Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: A wide variety of short fiction in the Life + 70 years public domain, collected from magazines and newspapers. There are two E L White stories: one by Ethel Lina White, the other by Edward Lucas White, and they couldn't be more different. Oh, and one by Fred Merrick White, just to round out the Whites. Horror, crime, humour, romance, adventure. 1: Contrary to the Evidence / Douglas Newton 2: The Great Buddha of Kwang Ki / Laird Goldsborough. 3: Our Mr. Smith / Oswald Crawfurd 4: The Striped Chest / Arthur Conan Doyle 5: Palm Beach Santa Claus / Damon Runyon 6: The Ceremony / Arthur Machen 7: H

PAST MASTERS 117

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

7 March 2023

Contents

1: Contrary to the Evidence / Douglas Newton

2: The Great Buddha of Kwang Ki / Laird Goldsborough.

3: Our Mr. Smith / Oswald Crawfurd

4: The Striped Chest / Arthur Conan Doyle

5: Palm Beach Santa Claus / Damon Runyon

6: The Ceremony / Arthur Machen

7: Haunted / Anonymous

8: Short Rations / John Barton Oxford

9: The Devil of the Marsh / H. B. Marriott-Watson

10: The Skewbald Panther / Edward Lucas White

11: The Haunted Chair / Richard Marsh

12: The Derelict / Ottwell Binns

13: Conscience Money / John Talland

14: Green Ginger / Ethel Lina White

15: Her Ladyship's Necklace / Arthur Armstrong

16: The Stolen Rubies / E. B. Bell

17: Christabel's Crystal / Carolyn Wells

18: The Wings of Chance / Fred Merrick White

19: Bagged / Jeffery Farnol

20: The Way of Silence / Gilbert Frankau

21: Servant of Satan / Otis Adelbert Kline

22: Tramp / Dick Moreland

23: Actress Grows Old / John Taintor Foote

24: The Upas Tree / James Clifton Peters

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1: Contrary to the Evidence

Douglas Newton

1884-1951

Pearson's Magazine, Jan 1936

WE SAT in the room where old Stanley Park had died so suddenly that morning. As the witnesses unfolded the story, even Paul Toft seemed to grow a mere huddle of sharp knees and elbows in his arm-chair, while Inspector Grimes became a bouncing mass of irritation as he realised that he had been dragged out to Friars' Vale on the mere reasonless suspicions of a headstrong young woman. The local police sergeant and I sympathised with him.

This was no crime, but a sheer waste of time.

Gerald Park was perfectly frank about the part he had played in the tragedy of his uncle's death.

He had come out from Stripe to old Stanley Park to borrow money. He hadn't had much hope of getting it, he admitted, because there was bad blood between him and his uncle— who had kicked him out of this very house for stealing, less than a month ago. He was so desperately hard up, however, he had had to make the try.

He had come out by train to Friars' Vale Halt and had taken a taxi from there. He had timed himself to arrive about 10.30, because that was the time his uncle always read his papers in this sitting-room. He let himself in with the door-key he had kept when his uncle had turned him out. He did that because he knew that if he rang, Mrs Ferris, his uncle's housekeeper and only servant, would not let him in. It would have been more than her place was worth, seeing how his uncle had come to hate him.

Anyhow, his idea was to slip in quietly, getting into his uncle's presence before anything could intervene. But "springing" himself on the old man like that had proved to be a horrible mistake. His uncle saw him even before he could get into the room, and rose from his arm-chair by the fire with such a snarl of rage that Gerald stopped dead in the very doorway.

The old man made furious gestures at him to get out. Gerald spoke, attempting to placate him, but that only made matters worse. At the sound of his nephew's voice, old Stanley Park took a step forward as though he meant to throw the weedy young man out with his own hands— and then, quite suddenly, he crumpled up and fell to the floor.

Gerald, terrified, sure that the old man had had a stroke at the sight of him, called over his shoulder to Grass, the taxi-man— for the thing had happened so swiftly that he had never even moved inside the sitting-room door. Grass ran in and together they went to the old man. Or, rather, Gerald left that to Grass, who was more competent, while he himself ran back into the hall and called out to Mrs Ferris in the kitchen, before hurrying across the hall into the dining-room to get brandy from the cellarette.

Mrs Ferris was coming up the hall as he came out with the brandy, and they went into the sitting-room together. By then Grass was sure that there was very little hope for old Stanley, though on Gerald's instructions he drove at once for a doctor, there being no telephone in the house. Mrs Ferris had, meanwhile, taken charge of the old man, Gerald standing by doing anything she ordered. But it was plain there was nothing to be done, and indeed old Stanley was dead before the doctor arrived, about ten minutes later.

Gerald Park, a weedy, rather slick fellow in the early twenties, was clad in smart clothes now gone to seed, rather shamefacedly "supposed" that the sight of him had given his uncle the shock that killed him. He admitted his uncle had good cause for anger against him— he'd behaved like a heartless young fool. Although his uncle had taken him into his home when his father died a few years ago, and had been as kind as his strict nature allowed, he, Gerald, had played fast and loose, got himself into bad company and ways and ended-well, by robbing his uncle on the sly.

He hadn't any excuse. Of course, he'd hoped to pay the money back sometime, and he probably would have if someone hadn't sneaked to his uncle and so caused the final explosion. After that he hadn't a chance. His uncle was terribly down on that sort of thing. He'd been absolutely beside himself with fury and had turned Gerald out of his house then and there. That was his way. Drove his own nephew right out of his life from that moment, warning him never on any account to show his face in Friars' Vale again.

Perhaps he oughtn't to have risked coming back, seeing how bitterly the old man felt, but, as he'd said, he was absolutely on the rocks and had to get money somehow— and then, how was he to know that the sight of him would have such a fatal effect?

A straightforward story. Grass, the taxi-driver, not only confirmed it, but strengthened it by several items Gerald Park had left unsaid.

For instance, he had kept his taxi waiting beside the door because Gerald had given him the wink... Well, wink was a manner of speaking. Gerald had asked him to wait in a sheepish sort of way, and Grass, knowing how things were between old Stanley and that young blackg— this nephew of his, as all the village did, anticipated a quick return fare with Gerald being booted out.

While Grass waited he watched Gerald. That was easy. Gerald left the front door wide open— for a quick run out, of course, should his uncle turn nasty. As the sitting-room door was just to the left of the hall, Grass naturally saw Gerald open that. Saw him all the time, in fact, for he never really went over the threshold of the sitting-room-never had the chance from the look of it.

Yes, Gerald stopped dead in the doorway. He seemed scared to go in. Grass heard him call out loud something like, "But, Uncle, give me a chance..." After that there was a crash inside the room, and Gerald turned a frightened face over his shoulder, yelling that his uncle had had a fit or something.

Gerald was so paralysed with surprise that Grass had to push him out of the sitting-room doorway to get at the old man. He found Stanley Park in a heap beside his arm-chair-yes, right across the room, by the fire— and, from the look of him, there wasn't much chance. Oh, he was still alive, but it was plain his heart had burst or something, at the sight of Gerald, and it was all u.p.

No, Gerald hadn't gone near him. He stood hovering away off by the door like a frightened puppy, until, suddenly, he thought of the brandy and Mrs Ferris. Grass had heard him yelling for Mrs Ferris. She came in ahead of Gerald, who handed her the brandy and glass; he was still that scared and helpless. In fact, the only thing the feller did try to do was to take off his coat and hand it to him to put under his uncle's head. Even then Mrs Ferris had stopped him and made him fetch a cushion instead.

Mrs Ferris, a rabbit-mouthed, but plump and motherly sort of woman, bore all this out. She had been at the scullery sink washing the breakfast things when she heard Master Gerald call. She had come at once, after drying her hands. Master Gerald was coming from the dining-room with the brandy and glass in his hands as she reached the sitting-room door. He shouted that his uncle had been taken ill, and she ran into the sitting-room. She didn't like the look of the old gentleman at all, and sent Grass for the doctor.

No, it was she who gave that order; maybe Master Gerald repeated it to Grass, but the poor boy was so terribly upset he did not know what he was doing. Yes, he stood about helpless the other side of the room, so flummoxed at what had happened that he seemed terrified of coming near his uncle. Yes, he did take off his coat for his uncle's head, which only showed how struck all-of-a-heap the poor boy was, seeing he could have reached for any of three cushions from the settee.

Mrs Ferris's manner made it plain that she had a warm corner in her heart for Gerald. She agreed that he'd been wild and reckless, and that his uncle had been terribly set against him because of his theft. But she held he'd been led away by his kind heart. Also, though she didn't want to cast no aspersions, there was those who had worked against him, too. Yes, Miss Barbara Tabard, if they must have it. All she would say was that if Miss Barbara had only let well alone, poor old Mr Stanley would be alive and happy now.

Miss Barbara Tabard was the reason why we were in the case. She was the daughter of Stanley Park's sister, and she and Gerald were the only living relatives of the dead man. She lived in Stripe, where she taught in an elementary school, for she was an independent, pretty, and vehement girl in the middle twenties.

For these reasons she had an enmity for Gerald, whom she considered a slimy, unscrupulous little sponger who had wormed his way into their uncle's good graces solely to feather his own nest. She had already told us quite frankly that it was she who had discovered his thefts and so caused the break between him and his uncle.

Barbara had made the twenty minutes' journey from Stripe immediately on receiving the wire about her uncle's death. Finding Gerald on the scene, she had become suspicious at once. Also she found Stanley Park's doctor puzzled. He could not understand how the old man had come to die from heart failure-as it seemed. Only a few months before, he had given Stanley Park a thorough overhaul, and his heart had then been as sound as a bell. Of course, a shock might have made a difference, but he was perplexed.

Barbara had seized on that ("She would," Grimes had snarled). She at once became sure there had been foul play. She declared that Gerald would stop at nothing when it was a question of money. And there was a question of money. Stanley Park had been a rich man. He had meant the bulk of his fortune to go to Gerald, as his natural heir, with a smaller sum for her, Barbara. But after Gerald's exposure and disgrace he had decided to make a fresh will, cutting Gerald out entirely and leaving everything to her.

Gerald, Barbara insisted, must have learnt that he was altering his will and so taken a desperate step to prevent his own disinheritance. The doctor and even the local sergeant thought her suspicions too wild in the face of the evidence, but the impetuous girl promptly tackled the indulgent Mrs Ferris and forced from her an admission that, not only had she been in correspondence with Gerald, but that she had told him that his uncle had actually made an appointment with his lawyer for the next week in order do put the alteration of his will finally in hand.

On learning that, Miss Barbara went off the deep end, as the local sergeant put it, telling him that if he did not move she herself would go to headquarters at Stripe and force the police to take action. As she was plainly the sort to keep her word-with interest— the harassed sergeant decided that the best way out would be to let Stripe hold the baby, so to speak; so he had 'phoned headquarters. That was why Inspector Grimes and Paul Toft had picked me up at my consulting-room on the way to Friars' Vale. As Medical Officer I might find something that Stanley Park's doctor had missed. But they hadn't much hope. As Grimes said when we'd finished with the witnesses.

"Sheer waste of time an' tissue. On the face of it, this Gerald Park never had a chance o' doing anything to his uncle, even if he wanted to. There never was a case in it..."

"I don't know... I feel..." Paul Toft muttered, and at that ominous "Kill," we swung on him— and gaped. He had not uncoiled his lank limbs, but his left hand was churning away at a soft piece of india-rubber, that unmistakable sign that his queer mind had sensed crime.

"But— but you can't feel," Grimes protested. "Everything's against foul play. There's no hint of wound or bruise on the body, for instance, an' there couldn't be. Gerald never went within fifteen feet of his uncle. An' that taxi-driver, who was watching him all the time, saw nothing suspicious."

"Yes, that taxi-odd," Paul Toft's great domed forehead frowned. "Less than ten minutes' walk from the station— yet this youngster, though he's financially on the rocks, took a taxi... Queer extravagance, eh?"

"No! Just the sort o' fool thing his sort does," Grimes was curtly brushing the suggestion away, when I found myself blurting with that strange impulse that is so often helpful to Toft's curious gift:

"That driver made a very useful witness, though. Only one who could, with those trees screening the carriage-way. That might be a reason for taking a taxi... And doesn't he seem to have made the most of it? I mean leaving the front door open and so forth."

"That's been explained," Grimes began, but Toft flashed at me the smile that always tells I have given him a lead, and nodded.

"Ah, Doctor, you always touch the point... You're right. There's a certain overemphasis... His strange keeping away from his uncle, for instance... He let the taxi-driver and Mrs Ferris do everything while he stood afar off. Seems a bit over-done-pointed..."

"Yes," I agreed, "as though he was definitely trying to create the impression that he could not possibly have had anything to do with his uncle's death."

"What— you mean you think he had?" Grimes cried.

"I feel— yes, I feel that murder was done here," Paul Toft said with his most dreamy conviction.

We stared at him. When Paul Toft talked like that we no longer scoffed, he'd proved those extraordinary "feelings" of his too often. But even I could not feel quite convinced. If ever there was a case when the whole mass of the evidence made murder seem quite impossible, this was it. In fact, Grimes all but bellowed:

"How in the name o' Job did he do it then? Look, the old man was in this chair, by the fireplace. Gerald stood in the door there, fifteen feet away. He was under observation all the time. He simply couldn't ha' done a thing, or raised a hand without the taxi-man knowing all about it. How then? Did he mesmerise the old chap to death-or what?"

Even Toft had no answer to that. On the face of it, it was quite impossible for Gerald Park to have struck his uncle down. Unless, as I said: "He shot him from the doorway."

Directly I spoke I knew I'd said a foolish thing. Though Toft looked at me sharply, Grimes let go a savage bark. "Funny how we've all overlooked the loud report of a pistol. A darn loud report, get me, seeing it was fired inside the house. I wonder why the taxi-driver forgot to mention hearing a little thing like that... aye, an' seeing Gerald using his pistol."

I wanted to kick myself for blurting without thinking. Not only would it have been impossible for the taxi-man to miss such pistol play, Mrs Ferris must have heard the report too. Crestfallen, then, I was surprised when Toft unlimbered his reedy limbs, and, ignoring Grimes' "What the devil— ?" crossed to the door to call the taxi-man into the room again.

But even the suggestion of hope that brought proved vain. The taxi-man was as contemptuous of the pistol idea as Grimes.

"A pistol? Not a chance," he said emphatically. "I tell you I had my eyes on Gerald all the time... Expecting fireworks when his uncle saw him, you see. He couldn't ha' used a pistol without my seeing-let alone me hearing."

"That's sure-you heard nothing?" Grimes insisted.

"Not a thing-an' I know what pistols sound like, too."

"He might have been using one with a silencer," I put in. "You say he called out loudly to his uncle..."

"He did, sir. But that made no manner o' difference. I mean, I'm ready to swear there wasn't even the ghost of another noise."

"Your engine was still running though," Toft put in.

"Maybe," the man shrugged. "But that wouldn't make any difference. We get so used to it we hear other sounds agin it— and I'd have heard even a silencer.... An' then, as I say, I was watching him close. He didn't make the motions like shooting. Just stood still an' stiff all the time."

"How can you be so sure?" I objected. "Can you remember exactly how he stood?"

"Well, I can then," the man snapped. "He stood practically half out o' that sitting-room door all the time. His hand was holding it open by the knob all the time... the nearest hand that'd be, the left. His right hand was in his pocket. His arm never lifted or moved or anything-no, not even up to when I shoved him aside to go in to his uncle."

"But that means his right hand was hidden from you by his body," I fill muttered. "I've heard of people shooting from their pockets..."

Grimes cut in: "You say Gerald took off his coat to put under his uncle's head— were you able to see if there was a pistol in its pocket, or anywhere on him?"

"There wasn't, sir," the taxi-man declared. "I'm certain of that. I'll tell you why: I noticed how ragged the lining of that coat was, thinking what a come-down it was for a chap like him. It was so ragged that I couldn't ha' missed seeing a pistol poking out or bulging. Another thing. It was me he handed the coat to before Mrs Ferris told him to get a cushion-an' from the weight o' that coat, there couldn't have been a pistol in it."

That seemed conclusive enough, yet Paul Toft muttered: "Odd bit of by-play, that coat business... as though it were part of a thought-up alibi..."

We did not pay much attention to him. The pistol theory was destroyed, especially as the taxi-man went on:

"An' it's all stuff, anyhow. As if I didn't know what bullets do to people... I saw plenty enough in the War. An' there was no sign o' wound on poor old Mr Stanley."

That clinched the matter, as it were, but it also reminded me that it was about time I took a look at the dead man. The body had been taken into the sitting-room behind the one we were in, and as I examined it the thought of foul play receded farther and farther from my mind. There was simply no sign of wound or violence. I pointed this out to Paul Toft, who stood brooding over me as I worked.

"Eh? Nothing there, Doctor?" he muttered, coming out of his medium's trance... "Nothing that would show, no... I feel that's it... Something that was sure not to show... How?" He examined the body. "Hair, maybe... Hair still thick and black..."

"It couldn't hide a bullet wound," I said.

"No... no, not a bullet wound, but... How would he have stood as Gerald came into the door? Left front to Gerald, eh... ? Shave the head on the left side, please, Doctor..."

I did this, not with much hope, but rather because I was always peculiarly under the spell of this strange, lank man's strange powers. The more of the surface of the skull I uncovered the more pessimistic I became-until Toft's bony finger prodded forward and he muttered:

"What do you make of that, Doctor?"

It was a tiny puncture in the skin well above the left ear, a little red speck so small that it might have been anything from a flea-bite to the prick of a needle-point. I said as much.

"Needle-point!" he breathed. "Ah, we're getting warmer."

"How?" barked Grimes, who had joined us after a routine search of the house. "You suggesting that Gerald jabbed a poisoned needle into the old fellow? Just when did he manage that-never having been near him?"

"A dart might have done it"; I had taken fire at Toft's suggestion. "A poisoned dart."

"Fine!" Inspector Grimes jeered. "An' Gerald being a rackety one was no doubt a first-class darter from practice in pubs. Only you're forgetting the taxi-man swears he never took his hand from his pocket. Also...."

"An air-pistol fires darts," I said excitedly. "And, by Jove, an air-pistol makes next to no noise, not enough to be heard above the sound of a taxi-engine, I'll bet."

"Fine, Doctor," Toft smiled at me, but the Inspector went on grimly:

"As I was about to finish-also even air-pistol darts aren't invisible to the naked eye. They're quite solid bits of metal, with a point and a lead butt an' tufts o' silk to steady 'em. How is it the taxi-man missed such a dart sticking in the old man's head? Remember Gerald never went near enough to pull it out."

"I feel... it fell out," Toft said, but I could not support him there. From the nature of the wound it would have remained sticking into the head.

"The doctor doesn't think so," Grimes said, reading my face. "Also, say it did fall out, it would have dropped close to the body. It's a plain dark brown carpet in that room. Would the taxi-man, Mrs Ferris, and the other doctor have missed seeing it as they worked on the body? It's a thousand to one against. There was no sign of it in the room then— no sign of it now. I've been over that room with a hand-brush. I'll show you."

He called out, and the local sergeant brought in a dust-pan with the sweepings of the sitting-room. There was little more than a litter of fluff and scraps, tiny bits of coal, fragments of paper, a couple of wireless screws, a thin, capped pencil, also the little red cylinder of indiarubber that belonged to it though it had been trodden out, one or two buttons, the half of what looked like the elastic button strap of a pair of braces... stuff like that, but no sign of anything like a dart.

"You're going to say Gerald might have picked his dart up," Grimes said. "Well, I don't think he could have, not before it was seen. What's more, I don't think he'd risk his neck on anything so conspicuous... And then, there's the pistol? What became of that? There's no sign of it anywhere about or on Gerald... No, it won't wash. You're only making a case out o' moonbeams, Toft."

It seemed so. I stood dejected. Paul Toft said in his dreamy calm:

"There's no getting over that." He touched the tiny puncture on the skull. "That's how he died... I feel that. And he was deliberately wounded under the hair so that we'd miss it."

"Oh, heck!" wailed Grimes; "an' I've just been telling you that all the facts say no!"

"Of course they would. The whole thing was carefully, brilliantly schemed to make facts say no," the reedy man mused on. "From the careful employment of that taxi-driver as a witness, to the firing of an all but silent air-pistol from the pocket... a helpfully ragged pocket, remember... And you'll probably find that Gerald Park is a first-rate marksman."

"I probably will," the Inspector said bitterly. "That won't be so hard as to find how he managed to make a dart and a pistol vanish into thin air under the noses of witnesses. Just crank up a really good feeling to explain that, my lad."

Toft only blinked and looked at me, and in trying to think of a way out I did remember something.

"Just precisely when did Gerald offer his empty coat to his uncle?" I asked.

"Didn't you hear Mrs Ferris say it was after she came into the sitting-room," Grimes said sourly.

"After he'd fetched the brandy," Toft put in swiftly. "Yes, that's the loophole, Doctor. He was out of sight of witnesses, at least while he was in the dining-room getting the brandy."

"An' a fat lot that's going to help," Grimes said as we went into the dining-room. It was, indeed, sparsely furnished; just a gate-table, six stiff chairs, and a side-board with two cupboards, one of which was the cellarette.

"I've even searched behind the pictures; there's nothing here," Grimes began, and added as Toft walked straight towards a French window in the rear, that opened on to the garden. "An' that's no good, either. It's been locked all winter, an' the key's not in it."

"That's what makes it queer," Paul Toft said. "The key's usually left in this sort of window from year's end to year's end. Did someone want to create the impression that nobody could have got out through this window to-day?" He stood still, staring at the lock with his queer other— worldly gaze. Then he muttered:

"Hum! Someone locking this window, snatching out the key, moving on the run to the room across the hall... where would he hide the key?" His eyes twinkled at me. "How's this for real pukka police deduction, Doctor? There's a hall stand full of umbrellas on the way.... Wouldn't he toss the key into them in passing?"

I went to the hall stand. The third bulgy umbrella I upended and shook, shot a key to the hall floor. It fitted the French window.

We stepped through it on to a small redtiled veranda overlooking the garden. This was without railing, but it had an inclined glass roof supported by pillars to keep off the rain. We stood and looked at half an acre of neat garden.

"You think he might have nipped out here and chucked his pistol into one of them bushes, or hidden it in one of the flowerbeds?" Grimes asked in a voice not so assured as it had been. "A mug's trick. He'd ha' known bushes and flower-beds are the first things we think of."

"And being a smart fellow he would think of a cleverer place," Toft said. "Cleverer but handy... easy to use in a hurry, handy to get at when suspicious people like ourselves had gone."

He stepped out into the garden and looked up at the roof of the veranda. A gutter ran along the edge of it, terminating in large, old-fashioned rain-water heads and down pipes at each end. With his left hand churning away at its indiarubber, Toft walked to the nearest down pipe, stretched his reedy arm up into the rain-water head, and, after a sharp tug, brought his hand away— with an air-pistol.

It was a short, but obviously powerful weapon with a rather full bore, and looked of foreign make. Toft broke it, charging its air chamber, and fired. It made very little sound, and was plainly in perfect working order.

"Job!" Grimes said in grudging admiration. "Your feelings do get you there, I fill.... He's a smart one, that Gerald, just fancy his thinking of locking the window after hiding this and then hiding the key to keep us from looking here... All the same, there's the dart. He's got everything so neatly alibi-ed that you'll have to prove that dart before you can be sure of pinning it on him."

That was a fact. Paul Toft stood, his great head brooding as he churned away at his indiarubber. Grimes and I examined the pistol, talking quietly not to disturb him. It was an interesting pistol, and I pointed out some oddnesses about it to Grimes— the size of the bore, for instance.

"Too big to carry any air-gun pellet I know," I said. "Why, you could shoot a pencil from that."

"Pencil!" Toft's voice came suddenly, alight with eagerness. "That's it, Doctor.... I wonder why I felt?... But I remember reading about it now."

"What?" both Grimes and I demanded in one voice, but his lank limbs were carrying him headlong into the house, and he was calling to the sergeant for the pan of sitting-room sweepings.

He was in the sitting-room when they were brought. Toft picked from the mess the little cylinder of rubber that had dropped out of the cap of the pencil.

"Clever," he muttered. "Devilish clever.... Dropping that pencil, too..."

"What's the pencil got to do with it?" Grimes frowned.

"Nothing," Toft grinned, "but you'd never suspect that, would you? This bit of rubber looks as if it belonged to that pencil, doesn't it? Just an ordinary eraser off the top of a pencil. But look—" Toft broke the pistol, exposing the breech hole, and into that he shoved the rubber cylinder. "It fits the pistol as perfectly as any lead slug, you see. Doctor, will you put that big book on top of that arm-chair. Good, now put a sheet of clean notepaper against it... and stand clear. I'm not such a good shot as Gerald Park."

But he was good enough. He walked to the door, just where Gerald had stood, though instead of shooting from his pocket he took aim in the orthodox way, and fired.

Again the pistol made only a slight sound; a much sharper rap came from the paper where the rubber pellet struck. It struck with such force, in fact, that it bounded right across the room, and only Toft's sharp eyes followed it to a corner under the book-case some twelve feet away.

"Your eyes show you the first advantage of such a bullet," Paul Toft said. "Being rubber— having, in fact, a pneumatic tip— it bounces away with great violence from whatever it strikes. Bounces, you might say, right out of range of the victim, so that there is little chance of its being connected with him... and being innocent rubber, anyhow, it is likely to be over-looked. Only it's not innocent rubber..."

He walked across the room and lifted up the sheet of notepaper the bullet had struck. On that paper we saw a faint ring impression made by the head of the rubber, and in the centre of it a tiny puncture— just such a puncture as had pierced the skin of Stanley Park's head. It was then that we realised that there must be a needle bedded in that rubber cylinder. Paul Toft proved it to us.

Rescuing the bullet from under the book-case, he held it delicately by one end, and, taking a pair of tweezers from his pocket, pressed the outer edges of the circular top down. As he did that, a tiny needle-point emerged from an almost imperceptible hole in the nose, a needle-point no more than an eighth of an inch long, but, if that point was poisoned— deadly.

"I read about this some time ago... but forgot it until Doctor Jaynes stirred my memory," the dreamy fellow smiled. "They've been using this deadly weapon in several countries of Europe for safe and secret murder. You can see how horribly efficient it is. An assassin can shoot at his man anywhere, in the street, in a crowd, in a theatre. Nobody hears the report of the air-pistol, so nobody can trace the shooter. The victim falls dead, but nobody knows how he dies. There is only that tiny poison hole, hidden by the hair, no doubt, as in Stanley Park's case. The bullet— that has already bounced off into the litter of the street... it automatically vanishes when it has done its work. Even if fired in a room it can be covered up, as Gerald Park so nearly covered it up, by dropping a pencil from which the rubber eraser is missing... so you would think the bullet merely part of that..."

"Almost fool proof," Grimes nodded. "When the murdered man tumbled down without wound, without any hint of anybody attacking him, it'd naturally be taken for heart failure or a stroke, as we thought Stanley Park's death was; and all the murderer has to do is to walk away... Just as Gerald Park nearly did— but won't."

But I am afraid Gerald Park did. When Grimes arrested him he was startled, but took it quietly. He simply couldn't believe we had caught him until he heard the charge read over to him, and saw the pistol. Even then he went quietly to his cell— and committed suicide. He'd been searched, of course, very carefully, but the police had overlooked a further quality of that deadly little indiarubber bullet. It could be too easily hidden. He'd hidden another bullet in the turn-up of his trousers, we thought. But we could never be sure. He was found next morning with the rubber cylinder gripped tight in his fist. The point driven into his palm, so that the hydrocyanic compound on it had done its deadly work. Thus we never knew how he had come to plan his murder— even though Paul Toft had brought it home to him.

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2: The Great Buddha of Kwang Ki

Laird Goldsborough.

1902-1950

The Yale Literary Magazine, Dec 1923

Time-Life journalist of unabashedly pro-fascist views in the 1930s; he was replaced in 1940 as Foreign Affairs Editor of Time by his assistant, Whittaker Chambers. During WW2 he was involved with the O.S.S. The strangest thing in his life is how he died. He jumped (or was pushed?) from his office window in the Time-Life building, wearing a bowler hat and carrying his gold-headed cane. The investigating police reported that his office door was locked on the inside. One for John Dickson Carr, perhaps.  This story was written when he was aged 21 and one of the staff of the Yale Literary Magazine.

I HAD NOT seen Helen Rochdale for almost a year. And indeed I cannot say that I ever wanted greatly to see her again. Not that seeing her wasn't always to be a pleasure, but rejection by a girl whom one has loved almost since childhood means that one does not exactly seek her company afterwards. "You are such a wise, dear old thing— even if you're only twenty-three," her letter had begun, illogically enough, "that I want you to come over from your old Paris and tell me whether something I've gotten on the track of is a bargain or not. Now do be sweet about it. You know you love to talk about 'patina' and such things to father. And really he respects your advice tremendously. Can't see why. I never did." The letter wound on for several pages more. No other girl could have been at once so unaffectedly cordial and so blandly disarming— I almost imagined that our love affair was beginning, instead of buried a year or more. I mean she had written me in just the tone we used to use long before there was any thought of love between us, at least on her side. For I cannot remember when I was not more or less in love with Helen. Still, perhaps her request was not so remarkable. I was young, but I had been brought up in the very center of the art world. My father had been a collector by profession and a sculptor of sorts, as he used to say, by accident. Then, at the time I was growing up, his business had waxed profitable, so that we lived rather well, and the house of "Richards of London", as our firm was called, possessed a certain indefinable halo of distinction that raised it quite out of the common rut of "art salesrooms".

The foundations of my acquaintance with Lord Rochdale's family had been laid when the late earl, Helen's grandfather, appeared one day in a wrought-up state, and declared that a painting sold to him by our firm as a genuine Hobbema was spurious. I can remember to this very hour the royal rage into which he flew, and the decidedly quaint invectives of an earlier day that he hurled at my defenseless head, for I was alone in our galleries that afternoon. I at once offered to repurchase the picture from him at the original figure. But, at the same time, I assured him that it was a genuine Hobbema, and in the course of our rather long conversation on the subject I think we each rose considerably in the other's regard. The upshot was that he took the picture back to its place in the ancient halls of Rochdale— pending the arrival of a certain celebrated art critic from Italy. And, on the appearance of that personage, he was so good as to invite me to take dinner at The Lawns, and be present when the final judgment was passed. Had he known that our own considerably more modest establishment almost adjoined The Lawns, and that I had grown up to worship his granddaughter Helen from afar, perhaps many things might have been different. But, be that as it may, I made the most of this opportunity, as well as such others as were offered me, and came in time to be a not unwelcome visitor at Lord Rochdale's household.

The death of the old Lord Rochdale, with whom I had far more in common than Helen's father, coupled with the revelation, not long after, that Helen liked me exceedingly but by no means wanted to become my wife, had driven me to Paris, there to take charge of our French branch and occupy myself exclusively with art matters. When Helen's letter came, I do not think it ever seriously occurred to me not to obey her request. I am not, at least, a bad loser, and I very soon found myself speeding across the Channel for the first time in almost a year. Arrived in London, I was met by the very chauffeur who, years before, had tremblingly followed the late Lord Rochdale into our galleries, carrying the disputed Hobbema. A short ride, or rather a fairly longish one, brought me once again to the threshold with which I associated so many varied memories. Lady Rochdale was away, but I was received by the Honorable Helen Rochdale with a wink and a hearty handshake, and by the Honorable Helen Rochdale's Aunt Eugene without a trace of the former and only a very feeble attempt at the latter.

Of the ensuing evening there is, perhaps, no special need to tell. For this is a story of the Great Buddha of Kwang Ki, with whom I became acquainted next morning. I call it the Grea Buddha of Kwang Ki because that was its official title, but it was of medium size, standing some four or four and a half feet high without the base, and hideously ugly— by which I mean that one must have lived among examples of Chinese art for many years to have understood its peculiar beauty. As the sale was to be that afternoon, I fell to work at once and examined the statue with the greatest care. It appeared to be an extraordinarily fine example of the bronze Buddhas occasionally discovered in the north of China, and belonging to the Chang period. I found that Helen, who had a keen eye for such things and an unusually well-stocked pocketbook, had discovered the Buddha in the not over reliable or pretentious shop where it now reposed, and had realized its great value if genuine, but feared to bid on it without advice to supplant her own knowledge of such things. I told her that I felt sure the Buddha was genuine, and that it undoubtedly was not later than the Chang period, which was made certain not only by various indications in the carving, but by the unusually fine greenish-golden patina, which the bronze had accumulated in the course of centuries. I had withdrawn with Helen to some distance from the crowd, in order to discuss this with her, when, just as I finished speaking, an extraordinarily ill-kempt little man bustled out from behind a curtained recess and spoke to us.

He seemed to be quivering with some suppressed emotion, and fairly blurted out, "Excuse me, sir, and you, ma'am. But I suppose they've been stuffing you with tales of how that's the Great Buddha of Kwang Ki, and has killed all its former owners by magic, and them as speaks ill of it, too! But it's all bosh! Perfect nonsense! The thing's a fake! Plaster clear through with a copper facing and weighted with lead! I'll show 'em!" And with that he rushed upon the Buddha, brandishing his umbrella, apparently prepared to demolish it. Well, it was only a coincidence, of course. But before the old fellow could reach the statue his foot slipped, and he came down with the most terrible crash right on the projecting corner of an antique bronze table that was standing in the way. It knocked him out dreadfully, and he had to be carried to a chemist's shop across the street, and then taken to the hospital without ever recovering consciousness. Poor Helen was dreadfully affected, and I wanted her to abandon the whole thing and go back home. But she said no, that she wasn't going to be kept from a real find just because some crank insisted it was made of plaster and had gotten himself hurt trying to prove it. So we went back once more, and I again verified my former conclusions, especially with regard to the patina, which was really extremely fine, and is an infallible indication of age in a bronze of that type.

Eventually I bid in the Buddha for Helen at £300, which was tremendously cheap and only accounted for by the comparative obscurity of the sale. We then arranged to have it delivered next day, and departed well pleased with ourselves. But the next day passed, and part of a third without its having arrived. At last, I decided to go and see what had become of it, since in London such small shops do not usually have a telephone, and this was one of those that did not. Arrived at the shop, I was greeted by the proprietor, who made a thousand apologies, but said that he could not deliver the Buddha before night. His story was that the "curse of the Buddha", as he insisted upon calling it, had fallen upon one of his men who had attempted to remove it the day after the sale. This man, said the proprietor, had been engaged in erecting a crane, with which to lower the statue to the street. But he had been in a hurry, and had had so little respect for the sacred personage before him as to roundly curse it for an awkward, heavy slob of a heathen god. Whereupon, said my informant, the Buddha had blasted the scaffold upon which he sat with holy fire and hurled the impious blasphemer to his death in the street below. These details, with the exception of the heavenly fire, were corroborated by the other employees of the place, and the result was that not one of them could be persuaded to approach the angry god for fear its vengeance might not be exhausted. No outside truckman could be obtained until the evening of the present day. But I was assured that Buddha would be faithfully delivered before nightfall.

Returning to The Lawns, I endeavored to keep secret the cause of the Buddha's non-appearance. But alas, Helen is a witch who will wring anything from my lips, which she suspects of being a secret. And so it was not long before she knew the whole story, as it had been told me. I confess that when the huge object finally loomed up the winding drive in the dusk, brought though it was by a very matter-of-fact electric dray, I did not feel entirely comfortable. But Helen, apparently, did not share whatever eerie feelings I may have had. The bronze was duly installed in a conspicuous place, the men were paid, we descended to dinner, we dined, and still no calamity befell. When the meal was over, Helen wanted to rush back to view her newly-acquired treasure, and I followed in her wake, quite reassured. We stood for a while examining the way in which the light from the chandelier fell across the statue and made queer shadows on the wall. Finally Helen laughed, and, making light of my previous nervousness, began calling "for little Buddha" by a string of pet names, hardly suited to its oriental dignity. She, at least, was not afraid, she said, of any lump of bronze, no matter how old it was. But something within me seemed to sound a warning. And, just as she was about to put her tongue out at the Great Buddha of Kwang Ki, I darted my hand out and pulled her back, why I hardly know. At the same moment there was a cracking sound, the table upon which the Buddha rested seemed to crumble, the huge bulk of that awful statue gathered itself together and hurled towards us with a terrific crash. At the same moment the lights were extinguished. And then— then came the moment that has made the Great Buddha of Kwang Ki my friend for life! I found Helen, sobbing, clinging in my arms, pouring out that we were going to die, but that she loved me, had always loved me!

THE STORY really ends here— that is quite all that is of importance. For, when you have lived as long as I with the old bronzes of the East, you begin to have more than a vague sense of the unseen forces that may linger about them, even after so many thousand years. And especially when a very old and august god has troubled to bring you all the way from France, just to throw the only girl you have ever loved into your arms, it does not occur to you to search for the incredible series of coincidences that may have brought about that almost too perfect result. No, one allows others to speculate as to why a table, supposedly more than strong enough to support the weight of even so considerable a deity, should suddenly have crumbled at exactly the right moment, carrying the chandelier with it. Or perhaps one permits them to prove that it was only by coincidence that all who have ever insulted the Great Buddha of Kwang Ki have been punished for their temerity. Indeed, I myself have had to perform all those feats of explanation, in order to quiet Helen's fears to the point of getting her to allow the Buddha to remain solidly ensconced in a little marble summer house, where he is admired and feared by all the children of the place. But as for me, well, on moonlight nights, I sometimes wander out to where the old bronze god sits quietly dreaming of the time when he was fearsomely adored. And, as the moonlight filters in upon him, I have a feeling that when he seems to nod in the flickering shadows, he is only answering my unspoken question. And when, again, the pale light softens the lines about his lips into a bland and oriental smile, I imagine that he is smiling at the success of our bargain— which has given to me a wife and to him a quiet place to dream.

___________________

3: Our Mr. Smith

Oswald Crawfurd

1834-1909

In The Revelations of Inspector Morgan, 1907

An amusing Holmes spoof in the introduction to Crawfurd's collection of Scotland Yard tales featuring Inspector Morgan

AFTER a hard day's professional work I was sitting in my little room in Baker Street, deeply meditating on a subject never very long absent from my thoughts. Reader, you can guess what that subject is. I was considering the marvelous analytical faculty of my friend Purlock Hone, when the door opened and Purlock Hone himself appeared on the threshold. In my accustomed impulsive and ecstatic way, not unmingled with that humour which I am proud to say tempers the veneration I feel for that colossal intellect, I was beginning with the trivial phrase, "Talk of the—!" when my friend cut me short, with "Sh," and put his finger on his lips.

He sat down by the fire without a word, deposited his hat, gloves and handkerchief in the coal scuttle (I have before referred to my friend's untidy habits) and reached to the mantelpiece for my favourite meerschaum. He filled the pipe with long cut Cavendish, and, sitting with knotted brows, smoked it to the end before he spoke a word. Then he said:

"Humph!" It was little enough perhaps, but from Purlock Hone it meant volumes.

"Well?" I said. "Go on."

He did. He filled the pipe anew, and, for a second time, smoked it to the bitter end.

"Your pipe, Jobson, wants cleaning!" and he gently threw it upon the fire, from which I rescued it before the flames had done it much injury. From any one else this action had seemed hasty, if not inconsiderate; in this gifted and marvellous being it betokened a profound train of abstract and analytical meditation. I waited patiently for some revelation of the subject of his thoughts.

I need not remind the reader that in the spring of this year the world of international politics was gravely agitated. Menacing rumours were about everywhere, the international atmosphere was electrical and mutterings of the tempest were to be heard on every side, but no one could divine where and when the storm would burst— on whom the bolt would fall.

Mysterious messages were daily passing between the Dowager Empress of China and Kaiser William; what did they portend? President Castro of Venezuela was known to be in secret communication with the Dalai Lama. Our eminent statesman, Mr. Keir Hardie, was said to have despatched an ultimatum to the Emperor of Japan and an identical document to President Roosevelt. The aged wife of the Second Commissionaire at the Foreign Office (Irish by birth and of convivial habits) had made certain compromising revelations of the policy of the government in a tavern in Charles Street, Westminster, and the Cabinet of St. James's was already tottering to its fall!

I eagerly recapitulated to my friend these various sources of disquietude to the nation, to Europe and the World, and urged him eagerly to enlighten me as to which of these great world problems he was preparing to solve. His answer was characteristic of this remarkable man, characteristic at once of his geniality, his simplicity, his wonderful self-control, his modesty, and at the same time of his refusal, even to me, to commit himself to an avowal.

"Any one of them, or none—or all; I cannot guess," said Purlock Hone.

My friend could not guess! I forbore from speech, but I smiled when I reflected that I was in the presence of the man who had more than once interposed to save a British Ministry from defeat, who had maintained the balance of power in Europe by discovering a stolen naval treaty, nay, of the man who had restored the jewelled crown of England when it had been lost for nearly three hundred years!

"A penny for your thoughts," said Purlock Hone gaily. "Or, come, you shall hear them from me for nothing."

"I defy you to know what I was thinking of," I said impulsively, but a moment later that defiance seemed to me rash, as in truth it proved to be.

"My dear Jobson," said this greatest of clairvoyants, "if you wanted me not to guess your thoughts you should not have smiled and looked towards the portrait of the late Premier. That told me, as clearly as if you had spoken, that you were recalling my little service to the late Unionist Government. I suppose you are unconscious of the fact, but you distinctly hitched the belt of your trousers as you crossed the room, with a sailor-like roll in your walk; what more was needed to tell me your thoughts were of my modest success in the matter of the lost naval treaty?"

"Amazing! And the recovery of the Crown of England?"

"You have tell-tale eyes, Jobson, and you rolled them regally as you directed them to the print of His Gracious Majesty over the mantelpiece."

"Wonderful man! Stupendous perspicacity!" I muttered.

Purlock Hone filled my rescued pipe for the third time and resumed his smoking. As in most other things, so in his taste for tobacco he resembles no other human being. I happened to know that he had not touched a pipe, a cigar, or a cigarette for a month before.

"Smoking, Jobson, is one of the world's follies. No ordinary man needs tobacco. It is poison!"

"Yet you smoke, Hone, even to excess at times," I said.

"I said no ordinary man, Jobson," retorted my friend.

I quailed under the justice of the reproof. Any other man would have pressed his victory. He generously forbore.

"I smoke only when some very heavy work is before me," he went on; "not otherwise."

Then I had guessed aright! He had some great work in hand. Never before had I seen so deep a frown between those sagacious eyes, never had the thoughtful face been so pale, the whole physiognomy so enigmatic. Never had so thick a cloud of tobacco smoke issued from between those oracular lips.

"I expect a visitor," he observed presently, between two puffs of tobacco smoke.

"Where?" I asked.

"Here," said Hone simply. "I left word at home that any one who called at my place was to come on here. Read this!" He tossed a letter across the table. I read aloud:

Dear Sir:

I will do myself the pleasure of waiting upon you between five and six to-day.

Yours faithfully,

John Smith

"A pregnant communication, Jobson, eh?"

"I dare say, but I confess I don't see anything peculiar about it." I looked again at the letter. It seemed to me as plain an epistle as any man could write. A dunning tradesman might have written it— a tax collector might have subscribed it.

"What do you make of those t's, Jobson? Does the spacing of the words tell you anything? Are those W's and 1's there for nothing?"

"To me, Hone, they are there for nothing, but then — I am not a Purlock Hone."

He smiled as he regarded me with pity, and cocked his left eye, using one of those fascinating and favourite actions of his that bring him down to the level of our common humanity.

"It is a disguised hand, Jobson, and do you observe the absence of an address?"

The lucid and enlightened explanation that I expected was cut short by a ring at the door bell. Immediately afterwards the maid announced Mr. Smith. A little man with grey side whiskers, a neat black frock coat and carrying a somewhat gampish silk umbrella, entered the room.

"Be seated, Mr.— Smith." The slight pause between the last two words of Hone's sentence was eloquent.

"Which of you two gentlemen is Purlock Hone, Esquire?" The accent on which "Mr. Smith" spoke was cockney and the tone deprecating.

I looked to Hone to answer. He smiled upon the stranger. It was a smile of complete approval. "Admirable!" said my friend. "Pray go on, sir." The visitor was visibly taken aback.

"I asks a plain question, gentlemen, and I looks to get a plain answer."

"It does you the greatest credit, my dear sir," said Hone. "It would pass almost anywhere;"

The little gentleman with grey side whiskers got red in the face and his eyes grew round. He was obviously angry, or was he only acting anger?

My friend Purlock Hone, as I think I have observed before in the course of these memoirs, often smiles, but seldom condescends to laugh.

Our visitor coloured violently and struck the end of his umbrella on the floor. "Look here," he said, "play-acting is play-acting, but I comes here on business; my name is John Smith, and I don't want none of your chaff."

"Capital! Capital! Go on, Mr.—Smith!"

"I will do so, sir, if you please!" The little gentleman put his hand in the inner breast pocket of his coat and produced therefrom a blue envelope; a quick glance at the superscription showed me that it was addressed to my friend and was written in that bold, regular, cursive hand which is characteristic of the man engaged in commercial pursuits. My interest was now strongly roused. I waited eagerly developments.

The mysterious visitor looked from one to the other of us. As you two gentlemen refuse to say which of you is Hone, Esquire, I'll make so bold as to read this communication to the two of you."

"You may do so with perfect safety, Mr. Smith. My friend in my confidence."

The little gentleman cast a puzzled look at us both and read as follows:

To Purlock Hone, Esquire, Dear Sir—

Our Mr. Smith will wait on you in respect of our little account already rendered and which you have no doubt overlooked. Early attention to the same will oblige.

The reader paused and looked at my friend. I, too, looked, his face was inscrutable, his lips were grimly closed. My curiosity— shall I say my indiscretion?— got the better of me.

"And whose Mr. Smith may you be, sir?" I asked.

The little man glibly read out the conclusion of the letter:

" 'Yours obediently, Dear Sir, Jones and Sons; Hatters; Oxford Street.' And here is the bill, gentlemen. 'To one fancy broad-brimmed silk hat-cathedral style; To one clerical soft felt bowler; To one slouched Spanish Sombrero; To one...'

Purlock Hone raised his hand, as if deprecating a list of furthei items, and Mr. Smith stopped and stared at him.

"What!" I thought. "Is it a real account for hats— after all! I remembered all these unusual forms of head-covering having formed parts of the various disguises in which my friend had walked the streets of London incognito. No! There must be some deep diplomatic secret behind the seemingly simple transaction!

"What is the total amount, Mr. Smith?" asked my friend in muffled tones.

"Nine, eleven, four, sir."

Without another word Hone walked across to my writing-table, took his cheque book from his pocket, sat down, and wrote and signed a cheque for nine pounds eleven shillings and fourpence.

"There you are, Mr. Smith. No— don't trouble to give me a receipt. The cheque is to order and Jones & Sons' endorsement will be as good as a receipt."

"Mr. Smith" rose quickly as my friend pronounced these, no doubt, pregnant words, bowed, and took his departure with "I wish you good morning, gentlemen." He preserved the deprecating attitude and the cockney accent of the small tradesman to the very last.

Purlock Hone preserved a pregnant silence. He slowly filled my pipe for the fourth time with strong Cavendish tobaco. I struck a match and handed it to him. It was my tacit tribute of admiration to the skill with which this mysterious scene, of evidently the highest diplomatic tension, had been played through without a hitch by the two great actors concerned. Words would have failed me— had I attempted to use them. My friend held my wrist while he lit his pipe at my match. His hand did not tremble more than mine— indeed not so much.

"Purlock Hone!" I cried with rising enthusiasm, "if I did not know that a great thing had passed and that Mr. Smith was the emissary of some great European Power and the bearer of some deep international secret, and that you have conveyed a secret reply to some European potentate under the pretence of writing a cheque on your banker, I could have sworn that Mr. Smith was a dunning hatter's assistant, and that you had paid an overdue bill!"

"Jobson, you know I make a rule never to take you in— every one else, but not you. Mr. Smith was in point of fact an emissary, but only from Jones & Sons of Oxford Street, and I have paid their bill."

Purlock Hone is one of the few men who can afford to tell the plain truth when it is against him. He is great even in defeat!

________________

4: The Striped Chest

Arthur Conan Doyle

1859-1930

Pearson's Magazine, July 1897

Conan Doyle could write horror with the best of them.

"WHAT DO you make of her, Allardyce?" I asked.

My second mate was standing beside me upon the poop, with his short, thick legs astretch, for the gale had left a considerable swell behind it, and our two quarter-boats nearly touched the water with every roll. He steadied his glass against the mizzen-shrouds, and he looked long and hard at this disconsolate stranger every time she came reeling up on to the crest of a roller and hung balanced for a few seconds before swooping down upon the other side. She lay so low in the water that I could only catch an occasional glimpse of a pea-green line of bulwark. She was a brig, but her mainmast had been snapped short off some 10ft. above the deck, and no effort seemed to have been made to cut away the wreckage, which floated, sails and yards, like the broken wing of a wounded gull upon the water beside her. The foremast was still standing, but the foretopsail was flying loose, and the headsails were streaming out in long, white pennons in front of her. Never have I seen a vessel which appeared to have gone through rougher handling. But we could not be surprised at that, for there had been times during the last three days when it was a question whether our own barque would ever see land again. For thirty-six hours we had kept her nose to it, and if the Mary Sinclair had not been as good a seaboat as ever left the Clyde, we could not have gone through. And yet here we were at the end of it with the loss only of our gig and of part of the starboard bulwark. It did not astonish us, however, when the smother had cleared away, to find that others had been less lucky, and that this mutilated brig staggering about upon a blue sea and under a cloudless sky, had been left, like a blinded man after a lightning flash, to tell of the terror which is past. Allardyce, who was a slow and methodical Scotchman, stared long and hard at the little craft, while our seamen lined the bulwark or clustered upon the fore shrouds to have a view of the stranger. In latitude 20 degrees and longitude 10 degrees, which were about our bearings, one becomes a little curious as to whom one meets, for one has left the main lines of Atlantic commerce to the north. For ten days we had been sailing over a solitary sea.

"She's derelict, I'm thinking," said the second mate.

I had come to the same conclusion, for I could see no signs of life upon her deck, and there was no answer to the friendly wavings from our seamen. The crew had probably deserted her under the impression that she was about to founder.

"She can't last long," continued Allardyce, in his measured way. "She may put her nose down and her tail up any minute. The water's lipping up to the edge of her rail."

"What's her flag?" I asked.

"I'm trying to make out. It's got all twisted and tangled with the halyards. Yes, I've got it now, clear enough. It's the Brazilian flag, but it's wrong side up."

She had hoisted a signal of distress, then, before her people had abandoned her. Perhaps they had only just gone. I took the mate's glass and looked round over the tumultuous face of the deep blue Atlantic, still veined and starred with white lines and spoutings of foam. But nowhere could I see anything human beyond ourselves.

"There may be living men aboard," said I.

"There may be salvage," muttered the second mate.

"Then we will run down upon her lee side, and lie to." We were not more than a hundred yards from her when we swung our foreyard aback, and there we were, the barque and the brig, ducking and bowing like two clowns in a dance.

"Drop one of the quarter-boats," said I. "Take four men, Mr. Allardyce, and see what you can learn of her."

But just at that moment my first officer, Mr. Armstrong, came on deck, for seven bells had struck, and it was but a few minutes off his watch. It would interest me to go myself to this abandoned vessel and to see what there might be aboard of her. So, with a word to Armstrong, I swung myself over the side, slipped down the falls, and took my place in the sheets of the boat.

It was but a little distance, but it took some time to traverse, and so heavy was the roll that often when we were in the trough of the sea, we could not see either the barque which we had left or the brig which we were approaching. The sinking sun did not penetrate down there, and it was cold and dark in the hollows of the waves, but each passing billow heaved us up into the warmth and the sunshine once more. At each of these moments, as we hung upon a white-capped ridge between the two dark valleys, I caught a glimpse of the long, pea-green line, and the nodding foremast of the brig, and I steered so as to come round by her stern, so that we might determine which was the best way of boarding her. As we passed her we saw the name Nossa Sehnora da Vittoria  painted across her dripping counter.

"The weather side, sir," said the second mate. "Stand by with the boat-hook, carpenter!" An instant later we had jumped over the bulwarks, which were hardly higher than our boat, and found ourselves upon the deck of the abandoned vessel. Our first thought was to provide for our own safety in case— as seemed very probable— the vessel should settle down beneath our feet. With this object two of our men held on to the painter of the boat, and fended her off from the vessel's side, so that she might be ready in case we had to make a hurried retreat. The carpenter was sent to find out how much water there was, and whether it was still gaming, while the other seaman, Allardyce and myself, made a rapid inspection of the vessel and her cargo.

The deck was littered with wreckage and with hen-coops, in which the dead birds were washing about. The boats were gone, with the exception of one, the bottom of which had been stove, and it was certain that the crew had abandoned the vessel. The cabin was in a deck-house, one side of which had been beaten in by a heavy sea. Allardyce and I entered it, and found the captain's table as he had left it, his books and papers— all Spanish or Portuguese— scattered over it, with piles of cigarette ash everywhere. I looked about for the log, but could not find it.

"As likely as not he never kept one," said Allardyce. "Things are pretty slack aboard a South American trader, and they don't do more than they can help. If there was one it must have been taken away with him in the boat."

"I should like to take all these books and papers," said I. "Ask the carpenter how much time we have."

His report was reassuring. The vessel was full of water, but some of the cargo was buoyant, and there was no immediate danger of her sinking. Probably she would never sink, but would drift about as one of those terrible unmarked reefs which have sent so many stout vessels to the bottom.

"In that case there is no danger in your going below, Mr. Allardyce," said I. "See what you can make of her and find out how much of her cargo may be saved. I'll look through these papers while you are gone."

The bills of lading, and some notes and letters which lay upon the desk, sufficed to inform me that the Brazilian brig  Nossa Sehnora da Vittoria  had cleared from Bahia a month before. The name of the captain was Texeira, but there was no record as to the number of the crew. She was bound for London, and a glance at the bills of lading was sufficient to show me that we were not likely to profit much in the way of salvage. Her cargo consisted of nuts, ginger, and wood, the latter in the shape of great logs of valuable tropical growths. It was these, no doubt, which had prevented the ill-fated vessel from going to the bottom, but they were of such a size as to make it impossible for us to extract them. Besides these, there were a few fancy goods, such as a number of ornamental birds for millinery purposes, and a hundred cases of preserved fruits. And then, as I turned over the papers, I came upon a short note in English, which arrested my attention.

It is requested  (said the note)  that the various old Spanish and Indian curiosities, which came out of the Santarem collection, and which are consigned to Prontfoot & Neuman of Oxford Street, London, should be put in some place where there may be no danger of these very valuable and unique articles being injured or tampered with. This applies most particularly to the treasure-chest of Don Ramirez di Leyra, which must on no account be placed where anyone can get at it.

The treasure-chest of Don Ramirez! Unique and valuable articles! Here was a chance of salvage after all. I had risen to my feet with the paper in my hand when my Scotch mate appeared in the doorway.

"I'm thinking all isn't quite as it should be aboard of this ship, sir," said he. He was a hard-faced man, and yet I could see that he had been startled.

"What's the matter?"

"Murder's the matter, sir. There's a man here with his brains beaten out."

"Killed in the storm?" said I.

"May be so, sir, but I'll be surprised if you think so after you have seen him."

"Where is he, then?"

"This way, sir; here in the maindeck house."

