Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: More short fiction in the Life+70 yrs public domain, although 3 of the stories are almost novelettes. 1: Norah and the Fairies / Hume Nisbet 2: No Ships Pass / Lady Eleanor Smith 3: The Castle of Dromore / Katharine Tynan 4: "I Am Dead!" / Harold Ward 5: The Call of the Tiger / Ethel Lina White 6: Death Dances on Dimes / Laurence Donovan 7: The Ghost Monk / Rosa Praed 8: The Sham Shop / Ethel Lina White 9: Darkness / Irvin S. Cobb 10: The Anonymous Letter / Archibald Marshall 11: The Man With the Glass Heart / George Allan England 12: The Deadly House / Bertram Atkey 13: Two Voices / Henry Lev

PAST MASTERS 118

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

12 March 2023

Contents

1: Norah and the Fairies / Hume Nisbet

2: No Ships Pass / Lady Eleanor Smith

3: The Castle of Dromore / Katharine Tynan

4: "I Am Dead!" / Harold Ward

5: The Call of the Tiger / Ethel Lina White

6: Death Dances on Dimes / Laurence Donovan

7: The Ghost Monk / Rosa Praed

8: The Sham Shop / Ethel Lina White

9: Darkness / Irvin S. Cobb

10: The Anonymous Letter / Archibald Marshall

11: The Man With the Glass Heart / George Allan England

12: The Deadly House / Bertram Atkey

13: Two Voices / Henry Leverage

14: The Trail of Jeopardy / H. Bedford-Jones

15: The Black Patch / F. A. M. Webster

16: Facsimile / Oliver F. Crothers

17: Verdict: "Suicide" / George Allan England

________________

1: Norah and the Fairies

Hume Nisbet

1859-1923

From Stories Weird and Wonderful, 1900

OVER by the East, the pulsating stars resembled a Queensland opal, that most lovely of all gems to the colour lover, full of light and fire, iridescent, yet rarely tender in its filmy softness. The sun was not yet over the misty ranges, but that it was near at hand that intense luminosity, which rendered one particular peak broader than the other peaks, showed. In another moment, that luminous whiteness would seem grey around the superior brightness of that dazzling orb. As yet, however, there was no glitter, but only cool radiance and melting tones.

Spring reigned over bush-land with its countless exquisite blossom and heath-bells. Varieties of the most delicate pinks, azures, and yellows blended amongst delicious greys, whites, and aesthetic greens. Young leaves vied the bloom of the peach and plum in their tints, with rose-red branches. There was not a shrub without its individual clustering of flowers, not a tree that was not festooned with loveliness, while over all trailed the silvery, dew-laden, gossamer webs of the bush-spider.

A chastened moment that was before the sun burst over the ranges. Opal-grey was the predominant tone, with subdued sparkles of prismatic colours. All the dark shadows of the night had fled, no deep spots broke the silken monotony. It was Australia’s most ethereal month, and hour, when she might well compare with the ideal plains of Heaven, where there is no sun, neither is there shadow; but the glory of God fills it with purity.

A moment longer of this divine radiance and silent expectancy, while the little maid at the foot of the ivory-limbed gum-tree, still sleeps on, dreaming about the fairies that have passed from the book under her head into her innocent brain. They have been with her all night, ever since the instant she had sunk, tired out with wanderings, until now. The Snow Queen had been with her, although she had never really seen snow in her life, also the little Sea Maid, although she had never yet seen the sea.

All night the elves, the fairies, the queer big-headed dwarfs and the sharp-nosed but benevolent old god-mothers had been dancing over the young grasses and swinging amongst the spiders’ webs. But they were creeping one by one back to their covers and taking their usual places inside the pages of her pillow book. She had seen them plain enough even while she slept, for the big moon had shone all night upon the frolics. The wild cats had watched also the funny beings, no bigger than themselves; therefore they were not the least afraid of these strange visitors to Australia any more than she was herself. The great bull-frog, with his wives and children, came out of the swamp and looked on also with his bulging eyes, grunting approval, while the others went all through the gamut of notes in their surprise.

She knew that she could see quite well, even though her wearied eyelids were fast shut, for didn’t she see the laughing jackass sitting on the branch above her, looking down all night at the queer sight, with long beak nodding gravely in his wonderment, and the three feathers on his head standing up? So astonished was this laughing jackass that he hadn’t laughed once all through the night, although there had been fun enough to make even a jackdaw tumble off a fence.

She had seen the flying foxes, head downwards, swing themselves backwards and forwards in their jubilation at the sights. The wombats also looked back and forgot to climb an inch higher in their stupid amazement. Only the bush-spiders spun on regardless of everything extraordinary, but they had some excuse for their industry, for there was such a crowd of fairy swingers that the poor spiders were kept busy all night making fresh swings for their little visitors.

Little Norah Westwood had been very hungry when she fell asleep the night before. Her pretty white pinafore and cotton dress were sadly torn also with prickly bushes through which she had brushed.

All the day she had walked, not knowing where she was going, for it is so easy for the most experienced man or woman to get lost in the bush, far less a little girl of eight. Lured away by those wildflowers, she had gone on and on, without looking at first, and afterwards, when she wanted to get home to dinner, she had not been able to.

In Australia, if you walk on, thinking and without watching the direction you are taking in the bush, for half-an-hour, or even less time, and then look up, it is ten chances to one you will be lost. That is if you are not an experienced bushman.

The landscape is as open, almost, as an English park. You can see a good way all round, for the gum-trees appear thinly clad. It seems easy enough to recover your way, and you begin to try it with perfect confidence.

The shape of a gum-tree in the distance strikes you as quite familiar. You go towards it, and when you have reached it you find you are wrong. Then you try again, once, twice, thrice, a dozen times in different directions before the consciousness dawns on you that you are in a maze, out of which you cannot find a way.

The bright sun shines down upon you from a cloudless blue sky. You are in an open shadeless forest, with receding stretches of white-branched gum-trees on every side, and a vast solitude brooding over all.

This sunlit, bare solitude appals you with a mighty fright all at once, and that horror never leaves you until you are discovered; or, failing that, perhaps until you fall down exhausted, athirst, and famishing, to yield up the ghost.

The white, bone-like trunks and branches of the gum-trees all round you remind you only now of the skeletons of men and women who have been lost in this weird solitude before. You run wildly at first, then madly, with shrieks of deadly fear, until your reason leaves you and you fall down and rise no more. Months afterwards perhaps a passing traveller may discover your skeleton, picked anatomically clean by the ants, and perhaps not half-a-dozen miles from where you started.

Little Norah had lost her way, but being a child, and fairy supported, she had none of the horrors that an adult might feel. She had all the faith and reliance of a child in her parents. They would be sure to miss her, they would be sure to look for her, and as they could do everything, they would be sure to find her.

But being a healthy, beef-eating, colonial child, she had missed her dinner and supper dreadfully. That is until she fell asleep.

Then the Fairy God-mother had come out of her book and fed her with grapes and water-melons and such delicious cakes, and all the other fairies had danced to amuse her while she ate the good things.

They were going away now, however, as fast as they could troop into their pictures. The second last to leave her was Cinderella in her ball dress. Now the Snow Queen with a wave of her white arm drifted away like a flash of fire and Norah awoke.

Awoke to find the sun streaming into her eyelids and almost blinding her; to get a glimpse of the laughing jackass, as he shifted from the branch over her head, and flew away seriously and quietly to look after his daily business of catching snakes. There was nothing to laugh over at present, for the events of the night, and she being there all alone, were things for a jackass to think about sedately. By-and-by he might be able to laugh, when he forgot all about that night and watched his natural enemy, the black snake, fall through five hundred feet of air and break his back.

The frogs, wild cats, and flying foxes had also disappeared, and the dew-drops in which the elves had washed were being swiftly licked up by the hot morning sun. Worse than all, Norah’s fairy feed seemed to have done her no good, for she was hungrier than ever.

She rose wearily and recommenced her walk of the preceding day through the bushes, picking plenty of lovely flowers until her arms were so full of blossoms that she was forced to drop them and gather a fresh lot.

The midday sun beat fiercely upon her face and shoulders until the heat felt like a heavy load. She wasn’t walking fast now, indeed several times she fell and seemed to sleep. Then she would wake up, so hungry, so tired, so thirsty, and stagger on till she fell and slept again.

When the full moon rose that night, and the dew fell gently down and cooled the earth, she was sitting by the side of a water hole in a pretty dell. She was not at all hungry now, and although the water was there she didn’t feel thirsty one bit. She was waiting for the fairies to come out of her book, and she had laid it down open before her so that they might have no trouble in getting free.

She had found a nice bed among the bracken ferns that clustered thickly round her. Over the ferns spread the heathbells and blossoms, amongst which already the spiders had begun to spin their swinging threads. Those were for the fairies she knew, so she waited patiently, with her dark eyes shining like stars.

The rabbits came out and sat round on their hind-legs, trimming their long ears with their fore-paws. The little thick furred black-and-white spotted wild cats also came out and played round with each other while they waited for the coming fun.

She saw two wombats and a wallaby climb the tree behind— the tree that was before the silver moon. They climbed until they reached a high fork, and there they sat just under the swinging flying foxes, waiting like spectators in the gallery, for the performance to commence.

The laughing jackass came also after his day’s work and sat on a branch, looking this way and that expectantly, and last of all the big and little frogs from the pool.

Then came her friends the fairies; straight out of the pages they all flew, like a flock of cockatoos, and circled round her, Cinderella and her old God-mother, the Fairy Prince and the Sleeping Beauty, now wide-awake and happy; good dwarfs, mermaids, snow-maidens, and every one she had loved, without one wicked elf amongst them.

They fluttered about her on transparent wings, danced merrily over the ferns, and swung like happy children on the spider swings, while all the animals looked on solemnly. Norah watched them also. Watched them with eyes growing bigger and bigger with wonderment, and a strange rapture filling her heart.

Some transformation was taking place in her, she was sure, that would shortly enable her to fly as easily as those radiant creatures who moved around her on those glistening wings. Would she have wings like those pretty elves, all transparent and veined like crochet work, covered over with glitter? They were summer wings, Australian wings, the wings of the lady-bird, whom you pick off the gum-tree like a bit of brown shard and pitch away. Then it all opens up into the lovely tinted silk gauze.

Or would she have wings of white feathers like the cockatoos and the angels? That was what she was thinking about as she watched the dancing with that curious fluttering at her heart.

Then the Snow Queen came over to her with the most lovely silver car, drawn by white horses, and invited her to enter and sit beside her.

This Norah did, and no sooner was she seated, then the magic car rose up, with all the fairy court attending, and flew away, past the moon— right on towards the stars.

___________________

2: No Ships Pass

Lady Eleanor Smith

1902–1945

The Story-teller, May 1932

"I AM GLAD," thought Patterson, "that I've always been a damned good swimmer…" and he continued to plough his way grimly through the churning tumbled argent of the breakers.

It seemed hours, although it was actually moments, since the yacht had disappeared in one brief flash of huge and bluish flame; now the seas tossed, untroubled, as though the yacht had never been; and the boat containing his comrades had vanished, too, he noticed, glancing over his shoulder— had vanished with such swiftness as to make him think that it must have been smudged by some gigantic sponge from the flat, greenish expanse of the ocean.

The strange part was that he was able, as he swam, to think with a complete, detached coherence; he was conscious of no panic; on the contrary, as he strove with all his might to gain the strip of land dancing before his eyes, his mind worked with a calm and resolute competence.

"I always thought we'd have a fire with all that petrol about… Curse all motor-yachts… I wonder if the others have been drowned?… Good job I gave the boat a miss…"

He was not even conscious of much regret as he thought of the probable fate of his comrades— his employer, his employer's son, the members of the crew. Already, as he swam on and on through gently-lapping waves, the yacht and those who belonged to it had become part of the past, remote and half-forgotten. The present and the future lay ahead, where a long line of sand shimmered like silver before his eyes.

Yet it was funny, he mused; there had been no sign of land seen from aboard the yacht, and it was not until the actual panic of the fire that he had noticed the dim shape of this island, "near enough to swim to," as he had cried to the others, but they swarmed into the boat, taking no notice of his cries. And so he had embarked alone upon this perilous adventure.

He was a strong swimmer, but he was growing tired. Were his limbs suddenly heavier, or had the sea become less buoyant? He clenched his teeth, striking out desperately, then floated for a while, lying on his back, the huge arch of the sky towering a million miles above him like some gigantic bowl, all fierce hydrangea-blue. When he turned to swim again, he was refreshed, but more sensible of the terrors of his situation.

And yet, was it his fancy, or had the shores of the island loomed nearer during the moments of this brief rest? At first he believed himself to be suffering from hallucination, then, as he looked again, he realized that he was making remarkable progress… He was now so near that the beach glittered like snow in the tropical sunshine before his eyes, and the sands dazzled him, yet he could perceive, lapping against them, a line of softly-creaming surf, and above the sands there blazed the vivid jewel-green of dense foliage. The gulls wheeled bright-winged against the brighter silver of sea and sand. Then he was prepared to swear that his ears distinguished, sounding from the shore, a harsh and murmurous cry that might have been— for he was very weary— something in the nature of a welcome for the creature trying so desperately to gain this sparkling and gaudy sanctuary.

And then exhaustion descended upon him like a numbing cloak, and his ears sang and his brain whirled. His limbs seemed weighted, and his heart pumped violently and he thought he must drown, and groaned, for at that moment life seemed sweet and vivid, since life was represented by the island, and the seas were death.

"Well, now for death," he thought, and as he sank, his foot touched bottom.

HE REALIZED afterwards that he must have sobbed aloud as he staggered ashore. For a moment, as he stood ankle-deep in warm, powdery sand, with the sun pouring fiercely upon his drenched body, the surf curdling at his feet and the cool greenness of a thickly matted forest cresting the slope above his head, he still thought that he must be drowning, and that this land was mirage. Then the silence was shattered by a shrill scream; and a glowing parrot, rainbow-bright, flew suddenly from amidst the blood-red shower of a tall hibiscus-bush, to wheel, gorgeous and discordant, above his head. Beating wings of ruby and emerald and sapphire. Dripping fire-coloured blossom. Loud, jangling, piercing cries. The island was real.

Patterson fainted, flopping like a heap of old clothes upon the smooth, hard silver of the sand…

When he came to himself, the sun was lower and the air fragrant with a scented coolness that seemed the very perfume of dusk itself. For a moment he lay motionless, his mind blank, then, as complete consciousness returned to him and he rolled over on his face, he became aware of a black, human shadow splashed across the sands within a few inches of where he lay. The island, then, must obviously be inhabited. He raised his eyes defiantly.

He could not have explained what he had expected to see— some grinning, paint-raddled savage, perhaps, or else the prim, concerned face of a missionary in white ducks, or, perhaps, a dark-skinned native girl in a wreath of flowers. He saw actually none of these, his gaze encountering a shorter, stranger form— that of an elderly, dwarfish man in what he at first supposed to be some sort of fancy dress. Comical clothes! He gaped at the short, jaunty jacket, the nankeen trousers, the hard, round hat, and, most singular of all, a thin and ratty pigtail protruding from beneath the brim of this same hat. The little man returned his scrutiny calmly, with an air of complete nonchalance; he revealed a turnip face blotched thick with freckles, a loose mouth that twitched mechanically from time to time, and little piggish, filmy blue eyes.

"Good God," said Patterson at length, "who are you, and where did you appear from?"

The little man asked in a rusty voice proceeding from deep in his throat:

"Have you tobacco?"

"If I had it'd be no use to you. Do you realize I swam here?"

"You swam? From where?"

There was silence for a moment, a silence broken only by the breaking of the surf and by the harsh cry of birds, as Patterson, more exhausted than he had first supposed, tried idiotically to remember to what strange port the yacht Seagull had been bound.

He said at length:

"I— we were on our way to Madeira. The Southern Atlantic. The yacht— a petrol-boat— caught fire. And so I swam ashore."

"Petrol? "the man replied, puzzled. "I know nothing of that. As for the Southern Atlantic, I myself was marooned on these shores deliberate, many and many a year ago, when bound for Kingston, Jamaica."

"Rather out of your course, weren't you?"

The little man was silent, staring reflectively out to sea. Patterson, naturally observant, was immediately struck by the look in those small, filmy blue eyes— a singular, fixed immobility of regard, at once empty and menacing, a glassy, almost dead expression in which was reflected all the vast space of the ocean on which he gazed, and something else, too, more elusive, harder to define, some curious quality of concentration that, refusing to be classified, nevertheless repelled. He asked:

"What's your name?"

"Heywood. And yours?"

"Patterson. Are you alone here?"

The narrow blue eyes shifted, slipped from the sea to Patterson's face, and then dropped.

"Alone? No; there are four of us."

"And were they also marooned?"

As he uttered this last word he was conscious that it reflected the twentieth century even less than did the costume of his companion. Perhaps he was still lightheaded after his ordeal. He added quickly:

"Were they also bound for Jamaica?"

"No," Heywood answered briefly.

"And how long," Patterson pursued laboriously," have you been on the island?"

"That," said his companion, after a pause, "is a mighty big question. Best wait before you ask it. Or, better still, ask it, not of me, but of the Captain."

"You're damned uncivil. Who's the Captain?"

"Another castaway, like ourselves. And yet not, perhaps, so much alike. Yonder, behind the palms on the cliff, is his hut."

"I wouldn't mind going there. Will you take me?"

"No," said Heywood in a surly tone.

"Good God!" exclaimed Patterson. "I shall believe you if you tell me they marooned you for your ill-manners. I've swum about eight miles, and need rest and sleep. If you've a hut, then take me to it."

"The Captain'll bide no one in his hut but himself and one other person. That person is not myself."

"Then where do you sleep? In the trees, like the baboons I hear chattering on the hill?"

"No," Heywood answered, still looking out to sea. "I've a comrade in my hut, which is small, since I built it for myself. A comrade who was flung ashore here when a great ship struck an iceberg."

"An iceberg?" Patterson's attention was suddenly arrested. "An iceberg in these regions? Are you trying to make a fool of me, or have you been here so long that your wits are going? And, by the way, tell me this: how do you try to attract the attention of passing ships? Do you light bonfires, or wave flags?"

"No ships pass," said Heywood.

There was another silence. It was almost dark; already the deep iris of the sky was pierced by stars, and it was as though a silver veil had been dragged across the glitter of the ocean. Behind them, on the cliffs, two lights winked steadily; Patterson judged these to proceed from the huts mentioned by his companion. Then came the sound of soft footsteps, and they were no longer two shadows there on the dusky sands, but three.

"Hallo, stranger!" said a casual voice.

Patterson turned abruptly to distinguish in the greyness a sharp, pale face with a shock of tousled hair. A young man, gaunt-looking and eager, clad normally enough in a dark sweater and trousers.

"And this is a hell of a nice island, I don't think," the stranger pursued, thrusting his hands into his pockets. He had a strong Cockney accent. Patterson was enchanted by the very prosaicness of his appearance; he brought with him sanity; walking as he did on faery, moon-drenched shores he was blessed, being the essence of the common place.

"Name of Judd. Dicky Judd. I suppose you're all in. Been swimming, ain't you?"

"Yes. And this fellow Heywood won't take me to his hut. Says it's full. Can you do anything about it?"

"You bet," said Judd. "Follow me, and I'll give you a bite of supper and a doss for the night. This way— the path up the cliff. We'll leave Heywood to the moon, Come on."

Ten minutes later, Patterson was eating fried fish and yams in a log-hut, with an open fireplace and two hammocks swung near the rude doorway. He had noticed, as they climbed the slope together, a grander, more commodious hut built a few hundred yards away amongst some shady palms. This, he surmised, must be the home of the elusive Captain. No sound came from it, but a light burned in the narrow window. As he ate his food he speedily forgot the existence of these fellow-castaways. He asked instead, gulping down water and wishing it were brandy:

"How did you come here, Judd? With the others?"

Judd eyed him swiftly. For one second Patterson imagined that he detected in the merry greenish eyes of his companion the fixed, almost petrified expression that had so much perplexed him in the gaze of Heywood. If he was right, this expression vanished in a flash, yet Judd seemed to withdraw himself, to become curiously remote, as he answered coolly:

"Not I. I came here after them— some time after."

"Do you mean that, like me, you were the only survivor from your ship?"

"That's about it," Judd answered, with his mouth full.

"Tell me about it."

"OH… there's nothing much to tell. She was a great liner— I had a berth aboard her— and she struck an iceberg in mid-Atlantic. There wasn't room for me in the boats, so I jumped… But she was a lovely ship, and big as a city. Titanic, they called her."

"You're pulling my leg. And for Heaven's sake chuck it— I've had about enough for one day."

"S'trewth, I'm not!" Judd told him energetically. "But no matter. You don't have to believe it."

And he whistled, picking his teeth.

Patterson asked with a shiver:

"Look here, joking apart, do you mean to tell me that you honestly believe you were cast ashore here from the wreck of the Titanic?"

"On my oath," said Judd. He added, jumping up: "Bugs is bad here to-night. Wait while I swat a few."

"Just answer this," Patterson interrupted." Why in Heaven's name, when you think you were wrecked in mid-Atlantic, should you have landed here on a tropical island off the African coast? Bit of a miracle that, wasn't it?"

Judd was silent for a moment, flicking at the mosquitoes with a palm-leaf fan. He said at length, sucking his teeth:

"Not being a sea-faring man I take it, you don't happen to have heard a fairy-story told among sailor-boys all the world over— story of a mirage island that floats about the seas near wrecks bent on collecting castaways?"

Patterson thought desperately.

"This man's as mad as Heywood, and that's saying a lot… And I've got to live with them…" Aloud he said: "No, I've never heard that one. But there's one other thing I want to ask you… Who's this Captain that Heywood was talking about? Has he been here for many years?"

"I'll give you this goatskin for a blanket," said Judd," and you can doss near the doorway, where it's cooler. So you know about the Captain?"

"I've only heard his name. I asked you has he been here for very long?"

"Many years," answered Judd, with a peculiar inflection.

"Tell me more about him."

Judd laughed.

"You don't half want to know much, do you? You'll clap eyes to-morrow on Captain Thunder, late of the barque, Black Joke, well-known (he's always boasting) from Barbados to Trinidad and back again. But you may whistle for the Captain to-night!"

Patterson was sleepy.

"Sounds like a buccaneer," he muttered into the goatskin, and was soon unconscious, oblivious even of Heywood's noisy entry.

By early morning the island's beauty seemed more exotic even than the radiant plumage of the parakeets darting to and fro in the dim green light of airy tree-tops. Patterson was refreshed after a good night's sleep, and consequently less depressed. He bathed with Judd, leaving Heywood snoring in his hammock. The beach was a shining snowdrift, the sea a vast tapestry of hyacinth veined and streaked with foam, glowing, glittering in the brilliant sunlight.

They swam for twenty minutes and then lay basking on the sands.

"Hungry?" Judd inquired.

So delicious was the morning that Patterson had quite forgotten the eccentricity manifested by his comrades the previous evening. Rolling over on his stomach, he was about to reply in an enthusiastic affirmative, when he surprised once more in his companion's gaze that bleak, fey look that had already disconcerted him. He could not understand it, yet it was as though a sombre shadow fled across the beach, obscuring this gay and vivid world of amber sunshine, creaming surf, tossing sea and glowing, brilliant blossom. Beauty was blotted out when Judd, the commonplace, looked like that; he felt suddenly lonely, humble and scared.

"Judd," he said suddenly, and Judd wrenched away his eyes from the horizon.

"Judd, listen, and please tell me the truth. Just what are our chances of getting away from here?"

Judd eyed him thoughtfully.

"'If you want the truth, we haven't any. Sorry, and all that, but there it is."

"Rubbish!" said Patterson. "A ship will surely pass one day. Just because you've had bad luck…"

"No ships pass," Judd told him.

"Rubbish again! Look how close mine came yesterday. The trouble with you, Judd, is that you've been here too long, and got into a rut. I don't believe you care much whether you're rescued or not. Now, I do. And I'll tell you my plans—"

"Listen a minute," said Judd. He propped himself up on his elbow, avoided his companion's eyes, and resumed: "You might as well hear it now. No sense in keeping it from you, although you'll think I'm nutty. Listen, then, Patterson. We're here for keeps. Get that? Look at the Captain and his friend; look at Heywood. If I told you how long they'd been here you wouldn't swallow it, and I'd not blame you. But you've got to know some time— we're here for ever. Now I feel better."

Patterson shuddered in the blazing sunlight.

"Do you really think we've got to stick this until we die?"

Judd flung a pebble at a pearly cloud of seagulls.

"Worse than that, Patterson. Worse by a long chalk. I told you last night this island was mirage, magic. Stands to reason it is, floating round the world picking survivors from shipwrecks in all the Seven Seas. Well, there's something worse than that— much worse— and I'm going to tell you what it is. There's no death on this island. Death forgets us. We're here for all eternity."

Patterson laughed nervously.

"You should be in Bedlam, Judd. I suppose a few years' desert-island does that to one. But look here, now I've come to join you, we'll get away somehow, I promise you that."

Judd slipped on his trousers."

"You don't believe me, and small blame to you. I was like that once. But it's true. I swear to God it is. There's no death here. For the animals and birds, yes, or we should starve. But not for us. We're here for all eternity, and you may as well make the best of it."

Patterson, trying to dress himself, found that his hands were trembling. Yet he tried to be reasonable.

"Look here, Judd, what put this crazy idea into your head?"

"Do you know," Judd replied," how long Heywood's been here? Of course you don't; I'll tell you. He was marooned in eighteen twenty-five. Add that up for yourself. As for the Captain, he's had a longer spell. He was a pirate, one of those Spanish Main fellows I read about when I was a kid. His crew mutinied in July, seventeen ninety-five. Another sum for you, if you're quick at figures."

"Very interesting," Patterson commented idiotically.

"DON'T you imagine," Judd continued, "that we haven't all of us tried to escape in the past. We've built rafts and boats— they've always been chucked back here on the beach by mysterious tidal waves or tempests. Then we've tried to kill ourselves and one another— we've been wounded and lain sick for weeks with mosquitoes battening on our wounds, and our wounds have festered, but we've pulled through. Now we don't do that any more. Too much pain for nothing. You always pull through in the end. We've tried to drown, and swallowed quarts of water, but always we've been flung back on the sands here. Death's not for us— we've jolly well found that out. And so we make the best of it. It's all right after a time. You live for eating and sleeping and you blooming well don't think. Sometimes you go mad, but in the long run you get sane again. And you kowtow to the Captain, who's got twice the guts of anyone. And, oh, yes, your clothes last just as you last. Funny, isn't it?"

"What about breakfast?" suggested Patterson.

"I knew you'd think me loopy," said Judd. "All right, come on back to the hut."

They scrambled to their feet, and there was an awkward constraint between them. Then Patterson pulled Judd's arm.

"What's that? Look over there! Is that another confounded mirage?"

Judd screwed up his eyes. Beside the rocks, where seaweed flourished like green moss, a woman stood, skirts kilted in her hand. She was barefoot, and sprang from one rock to another with the grace and agility of a deer. She was gathering mussels. As she worked she sang, and the drowsy, bell-like sweetness of her voice was wafted faintly to their ears all mingled with the cry of seagulls.

"Oh, that," said Judd. "Well, you'd better remember to act respectful when she's about. That's Doña Inés, the Captain's girl. She was his prisoner; he had her with him on his boat when the crew of the Black Joke mutinied, and they were cast up here together. At least, they both say so. First she hated him, then loved him for forty years or so, and since then, for about a hundred years, she's been fed up, but he's still keen on her. So keep away, that's my advice. Once Heywood went snooping after her, and the Captain cut his throat. He'd have died elsewhere, of course, and he suffered the tortures of hell, he told me. He'll show you the scar if you're interested."

Wait," said Patterson, "you've given me a turn with your crazy talk, and she's coming towards us. There's no harm, I suppose, in speaking to her?"

"None, as long as you're respectful."

THEY WAITED there on the beach while the woman approached them. She was young, about twenty, and extremely handsome. She wore a stiff, flowing skirt of burning crimson, and a little jacket of orange. Her dark, rippling hair hung like a black plume down her back, and her oval, vivid face was delicately modelled with high cheek-bones, a mouth like red blossom, and immense velvety-brown eyes. She was Spanish, of course, and well bred; her wrists were fragile, exquisite, her bare feet slender and arched. Her body was lithe, graceful and voluptuous; she moved swiftly, as though she danced, and as she drew near to the two men, a sudden soft breeze blew a lock of floating ebon hair across the fire and sweetness of her mouth.

Patterson was dazed; he had encountered much superstition during the course of the morning, his stomach was empty, and he was but ill-prepared for such beauty. Doña Inés said gaily, speaking fluent, attractive English:

"Good morning to you, señor. I heard last night of your arrival, but was not allowed to greet you, as I so much desired.

"Please forgive my execrable manners. We shall see so much of one another that it would be as well to start our acquaintance on friendly terms."

Patterson pulled himself together and kissed her hand, a long, delicate hand all dusky-tanned with the sun. A huge diamond glared from the third finger.

"Morning, Inés," said Judd, casually. "Where's the Captain?"

"Micah?" She became suddenly indifferent. "Waiting for his breakfast, I suppose. I must go to him. Shall we walk up the hill together?"

And so they went, and the Doña Inés moved lightly between them, all bright and flaming in her gaudy clothes, and told Patterson that he must accustom himself to this idea of eternity. After the first hundred years these things mattered little enough.

"As well be here, laughing and walking in the sunshine, as in our graves. Don't you think so, señor? And I, who am talking to you, have so much experience of these things. Why, haven't I lived here with Micah Thunder for near on a hundred and forty years? And it might be yesterday that he sacked Santa Ana, he and his fleet, and took me prisoner when I was on my knees at Mass, and swore that I should be his woman. And so I was, both here and on his ship. But I have almost forgot the ship, and Santa Ana, too. Now there is only the island, and yet I am not a stricken woman, am I, nor yet a day older than when cast up on these shores?"

And so she prattled, her dark eyes flashing like jewels, until she and the two men came to the clearing where were the two huts, and there, in front of the smaller one, sat Heywood, surly as ever, eating.

"Good-bye, señor," said Doña Inés. "We will meet later, when I have fed my Captain."

Patterson sat down on the ground and said nothing.

"Here's orange-juice," said Judd, "and custard-apples, and some combread I baked myself. No butter— we don't rise to that— but, all the same, we'll dine on oysters."

Patterson ate in silence. He supposed himself to be hungry. And he thought that he was in a nightmare, and would wake soon with the steward shaking him, and find himself once more in a gay, chintz-hung cabin of the Seagull, with bacon and eggs waiting in the dining-saloon. But he did not waive.

"I'll help you rig up a tent after breakfast," said Judd. "I've got some sailcloth. It'll last for a few days, and then you can build a hut for yourself."

Heywood, eating ravenously, said nothing, but eyed him in silence.

"I wish," he thought desperately, "they wouldn't stare like that."

And suddenly he knew of what their fixed eyes reminded him. They were like dead men in the way they gazed. Glassy and vacant, their eyes were as the eyes of corpses. Perhaps their fantastic stories were true, and he had in reality been cast for all eternity upon a mirage island.

"Oh, Lord," he thought, "I'm getting as crazy as the rest of them. And yet the woman, the Spanish woman, seemed sane enough, and she believes their tales."

After breakfast he worked at putting up his tent, sweating in the copper glare of the sun, while Heywood went fishing and Judd vanished into the woods with a bow and arrows. No sound came from the other hut. When he had finished erecting his tent, Patterson lay down in the shade inside it, and found himself craving for a cigarette with a passionate, abnormal longing. It was stuffy in the tent, and mosquitoes clustered round his hot face. He shut his eyes and tried to sleep, but sleep evaded him. And then, as he lay quietly in the oppressive darkness, his instincts, already sharpened by twenty-four hours' adventure, warned him that someone was watching him. He opened his eyes.

Outside, regarding him impassively, stood a small, slim man in dainty, dandified clothes of green-blue shot taffeta. These garments, consisting of a full-skirted, mincing coat and close-fitting breeches, were smeared with dirt, and seemed to Patterson highly unsuited to desert-island life. The little man wore cascades of grubby lace dripping from his wrists, and rusty buckles on his pointed shoes. He bore himself like a dancing-master, and had no wig, which seemed odd to Patterson, who gaped at a gingery, close-shaven head revealing glimpses of bare skull like pinkish silk. The face of this man was long and narrow and candle-pale, with thin, dry lips and pointed ears. His flickering, expressionless eyes were green as flames; he blinked them constantly, showing whitish, sandy lashes. His hands were long, blanched, and delicate, more beautiful than a woman's, and he wore on one finger a huge diamond ring, the twin to that other stone blazing upon the finger of Doña Inés. Patterson, disconcerted by the cold, unwavering eyes, scrambled to his feet and held out his hand. It was ignored, but the Captain bowed gracefully.

"Captain Micah Thunder, late of the Black Joke, and at your service."

He spoke in a high, affected, mincing voice.

"I have already," Patterson told him, "heard talk of you, Captain Thunder, and am, therefore, delighted to have this opportunity of meeting you."

"You're a damned liar," replied Captain Thunder, with a giggle. "My fame, I understand, has not, through some absurd mischance, been handed down throughout the ages, or so Judd informs me. They talk, I hear, of Flint and Kidd— even of Blackbeard, most clumsy bungler of all— but not of Thunder. And that, you know, is mighty odd, for without any desire to boast, I can only assure you, my young friend, that in the three years preceding the mutiny of my crew I was dreaded in all ports as the Avenger of the Main, and, indeed, I recollect taking during that period more than thirty merchantmen."

He sighed, giggled once more, and shook out the lace ruffles of his cuffs.

"Indeed, sir?" said Patterson, respectfully. To himself he thought, in a sudden panic: "I must humour this man; he's worse than any of them."

For the Captain, with his conical, shaven head, his long, pale face, his deprecating giggle, his cold, greenish eyes and high, affected voice, seemed, as he minced there in the sunshine, most terribly like an animated corpse coquetting, grotesquely enough, in all the parrot-sheen of silken taffetas and frothing lace. This creature, this little strutting jackanapes, so bleached and frozen and emasculated, looked, indeed, as though a hundred and more years of living on the island had drained away his very life-blood, leaving a dummy, a vindictive, posturing dummy, clad in fine raiment, staring perpetually out to sea with greenish, fishy eyes. And something, perhaps the very essence of evil itself, a breath of cold and effortless vice, emanated from him to stink in Patterson's nostrils like a rank and putrid smell. The odour of decay, perhaps; the very spirit of decay, for surely, in spite of sanity and commonsense, this man should long ago have rotted, not in a coffin, but rather from a gibbet on Execution Dock.

And Doña Inés, creeping up softly behind him, seemed brighter, gayer than a humming-bird, in contrast to her pale pirate. Receiving a signal from her eye, he knew that he must make no mention of an earlier meeting.

"My mistress, Doña Inés Samaniegos, of Santa Ana," announced the Captain, with a flourish.

"Your servant, madam," said Patterson, formally.

And the lady, very grave and beautiful, ran her hand lightly over the Captain's sleeve and swept a curtsy, deep and billowing. She was not merry now, neither was she barefoot; she seemed haughty, and had shod herself in high-heeled, red shoes.

"THIS FLOWER," said Captain Thunder, casually, indicating his paramour with a flick of white finger, "springs from a proud and splendid Casilian family. Is it not so, my heart? I took her when my fleet sacked Santa Ana, finding her myself, when my hands were steeped in blood above the wrists, praying in terror before a waxen, tinselled image of the Virgin. She was sixteen, and very timid, being fresh from convent. Before I wooed I was forced to tame her. When I had tamed her, I was still enamoured, and for four years she sailed the Main as queen of my fleet. The Black Joke, my ship, and the Black Lady, as they called my woman (being accustomed to flaxen peasant maids from Devon), those were all I prized in life. My ship they took, my woman I have kept, and will continue to keep whilst we remain here."

The drawling voice was icy now, and the light eyes had become green stones. Patterson realized that he was being warned. He answered lightly:

"And may I congratulate you, Captain, upon a lovely and most glorious prize?"

"Do you mind," said the Captain to Doña Inés, "when that little ape, Heywood, tried to take you, and I slit his throat?"

She nodded, her eyes very dark and lustrous.

The Captain turned to Patterson.

"There is no death on this island, sir, as you will discover for yourself, but it is possible to fight, and, fighting, to inflict wounds. A sorry business, very, I declare I regretted it, when I saw the poor creature gurgling in mortal agony. He was sick for many days. But, sooner or later, we all heal. However, I'm soft-hearted, once my rage is appeased. And now you will pray excuse me, while I seek the shade. I'll leave madam here to entertain you for ten minutes. A change for her, a pleasant interlude for yourself. In ten minutes, then, my dove?"

Bowing, he retreated, walking away with pointed toes, more like a dancing-master than ever.

When he was out of earshot Patterson said impulsively:

"I'm not enamoured of your Captain!"

"And I," she said thoughtfully, "was once enamoured of him for forty years."

"And now?" Patterson wanted to know.

"Now? "She scooped up some sand and let it sift through her fingers." Oh, my poor young man, does anyone remain in love for all eternity? Do you really believe that pretty legend?"

"Then you hate him?"

"Hate? No. You can neither hate nor love for a hundred years. I have suffered both, so I know, and tried to kill myself three times. Oh yes, there is not much that I cannot tell you about love. One does not live as long as I have lived without learning wisdom."

"And please tell me, Doña Inés," begged Patterson, "what you have learned about life in a hundred and forty years."

"A hundred and sixty," she corrected. "I was twenty when cast up here. What have I learned? One thing above all— to live without emotion. Love, hate, tedium— those are all words, very unimportant words. They are nothing. I like to eat when I am hungry, sleep when I am tired, swim, when the sun is hot. All that is good, because it is just enough. I used to think— I never think now. I was mad, you know, for a little time, five years or so, because I thought too much. But soon I was cured. That was when, having loved Micah and hated him, at last he sickened me. I imagined I could not bear that. But you see I was wrong."

She laughed, shaking back a tress of hair, and he knew that, with death, she had also lost her soul and her humanity. She was, as she had said, empty, drained of all emotion; she was as sterile mentally, this lovely lady, as the parakeets chattering above her head. But she was very beautiful.

"And the Captain?" he inquired. "Is it rude to ask what are his feelings towards you?"

"Indeed, no!" And she laughed again. "The Captain is still a man, although he should have been dead long ago. Being a man, he has need of a woman sometimes. Being a man, he is determined that other men shall not take that woman. That is all. Apart from that, like us all, he is petrified."

And then, although the ten minutes were not up, she heard Judd coming up the hill, and slipped like a bright shadow to her own hut.

DAYS PASSED slowly on the island. One day was like another. Always the sun poured brilliantly upon sapphire seas, gleaming sands, jewelled foliage. Macaws flashed like darting rainbows through the dusky green of jungle arches, the fruit hung coral-bright from trees whose blossoms flung out trailing creepers gayer, more gaudy, than the patterns of vivid Spanish shawls. And yet it seemed to Patterson after two months that all this radiant beauty was evil and poisoned, like a sweet fruit rotten at the core. What should have been paradise was only a pretty hell. Slowly, reluctantly, he had been forced to accept the island for what it was according to his comrades. He now believed, although shamefacedly, that Thunder and Doña Inés had lived there since the mutiny of the Black Joke, that Heywood had been marooned in the last century for insubordination, that Judd had emerged from the wreck of the Titanic. And yet, obstinately, he still clung to the idea of escape. One day he would escape. And then, once away from the island's shores, he would regain mortality, he would wrap mortality about him like a cloak.

Meanwhile, he noticed one or two curious facts. His clothes, after eight weeks' rough living, were almost as good as new. It was no longer necessary for him to shave more than once a week. And, once, Judd, climbing a palm in search of coconuts, had slipped, crashing on his head to what seemed certain death fifty feet below and had been picked up suffering from nothing worse than slight concussion. This accident shook his faith more than anything else that he saw.

They lived comfortably enough on fish, home-baked bread, fruit, coco-nuts, and the flesh of young pigs found in the jungle. Patterson learned to shoot with a bow-and-arrow, and to tell the time by the sun and stars. He learned to be patient with Heywood, who was half-witted, and he learned to search for turtles' eggs in a temperature of ninety-nine in the shade. He learned, too, to treat Captain Thunder with respect and Doña Inés with formality.

Sometimes, the Captain, a reserved, sour-tempered man, would unbend, and, fingering his cutlass, tell stories of his life as a buccaneer on the Spanish Main. Terrible stories, these, vile, filthy, sadistic stories of murder and vice, plunder and torture, and fiendish, cold blooded, ferocious revenge. Told in his drawling, affected voice, they became nauseous, and yet Doña Inés listened peacefully enough, her dark eyes soft and Velvety, her red, silken mouth calmer than an angel's. Sometimes she would look up and nod, and say:

"Oh, yes, Micah; I remember that, don't I? I was with you then, wasn't I?"

"You were, my dove, my heart. If you remember, I burnt your hand in the flame of my candle until you swooned, because you affronted me by asking mercy for those dogs."

And she would laugh.

"I was foolish, was I not, Micah? For what did it matter?"

Patterson, loathing these conversations, was, nevertheless, forced to listen because at night there was really nothing else to do. Always before in his life he had accepted books without question as being quite naturally part of his life; now that he had none, the lack of them appalled him. He tried to write, scratching a diary on strips of bark, but the effort was not successful. Nor did his companions do much to ameliorate the loneliness of his situation. He preferred Judd to the others because Judd was young and gay, and comparatively untouched by the sinister, dragging life of the island, yet there were times when even Judd seemed to withdraw himself, to become watchful, remote, secretive. Patterson learned to recognize these as the interludes when his friend, pitifully afraid, thought in a panic of the future that lay ahead for him.

Heywood was sulky and monosyllabic. The Captain, so cynical and depraved, with his vicious mind, his giggle, and his will of iron, had revolted Patterson from the first. Only Doña Inés, with her vivid face and her beautiful, empty, animal mind, seemed to him restful and gracious, like some handsome, well-behaved child, in this crazy world of sunshine and plenty and despair. For this reason she began to haunt him at night, so that he was unable to sleep, and he longed, not so much to make love to her as to rest his head against her and to feel her cool hand upon his forehead, soothing him, that he might forget for a few hours. But Doña Inés was watched so carefully that it seemed impossible to speak to her alone.

And then one day, when he had been on the island for more than three months and was in a mood of black depression, he encountered her in the woods.

He had wandered there in search of shade, aimless, solitary, and discontented. She was gathering moss, on her knees, her bright skirts kilted. Stars of sunlight dripped through the green and matted tent of foliage, cast flickering, dappled shadows upon the amber of her neck and arms. When she heard his footsteps, she turned to look at him, smiling very wisely, her head turned to one side.

"May I speak to you," he asked her, "without being snarled at by the Captain?"

"But of course," she said. "Micah and Heywood went out an hour ago to fish on the other side of the island."

He sat down beside her on the green froth of the moss.

"Inés," he began, and he had never called her by her name before, "I wonder if you will be patient and listen to me for a moment?"

She nodded, saying nothing; she was never very glib of words.

"It's this," he said encouraged; "perhaps, being so much wiser, you can help me… It's a bad day with me; I've got the horrors. To-day I believe all your crazy stories, and, try as I will, I can't escape from them… to-day I feel the island shutting me in, and I want to run away from the island. What am I to do?"

"You must begin," she told him, "by making yourself more stupid than you are. Oh, it was easy for Heywood, more easy even for Judd. For you it is very difficult. Can you not think only of to-day? Must you let your mind race on ahead?"

Her voice was murmurous and very soft. He said, after a pause:

"It would be easier, I think, if I might talk to you more often. Time, the time of the island, has touched you scarcely at all. With you one almost ceases to feel the horror."

"If it were not for Micah I would talk to you, yes, whenever you want. But you know how I am situated."

"Oh, don't think I'm trying to make love to you," he told her impatiently, "it's not that. It's only that you bring me peace— you're so beautiful, so restful."

Doña Inés was silent. He said, after another pause:

"Perhaps that wasn't very polite of me. In fact, it was clumsily expressed. Let me try once more— listen, Inés, you're sanity, loneliness, a bright angel in a mad world. I respect you as I would respect a saint. But I want to be with you, I want to talk to you. I'm lonely when you're not there— I need your protection."

Doña Inés looked away from him towards the green twilight of the trees. His eyes devoured her dark, clear-cut profile. She said at length, speaking very slowly in her grave, beautiful voice:

"Mi querido, I can't grant your request. I am too afraid of Micah, and perhaps I am afraid of something else… Listen, if I saw much of you I might forget that I should be a dead woman. I might forget that my heart is cold and my mind empty. I might wake up again, and I don't want to wake up. I am afraid of life, after so many years. And already you are making my sleep a little restless."

She turned her face towards him and he saw that the red flower of her mouth was trembling. A bright drop, that might have been a tear, save that she never wept, hung like a jewel upon the shadow of her lashes. Yet her face was radiant, transfigured, more sparkling than the sunshine.

Straightway, Patterson forgot about respect and saints and Captain Thunder, and kissed her on the lips.

For one enchanted moment she was acquiescent, then pushed him away, hiding her face in her hands. And he, realizing the horror that lay ahead for both, felt more like weeping than rejoicing.

"Go away," she whispered, "go away before you make me hate you for what you are doing. A moment ago you talked of peace: do you realize that you are stealing mine?"

He stammered, scarcely knowing what he said:

"Perhaps there are better dreams."

"Not here," she told him; "here there are no dreams but bad ones, and so it is safer not to dream at all. Please, please, go away."

"Inés," he said eagerly," I will go away— we'll both go away. If I build a boat, or a raft, and provision her, will you trust yourself to me? We'll escape— we may drown, but I promise you— "

He stopped. In her tired yet vivid eyes he had suddenly surprised, for the first lime, the dead, haunted look that so much disconcerted him when he glimpsed it in the others' gaze. It was as if she retreated very far away, drawing down a blind.

She said, patiently, as one speaking to a child:

"Oh, my friend, please don't be so foolish… I have tried, we have all tried, so many times. And it hurts, to fail so often."

"Then you won't come?"

She climbed slowly to her feet, brushing moss from her bright skirts. Then she shook her black, silken head twice, very emphatically.

"No. I will not come with you."

"Then," said Patterson, "since I can't stay here to watch you with the Captain, I shall escape alone. Won't you change your mind?"

She came near to him and put her hand for one moment upon his shoulder.

"No. I will never change my mind."

And with a swishing of silk, that sounded strange enough in that tropical, emerald glade, she left him to his thoughts, and his thoughts were agony.

For weeks he slaved in secret to build a great rakish-looking solid raft that grew slowly into shape as it lay concealed amid the dusky green of overhanging branches. He had told no one save Doña Inés of his resolution to escape. The reason was simple; in his heart of hearts he dreaded their bitter mockery, their cynical disbelief in any possible salvation from the trap of the island. Yet he still had faith; once aboard his raft and he would be for ever borne away from those perilous and beckoning shores; he might find death, but this he did not really mind, although he much preferred the thought of life, human life, life with Inés. And then he had to remind himself that the Spanish woman was a thing of dust, to crumble away at the first contact with normal humanity, and that he would, in any event, be better without her, since she meant another mouth to feed.

But he still desired her, and it was as though the Captain knew, for she was very seldom left alone. And so he toiled in secret, and in his spare time nursed Judd, who lay sick of a poisonous snake-bite that swelled his foot, and turned it black, and would have meant death in any other land.

Once, when his raft was nearly completed, he caught Inés alone on the beach, where, against a background of golden rock, she fed a swirling silver mass of seagulls. The birds wheeled, crying harshly, and Doña Inés smiled. She wore a knot of scarlet passion-flower in the dark satin of her hair. Patterson, determined not to miss a second alone with her, advanced triumphantly across the sands. The seagulls scattered.

"Look, you've frightened my birds," she complained indignantly.

"Never mind the birds— they can see you whenever they want. I can't. Inés, haven't you changed your mind about coming with me?"

She shook her head.

"Inés, please, please listen! Even if we drown out there together, wouldn't it be better than this?"

"Oh, yes, if we drowned. But we should not drown. We should come back here— to Micah— and then our lives would not be worth living."

"My life," he said, "isn't worth living now, not while I have to see you with that creature night and day."

"Be quiet," she warned in a low voice.

PATTERSON turned, following her eyes. Behind, only just out of earshot, stood the Captain, watching them sardonically. The breeze lifted the skirts of his green taffeta coat, ballooning them about his slender body. The green, too, seemed reflected in his face, so pale was it; paler, more waxen, even than a corpse-candle.

"Are you also feeding the birds, Patterson?" inquired the Captain, softly.

"No. I am looking for turtles' eggs."

"How many have you found?" the Captain wanted to know.

Patterson felt rather foolish.

"None— yet."

"Then you had better make haste, unless you wish to fast for dinner. Come, my rose."

And Captain Thunder turned away indifferently, followed by Doña Inés, who walked behind him obediently, her head bent, with no backward look.

That night Patterson thought he heard weeping in the hut that lay only a few hundred yards from his own, and he crouched, perspiring, sleepless, for many hours, until it was dark no longer, and bars of rose and lemon streaked the sky. Then he got up and went forth to the woods to complete his preparations for escape.

He had rigged up a sail upon his raft and had already floated her on a narrow lagoon that led towards the sea. He was taking with him three barrels of water, a barrel of bread, his fishing-tackle, a blanket, and a flint and tinder. He knew he would not starve, since fish were plentiful, but he was aware that he would, probably, unless he were fortunate enough to end in a shark's belly, die of a thirst that must endure for many days of torment in a pitiless and scorching heat.

Yet he could not wait; he must start at once, before the sun was up, before the first sign of life from that hut nestling on the cliffs behind him. And so, at a moment's notice, he took his departure, nervous and weary and taut with anxiety, drifting with his raft like some dark bird against the misty violet-blue of the lagoon at dawn.

Everything was silent; trees and cliff and sky, the limpid reflection of these in the glassy waters of the lagoon; even the monkeys and the chattering parakeets, all were frozen into a breathless silence that seemed to watch, aghast, the reckless departure of this creature determined at all costs to break away from their sorrowful eternity.

Soon it was daylight, and the sun beat gilded wings, and Patterson drew near to the sea. A curve in the lagoon showed him the tawny cliff, and above it the huts. From the Captain's hut came a finger of blue smoke that climbed, very straight, into the bright clearness of the air.

"Good-bye, Inés."

And he was surprised to find how little pain there was for him in this parting. He reminded himself once more that she was a ghost, a creature of dust.

He passed the rocks and was soon outside, away from the island, on the sea itself. The ripples danced, white-crested as though laced with silver. Patterson fished with success. He tried to fry his breakfast and, failing, devoured it half-raw, with a hunch of bread. It was very appetizing. After breakfast he lay watching, with ecstasy, a stiff breeze swell his sail.

Already the island seemed to have receded. Patterson gazed with exultation at the coral-whiteness of its strand, the radiant green foliage of its trees. An hour before, and these, had been loathsome to him; now that they belonged to the past, he grimaced at them and waved his hand.

The raft drifted on.

The sea was kind to him that day, he thought, so innocent and gay and tinted like forget-me-nots. Despite himself, despite his almost certain death, he found his mind flitting towards England, and his life there, as though he were fated to be saved.

He turned towards the island, gleaming in the distance.

"Farewell!"

It was a cry of defiance.

And then, in a moment, like thunder splintering from the sky, came sudden and shattering catastrophe. He was never very clear as to what actually occurred. All he knew was that from peace and beauty there emerged swift chaos. A wall of water, all towering solid green and ribbed with foam, reared suddenly from the tranquil seas to bar his path like some great ogre's castle arisen by magic, huge, destructive, carven of emerald. Then there was darkness and a tremendous roaring sound, and the raft seemed to buck like a frightened horse. He heard the ripping of his sail and then he was pitched through the air and something seemed to split his head and he knew no more.

When he awoke, the sun beat hot upon his temples. He felt sick, his limbs ached, and he groaned. He lay still, his eyes closed, and tried to remember what had happened. And then he heard a sound that might have been some dirge sighed by the breeze, a soft murmuring music that seemed to him familiar. The song of the island. He knew, then, that he was back upon the island. He had no need to open his eyes.

"Oh, God," he sighed.

And the sweat trickled down his face.

And then, inevitably, sounding close in his ear, the sneering, hateful voice of Captain Thunder.

"Home so soon, my young friend? No, you would not believe, would you? You knew too much…"

Patterson made no sign of life. Back once more on the island. For all eternity… the island… and then the murmuring song swelled louder, louder, mocking him, laughing a little, as Inés had laughed when he had told her he was going to escape. The song of the island! And he must hear it for ever! He opened his eyes to find the Captain looking at him cynically.

"Now that you understand there is no escape," said the Captain, "perhaps you will not take it amiss if I venture to criticize your manner towards Madam Inés…"

But Patterson was not listening.

_________________

3: The Castle Of Dromore

Katharine Tynan

1859-1931

The Handsome Quaker and Other Stories, 1902

THE WINTRY winds whistled round the Castle of Dromore, and below the piping of the winds there came a dull, persistent sound— the thud of the seas breaking at the foot of the crag on which the ancient house of the L'Estranges was built.

There were four persons in the room— Michael L'Estrange, Mistress Pamela (his sister), Eily (his daughter), and M. le Vicomte de Poitiers.

The latter, a young gentleman of about twenty-three years, stood with a bowed head, holding a skein of wool, which Mistress Pamela was winding into a ball. He was extremely elegant in his coat and breeches of pearl-grey silk, with white waistcoat and white silk stockings. His hair he wore powdered, albeit the new Jacobinism was bringing in the fashion of wearing one's own hair; and it could not be denied that the powder was becoming to the freshness of his face. He wore a slight moustache with points at either end. Its blackness and the darkness of his vivacious eyes were in pleasant contrast with his powder.

Looking at him, bent low before Mistress Pamela's faded beauty, Michael L'Estrange's heart smote him at what he had to do.

He glanced sorrowfully at his daughter's profile, where she sat at the old piano with its high back of faded silk. It threw into delightful relief the rich colour of her cheeks, and the outline of her bronze-coloured head, which had never known powder.

There were soft fires in her eyes as they looked up while she sang. It was a song made for a child of her own house.

Take time to thrive, my rose of hope,
in the Castle of Dromore,

Take heed, young eaglet,
till your wings have feathers fit to soar,

A little rest, and then the world is full of work to do.

Sing hushaby lullaloo lo Ian, sing hushaby lullaloo.

The rich voice, almost too full for her slender young body, broke in the passionate tenderness of the nurse's song, and she turned firom the piano with a wavering smile on her lips, though the passion of the music yet lingered in the eyes under the long lashes.

M. le Vicomte de Poitiers made a half-impulsive movement towards her. Then he remembered the fetters on his hands, and with a little murmur of apology to Mistress Pamela kept his place before her. Mistress Pamela had noticed the movement and smiled to herself. The woman was not so dead in her that she could not appreciate the young Frenchman's charming ways towards her. And his coming was an answer to prayer. Yes, surely, an answer to her prayers. What a match for Eily! And the child head over ears in love with him! The son of one of the greatest statesmen and soldiers in Europe! What a chance that in doing the grand tour he should have visited these wilds, and fallen head over ears in love with Eily!

But what was Michael saying? What was Michael, with his terrible pride, his fanatical sense of honour, saying? Mistress Pamela turned pale imder her powder.

"You go to Dublin to-morrow, I understand, M. le Vicomte?" said Michael L'Estrange.

The young gentleman was so startled that he let Mistress Pamela's wools fall, and made no effort to pick them up again.

"Pardon," he said, "Monsieur L'Estrange! To Dublin! No, I had not thought of it. I had thought to fish the trout in your delightful river, when the spring should come."

The colour came and went in his ingenuous cheek. There was a sharp sound in the room, as though some one had caught her breath in a sob. Then the door closed ; Eily had gone out.

"The trout-fishing is good," agreed Michael L'Estrange, ''but so it is in a thousand streams. You are travelling to see the world. Dromore is not the world, and if I remember rightly, M. le Vicomte, you intended but to spend one night in the Angler's Rest, which must have poor accommodation for your suite."

"It is excellent," the young man answered confusedly. "But indeed, I was not thinking of it. I have found friends here, in the Castle of Dromore."

His eyes pleaded piteously, but Michael L'EIstrange had set his face like a flint. "It is what my father would have wished. 'Go then,' he said, when he parted with me, 'see the world, my child, see men and women, beautiful scenery and strange cities. Make friends, enlarge thy mind, come back to me a man of the world. Yet remember always that the world is not things, but persons, that no natural beauty of inanimate things can equal in interest the profound fascination of the human character.' "

"M. le Duc is a past master in his knowledge of the minds of men," said Michael L'Estrange coldly, "but you will go to Dublin to-morrow, monsieur."

The young man threw out his hands with a gesture of despair.

"You drive me forth," he said. " A day or two agone you offered me your hospitality for the Christmas, to see the mummers, the mystery-play at your market-cross— those so interesting survivals. What have I done, M. L'Estrange?"

A low murmur of protest from Mistress Pamela in her corner, that hardened Michael L'Estrange's face. He turned away, and began lifting one thing after another from the mantel-shelf, and putting them back in their places.

"I am sorry, M. le Vicomte," he said, breaking the silence at last, "that your visit to the Castle of Dromore has come to an end."

