devil's tune had quite changed. The Irishman had fixed up a noose on the end of a rope as they went on, and he threw one end over a branch and put the loop round the neck of the man, who was now begging and praying for mercy, and entreating Hazel to save him. Some of the fellows tailed on to the end of the rope, and the Irishman said, 'Wait till I give the word, boys.'

'Suppose we hear what he has to say first?' suggested Hazel, solemnly.

'That would be more satisfactory,' returned the other. ' Sure there may be some more scoundrels mixed up in it. Now make a full confession,' he said to the trembling wretch.

'I was put up to it in Sydney by a man named Witton. He paid my passage, gave me all the details, and found me in money. I was to get a couple of thousand if I could keep the case stringing on for a certain time, on one excuse or the other, I was hard up, and the times are very bad in Sydney, so I did what a good many others would do, in my shoes.'

This was the gist of what he said.

'Is this a true yarn, think you?' said the Irishman to Hazel.

'Yes, it fits in right enough. If they could have kept this trumpery case going for a certain time my mate Monson would have been cheated out of his father's money. This man Witton is his brother-in-law.'

'Then it strikes me as he is the man as should be hanged. What do you say, boys? If he takes an almighty oath to clear straight back to Sydney and bate the life out of old Witton, shall we give him a run for it?'

There was a general assent, and the Irishman was about to let him go, when Hazel asked if the man had enough money to take him back. He had.

'Then be off, and the sooner you're out of this colony the better, for you'll be known from Dundas Hill to Kimberley before very long.'

Amidst a prolonged howl and much noise, the culprit was allowed to pack up his traps and go; and, as there had been a few showers lately, the road was in good travelling order.

This was the substance of the telegram Tom received the morning he confronted his brother-in-law. Needless to say, Witton, after a very brief show of resistance, collapsed and allowed Tom to dictate his own terms, which were far too generous in the eyes of Mrs Monson, junior.

The 'Shilling Reef,' according to latest accounts, is keeping its record and going down in a most satisfactory manner.

George Pichrel was brought up at the Water Police Court, Sydney, for a violent assault on Mr E. L. Witton. The accused pleaded guilty to a common assault, and paid the fine, although the arresting constable stated that the assault was of the most savage character, and that it was with difficulty that he dragged the accused off his victim. The prosecutor, however, expressed himself satisfied.

The newspaper containing the above account was duly forwarded to Hazel, and read with great glee to a select circle in a far off mining camp in Western Australia.

_______________

16: Narcotic Man

Frederick C. Painton

1896-1945

Popular Detective, March 1936

1: Florida Night

IN the utter blackness that preceded moonrise, a small ship's dinghy with muffled oars rowed silently from the flat green key called Laudermer, halfway between Miami and Key West. A thousand yards off-shore the lights of a palatial yacht gleamed warm and friendly, and the man in the stern sheets eyed it enviously, and dreamed of a time he would own such a craft.

The Japanese sailor rowed steadily and presently brought the dinghy alongside the ladder. The passenger mounted swiftly and strode aft where cushioned chairs and lounges inside mosquito netting made a cool spot to rest. A tall arrogant man in spotless white flannels, clutching a drink in his left hand, stared with hard, flaming eyes at the newcomer.

"Anybody spot you, Speed?" His voice was hard, too, brazen with the note of command.

Speed Carstairs put back the hand he had held out.

"You oughta know better than ask that," he rejoined. Without being invited he sat down, and licked his lips. "I could do with a Tom Collins," he muttered.

Bleak Bonner summoned a Jap servitor and ordered the drink.

"All right," he said, "you got down here without being spotted. Swell! Did you have Mason Barr bumped off?"

"Sure, and Red, too." Speed Car- stairs laughed thinly. "Geez, Bleak, Red was a scream. He never knew he was being taken for a ride until I put the heater under his nose."

The Jap came with the drink, and he waited until the man had retired.

Carstairs smiled again, his eyes slitted. "Red gives a yell and says, 'God, you ain't doin' this to me. I ain't never done anything but play straight with Bleak.' "

He sipped his drink. Bleak Bonner, lips flat and cruel, waved an impatient hand. "Get on with it."

"Well, like you said, I told him he was being bumped because he sold the junk to Mason Barr. And the dumb cluck didn't get it even then. I had to explain to him that you had him down here to go to Cuba and buy morphine and not to sell it. And selling it to a rich kid like Barr, uncut, was just like telling the G-men we were in the dope business."

Carstairs drank again and smacked his lips with relish. "Well, Red says, 'I only made one mistake like that.' And I says, 'one's enough,' and let him have it. I dumped his body out in Van Cortlandt Park and there was never a police kick-back."

STILL Bleak Bonner did not relax. In all his years of smuggling this was the first slip-up and his cunning mind wanted to be sure he was not involved. He had made two million dollars running dope and had yet to see the inside of a jail.

"Did the G-men get to him before you shut him up?" he asked.

"Hell, no! I glommed him the minute he stepped off the train from Miami."

"Good enough." Bleak Bonner permitted himself a mirthless smile. "Now, about Mason Barr— did you follow my orders?"

"Posilutely," grinned Carstairs in open admiration. "And there's another laugh. It's rich, I tell you. Mason Barr died while he was talking to that G-man, Duffy Kildare. The way I put it together is this: when Barr's mother got after him to lay off the drug, she learned that he had bought the stuff here. You knew that; that's why you wanted Barr bumped. Well, the kid sends for the G-man, Kildare, and he comes. The kid is nuts for a shot of junk. Like you told me I gave him the poison deck. So while the G-man is looking on, the kid loads his syringe and pushes the plunger."

Carstairs found that funny and laughed heartily. "And by God, with Kildare watching him, the cyanide of potassium kills him in five minutes. And those stupid clucks are wondering yet how we got to him."

To his surprise the joke didn't strike Bleak Bonner as funny. He jumped to his feet and began to pace the deck.

"There was a slip there," he muttered. "Carstairs, you didn't get at Barr soon enough. He told Kildare he bought that junk right here in Laudermer."

"Naw? On the level?"

"Do you think I'd rib at a time like this?" snarled Bonner. "Duffy Kildare is in Laudermer— has been here for a week."

Carstairs put down his drink with a crash. "My God, Kildare here— in Florida? That means he's onto our scheme." He turned pale.

"No, he isn't." Bonner shook his head. "But he suspects we're running morphine from Cuba in here. He doesn't know how. More important, he doesn't know how we get it north to New York." Bonner's arrogant eyes flashed contemptuously. "And he'll never know that. I defy any G-man to uncover that scheme."

"Right," said Carstairs. "But listen, Bleak, we ought to give him the works before he uncovers anything at all."

Bonner returned to his chair and sank back. "I'd thought about that," he went on in a calmer voice, "but it's no dice. Not yet anyway."

"Why?"

"I've been having him watched," said Bonner. "And if he gets too hot why, we'll put the heat on him and pull out. But listen"— he leaned forward tensely— "listen, Speed, I've got a half million bucks worth of morphine ashore tonight. The biggest lot I've ever shipped. If it gets through I stand to clean a million. And if I get that I'm stopping— quitting— going to the Riviera or some place and enjoy my dough."

"A half million," Carstairs repeated in awe. "Geez, you lay it heavy on the line."

