PAST MASTERS 119

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.

17 March 2023

Contents

1: The Risen Dead / Tip Bliss

2: Black Cat / J. Allan Dunn

3: King of Swindlers / Arthur Somers Roche

4: The Hands of Horror / Karl Schiller

5: Mistral / Raoul Whitfield

6: The Hairy Devil / Morgan Robertson

7: Viking Loot / H. Bedford-Jones

8: The Third Ovanoff / Ernest G. Henham

9: A Presentiment / Marcel Prévost

10: A Dish of Macaroni / Richard Dehan

11: The Parasite / Arthur Conan Doyle

12: Rats / F. A. M. Webster

13: The Wire That Wasn't Cut / F. Raymond Brewster

14: The Peppercorn Entail / Frederick Irving Anderson

15: The Undoing of Le Croix / Eric A. Darling

16: The Cunning of the Serpent / Henry S. Whitehead

17: The Rhino Charges / William J. Makin

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1: The Risen Dead

Tip Bliss

1890-1944

Detective Story Magazine 16 April 1927

"Tip" Bliss was a news photographer by occupation. He began publishing his short stories, mostly in detective magazines, in 1927; but by 1934 his fiction writing career was over. He also had a series of stories featuring "Parlyvous" Cochran and "Useless" Collins in War Stories magazine (World War 1 of course)

"THEY ain't got a thing on you, Phil," Abie Klempner advised his client earnestly. "Not a thing. Remember, it's they that's got to prove you killed old Marley. You don't have to prove nothing— anything. Have a cigar."

Philip Duval reached out a long, well-kept hand that trembled despite his usual iron control.

"Perhaps you'd worry if you were to be tried for first-degree murder," he suggested in a voice that shook a little. "It isn't exactly a very pleasant sensation."

"Sure it ain't," agreed Klempner. "But I wouldn't worry if I had a good lawyer to defend me, like you got. If I do say it myself,' he added in a modest afterthought.

Silently Duval agreed. He knew that Klempner, this sleek, oily little man who in private life was so disagreeable as to be offensive, could in the courtroom shed his mannerisms like a pair of gloves and was accounted one of the two or three outstanding criminal lawyers in the State. His clever cross-examination had caused many an earnest would-be truth teller to break down, contradict himself and finally leave the stand with the feeling he was lucky to be merely a witness and not the defendant.

And Klempner in an address to the jury became so impassioned that he could bring tears to the eyes of the most hard-boiled jury. "Get Klempner and get off light," was the word passed around the underworld when one of the crowd encountered trouble with the law.

Not that Philip Duval was a member of the underworld. He was an actor, a good actor, whose openings invariably brought the first-string critics, and whose scrap books were jammed with encomiums. To think of himself as a criminal was abhorrent, almost impossible. Many nights since his arrest he had awakened suddenly with the conviction that it was all a horrible dream, that old Marley was still alive, acting his bits as butler or valet, while Duval trod the stage the undisputed master of the play.

Then realization would come, the memory of that dreadful evening when old Marley had announced to the assembled company his engagement to Irma Truden, the slim, golden-haired leading woman, to whom Duval, in his vanity, had tacitly supposed himself engaged and whom he intended to marry "some day."

True, Marley had not been so very old, but members of the company had become so accustomed to seeing his athletic, gray-crowned figure moving unobtrusively across the stage that they invariably prefixed his name with the adjective. "Old Marley," they had christened him, and old Marley he had always been in their thoughts.

News of the engagement stunned them all. That Irma Truden, just rising to fame and fortune, should throw herself away on a man who was certainly past his prime and who even in his prime had never been better than a fair actor was unbelievable. But Irma, standing with her hand on Marley's arm, had confirmed the news with a smiling nod, which seemed to indicate that she considered herself to be a fortunate girl.

"Well," most of the players had said to themselves: "I suppose that's love," and had hastened forward with their congratulations. Duval, when the wave of stupor had passed from his mind, had joined them and so perfectly trained was his voice that none had noticed a strange note in it. But later that night, that unforgettable night—

"No, sir," Klempner was saying, "they ain't got a thing on you. How they was crazy enough to pinch you, just because somebody found some letters you'd wrote her a couple years back and figured you might of done it from jealousy beats me. An' why the district attorney didn't get the case thrown out when he saw the grand jury was gonna indict you on no evidence at all, gets by me, too. Course, you and I know why the grand jury indicted. There was a couple pretty lady killers got away scot-free and they had to indict somebody. That's your bad luck."

Klempner pitched his cigar butt out of the window and continued.  "You got a pretty good alibi. We'll go over it again. After the show you went up to your room in the hotel and played bridge with some of the others. Everybody, of course, was talkin' about the engagement and you didn't seem specially cut up about it. Then you said you had a headache and went to bed, but told them to keep on playin' as long as they felt like it.

"So they played a few more hands an' you was sleepin' like a baby when they put out the lights an' left. An' the next noon Marley was found stabbed in bed by his own paper knife. Why, mister, you're just as good as free now. Say, did old Marley have any relatives?"

"I don't know," said Duval idly. "Wait a minute— yes, he did. The time his wife died years ago he introduced some woman as his sister, I think he had a son, too, a third-rate vaudeville actor. He and the old man had a bad fight once and never saw each other after that. Why do you ask?"

"I was just thinking it's funny there ain't been any relatives show up," replied Klempner. "Generally when a guy gets killed the courtroom's sure to be all cluttered up with weeping females."

"Maybe the sister died," said Duval. "She was older than he, I believe. And the son was a pretty wild one, I've heard, and he and the old man never got along well together. I guess it wouldn't break the boy's heart to hear about his father's death. Marley left scarcely anything, so there'd have been no special incentive for him to have come around."

Klempner meditated. ''You're likely right," he said, "but still it's kinda funny. I never saw anything quite like it. Well, don't worry. This case is in the bag."

THE DAY of the trial dawned bright and clear with such an invigorating tang in the autumn air that even Duval felt cheered. Surely, weather like this could bode ill to nobody. As he entered the courtroom with his lawyer and the guards he stepped jauntily, a confident smile on his face.

Even the judge seemed kindly disposed. On one or two occasions while the jurors were being selected he cracked innocuous jokes which were received with polite titters by the attendants and spectators.

And the jurors, too, did not appear of the vengeful type. Some of them, Duval supposed, had seen him on the stage and all he could read in their faces was a sympathy that such an eminent person as himself could be in trouble. Very probably, he reflected, Klempner was right, there was nothing to fear, and the case was in the bag.

The little lawyer was in his element, radiating cheer and friendliness. He was in direct contrast to the rather dour and glum Bjorkman, the prosecutor, who seemed to be antagonizing the talesmen by his probing questions, and created the atmosphere in the courtroom that he very much suspected everybody present of having criminal "tendencies and would attend to their cases as soon as he came around to them.

"That case is won," chortled Klempner when he had the opportunity to speak alone to his client during the noon recess. "What I tell you— it's in the bag! This Bjorkman couldn't get a conviction if he packed the box with personal friends. He's only got a drag in politics— never was a lawyer. Gets everybody crabbin' at him right away."

The afternoon session seemed to bear out his prediction. Bjorkman grew more and more sarcastic as the hours progressed and more than one talesman left the box with a scowl on his face. Certainly, whatever the district attorney knew of law, he had much to learn about tact.

Duval allowed his eyes to wander about the courtroom, avoiding, when he could, the face of Irma Truden, who stared fixedly at him, but not in an unfriendly way. She, he believed, thought him innocent. Possibly when this unbelievable horror had passed over and her grief had abated somewhat, there might still be a chance—

His eyes lingered on one face in the audience and a slight frown appeared on his brows. Where had he seen this fellow before? Of whom did he remind him?

It was a comparatively young man, about thirty, Duval supposed, who was sitting half a dozen rows away, near the jury box. He was looking at Duval peculiarly, but this was not to be wondered at, since almost every eye in the courtroom was bent in his direction. Duval figuratively shook himself and looked away. Nerves. He must steady himself.

"Did you notice that chap?" he asked Klempner later. "Brown hair, clean-shaven, dark suit, medium young, slim ?"

"You'd make a great detective," grinned the lawyer, "giving out descriptions like that. I suppose that applies to half the men in the world. No, I didn't notice him. What about him?"

"Oh, nothing. I just thought he looked familiar."

The next morning when court opened, Duval looked again for the young man and found him without difficulty. He had moved a row nearer and was still staring at the defendant with that odd fixity. Somehow there seemed a slight change about his face, the lines were a bit deeper, the face older. Duval, an expert himself in facial expressions, was puzzled. The alteration was so intangible as to be almost negligible. Suddenly the explanation came and he almost laughed aloud.

"Young cut-up," he mused. "Been playing poker all night and didn't get any sleep."

Bjorkman had begun putting on his witnesses, but they were unimportant ones and Klempner scarcely took the trouble to cross-examine. He lay lolling back in his seat, eyes half closed and with an amused grin on his face. When the medical examiner testified with much wealth of detail that he had found Marley stabbed to death with "what seemed to be a paper cutter," and the prosecutor had brought out exactly what vital organs were pierced, the witness was at last turned over to counsel for the defense.

"I agree with the learned witness to the last letter," stated Klempner solemnly. "We concede that Mr. Marley is indisputedly dead."

Duval smiled, a few of the jury snickered outright and even Judge Walsh smiled until he. suddenly recollected his own dignity and rapped angrily for order.

It was plain that Klempner was making a hit and that Bjorkman, by his tedious insistence upon minor details, was making himself unpopular. If there had been any sentiment against Duval at the start it was gone now.

The hotel proprietor was called. Yes, Mr. Marley was sleeping in Room 410. Yes, it was the room to which he had been assigned. Yes, he had occupied it during the run of the show.

Duval, the hotel keeper continued, occupied Room. 468. Could Duval, Bjorkman demanded, have traversed the corridors from 468 to 410 and back without being observed? The witness, after much hesitation, said it would have been possible at an early hour in the morning when the only attendant was the floor clerk whose desk he would not have been obliged to pass.

"I see," remarked Klempner in an audible aside, "that this gentleman is qualifying as an expert in sneaking around hotel corridors early in the morning." Before he could be reprimanded he dismissed the witness with a cordial smile that did much to allay the latter's anger.

June Verne, one of the minor members of the cast, was obviously reluctant to testify and, though she was Bjorkman's own witness, she grew openly hostile to the prosecutor under his domineering tactics. She, it appeared, had been the one who had found ardent letters written by Duval to Miss Truden in unguarded moments several years before.

"And so you stole them and kept them?" coached Bjorkman.

"I didn't steal them," the girl answered furiously, "and if you're going to talk like that, Mr. Bjorkman, I won't say another word. I was playing a small part then and at the same time acting as a sort of maid to Miss Truden. Not that I am a maid, but I had to have the money because my mother out in Ohio—"

"Never mind your relatives," interrupted Bjorkman rudely, while Klempner gave the girl a glance of sympathy.

"Well," went on June Verne, "part of my work was to unpack her trinks and in one of them I found these letters tied around with a string. So I— well, I thought Miss Truden might have overlooked them and they might be something she would want to have called to her attention, so I— I—"

"You read them and put them in your belongings," suggested Bjorkman.

"Well, what if I did?" snapped the girl defiantly. "Everybody in the cast  was crazy about Mr. Duval, but he never gave us hardly a glance, and I was so surprised to find out that he was in love with Miss Truden that I didn't know exactly what I was doing. Yes, I put them away and then forgot all about them until the detectives came around and asked us if we knew of anybody who would be interested in putting Mr. Marley out of the way, so then, before I realized what I was doing, I gave them the letters."

"These letters are hereby placed in evidence," snapped Bjorkman. He stared angrily at Klempner, as if expecting an objection, but Klempner was smiling blandly at the ceiling.

"Oh, put them in evidence," assented the little lawyer for the defense. "My client becomes acquainted with a very beautiful woman and has a little heart affair with her, so several years later he kills the man she is engaged to. Very logical indeed. What a pity it never occurred to me to murder some of my old flames who married other men. Dear, dear, I must remedy my carelessness at once."

"Exhibits A and B," snorted Bjorkman. He glared at Klempner and then proceeded to read the letters, raising his voice to a bull-like roar to emphasize any passages he considered incriminating.

They seemed harmless enough, for even in his early infatuation Duval had been careful as to what words he had put on paper. Actors and actresses were notoriously prominent in domestic-relations courts and breach-of-promise suits, and it was always well to be cautious. But when he came to one paragraph, Bjorkman pounded out his words as if he were clanging a hammer on an anvil.

" 'And if any one comes between us, dear,' he shouted, banging his fist down on the table,  'I shall be tempted to resort to physical violence!' "

"Marvelous!" murmured Klempner admiringly. "Murder will out, love will find a way, and my erudite opponent has the wisdom of a Solomon. Oh, marvelous! I really think we had better plead guilty before he finds my client guilty of the Chicago fire and the Wall Street bombing."

"Your honor," bellowed Bjorkman, "will you order this man to—"

"I'll order a recess," smiled Judge Walsh. "Though I must really caution you, Mr. Klempner, against so many asides."

Mr. Klempner succeeded in looking very apologetic.

The little lawyer was in high spirits when court reconvened, but Duval had the uneasy sense that something was wrong. True, the case against him was pitifully weak and seemed certain to collapse at any moment. Witnesses for the prosecution had failed to prove a thing against him save that he might have felt a certain resentment against any one who might marry Irma Truden.

Yet he could not rid his mind of that vague disquietude. Of Bjorkman he felt no fear. The man was a blundering bully and nothing more. The State's witnesses were faltering, the judge was fair, the jury seemed amiable enough. But something—

The young man who had stared at him continued to bother him for no reason he could name. Duval sat upright in his chair and' sought for him in the courtroom. At first his heart gave a bound of relief, for he thought the man had gone, but in another moment he caught sight of him.

The man had edged still closer until now he sat but three rows removed from the table at which Klempner and Duval were seated, and was only a few chairs away from Irma Truden, who continued to sit impassive and dry eyed.

And that face had certainly aged— aged since morning! The lines about the nose and mouth were heavier, the high bridge of the nose was more sharply defined, even the hair showed a little gray at the temples. It was still the face of the youth of the day before, but at the same time it was the face of—of

Duval shuddered and slumped sharply in his chair, while Klempner looked at him in surprise and reached over to pat his arm.

"Everything coming along fine," he whispered. "Don't worry. We got 'em sewed up. Jury won't be out ten minutes."

Duval suddenly turned haggard eyes on his attorney.

"That man!" he muttered" thickly. "Back there. He— he—"

"What man?" Klempner skewed around in his chair and stared. ''Nobody there that I ever saw. Usual trial crowd. Man, buck up!"

Duval himself would have been hard put to set down in words the exact cause of his breakdown. There was a certain haunting resemblance to a face he remembered all too well, yet he had immense faith in his own sanity and knew that he was not going mad. It was just as Klempner said, he told himself, a case of nerves. Worry over this trial had broken him and made him see things where nothing existed.

Having argued himself into a degree of assurance, he listened while Klempner recalled the Verne girl to the stand and cross-examined her with a pleasant friendliness. Had she noticed any evidences of affection existing lately between Miss Truden and Mr. Duval? The girl, won over at once by his manner, readily admitted that she had not.

Had Mr. Duval, Klempner pursued smoothly, ever exhibited traces of jealousy? Bjorkman was on his feet with an objection, but the judge allowed the question, and again the girl replied in the negative. And what, the lawyer inquired, had been Mr. Duval's attitude on the evening the engagement was announced? June Verne hesitated.

"Why," she said, "as far as I noticed, he acted about the same as the rest of us. We were all so surprised to hear Miss Truden was going to marry old— was going to marry Mr. Marley that we didn't know what to do. But I think he came up with the rest of us and congratulated them."

"That's all, then," smiled Klempner.

"Just a minute!" bellowed Bjorkman. "Didn't Duval hang back after the others had offered their congratulations? Wasn't he the last to do it?"

"Oh, heavens!" sighed Klempner audibly.

"I don't know," June Verne defied the prosecutor. "I wasn't there as a stenographer, Mr. Bjorkman, to take down the minutes of the proceeding. I was just an actress and they were all my friends— including Mr. Duval."

Bjorkman's disgruntlement was obvious. "That's all!" he snapped, and then, "Miss Truden, take the stand— please." The "please" was added as an afterthought.

Pale but emotionless, Irma Truden stepped forward and Duval caught his breath as he realized anew her poignant beauty. Never before had she seemed so desirable, not even on that night when the news that she was to marry another man had sent surging forward that long-suppressed craving for her.

Here was loveliness, he argued, that might justify anything, even something so repellent as murder. Surely a lover might be pardoned who in the heat of passion might steal down a corridor in the dead of night, might try a door handle and find it unlocked, might—

Irma's answers to the volley of questions shot at her by Bjorkman convinced Duval that she was not hostile to him, that she had no suspicion that he was guilty of the crime. In a voice low but clear she gave her name and the salient points of her career. Then, with no break in her tone, she made her replies to the queries more pertinent to the case.

"This man Duval," thundered Bjorkman, "was he in love with you?"

"You have read the letters," answered Irma simply.

"I'm not asking about the letters— now. I'm asking if he was in love with you."

"I suppose he thought he was, at one time."

"And were you in love with him?"

"Possibly I thought I was, at one time. Later I learned I wasn't."

Tediously, persistently, step by step, almost word by word, Bjorkman dragged from Irma the story of that brief romance, thundering forth questions which she answered dispassionately. No, Mr. Duval had never formally proposed marriage to her. He had sought her out after performances, they had supped together, he had been attentive and kind, and on occasions when they had been separated in different companies he had written letters to her, perhaps ten or a dozen in all. Then recently the affair, if an affair it could be described, had imperceptibly cooled. Mr. Duval's courtesy and cordiality had remained unabated, but they met seldom professionally,

Bjorkman was becoming more and more irritated and used little pains at concealing it. His own principal witness— the one who might have fastened definite suspicion of guilt on the prisoner— was failing him and in his disappointment he turned to nagging tactics, while Abie Klempner, never interrupting, beamed whole-hearted sympathy.

All this was extremely distasteful to the fastidious Duval, whose private life he had managed to keep a closed book from the public and almost even from himself. So aloof had he been that dramatic reporters sent to interview him and returned to announce disgustedly to their editors that, "This man Duval don't know what publicity is," and then, to prove their journalistic ability in the face of an unwilling subject, they had deluged him with column after column of laudatory type.

Resolutely tearing his attention from the dragging examination, Duval turned his face toward the window and sought to absorb his mind in the sights and sounds of outdoors— sights and sounds which, he promised himself, he would be enjoying as a free man within a day or two.

Two English sparrows were indulging in an acrimonious debate over a scrap of bread that had been left on the window sill. At frequent intervals the shrill clatter and roar of the elevated broke in upon the quiet of the courtroom, trucks rumbled, street cars clanged, sometimes he could even distinguish voices from the pavements below.

"Get outta tha way, you big stiff! Wanta get kilt?"

"Say, who you think you talkin' to?"

"Move along there," authoritatively, "or I'll run ya both in."

The city was going about its own business, and the familiar sounds reassured the defendant immensely. With six million people taking life in the light of a humdrum existence, surely Philip Duval had no reason to fear that fate was planning to send him crashing into eternity, There were many years ahead of him, years of deferential interviewers, of headlines, of electric lights that spelled out his name to the city's millions, best still, years of life and perhaps years with Irma.

What a fool he had been with his vaunting ambition to think for a moment that he could set her aside to give all his efforts toward carving a niche for himself among the great! And what a fool to think that she would wait without a glance at another man until he should feel ready to come to her in his lordly majesty and announce that at last the moment had arrived. And why, in his fatuous imbecility, had it never occurred to him to ask her hand and have her bind herself to him with her word?

Again the long-accustomed turmoil and traffic of the streets brought him confidence. A day, two days at the most, would: see the end of this nightmare. Then he would go to her, take her hands in his, and, choosing his words as few but Duval knew how to choose them, would reinstate himself with her and regain her love. He turned away from the window and again faced the courtroom.

Irma, apparently without cross-examination, had left the stand and was back in her accustomed chair. Klempner and Bjorkman were standing side by side before the judge, arguing in low tones some technical point. Most of those in the room, the tension relieved for the moment, were whispering subduedly to one another. Several of, the reporters had sneaked unobtrusively up the aisle to the corridor for a few puffs at cigarettes.

One reporter, his notes finished, sat idly viewing the handsome, confident face of the defendant, and then started forward in his seat with a gasp of astonishment. For over that face had swept a change startling in its suddenness.

In one instant it changed from the face of the suave, assured man of the world to that of one haunted by a nameless horror. The eyes protruded, staring unbelievingly out into the audience. The skin became livid, and there was a sharp, hissing intake of breath from the sagging mouth. Only in a madhouse could one encounter such a face as Philip Duval betrayed at that moment.

His hands gripped the arm of his chair until the knuckles stood out dead white and his body lurched forward' from the seat. Then something seemed to snap in his mind and he sank back inert, only with still bulging eyes and the rapidly rising and falling breast showing that he was still conscious.

In stupefaction the reporter followed the glare of those wild eyes. He saw only Irma Truden, sitting as she had sat on the witness stand, pale and immobile. Nothing in her appearance had changed since the first moment she had entered the courtroom. Her hands were folded in her lap, her eyes on the floor, her face expressing no emotion whatever. She was merely the statue of an exceptionally beautiful girl indulging in a brief mental rest from strain.

"Well, I'll be darned!" thought the reporter to himself. "I certainly will! What got into that fellow all of a sudden? He never looked that way when she was under examination. I don't get it at all."

But the reporter had failed by a matter of inches to follow the direction of those terror-stricken eyes, and if he had followed them he would have been even more puzzled.

For it was not at Irma Truden that Philip Duval looked. What he saw was a man in the adjoining seat, a handsome, unassuming man of middle age, with high-bridged nose, heavy eyebrows under which peered kindly eyes, and firm mouth and chin. The hair was iron gray, but the cheeks had a healthy color, belying advancing age. Scores of persons in the room had glanced at him and had seen merely a well-bred, well-kept individual, ordinarily interested in a rather sensational murder case.

But Philip Duval saw something else. He saw a long, red-carpeted hotel corridor and a door that swung open at a touch. He saw a streak of moonlight that fell upon a bed in which lay a sleeping man. He saw the moonlight gleam up on the blade of a paper knife lying on the table. He saw a second man tiptoe into the room, a hand reach for the knife. He saw—

THAT DAY of the trial ended in an anticlimax of legalities. Klempner made what newspapers, in order to save space, refer to as "the customary motions," that the charge be dismissed on the grounds that the State had failed in making out a case, and so on. Bjorkman grimly opposed.

Judge Walsh, after going through the semblance of heavy thinking, sided with Bjorkman. The case would continue and the defense put forth its evidence. Secretly he agreed wholly with Klempner, and, being a fair man, had he thought there was the slightest possibility of the jury bringing in a verdict of guilty, would have dismissed the charge.

But the judge, although impartial, was also human. His vacation was due in a few days and, if he called an end to this case, he might be assigned to another which would drag along and interfere with his holiday. Winding this affair up would just exhaust the requisite time until he should depart for the mountains. Besides, he rather enjoyed sitting on the bench and looking paternally at Irma.

Klempner, though a bit surprised at the decision, was not disappointed. Continuation would bring further glory to him, and he was certain of the jury. A couple of character witnesses, then those actors who had played bridge, then Duval himself, for the audience would feel cheated if not given a chance to hear the noted actor himself. A perfunctory question or so to each, a fifteen-minute delay while the jury smoked a cigar and arrived at a verdict, then congratulations and the financially substantial gratitude of his client.

So sure was he of the outcome that he did not even bother about a last preparatory conference with his client. Just a slap on the back, a reassuring, "So long, my boy. Put you on the stand to-morrow. Just tell your story," and Klempner was off.

But had he looked deeply into the face of Philip Duval there would most certainly have been a last conference.

The man in the prisoner's chair watched unseeingly the preliminary events of the following day. Fellow actors mounted to the stand, told of his impeccable reputation, the card players recalled the incidents of the game and how they had finally extinguished the lights, leaving Duval sound asleep. Bjorkman stormed in vain. Klempner looked on benevolently. Judge Walsh made plans for the mountains. The jury thought of home-cooked dinners and the theater.

As a final gesture, Klempner arose and called his client to the stand. Almost banteringly he extracted Duval's name, age, profession and the other details with which everybody was thoroughly conversant, and then asked him in his own words to describe the events of the evening on which Mr. Marley was slain.

"Just tell the story as it comes to you, Mr. Duval," he said. "Just as the thing happened. I shall not interrupt."

Duval, with the face and voice of a man it a hypnotic trance, made his reply:

"I was not asleep when the gentlemen who had played cards in my room left," he said in a voice that none of his friends could recognize. "On the contrary, I was wide awake. I rose, pulled down the shades, lit the light and dressed. I even put on my hat and overcoat so that if I were seen I should not be suspected. I opened the door and—"

"One minute, one minute, honor!" screamed Klempner. "I object! This man is sick— out of his mind—"

"Let him go on," ordered Judge Walsh. He was looking fascinatedly at Duval.

"I made sure no one was in the corridor. I tiptoed down the hall to Marley's room. I knew it would not be locked as he was always afraid of fires. I opened his door and went in just—"

Klempner was on his feet yelling incomprehensible words; judge, jury and spectators were tense with excitement. Only two persons remained calm— Irma Truden and a middle-aged man who sat beside her.

"There was a paper knife lying on the table," went on the monotonous voice. "Marley was asleep, lying half on his face. I took the paper knife, leaned over his bed and stabbed him. I closed the door. I went back to my room. I washed my hands, undressed and climbed: into bed. That is all."

Then the hitherto toneless voice broke forth into a shriek of agony and Philip Duval plunged forward, his finger pointing to a benign man of middle age in the audience.

"But for Heaven's sake, take him away! Take him away! That is Marley—the man I killed!"

A STUDENT of psychology might have been interested in looking an hour later into three widely separated rooms in the city.

In a prison cell sat Philip Duval, actor-murderer, his head plunged in his hands, trying to think. But deep in himself he knew that never again would he think as other men think, for he was insane. Insane!

In the office of Abraham Klempner, attorney at Jaw, Mr. Klempner was scarcely closer to sanity than was his client. 'Mad! Mad!" he raged, his voice broken with sobs. "But I can get him out— he's crazy! No, I'm damned if I will! Let him rot! The work of a lifetime lost! Abie Klempner a joke!' He threw himself on a couch and his shoulders heaved.

In Irma Truden's apartment were two persons. One, Irma, stood before the window, gazing out. The other, a man, sat before a mirror, his back toward her, busily toweling his face and neck.

"Well, it certainly worked," he observed.

"Yes, it worked," agreed Irma. Her voice was dull.

"I'll say it worked," repeated the man. He turned in his chair toward her, exhibiting a startling countenance. The left side was that of a young fellow of thirty, the right that of one of middle age.

"You know," said the man, resuming operations with the towel, "that idea of yours was one of the biggest ever put across, Irma. I'd played pretty rough with the old dad, but I'm certainly glad I could do something in avenging him. Maybe, wherever he is now, he'll forgive me at last for going in for the impersonation stuff in vaudeville instead of taking up the legitimate. I know I'd always have been a rotten actor,

"And it was a swell idea of changing my appearance little by little each day instead of going in there disguised as dad right away. Broke up his morale, I suppose.

"Yes, Irma, grease paint, powder and a little putty are wonderful inventions. I suppose," he laughed in a little embarrassment, "you might even say that under certain circumstances they're the instruments of Heaven!"

________________

2: Black Cat

J. Allan Dunn

Joseph Allan Elphinstone Dunn, 1872-1941

Short Stories 25 Feb 1936

FLASHLIGHT put her head over the half-door of her stall and nuzzled at me. The filly was fit. Her hide was like satin, the color of a polished chestnut. Her lustrous eyes, as she nibbled at my sleeve, seemed to say, "I'm winning today."

The black cat that had adopted us, and which had palled up with Flashlight, drifted out of nowhere, mysteriously, as it always did; spookily seeming to materialize in the shadows. It arched its back, purring, with tail erect, weaving airy pretzels about my legs.

Zeke claimed it was a mascot. I hoped so. I needed one. But I was not so sure about black cats. It depends upon how you approach them, or they approach you; if they cross your path, or run away from you. And it's all mixed up. No two countries agree upon it. It had an uncle who stepped on a black cat in the dark, when he was sneaking out from a forbidden rendezvous with his sweetie. The cat turned into a clawing centipede. Uncle was forbidden the house, and he lost the girl. He thought he was very unlucky for a while, and then he changed his mind. So— there you are.

Our cat arrived sight-unseen. She was in the stall one morning, quite at home. Mascot or jinx, she had moved in.

"I'm tellin' you, Mistuh Selwyn, that filly can't lose," Zeke asserted. " 'Cause why? The hawss's ready to run. The distance and the track am right. You the owner, you want her to win. Me, I'm ridin' her to win. That cat she know she gwine win. Nevuh switch her tail like that, unless. We know she gwine behave at the barrier today."

"I hope so," I told him. Flashlight had been a poor starter, nervous, excited, inclined to be vicious. That was one reason why she had been overlooked in the betting this afternoon. The odds-board gave us twenty-five to one. But we had found out the trouble.

Once we removed the wolf teeth, vestigial remnants of primordial steeds, from each side of her grinders, she behaved like a lamb, instead of a teething, petulant babe.

The filly had not been in a race since. And Zeke was right. The distance, six- furlongs in the Sandown Handicap for two- year-olds, was right. The condition of the track was right. But I was worried. I had to win this race. I owed over three hundred dollars for feed to "Judge" Lyman, and he had been nasty about it.

FLASHLIGHT was the last of my string, frayed by the fingers of Fate. By breeding, she should be the best of them. She was sound as a mountain trout, without fault or flaw; and she had the speed.

"Look what she clocked this mawnin'," said Zeke. "One-ten! What it take Man o War to win when he was two-yeah old? One-eleven-three-fif'; Futurity Stakes, Belmont Park, Yessuh."

"When he did that in nineteen-nineteen," I said, "he was packing a hundred and twenty-seven pounds, You rode Flashlight this morning at about a hundred and twelve. She carries one-twenty-five in the race."

"Anyone 'ud think you-all didn' want this hawss to win. Look at Ekkypoise. In nineteen-thirty he toted hundred an' twenty-six pounds in the Eastern Shore Handicap. What he do then, huh; when e was two-yeah old? Bes' he could do, to win, was one- twelve-an'-two-fiffs, We's gwine make record today, Mistuh Selwyn."

"Stuffy" Dalon came nosing into the stable. Dolan was once a jockey, and a good one, But he was tricky, and got ruled off. He put on fat. Now he was a tipster, a tout who could pick a winner pretty often, but usually named three or four nags in one race to the suckers. A pretty shady customer, Dolan, but he had a name of playing fair with his pals.

"I hear the filly looks good," he said.

"Who told you— and what?"

"My stop-watch told me, if it was tickin' right this morning. I might have stopped her down wrong, seein' I was a bit jittery. I don't often go pickin' mornin'-glories that early." Zeke and I had had the filly out before sun-up. We had made the trial in the morning twilight. There had been one or two fence-riders, but they had been on the far side from the finish. We had taken care of that. But if Dolan had been one of them, the word might have passed. The odds were holding up. Yet I didn't like it. I had a hunch things were going too smoothly. Luck was due to shake me by the hand, but it might be waiting to give me another kick in the breeches.

"You clocking me, Dolan?"

"Aw, not to give you away, Mr, Selwyn. Not for outsiders. But I'm toutin' Flashlight to win. What I tout don't affect the odds none, I'm lucky today. I pick four guys an' a couple dames, who'll bet on the filly. I stand to get a nice cut. Gord knows I need it."

He was genuinely injured. "I got my own dough up," he said, "My eatin' money. On the nose."

That was the way I had bet all I could rake and scrape, borrow and pawn. Eight hundred and forty dollars in all. Not much, to spread across the board; enough to set me on my feet properly, at twenty-five to one, after paying off. And, if the filly proved that good—

A BUGLE sounded. Zeke, jockey and swipe in one, blanketed and hooded the filly. Dolan went into the stall to help him. I didn't figure him as up to any chicanery. I had helped him out once; when he was in bad shape, and his wife ill. He might be a bit of a crook, but he was straight with me. I didn't notice whether he came out, or what happened to him, as I watched Zeke leading Flashlight to the paddock.

She stepped like a young doe, on long, springy pasterns, Her ears were prices her head up, her eyes luminous as living jewels, like great magical opals, brown melting into blue.

She was bred for this. She went daintily, but she was keen for it all. Racing was in her blood and spirit. The packed stands, the bugles, the quivering, contagious excitement of man and beast, the glory of her own speed.

I turned back into the stable. Perhaps my luck had turned, maybe the black cat—

There it was, gliding by me. It made a sudden scoot across the path of a man just coming in. And I hoped her crossing meant bad luck for him.

My hunch of trouble had materialized. I knew the man, a deputy-sheriff, one of the lean, crafty crackers who get their badges through murky politics, who act as tax collectors, serve summonses, carry out evictions, enjoying the authority and the dirty work.

He gave me a false, brown-toothed grin. I knew his errand, not the first of its kind at the track. Nemesis arriving at the crucial moment. It was that damned feed-bill.

"I got some papehs to serve on you-all, Mr. Selwyn," he said with mock deprecation. He was gloating inwardly, especially since I was not of his state, but from Kentucky. "Reckon I'll have to attach yo' filly to satisfy Jedge Lyman's claim."

Lyman's title of "judge" attained from his appreciation of liquor. But he was also a judge of horseflesh. He wanted my filly. She rated more than his bill, whatever her past performances.

"You can't do that— until after the race," I said. "If she wins, I can clear the attachment a hundred times over."

"If she wins." He grinned his sly grin. "Looks like the experts don't think she's so hot, by the odds, The jedge, he 'lows he most owns her, anyway, 'count of the feed he's put into her. Of course, if you kin pay—"

A bugle blew again. The saddling-call. Flashlight was due at the start in a few minutes.

I went hot and cold. It was like taps blown over the grave of my last chance. This was my last show.

"Why not wait until after the race?" I asked, sick at having to plead with him; with his half-baked, biscuity face, his pale blue eyes and foxy smile.

"She wouldn't know she was ever in it."

I knew he was lying. The pupils of his eyes were quivering. Lyman had been tipped-off. I thought of Dolan, looked for him. Flashlight was entered in my name. If she was attached she could not run in his. Not now. But he would clean-up with her. He had nothing to lose.

The deputy's face was greasy with a malicious triumph as I stood in the door, facing him. His back was to the stall. He started to fumble in his breast pocket for his papers.

And then his eyes were set and goofy. A silly smile melted his indeterminate features, as if they were a waxen mask in the sun. His knees buckled, and he went down to them, down to the floor.

It was no act of mine. No intention. But it was too providential to be overlooked. He had passed out with some sort of stroke. He had not served his papers, The filly was free to run.

I took a good look at him, at his eyes, felt his pulse, It was sturdy enough. I hauled him into the stall, laid him on the clear straw, Something seemed to stir in a dark corner, Likely enough the cat. I went out, locking the door after me. He would not come around for a while, but he was all right. I have seen plenty of men in his case.

The bugle shrilled again. They were saddled, being called-out for the race, In two or three minutes it would all be over but the shouting. And if he was up and shouting, nobody would notice it.

The black cat bolted out between my legs, went prancing off like a sprite, yellow eyes gleaming.

SIX furlongs is three-quarters of a mile. It takes from seventy to seventy-five seconds for a top-horse to cover, The average pulse beats seventy to the minute, It accelerates, marks time to the tattoo of hoofs, the springing leaps.

They were off! Flashlight was well away. There had been no need to give Zeke any last instructions. He knew the filly, and she knew him; I could see him through my binoculars, clinging like a monkey on her withers, She had been given Number Five in the barrier stalls. Now she was running third, easy and true.

Blackcock had the rail, making pace for his stable-mate, Gamester, the odds-on favorite. It was a race.

They were carrying her wide at the turn— Blackcock and Gamester, But Blackcock was tiring, and Flashlight coming strong. The field tailed them, though the bay gelding, Jabberwock, was hitting his stride, moving up fast, on the inside. He passed the failing Blackcock, his nose was up to Gamester's girth.

Zeke made his bid. There was an opening between them and he tried for it. Gamester had the rail. Gamester would win, if Zeke had to keep wide on the last of the curve,

They were in the straight, the beginning of the stretch, Flashlight's muzzle was between the flanks of the others. She was gaining at every jump.

I let out a groan, They had her pocketed. They would not let her through. Two white boys, one Irish, and one Italian; combined against the Negro,

No chance now. They were too closely woven, If Flashlight had been behind, and clear, I thought she could have made it, even if Jabberwock's rider bored out. Those two were clever lads, They did not mean to be disqualified for fouling, Flashlight had nosed-in, They did not have to give way,

There was a sorrowful gladness in seeing how she ran, how she challenged, going free, but shut-off from the sprint I could feel burning within her.

Twenty yards to go— and the crowd shouting at the driving finish!

Some wag called it the Ripley finish— "Believe it or not!" On sheer performance, on reserve, Flashlight had the race won. Gamester was dropping back, but not enough, not at that stage of the game. It was a question of seconds.

And then— and then— something streaked across the track, hell-bent. A black blur of speed. A cat. Our cat,

There may have been a dog around under the grandstand. It might have been sheer caprice. It might have been a reincarnation of Bubastis, the cat-goddess of Egypt, impersonating Fate.

Jabberwock swerved— Flashlight went by Gamester, headed Jabberwock, crossed the wire, winner by a head. Time— one-eleven and a fifth.