"I go," said the young man, in a low voice ; "there is nothing to do but for me to go, with a million thanks, M. L'Estrange, for your gracious hospitality. But I will come again. Ah, yes! I will come again. My father shall plead for me."

"Your father's hands are too full of the affairs of Europe, young sir, to come as a suppliant to the Castle of Dromore and the poor L'Estranges."

L'Estrange spoke bitterly, his eye taking in the great bare room, where every article of furniture cried out for renewing.

M. le Vicomte bent low over Mistress Pamela's hand as he kissed it. Then he bowed deeply to Michael L'Estrange, and was gone. The clang of the great door behind him seemed to jar all the house.

"Were you wise, brother?" asked Mistress Pamela, lifting her tearful eyes from her knitting, "The young man was unexceptionable in every way."

"You are too modest, madam," answered Michael L'Estrange, with bitter mockery. "The minister of a king, who is more king than his master— what has his only son to do with the daughter of the L'Estranges?"

"We are a proud and ancient family, brother."

"Too proud to seek such an alliance. Is the Castle of Dromore a spider's web to entrap the son of the Due de Launay? Let him call home his lad. We want none of him, neither I nor my girl."

That night Michael L'Estrange sat late. The next morning at daybreak, Martin, his soldier-servant, who had been with him at Fontenoy, set out with a letter in his breast addressed to the Due de Launay.

After that, the sadness which had seemed to lift from the Castle of Dromore fell on it more heavily.

Eily shunned her father ; and the old spinet no longer tinkled to her melodious singing of " The Castle of Dromore," and "The Foggy Dew," and "The Lady of Albany's Lament for King Charles." Michael L'Estrange and his sister had the drawing-room to themselves of evenings, and though he had had his way and vindicated his honour, he was uneasily conscious of his sister's reproachful eye upon him, and the depth of her sighs as she carried on her interminable knitting.

Many weeks elapsed before Martin returned. He had gone in mild October; it was snowy Christmas weather when he came back. He had a letter from the Due de Launay, the contents of which were somewhat surprising to Michael L'Estrange.

The writer thanked him for his consideration for the family of de Launay, and went on:

"There will be in your neighbourhood almost as soon as this letter a friend of our house, M. de Corréze, whom I commend to your courtesy. He will express whatever I have failed in, of my admiration for an honout so delicate, a pride so generous."

There was no time to decline M. de Corréze as a guest, if a L'Estrange could have thought of committing such a crime against hospitality. Briefly Michael L'Estrange imparted the news to his household that they might look for such a visitor any hour of the day. There was no suggestion on his part that M. de Corréze was other than one of his old comrades in the Low Countries, and as such Mistress Pamela accepted him. Eily received the tidings indifferently, as she had been doing with most things of late. She was not sullen. On the contrary, she was exquisitely gentle with her father when they met. But there was a hint of a mutinous spirit about her red lips, and an unextinguished sparkle in her eyes, which told that she was not a likely one to give up her happiness, even at the bidding of the father she worshipped.

M. de Corréze arrived, accompanied only by an old soldier-servant, on the very evening of the mummers' play. It was not till the supper-hour that Eily made his acquaintance. He was a little old man, who walked with a limp, and had the tiniest old parchment face, with a thousand wrinkles upon it.

He came to the supper-table in a faded uniform, with a few medals on his breast. Insignificant, Eily had thought him at the first moment, if she so much as thought upon him, a mere piece of flotsam from the old wars; but as the minutes passed she began to change her mind. A sense of power, of domination, seemed to hang about the old soldier. His eyes now— those little eyes in deep sockets under pent-house brows— how piercing they were, how commanding! Eily L'Estrange had an odd thought that if those eyes commanded her to do anything she must obey.

He faced her at the round table, and Eily felt those eyes often upon her. They made her curiously shy, yet their expression for her was a kind one. Now and again she tried to meet his glance, but her eyes got no higher than the medals on his breast. To her they meant nothing. Not so with Michael L'Estrange. At sight of them his eye had kindled ; for an instant he had made a gesture as though he would salute like a soldier. From the moment of seeing them, his manner had a reverence towards his guest, strange enough in one of his name, seeing how highly they ranked their own house and their own blood.

As the supper passed, the two fell to talking of battles. They had fought in the same field, for the lilies of France. M. de Corréze had apparently acquainted himself with his host's distinctions as a soldier ; and presently Eily forgot her fears of the guest, in watching with sparkling eyes her father's face, and listening to the stirring recital of the things the two old soldiers had passed through.

M. de Corréze seemed as loth to leave the Castle of Dromore as M. le Vicomte de Poitiers had been. His stay of a day or two lengthened to a week or more. It was bright Christmas weather, frosty, with icicles hung on every bough. They had had all the Christmas diversions. The mummers who romped through their strange medley of Christian and Pagan story night after night at the Castle of Dromore had played their Old Testament mystery-play at the Tholsel. M. de Corréze had privately been made free of the bull-baiting, which no longer took place in the bull-ring, since modem ways grew squeamish, but to which all the world went when it was held in a deep quarry on L'Estrange's land.

Christmas Day came bright and clear, with a continuance of the hard weather. There was plenty of skating on the marshes inland from the Castle of Dromore— milesof it— which reminded M. de Corréze, he said, of the Lowlands of Holland in a hard winter.

The two old comrades smoked their pipes on the banks of the marshes that Christmas afternoon, and talked insatiably of old battles. They had never yet touched the subject which was the cause of M. de Corréze's visit, but after a time, as Eily's lonely young figure passed and repassed them on the ice, they came naturally to it.

''She is charming, charming," said de Corréze energetically— "as graceful as yon swan when he is in his native element, as lovely as a goddess!"

"She is my one joy in life," said Michael L'Estrange, with a sigh.

"You will not care to give her up to a husband?"

"Ah! I would not have her grow old unmarried. But... there is no one here for her. The few gentlefolk enjoy themselves in Dublin. There are only the peasants and shopkeepers of our little town."

"Only those?"

Michael L'Estrange flushed.

"You know she had another suitor, de Corréze, since you are the Duc de Launay's friend. But that I did not entertain. It would be no suitable marriage for the Vicomte de Poitiers."

"Ah, my friend"— M. de Corréze took snufif and then handed the snufif-box to his companion— "you say so; yet I think you hold your child the equal of any man."

"Perhaps I am too proud not to see it as the world would see it."

"What would you have more? Yours is a noble and ancient family, as honourable in you as in any of the line. The child is... divine. I understand the lad's infatuation. I am become infatuated myself."

"His father would not agree with you, de Corréze."

"Ah, why not? He is a brave man, and simple in his way. He married for love himself, and he would have set his wife against all Europe. He would have the same happiness for his boy."

"If I could believe it!"

"You would recall the Vicomte?"

"I could desire nothing better. The child loves him. I am in conflict with her— I who have never denied her anything. It hurts me."

Again M. de Corréze took snuff

"Ah, bah ! Do not fret, my friend. We cannot hinder them, those children. We are but a pebble in the stream. They sweep past us."

He had seen, as Michael L'Estrange had not, how in the gathering dark another skater had joined Eily on the ice, and taken her hand, and the two had glided away together into obscurity.

The old soldiers had time to be cold before Eily tired of her skating. A thin winter moon hung over the landscape as they went homeward, and the Christmas bells jangled from the squat church tower of Dromore.

Eily was in furs to her ears. It was M. de Corréze's fancy that her eyes sparkled like diamonds in the shadow of her velvet hood. One hand she kept in her muff. The other she had thrust within her father's arm, but when he was detained a little while on the way by some one who had business with him, it seemed the most natural thing for her to transfer it to M. de Corréze's arm.

The old soldier lifted it to his lips with tender gallantry.

"To think I was afraid of you a week ago!" said Eily with bright confidence.

"You are not now, my child?"

"Not the least bit in the world— only afraid that you will leave us, M. de Corréze."

"I cannot remain much longer. I have a business to finish. Afterwards there are... ah!... quantities of business for me to do elsewhere."

He waved his free hand with a widely-embracing gesture.

"Let your business here be as long in the doing as possible. How we shall miss you, M. de Corréze!"

"Ah, little Eily, you will not be wholly bereft of company! What of the gentleman on the ice? I grew to fear that you were coming back to us no more."

"M. de Corréze"— Eily's voice fedtered— "since you saw us, I must explain. He is waiting for his father to help him. It is all my father has against him, that the Due de Launay is too great for an alliance with us. But Henri says he can trust his father's love."

"He said that?"

Eily gripped his arm hard.

"He is sure of it. He is an only son, and he and his father are all in all to each other. If I were to tell you...."

"Were all in all to each other," said the old soldier, and his voice had the faintest trace of pain.

"Ah, M. de Coréze, you do not know the Duc de Launay, or you would not suggest his being jealous. He is great, so great and noble ! He would only think what his love could do, could sacrifice for Henri, for M. le Vicomte. He loves as greatly as he lives."

"His son says so?"

"He says a thousand things more. When I see him, if I ever see him, I shall have to fall on my knees— so great, so good! They do not always go together, M. de Corréze."

"No, child, but I hear your father coming. Listen now. A friend of mine may come to-night. Will you have another couvert placed for him at table?"

"Why, gladly, M. de Corréze ! It is a night for hospitality. Think how sad it is for those who must sup alone in a little inn like the Angler's Rest at Dromore!"

Eily drew the deepest of sighs, and M. de Corréze patted gently the little hand upon his arm, as Michael L'Estrange joined them, putting an end to the conversation.

If Eily was lovely in her velvet and furs, she was no less lovely in her short-waisted gown of white flowered satin with a bunch of holly-berries and leaves at her breast. The little party wore its finest in honour of the festival. Mistress Pamela was in her grey satin and Limerick lace. Michael L'Estrange wore his old soldier's coat, the garment he was proudest of. But the greatest of changes had taken place in the garb of M. de Corréze.

He was very richly though quietly clad in a suit of plum-coloured silk, and on his breast a diamond star glittered magnificently, so magnificently that the sight of it seemed to strike Michael L'Estrange dumb. Mistress Pamela was too well-bred to express surprise at the beauty of the guest's decoration. But Eily clapped her hands like a child, and cried out in wonder and delight.

"Tush, child I " said M. de Corréze, " they are dim by your eyes. Hush ! "

Over the sob of the sea, and the crackling of the old ship's logs on the hearth, a bell pealed through the house.

" A visitor?" said Michael L'Estrange, turning to his daughter.

"Your friend, M. de Corréze?" Eily said in her turn.

De Corréze put his hand on Michael L'Estrange's arm.

"My son will join me here to night," he said. "Will you ask him to sup, my friend?"

"That will I most heartily."

The door was flung open, but no young gentleman crossed the threshold. Instead there stood old Denis the butler, in confrision.

"There is a messenger below," he said, "a mounted man, splashed from head to foot with hard riding. He carries despatches for the Duc de Launay, and will not listen when I tell him he is not here."

"Ah!" said M. de Corréze with an expressive gesture of disgust. " So they have found me out. The Empire might have run a little longer without me, seeing that I am an old man, and cannot live many years longer. The despatches, my friend. Let me see them. I may receive them here, L'Estrange? Ah, Henri!"

"M. le Vicomte de Poitiers," shouted Denis, recovering himself, as a splendid young figure in white and gold passed him, and flung itself upon M. de Corréze.

"Father!"

"Ah, impulsive one! I came in answer to thy letter. It was the best way. Forgive me, my friend"— to Michael L'Estrange— " my masquerade. I had to see for myself. She is adorable. My only grief is that we rob thee of her, unless indeed thou wouldst leave the Castle of Dromore. Shall we not make them happy, this night of Christmas?"

"Supper is served," announced Denis.

Michael L'Estrange took his daughter's hand, and placed it in the Vicomte's, as the Duc de Launay bent low over Mistress Pamela, praying that he might have the honour of conducting her to the supper-table.

___________________

4: "I Am Dead!"

Harold Ward

1879-1950

Doctor Death, March 1935

THE sun was sinking in the west as I drove up the lane bordered on either side by gloomy evergreens and brought my car to a stop in front of the old house with the shuttered windows. Climbing stiffly out of the machine, for the drive had been a long one, Iran up the steps of the ramshackle old porch and beat a lusty tattoo on the weather-beaten panels of the stout oaken door.

From inside came the sound of footsteps. Then a holt was jerked back, The door opened a tiny crack and a woman peered out at.me. She was beautiful in a dark, Latin fashion— that much was apparent even in the fading liUght—  but there was terror in her eyes, She looked, not at me, but beyond me as if fearful that something was lurking in the gloom of the evergreens behind my back.

"My name is Warren—  John Warren," I told her. "I represent Scribner and Gumbeiner, the lawyers. I am here in response to a communication from Doctor Arvillo."

She nodded.

"I am Ruth Arvillo," she answered. In stead of inviting me inside, she stepped out nto the porch, glancing back over her shoulder as if fearful of being overheard.

"T wag waiting for you," she said hurriedly, her voice dropping to a low whisper. "I was so— so happy when my father wrote that letter. He, too, is expecting you, but I had to see you first. I cannot stand this any longer. Those monsters! Ugh! They frighten me. You must persuade my father to give up this machine that he has made—  make him go away and take me with him— "

"But I do not understand," I interrupted.

"Maybe you will think I am crazy," she went on. "But I had to see you first. Tell my father that the machine is unmarketable— anything, only make him give it up. Those loathsome reptiles from the swamp— one of them nearly caught my father yesterday. He shut the machine off just in time...."

Her voice died down to a low whisper as a light sprang suddenly into life in the hallway and a dark shadow fell across the floor just behind where she stood.

"Who is it, Ruth?" a man's voice demanded.

"The gentleman from Scribner and Gumbeiner's," she responded.

She opened the door a trifle wider and I stepped inside,

"Remember," she whispered as I passed her. "Please talk him out of it..."

The man who hobbled forward to greet me was tall above the average, his body thin almost to the point of emaciation, his skin dark and swarthy, his face bewhiskered, thatched witha great mop of coarse white hair. His eyes, gleaming through the mass of tangled beard, were those of a fanatic— a dreamer. He was clad in an ancient bathrobe; it dangled about his long legs. His feet were thrust into carpet slippers and he walked with difficulty, aided by a stout cane.

"I am Doctor Arvillo," he said, seizing me by the hand and shaking it enthusiastically. "I am pleased to see you, sir— more than pleased. Pardon my appearance. I met with a slight accident yesterday; one of my experiments went wrong. To be honest about it, I did not expect you before tomorrow."

He stopped suddenly and gazed at me querulously.

"You have credentials?" he said anxiously. "Something to prove that you are really the representative of Scribner and Gumbeiner? Understand, sir, that I mean no offense. But my invention is such that I do not care to show it to an unauthorized person."

I nodded. Scribner and Gumbeiner, I might interpolate, are patent attorneys who have made a fortune backing impecunious geniuses who have something worth while and no money with which to complete and place it on the market. As their confidential clerk, I am used to the eccentricities of inventors. In my pocket was the letter Arvillo had written to the firm asking them to send a representative to see him. I handed it to him, together with my card. He nodded approvingly.

"Splendid!" he exclaimed. Then: "We have dined. My daughter will get you a cold supper, however—"

I halted him with a gesture.

"I had a late dinner back yonder in the village," I said.

"Then we can get down. to business immediately," he said eagerly.

HE led the way through the long, narrow, uncarpeted hall and ushered me into a room that apparently served both as a kitchen and general living-room. It was poorly, even scantily, furnished. There was an oilcloth-covered table, an ancient cookstove, three or four rickety kitchen chairs, a few shelves filled with an indiscriminate array of cracked dishes, half a slab of bacon, a loaf of bread and a few cans of beans and milk. Some cooking utensils were suspended from nails driven into the plaster.

"We are merely camping here, you might say," my host apologized. ''Electricity is our only modern convenience. I needed that for my experiments or I would not have spent the money to have it installed. This old house is suited to my needs, however, and I rent it for little or nothing, located as it is so close to the swamp. It is isolated, though the swamp sometimes interferes with my work.

"Our only visitor is the rural carrier. A note placed in the mail box with a bit of money brings us what we require. Ruth, my daughter, who is also my assistant, grumbles sometimes, as young people are apt to do, but I tell her that in the very near future we will be wallowing in money and fame. I have already spent a fortune on it, str. And now, a few thousand more for some necessary adjustments, and then success! I have already proved its ability to do what I want it to do, but Iam not yet satisfied."

He pointed to a chair. The girl, Ruth, had followed us into the room; she seated herself opposite me, her dark, inscrutable eyes searching my face as her father talked. Once she seemed about to interrupt him. Then she bit her lower lip and, with a little shrug of her shoulders, settled back in her chair. My eyes dropped before her penetrating gaze. She was trying to convey a message to me— to tell me, I felt, that which she had tried to tell me when we were interrupted on the porch. She was in mortal terror. That much was apparent.

Doctor Arvillo seated himself and lighted his pipe. His glance strayed questioningly toward his daughter. I had the uncomfortable feeling that something was wrong. The girl fidgeted for a moment, then abruptly arose,

"You will remain all night?" she questioned.

Doctor Arville looked at his daughter in astonishment. He seemed about to speak, then checked himself, It had not been my intention to stay, but I had the impression that the girl was begging me not to leave.

"Perhaps it would be best," I answered on the spur of the moment. "Your father and I will probably talk far into the night and I am not acquainted with your roads. I have no desire to spend the night in the swamp."

The girl shuddered. Then she smiled at me with her lovely eyes as if a great burden had been lifted from her mind.

"I will prepare the spare room," she said as she closed the door behind her.

Arvillo shook his head sagely.

"That girl— she is afraid lately— scared all of the time," he said, half to himself. "She is afraid of— of what I am going to show you. She is a woman and does not understand. Afraid, bah! It is the greatest discovery of the age. Yet I cannot blame her for being frightened. It is so incredible that I am sometimes fearful of it myself."

He stopped and puffed stolidly at his pipe for an instant. Then: "Do you know anything about spiritualism?" he asked.

"Practically nothing," I answered.

"Or radio— television, photo-electric phenomena and the like?"

"Little," I smiled, "probably as much as the average layman; no more and no less. I own a radio, and have read of television, and have seen it demonstrated in a crude way. Yet I do not understand it."

"I will not attempt te discuss spiritual phenomena as it relates to my discovery," he said slowly, "I, like yourself, must confess that I know little about it, even though I have studied the works of the world's greatest authorities. Nor will I go into the mechanical side of the question. It would take days to explain the mechanics of my work to you, and when I had finished your brain would be in a muddle. One cannot explain in a few hours the work of a lifetime,"

HE filled and lighted hig pipe again. Then he went on.

"Sound, as you are probably aware, is sent out onto the air in waves— impulses, we call them. Every engineer knows that. What they do not know, However, is that these impulses go on forever, These words that I am speaking to you will live through eternity— somewhere out yonder in space, The same thing is true of light. Picture. impulses, light waves are called. But lightladen waves travel at a speed of 186,000 miles a second, whereas sound-laden waves travel only about 1,120 feet a second, Science has been successful in harnessing sound-laden waves to a certain extent. Now our scientific men are working on television and have almost achieved their objective, thanks to the neon tube. The next step is a duplex receiver, incorporated in one box, which will be responsive. to both lightladen and sound-laden impulses at once."

He arose and, picking up his cane, hobbled a turn or two about the room.

"But they can only receive from a synchronized sending apparatus," he continued. "By that I mean what has been sent from another station by means of a transmitter, What, then, of the sound-laden, light-laden impulses already in space? Is there no way to pick them up and so time them that we can hear and see what has already gone on? Think of the fame and fortune that awaits the man who can drag from the ether those waves that trace themselves back to the beginning of time. Imagine, if you can, seeing Christ walking upon the waters— of hearing his voice calling to God from the cross! Visualize, if you can, Nero, the despot, fiddling while Rome burned, of hearing the very notes that came from his strings! Think of seeing history repeat itself! Picture the Stone Age! The progress of mankind from the very beginning! Even the thought is stupendous."

He stopped suddenly and, leaning his bony hands on the table's edge, bent forward until his face almost touched mine. His eyes were gleaming fanatically.

"I have perfected such a device!" he said in an awed whisper.

I LOOKED at him incredulously, thinking him mad. He must have sensed my thought, for he chuckled.

"No, I am not crazy," he rasped, "although I sometimes think that I am, after— after what I have seen. Come with me. I will prove to you the truth of my statement."

He led the way down the narrow hall to a door in the rear. Opening it, he pressed a button in the wall and a tiny cluster of lights in the ceiling sprang into life.

It was a huge cave of a room in which we stood. It was without windows, the only door that through which we had entered, It had evidently been constructed by tearing out all the partitions on one side of the lower floor, then sealing up the walls and all. of the openings with a slate material painted black. The place was somber and fuliginous. There was nothing to relieve the. vast expanse of Sooty vacancy save at the end through which we had ertered. Here was a great mass of machinery tubes, coils, condensers, huge pieces of glass, wheels, discs, motors, switchboards, and, last of all, a camera-like device constructed on a gargantuan scale.

Arvillo motioned me to a rude chair close to the switchboard.

"Ruth's seat— the place of honor," he smiled. "This room is absolutely soundproof. It gives me the necessary isolation from the outside world. But you shall see, my young friend— you shall see."

His eyes glittered feverishly. Moving a bit closer, he leaned over me.

"Let me warn you," he said ominously. "Regardless of what appears before you, keep quiet. And make no move. Understand? Sometimes my little machine conjures up strange things, Other times—"

He stopped in the middle of the sentence, leaving me to guess his meaning.

"Your projection screen?" I questioned, glancing toward the other end of the room,

Arvillo chuckled.

"I need no screen; he answered. Again his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "You see before you a mechanical medium," he went on. "It brings the dead back from the ages. People who have been dust for centuries will parade before your startled gaze, You will hear them speak..."

Was the man mad? I was beginning to believe it. But I had little time for reflection. He had already seated himself on the bench in front of the switchboard; his fingers were flying here and there, pulling levers, pushing buttons.

A sulphurous odor assailed my nostrils. The lights in the ceiling flickered, then gradually faded away. For a moment the room was in darkness. Then one of the huge revolving discs commenced to throw out a peculiar, greenish-yellowish glow. It spread until the entire place was suffused with it. It was weird, indescribable. It seemed to annihilate distance. The walls and ceiling seemed to have disappeared. I was looking into a void— a vacuum.

There were noises all around me— faint, sibilant whispers, ghostly chuckles, distant voices in conversation. Then came the tinkle of silvery bells and the liquid. tones of music. They gained in volume until they were a Bedlam of sound, a bombilation of shrieks, whistles, groans, music. It was the racket and confusion of a great city concentrated into that one room, My eardrums were almost splitting. It was a riot, a saturnalia of discord.

Then it graduaily died away into a low, monotonous murmur again.

As the hullabaloo faded out, there appeared before my eyes, mirage-like, a vast concourse of people. They were all about me, faint, nebulous, indistinct. Old men doddering along, young men, women, children— even animals. They paraded before me in kaleidoscopic array, a parade of shades, of spectres.

THE English language is inadequate to describe that weird scene. Suppose that a million bits of motion-picture film were pasted into one continuous piece from which enough positives were printed to man a thousand machines; then focus all of these machines into a single screen, showing every picture that has ever been made at one and the same time. And, too, turn all the sound effects loose simultaneously. Imagine that, if you can, and you have a rough idea of what I saw and heard.

From the very beginning I caught vagrant glimpses of a gloomy background— a fetid, mucky swamp under a dark and sunless sky. It rose and fell and rose and fell, gurgling, churning, purging itself— a world in formation. Out of it came strange, weird creatures. Slime coated, hideous monstrosities, loathsome, frenetic cacodemons they were. Constantly they forced themselves to the fore, faded out, jostled back, appearing again an instant later. And gradually, they began to monopolize the entire scene,

With a muttered curse Arvillo jerked a lever. I shuddered as darkness encircled me, Save for the soft whir-r-r-r of the motors as they gradually cooled off, there was not a sound, Then the lights in the ceiling came back to life.

"Always the same! Always the same!" Arvillo said bitterly. "I can never cut the accursed things out. They are bound to monopolize the scene. But you have seen, my friend. It is for that very thing that I need money, money with which to perfect my device, money with which to continue my work until I can segregate each individual scene"

"Wonderfull" I exclaimed.  "It is a triumph!"

Arvillo's eyes lighted up.

"Did I not tell you so?" he said softly.

"But those mionsters—?"

"I have several solutions," the inventor interrupted. "The first is that the nearby swamp— it is little more than a mucky quagmire— has some sort of effect on my apparatus.

"Had I the money I would move to some other locality. My second thought is that the scene shows the world in formation—  that because of the newness, the rawness, of everything, the electrical impulses then formed were much stronger than those that came later."

He hesitated. I waited an instant, Then:

"And the third?" I said.

Again his voice dropped to a whisper.

"There are other worlds than that in which we are living," he said hoarsely. "Perhaps some of them are nearer than we imagine. The line of demarcation between the visible and the invisible may not be as wide as we think. In materializing those who have gone on, is it not possible that the impulses generated by my. apparatus have to pass through this other word? On the other hand, that swamp! I cannot get away from the fact that it, in some way, influences my work.

"Ruth is afraid of them—  those things that I bring to life," he went on. "I cannot understand them. They actually live while they are subjected to the power generated by my machine."

He pointed down at his injured foot.

"This proves it," be said.

"You mean— what?"

"Merely that I carried my experiment a bit too far yesterday,' he answered noncomimittally, "You are a young man, Mr. Warren; I am old and weary. And I have some slight changes to make in the apparatus before I show it to you again. I know that you will pardon me if I show you to your room."

He closed the door and led the way up the uncarpeted stairs to a room just above the one we had quitted. Turning on the light, he stepped to the window and pushed it up to its full height. The moon was shining brightly.

"The swamp," he said, pointing across the fields. "Sometimes at night it seems alive— peopled with the sort of creatures you have seen. It grows on one, it even talks—"

His voice died away. For a moment longer he stood there. Then he turned and said good-night.

THE moment that Arvillo left the room a distinct feeling of uneasiness came over me. I threw it off and, doffing my cost and shoes, snapped off the light and, lying down on the hard bed, closed my eyes.

But sleep failed to come. The night was filled with strange, low murmurs. They gave way to a deeper sound.

"Cl-u-u-u-mp! Zunk? Cl-u-u-u-mp! Zunk!"

It was the swamp, rising wai falling, sucking, gnawing, purging itself.

I arose, disgusted with myself. The demonstration I had witiessed down in the room below intrigued me. In the machine, even though he never completed it, Arvillo had a fortune. I dragged a chair to the window. Lighting my pipe, I gazed out. The dismal quagmire stretched as far as the eye could see, a desolate wilderness of muck and quicksand, of black, stagnant water and tall, coarse grass and stunted willow trees. There was a vagrant breeze blowing. The rank vegetation swayed to and fro until, as Arvillo had said, the place seemed filled with life. At any moment one might almost look for a myriad of the accursed creatures to crawl out of the slime. I shuddered.

"Zunk! Cl-u-u-u-mp! Zunk!"

The noise persisted. The feeling of unrest and disquiet increased within me until I was in the grip of actual terror. The cold chills chased themselves up and down my spinal column. The words of old Arvillo came back to me: "There are other worlds than that in which we are living. Perhaps some of them are nearer than we imagine."

"Zunk! Cl-u-u-u-mp!":

The sounds from the swamp seemed louder and the rank grasses appeared to wave frantically in the light breeze. The house vibrated slightly and I knew that Arvillo had started his machine.

The big door downstairs opened violently. A woman screamed. Her shriek was cut off in the middle. I leaped to my feet, every faculty alert, my whole being quivering with terror. There was a confused babel of bestial growls. I was certain that I caught the sound of a struggle— the gurgle of someone choking. The door slammed shut again.

Once more. there was silence save for the infernal "Cl-u-u-u-mp! Zunk!" of the swamp.

Unmistakably it was Ruth Arvillo who had shrieked. I knew that the girl was in deadly peril and that she was calling to me.

Puiling on my shoes, I tiptoed down the rickety stairs, threw open the door.

Great God! I shrieked with horror at the sight which met my eyes. Words fail me in my effort to describe it. I was standing, it seemed, on the very edge of that drab, oozy swamp beneath skies of gray, bleak, serpentine vapor. The black, slimy, undulant filth was shaking like a bowl of jelly as it threw forth its sickening horde of accursed monstrosities.

The whole world appeared to be an abysmal vacuum filled with the slavering, gibbering, growling, misshapen hell-creatures, And others were constantly rising from the filthy muck. Over everything was a nauseating smell— the odor of decay and death— and the fumes of sulphur frem the machine.

Arvillo lay in the midst of a horde of growling, fighting, gray monsters. They were not human, nor were they beasts. They were abortions— maleficent spawn of the devil. They were rending, tearing, filing the air with their bestfal growls, their fishy eyes gleaming phosphorescently. He was half buried in the muck; their battle over him kept him from sinking entirely out of sight.

Half a hundred or more of them surrounded Ruth. They had torn the clothing from her frail body. Her white skin was covered with scratches and bruises; the blood was dripping from innumerable wounds. They clutched at her with their wolfish claws, pawing at her, pulling, dragging, scratching, biting. On her face was a look of desperation and frantic, insane terror.

She was fighting desperately. A dozen of them seized her by the arms, the hands, the hair. They dragged her down—  down—  down—  down into the rottenness from which they had emanated.

They saw me even as she did. They came at me like a hurricane of malignancy. I went down beneath their weight. God, how I fought that squealing, growling, tearing mass! They sank their gangrenous teeth into my flesh. I was half buried in the rancid filth— "The machine! Smash it!"

Ruth had managed to free herself for an instant—  long enough to shout the warning to me, Then she went down, the festering pool of fetidity closed over her.

Somehow I managed to get one hand free. It came in contact with an overturned chair. I drove it into the faces of the oncoming horde. They dropped back, The respite was only for an instant, but it was long enough. I hurled the extemporized weapon straight at the great machine that, through it all, continued to whir and buzz like a thing alive.

There was a crash of breaking glass! The mechanism stopped with a jolting jar. The motors smoked and sizzied....

The swamp-spawn were on me again. I felt their talons tearing into my flesh, I was being dragged down... down... down...

Then came darkness.

THE rural mail carrier on his morning round missed Arvillo and his daughter. Seeing my car in the driveway, he investigated. Receiving no reply to his repeated shouts, he stopped at the nearest telephone and notified the authorities.

When they broke into the house they found Arvillo and his daughter dead, their bodies broken and bruised as by a maniac.

Arvillo's machine was a battered mass of twisted wires and damaged mechanism. I lay beside it, badly injured, unconscious, but still alive.

They say that I killed the old man and his daughter in a quarrel to gain control of his invention, but that I was so seriously hurt in the fight that I was unable to escape.

No one knows what that invention was. I did not tell my story at the trial. I have no wish to spend the remainder of my days in an asylum for the criminal insane.

Tomorrow at dawn they hang me for the crime.

________________

5: The Call of the Tiger

Ethel Lina White

1876-1944

The Strand Magazine, Sep 1907

Produced by Colin Choat and Roy Glashan

BILLIE'S thumbs were turned down. "Kill! Kill it!" she shrieked.

In front was the dilapidated wood-shed, criss-crossed with stacks of sweet-smelling timber. Above was the clear blue stain of a cloudless sky. The sun-baked ground was a scene of the wildest riot and disorder. Sawdust flew into the hot, quivering air as a swarm of rats, a couple of terriers, and two sunburnt men in flannel shirts doubled and cut, turning the yard into an arena of strife.

On the outer fringe of the conflict, poised on a log, were the two spectators of the rat-hunt. They formed a curious contrast. Belinda Salt, commonly known as Billie, the apple of her father's eye, the idol of the station, and the belle of the whole district, was quivering with excitement as she leaned, with her body poised at a dangerous angle, over the yard. An ecstatic puppy was tucked under one arm. Her clear skin was tanned, her eyes were fearless, and her hair a copper glory. The vitality that seethed from every line of her face and every gesture of her lithe form bubbled up constantly from a vast reserve of energy. As her male belongings said proudly, Billie was full of ginger.

Her companion stood gazing apparently at the hunt with listless unconcern. As a matter of fact his eyes were steadily focusing a low line of blue hills in the distance. He was tall and fair, and had regular features. His face and figure bore testimony to race. His manner was stamped with the hall-mark of Eton and Oxford. His clothes, with silent but eloquent voice, rose up and called a good tailor blessed. He smoked a cigarette, apparently unconscious of his companion's clamour.

Billie's eager eyes watched every detail with vivid interest. Her upbringing was responsible for her crude tastes; for the girl's mother, by dying early, had turned her baby over to her men-folk and the universal mother. Between them they had made a good job of the girl's rearing, according to the broad terms of the contract— sun, wind, freedom, and masculine devotion all contributing their share. But while the essentials were sound, the details of necessity were lacking.

Billie jumped up and down, urging on the men with increasing vigour. So engrossed was she in the sport that she never noticed when the frantic pup slipped from her arm and joined the fray. But a piteous howl roused her, and she turned to see a huge grey rat hanging on to the white coat of her pet. With a cry of dismay she cried out to her silent companion.

"Oh! look, look Mr. Tygarth— look! Be quick and get him. Quick!"

Tygarth never moved. Apparently he was absorbed in re-lighting his cigarette. Billie gave him one quick glance, but she did not repeat her appeal. Springing off the log, she dashed into the mêlée, to return a minute later with the puppy. Tygarth turned his head slowly.

"What's happened?" he asked. "I was just trying to get this thing to draw."

"I noticed you were absorbed," answered the girl. "This bad pup got loose, so I had to go to his rescue."

As she spoke she shook her hand impatiently, and Tygarth noticed that a small splash of red had speckled the sawdust.

"Good heavens! You've got a bite," he exclaimed. "Here, let me tie up your hand."

Billie looked him squarely in the eyes.

"No, thank you, Mr. Tygarth," she said, quietly. "I prefer not to trouble you. Forster will do it."

She called out, and immediately the hunt was suspended, both Dyke and Forster crowding round their queen in concern. As they bore her off between them to their universal remedy, the cold-water tap, Forster looked back to shout to Tygarth:—

"You should not have allowed this to happen. You want more eye-wash, young man."

But Tygarth remained motionless, sucking at his cold cigarette, his face absolutely devoid of expression as he watched the shadows drifting over the hills.

Tygarth came of a race of mighty warriors and hunters. From the first Tygarth, surnamed the Tiger, killing had been their occupation and pleasure. They killed men for work, and beasts for play. The Tiger now only survived on the coat of arms, and the savagery of the original strain had been watered down to a streak of the courage that had made the name of Tygarth famous.

The Tygarths had always been attracted by feminine courage, and had chosen wives of similar stern material. But one Lady Tygarth of an earlier day had been cast in a gentler mould, for, before her marriage, she was destined to be a Bride of the Church. Throughout her life she was an earthly angel, and when she died a feather dropped from her wing, and, floating down the ages, lighted on the forehead of the present Dennis Tygarth. From the very purity of its source it was the white feather, and Dennis Tygarth was utterly and hopelessly a coward.

His cowardice was as much a disease as insanity, or a craving for alcohol. It was deep-seated, its roots reaching down to the very rock-bed of Fear. Perhaps the worst feature in the case arose from the fact that not one of the Tygarths had the courage to acknowledge this failing in their heir, and to openly tackle it. They held their heads high, affecting not to notice the record of nursery, school, and college. Finally, they sent him abroad to the Salts' ranch, with the unspoken hope that the wilder life of the Australian bush might foster his stunted manhood.

Sandy-creek was a bad place for cowards. Dennis's nervous shrinkings from animals reached a climax of spasms of terror at the unknown insects and reptiles. But his fear culminated in the knowledge that one day Billie would find him out.

When he first arrived he was not popular. Billie complained that the Englishman's complexion was fairer than her own. Forster and Dyke, who were learning sheep-farming, shied at his silk shirts and fancy ties. Dr. Beaver, who was staying at the homestead whilst he pursued a course of investigations, was the first to diagnose Dennis's disease. And he held his peace.

Presently Billie began to annex the newcomer, and the jealousy of Forster and Dyke grew apace. After a month, however, perplexity began to mingle with her friendship. With hard-set mouth, Dennis waited for the disillusionment of the girl whom he had learned to adore. Bit by bit the truth leaked out. Hints were dropped, and ugly rumours spread about the station. As Dennis's fair skin peeled daily under the rays of the Southern sun, so the outer scales of his armour of self-protection were rubbed away under the test of each fresh incident. With the unlucky episode of the puppy the last shred was stripped away, and the girl saw the pock-marks of the scourge which the youth had tried to conceal.

Tygarth waited by the creek, watching the muddy water eddy by, till the short twilight smudged the sunlit land. When the windows of the dining-room shone like glow-worms he slowly crept back towards the house. He heard shouts of laughter, and the clinking of glass and cutlery, as he stood outside the door. Then, stiffening his lip, he turned the handle and slipped into his place at the supper-table.

No one took the least notice of him but Daddy Salt, who stopped in his task of carving to exclaim at Tygarth's pallid face.

"Bless my soul, the boy looks like a boiled rag," he said.

Billie turned her scornful eyes on Dennis. He noticed that her hand was bandaged.

"No, Daddy, not like a boiled rag," she corrected. "He looks like a striped thing that has run in the wash."

No one could have told from Tygarth's sphinx-like face that he had grasped her meaning, but every pulsation of his heart hammered home the truth. His tiger stripes were not a fast colour.

"Let the boy have his supper now, and don't worry him," interposed the kindly Salt. "By the way, Tygarth," he added, "a letter came for you by the mail to-day."

As Forster passed the envelope down the table he commented on the crest. "Why a tiger?" he queried.

Bitterly conscious of the irony, Tygarth explained clearly and at length. When he paused he looked up, and noticed a grin dodging from face to face before his suspicious eye. Then Billie spoke, innocently.

"It takes a long time for a tiger to become a domesticated cat," she observed. "I suppose now, that as the Tiger, your ancestor, is at one end of the chain and you are at the other, by the process of civilization you must have become— er— humanized. In future I shall no longer call you Tygarth. Instead, from this day forward, I formally christen you— the Tabby."

Dennis tried to smile at the outburst of cheers that followed, knowing well that his new name was the outward sign of his degradation.

After that night an era of persecution began for the Tabby. Dr. Beaver and Daddy Salt, absorbed in their different interests, took no notice, but Billie, Forster, Dyke, and all the hands on the run daily subjected the Tabby to a pitiless course of ragging. Every day they contrived a fresh test for his courage, and every day his quivering nerves gave way before the ordeal and he gave a more thorough exhibition of cowardice. But, as of old, the same curse followed him. No one openly accused him of his fault. Had Billie spurned him with her foot and trampled on him Tygarth would have hailed her overtures with relief. All his life he had longed to speak of his shame, feeling the mere mention would take away some of the sting. But Billie preferred to give him his medicine in the old nursery fashion. A snub was wrapped in a smile, an insult larded over with flattery, while at the bottom of the jam of Billie's sweetest speeches lay the bitter sneer. Treated thus, with outward politeness, Tygarth preserved a stony countenance, which further enraged the Inquisitorial Council of Three.

One afternoon, as Tygarth wandered listlessly on to the veranda, longing for the pitiless Australian blue and gold to change to his native green, and dreaming of trout-streams, a familiar sound floated out through the open French windows. The rattling of china and the buzz of conversation, stabbed with high-pitched feminine notes of exclamation, proclaimed a social function. As he entered the drawing-room he realized that he was assisting at the rites of a formal call.

These were visitors of a different type to the chance pilgrims who dropped in lightly at any hour on the Salt ménage, and who flapped away as suddenly on the casual wing of an angel unawares. The lavish hospitality of which these strangers partook was now pared down to a frigid entertainment which Dennis hailed as English afternoon tea. Billie presided over the teapot with her usual nonchalant air of dignity. But, true to feminine tradition, she had dressed for her own sex in a fashion she had never troubled to display to her male subjects, and as Dennis looked at her lace and flounces he felt himself subjugated anew by her queenly beauty.

A brief introduction enlightened him as to the identity of the visitors. The dry-skinned, wizened man, the large, gorgeous lady, and the two smart maidens stood revealed as Theophilus Berry, the richest squatter in the district, his wife, and his daughters.

With a sigh of relief Tygarth concerned himself with the transit of the tea-cups, feeling he had stepped from the savage region of the Southern Cross to his native sphere of the civilized world.

Billie noticed the change. Tygarth, answering to the call of his early training, was a different being to the cowardly youth who had cringed round the sheep-runs. Even the silk shirt and immaculate parting seemed now to take their right place in the general scheme of fitness, and appeared no longer a mixture, but a blend. For the first time the girl realized that two Tiger attributes— the steady eye and free bearing— had survived the watering-down process and chosen to reappear in this degenerate descendant.

Half cross with herself for her sudden interest, she glanced at her chosen pals, Forster and Dyke. They suffered badly from the contrast; as they squirmed their legs desperately to hide their uncompromising boots they appeared nervous and awkward. In short, for the first time Tygarth shone, solely from the fact that he now possessed what he had hitherto lacked— a fitting background.

The Hon. Theophilus Berry beamed at Tygarth and invited him to ride over soon. Mrs. Berry seconded the invitation, and also beamed— in a manner that was too maternal for Billie's taste, in view of the Berry girls' evident overtures of friendship. It was true that Ruby Berry's face was freckled to the semblance of a bran-mash, but Pearl was passably pretty, and had the further advantage of being fresh from a finishing school in Brussels. So, to her surprise, the despotic Billie found herself joining in the running, once the Berrys had fairly made the pace, and helping to swell Tygarth's little triumph.

But, after his long abstinence, the strong dose of flattery was as dangerous to Dennis as an over-lavish meal to a starving man. In a short time the unaccustomed kindness of Pearl Berry turned his head. Billie had treated him like a cur; now he would have none of her patting, and at the first opportunity he snapped back.

"It's a real treat to meet someone fresh from England," said Ruby Berry.

"It's a still greater treat to me to talk to a lady again," replied Tygarth.

The sudden sparkle in Billie's eyes asked the question framed by Miss Berry's lips.

"But you see Miss Salt daily?"

Tygarth shook his head. "Miss Salt is such an excellent sportsman, and has such wonderful courage and skill, that one overlooks the fact that she belongs to the weaker sex."

The youth uttered the words straight from a heart rankling with many an old wound scored thereon by Billie. He experienced the unholy joy of a small boy who has thrown a snowball at a policeman, all unconscious that a stone was embedded in his soft pellet.

Billie felt that her supreme power, her feminine charm, had been impeached. She glared at Dyke and Forster with burning eyes and read their anger in their crimson faces, while even Dr. Beaver's listless eyelids appeared to be suddenly wired. By mental telegraphy the sentence of lynch-law was passed by common consent, and all settled down to the task of showing up Tygarth.

"Talking of sport," said Forster, breaking the silence, "our friend, Mr. Tygarth, has given us many a surprising— I think I may call them surprising— exhibition of his skill. You know, Mrs. Berry, he is too modest to tell you himself, but he is descended from a particularly bloodthirsty and courageous ancestor. He was called the Tiger. Our friend preserves the traditions."

Pearl's eyes grew wide.

"How splendid!" she said. "We miss that sort of thing in Australia. Then, of course, you came here for sport and excitement."

A suppressed laugh flickered round the room, and Pearl was surprised to see a faint colour rise in Tygarth's nonchalant face.

"No, no; nothing of the sort," he answered, hastily. "I came merely for health."

"I thought you looked a little delicate. But our climate and Miss Salt's care will make a new man of you."

"That would be an impossibility."

Even the Berry family stared at the note of scorn in Billie's voice. Mrs. Berry seized helplessly at the obvious explanation.

"Ah, she means you don't take enough care of yourself. That's like a man, especially an Englishman. You are all for sport. What is it you say? 'Let me go and kill something'!"

The colour ebbed from Tygarth's face as he waited for Billie's comment.

"You have just hit it," she said. "Once the excitement of slaughter is on him he thinks of nothing else. Why, I came home the other day with a bite on my hand as a result of his rat-hunting."

"How reckless of him!"

A shout of bottled-up laughter belled up from Forster's throat. Dyke and Beaver followed suit, while the Berry family stared in amazement. Billie had repaid her score with interest, but the China mask of Tygarth's face could not enlighten her to the fact that, false to the principle of true sport, she was hitting a man who was down.

"Tabby," she said, lightly, "just run to my sitting-room and put your hand inside my work-basket. I have left a box of chocolates there."

"Why do you call him Tabby?" asked Pearl, curiously.

"I will spare his blushes," was the malicious answer. "Wait until he is gone and you shall have the whole story."

Only Beaver caught the look in Tygarth's eyes as he abruptly left the room, but it startled him by its strained intensity.

"She's driving that boy too far," he reflected. "Like all young things, she is ignorant of her strength."

Directly the door closed behind him Billie faced her visitors.

"You ask why I call him 'Tabby'?" she demanded. "Because he deserves no other name. Because he is a disgrace to the race of Englishmen. Because he is a miserable, half-baked coward."

From behind the frail door Tygarth's burning ears heard a confused babel. Billie's words had called forth incredulous dissent on the part of the Berry faction, and vehement support from Dyke and Forster. He waited for Billie's clear voice to resurrect the first discreditable incident. Then he rushed down the passage in the direction of the sitting-room.

When Billie stopped at length in her recital, through sheer lack of breath, she saw she had wasted her eloquence, for the Berry family was apparently unconvinced. The girl appealed anew to her male belongings, but Mr. Berry shook his grizzled head.

"That's the smartest two-year-old I have seen out here for many a cold day," he said, dryly. "And I reckon, p'r'aps, an old man like me can size him up better than you fine bucks. We don't run against each other."

"That's about it, pa," chimed in Mrs. Berry. "These young men are jealous. Such a nice manner he has too. I will never believe him a coward."

"He is," flamed Billie. "I say he is; and I am not a man."

"But you are a girl, my dear, and apparently he has not grasped the fact," was the dry answer.

"He hinted as much," said Pearl, acidly.

Billie grew scarlet under the raillery of the Berry family.

"Very well," she said. "I will prove what I have said. I am not piqued because the Tabby has not noticed me. I would not look at him, for he is a coward. See now. I have sent him to my basket. Crusty, my pet lizard, always goes to sleep there every afternoon. He lives on my roof, and the Tabby has never seen him. Mark my words, he will think him dangerous, and have a fit, for he is the biggest and ugliest specimen you could find. Now listen. You will have to acknowledge me right."

"Suppose he should kill him?" queried Pearl.

A shout of laughter drowned Billie's reply. "Kill him? Not he— he hasn't the pluck! He dare not touch a rat. There, what did I say? Oh, listen, listen!"

She opened the door, and her visitors rose and stood, with strained ears, in a semicircle in the doorway. As they listened, from a little way farther down the passage and muffled by closed doors, came the sound of a cry of fear. Then followed strange confused noises, as if someone were furiously rushing round the room. A piece of furniture, apparently, was thrown over with a loud thud. The sounds died away after that, till the silence was shattered by the crash of broken glass.

An expression of doubt broke over the serenity of Theophilus Berry's hatchet face. He beckoned to the others.

"Get back to the drawing-room," he said. "We'll see this thing out. We'll be in at the death."

They had barely re-seated themselves, when the door at which they were all staring was thrown open, and Tygarth staggered in. The change in the youth was incredible. His face was flushed, and in his blue eyes burned a light of triumph. A bandage was tightly fastened round his wrist and his tie was crooked. He crossed over to Billie, lurching at every step.

"I've killed him," he shouted. "I've killed him."

Billie turned pale. "You have killed him?" she repeated. "Oh, how could you? You low, cowardly brute! You've done it for revenge. You've killed my pet. Oh, I hate you, I hate you!"

Tygarth's jaw fell as he listened to the vehement words. All the joy was whipped cleanly off his face.

"Your pet?" he stammered. "But— it was dangerous."

"Dangerous It would not hurt a mouse."

"But it bit me," Dennis persisted. "Look!"

He pointed to his wrist.

Billie's scornful eyes flickered alertly over the stained bandage.

"Lies won't serve you," she said, instantly. "That's a cut; it is no bite."

A confused expression stole over Tygarth's face, and he rocked slightly.

Theophilus Berry exchanged a glance with Dr. Beaver.

"It's a cut," persisted Billie. "Done with glass, and from a broken bottle. You can't deny it."

"No, no; but—"

Dennis's voice trailed off into a mumble. All his strength seemed concentrated in an effort to keep his heels together; but it was plain by the beaten look on his face that not one of Billie's words missed its billet.

"Don't say another word," she commanded, sharply. "You must get up a little earlier in the morning to get the better of an Australian girl. I have eyes. Now, listen. To sustain your reputation for courage you have killed a perfectly harmless animal, and you couldn't even do that without Dutch courage. You have been drinking. You reek of brandy. You are not fit to be in a lady's presence. Go this instant, you— you— you Tabby!"

Tygarth turned on his heel. "Remember, I did it for you," he said, thickly. Then his head fell, and were it not for Beaver's arm he would have slid to the ground. With a nod to the doctor Berry slipped round to the other side, and, thus supported, Tygarth staggered from the room.

Directly he had gone a storm of voices broke loose. Reckless of her visitors, Billie prolonged the scene by bursting into tears— half in sorrow for her pet and half in anger against the Tabby. The Berry girls looked miserable and uncomfortable, while Dyke and Forster groaned for vengeance at every convulsive wriggle of Billie's shoulders. Mrs. Berry alone displayed a spasm of forbearance.

"My dear," she said to Billie, "you must not judge the poor young man too harshly. I have no doubt that such a state of nerves proceeds from ill-health. It's all diet, my dear. With proper feeding—"

"All the feeding in the world would not put one drop of red blood into his putrid, blue-blooded veins," growled Forster. "He is rotten, through and through."

Billie dried her eyes. "He did it for my sake," she said, faintly. "Did you hear his crowning insult? My darling Crusty!"

She spoke tenderly, yet even the sweetest cadences of a mourner's voice are powerless to quicken the dead or to explain the sudden resurrection that followed. For, at the sound of his name, a huge green lizard suddenly shot, with a ripping noise, up the reed curtain, and hung on to the cornice. With fascinated eyes, everyone watched him.

"Crusty!" screamed Billie. "It is— it is Crusty!"

For a few seconds all stood in a ring, worshipping the motionless reptile. Then Mrs. Berry's placid voice rippled through the ferment of excitement.

"What I want to know," she remarked, "is this: What did that young man really kill?"

Billie sprang to her feet. "Come along, all of you," she cried. "We'll soon find out."

They flocked out into the corridor in a confused heap, Mrs. Berry flapping along in the rear. As they passed one of the bedrooms they heard the sound of footsteps passing up and down. Berry's wizened face appeared through a slit in the door.

"Forster, Dyke, you two— come in here and lend a hand," he shouted.

The women rushed on into the sitting-room. It was in a state of disorder. A couple of chairs were overturned and a cluster of roses lay strewn on the matting. Billie's eyes went instantly to the bowl in which the flowers had stood, and she gave a faint shriek to see that the water was of a deep crimson colour.

But her cry was swallowed up in a yell from Mrs. Berry.

"Look!" she shrieked.

Something black was hanging from the basket. Ruby touched it lightly, and then recoiled in horror as it gradually slid to the ground. It seemed to the terrified women, as inch after inch slowly descended, that there was no end to the hideous spectacle. But at last, with a sudden rush, the whole weight of the creature fell with a soft thud, and they saw on the ground the carcass of a deadly swamp-snake. Its coils still twitched convulsively, but its head was crushed to the semblance of a flat-iron.

With a recollection of Billie's former outburst, Mrs. Berry instinctively produced her handkerchief. But Billie did not cry this time. She only repeated her former remark, "He did it for my sake." Then she added, slowly, "I have taunted him to his death."

"Nonsense, my dear," said Mrs. Berry, cheerfully, although she wiped her eyes, "the young man knew what to do. He took proper precautions, and acted promptly. This explains everything, blood, brandy, and all. They will bring him round all right. It will be a slight attack of blood-poisoning, perhaps, and after that, why, it will only be a question of diet."

But Billie waved aside all comfort. Her strained ears only heard the sound of footsteps in the adjoining room, that passed and repassed with measured tread.

The afternoon wore away. When the evening breeze was springing up the door of the room adjoining the sitting-room was slowly opened, and Theophilus Berry, pale and exhausted, limped out into the corridor. A shaft of red sunlight dazzled his tired eyes, so that he nearly stumbled over a little figure that was kneeling beside the door. Though white and limp, in her battered finery, he recognised his radiant hostess.

She looked up at his grim face, and saw that it was scored with the signs of a conflict waged against the Silent Adversary.

He regarded her sternly.

"You are to blame for this, young woman," he said, gravely.

Billie bowed her head in anguish.

"Don't tell me!" she cried. "Don't tell me Tabby is dead!"

For answer the old man drew out his large half-hunter.

"The Tabby died two and a half hours ago," he said, slowly, "but the tiger in a man dies harder. Tygarth of Tygarth will live."

_______________

6: Death Dances on Dimes

Laurence Donovan

1885-1948

Private Detective Stories May 1940

I SAW Amy Dutton's black, dead eyes staring at me. Her dead face, blue and bloodless under the thick rouge, was gruesome, upheld on her rounded arms. She had been placed in a chair and her arms lay on a table with the hands outstretched.

I saw Jimmy lying on the floor with blood still oozing from a cut on the back of his head. I had come there, desperately hoping to dissuade Jimmy from stealing Amy Dutton's hundred grand worth of diamonds.

When I saw Amy's cold face and the ivory-handled knife sticking in her throat, the furniture started to swim in slow circles. For that knife belonged to Jimmy. I had never seen another like it, and I was quick to think of many others who had seen the knife.

Well, I must have passed out for a few minutes and caught at a chair across the table from the corpse. When the room came back and quit whirling, I was so close I could have touched the murdered girl.

One dim light was burning. The corridor door to the apartment had been unlocked when I had tried it, so I had walked in. Now I caught the odor of lilac perfume before my eyes began to get everything in its place again.

My stomach was turning over and I had to hold onto the chair to keep from falling. Amy Dutton always was a smelly cat with that lilac stuff she used. She may have been social register, but she didn't have much taste. Perhaps that was what made her a strip teaser who always held a good spot in the candid shots of the tabloids.

A stripper was Amy Dutton who didn't leave anything much to the imagination of her audiences. Nobody but a society dame could have got by the cops with half the snaky stuff with which she had panicked night club audiences before she had walked into the spot at Loveland the week before.

Was it only a week? I shuddered and looked at the dead girl. I looked at Jimmy lying on the floor with the blood staining his thick reddish hair. It seemed impossible that all of this could have happened in a week.

Seven short days ago I had never met either Amy Dutton or Jimmy Doyle, the thief. In that time I had come to hate the one and love the other. Tonight the society strip teaser was sitting here murdered. And Jimmy Doyle was my husband.

Amy's terrible dead eyes seemed to he talking inside my head.

They said, "You hated me, Patsy Gregg. You wanted me dead. So you sent Jimmy to murder me. How could you do that to me?"

As my head quit buzzing everything was awfully quiet. Too quiet. Until I screamed. Just once. Stopping it with my hands gripping my cheeks and holding my jaws together.

Then for an instant I was seeing something not in that room. The dead face of the strip teaser vanished. In its place the table seemed to become a cement sidewalk. On this was a brownish blotch as if someone had spilled red paint and it had dried.

Red paint under a copper's flashlight. Just as I had seen it under the seventh floor window from which Lucille, the best pal I or any girl ever had, had jumped. That seemed to me now to be ages ago, and yet it had been only the night before.

That horror of dried blood, all that the coppers would let me sec of what had been Lucille. Yes. If I could have found Amy Dutton within the following few hours, I might have killed her myself.

The fearful vision faded and Amy Dutton's staring eyes came back. The room was filled with classy furniture. One little light by the dressing table was burning. Under it spilled the gleaming sparkle of icy jewels. The real ice of diamonds.

A BRACELET lay on the floor in front of the dresser. Were these the diamonds that Jimmy had come to steal, or were they the phony ones that Amy had been wearing at the dime dance barn for the past couple of nights?

I knew he had intended coming here, that he was a thief, because he had told me so himself. He said he had been given a straight tip that the real Dutton diamonds were in Amy's apartment and that she was wearing the phonies. So, when I learned that Amy Dutton had suddenly been called by phone, and had left the dance barn two hours ahead of time I had been put into a panic.

Anyway, I had tried to talk Jimmy out of "making this one last haul" as he had said it would be. And even tonight I believed if I could reach him, I could stop him. I was afraid for him, too, knowing that Amy Dutton had already left the dance hall.

It was all adding up. The cops knew Jimmy to be a thief who had served time. The spilled ice on the dresser table. Amy with the knife in her throat. Yet there was something inside me that said, "Jimmy didn't do it. Jimmy could never have killed her. Jimmy was kind. He was my husband, though he had been that only since this morning."

All of what I am telling passed through my mind less than a minute. You can see all of your lifetime they say when you are falling to death. I tried to keep my eyes from turning to Amy's dead face. Suddenly I leaned closer.

Leaned closer and looked at the dead girl's fingernails. She always kept them perfectly. They were tapered and painted as red as blood. But one of her fingernails now was torn halfway across. Something had caught in it and it was another color that showed across the carmine polish.