There appeared to have been no accommodation below in the brig, for there was the after-house for the captain, another by the main hatchway, with the cook's galley attached to it, and a third in the forecastle for the men. It was to this middle one that the mate led me. As you entered, the galley, with its litter of tumbled pots and dishes, was upon the right, and upon the left was a small room with two bunks for the officers. Then beyond there was a place about 12ft. square, which was littered with flags and spare canvas. All round the walls were a number of packets done up in coarse cloth and carefully lashed to the woodwork. At the other end was a great box, striped red and white, though the red was so faded and the white so dirty that it was only where the light fell directly upon it that one could see the colouring. The box was, by subsequent measurement, 4ft. 3ins. in length, 3ft. 2ins. in height, and 3ft. across— considerably larger than a seaman's chest. But it was not to the box that my eyes or my thoughts were turned as I entered the store-room. On the floor, lying across the litter of bunting, there was stretched a small, dark man with a short, curling beard. He lay as far as it was possible from the box, with his feet towards it and his head away. A crimson patch was printed upon the white canvas on which his head was resting, and little red ribbons wreathed themselves round his swarthy neck and trailed away on to the floor, but there was no sign of a wound that I could see, and his face was as placid as that of a sleeping child. It was only when I stooped that I could perceive his injury, and then I turned away with an exclamation of horror. He had been pole-axed; apparently by some person standing behind him. A frightful blow had smashed in the top of his head and penetrated deeply into his brains. His face might well be placid, for death must have been absolutely instantaneous, and the position of the wound showed that he could never have seen the person who had inflicted it.

"Is that foul play or accident, Captain Barclay?" asked my second mate, demurely.

"You are quite right, Mr. Allardyce. The man has been murdered—struck down from above by a sharp and heavy weapon. But who was he, and why did they murder him?"

"He was a common seaman, sir," said the mate. "You can see that if you look at his fingers." He turned out his pockets as he spoke and brought to light a pack of cards, some tarred string, and a bundle of Brazilian tobacco.

"Hello, look at this!" said he.

It was a large, open knife with a stiff spring blade which he had picked up from the floor. The steel was shining and bright, so that we could not associate it with the crime, and yet the dead man had apparently held it in his hand when he was struck down, for it still lay within his grasp.

"It looks to me, sir, as if he knew he was in danger and kept his knife handy," said the mate. "However, we can't help the poor beggar now. I can't make out these things that are lashed to the wall. They seem to be idols and weapons and curios of all sorts done up in old sacking."

"That's right," said I. "They are the only things of value that we are likely to get from the cargo. Hail the barque and tell them to send the other quarter-boat to help us to get the stuff aboard."

While he was away I examined this curious plunder which had come into our possession. The curiosities were so wrapped up that I could only form a general idea as to their nature, but the striped box stood in a good light where I could thoroughly examine it. On the lid, which was clamped and cornered with metal-work, there was engraved a complex coat of arms, and beneath it was a line of Spanish which I was able to decipher as meaning, "The treasure-chest of Don Ramirez di Leyra, Knight of the Order of Saint James, Governor and Captain-General of Terra Firma and of the Province of Veraquas." In one corner was the date, 1606, and on the other a large white label, upon which was written in English, "You are earnestly requested, upon no account, to open this box." The same warning was repeated underneath in Spanish. As to the lock, it was a very complex and heavy one of engraved steel, with a Latin motto, which was above a seaman's comprehension.

By the time I had finished this examination of the peculiar box, the other quarter-boat with Mr. Armstrong, the first officer, had come alongside, and we began to carry out and place in her the various curiosities which appeared to be the only objects worth moving from the derelict ship. When she was full I sent her back to the barque, and then Allardyce and I, with the carpenter and one seaman, shifted the striped box, which was the only thing left, to our boat, and lowered it over, balancing it upon the two middle thwarts, for it was so heavy that it would have given the boat a dangerous tilt had we placed it at either end. As to the dead man, we left him where we had found him. The mate had a theory that, at the moment of the desertion of the ship, this fellow had started plundering, and that the captain, in an attempt to preserve discipline, had struck him down with a hatchet or some other heavy weapon. It seemed more probable than any other explanation, and yet it did not entirely satisfy me either. But the ocean is full of mysteries, and we were content to leave the fate of the dead seaman of the Brazilian brig to be added to that long list which every sailor can recall.

The heavy box was slung up by ropes on to the deck of the Mary Sinclair, and was carried by four seamen into the cabin, where, between the table and the after-lockers, there was just space for it to stand. There it remained during supper, and after that meal the mates remained with me, and discussed over a glass of grog the event of the day. Mr. Armstrong was a long, thin, vulture-like man, an excellent seaman, but famous for his nearness and cupidity. Our treasure-trove had excited him greatly, and already he had begun with glistening eyes to reckon up how much it might be worth to each of us when the shares of the salvage came to be divided.

"If the paper said that they were unique, Mr. Barclay, then they may be worth anything that you like to name. You wouldn't believe the sums that the rich collectors give. A thousand pounds is nothing to them. We'll have something to show for our voyage, or I am mistaken."

"I don't think that," said I. "As far as I can see, they are not very different from any other South American curios."

"Well, sir, I've traded there for fourteen voyages, and I have never seen anything like that chest before. That's worth a pile of money, just as it stands. But it's so heavy that surely there must be something valuable inside it. Don't you think that we ought to open it and see?"

"If you break it open you will spoil it, as likely as not," said the second mate.

Armstrong squatted down in front of it, with his head on one side, and his long, thin nose within a few inches of the lock.

"The wood is oak," said he, "and it has shrunk a little with age. If I had a chisel or a strong-bladed knife I could force the lock back without doing any damage at all."

The mention of a strong-bladed knife made me think of the dead seaman upon the brig.

"I wonder if he could have been on the job when someone came to interfere with him," said I.

"I don't know about that, sir, but I am perfectly certain that I could open the box. There's a screwdriver here in the locker. Just hold the lamp, Allardyce, and I'll have it done in a brace of shakes."

"Wait a bit," said I, for already, with eyes which gleamed with curiosity and with avarice, he was stooping over the lid. "I don't see that there is any hurry over this matter. You've read that card which warns us not to open it. It may mean anything or it may mean nothing, but somehow I feel inclined to obey it. After all, whatever is in it will keep, and if it is valuable it will be worth as much if it is opened in the owner's offices as in the cabin of the  Mary Sinclair."

The first officer seemed bitterly disappointed at my decision.

"Surely, sir, you are not superstitious about it," said he, with a slight sneer upon his thin lips. "If it gets out of our own hands, and we don't see for ourselves what is inside it, we may be done out of our rights; besides—"

"That's enough, Mr. Armstrong," said I, abruptly. "You may have every confidence that you will get your rights, but I will not have that box opened to-night."

"Why, the label itself shows that the box has been examined by Europeans," Allardyce added. "Because a box is a treasure-box is no reason that it has treasures inside it now. A good many folk have had a peep into it since the days of the old Governor of Terra Firma."

Armstrong threw the screwdriver down upon the table and shrugged his shoulders.

"Just as you like," said he; but for the rest of the evening, although we spoke upon many subjects, I noticed that his eyes were continually coming round, with the same expression of curiosity and greed, to the old striped box.

And now I come to that portion of my story which fills me even now with a shuddering horror when I think of it. The main cabin had the rooms of the officers round it, but mine was the farthest away from it at the end of the little passage which led to the companion. No regular watch was kept by me, except in cases of emergency, and the three mates divided the watches among them. Armstrong had the middle watch, which ends at four in the morning, and he was relieved by Allardyce. For my part I have always been one of the soundest of sleepers, and it is rare for anything less than a hand upon my shoulder to arouse me.

And yet I was aroused that night, or rather in the early grey of the morning. It was just half-past four by my chronometer when something caused me to sit up in my berth wide awake and with every nerve tingling. It was a sound of some sort, a crash with a human cry at the end of it, which still jarred on my ears. I sat listening, but all was now silent. And yet it could not have been imagination, that hideous cry, for the echo of it still rang in my head, and it seemed to have come from some place quite close to me. I sprang from my bunk, and, pulling on some clothes, I made my way into the cabin. At first I saw nothing unusual there. In the cold, grey light I made out the red-clothed table, the six rotating chairs, the walnut lockers, the swinging barometer, and there, at the end, the big striped chest. I was turning away, with the intention of going upon deck and asking the second mate if he had heard anything, when my eyes fell suddenly upon something which projected from under the table. It was the leg of a man— a leg with a long sea-boot upon it. I stooped, and there was a figure sprawling upon his face, his arms thrown forward and his body twisted. One glance told me that it was Armstrong, the first officer, and a second that he was a dead man. For a few moments I stood gasping. Then I rushed on to the deck, called Allardyce to my assistance, and came back with him into the cabin.

Together we pulled the unfortunate fellow from under the table, and as we looked at his dripping head we exchanged glances, and I do not know which was the paler of the two.

"The same as the Spanish sailor," said I.

"The very same. God preserve us! It's that infernal chest! Look at Armstrong's hand!"

He held up the mate's right hand, and there was the screwdriver which he had wished to use the night before.

"He's been at the chest, sir. He knew that I was on deck and you were asleep. He knelt down in front of it, and he pushed the lock back with that tool. Then something happened to him, and he cried out so that you heard him."

"Allardyce," I whispered, "what could  have happened to him?"

The second mate put his hand upon my sleeve and drew me into his cabin.

"We can talk here, sir, and we don't know who may be listening to us in there. What do you suppose is in that box, Captain Barclay?"

"I give you my word, Allardyce, that I have no idea."

"Well, I can only find one theory which will fit all the facts. Look at the size of the box. Look at all the carving and metal-work which may conceal any number of holes. Look at the weight of it; it took four men to carry it. On top of that, remember that two men have tried to open it, and both have come to their end through it. Now, sir, what can it mean except one thing?"

"You mean there is a man in it?"

"Of course there is a man in it. You know how it is in these South American States, sir. A man may be president one week and hunted like a dog the next— they are for ever flying for their lives. My idea is that there is some fellow in hiding there, who is armed and desperate, and who will fight to the death before he is taken."

"But his food and drink?"

"It's a roomy chest, sir, and he may have some provisions stowed away. As to his drink, he had a friend among the crew upon the brig who saw that he had what he needed."

"You think, then, that the label asking people not to open the box was simply written in his interest?"

"Yes, sir, that is my idea. Have you any other way of explaining the facts?"

I had to confess that I had not.

"The question is what we are to do?" I asked.

"The man's a dangerous ruffian, who sticks at nothing. I'm thinking it wouldn't be a bad thing to put a rope round the chest and tow it alongside for half an hour; then we could open it at our ease. Or if we just tied the box up and kept him from getting any water maybe that would do as well. Or the carpenter could put a coat of varnish over it and stop all the blow-holes."

"Come, Allardyce," said I, angrily. "You don't seriously mean to say that a whole ship's company are going to be terrorised by a single man in a box. If he's there, I'll engage to fetch him out!" I went to my room and came back with my revolver in my hand. "Now, Allardyce," said I, "do you open the lock, and I'll stand on guard."

"For God's sake, think what you are doing, sir!" cried the mate. "Two men have lost their lives over it, and the blood of one not yet dry upon the carpet."

"The more reason why we should revenge him."

"Well, sir, at least let me call the carpenter. Three are better than two, and he is a good stout man."

He went off in search of him, and I was left alone with the striped chest in the cabin. I don't think that I'm a nervous man, but I kept the table between me and this solid old relic of the Spanish Main. In the growing light of morning the red and white striping was beginning to appear, and the curious scrolls and wreaths of metal and carving which showed the loving pains which cunning craftsmen had expended upon it. Presently the carpenter and the mate came back together, the former with a hammer in his hand.

"It's a bad business, this, sir," said he, shaking his head, as he looked at the body of the mate. "And you think there's someone hiding in the box?"

"There's no doubt about it," said Allardyce, picking up the screwdriver and setting his jaw like a man who needs to brace his courage. "I'll drive the lock back if you will both stand by. If he rises let him have it on the head with your hammer, carpenter. Shoot at once, sir, if he raises his hand. Now!"

He had knelt down in front of the striped chest, and passed the blade of the tool under the lid. With a sharp snick the lock flew back. "Stand by!" yelled the mate, and with a heave he threw open the massive top of the box. As it swung up we all three sprang back, I with my pistol levelled, and the carpenter with the hammer above his head. Then, as nothing happened, we each took a step forward and peeped in. The box was empty.

Not quite empty either, for in one corner was lying an old yellow candle-stick, elaborately engraved, which appeared to be as old as the box itself. Its rich yellow tone and artistic shape suggested that it was an object of value. For the rest there was nothing more weighty or valuable than dust in the old striped treasure-chest.

"Well, I'm blessed!" cried Allardyce, staring blankly into it. "Where does the weight come in, then?"

"Look at the thickness of the sides, and look at the lid. Why, it's five inches through. And see that great metal spring across it."

"That's for holding the lid up," said the mate. "You see, it won't lean back. What's that German printing on the inside?"

"It means that it was made by Johann Rothstein of Augsburg, in 1606."

"And a solid bit of work, too. But it doesn't throw much light on what has passed, does it, Captain Barclay? That candlestick looks like gold. We shall have something for our trouble after all."

He leant forward to grasp it, and from that moment I have never doubted as to the reality of inspiration, for on the instant I caught him by the collar and pulled him straight again. It may have been some story of the Middle Ages which had come back to my mind, or it may have been that my eye had caught some red which was not that of rust upon the upper part of the lock, but to him and to me it will always seem an inspiration, so prompt and sudden was my action.

"There's devilry here," said I. "Give me the crooked stick from the corner."

It was an ordinary walking-cane with a hooked top. I passed it over the candlestick and gave it a pull. With a flash a row of polished steel fangs shot out from below the upper lip, and the great striped chest snapped at us like a wild animal. Clang came the huge lid into its place, and the glasses on the swinging rack sang and tinkled with the shock. The mate sat down on the edge of the table and shivered like a frightened horse.

"You've saved my life, Captain Barclay!" said he.

So this was the secret of the striped treasure-chest of old Don Ramirez di Leyra, and this was how he preserved his ill-gotten gains from the Terra Firma and the Province of Veraquas. Be the thief ever so cunning he could not tell that golden candlestick from the other articles of value, and the instant that he laid hand upon it the terrible spring was unloosed and the murderous steel pikes were driven into his brain, while the shock of the blow sent the victim backward and enabled the chest to automatically close itself. How many, I wondered, had fallen victims to the ingenuity of the mechanic of Ausgburg? And as I thought of the possible history of that grim striped chest my resolution was very quickly taken.

"Carpenter, bring three men, and carry this on deck."

"Going to throw it overboard, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Allardyce. I'm not superstitious as a rule, but there are some things which are more than a sailor can be called upon to stand."

"No wonder that brig made heavy weather, Captain Barclay, with such a thing on board. The glass is dropping fast, sir, and we are only just in time."

So we did not even wait for the three sailors, but we carried it out, the mate, the carpenter, and I, and we pushed it with our own hands over the bulwarks. There was a white spout of water, and it was gone. There it lies, the striped chest, a thousand fathoms deep, and if, as they say, the sea will some day be dry land, I grieve for the man who finds that old box and tries to penetrate into its secret.

________________

5: Palm Beach Santa Claus

Damon Runyon

1880-1946

Collier's Dec 24 1938

Most of Runyon's "Broadway" stories were collected into book form, but a few escaped the net. This is one of them.

IT IS THE AFTERNOON of a hot day in the city of West Palm Beach, Florida, and a guy by the name of Fatso Zimpf is standing on a street corner thinking of very little and throwing so much shade that a couple of small stove lids are sitting on the curb at his feet keeping cool, for this Fatso weighs three hundred pounds if he weighs a carat and as he is only about five feet eight inches tall he is really quite a tub of blubber and casts a very wide shadow.

At that, he is somewhat undernourished at this time and in fact is maybe fifteen or twenty pounds underweight as he does not partake of food for two days, and if the small stove lids know how hungry he is the chances are they will not be sitting so close to him. To tell the truth, Fatso is so hungry that his stomach is wondering if his throat is on a vacation and what is more he does not have as much as one thin dime in his pants pockets to relieve his predicament.

This Fatso is a horse player by trade and he is en route to Miami to participate in the winter meetings at Tropical Park and Hialeah, and he leaves New York City with just enough money to get him as far as West Palm Beach by bus, but with nothing over for food and drink on the journey. However, he does not regret having to leave the bus at West Palm Beach as his strength is slowly dwindling from hunger and he figures he may be able to get something to eat there. Besides, the bus people are talking of charging him excess fare because it seems that Fatso laps over on both sides in one seat so much that they claim it is just the same as if he has three seats, and other passengers are complaining and the journey is by no means a pleasure trip for Fatso.

Well, while Fatso is standing there on the corner all of a sudden a big red roadster pulls up in the street in front of him with a good-looking tanned young guy in a sport shirt driving it and a skinny Judy sitting in the seat next to him and the skinny Judy motions for Fatso to come out to the car.

At first Fatso does not pay any attention to her because he does not wish to move around and take his shade away from the small stove lids, as he can see that they are very comfortable, and when it comes to children no kinder-hearted guy than Fatso ever lived no matter if they are slightly colored children. In fact, Fatso is enduring no little suffering from the heat, standing there just because he is too kindhearted to move.

The skinny Judy in the roadster keeps motioning to him and then she cries "Hey, you!" in a loud tone so finally Fatso goes out in the street to the car figuring that maybe she wishes to ask him the way to some place although of course Fatso does not know the way to any place in these parts, and he can see that she is not a bad-looking Judy, though not young, and that she has yellow hair tied back with a fancy handkerchief and a blue sweater and blue slacks and a lot of bracelets on her arms and rings on her fingers.

Fatso can see that this is a party who must be in the money and he can also see that she has hard blue eyes and a bossy way about her because as he goes up to the side of the car with the small stove lids following in his shade she speaks to him in a voice that seems to scratch on her tonsils coming up, as follows: "Look here," she says, "are you out of a job?"

Now this Fatso is always very courteous to all female characters even when he can see that they are nothing but mountain lions and he bows and says:

"Well," he says, "not to give you a short answer, ma'am, but who wants to know?"

"I do," the skinny Judy says. 'I'm Mrs. Manwaring Mimm."

"I am Elmore Zimpf." Fatso says, though up to this time he never before mentions his first name in public for fear of arousing criticism.

"Never mind who you are," Mrs. Mimm says. "Do you want a job or are you on relief?"

Naturally. Fatso does not want a job, for jobs are what he is keeping away from all his life and furthermore he does not care for Mrs. Minim's manner and he is about to back away from this situation when he gets to thinking how hungry he is. So he asks her what kind of a job she is thinking of and she says to him like this:

"I want you for my Santa Claus," she says. "I am giving my annual Christmas Eve party at my place in Palm Beach tomorrow night and as soon as I see you I say to the count here that you are the very one for my Santa Claus. My Santa Claus suit will just fit you," she says. "We always have to stuff it up with pillows for my butler Sparks and he never looks natural."

At this Fatso remembers that Christmas is indeed close at hand and naturally this makes him think of Mindy's restaurant on Broadway and the way they cook turkey there with dressing and cranberry sauce and with mashed potatoes and turnips or maybe baked squash to come along and thinking of these matters causes him to sigh heavily and to forget where he is for the moment until he is aroused by hearing the young guy driving the car speak as follows:

"This fat bum is dead from the neck up, Margaret," he says. "You better find someone else."

"No," she says, "I must have this one. Why, Gregorio, he will be a sensational Santa Claus. See here," she says to Fatso, "I will give you fifty dollars."

Well, on hearing the young guy speak of him as a fat bum, Fatso's thoughts return to West Palm Beach at once and he takes a good look at the young guy and he can now see that he has a piece of a mustache on his upper lip and that there is something about him that is quite familiar.

However, Fatso cannot place him as anybody he knows so he figures it is just the type that makes him seem familiar because of course there are thousands of good-looking tanned young guys with pieces of mustaches on their upper lips running around Florida at this season of the year, but he is greatly displeased with this particular young guy for calling him a fat bum.

In fact, Fatso is insulted because while he does not mind being called fat or even a bum he does not care to be called both at the same time because it sounds unrefined. He is figuring that maybe it will be an excellent idea to reach over and tag this young guy one on the chops, when he remembers hearing Mrs. Mimm mention fifty dollars.

So he takes this matter up with her to make certain his ears do not deceive him and sure enough she is willing to give him half a C to be her Santa Claus with two boffoes in advance so he can get across Lake Worth to an address she gives him without walking, provided he will proceed there at once, and Fatso accepts these terms and dismisses the small stove lids from his shade with a nickel apiece and the chances are they figure he is Santa Claus already.

Now this is how Fatso Zimpf comes to be at Pink Waters which is the name of Mrs. Manwaring Mimm's estate in Palm Beach and this estate is about the size of Central Park and faces on the ocean and has many palm trees and fountains and statuary and a swimming pool and a house that reminds Fatso of Rockefeller Center, and with enough servants running around to form a union.

Fatso reports to the butler Sparks and it turns out that this Sparks is very glad to see him when he learns that Fatso is to be Santa Claus because it seems that Sparks always considers it most undignified for a high-class butler to go around being Santa Claus with pillows stuffed down his pants.

Furthermore, it turns out that Sparks is a horse player at heart and when he finds that Fatso is familiar with the gee-gees he becomes very friendly to be sure and supplies him with plenty of information and scandal about one and all in the best circles of Palm Beach and several surrounding spots.

He explains to Fatso that Pink Waters is one of the biggest estates in these parts and that Mrs. Manwaring Mimm is richer than six feet down in Iowa, with money that she gets off her papa, who makes it out of the oil dodge years back, and that she marries anytime she feels like it and that she feels like it three times so far and is now feeling like it again. In fact, Sparks tells Fatso that she is now feeling like marrying a young guy by the name of Johnny Relf who also has plenty of dough or will have when his parents kindly pass away.

Sparks says that personally he does not approve of this marriage because there is a slight disparity in age between the parties concerned. He says Johnny is only in his middle twenties and not too bright for his years, at that, while Mrs. Mimm is two face-liftings old that he knows of, but he says she is such a determined character that he does not think it advisable for him to mention his disapproval of her plan.

Then Fatso remembers the young guy in the roadster with Mrs. Mimm and he asks Sparks is this the party she is going to marry and Sparks says:

"Oh, no," he says. "That is Count Gregorio Ferrone of an old Italian noble family. Mrs. Mimm meets him in New York last summer and brings him here to Pink Waters as a house guest. I understand," Sparks says, "that he is about to contract a marriage that will be most advantageous to him. I do not think," he says, "that the count is in funds to any extent."

"He is very impolite," Fatso says. "He does not talk much like a foreigner to me. He calls me a fat bum without any accent. Personally," Fatso says, "I mark him N.G."

"Well," Sparks says, "to tell you the truth I second the motion. The count is indeed a little brusque at times, especially," he says, "with the servants. He claims he lives in this country off and on for years so perhaps he loses his accent. Mrs. Mimm does not really seem to know much about him."

Then Sparks tells Fatso that he is not expected to do anything at all until it comes time for him to be Santa Claus the next night so Fatso wanders around and about and admires the sights and scenes of Palm Beach and finally he strolls along the ocean sands and there in a lonely spot what does he behold but a beautiful young Judy of maybe eighteen crying as if her heart will break.

Now if there is one thing Fatso cannot stand it is the sight of a female character in distress, so he steps up to her and taps her on the shoulder and says to her like this:

"Little miss," he says, "are you in trouble?"

"Yes, I am," she says: "who are you?"

"Why," Fatso says, "I am Santa Claus."

"Oh, no," she says. "There is no Santa Claus. I know it better now than anybody else in this world. Anyway," she says, "if you are Santa Claus where are your whiskers?"

Then Fatso explains about how he is to be Santa Claus for Mrs. Mimm the next night and as soon as he mentions Mrs. Mimm's name the beautiful young Judy starts crying harder than ever.

"Mrs. Mimm is the whole trouble," she says. "Mrs. Mimm steals my Johnny away from me and now I must marry Count Gregorio. I hate him even if he is a count. Mrs. Mimm is an old thing and I want my Johnny."

She continues her crying and Fatso stands there putting two and two together and he can see that he comes upon another angle of the situation that Sparks the butler describes to him.

"Tut-tut," he says. "They tell me Johnny is a lightweight. Dry your tears and think no more of the matter."

Well, at this she stops crying and gazes at Fatso who observes that her eyes are a soft brown and he also observes that she has a shape that is worthy of mention, for Fatso is very observing even if he is fat, and finally she says:

"Of course Johnny is a lightweight," she says. "Everybody knows that. In fact," she says, "everybody knows he is a complete nitwit, but," she says, "what difference does that make? I love him. He is awfully good-looking and lots of fun. I love him a zillion dollars' worth. If you are Santa Claus," she says, "you give me my Johnny for my Christmas present instead of the speedboat my papa is getting me. I want my Johnny. I hope Mrs. Mimm drops dead."

Now there are more tears and Fatso keeps patting her on the shoulder and saying now, now, now, and there, there, there, and finally she quiets down and he is able to get a better idea of her story. It is a simple love story such as Fatso often hears before, because a fat guy is always hearing love stories though he never has any to tell himself.

It seems that she and this Johnny have a big quarrel one night in New York because she wishes to go to the Stork Club and he wishes to go to El Morocco and harsh words are exchanged and they part in bitter anger and the next thing she knows he is in Palm Beach and Mrs. Mimm is taking dead aim at him and then this Count Gregorio Ferrone comes along and her papa and mama decide that it will be a great idea for her to marry him and give them an excuse to have a villa in Italy.

Well, it seems that she agrees to do same while she is still sored up at Johnny but when her papa and mama take her to their own home in Palm Beach for the winter and she learns the situation between Johnny and Mrs. Mimm is quite serious, she regrets her decision and spends all her time wandering along the sands by herself.

In fact, she says if Fatso does not happen along this particular day the chances are her remainders will now be floating out to sea, because she learns from a jeweler on Worth Avenue that Johnny just buys a square-cut diamond ring the size of a bath rug and that she knows it must be Mrs. Mimm's Christmas present and to tell the truth she hears that Mrs. Mimm picks it out herself and tips the jeweler off to promote Johnny into buying this ring. Furthermore, she hears that Mrs. Mimm is going to announce her engagement to Johnny at the Christmas party.

"And," she says, "I will have to be there to hear it because Count Gregorio is her house guest and my papa and mama are going and it will be considered very peculiar if I fail to be present. Anyway," she says, "I will hate to have anyone know I am so downcast about Johnny and why I am telling you I cannot think except you are fat and have a kind face."

By this time Fatso is becoming somewhat impatient with tears, so he changes the subject and asks her who she is and she says her name is Betty Lou Marvel and that her papa is nobody but Junius X. Marvel, the big automobile guy.

She says everybody in Palm Beach is afraid of Mrs. Mimm because she can think up very strange things to say about anybody she does not like and that nobody dare stay away from her parties if they are invited, especially her Christmas party. Betty Lou says it is years since anybody has a private Christmas in Palm Beach because Mrs. Mimm makes them bring all their presents to her party and has them given away there by her own Santa Claus and Betty Lou says she is glad they cannot take her speedboat there, and so is Fatso when he comes to think it over.

"Well, little miss," Fatso finally says, "kindly give Count Gregorio no more thought. I am personally giving him much consideration ever since he calls me a fat bum and I will take care of him. But," he says, "I do not see what I can do about your Johnny and Mrs. Mimm and if he is such a numskull as to prefer her to you maybe you are better off without him. Merry Christmas, little miss," he says.

"Merry Christmas, Santa Claus," Betty Lou says, and then Fatso goes on strolling along the sands wishing he is younger and two hundred pounds lighter.

Well, it comes on Christmas Eve and Pink Waters is all lighted up like Palisades Park with a Christmas tree as tall as a church steeple in the middle of the patio and all the fountains going with colored lights squirting on the water and two orchestras playing one after the other and long tables spread out in the open. In fact, it is as beautiful a scene as anybody could wish to see and very Christmasy-looking except it is quite hot.

When the guests are assembling, Fatso is taken in his Santa Claus suit into the library of the house which opens out into the patio by Sparks the butler and given a little final coaching there.

It seems that the first part of the party is for the neighbors' children and the second part is for the grown-ups, male and female, and on the Christmas tree in the patio and stacked up at the foot of the tree are many packages containing the presents for the little ones and Sparks explains that it is the duty of Fatso as Santa Claus to distribute these packages.

On a table in the library is a pile of small packages and Sparks says that after he distributes the packages to the children in the patio. Fatso is to return to the library and put these small packages in his Santa Claus bag and go out and stand under the tree again and take the small packages out of the bag one by one and call off the names written on them and hand them out to the parties they are meant for.

"You will be very careful with these small packages," Sparks says. "They contain presents from husbands to their ever-loving wives and vice versa and from one sweet pea to another, and so forth and so on. The chances are there are many valuable gewgaws in these packages," he says.

Then Sparks leaves Fatso alone in the library while he goes out to see if everything is ready for the appearance of Santa Claus and Fatso can observe him through the tall French window that opens on the patio, bustling about through the gay scene, and with nothing else to do until Sparks's return, Fatso takes to examining the small packages and thinking to himself that if he has the money the contents represent the chances are he will be able to retire from horse playing and perhaps find some beautiful young Judy like Betty Lou to love him.

He observes Betty Lou in the patio with the young guy that he now knows as Count Gregorio and he can see that she seems somewhat depressed and then he notices Mrs. Mimm with a tall blond young guy at her heels that he figures must be the Johnny Relf that Betty Lou is crying about and Fatso thinks to himself that from his looks this Johnny must indeed be something of a waste ball.

Finally Sparks returns and says everything is all set and out into the patio goes Fatso jingling a lot of sleigh bells and beaming on one and all and the orchestras play and the little children let out shrill cries of joy. There is no doubt but what Fatso is a wonderful success as Santa Claus with the little children and many of them wish to shake hands with him but after an hour of standing under the tree picking up packages and calling off names, Fatso commences to get a little weary.

Moreover, he commences to get a trifle vexed with the little ones, especially when some of them insist on pulling his whiskers and small boys start kicking him on the ankles to see if he is alive and by and by Fatso is thinking that maybe President Roosevelt is right about the redistribution of wealth.

In fact, Fatso becomes so vexed that he takes to quietly stepping on a few little toesies here and there accidentally on purpose and the childish cries of pain are enough to break anybody's heart and probably many of these children stop believing in Santa Claus.

Well, he finally gets rid of all the little children and they are taken away by their nurses and only the grown-ups are left and it is a gay gathering to be sure with one and all in evening dress and drinking champagne and dancing, and Fatso retires to the library again and when Sparks comes in to help him load up with the small packages, Fatso says to him like this:

"Sparksy," he says, "who is the most jealous married guy present at this party?"

"Why," Sparks says, "that is an easy one. The most jealous married guy at this party or anywhere else in the world is undoubtedly old Joel Brokebaugh. He is an old walrus who is married to a young mouse, and," Sparks says, "he thinks that every guy who says good morning to Mrs. Brokebaugh is after her, although," he says, "this idea will make you laugh yourself sick when you see her.

"She is undoubtedly a very low score for looks," Sparks says. "Furthermore," he says, "she has no more spirit than a gooseberry. Old Brokebaugh is so stingy he will not let her buy a new hat or a new dress more than once every few years although he has millions. He does not wish her to dress up for fear some guy may notice her. Personally," Sparks says, "I think old Brokebaugh is touched in the mind for figuring anybody else will ever want his wife, but he has a violent temper and often causes scenes and some say he even carries a pistol in his pocket at all times."

"Brokebaugh, eh?" Fatso says.

"Yes," Sparks says. "They are sitting together under the coconut palm by the big fountain, though why they come to a Christmas party nobody knows because they never give each other anything in the way of presents and take no part in the festivities. Everybody feels sorry for Mrs. Brokebaugh, but," Sparks says, "I say what she needs is some spunk."

Well, Fatso again goes out into the patio with his bag full of the small packages and by this time what with the champagne and the dancing and the spirit of the occasion and all this and that, everybody is in a lively mood and they give Fatso a big cheer and no one is any gayer than Mrs. Mimm.

In fact, she is practically hilarious and she gives Fatso a large smile as he goes past her and he can see that she is pleased with his efforts and he can also see that she still has this Johnny with her and that Johnny looks no brighter than before, if as bright, and then Fatso spots the couple Sparks speaks of under the coconut palm and he is somewhat surprised to note that Sparks slightly overrates Mrs. Brokebaugh's appearance.

Even from a distance Fatso can see that she is a zero for looks but he can also see that the old guy with her seems to be about as described by Sparks, only more so. He is a tall, thin old guy with a red face and a bald head and eyes like a shark and Fatso observes that the servants tiptoe going past him.

Well, Fatso gets under the tree and starts calling out names once more and giving out packages and there is now great excitement and many oohs and ahs in female voices on all sides and finally he gets down to just a few packages and calls out the name of Johnny Relf and right away afterward the name of Miss Betty Lou Marvel and in fact Fatso calls them so close together that they meet under the tree though all they do is exchange cruel glances.

Fatso does not say anything whatever to this Johnny as he gives him his package, because Fatso feels that he already does enough talking in words of one syllable to the children, but when Miss Betty Lou steps up he gives her a smile and says:

"Merry Christmas, little miss."

"Merry Christmas, Santa Claus," she says, "but I still do not believe in you."

Then she starts walking away opening her package as she goes and all of a sudden she lets out a cry and starts running toward Johnny Relf but by now Johnny opens his own package, too, and starts running toward Betty Lou.

So they meet practically head-on and start taking holds on each other in the presence of one and all, because it seems that Betty Lou's present is a large square-cut diamond ring with a card in the box which states that it is to my beloved from Johnny and that his present is a pair of big black pearl studs with a card saying they are with all my heart to Johnny from Betty Lou.

Of course nobody bothers to look into the matter at the moment, but when somebody does so later on it is considered something of a coincidence that the writing on the two cards is exactly the same and not very neat, but one and all figure it is just an act of Providence and let it go at that, especially as an act of Providence is regarded as quite a compliment to Palm Beach.

In fact, at this particular moment nobody is paying much attention to anything much but the great happiness of Betty Lou and Johnny, except Mrs. Mimm and she is watching Fatso with keen interest, though Fatso is unaware of her attention as he walks over to where Mrs. Brokebaugh is sitting and hands her a package instead of calling out her name.

Then Fatso returns to the house figuring to get his Santa Claus suit off and collect his wages from Sparks and vanish from these parts before anybody learns that he writes these cards when he is alone in the library and swaps them for cards that will give the ring to Mrs. Mimm from Johnny and the black pearls to Johnny from Mrs. Mimm, in both cases with love.

While he is walking through a long hallway, all of a sudden Fatso gets a feeling that he is being followed, and looking around he observes Mrs. Mimm close behind him. There is something about Mrs. Mimm that causes Fatso to walk a little faster and then he notes that Mrs. Mimm is walking quite a little faster than he is.

So Fatso dodges into an open doorway that he hopes and trusts may lead him elsewhere but he forgets that when he goes through doors it is usually advisable for him to turn sideways because of his great width. He goes at this door frontways and the next thing he knows there he is stuck right in the middle of the doorway and then he becomes conscious of great discomfort to the southward as it seems that Mrs. Mimm is forgetting she is a lady and is kicking him severely and it also seems that these evening shoes that the Judys wear nowadays with their bare toes sticking out in front are capable of inflicting greater pain when used for kicking than just ordinary shoes.

In the meantime, it appears that there is some commotion in the patio because Mrs. Brokebaugh is so startled at getting any Christmas present at all that she cannot open the package Fatso gives her so old Mr. Brokebaugh opens it for her and finds a gold vanity case with a card that reads as follows:

"To my sweetest sweet from Gregorio."

Well, of course old Mr. Brokebaugh has no way of knowing that this is Count Gregorio's present to Betty Lou and that Fatso does not even change the card but only rubs out Betty Lou's name on it and puts down Mrs. Brokebaugh's, though naturally old Mr. Brokebaugh knows who Gregorio is.

In fact, he can see Gregorio at this very moment standing near by feeling of his little mustache and looking greatly bewildered at the scene that is still going on at intervals, between Betty Lou and Johnny, and all of a sudden old Mr. Brokebaugh lets out a yell and jumps up and pulls a pistol out of his pocket and starts full tilt at the count speaking in a loud tone, as follows:

"So," he says, "you are making a play for my wife, are you, scoundrel?"

Well, of course Count Gregorio has no idea what old Mr. Brokebaugh is talking about, but he has eyes in his head and he can see that Mr. Brokebaugh is making a dead set for him and that he is hotter than a firecracker and he can also see the pistol and from the way the count turns and starts running it is plain to be seen that whatever he may be, he is no sucker.

He knocks over three debutantes and a banker worth ten million dollars making for the patio wall and trying to keep trees and bushes between him and Mr. Brokebaugh as he goes and all this time old Mr. Brokebaugh is running after him and with surprising speed for a guy his age and waving the pistol and requesting the count to stand still and be shot.

He never gets a really fair crack at the count except when Gregorio is going over the wall and then old Mr. Brokebaugh lets fly twice and misses both times and the sound of this shooting probably saves Fatso many more contusions as it brings Mrs. Mimm running into the patio to find out what is going on and in her absence Fatso wiggles on through the doorway.

So Fatso shakes the sands of Palm Beach from his feet regretting only that he never gets a chance to ask Betty Lou if she now believes in Santa Claus and he goes on down to Miami and a year later he relates the above circumstances to me one day when we are sitting in the rocking chairs on the veranda of the Hotel McAllister hoping to catch somebody going to the races with a couple of spare seats in their car, for things are by no means dinkum with Fatso and me at the moment.

"You see," Fatso says, "tomorrow is Christmas again and this is what reminds me of these matters at this time."

"So it is, Fatso," I say. "It is strange how time flies. But, Fatso," I say, "are you not most severe on Count Gregorio in not only knocking him out of a chance to pick up a few boffoes by marriage but in almost getting him plugged by a jealous husband?"

"No," Fatso says. "By no means. You must always remember he calls me a fat bum. Besides," he says, "old Brokebaugh just spares me the humiliation of denouncing Gregorio as a former busboy in Vincenti's wop restaurant in West Fiftieth Street and still wanted for robbing the damper of thirty-six dollars.

"I will never forgive myself if I am compelled to holler copper on anybody whatsoever," Fatso says, "but," he says, "of course I will do so as a last resort to prevent Gregorio from marrying Betty Lou. It comes to me all of a sudden why his face is familiar when I am strolling on the sands the time I meet Betty Lou. I never forget a face."

Well, at this moment a big limousine stops in front of the hotel and a small-sized lively Judy all dressed up and sparkling with jewelry hops out of the car and runs up the veranda steps with three good-looking tanned young guys with little mustaches running after her and she is laughing and gay and looks like plenty in the bank, and I am greatly surprised when she skips up to Fatso and gives him a pat on the arm and says like this:

"Merry Christmas, Santa Claus!"

Then she is gone as quick as she comes and the young guys with her and she is still laughing and Fatso is gazing at a fifty-dollar note in his hand with great pleasure and he says:

"She is from Palm Beach," he says. "Anytime anybody from Palm Beach recognizes me they stake me to something because they remember that Mrs. Mimm never pays me the fifty she promises me for being her Santa Claus. I understand," Fatso says, "that it is a public scandal in Palm Beach."

"Is this one Betty Lou?" I ask.

"Oh, no," Fatso says. "She is Mrs. Brokebaugh. I recall now I hear that ever since she gets the Christmas present that she thinks to this very day is from Count Gregorio, she decides she is a natural-born charmer and blossoms out into a life of gaiety, and," Fatso says, "they tell me her husband cannot do a thing about it. Well, Merry Christmas to you."

"Merry Christmas, Fatso," I say.

______________

6: The Ceremony

Arthur Machen

Arthur Llewellyn Jones, 1863-1947

I can't find the first publication of this story, other than that it was in 1897. It was collected in Ornaments in Jade, 1924

"RATHER left the others behind, haven't we, Miss Custance?" said the captain, looking back to the gate and the larchwood.

"I'm afraid we have, Captain Knight. I hope you don't mind very much, do you?"

"Mind? Delighted, you know. Sure this damp air isn't bad for you, Miss Custance?"

"Oh, d'you think it's damp? I like it. Ever since I can remember I've enjoyed these quiet autumn days. I won't hear of father's going anywhere else."

"Charmin" place, the Grange. Don't wonder you like comin" down here."

Captain Knight glanced back again and suddenly chuckled.

"I say, Miss Custance," he said, "I believe the whole lot's lost their way. Don't see a sign of them. Didn't we pass another path on the left?"

"Yes, and don't you remember you wanted to turn off?"

"Yes, of course. I thought it looked more possible, don't you know. That's where they must have gone. Where does it lead?"

"Oh, nowhere exactly. It dwindles and twists about a lot, and I'm afraid the ground is rather marshy."

"You don't say so?" The captain laughed out loud. "How awfully sick Ferris will be. He hates crossing Piccadilly if there's a bit of mud about."

"Poor Mr. Ferris!" And the two went on, picking their way on the rough path, till they came in sight of a little old cottage sunken alone in a hollow amongst the woods.

"Oh, you must come and see Mrs. Wise," said Miss Custance. "She's such a dear old thing, I'm sure you'd fall in love with her. And she'd never forgive me if she heard afterwards that we'd passed so close without coming in. Only for five minutes, you know."

"Certainly, Miss Custance. Is that the old lady there at the door?"

"Yes. She's always been so good to us children, and I know she'll talk of our coming to see her for months. You don't mind, do you?"

"I shall be charmed, I'm sure," and he looked back once more to see if there were any appearance of Ferris and his party.

"Sit down, Miss Ethel, sit down, please, miss," said the old woman when they went in. "And please to sit down here, sir, will you be so kind?"

She dusted the chairs, and Miss Custance enquired after the rheumatism and the bronchitis, and promised to send something from the Grange. The old woman had good country manners, and spoke well, and now and then politely tried to include Captain Knight in the conversation. But all the time she was quietly looking at him.

"Yes, sir, I be a bit lonely at times," she said when her visitors rose. "I do miss Nathan sorely; you can hardly remember my husband, can you, Miss Ethel? But I have the Book, sir, and good friends too."

A couple of days later Miss Custance came alone to the cottage. Her hand trembled as she knocked at the door.

"Is it done?" she asked, when the old woman appeared.

"Come in, miss," said Mrs. Wise, and she shut the door, and put up the wooden bolt. Then she crept to the hearth, and drew out something from a hiding-place in the stones.

"Look at that," she said, showing it to the young lady. "Isn't it a picture?"

Miss Custance took the object into her fine delicate hands, and glanced at it, and then flushed scarlet.

"How horrible!" she exclaimed. "What did you do that for? You never told me."

"It's the only way, miss, to get what you want."

"It's a loathsome thing. I wonder you're not ashamed of yourself."

"I be as much ashamed as you be, I think," said Mrs. Wise, and she leered at the pretty, shy-faced girl. Their eyes met and their eyes laughed at one another.

"Cover it up, please, Mrs. Wise; I needn't look at it now, at all events. But are you sure?"

"There's never been a mishap since old Mrs. Cradoc taught me, and she's been dead for sixty year and more. She used to tell of her grandmother's days when there were meetings in the wood over there."

"And you're quite sure?"

"You do as I tell you. You must take it like this"; and the old woman whispered her instructions, and would have put out a hand in illustration, but the girl pushed it away.

"I understand now, Mrs. Wise. No, don't do that. I quite see what you mean. Here's the money."

"And whatever you do, don't you forget the ointment as I told you," said Mrs. Wise.

"I'VE BEEN to read to poor old Mrs. Wise," Ethel said that evening to Captain Knight. "She's over eighty and her eyesight is getting very bad."

"Very good of you, Miss Custance, I'm sure," said Captain Knight, and he moved away to the other end of the drawing-room, and began to talk to a girl in yellow, with whom he had been exchanging smiles at a distance, ever since the men came in from the dining-room.

That night, when she was alone in her room, Ethel followed Mrs. Wise's instructions. She had hidden the object in a drawer, and as she drew it out, she looked about her, though the curtains were drawn close.

She forgot nothing, and when it was done, she listened.

_______________

7: Haunted

Anonymous

Arrow (Sydney) 13 April 1912

'I'VE GOT something to tell you.'

Winter drew his chair close to the fire, and motioned us to do likewise.

'You look like a death's head,' said Lawton.

'I feel like one,' said Winter, in a gloomy voice, as he shivered slightly, and glanced uneasily at the door; 'it's November 20, the anniversary of the death of poor Clive Fleming.'

'I had forgotten that,' said Lawton quietly. 'Of course it is. Poor old chap!'

'You remember the occasion of his— his— death, don't you?' continued Winter after a moment's pause. 'We were all out shooting at Parkington's place, and— and—' he hesitated nervously.

'And,' said Spilsbury, taking up the story, 'he mysteriously disappeared, and was never heard of again.' 'Exactly. He disappeared, am', was never heard of again. It's ten years ago to-day, and on the tenth anniversary of the curious affair I want to tell you something, something that's been on my mind, something that's eaten into my very soul during all that time.'

We all looked at Winter. He was ghastly pale, and he shivered despite the warmth of the blazing fire.

'To begin at the beginning.' he went, on calmly, puffing his cigar between whiles, 'Clive and I were both In love with Kitty Spencer. Closer pals could not have been until she came between us. She altered everything. You remember her, of course, a slim little thing with blue eyes and fair hair, who danced like an angel and sang like— well, no matter. I don't know what his feelings were. I only know my own. I loved her desperately, furiously, blindly, madly. Perhaps he did the same. Anyhow, my feelings got the better of me, and the mere idea that she should love him the better so worked on me that I became half-demented. Then came the shooting at Parkington's. Clive and I became separated from the rest and we found ourselves on the edge of that stagnant, dismal pool which lies on the edge of Marfleet Woods. I persuaded Clive to crops the little bridge which spans the water, and when in the centre, I— I— well. I pushed him over.'

Winter stopped suddenly and asked, 'Was that a knock?'

We were all too much horrified to answer.

'I suppose it was fancy,' he went on with a dry laugh. 'Anyhow, to get back to the yarn, that is what happened. I shoved him in the water— it's awfully deep, you know— saw him struggle a moment and sink, and then rejoined the rest of the party just as cool as you are now. You remember what a hue-and-cry there was after the missing man, how the police searched high and low, night and day, and the London papers sent down special representatives who wrote thrilling accounts of the incident. You may remember, too,' he added softly, 'how Kitty went off her head and was packed off to a nursing home, and how I went abroad to shoot big game.'

'How was it Clive's body wasn't found?' Lawton asked. 'The lake was dragged, you know, and the water was run off and nothing was discovered. How do you explain that?'

Winter looked round slyly. 'That's what I'm coming to,' he said slowly, 'that's what I wanted to tell you. Clive wasn't drowned. I thought he was, but I was fooled. Directly my back was turned, he managed to crawl out, and to make his way to a neighboring village, where he dried his clothes, and went to bed at a local inn. The ducking didn't do him any physical harm, but the curious thing was. it turned his brain and he became possessed of the idea that he was really dead, and ought not to show himself to his relations and friends. Mind you, there was. a lot of method in his madness, for he was head over heels in debt, and it was a simple way of wiping the slate clean to remain a corpse. During these past ten years he is supposed to have been in his grave, but all the while he has been alive; yes, alive and fit and well as a man could be.'

'Alive?' said Spilsbury, awestruck. 'How do you know?'

'For the best of reasons,' said Winter, 'because for ten years Clive Fleming has haunted me day and night. He has followed rue about like a shadow wherever I went. Of course I could have given him away a thousand, times, but if I had done so, he would have given me away, and it doesn't require any particular acuteness to see that I should have got the worst of it. You see I did try to kill him. There's no getting away from that! I tell you Clive Fleming is alive and well, and out of revenge for what I did he has sworn to dog my footsteps until I pass into the grave.'

We stared at each other.

'He may come here to-night,' said Winter, his eyes glued on the door. 'I don't think he has ever missed the Anniversary. If he comes,' he cried, starting from his chair and trembling, 'I won't see him. I don't want to see him. I'm sick to death of him. For ten years he has plagued me, sleeping and waking, and I won't stand it longer.'

At that moment we heard a step on the stairs leading to Winter's chambers, a heavy step as of one walking slowly and laboriously.

'That's his step,' Winter screamed, 'there can be no mistake. I know it only too well.'

The footsteps came closer. Then someone rapped at the door impatiently.  We all stood still. Were we about to gaze upon a ghost, a thing of shadow, or Clive Fleming, solid flesh and blood?

Lawton opened the door. It was only the postman. He handed Lawton a letter and vanished into the darkness of the corridor.

'A letter for you, Winter,' he said, turning round, 'that's all.'

Instinctively Winter tore open the letter. It was from a doctor at a town in the Midlands, announcing that Clive Fleming had died the night before, and with his dying breath had wished to be remembered to his old friends.

'LOOK at Winter,' cried Lawton, 'I always said he had heart disease.'

__________________

8: Short Rations

John Barton Oxford

Richard Barker Shelton, 1876-1944

Golden Gate (Fremantle) 2 Feb 1912

The Scrap Book  Dec 1911

Richard Barker Shelton was a prolific English short story writer under his "John Barton Oxford" pseudonym.

OLD PETER Quintal stood at the foot of the galley companionway, puffing disgustedly at his very short pipe, while his one sound eye ran appraisingly over the contents of the basket which the cook set out for him to carry to the men in the forecastle. The cook of the four-sticker Ellen Preston stood by the galley range, surveying Peter with a pair of very small and very cold gray eyes.

Peter's hesitation, and the manner in which he looked at the basket seemed to irritate the cook.

"Well, what's the matter with it?" he demanded, when, after a full three minutes, Peter gave no sign of picking up his burden.

"Ain't enough of it," Peter croaked in rumbling tones.

"Ain't enough, hey?" the cook retorted. "Yer'd better eat it first before yer go to sayin' that. Eyes are bigger'n yer stomach, most likely. What do yer expect— a porter-house steak and a whole mince pie for each of yer?"

"Ain't enough," Peter reiterated stubbornly, blinking his one good eye menacingly. "They's eight men in the crew. This here won't be no more'n a taste to em."

"Well, its all yer'll git, so take it and git out with it before I heave yer out," snapped the cook. Peter took his pipe from his mouth, laid it on a near-by locker, and hunched his heavy shoulders.

"Come on an' try to heave me out," he invited. The cook took one glance at the threatening figure by the companion-way and snatched a simmering skillet from the range.

"You take that basket and git out o' my galley, and do it quick, too, or I'll let go this b'ilin' water at yer. Now, git!" He swung the steaming skillet in menacing fashion, and Peter, mumbling under his breath, picked up the clinking basket and shuffled up the steps to the deck. He did not go with it into the forecastle, however, but turned his steps aft, where the mate leaned against the weather bitts, waiting for the skipper to finish his dinner and relieve him of the deck.

He looked up as Peter, with the crockery in the basket on his arm clicking out each step, stopped close to the pump, and with a jerky movement touched his battered old cap with a stiff forefinger.

"Beg pardon, sir," said Peter. "Can I trouble yer, sir, to look at this grub, if yer will?"

"Grub?" said the mate, stepping forward and gazing into the basket. "Well, what ails it? Looks wholesome enough to me."

"Ain't enough of it," said Peter. "Cook's keepin' us pretty short, sir. Eight of us there is to eat it, and I'll leave it to you how far that will go with eight of us."

" 'Tain't such a terrible lot," the mate mused. "Take it for'rard, such as it is, and I'll have a word with the cook. That what you want?"

"Yes, sir, and thank yer, sir," said Peter, shuffling forward. He disappeared through the fore-castle hatch, and presently a great clatter told that the men off watch were at dinner, also certain mutterings coming through the hatch told that the dinner was none too satisfactory.

The mate strode forward and descended into the galley.

"Men are kickin' about the grub, cooky," he observed, seating himself on a locker.

"D'yer ever see any fo'castle bunch that wa'n't?" the cook questioned.

"Oh, yes. some of 'em don't complain."

"I give 'em good stuff," said the cook. "Nobody said yer didn't," the mate replied, "not even old Peter, when he come tuggin' up the dinner basket for me to look at just now. The only fault he found was that there wa'n't enough of it."

The cook reddened, but he looked searchingly at the mate. What he read in the latter's face seemed to hearten him, for the hot flush died from his own cheeks. He grinned weakly.

"I guess they get enough," he hazarded.

"We'll, now, maybe they do," the mate conceded, "but there wa'n't none too much grub for eight healthy men in that basket Peter just showed me. I don't suppose there'll be any noticeable savin' in the grub bills for all you're keepin' 'em sorter short!"

The cook gave him another glance, but said nothing.

"Yer see, this matter is up to me." the mate went on tentatively. "For even if they go to kickin' to the old man direct, he'll turn the thing over to me to investigate."

The cook seemed to debate with himself for some time, eyeing the mate furtively meanwhile.

"Supposin' I was holdin' out grub on 'em," he came out boldly at length.

"Well, supposin' you was— what then?" asked the mate.

"How much would it be worth to you," he began, and stopped cautiously to note the effect of his words. The mate was smiling placidly, therefore he went on: "How much would it be worth to you to square whatever kicks are comin' from 'em?"

"How much would it be worth to you?" the mate in his turn demanded.

"Well, if yer was to shut 'em up and keep 'em from growlin' too hard, I could give yer five dollars all right," said the cook.

The mate lifted his eyebrows and slowly shook his head.

"Well, then eight," suggested the cautious cook. But again the mate negatived the suggestion.

The cook coughed and looked genuinely distressed. He rubbed his forehead with one greasy hand. "It's a good deal for what I'll be gettin' out of it," he complained at last, "but on the pinch I might be able to squeeze yer out ten."

"H-m! That might do it," mused the mate. "Pay's in advance, of course."

The cook lifted up his grimy apron, dug into his trousers-pocket, and produced a small roll of bills, from which he peeled the outer one and passed it to the mate. "Let's see: I'm feed'in' 'em good grub now, and plenty of it, ain't I, in case the old man happens to want to know anything about it?" he suggested.

"Sure thing!" the mate agreed. "You're wadin' right into the stuff in the lazaretto. You're givin' 'em bang up feeds. If they kicks about what you feeds 'em, they must be the worst kind of chronic yowlers. Darn a crew that's always grumblin' about the grub anyway."

He favored the cook with a ponderous wink and betook himself to the deck.

At supper-time that night Old Peter, again coming out of the galley with his basket after a strenuous ten minutes with the cook, nearly bumped into the mate, who, strangely enough, was standing at the top of the companion-way.

"Now ain't that a rotten supper?" Peter mumbled as he slammed the basket onto the deck and pointed at it with an accusing forefinger. "Nothin' but bread hash, and not much at that!" The mate poked over the basket's contents with much apparent interest.

"Say, what's gettin' into all you bum sea-lawyers for'rard lately?" he grunted. "What's the matter with that for a supper, hey? Bread hash, it's true, but bread hash all browned up with pork-scraps in the pan, and what's this here but cake? Can't yer appreciate a good cook when you run against one?"

Peter Quintal, who had graced a coasting forecastle ever since, as a mere youth, he had run away from his home in Nova Scotia, knew a thing or two. He favored the mate with one long knowing glance from that rheumy right eye of his; then, without a word, grabbed up the basket and stalked to the forecastle hatch. He slammed the basket on the single long, rough board which served as a table, and listened grimly to the grumblings as the men gathered about it.

A big Sou'wegian, making short work of his share of the hash and soggy cake, smote the board with a mighty fist.

"Ay ben glad Ay ain't ship no roun' trip on dis blame schooner," he grunted, vainly searching the basket for a few overlooked crumbs. A chorus of angry voices indorsed this sentiment. The men rumbled curses, now and then interspersed with threats of vengeance on the cook. Only old Peter said nothing. He perched on the edge of his bunk, sucking noisily at the short clay pipe, a dreamy look in his eye, and a furrow puckering his slanting forehead.

"Peter, he ship the roun' trip," laughed the big Sou'wegian. "Peter, he get back with his spine in front."

"Maybe so," said Peter, with a grave nod of his head. He crammed another charge into the pipe and placidly went on with his smoking.

In due time the Ellen Preston with her hungry and disgruntled, crew made the light-boat, stood in through the Narrows and took a tow. It was six o'clock of a gusty October evening when she was berthed at her coal dock on the Chelsea side of the harbor. Supper, such as it was, once over; the crew, save only Peter, were paid off and took a hasty and in no-wise reluctant departure; the skipper and the mate went ashore, and no one except the cook and Peter Quintal were left aboard.