I don't know where Bubastis— if it were Bubastis— went. I never saw that cat again. But all black cats are welcome to my stable.

IT WAS not a popular victory. It was not an outstanding race— even though a track record was broken. There was no floral horseshoe. Zeke, his black face slashed with pearl, took the filly away, to cool her off. I went to the pari-mutuel window to realize. I saw Dolan hanging round, waiting to see if those, to whom he had tipped the filly, were cashing in.

He gave me a joyous wink, and I knew he had got at least part of his cut.

It was only then, with my pockets lined with bills, that I remembered the deputy. I could satisfy Lyman's claim within the limit.

I was walking on air when I got back to the stable and opened the door. The deputy was still in the straw, but he was coming to, I helped him to his feet.

"You slugged me, dern ye, you slugged me from behind! But you got to take the papers."

"Hand them over," I said. "So I slugged you from behind, when I was standing in front of you. There are just two in my outfit, as she stands, Zeke and myself. Zeke was in the paddock. Did you have a fit, or were you drinking?"

He thrust the papers at me, and I accepted them.

"The filly won," I said. "The race is over. I got twenty-five to one." I showed him my winnings.

"Lyman'll give me hell fer this. Reckon I 'll lose my job. I tell you, somethin' hit me."

He felt his head gingerly, back of one ear.

"I got a lump, big as a pigeon's egg," he said. "Must have been someone back in the stall."

"I didn't plant him there," I said honestly, "You tell Judge Lyman you couldn't find me, And put a plaster on that lump."

I peeled off a century note and gave it to him, His shallow eyes bulged. He slipped away, as if he were afraid I'd take it away from him,

Dolan arrived, with Zeke, and the filly.

"How did you make out?" I asked.

"Three outa the bunch played," he said.

"Only one on the nose. The rest smeared it. But I did pretty good."

He started to help Zeke unblanket. The filly was puffing for a drink, looking for her mash.

I stripped another century off that nice roll of mine, slipped it to Dolan. Zeke would get his later.

"What's this for?" asked Dolan.

"You can call it an advance, if you want to come to work for me. I'm buying horses. I can use you, Stuffy."

He was a hard lad; but he was soft, in spots. He began to cry, quietly but earnestly.

"Gee, Mr, Selwyn, you mean it? I don't see now why I rate this century note."

"What made you slug the deputy? It was either you, or the cat."

"Why wouldn't I slug that louse? The filly was tight, an' him an' Lyman knew it. They had it rigged agin' you. I was back in the stall, see; and I had a sap with me, see; so when he tries to pull his play, I let him have it, back of the ear."

He took a blackjack from his pocket, a weapon of soft leather with a bulbous head filled with buckshot.

"I know you won't stand for this sort of stuff," he said. "Take it, Mr. Selwyn."

"Throw it in the river, Dolan,"

Zeke came out grinning from the stall.

"Ah won me nine bucks last night at craps," he said, "an' put it on the nose. Baby, I got me a ticket at twenty-five to one.

"Go and cash it," I told him, "Lose it tonight, if you want to. You've got plenty more coming."

"No suh. I ain' shootin' no mo' craps. Ise gwine entertain mah honey,"

"How about you, Dolan?"

He was still sniffling. "I'm going to show this to the wife and tell her I've got a job— with you."

When they were gone I counted over the roll, figured up my debts, and what I might have to pay for the start of my new string.

I could see the blue grass waving in Kentucky.

Dolan had his wife, Zeke his money.

And there was someone in Old Kentucky— for me.

______________

3: King of Swindlers

Arthur Somers Roche

1883-1935

Redbook Feb 1931

This is the fourth in a series of stories in Redbook under the overall title "The Reckless Adventures of Lydia Gray".  The series ran from November 1930 to July 1932.

HONESTY, you have heard, is the best policy. But, like all generalities, it is incomplete. For whom is honesty the best policy? Obviously, one answers, for the honest. But what about the dishonest? Is it the best policy for the thief? And what do we mean by best? Are we speaking of material things, or of those immaterial matters which have to do with character? Even the chronicles of one who has lived outside the law may occasionally introduce a philosophical reflection, and it was a reflection such as the foregoing that occupied my mind as I looked at the two men seated across the room in a cozy speakeasy. One. of the men was Randolph Barnard, and I loved him. My love had dated from that day when, desperate and friendless, I had stolen a necklace which Barnard, a professional in a game where I was but a frightened amateur, had sold for our joint profit That love had increased through the adventure of the Rakmanoff Ruby, and through the house-party in Maine where I had met Barnard's friends, been entertained by them, and seen Corbelle, the detective-thief, receive those wages of sin which is death.

The Rakmanoff Ruby, we had thought, would lift us from those depths of need which had contributed to make thieves of us. On the profits to be derived from the sale of that glittering jewel, Barnard would enter some legitimate business, and I, as his wife, would retain and enhance the social position which was already his. But, as you who have read these memoirs may remember, the ruby had caused Corbelle's death— we could not keep it; we could not even claim the reward offered for the stone's return. And so, instead of being man and wife, we were Lydia Grey, spinster, and Randolph Barnard, now again a bachelor.

"My dearest," Randolph had said to me, "neither of us is fitted for what used to be called genteel poverty. Rather than endure it, I became what I am, and you— well, you brought to roguery the most winsome girl I have ever known. But there are risks in our profession."

"Have you just found that out?" I asked.

He shook his head gravely.

"I have found out that the risks are not such as one permits one's wife to take."

"Would a marriage ceremony make me any more worth guarding from danger?" I inquired.

He caught the stiffness of my manner and smiled reassuringly.

"Suppose that I am caught— some day," he said. "If you are my wife you are inevitably dragged into humiliation. But if I am only known to be your suitor— Don't you see, my child? You are merely an unhappy girl who has been deceived by a scoundrel. No blame could attach to you because your fiancé turned out a thief. But if your husband was convicted of theft— is it clear to you? The friendliest would not believe that you had no knowledge of my doings. And Lydia, I can pay the price if it is ever exacted from me. But if you also had to pay the price—"

"Do you think I would let you pay it alone?" I demanded.

The twinkle left his hazel eyes.

"Lydia, if ever, through a mistaken chivalry, you let yourself in for punishment, I would never forgive you. I mean it, my child," he went on. "If we are both caught in an adventure—well, in that event there may be no escape for you; which is one reason why I wish that you would retire to that pretty apartment of yours—"

"And be supported by you?" I interrupted.

He flushed.

"Is that fair, Lydia?" he asked.

"Is it fair of you to wish to take all the risks and let me take none?" I countered. "I have to live, Randolph. To live I must have money. I can't accept it from you. I don't know how to earn money. 'Therefore—" And I shrugged.

"Nevertheless," he insisted, "if you should ever go to jail— I'd hate myself. And I'd— well, I might even hate you, Lydia, for making me feel that way about myself. Unless you promise to keep out of trouble that may arise, as long as you can— unless you promise to let me take all the blame—"

"Well, what then?" I asked.

"Then I'm afraid well have to say good-by to each other," he said.

Could anything have been sillier? If I didn't promise to be a poor sport, he'd have none of me— which is why all women know that all men are children. For he, as clever as any man I have ever known, accepted my promise and was relieved when I gave it, and it did not occur to him that, having no alternative, I gave it without the slightest intention of keeping it. Desert him in stress? He thought I laughed at him with love, and did not guess that my mirth was half amusement.

I have noticed that the world at large has a strange misconception about those who prey upon society. Because gangsters and racketeers flaunt their women and their bodyguards in public places, because they spend gorgeously, the general public seems to think that practitioners of other branches of crime are always prosperous, too. That crooks are usually shabby and hungry seems not to have conveyed any meaning to the public. It does not read the accounts of the court proceedings in the papers except when some spectacular criminal is involved, else it would know that few men brought to justice can even afford to pay a lawyer— for to be successful in crime one must either have police and political protection— as do liquor and other allied racketeers— or one must have genius.

Now, Barnard had genius— or so I like to think. But even a genius must have a steady market for his wares. And there are bull and bear markets in our profession as in all others. Pearl necklaces and twenty-carat diamonds are not always at hand to tempt the quick wits of the predatory. And the present economic conditions were not such as to offer even Barnard many opportunities. Necklaces had been hypothecated to protect brokers' mar- gins; the jewel market, like all other trades in luxury, had been first to feel the impact of the Wall Street crash.

Too, there was something else, and Barnard had been quick to point it out to me. Coincidence, he said, is less convincing in real life than it is in fiction, and in story it is taboo.

"Detectives are not fools, Lydia," he said. "The first thing they do is check up the list of people who were present when a robbery occurred. Now if they find the same name in half a dozen lists, the coincidence is apt to attract notice. And notice is something that no criminal can survive. He can practise successfully only so long as the spotlight does not touch him. Therefore, let us bide our time."

And we had bided our time. Months had elapsed since the adventure of the Rakmanoff Ruby, and my funds were becoming low. An honest Lydia Grey had found it possible to economize on clothes, on food, on amusements. But easy money brings its own curse: the material comforts that contented us yesterday are insufficient for our needs today. I could not let my lover see me too often in the same frock, could I? And if the Rolands or the Danas or other smart friends of Barnard gave a dinner, I must be well dressed, mustn't I? I had been taken up by a class of people to whom certain luxuries are mere necessities. One could not week-end at their homes without tipping the servants enough to make one's self welcome to them. In short, when in Rome one lives as the Romans, and that I think the barbarians found expensive as well as tactful in the days when the adage was first uttered.

Little luncheons, little teas, matinées. The profits of my first and only successful theft, the stealing of the Carteret necklace, had sadly diminished on that bright November day when Randolph telephoned me and invited me to take luncheon with him at a certain newly fashionable speak-easy.

I had not seen him for a week. He had told me that he intended doing what he termed a little prospecting.

"Business?" I asked.

"Aren't you glad to see me for myself?" he chided.

"That, of course," I replied, "but you have been away so long—"

"And unsuccessfully, Lydia," he replied. "But I'll tell you about it at luncheon."

An honest girl, promised to some young clerk whose prospects for advancement had suffered through the economic depression, could have sighed no more sincerely than did I as I hung up the telephone.  I wanted to marry Randolph; he wanted to marry me. But unless "business" picked up, we must both remain single. Now, I think it's funny, but I didn't think so then!

Nevertheless, just to see the man I loved was thrilling. My brown hair had been waved and the tiny black tricorne hat that I adjusted on it was extremely effective. My black cloth suit, trimmed with wolf fur, had cost much more than I could afford— which made it more desirable, as any woman can understand— and if I spent more time before my mirror than modesty requires, after all, I was in love.

I was a trifle ahead of time at the rendezvous, and managed to secure a discreet table in a slight recess. No, I would not order now. A cocktail? No, not yet. I drink little, anyway, and to drink alone is, I feel, unthinkable. Too, there would be our silly moment, when we would touch our glasses.

Then Randolph entered.... I wonder when love begins to die. Myself, I think it must be when there is nothing new to discern in one's beloved. It well may be that appreciation of a husband's— or a wife's— virtues and charms increases with the. passing years, but is appreciation love? Is a sense of stability, of confidence, of trust, great though that sense may be, the same thing as love?

I do not think so. Certainly, it is not the same as romantic love and—to a woman— that is the only love worth mentioning. Not to feel one's self tremble when one's beloved enters a room, not to feel that one's will is water, and that one's mind is but blotting-paper to receive the impression of his thoughts.... I am not, as you may see, emotionally modern.

And one can feel this way about a man only so long as his character offers constant surprise. The minute one knows all there is to be known about a lover, he ceases to be a lover and becomes, I should say, a husband. For when one knows what he will say to this, what he will do to this, he is incapable of arousing fresh and eager interest, and— Anyway, love was not dying in me now.

For, as he hesitated a moment in the doorway, I noted with surprise that brown became him. I had thought that he looked best in blues and grays. And if this surprise of mine seems trivial, then you who read are not in love.

I heard my own sighs as I leaned forward, eager to catch his eye, to see the first beginnings of that smile I knew so well. And then, as his eyes met mine and looked straight through me, I felt myself color, felt hurt to the heart. But only for a moment, for instantly there appeared beside Randolph another man. And I understood.

Perhaps I am no quicker of perception than any other woman, but I am alive to certain nuances of conduct. This man with Barnard was not of my lover's type. For the Bolshevist may deny it as he will, but there is such a thing as race. How can it be otherwise? I do not mean that several generations of good living, of freedom from economic worry, produces a better strain; I merely argue that it produces a different strain. If one's ancestors have been concerned solely with the little graces of life, it follows that one will possess them naturally. The self-made man does not enter a room as easily as the aristocrat; he does not instinctively know the little conventions. I admit these things are not important; I simply state that they exist. In Randolph they were obvious; in the man with him they were not perceivable.

His skin was swarthy; his mouth lifted slightly at the left corner in a grimace that he probably imagined would be taken for jovial good humor, but was in reality a contemptuous sneer; his eyes were small and mean, and his nose was greedy, and he had that air of alert watchfulness which seems to indicate dishonesty. He had taken in every occupant of the speak-easy within a second of his arrival on the threshold, I, believed. For the rest, his clothing obviously was a shade too well tailored, as though he had instructed its maker to let the world know how well built its wearer was.

Slim, wiry, cat-like, one felt his vanity. One also knew that here was a man whose fortune had not been inherited, but who had piled it up by his own efforts, and that those efforts had not been such as are sanctioned by the courts of law.

In other words, he was not the sort of man that Randolph would have chosen for his luncheon companion for the mere sake of companionship. And if I present Randolph in a snobbish light, set it down to my own clumsiness of expression. He was not the sort of person to ask a new acquaintance the names of his clubs. But, on the other hand, he had nothing in common with confidence-men, and his companion was a confidence-man, or the stage lied, and the motion-pictures lied, and the snapshots so often appearing in the newspapers also lied. One knew that the swift survey of the room indicated no idle curiosity, but a deadly caution.

And above everything else, Randolph, who had asked me to meet him here, showed no recognition of my presence. His eyes, having looked through me, now ignored me. He permitted the head waiter to show him to a table, and I noted that he refused the first one offered them. That one would have seated them close to me; the one Randolph accepted was across the room, and his companion could not see me save by turning his head completely around. The man faced the door; he had discovered no enemies in the room; he would watch the entrance, I decided. I signaled my hovering waiter. My guest, I murmured, had apparently forgotten our engagement. But I was here; I would lunch. And as I ate I covertly surveyed the two men, and wondered at the meaning of Randolph's ignoring me. Also I pondered that question of ethics which I mentioned at the beginning of this recital.

If ever prosperity was worn like a mantle, this man with Randolph wore it now. And surely he was not honest. A wiry, fox-like man, and let it not be thought that because the fox flees the hounds he is necessarily timid. He is merely discreet. Beside him, although no bigger, probably no stronger, and perhaps no more courageous, Randolph seemed like a wolf. But that was because I knew him, because I knew that for all his outward appearance of easy calm, he was scenting his prey, was covertly approaching it. And I wondered— because wits would be involved in whatever impended— if the wolf were a match for the fox.

Suddenly, too, I realized that I was not to be a spectator in the coming conflict. Despite the promise which Randolph had exacted from me, I thrilled at the thought of danger. For this would not be a danger from the police; this companion of my lover would not run to the authorities if he should be hurt; he would exact his own reparation. And Randolph had made me promise only to flee the vengeance of the law. And though I had no intention of keeping that promise, it was pleasant to know that I would be under no immediate necessity of breaking it.

Obviously, I was to take part in whatever Randolph planned. Otherwise, he could have telephoned me that something had come up which prevented our lunching together, and taken his man elsewhere. But failing to recognize me, yet bringing the man here....  It needed no violent exercise of the wits to realize that he wanted me to see his companion, so that I would know him again. Yet he had taken no particular precautions to prevent the man from seeing me. A thousand speculations ran through my head. I ate, but did not relish, my food. And as they lingered I saw that to delay too long over my own luncheon meant to invite curiosity, if no more. And so, reluctantly, I summoned my waiter, paid my check, and left the restaurant.

I had made no plans for the afternoon. I had vaguely, and happily, supposed that Randolph and I would spend the next few hours together. We might go to a matinée, might drop in on some one for tea, might do any one of the hundred-odd things that are to be done in Manhattan. But now I saw that the only thing for me to do was to go home, there to wait until I heard from Randolph. And if I felt some slight chagrin that the tricorne hat and the smart black suit had elicited no compliments from him, I knew that the warmth of his admiration would suffer no lessening through delay.

I tried to read, and the printed page blurred before my eyes. I tried—no deft needlewoman—to make some minor changes in a frock, and merely pricked myself with the steel for my pains. And then, two long hours after my return home, the door-bell sounded. I admitted Randolph, saw upon his lips the smile I had hoped to see at luncheon, and the fervency of his embrace compensated most satisfactorily for its delay.

You are to suppose, now, that a good quarter of an hour has elapsed and those of you who have been in love will need no vivid imagination to picture our reunion. I shall hate to grow old, when perhaps Randolph's absence for a week will not inspire happy tears at his return.

"You haven't asked me why I lunched with Sam Pelliti instead of with your lovely self," he finally said.

"I haven't, I reminded him, "been able to use my lips for the purpose of speech."

"I will stop putting them to better use for a while," he laughed.

"Pelliti?" I said. "Should the name ring a memory bell?"

"It would," he replied, "if you'd ever invested in his bucket-shops. The king of con men, the emperor of the swindlers."

"He wore no imperial purple," I said.

"Imperial yellow is his color," said he. "The meanest, vilest swindler that his native land ever exported to America. A man who would steal his mother's insurance, who is always scheming, always planning some crookedness."

"Today?" I asked.

"Majesty was on a holiday," he laughed.

"And with what a court jester," I said.

"I hold a higher place than that," he said.

I became grave.

"Randolph— you couldn't—you haven't become involved with Pelliti!"

He shook his head.

"Pelliti is involved with me," he corrected.

"How?" I asked.

"Pelliti," he said, "is weary of being called the bucket-shop king. You should hear him defend himself. He is no worse than any leader of finance, he maintains. Just because the money kings have better education, better social position— he actually thinks that he is persecuted by the press because he doesn't belong to the Racquet Club. Oddly, he suffers torments because of his lack of culture. Newspaper references to his ignorant greed have penetrated his skin. He has read that the banquet he gave to celebrate his acquittal when Pelliti and Company failed— the prosecution couldn't convict although he was morally guilty— was a crude orgy, that the ladies of the half-world who attended were overdressed and under-mannered. In short, he wishes to become what he would term refined. He wants to be a patron of the arts, wants it understood that the king of swindlers is a poet at heart, that mere circumstance has prevented him from being as well known in the world of culture as he is in the world of fraudulent stock. And he has begun his attempt to change public opinion by the acquisition of a few paintings."

"Well?" I encouraged.

"He bought two from me," said Randolph.

My raised eyebrows spurred him on to further revelation.

"Good pictures— a dealer had them. He telephoned this morning— after I'd phoned you —to come to his gallery. There I met Pelliti. I have in my pockets nine thousand dollars. Pelliti rarely gives checks. He left the gallery with me. He was voluble in his expression of a desire to acquire masterpieces. And— well, I have an idea. This is why I did not speak to you. He was willing to lunch with me, and— well, I wanted to see you, even if we couldn't speak—"

"Why couldn't we?" I asked.

"Because Pelliti might then be able to recognize you under other circumstances. One who has seen you close to, has talked with you, could never fail to recognize you, Lydia. And I would not like Pelliti to think that the Grand Duchess Marina was the masquerading Lydia Grey."

"The Grand Duchess Marina?" I said blankly.

"Who escaped from Russia after the Revolution; who sold all her jewels and exhausted the funds deposited in French and English banks. But who has, of all her vast possessions, one painting— more might seem incredible— which she dearly loved. A painting by the great Italian, Correggio. Patriotism, as well as cultural ambition, will help the sale. Pelliti  plans one day to return to his beloved Genoa. The present Russian Government lays claim to ownership of the painting. Therefore, because the Duchess fears the present rules of her native land, the sale must be quiet. Do you begin to under- stand?"

"How old must I look?" I asked.

He beamed approvingly.

"I knew you'd get it. About thirty-six. A little gray powder in the hair, lines under the eyes, a few wrinkles drawn in the satin skin, a marked accent—"

"But I speak no Russian," I objected.

"Nor does Pelliti," he laughed.

"Is there a Grand Duchess Marina?" I inquired.

"Lord knows," he answered. "And certainly Pelliti doesn't. Can do?"

"Can do," I assured him.

I WAS seated in the living-room of a shabby little apartment on Lexington Avenue when the grim-faced landlady announced that two gentlemen wished to see me. And I was standing by the window— my back carefully to the light— when Randolph and Pelliti entered the room.

For two weeks I had been practicing broken English. Every morning I had made myself up carefully. I had cooked my own breakfast and my own luncheon, and in the evenings had repaired to a cheap restaurant for my dinner. Anyone who investigated me would learn that the Russian lady in the second floor front apparently had no friends, and if her clothing and manner of living indicated anything, equally apparently had little money. All that my landlady could say was that I had arrived in answer to an advertisement offering the apartment for rent, that I had paid a month in advance, and that I had volunteered no information about myself except that I was a Russian refugee who had been living in California for the past few years.

And she could add that I took the most loving care of the painting on the wall. It was, Randolph had assured me, a most convincing imitation of Correggio. The angels fluttering about the head of the saint, whose mystic eyes seemed to be conjuring up visions of paradise, the soft sheen of the colors— I know nothing about the master's work, but I took Randolph's word for it... . .

I looked at my two callers. Randolph bowed low.

"Your Highness," he murmured.

I stared coldly at him.

"If you will permit me," he went on. "This is Mr. Pelliti. I am Randolph Barnard."

"Well?" I was not cordial.

"We have been told that you possess a Correggio— But look!" he cried, the enthusiasm of the art-lover making him forget formality. He stepped toward the painting. He looked upon its soft colors in rapture. He turned to Pelliti.

"If that's not genuine—" he began.

"Who has said that it is not?" I demanded shortly.

Randolph turned to me and bowed again.

"Forgive me, Your Highness," he said. "In my enthusiasm— My friend is a collector. I am merely an amateur. But we were told that you owned a Correggio—"

"Who told you?" I demanded icily.

"A compatriot of yours. One Dmitri Oncevitch. He even intimated that it might be for sale," he said.

"What is not?" I asked bitterly. "Since the Revolution—" I stopped, as though choking with indignant grief.

"It is for sale, then?" asked Randolph.

"If peasants who once worked on my land know my poverty, why should I deny it to strangers?" I asked. "It is for sale— yes."

"And for how much?" asked Pelliti.

I looked him up and down with an insolence that I hoped was royal.

"Too little," I said. "How can I ask its full value, when the present Government in Russia, if it hears of the sale— if it even knew I still possessed the picture—"

"Of course," interrupted Randolph. "But still— there is a price?"

"Forty thousand dollars," I said shortly.

"And I suppose you can prove it's genuine?" suggested Pelliti.

I stared at him again and his swarthy skin flushed slightly. Randolph laughed.

"Her Highness hardly brought with her, on her flight from Russia, documents of any sort. The painting— may I examine it, Your Highness?"

CURTLY I nodded permission. Randolph removed it from the wall; he took it to the window; he conferred in whispers with Pelliti.

Then the confidence-man spoke to me.

"Thirty thousand, lady. That's what I'll give you. Take it or leave it. Myself, I ain't nuts about these religious chromos, but I hear Correggio was a big shot in his day, so— Well, what about it?"

"I will accept," I told him.

He threw open his coat and from an inner pocket drew forth a packet of bills. He counted off thirty of them.

"Cash, that's me," he said. "Ever since my last trial I've been dodging writing checks. The Government looks up a man's bank and claims he held out on his income. A man can't have any private business any more unless he's careful. There you are, lady. Got anything we can wrap it up in?"

At eight that evening Randolph called for me at my own apartment. I had packed my worn suitcases, informed my grim Lexington Avenue landlady that I was leaving New York, and had—through an elementary precaution—taken several taxicabs before arriving at my own little flat. Here I brushed the powder from my hair, and removed the grease-paint wrinkles from my face. I was certain that Pelliti, if suspicion should enter his head, would not be able to trace me. I gave to Randolph, after certain tender preliminaries, fifteen of the bills.

"You were magnificent," he flattered me. "So magnificent that I refuse to take any portion of the profits. You deserve them all."

I nodded acquiescence, and returned the bills to a secret drawer in a trunk.

"They go to the bank tomorrow," I said. "Into a trust fund for us both."

"The wiser head," he laughed.

"Everything we make together, beyond our living expenses, goes into that fund from now on," I told him. "So we cant lose it in any business or speculation. And when there's enough to yield a living income—"

"Then I shall be marrying you for your money," he laughed.

"For our money," I corrected him. "Where do we go?"

"For dinner, if you approve," he said. "Then to a picture— like that?— then on to the Ministerial for supper and dancing."

"It sounds marvelous," I said.

AND it was. The dinner was perfect, the picture entrancing. And when at ten-thirty, we entered the charming supper-club I was happier than I had ever dreamed, a few months ago, Lydia Grey could be. People nodded to us, and called invitations to join them, but we gayly refused.

Randolph gallantly said that he wished to dance with no one but myself and I knew that I would resent the intrusion of another man upon our happiness. And we were just finishing a waltz when I saw Pelliti. Randolph saw him at the same time, and his face was grave as we sat down at our table.

"He won't recognize me," I asserted.

But Randolph was doubtful.

"A week from now— no. But tonight— I'm afraid. It's so soon— and he's clever. And who dared bring him in here? Whoever it was will be expelled. A notorious crook in this club!"

Incidentally, he was correct. The governors of the Ministerial are no more fussy than the rulers of a semi-club, semi-restaurant, must be. Doubtful people are often to be seen there. But not notorious swindlers. And Pelliti's host, who had sought a thrill by introducing him here, got a different thrill next day when his resignation was demanded.

Pelliti saw us. He nodded to Randolph. Then I saw his brows knit. Abruptly he left the titillated party who had brought him here. He stalked over to our table. He stared at us. Randolph rose and I saw his body grow taut.

"Well, I'm a son-of-a-gun," said Pelliti. "If I was the kind ever to forget a face— but I'm not. And if I haven't seen this young lady before— Barnard, she was in that speak' where we lunched together a coupla weeks ago. And she— How is Your Royal Highness?" he jeered.

"What are you driving at, Pelliti?" demanded Randolph.

Pelliti laughed.

"I'm laughing at me. Can you beat it? Trimmed by a yap. Thirty grand for a chromo! Me! Well, for crying out loud!"

"Whatever does he mean?" I asked Randolph.

"Nix, nix," said Pelliti. "When you're caught, just laugh it off— don't try to bluff. So I fell for a phony, eh? Introduce me, will you, Barnard?"

"Miss Grey, may I present Mr. Pelliti?" said Randolph.

"And glad am I to meet the swellest actress I ever saw," grinned Pelliti. "Gee, but it's funny."

"Glad you take it that way," said Randolph.

"Yeah? Well, I always take my licking. A man deserves a trimming when he steps outside his own specialty. And to think, because he was beefing about the tough break he'd had in buying certain stocks from me, I let Sammy the Rod have that picture for only fifty grand two hours after I bought it. It's a laugh, isn't it? Sammy makes his selling cut whisky and ether beer. I make mine trimming suckers on stock deals. You make yours trimming guys like me. You trim me, and I trim Sammy, and Sammy— Well, well, so even the people that hang around swell joints like this are on the make, eh? Fair enough. I never talk— unless I have to. But if Sammy should ever discover the picture is a phony— then I'd have to talk. And in that case, you'd better keep out of Sammy's way, Barnard. And you too, lady."

Which was well-meant advice that we really didn't need.

________________

4: The Hands of Horror

Karl Schiller

Motion Picture Magazine July 1914

A curiosity.  This is a short story based on the Edison silent film of the same name, illustrated by stills. The magazine contained several more such stories.  I can't find out anything about Karl Schiller.

SOMETIMES Stephen Clark wondered whether John were his fault or merely an anomaly. His wife's part in their son he had never questioned; she had given him her own delicate features, her wistful smile, her innocent eyes, deeply lashed ; but of her white flower-soul the boy had not a trace. Margaret— that was different. She was the spirit of the dear, dead woman in a different flesh. With closed eyes, listening to her voice, he could have believed Lilas beside him. So far their union had not failed, but the son of it— was it his fault, or whose? For John was wild, a sower of tares, a reaper of tears. Stephen had tried the argument of the birch switch until the boy was grown ridiculously tall; he had tried, in secret, the aid of prayer, and, at last, hopelessly, he had turned him over to Margaret, and she, too, seemed to be failing.

Then there was Frank Henley. Stephen's former trade of steeplejack called for steel-fibred nerves, a will responsive and responsible, and a steady hand and eye. Now he had become a contractor and employed others to do the dangerous work. Frank qualified well and was an invaluable assistant, but a thorn in the old man's soul, nevertheless. For it was John's heritage this stranger lad had taken. Stephen Clark could forgive much to his son— wild adventures, lawless deeds, even actual crime— but he could not condone cowardice. And, in his sick soul, he believed his son to be a coward. He had seen the fear of height more than once in the boy's eyes, had sensed the inward nausea of dizziness, visible only in the dead pallor of the young skin. The easiest jobs went, therefore, to him, while the father writhed in soul to see his assistant climbing nimbly and unafraid where swallows built their airy nests beneath the steeple eaves.

Frank Henley sauntered along the street, whistling aimless fragments of melodies between his teeth. His hands were jammed into his pockets awkwardly. He did not feel really at home upon the solid earth, and his supple fingers, like a musician's hand, were crude when it came to doing common, earthly things. Yet now he was also climbing— a mental steeplejack among the pinnacles of his castles in the air. He had never in his life felt dizzy on any structure reared by man, but the loftiness of his planning caught his breath and made his brain reel. He was in love, but did not yet realize it. Twenty-eight clean-lived years had taught him none of the symptoms. All that he realized now was a face before him ever— waking, sleeping and yonder on the daily heights he trod. Margaret— what a smile she had!— his heart thrilled to the memory of it— and her small, pale hands like white violets, and her mouth—

The boy blushed and stemmed the current of his thoughts resolutely, calling himself a fool— the old tale of the employer's beautiful daughter and the poor apprentice over again. "Well, he'd never tell her, anyhow; he'd just beat it for another city and—"

Here Fate took a hand.

Out of a towering loft building stumbled a man, frantic with haste, and on his footsteps a curl of threatening gray.

"Fire!" shrilled the man, hysterically— "fire — fire — fire—"

"Stop, you fool!" Frank was shaking him in healthy disdain. "Why, John!"

The boy wrenched himself free. Across his horror-stamped face writhed another expression, a sort of cringing shame.

"Margaret"— he jerked a shaking thumb backward— "inside there— leggo! I'm goin' f'r help." He jerked free and swayed, coughing and muttering, down the street. Frank waited to hear no more. Used to clean, unbreathed, upper air, he strangled thru the murk of the halls— up— up, calling aloud the name that was dear to his tongue:

"Margaret! Where are you? Margaret! Courage, sweetheart, I'm coming to you "

The tender word came unconsciously, and, strangely, it was the only one she heard as she was slipping out into the darkness of a swoon. At the moment of passing, sudden joy held her back an instant, giving her subconscious mind the will to cry his name aloud. And then he was with her, his arms about her, and she was no longer afraid. No stranger wooing ever wooed than this— no more terrible background than that stain of wavering red and gray.

"The laces— John was here to steal them. I tried to stop him— his cigaret—" She did not realize that she was confessing her brother's guilt. The woman-instinct to put off the longed-for confession of love was hers even in this place of death.

"Margaret!" he cried, unlistening; then, over and over, "Margaret— Margaret— Margaret—"

That was all, but enough; and in the midst of the smoke and flame their lips met for one ecstatic moment. Then he swung her to his shoulder and turned to fight a way to the street.

"AND I'M to go up this afternoon," Frank cried eagerly. "One hundred advance pay— one hundred more when it's done. Pretty soft, eh? One more job like this, and we'll be able to start housekeeping."

The sure joy of possession thrilled his tone as well as the proprietary hand he laid across the girl's. Stephen looked at the pair pridefully; then his glance caught his son, and he sighed. John sat sullenly, crumbling his bread on the cloth, with no appearance of listening; yet below the heavy lids his eyes gleamed covetously. One hundred already! He glanced slyly at Frank. Perhaps in his pocket this moment! Not all the wealth in the world would have tempted him to take Frank's place astride the steel hands of the great clock in the tallest tower in the city— what good was money to a dead fellow, anyhow? Yet he resented the other's acquirement of the job.

Margaret's eyes were tragic. "Oh, Frank!"— it was a wail of primitive woman-fear— "but the tower's so high. "When I was a little girl I used to think it reached to heaven. Don't go— never mind the money. I'm— I'm afraid!"

"Nonsense, child," laughed the lover, easily; "it's a cinch. The superintendent and some of the fellows and I were up in the clock-room yesterday. I looked out thru the door— it's no job at all, really, honey. The hands are as firm as a railroad bridge. I'll wait till the hour-hand is in easy reach; then one step out, and it's a matter of fifteen minutes or so, and I'm back with a lump of dollars." He jumped up from the table and caught up his coat. "Going to see me off, honey?"

She followed him to the door, lifting her clouded face. "Oh, I hate it— the work!" she cried, against his rough cheek. "Mother all her life lived in the shadow of dread. She was terribly afraid. Every time a knock came on the door she could picture father's body outside— crushed and broken. I know how she suffered now. It's born in us both— the horror of the heights. Father thinks John is a coward, but I understand."

"Dont worry, girlie," he soothed her. "You cant lose me so easy as that."

"Frank!" Her eyes suddenly blazed with resolution— "Frank, I just can't stand it. I wont live mother's life over again. I love you; you know that, don't you ? But if you keep on steeple jacking, you'll have to give me up." Her voice changed, trembled. "Come down, dear," she pleaded. "There's lots of work to be found down here— and there's me— I'm here— and I cant ever go up with you, even in imagination. I'm afraid to love a steeplejack!"

He looked down, troubled; but in his quiet eyes was no hint of yielding. "Why, you're asking a bird not to fly, honey," he said gravely. "It's in me to climb— I love it— it's my work, and a man's got to do his work in the world."

"Then how about me?" she cried passionately. "Where do I come in, in your life? Don't I count at all?"

"You're everything in the world," he said— "everything; but — why, Margaret, a man's got to do his work!"

"I mean what I say," she warned him.

He looked into her eyes, and his heart grew heavy at what he saw there. For she did mean what she said. But he turned.

"Where are you going?"

"To the tower, Margaret," he said sadly; "good-by!"

BELOW him three hundred feet of sheer stone— down— down— down. The human beings were ants; carriages and cars were beetles; not a sound of the noisy life below came to him, riding the slender steel of the great clock's hour-hand. It was a quarter of four, and the hand stood almost horizontal. He had been in far more peril times without number, and the old joy of the spaces would have filled his heart had not Margaret's words weighed so heavy there. About his head, as he worked, twittered a flock of starlings poised on unafraid wings above the cruel space, yet terrified by a single movement of his hand. The work went more slowly than he had reckoned, or perhaps his hand was interrupted by his thoughts. And the steel beam was slanting a little more sharply as he drove home the last screw. He turned the handle of the door that led back to safety; then his brows knit in a sharp frown.

He shook the door more violently; then, impatience oozing into apprehension, he flung as much of his weight as he dared against it. It held fast. He drew a long, slow breath, trying to realize the meaning of his position. Locked out! In mid-air! On the hour-hand of a clock that was every moment moving downward!

He tried to clear his mind of horror and to steady his thoughts into thinking-trim. In fifteen minutes the hand would slant uncomfortably; at half-past four it would be out of reach of the door; at quarter of five, if he could hold on so long, he must inevitably fall. He had never before tried to picture what it would be to fall. Shutting his eyes, he could imagine it: the sliding; the clammy fingers, numb from the strain of holding ; the last touch of the steel as the fall began— down! past the windows where, perhaps, horrified faces would be staring— down! nearer and nearer, watching the stones of the street rise up.

He wondered whether he should be able to think as he fell. Would it hurt when he struck, or would sense be snuffed out, as a candle-flame?

In a frenzy of revolt and insane, physical shuddering, he hurled himself against the unyielding wood. The movement, with the added slant of his seat, nearly dislodged him. He clung, sick with his escape, to the steel before him with hands slippery with sweat. He would be cool. At least, he would not die until he must. He stared into the round, glazed, white clock-face, trying to focus his attention. Presently he found himself counting with feverish haste, and laughed grimly. Ten moments of life gone already! What ought he to do? Perhaps he should pray. But the words would not come; only one word— Margaret! In a flash he was himself again. He clung to the thought of her, sanely, quietly. She had been right. No man in his perilous profession should impose upon a woman the agony of a life of strained listening, tense waiting.

"Sweetheart," he said aloud— "Margaret— you'll never know how I thought of you these last few, precious moments. You wont understand that you helped me die like a man "

His seat was sliding very rapidly downward now. Above his head poised the minute-hand. The quick transfer brought a short respite; then, faster than before, he felt himself swinging toward eternity. His fingers slipped, caught again. The door was far above him now. Should he go down with eyes open or shut? He must not shriek. He closed his lips firmly. "Margaret!" his soul whispered. One last glance at the door—

"Frank—" It was her voice, or an hallucination— her face, or his dream of it, and her strong, steady hand, firm on his sliding ones.

"Listen to me, dear," she said clearly. "Don't let go. I am going to help you. Just keep holding on and holding on—"

But it was her next words that gave him the strength to obey.