"I'm running it out tonight," said Bonner. "So unless Kildare interferes with that shipment I'm letting him alone."

Carstairs drained his drink. He shivered and his face was slightly pale. "A big risk, Chief. Kildare's smart. He's the best the G's got."

"He isn't as smart as I am," said Bonner contemptuously. "He—"

He broke off sharply and again jumped to his feet. "Martha!" he cried. "What are you doing here?"

A girl, slim, dripping with water that made her thin dress cling softly to the lovely lines of her figure, came across the deck like some mermaid arisen from the sea. She had piles of yellow hair, straight blue eyes and even now she was beautiful enough to make Carstairs breathe appreciation.

Carstairs laughed. "Bleak, you sure supply all the comforts of home. If she's for me—"

"Shut up!" snapped Bonner. He smiled at the girl, trying to keep the hard mercilessness from his face. "Martha, you didn't swim through that water! Why the sharks, the barracuda—"

"I came that way because if any one in Laudermer knew I was on this yacht alone with you they'd kill you tomorrow," she rejoined calmly. She regarded him fearlessly, her rounded breast rising and falling with her swift breathing.

"Well," laughed Bonner, "at least let me get you a robe, and have your clothes dried."

"I'm' warm enough, and I don't intend to stay," she told him. "I came to tell you that unless you let my brother alone I'm going to the police with what I know about you."

Mentioning her brother, Martha Harmon's voice faltered. She loved her brother, adored him. They were twins, and between them was a psychic bond that made one's happiness the other's. This trouble that made him fearful, made her fearful. To save her brother Billy from this unknown rich man who had threatened him, she had swum the perilous water.

The smile was wiped off Carstairs' face. And even the supremely arrogant Bleak Bonner grew grim.

"You know nothing about me, Martha," he said.

"I know you're a crook," she said,

"I know that you've got Billy involved in a most horrible business—  innocently involved. And when he found out the truth and wanted to quit, you threatened to murder him. He told me that today. He had just found out what a frightful beast you are. Selling drugs to people to kill them." She shuddered. "You're worse than a beast— you're not fit to live!"

Carstairs and Bonner exchanged glances. Carstairs' hand vanished inside his coat where a gun was holstered.

"And so," Bonner said softly— too softly, "you risked your life to swim out here and tell me you knew I was a narcotic smuggler and to leave your brother alone."

HER lips tightened. "Yes, I did just that. And to get your promise to let him go away tomorrow and not to harm him. If you do that I shan't say anything to the police."

"Considerate of you," said Bonner. "Very well, I promise to leave him alone after tomorrow. Does that suit you?"

Her tense lovely face did not relax. "Yes, that's all. I'll go now."

She turned silently toward the taff-rail over which she had clambered. Bonner's eyes found Carstairs' snake orbs and he nodded. Swift as a cat Carstairs leaped for the girl. He clapped one hand over her mouth, held her helpless with the other. Bonner disappeared for a second and returned with a rope and gag. He bound her thoroughly himself.

"I'm afraid, my dear Martha," he sneered, "that despite the conventions, you'll have to stay on this boat until tomorrow— perhaps many tomorrows after that."

The two men took the limp girl down to the main owner's cabin and locked her in. They returned to the deck with black looks.

Carstairs snarled: "You're in a jam, Bonner! This brother of hers— what does he do?"

"He's the front for running the junk," glumly said Bonner. "I intended to bump him before I left. Nothing rough. A chain tied to him and thrown overboard beyond Moccasin Reef. I'm not fretting about him. It's her."

Carstairs grinned evilly. "You could take her to Cuba. They like white girls there."

Bonner smiled. "So they do. But I"— he stared pensively at Carstairs— "I sort of like her myself." He stirred uneasily. "Met her when I took on her brother for a front. I played on the level. Speed. She's got what those other women haven't. Well," he sighed, "I'll have to think about how she can be arranged. She—"

A sharp yell rang out from amidships. A shot roared and a shrill scream followed.

Bleak Bonner leaped up, his face blanched yellow. Carstairs hit the deck with a snub-nosed automatic in his hand.

"What's that?" he snarled.

Bonner shook his hand. A pearl-handled automatic was gripped in his right hand.

"Something's screwy, Carstairs, but by God, I'm telling you I'll shoot my way to selling that half-million load of junk north! They'll not stop me! Come on!"

Stealthily they moved, yet hurriedly, toward the spot from whence the scream had come.

2 Midnight Attack

DUFFY KILDARE came down through the late afternoon sun to the Laudermer station of the Florida East Coast Railroad. On a siding were a dozen cattle cars and the air was furious with the sounds of baaing, as frightened sheep were forced from a corral into the cars. Three Negroes were urging them on with whips.

They glared suspiciously at Kildare as he passed them. So, too, did the young man in riding boots who apparently was supervising the loading. Even the stationmaster stared with dislike at Kildare as he asked for his telegram.

It had been that way during the entire week, an active yet passive hatred. It was making Kildare's mission doubly difficult, for he could get no aid from these crackers. They were all fishermen, native conchs, and they were all bootleggers of liquor from Bimini, Nassau, and Cuba when chance offered. They feared and hated any outsider.

"Yeah, they's a telegram," said the stationmaster, "but it don't make no sense to me."

"That's too bad," said Kildare, putting out a freckled, red-haired hand for it. "The next time I'll tell them to use words you know."

The stationmaster did not get the satire. He grunted, deliberately turned his back. Kildare stood for a space, holding the coded message. In three years four million dollars worth of dope had come through this section to be distributed around the United States, making crooks and suicides, murderers and broken hearts. He loathed narcotic runners. He had given all his clever brain to this task, and so far he had but one clue and that not a good one. One little clue and the presence of a palatial yacht named the Pledicum that should not be here in the hurricane season.

He sighed silently and mentally decoded the telegram. It was from Richard Carle, bureau chief of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in New York under whom Kildare was working.

RED BISHOP'S BODY FOUND VAN CORTLANDT PARK STOP TWENTY DECKS UNCUT HEROIN FOUND SEWN IN HIS CLOTHES STOP FLORIDA TAN AND TICKET STUB STOP LAUDERMER IS WHERE DOPE IS COMING IN STOP ARE YOU TAKING A VACATION OR WHAT I WANT RESULTS AND QUICK.

CARLE.

Kildare swore and ripped the telegram to pieces.

"Eight other agents tried to crack this case and flopped," he muttered, "and he wants me to walk in and break it in a week."

Nonetheless, he was disturbed. The murder of Red Bishop closed out the hope the G-men had of getting another clue to the head of the narcotic ring. It put the case right up to Kildare.

With no other clue his mind went back to the yacht. Bleak Bonner was aboard it. Rumors were thick about Bonner. His income tax statements showed money made in the stock market. But the stock market records showed money lost. Where, then, was he getting his money?

On a sudden impulse Kildare walked over to the youth in the white linens who was watching the loading of the cars.

"They tell me you've got an outboard motor and a row boat I can rent, Harmon," he said. "I'll pay you ten dollars a day."

The youth, good-looking in a sullen way, scowled. "I don't want to rent it," he said briefly.

Always this surly rebuff from the natives. Young Bill Harmon looked as if he had more sense than the rest, seemed hardly the type to be mixed up in rum running. But he, too, suspected an outsider. Why?

"Your sister has a boat— how about hers?" Kildare asked.