For an instant my heart sang, but not for long. Jimmy had not killed her. But who would believe that? Anything I might say would be worse than saying nothing at all. Many persons would be ready to tell how I had hated Amy Dutton.

Now I had but one wild thought. I must get Jimmy out of here. The door through which I had come was still unlocked. Possibly the police already had been called, were on their way.

I got over and tried to lift Jimmy's shoulders. He opened his eyes and his lips whispered, "Patsy— Patsy— what are you doing here?"

"Never mind that!" I cried out wildly, "We must get out of here! Jimmy, why did you do it?"

But he was lifting himself, staring past me. He had seen the corpse sitting rigidly in the chair with the dead face held gruesomely on the stretched arms.

"What— who did it?" he gasped. "Patsy, you—"

It sickened me to think that Jimmy could even have such a thought. But I said, "Jimmy, get your knife out of her throat! Hurry! Once we get outside we'll talk!"

Jimmy staggered as he walked, and he said, "Good God! It's all been a frame! I'll get the knife, Patsy!"

He was over beside the corpse reaching for the ivory-handled knife. If we could get out I thought there was no one who had seen me enter the small apartment building and come up. Perhaps Jimmy hadn't— but he had not told me how he had been knocked out.

Jimmy's hand was touching the knife.

"Hold it right there! Don't move either of you! Keep that hand right where it is! Well, if this ain't the sweetest damn setup!"

I clenched my teeth in my hand keeping back a scream. The doorway was full of cops. The one speaking was big and Irish, and I learned in a little bit that he was Sergeant Carney of a precinct homicide squad.

I saw a face over a copper's shoulder, and I knew from the cap it was that of the janitor. I heard him speak, "Yup! Just like I first saw her when I sneaked in on that fellow and rapped him one!"

I said wildly, "Jimmy didn't do it! He—"

"Save it, sister!" snapped out Sergeant Carney, taking in my cheap dance-barn costume with one blue-eyed glance. "I ain't askin' any questions yet! Here, Haggerty! Snap him just as he is!"

That must have been what the coppers call a sweet shot to have. A cameraman pushed forward, pointed a big black box, and when his light flashed he had the picture of Jimmy with his hand still stretched toward that knife in Amy Dutton's throat.

"WRAP 'cm both up!" ordered Sergeant Carney as the cop doctor began examining the corpse.

I shivered as I heard handcuffs snapped on Jimmy's wrists. One of the dicks said to me, "Hold out your hands!"

The janitor was standing there, his cap in his hand and scratching his partly bald head. He had a flat face and he must have had a one-track mind. It was the last that saved me.

"Wait a minute, Mister," he said with a puzzled voice. "This dame ain't got nothin' to do with it. She just walked in here a minute ago, after I clocked this bozo an' saw that Miss Dutton had been murdered. I heard her scream when she saw what had happened, so she—"

"Makes it different," cut in Sergeant Carney, giving me a longer look. "But how come you're right on the spot like this—"

Jimmy said quickly, "You're not asking me, but I'll tell you. I told her I was coming up here after the Dutton's girl's rocks, and she tried to talk me out've it. She followed to stop me, but—"

"That'll be enough, Doyle!" snapped Carney. "Sure, we've been hopin' you'd see the light after your last stretch! Well, this'll be your last one!"

Jimmy's face was white and set, but his voice was steady.

"I didn't kill the girl, if that's what you mean," he said. "I didn't even see her, not until I come out of the ether after being sapped from behind. I didn't see Amy Dutton sitting dead in that chair cither before I was socked. But I ain't sayin' she couldn't have been there, because I was looking at the ice there on the table, an' I got it quick."

"Yeah?" came from Carney. "Of course that explains why you were about to pull that shiv outta her neck? Maybe you thought that would bring her back to life or something?"

All of the dicks in the room, and it seemed full of them, turned and looked at what Jimmy said next.

"That happens to be my knife, copper. It didn't seem smart to leave it there."

"Well, I'll be damned!" exploded Carney. "Sure, you know your prints are all over it, so you're being real nice about tellin' us, huh?"

The cop doctor was a little old man. He had a clipped mustache and a sense of humor.

He said slowly, "The woman died of strangulation, so I wouldn't put too much emphasis on the knife, sergeant. She had been dead long enough before the shiv was pushed in so that the wound didn't bleed, and it should have bled plenty."

"Yeah?" grated Carney. 'Wasn't sure she was dead, eh, Doyle? So you had to use the shiv after you choked her? The prints'll tell that. Take him along, boys, and we'll hold the dame as a material witness."

The flat-faced janitor said, "He musta seen the body, Mister," meaning Jimmy. "He wasn't lookin' at no jewelry when I clunked him. He was comin' away from the table where the corpse is sitting."

"Thought so!" rapped out Carney. "All right, boys! Take them both along!"

I guess I've never been a fast thinker. You wouldn't expect a dime dance doll who goona-goos for a living to be quick that way. But maybe it was the few old-fashioneds I had swallowed before I went after Jimmy. It seemed to me there was something being overlooked, and I pulled at Sergeant Carney's sleeve.

Some of the coppers were over by the body, some taking fingerprints and others looking around.

I said to Carney, "If you'll give me one little break, copper, maybe I can show you something. Something that'll change your mind about Jimmy. He didn't kill Amy Dutton, and I can prove it if I've got the time. Look Jimmy over an' then tell me if there's anything about him like I'm gonna show you."

"What the—" began Carney, then I found out he had a human streak. "Well, what do I look for on Doyle?"

I told him and his blue eyes darkened a little. He gave Jimmy one quick glance and then he said, "The other?"

"There it is," I pointed, and he looked at Amy Dutton's broken fingernail. He had the photographer take a close-up picture of the fingernails before he said, "It could be something, Patsy. But I don't think it's important enough to save Doyle from the hot seat."

My teeth were biting into the back of my hand when he said that.

"This dame is the society stripper, and she dances with a lotta guys at that Loveland mill every night, doesn't she?" added Carney.

I nodded, because I couldn't speak.

"Then that could have come offa any guy," said Carney. "I hear this dame was kind-a violent in her hotsytotsy hoofin'."

I was thinking hard, and I said, "Suppose, sergeant, I could find out where that came from, and it was on some fellow who never danced in the Loveland barn with Amy Dutton, and who wasn't there tonight?"

"Well, who is he? Spill it? I have—" ,

But I had a sudden idea. I said, "Hell, Sergeant! Spread the word around and it gets into the news rags, so what! How about you lettin' me try to find the guy that wore what that come off of, an' you keepin' it under cover?"

"Meanin' you know who you're lookin' for?" snapped Carney. "If you know that much, spill it!"

I shook my bead stubbornly. "That won't work," I said. "I've got to do this on my own."

"You think a helluva lot of Jimmy Doyle, don'cha?" cut in Carney. "There ain't one chance in a million, but damned if I ain't gonna give you a break on it, Patsy. Remember, you ain't runnin' out on me."

"I might run out on you, Sergeant Carney," I said. "But so help me, I'll never run out on Jimmy."

Jimmy burst out with, "What's all this she's telling you, Carney? You got plenty on me, even if I didn't kill the Dutton dame, but I'm not lettin' Patsy run into trouble."

"Shut up, Doyle!" rapped out Carney. "I'm runnin' this show! You come up here to steal the dame's rocks, an' the janitor sees you beside her corpse and saps you down! You've got a record and— want me to draw you a picture of a case that's all wrapped up for the jury on the first ballot?"

IT DID not seem as if anything could save Jimmy the way the news rags rapped into him. Amy Dutton, the society strip teaser, was big news mostly on account of a lot of pictures unfit to print. Then she had dough, too, something like five millions.

Jimmy's record as a thief was no recommendation. I read some of it and it made me so sick I quit looking at the headlines. They had overlooked one little thing that was between Sergeant Carney and me. And one other little thing, about me being Jimmy's wife.

It was these two little things that might give me my break.

I had to go over the past week in my mind, and recall several things that had happened. Back to the first night I had seen Amy Dutton and made a snappy effort to scratch her eyes out. Back to the reason for my pal, Lucille, doing the Dutch.

That night, a week ago, I had breezed into Loveland forty minutes late.

"You gotta surprise waitin' for you, Patsy," said Tony Santo who runs the barn.

"Got some customer that won't blow garlic down the front of my neck and mountain-climb my knees?" I sparked brightly.

"Wait'll you see, Patsy," said Tony. "Did'j'ever hear-a Amy Dutton? Well, she's takin' Lucille's place on the spot tonight."

"An' what the hell's Lucille gonna think of that kinda tripe, Tony?" I comes back. "She'll quitcha and she's the swellest—"

Tony Santo grinned at me with one corner of his mouth.

"Lucille ain't quittin', Patsy, on account of she was in this afternoon an' blowed the joint when I told her. After all I done for her. But Amy Dutton now, wait'll the tabs get it an' we'll hafta put up the riot lines."

I didn't say another word. Who hadn't heard of Amy Dutton if they read the tabs. She was a hot little number. Society with a big S. She had made two night clubs famous because she would go that last few inches of the strip which left practically nothing for the camera boys to imagine.

So Tony had let Lucille quit! There was a special damn in the back of my mind as I thought of who would be buying the cakes and java for Lucille and mc. We roomed together in a seventh floor walkup.

I high-heeled across the barn floor, seeing my legs in the dance wax mirror. If I say so myself, they are nice legs. The swing musicians were already in the box. Jute, the front man who pitches them into the big oompah, is waiting with his conductor's stick and looking at his watch.

Some customers were already around the birdcage buying dime tickets. The barn was cold, but I had a creepy feeling like I was walking through a morgue. The same way I got it that night a new little frail from the country went out to a chop suey joint with a big bimbo, and comes back to take poison and do the Dutch right in the dressing room.

Lucille was on my mind. She had been my room-mate in. the seventh floor walkup for six months. We always got along swell, us both having the same ideas about staying on the up and up. Neither of us liked the jives, the barnacles who bought dime tickets, then wanted a lot of other privileges besides bruising your knees and breathing down your neck.

The jives could take us out to the chop suey joints. We called them the laundries. If the girls wanted to go other places more private, that was all right with the house as long as the jives paid enough tickets to cover the empty stretches.

Lucille and me never went farther than to some open laundry. More than one jive complained and Tony Santo would tell them, "Well, what the girls does on their own is up to them, brother. This ain't one-a them kinda joints."

We got plenty of laughs from the others on the dime dance chain gang for wearing backyard cat as neck-pieces, and getting most of our eats in sandwiches some jives would buy us off the counter between the dance stretches.

So I was not thinking of a thing but Lucille as I went into the dressing room, holding the door wide open and having a look around.

THE first thing I heard was fat Mom Kelly's voice, saying, "Now that's what I calls class. Wouldja look at them real minxes, girls?"

A glossy neckpiece of real mink was strung over the peg next to mine, where Lucille had always hung her cat pelt. In spite of it being past time for the oompah to pull the jives in off the avenue, half the girls were still sitting around in their half-and-halfs.

They didn't even look around, knowing I was holding the door open for the musicians and the customers up front to have a look-in at the gang in nothing but brassieres and panties. All were looking at Amy Dutton.

Mom Kelly says, "Patsy, shut that door. We ain't givin' a free show."

I had one look at the snaky curves and the flat white shoulders then being powdered by this Amy Dutton, and I says, "The hell we ain't, Mom!"

Amy Dutton turns her snobbish pan and looks at me out of bright, black eyes. She didn't miss the frayed cat I was wearing. She smiled at me with her chin lifted and it was like a slap in the face. It was right then my fingers started itching.

Then I saw the dame had spread her wardrobe around. A Fifth Avenue dress that would have kept Lucille and me eating for six months was over on my peg. I ripped it down, and I mean ripped it.

"Its one of the rules, babee," I says sarcastic, "to keep your rags on your own hook."

Amy Dutton was holding the powder box and she slammed it between my eyes.

She blazed, "You little street twist, I'll see you don't work here any more!"

"Any more than my pal!" I yelped. "My pal who has to eat, and loses her spot to a slimy little society teaser like you!"

I went after her, both hands clawing. Mom Kelly was too quick for me, and she said, "Tsk! Tsk! Patsy!" as she puts a grab around my stomach and makes me miss the scratch by a couple of inches.

At that instant the big oompah started on the trombones and the clarinets out in the barn. Tony Santo opened the door and beside him is a tall silk hat like you never see around Loveland.

The silk hat was tall and dark-haired, with a nice easy smile. He saw Mom Kelly holding me, and he looked over the scantily clad frails, his eyes lingering on my own shapely legs.

He said, "Well, well, Mr. Santo! What goes on here?"

I expected to lose my job, so I wailed out, "What goes on is that l tear the eyes outta this Dutton louse if she don't get wise to herself"?

"Yeah?" snarls Tony Santo. "You're out, Patsy! Get your duds!"

"Just a minute, Mr. Santo," interrupts the silk hat. "My cousin, Amy, is a little difficult at times, so I wouldn't want you to be firing this girl called Patsy. Suppose we talk it over."

"Well, if you say so, Mr. Hopper," says Tony, glaring at me.

"That's right, Arthur," dripped the Dutton dame behind me. "See that she doesn't lose her job because of me. She's your kind, cousin, and maybe she'd let you buy her something to take the place of that backyard sable she's wearing."

Mom Kelly had to get her fat arms around me again as I yelled, "I'll strangle her for that!"

Art of the chain gang was trooping out of the dressing room. The tall blonde and the Italian frail were last, and they smiled at me sadly. They were sure I would be fired. I wasn't, though.

The rest of the gang had been picked off by the first jives when I reached the line. Amy Dutton was putting on a goona-goo that was lowdown and mean, doing a snake twist all the way from her white shoulders to her feet, which did not move.

This Arthur Hopper, Amy's cousin, came toward me with a strip of tickets. I said, "Okay Mister, and thanks for the good word to Tony."

He said, "That's all right, lovely. Forget it."

The red pash lights were on now and the swingers were putting on the dreamy stuff. Arthur Hopper had a gentleman's touch. I mean he did not squeeze my waist like some jive going to town, he did not step on my feet and he neglected to try any mountain climbing with his knees.

I goona-gooed for him though, and he liked it. I never looked into his eyes. You get that way in a dance-barn. It is only a dime's worth, so you let them drag you along and you don't see anything of the jives but their vests and their neckties.

Come the first stretch, Arthur suggested orangeade and a sandwich.

At the table he said, "I take it you don't care much for my cousin Amy?"

He had been nice, but I boiled over. "I guess she's all right. I'd feel that way about any dame that squeezed my pal Lucille outta her spot. Lucille needed the job, and your cousin's society."

Arthur's eyes were dark and he looked at me with slow approval.

He said, "I've tried to talk her out of taking jobs of girls that need them. Amy's really a swell girl, and you're a swell looker yourself. How about a real meal after a while?"

I nodded. Why not? He wasn't the type to make a reach for you in public. And already I was thinking how little this being on the up and up was getting either Lucille or me. Poor kid! She hadn't come home this afternoon, not wanting to tell me she had lost her job.

Amy Dutton was putting on one of her strip acts then that was panicking the customers. I didn't say anything, but the way Arthur Hopper looked at me, I knew he got it that I still hated his fair and flexible cousin.

Well, I went out to a laundry with Arthur and he was nice. Before we came back he did tilt up my chin and kiss me, and he said, "Patsy, you're a lovely little thing. I could go for a girl like you." That kiss was the kind that proved what he meant, too, so I laughed it off.

Dancing with Arthur, I missed a lot of pawing over I usually got from the cheap jives. Before I went out to the laundry I called my landlady. Lucille had not come in. I was worried about that. I knew she would be making all the spots trying to find a jab.

Arthur said before the final number, "Ever have a night off, lovely?"

When you have been pawed over for months by cheap jives who expect a dime doll to be worth about that much on the hoof or off, it is something to have a society swell like Arthur Hopper act nice about everything.

"Any night could be a night off as long as the tickets are covered," I murmured, and he gave me a little squeeze.

"That would be okay," he said. "I've bought a piece of the joint, you know."

I had suspected that when he had called off the dogs so fast with Tony Santo.

"You're a Sweetheart" was being played. It was the closing number. Arthur had me in a little corner and the way he kissed me would have gone all the way to the heels of some of the gang. It left me cold, but I gave a good imitation of liking it.

I COULDN'T be blamed for thinking that maybe I would accept Arthur Hopper's invitation. There was Lucille to consider. We had to eat and two can't do it on dime dance tickets of one.

I limped home and wasted next day's breakfast on a pint of icecream. But Lucille was not there. I watched the ice-cream get all hot and gooey. It was around four A. M. when I heard slow feet dragging up the stairs.

Little Lucille put out her hands and fell into my arms. Her dress was torn off one shoulder and there was a deep scratch across her throat. She was sobbing her heart out and before she spoke, I said, "Who did it, baby? Who was the guy?"

She raised her big, brown eyes to mine, and something was gone out of them forever.

"I was looking for a job, honey," she sobbed. "A fellow in a night club gave me a West Side address, and said he might have a spot for me if I'd see him after the show."

"So he—"

"Please, Patsy! Please don't hate me! It wasn't all his fault! I thought we'd have to quit each other! Now I know I'll never feel decent. again! I can never go home—"

I stripped off her torn clothes and slipped her a dream powder. I could have killed the bimbo who was responsible for Lucille sobbing now in her sleep.

"Amy Dutton! Damn her!" I was thinking.

I had just recalled that the society teaser was wearing a flock of ice that helped panic the customers, and those rocks hadn't come off any ten-cent counter. They were the real thing, and Mom Kelly had said Amy had boasted they were worth a hundred grand.

Her cousin, Arthur, had mentioned to me himself that the ice was the real McCoy. Poor, little Lucille, out looking for a hoofing job, and Amy Dutton sporting enough diamonds to have made any dame independent for life.

I don't know how long I had been asleep beside Lucille when I awoke from a nightmare in a cold sweat. Lucille was moaning, and then I became scared. I had been dreaming about the society stripper, and my hands had been gripping Lucille's white throat.

I didn't sleep any more. Lucille was still out when I started for the night's drag-around.

I DREW one cheap jive after another that night. They were doing more goona-gooing with their belt buckles than their feet. Amy Dutton had all of them trying to imitate her snaky hips. The barn was jammed with society swells, so I knew the tabloids had done their stuff.

Arthur Hopper came in and danced a few numbers with me. I liked him, in spite of him being Amy's cousin. They were playing, "You're a Sweetheart," when Arthur bent his head and said, "How about tomorrow night, lovely?"

Many is the jive who had made that same proposition. But it never had meant a thing. I thought of Lucille waiting in the room, so I nodded and said, "Why not?"

He gave me a squeeze, but I walked out alone. Lucille was still awake, sitting by the window. I looked at her white face and her staring, brown eyes and shivered.

Lucille said, "I can't stay here living offa you, Patsy."

I replied cheerfully, "Aw, go jump in the river. Maybe I ain't so much on the up and up as I've always pretended. We'll get along swell."

What I had said didn't mean a thing, but how I was to think of that a little later.

The third and the fourth night of Amy Dutton at the Loveland were a little more of the same, with more swells and a jammed barn. Arthur Hopper came in that third night, but he said, "I've a call out of town tonight, lovely, and I won't be back for a few days. But I'm not forgetting."

"Neither am I," I whispered, giving him the goona-goo with a bright smile.

Amy Dutton was jingling her ice and snaking her hips in special tease strips so that the cops who were watching had to speak to Tony Santo about it. The lowdown teaser smiled at me once, too, on the floor, and I was wide awake this time when I dreamed I had my hands on her nice, white throat.

I had been keeping Lucille in and going without meals. I was so desperate by this time I imagined I would like to see Amy Dutton's slick, stream-lined curves laid out on a marble slab.

It was the fourth night when I found myself dancing with a jive who wore a green necktie. A dime doll seldom bothers to see them above their neckties. This guy danced with his feet and he held me like I might have been his sister.

Nobody ever could have made me believe that when it came to me, it would be a jive who bought his goona-goo by the dime's worth. But that's the way it was. That's the way I met Jimmy Doyle, and he was nothing but a green necktie to me until we were half through the number:

He stopped suddenly. He said, "We'll go over and finish this one on a ham an' egg sandwich, baby. I guess you girls get plenty tired stringin' around with dumb eggs that think they've bought themselves a hula-hula for a couple-a nickles."

NOW that was the oldest line in the business. The old come-on. A lot of soft talk. "How did a nice girl like you ever get into this racket?" Then a little ride in his car, or a dinner over at one of the laundries where they have private dining-rooms with keys on the inside.

And the next thing— well, you know how it is with a dumb dame, she's giving plenty with nothing to show for it but a lot of soft talk.

I thought of that. But there we'll skip it. He told me his name was Jimmy Doyle. One of the girls had told him about Lucille and me. Maybe she couldn't tell him how hungry I was, but he guessed that, too.

He had reddish hair, freckles and smiling blue eyes. His mouth was broad, but he had nice teeth when he smiled. After he had been quiet a long time and we had sat out three numbers he talked a little.

"They tell me you're on a hunger strike on account of your pal, Lucille," he said finally. "Anything I can do about it?"

I said, "Nothing, Jimmy," and I couldn't let him. Because I was feeling suddenly warm inside. I don't know how to explain it, but Jimmy Doyle and me were looking at each other, and both of us knew how it was.

There was only one catch. When Amy Dutton was doing her stuff, Jimmy Doyle lost his smile. His mouth hardened and he kept his eyes on her.

Well, he did not suggest taking me out that night. In fact he never did. But he put up the tickets and doubled them to stick by me through, "You're a Sweetheart."

That night was the first in weeks that I had looked at my own face in the dressing room mirror. Not bad, I hoped. My hair was natural honey color. All the curves were in the right places. I stretched out one slim leg and it looked good enough to get by.

My face was heart-shaped and my eyes were kind of green.

Mom Kelly was watching me with an Irish grin on her pan.

She said, "Who's the guy, Patsy? Never thought you'd take a dive."

I snapped back, "Guess again, grandma. A bozo just slipped me an extra buck on tickets."

JIMMY DOYLE and me were in one of the laundries that has private rooms. No. He hadn't asked me there. I had asked him. This was near the end of Amy Dutton's week. Tonight I had seen a cop touch Jimmy on the shoulder. They had quite a talk before he came back to me.

It took just that, just that sudden stopping of my heart, to make me know I would go places with Jimmy, any place. He hadn't smiled much after talking to the cop, and he wasn't smiling at me here in the private dining-room.

Jimmy said, "I don't hit it much, but we'll have a couple-a cocktails. Then maybe you'll tell me what's on your mind?"

We had several drinks before I walked over and turned the key in the door.

"Stick around, Jimmy, I ain't a gold-digger," I said. "I want to know something though, something that scared me. What did that cop want to see you about?"

Jimmy looked me squarely in the eyes.

"Funny thing, Patsy," he said, "but I'm going to tell the truth. It's the reason I haven't said more to you. It's the thing that will always keep me from having a girl like you. Patsy, I'm a thief. I've served two stretches. I'm not hot now, but the boys have their eyes on me. So—"

It came like a flash. "So with that Dutton stripper splashin' around in a hundred grand, the cop thought maybe he oughtta speak to you about it. And that's the reason you haven't said any more to me?"

He nodded slowly, "That's it, Sherlock."

"Jimmy," I said, "maybe I've thought a lot about them rocks myself. But don't you do it, Jimmy. l know I aint worth a hundred grand, and you can have me now or any other time for a dime or nothing. l don't want you to take that chance."

"You don't know what you're saying, Patsy," stated Jimmy. "You don't think I would take a girl like you—"

"You'd better, Jimmy Doyle!" was my reply. "I don't care if you're a murderer, that's the way it is!"

I had my arms wrapped around his neck by this time, and I put everything I had ever learned into that kiss. His arms gradually tightened around me. That kiss contacted the fire that had been in both our hearts.

"Jimmy," I whispered, "I don't care what you are. Lucille was tricked into stepping out though she didn't mean to do it. Jimmy! I know what I'm doing. One way or another I intend to have your love. I may be a dime dance dame, Jimmy, but you're the first."

Jimmy tried to put me away from him. But I held him tightly and he finally said savagely, "Damn you, Patsy, I love you! Will you go down to the City Hall with a thief tomorrow morning?"

Would I go? I said, "Jimmy, I'd follow you to hell and through it."

I could not foresee just then that was exactly what lay before me.

It was minutes later when Jimmy said, "I'm taking the Dutton diamonds, baby. She don't need them and we can use them. It'll be my last time, Patsy, I promise. I'm pullin' it tomorrow night before the Dutton stripper gets back to her apartment. I've had an underground tip that she's wearing phonies and the real rocks are in a safe at her place."

"No, Jimmy, please," I pleaded.

But I couldn't shake him on that. He held me in his arms a long time. As we were leaving, he peeled a century from a roll in his pocket. He said, "Patsy, this isn't for you. It's for Lucille, the pal you've been willing to starve for. It will send her home. That's what got me in the first place, when that dame told me about you and Lucille."

For two days Lucille had not been eating. She had put on a hysterical act. I had put her to bed and made her promise to stay there before I went to the barn.

"I understand, Jimmy," I said, tears in my eyes. My Jimmy was a thief, but he was a swell thief. "I'll send Lucille home. I'll go with you to the City Hall in the morning."

"Okay, honey," was his reply. "I'm taking the Dutton stuff at about ten o'clock tomorrow night, then I'm taking you out of the damn barn forever."

I didn't like that, but... I loved him, whatever he was.

IT WAS two A. M. when I breezed out of a taxi in my own block. I had fallen for a thief and I was going to marry him. I had shamelessly offered myself to him. My whole world was cock-eyed. And I was the happiest girl in the Big Town.

I stopped in an all-night delicatessen and loaded up with groceries and a few bottles of beer. It would he great to see Lucille smile again.

I came around the corner. There was a car standing before our rooming house. A couple of uniformed coppers were there in the light from the door. I had a cold chill of apprehension. All I could think of was Jimmy.

Had someone spotted us in the laundry and heard us talking? Or maybe they were looking me up because everyone at the barn had seen l was Jimmy's girl?

A big Irish copper stepped in front of me at the entrance.

"Maybe you'd be Patsy Gregg?" he said.

'"Why— why, yes, I'm Patsy Gregg," I stammered.

The Irish cop said quietly, "Maybe I'd best tell you before you go up to your room. The girl with you, Lucille Cooper, well, she won't be there."

My heart stopped, picked up, and I gasped out, "Something's happened to Lucille? Tell me?"

The other copper flicked on a flashlight. Its beam played across the sidewalk. I'll never forget that horror as long as I live. It was like somebody had spilled a bucket of brown paint on the concrete.

I ran headlong into the big Irish cop and he put his arms around me. He said, "There now, Patsy— there now—"

I was seeing Lucille sitting before that seventh floor window. Day and night. Not talking. Refusing to eat. The cop holding me said, "Switch off that damn light, Murphy."

IT WAS Mrs. Jimmy Doyle when I walked into the barn that next night. I was not wearing my ring because I didn't want Tony Santo and the others to know.

I saw Amy Dutton goona-gooing out on the floor, and I had to get hold of myself hard to keep from rushing out there and tearing her to pieces. The rest of the chain gang took one gander at me and didn't say anything. They had heard about Lucille.

Tony Santo came over and his fat, greasy face had worried lines.

"Its tough, Patsy," he said. "You wouldn't believe it, but it's tough on me, too. You know how I've always felt about you, Patsy. I told you once any time you wanted to quit this racket, you could—"

Tony had little, black button eyes. He was always making a play for one of the chain gang, and he had once made it strong with me until he was convinced I wouldn't play.

I didn't say a word now. I couldn't. The first jive that pushed out a ticket wanted me to go to a laundry. I felt like it. I must have had half a dozen old-fashioneds. I was dizzy and seeing red when I got back.

I noticed it was not far from ten o'clock. Jimmy would be making his stab at the Dutton diamonds. I didn't see Amy Dutton on the floor. Mom Kelly said she had had a telephone call and gone out in a hurry.

That was when panic hit me. I almost ran out. I stopped to tell Tony Santo I was sick and quitting for the night, but the cashier said Tony had gone home with a headache.

So I grabbed the first taxi and gave the driver Amy Dutton's address. I had to stop Jimmy, or warn him the strip teaser might be on her way home.

That was how I came to walk into Amy Dutton's apartment.

ALL of these things were in my mind after I gave Sergeant Carney my word I would never run out on Jimmy. Somehow Carney managed to keep me out of the murder stories I was free to go back to the barn any time I wanted to.

It came to me that if the real truth of that murder came out, the flat faced janitor who had knocked Jimmy out would come into it somewhere. I found out later that smart Sergeant Carney thought so, too, but he left the janitor on his own, though he put a dick on his trail. He had me shadowed, too, though I didn't know that.

I waited until next morning, lying awake all night, I read all the first editions carrying the story of Amy Dutton’s murder. It was mentioned that Arthur Hopper would have a few hundred thousands increased to several millions by his cousin’s death. Arthur Hopper had not been reached, the stories said, having gone on a fishing trip.

But during the day I called Arthur's apartment number several times on the chance he had read the newspapers and hurried home. The men who answered, up to late in the afternoon, said that Mr. Hopper had not been heard from.

I was afraid all that I felt could be read in my face as I went into Loveland for the nights drag- around. The opening oompah was already on. Like I should have known it would, the connection of the murdered stripper with Loveland had packed the place early. Everybody was goggling for a view of the "place where she had danced."

The eyes of the chain gang bored into me. I had not been mentioned in connection with the murder, and no smart reporter had dug up the marriage record at the City Hall. But every dame in there knew Jimmy, and that he had practically taken me out of circulation.

Tony Santo stopped me before I went to the dressing-room. His black eyes were sharp and I thought he must know something of where I had been the night before, even if the news rags hadn't spilled it.

"You don’t look so good, Patsy," said Tony. "Maybe you'd better take a couple-a nights off. I don't feel so good about Lucille, an' I guess you was kind-a over the line for this Jimmy guy they caught up in Amy Dutton's apartment, huh?"

I was tense all through. But I said, I'd rather have the body dragged around, Tony. Maybe it'll keep things off my mind."

IT WAS the big spot of the night for the jives. They had heard about Jimmy and me, and I could almost feel the morbid interest they took in goona-gooing with a dame whose sweetie was headed for the hot chair.

I refused to go out for drinks tonight. I had to keep my head clear. Somehow I expected Arthur Hopper to show up before we came to "You're a Sweetheart." So I gonna-gooed with one necktie after another.

Some of the jives were offering me whole strips of tickets for one drag around. Little Patsy was having a big night. And I had no feeling whatever from the neck down. If they tapped on my feet I didn't know it. I could not even smell garlic or the hot close breaths on my throat.

I just looked at one necktie after another and goona-gooed.

It seemed a year before Jute pushed the swingers into "You're a Sweetheart." I hummed it as I danced with a red necktie rubbing my forehead. "You're a sweetheart, if there ever was one—"

"Jimmy! Jimmy!" I was thinking. "It all depends on me. Such a little thing, Jimmy. The torn fingernail of a murdered girl may be all that stands between you and the electric chair."

Then, just as the last round of music eased off, I saw Arthur Hopper come into the barn. He saw me on the floor and waited.

Arthur smiled and said, "You look ill, Patsy, but I'd like to talk to you tonight at my apartment. I have to go over some books with Tony, but would you mind taking a taxi out there and waiting?"

I thought quickly and said, "I'll go, Arthur." I didn't mention I had tried to get him several times that day. He was quick and nervous, like he had more on his mind than my own shapely person.

"I'll telephone and my man will let you in, Patsy," he said. "Have him mix you a drink or two while you're waiting."

His dark eyes were searching me as if he suspected something, and he wasn't smiling.

When I reached the sidewalk I could see light in Tony Santo's office on the second floor of Loveland. I hurried into a drugstore and a phone booth. I called police headquarters and asked to be connected with Sergeant Carney at the precinct.

Then my breath stopped. "Sergeant Carney may not be in for several hours," I was told. Everything so far as I knew was between Carney and me.

I said quickly, "Leave a message for him that Patsy Gregg has gone to—" I gave an apartment address and number.

I came out, grimly determined I would find what I sought, even if I had to go the limit. That couldn't be unfaithful to Jimmy, I thought. It might even be the means of saving him from the chair. The night extras were on the street.

A headline hit me between the eyes.

JANITOR IN AMY DUTTON MURDER

FALLS TO DEATH IN ELEVATOR

I grabbed a paper. I learned that Thomas Larkin, janitor, had been found dead at the bottom of an elevator shaft in the apartment where Amy Dutton had been murdered. The flat-faced man who had pinned the rap for murder squarely upon Jimmy.

I thought, now the police won't have his testimony. Then panic seized me. 'The janitor's story was already on record, and with him dead it could never be changed. If he had lied, the lie stood. And I was sure he had lied.

I started toward a taxi stand. And I saw Arthur Hopper standing in the doorway of the Loveland watching me come from the drugstore. I realized he had been watching and he could sec right into the drugstore where | had used the telephone booth.

Another man detached himself from the shadows and walked close to me. Then it struck me I had seen this man several times. He had been in the barn during the night's dancing. I've been around enough to know a dick when I see one.

I climbed hastily into the taxi and when I gave the address I made it loud enough for the words to carry to the dick. I was right. Another taxi swung out right behind us and I watched its lights for several blocks. Then suddenly the second taxi was held up by cross traffic when my driver shaved a red light, and I didn't see the cab again.

All I could think of was that Sergeant Carney might not get my message for hours. If the dick in the taxi had been following me, he had lost the trail. I didn't think then that he might call Headquarters and get the address I had given.

The man who opened the door of the third floor apartment looked more like a mobster than a servant. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"I'm Patsy Gregg," I said. "It's all right. I'm to wait."

He let me into a big, disordered living-room. I had to act fast and I said I could use a drink. The man had remained, watching me. He seemed to be acting on the idea I had come to rob the joint.

But he muttered and went into the kitchen. A bedroom door was half open and I had to take a chance. I darted inside.

The necktie rack was beside the dresser. J had this in mind. If the little gold-thread pattern I had seen caught in Amy Dutton's broken fingernail had been missed, then one swell imported tie would not be upon that rack. It would have been destroyed.

I fumbled quickly through the ties. There it was. I realized how smart Sergeant Carney had been in keeping that single clue from the newspapers. The murderer of Amy Dutton had not discovered the pattern was missing, and the tie was strung on the rack with the others.

How I wanted that tie, but I knew it must be found here. Anything else might look like a plant on my part. Where could I hide it? Then I heard ice tinkling and the man coming back from the kitchen.

I had it now. I could leave that tie right where it was. If I tried to hide it and were discovered, anything might happen. But I didn't get out of the bedroom quickly enough.

"So you did have something on your mind, you damn double-crossing, two-timing twist!"

Snapped a voice from the doorway and dark eyes bored into mine.

"Grab her, Joe! Don't let her scream!"

Joe dropped a tray and rolled toward me. But I did scream once before his thick hands closed on my throat. The dark eyes of Tony Santo were like shiny, gleaming points before my face.

"What did you want in my bedroom? Frisk her, Joe!"

I tried to speak, but my breath was shut off. The man Joe obeyed that order to the letter. A police matron couldn't have been more thorough. There wasn't a detail of anything I was wearing that hadn't been explored when he finished.

"What did you want in there, Patsy?" came the hard voice. "Do you tell me or do I find out some other way?"

I could talk then, and I said, "Why, well, I was just waiting for you. I was looking around."

"Yeah? Now you start talkin'!"

A flat, brutal hand struck the side of my head. My brain buzzed to dizzy nothing as I fell down. [I tried to fight back, but a minute later I was lying on the bed in the room. My wrists and my feet were tied to the bed's corner post.

"Okay, Joe!" came an order that had deadly, mocking meaning. "You have a look around outside! I'll take care of her!"

He was standing over me, his hands twitching. Joe hadn't bothered to replace the clothes he had torn off me. I could see a gleam come into the dark eyes.

"You're a nice piece of work, Patsy. It'd be a shame to hurt you. You didn't think I knew you were married yesterday. Now what did you come in here to find? Spill it or that Jimmy Doyle will never see you again. But first I'm—"

He bent over me and crushed my lips with his mouth until they bled. I twisted away and gritted, "Don't! I didn't come to find anything! Yes, I was lonesome tonight without Jimmy! I expect I'll never see him again!"

"Yeah? You won't be lonesome long! Do you talk or do I find out in my own way?"

I clamped my teeth together. I could see no hope. Carney never would get my message in time. Sure, he would have the address to trace me afterward. But what good would that do me, or Jimmy?

For back of the other purpose in those gleaming eyes I could see murder written. Perhaps the same kind of murder that had come to Amy Dutton. Then I wasn't thinking at all.

A thumb was pressed into my throat and the two hands vised onto my ears. It was horrible. I had no breath to scream.

I could feel consciousness fading out. I could feel the skin of my ears tearing.

Though he was choking me, he was forcing a brutal kiss upon my lips at the same time. He was letting up a little on the pressure upon my throat. I heard quick movement in the outside room.

"Hold it, Tony!" snapped a voice. "Lets find out what this is all about?"

The brutal hands of Tony Santo let go of my ears and he was turning. Arthur Hopper was standing in the doorway of the bedroom. Yes, I had come to Tony Santo's apartment. That had been the place I knew I must search.

My last, faint hope faded out. I knew there would be no more mercy in Arthur Hopper than in Tony himself. Arthur started into the room.

Behind him there was a crashing blow. Then the cold voice of Sergeant Carney rapped out.

"Yes! Let's find out what this is all about? Get 'em up, both of yuh or I'll take the greatest pleasure in blasting you! Over by the wall, Hopper! And you, Santo!"

So my message had got through because the dick who had lost my taxi had phoned in, just in time to catch Sergeant Carney himself. Dicks poured into the room and they freed me and wrapped me in the bed covers.

When I could speak, I said, "Sergeant Carney, you'll find the black tie with the gold thread patterns still hanging on Tony's rack. Anyone around the Loveland mill can tell you that it's his tie, and he never noticed one of the gold patterns had been torn loose."

Carney held the tie in his hand, and he said, "By hell, Patsy! You win! I never saw a woven pattern like that anywhere but in the broken fingernail of Amy Dutton! Now she would hardly have been putting on a wrestling match with her boss at Loveland!"

I said, "I told you Tony had gone. He wasn't there. He left a little before Amy Dutton was called by phone. Tony's one hobby is imported neckties. I bet there isn't another one like that in the Big Town. He strangled Amy Dutton, and he helped frame Jimmy into going after the diamonds. Then he took Jimmy's knife and pushed it into the dead girl's throat."

Carney nodded. "You happened to be seen around just before that janitor fell down the elevator shaft today, Tony. All right, how much did Arthur Hopper pay you for the job?"

Well, Tony sang then. He was that kind. He put the finger on Arthur Hopper. For a mere ten grand put into Loveland, he had framed and carried out the murder.

SERGEANT CARNEY walked down the courtroom steps with Jimmy and me. I have said Carney was human. When he had finished telling the judge all of it, the court reluctantly paroled Jimmy "in the custody of his wife."

Sergeant Carney put one hand on Jimmy's shoulder at the door.

"Doyle, if you don't go straight for this girl, I'll personally use the rubber hose on you the next time they bring you in," he said.

Jimmy grinned a little.

"That's all right with me, Carney," he said. "By the way, you can have fresh eggs all for nothing if you drive out around Bay Edge, Long Island, any time. I bought me a chicken farm out there yesterday. That's where we're going, Patsy and me."

And that's where we went.

__________________

7: The Ghost Monk

Rosa Praed

(also wrote as "Mrs Campbell Praed") 1851-1935

In Stubble Before the Wind (1908)

Queensland-born Praed moved to UK with her husband in 1876, and went on to become a successful, prolific novelist.

AUNT FELICIA used often to tell the story of her friend, Father Canalis, and the ghost-monk of Gontran, and it is given here as she related it:—

I NEVER knew a more delightful person than Father Canalis— Dr. Canalis, I always called him, because not being myself of the Catholic communion, I prefer when it is permissible to use the more secular mode of address. Besides, there was a certain savour of the world about Dr. Canalis. He was in some respects the typical priest of society. Well-bred, highly cultivated, dignified, courteous, and with much knowledge of men and of women, he was indeed a frequent and ever-welcome guest in the houses of many of the great Catholic nobility. Though of foreign extraction, he was to all intents an Englishman, and was for a long time, till his health broke, the head of an important Catholic seminary in London. This position gave him a greater freedom than is usual with the clergy of the Church of Rome. He was a Jesuit, which fact owed perhaps something to his extreme charm of manner, his exquisite tact and his varied social gifts. There was nothing of the ascetic about Dr. Canalis, but he in no sense realised the conventional notion of the Jesuit priest. If there ever lived an earnest, pure-minded and truly religious man, it was my friend Father Canalis.

I call him friend, though I am not as a rule fond of priests; and as my husband belongs to the Roman persuasion, I have had some opportunities of observing the class. Fortunately Gaston is liberal in his views, robust as well as scholarly in his tastes, and has a keen sense of humour. Thus the priests who are his intimate friends are generally men of culture and are interesting apart from their calling.

Dr. Canalis had the reputation of being a proselytist, and it was said that he had made many a convert among a particular order of woman— that which is essentially of London society— the kind of woman who gravitates by temperament towards the Mother Church. I am not that kind of woman; and Dr. Canalis, after one or two conversations in which I frankly stated my objections to his creed, gave up any proselytising notions he might have entertained, and accepted my friendship on another basis. It was these candid talks which made me appreciate the man—his real sincerity, his almost feminine power of sympathy, his toleration of other opinions than his own, and his practical common sense. I met him more than once as a guest during his vacation at the house of a Catholic relative of Gaston's, and so charmed was I with the first sermon I heard him preach in our relative's chapel that afterwards I often went to hear him at the Pro-Cathedral when in London, where his extraordinary eloquence and the poetic grace of his diction caused him to be frequently chosen for the courses of sermons delivered there by popular Catholic divines. It was, therefore, with the greatest satisfaction that I found he was staying at Cannes one winter when my husband and I went out for six weeks' sunshine— a six weeks made memorable ever afterwards by the companionship of Dr. Canalis.

He had been granted leave of absence on account of lung delicacy. He looked worn and transparent, but no serious symptoms had shown themselves, and it was not supposed that he was in real danger. He told us that his doctor's prescription was to live out of doors, to drive as much as possible, to nourish himself with food and to give up work and study for a time. Dr. Canalis was not rich— what good Catholic priest has ever more than suffices for the necessaries of existence?— we saw that he denied himself the drives, which were his greatest pleasure and we, therefore, always made a point of asking him to accompany us on the different expeditions we made in the neighbourhood of Cannes.

One day we begged him to go with us on a rather long excursion to a queer little old-world place in the hills behind Grasse— a place which is almost unknown to the ordinary tourist on the Riviera, and which yet has a history that goes back to the Saracens, for it was once the strong-hold of the most ancient and almost the greatest of the Provençal families. This place is called St Xavier de Gontran.

I noticed that an excited look came over the priest's face, and he smiled with almost a boyish eagerness.

"You are doing me a greater kindness than you could have imagined," he said. "I accept joyfully. I know St Xavier de Gontran," he went on. "I have the most strange and solemn association with the place, which I have not visited for many years. I had an immense longing to go there again. But it is a long expedition, and I cannot now walk over the hills as I used; and, in short, there are difficulties in the way."

We knew what the difficulties were. Father Canalis would have considered it sinful selfishness to waste thirty francs on carriage hire for the gratification of a sentimental desire of his own. I jumped to the conclusion that his association with the place was a sentimental one— he had spoken of it with a hushed drop of his voice— and now I ventured to ask him what the story was. The hesitation of his manner made me feel convicted of an impertinent curiosity.

"I have hardly ever spoken of it," he answered. "I don't think I could do so here"— and he glanced round the crowded drawing-room of the hotel. "Perhaps when we are there I shall be able to tell it you. That experience made a great impression on me. It has to a certain extent influenced my life."

He did tell us the story when we were sitting on a little stone terrace— an abutment of the fortified wall of the old Château of Gontran— after we had gone over the church, had talked to the Curé, had inspected the ancient portraits, and had taken photographs— Gaston and I— of the principal features of interest in this strange human eyrie perched on the Grasse hills.

Father Canalis had left us to this occupation. He had seemed curiously subdued; the hectic in his cheeks glowed. He and the Curé had gone off together. Afterwards, I left Gaston to develop his negatives and strolled through the narrow streets of the village, gleaning such information as I might from the patois of a picturesque crone who sat spinning at the doorway of a ruined house. By and by, I found the church and went in. There I beheld Father Canalis prostrate before the high altar absorbed in an ecstasy of spiritual devotion.

I softly closed the door, for I did not want to disturb him. Gaston was waiting for me in front of the Château. We went down some crumbling steps, and came upon a tiny terrace garden, closed in by a grey, lichen-grown parapet. Below us stretched the beautiful valley of the Siagne, and beyond, the Mediterranean, misty on the horizon. A zigzag path led down the precipitous face of the rock on which the Château was built. To our right was the church— a rather imposing structure, with a tower and a Gothic doorway, and two finely-carved images let into niches on each side of the great oak door. The church and the ruins of the Château and the houses near it showed that Gontran had once been a place of some importance. Gaston and I were speculating on its previous history when the priest joined us. There was upon his face a curious far-away look. He seated himself on a bench in the angle of the parapet and began abruptly—

"I said I would tell you the thing which happened to me here, and which made so great an impression upon me. It was in this very church—"

We begged him to let us hear his story.

"I warn you," he said, with a strange smile, "that it is a ghost-story; and you are now hearing it at first hand."

As nearly as I can remember Dr. Canalis told his story in these words—

"It is about twelve years ago," he said, "before I was appointed to a seminary. I was doing an article on the ecclesiastical history of some of these old Provençal towns, and had come up here to study the inscriptions in the church. I had arranged to stay the night in the Château if my investigations should keep me too late for the walk to Grasse, and the Curé being as I knew absent— he had as well the care of that village yonder"— Dr.Canalis pointed across the valley of the Siagne— "I had gone into the church unnoticed. I had remained there interested in my work till the light failed, and then was suddenly roused from a meditation by the sound of the key turning in the door, and knew that I was locked in. I could make no one hear me, and after a while, reflecting that I might as well sleep in the church as in one of the bare rooms of the Château, I wrapped my cloak round me, and being very tired, was soon fast asleep.

"It must have been after midnight when I awoke with a curious feeling of uneasiness. The moon was shining brightly through the windows, and as I lay, it seemed to me that the wall on the opposite side opened and that the figure of a monk stepped forth and walked along the side-aisle in the direction of the altar. The monk wrung his hands as he moved, and ejaculated in a tone of deep despair: 'Is there no one who will say a mass for my wretched soul?' Then before reaching the altar he turned, walked slowly back to the wall and disappeared.

"I told myself that the apparition was but the illusion of a dream, and once more slept. Again I was awakened by the same feeling of uneasiness, and again the monk stepped forth from the wall and again wrung his hands and repeated his mournful plaint. This time I knew that it was no dream— I got up and kneeled before the altar in prayer and adoration, and then once more laid down and waited till the spectre should for the third time come forth. As the clock struck the third hour the stone melted, as it were, behind the ghost, and it seemed as if the unhappy being were directly addressing his petition to me as he wailed: 'Oh, who will say a mass for my wretched soul?' I got up and went towards him."

"Had you no fear?" asked Gaston.

"None," replied Dr. Canalis, "and I am telling you an absolutely true story. I do not believe that one has any fear of the supernatural, provided that he is conscious of pure motive; at any rate I felt none then. 'I will pray for your soul if it be any comfort to you,' I said; and then I went into the sacristy, of which the door was open, and robed myself while the ghost-monk waited at the steps of the High Altar; and the ghost served me as I performed this strange and solemn requiem mass."

Dr. Canalis paused.

"Then?" exclaimed Gaston.

"The point of the story has yet to come," answered the priest dreamily. "As the monk stood by that part of the wall from which he had appeared, he paused for a moment, and before he disappeared, said in solemn tones—

"'I thank you for having given me peace. There is only one way in which I can show my gratitude. Three days before your death you will see me again.'…

"Don't think me morbidly superstitious," Father Canalis added, "but as I prayed just now at that same spot, the presentiment was borne in upon me that I shall soon receive that promised visit."

He got up as he spoke. "Did you notice," he said, "that space in the wall of the church where the masonry appears to have been lately disturbed? I have been inquiring of the attendant here, and he tells me that a portion of the wall fell away a year or two ago, and that in repairing the place it was discovered to be hollow. A skeleton was found in the recess and also a cup and a platter. It is certain that the ghost-monk who served me at the mass was the spectre of one walled up alive, perhaps centuries ago."

There was a delay in our getting away from St Xavier de Gontran; the drive was long and the way stony, and one of the horses went lame. A mistral had risen, and we reached the hotel long after sunset, chilled to the bone. No one was surprised to learn next day that Dr. Canalis was laid up with an attack of congestion of the lungs. I went to see him a few days later, and I was struck by the change in his appearance and the wonderfully spiritualised expression of his always refined and thoughtful face.

"I am glad that you have come," he said quite cheerfully, "for I shall not see you again. I am glad too that I told you the story of the ghost-monk at Gontran the other day. You know I told you also of the presentiment which came over me that I should soon meet my spectral visitant again. He came last night. I shall die the day after to-morrow."

No reasoning could persuade Father Canalis out of this fixed idea, though the doctors assured him that there was nothing in his condition to give rise to any serious apprehension. Indeed, after an interview with the doctor I felt sure that my friend was labouring under a morbid impression. Nothing could, however, have been less morbid than the way in which he set about arranging his worldly affairs—if, indeed, that term could be applied to the interests of one who was, as regards sordid matters, so unworldly. His presentiment, however, was verified. On the third night after the ghost-monk had appeared to him, he died as quietly as if he had been going to sleep. The doctors could not understand the case; nor can I. I only know that the ghost-story must be true, for Dr. Canalis was incapable of even self-deception.

______________

8: The Sham Shop

Ethel Lina White

1876-1944

Chronicle (Adelaide) 10 Sep 1921

The Grand Magazine, Aug 1921

WHEN the miracle happened to Day Henson her surprise petrified her to dumbness. She knew that miracles happened in the Bible; she believed that they were supposed to happen at Lourdes; but she was sceptical that the whole course of Nature could be reversed in London in the beginning of the 20th century.

Yet—

Wilfred Gibson had offered her a seat in his car. Gibson was an unassuming-looking individual, who faded away when you caught him in a strong light. Had you met him in the street you would have bracketed him in the same group as the lamp-post and the pillar-box; whereas Day was young and possessed of beauty, which gained her the instant admiration of men and the dark suspicion of women. Moreover, the rain was falling so heavily that the spatter rebounded foot-high from the pavement. As final touching details, Day had thin-soled shoes and no umbrella. Yet the offer of a ride, which on the surface would seem merely a decent, charitable action, was an actual miracle to the girl by reason of this fact:—

Wilfred Gibson was one of the great ones of the earth. He controlled destinies. Like the centurion, he said, 'Do this,' and a horde of men endeavored to do it. He said, 'Go,' and a horde of women went— or, at least, started in the requisite direction. Day lived under the shadow of his uplifted thumb, owing him the debt of her existence, for she had been born about 20 years ago, and naturally had forgotten the original source.

To sum up, Gibson was the head of the great firm of Gibson & Co., wherein Day worked as a zealous and aspiring unit.

Gibson repeated his offer in his quiet, almost deprecating voice. 'Will you let me give you a lift?'

Day found her wits just before she recovered her tongue. She was a wholesome young person, but she had been reared on the moral lessons of novels and films. Gibson's behaviour represented but one aspect-covertures.

But the' sight of the gorged buses reeling past decided her. 'Oh, thank you!' She hopped into the car, trying to tread as lightly as a fairy so as to leave no damp smudge on the carpet— an ambitious essay for five feet eight. ''Where?' asked Gibson, as he followed her.

'Pimlico.' Day blushed for the whole of Pimlico. 'I'm afraid it must be dreadfully out of your way. Though, of course, it is quite near Buckingham Palace,' she added confusedly.

'I don't live there,' retorted Gibson.

The car purred onwards like a well-fed tiger. Day lay back in luxurious ease and watched the lights flash by, distorted by the steaming windows. It was like a dream, but she dreaded the shock of the awakening. So she tried to adjust the situation.

'This is exceedingly good of you. But I shouldn't have taken advantage of your— your kindness, if I hadn't forgotten my umbrella.'

'You don't forget habitually?' he asked sharply. 'If so, you ought to take a course of memory training.'

That touched Day in her sensitive spot— her business pride. 'I never forget in hours. And I don't know how to thank you—'

'It's nothing.' He cut her short. 'You should try to cultivate a sense of proportion. I would not let a dog run home in this weather. Although I plead guilty to placing dogs above most human beings.'

By that speech Gibson gained a loyal adherent and friend. For Day not only loved animals, but was able to settle down to enjoyment now that the compromising element was removed from the situation. In blissful content she waited until the Chief should again condescend to address her.

'What's your name?' he asked presently.

'Henson.'

'Never, been christened?'

'Oh! My Christian name is Ada.'

'Don't like it.'

'I'm so sorry. But I'm always called Day.'

'Ah! That's better. Makes one think of sun and glory and consummated promise. The dawn holds possibilities, but the day is achievement.'

Day's pretty mouth was wide open. She had hitherto regarded her name as conveniently short for marking on underclothes. The Chief continued his examination.

'Which department?'

'Toilet. I'm doing face treatment.'

'Aren't you very late?'

'A bit. But my head, Miss Ripon, is always much later.'

'Hm! Capable girl, very. You keep her before you.'

'Oh, thank you!' Day's face showed as though she had received a personal tribute.

'You like your work?' he asked.

'I love it. It's rather wonderful to me— a bit like a fairy-tale. A woman comes in, all yellow and lined and ragged. And you steam and massage and astringe, and she goes out all pink and plumped out. Pity it-does not last.'

'Mighty, good job it doesn't!' Gibson's voice was nearly sharp.

'Oh; dividends would drop and you would be out of a job. I like a kind heart, but it should always be yoked with common sense. And this is where I drop you.'

Day felt that he. had already dropped her a million miles from the heights. But there was a wondrous glow at her heart as she knocked at the blistered front door. For upon parting the Chief had warmly shaken her damp-gloved hand. Just like a human being.

Punctuality was the rock on which the Gibson mansion in Park-Iane was. built. Therefore, Gibson explained to his sister the alteration in his routine which had made dinner seven minutes late. 'I went round by Pimlico to take one of the girls home.'

Miss Gibson elevated spectral eyebrows.

'An employe?'

'Yes. Day Henson. Under twenty five, I should say, About five feet eight. Technically flawless complexion. Fair hair— it's better left side than right. Grey eyes with brown flecks in the iris, giving the impression of being dark. Rather fluid brain, but seems keen on her work. Which is everything.'

'When did you find out Jill this?' gasped his sister.

'Within the first minute.' He preened himself.  'Part of my System. I intend to individualise and to know every unit I employ as a separate entity. I may control an important business .which has to run like faultless machinery,; but I am not actually a lever— neither is Day Henson a cog. I've decided definitely never to overlook the human standpoint.'

'That's very nice of you, Wilfred,' faltered Miss Gibson, who was a pure-minded woman, and consequently feared the worst.

Day had wonderful dreams that night. Her supper had consisted of a Welsh rarebit washed down by many cups of tea. Her imagination did the rest. All night long she was haunted by the face of the new Chief. Dark, rather moody, with a sensitive mouth. To Day's romantic fancy it was the presentment of a poet who has seen visions and. dreamed dreams. That night, as usual he dreamed solely of business. After her early swim in the baths Day was inclined to regard her overnight adventure as some delirium. Yet when she arrived at the great shop and was donning her snowy overall, in preparation for the daily grind, she could not resist the temptation to preen her feathers.

'Did you get wet going home last night?' she enquired of her chief friend— Cherry Pine— a tart-tongued, sloe-eyed damsel.

'There was just a spot, I believe. Did I get wet? I mopped up the whole storm, like blotting-paper.'

'Poor you! I was rather in luck,' Day regarded the great bowls of bronze and purple tulips with a bored eye. 'The Chief took me home in his car.'

'Low company you keep. NW, the Prince of Wales wheeled me home in a wheelbarrow.'

'But honestly, Cherry! I'm not rotting.'

Cherry looked at her keenly. 'He took you home! What for?'

'Just kindness.' Day grew rather hot.

'And I'll tell you something else, which you'll find out, all of you,' for the group had been swelled by two more white-robed forms— 'the new Chief's not like old Porpoise Gibson. He is a gentleman. And a lamb!'

'Stop talking, girls! Get ready for your appointments!' Miss June Ripon swept down them like an avenging goddess. She was a mature girl, with a beautiful figure, permanently-waved ashy-blonde hair, and a complexion which was a dazzling advertisement for the salon. She spoke in a deep voice, rather like that of a man or a formidable old woman.

'We are ready,' rose the aggrieved chorus.

'Then keep on getting ready! It's one maxim of business never to appear idle.' She turned to Day.

'A word with you, Henson, or rather— several. I overheard your remark about the Chief. Doubtless he would appreciate your loyalty. Let it stop there!'