"I love you. Frank— you just hold on and keep remembering that—"

"IT WAS John." said the old man, brokenly. "God pity him! Tell Frank, Margaret— I can't—"

The bitter truth faltered out between sobs— how John, with thievery in his heart, had followed Frank to the tower; examined his coat in the cloak-room, locking the door for security, and, not finding the one hundred dollars advance money, had gone away. Margaret had come on him half an hour later, in Frank's room, staring at the watch on the table and laughing very low and monotonously. From his wild words and wilder gestures she had divined the truth, and love had winged her feet.

"He was mad— he must have been " moaned the gray father, over and over. "It was a mercy that he died before he realized what he had done— my poor lad!"

Death is more forgiving than Life! With the erasing of the sinner, it often erases the memory of the sin. Now and always, in his remembering, the father would think of his son as the little, timid toddler with his mother's wide, wondering eyes.

"Margaret," said Frank, slowly, "I must tell you something. Dear, I want you more than I want anything in this world; but I know now that you are right— it would be selfish of me to marry you. If I could change myself. I'd try to learn another trade, but I can't change."

The girl looked up into her lover's face humbly. And suddenly the meaning of her own womanhood was born in her. Life with Frank would mean hours of torture, early gray in her hair, worry-lines in face and heart; but it would be life in all its fullness and deepness. She drew his head down to her.

"I've started in loving you, and I can't change, either," she laughed. But her kiss told him everything she could not put into words.

_______________

5: Mistral

Raoul Whitfield

1896-1945

Adventure 15 Dec 1931

IT WAS the way he ate spaghetti I that first attracted my attention. I'd put Remmings on the Conte Grande, in a more or less sober condition, and the noon sailing vessel had got away from the Genoa docks. I'd been hungry, and I'd wandered along the dock section looking for a restaurant. The one I'd picked had fooled me; it smelled pretty badly and there were thousands of flies. They were persistent and buzzy and they seemed to like Italian food. But the spaghetti was good. As I wound it round my fork I looked around the small. dirty room and saw him. He was eating the stringy stuff, but he was cutting it with a knife. That seemed a bit stiff, in Genoa, and after I'd done two plates of it, smothered with a good Parmesan cheese, I looked MISTRAL

him over just out of curiosity.

He was big and dark. He had black eyes and a lean face—very lean for his size. It was a hard face, yet there was softness in his eyes. I caught him once when he was inspecting fly specks on the ceiling, and noticed the scar under his chin. His skin was white and the scar stood out pretty clearly. I'd seen knife scars before, and this looked like one. It was long and slightly curved, and a nasty red color. I got the idea that it wasn't a very old scar.

His suit was of gray material, a quiet cloth. It fit him very well. I decided that he wasn't an Italian. He caught me looking at him, and it seemed to make him nervous. The next time I glanced in his direction I caught him watching me without appearing to do so. His hands were nervous and the muscles of his mouth twitched.

While I was drinking terrible coffee I heard him say—

"Damn flies!"

His voice was thick, but without accent. Two boats had come to Genoa that day from the States— a big one and a small one. I decided that he was an American and that he'd just arrived. He paid his check and went past me as I was trying to think in terms of the lira. I smiled a little, and he started to smile. But something changed his mind. He looked worried and frowned, turning his head away from me. He was better than six feet tall and had very broad shoulders, but his body hunched forward when he walked.

I thought about him several times as I drove toward the border town of Ventimiglia. At St. Remo I got my trunks from the rear of the car and had a swim in the Mediterranean. It was around three in the afternoon and the day was hot. I forgot about the scarred one until I'd driven across the border into France and had reached Monte Carlo. Before the Casino I stopped to light a cigaret, and a great yellow machine pulled up. It was of Italian make— a very expensive type of car. The chauffeur was an Italian. And from the rear of the machine my scarred friend descended. He spoke to the chauffeur and didn't see me, and I turned my back as he went into the Casino. I was very curious about him. That fly filled, dock section eating place, the knifed spaghetti and this expensive machine— there was something strange in the combination.

I followed him into the Casino, and knew at once he had never been there before. He didn't seem to know just what to do, and the ornate reception hall that lay ahead of him didn't offer any solution. I felt that he'd expected to see the gambling tables immediately and he was confused. An attendant approached and spoke to him in French. He merely asked if he could be of service, but the scarred one did not understand.

I was very close to him and I acted on impulse. At his side I smiled.

"You buy an admission ticket in this room on your left," I said, and gestured toward the room with the low counters and the cashiers behind them.

He stared at me with his dark eyes, and then they got very cold. The warmth went from them so suddenly that I started to turn away. But he said—

"Thanks, buddy."

I nodded. Well, I was sure that he was an American and that he didn't speak French and that he was afraid of something. And I was interested. But I knew that showing interest would be about the best way of learning nothing. So I sauntered into the room on my left and reached the billets de jour counter. I handed over my passport and ten francs and received the billet, after my name and number had been jotted down. It was all done pretty rapidly, and I was turning away when I heard the scarred one say—

"One admission—"

The Frenchman behind the counter smiled and asked for his passport. The scarred one didn't understand, so I said, still helpfully butting in:

"He has to see your passport. Formality here."

The dark eyes widened and his right hand went to the inside pocket of his gray coat. I caught the red color of the passport binding, but that was all. It slipped out of sight again and the scarred one swore.

"Must have left it—at home," he muttered in his thickish voice.

That was a pretty bad one. He wasn't giving me credit for having eyes or brains. But I smiled at him.

"You can still get inside," I said. "Give him your name and the name of your villa or hotel. Tell him you're very anxious to make a little play— you feel lucky. Smile at him."

I EXPECTED him to say he couldn't speak French, and to ask me if I would help. And I was prepared to tell him that the man behind the counter could speak five languages quite well, and English was one of them. But I was fooled. The scarred one smiled at the man behind the counter; he said that he'd left his passport in his hotel, and that he felt lucky and would like to try roulette.

The Casino employee smiled back, said that it was not good to leave one's passport behind, and asked him his name. The scarred one said—

"Tom— Thomas Burke."

I knew that he was lying. The man back of the counter continued to smile and asked the hotel and the town where Mr. Burke resided. The scarred one said—

"I stay at Cannes, at the Grand Hotel."

The Grand Hotel was very safe. Practically every French and Italian Riviera town has a Grand Hotel, and I once knew a village that had two for a time. But it happened that the date was August the third, and the Grand Hotel in Cannes had only been opened three days. There were very few persons staying there; it did much better in the Winter season. The proprietor was a friend of mine; I had been at the hotel for a time the night previous and was quite sure no Thomas Burke was staying there.

The scarred one received his billet, which ticket entitled him to play roulette, but not baccarat. I went from the room ahead of him and into the large reception hall. The scarred one halted and lighted a cigaret very popular with Americans. I saw the color of the package reflected in the mirrors about the room. Then I passed into the salon and went to a table that was not too crowded.

The ball fell on red numbers four times in succession. I went to a change booth and bought four thousand-franc, oblong chips. Returning to the table, I placed one of the oblongs worth forty dollars on black. The ball rolled against the spin of the wheel, and finally dropped into the groove of a black number. A croupier raked another oblong chip against mine and I picked both of them up and left the table. I had won forty dollars in one play, and that completed my particular system for beating the Casino. It was not very often that I won my forty dollars on the first play, but quite often I was one bet ahead of the Casino before I lost my four or five oblongs.

And whenever I was that one bet ahead—I quit. I never attempted to gamble my limited funds against the Casino's almost unlimited ones. And I remembered being told by one of the biggest gamblers of the Riviera that if all those who played at the Casino played as I did, it would be pretty tough for Monte Carlo. It was betting small money against big money, betting that the Casino would go broke before they did, that made it easy for the Casino.

As usual, I was pleased. I cashed in my chips and looked around for the scarred one. In the large salon I failed to see him immediately. When I did see him I strolled over to the table where he had seated himself. He had seven or eight hundred dollars worth of chips before him, and he was playing thousand-franc oblongs on the line between two numbers. He won once while I was watching, and his face was expressionless. The world's greatest gambling casino did not awe him now; he was gambling. And it was easy to see that he was accustomed to gambling.

He won again, just before I left, but he did not smile. The pay-off was eighteen oblongs for his one. Seven hundred and twenty dollars. And it was his second eighteen-for-one win in several minutes.

Outside the Casino I stood for some seconds and thought about the passport I'd seen. I decided that the scarred one was a crook and did not care to take a chance.

Either the passport he had was a bad one and he didn't wish it to get in Monte Carlo records, or it was a good one and he was afraid of a leak somewhere. Or he was afraid of something that might happen in the future, and a checking up at the Casino might follow.

Showing a passport at the border was something else again. And there was just the barest possibility that my scarred friend was a big shot, and might have been recognized and not allowed to play. That has happened at Monte Carlo. The Casino authorities are very careful about some details, and, as every one knows, they are very careless about others.

I forgot about him while driving the Grand Corniche. The day was very hot; there was not a breath of wind. At Nice I stopped at the Frigate bar for a champagne cocktail, and at a little beach between Nice and Cannes I got damp trunks from the rear of my small car and had another swim. Then I drove on again, wondering if Remmings on the way back home from Genoa were sober yet. I decided that he probably was not.

IT WAS a bit cooler when I drove round that point of land to the east of Cannes. The town lay in a semicircle; the waterfront was crescent-shaped before me. On the far side were the Esterel Mountains coming down to the sea. It was a nice sight. A harsh horn from behind caused me to pull to the right of the road along the Croisette, and with a rush and another burst from its horn, a great yellow machine went past. I recognized the machine and the chauffeur, and caught a glimpse of the scarred man in the rear seat. He was grinning broadly, and I guessed that he'd won quite a bit. But why hadn't he stayed on, playing his winning streak to the limit?

The Grand Hotel was along the Croisette a distance beyond the spot where I should have turned off to my small hotel. But I didn't turn off. I drove on slowly, and a square or so from the Grand I passed the big yellow machine, moving slowly. The chauffeur was grinning.

I sat in the car near the Grand and smoked a cigaret. When I went inside there was no sign of the scarred one, but my friend the proprietor was about. We went into his little office and talked about other things and then about the scarred one. Yes, he'd arrived. Traveling very light in a hired car. Just two bags, without many seals. His name was Anthony Senna; he was from New Orleans, in America. He had a room with bath, but not facing the Mediterranean.

I raised my eyebrows and my friend smiled at me.

"It was not a matter of money, I think," he said. "It was a matter of wind."

"Wind?"

My friend the proprietor nodded.

"Monsieur Senna, he does not like the wind," explained. "It keeps him awake of nights, it annoys him. And when there is a mistral, as you know, there is wind. Much wind."

There was certainly much wind when there was a mistral. For three or six, and on rare occasions for nine days there was the wind. It blew straight in from the Mediterranean, out of a cloudless sky. It spread sand all over the Croisette— the curving road along the beach, with the fashionable bars and shops. It ripped awnings and sent smart yachts behind the concrete seawall to the tiny harbor. It battered ten-foot waves over the sand, and the spray from them was salty on your lips, a square from the Croisette. And all the time the sky was blue.

And the scarred one who had stated in Monte Carlo that his name was Thomas Burke, and in Cannes that it was Anthony Senna, did not like the wind. This one who had cold eyes when spoken to, and who cut spaghetti with a knife in a dirty, waterfront eating place in Genoa, and who played thousand-franc chips at Monte Carlo— the wind kept him awake at night.

"He stays here for some little time?" I asked my friend.

The proprietor shrugged.

"On the Riviera, who can tell how long one stays?" he countered. "But I have given him a room on the top floor, on the corner, facing the rear."

"On the corner, facing the rear?" I repeated, puzzled.

I said that because one of the peculiar things about top floor corner rooms at the Grand was that they had only the two windows at the rear. There was no side window. And there was no room next to them, but rather very large linen closets. The rooms were apt to be hot at this time— very hot.

The proprietor nodded, and I said—

"I suppose he looked at some other rooms?"

My friend seemed a little surprised at my interest. But then we talked often of unimportant things—of things that seemed unimportant to us, and yet very important to others.

"Monsieur Senna looked at several rooms and selected the one at the east corner," the proprietor told me.

"Well in event of a mistral, he will hear only a little wind there," I said.

And my friend agreed.

"The walls are very thick, and the window screens quite tight. He will hear only a little of the mistral," he agreed.

A TELEGRAM from Paris 3 took me to St. Raphael the next day. I was searching for  a German by the name of Schmidt, who had stolen many marks from a small town bank somewhere near Berlin, and who the Paris office of the agency with which I was connected had heard was in the French Riviera town. The office had heard incorrectly, though the Schmidt at St. Raphael slightly resembled the German thief. He was a good fellow, this Schmidt, and after we had stood each other a few rounds of drinks I left him and drove over the Esterel Mountains toward Cannes. It had started to blow, and when I took my machine over the highest stretch of road, with the Mediterranean almost a thousand feet below, the car rocked from the gusts of wind.

"Mistral," I said. "The beginning of one."

And I thought about my friend with the scar on his chin and the warm eyes that got so suddenly cold. I drove pretty fast and reached Cannes around four. The wind was increasing; awnings were being hauled in and yachts were steaming into the small harbor, behind the concrete breakwater. Sand was swirling in eddies across the Croisette. The two most patronized of the beach bars, the Miramar and the Chatham, were deserted— it was three hours before cocktail time.

I went to my hotel and got the file that held my photographs. It was a big file in a special case, and I'd gone over two hundred photos the night before. I did another fifty and then quit. In the fingers of my right hand I held the likeness of my scarred one. The scar was missing, and the big one was wearing his hair differently. But he was my man. I turned the photo over and read:

Anthony (Tony) Senna. Chicago, September 1926. Jackie Marks' bodyguard until Marks was machine gunned out, in March 1927. Murder suspect. Indicted three times— no convictions. Beer. Mixed up in Spencer Tracy kill. Not indicted. Dropped out of sight for year in early 1928. Turned up in Los Angeles on gambling barge in June, 1930, after standing trial for murder of copper in Chicago in February, 1999. Al Fess murdered on barge three months later. Senna stood trial for murder. No conviction. Used plenty of money to get clear. No record after this.

There was a description of the scarred one that did the trick. I guessed that he'd got heavier, was wearing his hair differently and was only using that Senna tag when he was forced to. He knew that there was the carte d'identité business, probably, and that the local police would have his name from the hotel. I decided that his passport was all right, but that he hadn't wanted Senna to get into Monte Carlo records. He'd played safe at the Grand, fearing the police, in event of any sort of accident, might check his passport.

Well, I knew who he was. And I remembered that Al Fess had been a big shot in Chicago, but had been driven out by Capone and had followed Horace Greeley's advice to go West. He'd worked the big gambling barge beyond the three mile limit, and then things had started to go wrong. I remembered that the barge had been blown up once, and set fire another time. And not long after that Fess had been shot to death. My scarred one had been indicted and tried. No conviction. That trial would have taken place along in September or October, I figured. About a year ago.

I shoved the photo back in its proper file and smoked a couple of cigarets. The wind was cutting up now, but I didn't mind it. The screens in my room's three windows rattled, and something loose on a cornice somewhere made a pounding noise at intervals. I thought of the room Senna had selected and smiled a little grimly.

The theory I liked best was that Senna had murdered Al Fess, a year ago. He'd kept out of sight for awhile after his trial. Fess had been pretty big. Per- haps Senna had tried to move around a bit in the States. But it had been too tough. So he'd come across and had landed at Genoa. But he was still worried. He liked rooms with thick walls and without other rooms next to them. He liked them on the top floor. He was lonely and in a strange country, but he was afraid of strangers. In other words, Tony Senna must be a hunted man.

AFTER a little while I had a swim in a sea that was getting rough by the minute. The waves were three and four feet high and, in the manner of the Mediterranean, they pounded to shore very close to each other. When I got back to the hotel after my swim the mistral was still picking up force. I changed into light flannels and slipped a Colt automatic into a deep hip pocket of the trousers. I couldn't quite make up my mind about what I wanted to do with Senna. That is, whether I wanted to talk with him, or try to talk with him. Just out of curiosity— for he wasn't wanted.

A chasseur brought in another telegram. After he'd taken my franc tip and had gone, I read it. It was coded simply— from the Paris office. I was to forget about Schmidt for the time. A client in Paris was very anxious to locate one Anthony Senna, who it was thought had landed in Genoa the day before. There was a description of Senna in code, and it included the scar. I was to locate Senna and wire the office. That was all. Except that there were the letters V.I., which meant "very important".

I smoked another cigaret and smiled at the break putting Remmings on the Conte Grande had got me. And I felt a little sorry for Senna. My hunch was that Senna hadn't come far enough away, or that he'd come to the wrong place. In any case, business was business. I went to the French telegraph and sent a coded wire to Paris. It was to the effect that one Anthony Senna who answered the required description was staying at the Grand Hotel at Cannes, France.

When I thought of the surprise this speed would cause, in Paris, I decided I rated a drink or two. So I drove against a rising wind and parked near the Chatham. Senna wasn't there. It was after seven and the bar was crowded. The pajamas the women wore were as colorful as usual but had long ceased to startle me. I went outside, having trouble getting the door opened against the mistral wind, and went inside the Miramar.

At first I didn't see my man. This bar was larger and noisier and more crowded. I went toward a small table in a far, dark corner. And then I saw Tony Senna. He was slouched low in one of the big lounging chairs. His big body was slumped, his arms were at his sides. From where he sat he had a view of the whole bar and of the entrance. On the table before him was a glass of beer. His face was twisted; he looked miserable.

When he caught sight of me he straightened a little. He started to smile. I waved a hand carelessly and watched the hard expression come into his eyes. But it went away, and he sort of grinned. He hesitated, then said thickly—

" Alone— have a drink?"

J hesitated. Being an agency man has its Judas moments. This was one of them. I'd sold this man out, and he was asking me to drink with him.

I said— "All right— sure."

I dropped into the lounge chair across the table from him, leaned forward.

"My name's Benn," I said, lying be- cause I knew he would lie. And he did.

"Mine's Burke," he replied. "Tom Burke. Thanks for that tip at the Casino. I was kinda worried in there, and maybe I didn't act right with you."

I waved that off. A gust of the mistral wind made things sing and rattle outside. The big one shivered.

"Mistral," I said pleasantly. "Just getting into action."

He swore.

"Hate wind. Gets me. Mistral, eh? What in hell's that?"

I ordered a whisky sour.

"Just wind," I told him. "If it's a real mistral it'll last three days, or six— or nine. The nines are pretty rare."

He sat up straight and blinked at me.

"Like this— for nine days!" he muttered. "Lord— I'd go crazy."

I nodded.

"Some people do," I said. "There's a sort of unwritten French law— it applies to men and women living together. If one of them murders the other along about the eighth or ninth day, it doesn't count."

Senna stared at me.

"No kiddin'?" he muttered.

"That's what they say— pretty hard to convict in such a case. The wind gets at you after four or five days. I've never seen a nine day affair, but I've been around for a couple of the six day sessions."

HE MUTTERED something I didn't catch and sipped his beer. Every few seconds he'd look toward the entrance, and his dark eyes were sharp. No one came in unless he saw him. I thought of the wire I'd just sent, and felt strange about it. The agency game can give you lousy moments.

When the waiter came with my whisky sour I lifted it slowly and said cheerfully—

"Here's to crime!"

He grinned at that and raised his beer glass. I frowned at it.

"Beer's no good here," I told him. "It's a waste of time."

And he said a little grimly, without thinking too much—

"Yeah, but it doesn't hurt my eyes or nerves any."

There was something about the scarred one that I liked. I didn't bother figuring just what it was. Perhaps I felt a little sorry for him. I had a very strong hunch that death was coming his way. His actions didn't hurt my hunch any. He wasn't exactly scared, but he was nervous. I wanted to know something, so I went after it.

"You haven't been over here long, have you?" I asked, and didn't make my voice too anxious.

He looked at me narrowly.

"I'm an engineer," he said. "I've been down in Mexico— alone a lot. Had a couple of months leave due me, and grabbed a freighter for Genoa. Just an idea."

I nodded. I didn't believe that he was an engineer, but I did believe that he'd been in Mexico and that he'd been there alone. He was fed up, and he'd picked the Riviera and Cannes. And it hadn't worked. And he was drinking with the man who had spotted him, turned his name up.

There was a crash of glass, somewhere beyond the bar. The entrance door opened and a group of people came in, laughing and letting the wind carry them along. Senna hunched down in the chair again.

"I hate wind," he muttered. "I gotta get out of this town."

I thought of my wire and didn't like that idea. So I said:

"It'll be blowing all along the Riviera. And you'd have to go pretty far back in the mountains to dodge this breeze. You can't be sure— it may not stick. Tomorrow morning you may not feel a breath of wind."

That was an ironic thought. A fast plane could reach Cannes from Paris in five hours. The regular planes did it in six. lf some one wanted to see Senna badly enough, if I wasn't going haywire on my basis and hunches, some one could be at the Grand Hotel around midnight. A good plane could edge into the wind and get down all right.

Senna said—

"You think it may let up, eh?"

I nodded, and finished my whisky sour.

"Sure," I said. "Have one on me?"

He had another beer, and I had another sour. I tried to get him to open up a little, but he didn't want to talk. He kept his eyes on the entrance door and on human faces that passed near our corner. I said—

"You played at the Casino— any luck?"

He grinned, showing white teeth. Then his dark eyes got hard and frowning.

"Yeah—too much, maybe," he stated.

I looked puzzled.

"Too much?" I said.

He got sort of a silly smile on his face, only it wasn't all the way silly. After a few seconds of silence he said a little grimly:

"I've only been this lucky a few times in my life. And right after those times— I got unlucky. You know how it is."

I finished my second sour and rose.

"Yes, sure," I said. "I know how it is. See you again."

He didn't seem surprised at the abruptness of my departure.

"Yeah," he said. "So long."

I went out into the wind, got to a phone in the Miramar Hotel and called the office of the small flying field at the end of town. I was known there as Jay Benn, and sometimes I used a ship for a fast hop to Germany or Switzerland or Spain. In Cannes I was thought to be a pretty good American, with enough money but not too much. A fellow who liked that section of the coast.

I got Leon Demoigne on the phone and asked him to ring me if a plane landed around midnight. He said that he would if I wanted him to, but that he could tell me now that one was coming down from Paris. She was a fast monoplane, and there would be two passengers aboard, beside her pilot. I told him that was not the plane I was thinking about, and he said he'd advised by wire against the flight, but that the ship was apparently coming along anyway. He ended up by saying that it was probably bringing along a couple of crazy Americans who had heavy dates.

Even in French his idea didn't sound right to me. I thought it was perfectly right that the plane was bringing along a couple of Americans. But I was quite certain they weren't coming because of the kind of heavy dates Leon anticipated. And I was damned sure they weren't crazy.

I HAD dinner alone at a small Russian restaurant, and the black bread didn't taste as good as usual. The thing that got me was that I was pretty sure Tony Senna wasn't wanted by the police. I was pretty sure that crooks were using a reputable agency; as they had used agencies before, to trace another crook. I had the feeling that I'd put Senna on the spot, and I didn't like it. He was a killer and probably a lot of things that went with it, but it seemed to me he wasn't going to have much of a chance. I could almost hear guns— and I could almost see the big scarred man going down. I might be all wrong, but the setup framed things that way.

At ten o'clock I went back to the hotel and found the telegram I expected. It was from McKee, the agency head, and it was brief. I read, "Fine fast work clients pleased drop further investigation of Senna." It was in code. And it convinced me that death was coming close to the big fellow. I was to drop out, which was not the ordinary method. The clients would handle things themselves. And they were pleased.

I lay on my bed and listened to the mistral wind howl. It was getting on my nerves too. After a half hour or so I made a decision. Business was business, but some of it took away too much self-respect. I drove to the Grand Hotel. Senna was not in. When I got to the Miramar bar he was just where I'd left him. He'd been eating sandwiches, and he was still drinking beer. He grinned at me.

"I couldn't go out in that stuff," he said. "So I just stuck here."

I nodded and pulled a chair close to him. I ordered coffee and fin. He was looking at me with his dark eyes narrowed.

"Damn mistral!" he muttered. "You think it'll last three days, maybe six?"

I said:

"You never can tell." Then I went right into it. "Listen, Senna," I said softly and without paying any attention to his start of surprise, "you got a tough break in Genoa. I happened to eat in the same spot and see you. I saw your passport edge, at the Casino in Monte Carlo, and I know some things. My name isn't Benn— and I'm connected with an international detective agency. My office wired me to look for you, and I wired back that you were at the Grand Hotel here. Two Americans are coming down by plane— clients of the Paris office of my agency. They're coming down to see you, and they'll get here about midnight. It took me a little while to figure things out, and when I got them figured out I decided that you were being spotted out for killing Al Fess on his gambling barge, off Santa Monica. I didn't like my part, so I'm warning you. That's all of it."

His big hands were gripping the table edge, and getting white with that grip. His dark eyes were slitted and cold. I kept my right hand on the Colt grip.

"I don't think you're the whitest guy that ever lived, Senna," I said. "And I've got my hand on a rod now. So don't do the wrong thing. What I want to get across is that my hunch is the law isn't coming after you. Not my kind of law. You've got a couple of hours, and you don't like wind. I'm all right, because I wired you were staying at the Grand, and you were. You can hire a machine—"

I stopped. Senna had taken his whitened knuckles away from the table. He was relaxed in the big chair, and his face held a terrible grin. He chuckled. I stared at him and he shook his head slowly.

"Lord!" he breathed. "Imagine a dick tipping me off! Imagine that!"

I smiled a little. But I didn't say anything. He kept on shaking his head. After awhile he lighted a cigaret.

"I wouldn't waste too much time, Senna," I told him. "This wind may not hold up that plane too much."

He shook his big head.

"I ain't going away, Benn— or whatever your name is," he said slowly, tonelessly. "I've been leaving places for a long time now. Going places— far places. Spots I didn't like, see? They've been after me a long time. I ain't saying I did for Fess, but if ever a guy rated a dose of lead, that rat did, see? But me, I'm staying here."

"Don't be a fool, Senna," I said. "The law doesn't want you—"

He looked suddenly tired.

"These guys are worse than the law, Benn," he said wearily. "I tell you, I'm tired of running away. I'm staying here. Now you—" he raised a big forefinger and pointed it at me— "get the hell out of here!"

I said as I rose slowly:

"Well, I warned you. I may be all wrong— but I tipped you, Senna."

There was irony in his eyes.

"Sure, Benn," he said. "Now you get the hell away from me."

THE plane landed at 12:10 by my wristwatch. It landed in a nasty wind, after circling the lighted field three times. She was a small monoplane, cabin type. I had my car on the Frejus road, with the lights out. After about ten minutes a car that had been waiting at the field turned into the main road and moved toward Cannes. I had to drive very fast to follow it. I was several squares behind when it reached the Grand Hotel. The wind was raising the devil with the palms along the Croisette; it seemed to be steadily increasing.

I parked a square away and went into the hotel by a side entrance. When I reached the main lobby no one was about but the concierge. He knew me. He said that the two gentlemen had said they didn't want Monsieur Senna disturbed, but was he in his room. And he said that he had told them that Monsieur Senna was at the Blue Frog. And they had thanked him and departed. They had not engaged rooms and they had not brought any baggage into the hotel.

"How do you know Monsieur Senna is at the Blue Frog?" I asked.

The concierge shrugged.

"He has told me that he thought he would go there," he returned. "He has asked me for a quiet place to drink, where there is music and yet not a crowd. And where the lights would not hurt his eyes."

"C'est ça," I muttered grimly.

"Well, it was so. The Blue Frog was a small drinking and dancing place; there was a two-piece orchestra and the lights were dim. It was not smart and it didn't get much of a crowd. I reflected that dim lights would give Senna a better chance, and that a small crowd would mean less chance of humans other than those concerned being hit by stray bullets. I wasn't sure that Senna cared much about other humans, but every man has his particular code of what he calls honor. Senna was no exception.

The Blue Frog was just off the Route d'Antibe, the main business street of Cannes, at the east end of town. It was set back in some palms and there were no buildings very close to it. In my car I drove fast, parked a half square away and hurried on. I went in a side entrance and spotted Senna right away. His eyes were narrowed on mine and he was smiling. He wasn't slumped in any lounging chair this time. He sat on a small wooden chair. It had no arms. Both hands were in the pockets of his light suit coat, and he was seated slightly to the left of the table. He faced the side entrance directly, and the main entrance to the place was in a line with his big body.

I stood for several seconds looking at him. Then I went to the bar. I ordered Scotch, straight. The two-piece orchestra was playing "Ay-yi-yi" with the guitar dominating the piano. There were only a few people inside; mistrals kept folk at home. And that was good, too.

When I lifted my drink, my fingers were shaking a little. There was a mirror beyond the bar, and I looked into it. I could see the front entrance. The barman saw my shaking fingers and guessed wrong. He said that the mistral was not good, it did bad things with one's nerves. I agreed and downed the Scotch. As I set the glass on the counter my eyes went to the mirror, and I saw a tall, hard faced man come in. I turned and looked toward the side en- trance. A shorter, heavier man stepped inside the dimly lighted room, letting a rush of wind in with him. A girl laughed shrilly, and the orchestra continued its swift rhythm.

I think they both saw Senna at the same instant. With so few people in the place that wasn't hard. I saw the shorter one of the two stiffen, and his coat material came up from the bottom. There were two terrific crashes. No Maxim silenced guns, these. There were screams. The short one took one step forward and crashed to the floor.

I swung around and stared at Senna. There was another gun crash and his big body jerked. But his right hand came up. His left battered the table aside and he walked toward the main entrance and toward the tall, hard faced man. There was another gun crash and Senna's left arm hung limp at his side. His gun was up, extended in his right hand. He kept walking, his face twisted in a terrible smile. The tall one was staring at him; he fired again but the bullet went wild. It tore artificial flowers from a wall behind Senna.

And then Senna worked his gun. It crashed again and again. I counted four shots, and then all sound was merged into a terrible roar. When the roar died away, I went toward the two motionless figures on the floor near the door. The tall one was dead. Senna was alive; he said weakly, as I leaned over him:

"The others— done?"

I left him and went to the side entrance door. The thickset one was dead, too. The bullet had ripped upward through his mouth. I went back and kneeled beside Senna.

"Both done," I told him.

He tried to grin, but it was too tough. He said, very weakly:

"Sure— I got— Al Fess." And a few seconds later he said, "Guy— I can't hear— that damn wind—"

"Take it easy, Senna—"

I couldn't think of anything else to say. He closed his eyes and after a few seconds more he said weakly:

"Funny— if it hadn't been for that damn wind— I might have— run again. But it just— made me sore— made me want to— stick here—"

He didn't say any more. He was dead when a very excited gendarme reached my side and asked a dozen questions one after another. I answered one of them and went to the bar for another drink. It was some time before I got it. As I sipped it I decided that it was just as well Senna had had a funny idea about the wind, if he had had it. You can't always be running away from things.

The mistral lasted three days, and when it was over the sun was very hot.

The Blue Frog did a big business; the proprietor put a frame around a hole made by one of the bullets that missed Senna. The smart crowd went in for a look, and the French townspeople went in too. The proprietor told me he would have liked to frame one of Tony Senna's bullets, but that couldn't be done. Senna hadn't missed.

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6: The Hairy Devil

Morgan Robertson

1861-1915

Cosmopolitan Magazine Oct 1908

LIVERPOOL  JIM had been dozing on the main-hatch with others of the watch, and he suddenly began moaning. We who were awake listened a few moments, until the moaning became choked, then a man reached over and kicked him. He wakened, sat up, looked wildly around, and said brokenly: "God bless ye for that! Was I makin' a noise?"

"As though you'd lost your mother," answered one.

"Lemme tell ye," said Jim earnestly. "Whiniver ye hear me make that noise, wake me up. The hairy devil has me again, an' I can't wake mesilf. Wake me up — wid a handspike, if ye like; but wake me, either on deck or below."

We asked about the hairy devil, and there followed Jim's yarn. It is thirty years since I heard that yarn, and Jim, with perhaps every listener who did not, like myself, turn landsman while there was time, is dead. I never knew his last name; he was a happy-go-lucky Irishman, an able seaman from his feet up, who would ship and run, never realizing a pay-day, and unable to remember the names of the craft he had sailed in. He went to jail at the end of that passage for knifing a Dutchman, and passed out of my life; but he left that yarn, which so burned itself into my soul that I can give it, stripped of Jim's vernacular, as though I had heard it yesterday.

The Yarn

"I DON'T remember much about shipping in that brig. I was shanghaied, as usual, and woke up in the forecastle next morning with a head like a bucket. I knew she was a Yankee ship by the cracker hash they were mustering around as I looked over the bunkboard; and I remember asking her name and where she was bound. But I forgot what they said, and never asked again.

"There were six of us 'fore the mast— a dago, two Dutchmen, a Sou'egian, and a nigger, besides myself. There was a Chinee in the galley, and a boy in the cabin. Then there were two mates from down East, and a skipper from Cape Cod. These three were the usual kind, angels ashore and devils afloat, and afflicted more or less with ingrowin' self-respect. They kept peace in that hooker while we were in her; but we were not in her long.

"Nothing happened until we'd shot out of the Gulf Stream, and ran into the light, shifty winds just north of the trades. Then, as I took the wheel one morning at six, we ran into a mess of wreckage — floating boxes that showed signs of fire, with here and there a charred spar or burned boat. The weather had been fine, so we concluded that some craft had burned to the water's edge and sunk. Right in the middle of this stuff was an iron cage, floating on its wooden floor and timbers, and in it was a half -drowned leopard We passed within a length of it, and the skipper brought up his rifle and emptied it at the poor brute, but didn't hit. It was great fun for the blasted fish-skinner, but when I suggested at the wheel that he save his ammunition for us if we got fat and sassy, he gave me a damning and went below for more. She was a hungryship, and he was a sensitive man. But he'd wakened all hands with his shooting. Soon we came up to another cage, with some chattering parrots in it. It was better fun shootin' them than the leopard, and when one poor little thing dropped from the bars into the water he was the happiest man I ever saw, and he peppered away while he could see them. We left them behind us and came on to a longboat, dry and tight.

"By this time the skipper's ammunition was gone, and his Yankee instincts were aroused by the sight of that good, tight longboat, nearly new. I steered close, and they hooked on to it with a long pike-pole we carried on deck. Then a man went down and got the painter, with which we towed the boat alongside. There was no name on it, but it certainly belonged to some Noah's ark bound up from the coast with a cargo of animals, and we could only guess what had happened to the crew if they had taken to it. There were no oars in her, nor water, nor grub; but, crouched in the stern-sheets, too sick or starved to sit up, was a monstrous big monkey.

"The big brute grunted up at us, but seemed harmless, and the skipper decided that he might save not only the boat, but its passenger. Some of the men and the mate protested, saying it was a wild beast, and would make trouble; but the fool skipper was set on his way and overruled them. That animal would bring a tidy sum of money from some zoo, he said. And the boat, though of no use to us, as we had a full complement, was an asset worth considering. It was too big to hoist on deck, but we could tow it astern till we got to port.

"No one wanted to go down and hook on to that brute, so the skipper sent a man to relieve me at the wheel while I did it. The mate had entered up the log at four bells, and he swore he'd make another entry before breakfast stating his objections, so that if anything happened he would not be held responsible. The skipper swore he'd put the mate in the official log as insubordinate; but it all came to nothing, and while they were jabbering I put my knife in my teeth and went down the painter. I didn't get too near that beauty at once. He was thin and emaciated, and seemed almost dead from starvation and thirst; but he had a forearm as big as my leg, and a reach of four feet or more. He had paws big enough to grip a stovepipe, and a mouth, full of yellow teeth, that he 'opened wide when he saw me coming. You could have jammed a drawbucket into that mouth. I lassoed his head with the bight of a cargo sling, hooked on the tackle they sent down, and when they had partly lifted him I twitched another sling around under his arms, and with this they hoisted him over the rail. When I climbed aboard they had slacked him down so that he rested on his hind feet, and there he stood, waving those long forearms around like two handspikes in a capstan, and growling and spitting in a weak, vindictive way, while his little red eyes snapped at us. They slacked him down a little more, and he only had to lean forward a bit to bring himself on all fours; but he couldn't stand alone, and when they lowered away he fell to the deck.

" 'He's safe enough,' said the skipper. 'We'll just make him fast to the windlass, where he can't break away. We'll feed him a little, to keep him alive.'

" 'That's all right, Captain, ' said the mate. 'You're master here, and we'll do what you tell us. Just the same, I'll carry my two pistols from this on. That's no 'rang-outang or chimpanzee; that's a gorilla, and he's promised what he'll do with us. '

" 'And the same here, sir,' said the second mate. ' I go heeled, and if he breaks loose, I'll shoot ; for I'll consider my life in danger. '

" 'Nonsense! You make me sick and tired with your cowardice. Afraid of a sick animal ! Here, you men, unhook that tackle and drag him forrard to the windlass. I'll boss this job.'

"It took all hands to haul that squealing brute forward. He weighed all of half a ton, starved though he was, and he still had strength to tear a water-cask out of its chocks as he went by it. But we got him to the windlass, and then rigged a kind of harness out of new three-inch rope— something he couldn't untie, and that had no ends that he could reach. I remember there was a strap went round under his arms, another round his belly, and four more around each leg or arm, all of which were connected by swifters hitched in. We tied him hand and foot, and spreadeagled him to get this rigging on him, then we moored him to both windlass bitts. The skipper bossed the job, as he said, and pronounced it good. But he didn't know much about big monkeys.

"We gave him a wash-deck tub half full of fresh water, and he drank it all, holding up the tub like a cup to get the last of it. We gave him a quart of potatoes, and they went into him like marbles down a scupper-hole. Then he got a cabbage that he bolted nearly whole. The skipper was pleased.