"You quit talking about my sister," cried the youth in sudden passion. "She don't want anything to do with you. I don't want her talking to you any more, or taking walks."

His sudden rage surprised Kildare, but only for a moment. Martha Harmon and this boy were twins. Between. them was almost jealous love and sensitiveness. He saw also the sullen unhappiness of the boy. Could he be mixed in this case somewhere?

It was something to speculate about, at any rate. At the moment, his mind made up to slip aboard the yacht and have a talk with Bleak Bonner, he went in search of a small boat. By the time he found one, it was after dark and the moaning wind presaged a storm.

The old conch said: "Twenty dollars a day, suh, and I don't care a damn if you rent her or not. What you-all want with her anyways. 'Tain't no time for fishin'."

"Maybe I want to look at the ocean in the moonlight," Kildare grinned.

"Well, you-all won't look twice, no suh. That wind don't sound like you'll go far."

"That's my business," said Kildare shortly. He took his seat in the stern, wound the cranking rope around the outboard motor top, and yanked it. The motor, for a wonder, caught at once, and with his hand on the tiller, he set off through the darkness toward Moccasin Creek off the mouth of which the yacht lay moored.

When he neared the key in the lee of which the yacht was anchored, he shut off the outboard, took the single oar and with that guided the boat along the tide flow so that presently the yacht's bow loomed over him.

HE floated to her as silently as the water itself. Just as silently, he made the painter fast to the anchor chain and let the boat drift until it bumped gently against the yacht's side. By reaching up he could just grasp the scuppers. He made some noise, drawing himself up, but it apparently went unheard, for when he stood, a moment later, on the deck, he could hear no sound save the soft music of a radio aft.

In the darkness he grinned at the temerity of his plan. Though he realized how desperate it was.

"I haven't got a thing on Bonner," he told himself, peering into the darkness. "He can shoot me dead for invading his privacy this way without a search warrant. But if my hunch is right he won't, and the last words that poor devil Mason Barr spoke may make this guy show his hand."

Those last words of Mason Barr, before he was murdered by pumping cyanide of potassium into his own veins, were Kildare's single clue. That and his knowledge that Bonner was arrogant, egotistical, a man believing fully in himself.

He went forward catlike, until, past the bridge, he found a companionway. Gun in hand, he stole softly toward midships. Abruptly, out of the galley, stepped the Jap valet. The Jap gave a startled yell.

Then, as Kildare raised his gun, the man, instead of putting up his hands, yelled and charged. Deliberately Kildare fired over the valet's head and as the Jap plunged at him he brought his left hand around in a pivoting hook that smashed the fist sharply against the Jap's jaw. The valet went down and never moved.

KILDARE pocketed his pistol and strode toward the owner's deck aft. He ran straight into Bleak Bonner and Carstairs, coming on the run with drawn guns.

"Raise 'em!" snarled Carstairs.

"Sure," Kildare grinned. "How are you, Speed? You, too, Bonner?"

Bleak Bonner's face was pale, and little muscles along his jaw line quivered.

"Duffy Kildare!" he muttered.

"Why not?" murmured Kildare. He held his hands up while Bonner, making sure not to get in the line of fire, took away the G-man's automatic.

It was a minute or so before Bonner regained his composure. Kildare stood there bland, impassive. He was making his bluff; it now remained to see who called.

"You've no right aboard here, you know that," snarled Bonner.

"Just looking for dope," said Kildare, easily. "By the Lord, Bonner, I've got to hand it to you. Whatever your scheme for running, it's foolproof. This was just a last desperate gamble I took— coming here to look over this yacht myself. I might have known that a guy with your brain wouldn't have junk aboard his own boat."

Bonner was rapidly regaining his confidence. He even smiled, but in a deadly way.

"Come on aft," he invited. "I'll buy a drink."

Carstairs stared at his boss, whispered in an aside: "God, Chief, have you gone nuts?"

"Shut up," snarled Bonner, "I'm handling this."

He led the way to the soft divans so luscious in the cool of the evening breeze.

Kildare sank down on one. "You do yourself well, Bonner," he murmured. "I wonder how many murders, suicides and robberies your morphine caused that you can afford to live like this."

"I suppose," said Bonner, easily, "that you are acquainted with the word, 'libel'?"

"Yeah?" Kildare lit a cigarette. He glanced up. "By the way, Bonner, that was a clever way you had to kill Mason Barr. And Carstairs, your chief gun, did a good job on Red. No clues at all."

"Who says anything like that?" snarled Bonner. He sat, watchful, but Kildare, looking into the man's eyes, read an uncertainty. Bonner didn't know how to take this, he couldn't make up his mind what should be his next move. Kildare decided to help him.

"Too bad you didn't kill Barr earlier. He gave the play away."

"That's a lie! He couldn't give away anything that isn't so."

"No?" Kildare leaned suddenly forward, mouth flat, eyes flaming.

"All right," he ripped. "He didn't know anything, eh? Well, what did he mean by crying, as he was dying, 'Wool! Wool!' He should have given that cyanide by mouth, Bonner, not by hypodermic. That was a slight error— he could speak two words."

Bonner bounded from his chair. The gun in Carstairs' hand wobbled.

"He said that?" cried Bonner.

"I'm telling you."

Kildare leaned back nonchalantly. He had pulled his bluff and he hadn't been called. Young Barr, in his dying tremors had cried, "Wool," but the word had meant nothing to Kildare. It didn't mean anything to him now. But it meant something to Bonner! And Kildare was certain these two rats suspected him of knowing more than he did. His bluff had worked.

Bonner's fingernails drummed on the chair. "Then you were lying when you said you didn't know how I ran the dope— eh? This is a pinch?"

"It's a pinch," nodded Kildare. "Narcotic smuggling. Life for you in Atlanta instead of on this yacht, Bonner. I've got a boat moored forward. We can all three go in that."

He rose to his feet, grinning at Carstairs. "Shooting a G-man is hanging, Speed. Better put up the rod."

Calmly he backed toward the short steps that led to the forward runway, wondering what he would do if they actually did tamely surrender.

He had no proof except their tacit admissions.

Helplessly Carstairs looked at Bonner, his finger quivering on the trigger. But Kildare had guessed right. Bonner broke.

He came bounding out of his chair, seized Kildare's arms and held them tightly.

"Tie him, Speed," he panted. "By God, I know what we can do."

Kildare struggled, but the two men, both powerful and desperate, bore him down. A moment later he was securely bound. They picked him up by head and heels and carried him down to the cabin.

"Tell Mike to get under way at once!" shouted Bonner.

"Why? Why not give it to him now?" cried Speed Carstairs.

"You sap! Do as I say! We'll drop him on one of the uninhabited keys the way the smugglers used to do with the Chinese when the coast guard cutters caught them. He'll die there quickly enough."

Bonner stepped back, smiling very cruelly. "You spoke your piece, Kildare. You know what wool means. Well, tell it to the sea gulls on a lonesome key." He laughed. "There isn't even fresh water on some of those keys and you'll be a few days dying."

3: Kildare Moves

KILDARE was stuffed into a berth in a lall cabin. His bonds hurt, and he was bitterly aware of the capstan forward taking up the anchor. He had time now to weigh what he had discovered. Bonner, of course, was the king dope smuggler of the United States, something the F. B. I. had wanted to know for years. Kildare also knew now exactly how the dope was ingeniously distributed to peddlers up north. But he had to get ashore to prove it. And he knew his chances of ever doing that were slim. Bonner was a killer. But, somehow, he must escape.