With great ostentation Peter withdrew to the forecastle, closing the hatch behind him; with great ostentation he engineered a series of gurgling snores when a few minutes later he heard the soft tread of the cook's footsteps on the deck above. But the truth of the matter was that Peter was very wide awake, indeed. Through a crack in the small swinging doors, just beneath the sliding hatch cover, he was peering intently through the gloom, following the cook's every movement. He chuckled as the cook went aft, perched on the rail, and now and again cocked his head to one side.

"To-night, jest as I expected," the watcher on the forecastle told himself. Presently, through the darkness came the soft chugging of a motor boat. Nearer it came and nearer. Then the cook whistled a few bars of "Comin' Thro' the Rye." and when he stopped an answering whistle took up the tune where the cook had dropped it. A moment later the launch was alongside, and Peter heard the whir of a throw line.

"Hallo, Ben!" he heard the man in the motor-boat hailing the cook. "In a new berth, ain't yer? Wot yer got this time?"

"Oh. a couple of barrels of potatoes, half a cask of salt horse, some pork, and a crate of canned stuff. Come aboard and have a look at it. It's all first-rate stuff."

By the feeble light of the single lantern swung from the spanker boom, Peter saw a man come over the rail, and, led by the cook, make his way aft toward the lazaretto. When he heard the lazaretto hatch-cover sliding off, Peter crept cautiously out of the forecastle, crept along the port rail and concealed himself behind the after house. '

Below in the lazaretto, he could hear the voices of the cook and his visitor.

"Ain't this good stuff, all right?" the cook was saying.

"Oh, pretty fair," the other replied cautiously.

"Crew kicked like sin on the holding out," the cook explained. "Had to square the mate ten dollars' worth to keen it from gettin' to the skipper. So I want a good price. You'd oughter give me twenty-eight dollars for this lot, I figger."

"Twenty's a good fair price," the other demurred. "You go chase yers'elf," said the cook angrily.  "Want me to make yer a present of it, don't yer?"

They haggled for a while and compromised on twenty-four dollars.

"Here's yer coin, Ben," Peter heard the motor-boat man say. "Now lend a hand and we'll git it overside into the boat."

First came the crate of canned goods, which was carried along the starboard side and stowed in the motor-boat alongside; then the two barrels of potatoes were laboriously lifted out. Grinning maliciously, Peter craned about the comer of the house and saw them disappear into the lazaretto for what remained of the cask of salt horse.

No sooner were they out of sight than Peter quitted his place of concealment, kicked off his shoes, and was across the deck in the twinkling of an eye. In another moment he had banged on the hatch-cover, pulled over it its batten and slipped the iron bolt in the hasp, after which he seated himself upon it and fished in his pocket for his stubby clay pipe.

For a few moments there was tense silence. Then, just as Peter got his evil-smelling pipe thoroughly aglow, there came from beneath him the sound of a whispering conversation and a lusty bang on the under side of the hatch-cover.

Peter removed his pipe and apparently addressed the empty air.

"I got a nice motor-boat for sale," he observed. "Nice, slick little motor boat and some provisions, too. Two barrels of potatoes and a crate of canned stuff, the provisions is. I found the motor-boat adrift with the provisions in it, and. of course, findin's is keepin's. I wonder if there's any one wants to buy a motor-boat and provisions. The terms is reasonable, but cash."

Then came the cook's voice in a howl of anger: "Oh, it's you, is it?"  He supplemented this simple question by a string of very scorching epithets, not redounding to the credit of the placid Peter's ancestry.

"And say, you let us out; let us out damned quick, or we'll come up there and out your heart out of yer," the cook finished.

"Ain't he sassy?" Peter inquired of a nearby coal-shed. "And ain't he generous with his threats— wot? Oh, no. I couldn't let him out yet. I got a motor-boat for sale and some provisions which I found—"

"Cut that!" snarled the cook. Again there was a whispered conversation below. "Well, how much do you want for yer stuff?" the cook inquired.

"I'm reasonable— real reasonable." Peter rumbled. "Fifty for the boat and another fifty for the provisions-"

"Yer won't git that outer us." howled the imprisoned cook. "We'll give yer twenty-five to let us out though."

"There ain't no reduced rate in this concern," said Peter. Fifty for the boat and fifty for the provisions. If I don't git it I suppose I'll just have to sit here and smoke and put up with that language that ain't fit for decent ears to listen to. I'll just sit here till the skipper comes back, and show him the boat and the provisions I found—"

A match rasped in the lazaretto. "We'll give yer the hundred," agreed the cook.

"All right," said Peter. "Pass it up."

He got off his perch, cautiously slid back the hatch-cover a few inches and snatched the roll of bills from the hand which promptly appeared at the opening. And then, as two sets of fingers clutched the coaming of the hatch, Peter calmly trod upon them.

"Not so fast," he admonished, as he slip the cover on again. "I got to see this money's all right."

"Say, let us out, you old fool," begged the cook. "You got yer coin, and the skipper may be back any minute."

Not until Peter had finished his laborious counting of the bills did he give any heed to the uproar below. Then he pulled out the bolt and slid the batten toward the curving end of the hasp.

"I ain't takin' no chances at meetin' you two just now," said he, "so I've fixed the batten so that a few good whangs on the cover'll joggle it loose and let yer out. And now I'm goin' to run like the deuce, and by the time you do git out, I'll be well out of here. I'm going to head for a square feed. There's plenty of places round here where you can git one for a hundred pounds.

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9: The Devil of the Marsh

H. B. Marriott-Watson

1863-1921

From Diogenes of London, 1893

IT WAS NIGH upon dusk when I drew close to the Great Marsh, and already the white vapours were about, riding across the sunken levels like ghosts in a churchyard. Though I had set forth in a mood of wild delight, I had sobered in the lonely ride across the moor and was now uneasily alert. As my horse jerked down the grassy slopes that fell away to the jaws of the swamp I could see thin streams of mist rise slowly, hover like wraiths above the long rushes, and then, turning gradually more material, go blowing heavily away across the flat. The appearance of the place at this desolate hour, so remote from human society and so darkly significant of evil presences, struck me with a certain wonder that she should have chosen this spot for our meeting. She was a familiar of the moors, where I had invariably encountered her; but it was like her arrogant caprice to test my devotion by some such dreary assignation. The wide and horrid prospect depressed me beyond reason, but the fact of her neighbourhood drew me on, and my spirits mounted at the thought that at last she was to put me in possession of herself Tethering my horse upon the verge of the swamp, I soon discovered the path that crossed it, and entering struck out boldly for the heart. The track could have been little used, for the reeds, which stood high above the level of my eyes upon either side, straggled everywhere across in low arches, through which I dodged, and broke my way with some inconvenience and much impatience. A full half-hour I was solitary in that wilderness, and when at last a sound other than my own footsteps broke the silence the dusk had fallen.

I was moving very slowly at the time, with a mind half disposed to turn from the melancholy expedition, which it seemed to me now must surely be a cruel jest she had played upon me. While some such reluctance held me, I was suddenly arrested by a hoarse croaking which broke out upon my left, sounding somewhere from the reeds in the black mire. A little further it came again from close at hand, and when I had passed on a few more steps in wonder and perplexity, I heard it for the third time. I stopped and listened, but the marsh was as a grave, and so taking the noise for the signal of some raucous frog, I resumed my way. But in a little the croaking was repeated, and coming quickly to a stand I pushed the reeds aside and peered into the darkness. I could see nothing, but at the immediate moment of my pause I thought I detected the sound of some body trailing through the rushes. My distaste for the adventure grew with this suspicion, and had it not been for my delirious infatuation I had assuredly turned back and ridden home. The ghastly sound pursued me at intervals along the track, until at last, irritated beyond endurance by the sense of this persistent and invisible company, I broke into a sort of run. This, it seemed, the creature (whatever it was) could not achieve, for I heard no more of it, and continued my way in peace. My path at length ran out from among the reeds upon the smooth flat of which she had spoken, and here my heart quickened, and the gloom of the dreadful place lifted. The flat lay in the very centre of the marsh, and here and there in it a gaunt bush or withered tree rose like a spectre against the white mists. At the further end I fancied some kind of building loomed up; but the fog which had been gathering ever since my entrance upon the passage sailed down upon me at that moment and the prospect went out with suddenness. As I stood waiting for the clouds to pass, a voice cried to me out of its centre, and I saw her next second with bands of mist swirling about her body, come rushing to me from the darkness. She put her long arms about me, and, drawing her close, I looked into her deep eyes. Far down in them, it seemed to me, I could discern a mystic laughter dancing in the wells of light, and I had that ecstatic sense of nearness to some spirit of fire which was wont to possess me at her contact.

'At last,' she said, 'at last, my beloved!' I caressed her.

'Why,' said I, tingling at the nerves, 'why have you put this dolorous journey between us? And what mad freak is your presence in this swamp?' She uttered her silver laugh, and nestled to me again.

'I am the creature of this place,' she answered. 'This is my home. I have sworn you should behold me in my native sin ere you ravished me away.'

'Come, then,' said I; 'I have seen; let there be an end of this. I know you, what you are. This marsh chokes up my heart. God forbid you should spend more of your days here. Come.'

'You are in haste,' she cried. 'There is yet much to learn. Look, my friend,' she said, 'you who know me, what I am. This is my prison, and I have inherited its properties. Have you no fear?'

For answer I pulled her to me, and her warm lips drove out the horrid humours of the night; but the swift passage of a flickering mockery over her eyes struck me as a flash of lightning, and I grew chill again.

'I have the marsh in my blood,' she whispered: 'the marsh and the fog of it. Think ere you vow to me, for I am the cloud in a starry night.'

A lithe and lovely creature, palpable of warm flesh, she lifted her magic face to mine and besought me plaintively with these words. The dews of the nightfall hung on her lashes, and seemed to plead with me for her forlorn and solitary plight.

'Behold!' I cried, 'witch or devil of the marsh, you shall come with me! I have known you on the moors, a roving apparition of beauty; nothing more I know, nothing more I ask. I care not what this dismal haunt means; not what these strange and mystic eyes. You have powers and senses above me; your sphere and habits are as mysterious and incomprehensible as your beauty. But that', I said, 'is mine, and the world that is mine shall be yours also.'

She moved her head nearer to me with an antic gesture, and her gleaming eyes glanced up at me with a sudden flash, the similitude (great heavens!) of a hooded snake. Starting, I fell away, but at that moment she turned her face and set it fast towards the fog that came rolling in thick volumes over the flat. Noiselessly the great cloud crept down upon us, and all dazed and troubled I watched her watching it in silence. It was as if she awaited some omen of horror, and I too trembled in the fear of its coming.

Then suddenly out of the night issued the hoarse and hideous croaking I had heard upon my passage. I reached out my arm to take her hand, but in an instant the mists broke over us, and I was groping in the vacancy. Something like panic took hold of me, and, beating through the blind obscurity, I rushed over the flat, calling upon her. In a little the swirl went by, and I perceived her upon the margin of the swamp, her arm raised as in imperious command. I ran to her, but stopped, amazed and shaken by a fearful sight. Low by the dripping reeds crouched a small squat thing, in the likeness of a monstrous frog, coughing and choking in its throat. As I stared, the creature rose upon its legs and disclosed a horrid human resemblance. Its face was white and thin, with long black hair; its body gnarled and twisted as with the ague of a thousand years. Shaking, it whined in a breathless voice, pointing a skeleton finger at the woman by my side.

'Your eyes were my guide,' it quavered. 'Do you think that after all these years I have no knowledge of your eyes? Lo, is there aught of evil in you I am not instructed in? This is the Hell you designed for me, and now you would leave me to a greater.'

The wretch paused, and panting leaned upon a bush, while she stood silent, mocking him with her eyes, and soothing my terror with her soft touch.

'Hear!' he cried, turning to me, hear the tale of this woman that you may know her as she is. She is the Presence of the marshes. Woman or Devil I know not, but only that the accursed marsh has crept into her soul and she herself is become its Evil Spirit; she herself, that lives and grows young and beautiful by it, has its full power to blight and chill and slay. I, who was once as you are, have this knowledge. What bones lie deep in this black swamp who can say but she? She has drained of health, she has drained of mind and of soul; what is between her and her desire that she should not drain also of life? She has made me a devil in her Hell, and now she would leave me to my solitary pain, and go search for another victim. But she shall not!' he screamed through his chattering teeth; 'she shall not! My Hell is also hers! She shall not!'

Her smiling untroubled eyes left his face and turned to me: she put out her arms, swaying towards me, and so fervid and so great a light glowed in her face that, as one distraught of superhuman means, I took her into my embrace. And then the madness seized me.

'Woman or devil,' I said, 'I will go with you! Of what account this pitiful past? Blight me even as that wretch, so be only you are with me.'

She laughed, and, disengaging herself, leaned, half-clinging to me, towards the coughing creature by the mire.

'Come,' I cried, catching her by the waist. 'Come!' She laughed again a silver-ringing laugh. She moved with me slowly across the flat to where the track started for the portals of the marsh. She laughed and clung to me.

But at the edge of the track I was startled by a shrill, hoarse screaming, and behold, from my very feet, that loathsome creature rose up and wound his long black arms about her shrieking and crying in his pain. Stooping I pushed him from her skirts, and with one sweep of my arm drew her across the pathway; as her face passed mine her eyes were wide and smiling. Then of a sudden the still mist enveloped us once more; but ere it descended I had a glimpse of that contorted figure trembling on the margin, the white face drawn and full of desolate pain. At the sight an icy shiver ran through me. And then through the yellow gloom the shadow of her darted past me, to the further side. I heard the hoarse cough, the dim noise of a struggle, a swishing sound, a thin cry, and then the sucking of the slime over something in the rushes. I leapt forward: and once again the fog thinned, and I beheld her, woman or devil, standing upon the verge, and peering with smiling eyes into the foul and sickly bog. With a sharp cry wrung from my nerveless soul, I turned and fled down the narrow way from that accursed spot; and as I ran the thickening fog closed round me, and I heard far off and lessening still the silver sound of her mocking laughter.

___________________

10: The Skewbald Panther

Edward Lucas White

1866-1934

Popular Magazine Sept 1907

HIS face was the face of a man glad all through, He was standing, his knees against the coping of the inner wall. He looked down into the deserted arena, across it, at the great, sweeping curve of tier above tier of blank, tenantless stone benches, and up at the sagging, saucered, spider-web of radiating or cross-knotted guy-ropes.

Far away on the opposite side of the amphitheater several workmen were busy with those same guy-ropes; had flung some temporary tackle over one of them, and were hoisting up a boy to make repairs or adjustments; otherwise, the Colosseum was empty save for himself. He had the air of a man enjoying its emptiness.

The sun had risen but a few moments before, and its slant rays struck on the gaily painted awning-poles and on their gilded ropes. The interior of the building was coolish with the dawn chill of masonry grown cold under autumn stars, and he kept his new white, crimson-edged toga wrapped about him, both his arms under it to the wrists. Yet he snuffed joyously at the early air, and breathed long breaths of its coolness; turning from side to side his uncovered, curly head, rolling his gaze relishingly about.

As he stood there, another head, a big, close-cropped, bullet-shaped head, raised itself slowly above the top rail of the entrance stairway behind him; a florid, round, moon-shaped, fleshy face came above the rail, and its small, brown, good-natured eyes peered at him. Then there came into view a neck which would have been long if it had not been incredibly thick; nearly as thick as the big head.

The owner of the head moved cautiously, like an overgrown boy playing blind man's bluff. He was a man huge in every dimension, wrapped in a very thin, very white toga, with a very broad crimson border. As he trod softly round the end of the railing, he showed foot-gear of pale-green buckskin, much like Wellington boots, but shorter, with a gold crescent on a little gold chain dangling from the top of each.

He was followed by an enormous fawn-colored dog, heavily built, square- jawed, short-haired, which moved as silently as he. Padding noiselessly up behind the absorbed gazer, he slapped him boisterously on the shoulder. The smaller man turned round.

"Lucius Balbinus!" he exclaimed. "What good luck brought you ?"

"Precisely to find out," said Balbinus, "what whim led you in here. I saw you entering, stopped my litter, got out, and followed you. What on earth made you come in here, Quintus? There's no show to-day."

"Show or no show," said Quintus Proculus, "this is the Romanest thing in Rome, and I am just famished for Rome. I've been hungry for Rome for five years."

"When did you get back?" Balbinus asked.

"Day before yesterday. Just in time for a good bath and a good dinner. I paid all my official visits yesterday. To-day I'm my own man until lunchtime at the palace, and I mean to stroll about and just bathe in the sensation of being in Rome again."

"Well," said Balbinus, "while you are bathing, as you call it, you might just as well bathe sitting as standing. Let's sit down."

He settled himself ponderously into one of the ample, heavy-timbered, leather-bottomed, front-row armchairs. Quintus took the next. The dog curled up at Balbinus' feet.

"Were you at the emperor's reception yesterday?" Balbinus asked.

"I was, my boy; and very kind he was, too. 'You're the right sort, Proculus,' said he; 'you do things. You've earned a rest. Hope you'll enjoy it and go back and do more things. No time to talk now. I've sixteen yoke of horses to look over, and I want to get this tedious ceremonial done. Come to lunch with me to-morrow, and tell me your adventures.' Rather gracious for Commodus, don't you think?"

"Most unusual gracious," said Balbinus. "Wish I could extract something like that from him for me. Wish I had been there to hear it. I didn't see you."

"I was early," Proculus explained. "Too early for you. I'll bet you were one of the last half-dozen."

"I was the very last," said Balbinus, with a twist of his face. "And I caught
it. Commodus burst out at me: 'Last again, as usual. You are a nuisance, Balbinus; you're one of those unimportant important senators that aren't worth noticing, and must be noticed. You haven't anything to do but eat and sleep, and you do too much of both. I've quantities of things to do far better worth doing than eating or sleeping or ruling, and you keep me here in this everlasting tedium longer than there is any necessity for, when I must be here too long, anyhow. See you're earlier to-morrow, or I'll think of something to make you remember. You're too fat,' said he. I never had such a scolding. That's why I'm up so early to-day. I was on my way to the palace, trying to be first. But I have plenty of time yet to be early enough. There is no hurry."

"You are fat," said Proculus, running his eyes over his friend.

"Not a bit of it," the other denied vigorously. "I'm big. Last time I was at Cossa I climbed into the pan of the bale-shed stilyard at the wool-house. I weighed two hundred and sixty. But I haven't a pound of fat on me. I'm all muscle; stronger than ever. Feel me anywhere. And I keep in the best condition. Swimming Tiber three times is nothing for me. I never make it less than five, and generally six; and when I'm in Rome I haven't missed a day, except holy days, for years. I look suety, but I'm all hard flesh over big bones and sinews, stronger than ever."

"I believe you are," Proculus admitted, after an investigation.

"My wits may be fat, as Commodus says," went on Balbinus. "I can't get over your thinking of coming in here to-day. I might be away from Rome for ten years, and frantic to get back, but I should never think of coming in here when there was nothing going on."

"You think so now," said Proculus, "but if you had had two years of frontier fighting, let alone five, as I have had, you'd have thought over a hundred times everything you could see at Rome; you'd want to see them all at once, and you'd get around and see them all as quick as possible."

"You've been on the Rhine, it seems to me," Balbinus ventured.

"Rhine!" Proculus exclaimed. "Not a bit of it. I've been in Dacia."

"But there have been no wars in Dacia," Balbinus demurred.

"No wars!" Proculus ejaculated. "Perhaps not— not in the plural, anyway! Just one continuous warfare that keeps you going. The people there have no dreams, no plans, no intentions. They are always on the verge of starvation; never half-clad nor half-housed. It is just raid, raid, raid, summer and winter, wherever they think they see a chance for food or clothing, weapons, cattle, horses, or slaves. They keep us going, as I say. It is exhausting work. If you had been through what I have been through, you'd be wild for a sight of the Colosseum, even with nothing going on. Not but that I'm impatient to see a show, too."

"You'll be here to-morrow, of course ?" Balbinus queried.

"If I don't drop dead first," said Proculus fervently. "And I don't know what gate to go to. Commodus has changed the arrangements and regulations, so I don't know where I am entitled to sit. I was hoping he'd ask me to a place on the dais with him. But after all the officers on leave I saw at the reception yesterday morning, I don't believe there's a chance of that, so many outrank me."

"There may be a chance, anyhow," Balbinus told him. "Commodus is a whimmy creature. But most likely he won't. If he don't, come with me. One of Commodus' changes has been granting each senator the right to bring in a guest to a front seat. I sit just over there, where you see that panel of gouged rollers."

"I'll be delighted to come with you," said Proculus. "I can't be too far forward for my taste. I want to see everything."

"You shall." And Balbinus rose. "Now let's go."

"Certainly." But Proculus did not move. "Where did you get that dog?

I think he's the biggest, strongest- looking, fiercest-looking, and quietest dog I ever saw."

Balbinus settled himself again into his chair.

"That dog,", he said, "used to belong to Fonteia."

"Did she give him to you ?" Proculus inquired,

"Not a bit she didn't," Balbinus disclaimed. "She never gave me anything but the cold shoulder. One of her uncles sent her that dog all the way from Tolosa. They had him chained up for a door-dog. He used to growl at everybody. He growled at me every day, going in and coming out. One day he was loose, and sprang at me. You know when you are surprised you think mighty quick. It came over me all in a flash that Fonteia was so determined to get rid of me that she had ordered the dog let loose just so he could get at me; for a hint, you know."

"Pretty positive hint!" interjected Proculus.

"Well, she had nothing to do with it, I found out afterward," Balbinus went on. "But that was the way the idea rushed over me as the dog sprang. Anyhow, it made me so furious that, instead of smashing him on the nose, I just caught him by the throat with both hands, and stood right there without moving either foot, and choked him till he was limp as a towel. I had a halfmind to give him a wrench and break his neck, but I was afraid Fonteia would be angry. So I just flung him into his kennel, and went on into the atrium. They were all out in the garden under the big lotus-tree. Vedia Philotera was there, and Entedia and dear old Nemestronia, and some more; and of course there were three men to every one of them. I couldn't get near Fonteia. They were all listening to an interminable recitation by one of those pestiferous poets Fonteia always has hanging round.

"Presently I felt something under my chair. Do you know, it was that dog! Licking my feet, too! The moment he had come to himself he had crawled after me. Presently Entedia smelt him; though how she can smell anything but the perfumery she uses is more than I could ever make out. She objected. Nemestronia backed her up; though why anybody that keeps a pet leopard should object to a clean dog is beyond my guessing. When the recitation came to a pause they spoke to Fonteia. She called a slave to take him away. He wouldn't stir; showed his teeth. She sent for the doorkeeper. The dog snapped at him. Then she sent after her sla^e-lashers. They came, and all five of them were too few to move that dog. Then Fonteia got up and tried herself. He snarled at her.

"Then I said if she would tell me where she wanted him to go I would take him there. And I took him to his kennel and chained him up. He stayed there till I went home, and then he broke his chain at one tug, and followed me home— precious scared my bearers were, too. He has never left me since. If I want to go anywhere without him, I have to chain him up myself. He won't let anybody else chain him. To hold him takes two chains, fastened to rings at opposite ends of his kennel wall. A single chain too strong for him to break is so heavy it drags down his collar, even when he is lying still, and chafes his neck sore."

"You don't mean to say he goes into the palace with you?" Proculus demanded.

"Oh," said Balbinus, "he'll stay by my litter if I tell him to. He knows that whenever I leave my litter I am sure to come back to it. He's obedient enough. I like that dog. I never liked a dog before. But he'd let me twist his ears off, if I felt like it. He's my dog.."

"Thought you said Fonteia didn't gjye him to you," Proculus remarked.

"Neither did she," said Balbinus. "Next day she asked was I a dog- stealer. I said no, I hadn't stolen her dog; she could get him if she sent after him. She said that wouldn't do; I must bring back the dog and leave him, or pay for him. I asked how much she wanted. She said twenty thousand sesterces. I said that was too much for any dog. She said to bring him back then. Finally I paid her the money. What does she do but buy a turquoise brooch with it!"

"Queer how those red-headed women do run after blue."

"Red-headed!" exclaimed Balbinus. "Nonsense! Fonteia's hair isn't red. It's the finest imaginable gold-copper. There isn't a handsomer head of hair in Italy."

"Certainly," Proculus hastened to admit. "But what about that brooch ?"

"She bought it of Orontides," Balbinus went on. "Said she had been wanting it for a year. Showed it to me the next day. I told her I would have given her a dozen of them if she had hinted that she wanted one. She said that was different. I said I couldn't see the difference. She said I was stupid, as usual. Anyhow, I have never seen her since without that brooch. She wears it no matter what color she is dressed in— red or yellow, green or violet, brown or gray."

"Don't you understand why?" asked Proculus.

"Not a bit," confessed Balbinus.

"Then you are stupid, as she says," Proculus declared.

"I suppose so," Balbinus admitted. "I'm generally stupid. I don't understand about Dacia, for instance. I know about the Rhine frontier; there's Gaul to sack on this side, and all those ravening kinglets, with their unhesitating hordes, on the other. You've something to defend and something to fight. But no Dacian would ever try to cross the Danube. Why not leave that as the boundary, and let the Dacians eat each other up ? What is there in Dacia worth fighting for?"

"Dacia mostly," Proculus replied, the aggressive light of the enthusiast for a new country shining in his eyes. "Dacia is bound to be the very jewel of the empire. It is no teeming land of easy plenty like Egypt; no trimmed and clipped garden of glorious abundance like Syria or Asia; never can be such a country as Italy or Spain, or even Gaul; but it is enormous, and full of possibilities. It has immense plains, flat as the sea; the finest horse-breeding territory in the empire. It has vast stretches of rolling country; nothing better in the world for grain. It has uncountable chains of mountains covered with the finest timber; full of mines of iron and lead, silver and gold. Oh, it's all worth fighting for; every foot of it."

"What's the use of all that without colonists?" Balbinus demanded.

"Without colonists! It's filling up fast; much of it has filled up. The bridge is jammed from sunrise to sunset; and as I came southward I passed colony after colony. The roads are thronged all along."

"Got roads there, too ?"

"As fine roads as any in the empire," Proculus asserted; "with good spile bridges at every river, and some stone bridges. More than a thousand miles of perfect roads, ditched, curbed, paved, and full twelve feet wide."

"But how on earth," cried Balbinus, "can you get colonists to go there in the face of all that raiding?"

"You don't understand," said Proculus. "We keep pushing the frontier back all the time. Where I was fighting in an absolutely wild country the first year I was there is perfectly peaceable now; not only not a massacre, nor inroad, but no disturbances of any kind; not so much as a murder. The farms are thick-set all over the country, and the people live on them the year round, entirely fearless."

"What do they raise?" asked Balbinus.

"It varies with the part of the country. Cattle and horses and sheep on the plains, wheat and barley and rye on the farm-lands."

"No olives? No wine? No fruit?"

"They'll never raise olives there," Proculus conceded. "But they'll raise vines yet. They are trying everywhere. And they make a sort of wine out of barley. It's not bad when you are used to it. And for fruit they have cherries and apples finer than anything in Italy; and in season you'll find as great a variety of garden-fruits and
fresh vegetables in the town markets as in any town market in Italy."

"You make it out a fine country if we can hold it," said Balbinus.

"Hold it!" Proculus cried. "We'll hold it forever. We'll push on beyond the Carpathians up to the Dniester."

"Where can the empire ever get men for such a conquest?" Balbinus wondered.

"From Dacia, of course," said Proculus. "Dacia makes men. It not only will soon furnish enough men to hold its own frontier without a single legion from outside, but will push on westward, swing round the Yazyges, and swallow them whole, and press on Germany from the rear till we crush it between Dacia and Gaul, and colonize it up to the Baltic."

"These are all wild dreams," Balbinus protested. "Come down to facts. How do you hold Dacia now ? If what you say is true, it is already nearly as well worth looting as Gaul, and will soon be richer. How do you hold off all those desperate nomads on the north ?"

"Dacia will take care of herself in a few years," Proculus argued. "And until then our outposts let no raiders through between them. The savages have learned better. We've plenty of local friendly cavalry; same kind of fellows as the raiders, confident in the backing of the legions, and aching to pay off old scores on their tribal enemies. And we modify the legions to meet the local conditions. Besides their regular equipment, every man has a bow and quiver. Out of a legion we get four thousand men fit for volley archery; two thousand of them make good archers, and one-half of those get to be experts while on horseback. Then a legion can fight afoot with their regular shields and formation; or we can use any advisable proportion of the men as archers, and shift from one arrangement to the other, as we please. Changing their heavy shields for bucklers, we can use as many as a third of a legion as mounted archers. And we can make any combination of mounted and foot-fighters we need. We can fight a legion as a whole, or break it into cohorts or maniples, and scatter them about. We teach them, besides their own natural methods, the nomad tricks, and outdo the raiders at their own game."

"But how do you think of such innovations ? I have often considered about that. Somebody must have thought of everything first, I know. But I simply can't imagine it. I can do anything when some one explains it to me. But I should never think of making any variations. How do you do it ?"

"Don't know," said Proculus. "Seems simple enough to me. Don't you think it's time we were going?"

"We ''might go," said Balbinus, rising. "But I've time to spare yet."

Proculus rose and surveyed the building with a lingering, loving gaze. The sunlight now bathed the interior opposite him, though some of the lower tiers of seats were still in shadow, as was the arena; which was, however, lit up by the glaring reflection from the higher expanse of sunlit marble.

"What's that up yonder?" he inquired, pointing to the far end of the' arena.

"Oh," said Balbinus, "they're turning one of the animals loose. That's another of Commodus' notions. He says the beasts get dull and stupid in cages, and he has the pick of them let out into the arena, one at a time, for air and exercise."

"But what kind of a beast is it?" Proculus queried.

"Panther."

"Nonsense!" Proculus objected. "That can't be a panther. A panther is spotted yellow and brown, or is solid black. That creature is black and white, like an Epirote bull or a Carthaginian watch-dog. There never was a panther like that."

"Never was, maybe," said Balbinus. "Maybe never will be again; but there is now. Why, you must have seen that brute before you left. She's been here for four or five years."

"Five years!" Proculus exclaimed.

"Why, no animal lasts five years in the Colosseum; few ever fight twice."

"That panther will last ten years. She has a charmed life. She'll die of old age, like as not. She has fought at least two hundred times. And never varies when she is let out. Watch her." And Balbinus sat down.

Proculus, reseating himself, watched as he was bid.

"Watch her," Balbinus repeated. "She always makes for that same panel of rollers over there— the set that is so gouged and clawed—and tries to climb up. She never tries any other panel, and she always tries there at least three times."

The panther loped easily across the sands, crouched, sprang vertically, and caught the third of the wooden rollers set along the face of the wall to protect spectators from any possibility of an animal scaling the enclosure of the arena. Her claws sank into the wood, but the lurching turn of the two-foot roller threw her back upon the sand.

"That was not much of a leap," Balbinus commented. "I've seen her touch the sixth roller. Those claw-marks are nearly all hers. You can see from here some on the sixth roller. See, the sun has just reached it! She has never touched the seventh roller. There she goes again!"

As he spoke the panther shot into the air. She got a hold on the fifth roller and clawed wildly with her hind, legs at those below, but as they yielded to her weight and revolved on their bearings she slipped down again.

"She's only playing," said Balbinus. "When she is really in earnest she does better than that. My seat is right above that panel, almost exactly in the middle of it, and sometimes I think she's going to get her claws over the coping. If I am looking over when she springs, it seems she is coming right in my face."

The panther sprang a third time, and fell back at once.

"She won't try again," Balbinus affirmed. "Sometimes she tries six or seven times."

She walked nosingly around the edge of the arena, flicking the end of her tail. She lay down, rolled over, sprang up lightly, and continued her nosing progress.

Proculus eyed her as she went.

"Did you ever see a black dog that had been scalded," he asked—"with white hairs grown out on the scars?"

"I have," said Balbinus; "but the white hair would only be in little streaks. She is more than half white."

"Her belly is black, and her tail is black."

"If she had been scalded over as much of her skin as shows white hairs she would have been killed," Balbinus argued. "I believe those are natural colors on her. The edges of the white are too irregular for scald-marks. Look at her face now while it is toward us. That black patch over her left eye and ear looks perfectly natural."

"Perhaps it is natural," said Proculus. "But I never heard of such a beast."

"You must have heard of her," insisted Balbinus. "That is the very panther that killed Fonteius Bucco."

"Killed Fonteius Bucco!" Proculus exclaimed.

"Oh, well!" said Balbinus. "He had no right to the name, of course, but he had passed under it."

"But which Fonteius Bucco?" queried Proculus. "And how did she come to hill him ?"

"Do you mean to say you never heard of the murder and the trial, and all that frightful scandal?" demanded Balbinus.

"Lucius," said Proculus, "I have heard nothing for five years except the wind howling over the plains, the moaning of the forests at night, the roaring of great rivers at their fords, the yells of Scythian robbers, the blare of bugles, the whine of well-sweeps, and suchlike noises of campaign or camp. I have seen nothing but camps, or stockaded forts, or miserable, raw, timber towns, or the wild mountains and the weary plains of Dacia. I have had no time to read, no time to talk. It's been day-and-night riding and fighting, or desperately hasty ditching, or breathlessly driven sword, spear, shield, helmet, shoe, harness, tent, or tool making. Little news has reached me, and no gossip. Please assume that I know nothing. Tell me everything" you know; and by all means tell me about Bucco and the panther."

"You remember Decimus Fonteius Bucco?" Balbinps asked.

"Fonteia's uncle?" Proculus asked in turn.

"No," said Balbinus, "not old Decimus, young Decimus."

"Fonteia's brother?"

"As you and I knew him."

"A vile whelp!" exclaimed Proculus. "The worst specimen of a noble family ever I saw! I detested him. How such an unsavory pup could be Fonteia's brother and Causidiena's son I never could make out."

"He really wasn't. But I'll get to that later. Causidiena died before you left, I believe."

"I was at the funeral," said Proculus; "and very sorry I was. She would have turned into a lovely old lady like Nemestronia."

"Well," said Balbinus, "even before she died, what with old Fonteius Bucco's blindness and the invalidism of Marcus, young Decimus was more and more unmanageable. Marcus Bucco never could control any of his children, not even Fonteia. Naturally, being the best man of the family, Caius Bucco had charge of all the estate, and when his father and Marcus died about the same time, a little after you left, it hardly increased his power over the property. Old Decimus stood out of the way, and never claimed any of his privileges as elder brother. Young Decimus kept getting into trouble, and, though Caius was kind to him, he quarreled with his uncles continually.

"Then Caius was found murdered— most atrocious butchery, too. Everybody thought it was one of his slaves. He was a very reckless man about slaves; bought all sorts, with no guarantee of good character, and gave them a loose rein. But when the investigation was no more than started suspicion turned on young Decimus. Proofs accumulated, and it was soon clear he had murdered his uncle. He was convicted. Then one of Marcus' slaves confessed that Decimus was her son. She had substituted him for Causidiena's baby, and had never been suspected. The legitimate heir had died on her hands before he was a year old. Of course that mitigated Fonteia's shame, but still she had grown up with him as his sister, and felt the disgrace of the trial terribly.

"After he was proved a slave, the lawyers had a fine wrangle over the sentence. One lot said he must be sentenced as a slave. The other lot held out that as he had had the status of a free man when the crime was committed, and was constructively related as a son to his victim, he must be punished as for parricide by a citizen. Then Commodus cut in. He said he didn't mean to interfere with the dispensing of justice, but he suggested that, instead of wasting time deciding whether to crucify him as a slave or drown him, sewed up in a sack with snakes, dogs, and monkeys as a parricide, why not compromise on throwing him to the beasts in the Colosseum? That would be more of a lesson to others, as being visible to a greater crowd, and it would be more spectacular.

"Thrown to the beasts he was. It was four years ago; four years ago tomorrow. Fonteia was there. She had been sorely tried at first between her genuine dislike of him, her abomination of him as a murderer, and her love of her uncle on the one side and her mother's training in family duties and loyalty on the other. Once he was proved a slave and no kin of hers, she behaved as if he never had existed. But the spectacle here shook her nerves for all her self-control.

"I sat on this side, then, just where the Vestals sit now, about three panels nearer the dais. She sat with the Vestals where I sit now, above that panel the panther tried to climb. Several batches of criminals had been disposed of when they cleared the arena, sanded it afresh, and turned him into it alone.

He had nothing on but a waistcloth, and carried a short club, to let him feel as if he had a chance, and make it interesting.

"They let out six panthers from six different inlets. Two began snarling at each other at once, and paid no attention to anything else. The one nearest the fellow went straight for him, and, do you know, that cowardly scoundrel showed just one flare of courage in his desperation! He ran at the beast, hit it on the nose, and drove it away. He scared off the next, too. The fifth was afraid of the crowd and the shouts, and all that, and tried to get back through the grating down the inlet.

"While Bucco had been setting the crowd wild with delight by scaring off the two panthers in succession, that she- demon down there had never moved. When he paused and glared round she began to crawl toward him. The moment he saw her coming he yelled, threw away his club, and ran. She never hurried, just crawled steadily.

"He scudded to that panel of rollers below the Vestals. There was Causidiena, the eldest Vestal; and Fonteia, who had known him as nephew and brother; and Gargilia, the youngest Vestal, whose cousin he had courted. It was harrowing to see him run and hear him yell. And the panther never hurried, just kept on crawling. Fonteia sat as if nothing was going on, but the Vestals leaned forward; Causidiena was very bitter over her brother-in- law's murder. Then— have you ever seen one of the log-walking contests?"

"I haven't seen one amphitheater show where you have seen a hundred," said Proculus.

"I mean," said Balbinus, "when the arena is flooded and they throw in a dozen or two logs, and then offer a prize for any one who can stand up on one. And first they let a batch of street urchins try, and they wade out to them, and scramble onto them, and try to stand up, and always get thrown off when the log turns."

"I've seen that."

"And then, you know," Balbinus. went on, "slaves and rabble try, and not one of them can stay on a log. Then an acrobat minces out on a slack rope, and takes a long jump for a log, and lands neatly on it, and stays there. And he dances and skips, and makes the log turn under him, and pirouettes and turns flipflops, and walks on it on his hands, and stays on."

"Yes," said Proculus, "I've seen that."

"You know what a peculiar trick of balancing he has, so the log never lurches and throws him off?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever see anybody climb arena-rollers with a similar trick of balancing ?"

"No, I never did, and I don't believe it could be done," declared Proculus.

"Neither would I have believed it," Balbinus admitted, "until I saw it. That frantic murderer jumped for the lowermost roller, and somehow got his right arm and right leg over it, hugging belly-flat to it. He hung on when it turned. Then he clung to it with both legs and one arm, and got his right arm over the second roller. Then he got both arms round the second roller, and steadied himself. Then up went his right leg, and he was sticking to the second as he had stuck to the first. The whole audience was dead still; everybody that could see him watching breathlessly, and the rest silent because the others were.

"The panther never hurried, just crawled steadily, her eyes never leaving him. By the time she was below him he was on the fifth roller, and she crouched flatter and flatter while he worked up to the sixth roller. When he put up a hand to the seventh she sprang. Her paws clawed into him, one on his ribs and the other on his left thigh; and she gripped a mouthful of his right flank just above the hip; her teeth must have met in his liver. He gave one frightful screech as they fell together. She landed on her feet, and instantly gave him a cuff with her forepaw alongside the head. It tore the side of his face off, and must'have broken his neck. Then shS^ set her teeth into his throat and lay down flat, holding on.

"The audience had given one barking shout as they fell, and then hushed again. When she lay motionless,'they yelled over and over. And through it all Fonteia sat bolt upright, fanning herself quietly and keeping her countenance, though she was dead pale. And she has never missed a spectacle since; too proud to give any one an opportunity to say she stays away because of her memories. She always comes with the Vestals, too. But they were so affected by the panther's regularly repeated efforts to climb those rollers, that Causidiena petitioned Commodus for a different place. He was just making his revision of the seating regulations at the time, and he changed them to this side.

"Quite by accident my new seats happened to be where theirs had been. I don't wonder they were upset; it makes my flesh crawl every time that brute tries to climb up; not that I am afraid she is coming over, but because she reminds me of Bucco, and all that. Fonteia hates the sight of the beast a hundred times worse than I do, I know.

"I used to hope each show would finish the creature. But she has killed any number of criminals. She has fought goats, antelopes, elks, bulls, buffaloes, and all sorts of horned animals. She has set-to with dogs, panthers, tigers, and lions, and come off alive. She has escaped numbers of gladiators, bested some, killed one or two, and been let off by the favor of the audience over and over.

"When I gave up hoping that she would be killed, I tried to bribe the keepers to poison her. But they wouldn't hear of it. I bid them up to two hundred thousand sesterces, but they said Commodus had taken a special fancy to the beast, and they dare not take any bribe to poison her. I would have paid four hundred thousand to get the creature out of the way.

"I know how Fonteia feels, though she holds her head high at the shows, and never mentions the panther at any time. She can't help being reminded of all that hideous humiliation, and she not only can't help remembering the horror of Bucco's death, but she must recall her baby days with him before he developed his ugly traits. It must tear her heart to see that panther. I am sure nothing would please her as much as getting finally rid of the beast."

"By your own account," said Proculus, "you are no nearer winning Fonteia than you were five years ago."

"No nearer and not any more hopeful," said Balbinus; "but just as determined."

"Doesn't the turquoise brooch make you any more hopeful?" asked Pro- culus.

"I don't see what that has to do with it."

"That's just it. You don't see."

"One thing I do see," said Balbinus. "She doesn't seem to care for any one else. She has any number of suitors, but never treats any one any better than she treats me; or any worse, for that matter."

"I believe you are more hopeful, after all!"

"Not a bit," Balbinus denied. "Whenever I talk marriage to her she says Helvacius was a man who did something, and she'll stay a widow for life before she'll marry a do-nothing. She says if I'd only do something she'd think about it."

"Why don't you do something?" Proculus suggested.

"Can't get a chance to do any of the things I can think of," said Balbinus. "And can't think of any more."

"What did you think of?" his friend asked.

"I went to Commodus," said Balbinus, "and asked for a province. You know the way Commodus looks at you, like a stupid countryman who has not understood what you said ?"

"Yes, I know." And Proculus laughed grimly.

"Well," said Balbinus, "he stared at me in his red-faced, goggle-eyed fashion, and burst out:

" 'Make you a prefect! You manage a province! You never managed anything in your life.'

" 'I manage my estate,' I said.

" 'Don't put on airs with me,' he
growled. 'You talk as if you were your rich cousin. You aren't the Cae- lius Balbinus. Your estate is no wonder. There are a hundred men in Rome richer than you.'

" 'I'm not putting on airs,' I told him. 'I know where I stand, and what my estate is. Such as it is, I manage it.'

" 'You do not,' he snapped, like a dog. 'It manages itself. You've bailiffs and overseers and inspectors and bookkeepers and managers. Your father trained them; yes, and your grandfather, in the ways his grandfather's grandfather before him didn't so much as start, but only had to keep in motion. The estate runs itself as well as if you had been born deaf, dumb, and blind; runs itself no worse and no better. You manage nothing.'

" 'Men less capable than I have provinces,' I said.

"Then he did puff and glare.

"You think,' he bellowed, 'because I don't wear a long beard and keep a glum face, like my father, that I'm a fool! You think because I enjoy a good time and don't consort with dreary, shaggy-faced, shaggy-cloaked philosophers, that I care nothing for the empire. You think because I love horseracing and archery and beast-fighting and gladiators, and all sorts of really entertaining things, I am no judge of men. I know men. I love best a man who can do things with his hands; a good swordsman or fighter. I love best a man who can distinguish himself in the amphitheater. That's the best kind of man. But I love any sort of capable man. You senators think I hate you all. I don't hate senators, I hate loafers. You are about as active as a row of hayricks in the sun. Get out and do something, any one of you, and I'll be the first one to give you credit for it. If it's worth while, I'll love you for it. I know men. You take me for a fool, but you are wrong, all of you. I'm no fool, and I care more for the empire than any man in it. I know whom to appoint and whom to reject. You run a province! You couldn't attend to a rabbit-hutch. You great bloated lard bag you! you sit like a toad on a mud bank gaping for flies to blunder into his mouth. You never did anything in your life. Get out and do something.'

" 'What am I to do ?' I asked. 'I want a province, and you refuse, and then tell me to do something. What am I to do?'

" 'Men who do things,' he said, 'don't need to be tdld what to do; they see things for themselves. If you only once did something I might think of you.'

" 'But what ?' I insisted.

" 'What ?' he roared, in rage. 'Anything! I'd like to see you spit once as if you really meant it. I could forgive you if you'd up and kick me under the chin, if you thought of it for yourself. Go home,' he said. 'Get out of my sight.'

"And I went. I don't care about the province, and I don't care whether I please him or not, but I do want to do something to please Fonteia. Only I suppose nothing I could do would please her."

Proculus made no answer at the moment, but presently he said, quietly and sincerely:

"I believe that Fonteia is much better pleased with you than you suspect, and I believe Commodus likes you, too."

"They have a queer way of showing it!" Balbinus gloomed.

"You could please them both at once," said Proculus.

"I wish you would tell me how!" And Balbinus shrugged his broad shoulders. "Hang him, I say! Yet I shouldn't mind catching his eye. For her I'd do anything, as you know."

"Do you really mean to say," demanded Proculus, "that you don't see for yourself what to do?"

"Not a bit I don't."

"Not with such an opportunity staring you in the face? When the gods have loaded the dice for you, and all you need is to make the throw ?"

"If you see anything to do," said Balbinus, "you tell me, and I'll do it quick."

Proculus looked around. Several gangs of workmen were busy, but none
near them. He stood up, walked to the rail of the stairway, and peered down it. Then he came back to his seat.

"Now listen to me," he said; "and don't interrupt me till I am done."

Balbinus listened, mouth and eyes open. When Proculus was done he objected.

"It won't work."

"Are you afraid ?" asked his friend.

"Not a bit," said he. "It would be easy. But if they refused two hundred thousand sesterces before, how can I bribe them now?"

"Don't you see how different this is?" asked Proculus. "They have no dead panther to account for, only a natural failure to notice some rollers out of order, and you won't be dealing with the same set of men, anyhow; not trying to bribe men who have once shied. These will only have to invent a story to explain a perfectly usual occurrence. Did you never know of rollers jamming?"

"Often," said Balbinus.

"There you are!" cried Proculus; "and now let's go. It's getting hot here, and you'll be none too early at the palace by now."

"Your advice is good," said Balbinus ; "I'll take it."

Therefore the moon that night, looking down into the Colosseum, saw a group of figures in the arena by the enclosing wall. One was a very big man with two attendants. The others were regular keepers of the amphitheater. They talked a long time, and there were many explanations and much assurance that there could be no mistake. A bag of coins changed hands.

Next morning, so early for holders of senatorial seats that they found the chairs all about their own still vacant, Balbinus and Proculus settled themselves into their places.

"One drawback about festival days," said Balbinus; "I always have to chain up my dog. I miss him, and he misses me. He hates to be chained up."

"I sympathize with him." And Proculus half-shut his eyes against the dazzle of the sunlit sand, and snuffed joyously at the perfumed air. "I'd hate to be chained up to-day. But don't you think he'd interfere with our purpose ?"

"We had best not think of our purpose," said Balbinus, "until the time comes to carry it out. I have never been nervous in my life, and I don't expect to be now, but I want to run no risks. Let's forget our little secret until the moment for action arrives. There's plenty else to think of."

"The greatest plenty," Proculus agreed. "And more for me than for you. What makes the sand sparkle so?"

"Notion of Commodus," snorted Balbinus. "His father saved so much money he's afraid he can't spend it fast enough. So he has gold-dust sprinkled over the sand. Fine bit of fool ostentation !"

"Wish he'd save the cost and spend it on Dacia," said Proculus earnestly.

"Can't you forget Dacia for one day ?" Balbinus asked banteringly. "Isn't this enough to make you think there never was a Dacia?"

"Indeed it is," Proculus replied.

"Well, forget it then," his friend advised, "and enjoy yourself."

"I can't help that. It's almost as novel to me as if I had never seen it before."

"Then you ought to be able to answer a question I have heard debated. Does the Colosseum look bigger when full or when empty?"

Proculus ruminated, gazing about him. The arena had in it only a few sweepers, the imperial platform was untenanted save by the sentinels; most of the movable armchairs in the foremost rows were not yet occupied; but the second wider belt of stone seats devoted to the wealthy nobility of lower than senatorial dignity was already well filled; the third yet wider division of stone benches was crowded with gentry; the fourth steepest circle was overflowing with the populace; while behind them, on the uppermost level, was a packed jam of standing rabble.

"I don't know," he answered. "Yesterday it seemed 'enormous. To-day there is something choky about the crowd. Yet the unfailing variety of all that flickering, waving of fans and turning of faces and moving of hands and arms gives one a sensation of immensity, too."

"What strikes you most?" asked Balbinus.

"The flowers," said Proculus.

"Don't you have flowers in Dacia?"

"Dacia won't be forgotten," laughed Proculus. "Yes, we have flowers there, even some roses. But when we have games, the spectators just sit on the grass slopes or stand along the edge of the arena, like our ancestors of old. You don't see the wreaths as you do here; and there they are mostly made of strange wild flowers,, not a bit homelike to see. These are uniformly roses; and such roses! there must be wagonloads of them. When the seats are all full, allowing a dozen roses to a wreath, there will be twelve thousand roses in this building."

"More," corrected Balbinus. "But hang the wreaths! I'm afraid mine will tilt over my eyes at the critical moment."

"Shall I pull it off your head as you rise?" asked Proculus.

"I'd thought of that," said Balbinus. "Better not. It might disconcert me. I'll risk its slipping."

"We agreed to keep off that subject," said Proculus.

"We did," Balbinus admitted. "But it will come back. Yet it's not worrying me any. I'm as cool as possible."

"You look it," said Proculus; "and that's more than most of the audience look. I think it will be a hot day."

"It's cool enough here, but the upper tiers look hot already."

"I should think they would be!" exclaimed Proculus, "piled against each other as they are. I never sat before where I could see the top rows opposite me. You senators get a fine effect here; able to see up under the awning, clear to the arcade and the awning-poles. You can't imagine what a difference it makes."

"I can," said Balbinus, "for I never could see that much before. The sag of the awning at its inner edge on the farther side always cut off my view of everything above the top tier of seats."

"I thought it was all because of our location. What makes the difference?"

"It's the awning," Balbinus explained. "It's the lightest they ever put up, and it sags correspondingly less."

"What's it made of?" asked Proculus.

"Silk; pure silk. Commodus has started the fashion of full, complete silk clothing for men, and all the dandies are imitating him. Linen and wool for me, though, yet. But Commodus, not content with dressing in women's textures, must needs commit the extravagance of an entire silk awning."

"It's beautiful," Proculus cried enthusiastically. "But I should say it is too thin to do much good."

"It's hard to get a satisfactory awning," said Balbinus; "they have tried all sorts in my time. One thick enough to stop the sun-rays altogether is so heavy it sags till the inner edge cuts off the view of the upper tiers over the farther side of the arena; and besides it makes the place look gloomy. So does any awning all one color. Brown and gray are coolest, but very dingy. Blue and green make the people look ghastly and the women ugly; white and yellow make a glare no one can endure; and red makes the place look hot. This awning is about the best I ever saw. It's light and not too thin, the pattern is gay, and the red and yellow, blue and green make a-pleasant variety of bright colors on the audience."

"Too much red, isn't there ?"

"That's Commodus again. He likes red."

"Speaking of red," said Proculus, "what have you on under your toga?"

"Tunic, of course," said Balbinus promptly.

"But what color?" Proculus queried.

"Crimson."

"But why?" Proculus persisted.

"I might get scratched," said the strong man, "and I don't want to show it, if possible."

At this moment several senators, with their wives and guests, came to fill the chairs to right and left of them. Greetings, introductions of Proculus to the newcomers, and various chat occupied some little time. By and by Proculus came to a lull in his talk with his left-hand neighbor, and found Balbinus momentarily disengaged, and questioned him.

"Is Fonteia with the Vestals? I can't make her out."

Balbinus peered across the arena. The Vestals had just entered and were settling themselves in their chairs.

"That's Fonteia in lavender. She's between Causidiena, on her right with the gray hair, and Manlia; Gargilia is the one with the black hair on the left end."

"Fonteia is too young and too slender for lavender," said Proculus.

"That's what I tell her," said Balbinus. "I say lavender is for old, fat women. But she will wear it."

Just then the imperial cortege began to fill the dais, and the audience burst into the quick staccato three-bar song of greeting to the emperor, thundering it over and over until he was seated and held up his hand for silence.

At once the shows began. Proculus, watching with unsated eyes the succession of beast-fights, acrobatic feats, and killings of criminals by various beasts, was, even in his interested state, aware of the lack of enthusiasm in the audience. He was too far from the dais to make out the emperor's expression.

Commodus was hardly more than a great hulking, overgrown lad, with all a boy's impatience and petulance. Not much could be expected of him in the way of dignity. He sulked often, and at the smallest pretext. Yet Proculus perceived, or thought he perceived, a more than usually obvious posture of bored irritation, of disappointment with the progress of a very tame, usual, and uninteresting series of shows. He saw, or imagined he saw, an emperor wearied with what he had seen over and over, and eager for some diversion, something new, something unusual.

Fonteia's face Proculus could not read where she sat. It was all one could do to identify a known figure in a known seat at that distance. Yet he reflected that she could not but see Bal- binus, the biggest-bodied man in the senate, in the front row. As he looked on with a return of half-forgotten reminiscence, he realized that no one could see everything when so many things went on at once; that no one group in the arena, still less any one figure, caught the eyes of all the throng.

Yet when the splotched panther appeared from one of the beast inlets, it seemed to Proculus that all eyes followed her, as, ignoring everything in the arena, living and dead, she galloped in a straight line across the sand. His eyes he certainly kept on her till the coping cut off his view. Then he saw Balbinus slip the toga from his shoulders. Both of them sat well back, and strove to appear unaware of what their strained senses expected.

That the panther had sprung and had not fallen back they were apprised by a universal yell from all parts of the amphitheater from which she was visible by an alarmed shrinking back of the senators and their guests near them; by little screams from two ladies who had been looking over the coping, and who shrank back abruptly.

Proculus pressed himself against the back of his chair and over its left arm, to give Balbinus room. He heard in front of him a scratchy clawing; heard it even above the redoubling waves of excited yells that rang from all around the arena; heard it all the more when those yells subsided suddenly into a tense hush of expectation when the seventh roller failed to turn.

A paw clutched the coping; a splay paw with four translucent, horny claws, that slipped on the polished stone and caught on the interlaced leaves of the carven vine on it; a puffy paw, with dingy black hair between the claws.

Then beside it, and by no means close to it, another paw, white-haired and paler-clawed, hooked its talons into the carvings.

A head came up; a head with a black ear and a white ear, with irregular marblings of white and black, with two round-pupiled, yellow-gray eyes, one looking out of a black patch and one out of a white. It had a moist, black muzzle; and as it rose the lips curled, the mouth opened, and Proculus found himself trying to push back his chair as he recoiled from a jagged snarl. He was looking past incredibly white, unbelievably sharp teeth into an unforeseeable immensity of scarlet mouth and throat.

There was more all too audible scratching; and the head elevated itself on a black-and-white neck. Proculus did not see Balbinus move, but he did see a big, beefy, pink hand round that neck, the thumb on the gullet.

The spectators, who had first yelled in mere blind excitement, and then stilled in mere unconscious strained attention, saw the panther's head above the coping; saw the senators tumbling over each other to right and left; saw the two occupied chairs in front of her; saw the distracted arena-guards, some ineffectually rushing for the nearest exits, vainly trying to reach the podium before the animal cleared the coping; some vacillating on the sand below, eager to shoot the beast, and fearing to loose spear or arrow for fear of wounding one of the senators.

Then they saw a big, crimson-tuniced figure erect, its long arms stiff and straight out before it, the panther's throat vised inside its big hands, the beast's forelegs beating the air in front of her; her hind legs lashing wildly against the top roller and the bit of wall below the coping.