'But—' Day's face was on fire. 'I—'

'You— you. Quite as. Remember that the toilet salon is but one department of the house of which the Chief is head. Remember your figure on the salary list— thirty-five shillings, and if you were worth more you'd get it.'

The recording angel passed the stupendous lie as sheer formula. 'Remember, also, that if you are pretty you could not walk up Regent-street without meeting half a dozen women prettier than yourself. That's all.'

She sailed away in response to a call from one of the telephone operators.

'Old Rip's got a special down on you,' said Cherry. 'Rotten your living in the same house!'

'We've separate rooms and she's decenter outside. Besides, she knows the business from A to Z, and can give me tips. I mean to be a hundred per cent, efficiency!'

A FEW days later the entire staff was emulating Day's standard, for the new Chief had instituted the order of the direct personal interest, and the girls' had all been granted a bonus on their appointments and sales. In spite of the stigma of her thirty-five shilling Day bad always been clever and keen. But she worked now with added concentration, for she worked especially for Gibson.

Disregarding Miss Ripon's hint, she wove her secret dreams around him. She was young, lonely and enthusiastic, and was bound to find raw material for her adoration. By reason of his exalted position Gibson appeared to her as a being both splendid and remote, who played an imaginary King Cophetua to her Beggar Maid.

She had always liked the vanity salon, and the rich luxury of deep lounges and soft carpets; lit with the subdued pinky glow of mulberry shaded lights; she revelled in the undercurrent of activity all around this lounge, where the public awaited its appointments; the constant traffic between the frosted-glass cubicles where the rites were conducted— the descent of mannequins, for finishing touches, like a flock of birds of paradise— the sales of the toilet requisites reposing under the glass-topped tables. Above all, she watched for the infrequent passage of Gibson.

The first time he had passed through the salon Day had glanced at him shyly, not expecting recognition. She had no knowledge of the System, and, consequently, could not credit her eyes when he smiled.

'Good morning, Miss Henson.' His beam was self-congratulatory, because he had memorised her. Yet it remained on his lips, fort the memory of a face radiant with youth and happiness, which imparted a vague sense of pleasure, just as he had suddenly smelt lilac; or the firm had delivered a fat dividend.

Wilfred Gibson loved two things— Socialism and his shop But I am afraid that he loved his shop the more. His monastic appearance and gentle voice masked a keen business personality. It was not long before Day sounded the side of him which was as hard as nails.

Her friend— Cherry Pine— had received dismissal. It had been a shock, as she was an artist in the permanent wave and believed herself an indispensable. She appealed loudly and tearfully for mercy, but found only justice in the guise of Miss Ripon and the manager.

Day had given profuse sympathy, which had stung Cherry to unaccustomed poesy.

'Pity without relief

Is mustard without beef.'

Day's eyes flashed. She was rather like Gibson, inasmuch as she yearned to create a new scheme of things entire.

'You're right, Cherry. And I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll appeal personally for you to the Chief. He naturally would know nothing about the dismissal of an employe. And he's really awfully decent. One wet evening he actually took me home in his car—?'

'Still riding?' groaned the ungrateful Cherry, For Day had told and re-told the story until it had passed into a legend which, nobody believed.

'Say, that car must be getting tired. Time you got out and walked a bit.'

Day's heart was doing strange things in syncopated time as she knocked at the door of the Chief's sanctum. Yet his smile was so charming as he invited her to sit down— another small-scale miracle— that she believed her cause to be already won.

'I'm come to ask you if you would be so— so frightfully kind as to cancel the dismissal of one of the assistants in the toilet salon— Cherry Pine. She—'

'What is she dismissed for?'

'For pilfering a few—'

'For stealing. Exactly. How much did she take?'

'Only five shillings' worth of stock at cost price, which she has refunded.'

'Thank you for telling me. That is quite out of order, she had ceased to be a member of the staff when she made the payment, therefore she should have paid retail price. However, as she appears to be your friend I will not take advantage of your communication. Well?'

'She is so hoping— once you know— you might give her another chance. She is very sorry and she has a mother—'

'So have I. Is it unusual? Haven't you one?' He was surprised at the sudden red which flooded her face.

'N-no.'

Gibson looked sadly at the vase of tea roses on his desk.

'The dismissal stands. I never give a second chance.'

Day got up to go, but at the door she turned impulsively.

'I would like to say— for all of us— how much we appreciate your generosity over the bonus. If it is anything at all to you, you can always count on my personal loyalty.'

Gibson's smile was radiant.

'It is everything to me to feel I have gained the goodwill of those who work for me. Good afternoon, Miss Henson. I hope you are still living up to your beautiful name? Day— isn't it? he glanced at the clock. 'And as you have, on your own initiative, taken up ten minutes of the firm's time on private business, I am afraid— in justice to the others— you must report the matter to Miss Ripon.'

Day returned on air. He had remembered her name. And he had smiled at her like an archangel.

'Oh, Cherry,' she said dreamily, 'he is just wonderful. He asked me to take a chair, and he treated me as if I was Royalty come to give a wedding order. Fancy! He remembers my name.

'Oh, yes, darling, you're dismissed. And I'm to be docked of ten minutes' pay. Oh— he really is a lamb!'

But, after all, the dismissal of Cherry made history in the House of Gibson. For the Chief, passing through to his shrine, overheard the angry scorn with which she wiped the dust of the vanity, salon from her feet.

'I'm glad to be leaving this old place, an my mother will be glad, too. Everyone knows it has a bad name!'

The remark pierced Gibson through a chink in his armor. His predecessor— Neil Gibson— had been a florid, overfed person, with red spouting lips and a hectic reputation. If he ever chanced to notice an employee she inevitably left his service— usually because she failed to see eye to eye with him. Had all the stories about him been true, he would have paid the rents of an entire Garden City. But, apart from exaggeration, he was not a pleasant character.

In addition to this stigma, Gibson had been stung by a remark made by an envious trade rival, in respect to Gibson's toilet salon, which was the most reputable of its kind.

'How's your Sham Shop, Gibson?' He had explained his playful gibe. 'If you put over genuine goods why do all your girls go about painted and powdered like little ladies from a travelling revue?'

Gibson had cogitated over the reflection. The girls in his vanity salon were all carefully selected. They were young and beautiful, expert in their work and perfectly respectable— but did not look it. Therefore, on the following Friday, when each girl received her pay-envelope, it was accompanied by the following typewritten slip:

'Henceforward, no employee in the toilet salon is to use rouge, powder, or any cosmetic whatsoever, under penalty of a week's notice.'

The ultimatum had something of the effect of a shell burst. The girls hung around in groups and alternatively raged and lamented.

'I'll lave to be introduced to my own face,' moaned a manicurist, Sybil White, who was delicately tinted as any Pierrette. 'But what are you pulling that long face for, Henson? This doesn't touch you'.

Day had grown quite white and was staring in front of her with eyes of positive anguish.

'Doesn't it touch me?' she said bitterly. 'Rather more than any of you can imagined. What does anyone know of the other? Of her real life, I mean?'

The curious eyes restored her self-possession.

'Of course, I'm talking through my hat. I'm— upset. But this—' she waved the shop— 'this is a shameful abuse of power. What are you others going to do about it?'

'What choice have we? Just wash our faces and be simple and natural, like you.'

'You won't be like me. For I am going to put on as much paint and powder so my face will carry without cracking. And you are all going to do the same!'

'And get the bird,' grumbled Sybil White. 'A nice sensible time to choose, with all this unemployment.'

'All us?'  Day grew eloquent. 'They simply could not replace all of us at a moment's notice, except with makeshifts. Aren't we all experts? Can't I make a face like cheese-cloth look sweet and twenty? Can't you— White— make a charwoman's paw look like the lily hand of a film heroine? Can't you— Millie— grow four hairs from two? Gibson's has the name. But remember! It takes years to build up a reputation and about a week to destroy it!'

She saw that they wavered and she clinched their indecision with a promise. 'I give you my word of honor that you shall not suffer. As leader, I take full responsibility. If anyone of us is sacked, it will be myself.'

'And you think yourself safe?' asked Sybil White. 'Isn't it about time for another ride?'

Day's smile betrayed her confidence.

'Just waiting for a rainy night, dear.'

'It's a rainy day that's all you'll get, I'm thinking.'

ON the following Monday morning, when Gibson was shining like the sun in his sanctuary, one of Me satellites, a Mr. Morgan, a distinguished individual,— who looked exactly as the great Gibson should have looked— and didn't— broke the news of the mutiny.

'I give you my word; they're all of them pink and white in layers, like cocoanut candy.'

Gibson elevated his brows.

'Sack the lot!'

He listened, however, when Mr. Morgan recapitulated most of Day's own arguments, together with a few which she had not thought of.

'Then send me the ring-leader!'

He received a nasty shock— the severity of which startled him— when the door was opened and Day confronted him, her eyes tragic above her painted cheeks.

'You!'

Had he said no more Day would have instantly capitulated. Her heart nearly cracked at the surprise, reproach and disappointment in his voice. Unfortunately, however the human nature which Gibson had extolled began to operate with a violence which defied the regulation of any machinery. He felt furious anger at her perfidy.

'Ringleader?' he snapped. Day inclined her head proudly but sadly, feeling like Browning's Patriot.

'Then take this away.' He handed her a copy of the ultimatum. 'Read it again. And let it sink in!'

This was the wrong cue, for Day had prepared a long speech which embodies every possible point of discussion.'

'We wish to protest against the infringement of our personal liberty and to ask you—'

That slip says everything I have to say on the matter. You can go!'

'Do you mean— go altogether?'

'Good lord, no.' It slipped out involuntarily. 'Go back to your work.'

'Yes, I can afford to lose no time.'  Day was swift to seize her chance.  'I've never been so busy, although this is our busy season. All my old clients ask for me. They simply won't be put off. It takes years to really understand a complexion. And I've worked up my sales of late. I've introduced fresh custom to the firm.'

Gibson knew that, in reality, she was a rude little girl saying— 'Wouldn't you like to dismiss me? Yah!' He immediately became a rude little boy. 'This is all to the good of your bonus. I hope you are buying War Savings Certificates as provision for your old age. You cannot count upon marriage with this shortage of men.'

Day opened the door crisply. Like every pretty girl, she was confident that marriage must be her destiny.

'Oh, men!' she slid pleasantly and vaguely. 'I don't call all those things by that name.'

And she shut the door more crisply. The vanity salon was but a few bricks in the house of Gibson, and Day merely a unit on the pay-sheet. Yet Gibson thought of her during the day about one tenth as often as she thought of him— which was all her time. The brief and undignified skirmish had established an odd intimacy as though they had known each other in nursery days, when he had kicked her shins while she had scratched his face. He simply could not understand her rebellion.

He was astonished to find how many pictures of her had been registered by his sub-conscious mind— all snapshots of a flushed and eager face which smiled welcome at his approach. Moreover, her conduct was inexplicable, since she had nothing to fear, or lose, from the embargo on powder.

'I'd have staked a thousand pounds on that girl's loyalty,' he thought bitterly.

Each succeeding day Mr. Morgan reported the spread of the mutiny to an indifferent Chief.

'Even the 'runners' have powdered their noses. Whole salon's out in red-and-white, like bunting. They look a set of brazen hussies. It's Bolshevism!'

The girls were certainly animated by the spirit of anarchy and thoroughly enjoyed the drama of the crisis. Gibson made no further sign,  and they were confident that they held all the winning cards. Each day fresh roses bloomed and snows were eternal on cheek and brow. Yet they, too, were puzzled at the discrepancy between Day's impassioned leadership and her poorly-concealed depression at its success. She still flamed to defence of the chief end made his interests her dominant ambition.

The fateful Friday arrived. Pay envelopes were opened, and there arose the loud wail of the duped. Every member of the toilet staff had been given  notice.

Day was at first too stunned to realise the storm of denunciation which was breaking against her like a torrent over a rock.

Presently she raised her hand for silence.

'It's all a hideous mistake, girls. It shall be put right, I am going to the Chief!'

Gibson's car was awaiting him, and he was on the point of departure when Day burst into his room. He stood, patient and immaculate— his white spats and tiny orange rosebud, his tribute to the season.

'Ah, please listen!' Day threw out her hands in appeal. 'Dismiss me if you like! I— alone— am to blame.'

'Are you dictating to Gibson's?' he asked pleasantly. 'If it makes you any easier, you are dismissed. With the rest.'

'But— I pledged my word to the others that no one should suffer!'

'Then you pledged something you could not back. Your word!  Had you referred you tools to me, I could have told them of an employee who— unasked— assured me of her complete loyalty.

Day covered her face with her hands and began to sob. When she raised it, it rather resembled a futuristic idea of a Japanese sunrise.

But suddenly Gibson seemed to consider it merely pathetic.

'Just tell me why you did it,' he said in his gentlest voice.

'I must. Well, it is something like "If one tree was felled in a forest you would notice it immediately.  But if someone felled all the trees it would be hidden amongst the rest." '

'I take your meaning. You have instigated this wholesale makeup in order to mask the make-up of one person in particular.'

Day began to gulp anew.

'How clever you are! Yes. Among the staff of the toilet salon is a woman who passes for a young spinster, but who is really a middle-aged widow. Her face is sallow and lined, and her hair is grey. She had a little business of her own as a  beauty specialist, but illness and bad luck killed it. When she tried to get work at the only trade she knew she was turned down everywhere because of her faded looks.'

Gibson pricked up his ears.

'So she began to make up. Oh, it was pitiful! If you only knew of the daily drudgery and penance of her toilet— the cruel lacing and the long, long process of enamelling her face. It is beautifully done, but you would spot it in one minute if the rest all washed their faces. She had a splendid post here and was putting by every penny towards her age. She hoped soon to give up. But if she is dismissed now, she might never get another chance.'

'Why didn't you tell me this before?' asked Gibson.

'I dared not risk it, for it was someone else's secret. And you were so hard over Cherry Pine. You said you never gave a second chance.'

'True. You may tell me now in safety. Who is it?'

'Miss June Ripon.'

He whistled in astonishment as he thought of the mature and competent, yet youthful blonde. He remembered now that whenever he had seen her outside the shaded radius of the salon she had been invariably hatted and veiled.

'You took a big risk,' he said.

Day wiped away the last of the roseate hues of early dawn from her face and he saw how white and washed-out it had grown.

'This week has nearly killed me. I hated going against you. But I felt— it was awfully silly and conceited of me— that you somehow would not let me go.'

Dame Nature is no lady, and she has never grasped the gradations of the social scale. Gibson was a solitary Socialist who shrank from the overtures of society maidens. The only other woman he knew at all well, besides Day, was his car.

The Dame gave one mighty push— and there was Day inside the Chief's arms.

'You're right. I could never let you go!'

'But why did you sacrifice yourself for the sake of Miss Ripon?' he asked presently. 'Whenever I passed through the salon she seemed to be especially severe on you.'

'That was just part of our plan to keep our secret,' smiled Day. 'You don't know how soft and comfy and adorable she was— outside. Isn't she my own mother?'

________________

9: Darkness

Irvin S. Cobb

1876-1944

The Saturday Evening Post, 20 Aug 1921

THERE WAS a house in this town where always by night lights burned. In one of its rooms many lights burned; in each of the other rooms at least one light. It stood on Clay Street, on a treeless plot among flower beds, a small dull-looking house; and when late on dark nights all the other houses on Clay Street were black blockings lifting from the lesser blackness of their background, the lights in this house patterned its windows with squares of brilliancy so that it suggested a grid set on edge before hot flames. Once a newcomer to the town, a transient guest at Mrs. Otterbuck's boarding house, spoke about it to old Squire Jonas, who lived next door to where the lights blazed of nights, and the answer he got makes a fitting enough beginning for this account.

This stranger came along Clay Street one morning and Squire Jonas, who was leaning over his gate contemplating the world as it passed in review, nodded to him and remarked that it was a fine morning; and the stranger was emboldened to stop and pass the time of day, as the saying goes.

"I'm here going over the books of the Bernheimer Distilling Company," he said when they had spoken of this and that, "and you know, when a chartered accountant gets on a job he's supposed to keep right at it until he's done. Well, my work keeps me busy till pretty late. And the last three nights, passing that place yonder adjoining yours, I've noticed she was all lit up like as if for a wedding or a christening or a party or something. But I didn't see anybody going in or coming out, or hear anybody stirring in there, and it struck me as blamed curious. Last night— or this morning, rather, I should say— it must have been close on to half-past two o'clock when I passed by, and there she was, all as quiet as the tomb and still the lights going from top to bottom. So I got to wondering to myself. Tell me, sir, is there somebody sick over there next door?"

"Yes, suh," stated the squire, "I figure you might say there is somebody sick there. He's been sick a powerful long time too. But it's not his body that's sick; it's his soul."

"I don't know as I get you, sir," said the other man in a puzzled sort of way.

"Son," stated the squire, "I reckin you've been hearin' 'em, haven't you, singin' this here new song that's goin' 'round about, 'I'm Afraid to Go Home in the Dark'? Well, probably the man who wrote that there song never was down here in these parts in his life; probably he just made the idea of it up out of his own head. But he might 'a' had the case of my neighbor in his mind when he done so. Only his song is kind of comical and this case here is about the most uncomic one you'd be likely to run acrost. The man who lives here alongside of me is not only afraid to go home in the dark but he's actually feared to stay in the dark after he gets home. Once he killed a man and he come clear of the killin' all right enough, but seems like he ain't never got over it; and the sayin' in this town is that he's studied it out that ef ever he gets in the dark, either by himself or in company, he'll see the face of that there man he killed. So that's why, son, you've been seein' them lights a-blazin'. I've been seein' 'em myself fur goin' on twenty year or more, I reckin 'tis by now, and I've got used to 'em. But I ain't never got over wonderin' whut kind of thoughts he must have over there all alone by himself at night with everything lit up bright as day around him, when by rights things should be dark. But I ain't ever asted him, and whut's more, I never will. He ain't the kind you could go to him astin' him personal questions about his own private affairs. We-all here in town just accept him fur whut he is and sort of let him be. He's whut you might call a town character. His name is Mr. Dudley Stackpole."

In all respects save one, Squire Jonas, telling the inquiring stranger the tale, had the rights of it. There were town characters aplenty he might have described. A long-settled community with traditions behind it and a reasonable antiquity seems to breed curious types of men and women as a musty closet breeds mice and moths. This town of ours had its town mysteries and its town eccentrics— its freaks, if one wished to put the matter bluntly; and it had its champion story-teller and its champion liar and its champion guesser of the weight of livestock on the hoof.

There was crazy Saul Vance, the butt of cruel small boys, who deported himself as any rational creature might so long as he walked a straight course; but so surely as he came to where the road forked or two streets crossed he could not decide which turning to take and for hours angled back and forth and to and fro, now taking the short cut to regain the path he just had quitted, now retracing his way over the long one, for all the world like a geometric spider spinning its web. There was old Daddy Hannah, the black root-and-yarb doctor, who could throw spells and weave charms and invoke conjures. He wore a pair of shoes which had been worn by a man who was hanged, and these shoes, as is well known, leave no tracks which a dog will nose after or a witch follow, or a ha'nt. Small boys did not gibe at Daddy Hannah, you bet you! There was Major Burnley, who lived for years and years in the same house with the wife with whom he had quarreled and never spoke a word to her or she to him. But the list is overlong for calling. With us, in that day and time, town characters abounded freely. But Mr. Dudley Stackpole was more than a town character. He was that, it is true, but he was something else besides; something which tabbed him a mortal set apart from his fellow mortals. He was the town's chief figure of tragedy.

If you had ever seen him once you could shut your eyes and see him over again. Yet about him there was nothing impressive, nothing in his port or his manner to catch and to hold a stranger's gaze. With him, physically, it was quite the other way about. He was a short spare man, very gentle in his movements, a toneless sort of man of a palish gray cast, who always wore sad-colored clothing. He would make you think of a man molded out of a fog; almost he was like a man made of smoke. His mode of living might testify that a gnawing remorse abode ever with him, but his hair had not turned white in a single night, as the heads of those suddenly stricken by a great shock or a great grief or any greatly upsetting and disordering emotion sometimes are reputed to turn. Neither in his youth nor when age came to him was his hair white. But for so far back as any now remembered it had been a dullish gray, suggesting at a distance dead lichens.

The color of his skin was a color to match in with the rest of him. It was not pale, nor was it pasty. People with a taste for comparisons were hard put to it to describe just what it was the hue of his face did remind them of, until one day a man brought in from the woods the abandoned nest of a brood of black hornets, still clinging to the pendent twig from which the insect artificers had swung it. Darkies used to collect these nests in the fall of the year when the vicious swarms had deserted them. Their shredded parchments made ideal wadding for muzzle-loading scatter-guns, and sufferers from asthma tore them down, too, and burned them slowly and stood over the smoldering mass and inhaled the fumes and the smoke which arose, because the country wiseacres preached that no boughten stuff out of a drug store gave such relief from asthma as this hornet's-nest treatment. But it remained for this man to find a third use for such a thing. He brought it into the office of Gafford's wagon yard, where some other men were sitting about the fire, and he held it up before them and he said:

"Who does this here hornet's nest put you fellers in mind of— this gray color all over it, and all these here fine lines runnin' back and forth and every which-a-way like wrinkles? Think, now— it's somebody you all know."

And when they had given it up as a puzzle too hard for them to guess he said:

"Why, ain't it got percisely the same color and the same look about it as Mr. Dudley Stackpole's face? Why, it's a perfect imitation of him! That's whut I said to myself all in a flash when I first seen it bouncin' on the end of this here black birch limb out yonder in the flats."

"By gum, if you ain't right!" exclaimed one of the audience. "Say, come to think about it, I wonder if spendin' all his nights with bright lights burnin' round him is whut's give that old man that gray color he's got, the same as this wasp's nest has got it, and all them puckery lines round his eyes. Pore old devil, with the hags furever ridin' him! Well, they tell me he's toler'ble well fixed in this world's goods, but poor as I am, and him well off, I wouldn't trade places with him fur any amount of money. I've got my peace of mind if I ain't got anything else to speak of. Say, you'd 'a' thought in all these years a man would get over broodin' over havin' killed another feller, and specially havin' killed him in fair fight. Let's see, now, whut was the name of the feller he killed that time out there at Cache Creek Crossin's? I actually disremember. I've heard it a thousand times, too, I reckin, if I've heard it oncet."

For a fact, the memory of the man slain so long before only endured because the slayer walked abroad as a living reminder of the taking off of one who by all accounts had been of small value to mankind in his day and generation. Save for the daily presence of the one, the very identity even of the other might before now have been forgotten. For this very reason, seeking to enlarge the merits of the controversy which had led to the death of one Jesse Tatum at the hands of Dudley Stackpole, people sometimes referred to it as the Tatum-Stackpole feud and sought to liken it to the Faxon-Fleming feud. But that was a real feud with fence-corner ambuscades and a sizable mortality list and night-time assassinations and all; whereas this lesser thing, which now briefly is to be dealt with on its merits, had been no more than a neighborhood falling out, having but a solitary homicide for its climatic upshot. So far as that went, it really was not so much the death of the victim as the survival of his destroyer— and his fashion of living afterwards— which made warp and woof for the fabric of the tragedy.

With the passage of time the actuating causes were somewhat blurred in perspective. The main facts stood forth clear enough, but the underlying details were misty and uncertain, like some half-obliterated scribble on a badly rubbed slate upon which a more important sum has been overlaid. One rendition had it that the firm of Stackpole Brothers sued the two Tatums— Harve and Jess— for an account long overdue, and won judgment in the courts, but won with it the murderous enmity of the defendant pair. Another account would have it that a dispute over a boundary fence marching between the Tatum homestead on Cache Creek and one of the Stackpole farm holdings ripened into a prime quarrel by reasons of Stackpole stubbornness on the one hand and Tatum malignity on the other. By yet a third account the lawsuit and the line-fence matter were confusingly twisted together to form a cause for disputation.

Never mind that part though. The incontrovertible part was that things came to a decisive pass on a July day in the late '80's when the two Tatums sent word to the two Stackpoles that at or about six o'clock of that evening they would come down the side road from their place a mile away to Stackpole Brothers' gristmill above the big riffle in Cache Creek prepared to fight it out man to man. The warning was explicit enough— the Tatums would shoot on sight. The message was meant for two, but only one brother heard it; for Jeffrey Stackpole, the senior member of the firm, was sick abed with heart disease at the Stackpole house on Clay Street in town, and Dudley, the junior, was running the business and keeping bachelor's hall, as the phrase runs, in the living room of the mill; and it was Dudley who received notice.

Now the younger Stackpole was known for a law-abiding and a well-disposed man, which reputation stood him in stead subsequently; but also he was no coward. He might crave peace, but he would not flee from trouble moving toward him. He would not advance a step to meet it, neither would he give back a step to avoid it. If it occurred to him to hurry in to the county seat and have his enemies put under bonds to keep the peace he pushed the thought from him. This, in those days, was not the popular course for one threatened with violence by another; nor, generally speaking, was it regarded exactly as the manly one to follow. So he bided that day where he was. Moreover, it was not of record that he told any one at all of what impended. He knew little of the use of firearms, but there was a loaded pistol in the cash drawer of the mill office. He put it in a pocket of his coat and through the afternoon he waited, outwardly quiet and composed, for the appointed hour when single-handed he would defend his honor and his brother's against the unequal odds of a brace of bullies, both of them quick on the trigger, both smart and clever in the handling of weapons.

But if Stackpole told no one, some one else told some one. Probably the messenger of the Tatums talked. He currently was reputed to have a leaky tongue to go with his jimberjaws; a born trouble maker, doubtless, else he would not have loaned his service to such employment in the first place. Up and down the road ran the report that before night there would be a clash at the Stackpole mill. Peg-Leg Foster, who ran the general store below the bridge and within sight of the big riffle, saw fit to shut up shop early and go to town for the evening. Perhaps he did not want to be a witness, or possibly he desired to be out of the way of stray lead flying about. So the only known witness to what happened, other than the parties engaged in it, was a negro woman. She, at least, was one who had not heard the rumor which since early forenoon had been spreading through the sparsely settled neighborhood. When six o'clock came she was grubbing out a sorghum patch in front of her cabin just north of where the creek cut under the Blandsville gravel pike.

One gets a picture of the scene: The thin and deficient shadows stretching themselves across the parched bottom lands as the sun slid down behind the trees of Eden's swamp lot; the heat waves of a blistering hot day still dancing their devil's dance down the road like wriggling circumflexes to accent a false promise of coolness off there in the distance; the ominous emptiness of the landscape; the brooding quiet, cut through only by the frogs and the dry flies tuning up for their evening concert; the bandannaed negress wrangling at the weeds with her hoe blade inside the rail fence; and, half sheltered within the lintels of the office doorway of his mill, Dudley Stackpole, a slim, still figure, watching up the crossroad for the coming of his adversaries.

But the adversaries did not come from up the road as they had advertised they would. That declaration on their part had been a trick and device, cockered up in the hope of taking the foe by surprise and from the rear. In a canvas-covered wagon— moving wagons, we used to call them in Red Gravel County— they left their house half an hour or so before the time set by them for the meeting, and they cut through by a wood lane which met the pike south of Foster's store; and then very slowly they rode up the pike toward the mill, being minded to attack from behind, with the added advantage of unexpectedness on their side.

Chance, though, spoiled their strategy and made these terms of primitive dueling more equal. Mark how: The woman in the sorghum patch saw it happen. She saw the wagon pass her and saw it brought to standstill just beyond where she was; saw Jess Tatum slide stealthily down from under the overhanging hood of the wagon and, sheltered behind it, draw a revolver and cock it, all the while peeping out, searching the front and the nearer side of the gristmill with his eager eyes. She saw Harve Tatum, the elder brother, set the wheel chock and wrap the lines about the sheathed whipstock, and then as he swung off the seat catch a boot heel on the rim of the wagon box and fall to the road with a jar which knocked him cold, for he was a gross and heavy man and struck squarely on his head. With popped eyes she saw Jess throw up his pistol and fire once from his ambush behind the wagon, and then— the startled team having snatched the wagon from before him— saw him advance into the open toward the mill, shooting again as he advanced.

All now in the same breath and in a jumble of shock and terror she saw Dudley Stackpole emerge into full sight, and standing clear a pace from his doorway return the fire; saw the thudding frantic hoofs of the nigh horse spurn Harve Tatum's body aside— the kick broke his right leg, it turned out— saw Jess Tatum suddenly halt and stagger back as though jerked by an unseen hand; saw him drop his weapon and straighten again, and with both hands clutched to his throat run forward, head thrown back and feet drumming; heard him give one strange bubbling, strangled scream— it was the blood in his throat made this outcry sound thus— and saw him fall on his face, twitching and wriggling, not thirty feet from where Dudley Stackpole stood, his pistol upraised and ready for more firing.

As to how many shots, all told, were fired the woman never could say with certainty. There might have been four or five or six, or even seven, she thought. After the opening shot they rang together in almost a continuous volley, she said. Three empty chambers in Tatum's gun and two in Stackpole's seemed conclusive evidence to the sheriff and the coroner that night and to the coroner's jurors next day that five shots had been fired.

On one point, though, for all her fright, the woman was positive, and to this she stuck in the face of questions and cross-questions. After Tatum stopped as though jolted to a standstill, and dropped his weapon, Stackpole flung the barrel of his revolver upward and did not again offer to fire, either as his disarmed and stricken enemy advanced upon him or after he had fallen. As she put it, he stood there like a man frozen stiff.

Having seen and heard this much, the witness, now all possible peril for her was passed, suddenly became mad with fear. She ran into her cabin and scrouged behind the headboard of a bed. When at length she timorously withdrew from hiding and came trembling forth, already persons out of the neighborhood, drawn by the sounds of the fusillade, were hurrying up. They seemed to spring, as it were, out of the ground. Into the mill these newcomers carried the two Tatums, Jess being stone-dead and Harve still senseless, with a leg dangling where the bones were snapped below the knee, and a great cut in his scalp; and they laid the two of them side by side on the floor in the gritty dust of the meal tailings and the flour grindings. This done, some ran to harness and hitch and to go to fetch doctors and law officers, spreading the news as they went; and some stayed on to work over Harve Tatum and to give such comfort as they might to Dudley Stackpole, he sitting dumb in his little, cluttered office awaiting the coming of constable or sheriff or deputy so that he might surrender himself into custody.

While they waited and while they worked to bring Harve Tatum back to his senses, the men marveled at two amazing things. The first wonder was that Jess Tatum, finished marksman as he was, and the main instigator and central figure of sundry violent encounters in the past, should have failed to hit the mark at which he fired with his first shot or with his second or with his third; and the second, a still greater wonder, was that Dudley Stackpole, who perhaps never in his life had had for a target a living thing, should have sped a bullet so squarely into the heart of his victim at twenty yards or more. The first phenomenon might perhaps be explained, they agreed, on the hypothesis that the mishap to his brother, coming at the very moment of the fight's beginning, unnerved Jess and threw him out of stride, so to speak. But the second was not in anywise to be explained excepting on the theory of sheer chance. The fact remained that it was so, and the fact remained that it was strange.

By form of law Dudley Stackpole spent two days under arrest; but this was a form, a legal fiction only. Actually he was at liberty from the time he reached the courthouse that night, riding in the sheriff's buggy with the sheriff and carrying poised on his knees a lighted lantern. Afterwards it was to be recalled that when, alongside the sheriff, he came out of his mill technically a prisoner he carried in his hand this lantern, all trimmed of wick and burning, and that he held fast to it through the six-mile ride to town. Afterwards, too, the circumstance was to be coupled with multiplying circumstances to establish a state of facts; but at the moment, in the excited state of mind of those present, it passed unremarked and almost unnoticed. And he still held it in his hand when, having been released under nominal bond and attended by certain sympathizing friends, he walked across town from the county building to his home in Clay Street. That fact, too, was subsequently remembered and added to other details to make a finished sum of deductive reasoning.

Already it was a foregone conclusion that the finding at the coroner's inquest, to be held the next day, would absolve him; foregone, also, that no prosecutor would press for his arraignment on charges and that no grand jury would indict. So, soon all the evidence in hand was conclusively on his side. He had been forced into a fight not of his own choosing; an effort, which had failed, had been made to take him unfairly from behind; he had fired in self-defense after having first been fired upon; save for a quirk of fate operating in his favor, he should have faced odds of two deadly antagonists instead of facing one. What else then than his prompt and honorable discharge? And to top all, the popular verdict was that the killing off of Jess Tatum was so much good riddance of so much sorry rubbish; a pity, though, Harve had escaped his just deserts.

Helpless for the time being, and in the estimation of his fellows even more thoroughly discredited than he had been before, Harve Tatum here vanishes out of our recital. So, too, does Jeffrey Stackpole, heretofore mentioned once by name, for within a week he was dead of the same heart attack which had kept him out of the affair at Cache Creek. The rest of the narrative largely appertains to the one conspicuous survivor, this Dudley Stackpole already described.

Tradition ever afterwards had it that on the night of the killing he slept— if he slept at all— in the full-lighted room of a house which was all aglare with lights from cellar to roof line. From its every opening the house blazed as for a celebration. At the first, so the tale of it ran, people were of two different minds to account for this. This one rather thought Stackpole feared punitive reprisals under cover of night by vengeful kinsmen of the Tatums, they being, root and branch, sprout and limb, a belligerent and an ill-conditioned breed. That one suggested that maybe he took this method of letting all and sundry know he felt no regret for having gunned the life out of a dangerous brawler; that perhaps thereby he sought to advertise his satisfaction at the outcome of that day's affair. But this latter theory was not to be credited. For so sensitive and so well-disposed a man as Dudley Stackpole to joy in his own deadly act, however justifiable in the sight of law and man that act might have been— why, the bare notion of it was preposterous! The repute and the prior conduct of the man robbed the suggestion of all plausibility. And then soon, when night after night the lights still flared in his house, and when on top of this evidence accumulated to confirm a belief already crystallizing in the public mind, the town came to sense the truth, which was that Mr. Dudley Stackpole now feared the dark as a timid child might fear it. It was not authentically chronicled that he confessed his fears to any living creature. But his fellow townsmen knew the state of his mind as though he had shouted of it from the housetops. They had heard, most of them, of such cases before. They agreed among themselves that he shunned darkness because he feared that out of that darkness might return the vision of his deed, bloodied and shocking and hideous. And they were right. He did so fear, and he feared mightily, constantly and unendingly.

That fear, along with the behavior which became from that night thenceforward part and parcel of him, made Dudley Stackpole as one set over and put apart from his fellows. Neither by daytime nor by night-time was he thereafter to know darkness. Never again was he to see the twilight fall or face the blackness which comes before the dawning or take his rest in the cloaking, kindly void and nothingness of the midnight. Before the dusk of evening came, in midafternoon sometimes, of stormy and briefened winter days, or in the full radiance of the sun's sinking in the summertime, he was within doors lighting the lights which would keep the darkness beyond his portals and hold at bay a gathering gloom into which from window or door he would not look and dared not look.

There were trees about his house, cottonwoods and sycamores and one noble elm branching like a lyre. He chopped them all down and had the roots grubbed out. The vines which covered his porch were shorn away. To these things many were witnesses. What transformations he worked within the walls were largely known by hearsay through the medium of Aunt Kassie, the old negress who served him as cook and chambermaid and was his only house servant. To half-fearsome, half-fascinated audiences of her own color, whose members in time communicated what she told to their white employers, she related how with his own hands, bringing a crude carpentry into play, her master ripped out certain dark closets and abolished a secluded and gloomy recess beneath a hall staircase, and how privily he called in men who strung his ceilings with electric lights, although already the building was piped for gas; and how, for final touches, he placed in various parts of his bedroom tallow dips and oil lamps to be lit before twilight and to burn all night, so that though the gas sometime should fail and the electric bulbs blink out there still would be abundant lighting about him. His became the house which harbored no single shadow save only the shadow of morbid dread which lived within its owner's bosom. An orthodox haunted house should by rights be deserted and dark. This house, haunted if ever one was, differed from the orthodox conception. It was tenanted and it shone with lights.

The man's abiding obsession— if we may call his besetment thus— changed in practically all essential regards the manners and the practices of his daily life. After the shooting he never returned to his mill. He could not bring himself to endure the ordeal of revisiting the scene of the killing. So the mill stood empty and silent, just as he left it that night when he rode to town with the sheriff, until after his brother's death; and then with all possible dispatch he sold it, its fixtures, contents and goodwill, for what the property would fetch at quick sale, and he gave up business. He had sufficient to stay him in his needs. The Stackpoles had the name of being a canny and a provident family, living quietly and saving of their substance. The homestead where he lived, which his father before him had built, was free of debt. He had funds in the bank and money out at interest. He had not been one to make close friends. Now those who had counted themselves his friends became rather his distant acquaintances, among whom he neither received nor bestowed confidences.

In the broader hours of daylight his ways were such as any man of reserved and diffident ways, having no fixed employment, might follow in a smallish community. He sat upon his porch and read in books. He worked in his flower beds. With flowers he had a cunning touch, almost like a woman's. He loved them, and they responded to his love and bloomed and bore for him. He walked downtown to the business district, always alone, a shy and unimpressive figure, and sat brooding and aloof in one of the tilted-back cane chairs under the portico of the old Richland House, facing the river. He took long solitary walks on side streets and byways; but it was noted that, reaching the outer outskirts, he invariably turned back. In all those dragging years it is doubtful if once he set foot past the corporate limits into the open country. Dun hued, unobtrusive, withdrawn, he aged slowly, almost imperceptibly. Men and women of his own generation used to say that save for the wrinkles ever multiplying in close cross-hatchings about his puckered eyes, and save for the enhancing of that dead gray pallor— the wasp's-nest overcasting of his skin— he still looked to them exactly as he had looked when he was a much younger man.

It was not so much the appearance or the customary demeanor of the recluse that made strangers turn about to stare at him as he passed, and that made them remember how he looked when he was gone from their sight. The one was commonplace enough— I mean his appearance— and his conduct, unless one knew the underlying motives, was merely that of an unobtrusive, rather melancholy seeming gentleman of quiet tastes and habits. It was the feeling and the sense of a dismal exhalation from him, an unhealthy and unnatural mental effluvium that served so indelibly to fix the bodily image of him in the brainpans of casual and uninformed passers-by. The brand of Cain was not on his brow. By every local standard of human morality it did not belong there. But built up of morbid elements within his own conscience, it looked out from his eyes and breathed out from his person.

So year by year, until the tally of the years rolled up to more than thirty, he went his lone unhappy way. He was in the life of the town, to an extent, but not of it. Always, though it was the daylit life of the town which knew him. Excepting once only. Of this exceptional instance a story was so often repeated that in time it became permanently embalmed in the unwritten history of the place.

On a summer's afternoon, sultry and close, the heavens suddenly went all black, and quick gusts smote the earth with threats of a great windstorm. The sun vanished magically; a close thick gloaming fell out of the clouds. It was as though nightfall had descended hours before its ordained time. At the city power house the city electrician turned on the street lights. As the first great fat drops of rain fell, splashing in the dust like veritable clots, citizens scurrying indoors and citizens seeing to flapping awnings and slamming window blinds halted where they were to peer through the murk at the sight of Mr. Dudley Stackpole fleeing to the shelter of home like a man hunted by a terrible pursuer. But with all his desperate need for haste he ran no straightaway course. The manner of his flight was what gave added strangeness to the spectacle of him. He would dart headlong, on a sharp oblique from the right-hand corner of a street intersection to a point midway of the block— or square, to give it its local name— then go slanting back again to the right-hand corner of the next street crossing, so that his path was in the pattern of one acutely slanted zigzag after another. He was keeping, as well as he could within the circles of radiance thrown out by the municipal arc lights as he made for his house, there in his bedchamber to fortify himself about, like one beset and besieged, with the ample and protecting rays of all the methods of artificial illumination at his command— with incandescent bulbs thrown on by switches, with the flare of lighted gas jets, with the tallow dip's slim digit of flame, and with the kerosene wick's three-finger breadth of greasy brilliance. As he fumbled, in a very panic and spasm of fear, with the latchets of his front gate Squire Jonas' wife heard him screaming to Aunt Kassie, his servant, to turn on the lights— all of them.

That once was all, though— the only time he found the dark taking him unawares and threatening to envelop him in thirty years and more than thirty. Then a time came when in a hospital in Oklahoma an elderly man named A. Hamilton Bledsoe lay on his deathbed and on the day before he died told the physician who attended him and the clergyman who had called to pray for him that he had a confession to make. He desired that it be taken down by a stenographer just as he uttered it, and transcribed; then he would sign it as his solemn dying declaration, and when he had died they were to send the signed copy back to the town from whence he had in the year 1889 moved West, and there it was to be published broadcast. All of which, in due course of time and in accordance with the signatory's wishes, was done.

With the beginning of the statement as it appeared in the Daily Evening News, as with Editor Tompkins' introductory paragraphs preceding it, we need have no interest. That which really matters began two-thirds of the way down the first column and ran as follows:

"How I came to know there was likely to be trouble that evening at the big-riffle crossing was this way"— it is the dying Bledsoe, of course, who is being quoted. "The man they sent to the mill with the message did a lot of loose talking on his way back after he gave in the message, and in this roundabout way the word got to me at my house on the Eden's Swamp road soon after dinnertime. Now I had always got along fine with both of the Stackpoles, and had only friendly feelings toward them; but maybe there's some people still alive back there in that county who can remember what the reason was why I should naturally hate and despise both the Tatums, and especially this Jess Tatum, him being if anything the more low-down one of the two, although the youngest. At this late day I don't aim to drag the name of any one else into this, especially a woman's name, and her now dead and gone and in her grave; but I will just say that if ever a man had a just cause for craving to see Jess Tatum stretched out in his blood it was me. At the same time I will state that it was not good judgment for a man who expected to go on living to start out after one of the Tatums without he kept on till he had cleaned up the both of them, and maybe some of their cousins as well. I will not admit that I acted cowardly, but will state that I used my best judgment.

"Therefore and accordingly, no sooner did I hear the news about the dare which the Tatums had sent to the Stackpoles than I said to myself that it looked like here was my fitting chance to even up my grudge with Jess Tatum and yet at the same time not run the prospect of being known to be mixed up in the matter and maybe getting arrested, or waylaid afterwards by members of the Tatum family or things of such a nature. Likewise I figured that with a general amount of shooting going on, as seemed likely to be the case, one shot more or less would not be noticed, especially as I aimed to keep out of sight at all times and do my work from under safe cover, which it all of it turned out practically exactly as I had expected. So I took a rifle which I owned and which I was a good shot with and I privately went down through the bottoms and came out on the creek bank in the deep cut right behind Stackpole Brothers' gristmill. I should say offhand this was then about three o'clock in the evening. I was ahead of time, but I wished to be there and get everything fixed up the way I had mapped it out in my mind, without being hurried or rushed.

"The back door of the mill was not locked, and I got in without being seen, and I went upstairs to the loft over the mill and I went to a window just above the front door, which was where they hoisted up grain when brought in wagons, and I propped the wooden shutter of the window open a little ways. But I only propped it open about two or three inches; just enough for me to see out of it up the road good. And I made me a kind of pallet out of meal sacks and I laid down there and I waited. I knew the mill had shut down for the week, and I didn't figure on any of the hands being round the mill or anybody finding out I was up there. So I waited, not hearing anybody stirring about downstairs at all, until just about three minutes past six, when all of a sudden came the first shot.

"What threw me off was expecting the Tatums to come afoot from up the road, but when they did come it was in a wagon from down the main Blandsville pike clear round in the other direction. So at this first shot I swung and peeped out and I seen Harve Tatum down in the dust seemingly right under the wheels of his wagon, and I seen Jess Tatum jump out from behind the wagon and shoot, and I seen Dudley Stackpole come out of the mill door right directly under me and start shooting back at him. There was no sign of his brother Jeffrey. I did not know then that Jeffrey was home sick in bed.

"Being thrown off the way I had been, it took me maybe one or two seconds to draw myself around and get the barrel of my rifle swung round to where I wanted it, and while I was doing this the shooting was going on. All in a flash it had come to me that it would be fairer than ever for me to take part in this thing, because in the first place the Tatums would be two against one if Harve should get back upon his feet and get into the fight; and in the second place Dudley Stackpole didn't know the first thing about shooting a pistol. Why, all in that same second, while I was righting myself and getting the bead onto Jess Tatum's breast, I seen his first shot— Stackpole's I mean— kick up the dust not twenty feet in front of him and less than halfway to where Tatum was. I was as cool as I am now, and I seen this quite plain.

"So with that, just as Stackpole fired wild again, I let Jess Tatum have it right through the chest, and as I did so I knew from the way he acted that he was done and through. He let loose of his pistol and acted like he was going to fall, and then he sort of rallied up and did a strange thing. He ran straight on ahead toward the mill, with his neck craned back and him running on tiptoe; and he ran this way quite a little ways before he dropped flat, face down. Somebody else, seeing him do that, might have thought he had the idea to tear into Dudley Stackpole with his bare hands, but I had done enough shooting at wild game in my time to know that he was acting like a partridge sometimes does, or a wild duck when it is shot through the heart or in the head; only in such a case a bird flies straight up in the air. Towering is what you call it when done by a partridge. I do not know what you would call it when done by a man.

"So then I closed the window shutter and I waited for quite a little while to make sure everything was all right for me, and then I hid my rifle under the meal sacks, where it stayed until I got it privately two days later; and then I slipped downstairs and went out by the back door and came round in front, running and breathing hard as though I had just heard the shooting whilst up in the swamp. By that time there were several others had arrived, and there was also a negro woman crying round and carrying on and saying she seen Jess Tatum fire the first shot and seen Dudley Stackpole shoot back and seen Tatum fall. But she could not say for sure how many shots there were fired in all. So I saw that everything was all right so far as I was concerned, and that nobody, not even Stackpole, suspicioned but that he himself had killed Jess Tatum; and as I knew he would have no trouble with the law to amount to anything on account of it, I felt that there was no need for me to worry, and I did not— not worry then nor later. But for some time past I had been figuring on moving out here on account of this new country opening up. So I hurried up things, and inside of a week I had sold out my place and had shipped my household plunder on ahead; and I moved out here with my family, which they have all died off since, leaving only me. And now I am about to die, and so I wish to make this statement before I do so.

"But if they had thought to cut into Jess Tatum's body after he was dead, or to probe for the bullet in him, they would have known that it was not Dudley Stackpole who really shot him, but somebody else; and then I suppose suspicion might have fell upon me, although I doubt it. Because they would have found that the bullet which killed him was fired out of a forty-five-seventy shell, and Dudley Stackpole had done all of the shooting he done with a thirty-eight caliber pistol, which would throw a different-size bullet. But they never thought to do so."

Question by the physician, Doctor Davis: "You mean to say that no autopsy was performed upon the body of the deceased?"

Answer by Bledsoe: "If you mean by performing an autopsy that they probed into him or cut in to find the bullet I will answer no, sir, they did not. They did not seem to think to do so, because it seemed to everybody such a plain open-and-shut case that Dudley Stackpole had killed him."

Question by the Reverend Mr. Hewlitt: "I take it that you are making this confession of your own free will and in order to clear the name of an innocent party from blame and to purge your own soul?"

Answer: "In reply to that I will say yes and no. If Dudley Stackpole is still alive, which I doubt, he is by now getting to be an old man; but if alive yet I would like for him to know that he did not fire the shot which killed Jess Tatum on that occasion. He was not a bloodthirsty man, and doubtless the matter may have preyed upon his mind. So on the bare chance of him being still alive is why I make this dying statement to you gentlemen in the presence of witnesses. But I am not ashamed, and never was, at having done what I did do. I killed Jess Tatum with my own hands, and I have never regretted it. I would not regard killing him as a crime any more than you gentlemen here would regard it as a crime killing a rattlesnake or a moccasin snake. Only, until now, I did not think it advisable for me to admit it; which, on Dudley Stackpole's account solely, is the only reason why I am now making this statement."

And so on and so forth for the better part of a second column, with a brief summary in Editor Tompkins' best style— which was a very dramatic and moving style indeed— of the circumstances, as recalled by old residents, of the ancient tragedy, and a short sketch of the deceased Bledsoe, the facts regarding him being drawn from the same veracious sources; and at the end of the article was a somewhat guarded but altogether sympathetic reference to the distressful recollections borne for so long and so patiently by an esteemed townsman, with a concluding paragraph to the effect that though the gentleman in question had declined to make a public statement touching on the remarkable disclosures now added thus strangely as a final chapter to the annals of an event long since occurred, the writer felt no hesitancy in saying that appreciating, as they must, the motives which prompted him to silence, his fellow citizens would one and all join the editor of the Daily Evening News in congratulating him upon the lifting of this cloud from his life.

"I only wish I had the language to express the way that old man looked when I showed him the galley proofs of Bledsoe's confession," said Editor Tompkins to a little interested group gathered in his sanctum after the paper was on the streets that evening. "If I had such a power I'd have this Frenchman Balzac clear off the boards when it came to describing things. Gentlemen, let me tell you— I've been in this business all my life, and I've seen lots of things, but I never saw anything that was the beat of this thing.

"Just as soon as this statement came to me in the mails this morning from that place out in Oklahoma I rushed it into type, and I had a set of galley proofs pulled and I stuck 'em in my pocket and I put out for the Stackpole place out on Clay Street. I didn't want to trust either of the reporters with this job. They're both good, smart, likely boys; but, at that, they're only boys, and I didn't know how they'd go at this thing; and, anyway, it looked like it was my job.

"He was sitting on his porch reading, just a little old gray shell of a man, all hunched up, and I walked up to him and I says: 'You'll pardon me, Mr. Stackpole, but I've come to ask you a question and then to show you something. Did you,' I says, 'ever know a man named A. Hamilton Bledsoe?'

"He sort of winced. He got up and made as if to go into the house without answering me. I suppose it'd been so long since he had anybody calling on him he hardly knew how to act. And then that question coming out of a clear sky, as you might say, and rousing up bitter memories— not probably that his bitter memories needed any rousing, being always with him, anyway— may have jolted him pretty hard. But if he aimed to go inside he changed his mind when he got to the door. He turned round and came back.

" 'Yes,' he says, as though the words were being dragged out of him against his will, 'I did once know a man of that name. He was commonly called Ham Bledsoe. He lived near where'— he checked himself up, here— 'he lived,' he says, 'in this county at one time. I knew him then.'

" 'That being so,' I says, 'I judge the proper thing to do is to ask you to read these galley proofs,' and I handed them over and he read them through without a word. Without a word, mind you, and yet if he'd spoken a volume he couldn't have told me any clearer what was passing through his mind when he came to the main facts than the way he did tell me just by the look that came into his face. Gentlemen, when you sit and watch a man sixty-odd years old being born again; when you see hope and life come back to him all in a minute; when you see his soul being remade in a flash, you'll find you can't describe it afterwards, but you're never going to forget it. And another thing you'll find is that there is nothing for you to say to him, nothing that you can say, nor nothing that you want to say.

"I did manage, when he was through, to ask him whether or not he wished to make a statement. That was all from me, mind you, and yet I'd gone out there with the idea in my head of getting material for a long newsy piece out of him— what we call in this business heart-interest stuff. All he said, though, as he handed me back the slips was, 'No, sir; but I thank you— from the bottom of my heart I thank you.' And then he shook hands with me— shook hands with me like a man who's forgotten almost how 'twas done— and he walked in his house and shut the door behind him, and I came on away feeling exactly as though I had seen a funeral turned into a resurrection."

Editor Tompkins thought he had that day written the final chapter, but he hadn't. The final chapter he was to write the next day, following hard upon a denouement, which to Mr. Tompkins, he with his own eyes having seen what he had seen, was so profound a puzzle that ever thereafter he mentally catalogued it under one of his favorite headlining phrases: "Deplorable Affair Shrouded in Mystery."

Let us go back a few hours. For a fact, Mr. Tompkins had been witness to a spirit's resurrection. It was as he had borne testimony— a life had been reborn before his eyes. Even so, he, the sole spectator to and chronicler of the glory of it, could not know the depth and the sweep and the swing of the great heartening swell of joyous relief which uplifted Dudley Stackpole at the reading of the dead Bledsoe's words. None save Dudley Stackpole himself was ever to have a true appreciation of the utter sweetness of that cleansing flood, nor he for long.

As he closed his door upon the editor, plans, aspirations, ambitions already were flowing to his brain, borne there upon that ground swell of sudden happiness. Into the back spaces of his mind long-buried desires went riding like chips upon a torrent. The substance of his patiently endured self-martyrdom was lifted all in a second, and with it the shadow of it. He would be thenceforth as other men, living as they lived, taking, as they did, an active share and hand in communal life. He was getting old. The good news had come late but not too late. That day would mark the total disappearance of the morbid lonely recluse and the rejuvenation of the normal-thinking, normal-habited citizen. That very day he would make a beginning of the new order of things.

And that very day he did; at least he tried. He put on his hat and he took his cane in his hand and as he started down the street he sought to put smartness and springiness into his gait. If the attempt was a sorry failure, he, for one, did not appreciate the completeness of the failure. He meant, anyhow, that his step no longer should be purposeless and mechanical; that his walk should hereafter have intent in it. And as he came down the porch steps he looked about him, but dully, with sick and uninforming eyes, but with a livened interest in all familiar homely things.

Coming to his gate he saw, near at hand, Squire Jonas, now a gnarled but still sprightly octogenarian, leaning upon a fence post surveying the universe at large, as was the squire's daily custom. He called out a good morning and waved his stick in greeting toward the squire with a gesture which he endeavored to make natural. His aging muscles, staled by thirty-odd years of lack of practice at such tricks, merely made it jerky and forced. Still, the friendly design was there, plainly to be divined; and the neighborly tone of his voice. But the squire, ordinarily the most courteous of persons, and certainly one of the most talkative, did not return the salutation. Astonishment congealed his faculties, tied his tongue and paralyzed his biceps. He stared dumbly a moment, and then, having regained coherent powers, he jammed his brown-varnished straw hat firmly upon his ancient poll and went scrambling up his gravel walk as fast as two rheumatic underpinnings would take him, and on into his house like a man bearing incredible and unbelievable tidings.

Mr. Stackpole opened his gate and passed out and started down the sidewalk. Midway of the next square he overtook a man he knew— an elderly watchmaker, a Swiss by birth, who worked at Nagel's jewelry store. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of times he had passed this man upon the street. Always before he had passed him with averted eyes and a stiff nod of recognition. Now, coming up behind the other, Mr. Stackpole bade him a cheerful good day. At the sound of the words the Swiss spun on his heel, then gulped audibly and backed away, flinching almost as though a blow had been aimed at him. He muttered some meaningless something, confusedly; he stared at Mr. Stackpole with widened eyes like one who beholds an apparition in the broad of the day; he stepped on his own feet and got in his own way as he shrank to the outer edge of the narrow pavement. Mr. Stackpole was minded to fall into step alongside the Swiss, but the latter would not have it so. He stumbled along for a few yards, mute and plainly terribly embarrassed at finding himself in this unexpected company, and then with a muttered sound which might be interpreted as an apology or an explanation, or as a token of profound surprise on his part, or as combination of them all, he turned abruptly off into a grassed side lane which ran up into the old Enders orchard and ended nowhere at all in particular. Once his back was turned to Mr. Stackpole, he blessed himself fervently. On his face was the look of one who would fend off what is evil and supernatural.

Mr. Stackpole continued on his way. On a vacant lot at Franklin and Clay Streets four small boys were playing one-eyed-cat. Switching his cane at the weed tops with strokes which he strove to make casual, he stopped to watch them, a half smile of approbation on his face. Pose and expression showed that he desired their approval for his approval of their skill. They stopped, too, when they saw him— stopped short. With one accord they ceased their play, staring at him. Nervously the batsman withdrew to the farther side of the common, dragging his bat behind him. The three others followed, casting furtive looks backward over their shoulders. Under a tree at the back of the lot they conferred together, all the while shooting quick diffident glances toward where he stood. It was plain something had put a blight upon their spirits; also, even at this distance, they radiated a sort of inarticulate suspicion— a suspicion of which plainly he was the object.

For long years Mr. Stackpole's faculties for observation of the motives and actions of his fellows had been sheathed. Still, disuse had not altogether dulled them. Constant introspection had not destroyed his gift for speculation. It was rusted, but still workable. He had read aright Squire Jonas' stupefaction, the watchmaker's ludicrous alarm. He now read aright the chill which the very sight of his altered mien— cheerful and sprightly where they had expected grim aloofness— had thrown upon the spirits of the ball players. Well, he could understand it all. The alteration in him, coming without prior warning, had startled them, frightened them, really. Well, that might have been expected. The way had not been paved properly for the transformation. It would be different when the Daily Evening News came out. He would go back home— he would wait. When they had read what was in the paper people would not avoid him or flee from him. They would be coming into his house to wish him well, to re-establish old relations with him. Why, it would be almost like holding a reception. He would be to those of his own age as a friend of their youth, returning after a long absence to his people, with the dour stranger who had lived in his house while he was away now driven out and gone forever.