Struggling with the ropes that bound him, he became aware of a sobbing breathing from across the darkened cabin.

"Hello," he said, "Who's there?"

He heard a muffled sound. "Gagged," he muttered, "and a female or I'm a liar."

He gave a sudden lurch of his body that tumbled him off the built- in berth. He rolled over and over on the floor finally to come up on his knees alongside the opposite berth.

"Listen, whoever you are," he said. "Your hands, like mine, are bound behind you. Swing around and .get your back to me. Twist your hands so your fingers are free. Good. Now— feel my hands? Get working on those knots. As soon as I'm free we'll give these rats a going over."

Something in his voice, cheer-y in despite of danger, galvanized the girl. Her nimble fingers worked on the knots better than a man's could have done. Kildare could feel them, warm, sure, picking, pulling while he contracted his muscles to give her as much room as possible. It was arduous work. His knees hurt. He ached all over. Every second he expected Bonner or his chief gun, Carstairs, to come in and ruin the last chance But they were getting the ship under way, and the two prisoners were left alone. At the end of ten minutes, just as the yacht began to quiver to the thud of the engines, the last knot fell away, Kildare had his fingers free. He unloosed his legs, felt over the soft, still damp form of the girl, took off the gag and her bonds.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Martha Harmon," came the low thrilling voice. "Who are you?"

Duffy Kildare felt a sweep of joy warm him. For five days he had watched and talked to this lovely girl, and had liked her better than any he had known until now.

Now they were sharing a common peril. Every ounce of his courage was brought to the crisis.

He said simply, "I'm Duffy Kildare— you called me a tourist."

"But what are you doing here?" she hesitated, went on with a rush: "You— you— are you a detective?"

"Federal Bureau of Investigation. How did you get here?"

For a moment she did not answer, then suddenly a sob tore her. "I can't tell you! I must not! It would mean—" She stopped short.

But Kildare could guess. Her brother, then, was a part of the drug syndicate, as he had surmised. A minor tool, perhaps, but still guilty of the heinous crime of smuggling narcotics. Kildare was hurt, hurt clear through at that realization. But G-men have to take heartbreaks along with danger of death. He stiffened as he helped her off the berth, and felt around in the darkness for some kind of a weapon. His lips set grimly.

"You mean your brother is mixed in this— smuggling business?" he said.

She clung to him, hands gripping his arms. "He didn't know!" she whispered fiercely. "He thought they— he— Bonner— just wanted to back him in raising sheep. He never knew what they wanted to use him for until lately. Then he tried to break away and Bonner threatened to kill him. That's why I came here tonight— to beg for Billy's safety."

Kildare continued to grope for the weapon. Martha pulled at him. "If I help you, please don't take Billy! Promise me— promise! Please, for my sake—"

He pushed away her arm. "My job is to catch dope smugglers," he muttered harshly. "Let the courts decide Billy's innocence."

She fell away, a sob in her throat. His hand discovered a walking stick, light, but some sort of a weapon at last. He whispered to her:

"Let's go— we can swim ashore. My boat's cut adrift by now."

She followed him, begging no more, but somehow dangerous in her very silence. They moved along the companionway, and so to the amidships stairway to the deck. They encountered no one; apparently the crew were getting the ship turned about. By the sound of the engines Kildare knew the ship was barely under way. His hopes mounted. Tonight he would break this case and amaze Carle. This yacht could not put to sea so far that a revenue cutter could not overhaul it, take the smugglers.

Kildare had reached the deck, preparatory to slipping over the side. He turned to aid the girl. Suddenly the lights on the deck blazed high; a voice shouted. Some one else yelled.

"Kildare! He's getting away!" howled Carstairs.

HE fired above from the bridge twenty feet away. The sheet of flame lit his face, savage with hatred and fear. But his bullet ricocheted bluely off the taffrail.

Kildare never knew how Carstairs missed. But he did. Swiftly the G-man seized the girl, threw her into the water. Carstairs fired again and a swift burn of pain swept Kildare's legs midway between his hips and knees.

"Get him!" Carstairs yelled.

His gun roared four times in quick succession, but Kildare wasn't there. With all his strength he had leaped as a broad-jumper leaps, squarely out into the night. He struck the water all of a heap. He went down, straightened out, swam downward, knowing that his life depended on staying under as long as possible.

The salt water burned in the wound across his legs. His lungs began to swell; his ears to roar; he was suffocating. He had to have air. Blindly he fought downward through the soft, warm water. His arms refused to carry him any farther. He had to have air. His body screamed for it. And almost without his volition his head popped out and his agonized lungs exhaled with a hiss as he gulped in air. He was yards away from the yacht, but the outgoing tide was sweeping Kildare toward it. He saw faces at the taffrail. Heard a yell: "There he is!"

A rifle cracked and the slug hit the water, only a few feet away. He went down again. Came up after a lesser period. They were yelling for a boat to be lowered. They were coming after him.

He heard Bonner's shout; "We've got to get him, if we run him to Key West!"

He dove and swam under water a few strokes, emerged, and paddling with one hand got off his shoes, got out of his coat, tore off his shirt, stripping himself to shorts.

While he was doing this a form came out of the darkness. He could follow it plainly by the phosporescent glow of its movements, and knew, with dismay, that his own progress through the water could be similarly traced.

"Are you all right?" panted Martha's voice.

"Yes," he said. "Let's get going!"

She swam strongly, tirelessly, born to the water apparently, and man though he was, he could scarcely keep up with her strong breast stroke. Behind them the boats put off, and flashlights began to scan the water. Worse, the yacht's searchlight suddenly blazed and with a dazzling finger of radiance began to comb the water. Eventually every square yard of water near the yacht would be searched.

Kildare swam on, knowing the slimness of their chances, but not thinking of the risk. Here, under the shelter of the keys the pellucid water was flat as a mill pond. Twice he saw the phosphorus stirred by a swift long, torpedo-shaped body. Sharks! Or, what was as bad, barracuda! But the girl kept on, calling back: "Sand sharks. They'll not bother you."

"Let 'em!" Kildare said. "We've got to get ashore."

SHE made no reply. Their long strokes had taken them into the waters out of the range of the searchlight, but it was playing about, dangerously near. The small boats were searching about. He could hear the splash of oars.

Suddenly a small bulk loomed close ahead in the darkness, and Kildare heard a gasped ejaculation from the girl as she spurted ahead. He saw her white arm reach up and grasp the dark bulk, realized with a thrill of exultation what it was. His own small boat that had been cut loose from the yacht and was adrift! The girl had caught its gunwale and as he saw her draw herself up he exulted again, remembering he had shipped his oars.

The next minute he, too, was alongside, his hand reaching out, but Martha held him off with an oar.

"Duffy Kildare?" she said tersely.

"Yes," he muttered, realizing how he was tiring, wondering what the girl was about.

"I'm the only one who can get you to shore. You can't possibly swim the distance, and the wind's coming up strong."

"And so what?" he said, trying to make a grab at the oar that held him off.

"You promise to save my brother from jail, or I'll row away and leave you. Leave you to the barracuda or for that swine, Bonner, to kill."