" 'None o' the monkey tribes eat meat,' he explained. ' They eat vegetable food— cocoanuts, yams, and such. This fellow likes potatoes and cabbage. Steward, ' he called, 'give him potatoes and cabbage once a day— not too much— and what water he can drink. '

" 'Yes, sir,' answered the steward, none too pleased with his job.

"We fellows were not pleased, either. We got our whack, not potatoes and cabbage, and we got our three quarts of water, instead of what we could drink. But we said nothing. We made the long-boat fast astern, and the work went on. I took my wheel again, and the skipper went below.

"No one else left the deck that watch. It was the mate's watch below, but he sulked around, and I don't think he went near the log-book. At any rate he had something else to think about before breakfast was ready. A sharp squall hit us about six bells, and for fifteen minutes things whistled aboard that brig. We furled the royals and staysails at the first, and clewed up the top-gallant sails, but let them hang in the buntlines. The racket of shortening sail and the discomfort of the wind and spray hitting him excited the brute at the windlass, and he roared and barked and growled through it all. Then the squall passed as suddenly as it had come, the sun came out bright and clear, and it promised to be a fine day. The wind was light again, and we were sliding along on the starboard tack, steering about two points free. I could hear everything that was going on — the rattle of dishes as the cabin-boy set the table, and the voice of the skipper jawing him because he admitted missing his prayers that morning. I've no use for religious skippers at any time; but this one carried a cold wave with him.

"He came up just before seven bells and ordered the rags put on her, knowing well it would delay our breakfast. So the dago went up the fore and the nigger up the main; then seven bells struck, the cabin-boy rang the breakfast-bell, and the skipper called the mate to breakfast, saying the second mate could put the canvas on her, and went down the after companion. The mate went in the forward companion just as the two men aloft sang out, 'Sheet home when you're ready, sir,' and the Chinee cook came out of the galley to help at the halyards, leaving the men's breakfast on the galley stove. But they didn't get that breakfast, nor even masthead the yard; and the fellows aloft never loosed the royals. I had been listening to the talk at the cabin breakfast. I heard the mate say that he had no appetite, and that a cup of coffee was enough for him; then I heard the scraping of his chair as he pushed back, and his footsteps, going to his room. Then, just as the men gave their first heave on the halyards, I heard a snarling, barking kind of roar from forward, and around the house came that gorilla, with his harness still on him, but with the broken ends trailing behind. We had underrated the recuperative powers of a beast just out of the jungle. He had snapped two parts of new three-inch manila as though it were twine.

"The second mate and the Chinee had tailed onto the halyards behind the men, and they were all in a bunch near the fore rigging. Naturally they all yelled at the brute, and this disconcerted him a little. He rushed by them on all fours, stepping on the sides of his big hind feet, with his big red mouth wide open, and his little red eyes half closed. The men took to the fore rigging, but the second mate followed him, for he was making straight for the poop. The first one out of the cabin was the mate, with his gun ready; and, to do them justice, these two were game. They were buckoes of the worst kind, but a bucko isn't a bucko without courage; yet they couldn't stop that hairy devil. The first mate fired, but I don't think he hit him. The second mate had no gun, but he made a straight, bodily dash at the beast. It was no use; he danced between the two with his big arms outstretched, and though he hardly seemed to touch them they both went down. Then he stooped over the mate, out of my sight forward of the house, growling like a mad dog. And above the hubbub came the shouts of that fool skipper from the cabin: 'Don't shoot. Don't shoot him. He's worth a thousand dollars.'

"The big beast rose into sight with the mate, dead or unconscious, slung over his shoulder. Straight for the main-rigging he made, and cleared the sheer-pole at a bound. Up he went, three ratlines at a time, to the main-yard. He shinned out this on three legs, holding the mate with the fourth, and when he got to the end he dropped him. I could see the mate's pistol, tightly gripped in his hand, as he sprawled down. Then the skipper appeared with his rifle; he had changed his mind when he saw the brute stooping over the mate.

' "Throw a line to the mate, Cappen,' I yelled, 'or go over after him. I'll hold her up to the wind. Come down out o' that, ' I called to the men still up in the fore rigging, ' and clear away a boat.' I jammed the wheel down, and the brig came up, but there wasn't a life-buoy or a plank to throw to the mate, even if he had been in sight, and not a man moved in the rigging. The skipper began pumping away with his rifle, but it didn't go Off, and he suddenly said: 'My God! I used up all the cartridges. What'll I do? What'll I do?'

" 'Go over after the mate with a line fast to you, ' I called. But he ran into the cabin. I dropped the wheel and pulled the long-boat up to a short painter, then stood by the wheel again, though under her present trim the brig steered herself.

"Down came the brute by the weather leech of the mainsail, and inboard, upside down, by the foot-rope of the sail. Amidships, he flopped to the deck, and arose in a moment with the second mate. He was conscious, and struggled weakly as the beast carried him aloft, and the look on his face was pitiful. He was carried out the yard-arm and dropped, like the first mate; and there was no helping him. I looked for each, but neither rose. Later on, I learned about gorillas and their way of killing. When they fight up in the trees their aim is to push the enemy off and let the fall kill him. That's why he lugged the two mates up after he had 'em conquered. I half guessed this at the time, and as the ugly devil looked down at me, the only man on deck, and then at the dogs in the fore rigging, I sang out to them, knowing I had that boat handy, to shin up to the top and hide, or else come down and fight him with handspikes. The beggars wouldn't budge, and the dago and the nigger kept singing out instructions; but they stayed where they were.

"Having given up the two mates by now, I had thrown the brig off to get steerageway, and just as the brute started down the leech of the mainsail to interview me the canvas filled with a flap, and he scrambled back to the yard. At this moment the Chinee cook must have remembered something in the galley to attend to, for he dropped to the deck and ran into his shop. This decided the gorilla; he forgot about me, shinned in along the yard, and went down the mainstay to the top of the forward house. We all yelled to the Chinaman, but if he heard he was too late. Just as he stuck his 'nose out of the port door the beast reached down to him and got him by the collar. I'll never forget the screams of that poor heathen as he was lifted up and held tightly against the hairy chest of the monster. But it was soon over; the screams grew fainter and ended before the animal had got halfway up the mainstay. I think he squeezed the cook to death. He went up on one part of that stay, and out the main-yard again, just as a cat goes along on the top of a fence. At the outer gasket he dropped the cook, and that was the end of him.

" ' Now's your chance, ' I called to the three in the fore rigging. 'Come down and get handspikes, and I'll join you. If you don't he'll kill us all, one by one. '

"They never stirred nor answered, and

just then I heard the skipper driving the cabin-boy up the after-companion. 'Get up on deck,' he commanded. 'What are you soldiering down here for ? '

" Up came the boy — a whimpering snipe of a lad, who ought to have been home— and the skipper, brave as a lion with two pistols in his hands, but half crazy from the excitement.

" 'Where's that ungrateful animal,' he cried, waving his guns, 'that bites the hand that feeds it? Where's my mates?'

" 'Over the side, where you ought to be, you damned idiot,' I said to him. 'Give me one of those guns. Perhaps I can do something with it.' But he ran forward along the alley, shouting for the mates, and the boy followed. Down came the gorilla by his old road— the leech and foot-rope of the mainsail— just in time to catch the boy at the main-hatch. The skipper dodged and raced aft again, never offering a shot, and the animal killed the boy with one swipe; at least, he never moved. He wasn't taken aloft and dropped. He was flung over the side like an old bag.

"The men forward began scrambling up the fore rigging, and their motion attracted the beast's attention. Away he went in pursuit, while the crazy skipper, shouting like an auctioneer, climbed to the top of the after-house and began firing one of his guns. I climbed after him, for I saw that he was shooting holes in the air and wasting good lead.

" 'Give me one of those guns,' I yelled, and we clinched. He fought me as he might have fought the gorilla, but I was the youngest, and finally got the second pistol away from him. Then, while he raved at me, threatening to shoot my head off, I jumped down, took a careful aim at the beast with my hand steadied on the monkey-rail of the house, and pulled the trigger. It snapped, but that was all; and on investigating I found the pistol empty. I tossed it overboard and took the wheel again, while the lunatic on the house snapped away with an equally empty gun.

"The gorilla was halfway up the fore rigging by this time, and the two Dutchmen had reached the foreyard, while the Sou'egian was going higher. One Dutchman laid out to windward, the other to leeward, and I thought of a plan.

" 'Climb aft on the forebrace, each one of you,' I sang out. 'If he follows, I'll let go the brace when you've reached the mainmast.'

"They heard me, and obeyed. Each came aft, hand over hand and leg over leg, under the brace. The gorilla went to leeward, and followed Wagner, the man on that side. He could beat him and was gaining fast. I ran forward to where the brace led to its pin on the rail, ready to let go on the chance of shaking him overboard; but there was no chance. He caught Wagner halfway along, and though Wagner drew his knife while he hung there under the brace he never used it. The same blow that knocked it out of his hand reached his head, and the poor Dutchman dropped, killed, I think, before he let go. I cast off the brace, however; and then, to give the lower yard a chance to swing, cast off all the lee braces. But it only caused the devil a little trouble; he was jerked forward and aft, holding on to one part or the other, as the brace overhauled, and had almost reached the water before he began to climb. Then he came on, up the standing part to the mainmast-head after Weiss, the other Dutchman.

" 'Come down by a back stay, Weiss,' I yelled, as I saw the poor devil climbing like mad up the topmast rigging. 'Come down and get into the boat.' I had secured two handspikes from the 'midship rack, and when I got aft flung them into the boat.

"But if Weiss heard he was too rattled to understand. Up he went; and the nigger higher up, who might have come down, did the wrong thing, too. He went down the main topgallant-stay to the foretopmast-head, and then aloft after the Sou'egian. The gorilla caught Weiss at the topgallant rigging. He gathered him in, and Weiss gave just one screech before his life went out ; then he was carried, like the two mates, out the topgallant yard, and dropped. It was sickening; and all this time that madman on the house was snapping his empty pistol, shouting for his mates, and abusing me at the wheel.

"I saw that there was nothing to do but get into that boat, pay out to a long painter, and trust that the brute would drown himself in the effort to get us. I yelled this to the nigger and the Sou'egian up forward; but they'd got together with the dago on the foretopgallant-yard, and didn't even answer. Just why the gorilla should have chosen them for his next meat, instead of me and the skipper, I never could understand; for we were making all the noise. But he may have been affected by the sight of the long-boat just under the stern, which reminded him of his late suffering, and avoided it. At any rate, he went down the topgallant-stay after the nigger.

" 'Come down by the topgallant-backstays, and come aft to the boat,' I yelled, ' and here, you,' I said to the skipper, 'you get down below and get up some water and grub. Quick, now, for there's no knowing how long we'll stay in that boat.'

"He looked at me somewhat sadly, and more sanely than I expected. 'Yes,' he said. 'We must abandon ship. It is the will of God.'

" 'Hurry up,' I answered. 'Get some water and grub; and if there's a chance, get a couple of oars out of the quarter-boat. '

"He went below, and I watched the gorilla. I suppose I might have cleared away the quarter-boat cover and got the oars myself; but I was at the wheel, and you know the habit of years. You must stand by your wheel though the heavens fall.

"I had got so used to the killing of men up aloft that I didn't care to watch the next performance. I busied myself with yelling at the skipper, and just as he came up I saw the sprawling figure of the nigger come down on the lee side; but I knew he was done for, and just took a look at the Sou'egian and the dago, sliding down the flying-jib stay with the black monster after them. They went out of sight behind the foretopsail, and I thought only of myself. There was the skipper with his chronometer. The fool had brought only his chronometer, when we needed water and oars. He placed it on the taffrail.

" 'Get some water, you fool,' I yelled in his ear. 'Quick! He'll be aft in a minute.'

" 'Get into the boat and take this chronometer,' he said quietly. 'I am master. I must be last to leave. I must get the ship's papers.'

"Down went the lunatic, and I cleared away the painter and got on the taffrail, ready to jump. Then I saw the huge bulk of the gorilla rise up over the knightheads. No doubt he had finished his last two on the head-gear, and had come in to celebrate. He struck an attitude, whirled his long arms like an orator, and roared his challenge to the rest of humanity— a sort of barking, booming, howling sound, with a background of growls. Then he spied me on the taffrail, and down he flopped off the forecastle deck.

" 'Hurry up, Captain,' I called. 'Hurry, for your life.'

"It was a horrible sight to see that beast coming aft. He came on all fours as fast as a horse could run, but he came nearly erect, swaying from side to side like a drunken man trying to walk straight; and his mouth was open, wider and redder than ever, and his little eyes were almost hidden behind that devilish grin. He had reached the break of the poop before the skipper appeared, tucking some papers into an inside pocket.

" 'Jump,' I sang out, and throwing the painter into the boat (for I wouldn't trust that idiot to bring it with him), I sprang after it. When I picked myself up the skipper was on the taffrail, but the gorilla had got him, and the chronometer fell overboard. It was no fight. The skipper spluttered and then shrieked, as the brute gathered him in, and then it was over. The hairy devil used his teeth for the first time. He sank them into the skipper's neck, and there was a crunching sound. Then he pushed the man from him, and he fell, splashing me with water as he struck.

"The boat had sagged back about twenty feet by now, and the brute gathered himself for the leap. He hesitated for a moment, but I was past hoping that he wouldn't take it. What I had seen must have turned my brain, for I grabbed one of the handspikes, shook my fist at him, and dared him to jump.

" 'Come on here, if you dare, you murdering son of a thief,' I screamed. 'Come on, you killer of niggers and dagos and Dutchmen and idiots. I'm none of that. I'm an Irishman. Come on, damn you.'

"He came, all arms and legs. He almost fetched the gunwale, but missed by an inch. Down he went, and came up blinking and whimpering, as though asking me to help him into the boat. I helped him, I did. I brought that handspike down on his head with all my strength, again and again, as he came toward me; but I couldn't keep him off, and he got a grip. Then I hammered his arms, hoping to break the bones; maybe I did, but I didn't stop him. I hammered again on his head, and just as he floundered into the boat I seemed to have damaged him a little; for the last blow I gave sounded like an egg that you've hit with a knife. But that was all; he had me the next moment, and I was helpless to move. He pulled me in, grinning into my face with that big red mouth, and breathing his stinking breath into my nostrils. Then he sank his teeth into my shoulder, and with the pain my senses left me.

"The next I remember was waking in the bottom of the boat with the big, heavy carcass sprawled all over me and its teeth still gripping my shoulder. But they hadn't gone to the bone. My last whack with the handspike was his death-blow, and he had died in the effort to bite. It took me a long time to get him overboard. I took my time at the job, for the brig was a mile away, steering along on her own hook, and there wasn't a sail or a smoke on the horizon. I never saw or heard of her again, but I've wondered many a time what must have been thought if she was picked up abandoned, with nothing wrong but the foreyards adrift, her own boats on the davits, and no sign of blood or fire or water to drive her crew out. And I've wondered many a time, too, why I did not think to dive down to the second mate's room and get his gun when there was a chance. But I suppose I was half crazy, like the skipper, for I don't remember much of that long-boat. I came to in a hospital at Cadiz, but the ship that picked me up had sailed; so I never knew how long I was out of my head. Wake me up, boys, when I make that noise, for I can't wake myself, and he has his teeth in me."

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7: Viking Loot

H. Bedford-Jones

1887-1949

Blue Book  Feb 1946

One of the "Treasure Seekers" series

THE three of us— I, Bill Carson, and his two pals, Murchison and the Vicomte de Gondy— sat in conference in the sunny land of France, reaching a vital decision.

"I'm fed up with it," snapped, Murchison. "Let's go to England."

"There are difficulties," murmured Gondy thoughtfully: "The law and such things."

"Nonsense!" Murch was skinny, opinionated, and at times a stubborn ass. He and I had been pals from boyhood days, all through the war, and still were. He was a good guy. "We've been barging around Europe, and I'm sick of it. We run into trouble everywhere. Let's go back where people talk the same language."

"If you mean England, they don't," I put in with a chuckle. "I seem to remember, when we were billeted there, what a time you had trying to savvy those non-coms—"

Gondy's eyes, dark and brilliant, twinkled at us, but he said nothing.

"Look," went on Murchison: "This gadget of ours will locate buried treasure; we've proved it to the hilt. What happens? First, Gondy's ex- relative Félice tries to murder us all, and keeps after us. She knows what a big thing we have; she wants it her- self, also the loot we dig up. And we hit nothing but trouble everywhere. I'm fed up with it. "There's more buried treasure in England than in all France put together. Let's go back there."

Gondy nodded brightly. "Oh, that's true enough," he said. "Some enormous finds have been made, I know this minute of half a dozen possibilities, but— what d'ye say, Carson?"

I puffed at my pipe and considered this question. Murchison and I, through the war, had done laboratory work on mine-detectors, finally evolving a radionic detector that would do the job handily. Since then we had taken up one of our by-products, which was useless against mines, but very useful in finding other things. With the Baby, as we called it, we had been knocking around Europe detecting buried treasure of one kind or another, and with plenty of luck, too. We had taken in Gondy to make a third, partly because we liked him, partly because he served as contact man and was useful in a dozen ways. As Murchison said, however, there were a few drawbacks, and chief among these was the beautiful and damned Félice.

"Well," I said at last, "the Continent won't budge, and we can always come back to it if welike. We've half the summer ahead of us; why not spend it in England, which is certainly no winter resort? We could move with the seasons, like the birds, going maybe to Egypt next winter. I'm for it. Anything against it, Gondy?"

He spread out his hands and shrugged, then reverted to the matter of the law, saying that we'd practically be outlaws in Egypt, were our errand known, for the Government came down hard on any treasure hunters.

"America is the only land of freedom," he said wistfully. "In England, the law is adamant; all treasure-trove belongs to the Crown, and the Crown insists unmercifully on its rights. So true is this, that even when there exists well-authenticated information about hidden treasure, the owner of the land usually refuses even to look for it— would do him no good."

Murchison picked up his ears. "Sounds fine," he said hopefully. "I know a guy back home in Boston who put himself through medical school in prohibition days, bootlegging. I bet more than one Britisher noses around and locates stuff and keeps his mouth shut."

Gondy nodded. "I had a friend who found a little and knew where there's a lot more, when I was liaison officer with those British troops," he said. "Alan Cobham, his name was. He has a place in Sussex. However, anyone is free to search; the crime is concealment—"

"Wire him tonight,". said Murch, rubbing his hands. "We can take the ferry from Havre to Southampton overnight— the Baby is a scientific invention, and the British customs won't bother us. Eh, Bill? It'll lend spice to the quest, if we have to do it on the quiet! Grow whiskers on the Baby, and pretend we're looking for oil!"

"Your spice will be hot pepper if we rub up against the wrong side of the British law," I said. "But so far as I'm concerned, wire your Sussex friend and let's go!"

Cobham wrote back a hearty invitation to us all, and that is how we came to be in Sussex.

I HARDLY know whether the men or place held more interest. Alan Cobham was sturdy, massive-faced, steady-eyed, a man of deep currents, of unswerving convictions, of slow and implacable nature; if your friend, he was your friend for life. He was not what the old-fashioned call a gentleman; rather, a rural farmer type. He had served in North Africa and Greece. The war had left him a major, with an ugly scar down one cheek. As Murchison put it, he was one grand guy. His place was called Inchgore; the house was several hundred years old, and serviced daily by a couple of women from the village. He was a bachelor. His place grew hops.

From his house on the hill we could see the glint of the sea; once it had extended up the valley, and where the village now stood had been a deep harbor in Roman days. He indicated the old sea-line to us, and pointed out a rising clump of broken, naked granite at the edge of his hop-field. "That used to be a sunken reef; it destroyed many a ship," he said, puffing at his big pipe. "Things have been found about there. The year the war started we were digging a drain-ditch past the Beacon, as it's known around here. I suppose a beacon for ships stood there in King Alfred's time. We turned up this."

He pointed to what stood above the fireplace.

This house, Inchgore, was one of the wonderful old things that abound in England. It had been a tithe-barn, whatever that is, in Elizabethan days. It had enormous beams, black with the years, but was a bit of a patch- work— the walls largely of Caen stone from France, yellowed with lichens and sea-winds' weathering. The thing above the fireplace was of a piece with the house.

It was large, curved, shapen piece of wood, another piece projecting from one end and held by a bolt. The wood was worm-holed and rot had thinned the wood to nothing.

"An odd thing, that," said Cobham. He was well educated; his speech held none of the local patois which was past comprehension to American ears. "An archaeologist chap was down from London and saw it. Said it was the prow of a ship, probably a Viking ship wrecked on the Beacon, since the bolt you see is of bronze.... Well, that's one thing. Another is that, almost at the identical spot, old Watt Chodsale struck upon something thirty-odd years ago; he picked up the head of a crosier and got thirty shillings for it from a shopman in Barnsdale. From what I gather, the thing must have been solid gold. And there's the makings of my treasure-trove— at least, I call it mine."

We looked at the sheltered hop-fields, known locally as the Marsh— odd, how the memory of long-past centuries survives in these local English names! Alan Cobham talked, slowly and steadily unrolling ancient things to us. It was a touchy business, he said, to talk of treasure-trove these days. A man could go to prison, even after the lapse of years, for find- ing and keeping anything worth while. I got the impression that he had enemies who might well turn him in. It was our first hint that he, even as many another man, might have a past that was like a quagmire under his feet, ready to swallow him up at a false step. He went on about the crosier that had been found.

"It must have belonged to an abbot or bishop. There was a big abbey here in Saxon times, Bosham Abbey; not a stone of it left now. The Danes or Vikings sacked and burned it. Tradition, often more accurate than history, says the Viking ship with its loot ran on the Beacon reef and was lost."

Vikings and loot were gone. The sea had receded during the centuries. An abbot's crosier had been picked up; at the same place had been found the curved prow of a Viking ship— and here we were. Fantastic? Not in England, which has more verified treasure fantasy than any other country on earth. The solid, sensible man sitting there and telling about it, made the thing seem entirely probable.

Cobham had never dug for the ship. Everyone here knew everybody else's business; excavations might be a lengthy business and a ruinous one in the end. He knew the location in general but this did not say the treasure lay there— the ship might have broken in two on the rocks or been carried afar. If someone knew the exact spot, it would be different; and the exact spot might be found by Murchison & Co.

"Here's my notion," our host concluded, "Next Monday will be Bank Holiday; between Saturday and Tuesday, there'll be no work in the fields. This gives you the better part of a week to grub around with your ma- chine. Locate the spot and leave it until Saturday night; dig it up and have the ground smoothed over by Tuesday— and no work by daylight, mind. To account for your presence, I can say you're taking soil samples for the Hop Marketing Board or any such damned thing. Suppose we have a look over the spot here and now."

We tramped off with him, gladly.

HE knew somewhat how we meant to work, but took no interest; he cared only for the result. I believe he regarded us as slightly crazy anyhow; soldiers usually thought us technical experts a bit balmy. In a good-humored, offhand way, he had agreed to an equal division of any spoils among the four of us— a fourth to him.

So we went tramping with him through the fields to the Beacon. As we got there, an elderly workman came plodding along, and saluted him respectfully. Cobham stopped.

"Morning, Humfry. I hear your rascally sheep-growing master has battered down my fences and the lower marsh gate."

"It were the lorry, Maas' Alan," said the man apologetically in broad dialect. "The lorry ta-akin' the tegs up above. What wi' the drythe and heat, there's little grass left down below. The lorry— well, it bumped the gate-posts a bit."

"Aye, and then some," Cobham said angrily. "Tell Greg if the repairs aren't done by the week-end, I'll close the way completely, and he can send his damned tegs to the upper meadows through the air, and himself with them."

The old fellow regarded him with a shake of the head and a rather proud look.

"Maas' Greg won't be loiking that, Maas' Alan—"

"To hell with him and his likes!" snapped Cobham. "Tell him that, too, Humfry."

"An't loikly; queers me, it does, how he do go on, and you too— and her dead and gone these long years! Her wouldn't loike that, and her a-praying—"

Cobham shut him up with an oath,. and he went his way. Our host had shown an ugly side of him; but next minute he was drawling and humorous as ever, and pointed out to us a spot here and a spot there, as we stood under the long pile of rocks that had been an ocean reef in the dim dead past. He marked with a hop-pole the exact place he had dug up the ship's prow, and showed where in a little hollow close by the crosier had been found.

It seemed incredible. Here was plain earth, the sea far away; yet under our feet must be the rust and rot of a Viking ship of a thousand years ago. I found it past belief, but not so Murchison and Gondy. They were two of a kind, given to wild dreams. Just before the war Murch had sunk all his savings in a Cape Cod cat-and-rat fur farm— skin the cat and feed the carcass to the rats, and vice versa; and he was still trying to figure out why he was not rich. But he was a great guy, and in radionics a five-star wizard. It was Murch who first figured out how a bat flies by radar principles, and harnessed them.

E host made it quite plain that, to avoid local gossip and consequent trouble, we must locate the treasure with due precaution, and then dig like blazes when we dug, and cover up fast; years afterward, if it got a whiff of treasure, the Crown would prosecute. So, for Cobham's sake as well as our own, we had to watch our step.

'That evening— it was a Sunday we arrived— Cobham went to the village, to church, being a religious soul; and the three of us went into executive session. The Baby was mounted in a wicker perambulator, hence the name, for greater convenience of operation, but this now promised to have its drawbacks.

"Pushing a pram around those fields will draw attention," said Gondy.

"I'll say!" assented Murchison. "Imagine, Bill, the gossip in a New England village if strange guys turned up and began shoving a baby carriage around Abel Smith's cornfield! Still, that's the easiest way to do our job. Looks like we must work at night."

"That won't be so tough," I said. "We've got good weather. It's all clear and open under those rocks; the spot doesn't lie out in the field, but close to the Beacon."

"With a time limit on the job for best results," added Murchison. "Well, we can work all night if we want, so we'd better go at it tomorrow night after dark, when the two women have gone back to the village and the coast is clear. We'll have to install those new batteries in the Baby and put the thing together. Might do that now."

We set about it, having the place to ourselves. The Baby had been taken apart and packed in the back of our old but sturdy Fiat, and by the time Cobham returned we had it put together and in good working order. Cobham suggested that we keep the gadget in our car, with a cloth thrown over it, since workmen or the two servants might otherwise get to wondering what we were doing with a perambulator.

Next afternoon— early, because of the English closing hours— we three walked to the village, half a mile away, for a look around. We found the pub and settled down, found the local beer to be excellent, and listened to the wholly unintelligible Sussex talk of those around, which amused us.

After a bit in came an odd little old chap who got a mug of half-and-half, looked around, and brought his mug to our table. He had wild gray hair, a bright and kindly eye, and a face like a wizened apple.

"D'you mind if I sit with you?" he said in excellent English. "I'm Alf Meghorn and a bit of an antiquary, and I like to tell strangers about our local antiquities."

We gave our names, shook hands, and made him welcome. I saw the barmaid catch Gondy's eye— they always did— and tap her temple significantly in warning. Our new friend made some brisk talk about Americans.

"You're the chaps staying with Alan Cobham, eh?" he went on. "Interesting, very. I saw you looking over the honeypools with him yesterday."

"Honeypools?" repeated Murchison blankly. "I don't get it."

"That's what the bit of the marsh under the Beacon used to be called," Meghorn explained. "Interesting bit of tradition there. After a heavy rain that bit of ground is still a big honey- pool; but it's been a dry year. I did know some odd things about there, but they've gone out of my head. One of those bloody buzz-bombs, during the trouble, hit my cottage and killed my wife, and I've hardly been the same man since."

"Honeypools?" Murchison stuck to it in his stubborn way. "What may that mean?"

The bright little eyes twinkled at us, merrily enough.

"That's local speech. Mud-puddles, by way of translation. Strangers always like the sound of it. I used to be up at the Beacon a good deal. I still slip up there now and then, on watch, but so far I've had any luck."

"On what kind of watch?" I asked.

"Well, you know tradition, in this country, is usually based on fact" he said very seriously. "For hundreds of years tradition has said that the Beacon is haunted by the ghosts of people drowned there when the sea was up around the rocks, I've kept on the lookout a many nights, but never saw a ghost. Greg Cobham laid his bull-whip to me once," he added, a sudden deadly flash in his eye, "but Alan doesn't mind. If Greg hated to have me prying around of nights, as he put it, that would make Alan give me permission."

In the next twenty minutes we learned a lot of surprising things.

COBHAM had a younger brother, Greg. They had been enemies from youth, when Greg had married Alan's girl. The Cobham inheritance had been split, causing further ill-will; an unusual thing in England, for Alan should have inherited all. The two brothers had staged some elegant battles, we gathered, until the war came along with a bigger one. Greg's wife had died during the war. According to our informant, Greg was a slippery rascal.

Pub closing-time ended our talk. I rather liked this Meghorn chap; there was something quite gentle and kindly about him, cracked or not. At that, many a crackpot has better sense than some of the normals around him. Under his wrecked life, Meghorn had a lot of basically sound stuff. However, we had more important matters on hand than confabbing with a village nitwit, and Alan Cobham's family affairs were none of our business, so we dismissed the whole affair from mind— or at least, I did.

That night after the two servants went home, we got down to work. Cobham, who made no great company of us and regarded our work with an amused tolerance, went off to a political meeting— one of those granges or rural boards that keep English farmers regimented.

An old moon hung in the sky as we trundled the Baby down the path and through the field and to the Beacon. Murchison, who was a little moon- mad anyhow, pointed to the jagged line of rocks,

"There's something you can't see by daylight," he chirped. "The old waterline. See it? Part way down the rocks."

Gondy did. I did not.

"You'll be seeing ghosts next, you and Alf Meghorn," I told him. "No sense in all of us staying here all night. We'd better take two-hour shifts, after we get things going, and those not working can stay at the house."

"Not so easy, Mr. Carson, when we work at night," retorted Murch. "You, for instance, need watching. There's a lot of ground to be covered. The guy walking the Baby can't easily determine his own bounds; someone must keep score from the side lines."

"As usual, your maunderings make sense," I conceded.

We had already calculated that treasure possibilities would be confined within a rough triangle. The base would be some two hundred yards along the Beacon rocks, centered on the spots indicated by Cobham; the search, naturally, would begin there. The point of the triangle, a hundred feet away, would fan out to this base line. Within this space ought to lie whatever remains might exist of any ships wrecked on the Beacon.

I could take no stock whatever in the whole business; it was too full of moonshine. For this special reason, Gondy and Murchison were nuts about it. Anything that required strong imagination appealed to them. Gondy even took the notion that the crevices among that long pile of rocks must hold countless objects that had been washed ashore; to hear him talk, one would have thought it was only last week the sea was washing around here. Murchison took up this utterly insane notion and elaborated on it until I lost my temper and we went into a good row.

From boyhood days in South Boston, Murch and I had been pals. We got rid of a lot of combat instinct on each other. Because we never got on each other's nerves, our rows always ended well, provided no one else chipped in. This was a really good one and we worked off a lot of steam, and Gondy had the sense to keep out. So it was pretty near midnight when we actually got down to work, and along came Cobham, his meeting ended, to see what we were at. He laughed immoderately at our squabble and stuck around to see how we operated, and laughed anew to see me rolling a pram along the ground.

To do him justice, he was amazingly quick to catch on. During the war he had picked up some knowledge of radar and of electronics in general, naturally, Murchison's example of how the bat flies, guided by supersonic waves, made clear how such waves could penetrate the solid earth and bounce back upon striking a still more solid obstacle.

As we worked along, I explained to him how, upon encountering any underground substance, the rays would register on the dials, and how we had from these registrations evolved a chart that would show the nature of the object and its depth. He quite comprehended that the force of the kickback would depend on the solidity of the object struck; in fact, without knowing an actual thing about it, he had the principle down pat.

"I can give you a bit of help there," he volunteered. "I know there's a stratum of solid rock at varying distances underground, deepening as you get away from the Beacon. Any ship sinking through the mud in ancient days would lie on it."

"A ship might take a century sinking that way, or might not sink at all," put in Gondy, with reason.

"True; it's all a gamble," said Cobham.

He was interested enough to stay with us, and suggested that we come here by daylight and outline, by means of stones placed for markers, the patch of ground to be covered at night; a good idea. We got the Baby adjusted to work at a depth of from six to twenty feet, and in the immediate vicinity of where the ship's prow had been found, the buzzer indicated strike after strike, but nothing to get excited about— rock or logs. Cobham confirmed this. Huge witch-elms had once grown along here, he said, so long ago that when the logs were dug up they usually turned to powder after reaching the air.

We stayed at it until three in the morning and then knocked off, all of us, after making careful observations of the ground covered, so we would not go over it twice. As we pushed the Baby home, I pointed out that there must have been a current washing along these rocks, and consequently anything sunk there would have been carried far.

"I never saw such a man for relentless logic," grunted Murchison resignedly.

Cobham laughed. "Well, the best answer to that is the ship's prow at the house, what?"

True enough, or so it seemed at the moment.

We turned in and slept until noon. It was hot, dry weather. In the cool of the afternoon we sauntered off to the Beacon and made a mental layout of what ground we had covered and the amount we would cover tonight, and marked it with stones large enough to see later on. While we were at this, we walked into something— rather, it rode into us.

A MAN on horseback, a big brawny man on a fine horse, came along and pulled up. The man was young, under thirty, and well-dressed in a British way.

"What the devil are you chaps about here?" he demanded. His voice had a rasp to it that lifted my hackles. He was good-looking; I should have answered with the politeness becoming a foreigner. Instead, I did nor. He put his horse at me and motioned with his riding-crop.

"Careful," I said, seeing Murch on the run. "Any arrogant misconception of what an important person you are, and you'll maybe get a broken neck."

I did not use those exact words, but shorter and less polite ones, being angry. The man drew rein and turned his horse, and waited. I saw Cobham coming out of nowhere— he had not been with us. He strode along at the soldier's double. The visitor barked out at him.

"I heard you had foreigners looking over the land, Alan. Came to see why."

Cobham halted. "No affair of yours, nor the land neither."

"So! And what's this message Humfry brought, about closing the thoroughfare?"

"Apparently you got it diluted," said Cobham. "I said either repair the damages your lorry caused by this week-end, or your damned sheep and you together could go to hell by some farther way."

So this was the younger brother!

"The damage will be repaired," said Greg Cobham. "But not because of your threats, my loving brother! Save them for strangers. Because I prefer to have the property in good repair when it reverts to me, that's why. As it will when the gallows gets its due."

Alan squinted up at his brother. "You're in one of your pleasant moods today, Greg."

Greg snarled nastily. "I suppose you set that addlepated Alf Meghorn on me with his blasted prescription?" As he spoke, he balled up a piece of paper in his hand, angrily. "It'd be like your bloody cheek!" He flung the ball at his brother.

"Oh, is that it?" Alan laughed. "Aye, he gave me a copy of it too. Said it'd serve to avert trouble between us if we followed it. Does his nonsense trouble your conscience?"

"You be damned! Nan always said you'd come to a bad end," blared Greg furiously. I saw Alan go dead white. "Pity the war didn't leave you in Africa!"

"We're not alone, Greg," replied our host slowly. "However, these friends of mine are gentlemen— too much so to be introduced to you. I don't care to pull you off your nag and brawl; but if you'll step down, I'll give you a thrashing that'll leave your ugly hulk of a body in the shape it should be!"

The sudden gusty fury breaking through his last words was a revelation. Greg looked down at him, snarled out a grin, and picked up his reins.

"This big lump of cay with an American brogue," he said, indicating me, "hinted at the same thing. He might scalp me. So, not being among friends—"

"Wait just a moment, please," said our host quietly. "Greg, you've just done something. Well, I warn you here and now: Drag her name into it again, and I'll kill you. Do you understand? Kill you like the cur you are."

He was quiet enough, his voice was quiet, but he was shaking, too. "There was death in the air that very minute. The man in the saddle felt it and was afraid, and licked his lips: then, with a lusty growling oath, turned his horse and rode away. Alan Cobham stood unmoving, looking after him.

I picked up the balled paper, which was at my feet, and opened it, Gondy and Murch at my elbow.

Cobham turned to us.

"I'm sorry about this; unpleasant scene, very," he said. "Oh, read the damned thing if you like! That poor chap in the village—got buzz-bombed during the war—lost his wits, thinks he's an evangelist or something."

T was a single amazing paragraph scrawled on the paper; harmless, of course, just the sort of harmless non- sense a village nitwit might hand out to avert trouble. It read:

PRESCRIPTION

An ounce of faith, a shake of hope, much charity, well mixed. Season with as much careful thought for others as may fill the mind. Add to this a quantity of precaution never to speak hastily except when speaking kindly. Over all, sprinkle with a suspicion that each word uttered by the mouth of Man reaches the ear of God.

"Allo!" said Gondy. This was the only English word he could never pronounce. " 'Allo! I like this. I'd like to take a copy, Cobham, if you don't mind! It's not half bad, really."

"Keep it if you like." Cobham shrugged. "I must apologize, my friends. That chap is my brother, I regret to say. We've never got along. He wangled a nice cushy berth during the war— oh, to the devil with it! Let's forget it, eh? See here, I'm having Anna leave a cold snack for you in the kitchen tonight. Might slip my mind later, so I mention it now. If you're bloody asses enough to work like you did last night, a bite to eat around midnight will pull the old heart up enormously! And what about coffee?"

"Well make that ourselves, thanks a lot," I told him, mindful of English coffee. "Come along home; it's time you knocked off, and we might have a rubber of bridge."

None of us forgot that scene, of course, but we eased it for him quite well, and after supper Gondy walked down with him to the village while Murchison and I took the first trick with the Baby.