He turned about and he went back home and he waited. But for a while nothing happened, except that in the middle of the afternoon Aunt Kassie unaccountably disappeared. She was gone when he left his seat on the front porch and went back to the kitchen to give her some instruction touching on supper. At dinnertime, entering his dining room, he had without conscious intent whistled the bars of an old air, and at that she had dropped a plate of hot egg bread and vanished into the pantry, leaving the spilt fragments upon the floor. Nor had she returned. He had made his meal unattended. Now, while he looked for her, she was hurrying down the alley, bound for the home of her preacher. She felt the need of his holy counsels and the reading of scriptural passages. She was used to queerness in her master, but if he were going crazy all of a sudden, why that would be a different matter altogether. So presently she was confiding to her spiritual adviser.

Mr. Stackpole returned to the porch and sat down again and waited for what was to be. Through the heat of the waning afternoon Clay Street was almost deserted; but toward sunset the thickening tides of pedestrian travel began flowing by his house as men returned homeward from work. He had a bowing acquaintance with most of those who passed.

Two or three elderly men and women among them he had known fairly well in years past. But no single one of those who came along turned in at his gate to offer him the congratulation he so eagerly desired; no single one, at sight of him, all poised and expectant, paused to call out kindly words across the palings of his fence. Yet they must have heard the news. He knew that they had heard it— all of them— knew it by the stares they cast toward the house front as they went by. There was more, though, in the staring than a quickened interest or a sharpened curiosity.

Was he wrong, or was there also a sort of subtle resentment in it? Was there a sense vaguely conveyed that even these old acquaintances of his felt almost personally aggrieved that a town character should have ceased thus abruptly to be a town character— that they somehow felt a subtle injustice had been done to public opinion, an affront offered to civic tradition, through this unexpected sloughing off by him of the rôle he for so long had worn?

He was not wrong. There was an essence of a floating, formless resentment there. Over the invisible tendons of mental telepathy it came to him, registering emphatically.

As he shrank back in his chair he summoned his philosophy to give him balm and consolation for his disappointment. It would take time, of course, for people to grow accustomed to the change in him— that was only natural. In a few days, now, when the shock of the sensation had worn off, things would be different. They would forgive him for breaking a sort of unuttered communal law, but one hallowed, as it were, by rote and custom. He vaguely comprehended that there might be such a law for his case— a canon of procedure which, unnatural in itself, had come with the passage of the passing years to be quite naturally accepted.

Well, perhaps the man who broke such a law, even though it were originally of his own fashioning, must abide the consequences. Even so, though, things must be different when the minds of people had readjusted. This he told himself over and over again, seeking in its steady repetition salve for his hurt, overwrought feelings.

And his nights— surely they would be different! Therein, after all, lay the roots of the peace and the surcease which henceforth would be his portion. At thought of this prospect, now imminent, he uplifted his soul in a silent pæan of thanksgiving.

Having no one in whom he ever had confided, it followed naturally that no one else knew what torture he had suffered through all the nights of all those years stretching behind him in so terribly long a perspective. No one else knew how he had craved for the darkness which all the time he had both feared and shunned. No one else knew how miserable a travesty on sleep his sleep had been, first reading until a heavy physical weariness came, then lying in his bed through the latter hours of the night, fitfully dozing, often rousing, while from either side of his bed, from the ceiling above, from the headboard behind him, and from the footboard, strong lights played full and flary upon his twitching, aching eyelids; and finally, towards dawn, with every nerve behind his eyes taut with pain and strain, awakening unrefreshed to consciousness of that nimbus of unrelieved false glare which encircled him, and the stench of melted tallow and the stale reek of burned kerosene foul in his nose. That, now, had been the hardest of all to endure. Endured unceasingly, it had been because of his dread of a thing infinitely worse— the agonized, twisted, dying face of Jess Tatum leaping at him out of shadows. But now, thank God, that ghost of his own conjuring, that wraith never seen but always feared, was laid to rest forever. Never again would conscience put him, soul and body, upon the rack. This night he would sleep— sleep as little children do in the all-enveloping, friendly, comforting dark.

Scarcely could he wait till a proper bedtime hour came. He forgot that he had had no supper; forgot in that delectable anticipation the disillusionizing experiences of the day. Mechanically he had, as dusk came on, turned on the lights throughout the house, and force of habit still operating, he left them all on when at eleven o'clock he quitted the brilliantly illuminated porch and went to his bedroom on the second floor. He undressed and he put on him his night wear, becoming a grotesque shrunken figure, what with his meager naked legs and his ashen eager face and thin dust-colored throat rising above the collarless neckband of the garment. He blew out the flame of the oil lamp which burned on a reading stand at the left side of his bed and extinguished the two candles which stood on a table at the right side.

Then he got in the bed and stretched out his arms, one aloft, the other behind him, finding with the fingers of this hand the turncock of the gas burner which swung low from the ceiling at the end of a goose-necked iron pipe, finding with the fingers of that hand the wall switch which controlled the battery of electric lights round about, and with a long-drawn sigh of happy deliverance he turned off both gas and electricity simultaneously and sank his head toward the pillow.

The pæaned sigh turned to a shriek of mortal terror. Quaking in every limb, crying out in a continuous frenzy of fright, he was up again on his knees seeking with quivering hands for the switch; pawing about then for matches with which to relight the gas. For the blackness— that blackness to which he had been stranger for more than half his life— had come upon him as an enemy smothering him, muffling his head in its terrible black folds, stopping his nostrils with its black fingers, gripping his windpipe with black cords, so that his breathing stopped.

That blackness for which he had craved with an unappeasable hopeless craving through thirty years and more was become a horror and a devil. He had driven it from him. When he bade it return it returned not as a friend and a comforter but as a mocking fiend.

For months and years past he had realized that his optic nerves, punished and preyed upon by constant and unwholesome brilliancy, were nearing the point of collapse, and that all the other nerves in his body, frayed and fretted, too, were all askew and jangled. Cognizant of this he still could see no hope of relief, since his fears were greater than his reasoning powers or his strength of will. With the fear lifted and eternally dissipated in a breath, he had thought to find solace and soothing and restoration in the darkness. But now the darkness, for which his soul in its longing and his body in its stress had cried out unceasingly and vainly, was denied him too. He could face neither the one thing nor the other.

Squatted there in the huddle of the bed coverings, he reasoned it all out, and presently he found the answer. And the answer was this: Nature for a while forgets and forgives offenses against her, but there comes a time when Nature ceases to forgive the mistreatment of the body and the mind, and sends then her law of atonement, to be visited upon the transgressor with interest compounded a hundredfold. The user of narcotics knows it; the drunkard knows it; and this poor self-crucified victim of his own imagination— he knew it too. The hint of it had that day been reflected in the attitude of his neighbors, for they merely had obeyed, without conscious realization or analysis on their part, a law of the natural scheme of things. The direct proof of it was, by this night-time thing, revealed and made yet plainer. He stood convicted, a chronic violator of the immutable rule. And he knew, likewise, there was but one way out of the coil— and took it, there in his bedroom, vividly ringed about by the obscene and indecent circle of his lights which kept away the blessed, cursed darkness while the suicide's soul was passing.

_______________

10: The Anonymous Letter

Archibald Marshall

Arthur Hammond Marshall, 1866-1934

Simple Stories from "Punch", 1930

ONE EVENING Mr. Howkerby came home to his wife and said to her I think the luck has changed at last and I have got a very good contract for building several bridges to go across the River Potomosi.

And Mrs. Howkerby said where is the River Potomosi, I have never heard of it. And he said well it wouldn't be quite fair to tell you that until the contract is signed as it is all very confidential, it isn't quite settled yet but they told me to-day that if my references were satisfactory I should get the contract, and I am sure they will be satisfactory, one of them is the Vicar and as I always go to church once every Sunday except when I am not very well or want to play golf he will give me a good character.

And Mrs. Howkerby said how much shall we get out of it, there are several things I should like to buy if you get the contract, some of the face-towels have holes in them and I should like to have a new fish-kettle. And he said well I haven't worked it out to pounds shillings and pence yet, but I should think it would come to about a million pounds, but I shouldn't buy anything new if I were you until it is quite settled because I believe in being cautious. And she said she wouldn't, because she had always been a good wife to him and had saved all the money she could when people didn't want bridges built and he had had to do quite little things instead, like putting down crazy pavements in front gardens.

Well the next morning Mr. Howkerby went to his office full of hope, and there was a letter there for him from the people who were going to buy the bridges, and it said Dear Sir we are sorry we cannot give you the contract for building six bridges to go across the River Potomosi because we have found out that you are not at all a satisfactory character yours truly Bulge & Co. Limited.

Well Mr. Howkerby was very angry at that because he knew that he was quite a satisfactory character and always had been, and he put on his hat and went straight round to the office of Messrs. Bulge & Co. Limited, and he said to Mr. Bulge what is this, I must know about it.

And Mr. Bulge who wasn't really limited at all except in his intellect said well Mr. Howkerby I am glad you called round, it is a very serious matter and of course we couldn't overlook it, but if you can clear it up nobody will be more pleased than I shall, I have never forgotten that picnic you invited me to and the nice bit of salmon that Mrs. Howkerby provided and all the cider we drank, and I would rather you had the contract than anybody if you can clear your character.

Well Mr. Howkerby felt a little more comfortable at that and he said hasn't the Vicar given me a good character? And Mr. Bulge said oh yes, he says the only fault he has to find with you is that you sometimes go to sleep in his sermons, but we decided to overlook that if you gave us a written undertaking not to go to sleep while you are making the bridges. No it is this letter that is so serious, and he handed him a letter which began Dear Sirs as one who has always taken an interest in the River Potomosi I warn you against giving the contract for six bridges to go across it to Mr. Howkerby for the following reasons, one when he made a bridge to go across the River Riposto he made it six feet too short, and if a train had gone across it same would have tumbled into river and everybody would have been drowned.

And Mr. Howkerby said oh what a lie, I only made it six inches too short and directly I found out the mistake I paid for making it longer myself. And Mr. Bulge said well I call that very honourable and what I should have expected of you, but read on.

So Mr. Howkerby read on, and the letter said two I have reason to believe that Mr. Howkerby is getting into debt in the place where he lives and owes a large fishmonger's bill. And he said well that is just the sort of half truth that is worse than a lie. I did tell the fishmonger that I would pay him for that cut of salmon we had at the picnic when I got the contract, I don't generally buy salmon because it is too expensive but of course I wanted to treat you well because of the contract and you had said something to me about liking salmon. And the fishmonger was quite agreeable, and besides that I don't owe anybody anything except for a bundle of peasticks which I can afford to pay for at any time.

And Mr. Bulge said well I don't see anything in that, and it was partly my own fault for saying I like salmon, but read on.

So he read on, three I accuse Mr. Howkerby of having mumps to wit in November last and going about and giving it to a lot of innocent women and children without saying anything about it.

And Mr. Howkerby was simply furious at that and he said that is the worst lie of all, I did have a sore throat and I told Mr. Trinkle that I thought it might be mumps, but it wasn't, and afterwards his wife and children did have mumps and if anybody spread it about they did.

And Mr. Bulge said is that the Mr. Trinkle who builds bridges himself if he can find anybody to buy them? And Mr. Howkerby said yes it is, and he built such a rotten bridge to go across the River Worple that all they could do was to grow ivy over it and say it was a Roman ruin. And Mr. Bulge said well then I expect it was he who wrote that letter, you see it is anonymous and he only signs it Philopotomosi which is French for being fond of the River Potomosi, but I am sure that is all humbug and he is just mad because he didn't get the contract himself.

And Mr. Howkerby said well I shall get him sent to prison for taking away my character, he is not at all kind to his wife and children and I don't suppose they will mind not having him at home for a year or two, especially as Mrs. Trinkle's father is a rich shoe manufacturer and can afford to look after them.

So there was a trial, and an expert in handwriting said that the P in Potomosi was exactly the same in the anonymous letter as in the one that Mr. Trinkle had written about the contract, and he was sent to prison. And he got some extra hard labour because it came out at the trial that he wasn't really married to Mrs. Trinkle at all, though she quite thought he was, but had a wife somewhere else. And Mr. and Mrs. Howkerby adopted one of his children because they were very kind-hearted, and as Mr. Howkerby got the contract for making six bridges to go across the River Potomosi they could well afford it.

________________

11: The Man With the Glass Heart

George Allan England

1877-1936

Famous Fantastic Mysteries, Nov 1939

(The Scrap Book May 1911,  as "He of the Glass Heart")

WE HAD just lost our routine bridge game in the smoking room of the Ferrania— my traveling companion, Maynard, and I— and had set up the nightly beers for Harrison and Dr. Carmichael, our victors. Tobacco thereafter appeared.

The bright electric lighting, the leather divans and nicotin-scented warmth, contrasting cheerfully with the January bluster of mid-Atlantic, inclined our hearts to narration. All four of us settled down for a good "gam." Men never talk so well, I think, as when the gale is picking at the harp of the rig, the woodwork straining, and the surges slewing thunderously 'longside in the dark.

Thus we spoke of many subjects, and the talk veered at last to the power of mind over matter. Dr. Carmichael was most interesting, and as I recall it, his tale ran somewhat like this:

HARDLY had the intruder opened the door and quietly stepped into the laboratory when Ackroyd glanced round with surprised vexation. For the master mind of electrical science hated interruption above all things. He failed to understand how this tall, stern-featured man, so ominously intense, had managed to slip past the laboratory guard.

So, standing up quickly beside the littered experiment bench that ran along the whole north wall of the room, the wizard crossed his shirt-sleeved arms, clamped his teeth still tighter on the old cob which was his constant solace, and from beneath frowning brows peered with hostility at the newcomer.

For a moment neither spoke. By the light which glowed greenly from the vacuum-tubes about the ceiling of this windowless den, each studied the other. Then the stranger closed the door and came forward.

"Please excuse this rudeness," said he in a deep, courteous voice, which, nevertheless, trembled a bit. "I know how very unwelcome I must be. Still, I am here. I had to come!"

"How the deuce did you get in?" snapped the scientist.

"Oh, just a little strategy. Nothing simpler. But let's waste no time on that. I've something far more vital to discuss. And every moment's precious. Now I— I—"

He stammered with sudden emotion. Ackroyd perceived that he was holding unto himself only by a strong effort. Removing the pipe from between his teeth, the scientist stared in wonder, trying to determine what sort of fellow this might be. A professional man, to be sure. Maybe a writer. Ah! Perhaps he wanted an in- terview.

"Sorry," blurted Ackroyd; "but if you want to write me up, or anything of that sort, I can't see you. Nothing to say. Positively nothing." And he moved to sit down at his work-bench.

The stranger raised an imploring hand. Ackroyd noted how long and fine the fingers were— white, supple, and adorned by a single plain gold ring.

"Pardon me again," said the intruder. "You mistake my errand. It isn't an interview I want. Why, I never wrote a line for publication in my life. I want just a few minutes of your time, at your own price. My errand concerns something far more vital than mere curiosity. It's life or death to me. For Heaven's sake, will you hear me?"

Ackroyd, startled, yet intensely an- noyed, thrust out his lower lip and began pulling at it— a way he had when particularly irritated. Time, for him, had no price that could be counted in money.

Just now he was three-quarters through an abstruse calculation. This interruption of his mental process was an outrage, from his point of view— more, a crime. Any appeal to his emotions must be fruitless, for emotions he had none. The cry of sentiment curdled his soul. He hated it. So with raised palm he motioned dismissal.

"Can't see you," he decided. "Good day."

The stranger, paling, clenched both fists.

"You must!" cried he.

"So?" sneered the wizard. "That's a new word to me."

He reached quickly for a push-button close beside his chair.

But the stranger, with a sudden gesture, tore open coat and waistcoat, ripped his shirt apart, and on his naked breast exposed a singular object.

Ackroyd, his eyes narrowing slightly, stood still. His finger did not press the little ivory knob.

Thus, for a second, the two men confronted each other.

"Well," cried the scientist at length, "what is it?"

"Listen. If you send me away without hearing me," replied the intruder in eager haste, "you'll miss the greatest—"

"Oh, so you're another crank, eh?" sneered Ackroyd, with a cynical grimace. " 'Greatest scientific marvel of the age,' and all that sort of stuff, eh? That's what they all say— such of 'em as I can't dodge! Why, we turn away, on the average, five or six greatest marvels a day. So I tell you, to begin with—"

"I've got a glass heart!" cried the stranger. "Will you listen to me now?"

FOR a moment, Ackroyd stood dumb. Then: " A— what?" he exclaimed. As he spoke, the idea "Madman" crossed his brain. But even so, in spite of himself, he was startled. "You mean to say—"

"I do. I repeat it. My heart's made of glass. An artificial heart, mechanical, auto- matic. Made by Kohler, of Vienna. Tut in by Klugermann, of Bonn. And operated by this." He tapped the boxlike affair strapped to his chest. "Do you want proofs? I've got them. Only listen, I tell you. You can at least do that. As a man of science, you're willing at least to hear what other men have done, aren't you?"

Ackroyd replied nothing, but stood studying this singular individual. He noted the high, somewhat wrinkled forehead, the stiff black hair already retreating before the attack of baldness, the aquiline nose, and sharp, intelligent eyes. Then, with a smile, he jibed:

"Not dangerous or violent, are you? Merely harmless, I take it. Because, you see, that's important. I may as well tell you, right now, that I've got a gun in the table drawer, and I can hit a dime, nine shots out of ten, at a hundred feet. Also, there are— well, other devices in this labor- atory which might embarrass you in case you tried to start anything. So go slow."

With an expression of intense chagrin the stranger drew from his pocket a neatly folded journal.

"You read German, of course?" asked he, ignoring the insult. Ackroyd nodded. "Very well. Look at this." The scientist, bitterly scornful, accepted the paper. He glanced over a page or two. A one-column article was blue-penciled. As he read the headlines his face became a study.

NEW TRIUMPH OF MODERN SURGERY

Radical Cure of Valvular Degeneration
by Klugermann's New Method

LARGER ASPECTS OF THE RUSSELL CASE

For almost the first time in his career wholly at a loss, Ackroyd dropped the medical journal on his table, sat down heavily, and leaning forward with a hard, stern look at this astonishing visitor, de- manded :

"Well? For Heaven's sake, man, what is it all about? W T hat do you want of me?"

"I'm Russell, to begin with," answered the other. "Francis H. Russell, of Toledo. And, as I said at first, I want just a few minutes of your time."

"All right! All right! Go ahead!" the scientist exclaimed, his voice betraying more emotion than in years. "Let's have it!"

"At your own price?"

"Price? What do I want of money?"

"It's useful, at times. Allow me." And Russell, taking from an inner pocket of his disordered clothing a morocco wallet, extracted therefrom a flat stack of bills.

He laid the money on the table. Ackroyd, glancing involuntarily at it, saw that it must total several thousand dollars. He started to sweep it into the waste-basket, but with a sudden change of mind dropped it into the drawer.

"New laboratories," he remarked. "Well?"

The client drew up a plain wooden chair and sat down. Ackroyd noted that he seemed in pain, rather short of breath, and rather pale. But to this he gave no heed. His whole thought now was of the incomprehensible problem before him.

What to think, he knew not. Whether to believe or doubt, he ccruld not tell. He waited. His eyes fixed themselves upon that curious flat box which partly showed through the mans torn clothing. Russell noted the look.

"This," said he more calmly, "is what I came to consult you about— this apparatus here." He tapped the box. "I've got to consult you about it. Knowing the futility of trying to make any appointment by letter, I did the next best thing— waited my chance and forced myself on you. Forgive me! A man will do anything almost, even the most distasteful things, to save his life."

"You mean—"

"I'm in great danger. Deadly peril. And only you can save me."

"How so?"

"I'll tell you presently. Just a few words first. Who I am doesn't matter. An American, rich, with children and big business interests. Only fifty-two. Much to live for. Years and years of usefulness still ahead of me, if you help me."

"Yes, yes! Go on!" And Ackroyd, whom not even the keenest interest could long divorce from his tobacco, reached once more for the old pipe.

"Four years ago this spring I developed heart-disease. Had the best specialists— oh, a dozen of them. No results. The dishonest ones exploited me. The others told me the truth— no hope. The most optimistic gave me perhaps three years or so to live.

"Well, I took my death sentence, and tried to bear it as best I could. And for a while things went on, getting worse and worse all the time. No matter about details. I was slowly dying; that's enough to know."

Without comment, the scientist listened. His pipe was going now. Already the air about his head was beginning to grow blue.

"What was it, Providence or mere coincidence, that put Crawford's 'Witch of Prague' into my hands about eighteen months ago? I can't say. At any rate, I read the book. Remember Keyork Araban's experiments? One was the keynote of my inspiration. When I read that—"

"Go on, tell me about it!"

"He describes, you recall, substituting a glass heart for the real one in a rabbit. The words branded themselves instantly into my brain They're all there, still. 'I made' says he, 'an artificial heart which worked on a narcotized rabbit, and the rabbit died instantly when I stopped the machine.... If one applied it to a man, he might live on indefinitely, grow fat, and flourish so long as the glass heart worked. Where would his soul be then? In the glass heart, which would have become the seat of life?' "

Russell paused, unduly excited. For a moment Ackroyd peered at him. Then said he:

"So you went to work on that idea, did you, and at great expense of travel, pain, and money had this thing actually done to you? Is that, omitting all minor points, what you're coming at?"

"Exactly. How splendidly you grasp conclusions! "

"I have to, in this business, or quit. Well, then, what do you ask me to be- lieve? That you've actually got a mechanical heart inside there, in place of the old one? And that that's all you keep alive on?"

Russell smiled— an odd, bitter smile.

"I'm not asking you to believe anything," he returned. "I'm merely asking you to examine the evidence and judge it, as you would in any other problem. After that, when you're quite convinced, I want your help."

"How so? What's wrong?"

"The mechanism! Nobody on this side of the Atlantic can set it right except you. There's no time for a journey back to Vienna. You're the only man that can save me. If you refuse—"

"You die?"

"Like Keyork Araban's rabbit," assented Russell with quivering lips.

ACKROYD sat frowning for a moment. Keen thinker and clever analyst though he was, this case for a little while seemed to baffle him. How explain it? If the man were only a deluded crank, how account for the article in the German magazine?

The story he told, after all, was not impossible. Though no surgeon, Ackroyd knew something of the marvels of modern medical science— the ingrafting of organs and of bones upon the living body, the stitching up of the wounded yet still pulsing heart, the seeming restoration of life by various processes.

Might it not be true? And if so, how strangely curious a thing to know about! A flash of keen interest passed through his mind. He must have proofs— then he would undertake whatever work this stranger wanted done. But, first of all, proof positive that the thing was as the man declared.

As though reading his thoughts, Russell tapped the flat, boxlike thing upon his breast.

"Here," said he more calmly, "is the apparatus I want you to examine and repair. Put your ear over this way— so— now hear it? Something wrong, you perceive? And you're the only man in America I dare even show it to!"

Ackroyd, all attention, listened hard. From within the box, which was shallow and curved to fit the contour of the man's chest, came a slow, rhythmic sound, dull and almost inaudible, but broken now and then by a slight hitch, as though some delicate cog or gear had stuck, then gone free again. The wizard frowned.

"If what you're telling me is true," judged he, "you'd better go to a watch- maker. I'm not the man you want to consult at all!"

"Pardon me," returned the other, "but it isn't a matter of mere clockwork. Here, let me explain."

Taking up a pencil from the work- bench, he hastily, and with considerable skill, drew out a sketch of the apparatus. A strap round the body and two over the shoulders seemed to hold it in place. Within the space which represented the box itself he quickly limned two induction coils, a "U" magnet, and a variety of deli- cate levers and springs which served to make and break a circuit from six flat storage-batteries inside his coat.

These batteries he showed to Ackroyd.

"Now you readily understand," he elucidated, "my heart can't be operated by direct transmission of power from out- side. Magnetism is the only force that can do it, through the body itself.

"The valves of this artificial organ are fitted with disks of steel, capable of being attracted and released by the coils here at X' and Y.' My batteries, according to directions, I have renewed at regular intervals of one week— two batteries each time, thus always insuring a steady, uniform current.

"But in spite of all this, for ten days past something's been wrong. The mechanism's been out of order. It skipped a few times. Once I thought it was going to stop altogether. You can imagine my state of mind!"

"Well?" interrogated the scientist, reaching for another match. "So, then, you made up your mind to consult me?"

"Just that. And made a record run of it, too, from Toledo! Fancy your own life utterly dependent on—"

"Yes, yes. I know. But what am I to do? Open that box, study out the ap- paratus, see what's wrong, and make it right! Is that your program?"

"To a 'T'!" replied the client, now visibly excited.

A little color had crept into his face; his hands were working nervously.

"Precisely. And the quicker, the better." He glanced toward the door. "Suppose we should be interrupted! I might lose my—"

"COME, now, calm yourself!" Ackroyd exclaimed. "All I ask is to be quite convinced of the reality of this thing. Then I'll go ahead to the best of my ability."

Turning toward the work-bench, he opened the drawer and began pawing over the disorder to find a small screw-driver such as he would need in opening the long, flat box.

"Convinced?' queried Russell in a strange tone. "How?"

"Well, just show me the scar of the operation, for one thing. Then let me listen to your cardiac sounds. If they turn out to be, as you claim, purely mechanical, I'll accept that evidence and go ahead. Isn't that fair?" And, still looking for the screw-driver, he bent over the open drawer.

"Isn't that reasonable?" repeated Ackroyd. But his question was never answered. For voices sounded, all at once, outside the laboratory. Then footsteps crunched the gravel.

Russell stood up suddenly, clutching at the box upon his breast. Ackroyd, sensing rather than getting vision of the man's quick rage and terror, whirled round just in time to see him whip an automatic revolver from his pocket.

Outside, a trilling whistle sounded. Steps clumped on the broad wooden piazza.

Russell, livid and trembling with sudden passion, thrust his head forward. With bowed shoulders and disordered dress, revolver balanced in his hand, he crept with stealthy tread toward the door. The grotesque quality of his figure contrasted horribly with its bestial, tigerish, murderous alertness.

Horrified, Ackroyd stood inert. The very suddenness of the transformation numbed him for a second. At the table he remained, staring with wide eyes, his jaw gaping, not yet able to understand, but foreseeing violence.

Came a decisive voice: "I guess he's in there, all right enough."

Another answered: "We'll have him in a minute, now. But be careful. Here, Bray, you keep back. Now, all right?"

But before the door swung open, Russell whirled on Ackroyd as the wizard sprang.

"You hound!" he shrieked, jerking the revolver to position. "You did this! You warned those fiends! You're in this infernal conspiracy, too, to break my glass heart and destroy my soul! But I won't die alone!" The man's face was black with rage, and foam had gathered at the corners of his mouth.

"Die!" he yelled. But as the revolver barked, Ackroyd ducked and, swinging his chair aloft, hurled it full at Russell.

It struck him squarely on the breast and shoulder. His revolver spat again as he fell; the bullet shattered the vacuum-tube overhead. Glass jangled. The light faded. Darkness fell. Ackroyd flung himself upon the man.

In burst the door, and by the glare of day through the opening the rescuers saw Ackroyd slowly getting up, with a dazed, half frightened air. Puzzled for a moment, they held back.

"What's— what's up?" cried a voice. Ackroyd heard the snick of a revolver hammer.

"Wait!" he panted. He found and pressed a button. Instantly a flood of yellow light inundated the laboratory from the reserve incandescents.

By this light they saw Russell lying, distorted, motionless upon the floor. His eyes were open and staring— the hideous eyes of a man who has died in the grip of stark, mad terror.

"He— did he tell you—" began one of the men. They wore blue uniforms and caps. "Tell you he had a glass heart? Want you to repair it for him?"

Ackroyd did not answer. He merely snatched up the big sheet he used to cover his models with and spread it over the corpse.

"Come, get busy!" he commanded. "Take him out. This is no morgue. I'm busy . Too busy for any questions until the inquest. Then you'll find me on hand, to make an accounting for everything he said and did and gave me. Now, out you all go!"

Thus he dismissed them. Ten minutes later, with the old cob once more cheerfully erupting, he got back to his interrupted calculation, unmindful of the baffled reporters who had already begun to pry about outside.

IN THE smoke-room our little group sat silent for a moment as Dr. Car- michael finished. Then Harrison spoke.

"Just an escaped lunatic? With religious mania, too?"

"Hardly that. If so, extremely high grade. A man of his education, able to write and print a German paper like that just to substantiate his own hallucination can hardly be classed as a mere lunatic. Rather call it a case of acute monomania. Perfectly sane in every other respect. Perfectly hopeless in that respect. So firmly convinced of it, in fact, that the shock of the chair against his apparatus dropped him stone-dead. Mind over matter? Well, rather!"

Another pause.

Then, in a satirical tone, up spoke Maynard, my traveling companion and cabin-mate.

"Well," judged he, "it was no more than he deserved for being a plain, infernal fool. Why, if he'd known anything about the subject of glass hearts, or artificial hearts of any kind, for that matter, he'd have been aware that there's only one bona-fide case on record of such a thing actually working. So he stood, a self-convicted faker!"

"One— one case?" hesitated the bewildered doctor.

"Only one. But it's got nothing to do with all that rot about the soul residing in it and so on. Furthermore, it's not all glass, but partly glass and partly aluminum. And it's operated, not by simple magnetism, but—"

"How do you know such a lot of things that aren't so?" snapped the doctor.

Maynard's face grew hard and his eyes narrowed.

"Why oughtn't a man to know about his own heart?" he replied at length.

A dense stillness enveloped our group. Then the doctor coughed nervously, got up, and with a banal word of excuse withdrew down the stairway to the bar below. Harrison also departed. The gale whipped into the room as he shoved out to the heaving deck. Behind him the door banged.

I found myself alone with Maynard.

"The fools!" he laughed. Then he suddenly grew serious, with a strange eager look upon his face.

He drew out pencil and note-book.

"See here!" he whispered, as his nervous fingers began with rapid strokes to form a diagram. 'My heart is like this— see? I've never explained it yet to a living soul, but— this conversation tonight has decided me. If I should die, the mystery would be lost. I make you my confidant. But remember, if you so much as lisp a syllable of this while I still live, I'll shoot you like a dog."

Then he laughed again, a high-pitched, cackling laugh in which lay no merriment. And while with sudden dread I watched, he began expounding to me, his chosen victim, the secret of the only successful artificial heart now operating in the world.

__________________

12: The Deadly House

Bertram Atkey

1880-1952

Blue Book April 1926

An "Easy Street Experts" tale

"NOW, I consider that this is about as good a book as was ever written. Its interesting, it's sensible; it hasn't got a lot of frills and things, and it's valuable. Listen to this, Squire!" said the Honorable John Brass to his fellow-crook Colonel Clumber, in their London flat one afternoon.

"Listen to this— it's written by a man who knows what he's talking about." And he proceeded to read slowly, and with considerable emphasis, from a slim volume entitled "Queries at a Mess Table," which he had bought that morning.

" 'Cheese may be taken in moderation with advantage'— mark that, Clumber— 'with advantage, after dinner. A small quantity is considered to assist the digestion: Sas Toasted cheese, no matter of what kind— for in ail the consistency becomes close by toasting— is the most indigestible article that can be eaten, and I am sure accounts for disturbed nights and troublesome dreams.' Absolutely true, Squire. 'Yet— alas!— what is nicer than a well served up Welsh rabbit, and what a wonderful flavor cheese adds to many dishes— macaroni, etc.! After this, one may assist the gourmet by reminding him that the juice of the pineapple at the end of a meal is an agreeable and powerful digestive agent.' Now, that's a thing worth reading and worth remembering. And the little book is full of sound sense like that. We'd better tell Sing to get in a couple of pineapples tonight."

The Colonel nodded.

"Very fine bit of writing," he said. "How about wine? Does the man mention drinks?"

"Mention drinks— man alive, he's got a whole chapter on 'em! It's entitled 'What Shall I Drink?' Shall I read it?"

"Sure— half a minute, though. It makes me feel thirsty. Touch the bell."

The Honorable John rang for Sing, his Chinese manservant, and ran his eye quickly through the chapter which he was about to read.

"Listen— this man is a genius. He says: 'The strong sweet wines— Constantia, Malaga, Tokay, Malmsey— are best appreciated with a plain biscuit, when the stomach is not full. Thus taken, they are a wholesome substitute for tea.' So bring in some of that Tokay we've got, Sing. Never mind about the biscuit. That's a matter of taste."

SING vanished, and the reading continued until the Tokay arrived, when the partners proceeded to drink the health of the author of the cheering volume which had so aroused their enthusiasm. Just as Mr. Brass was on the point of resuming, Sing entered again with a note for the Colonel.

He took the note, glancing carelessly at the address, and suddenly paled a trifle.

"What's up?" asked the Honorable John, watching him.

The Colonel showed him the envelope. It was addressed to "Lord Fortworth"— not as usual to "Colonel Clumber."

The Honorable John whistled— a low discordant whistle.

"Better open it," he suggested.

The Colonel inserted his thumb under the flap.

"I don't like it," he said heavily. "I've got an idea there's trouble floating about somewhere. Some guy has got on to me, and it might be awkward."

It may be re-explained here that in the days when from his zenith as a self-made millionaire-brewer, banker, company promoter, and all-round money captain, he had taken a high dive to the depths of an almost limitless insolvency, he had not waited to answer any of the innumerable questions which hundreds— yes, even thousands— of creditors were waiting to ask him. Not at all.

To the contrary, acting on advice of the Honorable John Brass, then a friend of the family, he had performed the operation he sometimes described as "pulling his freight" with such swiftness of decision, and, with the aid of Mr. Brass, such masterly skill, that a day after the news of his hopeless smash— due to wild speculation with a view to making greater dividends for a tolerably hungry crowd of shareholders— he had vanished as completely as the capital of his various companies. His wife had promptly left him at the first sign of his ruin, and, indeed, it was only due to Mr. Brass that the Colonel was not even now sojourning in funny clothes at Parkhurst, Portland, Dartmoor, or some one or other of our leading official resorts. The Honorable John, who had lost the hard and dishonestly earned savings of a lifetime in the Fortworth smash, nevertheless stuck to the fallen financier. As he put it with cynical bluntness: "If Fortworth's spec's had turned out well, and he'd been able to pay that gang of shareholding wolves that are now howling for his blood an extra five per cent, they would not have asked any questions as to how he got it. They'd have sharked it and asked for more. But as the spec's went wrong they. got it in the neck— good and heavy— and serve 'em right. Teach 'em not to be greedy."

So he and Fortworth, warm friends already, with almost identical tastes, became partners. That had been some years before, and no one that mattered had ever recognized in Colonel Clumber the redheaded, short-bearded Lord Fortworth. Even the police had given him up.

And now he had received a note addressed boldly to Lord Fortworth!

HE read the letter. It was quite short, and was addressed from 412 Garden Square, London, W. It ran:

My dear Lord Fortworth:

Can you make it convenient to do me the great favor of calling tonight at nine o'clock and discussing with me the science of swindling and the art of absconding— two features of our present day civilization upon which I should greatly like to have the opinion of an expert such as yourself.

I am, my dear Lord Fortworth,

Yours very sincerely,

Lubin Lazar.

The Colonel dropped the note.

"A nasty, polite, dangerous swine," he growled, suddenly purple-faced.

Mr. Brass looked grave.

"A blackmailer!" he said. "It was bound to come. Sooner or later in our line of business you tread on one, and he crawls up your trouser leg. Ever heard of him before? It's a queer kind of name!"

The Colonel shook his head-slowly, his brows knitted.

The Honorable John's face set hard.

"T don't like the sound of the man," he said. "These polite sports are pretty coldblooded cards when it comes to collecting the ready iron as a general rule. We shall have to go and see him— after dinner."

He rang for Sing.

"Ever heard of a sarcastic tough named Lubin Lazar, Sing, my lad?" he asked.

The Chink shook his head slowly.

"Ah, it's a wonder! You know most of the crooks in the town," said Mr. Brass sourly, for he was disappointed. "Skate out."

Sing "skated," smiling blandly.

"Well, we've got a couple of hours before dinner; it's only about half past five. We might do worse than go over to Garden Square and have a look round," continued the Honorable John. "Or I'll go alone; he probably knows you."

The Colonel, with language, agreed that perhaps it would be wiser for Mr. Brass to do the scouting by himself, but he insisted that his partner should not in any case harm Mr. Lazar, even if opportunity arose. He wished to reserve that pleasure for himself, he explained, with the air of a grizzly bear who has just been visited by a stiff-stinged hornet.

"We ought to get Lubin carted without violence," said Mr. Brass reprovingly. "Neatness is what we want to use with him."

He put on his hat, attached himself to a cigar, and sallied forth.

An hour later he was back, but had little news.

"It's a biggish, dark house opposite a kind of church," he said, steering a whiskyand-soda to a place where it would be safe. "Mysterious kind of a house. He had one visitor while I was there. Poor man, I should say, judging from the look of him. Youngish, nervous party, looked half-starved. I shouldn't be surprised if Lubin has got his net round him, too. I arranged to be drifting past when he came out, and he wasn't any happier than when he went in."

"If he don't get any more out of him than he does out of me," replied the Colonel, with a somewhat bloodshot smile, "he won't get much."

"Ah, well," said Mr. Brass soothingly. "We'll see what his particular stomachache is, tonight."

The Colonel reassured him, and they began to prepare themselves to get ready for the chief rite of the day— dinner.

Even the advent into their lives of Lubin Lazar could not destroy their interest in dinner. They were neither young nor emotional, and they permitted no outside issues to affect their inside tissues.

IT must be admitted that the partners looked a more than ordinarily hefty brace to tackle when at about ten minutes to nine they stepped out to the superb Rolls-Royce limousine which helped them through life. Reasonably tall, broad like the side of a battleship, built "chunky," as the Colonel put it occasionally, with smooth, slightly hard, clean-shaven faces, and correctly attired from the crowns of their opera-hats to the soles of their dressboots, they did not strike one as being the sort of individuals that the gentle confidence-trick man or any dark-alley tough would approach with genuine optimism.

Sing, who with his usual ability had contrived to wind up dinner in his best cordonbleu style and yet leave himself time to make a quick change, was at the wheel, and lost little time in sliding them over to Garden Square.

They alighted, and the Honorable John tendered his last word of advice.

"Easy with him at first," he said quietly, for he was fully aware of the big, businesslike automatic pistol that sagged the pocket of the Colonel's dinner jacket under his overcoat. "Let him show his hand before we show him his error."

The Colonel nodded grimly. As the Honorable John's hand hovered over the bell-push the door swung open and a lady appeared. Evidently she was just leaving the house. She seemed a little excited, and was talking in queer, rather pretty broken English to the manservant who was showing her out.

"I wan' that you should tell heem yet again eef he not to leave alone my husban' that I shall fin' a plan yet. This is mos' cruel t'ing he try to accomplish— to crush, to grind under the heel—"

She saw the partners waiting on the step, stopped talking suddenly, passed out, and went slowly down the street.

She was rather shabby, but very pretty and graceful, with something about her that made one think both of Tokio and Paris.

"Lazar in?" asked the Colonel of the manservant.

Evidently they were expected, for the man closed the door and conducted them to a room across the rather dark and gloomily furnished hall.

He announced them: "Two gentlemen, sir!" and left.

The partners found themselves facing a huge man, seated at an elaborately carved writing-table. He was six feet six inches tall, if an inch, but his breadth was so terrific as to make him at first glance seem almost short. His face was probably the most handsome the partners had ever seen— but only in the sense that the chiseling of the features was without flaw, for there was no expression upon it. It was utterly blank and inscrutable. The eyes were of a singular dull green, lightless and dead. There was no trace of color, red or pink, upon the uniformly olive complexion, and the man's hair, thick, heavy, parted in the center, and brushed away from the parting in a perfectly flat sweep, was snowwhite. He made a strange and terrible figure as he sat facing the partners— perfectly still, perfectly silent, waiting.

The Honorable John afterward confessed that when he stood there taking in Lazar's appearance he experienced for the first time in his life a thrill of fear. And the Colonel in turn, confessed that he, too, had endured the same sensation.

"He made me think of a thundering great white python that had got you, but wasn't in a hurry to begin on you," said Mr. Brass.

BUT they were not the kind of men to allow the appearance of any man— or white python either— to cow them long. Unconsciously, perhaps, the Colonel pressed with the inside of his forearm the comfortable bulge of the big repeater in his pocket, and was cheered on the instant. He had seen too many strange men and sights in unswept corners of the world to lose his nerve permanently before the man Lazar, and Mr. Brass, too, had a rarely tapped vein of cold-blooded pluck somewhere in him, upon which he now proceeded abruptly to draw.

The Colonel took out the letter with a jerk.

"You Lazar?" he asked, the veins across his forehead beginning to bulge a little.

The blackmailer nodded.

"Sit down," he said in a slow voice, so shrill and reedy that the partners almost started. They had expected any kind of voice but that thin, high note. It was weird.

"No, you white-headed hound," rasped the Colonel. "We won't sit down. I want to know just what you mean by this. I take it you've got something to say about it. Say it, then, and we'll settle it now."

The Honorable John shrugged his shoulders slightly. He had urged the advisability of diplomacy on the Colonel. But he knew from the thick note of rage in his partner's harsh voice, from the pale, glaring eyes, and the engorged veins that were cording themselves on his heavy forehead, that the only kind of diplomacy the ex-millionaire was in the least likely to employ was the kind that is backed by a .45 gun.

Without a trace of emotion and without a movement save of the lips the gigantic man at the writing-table answered:

"You are Lord Fortworth, the bankrupt, who absconded eight years ago. I have all the facts, all the proofs. You will pay me one hundred thousand pounds within one month, or I will hand you over to the police."

IT was simple, undisguised blackmail. There was not the least attempt to gloss the thing. There was no embroidery upon it, as the Honorable John said afterward.

"I want 'yes' or 'no'," continued Lazar. "I am busy. I have no time for talk. The sum is one hundred thousand pounds in notes, bearer bonds, jewels or cash. That is all."

Mr. Brass broke in hurriedly, as the Colonel gasped.

"He hasn't got the money," he said simply. "How can he pay if he hasn't got the money? You're one of the cut-and-dried yes-or-no guys. Well, so are we! You want one hundred thousand pounds; he hasn't twenty thousand. So what are you going to do about it?" It sounded true, and Lazar recognized that.

"Very good. He must pay the twenty thousand," he said, wholly cold-blooded. He made an alteration on a slip of paper before him as he spoke.

"And you can go to hell!" bawled the Colonel, fighting mad. He lugged out his big pistol and jammed it into the face of the expressionless giant at the table.

"Move a finger and I'll splash your brains into the coal-scuttle!" He gasped for words; he had so much to say that the phrases seemed to jam his mouth.

Lazar stared at him without a tremor.

"You will pay within seven days," he said in the tones of a man concluding an ordinary business deal. His eyes shifted, looking over the Colonel's shoulder and a little to the left of him.

"No," he said. "Don't shoot."

The partners wheeled.

Two men stood in a corner of the room with rifles— not pistols, but rifles— leveled on the Colonel and Mr. Brass. There was a singular quality of brutality in the fact that the men had rifles— the partners were aware of it simultaneously.

The Colonel choked himself to silence and dropped the repeater.

"Seven days?" said the Honorable John blandly. "You will have to extend that time. A man can't realize to his last penny within a week. Make it a month, Lazar, and I give you my word that— "

"I cannot accept the word of a fat blackguard whose criminal tastes are only paralleled by his gluttonous tendencies," interrupted Lazar coldly. Evidently he had been making careful inquiries about the partners.

"Why, damn your eyes!" stuttered Mr. Brass, so taken aback that the Colonel grinned, despite his wrath.

Lazar rose, towering over them . "Get out!" he said. "One week!"

They hesitated, surveyed the men with the rifles, and finally went. The manservant was waiting for them just outside the door. They followed him into the hall — sullenly. But with his hand on the catch of the outer door, he paused and spoke in a low whisper, his eyes stealthily watching the door of Lazar's room.

"I shall call at your flat at two o'clock tonight. Be in," he said. His lips did not move, and without even looking at them he opened the hall door and ushered them out.

They went down the steps, and even as Sing switched on his engine and they were on the point of stepping into the car, they were accosted by a tall, thin, shabby man, who was standing close by the curb. In the lamplight they saw that his face was white and drawn. His long mustache hung limp and untended, and his eyes glittered wildly from their cavernous sockets.

£ ASE you gentlemen victims also?" He jerked his head sideways, indicating the house of the blackmailer.

The Colonel fired up.

"Not by a tank-full, old man," he said, with the fey, deadly hilarity of a roused fighting man.

The shabby nondescript, who talked like a gentleman, gazed curiously at them.

"I talked like that once," he said, "but I've lost my nerve now," and snapped his fingers sharply. It must have been a signal, for a woman appeared from behind the car, opened the door and entered. Mr. Brass recognized her as the girl who had made him think of Tokio and Paris.

"If you will give my wife and myself a lift to your house I think we might talk things over to our mutual benefit," said the shabby young man.

The partners looked at each other, nodded, and the three joined the lady in the car.

THE shabby man seemed to brighten up a little, and plunged into his explanation without delay.

"It has been my lot to hang round the den of that octopus, Lazar, quite a good deal," he said, "and I have come to learn that when a car which obviously belongs to a rich man stops at Lazar's door it usually belongs to a rich victim— like myself. You look surprised. Nevertheless I possess an income of six thousand pounds a year, of which five thousand nine hundred goes regularly to Lazar— blackmail, every halfpenny of it. Why I find myself compelled to pay this outrageous sum does not matter,-any more than why Lazar is victimizing or attempting to victimize you and a host of unfortunate people beside. But it cannot continue— it is my lifeblood. I can't fight him— he can destroy me." The girl, who had been leaning back in a corner, stirred suddenly, leaning forward.

"I have jus' the ghos' of a plan," she said softly. "It has but jus' come to me, and perhaps he is not very good plan. But he is better than no thing." She looked only at Kendale, as the shabby man had introduced himself.

"You mus' not be angree," she said. "You promise me that?" He nodded.

"I think that man who has opened the door and shut him when we go to see Lazar, and admit us to enter the house, has feel a little interest for me. He have not tol' me anything of love, but I have think his eyes speak of it two— three— times, those days when I have insist' to see Lazar and begged him that he do not blackmail more. Thees evening also his eyes they are kind for me, but he say no thing, perhaps because these gentlemen are come to the door."

It was the shabby man's turn to scowl, but the girl put up her hands, laughing.

"There is no need for angree," she said in her queer, tangled, pretty broken English. "I have no thought for that man— not any man but for you. Only I jus' tol' you those things."

"And quite right, too," said Mr. Brass heartily. "Why, you ought to be proud, man! If that guy who doorkeeps for Lazar has weakened on Madam here, it's a compliment to her and a gift to us. Why, he's calling to see us tonight, and if we play our cards correctly he's the key that's going to pick the Lazar lock. I think he's pretty well through with Lazar anyway— but we'll see!"

The car drew up at the mansions in which the partners occupied a first-floor flat, and they entered the building.

"What made you sort of confide in us, Kendale?" asked the Colonel curiously, as they went up.

The shabby man smiled.

"Well, you looked as though you were the sort that would put up a pretty sporting fight with that blackguard before you gave way," said Kendale. "That was it chiefly, I think. And probably it is what Lazar's doorkeeper thought."

The Colonel nodded.

"Well, although I don't mind admitting he made us look a little foolish tonight, I guess you're right. Why, if it comes to a pinch, or if Lazar did no more than put my partner off his appetite, I believe, apart from what we should do, that little primrose who drove the car tonight would catch hine and torture him in some gentle Chinese way until he got the name of his partner, then kill them both and burn their houses down, and enjoy doing it."

Kendale laughed.

"A friend in need, eh?"

"Sure," said the Colonel, "—and a wonderful cook!"

IT needed little discussion for the partners to realize that nothing very effective could be done against Lazar until the butler or doorkeeper had called, and his reason for calling had been disclosed.

Therefore, with their accustomed bluff hospitality they devoted the remainder of the evening to entertaining, not without success, Kendale and his beautiful wife. It was not difficult te understand that the doorkeeper had fallen in love with Soya Kendale. The partners in the course of business and pleasure had encountered many pretty and charming women, but as the Colonel expressed it later, Mrs. Kendale, despite her simple, inexpensive and, indeed, rather shabby costume, had the rest of the Venuses whipped from the word "go". Sweet, unaffected, a little quiet, and obviously adoring her husband, she pleased the two old wolves immensely. Aided and abetted by Kendale, they encouraged her to talk simply for the sake of hearing her delicious mistakes, and Mr. Brass found it necessary to make many visits to the kitchen in order to correct and improve upon an already sumptuous supper which Sing was preparing.

"We don't want Mrs. Kendale to go away from here with any idea that we starve our guests or strangle 'em with any charity dope, my lad," he was careful to explain to the busy Chink. 'Understand that!"

Naturally the result was a meal of a kind which the Kendales had not faced for many moons, and to which they did justice. The partners joined them— successfully, as usual.

At two o'clock precisely the electric bell whirred sharply and a moment later Sing showed in and announced "Mr. Robur Roburton." It was Lazar's doorkeeper.

HE was one of those dark, square-faced men, with a jaw like the butt end of an anvil, and deep, dark, watchful eyes. He seemed very self-possessed, but the partners noticed, nevertheless, that his eyes brightened as they fell on Soya Kendale, to whom he bowed scrupulously. Then he faced the others.

"An association with Mr. Lubin Lazar, extending over some six months or more, has taught me the habit of being direct," he said quietly, "and I think that you gentlemen would prefer to get to work without preliminaries. Very good." Although he was addressing himself to the men of the party, his eyes returned again and again to Soya Kendale. "I have decided that Mr. Lazar's business must come to an end. I need not go into the circumstances which compelled me to join him, any more than we need go into the matters which caused him to blackmail you gentlemen. Briefly, I have come to the conclusion that Lazar's methods are too brutally merciless. For some time past I have been looking for two or three determined and absolutely reliable men to help me deal with him, and when you two gentlemen came tonight I fancied I had found them.

"I overheard your interview. I have come to ask if you will co-operate; it will be dangerous to the last degree, for Lazar is a man of infinite resource and has a bodyguard of ruffians that fear nothing in the world but the contingency of being discharged. Yet it can be done; we can draw his teeth at least, but we must do it tonight. There is not time to outline my plan; you must put yourselves at my disposal, and do with minute scrupulousness all I say. And tonight!"

He paused a moment, waiting. His few words, quietly spoken though they were, had rung with truth. The man knew what he was saying. That he believed it to be completely true was as obvious as the fact that he loved, or at least was on the verge of loving, Soya Kendale. Probably it was the contemplation of the unhappiness of the girl which had guided his decision to break with Lazar.

"What do you say, gentlemen?"

"We agree." They spoke simultaneously.

Robur Roburton smiled— a quick, short smile that was gone in an instant.

"Good!" he said. "Let us start now. Mrs. Kendale, perhaps, will wait here until we return." He went across to the girl, extending his hand.

"Good-by, Mrs. Kendale," he said softly.

Outside, Sing pushed himself blandly into prominence.

"Please, master, you wantee me?" He gazed at the Honorable John yearnfully with his mouth open like a dog begging to be allowed to exterminate rabbits.

Mr. Brass looked interrogatively at Roburton, who ran his eye calculatingly over the tough, muscular form and whale neck of the Chink, and nodded.

"Fall in— at the back," said the Honorable John, and the Chink fell in.

THEY walked to Garden Square, and they were a hardy-looking crew. Robur Roburton explained his plans and gave his instructions as they went. Association with these capable gentlemen, brief though it had been, seemed to have restored Kendale a good deal of that "nerve" which he had lost, and he hummed softly to himself as he went, lightly twirling a lead-loaded cane which he had found in the umbrella stand at the flat and which was capable of felling a camel at one blow, properly steered.

Arrived at No. 412 Garden Square, Roburton produced a latch-key, opened the door, and the party passed silently in.

As they entered the hall a switch clicked and the place was suddenly flooded with light. A man who had been sitting in the darkness rose— a big, clumsy, pistol-like weapon in his hand. Roburton explained a little later that it was an air pistol, powerful enough to send a bullet through a man, and practically silent.

The man lowered the pistol as he recognized Roburton and stared interrogatively. He was a big, savage-looking brute, onè of the rifle-brigade the partners had met in Lazar's room. Roburton went up to him, whispering softly.

"What say?" asked the man, stooping a little, half turning his head, craning to hear what the doorkeeper said.

If he had tried he could not have posed better for Roburton's purpose. He was just at the right distance, at just the right angle. Roburton's fist, with all of Roburton's hundred and sixty pounds weight behind it, took him on the curve of the jaw, and he went down on the soft Turkish carpet like a wet sponge. In a second Sing was on him with a coil of cord, and in an incredibly short time he lay bound, gagged, and helpless, at their feet.

"One!" said Mr. Brass with satisfaction.

They followed Roburton down a narrow passage. The house was silent as death, and they were lighted only by the slender ray from an electric torch carried by Roburton. They passed through a sliding panel and came upon a long flight of steps, down which they went in single file.

Three steps from the bottom Roburton stopped.

"Miss the last step— don't tread on the last step!" he said warningly. "It's live— the last man who trod on it at night was electrocuted!"

They felt themselves paling.

"This is a man-trap of a house," snarled the Colonel. "I want Lazar bad."

It seemed to the Honorable John for a moment that an icy-cold butterfly was fluttering up and down his spine. Before Roburton had come upon the scene he had been planning to pay a night visit to the house with the Colonel.

"I am glad Roburton fell in love with that little woman— glad like a child eating cake," he muttered.

The narrow passage, lined with glazed bricks, along which they now proceeded, seemed to be some forty yards long, and, warned by Roburton, they went silent as a string of phantoms.

They went down three very steep steps— the treads were so narrow they were ledges rather than steps.

EVEN as Roburton stepped again on the level ground something hissed sharply immediately in front of them.

"Ah!" said the doorkeeper, and swung the long, thin, tarnished sword which the others, wondering, had seen him take from a rack of trophies on the wall of the hall.

There was a wet flop, as though a half-ripe pear had fallen on the hard brick, and a sudden sound of slithering.

"A cobra! Stand back, for God's sake!" hissed Roburton. His light searched the darkness before them. The ledge-like steps led down into a little pit-formed by sinking the floor of the passage some five feet. Across the pit was slashing and squirming the divided body of the snake, and on the far side near a similar set of steps was another of the hooded horrors, its head reared high over its nest of coils, awaiting them.

Of a sudden a shaking fit seized upon Roburton.

"T-t-take the l-l-light," he said to Mr. Brass, his teeth chattering. "I s-s-shall be all r-r-right in a m-minute."

The Honorable John took the light, and with his free hand fumbled for his flask, his eyes fixed intently on the sinuous, swaying neck of the killer that hissed gently on the far side of the pit.

"Minute be damned!" he said. "You take a pull at this!"

The Colonel unscrewed the top and Roburton sucked greedily at the rare old brandy without which Mr. Brass rarely went out on business.

"Master!" Sing squeezed past Kendale, whose nerve had gone again, and whose breath came and went in a queer, dry
whistling. 'Master, me no flaid snakee— me killee! Me show. Plentee snakee China."

He took the torch and sword and dropped into the pit, from which they had scrambled. Quite what he did they could not see, but in a second or so there sounded another of those wet "plops" and the hissing of the reptile ceased.

The Chink came back, smiling blandly as ever.

"Put blade in him bellee!" he said, and respectfully took his place in the rear again.

ROBURTON, steadied by the brandy, stiffened himself. "Good!" he said. "Snakes always five me the shudders. I didn't quite expect them there tonight, either. I just took the sword in case. This was a new pair. The last couple died, and I did not know the new ones had arrived yet."

"Where are we, anyway?" asked the

Colonel sullenly. "And how many more obstacles are there in this race?"

"No more between us and Lazar— that I know of— except another man at the end of the passage. We are in the tunnel leading from 412 to 406 Garden Square. Lazar is Lazar at Number 412, but he is Mr. Remer-Venn, a collector of antiques, at Number 406."

"Huh!" grunted Mr. Brass. "He's very nearly collected four moderns and a Chink in his tunnel tonight. Wed better make a move!"

They passed the pit.

Some three yards farther on Roburton stopped again and asked the Honorable John for his torch. Then he directed both rays on the floor a few feet in front of him.

"What's wrong?" asked Mr. Brass in his ear.

"Those floor bricks— see? They run across like a ridge; they are half an inch higher than the floor. I don't like 'em."

The Honorable John pondered.

"Look as though they might be meant to be trod on. Try 'em with the sword."

Roburton pressed the square of slightly raised bricks. The sword bent, but nothing happened. Still Roburton shook his head. Sing stepped forward again.

"Me tread on blocks," he volunteered.

But this unseen danger was different from visible cobras.

"You close your face, banana," growled the Honorable John, "and keep your place, d'ye hear? You're getting above yourself."

Sing slunk back, and they all stared at the little square of bricks.

"I wouldn't tread on 'em for half a million," muttered Kendale.

"Only a blank fool would offer more than that," snapped the Colonel.

Their nerves were on edge.

"Pull off the air pistol at it," suggested Mr. Brass. "Is it a repeating tool?"

"Yes, three shots," said Roburton, "I'll try one.'