Kildare kept his arms pushing the water. He said nothing. She dipped an oar, the small boat moved a little.

"Do you hear me?" Her voice was tense, frantic. "You'll die out here! They'll kill you or you'll drown. You can't get ashore without me. Promise, and I'll get you there and they won't get you. Spare Billy!"

Kildare swam on. His mouth was set; his eyes flashing.

"Answer me," she whispered passionately.

"Go on," he said grimly. "I'm an F. B. I. man. It's my job to crack a case, and not to pass judgment on who's guilty or innocent. Your brother is a party to this junk racket. And if I get ashore I'll pinch him."

"Then die, you fool," she panted.

"Well, a man can't live forever," he answered. "Go on, peddle your papers."

She rowed away in the darkness and left him alone.

4: Night Battle

HE was tiring fast. Only because the water was warm could he go on. But it was warm water that was dangerous, for the flesh wound on his legs bled steadily. That was why he was so tired. He kept wondering why the small boats, hunting around, did not see him. He did not know that fish, feeding at night on the surface, also made bright phosphorus glows, and that he had never really been seen since he left the shipside.

His chief thought was that if he swam with the tide rip against his left cheek he would reach shore.

But that he would make it he began to doubt. A rotten shame, too, when he knew the secret of the greatest narcotic smuggling idea of the century.

Nor did he know that in swimming away from the small boats he was heading for the Gulf of Mexico. The two boats, manned by a desperate, frantic Bonner and a cool killer, Carstairs, were going toward shore, hunting for him in that direction. So as the minutes passed he was heading for a thousand miles of empty ocean.

He swam less now, floating on his back, kicking his feet and waggling his hands. It was terrible how tired a man could get. And the warm water was lethargic.

Suddenly, floating on his back, he rolled over, alertly alarmed. A small splash had come from almost directly beside him. He raised a hand to lash out, stopped as the girl's face, framed with hair like sea weed was limned above the greenish unearthly glow of the water as she leaned over the gunwale of the small boat.

"I couldn't," she sobbed. "I couldn't leave you. Not even for Billy."

Kildare made a sound in his throat. She was a swell girl after all! His heart pitied her, too, while his brain told him he'd pinch her brother even if it meant life for the youngster. A G-man had to think that way. He let her help him as he clambered exhausted into the boat. Soundlessly dipping her oars, she set off in the opposite direction to which he had been swimming. But he thought he knew she had not been far away at any time, there in the darkness.

"Stout girl," he muttered. He knew then how much he could and did think of this girl. But it would do him no good. She'd never look at a guy who had sent her brother to Atlanta.

He was more tired than he had known. A deadly lassitude made him powerless to help Martha with the oars, know little until he felt the boat bump on the sands.

Kildare's arms were heavy as lead. He could not get from the boat. He heard the girl's voice coaxing him, urging him; then her strong arms hauled him from the boat into the shallow water. She grabbed him, limp as a log, she towed him until at last his outstretched hands groped along a shell littoral. He lay in the water, too exhausted to move. She crouched beside him.

"There they go," she whispered, "up the wharf. Oh, my God, they might kill Billy!"

The words were like a tocsin. He partly raised himself. He still had duty to do. But he had sense enough to stretch on the coral sand beach until the giddiness of exhaustion had entirely left.

"You saved me, kid," he muttered, "I won't forget it."

"Then you'll save Billy, and not let him go to prison?"

He stood up, tormented by temptation, torn by desire, suffering from the knowledge that he was about to be the all-time, all-American heel.

"Kid, the law has to take its course," he said grimly.

He got to his feet, his marvelous body recuperating swiftly from the strain upon it. He turned to where the lights of Laudermer gleamed through the black night.

"Where are you going?" she said. "You can't— you're worn out."

"Listen," he told her harshly, "I baited a trap tonight. Forced Bonner's hand. Now I'm going to get him and his gang."

"But you haven't even got a gun!"

"I'll get one. And I know where they're going— and why."

He knew where they were going— to the Laudermer House where he had a room, where they would wait to see if he had escaped the shark- infested waters. Where they'd shoot on sight. But he was going there, too. That's the kind of a man he was.

He went up the beach, paying no attention to the girl. Presently he came to the palm-lined street, and, hugging the darker shadows of the palmettos and the hibiscus, made his way to the kitchen entrance to the hotel. He went to the third floor to his room and sank heavily onto the bed, aware for the first time that he was nearly naked. Blood still dribbled from the creases across his legs.

"God, I'm tired," he muttered. He found a bottle of Bacardi and took two huge drinks. Then he got on linen trousers and a coat, found his small Browning gun and two clips. He went back out the door and again encountered no trouble.

THIS puzzled him. He had been expecting to be ambushed. Why hadn't he been? He walked through the small town, and slowly along the side road that led up to the Harmon farm. And suddenly he knew why Bonner and Carstairs had passed up the immediate chance of killing him.

"By God, they're destroying the evidence!" he muttered.

He realized that instantly. Without the evidence to present in court, Bonner, with his money and his record of no arrests could beat the charge. There would only be Kildare's charge— and accusation, unsupported. He knew where they were— at the railroad station. He turned back and broke into a run.

It was long after midnight and Laudermer slept. He encountered no one in that dash. Once or twice he wondered where Martha was— then dismissed her in the immediate peril to his case.

He slowed down when he reached the railroad track, considerably above the station. Even here he could hear the baaing of the sheep that filled the freight cars, waiting for the morning accommodation to take them to Miami and points north. He saw a brief flashlight glow that instantly vanished, but it located the two crooks. With all his skill he stalked the light.

But all his skill went in vain, for he suddenly came around the edge of the loading platform and his outstretched hand struck yielding flesh. He jerked back, as his gun flashed up, but was not swift enough. A flashlight spat a sword of radiance.

The light struck him. A voice yelled : "Kildare!"

Partly blinded, he threw himself prone. That saved his life. The bullet that spat simultaneously went over his head while the spitting snake of flame burned his hair. He fired upward into it— three times— with deadly intent to kill.

The flashlight dropped. And into its still shining arc Speed Carstairs collapsed.

Speed was clasping his stomach. "You got me! Damn you, you got me!" he muttered weakly. The death rattle cut off his words.

Kildare shot a glance ahead toward another light. At the far end of the the chute Bleak Bonner, dirty, his immaculate flannels ruined and greasy, was slitting throats of sheep.

The light advanced before Kildare could. Steve heard a voice— the voice of Bill Harmon.

"So you had my sister aboard your rotten yacht!" the boy raged. "Damn you, Bonner, isn't it enough what you've done to me, without you having to ruin her?"

"You rat!" snarled Bonner. "I didn't harm her. But by God, I'm done with you." In a flash his hand streaked out. His gun spat flame before it seemed leveled. Kildare fired twice, but he knew even as he threw his gun that he had missed. Too high.

YET to his surprise Bleak Bonner grabbed at his stomach, then at his chest. The gun dropped from his fingers, and he fell forward, sprawling in that punctured, all-in-a- heap attitude that spells death. Duffy Kildare raced toward him.

"How'd I get him?" he was muttering. "I'd swore I was high. Maybe this gun has started throwing low."

Then Martha Harmon's voice he heard. "Billy! You've killed him!"