"I was talking with the cook today," Murch confided to me, as we trundled the Baby toward the Beacon. "Good old soul. She said Master was dead in love with the girl who took the other guy, and the girl loved him, but this Greg worked some shenanigan. And they got word Alan was dead in Africa and it killed her. There's a hell of a lot behind the whole situation, Bill."

"You're getting to understand the English dialect," I said dryly.

He chuckled. "Oh, Cook can talk proper English if she wants! She nearly married a technical sergeant from Brooklyn, during the war, only it turned out he had a couple wives already. You sort of blew off your top today, didn't you? Too bad our host stopped the show."

"Damned good thing for that blighter Greg," I said.

The moon was older and higher. Up and down we walked the Baby. hour after hour. Gondy came back and took his turn. He turned up trees, bedrock, more trees, and never a suspicion of metal. Around midnight we broke off for the waiting snack, then stuck out the rest of the night in starry darkness with the moon sunken and gone. We had no luck whatever.

Wednesday we slept until noon, brunched with Cobham, then spent an hour going over the ground, laying out the night's work and marking it off. We had now covered the likeliest spots, finding nothing. The bed-rock lay at uneven depths, and was a nuisance. If we adjusted the machine to work too low, the buzzer would sound all the time, as the rays struck rock and kicked back; if not low enough, we might miss what we sought. As a detector, our gadget had its disadvantages, and we were continually trying to overcome them, because we intended to put the thing on the market for commercial use, in course of time.

Gondy offered the bright suggestion that we might adjust the waves so that they would ignore rock, be immune to it, as it were. A mere matter of adjusting them to rebound from the molecular construction of metal and nothing else, he said. This was so damned fantastic that Murchison admitted it was possible, theoretically. Being a very practical person I put my foot down hard, and for an hour or so we had as hot an argument as ever was. Then, as he usually did, Murch came up with a truly sound idea.

"If bedrock lies all along here, Bill, it would have been well scoured when the tide swept around these rocks. Let's go find Meghorn, the antiquary chap!"

"Why him?" I grunted.

"He knows all this country. He can sketch for us the old shoreline in ancient days. Then we can figure the possible drift and currents—"

THAT was really something. I was deputed to the job, so off I went to the village. Meghorn's house was partly ruins, partly an old British Army hut moved on the lot after the buzz bombs had hit. Alf was digging in his vegetable garden out back. When he savvied what I was after, he beamed all over to be taken for a real antiquarian. I saw that one side of his face was bruised and swollen, but made no comment.

I got in some beer, he dug up an old Ordnance map of the district, and we settled down in his rather messy place to work. He sketched out where the old shoreline had run, making a very nice job of it, and showed me his antiquities—  Roman coins, bits of carved stone, pottery and so forth. I asked how he had hurt his face, and he reddened.

"By not minding my own business," he said.

"I read that thing you gave Cobham," I told him. "That prescription. It was a good thing in its way, but wasted on those hard-headed chaps. You're something of a poet, eh?"

THIS pleased him no end, and he grew confidential.

"I'm not a busybody, really,' he told me, "but I've tried hard to keep those two from doing murder; that's what I'm afraid of. Greg is an ugly blighter." He touched his hurt cheek. "He gave me a lesson today, right enough. You see, this is the danger period."

"I don't understand."

"Greg married Nan Evarts; she and Alan were in love, but Greg wangled some sort of a slimy scheme and tricked her. A report came that Alan was killed in Africa, and she didn't survive long after that. Tomorrow is the anniversary of her death. Alan put flowers on her grave last year, and it drove Greg into a fury, and they had a row. If Alan does the same thing tomorrow, anything may happen. "I would be no loss if Greg were killed, but I'd be sorry to see Alan Cobham swing for it; he's a fine sort."

"Oh!" I said. "And you've been trying to plant noble sentiments instead of hatred in their hearts, eh?"

"There's not much I can do," he said, and sighed. "I've known 'em since they were little tykes; I can influence Alan, but not Greg. It's a mortal bad situation, Mr. Carson. And I've not been too strong i' the head since that buzzbomb landed here. If you could keep your eye on Alan in the next day or two, it'd be a good deed."

"Cobham rather goes his own way; we don't see much of him," I responded, and got away before he could inveigle me into any promises. I mind my own business, mostly.

BACK in the cool room of Inchgore, we figured over the map until it became obvious that there must have been a scouring tide-rip past the Beacon that had dug out a big section of the higher land this way from the Marsh. We deduced that there must have been a huge eddy at this end of the Beacon, making a quiet backwash where all sorts of things might well have been carried and deposited.

Alan Cobham got into the argument, saying our theory was disproved by his finding that ship-prow where he had. Gondy, who had a flood of words that would drown a phonograph, talked our host into a daze. However, we agreed to finish first with the triangle we had laid out at the start of our search.

just before dark, we went down to look over the ground itself, and it was not hard to pick out the likeliest spot where the supposed backwash might have been. This was an unproductive corner of Cobham's land overgrown with saplings and brambles. Every nook of these Sussex farmlands had its own traditional name; and this bit, according to our host, had formerly been called Hortel's Shaw, now degenerated into Horlshaw, as nearly as we could get it. Probably some wandering minstrel named Hortel had camped there five or six hundred years ago, and ever since it had been Hortel's Shaw or thicket.

This Wednesday night we worked like dogs right up until dawn, going over the remainder of our triangle near the Beacon; we found nothing except an old iron kettle full of holes, indicating that our guess might be right and anything there had been scoured away. So far as I was concerned, that finished it; the whole lay- out was cockeyed and I would be delighted to chuck it. However, I said nothing.

We were through here; we had Thursday and Friday nights left, the week-end holiday ahead, and Hortel's Shaw to examine; this would finish it. We might have worked in that thicket by daylight, it seemed, but Cobham advised against it; too many village eyes at work, said he, and as it proved he was right.

So we slept most of Thursday, seeing little of Cobham. After supper he disappeared, and when the help had gone home we buckled down to the task ahead.

In that cursed thicket we could not hope to cover the ground thoroughly; we could only blunder around in general. We had been using a flashlight to read the chart upon getting any reaction, but on quitting work at dawn I had left it behind a rock at the base of the Beacon, forgetting it there. So while Murchison was walking the Baby in the thicket, I went to the Beacon for the flashlight. The waning moon was thin and high and bright in the west. After locating the light, I paused to get a cigarette going.

"Hi!" came a voice over my head. I responded. There was a clatter, and down from the rocks came Alf Meghorn.

"Thought you were a ghost, but ghosts don't smoke," said he, chuckling. I gave him a cigarette and asked what he was doing here.

"Oh, watching. Bill Bunthorn came home from Whitby late last night, well liquored. He cut across the marsh and swears he saw ghosts moving around. So I came to watch."

Some drunken villager had spied us at work and had taken us for ghosts.

"There's bad things brewing," went on Meghorn, as we chatted. "Greg Cobham has been drinking hard all day, full o' fire and threats. Where's Alan?"

Not knowing, I said so. "He'd better have a care," said Meghorn, wagging his head. "Greg will be in a fine stew tomorrow; allus is, after a drinking bout. Well, I'm going to watch till midnight. Ghosts come of a fine night like this, by all accounts."

He clambered back among the rocks, and I returned to Hortel's Shaw.

Something around an hour later, I remember, Murchison finished his trick and was going back to the house, and paused to give us a lecture on survival. We need not expect, said he, to find any bones or armor. Iron goes to rust underground, copper corrodes to nothing, wood rots like bone. If we struck the treasure, it would be all silver, which may tarnish but remains intact, or all gold, which is not affected—

Just then the buzzer indicated a find at the edge of some bramble bushes. Gondy was at the machine. Thinking he had struck a rock, he ran the Baby along for a foot or so— and the buzzer continued sounding. I came with the flashlight, glanced at the gauges, then took another incredulous look.

"Glory be, boys! Metal at four feet down— and a lot of it! Apparently loose metal, for the dials jiggle, instead of registering a distinct level such as a chest or sheet of iron—"

We were excited; we always were, upon making discoveries. The thrill never palled on us; even when the discovery proved worthless, we got a tremendous kick out of it. Murchison proposed, since the night was still early and the find a shallow one, that we dig for it here and now. No one objected. Gondy and I started home with the Baby, to leave it and get shovels, while Murchison marked the spot and stayed with it.

We found Cobham not yet home, got the pick and shovels, and got back to the shaw in a hurry. The moon was too low in the west to reach through the saplings; the ground was dark, and we dared not use the flash- light too much. But we had to go only four feet down— and we felt it before we saw it. Felt it, heard the click-click— a bed of coins lying loose in the dirt. Once they must have been confined in something, perhaps a leather sack, a huge one. Gondy got two jute sacks from the house and we filled them both and dragged them home, figuring that before morning we would return and fill in the ground.

The dining-room opened off the living-room; we dumped the coins on the big table. There were thousands of them, all gold and silver; and among the coins were brooches and rings and crosses and chains, all of gold. It was the sort of thing you dream about. The silver was blackened, of course; the gold glinted yellow and bright. Gondy picked up a few of the coins and shook his head.

"They look Roman; I can't tell if we— 'Allo!"

COBHAM came walking in. He looked tired and old, and had a badly bruised cheek.

"So here you are!" he exclaimed. "I went walking— had a row on the way; beastly mess all around, I'm afraid. Oh, I say— Good Lord!"

He saw the coins and stood stupefied.

For as much as twenty minutes we all had a hilarious time. He lugged out a cask of beer and broached it, and drank healths and talked big. Alan Cobham became another man, blithe and eager; but once he touched his bruised cheek and his face darkened ominously. We played like boys with the treasure, then started to separate the gold from the silver. While we were at this, the knocker on the big front door began to hammer. We gasped, looked at one another guiltily, and I grabbed a sack and flung it over the table.

Our host walked out into the living-room, and we followed, just in time to see the front door burst inward. Across the threshold flung Greg Cobham, a shotgun over his arm. He looked like a madman. Blood was on his face, and his hair flew wild. He was not drunk nor sober, but in the aftermath of heavy drinking, and at the brink of insanity with sheer blind fury. He stopped short, glaring at Alan.

"I've come for you!" he blurted out.

"Easy on, old fellow," said Alan. "Just because I had to knock you down doesn't call for a gun, Greg. Put it down, and I'll give you another knockdown if you like—"

"You bloody mucker, what business have you putting flowers on her grave?" cried Greg furiously. "I've told you to leave her alone. She was my wife, not yours. I've had enough, and this is the end. I'll do for you now if I swing for it!"

ALAN walked toward him calmly.

"You're out of your head, Greg," he said steadily. "I've had enough of your drunken ways, too, but murder is murder, you know—"

Greg threw up the gun, and the hammer clicked as he cocked it.

"You lie! You threatened to kill me. You'd like to do it, so Cobham Farm could all be yours and me out o' the way. You'll not do it! I'm the one that'll inherit the whole place, damn you!"

"Stop your raving." Alan continued his approach. "There'll be no murder done here. Put up the gun. We settled it with our fists once tonight, and if you want to do it again, I suppose we must."

"Aye, and I went home for the gun, and I'll settle you once and for all, damn you!" raved Greg, his eyes blazing. Murchison and I had begun to circle around him, and he saw us and swung the muzzle toward us. "Look out, you damned Americans! Keep your distance, or you'll get a dose of the same—"

Alan jumped at Greg, striking the gun aside.

One shell exploded with a tremendous roar, but harmlessly, the shot peppering the big rafters. Then the two men were reeling, locked together, fighting for the gun, and doing it with such insensate ferocity that neither Murchison nor I, hoping to disarm the drunken fool, could intervene.

Suddenly I saw an opening, and dived in. Murchison acted at the same instant. Our combined weight sent the two of them crashing into a chair, and we all came down in one mad tangle. But the crash had a terrific echo, as the other barrel of the shotgun exploded. And the charge tore out Greg Cobham's throat. ...

There was a phone in the house, and Alan called the local constable, who came along and brought a Sir John somebody, the local magistrate, and a dozen more people came trooping in. Meantime, Gondy had rammed the coins into the sacks again and stuck them into a corner of the dining- room out of sight— unluckily missing a few that rolled on the floor.

The corpse of Greg still had the gun clenched in his hands, and this saved the day for Alan. An hour or so later the county coroner came along. Our testimony had been taken down in detail. There was a pow-wow, and Sir John came over and clapped Alan on the shoulder, cordially, and told him to cheer up, that the verdict was certain to be either "accidentally shot" or "by his own hand," and Alan would be held blameless.

Then I saw the constable beckon Sir John out into the dining-room and knew the worst must have happened.

Cobham only stifled a groan when I told him.

"What does it matter, Carson? The dug-up ground would be discovered anyhow. We can't hope to hide the find. Hand it over, and devil take it. The main thing is to protect you three chaps; that can be managed."

Sir John came back, presently, looking grave.

"Sorry, Cobham—deuced amazing thing, 'pon my word!" he said. "These coins in yonder: It means a charge of concealing treasure-trove—they'll have to be impounded for the Crown till we can get a Treasury man down from London—"

We explained that we had only located the treasure this same night, and cooked up a plausible yarn about accidentally happening on it and so forth. The magistrate shook his head. There it had been in the dining-room, concealed; and the Crown was damned set on making examples, in order to frighten everyone else into turning in whatever they found.

So the crowd was cleared out, the body removed, and Sir John departed with our find packed into his car. He had examined some of the coins, knew quite a bit about them, and said that all were very old, Roman or Saxon in origin; a most valuable find.

The four of us sat drinking beer, Cobham trying to console us, and we trying to hearten him. The poor fellow was pretty low, and no wonder; however, he was lucky that there would be no murder charge— this had been made plain. While we were talking, came a knock at the door and here was old Alf Meghorn, drawn by the lights and commotion.

Cobham brought him in and set a mug of beer for him. We had to tell about the treasure, of course; I had some loose coins in my pocket and he fingered them. Suddenly his bright little eyes struck up at us.

"Cobham! You need a lawyer. Get Clarke, over at Whitby— he's a K.C.!"

"Lawyer be damned," growled Cobham. "He can't help us."

"But he can!" cried Meghorn excitedly. "These are all very old coins, Saxon or Roman! They were found in Hortel's Shaw, and that was underwater until about the year 1200 or later."

"What's that got to do with it?" I demanded.

"Everything! The Crown can not touch these coins! I've got a book at home that tells about it. In 1897 there was a case of the Crown against the British Museum over the Limavary treasure.* It proved not to be treasure-trove, technically, because the land where it was found had once been under the sea— the treasure had actually not been concealed there but had been lost beneath the sea! The precedent will hold true here— see if it doesn't!"

__________

*Fact.

And be damned if the old chap wasn't dead right, as events proved. We got back our sacks of coin, and there was no case against Alan Cobham, and everything was lovely.

Still, I have often wondered at the curious old fellow sticking around the Beacon watching for ghosts when they were in front of his eyes all the time— the ghosts haunting that story whose details we never learned. The story of a woman who had married the wrong man, the woman on whose grave Alan Cobham had put flowers; and of everything that lay behind the savage hatred between these two brothers.

"And yet we can imagine the romantic details," said Murchison, who was an incurable romanticist. "The details of heartbreak, of sly deviltry on Greg's part of Alan going off to Africa in the army—"

"Spare us," I broke in. "You can't conjure up anything more downright romantic than that of picking up a Viking's loot where the seacoast hasn't run for a thousand years or so! Oh, that you, Gondy? What's up?"

GONDY came breaking in upon us, excitedly waving a letter.

"My friends, here is really a marvel! Think of it— a royal treasure! What is it you say in English— busted? Yes. The busted nobleman and the ugly barmaid, and our chance at the crown jewels, ours for the mere picking up— 'Allo! What?"

"Okay," I sighed resignedly. "I'm a hard-headed guy. Tell us, and I'll pick holes in it fast enough."

But, as it proved, I could not. There were the crown jewels of England, no less, waiting for us— but that is another story.

_________________

8: The Third Ovanoff

Ernest G. Henham

1870-1946

The English Illustrated Magazine April 1899

I FOUND the mansions in Victoria Street, where I came to live on being invalided home from the West Indies, rather too exact a mode! of repose, for, when in good health, I enjoy a certain amount of confusion and bustle. My flat was quite at the top of the building. I chose this crow’s nest because I had an idea that the air would be fresher and less charged with blacks. However, I was mistaken, and now, after a considerable experience, I must reluctantly admit that there is no spot in London, unless it be in the remote suburbs, where the ubiquitous little spots of grime can be evaded.

I had very few friends, no near relations, and, as a consequence, I found my new life dull. In the West Indies every Englishman in the place nodded at a first meeting and asked you to dinner at the second. In London a man avoids his neighbour as though he were the plague. Often I would almost collide with a frock- coated gentleman upon the stairs; sometimes I would be whisked aloft in the lift with a couple of gaily attired ladies. I never spoke to anyone, and nobody ever addressed me. After about a month of this existence I naturally began to suffer from ennui. Everyone had assured me that there was no comfort like flat-life; there was no domestic worry; no bother of rates and taxes; no trouble if you wanted to go away for a month. My friends might also have added that this same kind of life is dominated by a most paralysing dullness. I was more completely alone in London than I had ever been up in the Jamaica hills. The stately mansions were almost prison-like. I would steal out in the morning for unconstitutional and find the stairs dark, the corridors gloomy; there was a strange, heavy silence everywhere, and each landing seemed to possess a peculiar odour of its own. The whole thing oppressed me. But after the first six weeks there came a change.

The flat immediately beneath mine had so far been vacant— at least, that was my surmise, because I never heard the slightest sound underneath. One evening I was lying, in a half sleepy state, by my fireside after dinner— it was early in the winter— trying to make up my mind whether I should attack the uncut novel at my elbow or whether I should venture forth to witness a play, when all my dormant senses were thoroughly aroused by an exceedingly plaintive sound. I sat up and listened. Someone was playing upon a piano— not idly fingering the keys, but playing with all the soul thrown into his effort. The tune was the most piteous and plaintive thing I have ever listened to. I know nothing of music, so I cannot explain what there was in this mournful air that so fascinated me. It was a short piece, and when the unknown pianist had finished it, he— for I felt somehow convinced that a man was the player— commenced it again, and played it over and over, until I was walking up and down my floor, half distracted with the sadness and enchantment of the air. The piano was in the flat beneath mine.

The music stopped presently, and though I strained my ears, though I even bent towards the floor and listened intently, not a single other sound reached me. I could not read; I could not settle myself to anything; I could not drive that  tune out of my memory; repeatedly I found myself humming it, and though I checked myself instantly, the next moment I would be beating time with head or hand, and humming it again.

During the next week I lived a different existence. Every night, occasionally in the afternoon, the weird music came to torment me. I found myself listening for it, waiting for it, and I was never disappointed— though I would rather have been, for I was not in good health, and I began to fear that the music would affect my nerves. For the pianist played nothing else; the monotony was so persistent; the strains were so maddening. So highly strung were my nerves that, when once in the most fascinating bar a wrong note was sounded, I actually cried out, and brought my man, a staid and indifferent creature, to inquire whether anything was wrong. The tune had a complete hold upon me. I walked about the streets with the music running through my brain. I went into music-shops, and made myself ridiculous by humming the first few notes and asking for it, but I could find no one who had ever heard of it.

One morning I met the caretaker in the gloomy passage. A fog had come up suddenly, and he was turning on the electric lights. I bade him “Good morning,” and remarked, “So Number twenty-one is let! ”

He smiled slowly. He was a big, stupid-looking man, but I could see that he was surprised at the remark. “Yes, Sir,” he said heavily, “it’s let. May I ask, Sir, how you came to know?”

“The tenant plays on his piano every night,” I said indifferently, and added, “I say ‘his,’ but don’t know if I’m right.”

“I believe you ’re right, Sir, but I don’t know anything about him, and none of us knows anything.”

“That is unusual,” I said, with a shiver— the passage was cold.

“There's something strange about him, Sir, I think,” said the man, in a burst of confidence. “He came in here about a week ago. He brought hardly any furniture, though that’s none of my business, and nobody sees anything of him day or night.”

“What’s he like?” I asked.

The man looked frightened. “I’ve never seen him, nor has the porter, nor the lift-boy. None of us have seen him. He steps in and out somehow, Sir, I suppose. But there’s never a sound in that flat, except it’s the piano you talk about, Sir.”

I went away wondering. That night the plaintive strains came up as usual. I determined to make a move. I called my man, and sent him down with the following note—

“Mr. Hilton presents his compliments to the tenant of Number 21 , and would be extremely grateful if he would be kind enough to make some modification in his playing, as Mr. Hilton, being somewhat of an invalid, finds the constant repetition of the same air rather trying to his nerves.”

When the man returned, he informed me that there had been no reply to his knock, so he had put the note into the letter-box. There was no more playing that night, and for several evenings I listened in vain. Anyone might have thought that the flat was tenantless.

Several days passed. As usual, one morning I was searching for something to pass the time. Finally, I walked into a well-known building, where an exhibition of modern musical instruments was being held. I strolled about idly, and at length found my way into a gallery, where there were one or two organs and a long row of pianofortes. There was scarcely a soul about. I sank upon a red plush divan, but was up again in an instant. At the end of the gallery someone began to play softly upon one of the pianos, evidently with no idea of testing the instrument. The touch was too earnest for that. But the tune!— the same that had well-nigh distracted me for so many days.

I hurried along the gallery. Close to the side of an organ a man sat with his back towards me, and his head bent forward over the keys, as though he could not afford to lose a sound. When he had finished the wailing melody, I stepped forward.

“Excuse me,” I said, “that is a very fascinating air. May I ask the name?”

The man started round, with an arm held up as though to repel an expected blow. I saw a white face, with black frightened eyes— a good-featured face, wearing a short black beard and moustache, and withal a haunted expression of fear. The next moment he rose and said, with a distinct foreign accent, “Monsieur, the piece has no name. It belongs to me, and is mine only.”

I came a step nearer. “By that confession I know that we are neighbours. I must apologise to you for my note of last week.”

The expression of his face altered. “You are the Mr. Hilton whom I have troubled. Monsieur, I must ask your pardon. This little piece of music is all I have. I should have answered your note, but I was afraid.”

The last words seemed to escape his lips against his will.

“Afraid!” I said. “Why, I’m an ordinary Englishman. Perhaps it was not polite of me to write as I did. My head is not strong, and that air played constantly was— well—”

“ I know,” he said hurriedly. “ Again I ask your pardon, Monsieur.”

“ I have to ask yours. I may assure you that I had no intention of alarming you. Perhaps,” I continued, after a pause, “ you may consider that I am entitled to an explanation.”

He looked me full in the face with his dark straining eyes. “You are a gentleman. I can see it. An English gentleman is as good as his word. Is it not so? ”

“I hope it is,” I replied gravely.

“It is fearful, this silence day after day. It is awful, this company of my own thoughts. I will trust you, and if— no. Monsieur, I will not wrong you. I am suspicious of everyone. You will come and lunch with me ? ”

I gladly accepted the invitation. As we left the building I noticed that my companion glanced round hurriedly on every side before springing into a cab. I began to wonder— and not without cause— whether he could be a fugitive from justice.

In a quiet little room, with a cigar and cup of black coffee, Paul Ovanoff told me his story.

“First, let me tell you the history of that piece of music. It was composed by my wife, my sweet wife” (his voice broke, and I looked down upon the tablecloth). “She was a Jewess, a poor Polish Jewess, and I, a rich Russian gentleman, loved her passionately and married her. She became Christian, and we were married by the rites of the holy Russian Church. Shortly before the birth of our only child, a son, she composed that wonderful piece of music, which took possession of my brain. I know no music; but this tune I learnt, and can play, as you know. It is all I have to remind me of her and my past life.”

“Is your son dead ? ” I asked in tones of sympathy.

“No; he lives, but I cannot have him with me. He has been taught to believe that I am dead.”

I looked at him in amazement.

“You do not know Russia, that land of intrigue and plotting. Its whole system of government is undermined by conspiracies and honeycombed with secret societies. No man is safe there— the greatest least of all. I hail wealth and power. I was in favour at St. Petersburg. But— cursed be the day that led me to it!— I devoted my time and wealth to the extermination of one of the principal societies. I was too successful. I unearthed a plot against the Czar; I broke up one of the most formidable combinations in the empire. The leaders were sent to Siberia, and I— I became a marked man for the dagger of the assassin.”

“It was a dangerous game,” I said.

“It was the sport of a madman. On account of my marriage I had made enemies among my own relations; the integrity of my motives became suspected at Court. I knew that my foes were closing round me, that the death-stroke would fall, but I kept the truth from my wife— my dear wife—until—”

His head went forward over the table, and 1 thought he was choking. I poured out some water, but he waved it aside, and continued with an effort:

“The fiends! You cannot know what these fiends can do when they have sworn revenge. They torture before they kill. I had sent their fathers and brothers to the mines. Nothing was bad enough for me. They killed my wife.”

I could say nothing— pity would have sounded like mockery. Ovanoff concluded his story in a few words. “Monsieur, I need not tell you how I escaped from the country. My watchers grew careless, because they did not wish to kill me too soon. It was part of their plan. They desired me to think of my dead wife. I entrusted my son to the care of a friend, who was to spread the report of my death. Finally, I reached your great and hospitable London.”

“Your enemies think you are dead,” I interposed.

He smiled bitterly. “There can be no deceiving those cunning demons. They must find me, and they will kill me. It is a question of time. Now you understand why I live so secretly, and you understand why I love that tune.”

I rose and grasped his hand. “Play it as often as you like— I entreat you. It will never disturb me now.”

After this I saw Ovanoff frequently, and listened nightly to the fascinating melody, which I could not help thinking would he the means of bringing his foes upon him. Sometimes he came and sat by my fireside: only once I went into his gloomy flat. It was sparsely furnished, but Ovanoff said he had all that he required. No one else entered the place. He attended to his slight household duties, even down to cleaning the windows at night.

Shortly after the New Year I accompanied him to a concert, for the prevailing passion in life— his love for music— still remained. He wore a skilful disguise, which he could assume or abandon at a moment’s notice. Quite at the commencement of proceedings my head began to ache violently, and I was compelled to return home. As I stepped out of the cab I met the caretaker at the door, he whispered to me when I came up, “I’ve seen him, Sir!”

“Who?” I asked in surprise.

“The gentleman in twenty-one. He came in about three minutes ago.” Then he began to describe him.

I was greatly astonished. I had left Ovanoff at the hall, and had driven back quickly. How could he possibly have preceded me? There could be no mistake, for the man had described him with perfect accuracy. “Did he speak to you?” I asked.

“Not a word, Sir. He walked up to his flat, and he’s there now.”

I could make nothing of this, and I was mo ill to think. I went up to Number 21 and knocked. After a slight interval the door opened and Ovanoff appeared. The light in the passage was not very strong, and the hall behind him was in darkness. Still, I could see his well-known face and figure distinctly.

“I have just got home,” he said in low, frightened tones. “I suspected that I was being watched, and left the hall behind you. I did not dare to be seen speaking to you. My cab was quicker than yours. Good-night! I hope you will be better in the morning.”

He closed the door quickly, and I went up to bed.

I tossed about wearily for some hours, until I began to feel slightly drowsy, when I suddenly heard beneath me the well-known plaintive air. This aroused me again. I began to reflect upon my unfortunate friend and his sad history. The air was finished; it commenced again; at the third bar two false notes sounded; there followed utter and complete silence. It was as though the pianist had been struck down by heart disease as he sat there and played.

I sprang out of bed. My body was in a fever, and my head was splitting with pain. Hah! there was nothing to fear. Perhaps I had been dreaming. I was in a thoroughly nervous state and fit to imagine anything. I took some cooling medicine, returned to bed, and before long lost my pain in sleep.

The next morning I sent my man down to inquire after my neighbour. A note came back to the effect that he was quite well and in fairly good spirits. He hoped that I was better. I laughed at my foolish fears. For two days I kept to myself; on the third I went to call upon Ovanoff.

The first thing that struck my attention upon entering the flat was a strong lingering odour, which my host informed me was due to a chemical experiment. The next thing I noticed was a certain change in the Russian. He seemed slightly stouter; his voice was softer and he spoke less fluently; his face had almost entirely lost its expression of haunting fear. I commented upon this latter point, and he told me that he had received good news that morning. He did not say more, and I could not well press him.

After I had left him that night something occurred that entirely destroyed my peace of mind. Three times the Russian played that piteous piece of music, and each time he played the penultimate note of the third bar wrongly. Nobody else have noticed this, but I knew every note of that piece of music as I knew every letter of my name.  The following evening I paid another call at Number 21.

The odour was still present.

“Sit down, Hilton,” said Ovanoff.  “It is good of you to come and cheer up the outcast.”

We began to chat. I made no mention of my discovery of the preceding night. Presently my host offered me a cigar. I refused it, because I declared that my doctor had knocked off my smoking for the present. Later he asked me to take  a glass of spirits. I accepted. He went to the sideboard, poured out the liquor with his back towards me, chatting heartily all the time, and returned to the centre of the room. “ You will add soda for yourself,” he said.

I took the bottle that he offered me, removed the wire, and loosened the cork, “ Would you like to see me hit that might electric-light globe over the door?” I said gaily, pointing the bottle towards the object I had mentioned.

He laughed and half turned. “I will wager an even sovereign that you do not touch it.”

“Watch it closely,” I said. “You shall see me do it.”

He looked at the globe of light. I stretched out my right arm over the table, with the soda-water bottle levelled. I pressed my thumb against the cork, and it flew out with a bang. At the same moment my left hand, passed beneath my right arm, altered the glasses.

“You have lost!” cried the Russian.

“Yes, I have lost. Come! your good health, my friend.”

I splashed the soda into his glass and raised my own.

“To your very long life!” said Ovanoff with a certain grimness. We drank together.

After a short struggle, the Russian lay at my feet, drugged and insensible.

ii

SIX uneventful years passed after my discovery that winter’s night in the Victoria Street Mansions. Briefly I must revert to that terrible time. Though I am a nervous man, I summoned up courage to examine the body of the assassin, and by doing so understood in part the devilish ingenuity of the society which had sent him forth. He was made up to counterfeit Ovanoff to the life. For weeks he must have tracked him, learning all the habits of his secluded life, his friendship with me, practising the tones of his voice, learning even how to imitate his handwriting, and to play the mournful air that had given him such a powerful clue to work upon. Afterwards I searched the flat, but could find nothing that would incriminate the wily villain. In the kitchen the odour was more pronounced, but there was nothing to show me how the body of poor Ovanoff bad been made away with.

I repeat that I am a nervous man; therefore, my first fears were for my own safety. This man had intended to drug me, then— I thought of Ovanoff and shuddered. Clearly it would not be safe for me to remain in the building. I could not summon the police and have the man arrested, because I had no proof; I could bring no charge, and my improbable story would be laughed at. Besides, if I attempted to lift up my hand against this mysterious society, one of the members would probably be told off to silence me for ever. My mind was quickly made up. I abandoned my flat that night, and went to live in an hotel, until I could make other arrangements.

About two years after these events, happening to be in town on business, I walked down Victoria Street, and stopped at the entrance to the Mansions, which looked to me more sad and gloomy than ever. The same caretaker was there, and I found him readily communicative concerning the tenant of Number 21.

“Still there, Sir. He’s changed a lot since you were here. Comes in and out like the rest of them. Remember, Sir, how I thought there was something queer about him?” he laughed gruffly.

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“He’s a Russian gent, Mr. Paul Ovanoff he calls himself. Keeps queer sort of company, Sir. At night there’s a lot of them— Russians, I should say, up there with him. They’re always quiet enough. There’s never a sound in twenty-one.”

So the assassin had taken the name, and slipped into the place of his victim. Those who came to him nightly were his confederates; he had made that flat the headquarters of the society in London. I departed, feeling how impossible it was to hope for vengeance. Ovanoff had been done away with; the crime was unknown; the perpetrator was beyond punishment; no human being knew of the deed except myself, and I had no proof of it.

The six years passed, and I was beginning to forget the sad events in which I had played so unwilling a part. The winter that year was cold, so I resolved to cross the Channel, and spend a month in the French capital. It proved a bad speculation, for the weather there was worse, and I was just reflecting on a the cigar dropped from my fingers and began to burn a hole in the carpet; I leaned for support against a table. The mandoline-player approached my door; the strings of the instrument were quivering, crying, and pleading with the strains of a well-known air; the piteous notes thrilled through the room.

I rushed across the floor and wrenched the door open. The player was passing, but when he heard the sound he turned.

I cried out in fear. I was standing face to face with Paul Ovanoff.

He stooped and picked up the plectrum that had escaped from his fingers.

“Monsieur is surprised,” he said gravely, in French, and then stood looking at me.

“Ovanoff,” I cried, “I thought— I was sure you were dead! You remember me? You remember Hilton?"

He put his hand to his forehead as though in thought. I was quivering with excitement. “You are Paul Ovanoff?” I said.

“Yes, Monsieur, that is my name. And you are M. Hilton. I know you!”

I took him by the arm and literally impelled him into my room. “There is fire here, Monsieur,” he said calmly. I picked up my cigar, and poured some water over the black hole in the carpet.

“You are M. Hilton,” he went on gravely. “I am glad to see you. I was on my way to London to find you.”

“Where have you been all this time? Why didn't you write to me? Why did you disappear and leave all this mystery behind?” I asked excitedly. “And you didn’t recognise me.  Have I altered so much? My hair is getting white. Is that it? Eh?”

He looked puzzled, but made no direct reply. Suddenly he leaned forward and placed his hand upon my knee. “Listen, M. Hilton. In your great London, tell me, is there a street such as this— at one end there are old churches, and a tall tower with a clock that is often lighted at night? There is also a bridge, and before it an open space, railed off, where are many statues of your great men. At the other end I can see a railway-station. It is a solemn street at night. Many of the buildings are divided up into offices that represent the Governments of your colonies; most of the houses are private hotels— you call them mansions."

“You are describing Victoria Street,” I cried, interrupting him. “You know that well enough, Ovanoff.”

He went on, as though I hail not spoken. “About the middle of the street there is a large block. It is gloomy outside and dark within. A lift goes up and down. I can see silent passages, with dark doors on either side. There is one door— I am looking now upon the number. It is twenty-one.”

“Where you used to live.”

“No, Monsieur.” The mandoline fell and rolled over upon the floor. “I have never been in your great city of London all my life. I am telling you what I see with my mind.”

I felt that my friend had lost his senses. “You are Paul Ovanoff. You lived there. You know you did, and I lived in the flat above.”

“I am Paul Ovanoff, but I have never lived there.” His face underwent a great change. “M. Hilton! You say that I— I lived there? You knew me? You remember my face? When you saw me you recognised me?”

“Most certainly,” I replied, almost angrily. “ Do you think I’m a fool, Ovanoff? I knew you at once—”

“Mon Dieu!” he cried, raising both hands above his head, his face white and drawn. “It was my father— my father— my poor father. Liprovski lied to me. My father was alive all those years. I suspected it. Tell me— tell me, good M. Hilton, where is my father now?”

So soon as I could control my tongue, I told him all I knew. He listened calmly, and when I had finished, said, “Thank you, M. Hilton. You are my good friend. You have not surprised me. It is all as I expected. I go now to pay my first visit to London.”

“How did you know of my existence?” I asked.

“Liprovski, my guardian, told me of you. He is dead now, but in a paper left to me I found the address of your lawyer. It also said that you would give me advice if I came to London.”

I remembered then that the first Ovanoff had on one occasion asked if I would befriend his son should necessity arise. I had consented gladly, and given him the address of my solicitors. I looked in utter wonderment at the son. I could not discern the slightest point in which he differed externally from his father. The same face exactly; the small black beard and the dark eyes; the same haunted expression; the voice was the same; I felt sure that if the father and son could stand together before me, I should not have been able to tell the one from the other. Sometimes an absurd idea came into my head that the man before me really was Ovanoff père, and that Ovanoff fils had no existence except in name.

Seeing that the young man was bent upon going to London, I changed my plans, and went with him. On the journey I asked him his object, but he would tell me nothing until we found ourselves running up on the boat express to Charing Cross. We were alone together in the compartment. Again I pressed him for his reason, and this time he answered me.

“M. Hilton, I am going to avenge my father’s death.”

“You shall not make the attempt— you must not,” I said. “You will be killed yourself.”

The young man’s eyes flashed. “My father has been murdered. No man has proof of this, and therefore justice cannot be done— except by me.”

I said no more, but consoled myself with the thought that he could only obtain the address from me. I determined not to give him the knowledge, which I felt sure would lead him to his death.

The train clattered over the bridge and under the arch of Charing Cross. Ovanoff was excited. I could see that he was trembling, like a greyhound held back on the leash. He stepped on the platform and looked about him with an air of familiarity with the place. Our luggage was lifted on a hansom.

“Where shall we put up?” I said—with a reason.

Ovanoff looked straight ahead. “I do not know the name of the hotel. When we get out of the station we drive to the left— it is only one hundred yards about. The hotel looks over a large square”— he closed his eyes for a moment. “There are fountains playing, and there is a high column with great lions at its base. We will go there.”

“The Grand,” I said, with a gasp. I gave the order.

“Ovanoff,” I said quietly, “when were you in London before ? ”

“I have told you. This is my first visit.” “Your father told me,” I went on impressively, “that the Grand was the hotel where he went to stay on his arrival in England.” He gave no reply.

When we arrived at the hotel Ovanoff went upstairs and slept for some time. After dinner he drew me aside. “I am going out. Will you come with me?”

“We will go to a theatre,” I suggested. He frowned and clenched his hands tightly. “No, no. You will not understand, M. Hilton. I go out to-night to do justice.”

“Ovanoff,” I said firmly, “listen to me. You are no match for the villain who we think has done away with your father. I shall not tell you where he may be found. It is for your own good, but I will not tell you.”