He pulled the pistol; there was a tiny hissing pop, and the bullet hit full in the center of the raised patch. At the same instant, whistling through the air with a note so sharp as to be a scream, a huge blade flashed in a semi-circular rising swoop from the base of the tunnel wall a few feet on the farther side of the raised, bricks. It sheared over the suspected part and shot into position against the wall on the expedition's side of the passage, quivering like a steel tongue. It was enamelled white, and was engraved to match the bricks of which the tunnel was built. The whole device was much as though one had fixed a vast handleless table knife to the floor and bent it down curving sideways and back along the ground, until it fitted into a twist in the bottom of the wall, the tip being secured by a spring working in conjunction with the raised bricks. When "set" the blade fitted so well into the specially grooved face of the wall that it was invisible, but now it was "thrown," the infernal trap was obvious.

THE party stared wildly at each other. Had any one of them trodden on those bricks he, and any two behind him, would have been lopped in half, like cucumbers. The Honorable John pulled himself together with a very sickly smile.

"If it hadn't been for Roburton and me, Sing," he said hoarsely, for he was shaken, "you'd have been in a fine state— all over the passage, practically speaking!"

"For pity's sake, let's get out of this," said Kendale and began to laugh hysterically.

"Shut up!" hissed Roburton viciously, but the wild mirth of the overstrained man rang louder.

The Colonel seized Kendale by the throat. "Quiet!" he ground out. "Quiet, or I 'll kill you!"

Taken at the right moment, Kendale's hysteria subsided.

But nevertheless he had been heard. A door opened at the end of the passage, a few yards along, a flood of light poured in, and a man appeared at the opening. But Roburton was expecting him, and even as the guard swung up his arm the doorkeeper's pistol gave its queer little breathless "pop" and the guard fell forward, shot through the hip. His pistol clattered out of his hand along the floor toward them.

"Good! Now for Lazar!" said Roburton. They hurried forward, leaving the wounded man, temporarily, to look after himself.

They went up an interminable flight of steps, still in a brick tunnel, like a pack of hounds.

"We're inside the wall of Number 406," explained Roburton as they went. "The steps lead to two rooms at the top of the house— and this is the only way by which these rooms can be entered, except by a fire escape through the window. The rooms are cased in with steel, like strong rooms with a window. He keeps all his papers here. If we had gone in at the door of Number 406 we couldn't have got into the rooms at all. There is a secret door, no doubt, but only Lazar knows it."

He signed for silence.

The stairway curled round like that of a church tower. "Wait here," whispered Roburton, crawling round the last corner.

A few seconds later he returned and beckoned to them. Soundlessly they followed him. The stairs ended in a level platform leading to a door through which could be seen a brightly lighted room.

In the room was a big desk, and a man of gigantic stature was sitting at this desk asleep, his head resting on his arms which were spread on the desk before him.

"The lair of Lazar!" whispered Roburton with a theatrical touch, probably due to the nervous strain he was enduring.

And even as they stared one of the blackmailer's arms slid off the desk, slowly, inertly, striking heavily against the edge of the chair seat. So it hung laxly.

"See that?" whispered the Honorable John, and there was something in his voice that thrilled them.

A second passed, then suddenly, as though acting on impulse, they all walked quietly into the room.

The Honorable John touched the man on the shoulder, but he did not move— for he was dead. There was a bullet-hole in his right temple.

They lifted him— four were needed to do it with decency— to a couch at the side of the room. Then Mr. Brass crossed over to pull down the blind. So it was he who noticed the little starred hole in the windowpane.

"Some one shot him from a house on the other side of the Square," he said. But none of the others— except Sing— heeded him. They were at the big safe in the corner, the door of which hung open. It was crammed with papers— each neatly endorsed with a name.

PRESENTLY Kendale rose, a bundle in his hands, his eyes glowing. Evidently he had found the documents and letters which had given, or helped Lazar to retain, his power over him. And a moment later the Colonel had his.

Roburton— evidently a victim who had been called upon to pay blackmail in the shape of service rather than money— soon found his bundle, also.

"Good!" he said.

But Mr. Brass disagreed.

"You might think so," he said. "But I don't believe in going through a safe without looking in the money-box compartment!"

Then he took his turn at the safe. The drawers were crammed with money— notes and gold to the value of two thousand pounds.

MR BRASS and Sing packed the money in a small bag they found near the desk, while the others examined the various papers relating to themselves.

But as the Honorable John closed the bag, an idea occurred to him.

"Who shot Lazar? Have you got any idea, Roburton?" he asked.

Roburton nodded.

"I can guess— a man named Talen whom Lazar had bled dry. He could not have had more than the price of a rifle and the rent of an attic to use it from. He was in his day a prize-winner at Bisley."

Kendale nodded corroboration.

"He was another poor victim," he said. "He was always swearing to settle with Lazar. It was bound to come. His wife died a month ago, and— I suppose he just didn't care as long as he got even with Lazar. He's probably been waiting his chance across the Square by day and night, and tonight it came. Lazar must have been busy, and switched on the light without pulling down the blind!

"That made him an easy mark for a shot like Talen. He's probably been dead some hours," added Kendale.

The Honorable John dumped the bag of money on the desk.

"Well, were leaving here!" he said. "You'd better divide the money with the most needy ones of Lazar's victims, Kendale. Or, say, half to them and half to Roburton."

But Roburton shook his head.

"I didn't do this for money or for hatred of Lazar," he said, looking them all squarely in the eyes. "I did it for love of a woman I shall never see again— but whom I have helped to make happy."

They knew he meant Soya Kendale.

THERE was a pause. Then Roburton went on:

"You people had better get out now. We'll get back through the passage, and you can leave the rest to me. I'll see the money goes to the right people, and their dossiers, too. I can deal with Lazar's guard— and with Lazar also."

The partners glanced at each other. Roburton was right— in every way. He knew the houses, the secrets of the place, the guards, the victims of the blackmailer— everything. He was the right man to wind up the thing.

They returned along the way they had come— Roburton having switched off the current that made a death-trap of the electric step— and so went quietly out into the street— four of them— as they might have been four revelers homeward bound from a card-party.

Soya Kendale was curled up on a big lounge in the flat, fast asleep, when they arrived home.

She looked very sweet and pretty, and they had no difficulty in understanding that Roburton found it easy to pity her first and so come to love her.

"That man may have been a blackmailer's butler," said the Honorable John softly, "but he was a white man tonight, whatever he was yesterday or will be tomorrow. That's what. Fetch in the old brandy, Sing."

The Kendales left the flat next morning for Paris, where they settled down, and a few days later Roburton called.

"Everything's fixed," he said briefly. "I'll sail for New York next week. You'll hear no more of Lazar!"

WHAT he had done with the guard, with the blackmailer's body, with the dossiers and with Lazar's loot of years, he did not say. Nor did the partners ask.

He gave them the address of the man Talen, and this, with their knowledge of how Lazar was killed, was all they needed as a safeguard against the improbable chance of being entangled in the killing.

Then he left. They never saw or heard of him again.

"WELL," said the Colonel, summing up, as they lingered comfortably over breakfast one morning, "whatever Roburton did, he did thoroughly!"

Mr. Brass agreed.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully, reaching for the kidneys. "Yes. But then, he was a thorough kind of man!"

_____________________

13: Two Voices

Henry Leverage

1879-1931

Telling Tales April 1921

A SONG was rising up the dingy stairway of Stag Hotel Number Two. Old Dave had heard the same song seventeen years before. Now, hearing it again, he pulled out his “smoke-wagon” and stood rigid in the up- per hall.

The “smoke-wagon” was a .44 calibre and weighed at least three pounds. Old Dave called it a merry whirl for five.

Even as he cocked the police-regulation revolver his mind went back to the Connover job, when he and another officer had burst into Connover’s Bank, pounded upon a brass-grilled gate in vain, and heard Ave Maria sung by one of two thieves who made their getaway through a window prepared for just such a contingency.

Now the same voice was filling Stag Hotel Number Two with remembered melody— a lilting song as clear as that of a thrush.

Old Dave gumshoed his way to the first step leading downward, canted a grizzled ear, closed his lips Into a firm, hard line, and began the descent.

He took his time because he believed he had his man. This man had gone down in police records as the singing burglar. Deafy Hunt, who was caught soon after the Connover Bank robbery, and who had on his person one half of the swag, refused to disclose the name of his partner in the crime.

Old Dave had plugged through seventeen years on a quiet search for Deafy's pal. Now the man was singing one floor lower down, and Old Dave had the only exit to the Stag Hotel covered with a gun.

A TORN piece of stair-carpet, one of those little things that thwart the best plans of detectives and crooks, caused Old Dave's foot to trip, strike against a board, and make a sound— almost imperceptible.

It was a warning, noticed and heeded instantly. The song stopped as if a hand had been laid over a mouth. Voices rose from the dim lobby of the Stag Hotel. Three men at a temperance bar turned like three quick cats and looked at Old Dave and his compelling “smoke-wagon.”

“Get 'em up!” he growled and advanced upon these three men with the lunging stride of a surly bear.

Old Dave thrust his left arm, from wrist to elbow, before his face in a true gun-fighter’s position, the leveled police-regulation revolver protruding menacingly across his sleeve.

“Elevate!” he snarled.

Old Dave’s camera-eye flashed the features of the three men at the bar who, in the manner of gun-fighters themselves, took their time about lifting their hands.

There was a bartender back of the bar whom Old Dave knew slightly. This bartender did not enter into the detective's instructions to elevate.

The three patrons studied Dave's revolver with a hurt expression, shifted uneasily, lowered their hands an inch or more, then jerked them ceiling- ward when the detective's trigger-finger showed signs of contracting

Old Dave, known sometimes as the Old Plug, finished his scrutiny of the three suspects, one of whom had sung Ave Maria in lilting measure.

TWO of the men were stout, short, clean- shaven and well-dressed. The man in the middle of the trio was different. He was super-dressed, and his poise, despite the indignity of keeping his hands above his head, was like a dancer’s or a fencer’s.

Old Dave jabbed his gun toward this man.

"What's your name?"

"Ray."

“Louder!”

“My name is Ray.”

"Sing.”

"What's that?”

"Damn you, sing! Sing anything! I think you're th’ guy I’m lookin’ for. You're Deafy’s pal— who sang that Ave Maria song when you made a getaway from Connover’s— more than fifteen years ago.”

A puzzled smile creased the face of Dave's suspect. He looked to right and left and then stared at the revolver. “Some mistake,” he said.

"Sing!"

Old Dave's ire was aroused. He intended trying all three men's voices and nabbing the guilty one. He rather thought Ray looked like a man who would best answer the description of a singer and a clever bank-robber.

"Sing!" he repeated.

"What'll I sing?”

Old Dave advanced one step nearer the man.

“Any damn thing!”

Ray eyed the revolver,—then he cleared his throat, hummed an air, made a false start or two, and sang “Home, Sweet Home." He was on the second verse when Old Dave snarled: “Stop!”

"Rather tiring this— singing when you can’t sing,” said Ray in a deep voice— a voice quite unlike the one Old Dave had heard when he came out of his room at Stag Hotel Number Two.

"Keep 'em up!” Old Dave turned to the end man of the trio. “You sing!" he commanded.

The man sang a number of airs. Old Dave lowered his left hand and dropped it to his side. “Now, you," he said, to the nearest man. “One ov youse is guilty."

This patron of the Stag Hotel had no singing voice at all. The detective rubbed his head with his right wrist and thrust the revolver into a holster beneath his left shoulder.

"Drop your hands down," he said.

“Did anybody go out ov here just before I come in?"

The bartender leaned over the bar.  "No," he grunted.

"Let's hear you sing," said Old Dave with sudden inspiration.

The bartender complained of a cold which he feared would lead to the “flu.”

“You know me, Chief," he protested. “There’s nobody around here who can sing."

Old Dave again eyed the slender man who had given the name of Ray. He shifted his glance to the other men.

OLD DAVE’S pent-in wrath— a wrath that had smouldered for nearly a third of his life, burst through his strong-moulded lips. He roundly cursed the three suspects. He berated the bartender, stamped up and down the barroom— looked in a telephone-booth, lifted a trap-door, glared at the concrete floor of the basement, and came back to the trio.

“One ov youse is th’ guy! One ov youse is Deafy's pal. I heard you singin' when I was up stairs. , I recognized th’ voice."

"Rather odd you don't recognize it now," said Ray.

Old Dave's eyes narrowed. “I know it's a double-voice that one of youse can switch on an' off. I've been waitin' seventeen years to hear that voice— and now I've heard it. I'm—"

Suddenly Old Dave grew cautious. There was nothing to be gained by telling what he was going to do. The thing to do was to leave the hotel, lay in wait, and follow all three men with the hope of finding out where they lived.

OLD DAVE left the barroom, slammed shut the swinging doors, crossed the street and took up his station behind a news-stand where he could watch the door of Stag Hotel Number Two.

His police-wise brain worked in a logical line. Since the Stag Hotel was known as a rendezvous for very high-class crooks, the bartender could be counted on not to squeal on the trio.

The policeman cursed his luck for all of an hour before he saw the three men come from the hotel. They stood on the corner under an arc-light and talked. Then two of the three went cityward without glancing back.

The third man, Ray, lighted a cigarette, lifted a straw hat from a prematurely gray head, fanned himself, looked around and walked rapidly away.

Old Dave took up the trail behind the quarry like a surly Apache after a scalp. He believed that Ray had sung the song in the barroom of the Stag Hotel.

Ray was a fast walker, and the older man had trouble in keeping up with him. Times, the detective thought, he had lost his man. At last he signalled a Central Office sleuth and enlisted his services. They found their quarry far ahead of them on a street of mean apartments and frame tenements.

At one of these apartments Ray stopped, looked back, removed a pass-key from his trouser-pocket and hurried up the steps.

Old Dave and his Central Office partner came to a halt at the corner. They consulted and separated.

MIDNIGHT came and passed, with the old sleuth on grim watch. He recalled a number of things connected with the Connover Bank robbery. His mind worked slowly.

There had been a description given of one of the fugitives from the bank, which, in a way, fitted the tall, gray-haired man whom he had followed to the tenement.

This description— provided the witness could be found, added to the supposition that Ray had a double voice— might convict the suspect.

With bulldog determination the officer spent the night watching the apartment. He questioned a roundsman on the beat, chatted with a janitor, made friends with a milkman and a paper-boy, to no purpose.

All accounts agreed that Ray, known as Charles Ray, was a model tenant who lived with an invalid wife on the third floor back— received few callers, and those who did call were apparently above reproach.

Dave went to detective headquarters and made his report to the sergeant on duty.

“Old man won't be down to-day," said the sergeant, referring to the Chief of Police. “Why don't you rent the empty apartment you spoke of next to Ray's— stick there tighter than wax, and when you hear that song again— pinch your man?”

"I'm right, ain't I? A guy can have two voices, Sarg?"

"Y—es, s'pose so."

"One voice heavy— an' th' other sweet as a bird's?"

"Sure, Old Plug!"

DAVE borrowed some additional cartridges from the armory-clerk, got breakfast, and went to the apartment where, after seeing the agent, he installed himself one window away from Charles Ray's rear outlook.

The precautions taken by the detective to secure the apartment were sufficient to lead him to believe that no one in the building, including Ray and his wife, knew that a watcher was anywhere in their vicinity.

Once settled, the policeman communicated with headquarters by telephone, and had some furniture —a bed, blankets, chairs and some much-needed tobacco, sent to him.

He sat through the days and the nights with his ear canted toward the rear window and his lower lip sagging beneath the weight of a briar pipe made distinctive by a broken stem.

Ray’s apartment had no fire-escape at the back. Old Dave’s had. After inspecting it, he decided he could climb out on this fire-escape, reach for a water-spout, swing, and land on the sill of Ray’s window, if such a course should be necessary.

Old Dave considered the problem of searching the suspect’s rooms for evidence, but dismissed this idea. The thing to do, he decided, was to wait until he heard the song, Ave Maria.

A BRACE of headquarters men, on instructions sent over the phone by Old Dave, watched the Stag Hotel and succeeded in finding out who Ray’s companion’s were. Both the men whom Old Dave had forced to sing in the barroom were reformed crooks who had settled down at honest work.

The sergeant at detective headquarters told Dave to stick it out. "Chief's waiting for you to catch the Connover Bank robber," he said. "It'll be a big thing for the department.”

“Damn th’ department," thought Old Dave. “I’ve waited nine days an’ my bird hasn’t sung a single note.”

Dave grew familiar with everything that went on in Ray’s apartment. He saw a doctor come and go away. He counted the milk bottles in the hall. He slyly watched the washing that was hung on a clothes-line that ran to a pole in the back yard.

Some of this washing was undoubtedly feminine. Old Dave's thatched eyes regarded silk stockings, kimonos, fluffy muslins and gauzy laces of good texture.

"I'm on a dead card," he concluded when ten days passed without any song from Ray.

He had seen the suspect any number of times. Ray had a habit of looking at the back-yards and at the same time smoking a cigarette. Old Dave concluded that the invalid wife could not stand the smoke.

There was a worried look on Ray's face that Old Dave did not exactly fathom. Lines crossed his forehead and stayed there. The doctor came more often. Medicine was sent from a neighboring corner drug store.

Often during the week, Ray left the apartment and walked toward town, but Old Dave did not follow him. He felt sure his quarry would come back.

“I'll get you yet," concluded the detective after he had spent three hours listening for the sound of voices in Ray's back room. "You're a clever guy, but I've waited seventeen years an' I guess I can wait ten more if I have to.”

One sweltering night Ray came to the window, lifted it higher, moved aside the clothes on the line, and started fanning air into the apartment with a palm-leaf fan. Old Dave heard him ask:

“Is that better, Alice?”

A woman’s weak voice answered in the affirmative.

A BELL in a church struck twelve slow notes. Old Dave leaned through the curtains and listened. The suspect was talking with the woman. Her answers were pathetically frail. Ray’s voice was heavy— vibrant.

Slowly Old Dave laid his pipe on a chair, kicked off his shoes, eyed the fire-escape and the back-yards, and climbed over the sill until he stood, in trousers and shirt, at the nearest point to Ray’s window, which was fully opened.

The Old Plug’s weight sagged the slats of the fire-escape. He breathed deeply and thrust his head over the iron railing. He reached for the water- spout and gripped it with both hands. The police-regulation .44 dragged down his right hip pocket.

He strained his ears in the endeavor to overhear Ray's conversation with his wife. He heard the clink of a medicine bottle against a thin glass, and the gurgle of liquid being poured.

“Alice, won't you try to drink this?" urged the voice of the suspected man.

Old Dave was in danger of overbalancing. He shifted his weight and looked into the yard.

“Charles,” said the woman. "Charles—"

"Yes, Alice.”

"I'm going. I haven't—any—breath—"

“I'll get the doctor."

"N—o. Don’t leave me— I’m—”

“Here, take this, Alice—please.”

"N—o. I don’t want anything. I— Charles— Put your arms back o' me. That’s it. Now, sing something to me. Sing— Ave Maria— like you used to sing it— Oh, so—long—ago—"

OLD DAVE secured a fresh hold on the water-spout, shifted his stockinged foot on the fire- escape’s rail, reached forth the other foot, felt his toes touch the window-sill, and swung with a twirling motion.

Balancing himself by gripping the window-frame, he ducked his head beneath the sash, swept aside a swaying curtain and stepped into a kitchen. 5

Drawing his revolver, he tiptoed over cold linoleum toward a door beyond which showed a lamp, a bed, and a leaning figure supporting the frail body of a woman who was more like a child than a wife.

Old Dave heard Ray's voice singing Ave Maria. Clear the notes were— like a silver bell’s. It was the same voice he had heard in Stag Hotel Number Two and— in the Connover Bank Building.

He thrust forth his revolver.

A look, caught from the dying woman's eyes—a flash of soul that struck over Ray's shoulder— reached within and melted the Old Plug's heart.

There was understanding in that expiring spark— and a mute appeal. It was as if all the woman's life, that was ebbing, welled forth to exact a promise from Old Dave.

He saw her quivering in Ray's long arms. Then the song died, note by note.

OLD DAVE stepped backward  noiselessly, brushed aside the window curtain, pocketed his “smoke-wagon,” climbed upon the sill, and reached for the fire-escape’s rail.

He crossed the gap, knocked over his pipe, when he stumbled against a chair, strode through the bare apartment and lifted the receiver from the telephone-hook in the hall.

“Say,” he said, when he was connected with detective headquarters. “Say, Sarg.... Dave talking Yes, th’ Old Plug. Say— nothin’ a-tall to that Ray affair. I’m movin’ away. Ray ain't th’ man... do I know? Why— I just know— that’s all, Sarg!’

__________________

14: The Trail of Jeopardy

H. Bedford-Jones

1887-1949

Short Stories  25 Dec 1926

THE Gaulois was only half a day from Havre, her voyage all but over, when Ogilvy noticed something wrong in packing his kit-bag for shore.

His passport had vanished.

Assured that it was gone from the side pocket of his bag, together with his letter of credit and his travelers' cheques, Ogilvy shut the cabin door, sat down, lighted his pipe, and reflected. Then he rang for the steward, and sent him for the purser. This was like Ogilvy— he had his own way of doing things.

The purser arrived, his whiskers freshly pomaded and brushed, and shook hands warmly. He liked Ogilvy, as did most of the officers aboard; this young American spoke good French, had won the Legion of Honor in the French air service, and was also a war correspondent—a combination absolutely unbeatable from the French point of view.

"Well, my friend?" said the purser, when he was seated.

"Not at all well," said Ogilvy. "My passport, letter of credit, and checks have been stolen within the past three hours. They were here this morning."

The purser stiffened, his eyes widened, and he uttered a tragic, "Oh! La, la!" Then he began to question. Ogilvy took it much more calmly than he did, in fact.

Ogilvy usually took things calmly. He was tall, dark, rather saturnine at times; not of the ballyhoo correspondent type but rather chary of his opinions, and was somewhat noted for being perpetually in hot water somewhere or somehow— and enjoying it.

"Take it easy, now," he observed. "First, it isn't the steward, because I happen to have known him in the service, and he's a fine chap. Rule him out."

"Your room-mate—"

"Is a Brooklyn Jew, a student at the Sorbonne, and a remarkably good sort," said John Ogilvy. "Rule him out."

"But, m'sieu! Whom do you suspect?"

"Not a soul," said Ogilvy cheerfully. "If you raise a rumpus over this, it means a  lot of fourth-rate publicity and nothing gained. If you keep quiet, we may get somewhere, There's nothing lost, exactly. Send a radio at once to Paris, Havre and Washington regarding the passport; that's up to the consulates, and I can get an emergency passport at Paris. Radio my bank regarding the letter of credit and checks, I've plenty of cash for the present."

The purser nodded, lighted a cigarette, and frowned.

"You suspect no one?" he said again.

"No." Ogilvy puffed at his pipe. "Somebody wanted the passport to help him get ashore at Havre. He took the checks and letter of credit to make it look like robbery. Therefore, it is someone who looks enough like me to get by on the passport. Now, if you'll observe, I'm very ordinary in appearance. I know a dozen men aboard here who could pass the passport window on my picture and never be stopped."

"Your consulate at Havre will have a man there," said the purser, "when we land. Our officials will be on watch. Whoever presents your passport will be arrested."

Ogilvy shook his head, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"No chance. Only a fool would try that, and it was no fool who pulled off this little stunt. He may alter the passport; he may not present it at Havre at all, but may use it later; he'll know, of course, that inside twenty-four hours that particular passport will mean arrest for the bearer unless it's altered. Where he may plan to use it, is in other ways."

The purser nodded to this. Passport bureaus and consulates would be on the lookout, but banks, post offices, the dozen other places where identification by means of a passport is necessary in France, would be easily taken in. Particularly by an American passport, for to American tourists all the rules are off.

"What do you want done, then?" asked the purser.

"Nothing. I can get ashore without a passport— have done it before, by means of this," and Ogilvy touched the ribbon of the Legion in his buttonhole. "You and the captain both know me, and so do one or two of the officials at Le Havre."

The two men were silent for a space. As Ogilvy said, without a clue to work on, any search was sure to be futile. The thief might not even look like Ogilvy; might be a woman, for that matter, intending the passport for use by a third party.

"Someone who knew you, perhaps?" asked the purser reflectively.

"I fancy not. I'm down in the passport as traveling for pleasure and business; he might not know I was a correspondent, at take me for a simple tourist. That's w—"

Ogilvy checked himself, but not soon enough. The other regarded him sharply.

"Ah! That's why you do suspect somebody, eh?"

"No. Suspicion needs some sure base." Ogilvy smiled, and his wide-mouthed, friendly grin was good to see, "It just popped into my head, that's all, and I don't intend naming any names."

"Then I shall merely send the radios?"  The purser shrugged. "Give me the number of the passport and I'll attend to it."

Ogilvy complied.

Half an hour later, he sauntered into the smoking room, sought a corner table where two other men sat, and nodded.

"Exact to the minute, as usual!" one of them said, laughing. "You haven't seen Marmont?"

Ogilvy dropped into a chair and picked up the cards.

"He'll be along— there he is, now! Cut for deal."

The fourth approached, bowed smilingly, and took the vacant chair. He was easily the most distinguished of the four in appearance— one of the most distinguished men aboard, in fact. He was French-Hungarian, an exiled noble of Hungary domiciled in France; tall, dark, proudly handsome, he was instinct with courtesy and had a winning smile which made friends for him on all sides. It was generally understood he had been in the diplomatic service. He seemed little over thirty-five, of extremely powerful build, and was an excellent bridge player.

It was this man whom Ogilvy half suspected— without any real basis. Since Ogilvy very rarely named himself as a newspaperman, preferring the rôle of tourist, Marmont had no reason to guess the fact. Certainly the thief did not know it, for in France a journalist of any standing is not a man to be lightly played with. He can usually pull too many strings.

These four men had played together frequently in the past few days, having gravitated out of the mass as is the ship-board custom. One was an elderly manufacturer from Chicago— a good hand at the game, but otherwise with little personality. Not so Keene, however, the fourth of the quartette. A hard-bitten man of fifty, Keene had been all over the world and had done everything, spoke half a dozen languages, and now very frankly made a large living in the racing game. He played polo and had a horse-raising outfit in India for the game, and was now on a leisurely return to the Far East after a year spent at home. Crude in some ways, he was in others astonishingly cultured, and Ogilvy had long since marked him down as that rarest of men—utterly dependable and a good sport.

A rubber finished, they ordered drinks while waiting for the second dinner-call, and settled up. The manufacturer departed in search of his family, and the other three at once settled into last-night intimacy. Cards were exchanged, and Ogilvy perceived that Marmont was a count— which did not prepossess him in the least.

"You are both going to Paris?" queried Marmont, in his fluent English.

"I have business there in three days," Keene nodded. "Then I may come back to Le Touquet and Deauville for a swing around the racing circuit— it's about the end of the season and I'd like to hit the Grand Prix at Deauville. No telling, though."

Marmont glanced at Ogilvy

"And you to Paris?" he questioned.

"I'm not sure," said Ogilvy. "I may have to meet a man in Havre, and may drift up or down the coast, depending on business."

"Well," said Marmont warmly, "I have an old chalet down Villers way— not far from Deauville, you know— and shall be there for the rest of the summer. If either of you come that way I shall be honored to have you visit me; we usually have a gay time of it, and I can promise you an entertaining stay. Wire me at Villers—no other address is necessary—and I'll meet you at Deauville with the car. We might make a party of it for the Grand Prix, eh? Be sure, now! I'll look forward to it?'

So hearty was his invitation, so sincere were his level, humorous eyes and his warm words that there was no doubting his friendliness. For an instant Ogilvy felt shame for his suspicions; then he steeled himself. He had a rather hard view of most people, did John Ogilvy, and inclined to a cynical criticism of too profuse friendship.

Marmont rose and swung lithely away to dress, promising to see them later. Ogilvy fingered his glass and glanced after him, then was surprised by a sharp word from Keene.

"Well?"

He started, and for a moment locked eyes with the other. In that pock-marked, aquiline countenance, with the thick lips and masterful eyes and strong keen nose, he read a strange comprehension. Keene was smiling at him— had somehow read his thoughts.

"You don't like him?"

"Yes and no," Ogilvy nodded. "Anyone would like him, but I seldom give way to likings."

"So I've noticed," Keene grinned. "He's a good scout, but up in the air. Said his wife had left, him a year or two ago—probably had reason. Believe me, that bird is a deep one, a hell of a lot deeper than he looks on the surface! He talks a lot about himself, but says not a word. You don't talk, and say less. Newspaperman?"

Ogilvy nodded.

"Hm!" said Keene. "I'd set you down as pilot, now— flyer, I mean. You're the type."

That used to be my line," confessed Ogilvy. "Crashed and I lost my nerve for it, somehow. Here's how!"

"How," said Keene, and finished his drink. "You and I— we get on, eh? How long you going to be in Havre?"

Ogilvy looked at him for a moment.

"No telling, as you said. I may be there a day or a week. I rather think I'll put straight over to Deauville, though."

"You damned bird-dog!" exclaimed Keene admiringly. "Oh, you don't fool me— you're on a trail, I know you! Tell you what I'll do, I'II be at loose ends for a fortnight if I stop over for the Grand Prix. None of these other races are worth a damn, but I'll bring back a line of hot stuff from Paris on the big one at Deauville. Be back Monday. If you feel like it, look in at the Hotel Fonduc in Trouville— it's a little hole but comfortable, and cheap— on Monday night about seven, and we'll go out and do the show. If you don't feel like it, then don't. Ta-ta! See you later."

With this, Keene rose and was gone. Ogilvy glanced after him, smiling a little.

ii

THE boat docked early in the morning, and Ogilvy, who had expected some little trouble, found himself the first passenger to step ashore. The chief of the passport bureau was on hand, summoned by officials of the line, and when Ogilvy had thoroughly established his identity, he scrawled his name on a document and was through. With the slightly bored courtesy of the French official, the chief shook his hand, welcomed him to France, and bade him go.

"So much for wearing a red ribbon in my button-hole!" thought Ogilvy, and took his kit-bag in to the customs shed, where he had finished in five minutes.

Evading the eager porters, eager for the money of tourists who pay ten times the proper charges, Ogilvy turned aside from the waiting boat-train in the long shed, and sought one of the taxicabs outside. On all of these the tops were down, French fashion. Ogilvy selected one, took the driver aside, gave him a cigarette, and confided in him.

"Look you, mon gars— there is a man whom I would follow, you comprehend? Put up the top of your cab, then we can post ourselves down the street at the end of the sheds, where one turns for downtown. I think he will go to the Quai de Southampton, for the Trouville boat; but let us wait and see."

"Ah!" said the driver, and winked broadly. "A jealous husband, eh?"

"Not a bit of it," said Ogilvy, and returned the wink. "Shall we say— a rival?"

Thus put into an excellent humor the chauffeur raised the top of his cab, Ogilvy entered, and presently they drew away from the line of taxicabs and private vehicles. The landing quay was at some distance from the town proper, and after a moment the driver halted the car just around a sharp turn. Here Marmont would either bear off to the left, if bound for Trouville, or would go on downtown if heading for the town itself.

Presently taxies and victorias began to file past. Ogilvy watched them narrowly. He had no definite reason for his present action, and indeed was proceeding in a very vague fashion, content to follow his hunch and see what turned up. If Marmont had a chateau down the coast at Villers, he would be known in Havre, and Ogilvy wanted some information about the man. As he waited, he reflected on Keene's invitation. Today was Friday— well, why not? He liked Keene. If Monday found him in Deauville, he might keep that appointment.

"There's our man!" Ogilvy tapped on the window, the driver nodded, the car moved. It wheeled: into line behind that of Marmont— no easy task, for there was now a solid stream of vehicles leaving the quay.

Marmont looked extremely pleased to be back in France, beaming on all around. As usual, he was impeccably dressed and groomed, and had a good deal of baggage heaped on and around his taxicab. His driver turned to the right and headed for the town. Passing the wide gardens of the Hotel de Ville, the first car halted before a little dram-shop in a dirty and obscure street. Marmont got out, took one of his suitcases, and entered the place. It was anything but a choice establishment, being a hang-out of chauffeurs.

Ogilvy's driver went on to the next corner, turned up the street, turned around and came back, and waited. Almost immediately Marmont's car passed— the count must have taken in the suitcase and then left at once. Now his taxi headed back to the square at the end of the yacht-basin, and turned down for the Quai de Southampton. At the shed devoted to the Trouville-Deauville ferry, he alighted with all his baggage. One of the little black steamers that plied across the Seine estuary was waiting, and Marmont hustled aboard.

Having discovered this much, Ogilvy paid off his own driver, took his bag, and settled himself over coffee and rolls in a corner of a nearby restaurant. He waited there, and saw the Trouville boat depart with Marmont perched in all his glory on the solitary first-class deck. Then he relaxed and began to reflect on the situation. Why had Marmont dumped that one suitcase at the anything-but-respectable dram-shop?

Ogilvy found it worth pondering. He knew what queer things might happen in this town. Le Havre is a survival of the days when packet rats afloat were the prime seamen of the world, and ashore were the veriest dregs of humanity. There is nothing cheerful about the dull gray city; it holds-an aspect of neglect and hopeless dreariness and grime, while its Norman folk are noted for their incivility.

Along the byways of the town may be seen odd human flotsam. Battered fair-haired Scandinavians two by two, seaman's duffle-bags over shoulder, purplish bruises and old scars marking faces and warped hands; negroes from Senegal or Virginia, dungarees oil-smeared, teeth flashing white with gay impudence and brotherhood of man; lagging wrecks drifting about the quays, brown Algerines, huge side-shouldered slouchers with dirty fez and a bundle of gaudy rugs and mangy furs, and sorrowful-eyed Hindus. The tiny, narrow streets are lined with boozing dens, the doorways know blowsy, beckoning women; here are money-changers and pallid, furtive-eyed men with faces of preying birds, and worse.

This town is a center for many things— sea-trade, traffic with America and England, the coast resorts lying all around— and is on the line between Paris and London and New York. Havre in the west, like Marseilles in the south, has its finger on the very pulse of France.

"Why not?" Ogilvy laughed suddenly. "What's the use of a hunch if you don't follow it? Take a chance, you poor fish, take a chance!"

He paid for his breakfast, arranged to leave his bag here until the next boat for the twin ports across the bay, and set off uptown at a rapid, swinging pace.

Retracing the course followed by his taxi, he presently sighted the chauffeurs' hang-out. He went straight to it, and much to his satisfaction found it empty of clients. The woman behind the bar gave him a greeting as he entered, and Ogilvy, playing the Frenchman, made answer.

"Good morning, madame! A café fine, if you please, and then we'll relieve you of the suitcase and be on our way."

Mechanically drawing his coffee, the woman checked herself, gave him a sharp look, then called for "Jules!" From the rear appeared an unkempt, red-haired Norman, who regarded Ogilvy suspiciously.

"So!" he observed, with Norman abruptness. "Of what suitcase is it a question?"

Ogilvy smiled cheerfully at him.

"Sacred name of a dog! Were you not told to expect me?"

"No," growled the other. "Unless you are the maggot and have changed your skin since we last met!"

For an instant Ogilvy was stumped, despite his thrill at finding his main conjecture correct. The maggot! A nickname?

No— suddenly he remembered his Parisian slang, and laughed heartily at his own denseness.

"Maggot?" he repeated, leaning over the bar and fingering his glass. "Not yet, my old one! There is nothing of the Chinaman about Georges Picard, I assure you! Here's to you, madame, with my compliments."

The Norman's scowl did not lighten as Ogilvy drank his coffee.

"Exactly," he said. "There is nothing of a maggot about you, my Georges Picard, and I never heard of you before. Certainly, the master did not mention you.'

"How should he, when he has been in America?" said Ogilvy. Then he regarded the other seriously. "Listen, mon gars! I am in a hurry, for I have to catch the rapide for Paris and there is not too much time. Here's the master's card, if that will convince you. If it won't, then I shall go direct across the bay to the master and hand in a report on you that will make somebody's hair curl. So trot out the suitcase or take the consequences!"

Ogilvy tossed Count de Marmont's card down the bar with a flourish.

The Norman read it, and nodded heavily. Obviously this Georges Picard had been sent— did he not know the master, did he not have Marmont's card and know all about him and where he was? It was certainly all right.

"One moment," growled the Norman, and shuffled into the rear room.

Ogilvy lighted a cigarette, and not a trace of his inward excitement showed itself in his lean, large-boned features. Nothing venture, nothing win! He had plunged on a wild guess, and apparently had won. Marmont might have smuggled something past the customs— no matter, He was known as "the master," and therefore was clearly the head of a gang, and this gang comprised at least one Chinaman.

Thus ran suspicion. After all, the whole game might be an innocent one. Marmont might be leaving the suitcase for a Chinese servant to pick up and take to a friend. There were a dozen possible explanations, but all of them were discounted by the low character of this dram-shop. A gentleman of Marmont's appearance would certainly choose another rendezvous unless there were something shady going on. Ogilvy chuckled at thought of Keene— how that hard-bitten rascal would enjoy such a game as this!

Two men sauntered in, greeted the lady behind the bar, and lined up for drinks.

They were not chauffeurs, but workmen of a sort, as their baggy corduroys and red sashes indicated; from the fact that they were in no hurry and evidently not at work, Ogilvy's alert brain took sharp warning. He was rather relieved when the Norman appeared, carrying the same suitcase which Marmont had deposited here earlier.

As he set down the grip, he shoved Marmont's card back at Ogilvy.

"Sign it," he growled.

Was this a test? It was hard to say. Very likely the gang, if there were one, had some secret system of numbers or names. Ogilvy wagged his head with a knowing wink.

"Sign the honest name of Georges Picard?" he said, knowing that the others were drinking in every word. "Name of a black dog— I am no such fool! No, no, il pleut!'

And taking the card, he scrawled across it the nickname of "Le Minuit"—thieves' argot for "The Nigger"— a name which might easily be applied to him because of his dark compexion. The Norman glanced at it and nodded with an air of satisfaction. Once more, Ogilvy had scored a bull's-eye with his scraps of slang.

He shook hands with the Norman and his wife, while the others watched' him curiously, then picked up the suitcase and departed.

He found the suitcase unexpectedly heavy and started for the Hotel de Ville to get a tram, then changed his intention. Beyond doubt, he would be followed— therefore he must go to the railroad station as though heading for Paris. So, instead of hopping the down-bound tram, he struck one bound for the station and climbed aboard.

Ogilvy knew perfectly welt that he dared not take any chances at the present stage of the game; he was, as yet, absolutely in the dark on many heads, and needed information. So he inquired as to the Paris express, found it left in ten minutes, bought a ticket, passed through the gates to the platform—and then promptly doubled on his tracks. He emerged through the side entrance of the restaurant, found a taxicab ten feet away, and climbed in.

"American Express," he said, and then bent over in order to conceal himself until the taxi had left the station square.

Five minutes later he climbed out and paid the driver. Instead of entering the building before him, he turned away from the wide open space before the Bourse, crossed the bridge spanning the basin where ships were closely laid up, and then plunged through the waterfront section beyond. He came out on the Quai de Southampton, feeling certain that his tracks had been lost, and hurried on to the restaurant where he had left his bag.

The big blackboard at the wharf entrance across the street told him that the next ferry left in fifteen minutes. He ordered an aperitif, drank it, then departed. Once aboard the boat he ensconced himself in the second-class cabin, out of sight from the quay above, and settled down to wait. He was tempted to open Marmont's suitcase, but refrained.

The boat was comfortably crowded when she worked her way out past the fishing craft and mole, until she left the harbor behind and headed for the green hills on the other side of the Seine estuary, on her forty-minute trip. From the depths appeared an old hag, clad in black, with the usual lace cap of Normandy. She was serving coffee, and Ogilvy ordered a cup, which she brought him after a time, with crescent rolls. As it was boiling hot, Ogilvy laid it aside for the moment.

He smoked for a little, ironically watching the cabin empty, for the craft was catching a heavy Atlantic swell, and was rolling badly, so that the rails were quickly lined with unhappy mortals paying their debt to Neptune. After a time Ogilvy sipped his coffee, and found it vile— so strong as to have an acrid taste. However, he put it down, left his two grips, and strolled out for a glance at a fishing lugger bound up for Rouen.

And as he stood there, he glimpsed a red-sashed man up forward on the barred-off third class portion of the deck.

Ogilvy turned and leaned over the rail, startled. He recognized the figure instantly. It was one of the pseudo-work-men he had seen in the dram-shop. Either he was being shadowed with astonishing skill, or this was a chance encounter— the man might be going to Deauville for any one of a score of reasons, perhaps to seek Marmont.

Almost on the heels of the thought, Ogilvy had his answer. This came in a sudden swirl of giddiness, gone at once— but here was enough to give him sharp alarm. Instinctively he knew he was less clever than he had deemed; he had been shadowed after all, and the bitter taste of that coffee—

Reacting at once to the least divergence from his normal state of perfect physical well-being, Ogilvy did not hesitated. He knew he had been drugged; unless he acted swiftly, he was lost. So he rammed fingers down throat, and leaned far over the rail— and remained there a good five minutes. He was so placed, however, that from the corner of his eye he could keep watch on the cabin where his grips reposed.

When he had done the best he could for himself, Ogilvy staggered in, got his two bags, brought them out in the open, and sat on them. He was feeling as though he had been dragged through a knot-hole, his senses were all swimming, and his legs were weak; the drug must have been powerful to act so rapidly. With an effort he took stock of the situation. The little steamer was nearing the end of her trip.

As it was low tide, she could not enter the Trouville harbor, and was heading for the long pier a mile to the east, on the other side of the town. She turned slowly and drifted in under the high steel frame-work; lines were flung and made fast, the gangplank was presently in place, and the passengers began to file ashore, presenting their tickets as they left.

Ogilvy stayed where he was until the worst of the shoving throng was gone, then rose and forced himself to the effort. It was a tremendous one, for his head was reeling, his brain had nearly lost coherence, and he seemed to have gone to pieces physically. Only by summoning up every atom of will-power did he manage to get across the gangplank with his two legs. There faced him the steep climb to the wharf above. He negotiated the narrow iron steps slowly, yet for all his condition he had kept track of the red-sashed workman. He saw that the man had waited, also, and was now following him with a negligent air. No question about it all now! Somehow the man must be got rid of. Ogilvy groaned to himself, but faced the problem squarely. The man was waiting for him to collapse, and he certainly would collapse if he did not get to bed in a hurry. The drug must have gone through his whole system most viciously to leave him in such condition.

Now he was up on the wharf, a long file of people streaming ahead of him toward shore where carriages and taxicabs were waiting. He took a few steps, then staggered and set down the grips. Turning, he found the workman close behind him. Ogilvy, gray-faced, appealed to him.

"My friend, will you give me a lift? I'm very ill—"

"Of course, of course!" exclaimed the other heartily. "Give me the bag, m'sieu—now put your arm around my neck and lean on me—so! Lean well. My faith, I am no weakling!"

Ogilvy complied, and thus they slowly proceeded toward shore. The workman looked well pleased with himself— more so than he would have done had he known John Ogilvy's mind.

iii

OGILVY knew that he must win or lose everything at one blow, and faced the ordeal grimly enough, hanging on by sheer will-power.

Leaning heavily on the workman, staggering as he pulled himself along, he found the end of the pier in sight. Half a dozen taxi drivers were beckoning and shouting. He selected one, motioned, and the man sprang forward to take the bags. Ogilvy followed to his car, which was on open touring model, and turned to the workman.

"M'sieu, perhaps you'll accompany me?"

"With the greatest of pleasure!" replied the other, eagerly enough. Ogilvy motioned him in, seized the car door to steady himself, and looked at the driver.

"I am ill— I need air," he said. "Drive out a little way along the coast road, then back to town."

The driver assented, helped him in, and Ogilvy collapsed on the cushions. The workman at his side quite obviously considered all this a providential occurrence.

The car started up, gained the highway leading from town along the shore, turned into it, and everyone was happy; the chauffeur, for his extra fare, the workman, for the way Ogilvy was playing into his hands, and the American, for the impression of extreme exhaustion he had conveyed. He was badly off enough, but not nearly so badly as he appeared.

Within half a mile they reached a deserted spot with no chalet in sight, the long reaches of black rocks studding the exposed shore to the left. Ogilvy, bracing himself, saw the workman gazing off across the sparkling waters toward the Havre headland, and loosed his blow. His fist took the man accurately at the angle of the heavy jaw, and the workman limply collapsed. Ogilvy tapped on the glass, the driver glanced around, and then put on his brakes.

"Mon Dieu m'sieu, what has happened!" he exclaimed, staring at the senseless figure.

"Listen to me," said Ogilvy curtly. "This man was one of a gang that tried to rob me, you comprehend? They misjudged their prey. Now if I turn him over to the police, you and I will both be questioned and caused trouble. So I propose that we leave him here beside the road and let it end there. Speak up— yes or no? If you refuse, go to the prefecture of police and turn him in."

Naturally, the driver was only too anxious to escape the red-tape and inquisitions of a police inquiry; moreover, his hesitation was dispelled by sight of a hundred-franc note which Ogilvy was fingering. So, making sure no other car was in sight, he offered no further protest but opened a door, lifted out the body of the workman, made sure the man was no more than stunned, and set him beside the road. Then he leaped back to his seat, swung the car around, and headed back for Trouville at his best pace.

Ogilvy gazed out across the sands at the gaily colored tents and umbrellas on the beach near the casino, and with a last effort of will kept himself in hand. He was, now that the crisis had passed, gradually failing, and recurrent vertigo seized upon him. As the car approached the cathedral, he sighted by pure chance, the sign of a small hotel on a side street up the hill— the Hotel Fonduc. Swiftly, he tapped on the glass. "Stop! I'll get out here." The chauffeur obeyed, then protested. M'sieu was obviously ill— and the bags were—

Ogilvy shook his head, paid the promised fee, then stood beside his bags until the car had departed on toward the casino. The final spurt remained before him, and he managed it somehow— but when he reached the little hotel he was staggering, and stars were dancing before his eyes.

He did not argue over the price of a room, but made out the regulation police card and then followed his host, who bore the bags. He found himself taken to a large, neat corner room, and he himself as well pleased.

"I was very seasick crossing from Havre," he said, "and I must sleep— perhaps until tomorrow morning. Do not disturb me. I'll ring when I want anything."

"Very good, m'sieu— our good Trouville air will soon put you in shape!"

Alone, Ogilvy locked the door; then leaned against it, trembling, reeling. He jerked off hat and coat, tried to undress— and collapsed across the bed.

When he opened his eyes again darkness was falling; the day had gone. He sat up, and immediately fell back under an access of giddiness while pain darted through him. He did not doubt now that but for his prompt action he would have been dead; no ordinary knockout drops would have thus affected him. It was an alarming thought, but he wasted no time on it— he managed to undress, and then crawled into bed. He was asleep almost at once.

He wakened again, to find the sun up— morning had come and half gone. When he rose, he found himself better, but extremely shaky. He rang for his breakfast, bathed and shaved, and after a bite to eat, got out his pipe and reviewed the situation,

"This bird traced me to the station, then to the Trouville boat, and knew I had tricked them regarding the suitcase," he reflected. "Then what? He arranged with the old dame on the boat to fix my coffee, and did it with a heavy hand. He was taking no chances. Well, we've established the fact that Count Marmont is at the head of a cheerful bunch of cut-throats— and nothing else. Now for the grip."

He pulled out Marmont's grip and attacked it. The affair was a cheap one, poorly constructed— not at all the sort which a customs officer would search, especially when his palm was greased. Besides which, as Ogilvy knew, American tourists were not bothered by the customs people unless some under-tipped porter drew down the official notice.

Thus, finding the suitcase locked, Ogilvy attacked it and speedily wrenched out the flimsily riveted fastenings on either side, He flung back the lid, then stared down at the contents, brows wrinkled in astonishment.

The suitcase was filled with soiled clothes.

Ogilvy broke out laughing. Shirts, pajamas, handkerchiefs, collars—his hand rumpled up the articles, and amusement seized on him. Here he had expended wits and strategy, had all but lost his life, over a suitcase filled with Count de Marmont's dirty linen awaiting the wash! No wonder it had been left at the dram-shop —probably it was to be taken to some particular blanchisseuse.

"But Chinamen don't do washing in France," reflected Ogilvy, and his frown returned.

He untied the strips of cloth holding the contents of the suitcase in place, and ruthlessly tumbled out the articles. His half-suspicion was startlingly verified. Something dropped to the floor—he was looking at the dark green folder of his own passport! And now the cloth-lined bottom of the suitcase—yet not the bottom, surely! Too shallow for that

Five minutes later, John Ogilvy leaned back, relighted his pipe, and regarded the row of little boxes on the table before him. They had been exhumed from the false bottom of the suitcase, and he was filled with admiration for the ingenuity of Marmont—not as to the false bottom, but 'the affair as a whole. '

Slight attention is paid by the customs to the tourists who arrive from America, and the chances were ten thousand to one against any customs searcher giving a grip filled with soiled things a second glance, even if he opened it at all. As for considering that such a bag could have a false bottom, that was out of the question. The French have no organized system of rewards and reports such as the American government puts into play on its returning tourists, and Marmont could carry the thing off with practically no danger whatever.

It paid him well, too, since the French levy a high duty on precious stones. Ogilvy whistled in astonishment as he eyed the contents of the little boxes— unset stones of all descriptions, but none of them negligible; diamonds in platinum settings, tiny watch-bracelets, and one necklace of blazing sapphires whose sheer beauty held him spellbound. He examined one or two of the articles, found where names had been engraved and later erased, and sat back to figure it out

"Why would he jeopardize this batch of stuff for the sake of stealing a passport?" he cogitated. "Of course, a passport would be of prime value in the hands of a crook over here, and perhaps Marmont has particular need for such an article at the moment; or one of his outfit might need it, Hm! He's certainly the head of an organization."

As for the stones, these explained everything. They must undoubtedly be the loot of some American gang, stones too valuable to be easily disposed of at home. Marmont had taken them over, perhaps for a French syndicate, and after smuggling them into France could turn them over at good profit. There was the thing in a nutshell.

"How does it affect me?" thought Ogilvy, "I've got the loot, and there's going to be a large slice of hell raised over its disappearance, I don't want it particularly, but there's sure to be a large reward for it, and I want that reward, What's more— look at the front page story, exclusive with John Ogilvy! I'll bet the count has been dined and wined by half the would-be society in New York, too. What'll I do with the stuff?"

It was a poser. Ogilvy was not at all the sort to hand over conscientiously every lost umbrella he found to the police, but he had no desire to retain the jewels of other people. If he turned in these stones, the first thing he would be up against would be an inquiry as to how he got them, and he had no intention of explaining. He wanted to keep the whole thing tight until he could get the story on the wire. If he called in the police this would be impossible.

The thing to do, then, was to cable his New York paper, briefly describing the stones, let them take up the matter with the police, using their influence at home and in Paris to keep the story exclusive— and await developments, which should come within a day or so. To go over to Deauville and find the cable office meant the risk of being seen and recognized by Marmont's gang, who g were undoubtedly moving heaven and earth to find him; but this risk must be run.

So much for the stones, but what about himself? He was in no shape to run down the story, as he realized when he began to dress. Once Marmont located him, recognized him as the man who had relieved him of the
loot, it would be war; sharp and deadly.

Perhaps he had already been traced to this hotel.

Glancing around the room, Ogilvy went to the old-fashioned washstand in the corner, pulled out its bottom drawer, piled the little boxes in it, and shut it again. This must serve for the present. Then he dressed, alarmed by his own weakness and lack of energy, and after replacing the soiled clothes in Marmont's suitcase, took it and left the hotel.

In five minutes he reached the line of waiting carriages beside the cathedral, and hired one to take him to the station. He chucked in the suitcase, settled back on the cushions, and was soon rolling along the main street of Trouville, with the walled river-channel on his right. Crossing the bridge, the carriage took him to the side door of the station, and Ogilvy got out.

"Now," he said to the driver, "there is a noon train for Paris, eh? Good. You know the chalet of Count de Marmont, at Viller?"

The driver shrugged.

"One can always find, m'sieu."

"Here's a hundred francs. Drive there and deliver this suitcase at the chalet. Any time this afternoon will do."

The driver nodded, pocketed the money, and turned out of the big enclosure.

After five minutes, Ogilvy hired a taxicab and was taken to the cable office in Deauville, the more aristocratic of the twin resort towns. Here he sent off wires to announce his recovery of the passport, and filed a long cable in code to his own newspaper in New York.

These things took considerable time. When they were finished, noon had arrived. He left the office and made his way to the Potiniére, the café across the street from the casino, where the so-called society of Deauville gathered each day. Ogilvy knew that in this assemblage of actresses, society loafers and pleasure-seekers, he was effectually concealed, so he made himself comfortable at a table beneath the trees, had a drink and a bite to eat, and presently paid his score and sauntered over to the casino. Finding that this would not open up for real business until late in the afternoon, he turned aside to hail a carriage— and things went black.

When he recovered, two men were reviving him and a small crowd had collected. Ogilvy, furious with himself for fainting, realizing that he had miscalculated his strength, was helped into a carriage, and perforce gave the driver the address of his hotel. He had left a trail now which would be impossible to cover, he knew, but there was no help for it.

Twenty minutes later, a touch of fever burning at his temples; he entered the Hotel Fonduc and went to his room. He locked the door, undressed, and crawled into bed after dosing himself copiously with whisky and quinine. In two minutes he was fast asleep. He wakened in midafternoon, found himself bathed in a profuse sweat, turned over and went to sleep again.

At seven that evening he wakened, sat up, and realized that he was extremely hungry. He rose, felt nearly himself, and began to dress. Then he found an envelope that had been shoved under the door, and seized upon it. The reply from New York was to the point:

Get the story. Arranging with Paris prefecture. Congratulations.

Ogilvy grinned, stretched, and threw on his clothes

"Congratulations, eh?" he reflected. "That means it's big stuff and I'll hear more later. Now for dinner and a plan of campaign!"

He need not have worried over the plan of campaign. It was already headed straight for him.

iv

WITHIN half an hour Ogilvy assured himself that the effects of the poison had been thoroughly worked off. He was by no means himself, but another twenty-four hours would see this rectified.

He strolled over to the Trouville casino, far less pretentious than its Deauville sister and catering to the cheaper class of tripper, the bourgeois Parisian, and then along the café-lined square until he came to a brasserie. As it was just the dinner hour, the tables in front were partly occupied, but the corner table at the end of the terrace was empty, and Ogilvy made his way to it.

Fresh from unconventional America, he was anew amused by the stiff dressiness of the French summer resorts, and was watching the people around when a man approached and bowed in the courteous fashion of the country.

"Is m'sieu occupying the entire table?" he asked. "Or may I have his permission to take the opposite chair?"

"By all means," said Ogilvy.

The other seated himself. Waiter and bus appeared, the table was laid, the orders were given. Ogilvy lighted a cigarette, which the Frenchman eyed with the usual compassion of his race for those who spoiled their gustatory organs with smoke before a meal.

He was a tall, immaculately attired gentleman, in white flannels, the highest of high collars, and white spats. In his button-hole were the ribbons of several decorations. His air was severe and lofty; his face grave and dignified. Ogilvy set him down as possibly a lawyer, or even a magistrate.

The two fell into conversation over their meal. M. Bacqueville de Morant proved to be a lawyer of the court of appeals in Paris, and Ogilvy congratulated himself on being a good guesser. Further, M. Bacqueville had a chalet down the coast, but was in Trouville to give his aid in a local court. His car had broken down— an ill to which French cars are heir— in the course of the afternoon, and he was forced to wait until after dinner to return home.

Cards were exchanged. Upon perceiving the miniature Croix on Ogilvy's card, M. Bacqueville thawed perceptibly; he became friendly, even ardent, insisted on touching glasses, and spoke of his warm feelings toward all Americans. He was obviously a man of great culture, highly educated, and mentioned his collection of relics. All Frenchmen are collectors, and M. Bacqueville, it appeared, gathered historic relics; he had recently acquired Marie Antoinette's lace nightcap, and spoke of it with pride.

The coffee and liqueurs appeared, and being somewhat loosened by his bottle of 1906 Vouvray, M. Bacqueville proposed that Ogilvy accompany him to his chalet for the week-end,

"It is only two or three miles down the coast, toward Blonville," he said eagerly. "My car is repaired and waiting; we can be there in ten minutes! It would give me great pleasure to present you to Madame, and she would be charmed to have the honor of your acquaintance! You may return here very easily, whenever you are ready. If you would care to visit the Deauville casino, J have a card to the baccarat rooms—"

Ogilvy scarcely listened to all this, for he instantly perceived the timeliness of this invitation to him personally. By Monday he would be certain to hear from the Paris police, and Keene would also be along on Monday; he rather fancied Keene would make an excellent partner in this affair, and would jump at the chance to get in on it. So, on all counts, he might very well let things rest until Monday, and himself remain out of sight.

"I should be delighted," he responded, "but I shall have to pack a few things to—"

"Good!" exclaimed M. Bacqueville cordially. "I'll get the car and come for you —at a hotel?"

"The Hotel Fonduc."

It was arranged, and after receiving a bow and a handshake, Ogilvy strode off toward his hotel, whistling as he went. Arrived there, he informed the proprietor that he would be absent until Monday, then ascended to his room. A glance showed him that the stones were intact in the drawer, and he first considered taking them with him, then rejected the impulse. Glancing around the room, he went to one of the windows, which faced the hillside behind. Opening this, he found a wide sill outside, and arranged the little boxes there. Screens being unknown in France, and windows opened only in case of necessity, the boxes were as safe as though in a vault.