They followed breathlessly the gyrations and throes of the lithe body until it hung limp and motionless, straight down from the unaltering grip of those big hands. Then they stood up and howled, and stamped; yelling wave after wave of cheers till they were hoarse.

Balbinus stood motionless, the panther dangling against the coping, his tense arms streaked with the streams that gushed from a dozen gashes.

When the cheering died of itself, he straightened his arms again till the carcass hung clear of the wall, gave it a flirt to the right, and flung the flaccid, broken-necked carrion into the arena.

The wave of cheers that followed after he sat down made all that had gone before seem whisperings.

When the first lull came between the gusts of cheers, Commodus, standing
up on the seat of his throne, his voice broken by excitement to a cracked falsetto, sent down the whole length of the arena, audible to every one, a shrill yell of

"Made virtute esto Balbine."

The cheering rose again like a storm- wind. It was very pleasant to Balbinus. He sat bolt upright in his chair, his toga wrapped round him to the throat, his arms under it. He was staring across the Colosseum at a lavender-clad figure in the front row facing him.

__________________

11: The Haunted Chair

Richard Marsh

1857-1915

The London Magazine Jan 1902

'WELL, that's the most staggering thing I've ever known!'

As Mr Philpotts entered the smoking-room, these were the words— with additions— which fell upon his, not unnaturally, startled ears. Since Mr. Bloxham was the only person in the room, it seemed only too probable that the extraordinary language had been uttered by him— and, indeed, his demeanour went far to confirm the probability He was standing in front of his chair, staring about him in a manner which suggested considerable mental perturbation, apparently unconscious of the fact that his cigar had dropped either from his lips or his fingers and was smoking merrily away on the brand-new carpet which the committee had just laid down. He turned to Mr Philpotts in a state of what seemed really curious agitation.

'I say, Philpotts, did you see him?'

Mr Philpotts looked at him in silence for a moment, before he drily said, 'I heard you.'

But Mr Bloxham was in no mood to be put of in this manner. He seemed, for some cause, to have lost the air of serene indifference for which he was famed— he was in a state of excitement, which, for him, was quite phenomenal.

'No nonsense, Philpotts— did you see him?'

'See whom?' Mr Philpotts was selecting a paper from a side table. 'I see your cigar is burning a hole in the carpet.'

'Confound my cigar!' Mr Bloxham stamped on it with an angry tread. 'Did Geoff Fleming pass you as you came in?'

Mr Philpotts looked round with an air of evident surprise.

'Geoff Fleming!— Why, surely he's in Ceylon by now.'

'Not a bit of it. A minute ago he was in that chair talking to me.'

'Bloxham!' Mr Philpotts' air of surprise became distinctly more pronounced, a fact which Mr Bloxham apparently resented.

'What are you looking at me like that for pray? I tell you I was glancing through the Field, when I felt someone touch me on the shoulder. I looked round— there was Fleming standing just behind me. "Geoff." I cried, "I thought you were on the other side of the world— what are you doing here?" "I've come to have a peep at you," he said. He drew a chair up close to mine— this chair— and sat in it. I turned round to reach for a match on the table, it scarcely took me a second, but when I looked his way again hanged if he weren't gone.'

Mr Philpotts continued his selection of a paper— in a manner which was rather marked.

'Which way did he go?'

'Didn't you meet him as you came in?'

'I did not— I met no one. What's the matter now?'

The question was inspired by the fact that a fresh volley of expletives came from Mr Bloxham's lips. That gentleman was standing with his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, his legs wide open, and his eyes and mouth almost as wide open as his legs.

'Hang me,' he exclaimed, when, as it appeared, he had temporarily come to the end of his stock of adjectives, 'if I don't believe he's boned my purse.'

'Boned your purse!' Mr Philpotts laid a not altogether flattering emphasis upon the 'boned!' 'Bloxham! What do you mean?'

Mr Bloxham did not immediately explain. He dropped into the chair behind him. His hands were still in his trouser pockets, his legs were stretched out in front of him, and on his face there was not only an expression of amazement, but also of the most unequivocal bewilderment. He was staring at the vacant air as if he were trying his hardest to read some riddle.

'This is a queer start, upon my word, Philpotts,' he spoke in what, for him, were tones of unwonted earnestness. 'When I was reaching for the matches on the table, what made me turn round so suddenly was because I thought I felt someone tugging at my purse— it was in the pocket next to Fleming. As I told you, when I did turn round Fleming was gone— and, by Jove, it looks as though my purse went with him.'

'Have you lost your purse?— is that what you mean?'

'I'll swear that it was in my pocket five minutes ago, and that it's. not there now; that's what I mean.'

Mr Philpotts looked at Mr Bloxham as if, although he was too polite to say so, he could not make him out at all. He resumed his selection of a paper.

'One is liable to make mistakes about one's purse; perhaps you'll find it when you get home.'

Mr Bloxham sat in silence for some moments. Then, rising, he shook himself as a dog does when he quits the water.

'I say, Philpotts, don't ladle out this yarn of mine to the other fellows, there's a good chap. As you say, one is apt to get into a muddle about one's purse, and I dare say I shall come across it when I get home. And perhaps I'm not very well this afternoon; I am feeling out of sorts, and that's a fact. I think I'll just toddle home and take a seidlitz, or a pill, or something. Ta ta!'

When Mr Philpotts was left alone he smiled to himself, that superior smile which we are apt to smile when conscious that a man has been making a conspicuous ass of himself on lines which may be his, but which, we thank Providence, are emphatically not ours. With not one, but half a dozen papers in his hand, he seated himself in the chair which Mr Bloxham had recently relinquished. Retaining a single paper, he placed the rest on the small round table on his left— the table on which were the matches for which Mr Bloxham declared he had reached. Taking out his case, he selected a cigar almost with the same care which he had shewn in selecting his literature, smiling to himself all the time that superior smile. Lighting the cigar he had chosen with a match from the table, he settled himself at his ease to read.

Scarcely had he done so than he was conscious of a hand laid gently on his shoulder from behind.

'What! back again?'

'Hullo, Phil!'

He had taken it for granted, without troubling to look round, that Mr Bloxham had returned, and that it was he who touched him on the shoulder. But the voice which replied to him, so far from being Mr Bloxham's was one the mere sound of which caused him not only to lose his bearing of indifference but to spring from his seat with the agility almost of a jack-in-the-box. When he saw who it was had touched him on the shoulder, he stared.

'Fleming ! Then Bloxham was right, after all. May I ask what brings you here?'

The man at whom he was looking was tall and well-built, in age about five and thirty. There were black cavities beneath his eyes; the man's whole face was redolent, to a trained perception, of something which was, at least, slightly unsavoury. He was dressed from head to foot in white duck— a somewhat singular costume for Pall Mall, even on a summer afternoon.

Before Mr Philpotts' gaze, his own eyes sank. Murmuring something which was almost inaudible, he moved to the chair next to the one which Mr Philpotts had been occupying, the chair of which Mr Bloxham had spoken.

As he seated himself, Mr Philpotts eyed him in a fashion which was certainly not too friendly.

'What did you mean by disappearing just now in that extraordinary manner, frightening Bloxham half out of his wits? Where did you get to?'

The newcomer was stroking his heavy moustache with a hand which, for a man of his size and build, was unusually small and white. He spoke in a lazy, almost inaudible, drawl.

'I just popped outside.'

'Just popped outside! I must have been coming in just when you went out. I saw nothing of you; you've put Bloxham into a pretty state of mind.'

Re-seating himself, Mr Philpotts turned to put the paper he was holding on to the little table. 'I don't want to make myself a brute, but it strikes me that your presence here at all requires explanation. When several fellows club together to give another fellow a fresh start on the other side of the world—'

Mr Philpotts stopped short. Having settled the paper on the table to his perfect satisfaction, he turned round again towards the man he was addressing— and as he did so he ceased to address him, and that for the sufficiently simple reason that he was not there to address— the man had gone ! The chair at Mr Philpotts' side was empty; without a sign or a sound its occupant had vanished, it would almost seem, into space.

ii

UNDER the really remarkable circumstances of the case, Mr Philpotts preserved his composure to a singular degree. He looked round the room; there was no one there. He again fixedly regarded the chair at his side; there could be no doubt that it was empty. To make quite sure, he passed his hand two or three times over the seat; it met with not the slightest opposition. Where could the man have got to? Mr Philpotts had not, consciously, heard the slightest sound; there had not been time for him to have reached the door. Mr Philpotts knocked the ash off his cigar. He stood up. He paced leisurely two or three times up and down the room.

'If Bloxham is ill, I am not. I was never better in my life. And the man who tells me that I have been the victim of an optical delusion is talking of what he knows nothing. I am prepared to swear that it was Geoffrey Fleming who touched me on the shoulder; that he spoke to me; and that he seated himself upon that chair. Where he came from, or where he has gone to, are other questions entirely.' He critically examined his finger nails.

'If those Psychical Research people have an address in town, I think I'll have a talk with them. I suppose it's three or four minutes since the man vanished. What's the time now? Whatever has become of my watch?'

He might well ask— it had gone, both watch and chain— vanished, with Mr Fleming, into air. Mr Philpotts stared at his waistcoat, too astonished for speech. Then he gave a little gasp.

'This comes of playing Didymus! The brute has stolen it! I must apologise to Bloxham. As he himself said, this is a queer start, upon my honour! Now, if you like, I do feel a little out of sorts; this sort of thing is enough to make one. Before I go, I think I'll have a drop of brandy.'

As he was hesitating, the smoking-room door opened to admit Frank Osborne. Mr Osborne nodded to Mr Philpotts as he crossed the room.

'You're not looking quite yourself, Philpotts.'

Mr Philpotts seemed to regard the observation almost in the light of an impertinence.

'Am I not? I was not aware that there was anything in my appearance to call for remark.' Smiling, Mr Osborne seated himself in the chair which the other had not long ago vacated. Mr Philpotts regarded him attentively. 'You're not looking quite yourself, either.'

'I'm not feeling myself!— I'm not! I'm worried about Geoff Fleming.'

Mr Philpotts slightly started.

'About Geoff Fleming?— what about Fleming?'

'I'm afraid— well, Phil, the truth is that I'm afraid that Geoff's a hopeless case.'

Mr Philpotts was once more busying himself with the papers which were on the side table.

'What do you mean?'

'As you know, he and I have been very thick in our time, and when he came a cropper it was I who suggested that we who were at school with him might have a whip round among ourselves to get the old chap a fresh start elsewhere. You all of you behaved like bricks, and when I told him what you had done, poor Geoff was quite knocked over. He promised voluntarily that he would never touch a card again, or make another bet, until he had paid you fellows off with thumping interest. Well, he doesn't seem to have kept his promise long.'

'How do you know he hasn't?'

'I've heard from Deecie.'

'From Deecie?— where's Fleming?'

'In Ceylon— they'd both got there before Deecie's letter left.'

'In Ceylon!' exclaimed Mr Philpotts excitedly, staring hard at Mr Osborne. 'You are sure he isn't back in town?'

In his turn, Mr Osborne was staring at Mr Philpotts.

'Not unless he came back by the same boat which brought Deecie's letter. What made you ask?

'I only wondered.'

'Mr Philpotts turned again to the paper. The other went on.

'It seems that a lot of Australian sporting men were on the boat on which they went out. Fleming got in with them. They played— he played too. Deecie remonstrated— but he says that it only seemed to make bad worse. At first Geoff won— you know the usual sort of thing; he wound up by losing all he had, and about four hundred pounds beside. He had the cheek to ask Deecie for the money.' Mr Osborne paused. Mr Philpotts uttered a sound which might have been indicative of contempt— or anything. 'Deecie says that when the winners found out that he couldn't pay, there was a regular row. Geoff swore, in that wild way of his, that if he couldn't pay them before he died, he would rise from the dead to get the money.'

Mr Philpotts looked round with a show of added interest.

'What was that he said?'

'Oh, it was only his wild way of speaking— you know that way of his. If they don't get their money before he dies, and I fancy that it's rather more than even betting that they won't, I don't think that there's much chance of his rising from his grave to get it for them. He'll break that promise, as he has broken so many more. Poor Geoff! It seems that we might as well have kept our money in our pockets; it doesn't seem to have done him much good. His prospects don't look very rosy— without money, and with a bad name to start with.'

'As I fancy you have more than once suspected, Frank, I never have had a high opinion of Mr Geoffrey Fleming. I am not in the least surprised at what you tell me, any more than I was surprised when he came his cropper. I have always felt that, at a pinch, he would do anything to save his own skin.' Mr Osborne said nothing, but he shook his head. 'Did you see anything of Bloxham when you came in?'

'I saw him going along the street in a cab.'

'I want to speak to him! I think I'll just go and see if I can find him in his rooms.'

iii

MR FRANK Osborne scarcely seemed to be enjoying his own society when Mr Philpotts had left him. As all the world knows, he is a man of sentiment— of the true sort, not the false. He has had one great passion in his life— Geoffrey Fleming. They began when they were at Chilchester together, when he was big, and Fleming still little. He did his work for him, fought for him, took his scrapes upon himself, believed in him, almost worshipped him. The thing continued when Fleming joined him at the University. Perhaps the fact that they both were orphans had something to do with it; neither of them had kith nor kin. The odd part of the business was that Osborne was not only a clear-sighted, he was a hard-headed man. It could not have been long before it dawned upon him that the man with whom he fraternised was a naturally bad egg. Fleming was continually coming to grief; he would have come to eternal grief at the very commencement of his career if it had not been for Osborne at his back. He went through his own money; he went through as much of his friend's as his friend would let him. Then came the final smash. There were features about the thing which made it clear, even to Frank Osborne, that in England, at least, for some years to come, Geoffrey Fleming had run his course right out. He strained all his already strained resources in his efforts to extricate the man from the mire. When he found that he himself was insufficient, going to his old schoolfellows, he begged them, for his sake— if not for Fleming's— to join hands with him in giving the scapegrace still another start. As a result, interest was made for him in a Ceylon plantation, and Mr Fleming with, under the circumstances, well-lined pockets, was despatched over the seas to turn over a new leaf in a sunnier clime.

How he had vowed that he would turn over a new leaf, actually with tears upon his knees ! And this was how he had done it; before he had reached his journey's end, he had gambled away the money which was not his, and was in debt besides. Frank Osborne must have been fashioned something like the dog which loves its master the more, the more he illtreats it. His heart went out in pity to the scamp across the seas. He had no delusions; he had long been conscious that the man was hopeless. And yet he knew very well that if he could have had his way he would have gone at once to comfort him. Poor Geoff! What an all-round mess he seemed to have made of things— and he had had the ball at his feet when he started— poor, dear old Geoff! With his knuckles Mr Osborne wiped a suspicious moisture from his eyes. Geoff was all right— if he had only been able to prevent money from slipping from between his fingers, had been gifted with a sense of meum et tuum— not a nicer fellow in the world!

Mr Osborne sat trying to persuade himself into the belief that the man was an injured paragon though he knew very well that he was an irredeemable scamp. He endeavoured to see only his good qualities, which was a task of exceeding difficulty— they were hidden in such a cloud of blackness. At least, whatever might be said against Geoff— and Mr Osborne admitted to himself that there might be something — it was certain that Geoffloved him almost as much as he loved Geoff. Mr Osborne declared to himself— putting pressure on himself to prevent his making a single mental reservation— that Geoff Fleming, in spite of all his faults, was the only person in the wide, wide world who did love him. And he was a stranger in a strange land, and in trouble again— poor dear old Geoff! Once more Mr Osborne's knuckles went up to wipe that suspicious moisture from his eyes.

While he was engaged in doing this, a hand was laid gently on his shoulder from behind. It was, perhaps, because he was unwilling to be detected in such an act that, at the touch, he rose from his seat with a start— which became so to speak, a start of petrified amazement when he perceived who it was who had touched him. It was the man of whom he had been thinking, the friend of his boyhood— Geoffrey Fleming.

'Geoff!' he gasped. 'Dear old Geoff!' He paused, seemingly in doubt whether to laugh or cry. 'I thought you were in Ceylon!'

Mr Fleming did exactly what he had done when he came so unexpectedly on Mr Philpotts— he moved to the chair at Mr Osborne's side. His manner was in contrast to his friend's— it was emphatically not emotional.

'I've just dropped in,' he drawled.

'My dear old boy!' Mr Osborne, as he surveyed his friend, seemed to become more and more torn by conflicting emotions. 'Of course I'm very glad to see you Geoff, but how did you get in here? I thought that they had taken your name off the books of the club.' He was perfectly aware that Mr Fleming's name had been taken off the books of the club, and in a manner the reverse of complimentary. Mr Fleming offered no remark. He sat looking down at the carpet stroking his moustache. Mr Osborne went stammeringly on—

'As I say, Geoff— and as, of course you know— I am very glad to see you, anywhere; but— we don't want any unpleasantness, do we? If some of the fellows came in and found you here, they might make themselves nasty. Come round to my rooms; we shall be a lot more comfortable there, old man.'

Mr Fleming raised his eyes. He looked his friend full in the face. As he met his glance, Mr Osborne was conscious of a curious sort of shiver. It was not only because the man's glance was, to say the least, less friendly than it might have been— it was because of something else, something which Mr Osborne could scarcely have defined.

'I want some money.'

Mr Osborne smiled, rather fatuously.

'All. Geoff, the same old tale! Deecie has told me all about it. I won't reproach you; you know, if I had some, you should have it; but I'm not sure that it isn't just as well for both ourselves that I haven't, Geoff.'

'You have some money in your pocket now.'

Mr Osborne's amazement grew apace— his friend's manner was so very strange.

'What a nose you always have for money; however did you find that out? But it isn't mine. You know Jim Baker left me guardian to that boy of his, and I've been drawing the youngster's dividends— it's only seventy pounds, Geoff.'

Mr Fleming stretched out his hand— his reply was brief and to the point.

'Give it to me!'

'Give it to you!— Geoff!— young Baker's money!'

Mr Fleming reiterated his demand.

'Give it to me!'

His manner was not only distinctly threatening, it had a peculiar effect upon his friend. Although Mr Osborne had never before shown fear of any living man, and had, in that respect, proved his superiority over Fleming many a time, there was something at that moment in the speaker's voice, or words, or bearing, or in all three together, which set him shivering, as if with fear, from head to foot.

'Geoff!— you are mad! I'll see what I can find for you, but I can't give you young Baker's dividends.'

Mr Osborne was not quite clear as to exactly what it was that happened. He only knew that the friend of his boyhood— the man for whom he had done so much— the only person in the world who loved him— rose and took him by the throat, and, forcing him backwards, began to rifle the pocket which contained the seventy pounds. He was so taken by surprise, so overwhelmed by a feeling of utter horror, against which he was unable even to struggle, that it was only when he felt the money being actually withdrawn from his pocket that he made an attempt at self-defence. Then, when he made a frantic clutch at his assailant's felonious arm, all he succeeded in grasping was the empty air. The pressure was removed from his throat. He was able to look about him. Mr Fleming was gone. He thrust a trembling hand into his pocket— the seventy pounds had vanished too.

'Geoff! Geoff!' he cried, the tears streaming from his eyes. 'Don't play tricks with me! ! Give me back young Baker's dividends !'

When no one answered and there seemed no one to hear, he began searching round and round the room with his eyes, as if he suspected Mr Fleming of concealing himself behind some article of furniture.

'Geoff! Geoff!' he continued crying. 'Dear old boy !— give me back young Baker's dividends!'

'Hullo !' exclaimed a voice— which certainly was not Mr Fleming's. Mr Osborne turned. Colonel Lanyon was standing with the handle of the open door in his hand. 'Frank, are you rehearsing for a five-act tragedy?'

Mr Osborne replied to the Colonel's question with another.

'Lanyon, did Geoffrey Fleming pass you as you came in?'

'Geoffrey Fleming!' The Colonel wheeled round on his heels like a teetotum. He glanced behind him. 'What the deuce do you mean, Frank? If I catch that thief under the roof which covers me, I'll make a case for the police of him.'

Then Mr Osborne remembered what, in his agitation, he had momentarily forgotten, that Geoffrey Fleming had had no bitterer, more out-spoken, and, it may be added, more well-merited an opponent than Colonel Lanyon in the Climax Club. The Colonel advanced towards Mr Osborne.

'Do you know that that's the blackguard's chair you're standing by?'

'His chair!'

Mr Osborne was leaning with one hand on the chair on which Mr Fleming had, not long ago, been sitting.

'That's what he used to call it himself— with his usual impudence. He used to sit in it whenever he took a hand. The men would give it up to him— you know how you gave everything up to him, all the lot of you. If he couldn't get it he'd turn nasty— wouldn't play. It seems that he had the cheek to cut his initials on the chair— I only heard of it the other day, or there'd have been a clearance of him long ago. Look here— what do you think of that for a piece of rowdiness?'

The Colonel turned the chair upside down. Sure enough in the woodwork underneath the seat were the letters, cut in good-sized characters— 'G.F.'

'You know that rubbishing way in which he used to talk. When men questioned his exclusive right to the chair, I've heard him say he'd prove his right by coming and sitting in it after he was dead and buried— he swore he'd haunt the chair. Idiot!— What is the matter with you, Frank? You look as if you'd been in a rough and tumble— your necktie's all anyhow.'

'I think I must have dropped asleep, and dreamed— yes, I fancy I've been dreaming.'

Mr Osborne staggered, rather than walked, to the door, keeping one hand in the inside pocket of his coat. The Colonel followed him with his eyes.

'Frank's ageing fast,' was his mental comment as Mr Osborne disappeared. 'He'll be an old man yet before I am.'

He seated himself in Geoffrey Fleming's chair.

It was, perhaps, ten minutes afterwards that Edward Jackson went into the smoking-room— 'Scientific' Jackson, as they call him, because of the sort of catch phrase he is always using— 'Give me science!' He had scarcely been in the room a minute before he came rushing to the door shouting—

'Help, help!'

Men came hurrying from all parts of the building. Mr Griffin came from the billiard-room, where he is always to be found. He had a cue in one hand, and a piece of chalk in the other. He was the first to address the vociferous gentleman standing at the smoking-room door.

'Jackson!— What's the matter?' ,

Mr Jackson was in such a condition of fluster and excitement that it was a little difficult to make out, from his own statement, what was the matter.

'Lanyon's dead! Have any of you seen Geoff Fleming? Stop him if you do— he's stolen my pocket-book!' He began mopping his brow with his bandanna handkerchief, 'God bless my soul! an awful thing! — I've been robbed— and old Lanyon's dead !'

One thing was quickly made clear— as they saw for themselves when they went crowding into the smoking-room— Lanyon was dead. He was kneeling in front of Geoffrey Fleming's chair, clutching at either side of it with a tenacity which suggested some sort of convulsion. His head was thrown back, his eyes were still staring wide open, his face was distorted by a something which was half fear, half horror— as if, as those who saw him afterwards agreed, he had seen sudden, certain death approaching him, in a form which even he, a seasoned soldier, had found too horrible for contemplation.

Mr Jackson's story, in one sense, was plain enough, though it was odd enough in another. He told it to an audience which evinced unmistakable interest in every word uttered.

'¡ often come in for a smoke about this time, because generally the place is empty, so that you get it all to yourself.'

He cast a somewhat aggressive look upon his hearers— a look which could hardly be said to convey a flattering suggestion.

'When I first came in I thought that the room was empty. It was only when I was half-way across that something caused me to look round. I saw that someone was kneeling on the floor. I looked to see who it was. It was Lanyon. "Lanyon!" I cried. "Whatever are you doing there?" He didn't answer. Wondering what was up with him and why he didn't speak, I went closer to where he was. When I got there I didn't like the look of him at all. I thought he was in some sort of a fit. I was hesitating whether to pick him up, or at once to summon assistance, when—'

Mr Jackson paused. He looked about him with an obvious shiwer.

'By George ! when I think of it now, it makes me go quite creepy. Cathcart, would you mind ringing for another drop of brandy?'

The brandy was rung for. Mr Jackson went on.

'All of a sudden, as I was stooping over Lanyon, someone touched me on the shoulder. You know, there hadn't been a sound— I hadn't heard the door open, not a thing which could suggest that anyone was approaching. Finding Lanyon like that had made me go quite queer, and when I felt that touch on my shoulder it so startled me that I fairly screeched. I jumped up to see who it was. And when I saw'— Mr Jackson's bandanna came into play— 'who it was, I thought my eyes would have started out of my head. It was Geoff Fleming.'

'Who?' came in chorus from his auditors.

'It was Geoffrey Fleming. "Good God!— Fleming!" I cried. "Where did you come from? I never heard you. Anyhow, you're just in the nick of time. Lanyon's come to grief— lend me a hand with him." I bent down, to take hold of one side of poor old Lanyon, meaning Fleming to take hold of the other. Before I had a chance of touching Lanyon, Fleming, catching me by the shoulder, whirled me round— I had had no idea the fellow was so strong, he gripped me like a vice. I was just going to ask what the dickens he meant by handling me like that, when, before I could say Jack Robinson, or even had time to get my mouth open, Fleming, darting his hand into my coat pocket, snatched my pocket-book clean out of it.'

He stopped, apparently to gasp for breath. 'And pray, what were you doing while Mr Fleming behaved in this exceedingly peculiar way— even for Mr Fleming?' inquired Mr Cathcart.

'Doing!' Mr Jackson was indignant. 'Don't I tell you I was doing nothing? There was no time to do anything— it all happened in a flash. I had just come from my bankers— there were a hundred and thirty pounds in that pocket-book. When I realised that the fellow had taken it, I made a grab at him. And'— again Mr Jackson looked furtively about him, and once more the bandanna came into active play— 'directly I did so, I don't know where he went to, but it seemed to me that he vanished into air— he was gone, like a flash of lightning. I told myself I was mad— stark mad! but when I felt for my pocket-book, and found that that was also gone, I ran yelling to the door.'

iv

IT WAS, as the old-time novelists used to phrase it, about three weeks after the events transpired which we have recorded in the previous chapter. Evening— after dinner. There was a goodly company assembled in the smoking-room at the Climax Club. Conversation was general. They were talking of some of the curious circumstances which had attended the death of Colonel Lanyon. The medical evidence at the inquest had gone to show that the Colonel had died of one of the numerous, and, almost innumerable, varieties of heart disease. The finding had been in accordance with the medical evidence. It seemed to be felt, by some of the speakers, that such a finding scarcely met the case.

'It's all very well,' observed Mr Cathcart, who seemed disposed to side with the coroner's jury, 'for you fellows to talk, but in such a case, you must bring in some sort of verdict— and what other verdict could they bring? There was not a trace of any mark of violence to be found upon the man.

'It's my belief that he saw Fleming, and that Fleming frightened him to death.'

It was Mr Jackson who said this. Mr Cathcart smiled a rather provoking smile.

'So far as I observed, you did not drop any hint of your belief when you were before the coroner.'

'No, because I didn't want to be treated as a laughing-stock by a lot of idiots.'

'Quite so; I can understand your natural objection to that, but still I don't see your line of argument. I should not have cared to question Lanyon's courage to Lanyon's face while he was living. Why should you suppose that such a man as Geoffrey Fleming was capable of such a thing as, as you put it, actually frightening him to death? I should say it was rather the other way about. I have seen Fleming turn green, with what looked very much like funk, at the sight of Lanyon.'

Mr Jackson for some moments smoked in silence.

'If you had seen Geoffrey Fleming under the circumstances in which I did, you would understand better what it is I mean.'

'But, my dear Jackson, if you will forgive my saying so, it seems to me that you don't show to great advantage in your own story. Have you communicated the fact of your having been robbed to the police?'

'I have.'

'And have you furnished them with the numbers of the notes which were taken?'

'I have.'

'Then, in that case, I shouldn't be surprised if Mr Fleming were brought to book any hour of any day. You'll find he has been lying close in London all the time— he soon had enough of Ceylon.'

A newcomer joined the group of talkers— Frank Osborne. They noticed, as he seated himself, how much he seemed to have aged of late and how particularly shabby he seemed just then. The first remark which he made took them all aback.

'Geoff'Fleming's dead.'

'Dead!' cried Mr Philpotts, who was sitting next to Mr Osborne.

'Yes— dead. I've heard from Deecie. He died three weeks ago.'

'Three weeks ago!'

'On the day on which Lanyon died.'

Mr Cathcart turned to Mr Jackson, with a smile.

'Then that knocks on the head your theory about his having frightened Lanyon to death; and how about your interview with him— eh Jackson?'

Mr Jackson did not answer. He suddenly went white. An intervention came from an unexpected quarter— from Mr Philpotts.

'It seems to me that you are rather taking things for granted, Cathcart. I take leave to inform you that I saw Geoffrey Fleming, perhaps less than half-an-hour before Jackson did.'

Mr Cathcart stared.

'You saw him!— Philpotts!'

Then Mr Bloxham arose and spoke.

'Yes, and I saw him, too— didn't I, Philpotts?'

Any tendency on the part of the auditors to smile was checked by the tone of exceeding bitterness in which Frank Osborne was also moved to testify.

'And I— I saw him, too!— Geoff!— dear old boy!'

'Deecie says that there were two strange things about Geoff's death. He was struck by a fit of apoplexy. He was dead within the hour. Soon after he died, the servant came running to say that the bed was empty on which the body had been lying. Deecie went to see. He says that, when he got into the room, Geoff was back, again upon the bed, but it was plain enough that he had moved. His clothes and hair were in disorder, his fists were clenched, and there was a look upon his face which had not been there at the moment of his death, and which, Deecie says, seemed a look partly of rage and partly of triumph.

'I have been calculating the difference between Cingalese and Greenwich time. It must have been between three and four o'clock when the servant went running to say that Geoff's body was not upon the bed— it was about that time that Lanyon died.'

He paused— and then continued—

'The other strange thing that happened was this. Deecie says that the day after Geoff died a telegram came for him, which, of course, he opened. It was an Australian wire, and purported to come from the Melbourne sporting man of whom I told you.' He turned to Mr Philpotts. 'It ran, "Remittance to hand. It comes in rather a miscellaneous form. Thanks all the same." Deecie can only suppose that Geoff had managed, in some way, to procure the four hundred pounds which he had lost and couldn't pay, and·had also managed, in some way, to send it on to Melbourne.'

There was silence when Franks Osborne ceased to speak— silence which was broken in a somewhat startling fashion.

'Who's that touched me?' suddenly exclaimed Mr Cathcart, springing from his seat.

They stared.

'Touched you!' said someone. 'No one's within half a mile of you. You're dreaming, my dear fellow.'

considering the provocation was so slight, Mr Cathcart seemed strangely moved.

'Don't tell me that I'm dreaming— someone touched me on the shoulder!— What's that?'

'That' was the sound of laughter proceeding from the, apparently, vacant seat. As if inspired by a common impulse, the listeners simultaneously moved back.

'That's Fleming's chair,' said Mr Philpotts, beneath his breath.

___________________

12: The Derelict.

Ottwell Binns (as by "Ben Bolt")

1872-1935

Townsville Daily Bulletin (Qld) 12 Jan 1929

'WELL, Stella, here's a pretty mess.'

As he spoke the Honorable Claude Harlynge looked round with disgruntled eyes, taking in the small schooner on the reef which the great seas were steadily pounding, the wide prospect of the Pacific- the palm-fringed beach of white sand, and the half dozen Kanakas, who, having thrown themselves down, lay supine, utterly hopeless and dejected.

The woman whom he addressed, his bride of four months, considered the scene with interest; then her clear eyes turned slowly towards him.

'Yes,' she said lightly, 'Here's where our honeymoon goes pop — busts— and goes off in fragments we'll never be able to pick up.'

The Honorable Claude frowned at the levity with which he spoke. His tone had a note of severity; his words a hint of rebuke as he replied.

'You don't seem to realise the situation, Stella. The schooner will be beaten to matchwood in an hour, and the boat there has a hole in her side you could put your head through—'

'I don't want to!' broke in Stella, carelessly.

'I never said you did. I was merely indicating the fact that the boat is badly stoved. Further, those Kanakas are no good, and what we are going to do, goodness knows. I don't!'

'No! You wouldn't.'

Stella Harlynge did not speak the words aloud, but they were in her mind, as she considered him. Four months' intimate association had taught her that initiative was not his strong point, and had revealed weak strands in him which had before been hidden from her eyes. The man, unconscious of her unfavorable appraising, went on grumblingly.

'If those drunken scoundrels hadn't gone off after piling up the schooner there would have been a chance for us perhaps, but as it is we may be stuck here till the crack of doom.'

He referred, as she knew, to the captain and mate of the wrecked Albatross, who having too deeply imbibed, had by careless navigation put the schooner on the reef on a moonlit night, and had absconded in the whale-boat with the most useful members of the Kanaka crew, leaving the passengers and the rest of the crew to shift for themselves.

'I wonder where "here" is?' said Stella Harlynge, looking round.

'New Britain— or somewhere near that group,' said her husband. 'Cameron was showing me the place on the chart yesterday, saying we should make it by morning. If it is, it's no place to linger in over long. Some of the woolly-heads are pretty savage, I believe.'

'Then the sooner the boat is repaired and we leave the better,' said the girl, lightly. 'Can't you do something, Claude?'

'Me! Great Scott! What do you take me for. Stella? A carpenter?'

'Well, perhaps the Kanakas—'

'Look at them!' broke in the man. 'Do they look helpful? They're giving up their hold on life without a struggle. If help doesn't show up, they'll be dead as herrings in three days.'

'Then the superior white race has got to shift for Itself,' answered the lady flippantly. 'Let us look at the boat. We may be able to plug the leak—'

'Plug the leak!' Her husband was almost scornful. 'It's no leak. It's a hole through which the water just pours and — good Lord!'

An amazed look accompanied the exclamation; and as she saw him staring, wide-eyed, beyond her. Stella Harlynge swung round to learn the cause of his astonishment.

As she did so, she saw a man emerge from the bush at the top of the beach, and halt. He was naked from the waist upward, barefooted, with apparently for sole clothing a pair of ragged canvas ducks. His skin was burned to dark mahogany by the sun; in one hand, he carried a fish-spear and In the other a grass-basket, and his whole appearance was wild and unkempt in the extreme; but as she marked the flaming hair and beard, she knew that he was no native.

'A white man!' ejaculated her husband. 'A blessed derelict, by the look of him. Been here some time, too!'

The new-comer was doubtless experiencing a similar wonder.  Stella Harlynge saw his eyes glance from her husband and herself to the Kanakas  lying on the sand, from them to the boat, and then further to the schooner washed by the thundering seas; then, no doubt with more or less clear understanding of the situation, the man began to move forward.

Whilst still a dozen yards away he began to speak.

'Good morning! You seem to be in a—' He broke off his words and halted simultaneously. A startled expression came on his bronzed face, and an incredulous light leaped in the steel-blue eyes. In the same moment a startled whisper broke from the woman.

'Great Heavens!'

Her husband glanced at her swiftly, and saw recognition in her face.

'Who—' he began; but she broke in swiftly.

'Can't you see? It is Alec Carldon.'

'Carldon!' The Honorable Claude's face changed swiftly. The racing blood empurpled it, then receded swiftly, leaving it strangely mottled, whilst a light of acute apprehension gleamed in his eyes.

'Here.... in this place?' he whispered hoarsely. 'What— what—'

He was still stuttering when the man with the fish-spear resumed his way down the beach.

'This is a surprise, Miss Barstowe; or, er— am I behind the times, and should I say Mrs—'

'Stella is my wife,' interrupted the Honorable Claude harshly. 'We are on our honeymoon.'

'Indeed!'  The newcomer's tone was ironic.  'You seem to have an original idea of spending it. But possibly you seek solitude, and, though I am an old inhabitant, no doubt, I shall be de trop. I will withdraw and leave you to this paradise of your choice.'

He bowed and swung on his heel, but as he did so, the woman broke out appealingly:

'Alec! Don't go. We are shipwrecked! Helpless!'

The man turned again. His gaze took in the boat, the Kanakas, the schooner already going to pieces, and he smiled musingly.

'So I see! I suffered the same experience myself seven months ago. It is surprising what lack of originality fate displays. But there is a certain whimsicality In the fact we three should be thrown together here. If this beach had been Bond-street or Broadway—'

'Alec, you will help us ?' cried Stella Harlynge desperately.

'You— yes! That goes without saying. A man can scarcely do less since you are a woman. But Harlynge—'

'Why not?' she demanded, with some spirit.

The man bowed ironically. 'Your husband will have no secrets from you in these early days, Mrs. Harlynge. Better apply to him for the Information.'

Stella Harlynge looked at her husband, and what she saw in his face disturbed her profoundly.

'What—' she began, perplexedly, and stopped as suddenly. The red-haired derelict watched her closely. Then there was a certain softening in his attitude. A gleam of compassionate understanding came into the blue eyes, and when he spoke his voice had lost its ironical note.

'Ah! You do not know, Stella? I am glad of that. What can I do to help you?'

Stella. Harlynge ignored the last question, her feminine curiosity fixing on the first.

'What is it that I do not know?' she demanded.'

For a moment Alec Carldon hesitated, half inclined to spare her the bitter knowledge; but he was no saint, and the opportunity of squaring accounts with the other man was too strong a temptation.

'Well,' he replied, with brutal directness, 'You do not understand that the artist of the forged cheque, for which I was broken and disinherited, was the man who is your husband!'

'It is an infernal lie!' cried Harlynge hotly.

Carldon shrugged his shoulders. His manner was deadly cool, his tone incisive, and as he continued it became contemptuous.

'There is no need to grow heated. In this climate that is bad for one, Harlynge. As it happens I hold the proof, if a dead man's confession duly signed and witnessed is good evidence. Pickstone was your partner in guilt. He swore he had received the cheque from me, as you had arranged—'

'He was a liar!' broke in Harlynge.

'Haven't a doubt of it. He was worse, he was a perjured liar; but he confessed when he was dying, and what a man confesses on his death bed is usually accepted.'

'Claude, is this true?' interjected the woman accusingly. 'Did you and Gerald Pickstone conspire to ruin Alec?'

'It's all balderdash! A pack of lies! A cock-and-bull story. Why should I do any such thing? I had no need of money.'

Alec Carldon laughed sharply. 'Why?' he asked. 'Why?' For a moment his eyes strayed from the man whom he was accusing to the woman standing alert and watchful. She caught the look and understood it,

'Because of me!' she whispered tragically. 'I never dreamed. Claude, did you—'

Her husband began to bluster, but his voice was cracked and false, and the shifty look of apprehension in his eyes betrayed him utterly. She ignored his protestations, breaking in on them cuttingly.

'So. You got me by a shady trick. You let me believe that Alec was a common thief when all the time it was you who—' She interrupted herself, then cried vehemently: 'But I will not be so cheated into marriage.

'You are my wife,' began Harlynge, blusteringly.

'No, I am not!'

As she spoke, Stella Harlynge tore the rings from her fingers, balanced them in her small palm for n moment, then tossed them

Her husband cried out ragingly at the act, was still crying, mouthing wild words, when one of the Kanakas let out a howl, and leaping to his feet began to run madly along the beach. His companions followed him like stampeding sheep, and as she looked round for the cause of their mad flight, Stella Harlynge grew suddenly while. Racing towards them in crescent formation that made flight impossible were at least twenty blacks— practically naked, except for a few streaks of paint— red and yellow on the body in strange designs, chin, lips and eye-circles in cobalt blue. Their hair was plaited in small tails they wore prongs of ivory in the nose, necklaces of teeth, odd assortments that varied from brass cartridges to blocks of wood in the earIobes, and each man carried club or spear. As the Kanakas began to flee the charging savages let out blood-curdling screeches.

The Honourable Claude stood shaking like an aspen in the sea-wind: a man utterly scared. His wife's face grew deathly pale. She turned from him to the red haired derelict.

'Alec—' she began appealingly.

But the man, apparently ignoring her began to run, making for the left horn of the charging crescent of savages. He reached it at its extreme point, and the black that point represented went down with a spear-thrust that ended his life abruptly, whilst the man who had made the thrust, sped on towards the thick bush. With eyes of blank despair the woman saw him go, then as the first of the charging blacks laid hungry, clawing hands upon her, she fainted, and was mercifully spared the blow of the club which crushed the Honourable Claude's skull as easily as If it had been an egg-shell.

ii

OUT of the darkness of unconsciousness Stella Harlynge emerged, with a great din in her ears. Mad drums and bamboo pipes were sounding in barbaric festival. She tried to move, to rise, and, making the discovery that she was tied hand and foot, looked around with apprehensive eyes. A handful of grass-huts were the first things she saw, with dogs and pigs nosing among the garbage with which the intervening space was littered. Next her gaze encountered a horde of fierce-looking men and bestial women, with infants in their arms, or slung across their naked flanks in nets, then the leaping flames of a great fire, with something lying on the ground nearby, wrapped In leaves. She stared at it fascinated by horror. Ordinarily, she knew, it might have been a pig ready for the roasting, but it was too long and the shape— As she realised the significance of the leaf-covered shape a dark horror fell on her. She was shaken by nausea, and complete losing control, lay there for a time, gibbering in pure terror, then once more slipped over the verge of consciousness into a void where neither night nor sound could reach her, and where she remained for quite a long time. surroundings the drums were still throbbing, and there came to her a chanting of barbaric voices.

She looked round and found herself lying on the floor of one of the grass huts, and from the darkness she divined night had fallen. A gleam of ruddy light streaming through the doorless entrance drew her eyes to the fire outside, where black figures, engaged in some barbaric dance, were silhouetted against the glare.

Watching them, she guessed the horrific festival they were engaged in: and as she thought of the particular game provided for the feast she shuddered and once more was shaken by the pangs of nausea. Then deliberately she turned her eyes from the fire and to save her reason, tried to shut out the remembrance of the thing she had seen lying there. But, do what she would, the vision of it came to her, and in a very fever of imagination she found herself plucking aside the leaves, and staring into the face of her dead husband.

She shivered as with an ague, and whimpered like a frightened child: then becoming aware of a stealthy movement almost at her side, filed cut In un extremity or

'Stella, be quiet!'

The whisper, urgent and Insistent, came from Alec Carldon. She recognised his voice instantly, and round it reassuring. A moment later she felt a hand touch her shoulder. The hand travelled downward until it reached her bound hands, and there it stayed.

'Keep quite still,' sounded Carldon's voice. 'I'm going to cut you loose.'

The hand fumbled a little, then she felt the bond about her wrists severed and she was able to move them apart. The hand with the knife sought her ankles, and she heard and felt the knife sever the foot-bonds; and caught Carldon's whisper.

'Rub your hands together, then your feet. Quick! We have very little

That; as it chanced, was truer than he knew. The woman's cry of terror had been heard, and whilst she was still trying to restore the circulation there come an interruption in the form of a big savage, bearing a burning brand, evidently bent on investigation.

Carldon straightened himself at the back of the hut, with a knife balanced In his hand, hoping that the black would not see him. The hope was a vain one. The savage waved his burning brand to and fro in the air making it kindle into flame, and by its light he steered Into the hut. As he caught sight of Carldon he yelled in surprise, but even us he yelled the knife left the white man's hand, burying Itself in the black throat. The man dropped as it he had been shot, but his yell had been heard by his fellows, and a host of them began to run towards the hut.

'Keep cool. Stella!' said Carldon. brusquely. 'And for heaven's sake don't faint! When I give tho word run and keep pace with me. I shall make for the beach. Step outside.'

His tone and manner braced her. Shaking with fear though she was, she moved towards the door of the hut, and as she did so, Carldon picked up the slowing brand which the black had let fall, fanned it to flame, and deliberately thrust it against the dry grass or the hut, which went off like a firework.

'Outside!' he shouted. 'Quick!'

He was by her side as she stepped from the hut up which the flames were leaping. Clear of the hut and of the heat of its burning, he halted, and Stella Harlynge halted also. The savages hurrying towards the hut checked in surprise as they saw the pair standing there, and in the brief interval he applied something that he had taken from his pocket to the burning brand, the whilst he gave further directions.

'The path is to the left, by that big tree. When I give the word, run.'

The thing he held against the brand begun to sizzle, emitting a little train of sparks, like the fuse of a cracker, began to run, and the surprised savages surged forward, his arm went back, and that sizzling thing, still spitting fire, described an arc in the air and fell Into the thick of the black crowd. He did not stay to watch the effect of his deadly fire work, but followed at the heels of Stella Harlynge.

Before he reached the big tree a tremendous roar drowned the cries of the savages, and the shock of the explosion threw him to the ground. But he was on his feet in a twinkling, and picking up the glowing brand, of which he might still have need, he followed the woman whom he had delivered into the darkness of the trees. Not till they reached the beach did Stella Harlynge speak.

'What was that explosion?'

'A dynamite cartridge.' he explained. 'Got a pocketful from the schooner when the tide fell this afternoon. Also tools to mend the boat. Here we are. No followers apparently. There's plenty of time seemingly. We'll get away all right, and there's water and food of sorts under the thwart there. Get in.'

Stella Harlynge got in without question. He pushed the boat off, leaped in and took the oars, driving her towards the open sea.

'Those horrors won't follow,' he explained. 'They're a land lot, who were only drawn to the beach by the sight of your schooner.'

Stella Harlynge stared at him through the darkness; then she asked a question.

'How did you get to the schooner, Alec?'

'Swam out to the reef, risking the sharks, and crawled aboard.'

For the moment she was silent, thinking of the lack or initiative the Honourable Claude had displayed earlier in the day, and contrasting his weakness with the decision and energy of this old lover of hers. Then she asked: 'Where will you make for?'

'Rabaul. We shall probably be picked up on that course.'

Then she asked: 'And afterwards, Alec?'

For a brief time the man hesitated: then like a man who knew his mind, he answered:

'That will depend on you, Stella.'

'On me?' she whispered faintly.

'Yes.' he answered tersely. And staring into the starlit night with terrible things fresh in her mind but with the knowledge of the deliverance the man had wrought for her, Stella Harlynge knew what she would do— some day.

_______________

13: Conscience Money

John Talland
fl. 1928-36

Australian Women's Weekly, 11 Jan 1936

MR. JULIUS CHITTERPIN was writing a letter, and as he wrote his tongue worked around his thin lips with a semi-circular movement, in harmony with the bold strokes of his pen. Those who knew Mr. Chitterpin— and they were many, for he was an income tax collector— said that he was a dull, unimaginative man with no soul and a flinty heart, and indeed, when he pursued his normal vocation of collecting those taxes which had, inadvertently, fallen into arrears, they were not greatly mistaken.

With his own money he was always very careful, putting aside a little of his salary every month. He had been doing this for so many years, and it had accumulated so rapidly in Government stocks that quite a comfortable little nest egg awaited the rainy day that never seemed to come.

On this particular Sunday evening. Mr. Chitterpin was making restitution for a wrong, and, according to St. Luke, Chapter 19. Verse 8, he was making it fourfold.

The letter finished, Mr. Chitterpin opened a drawer and produced a large sheet of halfpenny stamps. With an expression of something like relief he licked three and stuck them on the letter. The others he placed in the envelope. Then he walked across the road in his carpet slippers to the pillar box.

On the following morning Mr. Edgar Dwight, of Dwight's General Stores, found the letter. He tore it open, and, as he read, his jaw dropped lower and lower with amazement, until his mouth was shaped like a capital "O."

"Ma!" he called, "Ma! Come 'ere, quick!"

In a moment his wife, a corpulent woman, entered the shop.

The lady, taking the letter into both hands began to read, enunciating each word slowly and carefully.

"Dear Sir," she read. "Four years ago I made some purchases at your stores and received in change one shilling too much. I have often meant to return it to you and now I am convinced, on reference to my Bible, that I should make restitution fourfold. I enclose stamps to the amount of four shillings. J. Chitterpin."

"Coo! Well, I never!" Her ample bosom heaved and palpitated with the excitement of the event.

DURING his investigation of the breakfast haddock, Mr. Dwight gave his opinion on the actions of the mysterious Mr. Chitterpin.

"That's a right and proper man. I don't remember the pleasure of serving him, being so long ago— four years— but 'e's done the proper thing, an' I'll wager he feels all the better for it. I should. I'd like to meet Mr. Chitterpin and shake 'is 'and. Wish we had 'im on our committee. I'll tell 'em about this. Do 'em good, and shake up their consciences, that will."

"What about Charley Gladly?" said Mrs. Dwight, looking into the teapot. She felt the stony frozen glare of her husband on the top of her head. This subject had been discussed before.

"Ah— well, that was a business deal, even if I did get the better of 'im. I took no mean advantages. I'm going to write an anonymous letter— worded like this— and see what happens, enclosing restitution fourfold. That'll be a pound I'll 'ave to send him, less this four shillings— sixteen shillings; and don't you never refer to that no more."

It so happened that Mr. Charles Gladly was entertaining to supper an old friend who was a policeman when the anonymous letter arrived.

"Well, I'll be shot!" he said. "Listen to this, Fred. A 'nonymous letter:

" 'Dear Sir, Having had the advantage of you in a business deal, which was strictly above-board, for the sum of five shillings I have often meant to return it to you, and now I am convinced on reference to my Bible that I should make restitution fourfold. I enclose stamps and P.O.'s to the amount of one pound. A well-wisher.' "

He shook out a little heap of postal orders, and the large sheet of half-penny stamps.

"What d'you think of that?"

"Well! I'm blowed!"

"Good enough for the papers, that is!" said Policeman Fred enthusiastically.

"Bet I know the well-wisher," exclaimed Mr. Gladly smiling, and taking a long drink from his tankard.

"The reporter boys round the station will like to see that letter," said P.C. Fred. "Tell you what— you lend it to me and next thing you'll see a couple of columns about it in the papers."

THE police constable's prognostications were correct in almost every detail.

The local newspaper made a story of the windfall to the Gladly family, even to the extent of publishing a very blurred and wholly unrecognisable portrait of a face purporting to be that of Mr. C. Gladly.

And so it happened that Mr. P. F. Bimeby-Wade, reclining in an arm-chair, digested his breakfast and this item of news simultaneously.

Mr. Bimeby-Wade was a self-made and very wealthy man. He was so rich that it is true he did not know the extent of his wealth.

When he read the small paragraph relating to a curious anonymous letter enclosing restitution fourfold in the sum of one pound, he placed the paper across his knee and stared up at the beautiful ceiling of his library for several minutes.

What then actuated Mr. Bimeby-Wade will never be known. It may be that twinges of conscience for old and nearly forgotten business deals recurred painfully. It may be that he was actuated by a real and honest desire to prove his patriotism and come to his country's need (at the same time possibly getting himself recognised for honors).

Be that as it may. Mr. Bimeby-Wade was moved to sudden resolution, and he rang the bell for one of his secretaries.

A slim, dark, efficient-looking and utterly silent young man entered obsequiously, and stood at Mr. Bimeby-Wade's elbow.

"Write to the Chancellor of the Exchequer," said Mr. Bimeby-Wade, "and tell him this: "That I offer one hundred thousand pounds to open a subscription to reduce the National Debt, on condition that ten others will do the same— or twenty others for half the amount.' "

"Very good, sir," whispered the unemotional secretary, as he withdrew.

SEVERAL months later the Chancellor of the Exchequer was talking to his secretary.

"Of course," said the Chancellor, "such a thing is not without precedent. France, after the war of 1870, dived into her long stocking and surprised the world. And we shall surprise the world this afternoon, my boy! This speech of mine is going to make the biggest sensation since the Great War in 1914. That man, Lord Wimeby of Glade is the biggest patriot of all time. Think of it! What an action! What a generous gesture! A fortune to the nation.

"Four hundred and fifty-five million, six hundred and thirty-eight thousand and forty-one pounds, fifteen shillings.

"And the lists are not yet closed! It's still pouring in from the colonies! Think of the effect! No more death duties, no more super tax, only a very nominal income tax. Increased trade. Industry booming as never before."

MR JULIUS CHITTERPIN was writing a report when he received notification that he was required by his district inspector.

"Well, Chitterpin, I don't know whether you've guessed what I have to say to you? It's a very painful duty, I assure you, but it's got to be. It's a shame after all your service. But there you are. Since the national debt's practically extinguished and there's no income tax to collect worth speaking about, the collectors have nothing to collect. So— At the end of the month— I'm very sorry—"

He smiled sympathetically and shuffled some papers to intimate that the interview was finished. Mr. Chitterpin inclined his head politely and left the room.

On the last day of the month Mr. Chitterpin drew his salary cheque and went to the bank where his money and securities were lodged. There he withdrew all his money and in the same afternoon he bought a ticket at the railway station. It is believed that Mr. Chitterpin also travelled by steamer, because he was carrying a check travelling rug in addition to his black bag, but nobody has been able to say with any degree of certainty, for he has never been heard of since.

___________________

14: Green Ginger

Ethel Lina White

1876-1944

The Grand Magazine June 1927

Australian Women's Weekly 5 May 1934

Before she hit the big time with her novel "As the Wheel Spins", filmed by Alfred Hitchcock as "The Lady Vanishes",  Ethel Lina White wrote many short stories, few of which have been reprinted.

JOYCE'S coloring was charming— her line was perfect. She was so exclusive— the last word in simplicity and chic. She came to Lewis Pomeroy when he was in his bath, for Joyce was a jumper-suit.

Lewis Pomeroy was a designer in the dress establishment of a certain Major Lucas, who called himself "Mary." He was a thin-faced, eager young man, who beamed at the world through horn-rimmed glasses with something of the enthusiasm of a stray pup which has, at long last, found a home.

He had only learned to sketch after the war, when other doors had been closed, owing to ill-health. After months of privation, his modest salary seemed a fortune. To add further zest to life, he was in love with "Mary's" head mannequin, Bonnie Doon.

Ambition to marry Bonnie made Pomeroy keen as mustard on his work. He had already attracted fresh custom to "Mary," and, on the strength of "Joyce," he meant to apply for an increase in salary.

The first model from his sketch had already been finished in elephant's breath and ashes of roses, while a letter— hand-written— had been sent to an important client, inviting her to a private view.

On the morning of the inspection, Pomeroy walked along the High Street, thinking only of "Joyce." The sun was shining and the streets looked clean and picturesque in the mellow light.

It was an historic borough, crusted with tradition, and it had slept for centuries by the side of its green, sluggish river. Recently, however, it had given signs of awaking to civic ambition. There was talk of municipal swimming baths and a free library. For the past two years it had possessed a picture palace, although this was due to the enterprise of a non-local syndicate and was already showing signs of sleepy sickness.

Among the citizens who planned to put their town on the map were Major Lucas— whose other name was "Mary"— and Morgan Bros., the drapers.

A great trade rivalry existed between the two. "Mary" was high-class and charged exorbitant prices. It also prided itself on the exclusive possession of a staff of four mannequins and an artist. While it pretended to ignore the existence of Morgan Bros., it could not blind itself to the fact that a good stream of money flowed into the till of its plebeian rival.

Morgan Bros. was a big, ill-built shop, without pretension to style. It did a roaring trade in cheap readymades, but it could not attract the cream of the population.

Lately new blood had come into the business in the person of a nephew, young Charles Morgan, fresh from the "Bon Marche," Paris. He was goodlooking, and smart, in a hard and glossy fashion, and had at once proved himself a live wire.

His first action had been to scrap all the pallid dummies in the shop window and then to install a flock of gorgeous waxen beauties, who eclipsed even the charms of "Mary's" mannequins.

Pomeroy, therefore, was a little apprehensive of the future. Recently Charles Morgan had paid marked attentions to Bonnie Doon, which she had accepted with her habitual dreamy complacency.

Smiling at the thought of "Joyce," Pomeroy paused to bestow his usual glance of veiled contempt at the window of Morgan Bros. In spite of the gulf between them the rivals watched each other like panthers on the pounce.

As he gazed, the smile left Pomeroy's lips.

Before him was "Joyce."

Rather it was a line of "Joyce's" in crudest shades of grey and pink. A large placard proclaimed: "Snappy Suits for Misses, 39s. 11½d."

At first Pomeroy was unable to believe the evidence of his eyes. Yet. in spite of her degradation, the model was his "Joyce." He recognised his own distinctive touches, which are the hall-mark of creative art, and which had raised her above the level of ordinary jumper suits.

HE walked on mechanically, reeling like a man in a bad dream. The theft admitted but one explanation— treachery. As he grew calmer, he tried to trace it to its source.