"And I should have!" snarled the boy. "Even if I hang for it. The swine! The mean rat! He didn't deserve to live."

The flashlight moved forward and Kildare saw Martha and the boy, bending over the dead body of Bleak Bonner.

Kildare came quietly alongside. Martha turned, and gave a frightened cry. "It's Kildare. Oh, Billy!" The boy turned in a flash, gun coming up. He gazed into the straight muzzle of Kildare's gun.

"Drop it, lad," said Kildare very softly.

He saw then that the boy was wounded in the left arm. Blood gleamed against the white of his shirt. Slowly Bill's fingers relaxed; the gun dropped with a thud. Kildare stooped, picked it up.

"A thirty-two," he nodded. "Not much of a gun."

"Good enough to kill that rat," said Billy.

Kildare bent over Bonner and then turned the crook over. "Hold the flashlight nearer," he ordered. He saw now that his gun had indeed fired high. These were the small punctures of a .32.

"So it is," he admitted.

"Oh, God!" gasped Martha. "You won't charge Billy with murder! He fired in self-defense— I swear it!"

"You don't have to. I know he did," growled Duffy Kildare.

Wearily he gazed around. Speed Carstairs was dead. So was Bonner. The biggest dope syndicate in the world was broken by death. There among those sheep not yet dead was the evidence to prove how the drug was distributed. His job was complete, the case cracked.

He turned to look at the girl, wan yet beautiful in the flashlight's cruel light.

"No," he said, "he won't have to stand trial for murder."

Swiftly now, he bent down and held the muzzle of his gun close so that he could not miss the two blue punctures in Bonner's flesh, and pulled the trigger twice. The heavier .45 slug tore the .32 bullet holes and out the back, the corpse jumping to the impact.

"If they ask you," he said, straightening, "I killed Bleak Bonner. There is the proof of it."

He moved on to where Bonner and Carstairs had feverishly prepared a pile of Florida pine lightwood, commonly called fatwood because it burned like fat. On top of this were stacked the slaughtered bodies of the sheep they had destroyed and had intended to burn. He examined one or two, but did not find what he sought.

He came back to where Martha and Billy were watching him with the steady stare of hopelessness. "Catch me one of those sheep," Kildare ordered.

SILENTLY, Billy Harmon obeyed.

As he brought it back he said:

"I didn't know, Kildare. I had a few sheep here— Martha and I had them and Bonner came and said I ought to go into the business in a big way what with all the tourists in Florida and the meat markets and all. He offered to back me. I imported special sheep from Cuba, and some from up north. I— I didn't really guess what was going on until I discovered he was shipping the sheep north, and not to Miami at all. That looked funny, and I began to ask questions, to snoop around a little, and—"

"Yes, I know," said Kildare. He bent over the sheep that Billy had brought while Martha held the flashlight. The sheep was unsheared and seemed fat and well kept. He plunged his fingers into the fleece.

"That's what poor Barr meant by wool," he muttered.

For his expert fingers had shown that sheep had been seared in swathes underneath. That is to say, the outside fleece had been left the way it grew while underneath clever pockets had been cut out. In each of these Kildare found a small oblong tin, itself covered with glue to which fleece had been stuck. More glue affixed the tin to the short fleece of the sheep's skin. Kildare tore off a tin, forced it open, and smelled of the white powder inside.

"Pure heroin," he said, "on its way to New York and other points— wherever you shipped sheep, there to be cut with sugar and sold for twenty dollars a deck." He paused. Then: "Where did you ship to?"

He was not surprised at Billy Harmon's reply. Every big city in the United States was a market, I found out. Bonner's agents in each city bought them, plucked out the tins and sold the sheep for what they could."

"Nearly a foolproof scheme," Kildare muttered. "Only Barr must have been sold— when he was here— a tin of uncut stuff by Red and saw the wool stuck to the tin."

He sighed, and turned to Billy Harmon. "Can I trust you to watch these sheep for the night, and go with them to Miami tomorrow?"

The boy nodded. "I tell you I never knew, even when I guessed something was wrong, not until a sheep was running away and I grabbed for it and pulled loose a tin."

"I believe you," said Kildare. "Watch them, and tomorrow I'll do all I can for you."

He turned, shoulders sagging. "God, I'm tired."

Martha ran to him. "Then Billy won't have to be arrested? You'll save him?"

Kildare gently shook his head. "He's under arrest now, but I'll give evidence to clear him. Is that good enough, kid?"

Slowly she nodded. Her eyes gleamed with a new hope. Billy gave a little cry and they stood with locked hands, hope and happiness brightening them instantly.

"Oh," she said, "you're wonderful, Duffy Kildare."

Kildare straightened his sagging shoulders long enough to grin. "Tell me that next week in the moonlight," he chuckled and dragged himself off to the hotel to call Washington and make his report.

__________________

Cumulative Index  #101 to 115

Anthony Abbot (1893-1952)

—About the Perfect Crime of Mr. Digberry  111

Achmed Abdullah (1881-1945)

—Fear  109

—Pell Street Blues  114

W. L. Alden (1837-1908)

—A Sleeping Car Tragedy  109

Grant Allen (1848-1899)

—Fra Benedetto's Medal 102

Frederick Irving Anderson (1877-1947)

—The Hunter's Moon  106

T. F.  Anderson and H. D. Umbstaetter (fl 1890s;  1851-1913)

—The Mystery of the Thirty Millions 109

Anonymous

—Crocodile Tales  113

—Detective Death 109

—The Garage Crime  103

—Lost: A Millionaire  106

—The Phantom of Castle Ballyran 102

—Rogue's Room 109

—The Stolen Ship 105

—Thone of Chaos  (as by "J. F. B.") 109

—The Young Earl  113

William Waldorf Astor (1848-1919)

—Balkameh 110

Bertram Atkey (1880-1952)

—The Call of the Wildwater  111

—The Case of the Drugged Golfers  111

—Fintale the Merman  115

—Ghosts at Stoneylands  111

—Ragan in Ruins  112

—The Statue Stealers  111

—Wolfmaster  111

—The Woman With The Wolves 112

Stacy Aumonier (1877-1928)

—The Old Lady with the Two Umbrellas  114

Reginald Bacchus (fl 1890s-1900s)

—The Doctor's Luck  112

John Kendrick Bangs (1862-1922)

—The Water Ghost of Harrowby Hall 103

H. Bedford-Jones (1887-1949)

—The Dance of Life  101

—Rajah of Hell Island 105

—The Temple of the Ten (with "W. C. Robertson") 107

Francis Beeding (1898-1951 & 1885-1944)

—The Woman He Had to Kill 104

Robert Benchley (1889-1945)

—How to Get Things Done 103

A. C. Benson (1862-1925)

—Out of the Sea 104

James A. Beverly  (fl 1910s)

— At the Crack o' Doom 105

Earl Derr Biggers (1884-1933)

—Henry and the Restless Sex  106

Eugene Shade Bisbee (1864-1933)

—The Compass of Fortune 101

—A Hundred Thousand Dollar Trance 101

Charles G. Booth (1896-1949)

—"Not According to Text"  106

Marjorie Bowen (1886-1952)

—Cambric Tea  111

—Florence Flannery  112

Max Brand (1892-1944)

—The Small World 104

—Spy! 101

—Wine on the Desert  110

Broughton Brandenburg (fl 1900-1933)