"Even if I've been seen and traced here, even if they search the room," he reflected, "they'll never find the stuff here! So I'm off, to vanish until Monday."

Two minutes afterward, he left the hotel, bag in hand.

There was but one way Bacqueville could come, turning out of the main street, and when his white figure showed up in a car, Ogilvy was at the corner waiting. Bacqueville stopped, and Ogilvy got in. The car was a two-seater Renault, powerful enough to eat up the hilly roads of Normandy with ease, In two minutes they were thrumming toward the bridge and Deauville; and once out of traffic, Bacqueville opened her up and they went down the long straight stretch toward Blonville at fifty miles an hour.

Ogilvy was astonished at the man's driving. Something in the way he tooled the car did not jibe with his grave dignity— it was more as Ogilvy himself would drive. He had slight time to wonder, however, for when the steep hill showed ahead, the pace slowed and Bacqueville waved his hand toward the left.

"Over there— a charming little place— the turn ahead—"

He made the turn, striking into a narrow little road at a speed that made Ogilvy gasp. For some minutes the car mounted steadily, winding among thick trees, shot over a final grade, and came into sight of a cluster of lights.

"There we are!" exclaimed Bacqueville. "And just under eleven minutes from Deauville, I think. Not so bad, all things considered. Ah, we have guests from Paris, it seems!"

The lights of several cars showed before a long, low building of some size. Off to the left, Ogilvy caught the dark sheen of a small lake. In between high gates they passed, a stone wall on either hand running into darkness, and on up to the house. Bacqueville tooted his horn.

For the first time, Ogilvy's suspicions leaped into life. No ordinary blast of the horn, but an irregular, rhythmic tooting— obviously a signal. On the instant, half a dozen other things occurred to him; notably, why should Bacqueville have remained to dine in Trouville, when any of these other cars might have brought him home— even a hired car?

Too late now; Bacqueville halted, leaving the motor running, and climbed out. A door opened, flooding a flight of steps with light. The long windows, uncurtained, showed glimpses of men and women, and a tinkle of music rippled out.

"Welcome, my friend!" exclaimed Bacqueville, coming around to Ogilvy's side of the car. "Here, let me take your bag."

Ogilvy looked up at the nearest window— he could have sworn that the figure, coming and going again, had been that of Count de Marmont! Then, on the steps, came a man, to whom Bacqueville turned with a word of greeting.

A chinaman!

Swift as light, Ogilvy's wakened brain leaped at the truth. Decoyed, trapped, snared like a foolish bird! What a silly ass he had been!

He acted by sheer instinct— it was a split second of time, a crisis on which everything hinged. Only instinct served now. He struck like a flash for Bacqueville's jaw, and as the Frenchman reeled back, flung himself under the steering wheel, threw in the clutch, threw off the brake, opened up the throttle. The powerful car whirled like a top and roared for the entrance.

From behind came a shot— answer enough to all doubts. The bullet went wide. Next instant Ogilvy was out in the winding road, thrumming along on second speed, shifting swiftly to third, then taking the dip beyond on full high.

Marmont was here, then— the whole gang was here, and he had been fetched along to be recognized, forced to give up the stones, probably murdered in the end! Fool that he had been, to think himself secure with such brains pitted against him! He crouched low, face set in a grim mask, and a snarling smile wrenched at his lips.

"Brains, eh?" he thought. "By George, if they want a fight they'll get it now!"

First it was a run, however. Over the crest, and from behind he caught the roar of an engine. He smiled again, threw in the gas, and took the narrow road like a madman. Drive? Let them try it with him! The night and the road ahead, his faculties all alert again, and untold horsepower at his fingers' ends!

Sickening swoop, wild lurching climb, wild curves—he covered the winding road at full speed, and only slowed for the descent into the highway. Then, for an instant, his mind paused. Which way? Instinct again— instead of turning to the right for Trouville, as he would be expected to do, as he had himself meant to do, he swung sharply to the left and swooped at the steep hill.

Part way up was an abrupt curve. As he neared this, he glanced backward and saw the headlights of a car swerve into the road from the same side road he had followed. Many cars were passing, and he did not bother to switch off his lights. As he had expected, the pursuing car turned in the opposite direction, toward Deauville and Trouville.

Ogilvy laughed, turned again, and changed gears to roar up the hill.

Now what? He knew subconsciously, and it came clearly to him as he reasoned it out. The entire gang was collected here at this chalet. Now that he had vanished, their whole effort would be, first, to find him, and second, to go through his room at the Hotel Fonduc. They were welcome to do that, he reflected. He himself was heading for Villers and Cabourg— and for Marmont's chalet. If the man really had one near Villers, it would be empty.

"They want action, do they?" and Ogilvie chuckled. "All right, let's have it!"

He settled down to his task. He was over the Blonville hill now, shooting down the long descent to the village beyond, whence the road crossed the sand flats to Villers like a ribbon unwound. Ogilvy had once toured through all this section, and now sharp memory of it swept back to him.

He slowed for the dangerous corner at the village, opened up again, and shot like an arrow for Villers. The speedometer quivered— thirty kilometers— forty— seventy— then eighty— a mad thing hurtled through the early night across the ribbon of macadam. The spurt ended when the straggling cottages of Villers swept up on either hand, and next moment Ogilvy was speeding along the esplanade and slowing for the hill and town beyond.

Fortunately, he knew exactly where to go here for information. Reaching the square of the town, he swung the car aside, left it, and turned to the café that served as headquarters and stop for the motorbus lines. Any inquiries elsewhere would be dangerous, but Marmont would never ask here.

In two minutes a blond Norman was pointing to a wall map and showing him exactly where the villa of Count de Marmont lay, three miles outside town.

In five minutes Ogilvy was tooling his borrowed car out and away. He intended to carry the fight into the enemy's country.

v

THE Chalet de Souvenir, as Marmont's villa was termed, was situated on an unpaved hill road. Leaving his car drawn up against a hedge, lights out, Ogilvy approached the place and examined it carefully.

The environing fence was a high one, of iron, and the massive iron gates were securely locked. This evidence that no one was about the place was borne out by its general appearance. The house was dark, and was on the hillside above the road, a hundred feet back. Not a light showed anywhere.

"Hm! Getting over that fence will take some doing," thought Ogilvy. "And I'll need a light!"

Struck by an idea, he returned to the car and searched it carefully. To his delight he came upon an electric torch of the pistol-shaped variety which produced its own light when the handle was worked; further, upon a vacuum bottle filled with excellent coffee, of which he partook liberally. Thus provided without and within, he sought one extremity of the high iron fence, and found that it adjoined a low wall of stone. Climbing this wall. easily enough, he gained the top of the fence and jumped.

Ogilvy made the circuit of the house, found it unlighted except for an attic window where a servant's room must be located, and set about entering. One servant, obviously, was here. An unlocked window swung open to his hand, and Ogilvy was in.

Now he dared not use his electric torch, because of the grinding whirr it made when being operated. With a shrug, he located an electric switch, turned it, found he was in a salon that opened into a library, and turned off the light. In the library, he closed the doors, switched on the lights, and set about exploration.

A glance showed that this was the room he sought. A desk was littered with papers. In the wall was set a large safe. The pictures and furnishings were rich, costly rugs covered the floor; lying on the desk, holding down a pile of papers, was a Luger pistol and a box of cartridges as though brought out for use and then left hurriedly. Ogilvy pocketed it, pocketed the box, then sat down at the desk and began to investigate the papers.

Ten minutes after, he switched out the lights, buttoned his bulging coat, and left the house as he had come. Leaving the grounds was another matter, but he made it at the expense of a ripped sleeve, and regained the car.

It was with a feeling of exultance that he turned on his car lights, started the motor, and began the delicate business of getting the car turned about on the narrow road without going into a ditch. What mattered now? Nothing! In his pockets were letters and papers, cables, telegrams, a complete cipher code. One glance at them had told they dealt with police matters and he had bundled up everything within reach, Those papers, bulging out his coat, meant that Marmont's whole gang lay in the hollow of his hand!

So great was his eagerness to be off that Ogilvy did not even don his light overcoat, but wrenched at the wheel and got the car half across the road. As he threw in the reverse gear, a sharp hail leaped out of the night at him. He backed, halted— was in the act of changing gears to go off like a shot, when another car without lights loomed up dead ahead, coming from the direction of Villers. As Ogilvy swung his car, his own lights picked up the other and showed it to be a small open Citroen bearing two men. It halted, and both of them leaped out, their car blocking the road.

In the very moment of victory, Ogilvy saw himself cornered. There was no time to smash the little Citroen aside— the two men were already springing for him.

He writhed out from under the seat, the gears in neutral, just as the man on the right leaped on the running-board with a sharp query. For reply, Ogilvy struck at him— the Luger was in his pocket. A hand caught at him and dragged him out the open doorway of the car.

He let himself go, with a savage blow to the face of the man below him, and both of them went rolling in the road. A kick in the side apprised Ogilvy that the other had come up, and now the man was on top en him. They struck and tore at him wildly, vehemently, a torrent of profanity emphasizing their blows; the three of them came half erect and then went down again, and rolled into the ditch.

Ogilvy struck his head against a stone, and for an instant was dazed. He dug one hand into his pocket, trying to get out the Luger, while both his assailants wrenched at him. Even in this moment, their manner of fighting struck him with contemptuous amusement,

"They're like a couple of old women—"

As though in response to his unspoken thought, a pistol roared, but left him untouched. He had his own Luger now, but for an instant more could not use it. One of the two men had him by the coat and was jerking him aside with desperate wrenches.

Then, abruptly, Ogilvy flung himself backward. There was a ripping, rending tear, and he was free— half his coat was gone. He pressed trigger, then fired a second shot. Out into the road staggered one figure, and fell in the full glare of the headlights, and lay quiet. The other darted off into the darkness. Ogilvy fired after him, but without apparent result.

Panting, the American came to the prostrate figure and turned it over. The man was dead— it was the same workman who had poisoned him. He dragged the body to one side, then straightened up with an oath of dismay. The whole front of his coat had been ripped away; and with it had gone the precious papers, the price of triumph!

Ogilvy hesitated. He knew how far the sound of shots carry at night, and knew, too, how thoroughly these Norman roads were patroled by bicycle police; whoever was in the house would certainly be coming in another moment. None the less, Ogilvy dashed back to the ditch and made swift but vain search. The escaped man had doubtless carried off the fragments of coat, dropping them as he ran. Search were futile now, delay perilous in the extreme. The whole pack would be on his trail within half an hour, for he had seen a telephone in the library.

He jumped into his car, threw in the low gear, and stepped on the gas. A wild crash, a lurch, and the Citroen was rammed out of the road and turned over in the ditch. The big Renault leaped into speed and fled for Villers like a wild thing.

As he drove Ogilvy came to swift decision. Return to Trouville, for the moment, was out of the question— would be only tempting fate. Now he must await Keene, and whomever might come from the Paris prefecture, for the game had grown beyond his single handling. The main thing was to wash out his tracks as completely as possible and lie hidden until Monday night; and to this end he had laid his plans with some care while on the road.

Accordingly, he flashed through Villers, avoiding the main street and taking the side street to the right, which brought him out on the coast highway below the village. Now he opened up the Renault once more, heading for Blonville. To his right were wide marshy flats, to his left were sand dune or open stretches with the shore directly beyond. He was a good halfway to Blonville when he found his chance— a moment when the road was empty of cars ahead and behind. He switched off his lights, slowed down until he found a gap in the dunes, and then put the car at it.

With a plunging leap, the Renault was out of the road, roared over the low four-foot sandhill, and took the shore beyond.

Ahead was a wide expanse of sands with the ripple of water in the starlight. Ogilvy tossed out his bag and topcoat, poised himself on the running-board, opened the hand-throttle wide, and jumped.

He fell heavily, rolled over, then sat up and watched. The car's black mass ploughed over the wet sands, struck the water with a high splash, seemed to go on interminably— and then halted far out. Ogilvy rose, found his coat, donned it, picked up his bag, and struck out along the curving line of shore, well satisfied. The tide was creeping in, most of the coast along here was quicksand, and he felt certain that by morning there would be nothing of the Renault in sight.

Ahead of him was scarcely a mile, and he could see the blaze of lights from the new Parisian hotel of Blonville. He plodded along until he neared this hotel, then struck back to the highway. He had no idea of applying at the fashionable tourist caravansary. Instead he came to the cross-roads of the tiny village, and just off to his right saw the place he had previously noted; an old-fashioned country tavern of brick.

The dining rooms of this little inn opened on the street and were ablaze with lights, while the rhythmic hammering of an electric piano showed a dance was in progress. It was Saturday night, Ogilvy remembered. Inspecting the place, he avoided the noisy crowd and found a side entrance. This brought him into a wide courtyard, and he spoke to a woman who was at a doorway.

"Where can I find the proprietor? I have just arrived by motorbus, and want a room."

"I will call him, m'sieu."

She departed, and presently returned with a smiling young fellow who heard Ogilvy's request and then nodded.

"A room? But yes. M'sieu is an American, by his accent?"

"You're a good guesser," said Ogilvy in surprise. "Usually I can fool anyone but a Parisian."

"But I am a Parisian, m'sieu! You see, I married the daughter of the house, here, and in the summers this is my profession. At other times— I am an artist. Come, let us see what room you would like! After next week we shall be full up. The Grand Prix week."

"It is for a few days only," said Ogilvy. "I am ill, and must have complete rest." He followed his host up a flight of steps, and found himself fifteen minutes later in possession of a small, but scrupulously clean chamber on the second floor. Ogilvy removed his light overcoat, and an exclamation broke from the proprietor at sight of his half-coated shape.

"Why— m'sieu has lost half his coat!" he exclaimed, and laughed. "Now, I have heard of a coat being lost, but never the front half of a coat!"

"Then you've learned something," and Ogilvy chuckled. "This afternoon in Caen, when I left the train to take the motor bus, I shut the compartment door without seeing that a corner of my coat was in it. Pouf! It happened. So I put on my overcoat and came along. Perhaps you can lend me a jacket of some sort, until I buy a new suit?"

"With pleasure." The proprietor did not inquire too closely into Ogilvy's none too probable story, but accepted it at face value. "The fit will not be good, but it will serve, I think."

"Can you get a letter into the post for me tonight?" asked Ogilvy. "I'll give it to you in half an hour. I'd like to have it registered if possible—"

"I can get it registered in the morning," said the other, with a wink. "No letters are accepted for registry on Sunday— but our postmaster here will arrange it for me."

This put the last link in the chain of Ogilvy's plan, for he knew with what extreme caution the French postal service will deliver no registered letter except to the party addressed. Accordingly, he sat down and wrote without reserve:

My dear Keene:

This should reach you Monday on your arrival. Go to my room at the Fonduc, open the second window on the left, and you will find a number of small boxes on the window sill. Pocket them and bring them along to me at the White Horse Tavern in Blonville.

You will probably find a gentleman seeking some word of me at the Fonduc. Sound him out with great care. If he is from the Paris prefecture, bring him along. But do not open your head to another sort about me— deny that you know me! And if you haven't a pistol, get one.

Ogilvy.

He addressed the envelope to Keene at the Fonduc Hotel in Trouville, sealed the letter, put the return address as Jean Fouquieres at the White Horse, and sought the proprietor below.

When he returned to his room he glanced at his watch, and whistled with surprise. It was not yet ten o'clock He went through what was left of his coat, and found just one thing remaining of his loot, besides the Luger, the extra cartridges of which were gone. This object was a flat notebook containing not more than a score of entries, some rather lengthy. Ogilvy found it absolutely unintelligible, being in a language which he could only conjecture to be Hungarian. He laid it aside, and with a sigh for what had been lost, turned in for much needed sleep.

Ogilvy had by this time entirely forgotten his recent illness.

vi

JOHN OGILVY spent Sunday in strict seclusion, not leaving the tavern, When he went down to the dining-room for breakfast, the genial host handed him a receipt for the registered letter, showing it had departed safely.

Ogilvy spent the afternoon in his room or in the courtyard of the inn— a cobbled, tree-shaded space. From his window he commanded a view of the cross-roads and the highway, where the usual miracle by which French tourists avoid bad smash-ups was of hourly occurrence. There was a constant flood of traffic, and from behind his curtains Ogilvy wondered amusedly how many of Marmont's gang had passed his shelter. That a furious search was being made for him he had no doubt.

He kept his ears open that day, but heard no mention of an auto having been found in the sands at low tide. As such a discovery would have thrown the village into a ferment he was reasonably certain that the car had sunk in the sand.

Monday he was up early, obtained a bathing suit, or what passed for such, from the proprietor, and spent an hour on the surfless sands, seeing nothing of the Renault and returning with a hearty appetite for breakfast. He retired to his room again for the morning, and on inquiring into train arrivals, figured that Keene should show up here late in the afternoon. He would reach Trouville from Paris about three; allowing two hours to get the registered letter, obey instructions and come along to Blonville, he should be here by five. All of which was entirely satisfactory.

At twelve-thirty Ogilvy left his room, having delayed to finish a letter to the Paris office of his newspaper, and descended the narrow stairs to the courtyard. A number of peasants were gathered about the wagons and sheds in the rear, engaged in some dispute. Ogilvy entered the hotel office and deposited his letter in the box for mail, returned to the courtyard, and headed for the dining room. As he came to the door, he noticed a man sitting near it reading a newspaper, but paid him no attention. He entered the dining-room, which had another entrance on the street, and had been floridly decorated by the proprietor with scenes of classical deities in undress costume.

At the first glance, Ogilvy perceived that he was trapped. The man outside had risen and was standing by the door; inside, a number of men seated about the room had looked up sharply. One of them was Count de Marmont.

It was a stiff shock, but in the flash of a split second, Ogilvy chose his course. Escape was impossible and would mean a bullet. The important thing was that flat notebook, which reposed on his dresser. As though he had discerned nothing unusual, Ogilvy turned to the genial proprietor, who was standing behind a cigar counter and addresed him.

"I'll return this coat you lent me, immediately after luncheon, as I must get the first train to Paris. Will you have a car brought, to take me to the station? I believe it's some distance from here. I have no luggage, so that will save bother."

The proprietor was about to speak, then checked himself and looked past Ogilvy. The latter turned, to see Marmont approaching. He gave a start of assumed astonishment.

"My dear M. Ogilvy!" exclaimed Marmont, beaming, hand extended. "This is indeed a delight! I heard that you were here, so in passing through I stopped for luncheon, hoping to see you. Come, you must join me! What was this I heard you saying about Paris?"

Ogilvy shook hands gravely.

"I meant to get up to Paris tonight—"

"Impossible, my dear fellow! You must  76 SHORT STORIES
come home with me; my car is outside. My chauffeur is there—Henri!"' At the word, one of the seated men rose. "Go to M. Ogilvy's room and pack his things—"

"No use, my dear Marmont," said Ogilvy, meeting the man's eyes. and smiling, so that the double meaning of his words might be apparent. "No use, I assure you— I have nothing to pack! Half naked I came into Blonville, and half naked I go— you see, my luggage went on to Paris, and Saturday night I lost even the little I had, in an accident. I've had to borrow a coat from our host, here. If you insist, of course I can't very well refuse."

"I do insist!" said Marmont at once, "Never mind, Henri. M. Ogilvy will accompany us home. Come, my friend— I have not yet begun my repast. A bottle of your best Burgundy, host! Now, then, let us have a chat."

Behind the surface cordiality Ogilvy plainly discerned the menace. Marmont was bland, smiling, impeccably groomed; but in the liquid depths of his dark eyes glowed a tiny flame that spoke louder than words,

As he sat down opposite Marmont, Ogilvy glanced around and took count. Four men besides Marmont in the room, and one at the courtyard door.

"You do me great honor, my dear Marmont!" he observed ironically.

"You are worthy of it," said the other gravely, dropping his light manner. They could talk without danger of being overheard. "I am sorry that I must interrupt your journey to Paris, my friend."

Ogilvy smiled. "We are proceeding on a friendly basis?"

"On an amicable basis." Marmont spoke English now. He regarded Ogilvy curiously. "You did not tell us, on the Gaulois, that you were a newspaper correspondent among other things."

"And that led to errors?"

"Regrettably, yes." Marmont shook his head. "Errors must be admitted frankly when they occur."

"Upon my word, I'm beginning to like you!" drawled Ogilvy. He perceived that Marmont now knew all about him, and that any subterfuge could be discarded.

"I return the compliment,"

"Thank you. The mutual admiration society is now disbanded. To tell the truth, I am rather anxious to reach Paris as soon as possible. My passport was lost on the boat, but has fortunately been recovered, so nothing detains me."

"As to that, I must be permitted a difference of opinion," said Marmont, affably. "But you mentioned an accident the other night— you were not hurt, I trust?"

"No, but I lost all the valuables I had with me. Some of them I had just obtained."

Marmont gave him a sharp, keen look, so unmistakably tinged with astonishment that Ogilvy was promptly puzzled. Surely the man who escaped, the man who had half torn off his coat, would have reported what had happened?

"We are both gentlemen, Mr. Ogilvy," said the Hungarian slowly. "That is, in a certain acceptance of the term. For my part, I should accept your pledged word as beyond any equivocation. Perhaps, in what you have just said, you are joking?"

"Not at all." Ogilvy paused as the waiter hovered near, knowing that two out of three Frenchmen have a working knowledge of English, though they usually deny it. As to the papers he had looted, he promptly accepted their relinquishment as a necessary evil. He was in a very tight place, and had no choice.

"Saturday night," he resumed, "I had received some papers which might be very valuable, though I had no opportunity of perusing them. Two men attacked me. One of them tore away the whole front of my coat, and carried it off with him. With the coat went the pockets."

Marmont sipped his wine, but his dark eyes were piercing.

"Hm! That is singular, indeed," he returned slowly. "Now, I know that two men seem to have also met with an accident the other night. One of them was found, but the other seems to have been lost. Odd, how accidents could happen here in Normandy!"

Ogilvy's brows went up. What of the man who had escaped him, with the half of his coat?

"Lost? That is strange. Perhaps he found himself with valuables in his possession, and decamped?"

"No, he was not that kind," said Marmont, then added grimly, "And he knew better."

For a space the two devoted themselves to the excellent repast before them. Then Marmont opened fire.

"Odd, the amount of crime going on in Calvados at present!" he observed with an' air of detachment. "In Havre, across the bay, I lost a suitcase— it was later returned, but with certain things missing. And only the other night my little chalet was entered and pillaged of some valuable documents."

"You've called in the police?" asked Ogilvy blandly. Marmont regarded him steadily, a glimmer of amusement growing in his eyes; then both men broke into a laugh. "Come!" Marmont flung off all pretence. "You're a good enemy; I'd prefer not to have you as a bad enemy, Mr. Ogilvy! I want the stones and the papers. I think you quite comprehend what I am willing to pay for them— a journey to Paris, let us say?"

Ogilvy shook his head.

"Impossible. I left the stones in Trouville."

"Not in your room at the Hotel Fonduc, certainly."

"No. You see, I did not want to be connected with the affair, so I turned them over to a friend, who will, I believe, give them to the police. Probably he has already done so."

"A friend? Keene?"

"Eh? Keene?" Ogilvy concealed his alarm at this deadly shot. "I haven't seen Keene since landing, or heard from him. He's only a boat acquaintance. No, believe me, the stones are beyond recovery. You deserve it, Marmont. One who makes errors, must pay!"

Marmont lost his calm air for an instant. His mouth tightened into cruel lines, the affability of his eyes became a wickedly vicious flame of anger; then, with an effort, he was in control of himself again.

"So!" he observed. "What, then, of the papers?"

"I don't know," said Ogilvy frankly. "I've told you exactly what happened."

Marmont looked down at his wine glass for a long moment, and slowly a pallor crept into his face.

"So that's it!" he murmured, as though speaking to himself. "There were four shots heard— Raoul had fired one, you the others. One did for Raoul; the other two? They explain everything."

Marmont looked up, caught the eye of a man at another table, and beckoned. The man came over to them and leaned above their table. Marmont spoke softly, rapidly.

"Go, find Tsing Li, take his car. Look through the woods at the side fence of the chalet grounds. You'll find Foucher's body there. In his hand, or somewhere in the woods, will be a piece of a coat. Preserve it carefully. Look for any papers that may have been scattered. Make haste!"

The man nodded, gave Ogilvy one dark glance, and departed.

As for Ogilvy, he was a little startled at this evidence of the enemy's discernment. He could reason it out for himself as well— the lost Foucher must have got over the low wall adjoining Marmont's fence, with one bullet in him. He must have tried to get into the chalet grounds from the rear, but death's hand was the speedier.

"Good reasoning," said Ogilvy reflectively. "I believe you're right."

Marmont looked at him, with eyes that had become bloodshot.

"Yes. Here comes the coffee. Drink it and we'll be off."

"And shall I see the charming M. Bacqueville ?"

"You'll be lucky if you ever see anyone again!" Marmont snarled, as the mask slipped. "Now that you're taken care of, we'll go into this thing from the ground

Ogilvy shrugged, and beckoned to the proprietor. He quite understood that this keen-witted Parisian had been astonished when he disclaimed having any baggage, and he resolved to take a chance on the man's acuteness of perception. Marmont watched him suspiciously, but Ogilvy only lighted a cigarette and smiled at the proprietor.

"There is nothing in my room except my light overcoat," he said. "Will you have the kindness to bring it down for me? Then I'll give you back your coat, and put it on instead. Let me have my bill also, I may return in a few days, but it is uncertain."

For an instant Ogilvy thought the ruse would work; then Marmont motioned to the proprietor.

"No, no! I cannot cause you such trouble. My chauffeur will get the coat— he is well acquainted with your hotel. What is the room?"

Ogilvy gave the number.

"Henri!" Marmont beckoned one of his men from another table, and sent for the coat. In the puzzled eyes of the proprietor, Ogilvy read the feeling that something was amiss, but this hope was smashed; he could say no more, do no more, except leave a trail in case Keene came along. The notebook was lost.

"I'm off to Paris with Count de Marmont," he said, as he paid his bill. "In case any mail comes, hold it. I may return."

Marmont smiled thinly. A moment later the chauffeur appeared. The very fact that he did not bring Ogilvy's bag, showed that he had heard all the conversation and was managing the matter very quietly. He held the coat for Ogilvy, then turned to Marmont.

"Here, m'sieu, is your notebook. I believe you left it in the car this morning."

Marmont nodded, pocketed it, gave Ogilvy a significant glance, then took him by the arm with an air of friendliness and they turned to the door.

"Good player, eh?" he observed. "Well, our car's waiting— another Renault. I do not depend on one alone, be it cars or men."

This hint, and the accompanying pressure of the fingers, was significant. At the door one of the other men was at Ogilvy's elbow. Before them was standing a large closed car, and the chauffeur and a second man took the front seat. Marmont ushered in his guest most impressively, and they turned into the highway. Another car followed, with Marmont's other men.

Then, as they flashed out the long level stretch toward Villers, Marmont turned and faced the American, with an abrupt change of front.

"You're a clever rascal," he said, a sneer on his lips and in his eyes. "I've been trying you out a bit— having a little fun with you. So you really thought you could match your wits against mine? You fool! I've had every hole blocked, every alley searched, every contingency provided against. In proof— look at this."

He held out the letter which Ogilvy had sent to Keene at the Hotel Fonduc.

vii

THIS was a terrific blow— about the hardest Ogilvy ever had received.

From the instant he found himself ensnared he had built every hope upon Keene, and now the whole structure was tumbled over like a house of cards! The stark reality of the situation was frightful. Marmont had played him cleverly there in the hotel, not daring to push him too far lest he take a desperate chance— and he would have taken it had he known all was lost. For now he admitted to himself that all was lost.

"You have found the stones, then?" he asked.

"Yes, thanks to your kindness in sending us straight to them!" Marmont laughed, and the scornful contempt in his voice stung deeply. "There remained to get the papers and notebook, and since you seem to have told the truth about them— we'll see! Did you really think we'd leave that hotel without searching your room? I'm afraid you're a bigger fool than I thought."

Ogilvy resisted the temptation to turn and strike that sneering face.

As things now stood Keene could not know where to meet him—would not even know Ogilvy expected to meet him. Ina flash Ogilvy perceived with fatal clarity how he had absolutely cut himself off from every hope, every chance. Probably in the course of the morning Marmont had caught that registered letter. That he had secured it, whether by bribery or strategy, in the face of the stringent postal regulations was proof enough of his ability.

"When you set out to measure swords with me, Ogilvy, you picked the wrong man!" said Marmont, a hint of steel in his voice. "I picked the wrong man when I secured your passport, I admit; but I'm equal to coping with errors. You're not. You ran your head into a game that's far beyond you, and you know what to expect."

Ogilvy stared out at the flitting shores, and said nothing. Despite his impassive mien, the very sting of the jeers served to rouse him. He could now depend on no one, had only himself to count on. Was he such a fool, indeed, as he seemed to this man? The thought was like a spur to him, a burning goad stirring him to action.

Yet he sat in silence, his face a stony mask of defeat, while Marmont outlined his victory step by step, and gloated over it. The car headed into Villers, unhurried, passed through the sleepy little town, and turned out for Marmont's villa.

"Your letter would indicate," said Marmont suddenly, "that Keene is as yet unconnected with this affair. Eh?"

Ogilvy told him frankly of his half-understood rendezvous with Keene, and was relieved to see that Marmont accepted his explanation.

"Very fortunate for Mr. Keene," said the Hungarian dryly.

"What's your program, so far as I'm concerned?" demanded Ogilvy. The other regarded him for a moment, then made a slight gesture as of one who has no choice.

"Is it not obvious? You declared war. Vae victis?"

"You mean— murder?" said Ogilvy steadily. "You would not dare."

"My dear fellow, don't be childish!" Marmont laughed. "Dare? Nonsense. I am quite impervious to the law, rest assured on that head. You are too brutal in your choice of words; murder is one thing, removal is another thing. I prefer removal, always. First we must see about those papers. Once this delicate point is settled the rest can be determined. You have learned far too much to be permitted to go at liberty, as you can readily understand."

Ogilvy made no response, for on this point could be no argument. Marmont had, indeed, only one course. In self defense, he must shut the mouth of this American who had pried open his coffer of secrecy.

Ahead of them now showed the villa, its gates open, The Citroen had been pulled out of the ditch long since; indeed, it or a sister car now stood before the entrance of the villa, with three figures around it. One was a Chinaman.  They were the two sent from Blonville, conjectured Ogilvy, and the servant of the house. She was a peasant woman, gnarled and stooped from labor in the fields. When the big Renault halted, she turned and scurried into the house. The two men came forward, and the man sent from Blonville made report.

"Well, we found Foucher just where you said, Master. Sacred name of a pipe! The whole back of his head was stove in."

"Eh?" Marmont, in the act of leaving the car; halted. Ogilvy heard the words with astounded incredulity. "The bullet had stove in his head?"

"Hardly. Something bigger than a bullet!' The other laughed. "He's dead enough. Not a bullet in him, either."

Marmont alighted and turned to Ogilvy.

"You smashed him, eh? I thought it was a bullet."

Ogilvy shrugged.

"Hard to say. I did all the smashing I could. Naturally there was no time to be very nice about it."

Marmont turned to the men.

"And the letters?" he asked,

"We found part of a coat near him," said Tsing Li, the Chinaman— a broadfaced, slant-eyed fellow who spoke very beautiful French. Obviously a man of education. "Letters and papers were strewn around. They have all been collected and put on your desk."

"Ah, good!" Marmont relaxed in very evident relief, and turned to Ogilvy with a smile. "Come along, my friend! You shall appear before the council and plead your own cause. Every justice shall be done you. Ready, gentlemen?"

Council? This was a new phase of the matter, and for the moment a puzzling one. Ogilvy left the car, and glanced around. Escape was impossible. The following car had come up and now six men, besides Marmont himself, were around him. Without wasting words on protest Ogilvy accompanied his captor up the steps and into the house, the others following. Marmont led him into the library. On the large flat-topped desk lay a pile of papers, with the box of Luger cartridges holding them down, and the fragments of Ogilvy's coat. Marmont stood for an instant surveying. them, then turned.

"Very good. I think we need not waste time sorting them over. Apparently the pistol is still missing. You have it!"

"In my room at the Blonville hotel," said Ogilvy. "I did not anticipate your call, you see."

"Well, let it go," Marmont .chuckled. "Henri! Come and make certain our friend is not armed. You may remove your coat, Mr. Ogilvy. Chairs, gentlemen, and close the doors."

Ogilvy flung off his light coat. One of the men advanced, frisked him, and retired with a nod of satisfaction. The others drew up chairs in a semi-circle. Marmont seated himself at the desk and opened a box of excellent cigars, which were passed around. Then the count took from Tsing Li a package, and opened it to disclose the little boxes of stones and jewelry, which he placed on the desk. Ogilvy lighted a cigar and waited.

Studying the faces around him, he found all of them strange to him. None of them were criminal; a party of business men gathered to discuss their affairs, one would have said. Among them was M. Bacqueville de Morant, solemn as ever, but he did not favor Ogilvy with any sign of recognition nor return his nod.

"Now, Mr. Ogilvy, let's get down to business," said Marmont, leaning forward in his chair. "You are in the presence of the council or governing body of a little society of which I am the head. As you speak French perfectly, we shall continue in that language. You will pardon us if we attend to one or two slight matters of business before proceeding to your case. M. Bacqueville, you will now take charge of the consignment I brought from America. For the moment, leave them as evidence. Arrangements are made?"

"Fully," said the lawyer, for such Ogilvy judged him really to be. "If they answer the description previously sent, I am offered the sum of four million, three hundred thousand francs for the lot; one third each, the balance within three months. They will go to the Riveria for disposal."

"Very well," said Marmont, with a nod. "An excellent bargain, in my opinion. Shall we approve the terms, gentlemen?"

A word of assent passed around the circle.

"Agreed, then. Now, as you know, our colleague Foucher was recently killed in the performance of his duty. He leaves a widow and two children in Caen. What is your wish?"

"I move," said one of the men, without emotion, "that we grant the widow Foucher the usual subsidy, and a further pension of ten thousand francs per annum, in view of the fact that Foucher recovered these stolen papers."

"Your pleasure, messieurs?" Marmont glanced around the circle and met a general nod. "Approved, then. With Foucher was killed Raoul Hougant, an employee of the Havre agency; he also leaves a widow. The usual compensation, I presume? Agreed, then. We now have to fill the place left vacant by Foucher's death. Suggestions ?"

"I propose M. Lebrun of the Brussels agency," said one.

Other names were proposed, and there ensued a most animated discussion, waged with as much freedom as though no outsider were present—an ominous sign. Ogilvy might have thought himself the victim of some hoax, had it not been for the deadly gravity of those around, and the obvious sincerity of all that had previously taken place.

A criminal society organized on business lines, then? Incredible as it seemed, here was proof enough before him. Very well organized, too, he inferred, and headed by well-chosen men of ability. He was speedily given more evidence of this, for as soon as a ballot had been taken and a successor chosen to the defunct Foucher, Tsing Li spoke up. blandly.

"As I understand it, our esteemed M. de Marmont obtained an American passport, neglecting to estimate the danger involved, and thereby nearly wrecked the important enterprise on which he was engaged. Before moving for a vote of censure, I should like to inquire why he thus imperilled a large thing for the sake of a small thing ?"

"Because," said Marmont, "I received an urgent radio from M. de Nesle, who sits yonder, stating that the Paris agency had immediate need of such a passport."

"That is true," spoke up one of the others, thus appealed to. "It is pressingly needed in the affair of the Cellini urn, and I am the one to blame for demanding a passport if such a thing were possible."

"I am satisfied," said Tsing Li. "My apologies, M. de Marmont."

The count waved his hand grandly, yet he had looked undeniably startled. Ogilvy listened to all this with mingled emotions. Tempted to laugh, he none the less realized the deadly gravity of it all.

"We now come to the case of M. Ogilvy, here before us," said Marmont. "He is charged, first, with the murder of M. Foucher and the man Raoul Hougant. Do you deny it, m'sieu?"

"No," said Ogilvy calmly.

"You have, perhaps, some defense?"

Ogilvy smiled.

"If you seek a pretext to murder me, why defend myself? The two men attacked me as I was leaving here, pulled me out of my car, fired on me. That is all."

To the utter astonishment of Ogilvy, Tsing Li spoke up

"M. Ogilvy cleans self-defense. From the scene of the struggle and other evidence, he speaks the truth. Therefore I move that the charge of murder be dismissed."

There was a murmur of assent. Marmont glanced around.

"Agreed? Then, M. Ogilvy, I take pleasure in informing you that the charge is dismissed by unanimous consent of the council,"

Ogilvy was speechless, incredulous. Yet in Marmont's benign gaze he read dark things.

"Thank you, gentlemen," he said, with faint irony. One or two of the men smiled, and in this smile Ogilvy perceived a frightful menace.

viii

JOHN OGILVY saw plainly enough that he was being played with, and that there was something more to come, Since being shown his letter to Keene he had been at high tension, every nerve keyed up, every sense on the alert to seize some straw of advantage; all in vain. Now he sat smoking, outwardly imperturbable, inwardly at desperate extremity, every faculty centered on Marmont, He gave himself up for lost, and his one resolve was to drag down this man with him if he reached the end of things.

Therein lay his one and only possible vantage-point. He was an American, these other men were all Europeans, with the exception of Tsing Li. They enjoyed a Latin sense of the dramatic, of the theatrical. If they condemned him to death, they could only conceive him as going to that death with dramatic dignity; knowing himself surrounded, outnumbered, lost beyond hope, he must accept his fate. But John Ogilvy had no intention of doing anything of the sort.

"It is human nature," said Marmont suavely, "to desire the inaccessible, to seek what is unattainable, from a superficial viewpoint. That is why, for example, a bad man usually loves a good woman. That is why I fastened my desires upon certain things, and attained them despite obstacles. That is why our friend Ogilvy was tempted to take over single-handed a task at which all the police of Europe had failed ignominiously."

He paused, selected a fresh cigar, lighted it, and resumed.

"M. Ogilvy, gentlemen, is a newspaper correspondent, When he found himself injured, he set out to regain what he had lost. He regained it. Not content with this, he gained possession of those stones yonder. He then laid information with the Paris police against us, and this is the first charge against him."

M. Bacqueville spoke up gravely.

"If we war against society, we cannot blame that society for arming itself against us. He did his duty as he saw it. I move the charge be dismissed."

There was a murmur of assent.

"Approved," went on Marmont, and gave Ogilvy his winning but dangerous smile. "M. Ogilvy then opened a campaign against us, came here, looted my correspondence—"

"You forget," put in Ogilvy suddenly, "that this was after you tried to entrap me by means of M. Bacqueville yonder."

There was an exchange of glances, and despite his situation Ogilvy smiled to see how seriously these men took each other and the farce they were playing.

"To the vote," said Marmont. "All in favor of dismissing the charge, aye!"

The charge was dismissed by a majority of two votes, one being that of Marmont. Ogilvy's ironic smile greeted the verdict.

"The final charge," said Marmont placidly, "is that M. Ogilvy has attained to a fund of information about our society which imperils us all."

As Marmont paused, Ogilvy perceived that the farce was ended, the crisis at hand.

"This," went on the Hungarian, "is in my opinion a most dangerous situation. We cannot silence this man without keeping him imprisoned and thus causing a search to be made. We are of course unable to turn him loose with such information in his possession. M. Tsing, what is your opinion in the matter?"

"I think," said Tsing Li, staring unblinkingly at the American, "that the body of M. Ogilvy should be found tomorrow morning on the sands of Deauville. It will help to advertise the resort, and I happen to know that the proprietor of the casino is very hard up for press-agent material just now."

No one smiled at this speech except Ogilvy himself.

"And you, M. Bacqueville?" asked Marmont.

"I fully agree with M. Tsing."

"Have you," and Marmont turned to the "anything to suggest in this matter? Is there any guarantee you can give as to your silence?"

Ogilvy knocked the ash from his cigar.

"None," he said.

"Then I put the motion of M. Tsing to the vote. Is there any dissenting voice?" Marmont glanced around the circle and met none. "The motion is approved."

"And how," demanded Ogilvy, with sarcasm, "do you propose to carry it out? By putting cyanide in my coffee, or by staking me out on the sands to drown with the tide?"

"Neither," said Marmont, and chuckled.

"You will be put in a certain room. After dinner tonight the room will be flooded with a certain gas; when your body is found, it will be seen clearly that you died by drowning. We can even manage to flood the lungs with water by a simple device invented by M. de Nesle yonder, who is a physician."

"Then at least," observed Ogilvy, "I shall have a good dinner?"

"Of the best," said Marmont. "I regret that it must be solitary, but I draw your particular attention to the Tokay that will be served."

"I shall endeavor to appreciate it," said Ogilvy.

He caught a nod exchanged between two of the men, and felt satisfied that he was playing the part they had expected. Already had come into his mind the desperate scheme that would let him go down fighting, instead of like a rat in a trap; but the time was not yet. He would not attempt it until the very last moment— surely somewhere he would find a straw!

He found none.

Marmont and two of the other men escorted him from the room and up two low flights of stairs to. a mansard room under the roof. Marmont pointed to a bell-pull and told him to ring if he required anything; then closed the door. It shut when a subdued click that told of a spring lock.

Alone, Ogilvy threw off his mask of self-control and darted to the window. It was small, overlooked the winding road and tree-clad slopes, and three heavy transverse bars crossed outside the glass— which was thick and blown over wire. Only a hammer could smash that glass. Nor did the window open.

Satisfied that he was powerless so far as the window was concerned, Ogilvy looked around the room. Here was nothing that could serve him as a weapon. An electric light was in a solid wall-socket; an iron table, bolted to the floor, held magazines and newspapers; an iron cot, likewise bolted down, invited to repose. There was nothing else in the room— absolutely nothing. For half an hour Ogilvy worked desperately at bed and table; then, panting and bathed in sweat, he desisted and flung himself on the cot. It was useless. He had only his bare hands with which to fight against the doom that was upon him.

The little room was stifling hot, situated as it was under the roof and without ventilation. As he lay, Ogilvy examined the walls and ceiling; he struck them with his fist, then relaxed again in despair, They were solid, as though plastered against solid boards. In each corner of the ceiling he discerned a small hole from which protruded the edge of a rubber tube, sharply discolored.

This discovery proved that Marmont's threats were not futile.

Ogilvy realized the fact calmly. At first it had seemed ludicrous, unreal, even as the farcical trial by the council appeared unnatural; but this had now simplified into cold fact. Regarding the matter from a criminal standpoint, indeed, Ogilvy could see that it was the essence of simplicity. His body would be found on the Deauville sands, and that would be the end of the matter.

The prospect of being gassed like a rat in a trap, however, made no appeal. The more Ogilvy thought about it, the less appeal it made.

Struggle as he might, he could evoke no hope of escape. Even the prospect of going down fighting was a forlorn chance. The heat in the room sapped his mental and physical vigor; it became intolerable, until it was as though he were enclosed in an oven. The lack of air was insufferable. Remembering the bell-pull, he jerked it, then waited.

After an interval he heard a sound and lifted his head. The door did not open; but a small square in its upper panel slid away, and he saw the face of the old woman servant.

"Air!" exclaimed Ogilvy, panting. "Bring me a drink— beer— and leave the door open or I'll suffocate here!"

"I will tell the Master," was the reply, and the panel was closed again.

Another interminable wait. Presently the square in the door slid open again; through this opening, about six inches square, the old woman pushed two bottles of beer and a glass, Ogilvy taking them from her.

"The master says the door must remain shut, but this little door can be open," she said, and departed down the stairs, which led directly from the door.

Ogilvy's first thought was to get his arm through the hole and see what he could effect, but the result was futile. Marmont knew what he was doing in letting the panel remain open. Giving it up, Ogilvy opened a bottle of beer, and experienced enough relief from the slight ventilation to make himself comfortable in comparison with his former state. He could do nothing except wait the appointed time, and then make his try for Marmont.

Time passed, It was after four o'clock when Ogilvy suddenly sat bolt upright, then leaped from the cot, went to the iron table, and mounted on it. Directly above this, set in the ceiling, was the single electric bulb. Putting his hand up, Ogilvy tried to unscrew it, then remembered it was of French make and gave it a twist. The bulb came away in his hand, and he took it back to the cot, a sudden thrill of savage triumph coursing through his veins.

The bulb was of the ordinary mazda type. Carefully wrapping it in the folds of a blanket from the cot, Ogilvy placed it against the wall and struck it a sharp blow with his fist. The report of the exploding bulb, despite the muffling effect of the blanket, was sharp, but he did not think it would reach the ears of those on the lowest floor of the villa.

Swiftly unwrapping the remains of the bulb and breaking off the fragments of glass adhering to the brass base, he dumped all these shards behind the bed and inspected his prize. There remained the base, and from this projected the long round-tipped glass column that had held the outspread filament; placing this under his heel, Ogilvy pressed with care until the tip broke. The columm was now transformed into a spike; the electric bulb had become a weapon. Fragile, true, yet far less fragile than human life.

As he contemplated his work, then put it under the pillow of the cot, Ogilvy suddenly straightened up, listening. On the wall beside him had come a sharp tap, not loud— but distinct. It came again and again, with pauses. Someone, then, was in an adjoining room or chamber— no doubt a similar death-cell to this one— and had heard the report of the bursting bulb! And as he listened, Ogilvy suddenly recognized what those taps were saying, over and over, in Morse.

"OG.! OG.! OG.!"

He rapped sharply with his knuckles, a blaze of excitement firing him, and tapped out a question. The response came at once, and left him dismayed, aghast, stupefied.

"K-e-e-n-e."

So they had Keene after all, then— despite all their fine talk! Dejection seized upon Ogilvy, then alarm at hearing voices and steps on the stairs. He rapped sharply, swiftly, and Keene took warning. The tapping ceased.

Marmont came to the door, and with him, Tsing Li.

ix

IF OGILVY were disconcerted and aghast at finding Keene also in this trap, he was more put out by the inopportune coming of Marmont and Tsing Li. Given a little time, he would have been able to exchange stories with Keene, at least; and the very possession of his fragile weapon, good only for one blow, had heartened him enormously.

On the other hand, here Marmont had come to him, when he had been pondering how he would get the man to his prison-room, Well, why not take the plunge now? There was nothing to be gained except a fighting end, and that was well worth the effort. Keene was no doubt prisoned and perhaps slated for murder as well.

So, when Marmont looked in through the opening, Ogilvy, sitting on the cot, looked up and nodded calmly.

"Thanks for the beer," he observed, "but I can't recommend your ventilation system."

"It will serve," said Marmont. "I came to ask whether yow know a gentleman connected with the Paris prefecture, by the name of Lanvier."

"Never heard of him," said Ogilvy promptly. "Hold on, though— wasn't he the chap who ferreted out that pearl mystery last spring?"

"The same." Marmont regarded him with grave eyes. "He arrived in Trouville last night and then disappeared. It occurred to me that you might be responsible for his arrival. If you can throw any light on it, I'll pay you well— in hours of life. Until midnight, let us say."

"Generous, aren't you?" Ogilvie smiled. "However, the atmosphere of this room is extremely impressive, my dear Marmont. I had already made up my mind to strike a bargain with you, if possible. As for this Lanvier, I believe he came to Trouville as a result of the information I sent Paris— those jewels, you know. He is no doubt waiting there to see me."

"He'll see you tomorrow morning," said Marmont, an ugly note in his voice. "What sort of a bargain did you have in mind?"

"Nothing to discuss for the whole house to hear," said Ogilvy. "If I offered you something big— let us say, as big as those jewels downstairs— would you consider setting me at liberty? I might add that this affair would act in your hands as a perpetual check on me in the future, an assurance of my silence."

Marmont studied him a moment.

"Hm! I might propose it to the council," he said. "What is the affair of which you speak?"

Ogilvy grinned at him and fumbled for a cigarette,

"Think I'm going to shout it out for all the world? Not much. I'll tell you privately what it is; then, if you find it's worth paying for, go ahead with your blessed council!

This hint of mystery brought into the dark liquid eyes of Marmont a mixture of suspicion and interest.

"Hm!" he returned slowly, staring at the lanky figure of Ogilvy. "Just what is in your mind, my friend?"

"Life," said Ogilvy simply, and with a terrible earnestness that was very convincing. "Those four pipes in the ceiling, Marmont, present an argument which grows stronger with each half hour of reflection."

"So I would imagine," said the other. "You must let M. Tsing into this dread secret of yours, or I refuse to consider it. We of the council do not have secrets from each other very often. Yes or no?"

Ogilvy shrugged. To himself he reflected that this decision meant the speedy death of Tsing Li, in a most disagreeable fashion; but there was no help for it. Perhaps Marmont suspected his real purpose and would not trust himself alone in the room with Ogilvy.

"Bah! I can't afford to be stubborn," replied the American. "Come in, and leave the door open, if you will. It's devilish hot in this room."

Marmont turned to the yellow man. The panel in the door clicked shut. A moment later, the door opened and Marmont entered. As Ogilvy had foreseen, his very request that the door be left open reached in the minds of the two men so that when Tsing Li came in, he swung the door shut— as Ogilvy wanted it.

"Have you a match?" Ogilvy stood up. In his sleeve, the spike up his arm, lay the fragment of the bulb. He held his unlighted cigarette and turned to the Chinaman, who remained beside the door.

"I think so," said Tsing Li, and felt in his pocket.

As he did so, Ogilvy seized the bulb-base, and thrust— a motion lightning-swift.

Nor did he stay to see the effect of that lunge; the feel of it was enough. He whirled like a cat and flung himself bodily upon Marmont. No chance for blows here, no time for them— he could only grapple the man, bear him back on the cot with his weight, so that the two fell headlong across it and crashed against the wall.

Marmont, already striving to get at a pistol, was too slow. Ogilvy's hands got him by the wrist, and as they twisted, Ogilvy's knee drove into him. With this, Marmont wrenched his hands. up, let go the pistol half-drawn, and began to fight.

And he could fight after his own fashion. The Hungarian was a bundle of muscle and knew how to use it. He wrenched clear of Ogilvy's grip and smashed in short-arm jolts that hurt; the two men rolled from the cot and fell to the floor. As they did so Ogilvy had one horrible glimpse of Tsing Li standing against the door, both hands clutching at his throat where showed the brass base of the electric bulb, blood streaming over his chest, death in his face, knees sagging as he stood. A moment afterward he must have fallen, for Ogilvy heard the sound of it, but was too busy to look.

Marmont, with a furious burst of energy, came clear and was on his feet. With a leap he was across the room, reaching for his pistol as he did so, but he had to throw off the safety catch— and this lost him the play. Ogilvy was on him like a wildcat, struck him hard under the wrist on the inside— a blow that will knock any pistol clear— and the weapon whirled across the room. Then a spat-spat of fists, heavy pounding blows, merciless, unguarded, the two men slugging with every ounce of strength.

Neither of them could stand such furious expenditure for long. Human flesh and muscle could not stand it. Twice Marmont opened his mouth, drew back his head to utter a shout; each time Ogilvy smashed him square in the teeth. His face was a white-and-red mask. Abruptly he got in a straight left to the chin and Ogilvy was hurled backward. In this instant Marmont got out one hoarse, panting shout; then Ogilvy had him again, head under chin, arms around, throttling him and almost breaking his back.

Somehow Marmont got out of that; went limp, tripped his opponent, let himself fall heavily to the floor. Striking, he wrenched about like a steel spring, writhed clear. Ogilvy let him go, leaped aside, stood waiting, poised, for him to rise. Marmont, watching him, came to one knee, gathered himself, timed his spring to escape the coming blow— leaped!

And as he leaped from the door came the burst of a pistol-shot, thunderous in the muffled room.

Tsing Li lay there on one elbow, in his hand the fallen pistol. Death was rattling in his throat. With the supreme effort he had caught up the pistol and fired point-blank at Ogilvy— and Marmont had leaped between, unseeing. The yellow face sank down, blank in death. Ogilvy, panting, saw Marmont spin around once, then fall across the cot and lie there motionless.

And as Ogilvy strove to realize what had happened, the door quietly opened and Keene came into-the room, his eyes striking around.

"Congratulations," he said.

Ogilvy stared at him, astounded, incredulous, Keene's flannels were natty, his attire was fresh; his air was entirely composed, as—though he had slight concern with what was going on here. It was unreal, this attitude: Ogilvy panted out an oath,

"You— are you crazy?"

Keene smiled. "I couldn't be sure of what was going on, you see, until it sounded like a real fight. Then it was hard to get the door open; these French spring locks are the devil!"

"Eh?" Ogilvy's eyes widened. "Thought you were next door—"

"I was," said Keene. "I've been there since two this: morning— only place in the house I could hide. I owe you a good deal for putting Marmont out. Hope you haven't killed him. He was the one we expected most trouble with."

"We?" repeated Ogilvy. "Look here, who—"

"Take it easy," said Keene with maddening calm. "You see, I was out in back on Saturday night when you broke into the place, but was not sure that it was you until too late to take a hand. The chap who grabbed your coat came along, and I soaked him. Yow were off in that car before I could hail you. Well, I got the best of the letters you looted, and they showed me everything. So I sent a wire to Paris, some of the boys there came— ah!"

He cocked his head to one side, listening. From somewhere below came a shot, then another shot, followed by a wild cry. Then silence. Keene nodded.

"That'll be Lanvier and his men. The place should have been surrounded half an hour ago, but I gave them a bit extra time to make sure— no two clocks are the same, in France. Is our friend there dead? I trust not."

Keene moved suddenly, darted to the cot, turned over the figure of Marmont, whose coat was reddened with spreading blood. Keene felt the injury, then laughed, and took a set of jingling handcuffs from his pocket. He locked them about the wrists of the senseless Marmont.

"There!" Keene straightened up. "Scrape across the ribs, nothing bad. He'll go back all right to stand trial."

"See here, who the devil are you!" cried Ogilvy, half angrily.

Keene flipped open his coat. "Police department, New York. Your report on those jewels showed I had the right man— was never quite sure until then. I hadn't expected such quick work, you see."

"Gosh!" Ogilvy relaxed, seated himself on the table, swung. one leg, and stared at Keene. Then he came to life. "Look here, old man, you fooled us, all, no doubt of that! Now get me a coat and a car, will you? I have to rush into town— just time to make it—"

"Eh?" Keene's brows went up. "Make what?"

"The story and the morning New York edition," said Ogilvy, and grinned. "Gosh, what a story! Lets go."

"Agreed," said Keene. "Yes, I rather think you have a pretty good story here. What's the idea of this room? Prison cell?"

Ogilvy glanced around, looked at the pipes in the corner of the ceiling, and shivered a little,

"No," he said gravely. "Summer resort. Ready? Let's go."

So they did.

____________________

15: The Black Patch

F. A. M. Webster

1886-1949

The Shadow 1 Nov 1932

IT WAS an unusually drowsy summer afternoon. One of those days when nothing seems to be happening, yet you expect that anything might happen.

A. B. Crisp, whose initials had prompted his fellow members at headquarters to title him ''Alphabet," was walking down Fifth Avenue, quite at ease. Having no severe duties on hand, he was in hopes of finding "Patsy" Piers, whose attempts at selling bonds, Alphabet realized, often tired him out early in the afternoon, driving him to the club.

But even as Alphabet was thus meditating, he was startled by the staccato rattle of a perfect fusillade of revolver Shots. His eyes turned instantly toward
the sound, on the opposite side of the street.

A uniformed officer, doing his beat, had just fallen to the pavement. Three men came dashing out of a big jewelry store and rushed into a big racing car. The car immediately roared into action, turning toward Sixth Avenue and' cutting down between the pillars of the elevated tracks.

Alphabet dashed across the street, dodging the snarled-up traffic miraculously as he ran. He thrust his way through the crowd which had already gathered around the fallen policeman and entered the showroom of Hammerson Jewelers, from which the escaping men had come.

The interior of the showroom presented a strange spectacle. No damage seemed to have been done, but several salesmen were stiJI cowering down behind the counters.

One of the men held an antiquated service revolver in a very shaky hand, while three others were just raising a lady who appeared to have fallen to the floor in a dead faint.

Alphabet surveyed the scene for a minute, then turned to an officer who had followed him into the shop.

"Shut that door, and keep it shut," Alphabet ordered him, showing his detective's badge. "And see that no one goes in or out !"

The officer stolidly set himself in the doorway, while Alphabet hurried to the office in the rear of the showroom where the lady had been carried.

As she was stretched out upon the davenport, recovering from her shock, Alphabet recognized her as Lena Vedore, society beauty, and one of the most bejeweled young women of her set.

Beside her was a tall, black-bearded man. One of his keen gray eyes, Alphabet noticed, was disfigured by a very peculiar hazel wedge set in the iris.

The man turned toward Alphabet with a questioning look. He evidently wanted an explanation of Alphabet's presence.

"Headquarters," the detective said as he showed his badge. "Detective Crisp. Just happened by when all the shooting started. I've a man at the door now, and I'll take charge."

"I am Garside, managing director of Hammerson's " The man's sentence was interrupted by a fluttering sigh from the davenport, where Miss Vedore was struggling to sit up.

"The man with the black patch! He— he fired a pistol at me!" she gasped. Then, in stronger voice of intense anxiety, "Oh, my diamonds ! Mr. Garside, are they safe?"