Only three persons had seen the model "Joyce," and these were the Major, Miss Beaver, the head dress-maker, who had copied the sketch, and Bonnie Doon, who had served as her dummy.

The Major was, of course, out of the question, and so was Miss Beaver, who had grown grey in the employ of the Major's mother, Madame Charlotte. Reluctantly, Pomeroy began to think of Bonnie Doon.

She was a mystery to everyone, for it was impossible to tell whether she veiled a shrewd brain under a manner of rustic simplicity, or if she was, in reality, as green as grass.

Her short life had been passed on a farm, buried deep in the country. But in spite of this she knew how to enter and win first prize in a West Country beauty competition.

Armed with the newspaper reproduction of her photograph as her testimonial, she took the cheap half-day fare to the county town.

Arrived, she displayed remarkable flair; unattracted by the large plateglass windows of Morgan Bros., she presented herself at the unpretentious establishment of "Mary."

She was interviewed by the Major, who saw at a glance that there was no question as to her beauty. She was a real blonde with honey-yellow hair, deep sea-blue eyes and a complexion of roses and snow.

The Major was not only susceptible to a pretty face, but alive to its ornamental value in his business. Otherwise, he would have turned down Bonnie at once.

He liked his girls to be of good address and what he termed "quick in the uptake." But Bonnie was slow in answering his questions and her speech revealed the limited vocabulary of one who had passed her life among silent rustics.

Against his own judgment, the Major decided to try her out in the sales department of his elegant shop.

So Bonnie went into ribbons. Within a week she was reported to be careless and simple to the verge of simplicity. She lived in a dream. When ordered to take a message to the Major's office she was found wandering in the basement.

"She's a hopeless hayseed," declared the scornful cashier. "She doesn't know the difference between a florin and half a crown."

"Hum!" reflected the Major. "Pay her sixpence short on her wages and see!"

The experiment was tried. Within five seconds of opening her pay envelope. Bonnie was back at the cashier's desk.

"Please you've given me a florin instead of half a crown." She added politely, "by mistake, of course!"

The Major stepped forward.

"So you do know the difference when it happens to be your own money and not the firm's," he said dryly.

Bonnie began to cry. She declared that she was not accustomed to money, since her mother and elder sisters always presided over their stall at the market.

"And indeed. Mr. 'Mary,' " she cried, "I always looked after the firm! Directly I saw the horrid things were so much alike I always wrote down whatever was given me as a florin. So you see, if the customer didn't notice, the firm got sixpence. Indeed, indeed, I wouldn't be dishonest for the world!"

The cashier hid her smile with a manicured hand.

"Now I consider it, Major," she said, "the mistake was always in favor of 'Mary.' But it's not pleasant for me to have complaints from the public, especially now she's proved that she really knows the difference."

"But that's different," declared Bonnie earnestly. "If you had to provide yourself with clean lodgings, nourishing food and decent clothes on that"— she held up her pay envelope— you'd know if you were a farthing short right through the paper."

"Aren't you paid enough?" asked the Major uneasily.

"You're never paid enough if you want to get on," said Bonnie. "And I want to get on. It was the dream of my life to come to a select, high-class, aristocratic establishment like 'Mary.' It's not like trade. It's more like a society bazaar. And now I must go in the ribbons at Morgan Bros!"

The Major noticed that she took for granted her engagement by Morgan Bros. And he knew that she was right.

It galled, him to think of his beautiful Miss Doon being unrooted from his beautiful shop and transplanted to a bargain-basement concern like Morgan Bros.

"You spoke just now of 'nourishing food,' Miss Doon," he said reflectively. "Need it be so very nourishing? If you were a shade thinner, I might consider you as a mannequin."

"They say I have a perfect figure," said Bonnie simply.

"That is my point. A mannequin must not possess such an indiscretion. She must be line. All line. She has to display extreme modes.... Well?"

"I'll give up pudding," Bonnie promised passionately. "And, of course, I'll get the same wages as the mannequins, for my Union would never let me go for less."

It was the first time the Major had been threatened with bogy.

"You belong to a Union?" he asked.

"Not yet," Bonnie assured him. "It's not necessary when you're dealing with a gentleman."

So Bonnie Doon became a mannequin and history was repeated. In this capacity she was again a failure. She was slow in obeying the summons when the head saleswoman whistled down the tube to the mannequins' resting room, and she was unskilful in wriggling into skin-tight gowns.

Worse than this, although she was prettier than the other mannequins, she did not display her models to advantage. She was utterly lacking in clothes sense. For a person must be keen on what he sells— be it gin or giraffes— otherwise he will never persuade anyone to take home a giraffe, with a reduction for two.

Once again the Major had to face Bonnie's expulsion. By this time, he— like his artist— had fallen under the spell of Bonnie's sweetness and unfailing good temper. He was of the type which does not exact brains with beauty.

So he resolved to make Bonnie head mannequin, with charge of the model gowns and authority over the other mannequins. Her honesty and loyalty to the firm would stand him in good stead. She would see that no one wasted the gas and also be on view, on special occasions, when a new creation wanted the advertisement of her beauty.

AS he walked onward to his dreaded interview with his employer, Pomeroy reviewed Bonnie's history. When he thought of her blue eyes he was positive that she was innocent of intrigue. She was a darling, but green— green as the grass.

Yet he could not blind himself to the fact that Bonnie, although a newcomer, was drawing a higher salary than that paid to any other girl by "Mary."

"Mary's" looked more like a private house than a shop. It had a window, but it displayed nothing but some scant orchid drapery. The door was rather similar to a sheet of expensive stationery— grey, with a small silver "Mary" enscrolled in one corner.

Pomeroy slithered over the Persian rugs and polished parquet of the salon until he reached the Major's office.

The Major was lean and grey; he was dressed in grey, also, finished with white spats, four violets and a monocle.

He greeted Pomeroy with a hungry smile.

"Well, Pomeroy?" His voice was thin and toneless. "Another inspiration? A little sister for 'Joyce'?"

Pomeroy felt his throat go dry. Hitherto he had not tasted the bitter fruits of failure.

"I— I've got bad news, sir," he stammered. "They're showing 'Joyce' at Morgan Brothers!"

The Major listened to his story in stony silence.

"You've sold us a pup this time, Pomeroy," he said. "I must cancel the appointment with her ladyship, since we can no longer show 'Joyce' as a feature. You represented her as your original design, whereas she's simply a rehash of something you've seen— and forgotten— in a fashion journal. Unless," he added sharply, "you've shown your rough sketch to some outsider?"

"Is that likely, sir?" Pomeroy's thin cheeks showed his working muscles. "I swear she is original, and someone's pinched her. But I'm entirely unable to explain it. No one saw the sketch except the dressmaker and— Except the dressmaker."

"And Miss Doon." The Major, who hunted, did not shirk the fence. "Well, we can wash out the dressmaker.

She's the soul of loyalty. As for Miss Doon, I'll tell you an incident which illustrates her keen notion of honesty."

"I don't need assurance, sir."

"Neither do I. As you know, she has made good in her new post. Yet not long ago she wanted to give notice, because she could not condone the dishonesty of the other mannequins. There were tears in her eyes— tears, Pomeroy— when she told me that they were in the habit of wearing the silk stockings, which we supply, to parties. I had trouble in assuring her that so long as they did not exceed the number of pairs allowed by the firm, we had to look down our noses at that sort of practice."

"Fine!" said Pomeroy earnestly. "Miss Doon is the last person to suspect. She's the soul of simplicity."

The Major took up a book of fashions.

"Sorry, Pomeroy, but I can spare you no more time. I hope there will be no repetition of this incident. I can only pay a salary for original
work."

Pomeroy's knees were rather shaky as he walked to the door. The Major's words suggested the lean days of unemployment.

He turned again at his employer's voice.

"I agree with you, Pomeroy. Miss Doon is the soul of simplicity. But— have you ever considered her name? 'Doon' is common and 'Bonnie' rather uncommon. But the juxtaposition does not strike me as altogether disingenuous."

Pomeroy's smile was twisted as he walked downstairs to the mannequins' room. Of course, everyone had a perfect trust in Bonnie.

Of course.

THE mannequins' room was in the basement. It was a real den, dingy, warm from a flaring gas-fire, and artificially lit. The girls were in their orchid wrappers, waiting for the sound of the whistle. They each wore flesh-hued satin slips and silk stockings and shoes to match— all the property of "Mary."

Pomeroy entered to a chorus of laughter, for the girls were at leisure. The brunette smoked a cigarette, while the brown-haired beauty worked at a crossword puzzle. A little girl with a pert bob and an orchid frock made cocoa for her superiors.

The blonde, who was busy with her make-up, stopped in her occupation of spiking her eyelashes with some unguent which she applied with a match.

"Don't make me laugh!" she pleaded. "If any of this stuff gets in my eye it hurts like hell."

"No swearing, please!" It was Bonnie's voice, muffled by a hanging cluster of swathed frocks. "Lowers the tone of 'Mary', girls."

When she emerged from her shelter, Pomeroy saw that her calm was ruffled.

"Just listen to those girls laughing!" she said. "They've just asked me something silly about sticking a stamp on a letter or myself. But I'm not such a fool as I look, Have you seen this?"

She pointed to a paragraph in a fashion journal.

"I've just been reading about those mirrors they use in Rue de la Paix which make customers look slim. I think Mr. 'Mary' should know about them."

"He does," said Pomeroy. "And you ought to know enough of the Major to realise that he is above such dishonesty."

"Yes," mused Bonnie. "But think of the awful prices he charges for things which cost nearly nothing. But it's quite fair when it is business."

Looking at her soft apple-bloom cheeks. Pomeroy wondered whether the guileless Bonnie was not fooling them all.

He resolved to be on guard.

"Miss Doon," he asked, "will you be surprised to hear that 'Joyce' will not be shown to-day?"

She did not blink an eyelash. "Whoever's 'Joyce'?"

"Apparently you do not remember the model."

If Pomeroy hated himself for the use of the word "apparently," it made no impression on Bonnie. During his recital of the tragedy she preserved her poker-face of innocence.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured sweetly. What was more, she looked sorry. "But jumper suits are exactly alike, you know."

Pomeroy swallowed the heresy.

"Exactly. By the way, can you draw?"

Bonnie's blush of shame was genuine.

"No. I was always so busy on the farm I hadn't time to learn too much. But— but I won a beauty prize."

"Not hard work for you," said Pomeroy gallantly.

"Well, it was rather, filling in all those coupons, voting for myself!"

Again Pomeroy fell under the spell of her crystal-clear eyes.

"Miss Doon," he said impetuously, "why do you go about with that outsider, Morgan?"

"Nephew? Oh, I like him. Such a gentleman. Always pays everywhere and doesn't take advantage. And we are taught in the country not to expect something for nothing."

"But— but you'd never let him kiss you?" gasped Pomeroy.

"We are taught in the country exactly where to draw the line." was the calm response.

THE following week was a succession of dreary days for Pomeroy, as he vainly tried to recover his lost prestige by another inspiration for "Mary". He went for long walks, but the blue dusk flowing through the crooked streets of the town, so that it looked like a page torn from some old wives' tale, only filled him with the unrest of spring.

For his worry over the future was sharpened by the change in Bonnie. He knew that love renders some people silent and that Bonnie had seemed to return his own affection.

But it was patent that her former feeling for him was blotted out by a more powerful emotion. In his company she seemed to be in a dream, although he noted jealously that when he met her with the Morgan nephew she was chattering like a brooklet.

One evening, when a heavy cold made his brain too woolly for work, he asked Bonnie to accompany him to the pictures. Later, as they ate hot cheese cakes at the pastrycook's, he broke off in the middle of a sentence.

"You're not listening. Whom are you thinking of?"

"Dear Harold Lloyd."

As Pomeroy vainly tried to think of a citizen of that name, she enlightened him.

"I saw him in a lovely picture last week. It's the dream of my life to be a film actress. But I have blue eyes. It's awful to have blue eyes. They photograph white. "Mary Pickford has hazel eyes. Oh, dear!"

Pomeroy went home in the depths of depression and ordered boiled onions for supper. And then, when his eyes ran and his head ached, he was visited by a dream of inspired beauty.

Curling out of the smoke of his broth, he saw "Viola."

"VIOLA" was a rest gown— a filmy creation in faintest mushroom and glacier-green. She suggested twilight memory and lost love, which held a delicate hint of subtle intrigue.

Pomeroy worked half the night, and presented the Major with his finished wash-drawing in the morning.

"Excellent, Pomeroy," said his employer. "Your masterpiece. It has come at an opportune moment."

The faint red streak in his grey face showed that the Major was stirred with his first real civic growing pains. He glimpsed the possibilities of a word unknown in the vocabulary of the old town— that grey limpet clinging to its past.

Expansion.

In spite of the paradox of the empty gap in front, "Mary" carried all his goods in his shop window. Only the part of the premises which were public— the shop, salon and the Major's office— were decorated in the general scheme of grey panelling, dull-silver beading and orchid pile carpets.

The rest of the large rambling house was shabby and mouse-nibbled. The Major was now visited by a dream of converting two large first-floor rooms, at present used for stock, into an elegant lounge and high-class cafe, where the cream of the county could meet to listen to wireless music and watch the parade of the mannequins.

The chief difficulty was capital. He still had an overdraft at the bank in connection with his first venture. It was true that he had received an offer from a firm of local solicitors to sell his sole bit of property— a small fish shop, which lay between the large blocks of Morgan Bros. and the picture palace.

Although the premises were too small to be of value to Morgan Bros., the Major had inquired the name of the probable purchaser, for he had no intention of serving his rival. He was informed that the cinema company had made the offer in view of future structural alterations.

The sum offered was fair, but too low to be of much service for the Major's new needs. Moreover, the sale involved a sentimental surrender, for the fish shop had belonged to the Major's mother— Madame Charlotte— and like everyone in the town he was loyal to the past.

Unaware that he was following in the best speculative traditions, the Major resolved not to close with the offer for the present, but to lie low for a time.

HE came out of his dream as Pomeroy walked to the door— a new confidence in his look and bearing.

"If you are wise, Pomeroy, you will let no one see that sketch except the dressmaker. No one."

Pomeroy nodded. When he was back in his studio— its dirty distempered walls decorated with railway posters and Rackham reproductions— he felt a pang of real uneasiness.

Now that "Viola" stood for his second chance he remembered that he was still at a loss to trace the treachery which had stolen "Joyce."

Each of the principals, excluding Bonnie, was outside suspicion. It was absurd to credit a raw country girl with trained artistic talent which would have gained her a good salaried position. And he could not understand how she could have obtained possession of his original sketch, which was guarded by the dressmaker by day and locked away in his desk every night.

The whole affair was a mystery which left him with the uneasy feeling that the dingy walls of his office screened prying eyes.

He turned his sketch face downwards as Bonnie entered.

"Miss Beaver wants you to see those patterns of lacquer-red georgette. She won't come in as she's in a hurry."

Feeling ashamed of his suspicions, Pomeroy went into the corridor and made a lightning choice. He told himself the while that "Viola" was safe. She was too intricate a model for anyone to memorise in a couple of minutes.

Yet it gave him a shock when he returned, to find Bonnie looking at the sketch with vivid interest.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she cried. "I think it would look wonderful in a film. Don't you think it would photograph wonderfully?"

"Thanks!" was Pomeroy's sole comment as he held out his hand for the sketch.

He guarded "Viola" as closely as an official of the C.I.D. while she was copied by the dressmaker. The work was carried through at record speed as she was destined to be the special feature of "Mary's" spring display at the Bear Hotel, with a cup of tea thrown in.

Once again Pomeroy walked with the spring of hope, which was only dimmed as he watched the progress of "Joyce."

She had sold like hot cakes. Already she had passed from Grey Pink into Champagne Emerald, and was now being stocked in Navy White. Nearly every flapper in the town wore one of Morgan Bros.' Snappy Suits for Misses at 39/11½.'

On the tenth day after "Viola" had been finished. Pomeroy asked Bonnie to come for a walk. It was not a success, for although she was kind, her thoughts were plainly elsewhere.

"Boring you again?" he asked.

"Oh, no. But— you will talk of the shop. And I hate shops."

"Then why did you leave the farm?"

"I hate farms, too."

"What don't you hate, then?"

"The pictures." Her blue eyes sparkled. "If you'll keep a secret, I'll tell you something. I'm going in for this!"

She showed him a newspaper clipping which told of a film magnate's efforts to find fresh talent for the screen.

"You send in your photo," explained Bonnie. "Then you have a film test. Then they give you a contract."

"Sounds simple. But I wouldn't build on it!"

"There you go!" Bonnie showed her first sign of temper. "I'm boring you now. That's why I like talking to Morgan Nephew. We're both interested in photography, so we can talk together of the pictures."

"Got a camera?" asked Pomeroy.

"How funny your voice sounds!" remarked Bonnie. "Just like the Major's! He always talks as if his teeth had slipped and trodden his tongue flat."

"Good description. Got a camera?"

"Only a pocket one."

Pomeroy's heart began to hammer violently. A photograph would account for the fidelity with which all his touches had been copied. With a sinking at his heart he realised that Bonnie had been alone in his studio long enough to take a snapshot of "Viola."

In vain he told himself that he was the victim of nerves. Bonnie was innocent as daisies and dewdrops.

But he could not sleep that night. As he tossed in the fever of unrest every door seemed to shut. He was heavy-eyed next morning and leaden-soled, as he walked to his work.

When he reached Morgan Bros., it required an effort to raise his eyes.

And there—to justify his presentiment—in the middle of the window, was "Viola."

SHE was marked at three-and-a-half guineas, and in spite of himself, Pomeroy had to admit that she was a bargain at the price. He stared at her, held by the allure of her glacier-green fragility, until his eyes grew blurred. Even more than his interview with the Major he dreaded meeting Bonnie.

The Major regarded his polished nails while Pomeroy blurted out his tale.

"Striking coincidence," he drawled. "May I inquire what Morgan Brothers paid you for your duplicate sketch?"

At the words Pomeroy's self-control broke.

"Go to blazes!" he snapped.

In the pause that followed he seemed to hear his salary drop to the ground with the rustling of notes like withered autumn leaves.

As he blindly stumbled towards the door he turned at the sound of the Major's smooth voice.

"One minute, Pomeroy!"

"Why?" He turned. "I know I'm sacked. But no man shall say I doublecrossed him, and get away with it."

"Good! Two minutes, Pomeroy! I want to know if you suspect anyone of double play?"

Pomeroy's compressed lips gave him away.

"No, sir."

"Like that? Three minutes. Pomeroy! You have done good work for us and I can make allowance for the artistic temperament. Better take the day off and see if you can clear up the mystery."

Pomeroy felt vaguely that the Major was treating him decently, but he was too stunned for thanks. He knew that he could not trust himself to meet Bonnie. As he stepped into the sun-splashed street he felt that he had passed for the last time through the elegant portals of "Mary."

HE returned from his tramp in the country just before closing time, when the lamp-lighter was going his rounds.

The first person he met was Bonnie. As he approached, she paused before the window of Morgan Brothers and then audaciously pointed to the central model.

"Looks a bit like 'Viola,' " she said sweetly.

"I trace a resemblance," observed Pomeroy acidly. "In view of it, it may not surprise you to hear that I am leaving 'Mary'."

"Going away?"

Bonnie looked blank, and the corners of her mouth began to droop.

"Going away," repeated Pomeroy. "Its been an education to meet you, but now it's Good-bye."

THE evening breeze, however— a nasty bit of work from the east— decreed otherwise. It whisked a corner of Bonnie's coat, revealing a glimpse of gleaming sequins.

"My hat!" murmured Pomeroy, as he recognised "Mary's" new Paris model. "What are you doing in that?"

Bonnie's eyes grew rather wide.

"Indeed, it's all right," she assured him. "I've only borrowed it for half an hour, to be photographed in. I'll take the greatest care of it. Why, do you know that the Major actually lets the mannequins wear their stockings to dances and make holes in them? He told me himself that I must learn to look down my nose at it."

"By why are you being photographed in it?" persisted Pomeroy.

Bonnie looked nervously up and down the street.

"Don't tell anyone! It's the competition. You have to pass a film test, so I'm having mine done by a photographer who's a friend of Mr. Morgan's. And I simply must wear something special, for no promoter will look at you if you don't seem to have a wardrobe."

Pomeroy whistled as he suddenly saw daylight.

"And did you wear 'Joyce' and 'Viola' for these tests?" he inquired.

"Yes. But both were failures, so I have to be done again."

"I see. So Morgan's helping you. Kind man. But have you forgotten that 'Joyce' and 'Viola' were to be kept secret until they had been displayed by 'Mary'?"

Bonnie's eyes began to fill.

"But no one has seen them. Not even Mr. Morgan. Just the photographer, and he doesn't count. And the film test wouldn't be sent to the competition until after they'd both been sold again and again. Stop frightening me. I tell you it's all right!"

Pomeroy patted her arm gently.

"Bonnie, you little mug! Don't you realise that a film company would make its own test? You've been used by Morgan in a dirty deal. His hired photographer might have turned a handle, but I'll eat my hat if there was an inch of film inside his machine. All he did was to take a photograph of your frock, for Morgan Brothers to copy."

"No! It can't be true! No one could be so wicked— so mean!"

Although the High Street of a small town is not an ideal place for tears, Pomeroy rejoiced as he realised that Bonnie's amazing greenness came from the best source of all, a perfect trust in human nature, based on her own standard of honesty.

She raised her tear-drowned eyes.

"I've lost you your job!" she cried. "All through my vanity!"

"Poor little thing!" said Pomeroy. "Now I'll have to leave you for a few minutes. I want to have a little chat with Nephew."

His eyes gleamed as he spoke. Although he was uncertain of the outcome of their meeting, he had been considered a useful boxer when he was training for the Army.

"I want to see you presently, Bonnie," he said. "Where will you be?"

"M-M-Mary's."

"Poor little thing!"

WHEN Bonnie entered, the Major was sitting at his desk, reading a letter from a solicitor. Although the original offer for his fishshop had been raised, it was not sufficient to finance a new venture. His hope of expansion seemed frost-bitten, and he felt, consequently, depressed and out of temper.

Bonnie poured out her confession, and sat in resigned submission for his inevitable lecture.

Presently, it began to dawn on her that the Major was not such a kind gentleman as usual. He never patted her arm. or said "Poor little thing!"

She blinked her lashes dry.

"Well, anyway," she said briskly, "I've learned something by being friends with Mr. Morgan. I know that the Picture Palace here belongs to Morgan Bros., because they got all the shares when the company was rocky, and they're going to build a new cinema near the station. But they don't want anyone to know! Isn't that funny?"

The Major's cold eye bolted behind his monocle, as he realised the value of Bonnie's news. The theft of his models had been a bit of trickery which could only have a limited life. It was possibly the outcome of the nephew's rivalry with Pomeroy.

What was of real importance was the knowledge that, while he dreamed of expansion, the same idea had visited his business rivals. They meant to extend their premises from their present block to the Picture Palace at the corner.

Their sole obstacle was the wretched fish shop which lay between.

The Major thought rapidly. It was useless to try to stop a big firm from reaching out, especially as there should be room in the town for two different classes of business.

For "Mary" would become so specialised and exclusive as to fear no rival— when he had carried out the extensions which Morgan Bros. would enable him to make.

He decided that they should buy the fish shop— at his own price.

"Hum!" he said. "That is quite interesting. Only, I am wondering why they took you into their confidence."

"Mr. Morgan didn't," said Bonnie. "But one evening when we were in the cake shop, that foxy-faced lawyer of his came in and talked to him in shocking bad French. Mr. Morgan learned his trade in Paris, so he understood all right. And, of course, they couldn't tell I knew French, because I always made Morgan Nephew translate the menu when we had supper together."

"You— speak— French, Miss Doon?" gasped the Major.

"Better than I can speak English." said Bonnie. "You see, Papa is English and Mama is from Jersey. She's French. Papa never talks at all, and Mama talks all the day, so my English isn't too good. That's why all the girls here think me so stupid. They talk of the 'office' when they mean 'bureau,' and when they do say 'bureau' they mean a chest. And when I was told to go to the 'office,' of course, I went to the pantry. It's all so confusing."

"But," the Major's eyes glittered hungrily, "why didn't you tell me you spoke French? It would have been useful."

"That's what Mama said," replied Bonnie simply. "She said, 'Don't let them know you understand a word.' She said they'd stick up a sign 'Ici on parle Francais,' and I'd be called here, there, and everywhere, and not get paid a penny more. And I'd never get the chance to learn elegant English if I had to speak French. Oh, Mama knew!"

Suddenly the Major's eyes twinkled. Morgan and Co. had found Bonnie so very easy to dupe.

And yet, the Major had a vision of her sitting in the pastrycook's, with the mahogany counters and bottleglass windows, a lovely lady nibbling jam puffs— her blue eyes dreamy as though her thoughts were far away, while no word of the low gabble of French escaped her shell-like ears.

The Major began to laugh. Bonnie was green— green as grass. But she had plenty of ginger.

She was Green Ginger.

BONNIE started up at the distant sound of a telephone bell.

"It's in the Salon. May I go? I think it's someone for me."

A minute later she was listening to Pomeroy's voice, which was jubilant but unfamiliar.

"What's the matter with my voice? Oh, just a thick lip, or something. What? You've told the Major? Excellent! Now I can touch him for a rise, as I want to get married. And— listen, Bonnie!— I've got a corking inspiration for a wedding-dress. Her name is 'Gloria,' and she suggests purity, peace, and perfect love. She came to me just as I gave Morgan his second black eye!"

________________

15: Her Ladyship's Necklace

Arthur Armstrong
fl 1930s

Australian Women's Weekly  2 Feb 1935

STANDING taut against the wall behind the heavy curtains, Yellow Izzy thought he heard a footstep followed by a click. For a minute he remained as he had been for the last five hours, motionless, braced against the wall. Perhaps the footsteps and the click had been the fancies of a brain over-taxed by the long vigil. Izzy had heard the clock strike one a few minutes ago, everyone should have gone to bed more than an hour ago. In another five minutes he had planned to come out from behind the curtains, stretch his cramped limbs for five glorious minutes, open the safe, and take the necklace.

He had planned it for weeks. If the footstep was that of a servant he would have another hour in that cramped position. But what was a little cramp, a few pins and needles, when £5000 lay within your grasp?

Again a click. This time Yellow Izzy was sure it was not imagination. He had heard the click of an electric torch too often to mistake it. Silently he cursed the thick curtains that prevented him peeping out of the alcove, forgetting that these curtains had prevented him being seen all through the evening while the mistress of the house sat and read. An intimate knowledge of the house gained one week when he had worked as second gardener had enabled him to hide himself. He had rung the front-door bell at eight o'clock, just at the time he knew dessert was being served. It had been answered by the butler, who had been at her ladyship's only a month. Izzy solemnly handed in a circular which he had picked up at the local grocer's. The butler had not noticed him insert a fine steel wire in the keyhole so that when he slammed the door in his face the door closed but the lock did not click home. Two minutes for the butler to get back to the dining-room, then silently in his rubber-soled shoes he had been round the door, through the hall, and into the library. He had been standing in position for five minutes before her ladyship came in to take her coffee. His lordship was not due back from America for another week. A masterpiece of careful thought and timing.

A series of clicks, this time of another kind, brought Yellow Izzy out of his daydream. He stopped congratulating himself and decided it was time to discover what was happening out there in the darkness. Ten years' apprenticeship to the profession of jewel thief had taught Izzy the interpretation of clicks. And these last clicks sounded suspiciously like the falling of tumblers in a safe-combination. Surely her ladyship wasn't so mad about the necklace that she came down in the middle of the night to look at it, if so, why didn't she turn on the light?

Very slowly, so that the curtains did not even stir in the darkness. Two minutes of muscle-breaking work found him six feet from the wall, holding the edge of the curtain in his hand. The sight that greeted his eyes resulted in Yellow Izzy's hand gripping the curtain as if he meant to tear it down.

An electric torch was lying on the table, its beam trained on the bookcase opposite. A row of books had been swung out on a hinge, revealing the front of a combination safe. In the bright beam of the light Izzy could see two white hands delicately fondling the combination.

"Beaten at the post!" muttered Izzy, instinctively, remaining motionless. His brain was numbed for an instant. He was not known at the Yard as the slickest jewel thief for nothing. The numbness gave way to an icy clearness.

Carefully he turned over the situation in his mind. A £5000 pearl necklace. Just a nice size, not so big that a fence would refuse to touch it save at a give-away price. And two crooks after it. One of them working at the combination now. The other standing behind a curtain, waiting his turn.

THAT was the situation as Izzy saw it. Well, he decided, there would be no harm in letting the other man open the safe. Listening to tumblers always gave him a headache. Afterwards... well, perhaps they could do a split, or perhaps... his hand dropped to a pocket and felt something hard. Izzy always carried a gun when he thought he might have trouble with a woman. He carried it carefully, so that it did not bulge. And a gun, Izzy had found, had a remarkable effect on a woman. Men knew that you could fire from five yards and still stand a good chance of missing. They knew that crooks didn't fire at all if they could help it. But women thought you couldn't miss from twenty yards— they would do anything if you pulled a gun.

A face appeared in the beam of the torch, ear against the safe door, listening intently. Izzy gave a start. He knew the face. It was the face that had frozen when he presented his letter, the face that had glowered at him as the door slammed five hours ago. So the butler had decided that a five-thousand- pound necklace was a better proposition than waiting at table for twenty years!

"Ah!" The exclamation was so low that the sound hardly travelled the five yards to where Izzy stood. The thin lips of the butler lit up in a smile as his face drew from the light. Another click and the safe door was open. Eagerly the hands pushed into the black interior, felt for a few seconds, and then came out with a leather box.

The butler deliberately locked the safe again and walked quietly to the table where his torch lay. Then he pressed the catch on the box and bent down to look at the pearls, strangely unreal in the strong light.

"Put 'em up quick!" The command was spoken in an undertone, yet in that silent room it sounded strident. The butler dropped the box on to the table with a clatter, peered into the darkness in the direction of the voice, and slowly raised his hands.

Izzy switched on his torch, directed it towards the butler's face with his left hand, and strode forward, his gun at his hip. Really, it was too easy. The great idea had come to him just as the tumblers clicked home for the last time.

"Well, well, caught in the act." He dropped his torch on to the table, so that it played on the butler's second waistcoat button. The butler scowled as Izzy picked up the pearls and ran his professional eye over them. "Nice set these. Not surprised her ladyship was nervous." He said easily. "She's had her suspicions for a long time."

"What do you mean?" growled the butler. "Who are you?"

"Who'm I? Huh, that's a good one. You'll know who I am before I've finished. But perhaps we ought to do some introducing." Izzy raised his black felt hat an inch, while a mocking smile came over his face. The pigmentation of his skin had won him the nickname "Yellow," and in the reflected light of the torches he looked like some evil spirit dressed up for a gala. "Allow me to present myself," he went on, "Detective-Inspector Isaacs, of A Division. You'll be coming along to the station with me, Jenkins."

"My name isn't Jenkins," muttered the butler, his eyes incredulous; "it's Spark."

"Begging your pardon, I thought all butlers were Jenkins. Spark, eh? A bright one, too, thinking you were going to get away with that." Izzy picked up the necklace absentmindedly and slipped it into his coat pocket. It was a little too big for the pocket, and for one instant he allowed his eyes to drop to his left hand.

Anyone who had seen the butler bend stiffly as he handed round the coffee after dinner would have refused to believe that he could move so quickly. But the fraction of a second during which Izzy let his eyes drop was long enough for him to kick the wrist holding the gun. The weapon rattled across the floor. Before Izzy could bring up his hands he was on the carpet trying to tear the strangling fingers from his throat.

The butler's face was a few inches from his own. "Blasted detective, are you," he muttered, "well, I'll squeeze the damned cleverness out of you."

Izzy was just reaching the not altogether pleasant state between consciousness and unconsciousness when the lights were turned on. The butler relaxed his hold, his eyes blinking, and turned round. Rubbing his throat feelingly, Izzy rose slowly to his feet. Was this another crook coming to the party, or the police? He really felt too tired to care. When he saw a woman standing in the doorway, one hand still on the electric light switch, his first instinct was to dive for his gun, lying on the carpet a few feet away.

The woman saw his intention. "I wouldn't do that." she said in a voice that seemed singularly cool. "You see. I have a gun, too. And it's nearer." She pulled her other hand out of her luxurious wrap. A small automatic was between the fingers. For a few seconds she surveyed the dishevelled man. Her eyes strayed to the necklace-box which in the struggle had fallen to the floor out of Izzy's pocket.

"Will you explain what is happening, please, Spark?"

Then as if she were confronting a maid who had upset the tea things on the floor, she said

"Will you explain what is happening, please, Spark?"

"It's like this, your ladyship," the butler began suavely. "I heard noises down here and came down to see if all was right, knowing as I do that your ladyship keeps her pearl necklace in the safe." He paused for an instant. "I caught this man opening the safe..." His voice trailed off. If he could play for time, he felt, he might still get away, even though he would have to leave the necklace.

IZZY burst in, painfully and indignantly, "Lies he is telling you." He swallowed painfully. "I was patrolling outside..."

"Patrolling outside?" the woman queried.

"Yes, I am a police officer, you see," Izzy began.

She held up the hand that held the automatic.

"A very recent recruit to the force, I presume," she said icily. "I seem to remember you some time ago trimming the front hedges... I forget appointments but never faces. Spark has not been with us long enough or he would have known you, too."

If the gun had been within reach of Spark he would have probably shot Izzy and damned the consequences. The woman saw that look of hate pass across, saw Izzy's face turn slowly green. His bluff had failed ... It meant a stretch this time. The woman was talking again.

"I don't know what has happened. Whether you two arranged it between you and were quarrelling over the spoils, or whether you, Spark, were getting the necklace when our friend here came in with the same idea..."

She looked questioningly, then shook her head.

"It doesn't matter. Apparently you both want the string of beads very badly. The best thing seems to be to divide it."

Izzy wondered whether his long vigil and the butler's stranglehold had driven him crazy and he was hearing things. The butler's face betrayed no emotion.

"You can have the beads,'" she went on, "on one condition, that you clear out and don't appear on the premises again. I shall have to notify the police when I find the pearls missing to-morrow, of course, but I presume that you have made your plans. You will be suspected, of course, Spark. There's an eight o'clock train for Paris. I've heard it is a good one."

She stepped forward between the astonished men, her automatic still in her hand. She would have been perfectly safe without it. Neither man would have moved if there had been an earthquake. They watched as if hypnotised while she picked up the necklace, deftly cut it in two with a paper-knife lying on the table and handed one portion to each.

For a moment the butler held the precious fragment in numb fingers, then slipped them into a vest pocket. Izzy poured the beads from one hand to the other, the color returning to his face. A little incredulously he put them into his trouser-pocket.

"Now I will accompany you to the door," said the woman. "And don't look so astonished. I can assure you that the certain knowledge that I shall never see you again is worth more to me than those pearls. I was tired of them, in any case. But don't start quarrelling about them outside. Remember, half a loaf is better thanwell, shall we say five years' penal servitude?"

When she had closed the door, thrust home the bolt and once more inserted the chain in its hold, her body wilted as if a great strain had been taken off her. She laughed softly.

"Talk about locking the stable after the horse has gone..." she murmured. "Thank heaven. I can go back to bed and sleep soundly. For weeks I haven't had a decent night, thinking how I was going to explain to Dick about selling those pearls to pay my poker debts."

She returned to the library to switch off the lights.

"He'd have seen through that imitation string in a minute. And now Spark and that little yellow-faced boy have solved the problem for me."

She yawned a little affectedly, the mask set on her features again, and she mounted the stairs towards her bedroom.

__________________

16: The Stolen Rubies

E. B. Bell
fl 1927

The Grand Magazine June 1927

Australian Women's Weekly  6 Jan 1934

This is the only story known by this author

THE Continental departure platform presented an animated appearance as the hands of the big clock in Victoria Station pointed to a quarter to eleven. Boxes registered to a dozen different European destinations were being piled high into luggage vans by a small army of hurrying porters. Groups of well-dressed people stood about chatting to their friends, whilst others settled down in their seats or purchased magazines and papers. Everywhere there was an air of well-being, the luxurious Pullman cars, with their tastefully decorated interiors and comfortable arm-chairs, radiating a feeling of solid comfort.

At one of the small tables inside the waiting train, elbows on its polished top, chin cupped in lean brown hands, a young man sat with worried gaze bent on a letter of many pages. As he read his brows drew closer and closer, until they threatened to extinguish his dark deep-set eyes. Once he bit his lip as though in vexation or disapproval, and at last, coming to the end of the tenth page, he leaned back slowly, staring ahead.

It really was enough to upset the most pleasant of young men. The closely written pages were from his mother in Paris, and the whole reason for the lengthy letter before him, with its agitated exclamation marks and dashes, was that her priceless rubies— the Wintringham collection— had been stolen. Stolen out of her bedroom at the Splendide; spirited away overnight, and apparently there was not a single clue whereby to trace the thief!

Ronald Wintringham picked up the letter again with a view to reading it more carefully. His poor little mother— always so excitable— was absolutely prostrate with shock, and to crown her misery (so the letter told him) her husband was coming from Italy where he had been detained over the purchase of a new villa, and would join her in Paris in a week's time.

Now Mr. Wintringham was a connoisseur of gems and he had collected those rubies himself, stone by stone, a work of ten years, of which he was justly proud. Most surely there would be a scene utterly indescribable when he heard of their loss.

Ronald ran agitated fingers through his hair at the thought of his rage. His poor mother! Why, even the remote possibility of her husband's finding out about the loss of the rubies was enough to give her a heart attack, let alone the fact that he was due to join her before she had the chance to retrieve themif that were possible.

But that was not all.

The final surprise for the poor woman had arrived the same day on which his mother had written him, in an anonymous letter from the thieves, stating that the jewels had been removed to England, but that on the condition that she handed over a certain sum in cash the rubies would be returned to her within a week.

Any attempt at double crossing, they informed her, would be both useless and dangerous— to her. They reminded her she was rich, that money was no object to her, and they gave her an address to wire to.

At this point Mrs. Wintringham outdid herself in exclamation marks and dashes. Of course! The thieves saw a way of getting the value of the jewels without taking the risk of selling them! Everyone knew the Wintringham rubies— they would be difficult to get rid of.

Anyhow, be that as it may, she had kept silent about the anonymous letter and had sent the wire as directed. Silence, she felt, was best. She hadn't told the English detective whom she had called in. Detectives were so fussy—he'd be sure to delay things. Besides, the man (Cassidy, he appeared to be called) had already rushed excitedly over to England. Well, he could stay there. She would wait for the return of her rubies, and meanwhile dear Ronald must fly to her as quickly as he could.

Dear Ronald had only just landed in England, after spending a delightful holiday with cousins in America, and this was the first news from his mother for some timehanded to him on arrival at his club in London that morning.

The letter was already five days old, and if he were to arrive in Paris before his terror of a father there was no time to be lost. What good he was going to do, except support his mother in whatever she decided to do, he failed to see. He knew his mother!

For the second time he passed his hand through his hair until it stood on end, and at that precise moment his worried gaze became suddenly lightened. Opposite him, two tables down the car, deep in a magazine, sat a girl.

Now Ronald, being the son of rich parents, had, of course, had opportunities of seeing many girls, and at considerably closer quarters than the one opposite him; but somehow at that moment it seemed to him that he had never really seen a girl before— anyhow, not a girl in the least like this one.

He leaned forward, fascinated.

Sweet-faced she was and appealing, with well-marked, delicate features and surely— yes— dimples in her cheeks.

He couldn't see her hair, so closely did the blue hat fit her small head, but it appeared to be fair. He was sure it was fair. If only she would raise her head!

The train jerked. Unheeded passed the commotion of departure and farewell. Ronald sat praying for her to look up. He must see her hair and eyes. He rustled his newspaper unnecessarily, shut his cigarette case with a bang, and finally coughed as if he were in the last stages of consumption. All to no avail. The girl turned over the pages of her magazine slowly and deliberately, apparently unaware of his existence.

Suddenly as he watched she glanced up, then down again, and the faintest color stained her cheeks.

Ronald sighed with satisfaction. Her eyes were grey, divinely grey and beautifully shaped, and her hair was flaxen fair. But the glance had not been directed at him. and it was not a casual glance. Rather the glance of a girl who fears someone is there whom she doesn't wish to know and furtively tries to ascertain the fact without appearing to do so.

Jealously he looked across the carriage. All he could see was a gaunt woman and a little boy seated parallel to the girl, and at a nearer table a broad-shouldered man who sat immersed in The Times, with his soft hat jammed well down over his brow.

He turned his attention to the girl again. After a few seconds he caught a second glance from those deeply grey eyes, and this time he saw that she looked right at the broad-shouldered man. More interesting still, he could have sworn he saw a look of fear.

Fear! He studied her, but from that distance and with downcast eyes she looked quite calm and self-possessed. It couldn't have been fear. All thought of his mother and the rubies had vanished from Ronald's mind —sped far away— even as the train had sped far from London in the quarter of an hour that had passed in this game of eyes and glances.

Ruminating, he turned to the window.

The peaceful countryside swept past. Houses, brick red, appeared from nowhere; galaxies of back gardens, endless clothes lines and inevitable aerials; then the clatter of crossing points, a screeching whistle, momentary shade under a station bridge, a fleeting glimpse of porters, passengers and posters—and Tonbridge had come and gone. Rural scenes once more; pillared hop fields, regiments of upright poles, lines of perfect regularity. To all of which Ronald was more or less blind, thinking of the girl and the fear— if it were fear— which he had seen in her eyes.

A MOVEMENT arrested his attention.

The girl had risen, was advancing, tall and slender, carrying a small black attache case and her handbag; now level with the broad-shouldered stranger, now passing him. He caught a vivid impression of her white throat and the quick rising and falling of her breast under the blue silk collar. She must be afraid! A sudden impulse seized Ronald. He wanted to catch her in his arms, hold the fluttering heart against his and say, "It's all right, I'm heredon't be frightened!"

Even as he thrilled to her approach she swayed, stumbled a little and dropped her bag.

Quick as thought he bent over and next moment found his hand on hers over the fallen bag. A whisper, tremulous, urgent, reached his ears. "Pretend to know me. Please—you must!"

In the fraction of a second she had risen, her hand going to her hat as if casually to straighten it.

Ronald, his mind set on her command, picked up the bag, rose and spoke.

"Why!" he exclaimed naturally, "if it isn't Miss Smythe!"

The name came out without effort and he stood grinning at his own glibness.

"How nice to meet you again!" she said formally. Then she smiled. Such a smile! Something caught at Ronald's breath. He could only gaze at her.

She said. "May I sit with you? There's such a draught where I was." She touched the chair opposite to the one in which he had been sitting and he noticed that her hand was trembling.

So she was really frightened! It hadn't been his imagination.

"I— I hope you will," he stammered, and in case that didn't sound natural enough, he added. "I loathe sitting alone at any time."

She looked at him gratefully with her wonderful eyes and sat down, placing her attache on the table. Ronald resumed his seat, thrilled at her nearness.

He was again facing the stranger, who, as he happened to lower his paper for a moment, revealed himself as a dark-skinned, heavy, middle-aged man, thick-lipped and narrow-eyed.

Ronald glanced away and thought rapidly. Evidently this man had to be deceived, and in order to do so it would be necessary to seem intimate with "Miss Smythe."

Offering her a cigarette, he said. "I haven't seen the Colvilles since we met at their dance." Then he added, laughing, "What a dance that was!"

She assented with suitable gaiety and they exchanged pleasantries about the imaginary evening, he inventing all sorts of extraordinary happenings that brought the dimples to her cheeks and a twinkle to her eyes. He could not help admiring her control— so obviously frightened as she had been— so cleverly collecting an entire stranger to protect her. He fairly ached with curiosity to know what had made her do it.

The train was tearing along now, and as it would be impossible for the stranger to hear a conversation above the rattle and roar, she leaned forward, serious: "You must think me mad to have done this. If you only understood—"

"Oh, but I will understand!" he cut in.

She laughed at that, a delicious, full-throated laugh; then sobered, leaning nearer— her arms over the attache case. "The truth is, I'm carrying out rather a dangerous mission. Taking valuables to Paris."

He had been listening eagerly, thrilling to her charm and the intimacy of the adventure. But at her last words he experienced a curious sense of shock. He stiffened for a moment, then leaned forward also, the better to catch what she was saying.

"THAT man." indicating the broad-shouldered man with a movement of one small hand, "is following me. I recognised him directly he came in, and I thought the only way to put him off trying to annoy me was to pretend to know someone in the car." She raised her shoulders, smiling. "And there wasn't much choice— was there?"

He had to laugh. Impossible to resist that smile. But at the back of his mind there was a little devil of suspicion leering at him. He felt choked, inarticulate, his whole soul revolting against the idea that had presented itself so glaringly. Yet— his mother's letter! Within a week her stolen rubies would be returned in exchange for a sum of money. And here was this girl carrying valuables— and being shadowed too!

He stared at her, trying to find any hint of cunning or deceit, but the clear eyes met his with a frankness that made him hot with shame. Why, she was probably travelling for some firm of jewellers. Girls did things like that nowadays.

Out of the turmoil of his thoughts he heard her say: "I'm terribly grateful to you. I wonder if—" He realised that she was regarding him anxiously, words trembling on her lips.

"What?" he asked, staring at her mouth, noticing the lovely curve of the lips.

She flushed at his gaze, but said frankly: "I was wondering if you would mind if I travelled with you all the way." She hesitated. "Please don't mind saying No if you'd rather be rid of me."

"Be rid of you!" His tone was all reproof.

"You are kind," she said simply. "Thank you."

"I think you're awfully plucky," he replied. And for the life of him he couldn't have told why he said it.

For a moment there was a silence, then he leaned towards her again, smiling. "Miss Smythe—"

"Yes?"

"Would you think it very rude of me if I asked what you were carrying?" He stopped, then said boldly: "Jewels, of course."

She smiled and drew the attache case, which she had before her on the table, towards her.

"What makes you so sure?"

HE laughed awkwardly, conscious of the little devil of suspicion jeering at him once more. "Oh, second sight," he answered, with a careless wave of his hand. "Am I right?"

For a moment she was silent, then, looking up at him, she said quietly: "I ought not to say, really, but you've been so wonderful to me—" She paused, and he felt ashamed again an utter cad— but said nothing.

She went on: "Having more or less thrust myself upon your protection, I think you have a right to know. Well, you guessed right. It is jewellery I'm carrying. Rubies, to be exact."

Rubies! To Ronald lt seemed as if someone had thrown a bucket of icy cold water over him.

In a voice hardly recognisable as his own he heard himself say: "Oh, rubies! Valuable things, rubies, aren't they?" Heard her answer him laughingly, and turning to the window, seeing nothing, heard the wheels of the train shrieking "Rubies —rubies— rubies!" and knew the little devil of suspicion to be shouting with mirth.

At last he turned to her and said, as it seemed to himself, involuntarily: "I hate to think of your running risks."

She looked startled. "Risks?" she hesitated as if about to say something more, then changed her mind. "I've been in worse positions." Then, seeing how the remark made him frown, she added: "What are you so worried about?"

He contrived a smile. "Oh. nothing." She turned to the window and looked out. She seemed brighter already, and presently looked quite cheerful, actually humming a tune below her breath.

Ronald felt again the spell of her nearness, the wonder of her delicate beauty. Suspicion receded— was gone. Suddenly he hated the broad-shouldered stranger who sat so immovable. The man was a bully; he looked it— a bully set against a frail girl. Perhaps he was a detective. Ronald started. A detective! His mother's detective! Again suspicion pointed and jeered, but this time with surprising results for Ronald suddenly knew himself to be on the girl's side. Yes, definitely on her side— whatever she was.

He turned resolute eyes on her, eyes that grew tender in noting the sweep of dark lashes on her cheek, the soft curls of fair hair peeping from under her hat. Lastly he noted those slender white hands—clutching the black attache case.

"I believe we're nearly there," she murmured.

The train was running down a long embankment, seeming as though it flew high up above the ground. To left were grassy downs, with half built houses lodged by new and yellow-gravelled roads.

Passengers began to gather their belongings together.

The express descended rapidly; the sunlit, sparkling sea drawing ever closer. A sudden sonorous rumbling as the slowing train plunged under Shakespeare's cliff. A rush of daylight, and, close at hand, the sea. Checking brakes assailed the ear with muffled whirr. Dover Pier was in sight, low and massive, hardly seeming to reach the water.

As the train ran slowly up beside the platform and came to rest Ronald looked for the stranger, but he was nowhere to be seen. Miss Smythe was standing ready, hugging her attache case with both hands. He took her arm firmly and piloted her out on to the platform, where they were swept with the crowd to the passport examination and thence to the steamer. Still no sign of the following man. Not that the girl seemed to be worrying. Her faith in Ronald was supreme.

The Channel boat lay ready waiting. Underfoot were now the jetty's dark and tarry beams. Next they stepped up the uneven gangway. A guiding seaman found a chair and Ronald settled the girl in it thankfully, hoping it wouldn't collapse like most of its kind.

She would be safe— for a time.

"Do you think it's going to be rough?" she asked.

He smiled reassuringly. "It looks all right now anyway. Why, does it affect you much?"

She cast eloquent eyes heavenward.

HE stood in front of her chair while the passengers pushed, jostled and fussed past them, warding off careless stampedes from her little feet, and shoving persistently waving suitcases from her vicinity. She laughed once as he elbowed out strongly. She seemed to have forgotten that she had ever talked of danger— that she was being followed— that she carried a fortune in rubies in her hands.

Her trust in him stirred him deeply. Impossible to reconcile the picture of her reclining there, eager eyes noting the odd people that passed, dimples darting in and out of her cheeks, with that of a girl who carried stolen jewels, a girl cunning and bold enough to be the envoy of a gang of thieves. Impossible! Impossible! He repeated the word to himself savagely. If she were, then someone must have a hold over her. That was it. Someone must have the power to force her to do such a thing.

A blast from the siren startled him. They were off. Already the jetty was receding, the decks trembling to the engines down below.

Overhead the sun shone brightly, tipping the waves to a silver sparkle, while far astern the frothing, seething wake of water stretched whitely back towards the pier.

Her soft voice floated towards him. "Isn't this gorgeous? I shan't mind if it keeps like this."

He looked down at her searchingly. No trace of anxiety in those calm eyes. He squared his shoulders, looking out towards Calais... planning for her safety.

He plunged his hands deep into his pockets and stood with furrowing brows facing the stiffening breeze. No plan of action presented itself to his mind. The ship clove on, rising and falling on its steady way. They would soon be in France.

THE girl was lying back with closed eyes and her cheeks were suspiciously pale, while the precious attache case lay more or less abandoned on her lap. He was just about to move nearer and speak to her when a man came blundering round the corner, and, appearing to trip on something, lurched towards the reclining girl.

His hand was outstretched towards the attache case.

In a second Ronald had him by the arm, remarking easily, as he pulled him away. "Just saved you. Pretty unsteady, isn't it?"

The man muttered something under his breath and passed on hurriedly, but not before the girl's protector had ascertained that it was the pugnacious stranger of the train.

Ronald was perturbed. He bent over Miss Smythe and said in a low voice, "You're not well— let me keep the case for you."

She sat upright, grasping it tightly. "No, no, I can't do that!"

He frowned. "You don't trust me?" "

I do trust you!" she protested, looking up at him. "But it would be so dreadful— I mean I couldn't run the risk of your losing it!"

She sank back in her chair, paler than ever. The ship was rolling to a marked degree. He looked down at her— pityingly. Indignation against the monsters who could send so frail a girl on such a mission swept over him. He was certain of her mission now. He presumed she had orders to take the jewels to his mother and demand the biggest sum she could get in exchange. He paused in his thought and shuddered. But only for a moment. His shoulders squared again. The strange man had to be fought he was against her.

Who was the man, anyhow?

Up to the time that the man had lunged against him, with the object, no doubt, of taking the case from the girl. Ronald had thought him to be a detective, one of Cassidy's men, the Cassidy whom his mother had employed. But surely a detective would not behave like that? Who could he be then—a rival crook? Ronald pondered the idea, but in the end decided that he was more likely to be a detective and that he wanted to get hold of the case to see if the rubies were there before arresting the girl.

Ronald's jaw set. He eyed the black case determinedly. The man should never get it—if he had to throw it into the sea first! For a moment he smiled grimly as he imagined his father's expression if he should ever have to tell him that he had thrown the precious rubies into the sea, to save a strange girl from being arrested.

The motion of the ship began to lessen. France was close at hand, low and flat, with rolling, wind-swept sand-hills crowned with spikey, waving grass.

The ship steamed slowly up a narrow harbor, not much wider than herself. Calais maritime station stood gaunt and lone, surmounted by a bleak hotel. Empty trucks stood desolate on a siding. Tall wooden piles seemed to make a trellis work against the weedy jetty.

The passengers crowded round the gangways in their eagerness to get ashore.

Ronald bent over the girl again.

"I think we'd better be getting ready to land." he said gently. "I've got a reserved seat in the train which you can have. Come along."

Smiling, he held out his hand to pull her up.

"You are good to me." she said gratefully as she stood beside him. "What should I have done without you?"

He avoided her eyes. Her gratitude made him feel terribly uncomfortable. If only he could get her to confide in him. There must be some explanation. She was good in herself, however despicable the mission she was on. He felt sure of that. As for letting her be arrested— the bare idea made the blood rush hotly to his head.

He'd see them in....

A jolt at his arm landed him against the rails. The same man shot past him to the girl's side and seized the case. With an almighty effort Ronald recovered his balance, and throwing himself forward grabbed the case.

"Now, before we're married do you agree that husbands should share the housework with their wives?"

"My dear, do I look like one of those selfish fellows who want to do it all themselves?"

Together they wrestled for its possession.

Everyone was on the port side of the steamer intent on landing. Not a soul looked round.

Suddenly the man gave in— easily— much too easily, Ronald thought, as he watched him disappear in the scrambling crowd. Ronald stood, a little out of breath from the encounter, thinking deeply. No doubt the detective, if such he be, could afford to wait. He would probably follow them all the way now— right up to his mother's hote— and there catch the girl red-handed!

She was by his side, thanking him with shining eyes. "You were wonderful!" she breathed.

He flushed like a schoolboy. "Now perhaps you'll let me keep the wretched case," he said gruffly. Then, as a startled after-thought: "But the Customs! They'll never pass the jewels!"

"Miss Smythe," however, didn't seem at all concerned. She evidently had her instructions and knew what to say if the officials opened the case. He hated to think of her telling lies. He decided to answer for the jewels himself—no one could accuse him of stealing his own mother's rubies.

By now the ship was berthed. A crowd of jostling porters stood talking and gesticulating on the jetty, holding up their number discs, endeavoring to engage themselves to the waiting passengers.

Ronald, carrying his suitcase and the black attache case, and followed by Miss Smythe, entered the Customs —a long, low building down the centre of which ran a counter, piled high already with luggage.

A yawning Customs officer made Ronald unlock his suitcase. That was very innocent. The officer passed it and tapped the precious black case with his chalk.

"Anything to declare here?" he asked wearily. "Scent, tobacco, jewellery?"

Ronald denied them all with nonchalance.

The officer yawned again and chalked both cases. It was over— the rubies were passed!

"Miss Smythe" smiled gaily. Quite naturally she lifted the attache case from the counter and kept it. Ronald did not like to protest. She had quite recovered from the sea and the soft rose color of her cheeks gave an added sparkle to those wonderful grey eyes. How lovely she was, thought Ronald! Visions of prison and her delicate beauty rose before him as he walked beside her to the waiting train. It must never be.

He looked round for the big stranger, but, not seeing him, concluded he had gone on in front— to wait.

The train stood high above them. They came level with it, clambered up to it and along the corridor until they found his reserved seat in the dining car. Heavy tipping secured the opposite seat and they settled down, well pleased.

She said, "I have a reserved seat somewhere, you know, but I'd much rather be with you."

This made him feel ridiculously elated.