—The Mystery of the Steel Disk 105

Roy Bridges (1885-1952)

—The Oak  113

—The Voyager 113

T. C. Bridges (1868-1944)

—The Seringapatam Medal  106

—The Slatter Case  106

Willis Brindley (fl 1920s)

—The Strike at Too Dry 102

Rhoda Broughton (1840-1920)

—The Man With the Nose  109

John Buchan (1875-1940)

—The Grove of Ashtaroth  110

Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1803-1873)

—The House and the Brain 108

—The Haunted and the Haunters  115

Walter Noble BURNS  (1872-1932)

—The Man the Law Forgot  110

Ellis Parker Butler (1869-1937)

—Brother Bill  108

—Mad Marix  108

Reginald Campbell (1894-1950)

—The Medicine Man  108

Hayden Carruth, 1862-1932

—Uncle Bentley and the Roosters 107

Willa Cather (1873-1947)

—The Garden Lodge 104

—Paul's Case  103

—The Bohemian Girl  108

Robert W. Chambers  (1865-1933)

—The Case of Mrs Helmer  107

—A Matter of Interest  106

G K Chesterton (1874-1936)

—The Mask of Midas  113

Peter Cheyney (1896-1951)

—Dance Without Music 102

—The Key  106

—La Belle Dame Sans Souci  103

—The Three Grey Men of Mote Hall   115

Eugene A. Clancy (1882-1952)

—Flies on the Ceiling   111

F. E. Clayton (fl 1890s)

—Woman Proposes  104

Frederick Ames Coates (fl 1919-1936)

—Strictly Private  112

Irvin S. Cobb (1876-1944)

—Ace, Deuce, Ten Spot, Joker  114

—The Gallowsmith 104

—Just a Friendly Game 104

Sylvanus Cobb Jr (1823-1887)

—My Mad Engineer 105

Thomas Cobb (1854-1932)

—The Witness 106

Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930)

—My Friend the Murderer  114

Richard Connell (1893-1949)

—The Prince Has the Mumps 104

Bithia Mary Croker (1849-1920)

—The Red Bungalow  114

Arthur Morris Crosby (fl 1930s)

—The Little Affair of the Eiffel Tower 101

Carlton Dawe (1865-1935)

—Why Mrs. Wetherton Went Home 101

L. De Chavanne (1861-?)

—The Artists Story  109

Richard Dehan (Clotilde Graves, 1863-1932)

—The Fourth Dimension 110

—Lady Clanbevan's Baby  112

—The Man Who Lost Himself  104

—The Motor-Burglar 103

—Ponsonby and the Pantheress  106

—The Revolt of Rustleton  107

E. M. Delafield (1890-1943)

—The Appeal  115

—Time Works Wonders  112

C. J. Dennis (1876-1938)

—The Mother 101

—While Jerry was Away 102

Captain Dingle  (1879-1947)

—Roll and Go!  109

Dick Donovan (1843-1934)

—The Barnfield Murder Case 105

— Some Experiments With a Head  107

Laurence Donovan (1885-1948)

—Never Hire a Killer   112

—Pistol-Packin' Gran'ma   113

J. Allan Dunn (1872-1941)

—The Flying Skull 102

James Francis Dwyer (1874-1952)

—The Bandaged Foot 112

—The Blush of Venus  111

—The Citizen  114

—The Kafir's Skull  111

—The Little Green Devils 111

—A Midnight Burlesque 112

—The Murdered Ships  112

George Wharton Edwards (1859-1950)

—The Clavecin, Bruges  115

Cyril Etheridge (fl 1907)

—The Death of Kalu's Hand 102

H. Havelock Ettrick (fl 1899-1902)

—The Red and Black Death 101

Harcourt Farmer (fl  1919-1922)

— When Brasset Forgot  110

B. L. Farjeon (1838-1903)

—Little Liz  114

Jeffery Farnol (1878-1952)

—Cat Luck  111

—Not Much to Look At  111

Ernest Favenc (1845-1908)

—The Drought Demons  107

—Fraulein von Heslau  108

—A Haunt of the Jinkarras  104

—The Justice of Captain Dampier  108

—The Lady Ermetta  110

—The Living Dead  109

—My Only Murder 103

—Never Save a Man from the Sea  108

—The Shilling Reef  115

—Spirit-Led 103

—The Story of a Long Watch  112

—The Swagman's Dream  107

—A Tale of the Western Desert  107

—Those Dissipated Cows  114

John Ferguson (1871-1952)

—The White Line   111

F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940)

—Dice, Brassknuckles & Guitar  114

—Financing Finnegan  104

J. S. Fletcher (1863-1935)

—The Revolver 105

—A Shot in the Night 105

—The Tiger Lily  108

Homer Eon Flint (1892-1924)

—The Man in the Moon  114

Hulbert Footner (1879-1944 )

—Four o'Clock in the Morning 102

Sewell Ford (1868-1946)

—Seed To The Sower  110

Mary Helena Fortune (1833-1911), as by "Waif Wander"

—The Greenstone Graves  102

—Heatherville  107

—The Red Room 103

Gilbert Frankau (1884-1952)

—Mustard-Pot— Mountebank  111

—Patricia Jackson's Pearl Necklace  112

—Pug-Face's Daughter  111

John Galsworthy (1867-1933)

—The Two Looks  113

Lieutenant Edgar Gardiner (fl 1920s-1930s)

—Eyes of the Dead  108

J. U. Giesy (1877-1947)

—The Rose-Colored Rug  112

Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1860-1935)

—The Giant Wistaria  114

R. Murray Gilchrist (1868-1917)

—The Return  107

Guy Gilpatric (1896-1950)

—The Flaming Chariot, 106

Joseph Gollomb (1881-1950)

—A Case Without a Clew  110

Jack Gray (fl 1930s)

—The Nudist Gym Death Riddle  110

Zane Grey (1872-1939)

—Tigre  107

C. Ranger Gull (1876-1923)

— Le Maitres de l'Affiche (with Reginald Bacchus, 1874-1945)  108

—The Ordeal By Fire 101

—A Regent of Love Rhymes 102 (as by Guy Thorne)

James Norman Hall (1887-1951)

—Sing a Song of Sixpence  110

Mark Harper  (1874-1952)

—Six Heads on a String  111

Nathaniel Hawthorne  (1804-1864)

—Dr. Heidegger's Experiment 105

Roy W. Hinds (1887-1930)

—Mirrors  112

Anthony Hope (1863-1933)

—Count Antonio and the Wizard's Drug 105

—The House Opposite 105

—The Philosopher in the Apple-Orchard 105

E. W. Hornung (1866-1921)

—The Magic Cigar 104

Robert E. Howard (1906-1936)

—The Shadow of the Vulture

William Dean Howells (1837-1920)

—Braybridge's Offer  109

Washington Irving (1783-1859)

—Rip Van Winkle 102

M. R. James (1862-1936)

—Rats  109

Malcolm Jameson (1891-1945)

—Lilies Of Life  115

Val Jameson  (fl. 1900-1920s)

—Dixon's Theories  106

Sarah Orne Jewett (1849-1909)

—The Green Bowl  102

—A Financial Failure 105

Richard Ashe King (1839-1932)

—Disinherited  103

—Trapped 103

Meyer Krulfeld  (fl  1937-1942)