"The Westwater Diamonds?" Garside queried. "Did you bring them?"

"You know that I arranged to let you have them to-day, Mr. Garside!" she answered, exasperated at the question.

"Wait a minute!" interrupted Alphabet. "Suppose you tell me just what happened, young lady. And no one will interrupt. Let's get this straight! Then maybe we can get somewhere on the case."

Lena Vedore looked at Alphabet intensely for a moment. Then, evidently satisfied with her scrutiny, spoke.

"I came into this shop a few minutes ago, to deliver the Westwater Diamonds to Mr. Garside for resetting," she explained. "As I entered, a horrible-looking man with a twisted lip and a black patch over his right eye was standing close to the door of this room.

"This man turned toward me with a pistol, and fired. Then the shop seemed to be filled with armed men, and several shots were fired. In the confusion, my jewel case was snatched from my hands ! Then, I think, I must have fainted."

"I see," said Alphabet. "Was any one aware that you were bringing the Westwater Diamonds here this morning?"

"No one, except Mr. Garside," she answered. "He asked particularly that I keep the matter a secret."

Alphabet swung round upon the jeweler.

"Well, Mr. Garside?"

"What Miss Vedore has told you is perfectly true, Mr. Crisp. It is our custom to take all possible precautions to prevent people knowing when valuable jewels are about to be committed to our care."

"And in whom did you confide?" asked Alphabet.

"Not in a single soul," Garside replied.

For a moment, Alphabet Crisp hesitated. Then he spoke again to the blackbearded man.

"Will you tell me what you knowabout the robbery ?"

"Certainly. But I'm afraid I shan't help you very much," Garside responded. "I was between the desk and the door when the raiding began. I heard a scream and was reaching out my hand to open the door when a shot was fired. So— er— I'm afraid I locked the door and rang up the police !"

''And that's all you know, Mr. Garside?" Alphabet prompted.

"Yes— but my manager says—"

Alphabet raised his hand.

"One moment, Mr. Garside. We'll let the manager tell his own tale!"

The manager entered, visibly shaking with fear, and tremblingly confirmed everything that Miss Vedore had related.

"Did you see the man who fired at Miss Vedore?" Alphabet asked him.

"No, sir," the manager answered. "The sound of the first shot alarmed me. I saw Miss Vedore drop a jewel case and rushed to her assistance, but she had fallen in a faint, and the case had vanished before I could get round the counter."

"I don't understand, why you didn't see the man with the black patch !" muttered Alphabet.

"The man with the black patch was standing in deep shadow," intervened Miss Vedore. "He was between the big grandfather clock and the portiere which protects Mr. Garside's door."

"That's queer," muttered Alphabet thoughtfully. "None of the three men who rushed out of the shop answered that description. And I didn't see any one of them carrying anything. How big was your jewel case?"

"Quite large enough for you to have seen if a man was carrying it. It was plain pigskin, without initials or any other mark," the beauty answered.

But Alphabet scarcely heard her last words. His roving glance had just come to rest upon a strip of pinkish paper, which lay curled up on the carpet close to the door.

The voice of Miss Vedore, however, broke in upon his speculations when she suddenly asked if that was all he required.

"Eh? Oh, yes— yes— most certainly. That will be all. And you can expect to hear f rom us shortly," he added encouragingly.

She arose, and Alphabet hurried to open the door for her. As he did so, his foot covered the scrap of paper. He escorted the young lady to the entrance, where he questioned the officer on guard whether he had seen a man with a twisted lip and a black patch over his eye enter or leave the premises. The officer had not.

Alphabet returned to the director's office and seated himself in front of Mr. Garside's desk.

The strip of paper had vanished from the carpet. But, as Alphabet went on to question Mr. Garside, the detective crossed his legs and detached from the sole of his shoe the little pink slip, which had stuck to it as he walked to the door.

He slipped the paper unobtrusively into his pocket, not attracting Garside's attention.

"Are you quite sure, Mr. Garside," Alphabet questioned, "that no one but you knew of Miss Vedore's appointment with you to-day to deliver the Westwater gems ? None of your staff knew of her projected visit?"

The jeweler spread expressive palms and shrugged his shoulders,

"I think not; but, how can I tell for certain?"

Alphabet looked long and searchingly at the man. He seemed to study that peculiar hazel wedge in the man's eye; his small, pointed beard; his big, commanding nose, and his strong but delicate and beautifully manicured hands.

"Why is your office darkened, Mr. Garside?" he suddenly asked.

The jeweler surveyed the oak-paneled walls and the black velvet curtained windows in a comprehensive gesture. Then his eyes turned to the powerful electric light above his desk.

"Darkened is hardly the correct term, surely, Mr. Crisp," he deprecated. "This room is as light as day. Such a setting as I have planned here, is to make. precious stones show to better advantage by electric light."

"I suppose there is no chance that the man with the black patch— and the diamonds— departed through the window behind those curtains?" Alphabet questioned further.

"None whatever. I told you that I locked my door the moment the firing commenced."

"Well," said Alphabet, "we'd better search the premises for him."

But they found no trace of the marauder, within the shop, the strong rooms, or the offices.

"How will this robbery affect you?" asked Alphabet as he was about to take his departure.

"We are covered by insurance, of course," came the answer, "so we shall not suffer financially."

"Right,'' said Alphabet. "It looks to me as if there has been a leakage of information somewhere in your staff. Will you let me know when any other particularly valuable consignment of jewels is to be received?"

Mr. Garside shrugged his shoulders.

"It is a question of relative values, Mr. Crisp. We carry a stock of enormous value. I am surprised that the thieves contented themselves with the Westwater Diamonds."

"But, still," persisted Alphabet, "I'd like to know, say, if any famous stones are likely to come into your charge."

"Very well," agreed the jeweler.

Back at headquarters, Inspector McAliece was awaiting Alphabet Crisp.

"I had your call, Crisp," announced the grizzled old veteran. "You're a lucky dog to find yourself right on the spot at the psychological second, so to speak!

"The assistant commissioner has left word that I was to take you to him as soon as you got back. So come along."

As they entered the assistant commissioner's room, Carleton Cumberledge pushed aside a paper he had been studying and drew a fresh file toward him.

He greeted Alphabet with a quick smile. "You've butted right in on a big thing this time, Crisp," Cumberledge volunteered. "We've been keeping a certain few things on the quiet, for the very good reason that we don't want to have the papers hold an inquest on our division for leaving a dangerous gunman at large.

"And that, in fact, is just what has been happening with this man who has a black patch over his eye !"

The assistant commissioner paused, and Alphabet made a murmur of police interest.

"Black Patch! That's the only name we know him by," Cumberledge went on. "Black Patch! The deadliest shot with a pistol, the most ruthless killer we've run across yet!

"That man has led every daring jewel raid in this city for the last two years! We've caught members of his gang as they escaped, at times. But we've never caught him, or even seen him escaping!"

"Has he always worn a black patch over his eye, sir?" interrupted Alphabet.

"Yes," replied Cumberledge, and continued:

"The general details of his raids are known. The papers have published particulars of how the criminals killed a clerk in each office, and literally shot their way to liberty as they escaped in a racing car, whose number we never got— or, when we did, it did us no good.

"But the secret we have guarded is this:

"Always, the operation was directed by a smooth-faced individual with a hideous twisted lip and a black patch over his right eye! Always, Black Patch himself shot down the unfortunate clerks— and he shot to kill.

"And, always, the clerk who was murdered was the only employee of the firm who could possibly have given him information as to when the big consignment of diamonds, or the big amount in bonds, would be on the premises!

"In other words, it is probable that they were his confederates, and that he killed them to prevent a squeal. What I have been wondering about was the man who was killed in this morning's raid— and what we can find out about him!"

Alphabet's eyes were blazing, and he was almost stuttering with excitement as he answered.

"Black Patch made a mistake at last, I'll bet! There was no one killed in to-day's robbery! And Miss Vedore and Mr. Garside both claim no one but themselves knew that the Westwater Diamonds were to be brought to the shop to-day!

"And, too," Crisp finished, "Black Patch was neither seen entering nor leaving the premises!"

"No one ever has seen him make his getaway," the assistant commissioner answered gloomily.

"Listen, sir," said Alphabet, whose hand had stolen to his pocket. "Miss Vedore states that this fellow, Black Patch, was standing in the shadow between a big grandfather clock and the portiere covering Garside's doorway.

"Garside states that he locked himself inside his office at the sound of the first shot, but this is what I spotted on the carpet just inside the door of Garside's room!"

Alphabet opened the hand he had withdrawn from his pocket and disclosed a crumpled strip of flesh-colored, but transparent adhesive plaster.

Carleton Cumberledge frowned at the object for a long moment and Inspector McAliece, by means of a discreet, deprecatory cough, expressed his opinion that his subordinate had blundered very badly.

"Well?" queried the assistant commissioner.

"You don't see the implication, sir?" responded Alphabet.

"I do not!"

Alphabet heaved a small sigh, as he tucked the tiny strip of plaster away carefully in his pocket book.

"In that case I'd like to be a little more certain of my suspicions before I put forward a theory, sir," he stated.

The frown disappeared from the assistant commissioner's forehead and a quick smile moved his lips.

"You're a queer, secretive guy, Crisp," he laughed, "but I'll give you a free hand for the next forty-eight hours, since you've a theory in prospect and some suspicions to work upon, for I'll be hanged if any officer connected with the Black Patch cases has produced even that much, up to the present!"

Alphabet Crisp left headquarters and went directly toward the same club which had been his goal earlier that day.

This time he arrived at his destination, and found Patsy there, entirely unoccupied.

"Patsy," Alphabet began, "I'm on the verge of tremendous things, and none other than you can be of mighty help. Now, listen, and see what you can do for me.

"Can you, out of the wealth of clients you use for a living, find one extremely sporting, wealthy person who is willing to take a chance for the benefit of the public?

"Can you, or can you not, introduce me to some such person, and use your influence to have them follow my suggestions?"

"Can you," Patsy countered with equal force, though not such enthusiastic spirit, "spare some time for a bite to eat, and explain further your great desires?"

So they did, and after the brief meal, Patsy and Alphabet found their way to the home of one of the wealthiest of the younger sportsmen, Marvin Chandler.

And he proved a sportsman through and through, so Alphabet went to bed that night in perfect peace.

Throughout the following morning, Alphabet waited in his office for a telephone call that never came through. Soon after noon he walked along the corridor and knocked at the door of the assistant commissioner's office.

"Well, Crisp, any fresh developments?" queried Cumberledge.

"There will be developments this afternoon, sir, unless I've missed the mark altogether," Alphabet temporized.

"Hm-mm. Have any special arrangements to be made?"

"Rather a lot, I'm afraid, sir. May I suggest that police reserves be called up for Forty-eighth and Forty-ninth streets, and that the flying squad be ready to deal with a racing car carrying armed passengers?

"And— if you don't mind, sir— I'd like a couple of large busses to block Fifth Avenue, either side of Hammerson's at precisely two minutes after four o'clock this afternoon. I have a hunch those premises are going to be raided again!"

"You're a mysterious devil, Crisp, as I think I've remarked before, but I suppose you know what you're up to," smiled the officer, and, taking up the telephone, issued the necessary instructions.

Before he left headquarters, Alphabet spent a few minutes with Inspector McAliece, explaining his scheme.

At a few minutes before four o'clock that afternoon, Alphabet entered the premises of the Hammerson Jewelers, and asked for the managing director.

He found Mr. Garside seated in his. office, with heavy black velvet curtains drawn and shutting out every scrap of daylight from the window, which appeared to be open, since the curtains stirred slightly from time to time. A single electric light blazed brilliantly above the desk.

The jeweler's bearded countenance broke up into beaming smiles at the sight of the visitor.

"Why, Mr. Crisp," he cried, "this is most opportune! I have been upon the point of telephoning to you ever since I opened my mail this morning. Mr. Marvin Chandler may be here at any moment. He is coming to consult me concerning some of his jewel collections."

"You are afraid of a repetition of yesterday's raid, eh ?" queried Alphabet, as he seated himself at the opposite side of the desk. "I wonder why you did not call me up as you promised?"

But, before Garside could answer, there was a shout from the shop and a shot rang out. Well though Alphabet had schooled himself, the sudden commotion caused him to turn toward the door. In the same instant there was a terrific report close at hand, and out went the light.

Instantly, Alphabet spun round and his hands dropped like steel clamps upon the hands of Garside; and, although those hands held no weapon, and Garside urged him to secure the man who must have entered by the window and remained concealed behind the curtains, Alphabet still held on until the door into the shop opened and McAliece appeared.

At the same instant the light flooding into the room from the open door was augmented by the curtains masking the window being softly separated. The slightly vacuous features of Patsy Piers peered through the opening.

"There's your man, officer; there's the fellow who shot out the light! Get him!" shouted Garside excitedly, and strove to tear his wrists from Alphabet's restraining grasp.

"Me? Shot out the light? Oh, no, absolutely not. Nothing in my pockets, except a pair of good fists, I assure you. Pretty useful with them when necessary, of course, therefore no need for silly, messy firearms. Oh, no, absolutely and most emphatically not!" That from Patsy.

"What are you doing here?" queried Inspector McAliece sternly.

"Me? Oh, just passing along, saw the open window, heard old Alphabet's voice, and dropped in to see how he was keeping his end up. Letting a little light into dark places, eh?"

Patsy waved an explanatory hand from the extinguished light to the now open velvet curtains. "There were only two people in this room and one of them was the man who fired a shot," he added.

With a dour smile on his grim features, Inspector McAliece stepped forward and snapped steel handcuffs upon the supple wrists of Josiah Garside. After which Alphabet relieved the man of the pistol which reposed in his coat pocket, and, with a quick gesture, snatched the false beard from his chin.

From another pocket he fished up a black eye shade and a roll of flesh-colored transparent adhesive plaster.

"Voila! Mr. Black Patch!" he announced.

"Aye," agreed the inspector, "and, what's more, we've got the rest of the gang— all except two who were killed when that racing car charged one of your busses head on. That was a bright idea, Crisp.

"By the way," the inspector went on, "I guess Chandler is waiting in the shop to tell you how much he's enjoyed the entertainment. And he's holding on pretty tight to his jewels, I guess."

Later that evening, Alphabet Crisp again confronted the assistant commissioner.

"Now then, Crisp, let's have the story," said Cumberledge. "I've dealt with the Hammerson Jewelers for some time past, and Garside is the last man I should have suspected of being Black Patch. I'm eager to hear how you spotted him."

"Well, of course, sir," said Alphabet diffidently, "it was just dumb luck my being on the spot when Miss Vedore's diamonds were stolen. You see, I was in the room when she revived from her fainting fit, and her very first words focused my attention upon the main issue.

"She stated that a horrible-looking man, with a twisted lip and a black patch over his right eye, fired a pistol at her, and that other armed men entered the premises, and that her jewel case was snatched from her in the ensuing confusion.

"The point that struck me at once was that the man with the black patch must have been actually on the premises before the raid began, but none of the assistants nor the doorman had seen this man enter the premises. They had not seen him in the shop, nor was he to be found when we searched for him.

"It seemed possible, therefore, that he might be nothing more than a figment of Miss Vedore's imagination. If, on the other hand, such a person had been present, the only place in which he could possibly have taken refuge was the managing director's office.

"But Garside stated that he had locked his door directly the firing started, and, moreover, that door had only just been opened when I entered the shop.

"It was during the ensuing conversation that I spotted a small strip of adhesive plaster upon the carpet inside the room. It was flesh-colored and transparent, and it suggested to me the possibility that the use of such a strip of plaster might enable a man to fake the appearance of a twisted lip, which will go a long way toward providing an efficient disguise.

"The black patch might be an adjunct to the miscreant's make-up, but that matter provided an open issue, until I returned here and you, sir, told me about the previous exploits of Black Patch.

"From your statement, sir, it appeared that the leader of the gang had been wearing the black patch for a period of at least two years.

"Now, the use of an eye shade suggested either a diseased or injured eye, which had to be protected, or that the eye was missing, or had some distinctive characteristic which the owner wished to conceal.

"The wearing of the shade for two years seemed to me to preclude the possibility of disease or injury, and so I decided I must look either for a one-eyed man or a person with a peculiar right eye.

"Garside had a distinctive hazel wedge in the gray iris of his right eye, and it seemed reasonable to assume that Black Patch had disappeared into Garside's office when the Westwater Diamonds were stolen. The presence of a strip of plaster inside the door served to strengthen this theory.

"Then, sir, you told me of the shooting of possible confederates by Black Patch, upon the occasion of previous raids. But, if Garside was Black Patch, he would need no accomplice to tell him when the Westwater Diamonds would be delivered to the Hammerson Jewelers. It was then that I said that Black Patch had blundered.

"With this theory forming in my mind, I determined to lay a trap, and through the instrumentality of my friend, Patsy Piers, I induced Mr. Chandler to make an appointment to deliver some of his jewels to Garside at four o'clock this afternoon.

"All this morning I waited for Garside to put through the promised call, notifying me that further famous jewels were likely to come into his custody. No call came through, and, meanwhile, you know of the steps that were taken to deal with the raid if it should take place.

"As Patsy had helped me and was anxious to have a hand in the affair, I asked him to watch the window opening from Garside's office onto a deserted side street.

"I have no doubt that Garside realized that I suspected him, and it was for that reason that he shattered the lights with a pistol shot while I was in his room at the time of Chandler's arrival, which coincided with the appearance in the shop of Black Patch's gang of gunmen.

"No doubt Garside intended to finish me off in the darkness, and for that reason had left open the window, by which Piers entered, in order that it might appear as if Black Patch had arrived and left by that window.

"As you know, sir, we found a black patch and a roll of plaster in Garside's pocket; his beard was a false one, and Miss Vedore's jewel case was locked away in his safe. I think that that explains the whole matter."

__________________

16: Facsimile

Oliver F. Crothers
fl 1932-4

The Shadow 1 Nov 1932

Nothing is known of this author other than a handful of short stories.

IN THE third-degree room at the Central Station, his thin face full within the blaze of the spotlights, "Nervy" Neltz sat in a straight-backed chair. Neltz's chief characteristic, a self-sufficient ego, rode high in his whole demeanor.

He was a most unusual crook, was Nervy. Although he had been grilled for hours, he still maintained the arrogant attitude that had been the despair of his inquisitors.

Looking upon his self-satisfied prisoner, Detective Barney Brett sighed. If only he could forget himself a few moments! If only he could break that shell of conceit! How ?

Brett knew Nervy. He knew the fellow's reputation for steady nerves; was aware that Neltz gloried in his opportunities to display his peculiar gift. Brett guessed that Neltz honestly believed that his nerve was less easily warped than case-hardened steel.

But the detective knew a fact that his captive had yet to learn— brains count more than nerve, or an air-tight alibi, even!

"So you won't come through, eh?" said Brett quietly.

Neltz jeered.

"Sometime you'll find out I ain't no ordinary coot!"

Brett raised drooping lids.

"O.K., boys," he said wearily. "Must be near morning. Run the curtains up. Let's have a bit of cheerful sunlight."

The tired officers surrounding the straight-backed chair looked at one another in disappointment, and at Neltz with unfeigned dislike.

Detective Barney Brett, honorable, unselfish, friendly, daring to a degree, was their idol. Each of them knew that Brett's immediate promotion depended upon a confession from the cocksure, half-pint-size mug who lolled, with supremely insulting composure, beneath the glaring bulbs.

ONE of the subordinates obediently rolled up the shades. The crisp new fall day poured in.

Brett addressed himself once more to Neltz.

"I'm dead sure you robbed the bank. Nervy. And I'm equally certain that you plugged the old watchman."

"Prove it!"

The officers in the room beat back their instincts with difficulty. One and all, they respected Barney Brett's restraint. But there was Molly, Barney's fiancee, to think about.

Molly managed a high-class restaurant close by the station, and Barney spent his off-duty hours lazing about her kitchen. The blue-coated men were very fond of the ambitious girl— and of her superlative cooking.

Also, they were familiar with Brett's promise that he'd earn the coveted title, "inspector," before he married. Made in jest, it had, through innumerable jokes, become vital. Barney was like that! But Molly— already she had waited too long!

And here, in their power, taunting them, flouting their authority, burlesqued the miserable little runt who could give Barney his lift, and at the same time make Molly a bride. Collectively the group ground their teeth, and puzzled with Brett. How could Nervy be broken to talk?

A husky, barrel-chested patrolman, made an impassioned plea.

"Aw, Barney, just once! Let me maul the blown-up, smelly amoeba! I'll make him talk to you!"

"Thanks, old man," returned Barney. "But you're new on the force. That stunt never works with Nervy."

Neltz snorted contemptuously.

"You're a hot bunch o' dicks!" he gibed.

DETECTIVE Brett ignored the interruption. He continued patiently.

"Nervy is well known to us," he spoke. "He's laughed in his sleeve— yes, he's thumbed his nose at us for months. We strongly suspicion that he's busted several banks. We are convinced that he's killed two men. And now, as you know, we believe he cracked the Farmers Trust and shot the guard night before last."

"But you can't prove a thing !" twitted Nervy in scorn.

"We can't prove it— now!" echoed Barney. "And we can't break the rat down— yet !"

Nervy gurgled a rasping, egotistical yap.

"I've told you, stupid scholar," lisped the thin-faced youth with insolence that stung and roiled, "how many times? When you get Nervy Neltz scared so bad his hand shakes— then, Detective Barney Brett, come around! For then— and not till then— and maybe not then—"

Nervy stretched out a slender arm.

His motion was deliberate, designed to irritate. Straight from the shoulder, and parallel with the floor, he extended it. Not a muscle twitched. No slightest tremor rippled over any part of its length.

Nervy caught the sneaking admiration in the big rookie's eyes. It was like rain on his parched vanity, manna to his applause-starved soul.

For good measure, Nervy spread his fingers wide. The human eye could discern the tiniest twitch nor movement to disturb the rocklike immobility of arm or fingers, He held the pose a long moment— then dropped his hand with a triumphant hoot.

"Humph!" scoffed Nervy. "Lay you fifty to one there ain't a bull in the room can do it. And, don't forget, I'm the bird that's just side-showed you the all-night third.

"You, Brett— when you catch a quiver in that hand of mine— why, maybe you might catch— cold!"

From a well-concealed vantage point a heavy voice erupted into the third-degree room.

"Sorry, Brett," intoned the deep bass that every headquarters man knew to be issuing from the hidden lips of Lieutenant Andrews. "I hoped to send that recommendation to the commissioner this morning. Better let Nervy loose !"

DETECTIVE Barney Brett bowed his head. Behind his unhappy eyes his mind distinguished Molly and her bitter disappointment.

Oh, she'd be game! He could hear her now. "Well, Barney, you're a cop, ain't you? D'ja ever know a cop to get a break?"

But it would be hard for her. Except that he'd passed his word, he'd go and carry her off at once. He knew she'd waited long enough, was conscious l that they'd both waited too long.

His word!

For Molly's sake, perhaps he'd better ignore his promise. Certainly no one would censure him. His brothers in the law would surely rejoice that he had conquered what they termed "damn fool donkeyishness." And Molly— probably she'd be in ecstasies!

But what about his responsibility to his own conscience? Would he, forever after, point a secret finger of scorn toward his own unstable heart? During all his days must he remember that he'd made a positive declaration — and then lacked stomach and character to cleave to the unmistakable line he'd indicated for himself ?

Brett shook his head drearily. He was made as he was made. At any cost, he must pursue his light as he saw it. Shame suffused his cheeks for his momentary weakness.

As though to reward him for his strength in the face of grave temptation, a forgotten thought seared across his brain.

"Lieutenant," cried Barney Brett eagerly. "The two witnesses? What about them? Did you break their statements?"

"Sorry, Barney," regretted the deep, hidden voice. "Both stick to their story. They swear Nervy Neltz played stud poker with them all through night before last."

So that settled it! Nothing to do now but let the vainglorious puppy go— and hope to get him again under more favorable circumstances to the law.

But what a travesty upon the vaunted efficiency of justice! Here was a cur, a gutter rat, a crawling menace to the streets of any city, without doubt a wrongdoer— yet, because the courts insisted upon proof of crime, Nervy Neltz must be spewed back to his undercover haunts to follow his nefarious desires.

Barney harassed his tired brain. To the phantom clamor of Molly's voice and the urgings of his own ambition, now decency arose to add her insistent cry that Nervy Neltz, criminal, be confined against his insidious projects toward society.

There was a way! He must find it! This scum should not again be flushed from the police doorway onto a public trustful in the efficacy of its public servants. How could Neltz be made to talk?

"What a stinking school of jellyfish!" goaded Nervy. He lounged erect. "One of you guys get my coat, see! Maybe I could make you sweat for this, Brett. Trying to intimidate a private citizen!" His words mocked. His very mien was a high offense.

Abruptly Barney Brett whirled. A sudden strange elation lit up his worn face, Nervy's words had struck a spark on the flint of his mind. His brain had clicked! His idea was far-fetched — but it was worth a serious try, especially with a bold show.

"Shove him down again, boys!" exclaimed Barney sharply. "Watch him close! I'll be right back!"

He swung on the amazed crook. "So your nerves are steady, eh, Neltz? You got it now— your chance! You're going to gamble your life on your nerves! And you're going to lose, because I know your nerves are shot!"

The undersized mug opened his eyes wide. But his self-assurance was strong. He laughed loudly. Then he yelled defiance after Brett.

"Yeah?" bragged Neltz. And then again, louder, to bolster his courage: "Oh— yeah?"

Half a dozen pairs of big hands joyfully thumped him back into the straight-backed chair.

THERE was a prickly silence in the third-degree room during the time that Detective Barney Brett was absent. Hopeful officer looked at hopeful officer. They all looked at Neltz, a shade worried by Brett's certainty.

What did Brett scheme? He seemed sure enough as he rushed out. Would his plan break the vain little crook? How was he going to do it ?

The suspense was short-lived. Without warning, Brett stepped back through the door. On his arm rested a waiter's tray. The tray was covered by a snowy napkin, which carried the distinguishing mark of Molly's restaurant.

Brett kicked a chair close to Nervy's knees. He sat down. He permitted himself a generous smile. With a flourish, he whisked away the napkin.

There, before the astonished eyes of Nervy Neltz and the no less dumfounded gaze of the group of officers, jiggled two sparkling mounds of dark purple jelly, each mound turned out neatly on a white saucer.

Barney took up the dish nearest him. He indicated that Nervy was to take the other. When Neltz had lifted the second dish, Brett placed the tray on the floor near his shoe,

"Now— watch me, Nervy!" he Cried.

The detective extended his arm. His hand stiffened to immobility. The whole arm grew rigid, became stone-still.

"Look!" commanded Barney. "Look sharp!"

Nervy stared in awe. The policemen drew their breaths softly as if fearful that that gentle act, even, might destroy the stability of the little mound of jelly, resting on his arm.

Brett grinned. After a moment, he relaxed. Gradually leaning over, he replaced the saucer on the tray.

"Your turn, Nervy," exulted Barney Brett with avid anticipation. "And remember— if it quivers, I catch a cowardly little murderer. You, rookie! You wanted to work on Neltz— stand by!"

"I can do it— if you can!" gulped Nervy.

His voice had lost a portion of its braggart timbre. He had noted that even as his saucer rested quietly on his motionless knee, the dark-purple jelly mound quivered like palsied flesh.

Laggardly, Neltz elevated his dish, and shoved out his arm. Desperately he strove to harden his muscles. His arm appeared inflexible as iron. Yet the jelly moved.

In swift panic Neltz ground his teeth. Water beads popped out on his low forehead. His jaw muscles clamped,

But his efforts were futile. Despite his frantic attempts, the jelly mound shook and wiggled and joggled and flopped to and fro.

Had the cops got him at last? Where were his boasted nerves? Even the despised dick had held the damned jelly still!

The eyes of the thin-faced, undersized crook showed fear. They began furious dartings. The man's cheeks lost color. His lips whitened. Still he strained in agony to steady that tremulous bulk of shivering, quavering jelly.

And then— Detective Barney Brett let out a great, heart-electrifying shout.

"Rookie! Now! Go to work! He's lost his nerve I Make that guy talk! Kill him!"

Eagerly the barrel-chested patrolman jumped forward. With one sweep of his bear paw, he knocked the saucer half across the room. His other ham-like fist clutched Neltz by the scruff of the neck. In another instant Nervy would have been well on his way to a good working over.

But that instant did not arrive. Brett saw the crook weaken, saw the horror in his face at the sight of the burly, eager copper.

Quaking in abject terror, Neltz screamed. "Don't Oh, don't let him touch me! I'll talk! I'll talk!"

Barney Brett let down. Jauntily he waved off the disappointed patrolman. His lips curved broadly up.

"Did you hear, lieutenant?" he called toward the wall.

"You bet!"

"Neltz's nerve was a poor counterfeit for the real thing, chief. But so was the jelly I held! You see, a while ago Molly boiled one batch too long. It hardened tougher than leather."

The lieutenant's deep voice came jubilantly.

"Great work— inspector!" he cried. "And now, I suppose you'll want a week's vacation."

"Sure will," agreed Brett heartily. "But when Molly hears she'll probably insist that we spend six days of it making jelly."

__________________

17: Verdict: "Suicide"

George Allan England

Argosy All-Story Weekly 28 Nov 1925

"THIS is quite an interesting novelty!" T. Ashley leaned back in the big wicker rocking-chair and hoisted his feet to the porch rail of Restawhile Inn, overlooking the sparkling waters of Lake Massagunsett. He began reading the newspaper item over again. "There seem to be novelties everywhere, if a man only keeps his eyes open. I can't even take a fortnight's vacation without running into one. Let's see, now!"

The item was printed in the local sheet, the South Harbor Breeze, and it said:

JEFFERSON COFFRIN

SUICIDES BY AUTO GAS

Coroner's Verdict Reveals Strange Case

Coroner Bailey's verdict in the case of Jefferson Coffrin, the well known merchant of this place, and whose death we noted in our last week's issue, reveals a singularly well planned suicide, carried out with great de- termination.

The facts, as brought out by the coroner's inquest, are as follows: On the night of August 17, Mr. Coffrin attended lodge meeting, and there had some confidential conversation with Lawyer Simeon Grimes about his— Mr. Coffrin's— unfortunate matrimonial complications. He also mentioned certain business troubles, and remarked that life was not worth the struggle and that he wished he was well out of it.

He left the lodge at about ten forty-five to drive home to his place on the lake shore, seeming in a very depressed state of mind. It will be remembered that Mr. Coffrin had been living alone there for about six weeks, since his wife left him to go to Boston. On the way out of the village he stopped at Swanzey's garage and got ten gallons of gas, remarking to Mr. Swanzey that he might need all of that for a trip he intended taking.

"Very interesting, so far," remarked the investigator, "even though the rural journalese in which it's written leaves much to be desired. However, style doesn't matter. Facts are all that matter here." He continued to read:

Nothing more was seen or beard of Mr. Coffrin until next afternoon. He failed to go to his store in the morning, but as he sometimes absented himself without notice, his clerk, John F. Shortis, thought nothing of it. About four fifteen that afternoon, however, Curtis J. Williss, a Brockton man who had hired a cottage near Mr. Coffrin's house, tried to get into Mr. Coffrin's garage to get his car out. Mr. Williss had hired the use of half the garage, and had a key to it.

He found the door unlocked, but could not open it, and thought that, as sometimes happened, it was off the rollers. All efforts to open it proving of no avail, Mr. Williss looked in through a window at one side, and was horrified to see Mr. Coffrin lying on the garage floor, near his car.

Mr. Williss rapped on the window and shouted to Mr. Coffrin, but failed to arouse him. He then tried to raise the window, but finding it locked, ran to Daniel Swett's store, at the lake settlement of Pinedale, about a quarter mile distant, and stated the facts. Mr. Swett accompanied Mr. Williss back to the garage, where, after brief consultation, Mr. Swett proceeded to break the window.

"Very hasty and ill-advised action, I'm sure," murmured the investigator. "If people would only proceed with due de- liberation—but that, I suppose, is too much to expect from mere human nature. At all events—"Then he went on with the newspaper account:

Overpowering fumes of gas escaped through the broken window, and it was only after several minutes that Mr. Swett could raise the sash and crawl in, then open other windows and ventilate the garage. His attempt to open the door failed, so at first he did not investigate the reason, but confined himself to opening the windows. In this work he was almost overcome.

Examination showed that the unfortunate Mr. Coffrin had been dead for several hours. The gas tank of the car was empty, proving that the engine had run until all the gas had been used up. The fact that all the windows of the garage were locked, and that— there being no way to lock the door on the inside— the door bad been securely fastened with staples and wire, proved conclusively that Mr. Coffrin had committed a carefully planned and unique suicide, and had taken every precaution against being disturbed in its accomplishment.

Mr. Coffrin had evidently fastened the door, started his engine, and then sat down at the wheel to await death. At the last moment of consciousness, however, he seems to have repented of his rash action and tried to struggle out of the car, for, as we have said, he was found on the floor, and a cut back of the left ear, also a little blood on the edge of the "cozy wing" of the windshield shows where he fell against it just before collapsing. Coroner Bailey's verdict, rendered yesterday, is one of suicide by voluntary inhalation of carbon monoxide fumes.

Mr. Coffrin is survived by his brother, Alvin, of Great Falls, Minnesota, and by his wife, Elmira, who since the tragic event has returned to South Harbor to assist in settling his estate. Mr. Coffrin was fifty-eight years of age, a native of this town, a leading figure in local business, and a prominent member of the—

" We'll let that part go," said T, Ashley, folding the paper and 'shoving it into his pocket. 'All that matters is that Mr. Jefferson Coffrin is dead and that it's a curious case. Quite an entertaining novelty."

The investigator remained for several minutes brooding in his chair, looking— with eyes that saw not—over the limpid waters of the lake.

" Humph!" he communed with himself. "A new one, in the suicide line, Odd, very!"

ii

THAT afternoon, having nothing else to do, the investigator took his car and drove to the settlement of Pinedale, near which was the Coffrin home. A few words of inquiry at Daniel Swett's little country store assured him that the chances were small for hiring a house in that locality.

"There ain't none this time o' year, so far's I know," the storekeeper informed him, squinting with hard and suspicious eyes and rubbing a prominent chin not altogether innocent of tobacco-stained stubble. "An' as for a house with a garridge, you might's well hunt for frog-hair in January. What say? That there garridge down the road? No, sir! That's the one where poor Coffrin' committed suicide last week. Can't be hired, mister.

"Turrible doin's, wasn't they? No, sir, I don't cackelate his widder'd want to let her house to nobody. She's got her aunt from Fall River stayin' with her, now. I reckon they'll live right there till fall. Yes, sir, Mrs. Coffrin's to home, all right. She don't go nowheres now. As why would she, an' her goin's-on responsible for drivin' poor Coffrin to it. But I vowny, she's got paid off, good! Coffrin's business is in a turrible mux, they say, an' she won't get hardly a skrid o' money.

"If she'd only got his insurance, that would of fixed her, fine. Nigh twenty-five thousand 'twas, I hear. But now the comp'ny ain't goin' to pay her, not one namable cent. Cause the policy's got a suicide clause into it, so she can't collect, an'— huh? Oh, sure you can ask her if she'll let her house an' garridge. But I don't reckon—all right, mister, good-day!"'

Mrs. Coffrin proved to be an acidulous and calculant-eyed woman of nearly fifty, to whom mourning black was no adornment. Her sparse hair was heavily streaked with gray, her cheeks sunken and chin retreating.

T. Ashley noted cigarette-stains on her fingers, and saw by the woman's contracted eye-pupils that she indulged in some form of morphine.

"No, sir," she replied, her glance not meeting his own as he stood on the side porch. "This house isn't to let, or the garage, either. I've had trouble enough, as 'tis, without any more bother— tenants, and so on."

"Very sorry, I'm sure," murmured the investigator, in his most sympathetic tone. "From what I hear— excuse me for mentioning it—you have had unusually severe afflictions. Being in the insurance business myself, I quite understand how eagerly some of our competing companies grasp at the— pardon me for the reference— at the suicide clause, to avoid payment of a just claim."

"Who's been telling you 'bout that?"

"My dear madam, in the insurance world all news travels fast. And the company in which your late husband was insured bears an unenviable reputation for sharp practices. I feel that you are being cheated out of what is justly yours."

"Aren't you presuming a little too far, sir?"

"Perhaps, perhaps. But when I see an injustice being done, it naturally arouses my indignation. Women are so easily duped, especially widows. And of course there's an excellent chance for you to collect all or part of your late husband's insurance."

"Who are you, anyhow?" demanded the widow, shrewishly— a most unpleasant figure of a woman. "Lawyer, or sharper of some kind, or—"

"Oh no, not at all," replied T. Ashley, with the suavest of gestures. He produced a card with the name "Wilfred K. Towle, Insurance," on it, and passed it over. "I'm merely a tired business man on a month's vacation, down at Restawhile Inn. Thought if I could hire a cottage or a house, at this end of the lake—"

" Well, you can't, so far's I know. Certainly this one isn't to let. And you seem to take a mighty big interest in other folks' affairs, I must say!"

"True, perhaps. Please pardon me. But you know an insurance man's professional interests are never wholly extinguished, not even when he's having a holiday at a beautiful lake like this. Please forgive me, madam, and forget that I ever mentioned the matter. Sorry to have troubled you. Good-by!"'

iii

NOT more than three days later he received a note, under his temporary name of Towle, asking him to come to the Coffrin house. The widow's attitude had undergone a radical alteration, and now she was all affability.

"I've asked you to call, Mr. Towle," she explained, trying to force a smile, "so that you might possibly advise me a little in regard to my husband's insurance. You were saying, the other day, there might be— that is— a chance of collecting—"

"Oh, yes, your late husband's insurance. Yes, yes, a part, at least. That is, in case any reasonable doubt could be thrown on the coroner's verdict of suicide."

"I see. Are you looking for a commission, or anything like that?"

"Bless you, no!" T. Ashley disclaimed, smiling amicably. "I'm just vacationing, I assure you. And anyhow, such matters are out of my line. I'm only a common or garden variety of insurance agent."

"Well," queried the sharp-faced widow, "what would I have to do, in order to—"

"Do? Just prove the verdict was mistaken."

"You mean, show that my husband was killed? Murdered?"

"Not necessarily. If it could be shown that he met death accidentally, the insurance company would have to pay you."

"But how could he have met accidental death, with the door and all the windows fastened on the inside?" The widow's calculant air increased, her unpleasantly drug-contracted pupils seemed like gimlets boring at T. Ashley. Little enough she appeared to care for the late departed, but very much indeed for that departed's insurance.

"How could he have?"

"Ah, that's a very interesting question now!" smiled the investigator. "You wouldn't expect me to answer that off-hand, would you, before I've seen the place of the tragic event?"

"You mean the garage?"

"Of course. May I look it over?"

"I don't see what good that could possibly do," Mrs. Coffrin objected. "But if you think it might help me any, I'll unlock it for you."

She fetched a key from the kitchen, and dangling it by a string walked with T. Ashley out through the back yard to the garage that stood in a little driveway leading in from the main road around the lake.

A singularly unlovely, gaunt and disagreeable creature she looked, thought the investigator. How, he wondered, could she ever have had the "past" that local gossip assigned to her? T. Ashley could hardly find it in his heart to wish the late Jefferson Coffrin back in life again, if that meant any dealings with this most unfeminine of women.

"Well, here you are," the widow remarked, as they came to the garage. T. Ashley closely observed it; a yellow structure with double sliding-doors and lighted by four windows. Mrs. Coffrin unfastened a padlock and ran one of the doors back. "Here's where it all happened."

"Thanks," said the investigator, stepping in. "Your automobile?" And he gestured at a touring-car that stood at the right of the garage.

"Yes," Mrs. Coffrin nodded. "There was a Mr. Williss hired this other space here, but after it happened he took his car away. That, there," and she pointed at the machine, "is what killed my poor husband. He was found right there where that board is kind of cracked, on the floor."

"I see. And the car was standing right where it is now, at the right?"

"Yes, it was."

"To get it in here, in this position, that other door has to be slid back, eh?"

"Yes."

"Very well." And T. Ashley fell to examining the arrangement of the doors.

To enter the garage at all, he saw, the padlocked door— let us call it the A door— had first to be slid open, admitting who- ever wanted to come in. The second, or B door ran in the opposite direction. This, the investigator saw, was fastened by a large file without a wooden handle. The sharp-pointed handle-end of this file was thrust into a hole in an upright timber that occupied the middle of the front of the garage.

The A door slid outside of this timber, and the B door inside of it. To slide the B door, so as to admit a car at the right- hand side of the garage, the file had to be taken out.

T. Ashley looked around for a moment, then examined all the windows and gave special scrutiny to the one that storekeeper Daniel Swett had broken. The glass in this pane was still unset. Then the investigator came back again to the doors.

These seemed to interest him more than the windows, the car or the place. where Jefferson Coffrin had been found dead.

He removed the file, slid the door back, then closed it again and replaced the file.

"This right-hand door here, was like this," he asked, "when Mr. Swett and Mr. Williss got in?"

"That's what they claim," answered the widow, with an angular gesture at the door. She added: "And this one was locked, too."

"Locked? With the padlock on the outside?"

"No. I mean, it was fastened."

"How?" the investigator asked.

"On the inside. With staples and wire, It—I'm afraid it looks most awfully like suicide, don't it?"

"It certainly does," T. Ashley assented. "Staples, you said?"

"Yes, you know; the kind that barb-wire's fastened on with. On to fence-posts."

"I see. And barb-wire was used?"

"Oh dear, no. Just plain wire."

"Electrical wiring material, you mean? Something that Mr. Coffrin had here in the garage or around the car?"

"No, no. They say it was just ordinary iron wire."

"Like hay-wire," queried T. Ashley.

"Yes, that's it. Hay-wire, yes. The kind they put round baled hay."

"And you've got that kind of wire, and staples, here in the garage? Or in your woodshed, or anywhere round the place?"

"Why, maybe. But I— well, I don't know as I ever saw any here. I suppose Mr. Coffrin must have got some, somewhere," she explained, a little more hurriedly. "He must have planned all this and got good and ready for it, for some time. I know what I'm saying makes it look exactly like suicide, and Lord knows I want to upset that verdict if I can, but of course facts are facts."

"And we want to get all the facts we can," smiled the investigator. " Now, let's
see. Where were these staples driven?"

"Why, right here, and here." She pointed with a bony-knuckled finger.

T. Ashley, stooping, saw at the bottom of the A door and about three feet from its edge, a couple of small, splintered holes.  Other and similar holes were visible in the sill of the garage, close to the door.

He closed the door, noted the relative position of the two sets of holes, then queried:

"And the wire was passed through the staples?"

"Yes, and twisted up tight, so nobody outside could open the door. Oh, I guess Mr. Coffrin was determined to make a good, thorough job of it. He didn't mean to have anybody getting in here, interfering with him."

"It certainly looks that way, I'm sorry to admit. Sorry, for your sake and the insurance. By the way, madam, where's the wire and the staples? Got them?"

"Why, no. They were taken away, after the coroner's jury got through making their inspection here."

"Who took them away?"

"I— I don't know. Why? Is that important?"

"Oh, no. I was just thinking maybe I'd like to see them, if I could. But never mind."

T. Ashley now knelt in the doorway, and for a minute studied the staple holes and the woodwork surrounding them. He drew a small ruler from his pocket and made some measurements. Then he remarked:

"Your husband wrote a good hand, Mrs. Coffrin?"

"What?"

"Was he good writer?"

"Why, yes. But what in the world has that got to do with this?"

"Oh, nothing, except that he seems to have been rather an unusual man, in several ways. Left-handed people don't usually write a good hand."

"Why, Mr. Coffrin wasn't left-handed!"

"Wasn't he? Somebody down at the inn was telling me he was."

"Well, they're very much mistaken!" she exclaimed abruptly. "And now, have you seen all you want to?"

"Quite. It's been most interesting."

"Any reason to suppose I can ever collect any of that insurance?"

"Ah, who knows?" And T. Ashley smiled enigmatically. "Nothing is impossible in this world."

"Except to find an honest insurance company!" she tartly declared. "Well, if you've seen everything—"

"I have, thank you. I'll communicate with you as soon as I make up my mind what's next to be done so you'll get your just deserts. You'd best say nothing about this investigation. Good day, madam."

T. Ashley took his departure in good order, leaving Mrs. Coffrin tight-lipped and tense, peering after him with puzzled, anxious and morphine-narrowed eyes.

iv

NEXT day, T. Ashley dropped in at the musty, cluttered little law office of Simeon Grimes, in the Chadwick Block at South Harbor. Perhaps you know the sort of place— an aged brick building, dusty stairs, dim-paned windows and a raffle of books, papers and the rubbish of years bestrewing an old-time, black-walnut-furnished den that in many years had known no thorough house cleaning.

Old Simeon was very particular about never letting Mrs. Grimes disturb his legal calm. ' Don't want any women messin' round here, and won't have 'em!"' He kept, in brief, the kind of law office that can be found only in remote New England towns, far up among the northern hills.

"I have come," announced T. Ashley, "to consult you in the matter of a will. What is your customary fee?"

"Well, that's 'cordin' to what my advice is, mister," replied Simeon Grimes, blinking through silver-rimmed spectacles that had been untidily mended with thread, stray ends of which stuck out near his grizzled ruffle of hair over loose-hung ears.

He had a long nose, a squint, hollow cheeks and "store-teeth"; smoked a corn-cob pipe, and always seemed to have been shaved day before yesterday. He fitted his office to a T.

Now, as he joined his finger-tips and leaned back in a creaking swivel-chair, he looked half lawyer and half farmer, which indeed he was. The legal profession in South Harbor was not so exacting as to keep Simeon Grimes wholly from agricultural avocations.

" Yes, sir, my fees varies some," he explained. "But for a general, av'rage case, ten dollars as a retainer is all right. An' now," after he had stowed the ten in a worn billfold, "now what's the case?"

"If a man writes his signature on a will, it's legal and binding, no matter how he writes it?"

"Yes, sir, if properly witnessed, 'tis!"

"How about on a check?"

"Same thing. If he writes it, it's legal."

"Suppose he writes it altogether differently from his recognized signature, prints it or scrawls it, that makes no difference?"

"Not a dite," affirmed the lawyer. "He can write it with his toes, if he sees fit. Jes' so he writes it, it's O.K."

"Either hand will do?"

"Yes, sir. Why?"

"Oh, well, that settles a little matter I've been worrying over. It's in regard to a will that— but never mind. All I wanted — was your opinion about the legality of signatures, under all conditions, just so the proper person made them. Funny thing, though, isn't it, how anybody can write with his left hand? The right seems so— well, so kind of natural. I've always figured that a cross-eyed man or a left-handed man must have something the matter with his intellect. Can't make it seem that a left-handed man is mentally all there!"

"Humph! You've got some funny ideas, ain't you?" demanded the bucolic lawyer with a certain show of resentment. "What 'd you say, now, if I was to tell you I'm left-handed, myself?"

"What? Why— nothing personal intended," disclaimed the investigator. "But I'd hardly believe it, just looking at you. There's nothing about you to— excuse me, sir— to indicate any abnormality. You really mean you can write with your left hand?"

With a touch of pride, old Simeon Grimes reached for a pen, dipped the pen in a huge glass inkwell and very neatly dashed off a signature.

"There!" he exclaimed, passing it over. "Anythin' the matter with that?"

"Not a thing," admitted T. Ashley, admiringly. " Do you do everything with your left hand? Shave with it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Eat with it?"

"Yes, do everything."

"You can use your right, though."

"Well, some, but I never do."

"If you did, you'd be ambidextrous. I— heard of an old man once who claimed to be ambidextrous because he couldn't write with either hand." Then, as Lawyer Grimes shot a keen glance at him, wondering whether this was a joke or not, the investigator arose. "Well, I must be going now. Good-day."

"Good-day, sir," returned Grimes, reaching for a ruck of papers on his desk. At the door, however, T. Ashley paused a moment.

"By the way," he asked, "did you ever collaborate with a writer?"

"Which?" the lawyer demanded.

"I mean, help an author with the plot for a story."

"No, sir, I never did. Why?"

"Well, I happen to be something of a writer, and need a little help on a plot. A few legal details, you understand. What would you charge me for some advice, say, about a few points of evidence in a story?"

"Oh, I dunno. Ten dollars, mebbe. When would you want me to do it?"

"Now's as good a time as any, provided we can have a quarter of an hour to ourselves."

"I guess we can, all right. The law business ain't so rushin', in the summer that anybody'd be liable to come in this time o' the afternoon. What's your story about?"

And Simeon Grimes settled back comfortably in his well-padded old swivel-chair, to listen.

v

"LET me tell you the plot." T. Ashley sat down again, across the littered desk from the lawyer. "In the first place, there are two men involved, and the action takes place in a garage."

"Garage?"

"Yes. One of the men, in some way and for some motive I haven't worked out very clearly as yet, stuns the other and decides to finish him off— kill him, that is, in some such way as will make it appear like suicide. Well, he fastens the garage door with two steel staples and some iron wire, starts the engine of the man's car— leaving his enemy unconscious— and then gets out of a window.

"The window has the kind of snap-catch on it, that, when you put the window down, springs into a socket. You've seen that sort. They're common in the country. So of course everything's all secure at the garage, the deception is complete that the man has killed himself by breathing carbon monoxide gas, and nobody ever suspects the truth. What do you think of that, now, for a plot?"

"I think," said the lawyer with an effort, in a harsh and dry voice, "that it's a damn fool piece of rubbish, and would be laughed at in any magazine or book, jes' the same as 'twould be in any court o' law. If you can't think of a better story than that, mister, you'd better stop wastin' your time and mine."

"Ah, but wait till you hear the rest of it!" exclaimed T. Ashley, leaning forward over the desk. "The man's death passes as suicide until a certain criminal investigator finds that the dead man had no steel staples or iron wire at his house, and also that— judging by the angles at which the staples were driven in, and by the direction of dents in the work, where the hammer slipped— the job was done by a left-handed man. But the supposed suicide, you see, was right-handed. So of course—"

"Worse and worse," croaked old Grimes, his hollow cheeks quite bloodless now, his eyes blinking through the silver-rimmed glasses. He was shivering slightly, but for all that managed a crooked smile. "Who in the world would believe rubbish like that?"

"Nobody, perhaps. That's why I'm asking you to help me out with some of the fine points. The investigator of course finds out all the left-handed men in town. He discovers there are only three of them, and only one has any land fenced with wire. So the investigator examines some of the staples in that left-handed man's fencing, and finds they measure exactly the same, between points, as the staples used at the garage. And after that—"

"What rubbish! All stuff and nonsense!"

"After that he discovers, in the murderer's barn, some baled-hay wire just such as was used—"

"Wait!" gulped the lawyer, with quivering hand extended. "Who— for God's sake, who are you?"

"Who I am doesn't matter in the least. All that matters is this— are you ready to confess?"

"Confess— what?"

"The murder of Jefferson Coffrin!"

vi

FOR a moment the lawyer remained huddled, shaken, with hands that twitched and eyes like those of a trapped animal. Then all at once he began speaking in a strange, low tone, almost like some in- human mechanism:

"If you call it murder, yes. But it ain't. 'Twas just a fight, an' what I did afterwards don't make it murder. Wouldn't, in any court, if I could get an honest hearin'.

"We quarreled, yes, that's right, Coffrin an' I did. 'Cause why? 'Cause he was bound an' determined to divorce that worthless woman of his. She was a common village round-'round, when he married her, and worse afterwards. And I begged him not to try and divorce her and stir up a scandal. Just let her go, but not bother her none. She always swore if he did, she'd drag in every namable man in town as had ever got too friendly with her. And I'd been one of 'em, myself, a long time ago. So if Coffrin wouldn't quit and let her be, that might mean my ruination. And I've got a good wife and two grown-up children. Ruination— that's what. Kicked out of the church, the lodge, everything— plumb ruined, done for. Well—"

"I see. Go on."

"So I begged and implored him not to do it. But he was set on it, Coffrin was. Set an' determined. The very last night of his life, after lodge meetin', he and I had words about it. In lodge, before then, he'd said he was ready to kill himself, and I wish to God he had.

"He drove home. A little later, I did, too. I live a piece down the road, past his house. As I drove by, I see him in his garage, gettin' ready to lock up. I stopped and went in there and begun again, tryin' to argue him out of his divorce notions.

"He flew mad in a minute, and told me to go to hell. Ordered me out. I told him I'd go when I got damn good and ready. He was standin' right beside his car, with the lights still on, and Mr. Williss's car was on the other side of the garage. He said he'd throw me out. I told him he wasn't man enough."

"And what then?"

"So he come at me, and hit out. I ducked. He only hit me on the shoulder. I struck back. Must have swung on him harder'n what I calculated on. Anyhow, he tripped over a place where the floor was broken and splintered, and hit his head, right back of the left ear; on one of them glass shields that he's got on the sides of his windshield. They're mighty sharp, the edges of them shields. So he dropped. And then—"

" Well?"

"Well, as God's my judge, that's what killed him. He was dead, all right. He didn't get up, or stir, or breathe. I was plumb paralyzed with fear. I got down on my knees and listened to his heart, but it had stopped. Oh mercy, oh Lord! He was an awful heavy man, and he must have hit that glass a terrible crack."

"I see. A blow back of the ear may very easily paralyze the respiratory center and prove fatal. And you—"

"Like a damn fool, I didn't drive to Swett's store and tell the truth. No, I got panic-struck. I figured nobody'd ever believe me, anyhow, and I'd go to the 'lectric chair. So then, this suicide idea come to me." The lawyer's words were tumbling out like a torrent of confession, his parchment-like face was crisped with a mortal anguish. "The suicide idea. After what he'd been sayin' that very night, I thought it 'd wash. So I—"

"You framed the suicide?"

"God forgive me, yes! I turned out the lights on his car and left him layin' there. Drove my car 'bout a quarter-mile past the store and left it up a wood-road there, near my house, with the lights out. 'Twas a dark, drizzly night, and nobody come by. Nobody see me. I sneaked home, got in the barn, found some wire and staples and a hammer, and got back to Coffrin's garage, down around the lake shore, without a soul knowin'."

"You understood just how the garage doors worked?"

"Why wouldn't I? I'd been in it, dozens o' times!"

"And you figured that the garage must be completely closed, from the inside, to make the suicide theory go?"

"Yes, yes, that's right, and—"

"Clever! Very! That shows the advantage of a logical, legal mind. Well, what then?"

"You know, as well 's I do. You just told me, yourself, not ten minutes ago. Only thing you don't know, an' don't believe, is that I didn't murder Jeff Coffrin. Not in cold blood, that is. 'Twas a fist-fight, an accident, I swear to God, and—"

"You don't need to swear. It may have been an accident. I know how these things sometimes happen. But in court—"

"Court! You— you mean you're goin' to—"

T. Ashley eyed the quivering wretch a long minute, and then laughed oddly. Speaking as if to himself, he mused aloud:

"It's not Simeon Grimes that matters now, in this case. It's the respective women. On one hand, a good wife and two children. On the other, a bad woman; a woman with a disgraceful past; a morphine-addict, heartless and full of vice and greed for the insurance of the man she wrecked and ruined.

"If I prove this a murder, which technically it may not be— since Coffrin may have struck the first blow and you may have simply acted in self-defense— the good woman will be disgraced and will suffer all her life. The bad one will get about twenty-five thousand dollars that she doesn't in the least deserve and that she'll turn to the worst possible uses. If I let it stand as a suicide, the good woman will be protected and the bad one won't get a penny. So— well, that's the answer to the problem."

"You— mean," gulped the miserable Grimes, "you— you ain't goin' to—"

"I mean," smiled the investigator, "I'm a man of ordinary human common sense. And this is not the first time in my career that I've tempered legal rigors with just that same kind of sauce. Of course I rather enjoy this little vacation case, in which my hypothesis has worked out so neatly. But as for the rest— well, you can just forget it. I'll leave you to your own conscience. That's about all the punishment you can stand."

T. Ashley rose to go. At the door he paused a moment.

"Rather a neat little story, eh?" he smiled. "Under the circumstances, I hardly think you'll insist on your ten dollar fee for collaborating with the plot. Good day, sir. Good day."

But the lawyer made no answer. Sprawled across the litter on his old black- walnut desk, there he lay in a dead faint wrapped in the mercy of at least temporary , oblivion.

And thus T. Ashley left him.

___________________

Table of Contents

- 1: Norah and the Fairies / Hume Nisbet
- 2: No Ships Pass / Lady Eleanor Smith
- 3: The Castle of Dromore / Katharine Tynan
- 4: "I Am Dead!" / Harold Ward
- 5: The Call of the Tiger / Ethel Lina White
- 6: Death Dances on Dimes / Laurence Donovan
- 7: The Ghost Monk / Rosa Praed
- 8: The Sham Shop / Ethel Lina White
- 9: Darkness / Irvin S. Cobb

- 10: The Anonymous Letter / Archibald Marshall

- 11: The Man With the Glass Heart / George Allan England

- 12: The Deadly House / Bertram Atkey

- 13: Two Voices / Henry Leverage

- 14: The Trail of Jeopardy / H. Bedford-Jones

- 15: The Black Patch / F. A. M. Webster

- 16: Facsimile / Oliver F. Crothers

- 17: Verdict: "Suicide" / George Allan England