"MISS SMYTHE" ate with a good appetite. There was a delightful Continental flavor about the food, she said. Nothing seemed to worry her now, yet the nearer the train drew to Paris, the nearer was her danger. He had seen enough of the man following her to realise that he meant business.

Offering her a. cigarette, he said, "Where are you bound for in Paris, Miss Smythe?"

Waiting for his match, she replied lightly, "The Hotel Splendide."

Ronald's hand jerked, although he had expected the answer. It was his mother's hotel. He recovered and told her smilingly that that was his own destination. Would she accept a lift —his mother's car would be waiting for him?

Her answer was ready. She would just love to accept a lift.

As they neared Paris he kept worrying as to what he should do, worrying about the detective. Would he be in the hotel vestibule when they arrived or would he be with his mother in the suite? If so, what would his mother do? He became terribly agitated. He could not take his eyes from the attache case. She must let him have it. Desperately he pulled himself together to try and tell her so.

"Miss Smythe." "Yes?"

"Why not let me keep the case and deliver it myself?" he stammered in his eagerness. "It would save you trouble perhaps."

For a moment her eyes were soft, then, with a laugh and a quick movement, she pulled the case off the table to her lap.

He was furious.

Hot, accusing words rushed to his lips, but he choked them back. After all, he knew nothing for certain. He had no business to make wild statements on circumstantial evidence.

"It's my case, you know." she reminded him quietly.

He looked down. "I know," he said in a low, strangled voice, "and I wish to heaven I'd thrown it overboard when I had the chance!"

He thought he heard her draw a quick breath. "You are a dear," she said softly, "and I like you to be careful for me— but you don't quite understand—"

He did not look up. If he had he would have seen a curious mistiness in "Miss Smythe's" eyes, and yet a tiny frown, as if she were upset.

The train was running through the outskirts of Paris.

Almost before they expected, they were at the Gare du Nord.

Ronald instructed a porter about their other luggage, while "Miss Smythe," still clinging to the black attache case, looked round the station airily

"He was easily got rid of." she remarked.

Ronald knew whom she meant, but made no reply. He was still firm in his resolve to do his very best for her. He took her by the arm through the barrier. The touch of her sent strange thrills through him, and he cursed crooks, rubies and. lastly, his poor mother. What was he going to do about this girl?

His mother's limousine was waiting and the chauffeur, smiling respectfully at Ronald, handed them in.

"Is the lady going to the Hotel Splendide, sir?" he asked.

"Yes." replied Ronald shortly. "The Splendide."

They were whirled away.

"How funny that we should be going to the same place," observed the girl.

"Yes, isn't it?" replied Ronald grimly. "My mother stays there when she is in Paris."

"OH, your mother? What is her—" She pulled up short. "I beg your pardon. I was going to be curious and ask about her. You see," she finished demurely. "I don't know your name yet."

He looked at her so yearningly and long that she was forced to turn away, the color mounting her cheeks. "I'll tell you this evening," he said to her profile. "That is," he added, "if we're still there by then."

"We?" She was looking at him now. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that where you go I go." He indicated the attache case. "Even if I have to be your partner in that."

Her lips quivered. For a moment he thought she was going to confess. The next she was looking out of the window again, making some trivial remark on the reckless driving of the Paris taxis.

The car glided to a standstill. The Splendide loomed before them. The commissionaire, dignified in magnificent uniform, omened the door. They alighted and passed through the massive portals in silence. Still Ronald dared not voice his suspicion. After all, she had admitted nothing, and he had no right.

His heart was beating to suffocation as he looked round the spacious hall. But there was no one he recognised about—certainly not the detective.

Miss Smythe went coolly to the inquiry bureau and spoke to the clerk. The clerk, all politeness, accompanied her to the lift.

Ronald followed, determined not to let her out of his sight.

The lift stopped at the first floor. His mother's floor! "Miss Smythe" went confidently along the corridor. Ronald kept by her side.

"We seem fated to go in the same direction," he said conversationally, conscious of a wild desire to snatch her forcibly in his arms and hurry her away. What had his mother planned?

The girl laughed lightheartedly at his remark, looking at the numbers on the doors.

At number six she stopped. His mother's suite! Thoroughly strung up by now, he caught her by the arm. "You're not going in there!" he told her in an agonised whisper.

She smiled at him. "Why not? This is where my mission ends."

He felt absolutely panic-stricken. What was happening behind the shut door of the suite? Would his mother really keep her promise to pay the money over on the return of the rubies, or had she, with the aid of the following detective, planned a trap?

"Please don't go in there," he implored. "Perhaps the man's there. Or he may be giving information against you to the Paris police— now— this minute! The only thing for you to do is to give me the case. I'll go in and give it to her, then everything will be all right."

She stopped, still smiling at him, and he rushed on desperately.

"I couldn't bear to see you arrested!"

"Me arrested?" she repeated. "Would you like to know who I am?"

Ronald was silent. He could only look at her in an agony of misery. Impossible for him to say he thought her a thief.

She told him quietly. "I am Miss Cassidy, of the firm of Cassidy, private detectives."

The corridor swam round him.

"B-but," he stammered, "the man following you?"

"One of the gang who robbed Mrs. Wintringham. She applied to my father and he was smart on them— followed them to England and got hold of the rubies after a great fight. Unfortunately he got wounded, and he wouldn't trust anyone but me to deliver the rubies to their owner, Mrs. Wintringham."

"My mother," murmured Ronald weakly, stunned yet struggling with an overwhelming relief and joy.

"I think I guessed," replied the girl. She switched open the case. "See— here they are!"

But Ronald wasn't thinking of rubies. His arm went round her.

"Miss Smythe." he said softly, "look at me!"

She did.

THE door of suite number six opened suddenly and a dignified lady stood in the aperture.

It was Mrs. Wintringham. She stopped, astounded at the sight that met her gaze. Her son looking deep into the eyes of a lovely girl, and an open attache case containing her precious rubies falling neglected to the floor.

__________________

17: Christabel's Crystal

Carolyn Wells

1862-1942

Sunday Record-Herald  15 Oct 1905

Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine Sep 1997

OF ALL the unexpected pleasures that have come into my life, I think perhaps the greatest was when Christabel Farland asked me to be bridesmaid at her wedding.

I always had liked Christabel at college, and though we hadn't seen much of each other since we were graduated, I still had a strong feeling of friendship for her, and besides that I was glad to be one of the merry house party gathered at Farland Hall for the wedding festivities.

I arrived the afternoon before the wedding-day, and found the family and guests drinking tea in the library. Two other bridesmaids were there, Alice Fordham and Janet White, with both of whom I was slightly acquainted. The men, however, except Christabel's brother Fred, were strangers to me, and were introduced as Mr. Richmond, who was to be an usher; Herbert Gay, a neighbor, who chanced to be calling; and Mr. Wayne, the tutor of Christabel's younger brother Harold. Mrs. Farland was there too, and her welcoming words to me were as sweet and cordial as Christabel's.

The party was in frivolous mood, and as the jests and laughter grew more hilarious, Mrs. Farland declared that she would take the bride-elect away to her room for a quiet rest, lest she should not appear at her best the next day.

"Come with me, Elinor," said Christabel to me, "and I will show you my wedding-gifts."

Together we went to the room set apart for the purpose, and on many white-draped tables I saw displayed the gorgeous profusion of silver, glass and bric-a-brac that are one of the chief component parts of a wedding of to-day.

I had gone entirely through my vocabulary of ecstatic adjectives and was beginning over again, when we came to a small table which held only one wedding-gift.

"That is the gem of the whole collection," said Christabel, with a happy smile, "not only because Laurence gave it to me, but because of its intrinsic perfection and rarity."

I looked at the bridegroom's gift in some surprise. Instead of the conventional diamond sunburst or heart-shaped brooch, I saw a crystal ball as large as a fair-sized orange.

I knew of Christabel's fondness for Japanese crystals and that she had a number of small ones of varying qualities; but this magnificent specimen fairly took my breath away. It was poised on the top of one of those wavecrests, which the artisans seem to think appropriately interpreted in wrought-iron. Now, I haven't the same subtle sympathy with crystals that Christabel always has had; but still this great, perfect, limpid sphere affected me strangely. I glanced at it at first with a calm interest; but as I continued to look I became fascinated, and soon found myself obliged (if I may use the expression) to tear my eyes away.

Christabel watched me curiously. "Do you love it too?" she said, and then she turned her eyes to the crystal with a rapt and rapturous gaze that made her appear lovelier than ever. "Wasn't it dear of Laurence?" she said. "He wanted to give me jewels of course; but I told him I would rather have this big crystal than the Koh-i-nur. I have six others, you know; but the largest of them isn't one-third the diameter of this."

"It is wonderful," I said, "and I am glad you have it. I must own it frightens me a little."

"That is because of its perfection," said Christabel simply. "Absolute flawless perfection always is awesome. And when it is combined with perfect, faultless beauty, it is the ultimate perfection of a material thing."

"But I thought you liked crystals because of their weird supernatural influence over you," I said.

"That is an effect, not a cause," Christabel replied. "Ultimate perfection is so rare in our experiences that its existence perforce produces consequences so rare as to be dubbed weird and supernatural. But I must not gaze at my crystal longer now, or I shall forget that it is my wedding-day. I'm not going to look at it again until after I return from my wedding-trip; and then, as I tell Laurence, he will have to share my affection with his wedding-gift to me."

Christabel gave the crystal a long parting look, and then ran away to don her wedding-gown. "Elinor," she called over her shoulder, as she neared her own door, "I'll leave my crystal in your special care. See that nothing happens to it while I'm away."

"Trust me!" I called back gaily, and then went in search of my sister bridesmaids.

THE MORNING after the wedding began rather later than most mornings. But at last we all were seated at the breakfast-table and enthusiastically discussing the events of the night before. It seemed strange to be there without Christabel, and Mrs. Farland said that I must stay until the bridal pair returned, for she couldn't get along without a daughter of some sort.

This remark made me look anywhere rather than at Fred Farland, and so I chanced to catch Harold's eye. But the boy gave me such an intelligent, mischievous smile that I actually blushed and was covered with confusion. Just at that moment Katy the parlor-maid came into the dining-room, and with an anxious expression on her face said: "Mrs. Farland, do you know anything about Miss Christabel's glass ball? It isn't in the present-room."

"No," said Mrs. Farland; "but I suppose Mr. Haley put it in the safe with the silver and jewelry."

"I don't think so, ma'am; for he asked me was he to take any of the cut glass, and I told him you had said only the silver and gold, ma'am."

"But that crystal isn't cut glass, Katy; and it's more valuable than all Miss Christabel's silver gifts put together."

"Oh, my! is it, ma'am? Well, then, won't you please see if it's all right, for I'm worried about it."

I wish I could describe my feelings at this moment. Have you ever been in imminent danger of a fearful catastrophe of any kind, and while with all your heart and soul you hoped it might be averted, yet there was one little, tiny, hidden impulse of your mind that craved the excitement of the disaster? Perhaps it is only an ignoble nature that can have this experience, or there may be a partial excuse for me in the fact that I am afflicted with what sometimes is called the "detective instinct." I say afflicted, for I well know that anyone else who has this particular mental bias will agree with me that it causes far more annoyance than satisfaction.

Why, one morning when I met Mrs. Van Allen in the market, I said "It's too bad your waitress had to go out of town to attend the funeral of a near relative, when you were expecting company to luncheon." And she was as angry as could be, and called me an impertinent busy-body.

But I just had deduced it all from her glove. You see, she had on one brand-new black-kid glove, and the other, though crumpled up in her hand, I could see never had been on at all. So I knew that she wouldn't start to market early in the morning with such gloves if she had any sort of half-worn black ones at all.

And I knew that she had given away her next-best pair recently— it must have been the night before, or she would have tried them on sooner; and as her cook is an enormous woman, I was sure that she had given them to her waitress. And why would she, unless the maid was going away in great haste? And what would require such a condition of things except a sudden call to a funeral. And it must have been out of town, or she would have waited until morning, and then she could have bought black gloves for herself. And it must have been a near relative to make the case so urgent. And I knew that Mrs. Van Allen expected luncheon guests, because her fingers were stained from paring apples, and why would she pare her own apples so early in the morning except to assist the cook in some hurried preparations? Why, it was all as plain as could be, and every bit true; but Mrs. Van Allen wouldn't believe my explanation, and to this day she thinks I made my discoveries by gossiping with her servants.

Perhaps all this will help you to understand why I felt a sort of nervous exhilaration that had in it an element of secret pleasure, when we learned that Christabel's crystal really was missing.

Mr. Haley, who was a policeman, had remained in the present room during all of the hours devoted to the wedding celebration, and after the guests had gone he had packed up the silver, gold and jewels and put them away in the family safe, which stood in a small dressing-room between Mrs. Farland's bedroom and Fred's. He had worn civilian's dress during the evening, and few if any of the guests knew that he was guarding the valuable gifts. The mistake had been in not telling him explicitly to care for the crystal as the most valuable gem of all; but this point had been overlooked, and the ignorant officer had assumed that it was merely a piece of cut glass, of no more value than any of the carafes or decanters. When told that the ball's intrinsic value was many thousands of dollars, and that it would be next to impossible to duplicate it at any price, his amazement was unbounded and he appeared extremely grave.

"You ought to have told me," he said. "Sure, it's a case for the chief now!" Haley had been hastily telephoned for to come to Farland Hall and tell his story, and now he telephoned for the chief of police and a detective.

I felt a thrill of delight at this, for I always had longed to see a real detective in the act of detecting.

Of course everybody was greatly excited, and I just gave myself up to the enjoyment of the situation, when suddenly I remembered that Christabel had said that she would leave her crystal in my charge, and that in a way I was responsible for its safety. This changed my whole attitude, and I realized that, instead of being an idly curious observer, I must put all my detective instinct to work immediately and use every endeavor to recover the crystal.

First, I flew to my own room and sat down for a few moments to collect my thoughts and lay my plans. Of course, as the windows of the present-room were found in the morning fastened as they were left the night before, the theft must have been committed by someone in the house. Naturally it was not one of the family or the guests of the house. As to the servants, they all were honest and trustworthy— I had Mrs. Farland's word for that. There was no reason to suspect the policeman, and thus my process of elimination brought me to Mr. Wayne, Harold's tutor.

Of course it must have been the tutor. In nine-tenths of all the detective stories I ever have read the criminal proved to be a tutor or secretary or some sort of gentlemanly dependent of the family; and now I had come upon a detective story in real life, and here was the regulation criminal ready to fit right into it. It was the tutor of course; but I should be discreet and not name him until I had collected some undeniable evidence.

Next, I went down to the present-room to search for clues. The detective had not arrived yet, and I was glad to be first on the ground, for I remembered how much importance Sherlock Holmes always attached to the search. I didn't really expect that the tutor had left shreds of his clothing clinging to the table-legs, or anything absurd like that; but I fully expected to find a clue of some sort. I hoped that it wouldn't be cigar ashes; for though detectives in fiction always can tell the name and price of cigar from a bit of ash, yet I'm so ignorant about such things that all ashes are alike to me.

I hunted carefully all over the floor; but I couldn't find a thing that seemed the least bit like a clue, except a faded white carnation. Of course that wasn't an unusual thing to find, the day after a wedding; but it was the very flower I had given to Fred Farland the night before, and he had worn it in his buttonhole. I recognized it perfectly, for it was wired and I had twisted it a certain way when I adjusted it for him. This didn't seem like strong evidence against the tutor; but it was convincing to me, for if Mr. Wayne was villain enough to steal Christabel's crystal, he was wicked enough to manage to get Fred's boutonniere and leave it in the room, hoping thereby to incriminate Fred. So fearful was I that this trick might make trouble for Fred that I said nothing about the carnation; for I knew that it was in Fred's coat when he said good-night, and then we all went directly to our rooms. When the detective came he examined the room, and I know that he didn't find anything in the way of evidence; but he tried to appear as if he had, and he frowned and jotted down notes in a book after the most approved fashion.

Then he called in everybody who had been in the house over night and questioned each one. I could see at once that his questions to the family and guests were purely perfunctory, and that he too had his suspicions of the tutor.

Finally, it was Mr. Wayne's turn. He always was a nervous little man, and now he seemed terribly flustered. The detective was gentle with him, and in order to set him more at ease began to converse generally on crystals. He asked Mr. Wayne if he had traveled much, if he had ever been to Japan, and if he knew much about the making and polishing of crystal balls.

The tutor fidgeted around a good deal and seemed disinclined to look the detective in the eye; but he replied that he never had been to Japan, and that he never had heard of a Japanese rock crystal until he had seen Miss Farland's wedding-gift, and that even then he had no idea of its great value until since its disappearance he had heard its price named.

This sounded well; but his manner was so embarrassed, and he had such an effect of a guilty man, that I felt sure my intuitions were correct and that he himself was the thief.

The detective seemed to think so too, for he said at last: "Mr. Wayne, your words seem to indicate your innocence; but your attitudes do not. Unless you can explain why you are so agitated and apparently afraid, I shall be forced to the conclusion that you know more about this than you have admitted."

Then Mr. Wayne said: "Must I tell all I know about it, sir?"

"Certainly," said the detective.

"Then," said Mr. Wayne, "I shall have to state that when I left my room late last night to get a glass of water from the ice-pitcher, which always stands on the hall-table, I saw Mr. Fred Farland just going into the sitting-room, or present-room, as it has been called for the last few days."

There was a dead silence. This, then, was why Mr. Wayne had acted so embarrassed; this was the explanation of my finding the white carnation there; and I think the detective thought that the sudden turn affairs had taken incriminated Fred Farland.

I didn't think so at all. The idea of Fred's stealing his own sister's wedding-gift was too preposterous to be considered for a moment.

"Were you in the room late at night, Mr. Farland?" asked the detective.

"I was," said Fred.

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"You didn't ask me, and as I didn't take I saw no reason for referring to the fact that I was in the room."

"Why did you go there?"

"I went," said Fred coolly, "with the intention of taking the crystal and hiding it, as a practical joke on Christabel."

"Why did you not do so?"

"Because the ball wasn't there. I didn't think then that it had been stolen, but that it had been put away safely with the other valuables. Since this is not so, and the crystal is missing, we all must get to work and find it somehow before my sister returns."

The tutor seemed like a new man after Fred had spoken. His face cleared, and he appeared intelligent, alert and entirely at his ease. "Let me help," he said. "Pray command my services in any way you choose."

But the detective didn't seem so reassured by Fred's statements. Indeed, I believe he really thought that Christabel's brother was guilty of theft.

But I believed implicitly every word Fred had uttered, and begging him to come with me, I led the way again to the sitting-room. Mr. Wayne and Janet White came too, and the four of us scrutinized the floor, walls and furniture of the room over and over again. "There's one thing certain," I said thoughtfully: "The crystal was taken either by someone in the house or someone out of it. We've been confining our suspicions to those inside. Why not a real burglar?"

"But the windows are fastened on the inside," said Janet.

"I know it," I replied. "But if a burglar could slip a catch with a thin-bladed knife —  and they often do —  then he could slip it back again with the same knife and so divert suspicion."

"Bravo, Miss Frost!" said Mr. Wayne, with an admiring glance at me. "You have the true detective instinct. I'll go outside and see if there are any traces."

A moment later he was on the veranda and excitedly motioning us to raise the window. Fred pushed back the catch and opened the long French window that opened on the front veranda.

"I believe Miss Frost has discovered the mystery," said Mr. Wayne, and he pointed to numerous scratches on the sash-frame. The house had been painted recently, and it was seen easily that the fresh scratches were made by a thin knife-blade pushed between the sashes.

"By Jove!" cried Fred, "that's it, Elinor; and the canny fellow had wit enough to push the catch back in place after he was outside again."

"I said nothing, for a moment. My thoughts were adjusting themselves quickly to the new situation from which I must make my deductions. I realized at once that I must give up my theory of the tutor, of course, and anyway I hadn't had a scrap of evidence against him except his fitness for the position. But, given the surety of burglars from outside, I knew just what to do: look for footprints, to be sure.

I glanced around for the light snow that always falls in detective stories just before the crime is committed, and is testified, usually by the village folk, to have stopped just at the crucial moment. But there wasn't a sign of snow or rain or even dew. The veranda showed no footprints, nor could the smooth lawn or flagged walks be expected to. I leaned against the veranda railing in despair, wondering what Sherlock Holmes would do in a provoking absence of footprints, when I saw in the flower-bed beneath several well-defined marks of a man's shoes.

"There you are, Fred!" I cried, and rushed excitedly down the steps.

They all followed, and, sure enough, in the soft earth of the wide flower-bed that surrounded the veranda were strong, clear prints of large masculine footgear.

"That clears us, girls," cried Janet gleefully, as she measured her daintily shod foot against the depressions.

"Don't touch them!" I cried. "Call Mr. Prout the detective."

Mr. Prout appeared, and politely hiding his chagrin at not having discovered these marks before I did, proceeded to examine them closely.

"You see," he said in a pompous and dictatorial way, "there are four prints pointing toward the house, and four pointing toward the street. Those pointing to the street are superimposed upon those leading to the house, hence we deduce that they were made by a burglar who crossed the flower-bed, climbed the veranda, stepped over the rail and entered at the window. He then returned the same way, leaving these last footprints above the others."

As all this was so palpably evident from the facts of the case, I was not impressed much by the subtlety of his deductions and asked what he gathered from the shape of the prints.

He looked at the well-defined prints intently. "They are of a medium size," he announced at last, "and I should say that they were made by a man of average height and weight, who had a normal-sized foot."

Well, if that wasn't disappointing! I thought of course that he would tell the man's occupation and social status, even if he didn't say that he was left-handed or that he stuttered, which is the kind of thing detectives in fiction always discover.

So I lost all interest in that Prout man, and began to do a little deducing on my own account. Although I felt sure, as we all did, that the thief was a burglar from outside, yet I couldn't measure the shoes of an absent and unidentified burglar, and somehow I felt an uncontrollable impulse to measure shoes.

Without consulting anybody, I found a tape-measure and carefully measured the footprints. Then I went through the house and measured all the men's shoes I could find, from the stable-boy's up to Fred's.

It's an astonishing fact, but nearly all of them fitted the measurements of the prints on the flower-bed. Men's feet are so nearly universal in size, or rather their shoes are, and too, what with extension soles and queer-shaped lasts, you can't tell anything about the size or style of a man from his footprints.

So I gave up deducing and went to talk to Fred Farland.

"Fred," I said simply, "did you take Christabel's crystal?"

"No," he answered with equal simplicity, and he looked me in the eyes so squarely and honestly that I knew he spoke the truth.

"Who did?" I next inquired.

"It was a professional burglar," said Fred. "and a mighty cute one; but I'm going to track him and get that crystal before Christabel comes home."

"Let me help!" I cried eagerly. "I've got the true detective instinct, and I know I can do something."

"You?" said Fred incredulously. "No, you can't help; but I don't mind telling you my plan. You see I expect Lord Hammerton down to make me a visit. He's a jolly young English chap that I chummed with in London. Now, he's a first-rate amateur detective, and though I didn't expect him till next month, he's in New York, and I've no doubt that he'd be willing to come right off. No one will know he's doing any detecting; and I'll wager he'll lay his hands on that ball in less than a week."

"Lovely!" I exclaimed. "And I'll be here to see him do it!"

"Yes, the mater says you're to stay a fortnight or more; but mind, this is our secret."

"Trust me," I said earnestly; "but let me help if I can, won't you?"

"You'll help most by not interfering," declared Fred, and though it didn't altogether suit me, I resolved to help that way rather than not at all.

A FEW DAYS later Lord Hammerton came. He was not in any way an imposing-looking man. Indeed, he was a typical Englishman of the Lord Cholmondeley type, and drawled and used a monocle most effectively. The afternoon he came we told him all about the crystal. The talk turned to detective work and detective instinct.

Lord Hammerton opined in his slow languid drawl that the true detective mind was not dependent upon instinct, but was a nicely adjusted mentality that was quick to see the cause back of an effect.

Herbert Gay said that while this doubtless was so, yet it was an even chance whether the cause so skilfully deduced was the true one.

"Quite so," agreed Lord Hammerton amiably, "and that is why the detective in real life fails so often. He deduces properly the logical facts from the evidence before him; but real life and real events are so illogical that his deductions, though true theoretically, are false from mere force of circumstances."

"And that is why," I said, "detectives in story-books always deduce rightly, because the obliging author makes the literal facts coincide with the theoretical ones."

Lord Hammerton put up his monocle and favored me with a truly British stare. "It is unusual," he remarked slowly, "to find such a clear comprehension of this subject in a feminine mind."

They all laughed at this; but I went on: "It is easy enough to make the spectacular detective of fiction show marvelous penetration and logical deduction when the antecedent circumstances are arranged carefully to prove it all; but place even Sherlock Holmes face to face with a total stranger, and I, for one, don't believe that he could tell anything definite about him."

"Oh, come now! I can't agree to that," said Lord Hammerton, more interestedly than he had spoken before. "I believe there is much in the detective instinct besides the exotic and the artificial. There is a substantial basis of divination built on minute observation, and which I have picked up in some measure myself."

"Let us test that statement," cried Herbert Gay. "Here comes Mr. Wayne, Harold's tutor. Lord Hammerton never has seen him, and before Wayne even speaks let Lord Hammerton tell us some detail, which he divines by observation.

All agreed to this, and a few minutes later Mr. Wayne came up. We laughingly explained the situation to him and asked him to have himself deduced.

Lord Hammerton looked at Arthur Wayne for a few minutes, and then said, still in his deliberate drawl: "You have lived in Japan for the past seven years, in Government service in the interior, and only recently have returned."

A sudden silence fell upon us all— not so much because Lord Hammerton made deductions from no apparent evidence, but because we all knew Mr. Wayne had told Detective Prout that he never had been in Japan.

Fred Farland recovered himself first, and said: "Now that you've astonished us with your results, tell us how you attained them."

"It is simple enough," said Lord Hammerton, looking at young Wayne, who had turned deathly white. "It is simple enough, sir. The breast-pocket on the outside of your coat is on the right-hand side. Now it never is put there. Your coat is a good one— Poole, or some London tailor of that class. He never made a coat with an outer breast-pocket on the right side. You have had the coat turned— thus the original left-hand pocket appears now on the right side.

"Looking at you, I see that you have not the constitution which could recover from an acute attack of poverty. If you had it turned from want, you would not have your present effect of comfortable circumstances. Now, you must have had it turned because you were in a country where tailoring is not frequent, but sewing and delicate manipulation easy to find. India? You are not bronzed. China? The same. Japan? Probable; but not treaty ports— there are plenty of tailors there. Hence, the interior of Japan.

"Long residence, to make it incumbent on you to get the coat turned, means Government service, because unattached foreigners are allowed only as tourists. Then the cut of the coat is not so very old, and as contracts run seven or fourteen years with the Japanese, I repeat that you probably resided seven years in the interior of Japan, possibly as an irrigation engineer."

I felt sorry then for poor Mr. Wayne. Lord Hammerton's deductions were absolutely true, and coming upon the young man so suddenly he made no attempt to refute them.

And so as he had been so long in Japan, and must have been familiar with rock crystals for years, Fred questioned him sternly in reference to his false statements.

Then he broke down completely and confessed that he had taken Christabel's crystal because it had fascinated him.

He declared that he had a morbid craving for crystals; that he had crept down to the present-room late that night, merely to look at the wonderful, beautiful ball; that it had so possessed him that he carried it to his room to gaze at for awhile, intending to return with it after an hour or so. When he returned he saw Fred Farland, and dared not carry out his plan.

"And the footprints?" I asked eagerly.

"I made them myself," he explained with a dogged shamefacedness. "I did have a moment of temptation to keep the crystal, and so tried to make you think that a burglar had taken it; but the purity and beauty of the ball itself so reproached me that I tried to return it. I didn't do so then, and since—"

"Since?" urged Fred, not unkindly.

"Well, I've been torn between fear and the desire to keep the ball. You will find it in my trunk. Here is the key."

There was a certain dignity about the young man that made him seem unlike a criminal, or even a wrong-doer.

As for me, I entirely appreciated the fact that he was hypnotized by the crystal and in a way was not responsible. I don't believe that man would steal anything else in the world.

Somehow the others agreed with me, and as they had recovered the ball, they took no steps to prosecute Mr. Wayne.

He went away at once, still in that dazed, uncertain condition. We never saw him again; but I hope for his own sake that he never was subjected to such a temptation.

Just before he left, I said to him out of sheer curiosity: "Please explain one point, Mr. Wayne. Since you opened and closed that window purposely to mislead us, since you made those footprints in the flower-bed for the same reason, and since to do it you must have gone out and then come back, why were the outgoing footprints made over the incoming ones?"

"I walked backward on purpose," said Mr. Wayne simply.

___________________

18: The Wings of Chance

Fred Merrick White

1859-1935

The Observer, Adelaide, 13 Dec 1922

"IT seems to me," said the first conspirator, with the air of a man who makes a discovery, "it seems to me that we are lost."

"If you are discovered," murmured the second conspirator, "you are lost."

"Oh, yes, dramatically speaking, perhaps," the third conspirator put in. "All right on the stage, don't you know, but not here. If we are discovered we are saved. Driver, where are we?"

"Oh, don't ask me, gents all," the chauffeur said with absolute detachment. "I dunno. Somewhere in the neighbourhood of Regent's Park, though I ain't bettin' on it. 'Ackney coach,' 'ansom and taxicab man and boy for thirty year, and I never saw such a fog afore."

He spoke the truth— nobody had. Never had there been such a fog since London began. Four mild January days without a breath of wind had been followed by one of the most disastrous fires the Thames-side had ever known. Thousands of barrels of petroleum had lifted their dense pall of smoke into the heavy clouds, and now the falling fog had drifted the heavy, suffocating mass over the metropolis like some funeral pall. Like the plague of Egypt, the darkness could be felt.

Now, whatever atmospheric disaster the Fates have in store, the business of London must go on. Shops and offices must be attended to, and at all hazards the City of London must be achieved. The three conspirators had reached their offices some way, they had managed to get off those letters, and, perhaps for the first time in their lives, had no anathema for the telephone. For the rest, they shared a flat on the north side of Regent's Park, and, with the help of the gods, had all and sundry found their way back to dinner. You cannot easily discourage a stockbroker.

They should have been contented as they were; they had been wrong to attempt so heavy an overdraft on the bank of fate. They should have sent down to the floor below and asked Leckie— also safe back from the city— and been happy with an evening at bridge.

But they were young and ardent and flushed with success, and the black throat of the fog had no terrors for them. At any cost they were going to Lady Shoreham's fancy dress ball. There was not much more than a mile to go, their dresses were ready, and they really fancied themselves as three more or less picturesque anarchist conspirators. The dresses had a touch of the Mephistophelean, with vivid red slashed here and there; they wore black wigs, and their faces were masked. Also, they were three exceedingly well-set-up young men, with all the matchless audacity which is so necessary for success in the air of Copthall Avenue. They dreamt of the day when the big coup would come off, of the hour of the exclusive information when the big men would shiver and wonder what the trio would do next.

The inspiration had yet to come.

They managed to find a taxi right enough. A sovereign if he got them to Shoreham House within the hour, which offer in times of lesser stress would have been generous. The driver was inclined to be pessimistic, but he would do his best. Moreover, he had taken nothing all day. He fumbled his way along at a snail's pace, his heart in his mouth all the time. By the intervention of Providence he ran over nobody, he collided with no light standards, but—in ten minutes he was hopelessly lost, and appealed imploringly to all and collectively who passed to tell him where he was. The conundrum was a popular one that night, but, alas! the chosen who could answer it were few.

From out of the denseness of the fog came strange sounds. There were little cries of alarm, bleats of apology, the tinkle of metal on metal, and once the crash of broken glass. The first conspirator, who rejoiced in the name of Dick Willoughby, put his head out of the window.

"This is very interesting," he said. "Do you remember the ingenious excuse made by the city clerk for not getting to business during one foggy spell? He sent a telegram, you know: 'Sorry cannot reach offices to-day, as I have not yet got home yesterday!' Not bad, eh?"

Nobody laughed. The other conspirators, Bond and Machen, were getting anxious. It was just past 10, and apparently they were farther from their destination than ever. It was gradually being borne in on them that there was going to be no destination— if they escaped spending the night in a cab they would be lucky.

"I wish I was well out of this," Bond muttered.

A moment later and he nearly had his way. Out of the fog, barely a yard away, loomed another taxi; the driver pulled sharply to the left up a steep, grassy bank. What the grassy bank was doing there, apparently in the middle of the road, did not come for a moment within the area of speculation. For the fraction of a second, or so it seemed, the tension was great. Then the taxis cleared; there was an outline of white posts and rails, and the cab came to a standstill, apparently in a field.

"Now, where the dickens are we?" Willoughby asked.

"Somewhere out in Surrey, governor," the chauffeur growled, "unless some 'umorist 'as gone and shoved a tennis lawn down 'ere. Anyway, we're on grass inside somebody's gate. No doubt there's a 'ouse a bit farther on if one could only see it. Still, I'm in your 'ands."

Willoughby's mind was made up. In the vernacular of his clan, he was fed up with the whole thing. Besides, it was just possible that he stood on the edge of adventure, just a chance that destiny would waft a little excitement to them.

"Turn out, boys," he commanded. "We are going to throw ourselves on the mercy of the court. In other words, we are going to find the house and ask shelter for the night. Driver, here is your sovereign. If you like to look for another fare—"

"Not me, sir," the chauffeur said philosophically. "I am safe 'ere, and 'ere I stay. Inside the keb with me bit of supper an' packet of fags. Don't you worry about me."

They promised faithfully that they wouldn't, and went their way. Apparently the grounds about the house were fairly extensive, for the adventurers passed another tennis lawn before they reached what looked like a beacon gleam against the thickness of the fog. The trio were actually inside the porch before they realised the fact that the front door was hospitably open.

"Let's enter the house first and ring the bell afterwards," Machen suggested.

The suggestion was sufficiently unconventional to suggest itself to the others. They passed from the darkness and desolation of the gloom into a large square hall brilliantly lighted, warm and inviting. Never had a refined and luxurious English home looked so alluring before. A great wood fire crackled on the open hearth, there were trophies of the chase on the polished floor, some remarkably good pictures hung on the panelled walls. High up were stags' heads and racks of guns and a 'varsity oar, with a dark blue blade and Magdalen College arms mounted on a shield. The whole atmosphere was inviting and cosy to the last degree.

"Well, thank Heaven we've struck the trail of a sportsman," Bond exclaimed. "Let's hope that the proud possessor of all this splendour was in the Oxford boat with you, Willoughby. Golf clubs, too. Any odds the chap is a plus player. Ring the bell, Machen."

Machen complied vigorously. The ripple of it could be heard afar off. And no response came to the second and third summons. Willoughby laughed.

"An adventure, by George!" he cried. "Money on it, we're alone in the house. All the household has gone and lost itself in the fog. In my mind's eye I can picture the catastrophe. The hero failed to materialise for dinner. Being a fine sportsman, probably he is as handsome as a Greek god. He has a young and beautiful wife who is devoted to him. She went to look for him and lost herself. Then the butler went to look for her; and the cook followed the butler; and so on. Regular house that Jack built game."

"The fact remains that we are alone in the house," Bond said thoughtfully. "I refuse to connect tragedy with a place like this. Let's explore. Dining-room first. If they've left us some supper the measure of my gratitude will know no bounds. To be candid, I'm confoundedly hungry."

There were no less than five rooms leading from the hall. A blaze of light glittered everywhere, and everywhere was the same pleasing suggestion of comfort and luxury. The big dining-room was oak panelled throughout; there were racing and sporting cups on the old buffet, a fine army of gold-topped bottles, and on the table, with covers laid for half a dozen guests, a cold supper that suggested the Savoy or the Ritz at their best. Bond's mouth watered as he looked at it.

"Now, this is touching," he said. "This is really thoughtful. It is far more than I had expected. In the circumstances, they will hardly expect us to wait. Hallo."

The speaker wheeled suddenly round as there came to his ear a choking sound from the region of the doorway. He was just in time to grab a scared-faced page boy by the shoulder. Evidently the youth was fully under the impression that his last hour was come.

"What does all this mean?" Bond demanded. "Where are the servants, and you— er— your employer?"

"Master and missis couldn't get back," the stricken page gasped. "Got caught in the fog this side of Croydon. They sent a telegram; and if anybody turned up to supper the butler was to explain. They were to have supper first and go to Lady Shoreham's after."

"Then where's the butler and all the rest of them?"

"Next door, sir. The people are away, and the servants are giving a party. It's all right, sir— indeed, it is. You see, we expected nobody in this fog, and— and I went to see a friend on the other side. Left me in charge, they did. And if anybody turned up I was to—"

"My boy," Willoughby said kindly, "have no fear. It's a festive time, when one forgives—well, anything. Only show me the telegram, not necessarily for publication, but as a— very good. Mr. Everest will understand. We are his guests. And I am quite sure that he would not like us to wait. We are not going to disturb the servants; we are going to let them enjoy themselves. The lot of the average domestic is hard, and it is the duty of the rich, like ourselves, to treat them with every consideration. Let them come back when they like. We will wait upon ourselves. Put the cigars and cigarettes handy on the table, and go your way. That will do, George."

The page vanished. He was young; he came evidently from the country; his scruples were satisfied. And it would probably be ages before the servants returned.

"How did you get at the name of our esteemed host?" Machen asked.

"Idiot!" Willoughby explained. "I guessed that the name would be on the telegram. That was why I demanded to see the missive. Everest was in the boat the year after I came down. Gordon Everest, he is, and a year ago he married Miss Wanstead, only daughter of the Master of the Riding Hunt. Any amount of money, and a real good chap to boot. He'll laugh like anything when he hears of this little adventure of ours. Come and sup.; let us sample the flowing bowl. And may this not be the end of our night's adventures. We deserve something to make up for our disappointment. Bond, oblige me by opening one of those bottles. Here's to the gods of happy chance. May they never desert us in the the hour of adversity."

He helped himself generously to Perigord pie— it would have been bad taste, he explained, not to do due justice to Gordon Everest's hospitality. They ate gaily enough, despite the fact that they wore their masks, for Willoughby had insisted on that. He liked to be guarded against possible surprises, and at any moment the garrison was liable to invasion. And Willoughby liked to be ready. A man who means some day to be a Napoleon of the Stock Exchange must be like that.

"To our host and hostess," Bond cried, emptying his champagne glass and reaching for a cigarette. "May they live long and prosper. Upon my word, I am sorry they are not here. I am sorry for some of the other would-be roysterers at present wading about in this fog. How many are there of them at the present moment, like little Tommy Tucker, singing for their supper? Really, we ought to consider ourselves fortunate, brethren. We ought to stand by the gate and proffer hospitality to the passers-by. What say?"

Willoughby and Bond regarded the suggestion as an excellent one. All the same, Willoughby did not seem to be quite easy in his mind. He had a fancy for exploring the servants' quarters. The matter that troubled him he did not disclose to the others. He came back presently more cheerful—he was more cheerful still after a telephone call and a whispered conversation with some body at the other end of the line.

"Now I feel better," he proclaimed.

"You fellows leave too much to chance. The man armed is he who— who gets his blow in first. Ah! here they are. Now for it!"

A pink and white individual, clothed in a certain dignity and evening dress of sorts, came with none too much ceremony into the room. He was followed by a female of uncertain age, and anything but uncertain obesity, in black satin and many gold brooches. It needed no amazing foresight to distinguish these as the butler and cook to the establishment.

"So you've condescended to come back at last, Odgers," Willoughby said coolly. "Unless I am mistaken, that is Mrs. Marus behind you. You don't recognise me, Odgers?"

The butler frankly confessed himself at a disadvantage. The pink indignation had faded from his cheeks. Mrs. Marus's hysterical desire for the police was no longer uppermost in her mind. Here were no audacious burglars, taking advantage of the fog. And Odgers had passed all his prosaic life in good houses, and flattered himself that he recognised a gentleman when he saw one.

"We will remain anonymous, Odgers," Willoughby went on calmly. "Were I to remove my mask, you would know me— I mean all of us— at once. You see, we are more fortunate than Mr. Everest and your mistress— we have got here; and here we propose to stay. If your master manages to struggle home before daylight, or what passes for daylight, we will excuse them. We esteem ourselves fortunate in obtaining shelter and supper. You had better all go to bed, Odgers. No, I will answer the telephone. In all probability that is Mr. Everest calling."

Willoughby advanced calmly into the hall and took down the receiver. For a moment he seemed to listen to some message of grave import.

"Oh, yes," he said. "What? Absolutely. What! Oh, yes, we got here all right. But it was pure blind luck, I assure you. Eh? Go any farther? Not much. It's the unkindest fog London has ever seen. Where? Between Croydon and Clapham? A decent place? Well, you're lucky, old boy. You might still be prowling about the roads in the car. Yes, we are all three of us here. I fancy Odgers took us for burglars at first. We had a fancy to sup in our masks. Why, Ethel? Oh she's all right. Tell Odgers what? Oh, yes; certainly. Pyjamas in the back of the linen cupboard? Oh, for us. Thanks, old chap. So long."

Odgers looked relieved. Nothing had been said as to his escapade.

"You need not be alarmed as to your master and mistress," Willoughby said, as he hung up the receiver. "They have reached a place of safety. And I did not say anything about the supper party of yours, Odgers. Two of us will sleep in your master's room and one in the dressing-room. The pyjamas— but you heard what Mr. Everest said. You had better retire, Odgers, and leave the house to us."

Odgers raised no objection. On the whole, he was disposed to regard himself as well out of it.

"Well, you are a wonder!" Bond said admiringly. "I've been dreading the return of the vassals of the house. How on earth did you manage it, Willoughby!"

"My dear chap, it's nothing," Willoughby said modestly. "I wanted to get into the kitchen, because I felt quite sure that I should find the insurance cards there. They were in a dresser drawer— John Odgers, and Mary Marus, widow, and all the rest of them. Now, obviously, Odgers was the butler— with a name like that he couldn't be anything else. And Mary Marus must be the cook. Hence the easy familiarity with which I had their names on the tip of my tongue."

"But, my dear chap, Everest himself on the 'phone?" Machen protested.

"There was no Everest on the 'phone. I faked that call. There is an extension in the dining-room, and I rang up by lifting the extension receiver. I was afraid you would see me do it. My conversation with my good friend Gordon Everest was purely imaginary. I had to make the genial Odgers feel quite at his ease, and I flatter myself that I did so. We're absolutely safe now."

"Oh, you'll get on all right," Bond said admiringly. "But you always were a genius for finding the most ingenious way out of a scrape. Pity there are not four of us here to make up a table at bridge."

"Let's go out and find somebody," Machen suggested. "All we need is two or three balls of string, with an end tied to the front door, and—"

Willoughby held up a hand as a mysterious tapping was heard on the window.

"Here's your fourth at bridge," he said, "knocking to come in. Hope he plays 'auction.' Well?"

"Excuse me, gents." A hoarse voice broke the silence as the window was opened. "I'm your driver. Been sittin' in my keb for the last hour or more 'alf asleep. I thought I 'eard somebody callin' and I got up. A gent was standin' by the gate in the fog. Dismissed 'is keb, 'e 'ad; came an' said as the man was a fool. And now 'e— well, 'e don't know where 'e are."

"This is the hand of Providence," Willoughby said solemnly. "What's he like, driver?"

"Well, sir, as far as I can make out, 'e's rather old and thin, and in some kind of fancy dress. 'E—"

A shout of laughter drowned the rest of the sentence.

"On his way to Lady Shoreham's dance for a dollar!" Bond shouted. "Well, he's come to the right place. The people who live in this house are friends of ours, cabby. We owe you something for bringing us here, if only by accident. Show the gentleman in."

The wayfarer came, tall and thin and extra cadaverous by reason of his close-fitting tights and black jerkin. He looked exceedingly bad-tempered; his hard mouth was set firm and savagely.

"This is a nice thing!" he exclaimed. "A nice thing to happen in a city like London! I presume you people have been kept from Lady Shoreham's dance by the fog. I you happen to know me—"

An exclamation was on Bond's lips, but Willoughby laid a hand with a grip to it on his shoulder.

"We have none of us the pleasure, Sir," he said. "This, sir, is my house. I am Lord Bollinger, at your service. This is Colonel Kinlock, and here is my cousin, the Honourable John Driver."

Machen choked slightly, but Willoughby was perfectly grave.

"We were also prevented from going to the dance," he went on, "so we supped here, and kept our masks on, trying to snatch a gaiety we do not feel. You said your name was—"

"Smith," the stranger gabbled. "John Smith. Really, you are very kind, and supper would be acceptable. I presume you have such a thing in the house as a telephone. I have to send a message to my broker. I expected to meet him at the dance, but he would hardly turn out in this weather. I will 'phone him to his own house, as I have to get to Liverpool, on my way to America to-morrow. Business in a mild way, you understand."

Willoughby led the way to the telephone, and appeared to close the door behind him. All the same, he stood so that he could hear every word that passed. So could the other two, who had suddenly grown grave and silent, the air of the Stock Exchange on them now.

"What's that, what's that!" came the raucous voice in the hall. "Not come home? What! Prefer to stay in the City, as the fog is so thick! Very full all day to-morrow. Quite right. Ring off, please... Hallo! Is that the Exchange? Give me 01707 City... That you, Starley? You know whose speaking! Yes, it's me, 'Wigs on the green.' Thought I'd give you the password. I'm going to Liverpool and New York. Sell W's. Sell and sell as long as you have anybody to buy. That'll do. Ring off."

"Nice old beauty, isn't he!" Bond whispered. "Let's murder him and bury him in the cellar. He'd have a fit if he only knew who we really are. Can't we manage to—"

"We can," Willoughby said grimly. "We are going to make a jolly good thing out of this. We are acting on exclusive information. Old Gregory Hicks, who likes to call himself John Smith for the moment, has opened a great bear raid on W's which mean to the initiated Western Atlantic Rails. The old fox is off tomorrow to manipulate the stock across the water. He little thinks that he has delivered himself into the hands of three of the astutest intellects in Throgmorton Street, where— Soft! Here he comes."

Mr. John Smith, alias Gregory Hicks, one of the most grasping and unscrupulous millionaires who ever commanded respect in the City, came back looking on better terms with himself. He even went so far as to crack a joke or two, for he was not devoid of a sense of humour. He did not repudiate the Perigord pie, neither did he refuse the wine when it was red. But he refused to play bridge, and was glad enough an hour later to find himself in the dressing-room and a spare pair of pyjamas. There were baize doors on the landings, and Willoughby noted the fact with gratitude as he came down the stairs and reached for the 'phone.

"You must get him," he said. "Ring and ring, till you do. Give me your name and address and I'll send you a tenner for your trouble. What? You don't call that bribery... Oh, thanks, that you, Pallart? It's Willoughby. And it's Willoughby full of inside information. Now, listen carefully. Quite sure you've got all that? Now start out early to-morrow morning and sell till you're blind and blue in the face. Work the telephone or the cable all over England and the Continent."

"I'm in it, and Bond and Machen, and we're good for all we're got between us, and that's about £30,000. It would be downright flying in the face of Providence to miss a chance like this. Do we mind if you come in? Why, of course not. The more the merrier. Only do it boldly. So long."

In the dining-room Machen promptly opened a bottle of champagne. The three of them removed their masks, their faces were glad with smiles.

"Here's to Dame Fortune, who never, never deserts the bold," he said. "Willoughby, founder of our fortune, I look towards you. They say that the hour always produces the man— and it has. One drink and then we'll be off. We must not tempt Fortune too far. I dare say our cabby wouldn't mind—"

"The fog is lifting," Machen said from the window.

Without another word they crept silently from the room, the richer for a fine evening's adventure on the wings of chance, and the richer also by the sum of something that was to prove over a hundred and fifty thousand pounds.

________________

19: Bagged

Jeffery Farnol

1878-1952

Collier's, 20 July 1929

GEORGE was cold, shivering with such deathly chill that only the famishing may know; he was worn out with his long day upon the streets and had nothing to show for his labor, for evening had fallen, shops and office buildings were closing, and soon he must tramp wearily home again, back to her who waited his return so hopefully.... The pale patient face of her!... And she would be hungry!

His fists clenched passionately and he closed his eyes.... The man who let his woman perish was a failure, a very weakling! And yet what more could he do?

The great railway terminus was crowded with home-seeking humanity, and, crouched upon a deserted seat in this remote corner, he watched the busy scene with haggard eyes. Hurrying feet quick with eager purpose, faces glimpsed and gone; an ordinary enough, everyday crowd and yet to the watcher's disordered fancy each and every individual in this bustling throng seemed to obtrude his well-being upon him.

Money! It was all about him now, it had jostled him on the busy streets all day long.... Money! And thrusting clenched hands into his empty pockets he cursed bitterly, for She, his woman, was starving.

Miserably he sat there, head bowed, vaguely conscious of the never-ending stir about him—the tramp of innumerable feet speeding by, feet that came and were gone, feet that hurried, that trod heavily, that sauntered; and of all these feet two that stopped suddenly in his immediate line of vision.

Large feet these, expensively shod and spatted beneath well-filled trouser legs, that pertained to an overnourished, plethoric person, who panted noisily, mopped rosy face with snowy handkerchief and grasped a cowhide bag as plump and prosperous looking as its owner. This rubicund person, panting, mopping and heavy-breathing, stared about him, uttered an inarticulate exclamation, set down his bag upon the seat beside George, and plunged into the crowd. George glanced swiftly about him, drew a deep breath, rose and taking up the bag turned to run, set his teeth, took six leisurely strides and was borne along by that human torrent. It was a heavy bag, yet it was not this that caused his breath to labor so painfully, his heart to throb so heavily— it was rather the terrible strain of listening— listening to discover, amid the din of these multitudinous footsteps pattering all about him, the sound of feet quick and loud in dogged pursuit. Five minutes and he would be in the Strand.

And now while hearkening to these feet George began to count his own. Ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three. Five minutes and he would reach the comparative safety of the Strand. Ninety-four, ninety-five— Hard by the nearest exit stood a burly policeman. Unhesitatingly George turned thither. Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety— a light touch upon his shoulder. George faltered.

A TALL, immaculately clad young gentleman who beamed at him with one eye and glared through a monocle with the other.

"Off with your booty, eh— the spoil?" he inquired in soft, sleepy tones, tapping the bag with the handsome cane he carried.

George gulped and wiped clammy brow with tremulous hand.

"I happened to be watching you."

"Well, you... you've got me," stammered George in choking voice. "And there's a policeman over there—"

"I see him. Keep on walking— slowly, so!"

"Sir," said George, licking dry lips, "is it any good telling you this is the first time—"

"Oh, quite!" sighed his captor wearily. "You're a sick man out of work with a wife and numerous offspring wailing for bread, I know, I know.... And don't stop, keep on walking... a gentle amble."

"Sir, I swear to God—"

"When in a crowd always blaspheme softly. And don't attempt to bolt or I shall have to knock you down, which might make people stare, and I hate being gaped at."

"Are you... are you going to... give me in charge?" gasped George, glancing toward the burly policeman.

"Oh, quite," murmured his captor, hooking three fingers in George's trembling arm, "but not before this mob. There's Bow Street fairly adjacent, and Vine Street— you can plead your hard-luck story far better in the comparative seclusion of— Hi— taxi!"

A waiting vehicle purred up to them and while the young gentleman murmured to its driver, the burly policeman obligingly opened the door. So George got in, lugging the heavy bag with him, and leaning back closed his eyes, overcome by bitter remorse, a growing terror for... She would be waiting, watching for him, his Mary. She would know him for a felon— a sordid sneak thief.

He heard the taxi door slam, felt it glide smoothly away and looking up found his captor regarding him with a certain keen intentness.

"So you'll tell me this is your first essay in crime?"

"Yes!" said George, faintly.

"Quite!" nodded the other. "And you annexed another man's property with such finished expertness, such cool dexterity that at first I mistook you for the Dasher himself. You know him of course— one of his gang, perhaps."

"No!" murmured George.

"Well, then, you'll know of him?"

"No!" answered George.

"Tut, tut!" quoth the young gentleman, lighting a cigarette. "Then to tell you a truth which you probably know better than I— The Dasher is the most accomplished and pestiferous baggage thief in the three kingdoms."

The taxi crawled from one traffic block to another while George, lying back in his corner, stared at the stolen bag with eyes that saw instead the vision of a woman's pale face bowed in an agony of shame— his Mary.

"AND," said his companion suddenly, "you have the usual sick wife, of course— the wife of every felon caught in the act is always sick and—"

"Yes, I have.... I have!" cried George in a cracked strident voice. "She's so young... only a kid and— delicate, needs good food... pure air and I can't give them to her... I can't. I can't, though I've done my best. I've tried. God! how I've tried! And now... I'm a thief! When she knows, it'll just finish her... and so for her sake I ask you to have... have mercy—on her. I don't care a damn for myself, sir, but if I go to prison— if she knows I'm not straight—" The hoarse, pleading voice broke and George bowed his face between clutching hands.

"Absolutely!" said his captor, flicking cigarette ash out of the window. "You do it so jolly well that it sounds almost convincing. Yes, you do it so much better than most of 'em that I almost think... yes, upon my soul I almost fancy—"

"Let me go!" whispered George, his haggard eyes bright with sudden hope. "Let me go and I swear—"

"That you'll keep a brighter lookout next time, oh quite!"

The glowing eyes grew dull, the eager face twitched with sudden spasm, and, uttering a gasping sob, George shrank back in his corner as if from a blow.

"Damn you!" he groaned. "If I was half the man I used to be I'd lick you like the cur you are—"

"Quite!" nodded his captor. "As it is, luckily for me, you're ill and starving— eh?"

THE TAXI crawled to another halt and George stared out miserably at the throng of vehicles, seeing them through a blur of anguished grief....

Then a strong vital hand grasped his and into his lax fingers was thrust something that crackled....

"God—!" exclaimed George brokenly, glancing from the money in his trembling fingers to the face of him who beamed at him with one eye and glared at him through a monocle with the other.

"No, friend, merely me, Sylvanies Host, at your service. And here," said Mr. Sylvanies Host, opening the taxi door, "is where you hop!"

So George stepped out, then paused, turned for a last word, was hooted and roared at by indignant drivers, and, dodging to the safety of the pavement, stood there like one utterly amazed.

And who shall say what fervent, what sacred oaths he took in regard to the future? Then lifting his head and squaring his shoulders, away he hastened to his Mary. Resolute to outface all that the tomorrows should bring.

Meanwhile a certain taxi wended its slow way westward and seated therein a certain Mr. Sylvanies Host— better known in certain circles as the Dasher— beamed at a certain plump and prosperous-looking bag.

"And now," quoth he, opening the blade of a gold-mounted penknife, "let us see what I have purchased from yon poor fish!"

______________

20: The Way of Silence

Gilbert Frankau

1884-1952

MacLean's, 1 April 1923

SIR Heron Baynet, best nerve specialist in Harley Street, eyed his patient across the consulting-room desk and asked: "You've told me everything?"

The young man— he looked twenty-five but might have been thirty— hesitated. The blue eyes under the high forehead held steadily to the lined face of the specialist; the smooth cheeks did not twitch; nor was there any neurasthenic droop to the clean-shaven mouth. An athlete, Sir Heron judged— one of those long-limbed, large-handed, deep-voiced, slow-moving Englishmen whose very reticence makes them such difficult subjects for the psycho-therapist. He repeated his question: "You've told me everything, Mr. Margerson?"

"Everything? Yes, I think so." Margerson spoke slowly. "I suppose it's only natural that a man should be a bit"— he fumbled for his word— "abnormal after crashing from fifteen thousand. Shook up my brains, I expect. Not that they were anything to write home about before the accident."

"But you told me the accident, the crash from your 'plane, took place three years ago," persisted the consultant. "And you've only noticed this— er— peculiarity during the last six weeks."

"It may have been coming on for longer than that. I'm afraid I'm not much good at describing my own symptoms."

"And you say you really are a rich man?"

"Rich!" Margerson laughed. "Why, I'm quite decently wealthy. My father left me a million and a half in securities, besides the family business."

"You sold the business?"

"Yes. For another half-million."