—The Thing From Antares  109

Henry Lawson (1867-1922)

—The Mystery of Dave Regan 101

—On The Tucker Track 101

Arthur Leeds  (fl. 1915-1926)

—The Man Who Shunned the Light  109

J. Sheridan Le Fanu (1814-1873)

—Schalken the Painter  107

Lottie Lesh (fl 1930)

—The Circle of Illusion  108

Hal Field Leslie (fl. 1925-1936)

—The Night the Devil Walked  107

Henry Leverage (Carl Henry, 1879-1931)

—Imagination 105

—Two Aces 103

—The Voice in the Fog  110

Sinclair Lewis (1885-1951)

—The Cat of the Stars  113

Sumner Locke (1881-1917)

—Paper Ladies  113

Jack London (1876-1916)

—The Pearls of Parlay 102

Edwin Truett Long (1904-1945)

—Once An Outlaw—  113

—Rain in Dahomey  113

Marie Belloc Lowndes (1868-1947)

—The Haunted Flat  107

Fred MacIsaac (1886-1940)

—The Ghost City 101

Walter McLeod (fl. 1930-1931)

—The Ride  115

Lucas Malet (1852-1931)

—The Birth of a Masterpiece 103

Richard Marsh (Richard Bernard Heldmann, 1857-1915)

—Exchange is Robbery  115

—The Pipe  110

Herman Howard Matteson (1876-1951)

—The Shadow Jumper  108

—The Whispering Shell  109

—With Much Gusto  109

Harold Mercer (1882-1952)

—Keeping Killick Killed  111

—The Servicetown Mystery 111

Cleveland Moffett (1863-1926)

—On the Turn of a Coin 101

J. E. Muddock (1843-1934)

—The Story of a Hanged Man  115

Charles G. Norris (1881-1945)

—The Beach  103

Owen Oliver (Joshua Albert Flynn, 1863-1933)

—As Told To The Children  110

Baroness Orczy (1865-1947)

—The Man in the Inverness Cape  114

"Ouida" (Louise Rame, 1839-1908)

—A Lemon Tree 102

Frederick C. Painton (1896-1945)

— Narcotic Man  115

Elia W. Peattie (1862-1935)

—A Michigan Man  113

G. G. Pendarves (1885-1938)

—The Djinnee of El Sheyb 101

Hugh Pendexter (1875-1940)

—The Time to Go  115

Austin Philips (1875-1947)

—Sailors' Luck 102

Marjorie Pickthall  (1883-1922)

—The Desert Road  107

Ernest M. Poate (1884-1935)

—Big, Bad Annie  113

—Mirage 101

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

—The Cask of Amontillado 104

Muriel A. Pollexfen (1876-1923)

—The Fox's Earth  109

Mearle Prout (fl mid-1930s)

—The House of the Worm 103

A. T. Quiller-Couch (1863-1944)

—Old Aeson  109

W. Pett Ridge (1859-1930)

—Mr. Barling's Income 101

—A Model Crime  113

Arthur Somers Roche (1883-1935)

—Alicia goes a-Burgling 101

Damon Runyon (1880-1946)

—Blood Pressure 115

"Saki" (H. H. Munro, 1870-1916)

—The Talking-Out Of Tarrington  112

Charles Wesley Sanders (c1876-1937?)

—A Girl Who Was Afraid  110

"Sapper" (H C McNeile: 1888-1937)

—Uncle James's Golf Match 103

M. P. Shiel (1865-1947)

—Dickie 106

Margaret Busbee Shipp (1871-1936)

—The Prethereau Sapphire  108

—The Priestess of the Purple Petunia  106

Dan L. Silverling (fl 1913)

—Hard Harman 104

Henry Hugh Simmons (fl. 1927-28)

—The Electro-Hydraulic Bank Protector  115

Helen Simpson (1897-1940)

—Young Magic 101

Lady Eleanor Smith (1902–1945)

—Candlelight  115

Albert Snow (fl. 1941)

—Devil's Fire  113

C. C. Spruce (fl. 1934-5)

—Cave of the Criss-Cross Knives  108

Frederick Dorr Steele (1873-1944)

—The Adventure of the Murdered Art Editor 104

Allan Stephens (Stephen Allen Reynolds, 1875-?)

—A Golden Grave  113

Emile C. Tepperman (1899-1951)

—Sleuth of the Air Waves  108

Albert Payson Terhune (1872-1942)

—The Sights They Missed  106

—The Twenty-Four-Hour Croesus  107

William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863)

—The Devil's Wager 103

Guy Thorne (C Ranger Gull, 1876-1923)

—A Desperate Choice  103

Roger Torrey (1901-1946)

—Curtains For Five  115

—Mansion of Death 102

J. T. Trowbridge (1827-1916)

—The Man Who Stole a Meeting-House 105

Parry Truscott (Abbie Hargrave,  1871-1936)

—The Woman Who Sat Still  110

Hartridge D. Tyler (fl 1910-1912)

—A Steam-Room Fracas  112

H. D. Umbstaetter (see  T. F.  Anderson above)

Louis Joseph Vance (1879-1933)

—Night  108

Charles E. Van Loan (1876-1919)

—The Crusader 106

W. B. Wallace  (fl 1900s)

—The Demon of the Opal 101

George Arthur Walstab (1834-1909)

—The House by the River  112

"Waif Wander" (See Mary Helena Fortune, 1833-1911)

Edward Parrish Ware (1883-1949)

—Hell's Back Room  109

—Killer's Can't Fly 109

Hugh C. Weir (1884-1934)

—The Man With Nine Lives  114

Albert Richard Wetjen (1900-1948)

—The Fortunes of War  114

—Strain 105

—You Can't Explain These Things  114

Fred M. White (1859-1935)

—Adventure  109

—The Western Way  110

Ethel Lina White (1879-1944)

—At Twilight  113

Henry S. Whitehead (1882-1932)

—No Eye-Witnesses 102

—West India Lights 102

Raoul  Whitfield (1896-1945)

—Kiwi  113

—Smoky Skies  110

H. C. Witwer (1890-1929)

—Lady of Lyons, N. Y.  112

Thomas Wolfe (1900-1938)

—The Sun and the Rain 105

Dolf Wyllarde (Dorothy Margarette Selby Lowndes, 1871-1950)

—The Hunting of Chilton Sahib  113

_____________

Table of Contents

- 1: The Haunted and the Haunters / Edward Bulwer-Lytton

- 2: The Clavecin, Bruges / George Wharton Edwards

- 3: The Time to Go / Hugh Pendexter

- 4: The Three Grey Men of Mote Hall / Peter Cheyney

- 5: Lilies of Life / Malcolm Jameson
- 6: Fintale the Merman / Bertram Atkey
- 7: Candlelight / Lady Eleanor Smith
- 8: The Appeal / E. M. Delafield
- 9: Curtains For Five / Roger Torrey

- 10: The Story of a Hanged Man / J. E. Muddock

- 11: The Electro-Hydraulic Bank Protector / Henry Hugh Simmons

- 12: Exchange is Robbery / Richard Marsh
- 13: Blood Pressure / Damon Runyon
- 14: The Ride / Walter McLeod
- 15: The Shilling Reef / Ernest Favenc
- 16: Narcotic Man / Frederick C. Painton
- Cumulative Index 101-115