“Nevertheless you will come with me,” he said, and I consented.

When we stepped into Northumberland Avenue a light rain was falling, and the pavement was slippery. Purposely I avoided taking any initiative. Ovanoff did not hesitate for a second. He started off along the avenue, towards the river, and at such a pace that I had difficulty in keeping up with him. “Let us have a cab,” I said once, when I was nearly down on the greasy stones, but he did not reply. I had the idea that he never heard me speak.

At the end of the avenue he turned off to the right, along the Embankment, and hurried on— on, while I half ran behind him, with a new sensation of fear rising at every step. We came towards Westminster. Parliament were sitting. I could see the yellow glow of the clock-tower through the mist. Ovanoff was some yards in front. He never paused, never wavered for an instant. Off to the right again, and across the road. I had a pain in my side, but I would not lose sight of my leader and guide—the man who had never seen London before. Past the grim, silent Abbey, and along Sanctuary; then he began to slacken speed. We were in Victoria Street.

I hurried on, half running, half shuffling, for my feet were as heavy as lead. I felt weak and frightened. I knew that Ovanoff would stop at a certain point— at the Mansions in the middle of the street. He did so, and waited for me to come up, but he did not speak when I joined him.

The caretaker swung open the door, and recognised, as he thought, the tenant of Number 21.

“Good evening, Sir. Bad night.” Then he saw me. I could see that he had difficulty in restraining a smile. Doubtless I was a disreputable object: my garments were splashed with mud, I was panting and distressed, my collar had become unfastened As best I could I followed my friend upstairs.

“What are you going to do?” I panted.

“The man is not in. I was prepared to meet him here, but now I have another plan. I must ask for the key. Tell me the words in English.”

Our conversation had all along been in French. I taught him to say, “I have lost the key of my flat. Will you please lend me your duplicate?” He went downstairs, and presently reappeared with the key. “Let me go in alone. He may be hiding.”

The false Paul Ovanoff was not in. I entered the flat, not without great mental discomfort, for I recalled my last visit, and the door was closed. Ovanoff told me to stand behind a curtain, where I could see without being seen. He produced a knife from his cloak, and passed a finger across its edge, while his eyes grew wild and cruel.

“Suppose that a number of them come?” I said.

“I am here to kill one man, and I shall kill him,” was the somewhat selfish answer.

“The man at the door!” exclaimed Ovanoff suddenly.

I had never thought of that. Of course, the assassin must receive some sort of warning from the caretaker. After a hurried discussion we went downstairs. Ovanoff went out, while I asked the man to oblige me by going to a chemist for a certain article that I said I needed. He went at once, and it was well that he did so, for Ovanoff was quickly back. In spite of the information that he had to impart he was perfectly cool. “I have seen him, Mon Dieu! I have seen myself. He is standing at the corner, talking to another man. He will be here at once. Come quickly.”

We slipped upstairs. We had not been in our places more than five minutes when there came the rattling of a key in the lock. The door opened— closed, and the second Paul Ovanoff walked into the room. He turned on the light, threw off his cloak, stirred the fire, and seated himself. I could scarcely breathe. I feared he would hear the furious thumpings of my heart. Though the room was barely warm, perspiration was trickling down my face.

The Russian was uneasy. He began to pace up and down, and presently he settled at the piano. He smiled sardonically, and spread his fingers over the keys. “The mad tune,” I heard him mutter in French. “It went into my brain that night. It fascinates me still.” The next moment the strains of that weird air began to sound through the room. Suddenly he broke off with two false notes and smiled again.

He repeated the air, but when he came to the end of the third bar his face turned livid; his eyes started. I almost shrieked aloud at the sight. His hands fell shuddering upon the keys. I looked across the piano.

The assassin might have been looking at himself in a mirror. A head appeared over the back of the piano; the face was set towards him; the eyes glared at him. It continued to rise: the shoulders appeared. and then part of the body. The false Paul Ovanoff looked upon the real! He gave a fearful cry and fell back stiffly, with limbs twitching, upon the floor.

He was dead. There was no need for the knife; justice had done her work.

“My friend,” said Ovanoff earnestly, “I have avenged my father. You will leave me here. I have this to get rid of. When that is done, the third Ovanoff leaves this building for ever.”

Weak and ill, I grasped his hand feebly, and stumbled to the door. In the passage I came upon the caretaker, who was looking for me. “This is what you want, Sir,” he said, handing me a packet.

I thanked him, and he went on, as I worked my way towards the lift: “So you know the Russian gentleman, Sir?”

“ Yes,” I said with an effort. “I have known him all along.”

__________________

9: A Presentiment

Marcel Prévost

1862-1941

Translated by Harry Thurston Peck, 1856-1914

The Scrap Book Dec 1909

IT IS only a short story and extremely slight— so slight, affections of the modern brain that are, in reality, seeds of madness transmitted from fact, and so simple, that I down on paper, I may destroy its delicate grace and evanescent flavor. Why, then, I often ask myself, when it was told to us one evening amid the elegant luxury of a modern dinner-table, by the charming woman who is its heroine, did it make upon us so lasting an impression as to become, in our corner of the Parisian world, one of those classic narratives such section of society possesses, and to which any allusion is ways intelligible and always welcome?

I suppose it must be because it formed a little rift in the mass of scandal and insipid political and literary tattle that we are always listening to. Perhaps, also, just as an attitude or a gesture is sometimes sufficient to reveal the form that is hidden beneath a robe, so these few unaffected words, spoken by a good and beautiful woman, sufficed on this occasion to reveal to us the simplicity and purity of her soul.

We had been talking about those curious impulses which science has now begun to name and classify, and from which so few moderns are entirely exempt— impulses that urge one irresistibly to count the figures in a bit of wall-paper, or the books in a book-case, or anything else in sight that can be counted; that impel others, when walking along the street, to reach a certain gas-jet before an approaching cab shall have caught up to them, or before some neighboring clock shall have finished striking; or that constrain one, every night before going to bed, to make some new and odd arrangement of the articles in the room, or to visit certain pictures or cabinets— in fact, we were speaking of all the infinitesimal affections of the modern brain that are, in reality, seeds of madness transmitted from generation to generation, until, at last, they afraid lest, in setting it are dispersed and scattered over the entire human race.

On this occasion, then, we had all been confessing our nervous weaknesses and mental absurdities, being rather comforted by each other’s admissions, and each of us rejoicing to find the rest of the company as bad as himself or even worse. One young lady present, however, had said nothing, but had listened t o us with a look of surprise on her beautiful face that was framed in masses of soft dark hair. At last we said to her:

“Come, madame, can it be that you are free from all these little touches of mania? Have you not also some slight peculiarity of the kind to confess? ”

She appeared with perfect sincerity to question her memory for a moment, and then replied, with a shake of the head: “No, not the slightest.”

We felt that she was speaking the truth; and all that we saw and knew of her confirmed us in this belief— her placid look, her reputation as a thoroughly happy wife; everything, in fact, that separated her from the fashionable puppets who had just been confessing their strange, neurotic obsessions.

Doubtless her very modesty made her unwilling to claim for herself a more complete indemnity than was enjoyed by the rest of the company with their frank admissions, for suddenly she interrupted us.

“Oh, really— yes, it’s perfectly true that I can’t tell you about adding up the numbers on cabs or making an inventory of my wardrobe before I go to sleep; but still, now that I think of it, the other day I did have an experience that has a sort of resemblance to those that you have been telling about, if, at least, I have quite understood you— that is, a kind of internal compulsion which compelled me instantly to perform an act of no real importance, as though it were a matter of life and death.”

We begged her to tell the story, which she immediately did with a very good grace, but with an apologetic air, as if asking pardon for taking up our time over so trifling an affair.

“Well, then, in a few words, this is what happened: About live or six days ago, I had gone out with my little daughter Susette. You know her, I think; she is just eight years old. I was taking her on her morning walk, for this important young person already has to have her daily promenade. As the weather was fine, we decided to stroll along the Champs Elysées and the boulevards, starting from our house in the Rue Lafitte. We were walking along, chatting together gaily, when, on one of the corners, a poor young cripple hobbled up to us, holding out his hand without saying a word. I had my parasol in my right hand, and with my left, I was holding my skirt. I must confess that I hadn’t the patience to stop and hunt for my pocketbook; so I passed along without giving the beggar a single sou.

“Susette and I kept on through the Champs Elysées as before. The little thing had all of a sudden ceased to chatter; and I myself, without exactly knowing why, no longer felt any desire to speak a word. We reached the Place de la Concorde without having exchanged a syllable after our meeting with the unfortunate beggar; and little by little I began to feel, springing up within me and increasing more and more, a sort of discomfort— a feeling of intense disquietude, a consciousness of having committed some irreparable act, and of being threatened for that very reason with a vague and indefinable danger.

“Now, ordinarily, I can force myself to a sort of mental examination; and so, as I walked along, I searched my conscience diligently. ‘Dear me,’ said I to myself, ‘I haven't committed a very serious sin against charity in not giving anything to this beggar. I’ve never pretended to give to everybody I happen to meet. I’ll simply be more generous to the next one, and that’s all there is to it.’ Yet, all my reasoning failed to convince me, and my internal disquietude kept increasing until it became a sort of anguish, so much so, that a dozen times I longed to turn about and go back to the place where we had met the man. Would you believe it? It was a reprehensible feeling of pride that made me unwilling to do it in my daughter’s presence.

" We were almost at the end of our promenade, and were just about to turn the corner of the Rue Lafitte, when Susette pulled gently at my dress and stopped me.

“ ‘Mama,’ she said.

“ ‘What is it, dearest?’ I answered.

“She fixed her great blue eyes on me and

“ ‘Mama, why didn’t you give something to that poor beggar in the Champs Elysées?’

“Like myself, she had thought of nothing else ever since we had met him. Like mine, her heart was profoundly depressed; only, being better than her mother and more sincere, she was willing to confess her unhappiness with perfect frankness. I did not hesitate a moment.

“ ‘You are right, my dear,’ said I.

“We had walked faster than usual under the constraint of this one haunting thought. Only twenty minutes remained before her lessons were to begin. I called a cab, we entered it, and the driver set off toward the Champs Elysees, stimulated by the promise of a generous pourboire.

“Susette and I held each other by the hand, and you may imagine how anxious we were! Suppose the beggar had gone away! What if we shouldn’t be able to find him? Having reached the corner we hurried from the cab and looked up and down the avenue. The beggar was not in sight.

I questioned one of the women who let chairs. She remembered seeing him. ‘He is not,’ she said, ‘one of the regular mendicants who beg upon the corner, and I am sure I don’t remember in which direction he went.’ Time was flying, and we were going to leave with a feeling of great unhappiness, when all of a sudden Susette perceived the man behind a tree, sleeping in its shade with his hat between his knees.

“She ran to him on tiptoe, slipped a bit of gold into his empty hat, and then we hastened back to the Rue Lafitte. I am well aware that it was perfectly absurd, but we gave each other a good hug as soon as we entered the house, exactly as though we had escaped from some great danger.”

She finished her story, blushing hotly at having spoken for so long a time about herself; but the rest of us, who had listened with a sort of reverence, felt as though we had been breathing for an instant a whiff of pure air, or drinking a draft of clear, cool water from an untainted spring.

_______________

10: A Dish Of Macaroni

Richard Dehan

(Clotilde Graves, 1863-1932)

Off Sandy Hook and other stories  1915

ON THE occasion of the tenth biennial visit of the Carlo Da Capo Grand Opera Combination to the musical, if murky, city of Smutchester, the principal members of the company pitched their tents, as was their wont, at the Crown Diamonds Hotel, occupying an entire floor of that capacious caravanserie, whose chef, to the grief of many honest British stomachs and the unrestrained joy of these artless children of song, was of cosmopolitan gifts, being an Italian-Spanish-Swiss-German. Here prime donne, tenors, and bassos could revel in national dishes from which their palates had long been divorced, and steaming masses of yellow polenta, knüdels, and borsch, heaped dishes of sausages and red cabbage, ragouts of cockscombs and chicken-livers, veal stewed with tomatoes, frittura of artichokes, with other culinary delicacies strange of aspect and garlicky as to smell, loaded the common board at each meal, only to vanish like the summer snow, so seldom seen but so constantly referred to by the poetical fictionist, amidst a Babel of conversation which might only find its parallel in the parrot-house at the Zoo. Ringed hands plunged into salad-bowls; the smoke of cigarettes went up in the intervals between the courses; the meerschaum-colored lager of Munich, the yellow beer of Bass, the purple Chianti, or the vintage of Epernay brimmed the glasses; and the coffee that crowned the banquet was black and thick and bitter as the soul of a singer who has witnessed the triumph of a rival.

For singers can be jealous: and the advice of Dr. Watts is more at discount behind the operatic scenes, perhaps, than elsewhere. For women may be, and are, jealous of other women; and men may be, and are, jealous of men, off the stage; but it is reserved for the hero and heroine of the stage to be jealous of one another. The glare of the footlights, held by so many virtuous persons to be inimical to the rosebud of innocence, has a curiously wilting and shriveling effect upon the fine flower of chivalry. Signor Alberto Fumaroli, primo uomo, and possessor of a glorious tenor, was possessed by the idea that the chief soprano, De Melzi, the enchanting Teresa— still in the splendor of her youth, with ebony tresses, eyes of jet, skin of ivory, an almost imperceptible mustache, and a figure of the most seductive, doomed ere long to expand into a pronounced embonpoint— had adorned her classic temples with laurels which should by rights have decked his own. The press-cuttings of the previous weeks certainly balanced in her favor. Feeble-minded musical critics, of what the indignant tenor termed "provincial rags," lauded the Signora to the skies. She was termed a "springing fountain of crystal song," a "human bulbul in the rose-garden of melody." Eulogy had exhausted itself upon her; while he, Alberto Fumaroli, the admired of empresses, master of the emotions of myriads of American millionairesses, he was fobbed off with half a dozen patronizing lines. Glancing over the paper in the saloon carriage, he had seen the impertinent upper lip of the De Melzi, tipped with the faintest line of shadow, curl with delight as she scanned each accursed column in turn, and handed the paper to her aunt (a vast person invariably clad in the tightest and shiniest of black satins, and crowned with a towering hat of violet velvet adorned with once snowy plumes and crushed crimson roses), who went everywhere with her niece, and mounted guard over the exchequer. Outwardly calm as Vesuvius, and cool as a Neapolitan ice on a hot day, the outraged Alberto endured the triumph of the women, marked the subterranean chuckles of the stout Signora, the mischievous enjoyment of Teresa; pulled his Austrian-Tyrolese hat over his Corsican brows, and vowed a wily vendetta. His opportunity for wreaking retribution would come at Smutchester, he knew. Wagner was to be given at the Opera House, and as great as the previous triumph of Teresa de Melzi in the rôle of Elsa— newly added by the soprano to her repertoire— should be her fall. Evviva! Down with that fatally fascinating face, smiling so provokingly under its laurels! She should taste the consequences of having insulted a Neapolitan. And the tenor smiled so diabolically that Zamboni, the basso, sarcastically inquired whether Fumaroli was rehearsing Mephistofole?

"Not so, dear friend," Fumaroli responded, with a dazzling show of ivories. "In that part I should make a bel fiasco; I have no desire to emulate a basso or a bull.... But in this— the rôle in which I am studying to perfect myself— I predict that I shall achieve a dazzling success." He drew out a green Russia-leather cigarette case, adorned with a monogram in diamonds. "It is permitted that one smokes?" he added, and immediately lighted up.

"It is permitted, if I am to have one also."

The De Melzi stretched a white, bejeweled hand out, and the seething Alberto, under pain of appearing openly impolite, was forced to comply. "No, I will not take the cigarette you point out," said the saucy prima donna, as the tenor extended the open case. "It might disagree with me, who knows? and I have predicted that in the part of Elsa to-morrow night at Smutchester I shall achieve a 'dazzling success.' " And she smiled with brilliant malice upon Alberto Fumaroli, who played Lohengrin. "They are discriminating—the audiences of that big, black, melancholy place— they never mistake geese for swans."

"Ach, no!" said the Impresario, looking up from his tatting— he was engaged upon a green silk purse for Madame Da Capo, a wrinkled little doll of an old lady with whom he was romantically in love. "They will not take a dournure, some declamation, and half a dozen notes in the upper register bour dout botage. Sing to them well, they will be ready to give you their heads. But sing to them badly, and they will be ready to pelt yours. Twenty years ago they did. I remember a graceless impostor, a ragazzo (foisted upon me for a season by a villain of an agent), who annoyed them in Almaviva.... Ebbene! the elections were in progress— there was a dimonstranza. I can smell those antique eggs, those decomposed oranges, now."

"Heart's dearest, thou must not excite thyself," interrupted Madame; "it is so bad for thee. Play at the poker-game, mes enfants," she continued, "and leave my good child, my beloved little one, alone!" Saying this, Madame drew from her vast under-pocket a neat case containing an ivory comb, and, removing the fearfully and wonderfully braided traveling cap of the Impresario, fell to combing his few remaining hairs until, soothed by the process, Carlo, who had been christened Karl, fell asleep with his head on Madame's shoulder; snoring peacefully, despite the screams, shrieks, howls, and maledictions which were the invariable accompaniment of the poker-game.

The train bundled into Smutchester some hours later; a string of cabs conveyed the Impresario, his wife, and the principal members of his company to the Crown Diamonds Hotel. Before he sought his couch that night the revengeful Alberto Fumaroli had interviewed the chef and bribed him with the gift of a box of regalias from the cedar smoking-cabinet of a King, to aid in the carrying-out of the vendetta. Josebattista Funkmuller was not a regal judge of cigars; but these were black, rank, and oily enough to have made an Emperor most imperially sick. Besides, the De Melzi had, or so he declared, once ascribed an indigestion which had ruined, or so she swore, one of her grandest scenas, to an omelette of his making, and the cook was not unwilling that the haughty spirit of the cantatrice should be crushed. His complex nature, his cosmopolitan origin, showed in the plan Josebattista Funkmuller now evolved and placed before the revengeful tenor, who clasped him to his bosom in an ecstasy of delight, planting at the same time a huge, resounding kiss upon both his cheeks.

"It is perfection!" Fumaroli cried. "My friend, it can scarcely fail! If it should, per Bacco! the Fiend himself is upon that insolent creature's side! But I never heard yet of his helping a woman to resist temptation— oh, mai! it is he who spreads the board and invites Eve."

And the tenor retired exultant. His sleeping-chamber was next door to that of the hated cantatrice. He dressed upon the succeeding morning to the accompaniment of roulades trilled by the owner of the lovely throat to which Fumaroli would so willingly have given the fatal squeeze. And as Fumaroli, completing his frugal morning ablutions by wiping his beautiful eyes and classic temples very gingerly with a damp towel, paused to listen, a smile of peculiar malignancy was only partly obscured by the folds of the towel. But when the tenor and the soprano encountered at the twelve o'clock déjeuner, Fumaroli's politeness was excessive, and his large, dark, brilliant eyes responded to every glance of the gleaming black orbs of De Melzi with a languorous, melting significance which almost caused her heart to palpitate beneath her Parisian corsets. Concealed passion lay, it might be, behind an affectation of enmity and ill-will.

"Mai santo cielo!" exclaimed the stout aunt, to whom the cantatrice subsequently revealed her suspicions, "thou guessest always as I myself have thought. The unhappy man is devoured by a grand passion for my Teresa. He grinds his teeth, he calls upon the saints, he grows more bilious every day, and thou more beautiful. One day he will declare himself—"

"And I shall lose an entertaining enemy, to find a stupid lover," gurgled Teresa. She was looking divine, her dark beauty glowing like a gem in the setting of an Eastern silk of shot turquoise and purple, fifty yards of which an enamored noble of the Ukraine had thrown upon the stage of the Opera House, St. Petersburg, wound round the stem of a costly bouquet. She glanced in the mirror as she kissed the black nose of her Japanese pug. "Every man becomes stupid after a while," she went on. "Even Josebattista is in love with me. He sends me a little note written on papier jambon to entreat an interview."

"My soul!" cried the stout aunt, "thou wilt not deny him?"

The saucy singer shook her head as Funkmuller tapped at the door. One need not give in detail the interview that eventuated. It is enough that the intended treachery of Fumaroli was laid bare. His intended victim laughed madly.

"But it is a cerotto— what the English call a nincompoop," she gasped, pressing a laced handkerchief to her streaming eyes. "If the heavens were to fall, then one could catch larks; but the proverb says nothing about nightingales."

She tossed her brilliant head and took a turn or two upon the hotel sitting-room carpet, considering.

"I will keep this appointment," said she.

"Dio! And risk thy precious reputation?" shrieked the aunt.

"Chi sa? Chi sa?

Evviva l'opportunita!"

hummed the provoking beauty. And she dealt the cook a sparkling glance of such intelligence that he felt Signor Alberto would never triumph. Relieved in mind, Josebattista Funkmuller took his leave.

"I will return the King's cigars," he said, as he pressed his garlic-scented mustache to the pearly knuckles of the lady.

"Bah!" said she, "they were won in a raffle at Vienna."

The door closed upon the disgusted chef, and reopened ten minutes later to admit a waiter carrying upon a salver a pretty three-cornered pink note with a gold monogram in the corner. The writer entreated the inestimable privilege of three minutes' conversation with Madame de Melzi in a private apartment in the basement of the hotel. He did not propose to visit the prima donna in her own rooms, even under the wing of her aunt, for it was of supreme importance that tongues should not be set wagging. Delicacy and respect prevented him from suggesting an interview in the apartments occupied by himself. On the neutral ground of an office in the basement the interview might take place without comment or interruption. He was, in fact, waiting there for an answer.

The answer came in the person of the singer herself, charmingly dressed and radiant with loveliness.

"Fie! What an underground hole! The window barred, the blank wall of an area beyond it!" Her beautiful nostrils quivered. "Caro mio, you have in that covered dish upon the table there something that smells good. What is under the cover?"

"Look and see!" said the cunning tenor, with a provoking smile.

"I am not curious," responded Teresa, putting both hands behind her and leaning her back against the door. "Come, hurry up! One of your three minutes has gone by, the other two will follow, and I shall be obliged to take myself off without having heard this mysterious revelation. What is it?" She showed a double row of pearl-hued teeth in a mischievous smile. "Shall I guess? You have, by chance, fallen in love with me, and wish to tell me so? How dull and unoriginal! A vivacious, interesting enemy is to be preferred a million times before a stupid friend or a commonplace adorer."

"Grazie a Dio!" said the tenor, "I am not in love with you." But at that moment he was actually upon the verge; and the dull, dampish little basement room, floored with kamptulicon warmed by a grudging little gas-stove, its walls adorned with a few obsolete and hideous prints, its oilcloth-covered table, on which stood the mysterious dish, closely covered, bubbling over a spirit lamp and flanked by a spoon, fork, and plate— that little room might have been the scene of a declaration instead of a punishment had it not been for the De Melzi's amazing nonchalance. It would have been pleasant to have seen the spiteful little arrow pierce that lovely bosom. But instead of frowning or biting her lips, Teresa laughed with the frankest grace in the world.

"Dear Signor Alberto, Heaven has spared you much. Besides, you are of those who esteem quantity above quality— and, for a certain thing, I should be torn to pieces by the ladies of the Chorus." She shrugged her shoulders. "Well, what is this mysterious communication? The three minutes are up, the fumes of a gas fire are bad for the throat— and I presume you of all people would not wish me to sing 'Elsa' with a veiled voice, and disappoint the dear people of Smutchester, and Messieurs the critics, who say such kind things."

Alberto Fumaroli's brain spun round. Quick as thought his supple hand went out; the wrist of the coquettish prima donna was imprisoned as in a vise of steel.

"Ragazza!" he gnashed out, "you shall pay for your cursed insolence." He swung the cantatrice from the door, and Teresa, noting the convulsed workings of his Corsican features, and devoured by the almost scorching glare of his fierce eyes, felt a thrill of alarm.

"Oimè! Signor," she faltered, "what do you mean by this violence? Recollect that we are not now upon the stage."

A harsh laugh came from the bull throat of the tenor.

"By mystic Love

Brought from the distance

In thy hour of need.

Behold me, O Elsa!

Loveliest, purest—

Thine own

Unknown!"

he hummed. But his Elsa did not entreat to flow about his feet like the river, or kiss them like the flowers blooming amidst the grasses he trod. Struggling in vain for release from the rude, unchivalrous grasp, an idea came to her; she stooped her beautiful head and bit Lohengrin smartly on the wrist, evoking, instead of further music, a torrent of curses; and as Alberto danced and yelled in agony, she darted from the room. With the key she had previously extracted she locked the door; and as her light footsteps and crisping draperies retreated along the passage, the tenor realized that he was caught in his own trap. Winding his handkerchief about his smarting wrist, he bestowed a few more hearty curses upon Teresa, and sat down upon a horsehair-covered chair to wait for deliverance. They could not possibly give "Lohengrin" without him— there was no understudy for the part. For her own sake, therefore, the De Melzi would see him released in time to assume the armor of the Knight of the Swan. Ebbene! There was nothing to do but wait. He looked at his watch, a superb timepiece encrusted with brilliants. Two o'clock! And the opera did not commence until eight. Six hours to spend in this underground hole, if no one came to let him out. Patience! He would smoke. He got over half an hour with the aid of the green cigarette-case. Then he did a little pounding at the door. This bruised his tender hands, and he soon left off and took to shouting. To the utmost efforts of his magnificent voice no response was made; the part of the hotel basement in which his prison happened to be situated was, in the daytime, when all the servants were engaged in their various departments, almost deserted. Therefore, after an hour of shouting, Fumaroli abandoned his efforts.

What was to be done? He could take a siesta, and did, extended upon two of the grim horsehair chairs with which the apartment was furnished. He slept excellently for an hour, and woke hungry.

Hungry! Diavolo! with what a raging hunger— an appetite of Gargantuan proportions, sharpened to the pitch of famine by the bubbling gushes of savory steam that jetted from underneath the cover of the mysterious dish still simmering over its spirit-lamp upon the table! He knew what that dish contained—his revenge, in fact. Well, it had missed fire, the vendetta. He who had devised the ordeal of temptation for Teresa found himself helpless, exposed to its fiendish seductions. Not that he would be likely to yield, oh mai! was it probable? He banished the idea with a gesture full of superb scorn and a haughty smile. Never, a thousand times never! The cunning Teresa should be disappointed. That evening's performance should be attacked by him as ever, fasting, the voice of melody, the sonorous lungs, supported by an empty frame. Cospetto! how savory the smell that came from that covered dish! The unhappy tenor moved to the table, snuffed it up in nosefuls, thought of flinging the dish and its contents out of window— would have done so had not the window been barred.

"After all, perhaps she means to keep me here all night," he thought, and rashly lifted the dish-cover, revealing a vast and heaving plain of macaroni, over which little rills of liquid butter wandered. Parmesan cheese was not lacking to the dish, nor the bland juices of the sliced tomato, and, like the violet by the wayside, the modest garlic added its perfume to the distracting bouquet. Fumaroli was only human, though, as a tenor, divine. He had been shut up for four hours, fasting, in company with a dish of macaroni.... Ah, Heaven! he could endure no longer.... He drew up a chair, grasped fork and spoon— fell to. In the act of finishing the dish, he started, fancying that the silvery tinkle of a feminine laugh sounded at the keyhole. But his faculties were dulled by vast feeding; his anger, like his appetite, had lost its edge. With an effort he disposed of the last shreds of macaroni, the last trickle of butter; and at seven o'clock a waiter, who accidentally unlocked the door of the basement room, awakened a plethoric sleeper from heavy dreams.

"To the Opera House," was the listless direction he gave the driver of his hired brougham; as one in a dream he entered by the stage-door, and strode to his room.

The curtain had already risen upon grassy lowlands in the neighborhood of Antwerp. Henry, King of Germany, seated under a spreading canvas oak, held court with military pomp. Frederic of Telramond, wizard husband of Ortrud, the witch, had stepped forward to accuse Elsa of the murder of her brother, Gottlieb; the King had cried, "Summon the maid!" and in answer to the command, amidst the blare of brass and the clashing of swords, the De Melzi, draped in pure white, followed by her ladies, and looking the picture of virginal innocence, moved dreamily into view:

"How like an angel!

He who accuses her

Must surely prove

This maiden's guilt."

Ah! had those who listened to the thrilling strains that poured from those exquisite lips but guessed, as Elsa described the appearance of her dream-defender, her shining Knight, and sank upon her knees in an ecstasy of passionate prayer, that the celestial deliverer was at that moment gasping in the agonies of indigestion!

"Let me behold

That form of light!"

entreated the maiden; and amidst the exclamations of the eight-part chorus the swan-drawn bark approached the bank; the noble, if somewhat fleshy, form of Alberto Fumaroli, clad from head to foot in silvery mail, stepped from it.... With lofty grace he waved his adieu to the swan, he launched upon his opening strain of unaccompanied melody.... Alas! how muffled, how farinaceous those once clarion tones!... In labored accents, amid the growing disappointment of the Smutchester audience, Lohengrin announced his mission to the King. As he folded the entranced Elsa to his oppressed bosom, crying:

"Elsa, I love thee!"

"She-devil, you have ruined me!" he hissed in the De Melzi's ear.

"My hope, my solace,

My hero, I am thine!"

Teresa trilled in answer. And raising her love-illumined, mischievously dancing eyes to her deliverer, breathed in his ear: "Try pepsin!"

__________

11: The Parasite

Arthur Conan Doyle

1859-1930

Harper's Weekly  Nov 10 1884

Not reprinted until 1970, this is another forgotten horror tale of Arthur Conan Doyle, and is about a psychic rather than physical parasite

MARCH 24. The spring is fairly with us now. Outside my laboratory window the great chestnut-tree is all covered with the big, glutinous, gummy buds, some of which have already begun to break into little green shuttlecocks. As you walk down the lanes you are conscious of the rich, silent forces of nature working all around you. The wet earth smells fruitful and luscious. Green shoots are peeping out everywhere. The twigs are stiff with their sap; and the moist, heavy English air is laden with a faintly resinous perfume. Buds in the hedges, lambs beneath them— everywhere the work of reproduction going forward!

I can see it without, and I can feel it within. We also have our spring when the little arterioles dilate, the lymph flows in a brisker stream, the glands work harder, winnowing and straining. Every year nature readjusts the whole machine. I can feel the ferment in my blood at this very moment, and as the cool sunshine pours through my window I could dance about in it like a gnat. So I should, only that Charles Sadler would rush upstairs to know what was the matter. Besides, I must remember that I am Professor Gilroy. An old professor may afford to be natural, but when fortune has given one of the first chairs in the university to a man of four-and-thirty he must try and act the part consistently.

What a fellow Wilson is! If I could only throw the same enthusiasm into physiology that he does into psychology, I should become a Claude Bernard at the least. His whole life and soul and energy work to one end. He drops to sleep collating his results of the past day, and he wakes to plan his researches for the coming one. And yet, outside the narrow circle who follow his proceedings, he gets so little credit for it. Physiology is a recognized science. If I add even a brick to the edifice, every one sees and applauds it. But Wilson is trying to dig the foundations for a science of the future. His work is underground and does not show. Yet he goes on uncomplainingly, corresponding with a hundred semi-maniacs in the hope of finding one reliable witness, sifting a hundred lies on the chance of gaining one little speck of truth, collating old books, devouring new ones, experimenting, lecturing, trying to light up in others the fiery interest which is consuming him. I am filled with wonder and admiration when I think of him, and yet, when he asks me to associate myself with his researches, I am compelled to tell him that, in their present state, they offer little attraction to a man who is devoted to exact science. If he could show me something positive and objective, I might than be tempted to approach the question from its physiological side. So long as half his subjects are tainted with charlatanerie and the other half with hysteria we physiologists must content ourselves with the body and leave the mind to our descendants.

No doubt I am a materialist. Agatha says that I am a rank one. I tell her that is an excellent reason for shortening our engagement, since I am in such urgent need of her spirituality. And yet I may claim to be a curious example of the effect of education upon temperament, for by nature I am, unless I deceive myself, a highly psychic man. I was a nervous, sensitive boy, a dreamer, a somnambulist, full of impressions and intuitions. My black hair, my dark eyes, my thin, olive face, my tapering fingers, are all characteristic of my real temperament, and cause experts like Wilson to claim me as their own. But my brain is soaked with exact knowledge. I have trained myself to deal only with fact and with proof. Surmise and fancy have no place in my scheme of thought. Show me what I can see with my microscope, cut with my scalpel, weigh in my balance, and I will devote a lifetime to its investigation. But when you ask me to study feelings, impressions, suggestions, you ask me to do what is distasteful and even demoralizing. A departure from pure reason affects me like an evil smell or a musical discord.

Which is a very sufficient reason why I am a little loath to go to Professor Wilson's to-night. Still I feel that I could hardly get out of the invitation without positive rudeness, and, now that Mrs. Marden and Agatha are going, of course I would not if I could. But I had rather meet them anywhere else. I know that Wilson would draw me into this nebulous semi-science of his if he could. In his enthusiasm he is perfectly impervious to hints or remonstrances. Nothing short of a positive quarrel will make him realize my aversion to the whole business. I have no doubt that he has some new mesmerist or clairvoyant or medium or trickster of some sort whom he is going to exhibit to us, for even his entertainments bear upon his hobby. Well, it will be a treat for Agatha, at any rate. She is interested in it, as woman usually is in whatever is vague and mystical and indefinite.

10.50 P.M. This diary-keeping of mine is, I fancy, the outcome of that scientific habit of mind about which I wrote this morning. I like to register impressions while they are fresh. Once a day at least I endeavor to define my own mental position. It is a useful piece of self-analysis, and has, I fancy, a steadying effect upon the character. Frankly, I must confess that my own needs what stiffening I can give it. I fear that, after all, much of my neurotic temperament survives, and that I am far from that cool, calm precision which characterizes Murdoch or Pratt-Haldane. Otherwise, why should the tomfoolery which I have witnessed this evening have set my nerves thrilling so that even now I am all unstrung? My only comfort is that neither Wilson nor Miss Penclosa nor even Agatha could have possibly known my weakness.

And what in the world was there to excite me? Nothing, or so little that it will seem ludicrous when I set it down.

The Mardens got to Wilson's before me. In fact, I was one of the last to arrive and found the room crowded. I had hardly time to say a word to Mrs. Marden and to Agatha, who was looking charming in white and pink, with glittering wheat-ears in her hair, when Wilson came twitching at my sleeve.

"You want something positive, Gilroy," said he, drawing me apart into a corner. "My dear fellow, I have a phenomenon— a phenomenon!"

I should have been more impressed had I not heard the same before. His sanguine spirit turns every fire-fly into a star.

"No possible question about the bona fides this time," said he, in answer, perhaps, to some little gleam of amusement in my eyes. "My wife has known her for many years. They both come from Trinidad, you know. Miss Penclosa has only been in England a month or two, and knows no one outside the university circle, but I assure you that the things she has told us suffice in themselves to establish clairvoyance upon an absolutely scientific basis. There is nothing like her, amateur or professional. Come and be introduced!"

I like none of these mystery-mongers, but the amateur least of all. With the paid performer you may pounce upon him and expose him the instant that you have seen through his trick. He is there to deceive you, and you are there to find him out. But what are you to do with the friend of your host's wife? Are you to turn on a light suddenly and expose her slapping a surreptitious banjo? Or are you to hurl cochineal over her  evening frock when she steals round with her phosphorus bottle and her supernatural platitude? There would be a scene, and you would be looked upon as a brute. So you have your choice of being that or a dupe. I was in no very good humor as I followed Wilson to the lady.

Any one less like my idea of a West Indian could not be imagined. She was a small, frail creature, well over forty, I should say, with a pale, peaky face, and hair of a very light shade of chestnut. Her presence was insignificant and her manner retiring. In any group of ten women she would have been the last whom one would have picked out. Her eyes were perhaps her most remarkable, and also, I am compelled to say, her least pleasant, feature. They were gray in color,— gray with a shade of green,— and their expression struck me as being decidedly furtive. I wonder if furtive is the word, or should I have said fierce? On second thoughts, feline would have expressed it better. A crutch leaning against the wall told me what was painfully evident when she rose: that one of her legs was crippled.

So I was introduced to Miss Penclosa, and it did not escape me that as my name was mentioned she glanced across at Agatha. Wilson had evidently been talking. And presently, no doubt, thought I, she will inform me by occult means that I am engaged to a young lady with wheat-ears in her hair. I wondered how much more Wilson had been telling her about me.

"Professor Gilroy is a terrible sceptic,"' said he; "I hope, Miss Penclosa, that you will be able to convert him."'

She looked keenly up at me.

"Professor Gilroy is quite right to be sceptical if he has not seen any thing convincing," said she. "I should have thought," she added, "that you would yourself have been an excellent subject."

"For what, may I ask?"' said I.

"Well, for mesmerism, for example."

"My experience has been that mesmerists go for their subjects to those who are mentally unsound. All their results are vitiated, as it seems to me, by the fact that they are dealing with abnormal organisms."

"Which of these ladies would you say possessed a normal organism?" she asked. "I should like you to select the one who seems to you to have the best balanced mind. Should we say the girl in pink and white?— Miss Agatha Marden, I think the name is?"

"Yes, I should attach weight to any results from her."

"I have never tried how far she is impressionable. Of course some people respond much more rapidly than others. May I ask how far your scepticism extends? I suppose that you admit the mesmeric sleep and the power of suggestion."'

"I admit nothing, Miss Penclosa."

"Dear me, I thought science had got further than that. Of course I know nothing about the scientific side of it. I only know what I can do. You see the girl in red, for example, over near the Japanese jar. I shall will that she come across to us."'