"H'm." Heron Baynet picked a card from the mahogany index, a fountain-pen from the silver rack. "H'm." He began to write. "Margerson, Eric. Twenty-eight. Unmarried." Followed details of blood-pressure, pulse, eyesight, knee-jerk, and a note— "physique magnificent"; then, "Specific delusion— poverty. Incipient insomnia. Admits occasional suicidal impulses. Query— if concealing family history?"

Meanwhile Eric Margerson, watching the movements of the fountain-pen, knew that he had made a fool of himself; knew that all doctors, and more especially doctors who pretended to cure a man of "nerves," were professional highwaymen, robbers of the rich. Eric Margerson said to himself: "There's nothing the matter with me. And even if there were, this old idiot couldn't help."

"The old idiot," looking up from his card, said almost the same thing. "I'm afraid I can't be of much use to you, Mr. Margerson," said "the old idiot." "If you take my advice, you'll try and find some interesting work. Idleness in a case such as yours only encourages the mind to neglect its function, which is control. Try to control those delusions, Mr. Margerson. By the way, you're not contemplating matrimony?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"For various reasons." The specialist took the eye-glasses off his nose, polished them on the sleeve of his coat. "You see, impulses such as you have described are sometimes transmitted from father to son. And in case you were contemplating matrimony, it would be very interesting— "

A flicker of annoyance showed in the patient's eyes. Rising, he said: "I'm sorry to have troubled you, doctor."

"Not at all." Through the eye-glasses, replaced on nose. Sir Heron Baynet scrutinized his man. "I regret not to have been of more assistance." And, seeing the youngster take out his pocket-book, Sir Heron added: "Thank you. That will be five guineas."

Counting the five notes from his case, the two half-crowns from his trouser-pocket, Eric Margerson was aware of the horror, of the Thing which had driven him to Harley Street. The Thing had followed him; perched— scarlet-pinioned and malignant— on the Japanese screen in the far corner of the consulting-room. The Thing cackled to see the five notes spread on the desk, the two heavy coins atop of the notes. The Thing cackled: "Sand in an hourglass. It pours away. You can't stop it pouring."

ii

THE HORROR, contrary to custom, followed Eric Margerson down Harley Street. He could almost hear its twisted feet scratching along the pavement. But he refused to let the Thing hurry him. That way, he knew, lay panic.

Sun, emerging sulkily from wet clouds, shone on him strolling; shone on the mud-splashed pavement, on his patent-leather boots, on the gold ring of his umbrella. But no sun shone on the Thing behind, on the intangible horror which drove him, and drove— across Cavendish Square, through Vere Street, over Regent Street, into Bond Street, down Bond Street.

He would have liked to loiter, shopping in Bond Street. His man had mentioned the need of shirts, of silk socks. He would have to order a supply of cartridges before the shooting-season began. When he stopped outside his gunsmith's, the horror came quite close— whispering.

"Not yet!" whispered the horror. "Sand in an hourglass. Wait till it pours away. Then—"

Eric Margerson stood for a long time peering at the weapons behind the plate glass. The smooth, brown barrels of the twelve-bores fascinated him. He wanted to enter the shop, to handle them. But more than the twelve-bores, he wanted to handle the black grips, the black barrels of the pistols. Why shouldn't he buy one of those pistols— the long, single-chambered pistol in the polished-wood case? That one would be best— because there were twenty-five cartridges.... "Not yet!" whispered the Thing.

Eric Margerson continued his stroll— and the horror continued to follow. But the scratching feet lagged on the pavement. The scratching feet were afraid. The Thing with the scratching feet knew that if Margerson strolled left-handed out of Bond Street, it would not dare accompany him.

THE MAN in the blue suit, the patent-leather boots, and the bowler hat, who turned into Burlington Gardens and made for the West End Branch of the Bank of England, was a perfectly ordinary, long-limbed denizen of Mayfair— so far removed from those horrors which beset the unconscious mind that, looking back, he could no longer visualize the Thing with the scratching feet, could scarcely remember Sir Heron Baynet's question about matrimony, the statement which had followed the question.

Yet one word of that statement, the word "transmitted," flickered in the subconscious dark of Margerson's personality as he entered the Bank; remained with him while he talked with the clerk; refused to be entirely exorcised even by the counting over of a hundred pounds in notes, the stuffing of them into his pocket-book.

"If you'll excuse my mentioning it, sir," said the clerk, "your balance is rather higher than usual. Nearly five thousand. Hadn't we better put a thousand or two on deposit?"

"Thanks— but I don't like letting myself get too low," answered Margerson, and strolled out again into the sunshine. "Transmitted," he thought, "transmitted. I wonder whether I ought to have told the old idiot?"

iii

"MY DEAR, you know I haven't been to a dance since—" Nesta Thring gazed wide-eyed across the shadowy studio.

It was always cold in the studio, even at high noon of a midsummer's day; and always towards tea-time the shadows began to gather. They gathered round Nesta— round the grey-eyed, high-foreheaded girl with the sleek, brown hair and the slim, expressive fingers.

"It wasn't your fault, and you've no right to spoil your life." Eileen Appleby— forthright and buxom, gold hair looped round heavy-lobed ears— tapped impatient shoe on the stained floor. "You've simply got to take hold of yourself, Nes. Besides, this man Margerson's a millionaire."

"I loathe people with money," said Nesta Thring. Her voice was low and controlled— too controlled. As though she dreaded lest speech should betray her thoughts!

"That's sheer pose, Nes. People with money are no worse than people without. As a matter of fact, they're usually better. It's terribly difficult to be really nice when one's poor." Eileen adjusted her hat at the painting mirror. "Say you'll come, Nes. To oblige me. I can't very well go by myself."

"Why not? This isn't the eighteen-eighties." The shadows were gathering close; Eileen gone, she— Nesta— would be engulfed in them. Eileen moved to the door.

"Don't be a pig, Nes. It isn't often I ask favours."

"But I haven't got a frock."

"Rubbish. You've got at least six."

"Out of fashion!"

"Fashion be damned, my dear. I'll fetch you at eight," said Eileen Appleby, and bolted to her own studio.

iv

MARGERSON, as he dressed for dinner that evening, knew himself nearing the end. His fingers shook as he adjusted his white tie. His eyes, staring back at him from the mirror, seemed the eyes of a dead man— of the man he had found beside the hourglass.

Every light in the luxurious flat was ablaze; he could hear his valet, busy with hat-brush and pad, in the adjoining room. But neither lights nor valet could keep the Thing much longer at bay. Even the pocket-book— and there were three hundred pound notes in the gold-monogrammed pocket-book on the dressing-table— would soon lose its power.

"Get me a sherry-and-bitters, please, Wainwright," called Eric Margerson. "The brown sherry."

"Certainly, sir."

"Is the car ready?"

"Yes, sir."

Drinking the sherry (drink had lost its bite long since, but the habit endured); suffering himself to be helped into his dress-coat, his overcoat; taking hat and stick from the impassive Wainwright, Eric Margerson managed sufficient self-control to visualize the past.

It was early November— four months since he had visited the "old idiot" in Harley Street— four months since he had not told that which must never be told to a living soul— the secret of the dead beside the hourglass— the secret of the Thing.

The "old idiot" had spoken of work. As if work could exorcise the scarlet-winged horror. Only dissipation, mad nights with girls and wine and music, such a night as the present, could lull the Thing with the scratching feet, the Thing whose cackled "Poverty!" drove him to a passion of reckless spending.

v

"IF YOU and I had a tenth of that fellow's income," said half-a-dozen well-groomed young men to half-a-dozen décolletée young women, "we certainly could enjoy life."

All eyes at Ciro's Club were fixed on Margerson's party as they made their way among the diners to the long table at the far end of the room. It was a biggish party— sixteen in all; and the long table had been lavishly prepared for it. Flowers banked red and yellow above the oysters and the cocktail glasses. The maitre d'hôtel stood expectant. Magnums of the best were already cooling in their ice-buckets.

Nesta Thring was glad of the buzz which greeted their entrance, glad of the lavishness, glad— above all— for the sudden yellow out-blaze of light in the roof as they sat down. Here were no shadows, only forgetfulness. She had been a fool to hide herself so long....

Except for a tell-tale line or so under her eyes, the girl looked almost her young self. To Margerson, sitting between her and Eileen Appleby, she seemed positively radiant. He forgot the remainder of his guests— almost forgot himself— in admiration of the dimpled shoulders peeping from the gold frock, of the smooth hair, the rounded arms, and expressive fingers. He whispered to Eileen: "I didn't quite catch your friend's name"; heard it, began an aimless conversation.

She answered his questions cautiously; seemed averse from chatter. He judged her rather a sober-sides; liked her none the less for that.

The meal progressed. Talk grew louder about them. Music sprayed the room. Wine circulated, bubbling. Coffee came, and liqueurs. Tobacco fumed. They were clearing the centre table from the floor. Music blared. Dancing-time began.

"Shall we?" asked Margerson, laying his half-smoked cigar on the coffee-saucer.

"Not yet. If you don't mind. I'd so much rather watch the first one."

Nesta's voice was still low, controlled. The wine had not moved her. Cigarette between parted lips, she eyed the dancers. They, the dancers, brought things back to one. Was it fair, was it fair to the dead, that she should have come? Pain crept up behind the widening pupils of her grey eyes.

THEY were alone at the table now, silent. And suddenly Margerson grew aware of the Thing.

Never before had the Thing dared itself in such surroundings. Always, while he danced, it waited for him at home. Then why, to-night of all nights, should he hear the scratching feet through the slither of the dancers?

The scratching feet slithered near and nearer, till he knew the horror perching— scarlet-pinioned and malignant— close to the dimpled shoulders of the girl at his side. The Thing was counting the cost of the dinner he had given. "Eighty pounds," cackled the Thing. "Sand in an hourglass." Margerson shivered, signalled the maitre d'hôtel, drew a hundred-pound note from his pocket-book, and said: "Don't bother about bringing the bill." Then he returned to Nesta.

"I insist on your dancing with me, Miss Thring." Couldn't she see the horror— the horror at her left shoulder?

"I— I really don't want to, Mr. Margerson." Didn't he know, surely everyone in London knew, why it wouldn't be decent of her to dance? "I wonder— I wonder if you'd think it awfully rude of me if I went home?"

"She can see it," thought Margerson. "That's why she won't dance with me. That's why she wants to go home." Aloud he said, sullenly: "I've stuck it for three years. You ought to be able to put up with it for one evening."

The maitre d'hôtel came back with his change— twenty pounds. He waved the man away. Why didn't the girl say something? Why did she stare and stare at him? He almost screamed at her: "It isn't my fault if you see it. I didn't make the Thing. It was made for me."

"Don't!" The control in Nesta's voice snapped as dry twigs across a man's knee. "Don't talk about him. I thought he'd stop in the studio. I oughtn't to have come. Let me go back. Get me a taxi, and let me go back."

He caught at her bare arm as she rose. "Don't go. Let me go. He— God knows why you call the thing 'he'— won't stop if I don't."

She gazed down, affrighted, into his blue eyes; saw them crazy as she felt her own. "I don't know what you mean, unless you, too— "

Margerson sprang to his feet. In his distraught brain the dancing-place was a blazing cage of scarlet wings. He could hear the Thing screaming at him, see its beak already gouging at the grey eyes of the girl. "Let's get away!" he shouted at her— "let's get away from it!"

Syncopated jazz-time drowned the shout of Margerson's voice; dancing heads scarcely noticed the pair as they fled across the parquet.

vi

MARGERSON'S mind held only vaguest recollections of their flight from Ciro's. He knew that Nesta had left him for a moment to get her cloak, that he had cursed at not finding his car, that she had given some address to the taxi-driver. All else— even the horror— was a blank behind driving rain.

The rain drove and drove, lashing at the windows of their vehicle, blurring the street-lamps to kaleidoscopic spangles of orange and silver. The girl had averted herself. He did not dare speak to her. The hands on her lap were clenched about the white gloves. The feet in the gold shoes arched with tension. She was all tension— wires drawn to breaking-point. He touched her arm; felt the muscles flexed, hard as stone. The rain drove and drove at them. They drove, rigid as statues, through the driving rain.

Their taxi stopped, and she made a movement to get out. He said: "Wait a moment; I'd better pay him," fumbled for money, half-expecting that she would protest.

But Nesta Thring was beyond protestations. Across that rain-beaten courtyard, down that half-lit passage, in the bare studio at end of the passage, waited the shadows. To-night she no longer dared face the shadows alone.

Margerson, following her at a run, felt the rain on his face, felt glad for the coolth of the rain.

A lamp burned in the fan-light above the studio door. In the beam of the light the girl's grey eyes showed like the eyes of a sleepwalker. She found her key, let them in. Margerson saw that every electric in the studio was ablaze. And when, leaving him for a moment, she passed through a door at the end of the studio, he saw that— there, too— shone unshaded electrics.

He took off his sopped hat, his wet overcoat; laid them on a divan. Anthracite burned in the big stove. Heavy curtains had been drawn across the high north windows. It was warm in the studio, unpleasantly warm, he thought, and desolate! Canvases turned to the walls— empty easels— dusty draperies, as though the ghost of a dead painter had forbidden the living to work.

But at least the horror had not followed them through the rain. The horror must have returned to his own flat— to the other place where a soul in darkness tried to stave off darkness with a blaze of lamps.

HE SAID to the girl when she came back to him: "Do you keep them burning night and day?"

"No." The lines under the grey eyes showed as a fine network of pain; the lips hardly moved to their syllables. "No. I tried that. But it didn't do any good. And I was ashamed— "

"You mean, when friends came to see you."

"Yes."

"But you sleep with them on?"

"Of course. You, too?"

Margerson nodded assent.

"Hadn't you better smoke?" said the girl. "That usually does good. There's a box of cigarettes somewhere or other. I'll find them."

She moved about the room aimlessly, making curious detours from one piece of furniture to the other.

"Why do you do that?" asked Margerson irritably.

"What?"

"Zig-zag about."

"I'm afraid of running into him," said the girl. "And I can't find any cigarettes. You'll have to smoke your own."

She detoured her way back to the stove; accepted a cigarette from his case. His fingers shook as he held the match for her. They faced one another, upright, silent— two souls in Hell. At last the man spoke:

"You've tried the doctors, I suppose?"

"Only one. And he wanted to know too much. I— I hated him for pretending not to know, for trying to make me tell him. You see, he must have known really. Everybody knows about Nesta Thring. You know of course. That's why you came in with me."

"I don't." Margerson's voice was steady. For the moment his mind controlled itself. "I don't. Honour bright, I haven't got the faintest idea."

She came closer. Her eyes peered up at him. "You swear that.... On your honour. Then I'll tell you. It may help. The doctor said it would help. But he was only pretending not to know— Give me another cigarette."

He gave her the cigarette, and she began to speak, half to herself, half to him.

"I'm Nesta Thring. Everybody except— I've forgotten your name— but everybody except you knows about Nesta Thring. She was going to be married. I mustn't tell you his name. That wouldn't be fair. But he was a painter and he wanted to marry Nesta. And Nesta Thring promised. That was the beastly part of if; she promised. The coroner made her admit— "

"The coroner?" Margerson's face twitched.

"Of course? There had to be a coroner. You see, when Nesta Thring broke her promise, when she told him that she couldn't marry a poor man, he"— Margerson, bending down, only just caught the low words— "he killed himself. Poor Nesta! It wasn't her fault. She never thought when she told him. And she's paid for it. A hundred times over she's paid for it. He made her pay for it. Every night he sits and watches her. And to-night—" The voice broke in her throat; she put out a hand to him, and he caught at it, as a man drowning might catch at a thrown rope.

"Go on!" he prompted. "What happened to-night?"

"He followed me out. He was in the courtyard when Eileen came to fetch me. Eileen couldn't see him. I thought he'd gone back to the studio. But he hadn't. He followed me. You saw him at the dance." Her fingers clutched. "You did see him?"

And suddenly Margerson laughed, a high-pitched, quavering laugh, a madman's laugh.

"Him? Him? Of course I didn't see him. Why should I? I saw the parrot. It was trying to scratch your eyes out. That's why I took you away."

"The parrot?" Now fear had its way with Nesta Thring. Her legs shook under the gold frock. And yet, this was a different fear. Physical! Almost a relief after the shadowy apprehensions of the mind!

"Yes. The parrot. The poor old governor's parrot. It wasn't really a parrot. It was a macaw. Scarlet! Its wings were all scarlet, and its feet scratched. He said in his letter that I ought to sell the parrot. That it was worth thirty shillings."

"Who said?" Somehow the haze of many months had cleared from Nesta's mind. She knew herself still afraid, yet with a pleasant fear. Physical! Intelligible! Fear of the man whose laugh still rang in her ears.

"The governor, of course."

"Your father?"

"Yes." Margerson began laughing again. "Would you like to hear about him? It's a lovely story. I've never told it to anyone before. But you're haunted, too. So it doesn't matter. And besides"— his voice dropped, grew cunning— "we didn't have a coroner. Nobody knows anything, except myself and the parrot. I thought I'd killed the parrot. But it won't die. They never do— when they've got scarlet wings."

He gripped her hand, and the grip hurt. But Nesta did not cry out. Better the grip of a maniac's hand, the sound of a maniac's voice, than solitude among the shadows.

She wondered, as he began to speak, what could have happened to the shadows. There were no shadows in the studio, only a blaze of raw light under which she, Nesta Thring, stood gripped by a madman.

"You're a pretty woman," said the madman. "Too pretty to kill yourself. But, of course, you will kill yourself. We all do— in the end. My governor did. Mad as a hatter, of course. Poor old governor. He thought he was ruined. That was his horror— Money. I've seen him running up and down the office, swearing we were going bankrupt, swearing the clerks were stealing the postage stamps. Funny! Because he left a couple of millions— when he killed himself. I suppose it was my fault in a way. I used to laugh at him. You couldn't help laughing, especially about the clock. I haven't told you about the clock—"

He stopped for a moment; and it came to Nesta— how, she did not know— that his voice altered; became the voice of an old man.

"If only I weren't so tired, I could tell you a lot about the clock. It stood in the governor's bedroom. A grandfather clock. Tick! Tick! Tick! You know the kind. He said the ticking prevented his going to sleep. Silly old governor, as if anyone ever did go to sleep. You and I don't, do we? So we moved it into the study, where the parrot was."

The grip on Nesta's fingers relaxed.

"But he took a dislike to it. He said he wouldn't live with any damn' clock. Clocks made too much noise. He wanted an hourglass. So we bought him one.... He'd given up the business by then. I made him. You see, he didn't want to pay the wages. You've no idea what a fight I had about the wages— every week— every single week, till he gave it up. I was glad when he gave it up.... And then, of course, he killed himself."

In the raw glare Margerson's blue eyes showed as the eyes of a sleepwalker, as Nesta's eyes had shown.

"You're rather like what I remember of my mother. You're much too pretty to kill yourself. I shouldn't if I were you. It's only when you don't tell people that it's so bad. The old idiot in Harley Street knew that. I told him it came from the crash. It didn't, of course. The crash only re-started it. One loses control, you know. I kept it under for years— till the crash. But I can't keep it under control any more. That's why I'm telling you. I used to go and see him every evening, after office hours.

"He was funny— little old man in a dressing-gown, with his hourglass, and his macaw, and his 'Well, Eric; made any money to-day, Eric? Can you lend your father any money to-day, Eric?' But the last time I went, he didn't say anything at all. He was dead, you see. Dead as a doornail. And the sand had run out of the hourglass; and the parrot had got out of its cage. There was a letter, of course, to say why he'd done it. 'No more money. Not a bob in the house.' That's what he wrote. You'll write a letter when you do it. One simply has to write a letter. I've written three already. You'll burn them for me, won't you?"

The man's voice was failing. He staggered where he stood, and Nesta— understanding a little— helped him towards the divan.

"I burnt his— or they'd have brought it in suicide. And after the inquest I killed the parrot. Poor old parrot! But it had to be killed. It knew too much. 'Eric,' it used to cackle, 'Eric, made any money, Eric?' So I wrung its neck." Words died to a whisper. "If only— their feet— wouldn't— scratch— after you wring their necks—"

Margerson sank down on to the divan: and Nesta, bending over him, heard a boy's voice issue from the half-closed lips. "Is that you, mater?" said the boy's voice. "Nice of you to come in and say good-night. I'm most awfully sleepy. Give me a kiss before I go to sleep."

vii

EILEEN Appleby, returning anxious from Ciro's, saw Nesta Thring's door ajar, crept in. No lights burned in the studio; but a crimson glow from the anthracite stove revealed Margerson, full length on the divan, a purple cushion under his head. And by Margerson's side, watchful in a deep chair, sat Nesta.

"He's asleep," whispered Nesta. "You mustn't turn the lights on. You mustn't wake him."

"But, my dear— "

"Hush! You don't know. Pray God that you never will know. He's been down into the valley of the shadow. But I'm going to save him, Eileen. And I'm going to save myself. Don't you understand? If he's saved, I'm saved too. A life for a life."

But neither then nor thereafter did Eileen Appleby understand. To Eileen Appleby and the friends of Eileen Appleby it always seems that "Nesta was damned lucky to marry a millionaire— especially after that other business."

___________________

21: Servant of Satan

Otis Adelbert Kline

1891-1946

Strange Stories, Feb 1939.

TIME is said to be a great healer— a bringer of forgetfulness of pain, and tribulation, and horror. But I cannot think back to that fateful evening two years ago without a shudder of revulsion— without again feeling myself in the grip of the ancient and incredibly malignant creatures known as Elementals.

Those Elementals— blasphemous monstrosities which orthodox science will tell you do not and cannot exist— were known to the ancients, described in their writings, depicted in their paintings and sculptures. And those of them with which I came to such horrible grips in this, our twentieth century, were restored to their immemorial and terrible power by the evil machinations of one modern man.

I felt and saw them then. I even smelled the charnel reptilian odor that emanated from their foul bodies as they materialized.

Aye, they are all around us in our daily lives. But they are unable to manifest themselves to us without human help— without living mediums from whom to suck the strength they require for their hideous and revolting materializations. God help— and God alone can help— the person who gives way to them; who lets them gain dominion over him.

I THOUGHT that I, Tom Carter, was the happiest man in the world that Friday afternoon, two years ago, when I locked my desk and prepared to say good-by to the gang at the office. For five years I had slaved in order to work my way up to the job of assistant general manager of the Brinkman Express Company. And I had slaved with a double purpose.

April Harris and I had fallen in love five years before when our desks adjoined in the Manhattan Business College— April, with her big violet eyes and honey-colored hair. And now at last we were to be married.

Half a dozen of the boys rode down the elevator with me, waved me off as I climbed into the cab and slammed the door. "Three Stuyvesant Place," I told the driver. "Down in the Village. Make it snappy and I'll go heavy on the tip."

He made a swift U-turn in the middle of the block that flung me back into the corner, then speeded south on Park Avenue. He knew his business and it wasn't long before we turned into the comparatively quiet Stuyvesant Place, where April's Greenwich Village apartment was located. My heart beat joyfully. Yet underneath, was there a premonition of evil? Maybe I'm reading back into it something that wasn't there— not at that moment anyway. I don't know.

And it meant nothing special to me, when, as we lurched around the corner, I saw a big shiny black limousine pull away from the curb in front of us. It roared away, a big luxurious Isotta with drawn curtains, that must have cost a small fortune. Vehicles of that sort were rare in this neighborhood.

Yet how was I to dream that this particular one had any special significance for me? Did any mental shudder come to warn me, any spinal chill? Perhaps. But if it did, I mistook it for a thrill of happiness. My mind was too full of April, and of the joy I believed we were soon to have together.

My cab stopped with an abruptness that threw me forward and knocked my hat askew. I didn't mind. I gave the driver a five spot, told him to keep the change, flung the door open, dashed across the sidewalk and up the steps. I jabbed the bell button and waited.

There was no response. I could hear the bell ringing in April's second floor apartment. I thought perhaps April was having her bath and couldn't get to the buzzer just then. A delivery boy from the corner delicatessen came out, carrying an empty box. Evidently he had just made a delivery of groceries. I recognized him.

"Hello, Bob," I said.

"Hello, Mr. Carter," he answered— and his next words, usually spoken, were like the blow of a fist: "Looking for Miss Harris? I just saw her go out with a man."

"What!" I cried. "What man! Where!"

"Never saw him before," Bob answered. "Dressed like a million bucks, but all in black. Had a big car parked out in front, too, and a chauffeur in black livery."

"But his face, Bob?" I cried, worried and perplexed. "What did he look like?"

"Like the devil," he answered amazingly. "And I'm not cussing, Mr. Carter. It's just how he looked— like one of those pictures of Meph— Meph— "

"Mephistopheles," I broke in impatiently.

"Yeah, Mr. Carter. Black hair that came down to a point in front— eyebrows slanting upward— glittering black eyes. Sort of gave me the shivers when I saw him. I couldn't imagine where Miss Harris would be going with a guy like that."

I darted past him and bounded up the stairs. Perhaps he had been mistaken— had taken some other girl for April in the dimly lit hallway.

But the door of April's apartment stood wide open. I knew she never left it that way. I entered. The place was in disorder. Her new steamer trunk— a gift from me— was closed and locked. But her two bags stood open, only partly packed. I looked into the bath room. The shower curtain was wet and still dripping. The wet marks of April's small bare feet were on the bath mat. Her negligee hung over the chair.

APRIL had left! On the eve of our wedding!

I was like a man distraught, running hither and thither about the apartment, peering here, peering there. Suddenly I stopped. My frightened eyes had glimpsed a note lying in the middle of the coffee table, held down by a tiny ash tray. It was addressed to me. Reading it, my happy world crashed about me, my visions of joy splintered into tragic grief:

Dear Tom:

By the time you read this I will be gone to where you will never see me again— gone with the man I really love. Perhaps I should have remained to face you and have it out. But on second thought, I decided that this would be the easier and kinder way.

Good-by and good luck.

April.

I was stunned— uncomprehending. I fell back upon the studio couch. A pin stuck me, and I became dumbly aware that I was sitting on a newly pressed gown to which was attached a fresh corsage of orchids— the orchids I had sent to April. The pin that held them had pricked me. Savagely, I hurled it into a corner. I spread the crumpled note on the coffee table and read it once more— to convince myself I was not dreaming. Thank God I did so!

April and I had taken secretarial courses, had both learned shorthand. I hadn't used mine for nearly three years, but the rigid training I had received in the business college had done its work well.

Now I suddenly recognized, attached to the very first word, the shorthand character for the sound "p." What could it mean? I looked at the next word and there was the character which indicated the sound "s." P. S. A message within a message! I drew an envelope from my pocket— the envelope which contained our marriage license— and rapidly transcribed the symbols on the back.

When I was done, I had the following ominous message which had been blended in terse shorthand characters with the original note:

Pasquale forcing me write this. Taking me away don't know where. Torturing me. Horrible threats. Wire noose around my neck. Suffering and deathly afraid, but thinking only of you dear. Find me quickly. His license number 126-8347 A.

His license number! The only clue. The swift picture flashed through my mind— she, sitting at her writing desk by the window— a kidnapper, resembling the Devil, strangling her and dictating what she wrote— she, seeing the waiting car outside, noting down the license number!

And Pasquale! Pasquale could only be one man! Pasquale Sarasini! My most persistent rival during my schoolboy romance with April! The description of the delivery boy fitted him perfectly. He had taken a book-keeping course, hence had not learned shorthand. I had almost forgotten him in the intervening years— had even forgotten the malignant threats he had mouthed when he came upon April and me suddenly, one day, in the empty classroom after school, and saw us in each other's arms.

April had broken with him completely the day before. He had seemed to take it calmly, hiding his chagrin and disappointment. But that afternoon, seeing the proof that she loved another, he had said through hate-whitened lips:

"I'll see that you suffer the tortures of the damned for this, April."

I had not seen Pasquale after that, nor had April, for nearly four years. But then we heard rumors. He was delving into the occult, mystifying scientists. His picture began to appear in American and British papers. His fame spread to continental Europe. At first he acted as a materialization medium, giving private seances. Later he went on the stage, producing illusions.

THEY were not illusions— I know that now.

He became famous, rich, sought after. He was billed as "Sarasini the Great." He got motion picture contracts at fabulous prices. Wealthy people patronized his private seances. They came away with amazing tales, not only of their loved ones materialized before their eyes, but of strange monsters and creatures like those depicted in ancient tombs and writings.

There was the cat-headed Bast of the ancient Egyptians, which talked to them in a mewing voice. There was the ibis-headed Thoth, scribe of the gods— hawk-headed Horus, son of Isis and Osiris. There was the Lamia of Greek legend, a serpent that became a woman and once more turned into a serpent before the eyes of its auditors, a seven-headed hydra, a Gorgon with snaky locks.

During the seances, Sarasini played an instrument of his own invention— a sort of combination piano and organ. The music was weird and uncanny, of his own composition, and he stated that it was necessary to the materialization of his creatures, which he claimed really existed in another plane. Also, there were two tall poles, surmounted by rectangular caps. It was said that these were somehow connected with the instrument, and that materializations took place only between these poles, as if some electrical force were involved, the force traveling between them as a static spark leaps the gap between the knob of a Leyden jar and a conductor brought within range.

Sarasini made enemies in his profession. One spiritualistic medium and profound student of the occult, accused him publicly of being in league with Satan. And Sarasini had coolly admitted it!

In another generation he would have been burned at the stake; the horrors that he perpetrated would have been blotted out forever. But in this so-called "enlightened" generation, when all such things are scoffed at, it only created a sensation in the press— and was duly tagged by astute columnists as a publicity stunt. My God! How far it was from a mere publicity stunt I have reason to know!

Then, at the height of his career Sarasini retired from public life, disappeared from the sight and ken of men. A year passed.

And now— and now he had suddenly to claim the vengeance he had sworn more than five years before!

All this flashed through my mind as I frantically dialed the police. Swiftly, I requested the desk sergeant to give me the name and address attached to the license number April had written down. I told him who I was— the manager of the Brinkman Express Company. We often gave employment to ex-policemen. The sergeant snapped that he would get me the information.

I didn't tell him what had happened because I felt that this was a matter requiring discreet attention rather than the brusque tactics of the police. I think I was frightened at the thought of April disappearing completely, mysteriously, should the law intervene. It seemed an age before the phone rang.

The sergeant called back a moment later— it seemed ages to me. On the back of the envelope containing our marriage license I jotted down the name he gave me— Pablo Simister. Pasquale Sarasini hadn't changed his initials, at any rate, even if he had changed his name. The address was the penthouse at an uptown number on Riverside Drive near Washington Park.

Jamming my hat down on my head, I dashed downstairs and sprinted to the nearest subway kiosk, choosing that mode of transportation as the quickest. Two minutes later I was hurtling northward on the express. It reached One Hundred and Eighty-first Street Station at last.

I got off, dashed through the turnstile and up the steps, then over to Riverside Drive. I reached the apartment building, entered the foyer.

THERE WERE four self-service elevators. The lights showed two were in service. I entered one of the others, closed the door, pressed the top button. A few moments later the cage stopped, the door opened automatically. I stepped out. A stairway led upward at my left.

I climbed it, stood on the landing, and manipulated the brass knocker. I noticed that it was shaped like the head of a Medusa, with snaky locks. The door, I observed, was of steel, but painted and paneled to resemble wood.

I heard no sound on the other side. I knocked again. Before I could release the Medusa-headed knocker, the door swung silently open. Behind it stood a man in black butler's livery— black trimmed with silver. His face was completely concealed by a black mask— a domino with a sort of veil that hung down beneath it. His head was covered by a black hood. Startled though I was, I stepped forward so as to be able to block the door with my foot and knee, and said with simulated jocularity:

"Ah! A masquerade, I see. Is Mr. Simister in? I'm an old schoolmate of his— from out of town. Thought I'd drop in and say 'hello'."

"I'm sorry, sir; Mr. Simister is not at home," he replied politely.

"If you're expecting him soon I might step in and wait."

"I'm afraid I couldn't permit that, sir," he replied. "You see the master is exceedingly busy today, and I have orders to admit no one. Perhaps tomorrow—"

He started to close the door, but I blocked it with my foot. I did more; I uncorked a left for the spot beneath that black veil where I judged the point of his jaw would be. As ill luck would have it his jaw was shorter than I thought. My knuckles only grazed it. Then, before I could recover my balance, I felt my wrist caught in a grip of steel.

"I wouldn't do that, sir," he said, calmly. "You might hurt yourself."

Desperately I jerked my wrist toward me, and as the butler was gripping it tightly, he came with it. His other hand was still on the doorknob. Before he could get it up I gave him a right uppercut. His head snapped back, and he let go of my wrist. I drove a left and right to his solar plexus, doubled him up, then a left hook to the jaw that spun him around and broke his hold on the door. He fell on his face.

Softly I closed the door, then bent over him cautiously. He might be shamming. I stripped the hood and mask from his head. He appeared to be a Latin. He was out cold— the eyes turned upward and inward.

I looked around quickly. I was in a long hallway draped to the ceiling with black velvet hangings, like a sound-proofed radio room. Not a door was visible except the one through which I had just come. And that, I saw, could be rendered invisible, also, by two drapes now drawn up on either side and caught with silver cords.

There were places where the hangings overlapped. I went to the first of these, drawing it back, saw a door, which opened inward. It was a cloak room. Swiftly, I dragged the unconscious butler inside, and as swiftly divested him of his livery. Then I removed my own clothing and put on his. I bound him with the stout silver cords which hung on either side of the doorway, and which could be used, when required, for holding back the drapes. Then I gagged and locked him in.

I found no other doors until I reached the end of the hallway. Here, double doors opened into a spacious, modernistically furnished living room. The walls, like those of the hallway, were completely concealed by black velvet hangings.

I was about to go back and take my post before the door, when the drapes at the opposite side of the room suddenly parted, and a man stepped through.

I recognized him, instantly. He was in evening clothes, and had not changed greatly since I had last seen him. There was still that diabolical expression, those uptilted brows and glittering black eyes.

"Did you get rid of our caller, Dominick?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I replied, mimicking the voice of the butler, while my heart pounded. "He's gone, sir."

He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Mix my cocktail," he ordered.

I had previously noted the liquor cabinet standing against the drapes at my left— an ornate thing of ebony and silver. I recalled that his favorite cocktail during our school days had been a Martini, with an extra dash of orange bitters, but without the olive. Strange to say, he, a Latin, detested olives, and could not even stand food cooked in olive oil. I mixed the drink.

I thought I was getting away with it, but—

"Get 'em up, Carter," his voice said behind me, and I felt something hard prodding my back.

"Clever," he drawled. "Damn' clever. You almost got away with it. But it so happens that since last year, I've been allergic to gin. Get your hands together over your head."

Perforce I obeyed, and he snapped on a pair of handcuffs. Then he stripped off the hood and mask and ordered me to turn around.

"You haven't changed much, Carter," he said. "Still built like a battleship, with a mug like the Great Stone Face. I don't see how the devil you traced me here so quickly. But it doesn't matter, now. All that matters is that you're here. Sit down."

I seated myself in a black-upholstered chair. He sat down on the davenport, and slipped the automatic back into his shoulder holster.

"You've come for April, of course," he said.

"Clever of you to guess it," I answered him.

"What have you done with Dominick? Did you kill him?"

"Knocked him cold and tied him up."

"So? Well, he can stay that way for awhile. Perhaps it will teach him not to be so careless again. I suppose you realize that you're in a tight spot— that I can kill you and get away with it. No one will ever trace you here."

"That's where you're wrong," I lied as calmly as I could. "The police not only know I'm here. They actually gave me your address. If you'll release April at once—"

"Just a moment, Carter. Not so fast." He raised a slim white hand. "April has gone to a place where even I can't bring her back— permanently. I can only bring her temporarily— from the different plane in which she now resides."

I HALF rose from my chair, straining at my shackles, longing to reach his throat. "You mean you've killed her?"

He jerked the automatic from the holster. "Back into your seat, Carter. That's better." He laid the gun on the table top.

"No, I haven't killed her. I have transformed her. She is in a different and superior plane of existence. I have powers of which you do not dream, Carter. People have accused me of being in league with the devil. It is true.

"Aye. Satan is my master. He has made me what I am. I was baptized— but not by a priest of the church. When the time came for my baptism, both of my parents were ill— a flu epidemic. My nurse, an Arab girl, was a Yezidi— a secret worshiper of Satan. They call him Malik Taus in their language, because they fear to pronounce his real name— Shaitan.

"She took me to her own priest— deceived my parents— and I was baptized into the cult of the Yezidis. Later, I sat at the feet of their priest— Shaykh Ibrahim— drank in his teachings, absorbed his knowledge, mastered the esoteric truths that the worshipers themselves do not know, truth that is reserved for adepts alone.

"When I had learned all that the Shaykh could teach me, I went on by myself. Delved into the ancient writings of all peoples— athirst for greater knowledge. After many trials and failures, I learned how to summon the Master himself. He came, and made a pact with me— dictating the terms, to which I acceded. My soul in exchange for a temporal power such as no man has ever before enjoyed. He summoned seven of his creatures to be my servants— to work my will.

"Enough of that. April is here in this room— now— but you cannot see her. Perhaps you can see her a little if she makes a supreme effort."

HE TURNED his glittering eyes to a point beside my chair.

"April, show yourself," he commanded.

Suddenly my left side felt cold— as if all of the heat had been drawn out of it. There was a cold breeze blowing against my face, as from an underground burial vault suddenly opened up. And there came to my nostrils a dank, musty, reptilian odor— incredibly foul.

Horror of horrors! A tiny whirlpool of gray mist began forming on the floor before my eyes. It enlarged until it was five feet tall. Streamers of mist, like arms, extended from it. Two black orifices formed in the top, not solid, but like the hollow eye-sockets of a skull.

"The great Sarisini," I mocked, even though mystic fingers of fear clutched my heart, "pulling his magic tricks! Do you mean to tell me that this apparition is April? Come again."

No, I did not believe my words. I knew there was some alien and unutterably evil presence in the room. Not April. No, not April. I could not conceive of April becoming such a creature. But it was something alive, and sinister, and incredibly loathsome.

As I spoke, the apparition suddenly disappeared. The cold breeze stopped. Once more my left side was at normal temperature. But the nauseous odor was still in my nostrils— I could still feel the invisible presence of the thing from which it had emanated.

"So you mock me— scoff at my powers," Sarisini cried. "Wait. I can't bring her back completely here, but I can with the proper equipment. You wait here. I'll show you April— let you talk with her— for only a short time. Don't try any more tricks. You are absolutely helpless— in my power."

He rose and returned the automatic to its holster. Then he said: "Watch him, my beauties," and turning on his heel, parted the black drapes and disappeared.

His last order was apparently addressed to empty air. But the air was not empty! I could feel sinister presences around me, pressing against me, watching me with hollow, cavernous eyes.

I tried to tell myself that I was the victim of a delusion. Reason came to my aid. Sarasini had forgotten one thing— my profession. Every employee and executive of the Brinkman Express Company had a pistol permit, and carried a gun when on duty. I'd forgotten to take mine off when I left the office. It was still in my hip pocket, supported by a leather holster attached to my belt, and not noticeable under the butler's coat. I moved my manacled hands around, and found that I could easily reach it with my right hand.

I wasn't yet ready to draw, however. Instead, I stood up. Then it happened. I was about to walk silently toward the opening through which the magician had disappeared, when a misty spiral shape suddenly materialized on each side of me. Again I felt the cold. In an instant, my muscles grew numb— all the strength and heat oozed out of them as though sucked. I slumped stiffly back into the chair. Instantly, the two wraiths dissolved and disappeared. Once more I grew warm, got back the use of my muscles.

I remembered Sarasini's seemingly directionless command just before he had left the room— "Watch him, my beauties." These, then, were his "beauties"— these horrid wraiths, these shapes of writhing mist, that had sucked the strength from me and then given it back, that had frozen my blood and then allowed it to grow warm again. Like the Gorgons of Greek mythology, which had supposedly had the power to turn men to stone, so these shapes had given me the promise and the threat of the same power!

Could it be? Could it be that the terrible sisters, Stheno, Euryale and Medusa had actually existed? Could it be that I was now held prisoner by similar beings?

The black drapes in front of me parted once more. Sarasini appeared. Gone were his immaculate evening clothes. In their place he wore the tight-fitting scarlet costume of Mephistopheles. The costume suited his diabolical features far better than dinner clothes.

"Release him now, my pets," he said, again apparently speaking to empty air. Then he addressed me. "Come ahead, Carter."

He held back the drape while I walked through into the next room, my hands manacled before me.

I had seen pictures of the apparatus he used on the stage, and it was now duplicated in this room, which was a small auditorium with about two dozen chairs that faced the stage.

"Take a seat in the front row, Carter," he ordered.

I did so, and he walked to the keyboard of the strange instrument he had used so often in his public performances.

"Before I begin," he said, "I'll make a deal with you. You are completely in my power, yet I have no particular reason for killing you— yet. You hate me, but so do many others I have spared. You have never wronged me. April did that. She is the one I hate, and she is paying the penalty. If I convince you that April has passed to another plane where neither you nor any other human being can reach her, will you agree to go away peaceably, and say nothing to anyone about what you have seen?"

"I'll make no compact with you," I answered.

"I'll convince you anyhow," he said coldly. "Then, perhaps, you'll change your mind. If you don't— it will be just too bad for you."

His hands pressed the keys. A peculiar wailing sound arose. It could not be called music. Not harmony, not melody, but a hideous cacophony of sound that grated on my ears, caused icy shivers to run up and down my spine, and set my teeth on edge.

It grew louder, rising and falling in waves of horrific discord. At the same time I suddenly became aware of another sound— a noise like the crackling of an electric spark between the two upright posts with their strange, rectangular caps.

Once again I saw a misty spiral forming. But this time it swiftly took human form. A halo of light gradually grew brighter about the head as it gained solidity. Within this halo I saw the formation of writhing tentacles.

The human figure became a lovely girl, scantily clad, holding a sword in her hand.

I cried out. She had the form and features of April! But her hair! Good God, her hair! A writhing mass of hissing snakes, that snapped and fought among themselves, coiling and uncoiling and darting their forked tongues from their scaly mouths!

The wailing chorus died down to a soft undertone.

The materialized, Gorgon-headed creature spoke. The voice was the voice of April!

"Go back, Tom," it said. "Go back and forget. You were foolish to follow me here. You should have heeded my letter. I am now an entirely different entity, living in a different plane. The old April whom you knew is gone— gone forever— gone beyond your reach."

The head shook, and the serpents that were the hair of it, increased their hissing and writhing.

"Would you want to take me in your arms, now, with these?" the voice asked, and her free hand pointed to the reptilian crown.

"April! April!" I cried. "I'd take you in my arms in spite of hell!"

"Sit down, you fool," said Sarasini. "Her touch, now, would mean instant death to you— a horrible, agonizing death. She is beyond your reach— forever. Show him, April— show him that you are no longer human— that you have powers that are superhuman."

Thrice the girl whirled the sword in a shimmering arc above her head. Then, with the fourth swing she brought it lower in a back-handed motion. The keen blade passed beneath her chin, severing her head from her body! With her other hand she caught the toppling head and held it aloft!

The snakes continued to writhe and hiss in the aura of light surrounding the severed head. There was no blood on the sword blade, or the cut edges of the neck. The closed eyes opened. The lips spoke.

"You see, Tom? Could any human being do this and live? Are you satisfied?"

My words, my heart, strangled in my throat. "Your message— " I choked.

"I meant it— every word," replied that incredible head. "I mean it now when I say: Leave me. Forget that I ever existed."

Then I was to learn that love could be stronger than death, than horror. My love for the April that was, fought with my horror at the April I saw. I wanted her, the old April. This horrible materialization of some hell-spawned creature that was not the girl I loved, was, and forever would be, beyond my ken. But the old April seemed to send a call into my heart— the April who had written me that secret appeal of which this creature was unaware. I whipped my gun from my pocket at last, and stood up, aiming it at Sarasini's heart.

"Stick 'em up, or by God I'll drill you," I cried.

He raised his hands from the keys of the instrument as I advanced to a place beside the apparition. The wailing ceased. Then— horror of horrors— the thing beside me hurled its severed head, with its mass of squirming, hissing snakes, full in my face. I lurched back, flinging the revolting thing from me. It had a slimy reptilian feel and smell.

As it struck the floor, the sword in the hand of the headless figure swept down, striking the gun from my hand. Sarasini whipped his automatic from his shoulder holster and fired, just as I stooped to retrieve my gun. His bullet passed over my back. Before he could fire again I shot without aiming— merely elevating the muzzle of the gun with the butt resting on the floor.

I shot to kill, but miscalculated. The bullet caught him in the groin. He doubled up with a shriek of anguish, and fell on his face— the automatic clattering from his hand.

I retrieved it. As I stood erect I saw the Gorgon apparition dissolving— turning back into a mist. The head was going through the same process. Its writhing, snaky locks became tentacles of gray mist. Then these too were withdrawn into a cloud, which moved toward the platform and joined the larger cloud that had been the body. Quickly, the whole dissolved to nothingness.

Sarasini was groaning weakly on the floor, his knees drawn up nearly to his chin, his blood staining the crimson suit a darker red as it welled from the bullet wound.

"At him, my pets," he moaned. "Freeze him. Suck the life from him."

Funnels of mist swirled all about me. There were six of them, clutching at me with their wraithlike tentacles, glaring at me with their hollow eyes. I felt as if I had suddenly been deprived of all bodily heat and strength. Frantically I fought them— fought them with every nerve and muscle in my body.

Gradually, the wraiths dissolved. The warmth returned to my body. Suddenly I knew! By wounding their master I had weakened their power!

Sarasini was groaning and cursing. There was froth on his lips. The fire was dying into embers in his eyes. Suddenly they widened with fear. And as suddenly, I saw why. Six funnel-shaped wraiths descended upon him— the apex of each touched his body.

"Back, my beauties," he groaned. "Away from me, my pets. You are attacking me— your friend and master."

But the things fastened themselves to his body like anemones growing on a submarine stone. His groans and struggles lessened. He shuddered, stiffened, lay still— his eyes began to glaze. But still the wraiths clung to him, each a good six feet tall, and all undulating lightly in the air as undersea plants move in the water.

Sarasini was on the point of death— I could see that. The life force was being sucked from him by these creatures of his that had turned on their master. But suddenly he rallied, mustered his strength. And it was now that he turned to his Master for succor.

"Shaitan! Satanas! Beelzebub! Great Lord of Darkness! Emperor of Evil! They have turned on me! I die! Save me, Master!"

I heard at that instant the most hideous sound that has ever fallen on human ears. I could not tell whence it came— it seemed to echo from all points of the compass, to come from everywhere and yet from nowhere in the room— it seemed to my ears to fill the whole world, inhuman, gloating cacodemoniacal cachinnations that resembled a cosmic mirthless laughter.

At that sound hope faded from the glazing eyes of Sarasini. Yet it flickered faintly once more, as he turned his head desperately to me.

"Carter! Help me! Drive them off! If you do, I'll help you to rescue April! I swear it, Carter! My Master has deserted me! He is greedy to claim my soul— the forfeit I promised him— "

I reacted automatically to that cry for help. I emptied my gun into the tenebrous obscenities that were leeching his life away.

"Not that, Carter!" he cried. "Bullets cannot harm them! They are immune to mortal weapons! You saw what one did with the sword. They fear only goodness, and the symbols of goodness— the sacred, symbols of the religions that worship God, the fountainhead of all good. The great seal of Solomon Baalshem, Lord of the Name; the six-pointed star inscribed with the Shem Hamphorash, Ineffable Name; the Cross— the crucifix! It is the simplest. Make a crucifix— quickly— of anything!"

I took the pencil from my pocket, broke it into two unequal pieces, lashed it in the form of a crucifix with a strip torn from my handkerchief.

"Touch my forehead with the point of the cross," Sarasini gasped. "Say: 'Anathema maranatha'."

I did as he bade me. The six undulating things that clung to him disappeared before my eyes.

I mopped Sarasini's face with my torn handkerchief.

"Brandy, Carter," he panted. "I need strength— to carry out my promise to you— before I redeem my pledge to Satan."

I ran into the other room, brought back the brandy bottle and glass. Then I poured a stiff three fingers and supported his head while he drank it.

He sighed, and the color came back to his face, the glaze receded from his eyes.

"April is in the next room," he said, "in a coma— possessed by one of my seven Elementals. That's why there were only six in here. Take the cross and the brandy— you'll need both— and do with her as you did with me. Here, take my keys. First, let me unlock your handcuffs."

As the handcuffs fell from my wrists, he selected the key to the door, and pressed it into my hand.

God be thanked, I found April, half reclining on a chaise longue in a luxuriously furnished bedroom. She was in what I at first took to be a drugged sleep. But her eyes were staring beneath her half closed lids.

Lightly I tapped her on the forehead with the crucifix and repeated the words: "Anathema maranatha."

A gray, funnel-shaped wisp started up from the place I had touched. With incredible rapidity it grew, elongated. Then it detached itself, and, whirling away like a miniature waterspout, disappeared beyond the black curtains in the doorway.

And dear April opened her eyes, smiled up at me under the fringe of her long lashes. She held up her arms, and as I bent over her they went around my neck. Our lips met— and clung.

Presently, I asked: "Can you walk, dear, or shall I carry you?"

"I can walk— in a minute or so," she replied.

I poured her a sip of brandy. Strengthened, she went with me into the next room.

Sarasini was propped up on one elbow. He asked for another drink of brandy and I poured it for him. He took it at a gulp.

"My minutes are numbered," he said in a low, sad voice. "When my life has ebbed away my Master will claim the soul which I have sold to him. You wronged me once, April, and I have hated you for it— hated you through the years. But you have suffered and paid— and the debt is wiped out.

"As death approaches, a new understanding comes to me. I have a new, and greater hate. My Elementals, which derived their strength from me and from the machine which I created for them under the direction of my Master, turned against me.

"I suspected that some day they might do so. I controlled them, yet I could feel that they were watching and waiting for the chance to turn on me. I was like an animal trainer in a cage of wild beasts, not knowing when or how I would be attacked."

He paused, asked for a cigarette. I lighted one for him.

"They brought me power and wealth," he went on, "and now they have brought me death. I could have survived your bullet, had it not been for their attack on me. I hate them. With your help, I'll break their power forever— the power I gave them.

"I have the knowledge— you the strength. Look in the room behind the instrument board— then do as I bid you. There you will find seven girls, connected with the instrument. I abducted them, one by one, hypnotized them, and turned them into mediums.

"Their bodies are the dwellings of my Elementals— their earthly homes. And they are not only the source of their power, but supply the mediumistic force which— amplified by my machine— make it possible for one Elemental at a time to materialize solidly between its poles, in almost any desired form. One of their favorite forms is one of the Gorgon, as you have seen.

"My time is short and I am going fast. Release those girls from the possession of the Elementals as you released April. They have suffered, and are suffering. I had intended to put April in the place of one who will soon die. But, through the power and mercy of the symbol in your hand, they will forget, even as she has forgotten, the agonies they now suffer. Disconnect them from the machine. Do this quickly. Then return to me."

April and I went into the room behind the fiendish instrument that was the product of Sarasini's perverted and devil-directed brain. There we saw seven pedestals, and on each a beautiful young girl, covered only with a scarlet, diaphanous drape. A leather band passed around the head of each, clamping an electrode to each temple. These electrodes were connected by wires to the instrument on which Sarasini had played his ugly discords.

"Give me the crucifix," said April.

I handed it to her, and while she touched, one by one, the possessed girls, I removed the electrodes from their heads.

Leaving April to care for them, I returned to the instrument room. Sarasini was now lying on his back, breathing stertorously. The death rattle was in his throat.

"Smash it," he whispered hoarsely. "Destroy the machine! Break it to bits!"

I picked up the stool and smashed that hell-spawned instrument until it was unrecognizable. I ripped all of the wires loose, and broke the connection between the smashed instrument and the two poles.

There isn't much more to tell.

I was not accused of murder because the evidence showed I had come to rescue April, and had been attacked. Dominick got a prison term for kidnaping, as an accessory. And we were forced to postpone our honeymoon until after his trial.

Then we decided not to go to Europe as we had originally intended. Instead, we took a cottage in Maine. Great stuff, that Maine air. Now there are two Aprils in my home. I'm back on the job, working like a beaver to save enough for the college education of April the Second.

But I have not forgotten the writhing shapes, the charnel reptilian smells. I shall carry the memory of them to my grave.

_______________

22: Tramp

Dick Moreland

Australian Women's Weekly 6 Feb 1937

Dick Moreland (probably a pseudonym) flourished briefly as a short story writer between 1934 and 1941. Little else is known. The titles of some his stories suggest a Hollywood background:  "Back Lot"; "Murder on Stage Three"; etc. This story involves a Chaplinesque movie actor and a stray dog.

IT was time for the great John Dax to make another picture. And he was worried. Since his "Sawdust," two years ago, he had done nothing. The public demanded another Dax comedy.

It was late at night and Dax was motoring alone through silent streets. He drove automatically, for his mind was deep in the problem of his next picture.

There was a yelp from under the wheels. Brakes screeched as the roadster slid to a stop. John Dax leaped out and ran back to see what had happened.

He had run over a dog. It was a dirty little dog, a tattered, whim-pering, pathetic puppy. It lay on its back with one leg dangling limply.

Dax was struck by a sudden compassion for the creature.

"Some boy's dog," he thought. "Should have watched where I was going."

He picked up the dog very tenderly and deposited it on the seat beside him. Then he drove swiftly to the Ambassador Dog Hospital.

The Ambassador resembled a large hotel. It was beautiful, scientifically run, and very, very expensive. It boasted private rooms for the patients with an attendant nurse. The dogs of famous movie stars all went to the Ambassador when indisposed.

Dax turned the dog over to the night doctor. "Give it the best," he instructed. "Broken leg, I think. Fix it up and then advertise for the owner. Send the bill to me."

"Certainly, sir. Yes, sir. The animal will have the best attention, sir. We will let you know when we find the owner, sir." The night doctor recognised Dax, and was anxious to please.

On his way home he got to thinking about the dog. His mind drew pictures of the owner. A boy and his dog— a man and his dog. What was the peculiar relationship between a man and a dog? Companionship. Trust. Loyalty. A man shared that feeling with no other animal.

When he got home Dax sat thinking for a long time. Then he began to jot down notes. Gradually the story took form. "The Tramp," that would be the title. The Tramp had a dog. The two shared many adventures together— travelled all over the country. Many a time when the Tramp was hungry the dog would go foraging and bring back a crust, perhaps a bone.

THE Tramp had found the dog— saved it from drowning, perhaps. He didn't know that his pup was the son of a great international champion. Dax began to get the feel of the story. He was enthusiastic. He could see the angle now.

The Tramp is told that his dog is very valuable. A kennel owner wants to buy the dog at a big price. The Tramp refuses to sell. Later there would be complications. The Tramp's little cripple sister would need an operation— perhaps his old mother at home would be starving. Something sympathetic.

Dax reached for the telephone and called the studio manager; "That you, Jim? We start production in the morning. Title of the new picture is 'The Tramp.' Get the staff together and be ready to work at ten o'clock."

The studio manager was overjoyed. The staff (twenty-six people, including a script girl), had been waiting two years, on salary, for just this moment.

The next day Dax began to cast. The first thing he wanted was the dog. The call went out. Dogs began to arrive at the studio. Big dogs. Little dogs. Police dogs. Poodles. Dogs that could count up to ten. Dogs that barked answers to questions. Dogs that could walk like a man. Dogs that took direction either by voice or arm signals. Mutts. Thoroughbreds. Low-salaried dogs and high-salaried dogs, each accompanied by its master or trainer, sometimes by an agent with a legal contract.

By noon Dax had selected a dog. It was a high-class, high-salaried, highly-bred, high-sounding animal. Sir Henry of Dunsmuir was the name of the dog. It was a wire-haired fox-terrier and its ancestry could be traced back through ten generations of aristocrats.

Dax explained the idea of the story to the dog's owner. "We'll have to dirty him up a little. The dog is a champion, but I'm not supposed to know it at first. I think he's just an ordinary dog."