She bent forward as she spoke and dropped her fan upon the floor. The girl whisked round and came straight toward us, with an enquiring look upon her face, as if some one had called her.

"What do you think of that, Gilroy?" cried Wilson, in a kind of ecstasy.

I did not dare to tell him what I thought of it. To me it was the most barefaced, shameless piece of imposture that I had ever witnessed. The collusion and the signal had really been too obvious.

"Professor Gilroy is not satisfied," said she, glancing up at me with her strange little eyes. "My poor fan is to get the credit of that experiment. Well, we must try something else. Miss Marden, would you have any objection to my putting you off?"'

"Oh, I should love it!"' cried Agatha.

By this time all the company had gathered round us in a circle, the shirt-fronted men, and the white-throated women, some awed, some critical, as though it were something between a religious ceremony and a conjurer's entertainment. A red velvet arm-chair had been pushed into the centre, and Agatha lay back in it, a little flushed and trembling slightly from excitement. I could see it from the vibration of the wheat-ears. Miss Penclosa rose from her seat and stood over her, leaning upon her crutch.

And there was a change in the woman. She no longer seemed small or insignificant. Twenty years were gone from her age. Her eyes were shining, a tinge of color had come into her sallow cheeks, her whole figure had expanded. So I have seen a dull-eyed, listless lad change in an instant into briskness and life when given a task of which he felt himself master. She looked down at Agatha with an expression which I resented from the bottom of my soul— the expression with which a Roman empress might have looked at her kneeling slave. Then with a quick, commanding gesture she tossed up her arms and swept them slowly down in front of her.

I was watching Agatha narrowly. During three passes she seemed to be simply amused. At the fourth I observed a slight glazing of her eyes, accompanied by some dilation of her pupils. At the sixth there was a momentary rigor. At the seventh her lids began to droop. At the tenth her eyes were closed, and her breathing was slower and fuller than usual. I tried as I watched to preserve my scientific calm, but a foolish, causeless agitation convulsed me. I trust that I hid it, but I felt as a child feels in the dark. I could not have believed that I was still open to such weakness.

"She is in the trance," said Miss Penclosa.

"She is sleeping!" I cried.

"Wake her, then!"

I pulled her by the arm and shouted in her ear. She might have been dead for all the impression that I could make. Her body was there on the velvet chair. Her organs were acting— her heart, her lungs. But her soul! It had slipped from beyond our ken. Whither had it gone? What power had dispossessed it? I was puzzled and disconcerted..

"So much for the mesmeric sleep," said Miss Penclosa. "As regards suggestion, whatever I may suggest Miss Marden will infallibly do, whether it be now or after she has awakened from her trance. Do you demand proof of it?"

"Certainly," said I.

"You shall have it." I saw a smile pass over her face, as though an amusing thought had struck her. She stooped and whispered earnestly into her subject's ear. Agatha, who had been so deaf to me, nodded her head as she listened.

"Awake!" cried Miss Penclosa, with a sharp tap of her crutch upon the floor. The eyes opened, the glazing cleared slowly away, and the soul looked out once more after its strange eclipse.

We went away early. Agatha was none the worse for her strange excursion, but I was nervous and unstrung, unable to listen to or answer the stream of comments which Wilson was pouring out for my benefit. As I bade her good-night Miss Penclosa slipped a piece of paper into my hand.

"Pray forgive me," said she, "if I take means to overcome your scepticism. Open this note at ten o'clock to-morrow morning. It is a little private test."'

I can't imagine what she means, but there is the note, and it shall be opened as she directs. My head is aching, and I have written enough for to-night. Tomorrow I dare say that what seems so inexplicable will take quite another complexion. I shall not surrender my convictions without a struggle.

March 25. I am amazed, confounded. It is clear that I much reconsider my opinion upon this matter. But first let me place on record what has occurred.

I had finished breakfast, and was looking over some diagrams with which my lecture is to be illustrated, when my housekeeper entered to tell me that Agatha was in my study and wished to see me immediately. I glanced at the clock and saw with surprise that it was only half-past nine.

When I entered the room, she was standing on the hearth-rug facing me. Something in her pose chilled me and checked the words which were rising to my lips. Her veil was half down, but I could see that she was pale and that her expression was constrained.

"Austin," she said, "I have come to tell you that our engagement is at an end."'

I staggered. I believe that I literally did stagger. I know that I found myself leaning against the bookcase for support.

'But— but —" I stammered. ''This is very sudden, Agatha."

"Yes, Austin, I have come here to tell you that our engagement is at an end."

"But surely," I cried, '"'you will give me some reason! This is unlike you, Agatha. Tell me how I have been unfortunate enough to offend you."

"It is all over, Austin."'

"But why? You must be under some delusion, Agatha. Perhaps you have been told some falsehood about me. Or you may have misunderstood something that I have said to you. Only let me know what it is, and a word may set it all right."

"We must consider it all at an end."

"But you left me last night without a hint at any disagreement. What could have occurred in the interval to change you so? It must have been something that happened last night. You have been thinking it over and you have disapproved of my conduct. Was it the mesmerism? Did you blame me for letting that woman exercise her power over you? You know that at the least sign I should have interfered."

"It is useless, Austin. All is over."'

Her voice was cold and measured; her manner strangely formal and hard. It seemed to me that she was absolutely resolved not to be drawn into any argument or explanation. As for me, I was shaking with agitation, and I turned my face aside, so ashamed was I that she should see my want of control.

"You must know what this means to me!"' I cried. "'It is the blasting of all my hopes and the ruin of my life! You surely will not inflict such a punishment upon me unheard. You will let me know what is the matter. Consider how impossible it would be for me, under any circumstances, to treat you so. For God's sake, Agatha, let me know what I have done!"'

She walked past me without a word and opened the door.

"It is quite useless, Austin," said she. "You must consider our engagement at an end."' An instant later she was gone, and, before I could recover myself sufficiently to follow her, I heard the hall-door close behind her.

I rushed into my room to change my coat, math the idea of hurrying round to Mrs. Marden's to learn from her what the cause of my misfortune might be. So shaken was I that I could hardly lace my boots. Never shall I forget those horrible ten minutes. I had just pulled on my overcoat when the clock upon the mantel-piece struck ten.

Ten! I associated the idea with Miss Penclosa's note. It was lying before me on the table, and I tore it open. It was scribbled in pencil in a peculiarly angular handwriting.

"MY DEAR PROFESSOR GILROY [it said]: Pray excuse the personal nature of the test which I am giving you. Professor Wilson happened to mention the relations between you and my subject of this evening, and it struck me that nothing could be more convincing to you than if I were to suggest to Miss Marden that she should call upon you at half-past nine to-morrow morning and suspend your engagement for half an hour or so. Science is so exacting that it is difficult to give a satisfying test, but I am convinced that this at least will be an action which she would be most unlikely to do of her own free will. Forget any thing that she may have said, as she has really nothing whatever to do with it, and will certainly not recollect any thing about it. I write this note to shorten your anxiety, and to beg you to forgive me for the momentary unhappiness which my suggestion must have caused you.

"Yours faithfully,

"HELEN PENCLOSA "

Really, when I had read the note, I was too relieved to be angry. It was a liberty. Certainly it was a very great liberty indeed on the part of a lady whom I had only met once. But, after all, I had challenged her by my scepticism. It may have been, as she said, a little difficult to devise a test which would satisfy me.

And she had done that. There could be no question at all upon the point. For me hypnotic suggestion was finally established. It took its place from now onward as one of the facts of life. That Agatha, who of all women of my acquaintance has the best balanced mind, had been reduced to a condition of automatism appeared to be certain. A person at a distance had worked her as an engineer on the shore might guide a Brennan torpedo. A second soul had stepped in, as it were, had pushed her own aside, and had seized her nervous mechanism, saying: "I will work this for half an hour.'"' And Agatha must have been unconscious as she came and as she returned. Could she make her way in safety through the streets in such a state? I put on my hat and hurried round to see if all was well with her.

Yes. She was at home. I was shown into the drawing-room and found her sitting with a book upon her lap.

"You are an early visitor, Austin," said she, smiling.

"And you have been an even earlier one,"' I answered.

She looked puzzled. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"You have not been out to-day?"

"No, certainly not."

"Agatha,"' said I seriously, "would you mind telling me exactly what you have done this morning?"

She laughed at my earnestness.

"You've got on your professional look, Austin. See what comes of being engaged to a man of science. However, I will tell you, though I can't image what you want to know for. I got up at eight. I breakfasted at half-past. I came into this room at ten minutes past nine and began to read the 'Memoirs of Mme. de Remusat.' In a few minutes I did the French lady the bad compliment of dropping to sleep over her pages, and I did you, sir, the very flattering one of dreaming about you. It is only a few minutes since I woke up."

"And found yourself where you had been before?"

"Why, where else should I find myself?"

"Would you mind telling me, Agatha, what it was that you dreamed about me? It really is not mere curiosity on my part."

"I merely had a vague impression that you came into it. I cannot recall any thing definite."

"If you have not been out to-day, Agatha, how is it that your shoes are dusty?"

A pained look came over her face.

"Really, Austin, I do not know what is the matter with you this morning. One would almost think that you doubted my word. If my boots are dusty, it must be, of course, that I have put on a pair which the maid had not cleaned."

It was perfectly evident that she knew nothing whatever about the matter, and I reflected that, after all, perhaps it was better that I should not enlighten her. It might frighten her, and could serve no good purpose that I could see. I said no more about it, therefore, and left shortly afterward to give my lecture.

But I am immensely impressed. My horizon of scientific possibilities has suddenly been enormously extended. I no longer wonder at Wilson's demonic energy and enthusiasm. Who would not work hard who had a vast virgin field ready to his hand? Why, I have known the novel shape of a nucleolus, or a trifling peculiarity of striped muscular fibre seen under a 300-diameter lens, fill me with exultation. How petty do such researches seem when compared with this one which strikes at the very roots of life and the nature of the soul! I had always looked upon spirit as a product of matter. The brain, I thought, secreted the mind, as the liver does the bile. But how can this be when I see mind working from a distance and playing upon matter as a musician might upon a violin? The body does not give rise to the soul, then, but is rather the rough instrument by which the spirit manifests itself. The windmill does not give rise to the wind, but only indicates it. It was opposed to my whole habit of thought, and yet it was undeniably possible and worthy of investigation.

And why should I not investigate it? I see that under yesterday's date I said: "If I could see something positive and objective, I might be tempted to approach it from the physiological aspect." Well, I have got my test. I shall be as good as my word. The investigation would, I am sure, be of immense interest. Some of my colleagues might look askance at it, for science is full of unreasoning prejudices, but if Wilson has the courage of his convictions, I can afford to have it also. I shall go to him to-morrow morning— to him and to Miss Penclosa. If she can show us so much, it is probable that she can show us more.

Chapter 2

MARCH 26. Wilson was, as I had anticipated, very exultant over my conversion, and Miss Penclosa was also demurely pleased at the result of her experiment. Strange what a silent, colorless creature she is save only when she exercises her power! Even talking about it gives her color and life. She seems to take a singular interest in me. I cannot help observing how her eyes follow me about the room.

We had the most interesting conversation about her own powers. It is just as well to put her views on record, though they cannot, of course, claim any scientific weight.

"You are on the very fringe of the subject," said she, when I had expressed wonder at the remarkable instance of suggestion which she had shown me. "TI had no direct influence upon Miss Marden when she came round to you. I was not even thinking of her that morning. What I did was to set her mind as I might set the alarum of a clock so that at the hour named it would go off of its own accord. If six months instead of twelve hours had been suggested, it would have been the same."

"And if the suggestion had been to assassinate me?"

"She would most inevitably have done so."'

"But this is a terrible power!" I cried.

"It is, as you say, a terrible power," she answered gravely, "and the more you know of it the more terrible will it seem to you."

"May I ask," said I, "what you meant when you said that this matter of suggestion is only at the fringe of it? What do you consider the essential?"

"I had rather not tell you."

I was surprised at the decision of her answer.

"You understand," said I, "that it is not out of curiosity I ask, but in the hope that I may find some scientific explanation for the facts with which you furnish me."

"Frankly, Professor Gilroy,' said she, "I am not at all interested in science, nor do I care whether it can or cannot classify these powers."

"But I was hoping—"

"Ah, that is quite another thing. If you make it a personal matter,"' said she, with the pleasantest of smiles, "I shall be only too happy to tell you any thing you wish to know. Let me see; what was it you asked me? Oh, about the further powers. Professor Wilson won't believe in them, but they are quite true all the same. For example, it is possible for an operator to gain complete command over his subject— presuming that the latter is a good one. Without any previous suggestion he may make him do whatever he likes."

"Without the subject's knowledge?"

"That depends. If the force were strongly exerted, he would know no more about it than Miss Marden did when she came round and frightened you so. Or, if the influence was less powerful, he might be conscious of what he was doing, but be quite unable to prevent himself from doing it."

"Would he have lost his own will power, then?"

"It would be over-ridden by another stronger one."

"Have you ever exercised this power yourself?"

"Several times."

"Is your own will so strong, then?"

"Well, it does not entirely depend upon that. Many have strong wills which are not detachable from themselves. The thing is to have the gift of projecting it into another person and superseding his own. I find that the power varies with my own strength and health."

"Practically, you send your soul into another person's body."

"Well, you might put it that way."

''And what does your own body do?"

"It merely feels lethargic."

"Well, but is there no danger to your own health?" I asked.

"There might be a little. You have to be careful never to let your own consciousness absolutely go; otherwise, you might experience some difficulty in finding your way back again. You must always preserve the connection, as it were. I am afraid I express myself very badly, Professor Gilroy, but of course I don't know how to put these things in a scientific way. I am just giving you my own experiences and my own explanations."

Well, I read this over now at my leisure, and I marvel at myself! Is this Austin Gilroy, the man who has won his way to the front by his hard reasoning power and by his devotion to fact? Here I am gravely retailing the gossip of a woman who tells me how her soul may be projected from her body, and how, while she lies in a lethargy, she can control the actions of people at a distance. Do I accept it? Certainly not. She must prove and re-prove before I yield a point. But if I am still a sceptic, I have at least ceased to be a scoffer. We are to have a sitting this evening, and she is to try if she can produce any mesmeric effect upon me. If she can, it will make an excellent starting-point for our investigation. No one can accuse me, at any rate, of complicity. If she cannot, we must try and find some subject who will be like Caesar's wife. Wilson is perfectly impervious.

10 P.M. I believe that I am on the threshold of an epoch-making investigation. To have the power of examining these phenomena from inside— to have an organism which will respond, and at the same time a brain which will appreciate and criticise— that is surely a unique advantage. I am quite sure that Wilson would give five years of his life to be as susceptible as I have proved myself to be.

There was no one present except Wilson and his wife. I was seated with my head leaning back, and Miss Penclosa, standing in front and a little to the left, used the same long, sweeping strokes as with Agatha. At each of them a warm current of air seemed to strike me, and to suffuse a thrill and glow all through me from head to foot. My eyes were fixed upon Miss Penclosa's face, but as I gazed the features seemed to blur and to fade away. I was conscious only of her own eyes looking down at me, gray, deep, inscrutable. Larger they grew and larger, until they changed suddenly into two mountain lakes toward which I seemed to be falling with horrible rapidity. I shuddered, and as I did so some deeper stratum of thought told me that the shudder represented the rigor which I had observed in Agatha. An instant later I struck the surface of the lakes, now joined into one and down I went beneath the water with a fulness in my head and a buzzing in my ears. Down I went, down, down, and then with a swoop up again until I could see the light streaming brightly through the green water. I was almost at the surface when the word "Awake!" rang through my head, and, with a start, I found myself back in the arm-chair, with Miss Penclosa leaning on her crutch, and Wilson, his note-book in his hand, peeping over her shoulder. No heaviness or weariness was left behind. On the contrary, though it is only an hour or so since the experiment, I feel so wakeful that I am more inclined for my study than my bedroom. I see quite a vista of interesting experiments extending before us, and am all impatience to begin upon them.

March 27. A blank day, as Miss Penclosa goes with Wilson and his wife to the Suttons' Have begun Binet and Ferre's "Animal Magnetism." What strange, deep waters these are! Results, results, results— and the cause an absolute mystery. It is stimulating to the imagination, but I must be on my guard against that. Let us have no inferences nor deductions, and nothing but solid facts. I know that the mesmeric trance is true; I know that mesmeric suggestion is true; I know that I am myself sensitive to this force. That is my present position. I have a large new note-book which shall be devoted entirely to scientific detail.

Long talk with Agatha and Mrs. Marden in the evening about our marriage. We think that the summer vac. (the beginning of it) would be the best time for the wedding. Why should we delay? I grudge even those few months. Still, as Mrs. Marden says, there are a good many things to be arranged.

March 28. Mesmerized again by Miss Penclosa. Experience much the same as before, save that insensibility came on more quickly. See Note-book A for temperature of room, barometric pressure, pulse, and respiration as taken by Professor Wilson.

March 29. Mesmerized again. Details in Note-book A.

March 30. Sunday, and a blank day. I grudge any interruption of our experiments. At present they merely embrace the physical signs which go with slight, with complete, and with extreme insensibility. Afterward we hope to pass on to the phenomena of suggestion and of lucidity. Professors have demonstrated these things upon women at Nancy and at the Salpetriere. It will be more convincing when a woman demonstrates it upon a professor, with a second professor as a witness. And that I should be the subject— I, the sceptic, the materialist! At least, I have shown that my devotion to science is greater than to my own personal consistency. The eating of our own words is the greatest sacrifice which truth ever requires of us.

My neighbor, Charles Sadler, the handsome young demonstrator of anatomy, came in this evening to return a volume of Virchow's "'Archives" which I had lent him. I call him young, but, as a matter of fact, he is a year older than I am.

"I understand, Gilroy," said he, "that you are being experimented upon by Miss Penclosa.

"Well," he went on, when I had acknowledged it, "if I were you, I should not let it go any further. You will think me very impertinent, no doubt, but, none the less, I feel it to be my duty to advise you to have no more to do with her."

Of course I asked him why.

"I am so placed that I cannot enter into particulars as freely as I could wish," said he. "Miss Penclosa is the friend of my friend, and my position is a delicate one. I can only say this: that I have myself been the subject of some of the woman's experiments, and that they have left a most unpleasant impression upon my mind."

He could hardly expect me to be satisfied with that, and I tried hard to get something more definite out of him, but without success. Is it conceivable that he could be jealous at my having superseded him? Or is he one of those men of science who feel personally injured when facts run counter to their preconceived opinions? He cannot seriously suppose that because he has some vague grievance I am, therefore, to abandon a series of experiments which promise to be so fruitful of results. He appeared to be annoyed at the light way in which I treated his shadowy warnings, and we parted with some little coldness on both sides.

March 31. Mesmerized by Miss P.

April 1. Mesmerized by Miss P. (Note-book A.)

April 2. Mesmerized by Miss P. (Sphygmographic chart taken by Professor Wilson.)

April 3. It is possible that this course of mesmerism may be a little trying to the general constitution. Agatha says that I am thinner and darker under the eyes. I am conscious of a nervous irritability which I had not observed in myself before. The least noise, for example, makes me start, and the stupidity of a student causes me exasperation instead of amusement. Agatha wishes me to stop, but I tell her that every course of study is trying, and that one can never attain a result without paying some price for it. When she sees the sensation which my forthcoming paper on "The Relation between Mind and Matter"? may make, she will understand that it is worth a little nervous wear and tear. I should not be surprised if I got my F.R.S. over it.

Mesmerized again in the evening. The effect is produced more rapidly now, and the subjective visions are less marked. I keep full notes of each sitting. Wilson is leaving for town for a week or ten days, but we shall not interrupt the experiments, which depend for their value as much upon my sensations as on his observations.

April 4. I must be carefully on my guard. A complication has crept into our experiments which I had not reckoned upon. In my eagerness for scientific facts I have been foolishly blind to the human relations between Miss Penclosa and myself. I can write here what I would not breathe to a living soul. The unhappy woman appears to have formed an attachment for me.

I should not say such a thing, even in the privacy of my own intimate journal, if it had not come to such a pass that it is impossible to ignore it. For some time,— that is, for the last week,— there have been signs which I have brushed aside and refused to think of. Her brightness when I come, her dejection when I go, her eagerness that I should come often, the expression of her eyes, the tone of her voice— I tried to think that they meant nothing, and were, perhaps, only her ardent West Indian manner. But last night, as I awoke from the mesmeric sleep, I put out my hand, unconsciously, involuntarily, and clasped hers. When I came fully to myself, we were sitting with them locked, she looking up at me with an expectant smile. And the horrible thing was that I felt impelled to say what she expected me to say. What a false wretch I should have been! How I should have loathed myself to-day had I yielded to the temptation of that moment! But, thank God, was strong enough to spring up and hurry from the room. I was rude, I fear, but I could not, no, I could not, trust myself another moment. I, a gentleman, a man of honor, engaged to one of the sweetest girls in England— and yet in a moment of reasonless passion I nearly professed love for this woman whom I hardly know. She is far older than myself and a cripple. It is monstrous, odious; and yet the impulse was so strong that, had I stayed another minute in her presence, I should have committed myself. What was it? I have to teach others the workings of our organism, and what do I know of it myself? Was it the sudden upcropping of some lower stratum in my nature— a brutal primitive instinct suddenly asserting itself? I could almost believe the tales of obsession by evil spirits, so overmastering was the feeling.

Well, the incident places me in a most unfortunate position. On the one hand, I am very loath to abandon a series of experiments which have already gone so far, and which promise such brilliant results. On the other, if this unhappy woman has conceived a passion for me— But surely even now I must have made some hideous mistake. She, with her age and her deformity! It is impossible. And then she knew about Agatha. She understood how I was placed. She only smiled out of amusement, perhaps, when in my dazed state I seized her hand. It was my half-mesmerized brain which gave it a meaning, and sprang with such bestial swiftness to meet it. I wish I could persuade myself that it was indeed so. On the whole, perhaps, my wisest plan would be to postpone our other experiments until Wilson's return. I have written a note to Miss Penclosa, therefore, making no allusion to last night, but saying that a press of work would cause me to interrupt our sittings for a few days. She has answered, formally enough, to say that if I should change my mind I should find her at home at the usual hour.

10 P.M. Well, well, what a thing of straw I am! I am coming to know myself better of late, and the more I know the lower I fall in my own estimation. Surely I was not always so weak as this. At four o'clock I should have smiled had any one told me that I should go to Miss Penclosa's to-night, and yet, at eight, I was at Wilson's door as usual. I don't know how it occurred. The influence of habit, I suppose. Perhaps there is a mesmeric craze as there is an opium craze, and I am a victim to it. I only know that as I worked in my study I became more and more uneasy. I fidgeted. I worried. I could not concentrate my mind upon the papers in front of me. And then, at last, almost before I knew what I was doing, I seized my hat and hurried round to keep my usual appointment.

We had an interesting evening. Mrs. Wilson was present during most of the time, which prevented the embarrassment which one at least of us must have felt. Miss Penclosa's manner was quite the same as usual, and she expressed no surprise at my having come in spite of my note. There was nothing in her bearing to show that yesterday's incident had made any impression upon her, and so I am inclined to hope that I overrated it.

April 6 (evening). No, no, no, I did not overrate it. I can no longer attempt to conceal from myself that this woman has conceived a passion for me. It is monstrous, but it is true. Again, tonight, I awoke from the mesmeric trance to find my hand in hers, and to suffer that odious feeling which urges me to throw away my honor, my career, every thing, for the sake of this creature who, as I can plainly see when I am away from her influence, possesses no single charm upon earth. But when I am near her, I do not feel this. She rouses something in me, something evil, something I had rather not think of. She paralyzes my better nature, too, at the moment when she stimulates my worse. Decidedly it is not good for me to be near her.

Last night was worse than before. Instead of flying I actually sat for some time with my hand in hers talking over the most intimate subjects with her. We spoke of Agatha, among other things. What could I have been dreaming of? Miss Penclosa said that she was conventional, and I agreed with her. She spoke once or twice in a disparaging way of her, and I did not protest. What a creature I have been!

Weak as I have proved myself to be, I am still strong enough to bring this sort of thing to an end. It shall not happen again. I have sense enough to fly when I cannot fight. From this Sunday night onward I shall never sit with Miss Penclosa again. Never! Let the experiments go, let the research come to an end; any thing is better than facing this monstrous temptation which drags me so low. I have said nothing to Miss Penclosa, but I shall simply stay away. She can tell the reason without any words of mine.

April 7. Have stayed away as I said. It is a pity to ruin such an interesting investigation, but it would be a greater pity still to ruin my life, and I know that I can not trust myself with that woman.

11 P.M. God help me! What is the matter with me? Am I going mad? Let me try and be calm and reason with myself. First of all I shall set down exactly what occurred.

It was nearly eight when I wrote the lines with which this day begins. Feeling strangely restless and uneasy, I left my rooms and walked round to spend the evening with Agatha and her mother. They both remarked that I was pale and haggard. About nine Professor Pratt-Haldane came in, and we played a game of whist. I tried hard to concentrate my attention upon the cards, but the feeling of restlessness grew and grew until I found it impossible to struggle against it. I simply could not sit still at the table. At last, in the very middle of a hand, I threw my cards down and, with some sort of an incoherent apology about having an appointment, I rushed from the room. As if in a dream I have a vague recollection of tearing through the hall, snatching my hat from the stand, and slamming the door behind me. As in a dream, too, I have the impression of the double line of gas-lamps, and my bespattered boots tell me that I must have run down the middle of the road. It was all misty and strange and un-natural. I came to Wilson's house; I saw Mrs. Wilson and I saw Miss Penclosa. I hardly recall what we talked about, but I do remember that Miss P. shook the head of her crutch at me in a playful way, and accused me of being late and of losing interest in our experiments. There was no mesmerism, but I stayed some time and have only just returned.

My brain is quite clear again now, and I can think over what has occurred. It is absurd to suppose that it is merely weakness and force of habit. I tried to explain it in that way the other night, but it will no longer suffice. It is something much deeper and more terrible than that. Why, when I was at the Mardens' whist-table, I was dragged away as if the noose of a rope had been cast round me. I can no longer disguise it from myself. The woman has her grip upon me. I am in her clutch. But I must keep my head and reason it out and see what is best to be done.

But what a blind fool I have been! In my enthusiasm over my research I have walked straight into the pit, although it lay gaping before me. Did she not herself warn me? Did she not tell me, as I can read in my own journal, that when she has acquired power over a subject she can make him do her will? And she has acquired that power over me. I am for the moment at the beck and call of this creature with the crutch. I must come when she wills it. I must do as she wills. Worst of all, I must feel as she wills. I loathe her and fear her, yet, while I am under the spell, she can doubtless make me love her.

There is some consolation in the thought, then, that those odious impulses for which I have blamed myself do not really come from me at all. They are all transferred from her, little as I could have guessed it at the time. I feel cleaner and lighter for the thought.

April 8. Yes, now, in broad daylight, writing coolly and with time for reflection, I am compelled to confirm every thing which I wrote in my journal last night. I am in a horrible position, but, above all, I must not lose my head. I must pit my intellect against her powers. After all, I am no silly puppet, to dance at the end of a string. I have energy, brains, courage. For all her devil's tricks I may beat her yet. May! I must, or what is to become of me?

Let me try to reason it out! This woman, by her own explanation, can dominate my nervous organism. She can project herself into my body and take command of it. She has a parasite soul; yes, she is a parasite, a monstrous parasite. She creeps into my frame as the hermit crab does into the whelk's shell. I am powerless. What can I do? I am dealing with forces of which I know nothing. And I can tell no one of my trouble. They would set me down as a madman. Certainly, if it got noised abroad, the university would say that they had no need of a devil-ridden professor. And Agatha! No, no, I must face it alone.

Chapter 3

I READ over my notes of what the woman said when she spoke about her powers. There is one point which fills me with dismay. She implies that when the influence is slight the subject knows what he is doing, but cannot control himself, whereas when it is strongly exerted he is absolutely unconscious. Now, I have always known what I did, though less so last night than on the previous occasions. That seems to mean that she has never yet exerted her full powers upon me. Was ever a man so placed before?

Yes, perhaps there was, and very near me, too. Charles Sadler must know something of this! His vague words of warning take a meaning now. Oh, if I had only listened to him then, before I helped by these repeated sittings to forge the links of the chain which binds me! But I will see him to-day. I will apologize to him for having treated his warning so lightly. I will see if he can advise me.

4 P.M. No, he cannot. I have talked with him, and he showed such surprise at the first words in which I tried to express my unspeakable secret that I went no further. As far as I can gather (by hints and inferences rather than by any statement), his own experience was limited to some words or looks such as I have myself endured. His abandonment of Miss Penclosa is in itself a sign that he was never really in her toils. Oh, if he only knew his escape! He has to thank his phlegmatic Saxon temperament for it. I am black and Celtic, and this hag's clutch is deep in my nerves. Shall I ever get it out? Shall I ever be the same man that I was just one short fortnight ago?

Let me consider what I had better do. I cannot leave the university in the middle of the term. If I were free, my course would be obvious. I should start at once and travel in Persia. But would she allow me to start? And could her influence not reach me in Persia, and bring me back to within touch of her crutch? I can only find out the limits of this hellish power by my own bitter experience. I will fight and fight and fight— and what can I do more?

I know very well that about eight o'clock to-night that craving for her society, that irresistible restlessness, will come upon me. How shall I overcome it? What shall I do? I must make it impossible for me to leave the room. I shall lock the door and throw the key out of the window. But, then, what am I to do in the morning? Never mind about the morning. I must at all costs break this chain which holds me.

April 9. Victory! I have done splendidly! At seven o'clock last night I took a hasty dinner, and then locked myself up in my bedroom and dropped the key into the garden. I chose a cheery novel, and lay in bed for three hours trying to read it, but really in a horrible state of trepidation, expecting every instant that I should become conscious of the impulse. Nothing of the sort occurred, however, and I awoke this morning with the feeling that a black nightmare had been lifted off me. Perhaps the creature realized what I had done, and understood that it was useless to try to influence me. At any rate, I have beaten her once, and if I can do it once, I can do it again.

It was most awkward about the key in the morning. Luckily, there was an under-gardener below, and I asked him to throw it up. No doubt he thought I had just dropped it. I will have doors and windows screwed up and six stout men to hold me down in my bed before I will surrender myself to be hag-ridden in this way.

I had a note from Mrs. Marden this afternoon asking me to go round and see her. I intended to do so in any case, but had not expected to find bad news waiting for me. It seems that the Armstrongs, from whom Agatha has expectations, are due home from Adelaide in the Aurora, and that they have written to Mrs. Marden and her to meet them in town. They will probably be away for a month or six weeks, and, as the Aurora is due on Wednesday, they must go at once— tomorrow, if they are ready in time. My consolation is that when we meet again there will be no more parting between Agatha and me.

"I want you to do one thing, Agatha,"' said I, when we were alone together. "If you should happen to meet Miss Penclosa, either in town or here, you must promise me never again to allow her to mesmerize you."

Agatha opened her eyes.

"Why, it was only the other day that you were saying how interesting it all was, and how determined you were to finish your experiments."'

"TI know, but I have changed my mind since then."

"And you won't have it any more?"

"No,"

"I am so glad, Austin. You can't think how pale and worn you have been lately. It was really our principal objection to going to London now that we did not wish to leave you when you were so pulled down. And your manner has been so strange occasionally— especially that night when you left poor Professor Pratt-Haldane to play dummy. I am convinced that these experiments are very bad for your nerves."

"I think so, too, dear."

"And for Miss Penclosa's nerves as well. You have heard that she is ill?"

"No."

"Mrs. Wilson told us so last night. She described it as a nervous fever. Professor Wilson is coming back this week, and of course Mrs. Wilson is very anxious that Miss Penclosa should be well again then, for he has quite a programme of experiments which he is anxious to carry out."'

I was glad to have Agatha's promise, for it was enough that this woman should have one of us in her clutch. On the other hand, I was disturbed to hear about Miss Penclosa's illness. It rather discounts the victory which I appeared to win last night. I remember that she said that loss of health interfered with her power. That may be why I was able to hold my own so easily. Well, well, I must take the same precautions to-night and see what comes of it. I am childishly frightened when I think of her.

April 10. All went very well last night. I was amused at the gardener's face when I had again to hail him this morning and to ask him to throw up my key. I shall get a name among the servants if this sort of thing goes on. But the great point is that I stayed in my room without the slightest inclination to leave it. I do believe that I am shaking myself clear of this incredible bond— or is it only that the woman's power is in abeyance until she recovers her strength? I can but pray for the best.

The Mardens left this morning, and the brightness seems to have gone out of the spring sunshine. And yet it is very beautiful also as it gleams on the green chestnuts opposite my windows, and gives a touch of gayety to the heavy, lichen-mottled walls of the old colleges. How sweet and gentle and soothing is Nature! Who would think that there lurked in her also such vile forces, such odious possibilities! For of course I understand that this dreadful thing which has sprung out at me is neither supernatural nor even preternatural. No, it is a natural force which this woman can use and society is ignorant of. The mere fact that it ebbs with her strength shows how entirely it is subject to physical laws. If I had time, I might probe it to the bottom and lay my hands upon its antidote. But you cannot tame the tiger when you are beneath his claws. You can but try to writhe away from him. Ah, when I look in the glass and see my own dark eyes and clear-cut Spanish face, I long for a vitriol splash or a bout of the small-pox. One or the other might have saved me from this calamity.

I am inclined to think that I may have trouble to-night. There are two things which make me fear so. One is that I met Mrs. Wilson in the street, and that she tells me that Miss Penclosa is better, though still weak. I find myself wishing in my heart that the illness had been her last. The other is that Professor Wilson comes back in a day or two, and his presence would act as a constraint upon her. I should not fear our interviews if a third person were present. For both these reasons I have a presentiment of trouble to-night, and I shall take the same precautions as before.

April 10. No, thank God, all went well last night. I really could not face the gardener again. I locked my door and thrust the key underneath it, so that I had to ask the maid to let me out in the morning. But the precaution was really not needed, for I never had any inclination to go out at all. Three evenings in succession at home! I am surely near the end of my troubles, for Wilson will be home again either today or to-morrow. Shall I tell him of what I have gone through or not? I am convinced that I should not have the slightest sympathy from him. He would look upon me as an interesting case, and read a paper about me at the next meeting of the Psychical Society, in which he would gravely discuss the possibility of my being a deliberate liar, and weigh it against the chances of my being in an early stage of lunacy. No, I shall get no comfort out of Wilson.

I am feeling wonderfully fit and well. I don't think I ever lectured with greater spirit. Oh, if I could only get this shadow off my life, how happy I should be! Young, fairly wealthy, in the front rank of my profession, engaged to a beautiful and charming girl— have I not every thing which a man could ask for? Only one thing to trouble me, but what a thing it is!

Midnight. I shall go mad. Yes, that will be the end of it. I shall go mad. I am not far from it now. My head throbs as I rest it on my hot hand. I am quivering all over like a scared horse. Oh, what a night I have had! And yet I have some cause to be satisfied also.

At the risk of becoming the laughing-stock of my own servant, I again slipped my key under the door, imprisoning myself for the night. Then, finding it too early to go to bed, I lay down with my clothes on and began to read one of Dumas's novels. Suddenly I was gripped— gripped and dragged from the couch. It is only thus that I can describe the overpowering nature of the force which pounced upon me. I clawed at the coverlet. I clung to the wood-work. I believe that I screamed out in my frenzy. It was all useless, hopeless. I must go. There was no way out of it. It was only at the outset that I resisted. The force soon became too overmastering for that. I thank goodness that there were no watchers there to interfere with me. I could not have answered for myself if there had been. And, besides the determination to get out, there came to me, also, the keenest and coolest judgment in choosing my means. I lit a candle and endeavored, kneeling in front of the door, to pull the key through with the feather-end of a quill pen. It was just too short and pushed it further away. Then with quiet persistence I got a paper-knife out of one of the drawers, and with that I managed to draw the key back. I opened the door, stepped into my study, took a photograph of myself from the bureau, wrote something across it, placed it in the inside pocket of my coat, and then started off for Wilson's.

It was all wonderfully clear, and yet disassociated from the rest of my life, as the incidents of even the most vivid dream might be. A peculiar double consciousness possessed me. There was the predominant alien will, which was bent upon drawing me to the side of its owner, and there was the feebler protesting personality, which I recognized as being myself, tugging feebly at the overmastering impulse as a led terrier might at its chain. I can remember recognizing these two conflicting forces, but I recall nothing of my walk, nor of how I was admitted to the house.

Very vivid, however, is my recollection of how I met Miss Penclosa. She was reclining on the sofa in the little boudoir in which our experiments had usually been carried out. Her head was rested on her hand, and a tiger-skin rug had been partly drawn over her. She looked up expectantly as I entered, and, as the lamp-light fell upon her face, I could see that she was very pale and thin, with dark hollows under her eyes. She smiled at me, and pointed to a stool beside her. It was with her left hand that she pointed, and, running eagerly forward, seized it,— I loathe myself as I think of it,— and pressed it passionately to my lips. Then, seating myself upon the stool, and still retaining her hand, I gave her the photograph which I had brought with me, and talked and talked and talked— of my love for her, of my grief over her illness, of my joy at her recovery, of the misery it was to me to be absent a single evening from her side. She lay quietly looking down at me with imperious eyes and her provocative smile. Once I remember that she passed her hand over my hair as one caresses a dog; and it gave me pleasure— the caress. I thrilled under it. I was her slave, body and soul, and for the moment I rejoiced in my slavery.

And then came the blessed change. Never tell me that there is not a Providence! I was on the brink of perdition. My feet were on the edge. Was it a coincidence that at that very instant help should come? No, no, no; there is a Providence, and its hand has drawn me back. There is something in the universe stronger than this devil woman with her tricks. Ah, what a balm to my heart it is to think so!