"This dog." said the owner, "has twelve points on his American championship. He was sired by—"

"Rub some dust into his coat," replied Dax. "Muss up his whiskers. We don't want his pedigree to show in the first part of the picture."

THAT afternoon they made the first sequence. Dax was happy; happy, for the first time in two years. Even the make-up on his face felt good. When he put on this outfit it trans-formed him from a serious, greyeyed man into a delightfully whimsical little fellow with a funny hat. loose coat, long baggy trousers, big shoes. He became the great John Dax. the idol of millions of people, the beloved comical figure which brought laughter and tears to all the races of the world.

They made the rescue scene first. The dog could act. He had a grave, courtly, dignified manner and did exactly as he was told. Jim, the studio manager, went around rubbing his hands together with delight. Bill and Oscar. Dax's two cameramen, grinned at each other. They knew a story when they met it. This was it. This was the big picture. Human interest. A theme which would appeal to everybody. Who didn't love a dog? Was there an audience in the world which wouldn't react to this story? Dax had done it again.

A WEEK went by. Another week. One night Dax and Jim sat watching the rushes in the studio projection room. Dax was quiet, pensive, troubled. The picture slid smoothly across the screen. There was Dax with his inimitable walk, moving from one scene into the next. There was the dog trotting at his heels. But something was wrong.

"What's the matter with it?" asked Jim.

"The dog," said Dax. "He doesn't like me. He's not my dog. He keeps remembering his owner, who is standing just out of range of the camera."

"When you call him, he comes," Jim pointed out.

"Not because he likes me or wants to come." Dax added. "He's not my dog. Throw this film away. We'll have to start over again."

"What are we going to do?" asked Jim.

"I wish I had a dog," said Dax. "Then I could use him in the picture."

Jim looked around but was too late to catch the expression on Dax's face.

Why, Dax had everything. That great house in Beverly Hills, more money than any one man could spend. He was world famous. Had been decorated by three governments. True, he had been unfortunate in his marriage. There were no children. His wife had died. He lived alone. Had few friends. Well, a man can't expect everything out of life. There has to be a balance somewhere.

"Maybe," said Dax, "I do own a dog. I'll go find out." He had just thought of the tattered little creature he had left at the Am-bassador Dog Hospital.

The same night doctor was on duty. "Funny about that dog," he told Dax. "We've advertised in all the papers. Haven't had an answer. He's a good dog, too. A bath and a haircut did wonders " for him. His leg wasn't broken, only fractured. He's as good as new. Like to see him?"

The doctor took Dax to a private room upstairs. A dog bounced out to meet him, yapping joyfully. He leaped at the actor as if he had found a friend. He tried to lick the famous Dax features.

The great man put down his hand and the dog playfully bit him on the thumb. The pup seemed bursting with energy. He bounced up and down excitedly. He ran around the room, then again hurled himself upon Dax.

"That's a good dog," said the doctor. "One of the best we've had in the place. Look at those straight legs and that long square muzzle. See the way his tail is stuck on. He's a close-coupled, hard-bitten, typy little rascal Must be valuable. I don't see why someone hasn't claimed him."

BUT Dax was looking at just a dog, a quick, eager little pup, with a bright, sparkling, mischievous eye. He carried his tail at a rakish angle and his head was cocked on one side as if he were listen-ing to something important. He was full of excitement and bound-less energy and an enormous curiosity about life.

Dax was delighted. "I'll take him home," he said. "Guess he's my dog now, isn't he?"

"He certainly is," said the doctor. "He thinks so, anyway. We'll let you know if anyone turns up to claim him."

Dax decided to call the dog "Puck." It seemed like the right name.

Puck was no respecter of great persons. He bounced in and out of Dax's lap on the way home. He poked his cold little nose into Dax's pockets. He licked the windshield and hung out of the open window, barking scornfully at other dogs on the street.

When they arrived at Dax's house, Puck made an immediate tour of inspection. He dashed from one room into another. He sniffed the rugs and chairs. He galloped up and down stairs, bark-ing enthusiastically. He found the kitchen and bullied the Japanese cook into giving him a bone, which he immediately tried to bury under the cushions of the divan. That night he slept curled up at the foot of Dax's bed.

The next morning "The Tramp" went into production for the second time.. Sir Henry of Dunsmuir was on contract and couldn't be discharged, so the owner was given a cheque. Puck met Jim, the studio manager, and playfully bit a hole in his trouser leg. He was introduced to Bill and Oscar and immediately offered to shake hands. He chased the studio cat to the top of the monitor room. Then he hurried back to Dax, gave him an adoring look, lay down at his feet with his head resting on one of Dax's comedy shoes.

"We're going to make a picture," announced Jim. "This one is going to be right."

Puck was not a trained actor, but what he lacked in camera technique he made up in boundless energy and willingness. When you saw Dax and the dog together, rehearsing a scene, it brought a lump to your throat. Dax would wag his finger and Puck would come with a rush.

Sometimes the dog would sit and watch his master with such a worshipful expression that Dax would have to quit work and pat him on the head. Production would stop while Dax and the dog played.

They had a game. It was a complicated game with a ball, and both understood the rules. Some-times Puck would hide the ball, and Dax would look for it; sometimes he would pretend it was a rat and chase it around the studio and growl. Again, the ball became one of Dax's valued possessions, and Puck stood over it, barking fiercely.

Bill and Oscar, watching Dax, as he played with the dog, learned things about the little comedian they had never known. He was lonely. A shy, sensitive man, he had surrounded himself with protective barriers. Puck had broken down those defensive walls for the first time.

DAX made no apology for his love of the dog. "That pup likes me," he would say over and over again. "Have you seen him go through my pockets? He thinks I've got a lump of sugar. He can almost talk."

"How about the next sequence?" Oscar would ask.

"Yes, I know," agreed Dax. "But this is important. The better Puck and I understand each other, the better the picture will be."

Work went forward slowly. Dax took his time about every scene. He was a master craftsman. Every gesture must be right. Day by day the man and the dog grew closer. Puck was never out of Dax's sight. At night he went home with his master and slept on the foot of his bed. Every morn-ing he appeared with Dax, bright and cheerful and eager for a game.

"Better hurry this picture along," urged Jim. "That pup is growing. He'll be a big dog by the time the last reel is made."

At the end of three months, Dax and Jim again sat in the projection room watcl lng the wistful little figure romp across the screen, followed by a dog. Jim's voice was choked as he tried to tell his boss about the picture. "It's got something. It grips you. Stirs some deep emotion. This is your masterpiece."

"It's real," answered Dax. "That's my dog. You can feel it."

Jim made an estimate on the back of an old envelope. "Another forty days will finish it," he announced, "counting retakes and maybe a few extra shots after the picture comes out of the cutting room."

"It's in the cans." Dax agreed. "When it's finished, Puck and I are going to take a vacation."

Puck seemed to like this idea. He poked his nose into Dax's hand and barked approvingly.

THAT night Dax took the dog with him when he went to visit his soup kitchen. The kitchen was one of his secret philanthropies. He was always doing things like this, quietly, without telling any-body. The kitchen was in a poor quarter of the town. Three thousand men a day were fed there. A mysterious "Mr. Jones" was supposed to be financing the project. Many a hungry man had occasion to offer a silent prayer to Mr. Jones.

Dax parked the car on a side street. He walked around the corner to watch the line which formed every night in front of the kitchen.

He wanted to make sure that there was plenty of food for everybody.

Nobody recognised Dax. This quietly-dressed, serious-faced man was far different from the jaunty little figure on the screen which the world knew. Satisfied that there was food for all Dax returned to his car.

He opened the door and spoke to Puck. No answer. He switched on the light. The dog was gone.

At first Dax was dazed. He hadn't locked the car, but the windows had been closed. Puck usually slept quietly on the seat until he returned.

Sickening fear gripped Dax. Had the dog been stolen? Had it got out of the car and been run over, perhaps killed? Dax shuddered at the thought. More likely the dog had been stolen. Someone had seen him there in the car, recog-nised Puck as a valuable animal, opened the door and taken him out, with the idea of selling him or collecting the reward which Was sure to be offered. It seemed hardly probable that Puck would go with a stranger, but Dax had to be content with this solution.

He breathed easier at the thought. It would be an easy mat-ter to get the dog back. A hand-some reward would do it. Dax tried to tell himself that Puck would be home to-morrow.

The next day the newspapers carried a discreet notice to the effect that if whoever had found the dog would return it at once to the Dax Studio he would receive a large reward and no questions would be asked. All day .""ax waited expectantly. There were no answers. That night, radio stations in Hollywood and Los Angeles broadcast offers of a still larger reward for the return of Puck.

No dog.

AND then Dax went into action. The police were notified and sent special squads to scour the town. Private detective agencies were called in and operators were sent to run down every possible clue. Space was taken in every newspaper in Southern California offering huge rewards for the return of the dog.

Nothing happened. Production on "The Tramp," of a necessity, stopped short. Dax paced up and down the great library of his home while reports poured in from the dog hunt.

"We'll find him," insisted Jim. "We've got to. We must finish the picture. It's the greatest thing you ever did. It's worthless without those last few shots. We could never find another dog like Puck. We've got to get him back."

"He's not dead," muttered Dax. "I can feel it. Somewhere he's alive, happy."

"But where?" demanded Jim, "Surely the one who has him must read the papers. Must know that he's your dog and how important iti that we get him."

"We've one more chance," said Dax. "I'm going to look for him myself."

LATE that afternoon he returned to the spot from which the dog had disappeared. Parking his car, he began a careful search of the neighborhood. There were few newspapers read in this district, he reasoned. Few radios in the homes of its inhabitants. True, the police and private detectives had made a thorough search of the quarter. But there was always a chance.

Dax walked down one alley and up the next. Alleys lined with squalid little houses. Hordes of children played everywhere. Every child seemed to have a dog. This was a street of dogs. Lean, hungry dogs. Not a pedigree in the bunch.

Dax walked slowly. Then for some reason he stopped. He pursed his lips and whistled. It was a shrill, high call, a call which had always brought Puck bounding to his feet.

Dax waited. He whistled again. Somewhere a dog barked. Quick, eager barks. He whistled again, and his heart stood still.

AROUND the corner of the house shot a dog. He was dirty, dust-stained, unwashed. He hurled himself upon Dax.

The actor knelt and gathered the dog into his arms. Puck squirmed and twisted and yapped joyfully.

"That's my dog, mister!"

Dax looked up and found a boy standing before him with clenched fists. "Turn him loose," said the boy. "You can't have him."

Puck turned and threw himself on the boy. Then he sat down between them, gazing from one to the other, puzzled by the presence of two masters

The boy stood his ground. "You can't have him," he repeated. "Somebody stole him once. I found him when he was a puppy, and he's mine."

"When did you get him back?" asked Dax.

The boy was suspicious. "He's mine." he insisted. "I hunted for him for three months. Somebody stole him. Then I found him in an automobile one night."

A crowd of children had gathered and now stood staring solemnly and suspiciously at Dax.

"It's Buddie's dog all right," volunteered a little girl. "We knowed it when it was a little puppy."

"It's a good dog," Dax said soothingly. "I wish I had a dog like that. Maybe you'd sell him to me?"

"No," said Buddie firmly. "He ain't for sale. Not even for two dollars and a half."

Dax understood what Buddie meant. Money didn't matter.

"Let's trade dogs, then," Dax suggested. "I'll give you one just like this. And a fine collar to bind the bargain."

"No," said Buddie stubbornly. "Rags is my dog. I don't want no other." He produced a frayed rope from one of his pockets and tied it around the dog's neck. To the boy's mind this established possession.

"How would you like Rags to go in the movies?" Dax asked.

"He ain't a movie dog," said Buddie. "He ain't the type."

"Suppose Rags could be in a picture with John Dax?"

Buddie's eyes brightened with pleasure, then dimmed with suspicion. "You're kiddin'," he stated.

The little girl began excitedly. "I seen John Dax last week in a pitchur called 'Sawdust.' "

"I'm Dax," said the great man simply.

The children gazed at him curiously. The little girl shook her head. "No you ain't," she said. "Dax's got a funny little hat, and them baggy pants."

"And he walks like this," added Buddie, demonstrating how Dax walked.

"Like this," said Dax. He walked down the alley, twirling an imaginary cane, shuffling through the dust as if his shoes were big and heavy.

The children stared at him with unbelieving eyes.

"But where's the hat and them baggy pants?" insisted Buddy.

Puck gave a sudden tug at the rope, broke away from Buddie. He trotted after Dax, following obediently at his heels. The children watched the dog with round, questioning eyes. The behaviour of the animal meant more to them than any argument. According to their code, a dog had a right ro choose his own master.

Dax came shuffling back. He knelt down beside Buddie and put his arm around the boy's shoulders. "I'm making a picture with your dog in it. Lend me Rags for a month? I'll give him back to you."

Buddie hesitated. Tears welled slowly into his eyes. He nodded. "Take him, mister," he said. "I guess he likes you more 'en he does me."

WHEN "The Tramp" is screened at your neighborhood theatre, go and see it. As Jim, the studio manager, said, it's got some-thing. It stirs some deep emotion! Along towards the end of the film when the Tramp is forced to sell his dog to get the money for the operation on his little cripple brother, take a good look at the boy. That's Buddie. Some say that Buddie is on the way to being a star in his own right. Critics were enthusiastic about the boy's acting. Especially that bit where he leans out of bed and calls the dog and the scene fades out on Dax and the pup and the boy grouped together.

The critics call that acting, but Bill and Oscar, the cameramen, know better. "Real stuff," they say. "A man and a dog— a boy and a dog. It gets you."

_______________

23: Actress Grows Old

John Taintor Foote

1881-1950

US: The Story-teller July 1935

Australian Women's Weekly 13 Feb 1937

Original U S Title:  "An Actress Feels Old".  The author was an American novelist and playwright, and it is clear that the story was altered for the British syndication market (of which Australia was a part in the '30s) by relocating it from Broadway to the West End of London.

WE had been in rehearsal twelve days. The play, in a galvanic sort of fashion, was beginning to come alive. Now and then a scene would become more than actors reading lines. There would be people on the stage. Interesting people! At the discovery, I became faintly touched with pride.

These gleams of hope in the depressing darkness of the empty theatre were all too rare. For an hour I had sat in boredom, flashlight and notebook in hand, awed by the dogged patience of Rollo Lockhart, the producer.

The star was on the stage. Without make-up, apparently as bored as I was, she was drab, colorless, totally lacking in charm. Under the hard white downpour of the single shadeless electric globe that economy demands at most rehearsals, she looked her age— which was forty. She was walking absently through a scene, as she had walked through every scene so far, and I remember Rollo Lockhart's brief statement when told by the management that Julia Arden had read the script, liked it, and would play the lead at two hundred pounds a week and a percentage.

Rollo had remained silent for a moment, and I, who had been exulting at the news, felt chilled. At last he spoke:

"Well," said he, "we're going to see life in the raw."

I HAD thought over this cryptic phrase, at the time, pondering its meaning. I had grown puzzled as Julia Arden had walked through her scenes, muttered her lines, and submitted listlessly to the producer. Rollo had inferred that she was something more than temperamental. A bit of theatrical gossip, no doubt! A rumor founded on a possible flare-up in some long-forgotten play.

Well, at any rate, here she was, the great Julia Arden, rehearsing— if you could call it that— in a play of mine. Not too swiftly, with steady, painstaking art, she had reached a pinnacle in the theatre all her own. For the past five years London had flocked to see her in— what did it matter? "She can read the telephone directory and make them love it," was one description of what she did to an audience.

I had warmed myself with recollections of her past irresistible triumphs for twelve long days, then— that very morning— I had gone to Rollo for reassurance.

"So you're worrying about Julia, are you?" he said. "Well, don't."

"But she isn't putting anything into her work," I insisted.

"Listen," said Rollo. "When she's ready she'll show you things you didn't know you wrote."

"How do you know she can?" I asked. "How do you know she isn't slipping?"

Rollo's mouth slowly opened, slowly closed. "That ought to make me laugh," he said. "It's the biggest gag of the season."

I abandoned anxiety, so far as Arden was concerned, as Rollo had suggested, but as the morning passed she drove me to indignation. Lesser members of the cast were so eager in their work, so apologetic over a slip in line or business, so humbly responsive to Rollo's production. The scenes that were beginning to play were theirs. Anything that included the star was killed by her indifference.

She was in a scene, at the moment, with an earnest little ingénue— a find, Rollo had told me— discovered in a small theatre. She had been a dancer. In fact, I think it was her charm as a dancer which made Rollo give her a chance in drama. The girl had a natural gift for acting— I could see that— and a really sound technique. She was playing the scene up to the hilt, with touches of deeply moving insight. A shame to pour herself out like that and get no response! What a sweet piece of acting for an ingénue! Her voice, her manner, her gestures re-minded me of someone-I could not remember whom.

AND now, for the first time since rehearsals had started, Arden became something more than a woman walking in a dream. She met the young girl's ardor with nothing, but for the rest of the scene she favored the ingénue with a peculiar heavy-lidded stare. Once or twice she passed her hand over her brow. She seemed to be either brushing away or struggling for a recollection.

The scene came to a lifeless close, despite the efforts of the ingénue. An actor made an entrance and started a speech. He was not allowed to finish. The star took her hand from her brow and flung it aloft in a magnificent gesture that paralysed his tongue and swept him from the stage.

"We'll try that scene again."

Fingers seemed to race along my spine. The deep, rich splendor of that voice! After the flat monotone I had been hearing, it was as though a jew's-harp had been replaced by a cello.

The great Julia Arden— you could see her greatness take her— stared, for a moment longer, at the young girl!

"All right, child. Give me the line, 'But, mother, I love him!' We'll start from there."

That stage, ten seconds later, had become electric. A too-familiar dead-lock between a still young mother and a suddenly grown-up daughter became, somehow, the doom of beauty and womanhood, through all the ages, to swift decay. Against a background of dirty white theatre wall, covered with pipes, appeared a woman who had sped from the eager joys of spring through the golden contentment of summer to the ache, the sadness of autumn.

Winter and then an awful stillness were just ahead. With the last of her enticements she had built a little fire of love at which to warm her still lovely body before moving on into the cold. Just a little fire— a pitiful little fire. She found her own flesh and blood stepping between her and its warmth. The female in her arched its back and spat and unsheathed its claws to tear young love aside. But young love had a word for that, "Mother!" And the green went out of her eyes, the curve from her fingers. She turned from the fire and went on, with a quiet despair that wrenched at the heart, that left one too blind to see her pass from view.

I found myself locked in my seat. My notebook was gone, my flashlight was rolling down the gangway. Rollo was beating me on the back.

"How do you like that?" he wanted to know.

I did not reply to Rollo. Arden was speaking again— out of character now.

"It won't do," she said. She came down to the dead footlights and peered in my direction. "Mr.— er— whatever your name is-the author, I mean."

I got to my feet.

"Yes, Miss Arden," I said.

"I can't play that scene; it's rotten."

I went down the gangway and looked up at her in a reeling world.

"What's wrong with it?" I asked.

"How should I know? I'm an actress, not an author."

Rollo appeared at my side.

"Listen, Julia," he said. "The scene played like wildfire."

She gave Rollo a withering look.

"You mean it was played. What else did you expect?"

"Of course it was played," said Rollo. "It knocked me out of my seat. You'll make 'em sit up."

"Sit up! If I couldn't I'd never step on a stage again. Don't you suppose I know what to do with mother-and-daughter stuff?"

"Have you gone arty or something, Julia?" exploded Rollo.

"I AM not complaining about the sob stuff, but the scene does something to me. It makes me feel old! I'm not old, and I won't be made to feel old." She turned and stared at the ingénue, this amazing youngster who until the other day had been just a dancer in a down-town show. The same baffled expression that I had noticed before came into her face. She swung back to us. "It's in every scene I have with that child. Something's wrong with them. I feel it every time she comes on the stage."

"You haven't played a scene with her, or anyone else, until a minute ago," said Rollo.

"That's why I played it— to be sure. Well, I'm sure now. Those scenes do something to me. They've got to be altered. You've got to take whatever it is that makes me feel like a shrivelled old crone out of them... That is, if you want me to play the part," she added over her shoulder as she left the stage.

"That's all for this morning, Charlie," Rollo called to the stage manager. "Everybody back at one o'clock." He took my arm. "Come on; let's get out of here."

I followed him from the theatre. "So that's what you meant by life In the raw,'' I said, as we walked down the street.

Rollo grunted.

"What are we going to do?"

"Go in here and get a bite," said Rollo, pushing through the revolving door of a restaurant. "How do you feel?" he asked, when a waiter had set cocktails before us.

"Sort of hollow inside; a little sick at the stomach," I confessed. "Most of all, I feel like dropping the whole thing."

"Of course," said Rollo. "Put that cocktail where it belongs."

I raised my glass with a shaking hand and gulped its contents.

"Now listen," said Rollo. "You've turned out a play. It's a well-written job. Does that mean anything? It does not. With an ordinary actress in that lead, nobody knows what would happen. By the time the critics had finished with it, it might not last a week. Before enough people found out it was good theatre, with an interesting story, the office might have to close it down. But now put Julia in it. She stands the first-night crowd on their heads. The critics follow their lead. They're busy thinking up quotable pars for their notices before the first-act curtain is down. We're a riot. We run until Julia gets tired of playing it. The film people fight each other, trying to buy the picture rights away from each other. Have you followed me so far?"

I nodded.

"All right; now we come to the catch. Before we get Julia in front of that first-night crowd you'll be wondering why the Battle of Verdun was even discussed. I'll tell you why— she's the best actress I ever saw or ever hope to see, but she's got a screw loose. She's the top in the maddest business on earth, and that means she's mad herself. Now we're going to see plenty of trouble, but you come back to the theatre with me when we've had lunch and let me do the talking, and back up anything I do or say. How about it?"

"All right," I said. "But I'll never write another play," said Rollo, grinning.

Thirty minutes later we heard a languid voice say, "Come in." I followed Rollo through a dressing room door that bore a metal star on one of its panels.

"Hello, Julia," said Rollo cheer-fully. "I've got good news for you."

Miss Arden, whom we found lying on a couch, sat up and began to arrange her hair.

It was a dark auburn, in violent disarray. Her efforts towards bringing it within bounds were perfunctory.

"Haven't you been out for lunch?" asked Rollo solicitously.

"My maid brought me sandwiches and coffee— if you could call it coffee. Do you know what I thought the moment I tasted it? I thought, 'The dear, good, kind Rollo, he's slipped some nice rat poison in this for his own little Julia.' "

"We've been talking over your suggestions about your scenes with the girl," said Rollo. "The author will be glad to make any changes that you wish."

I started where I sat, recovered, and gave the inside of my hat a careful inspection.

Arden desisted from the pretence of arranging her hair. She ceased to droop. Her body stiffened.

"I wish!" she repeated, her voice dropping a full octave. "Haven't I explained to you that I don't know what's wrong with those scenes— that it isn't my business to know— that I only know that they do things to me that tear at my heart or my memory or something? Don't try to put the changing of those scenes on me, Rollo Lockhart."

"We don't expect to," Rollo hastened to say; "But the trouble is, we can't set about rewriting them intelligently until we watch them play."

"But, my dear Rollo, I've read them for you twenty times, and ..."

"Just a moment. That's exactly it. You've read them, but you haven't played them. Now, we want to run the play through. We want you to put as much into all your scenes as you did in that last scene this morning. We'll both make notes and talk it over to-night. Is that too much to ask?"

She regarded him stonily for a long moment.

"I'll play those rotten scenes through just once— Just once, remember— and then you'll alter 'em or else!"

"Thanks, Julia; I knew that we could count on you."

"Fiddlesticks!" said Miss Arden succinctly. "Call the rehearsal and let's get on with lt."

The rehearsal began. The star lived up to her promise. She played all her scenes as only she could play them. Strangely enough, she outdid herself when she faced the ingénue in the very scenes she had objected to. In them she was magnificent, transcendent, electrifying.

AND now suddenly I knew of whom the girl had reminded me, vaguely, that morning. Arden! Arden herself! She was contriving to seem like the daughter of this stage mother of hers— bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh. She did it with gestures, turns of the head, tones of voice. Why, she was actually beginning to look like Arden! "Wonderful!" I thought. "She'll be an actress one of these days!"

Rollo crossed over to my seat; in the short pause between the second and third acts.

"The little girl's got a way with her," he said. "Have you noticed?"

"Noticed!" I exclaimed. "She's amazing."

In the middle of the renunciation scene In the last act that the star had flung herself into that morning, Julia ignored a cue and came out of the part.

"We needn't go on with this," she said, in something less than the organ tones she had been using. "I know what's wrong now."

She stood Immovable for a moment, letting the emotion of her acting die out of her, then turned her eyes to the ingénue. They began to blaze. "She's imitating me! This child! She's been doing it in every scene!"

"Why, Miss Arden—" the girl faltered.

"Rollo!"

"What is it, Julia?"

"Who selected this girl for the part?"

"I did. From a dancing show. I took a risk."

"Didn't you notice the shade of her hair? Didn't you notice the color of her eyes and the way they're set?"

"Of course."

"Well, then, my heavens, why did you take her? She looks like me!"

"You're supposed to be her mother, aren't you?" said Rollo. "We picked her for type."

"Type! Did you ever hear of contrast in casting? Do you think I want anybody on the stage that looks like me? Type, eh! Who's been teaching her my method? She's got some of my tricks. Have you been coaching her?"

"I have not. I saw her once, In a dance, and once In repertory. She gave a splendid performance. She's giving a splendid performance here."

"Yes, it's good.... That dressing-room's draughty. I'm going to lie down in the smoking-room. You needn't change those scenes. Just get another girl for the part."

The star abruptly left the stage. There was a chair on the set near the ingénue. She managed to get to it before her knees gave way.

I threw myself at Rollo.

"YOU'RE not going to do it?"

"Certainly I'm going to do it."

"But that poor child!"

"Can't help it. It's her or us."

"I won't stand for it," I said, after one look at that piteous young face up there under the single revealing light.

I stood a minute in thought. Then I started for the smoking-room, banging my knees painfully against lowered seats until I remembered my flashlight.

I found the star groping her way down the smoking-room stairs. She was dragging a magnificent sable coat behind her.

"Who is it?" she asked.

I told her, took her arm, and flashed my light ahead of us down the stairway.

We came to a right angle turn in the stairs and saw the smoking room below us. Several of the side lights were turned on.

She descended the rest of the stairs, stretched out full length on the couch and pulled the gorgeous coat up to her chin.

"Miss Arden," I began, "I've come down here to—"

"Please," she interrupted. "Please." Her eyes closed wearily. "Don't talk, don't say a word. If you must stay here, just sit down and keep quiet."

"But I've got to talk to you," I said firmly. "If you could have seen the face of that poor girl after you—"

A MOAN of anguish checked me. The star sat up with a jerk. Two thin white arms rose in an appalling gesture of despair.

"I work like a horse In just a rehearsal of this man's play, and now here he is burbling at me when I must relax. I must have rest."

"All right, Miss Arden," I said, "I'll go, but I want to tell you something before I do. They say you're the greatest actress in the world, and I think you are. I wouldn't cross the street to see this play with anyone else in the part, now that I've seen what you can do with lt. So here goes the play, so far as I'm concerned. You aren't a woman at all. You haven't a single generous womanly instinct. As a human being you're a total failure."

I had expected the great Julia Arden to struggle to her feet and go screaming out of the theatre, out of my play, dragging her sable coat behind her. Instead of that she remained perfectly still. I found her regarding me thoughtfully with her chin cupped in her palm.

"Give me a cigarette," she said. I offered my case and held a light for her.

"Sit down!"

"Thanks. I'll be getting along."

"Let's be real— you started it. Let's not play a scene. Get a cushion from that couch over there and put it behind my back."

I did as she asked, startled, confused by the quiet friendliness of her tone.

"Now sit down," she commanded.

I obeyed.

"So you think I'm a failure as a woman and a human being?" she said, after a puff at her cigarette. "You'd be a fool if you didn't. But, you see, I'm not a woman. I'm not even a human being. I'm something that does tricks on the stage and gets fifteen curtain calls, and then goes home and is massaged and bathed and fed and put to bed, so that the tricks will go smoothly the following night. That's my life. I haven't time to be a woman. I haven't time to be a human being. I'm just a bag of tricks. I spend every waking moment being a good bag of tricks. I've given up my life to that. Whenever a habit or a longing or a natural instinct gets in the way, I put it aside. Whenever other people get in the way I put them aside.

"That's what happened to your ingénue. You see, she does things to me— I don't know just what. Perhaps it reminds me of my own youth. Whenever she's on the stage, I seem like a tired phantom watching my young self struggle with the tricks of acting as I struggled long ago. She has a way of giving her head a quick fling, when she misses a trick, that startles me. I can understand her imitating me— she must have studied me, and she's got a flair— but that trick. I haven't done that for years. I don't miss tricks any more. Where did she get that?"

"Just a gesture of impatience," I suggested, "that anyone might have made."

I was no longer angry. The seeming brutality that I had witnessed appeared more reasonable, less wanton, now. This quiet, confiding, almost humble Arden was a revelation. Perhaps, in her present mood, the right word might get the ingénue back.

"I think I know," I said. "You do?"

"Yes. She has a flair, as you put it. She's a remarkably good young actress. I think you saw that in her and admired it, and hated to take this chance away from her. It was generous of you, and kind. I was wrong in what I said a little while ago. I think you were wrong in what you said about yourself. Prove it by overlooking her small attempts at imitating you and let me tell Rollo to put . her back in the part."

Arden came to her feet as though shot from a catapult. The sable coat sailed through the air and landed on the floor.

"You fool!" she raged. "You poor fool! Have I wasted all this talk on an imbecile?" She leaped at me and stood glaring into my face.

"HAVEN'T I told you this girl interferes with my acting— my acting?"

"I'm sorry," I said weakly.

"Sorry! Sorry for what-that girl? Do you know what my acting means to me? Do you know what it's cost me? I'll give you a faint idea. Listen. When I was a child, I didn't play with dolls. I cut out figures, paper figures, and moved them through scenes in a play. When I became a girl, I didn't gush and simper and giggle over boys. I never gave boys a thought. I just dreamed about the theatre. I dressed up in my mother's clothes, or my older sister's, or in costumes that I made myself, and played before the long mirror in my mother's room. They sent me to school and I ran away with ten shillings in my pocket and took a train to Manchester and got a job in a repertory company. My mother and father came after me and took me home. I was sixteen. They watched me after that. I couldn't get away, and a boy came into my life and loved me, and I began to love him. But the longing to act never left me. It got worse. When I couldn't bear it any longer, I ran away again and got another job in repertory, and that time they let me stay.

"The boy came after me and begged me to come home. I said no, so he went back without me. I was happy-I was wildly happy— until I found out what a rotten actress I was. Then I wasn't happy any more. I was in a sort of fever. I stayed in repertory three years. The boy came to wherever I was playing once or twice every year and asked me to give it up and come home with him. I didn't go home with him. I was learning to act. When I'd learned to act, I came to London."

The torrent of words ceased. Arden stopped pacing the floor.

"Why am I telling you all this?" she whimpered. "What am I doing? Why am I Justifying myself? Why am I saying these things?" She flung herself down on the couch again. "Get me my coat!"

I picked up her coat, crossed to the couch and covered her with it.

"What was I talking about? Where had I got to?" she wanted to know.

"You were telling me about coming to London."

"Ah, yes, London. I thought my troubles were over. I thought I was on the threshold of heaven. I wasn't. I'd got myself into the most awful hell I'll ever know. Remember, I could act. I knew a lot of tricks. I wasn't tossing my head as that girl does, much, by then. I went to plays and watched other girls act, as long as my money lasted. In the day-time I tried to get a part. Do you know what trying to get a part in London is like? No, you don't. You're sorry for that girl because you're a man and she's young and pretty. I'm sorry for her because she'll have to look for another part."

"I'M sorry for her because it wasn't her fault," I explained. "She's a fine young actress."

"That'll make it worse. When you know you can do it and they won't let you, it tears you to pieces. You sit in an office and wait and wait and wait like a hungry dog, and they give it to ? someone who can't cross a stage without holding on to the furniture, because she's 'the type,' or has better clothes on. Then you get up and go out and walk to the next place where you've heard they are going to do a play.

"I did that for a year. I walked until the balls of my feet were solid bone. I lived on chocolate and thin soup, mostly. I got walk-ons now and then in rotten shows that were certain to flop.

"I had one friend. A little telephone operator in a working girls' club where I lived. Her name was Mabel. She thought I was great because I was an actress. She took down my telephone calls so carefully! She was as thrilled when I got a call from an agent or the office of a producer as I was.

"One evening she was all of a-twitter when I came in. I had had a call from a really good firm, asking me to be at the office at ten o'clock the next day. Mabel and I were so excited we went on the razzle. We dashed into a teashop and had a couple of malted milks.

"I was at the producing office next day an hour before time. If I ever hold up this company and Rollo and you for two or three hours, you'll know why— it's one of my luxuries. When it happens, or some other outrageous business, just remember that I don't have much fun, even now— will you?"

"I will," I said. I was beginning to like this woman.

"Well, as I said, I got to that office before time. Two hours later I had a nice part in a good play. It had been a hit the season before and they were sending it out on the road with the original London company. The girl friend of a member of the firm wouldn't go on the road. She'd played the part in London. A manager in Manchester, where I'd worked one season, had told someone in the firm that I was a trouper and they let me read the part for the producer and then gave it to me.

"We started rehearsing at the old Montpelier, next day. On Friday morning, the third week of rehearsals, the girl friend of the producer changed her mind about going out with the show, and they threw me out and gave the part to her— she was a rotten actress, by the way.

"The company was taking the train to Glasgow that night. I had packed a bag and left it at Euston. The rest of my things I had left In a trunk In the club. They had given me five pounds in advance to pay my bill at the club, and they let me keep that. You rehearsed for nothing in those days. I left the theatre blind with tears to look for another job. I walked and walked and walked, from one office to another, in a frenzy. It was a windy day in October, with a cold rain. Heavens, how terrible London can be when it's raining and you're out of a job! By two o'clock I was wringing wet and beaten. I got on a bus and went back to the club. My young man was waiting in the lobby for me. Did I tell you he had money? His father owned a washing-machine company-I think it was.

"Well, there he sat when I dragged myself, like a wet cat, into the lobby. He had come to London to pop the annual question. He stood up to meet me, and he looked awfully big and strong and protective, after waiting for me four years, so I just went into his arms and stayed there without a word for a long time. He had a special licence with him. Then I said, 'Will you do something quickly, before I have time to get rested and dry and warm?'

"He said, 'Of course, darling, anything!'

"I said, 'All right. Put me in a taxi and take me down to a registrar and marry me.'

"He said, 'All wet like this?'

"I said, 'You'd better, if you want to make sure of me.' So he did.

"After we were man and wife he drove to a department store and bought me dry things from head to foot. I got into them in a trying-on room and we drove back to the club for my trunk. We drove in a taxi, of course. Taxis seemed wonderful to me then. He told me all about the washing-machine business-if that was it-and about the club in Birmingham, and how I must learn to play golf and bridge, and I said I would. I said I was sure it would all be very nice.

"When we got back to the club, Mabel began bouncing up and down and signalling to me, as soon as I came in the door. I went to her, and she took off her ear-phones and told me that the office had telephoned ten times in the last two hours and that I must ring up Mr. Grubb at this number. Mr. Grubb was the stage manager.

"I excused myself from Art— that was my husband's name— and rang up the number, and Mr. Grubb told me the girl friend of the producer had changed her mind again and didn't want to leave London and would I do him, personally, a great, great favor, that he'd never, never forget, by being at Euston with the rest of the company at seven-forty-five, to take the train for Glasgow. I said I would, and hung up and stood in the telephone box to gather enough courage to go out and tell Art. I couldn't do it. My knees got weak at the thought. So I went to the writing-room and wrote a line to Mabel. I just said, 'Give the enclosed to the tall boy I came in with.'

"Then I wrote Art a note telling him that I was sorry, but I couldn't give up the stage and I wasn't going to Birmingham and much love and many thanks and good-bye. I called a girl and told her to take the note and message to Mabel. Then I slipped out of the side entrance of the club and took a taxi to Euston. I didn't remember about my bag being in the cloakroom until we were on the train, and the juvenile had to tear back and get it.

"Art had our marriage annulled, naturally. I've never seen him since. He's got a nice family, I understand. I dare say his wife plays golf and bridge both.

"That touring engagement was my first real luck. The same firm gave me a part in London the next season. I've worked and schemed and fought my way up from there. I've toadied and bootlicked and, as you say, I'm a complete flop as a human being. Your little ingénue got in my way. She interfered with the tricks and you saw what happened to her. Kicking her out disturbed me, for some reason. I can't let such things disturb me."

ROLLO appeared at the turn of the stairs.

"All right, Julia." he said. "The new girl is here. She's a brunette, sort of short and fat."

"Sweet man. So thoughtful of you." Arden rose from the couch and slipped on her coat.

I followed her up the stairs.

As we came into the almost total darkness at the head of the stairs I heard the sound of weeping from somewhere close at hand.

"What's that?" asked the star sharply. "Here, turn that gadget of yours this way!"

The pale light from my flash lamp revealed the little ingénue collapsed in hopeless grief on a seat in the last row of the dress circle. She was sobbing quietly— great body-shaking, half-stifled sobs.

"Look here, child," said Arden: "you can't do this round here. When you're dismissed from a cast, you're supposed to leave the theatre. You're annoying me. Go away. Go and look for another job."

"Oh, Aunt Julia," said a broken voice, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to imitate you. Mother took me to everything you did, after she found out I was like you."

I heard Arden take a breath as though she had been struck by a bullet.

"Who are you?" she asked, in the same voice that had sent fingers along my spine early that morning.

"I'm D-D-Dorothy. I've been playing in repertory. I was dancing before that."

"Ah," said Arden softly, "that accounts for— everything." She sank into a seat beside the girl.

"Now, darling," I heard, "we mustn't cry any more. Aunt Julia is going to take care of this baby. Old, nasty, horrid Aunt Julia."

I saw a convulsed, young face bury itself in sables. The deep, carrying stage voice of Julia Arden was lifted to reach Rollo, leaning dejectedly against the railing of the orchestra pit.

"You can let your fat girl go. Rollo," it said. "I'm taking this child home with me. I want to teach her a new method— a different attack."

_________________

24: The Upas Tree

James Clifton Peters
fl. 1929-37

Australian Women's Weekly 17 April 1937

Author of twenty or so short stories; nothing more is known.

THEY fled out from Samarinda harbor while yet the moon was high in the western sky; the glow of it bleaching the sail of the prahu and turning the harbor to a floor of beaten silver. Behind them lights danced upon the jetty and they could hear the angry sound of voices. Gradually these dwindled into the distance and the prahu rose to the first rollers of the open sea.

Quinn had time to look at his arm then. He rolled back the sleeve and examined the slash Mylov's knife had made. It was long and deep and the hasty tourniquet had stopped the worst of the bleeding so that only a few heavy drops of blood oozed from the wound. But the pain came in regular, pulsing thuds which made him feel slightly sick. He could see that for many days the arm would be all but useless.

"Let me look at it," Laura said, and made her way to his side. She took his wrist in her cool fingers and he heard the abrupt, sharp hiss of her breath. "It's pretty bad," she told him.

He nodded ruefully. "Afraid I'll be out of action for a bit."

"I should think so. Have you a first-aid kit in your stuff?"

"In that pack there."

He watched her deft fingers clean the gash with sea-water and antiseptic, then bandage it firmly. Her dark hair glowed in the moonlight, her face was finely-cut and brown. In riding breeches and khaki shirt her figure was slight, almost fragile. He felt a quick stir of anger at the thought of the torture which Anton Mylov would have inflicted upon that delicate body, crushing its bones, tearing its flesh, defacing its beauty, leaving it a broken, pitiful thing. All that Mylov and Sin Kee would have done to obtain knowledge of the hidden pearls which were Laura's heritage from her father.

If he had not been passing through that narrow street on the way to his lodgings at the very instant when Laura cried out from the agony of the bamboos which were crushing her fingers all that might have happened. But he had been there. He had heard her and, not waiting to reckon odds, had burst through a window into the room where she was held captive.

THERE had been a fight then. A half-remembered whirl of blows and shots, of flashing knives and the harsh breathing of struggle. He had killed Sin Kee and locked shoulder to shoulder with Mylov. He remembered the feel of his black beard, the animal glow of his eyes. He remembered the burning agony of Mylov's knife and his own keen satisfaction as he freed an arm and clubbed the other man's head with a pistol until the light in Mylov's eyes went out and his bull-like voice was stilled.

Then he had cut Laura's bonds and together they fled through the window as the door splintered inward from the assault of Mylov's men. Through the dark streets they ran hand in hand with the pursuit hard on their heels, and came at last to the jetty where the prahu lay. Quinn had breathed a prayer of thanks when he saw that Lukut, with his uncanny prescience, had the sail up and the moorings cast. A faint breeze stirred the warm air. They moved out into the moon-bright harbor as the first of their pursuers appeared at the shoreward end of the jetty. By so narrow a margin had they made their escape.

And now, though the sea lay empty about them and the land was no more than a dark smudge of mangroves in the distance, he felt little easier. Anton Mylov was not the man to give up a game because he had lost the first trick. Not when he still held so many high cards. For instance, he must guess their destination. All through the East it was common knowledge that Dan Ingram had been a collector of the finest pearls. When he had died there were many who ransacked his house on Ancra Island, but found nothing. How best to circumvent him was the puzzle.

Laura tied the bandage into place. Then she gave him a cigarette and lit it.

"Well," she asked, "what now?"

Quinn shrugged. "We're headed for Ancra. It's a race between us and Mylov."

She nodded. "How far to go?"

"Fifty miles or so. Bad water. A lot of reefs. It'll be sunset before we get there."

"And our chances of winning the race?"

"Maybe even. Maybe about one in ten. All depends on how soon Mylov can get started."

"You don't think you killed him?"

"Lord, no! He's got a skull like iron. Won't even have a headache. And he'll be all out to get a bit of his own back. We're in for trouble, I'm afraid."

He paused frowning. It would be best, perhaps, to tell Laura exactly what they were up against.

"Mylov's about the biggest scoundrel in the Islands," he said. "He has a hand in practically every bit of dirty work that takes place out here. He has a fast schooner, a crew of Malays and Islanders who are as nasty a bunch as you're likely to find anywhere. Bluntly, they're pirates in everything but name. Mylov wants the pearls your father left."

She nodded. Her face, he noticed, had paled only a little. But her mouth had thinned and her chin jutted aggressively.

"He's not going to win," she said quietly.

Quinn nodded his approval. She was about to continue when he interrupted her.

"You needn't tell me that you've no right to ask my help," he said. "I'm into this up to my neck. There's no backing out now even if I wanted to, which I don't. Mylov's got a long memory. Besides, he's been annoying my company for a long time, and they'll do something pretty handsome for me if I eliminate him."

"Thanks," said Laura, after a moment. She held out her hand.

In the stern of the boat sat Lukut, the Dyak, steering. His black face was impassive. Quinn wondered what he thought about this trip to Ancra. The island had a bad name among the natives. None of them would willingly go there, or even speak of it. White men knew only that in the past it had been a place of sacrifice.

The moon went down and the sky grew rosy with dawn. The sea was empty all about them. The long, hot day wore slowly as they beat northward. All day they saw no sign of pursuit. And with the sunset they came to the white beach and gloomy, jungle-matted hills of Ancra. It was not a pleasant spot, Quinn thought. There was about it something inimical, as though it were steeped in menace. There were the jungle-clad slopes and the higher crags all black and bare in the dying light. There was the girdling beach and the gloomy, deep gash of a ravine.

They landed and made their way up the first grassy slope to the house which Dan Ingram had built. Excitement stirred within them.

"We'll maybe do it," said Quinn. "I don't know what's delaying Mylov. Perhaps I hurt him more than I thought. But if we can find the stuff quickly enough now we can be away from here before he arrives."

"I'VE memorised all the directions," Laura told him. She glanced at the motionless trees. Frowned. There was not a breath of wind stirring the warm air and the rank scent of the jungle hung like a tangible presence. "But the directions say we can only get at the pearls when there is a strong west wind blowing."

Quinn knit his brows. "What in blazes?"

'It's in the directions. Underlined, too. The pearls are in a steel box laid openly in what is known in the native tongue as The Place of the Tree. Did you ever hear anything about it?"

Quinn shook his head slowly. He turned to Lukut and spoke rapidly in the dialect. Then he shrugged. "Lukut doesn't know any such place either," he told Laura. "But it seems to me we'd better follow the directions to the letter. No use taking chances with something we don't understand."

They were on the verandah of the house now.

"BUT you understand this and there's no use taking chances with it either!" said Anton Mylov, stepping out of the doorway with a revolver levelled at Quinn's heart.

For a long moment there was not a sound. Only Anton Mylov's heavy breathing as he stood there with a grin on his lips, his black eyes dancing from face to face, enjoying the expressions he saw there.

"Thought you'd got the better of me, eh, Quinn?" he said at last. "You ought to know I'm not so easy. Don't I always pay my score? You fool, you, I knew where you were going."

He laughed roaringly. Then abruptly his mouth snapped shut and his eyes were cold and vicious.

"You can just lead me to those pearls," he said.

Quinn stood silent. They were in a bad spot and it looked as though Mylov would win the game after all.

"You'd better tell me," Mylov said. His eyes swung to Laura. "You're the one knows where the babies are. You've got Just ten seconds to talk. Then I shoot your boy friend there and the black. Well, how about it?"

The revolver was steady as a rock. Quinn crouched a little, ready to leap. He hadn't a chance, of course, but there was no sense standing there to be slaughtered like a sheep. And the man might miss. Mylov's voice called off the seconds.

At "six" Laura broke. "I'll tell you," she said.

Mylov grinned savagely. "Thought you would." He turned to Lukut. "Tie him up," he said, pointing to Quinn. "And the girl, too. Then I'll tie you. And no monkey business."

He produced a score of long thongs from within the doorway. Presently the hands of all three were bound tightly before them. Quinn winced as the tight bonds sent a scalding wave of agony through his arm. He felt sick. Mylov chuckled.

"Hurts a bit, eh? Guess my head's harder than your arm. But I still owe you something for last night. I'll pay it, never fear."

He pocketed the revolver. "Where do we go?" he asked Laura.

"Up the ravine." Nodding at the black cut which opened close beside the house.

"Then get going. And no tricks, mind. I'll be right behind you with a flashlight and a gun. You wouldn't have a Chance."

The gorge was brimming with darkness. Its sides were steep, almost vertical, and covered by an arras of long ferns and trailing roots which showed ghostly and pallid in the reeling light of Mylov's torch. The ravine slanted so steeply that at times they were forced to drop on hands and knees and crawl.

THEN, at last, the slope lessened and they could stand again. The jungle thinned above them and scraps of moonlight filtered through. They plodded on and on.

They came over the edge into a weird amphitheatre carved from the living jungle. Above and all around them the trees rose a sheer hundred feet into the air. The moon was directly overhead. Its radiance flowed down past the smooth green walls of forest, past the feet of the four, and plunged down and down into the pit before them.

The hollow was perhaps twenty feet deep and twice that in width. It was obviously a sudden widening of the ravine they had been following. Its walls were of rock, dark, and so smooth as almost to seem polished by human effort.

And in the very centre of the space Quinn saw a squat, evil-seeming tree with gnarled and twisted branches thrust grotesquely outward in a stiff curve like the extended ribs of a fan.

He heard a quick hiss of breath at his side and turned to see Lukut sink to his knees. The man's face was grey. He raised his bound arms and muttered something in his native tongue. So low he spoke that Quinn heard but three words.

"The Upas Tree!"

He understood much then. This was the sacred tree to which the natives had brought human sacrifices in years long past. He could

visualise the line of black men struggling up the lightless gorge. Torches threw a fitful red glare about them and made the uncanny shadows reel and dance. He could see the same torches ringing this pit as some poor devil was lowered screaming over its rim to dangle in his bonds until the deadly breath of the Upas had drawn the life from his body

Then Anton Mylov broke the spell.

"My heavens, there they are!" he said, and his voice was thick. "It's the pearls!" he muttered.

Quinn saw the box then. It lay openly on the ground close by the bole of the squat tree. The moonlight reflected from it in a bluish sheen.

There was a nasty twist to Mylov's lips as he turned to Laura.

"Thought you'd trick me, eh? Thought I'd go down there after the pearls the minute I saw 'em and get nipped by whatever's there. That your scheme, my wench?"

He advanced a pace, his whole bearing one of fearful menace.

"What's down there?" he demanded.

"I DONT know."

Laura fell back a pace before the glare in his eyes.

"You lie. Those pearls wouldn't be out in the open like that if there wasn't something. What is it?"

"I don't know."

Mylov swung his arm and slapped her viciously across the mouth. He slapped her again and whirled as Quinn lunged at him.

"Come on," he said softly. "Come just one more step, Quinn."

Quinn stood very still. No use getting killed for nothing. And Mylov was in the mood for killing. No, the play here was to wait for the break that must come some time and be ready to take advantage of it.

"Not coming?" Mylov asked presently. "I'm waiting."

Quinn shook his head. "Not just now."

"RATHER save your skin, eh?" sneeringly. "Stand by an' see your woman get beat up without lifting a finger to help her."

Quinn said nothing.

"All right," Mylov said sharply. "Neither of you'll talk. All right. But I'm going to have those pearls. An' you're going after 'em." He shot out a finger at Quinn. "We'll see what's down there, we will!"

He laughed viciously and turned to slash away several lengths of the wire-tough creepers which festooned the trees. A few swift turns of the stuff and Laura and Lukut were lashed to small trees. Then Mylov cut the thongs which bound Quinn's hands.

He stepped back warily, with revolver ready.

"Pick up that stuff an' come over to the edge."

Quinn did as he was bidden, lifting the pliable vine and carrying it to the rim of the pit. Cat-like he watched for the other to make one tiny mistake, for him to relax his vigilance but an instant. Nothing of the sort happened.

"Tie one end of it to that tree," Mylov directed. "Now the other end round yourself. Then sit on the edge with your feet hanging over. I'll lower you."

Quinn felt the cold sweat break out upon his body. There was death down there in those moonlit depths. An unknown, horrible death. He could hear Laura saying: "no, no!" over and over. He heard Mylov laugh hoarsely.

Then he was over the edge, swinging dizzily, fending his body away from the smooth walls. He went down in short jerks. Down and down and down.

And then death reached out and caught him by the throat!

The air about him went thick and turgid. It stung his lungs. They felt dry and burning and he gasped for breath only to have a greater and greater agony leap on him with every inhalation. A knobbed band of steel seemed to clasp about his head and grow tight and tighter, grinding his skull to pulp. His eyes blurred. When his feet touched the floor of the pit his legs no longer had the strength to bear him up. They collapsed beneath him, and he lay on his back, staring up through the moonlight at the tiny spot of darkness which was Anton Mylov's head. He could feel his life going, draining away like water.

The head disappeared abruptly. He heard the crash of a shot, then a wild, high scream. Over the edge of the pit a man came hurtling to crash down upon the ground beside him.

Quinn saw that it was Anton Mylov.

AND then his own body jerked off the ground and, spinning giddily, was drawn swiftly up out of the pit.

Half-way up the fresh air struck him, and his head began to clear. When Lukut dragged him over the edge he lay for no more than a second or two, then staggered to his feet and began to untie the vine from his body.

As he moved towards the edge with it, Lukut touched his arm.

"What will you do, tuan?" he asked.

"Save the other."

The Dyak shook his head. "That is not well, tuan. He deserves death. Let him lie."

"I wouldn't leave a dog to die there. I know what it's like. Give me a hand to draw him up."

But Lukut shrugged his shoulders and stood aside.

"It is long since the Tree has drawn the life from a man," he said. "It is hungry, tuan. I shall not rob it twice in a night."

Quinn peered over the rim. He saw Mylov writhing below him in the grip of that burning exhalation. One of the man's legs was grotesquely twisted. Broken. The black eyes glared up at him.

"Help me, Quinn," Mylov called hoarsely. "M'leg's broken an' this stuff is eating the lungs out of me."

Quinn lowered the vine, swung it into the other's clutching hand.

"Tie it around yourself." he shouted.

Mylov obeyed. Then Quinn began to pull him up. He had not lifted the man ten feet before he knew that it would be touch and go. More strength than he realised had been drained away during those seconds in the pit. And his wounded arm was a fearful handicap. Only a few inches at a time could he raise his burden at all.

"Faster," Mylov called, and his voice was very weak. "Lift me faster."

Quinn made a mighty effort, raised his burden a good three feet and felt the wound in his arm burst open. Blood streamed down from beneath the bandage. It covered his hands and drenched the vine. His hands were slippery with the stuff. They could no longer grip the smooth creeper.

He felt it slip through his fingers, faster and faster. He heard Mylov's wild scream, and a moment later a sodden crash. Then silence.

"The tree would not be cheated twice, tuan," he heard Lukut say.

BUT he knew as surely as he stood there that Anton Mylov had brought about his own death. That the cup of the man's iniquity was overfull and had destroyed him. If it had not been for the wound in his arm Quinn would have saved the other man's life. And that wound had been made by Mylov himself. It was fate.

He turned a little blindly and walked toward Laura, where she stood bound to the tree, her face white in the moonlight and her eyes shining...

And the next morning they stood hand in hand at the door of Ingram's house watching the white sails of Mylov's schooner dwindle toward the horizon.

"They're gone," Quinn said. "When Mylov didn't come back they knew what had happened. They'll make for some port and break up. It's the last of his gang."

Laura nodded. "We owe an awful lot to Lukut," she said. "It was the most unbelievable thing I ever saw, the way he broke loose. When you went over the edge he seemed to go crazy."

"He's a mighty good man, Lukut," said Quinn. "Been with me for years. We'll send him back to his village a rich man. As soon as there's a west wind he and I will go after the pearls." He saw the fear in Laura's eyes and shook his head. "It'll be safe enough," he assured her. "Your father knew what he was talking about. I've got it all figured out. The gorge is like a funnel up which the wind blows, is compressed and squirts into the pit in a blast that blows all the fumes away. It's a queer place, and I don't wonder the natives think it sacred and believe that the tree is responsible for the gas. It isn't really, you know. The Upas isn't poisonous at all. But all these islands are volcanic and that pit is full of fissures through which a poison gas seeps from some underground source."

He paused and looked at Laura. She was silent, staring at the white sail on the distant horizon. There was a great welling tenderness in his heart, and all at once a tiny dark spot of fear.

He laughed ruefully.

"Of course" he said, "you'll be a rich woman now, you know. And I'm really nobody. Sure you still want to marry me?"

"My dear," was all she said, turning to him. But in the quick warm pressure of her arms and lips he read his answer and his fear died before it had well been born.

___________________

Table of Contents

- 1: Contrary to the Evidence / Douglas Newton

- 2: The Great Buddha of Kwang Ki / Laird Goldsborough.

- 3: Our Mr. Smith / Oswald Crawfurd
- 4: The Striped Chest / Arthur Conan Doyle
- 5: Palm Beach Santa Claus / Damon Runyon
- 6: The Ceremony / Arthur Machen
- 7: Haunted / Anonymous
- 8: Short Rations / John Barton Oxford

- 9: The Devil of the Marsh / H. B. Marriott-Watson

- 10: The Skewbald Panther / Edward Lucas White

- 11: The Haunted Chair / Richard Marsh
- 12: The Derelict / Ottwell Binns
- 13: Conscience Money / John Talland
- 14: Green Ginger / Ethel Lina White

- 15: Her Ladyship's Necklace / Arthur Armstrong

- 16: The Stolen Rubies / E. B. Bell

- 17: Christabel's Crystal / Carolyn Wells

- 18: The Wings of Chance / Fred Merrick White

- 19: Bagged / Jeffery Farnol
- 20: The Way of Silence / Gilbert Frankau
- 21: Servant of Satan / Otis Adelbert Kline
- 22: Tramp / Dick Moreland
- 23: Actress Grows Old / John Taintor Foote
- 24: The Upas Tree / James Clifton Peters