As I looked up at her I was conscious of a change in her. Her face, which had been pale before, was now ghastly. Her eyes were dull, and the lids dropped heavily over them. Above all, the look of serene confidence had gone from her features. Her mouth had weakened. Her forehead had puckered. She was frightened and undecided. And as I watched the change my own spirit fluttered and struggled, trying hard to tear itself from the grip which held it— a grip which, from moment to moment, grew less secure.

"Austin," she whispered, "I have tried to do too much. I was not strong enough. I have not recovered yet from my illness. But I could not live longer without seeing you. You won't leave me, Austin? This is only a passing weakness. If you will only give me five minutes, I shall be myself again. Give me the small decanter from the table in the window."

But I had regained my soul. With her waning strength the influence had cleared away from me and left me free. And I was aggressive— bitterly, fiercely aggressive. For once at least I could make this woman understand what my real feelings toward her were. My soul was filled with a hatred as bestial as the love against which it was a reaction. It was the savage, murderous passion of the revolted serf. I could have taken the crutch from her side and beaten her face in with it. She threw her hands up, as if to avoid a blow, and cowered away from me into the corner of the settee.

"The brandy!"' she gasped. "The brandy!"

I took the decanter and poured it over the roots of a palm in the window. Then I snatched the photograph from her hand and tore it into a hundred pieces.

'You vile woman," I said, "if I did my duty to society, you would never leave this room alive!"

"I love you, Austin; I love you!" she wailed.

"Yes," I cried, "and Charles Sadler before. And how many others before that?"

"Charles Sadler!" she gasped. "He has spoken to you? So, Charles Sadler, Charles Sadler!' Her voice came through her white lips like a snake's hiss.

"Yes, I know you, and others shall know you, too. You shameless creature! You knew how I stood. And yet you used your vile power to bring me to your side. You may, perhaps, do so again, but at least you will remember that you have heard me say that I love Miss Marden from the bottom of my soul, and that I loathe you, abhor you! The very sight of you and the sound of your voice fill me with horror and disgust. The thought of you is repulsive. That is how I feel toward you, and if it pleases you by your tricks to draw me again to your side as you have done to-night, you will at least, I should think, have little satisfaction in trying to make a lover out of a man who has told you his real opinion of you. You may put what words you will into my mouth, but you cannot help remembering—"

I stopped, for the woman's head had fallen back, and she had fainted. She could not bear to hear what I had to say to her! What a glow of satisfaction it gives me to think that, come what may, in the future she can never misunderstand my true feelings toward her. But what will occur in the future? What will she do next? I dare not think of it. Oh, if only I could hope that she will leave me alone! But when I think of what I said to her— Never mind; I have been stronger than she for once.

April 11. I hardly slept last night, and found myself in the morning so unstrung and feverish that I was compelled to ask Pratt-Haldane to do my lecture for me. It is the first that I have ever missed. I rose at mid-day, but my head is aching, my hands quivering, and my nerves in a pitiable state.

Who should come round this evening but Wilson. He has just come back from London, where he has lectured, read papers, convened meetings, exposed a medium, conducted a series of experiments on thought transference, entertained Professor Richet of Paris, spent hours gazing into a crystal, and obtained some evidence as to the passage of matter through matter. All this he poured into my ears in a single gust.

"But you!" he cried at last. "You are not looking well. And Miss Penclosa is quite prostrated to-day. How about the experiments?"

"I have abandoned them."

"Tut, tut! Why?''

"The subject seems to me to a dangerous one."

Out came his big brown note-book.

"This is of great interest," said he. "What are your grounds for saying that it is a dangerous one? Please give your facts in chronological order, with approximate dates and names of reliable witnesses with their permanent addresses."'

"First of all," I asked, "would you tell me whether you have collected any cases where the mesmerist has gained a command over the subject and has used it for evil purposes?"

"Dozens!" he cried exultantly. "Crime by suggestion—"

"I don't mean suggestion. I mean where a sudden impulse comes from a person at a distance— an uncontrollable impulse."

"Obsession!" he shrieked, in an ecstasy of delight. "It is the rarest condition. We have eight cases, five well attested. You don't mean to say—"His exultation made him hardly articulate.

"No, I don't," said I. "Good-evening! You will excuse me, but I am not very well to-night." And so at last I got rid of him, still brandishing his pencil and his note-book. My troubles may be bad to bear, but at least it is better to hug them to myself than to have myself exhibited by Wilson, like a freak at a fair. He has lost sight of human beings. Every thing to him is a case and a phenomenon. I will die before I speak to him again upon the matter.

April 12. Yesterday was a blessed day of quiet, and I enjoyed an uneventful night. Wilson's presence is a great consolation. What can the woman do now? Surely, when she has heard me say what I have said, she will conceive the same disgust for me which I have for her. She could not, no, she could not, desire to have a lover who had insulted her so. No, I believe I am free from her love— but how about her hate? Might she not use these powers of hers for revenge? Tut! why should I frighten myself over shadows? She will forget about me, and I shall forget about her, and all will be well.

April 13. My nerves have quite recovered their tone. I really believe that I have conquered the creature. But I must confess to living in some suspense. She is well again, for I hear that she was driving with Mrs. Wilson in the High Street in the afternoon.

April 14. I do wish I could get away from the place altogether. I shall fly to Agatha's side the very day that the term closes. I suppose it is pitiably weak of me, but this woman gets upon my nerves most terribly. I have seen her again, and I have spoken with her.

It was just after lunch, and I was smoking a cigarette in my study, when I heard the step of my servant Murray in the passage. I was languidly conscious that a second step was audible behind, and had hardly troubled myself to speculate who it might be, when suddenly a slight noise brought me out of my chair with my skin creeping with apprehension. I had never particularly observed before what sort of sound the tapping of a crutch was, but my quivering nerves told me that I heard it now in the sharp wooden clack which alternated with the muffled thud of the foot-fall. Another instant and my servant had shown her in.

I did not attempt the usual conventions of society, nor did she. I simply stood with the smouldering cigarette in my hand, and gazed at her. She in her turn looked silently at me, and at her look I remembered how in these very pages I had tried to define the expression of her eyes, whether they were furtive or fierce. To-day they were fierce— coldly and inexorably so.

"Well," said she at last, "are you still of the same mind as when I saw you last?"

"I have always been of the same mind."

"Let us understand each other, Professor Gilroy," said she slowly. "I am not a very safe person to trifle with, as you should realize by now. It was you who asked me to enter into a series of experiments with you, it was you who won my affections, it was you who professed your love for me, it was you who brought me your own photograph with words of affection upon it, and, finally, it was you who on the very same evening thought fit to insult me most outrageously, addressing me as no man has ever dared to speak to me yet. Tell me that hose words came from you in a moment of passion and I am prepared to forget and to forgive them. You did not mean what you said, Austin? You do not really hate me?"

I might have pitied this deformed woman— such a longing for love broke suddenly through the menace of her eyes. But then I thought of what I had gone through, and my heart set like flint.

"If ever you heard me speak of love," said I, "you know very well that it was your voice which spoke, and not mine. The only words of truth which I have ever been able to say to you are those which you heard when last we met."

"I know. Some one has set you against me. It was he!" She tapped with her crutch upon the floor. "Well, you know very well that I could bring you this instant crouching like a spaniel to my feet. You will not find me again in my hour of weakness, when you can insult me with impunity. Have a care what you are doing, Professor Gilroy. You stand in a terrible position. You have not yet realized the hold which I have upon you."

I shrugged my shoulders and turned away.

"Well," said she, after a pause, "'if you despise my love, I must see what can be done with fear. You smile, but the day will come when you will come screaming to me for pardon. Yes, you will grovel on the ground before me, proud as you are, and you will curse the day that ever you turned me from your best friend into your most bitter enemy. Have a care, Professor Gilroy!" I saw a white hand shaking in the air, and a face which was scarcely human, so convulsed was it with passion. An instant later she was gone, and I heard the quick hobble and tap receding down the passage.

But she has left a weight upon my heart. Vague presentiments of coming misfortune lie heavy upon me. I try in vain to persuade myself that these are only words of empty anger. I can remember those relentless eyes too clearly to think so. What shall I do— ah, what shall I do? I am no longer master of my own soul. At any moment this loathsome parasite may creep into me, and then— I must tell some one my hideous secret— I must tell it or go mad. If I had some one to sympathize and advise! Wilson is out of the question. Charles Sadler would understand me only so far as his own experience carries him. Pratt-Haldane! He is a well-balanced man, a man of great common-sense and resource. I will go to him. I will tell him every thing. God grant that he may be able to advise me!

Chapter 4

6.45 P.M. No, it is useless. There is no human help for me; I must fight this out single-handed. Two courses lie before me. I might become this woman's lover. Or I must endure such persecutions as she can inflict upon me. Even if none come, I shall live in a well of apprehension. But she may torture me, she may drive me mad, she may kill me: I will never, never, never give in. What can she inflict which would be worse than the loss of Agatha, and the knowledge that I am a perjured liar, and have forfeited the name of gentleman?

Pratt-Haldane was most amiable, and listened with all politeness to my story. But when I looked at his heavy set features, his slow eyes, and the ponderous study furniture which surrounded him, I could hardly tell him what I had come to say. It was all so substantial, so material. And, besides, what would I myself have said a short month ago if one of my colleagues had come to me with a story of demonic possession? Perhaps I should have been less patient than he was. As it was, he took notes of my statement, asked me how much tea I drank, how many hours I slept, whether I had been overworking much, had I had sudden pains in the head, evil dreams, singing in the ears, flashes before the eyes— all questions which pointed to his belief that brain congestion was at the bottom of my trouble. Finally he dismissed me with a great many platitudes about open-air exercise, and avoidance of nervous excitement. His prescription, which was for chloral and bromide, I rolled up and threw into the gutter.

No, I can look for no help from any human being. If I consult any more, they may put their heads together and I may find myself in an asylum. 1 can but grip my courage with both hands, and pray that an honest man may not be abandoned.

April 15. It is the sweetest spring within the memory of man. So green, so mild, so beautiful! Ah, what a contrast between nature without and my own soul so torn with doubt and terror! It has been an uneventful day, but I know that I am on the edge of an abyss. I know it, and yet I go on with the routine of my life. The one bright spot is that Agatha is happy and well and out of all danger. If this creature had a hand on each of us, what might she not do?

April 16. The woman is ingenious in her torments. She knows how fond I am of my work, and how highly my lectures are thought of. So it is from that point that she now attacks me. It will end, I can see, in my losing my professorship, but I will fight to the finish. She shall not drive me out of it without a struggle.

I was not conscious of any change during my lecture this morning save that for a minute or two I had a dizziness and swimminess which rapidly passed away. On the contrary, I congratulated myself upon having made my subject (the functions of the red corpuscles) both interesting and clear. I was surprised, therefore, when a student came into my laboratory immediately after the lecture, and complained of being puzzled by the discrepancy between my statements and those in the text-books. He showed me his note-book, in which I was reported as having in one portion of the lecture championed the most outrageous and unscientific heresies. Of course I denied it, and declared that he had misunderstood me, but on comparing his notes with those of his companions, it became clear that he was right, and that I really had made some most preposterous statements. Of course I shall explain it away as being the result of a moment of aberration, but I feel only too sure that it will be the first of a series. It is but a month now to the end of the session, and I pray that I may be able to hold out until then.

April 26. Ten days have elapsed since I have had the heart to make any entry in my journal. Why should I record my own humiliation and degradation? I had vowed never to open it again. And yet the force of habit is strong, and here I find myself taking up once more the record of my own dreadful experiences— in much the same spirit in which a suicide has been known to take notes of the effects of the poison which killed him.

Well, the crash which I had foreseen has come— and that no further back than yesterday. The university authorities have taken my lectureship from me. It has been done in the most delicate way, purporting to be a temporary measure to relieve me from the effects of overwork, and to give me the opportunity of recovering my health. None the less, it has been done, and I am no longer Professor Gilroy. The laboratory is still in my charge, but I have little doubt that that also will soon go.

The fact is that my lectures had become the laughing-stock of the university. My class was crowded with students who came to see and hear what the eccentric professor would do or say next. I cannot go into the detail of my humiliation. Oh, that devilish woman! There is no depth of buffoonery and imbecility to which she has not forced me. I would begin my lecture clearly and well, but always with the sense of a coming eclipse. Then as I felt the influence I would struggle against it, striving with clenched hands and beads of sweat upon my brow to get the better of it, while the students, hearing my incoherent words and watching my contortions, would roar with laughter at the antics of their professor. And then, when she had once fairly mastered me, out would come the most outrageous things— silly jokes, sentiments as though I were proposing a toast, snatches of ballads, personal abuse even against some member of my class. And then in a moment my brain would clear again, and my lecture would proceed decorously to the end. No wonder that my conduct has been the talk of the colleges. No wonder that the University Senate has been compelled to take official notice of such a scandal. Oh, that devilish woman!

And the most dreadful part of it all is my own loneliness. Here I sit in a commonplace English bow-window, looking out upon a commonplace English street with its garish 'buses and its lounging policeman, and behind me there hangs a shadow which is out of all keeping with the age and place. In the home of knowledge I am weighed down and tortured by a power of science knows nothing. No magistrate would listen to me. No paper would discuss my case. No doctor would believe my symptoms. My own most intimate friends would only look upon it as a sign of brain derangement. I am out of all touch with my kind. Oh, that devilish woman! Let her have a care! She may push me too far. When the law cannot help a man, he may make a law for himself.

She met me in the High Street yesterday evening and spoke to me. It was as well for her, perhaps, that it was not between the hedges of a lonely country road. She asked me with her cold smile whether I had been chastened yet. I did not deign to answer her. "We must try another turn of the screw," said she. Have a care, my lady, have a care! I had her at my mercy once. Perhaps another chance may come.

April 28. The suspension of my lectureship has had the effect also of taking away her means of annoying me, and so I have enjoyed two blessed days of peace. After all, there is no reason to despair. Sympathy pours in to me from all sides, and every one agrees that it is my devotion to science and the arduous nature of my researches which have shaken my nervous system. I have had the kindest message from the council advising me to travel abroad, and expressing the confident hope that I may be able to resume all my duties by the beginning of the summer term. Nothing could be more flattering than their allusions to my career and to my services to the university. It is only in misfortune that one can test one's own popularity. This creature may weary of tormenting me, and then all may yet be well. May God grant it!

April 29. Our sleepy little town has had a small sensation. The only knowledge of crime which we ever have is when a rowdy undergraduate breaks a few lamps or comes to blows with a policeman. Last night, however, there was an attempt made to break into the branch of the Bank of England, and we are all in a flutter in consequence.

Parkenson, the manager, is an intimate friend of mine, and I found him very much excited when I walked round there after breakfast. Had the thieves broken into the counting-house, they would still have had the safes to reckon with, so that the defence was considerably stronger than the attack. Indeed, the latter does not appear to have ever been very formidable. Two of the lower windows have marks as if a chisel or some such instrument had been pushed under them to force them open. The police should have a good clue, for the wood-work had been done with green paint only the day before, and from the smears it is evident that some of it has found its way on to the criminal's hands or clothes.

4.30 P.M. Ah, that accursed woman! That thrice accursed woman! Never mind! She shall not beat me! No, she shall not! But, oh, the she-devil! She has taken my professorship. Now she would take my honor. Is there nothing I can do against her, nothing save— Ah, but, hard pushed as I am, I cannot bring myself to think of that!

It was about an hour ago that I went into my bedroom, and was brushing my hair before the glass, when suddenly my eyes lit upon something which left me so sick and cold that I sat down upon the edge of the bed and began to cry. It is many a long year since I shed tears, but all my nerve was gone, and I could but sob and sob in impotent grief and anger. There was my house jacket, the coat I usually wear after dinner, hanging on its peg by the wardrobe, with the right sleeve thickly crusted from wrist to elbow with daubs of green paint.

So this was what she meant by another turn of the screw! She had made a public imbecile of me. Now she would brand me as a Criminal. This time she has failed. But how about the next? I dare not think of it— and of Agatha and my poor old mother! I wish that I were dead!

Yes, this is the other turn of the screw. And this is also what she meant, no doubt, when she said that I had not realized yet the power she has over me. I look back at my account of my conversation with her, and I see how she declared that with a slight exertion of her will her subject would be conscious, and with a stronger one unconscious. Last night I was unconscious. I could have sworn that I slept soundly in my bed without so much as a dream. And yet those stains tell me that I dressed, made my way out, attempted to open the bank windows, and returned. Was I observed? Is it possible that some one saw me do it and followed me home? Ah, what a hell my life has become! I have no peace, no rest. But my patience is nearing its end.

10 P.M. I have cleaned my coat with turpentine. I do not think that any one could have seen me. It was with my screw-driver that I made the marks. I found it all crusted with paint, and I have cleaned it. My head aches as if it would burst, and I have taken five grains of antipyrine. If it were not for Agatha, I should have taken fifty and had an end of it.

May 3. Three quiet days. This hell fiend is like a cat with a mouse. She lets me loose only to pounce upon me again. I am never so frightened as when every thing is still. My physical state is deplorable— perpetual hiccough and ptosis of the left eyelid.

I have heard from the Mardens that they will be back the day after tomorrow. I do not know whether I am glad or sorry. They were safe in London. Once here they may be drawn into the miserable network in which I am myself struggling. And I must tell them of it. I cannot marry Agatha so long as I know that I am not responsible for my own actions. Yes, I must tell them, even if it brings every thing to an end between us.

To-night is the university ball, and I must go. God knows I never felt less in the humor for festivity, but I must not have it said that I am unfit to appear in public. If I am seen there, and have speech with some of the elders of the university it will go a long way toward showing them that it would be unjust to take my chair away from me.

11.30 P.M. I have been to the ball. Charles Sadler and I went together, but I have come away before him. I shall wait up for him, however, for, indeed, I fear to go to sleep these nights. He is a cheery, practical fellow, and a chat with him will steady my nerves. On the whole, the evening was a great success. I talked to every one who has influence, and I think that I made them realize that my chair is not vacant quite yet. The creature was at the ball— unable to dance, of course, but sitting with Mrs. Wilson. Again and again her eyes rested upon me. They were almost the last things I saw before I left the room. Once, as I sat sideways to her, I watched her, and saw that her gaze was following some one else. It was Sadler, who was dancing at the time with the second Miss Thurston. To judge by her expression, it is well for him that he is not in her grip as I am. He does not know the escape he has had. I think I hear his step in the street now, and I will go down and let him in. If he will—

May 4. Why did I break off in this way last night? I never went down stairs, after all— at least, I have no recollection of doing so. But, on the other hand, I cannot remember going to bed. One of my hands is greatly swollen this morning, and yet I have no remembrance of injuring it yesterday. Otherwise, I am feeling all the better for last night's festivity. But I cannot understand how it is that I did not meet Charles Sadler when I so fully intended to do so. Is it possible— My God, it is only too probable! Has she been leading me some devil's dance again? I will go down to Sadler and ask him.

Mid-day. The thing has come to a crisis. My life is not worth living. But, if I am to die, then she shall come also. I will not leave her behind, to drive some other man mad as she has me. No, I have come to the limit of my endurance. She has made me as desperate and dangerous a man as walks the earth. God knows I have never had the heart to hurt a fly, and yet, if I had my hands now upon that woman, she should never leave this room alive. I shall see her this very day, and she shall learn what she has to expect from me.

I went to Sadler and found him, to my surprise, in bed. As I entered he sat up and turned a face toward me which sickened me as I looked at it.

"Why, Sadler, what has happened?" I cried, but my heart turned cold as I said it.

"Gilroy," he answered, mumbling with his swollen lips, "'I have for some weeks been under the impression that you area madman. Now I know it, and that you are a dangerous one as well. If it were not that I am unwilling to make a scandal in the college, you would now be in the hands of the police."

'Do you mean—" I cried.

"I mean that as I opened the door last night you rushed out upon me, struck me with both your fists in the face, knocked me down, kicked me furiously in the side, and left me lying almost unconscious in the street. Look at your own hand bearing witness against you"'

Yes, there it was, puffed up, with sponge-like knuckles, as after some terrific blow. What could I do? Though he put me down as a madman, I must tell him all. I sat by his bed and went over all my troubles from the beginning. I poured them out with quivering hands and burning words which might have carried conviction to the most sceptical. "She hates you and she hates me!" I cried. "She revenged herself last night on both of us at once. She saw me leave the ball, and she must have seen you also. She knew how long it would take you to reach home. Then she had but to use her wicked will. Ah, your bruised face is a small thing beside by bruised soul!"

He was struck by my story. That was evident. "Yes, yes, she watched me out of the room," he muttered. "She is capable of it. But is it possible that she has really reduced you to this? What do you intend to do?"

"To stop it!" I cried. "I am perfectly desperate; I shall give her fair warning to-day, and the next time will be the last."

"Do nothing rash," said he.

"Rash!" I cried. "The only rash thing is that I should postpone it another hour." With that I rushed to my room, and here I am on the eve of what may be the great crisis of my life. I shall start at once. I have gained one thing today, for I have made one man, at least, realize the truth of this monstrous experience of mine. And, if the worst should happen, this diary remains as a proof of the goad that has driven me.

Evening. When I came to Wilson's, I was shown up, and found that he was sitting with Miss Penclosa. For half an hour I had to endure his fussy talk about his recent research into the exact nature of the spiritualistic rap, while the creature and I sat in silence looking across the room at each other. I read a sinister amusement in her eyes, and she must have seen hatred and menace in mine. I had almost despaired of having speech with her when he was called from the room, and we were left for a few moments together.

"Well, Professor Gilroy— or is it Mr. Gilroy?'' said she, with that bitter smile of hers. "How is your friend Mr. Charles Sadler after the ball?''

"You fiend!" I cried. "You have come to the end of your tricks now. I will have no more of them. Listen to what I say." I strode across and shook her roughly by the shoulder. "As sure as there is a God in heaven, I swear that if you try another of your deviltries upon me, I will have your life for it. Come what may, I will have your life. I have come to the end of what a man can endure."

"Accounts are not quite settled between us," said she, with a passion that equalled my own. "I can love, and I can hate. You had your choice. You chose to spurn the first; now you must test the other. It will take a little more to break your spirit, I see, but broken it shall be. Miss Marden comes back to-morrow, as I understand."

'What has that to do with you?" I cried. "It is a pollution that you should dare even to think of her. If I thought that you would harm her—"

She was frightened, I could see, though she tried to brazen it out. She read the black thought in my mind, and cowered away from me.

"She is fortunate in having such a champion," said she. "He actually dares to threaten a lonely woman. I must really congratulate Miss Marden upon her protector."

The words were bitter, but the voice and manner were more acid still.

"There is no use talking," said I. "I only came here to tell you,— and to tell you most solemnly,— that your next outrage upon me will be your last." With that, as I heard Wilson's step upon the stair, I walked from the room. Ay, she may look venomous and deadly, but, for all that, she is beginning to see now that she has as much to fear from me as I can have from her. Murder! It has an ugly sound. But you don't talk of murdering a snake or of murdering a tiger. Let her have a care now.

May 5. I met Agatha and her mother at the station at eleven o'clock. She is looking so bright, so happy, so beautiful. And she was so overjoyed to see me. What have I done to deserve such love? I went back home with them, and we lunched together. All the troubles seem in a moment to have been shredded back from my life. She tells me that I am looking pale and worried and ill. The dear child puts it down to my loneliness and the perfunctory attentions of a housekeeper. I pray that she may never know the truth! May the shadow, if shadow there must be, lie ever black across my life and leave hers in the sunshine. I have just come back from them, feeling a new man. With her by my side I think that I could show a bold face to any thing which life might send.

5 P.M. Now, let me try to be accurate. Let me try to say exactly how it occurred. It is fresh in my mind, and I can set it down correctly, though it is not likely t at the time will ever come when I shall forget the doings of to-day.

I had returned from the Mardens' after lunch, and was cutting some microscopic sections in my freezing microtome, when in an instant I lost consciousness in the sudden hateful fashion which has become only too familiar to me of late.

When my senses came back to me I was sitting in a small chamber, very different from the one in which I had been working. It was cosy and bright, with chintz-covered settees, colored hangings, and a thousand pretty little trifles upon the wall. A small ornamental clock ticked in front of me, and the hands pointed to half-past three. It was all quite familiar to me, and yet I stared about for a moment in a half-dazed way until my eyes fell upon a cabinet photograph of myself upon the top of the piano. On the other side stood one of Mrs. Marden. Then, of course, I remembered where I was. It was Agatha's boudoir.

But how came I there, and what did I want? A horrible sinking came to my heart. Had I been sent here on some devilish errand? Had that errand already been done? Surely it must; otherwise, why should I be allowed to come back to consciousness? Oh, the agony of that moment! What had I done? I sprang to my feet in my despair, and as I did so a small glass bottle fell from my knees on to the carpet.

It was unbroken, and I picked it up. Outside was written "Sulphuric Acid. Fort." When I drew the round glass stopper, a thick fume rose slowly up, and a pungent, choking smell pervaded the room. I recognized it as one which I kept for chemical testing in my chambers. But why had I brought a bottle of vitriol into Agatha's chamber? Was it not this thick, reeking liquid with which jealous women had been known to mar the beauty of their rivals? My heart stood still as I held the bottle to the light. Thank God, it was full! No mischief had been done as yet. But had Agatha come in a minute sooner, was it not certain that the hellish parasite within me would have dashed the stuff into her— Ah, it will not bear to be thought of! But it must have been for that. Why else should I have brought it? At the thought of what I might have done my worn nerves broke down, and I sat shivering and twitching, the pitiable wreck of a man.

It was the sound of Agatha's voice and the rustle of her dress which restored me. I looked up, and saw her blue eyes, so full of tenderness and pity, gazing down at me.

"We must take you away to the country, Austin," she said. "You want rest and quiet. You look wretchedly ill."

"Oh, it is nothing!"' said I, trying to smile. "It was only a momentary weakness. I am all right again now."

"I am so sorry to keep you waiting. Poor boy, you must have been here quite half an hour! The vicar was in the drawing-room, and, as I knew that you did not care for him, I thought it better that Jane should show you up here. I thought the man would never go!"

"Thank God he stayed! Thank God he stayed!" I cried hysterically.

"Why, what is the matter with you, Austin?" she asked, holding my arm as I staggered up from the chair. "Why are you glad that the vicar stayed? And what is this little bottle in your hand?"

"Nothing," I cried, thrusting it into my pocket. "But I must go. I have something important to do."

''How stern you look, Austin! I have never seen your face like that. You are angry?"'

'"Yes, I am angry."

"But not with me?"

"No, no, my darling! You would not understand."

"But you have not told me why you came."

"I came to ask you whether you would always love me— no matter what I did, or what shadow might fall on my name. Would you believe in me and trust me however black appearances might be against me?''

"You know that I would, Austin."

"Yes, I know that you would. What I do I shall do for you. I am driven to it. There is no other way out, my darling!" I kissed her and rushed from the room.

The time for indecision was at an end. As long as the creature threatened my own prospects and my honor there might be a question as to what I should do. But now, when Agatha— my innocent Agatha— was endangered, my duty lay before me like a turnpike road. I had no weapon, but I never paused for that. What weapon should I need, when I felt every muscle quivering with the strength of a frenzied man? I ran through the streets, so set upon what I had to do that I was only dimly conscious of the faces of friends whom I met— dimly conscious also that Professor Wilson met me, running with equal precipitance in the opposite direction. Breathless but resolute I reached the house and rang the bell. A white-cheeked maid opened the door, and turned whiter yet when she saw the face that looked in at her.

"Show me up at once to Miss Penclosa,"' I demanded.

"Sir," she gasped, ''Miss Penclosa died this afternoon at half-past three!"

_____________

12: Rats

F. A. M. Webster

(Writing as "Michael Annesley")

1886-1949

Anthology At Dead of Night, Selwyn & Blount, 1931

At Dead of Night was sixth of a series of 11 horror anthologies edited by Christine Campbell Thompson between 1925 and 1935. Webster's full name was Frederick Annesley Michael Webster.

THE LIGHT of a camp-fire revealed a pleasant scene. Two big, white caravans and three cars stood parked, up to their hubs in lush meadow grass. Behind lay the hills and the long white road, in front was a swiftly-flowing stream in which the caravaners had washed the dust of the road from their bodies at the end of a long hot day.

Mike Halliday lit his pipe and uttered a sigh of sheer satisfaction, as he lay back in a battered old Rorkee chair. A giant of a man, home from East Africa on leave, this was the sort of life he knew and loved. From the water's edge a chorus of frogs croaked discordantly; upon the steps of a caravan Mary Halliday sat, and, in her arms, lay her year-old son, Hector, kicking and crooning contentedly as, with solemn eyes, he regarded a big yellow moon, across which a wrack of black-bellied clouds raced continually.

Sir Edward Fanshawe, flannel-clad and tidy, emerged from his tent, a sardonic smile upon his features as his eyes encountered the spectacle of his old school-friend, whose sun-bleached khaki-shorts and bush-blouse furnished a sharp contrast to his own immaculate attire. Lady Fanshawe peered out over her husband's shoulder.

"Rain before morning, Mike," suggested the baronet, with a glance for the cloud-obscured moon. "I fancy you'll be sorry you did not bring some thicker clothing."

"I love my old khaki and the freedom of movement it gives me," Mike answered, stretching his limbs. "There's no adventurous risk in England, but one likes to 'dress the part'."

"Even to the hunting-knife," Sir Edward chuckled. "Do you carry a revolver as well?"

Mike's cheeks flushed, as his hand stole beneath the skirt of his bush-blouse, which hid a small holster, buckled to his belt.

"It's sheer force of habit," he apologized.

"Do be careful, Mr. Halliday," interposed Lady Fanshawe nervously, "I am scared to death of firearms."

"Jolly useful things where I come from," growled Mike, "and, even in England, well— one never knows."

A squeak and a scurry in the rushes, close at hand, attracted their attention, and little Hector ceased staring at the moon to listen.

"Rats, that's another sign of bad weather," pronounced Mike Halliday indifferently.

"Rats, how horrible! I simply loathe rats!" exclaimed Lady Fanshawe, with difficulty repressing a scream.

Mary smiled quietly. The years she had spent with her husband, far beyond the fringes of civilization, had driven out fear. Baby Hector continued to croon contentedly to himself.

Soon after midnight the storm burst. Mike Halliday was awakened by the sound of the rain lashing down on to the roof of his canvas lean-to and, for some moments, lay listening to the exultant croaking of the frogs, so loud that it rose above the fury of the storm. Outside, in the darkness, the river bank was alive with voles, and in every old house in Burford, half a mile away, rats were stirring; for rodents have a peculiar prescience where bad weather is concerned.

Striking camp the next morning was not a pleasant business. Merciless rain had turned the beauty of the lush-green meadow into a veritable quagmire; there were wet tents and sodden bedding to be stored away; Sir Edward's once immaculate flannels clung to his long thin limbs, and Lady Fanshawe never ceased grumbling. Only Mike and Mary remained cheerful, although they were as completely drenched as their companions. Baby Hector howled dismally. The poor mite of humanity, born in tropical sunshine, was not enjoying his first taste of an English summer.

By dint of much man-handling, and with the aid of half a dozen farm labourers, the cars and caravans were at last disinterred from the now muddy field and got on to the highway. Half-way up the hill through Burford town, however, Mike Halliday's car jibbed at the weight of the caravan behind it and could not be moved until further manual aid was enlisted.

"Commend me to England for a happy holiday," he growled, as, flopping down into the pool of water which filled me driving-seat, he took the road to Gloucester.

"Perhaps the weather will break presently," said Mary, seeking, hopefully, to find grounds for offering consolation to her very cold and wet husband.

But the weather did not break. All day long the wind-driven rain lashed at the windows and side-curtains of the caravans and cars. A cold lunch was prepared and eaten in damp discomfort, and did nothing to raise the spirits of the disgruntled wayfarers. Mike and Mary were dourly determined to go on. Sir Edward was openly doubtful about the wisdom of doing so, and Lady Fanshawe, totally unaccustomed to any form of hardship, was almost tearful. Baby Hector continued to howl dismally and, down in the valleys, where the rivers already were overflowing their banks, legions of rats, storm-wise in their generation, were beginning to desert their ancient homes, in the hope of finding safer and drier quarters.

"I vote that we stop at the next town and put up for the night at a decent hotel," Sir Edward suggested diffidently.

"That be damned for a tale," Mike answered. "If you come caravanning, you've got to take the rough with the smooth, else where's the pleasure in looking back upon the hardships afterwards?"

"I should prefer a little civilized, Christian comfort at the moment," said Lady Fanshawe tartly, as she sought to straighten her sodden and dishevelled hair.

"Right-o!" answered Mike, seeking a satisfactory compromise, "we'll push on until we find a dry barn to sleep in. How will that do?"

Sir Edward and his wife agreed grudgingly, and the caravans proceeded on their way down the wet, white road. Meantime, the dusk was falling and, along field-paths and drains, up the declivity of muddy by-ways and even along the edges of main roads, thousands upon thousands of bedraggled rodents were making their way toward the heights, fleeing quietly and swiftly from the flood-waters that were rising behind them.

At Berkeley the caravaners found the sort of place they were seeking, an ancient, grey-stone hay bam standing in its own yard. The ground surrounding the building was waterlogged already, but the bam itself was delightfully dry and fragrant. And into the bam, by dint of a good deal of manoeuvring, they managed to back and manhandle both caravans. The cars were, perforce, left out in the open, which meant that the electric installation run from the engines could not be used. Hurricane lanterns proved but a poor substitute, and no cooking on Primus stoves was possible on account of the surrounding hay.

But, despite the fact that their supper had to come out of tins, and that everything was wet in the Hallidays' caravan, which had sprung a leak in several places, the bam was, at least, dry and warm, so that the whole party felt decidedly more cheerful as they settled down.

After supper Lady Fanshawe, less thoughtful than Mary, shook the crumbs from the table out on to the floor of the bam. A moment later a big brown rat appeared to gamer this unexpected harvest. Like a flash of lightning, Pongo, Michael Halliday's Sealyham terrier, shot out of the caravan and made short work of the intruder.

"Oh, a rat! a rat!" squealed Mona Fanshawe. "For Heaven's sake let's get out of this place. I'm simply terrified of the beastly things."

"You might well be scared if we were in Africa," grinned Mike, "for, where there are rats, there are also snakes— in Africa— eh, Mary?"

His wife shuddered, for her husband's words had raised an unpleasantly vivid picture of life as she had lived it in an African grass hut. None the less her voice was steady as she answered:

"Pongo will look after any vermin that are likely to trouble us in this place. Won't you, old fellow?"

And the dog, hearing his name, lifted his gory muzzle and wagged his stump of a tail.

"Well, what are we going to do about sleeping?" interrupted Sir Edward, anxious to turn his wife's mind to other matters, and added: "I suppose, Mike, that you and I had better put up our camp beds among the hay, and then Mary and Mona can have our caravan."

"Do you think Hector will disturb you. Lady Fanshawe?" asked Mary doubtfully.

"Not a bit, my dear."

"Just listen to the rain, b'gad!" exclaimed Sir Edward. "I bet the yard will be knee deep in water by the morning. We're right under the shoulder of the hill and it looked like a water-shed when I shut the doors."

"Please goodness the magnetos on the cars won't be flooded when we want to start," Mike answered.

"Do you think there are many rats in this place?" Sir Edward queried, when the womenfolk had turned in.

"There are always a few in every bam," his friend answered, "but they've probably cleared out already, or will keep to their holes. Pongo has been busy ratting most of the evening. Good night."

"Good night," came the answer.

And down the narrow, manure-covered lane which led to the grey bam, a living stream came flowing, which looked, in the fitful light of the moon, like a black tidal wave. It was accompanied by eerie squeaks and angry twitterings and, so great was the pressure of that flitting, every moment some rodent, weaker than his fellows, was squeezed up on to the surface of the slowly-moving tide of rats.

Soon, save for the thresh of the rain upon the slate roof and the howling of the wind, interspersed by the snap and crackle of falling branches, silence reigned supreme. But still the living tide of rats flowed on towards the bam.

Once, during the night, Michael Halliday started up on his bed, startled from sleep by a long-drawn-out, slithering "Whoosh", which culminated in a dull thud and seemed to shake the building. He leaned over and shook his sleeping companion.

"Did you hear anything, Ted?" he queried.

"No, what was it?"

"I thought I heard a thud and that the building shook."

"Nonsense, man, that tinned lobster has given you indigestion."

Michael Halliday, half-convinced that he had been dreaming, lay down and went to sleep again. Had he but known it, a great slice of the hill overshadowing the barn, washed from its ancient rock foundation, had slid down until stopped by the wall and door of the bam, which it had closed most effectually.

And still the black tide of rats, water-driven from the valleys, flowed on, seeking refuge from the storm.

Towards dawn the first fringes of the flitting flowed about the bam. The fact that the only door was blocked by a solid, immovable barrier of earth presented nothing worse than a temporary hindrance to them; there were plenty of holes and crannies through which so small a creature as a rat could enter. None the less, no more than one or two could find shelter from the storm immediately; and, indeed, the pressure of the rodents whose mass overflowed the yard and still stretched far back up the muddy lane, tended to frustrate the efforts of the first wave to effect an entry.

The Sealyham, even in his sleep, caught the scent of his hereditary enemies and awoke instantly to furious, barking life. The dog was chained to his master's bed and his sudden spring forward awakened Michael.

"Lie down and shut up, you old fool," he admonished, for he was annoyed at being awakened. The dog sank down, cowed by the anger in his master's voice.

Halliday fell once more into an uneasy sleep, for the dog lay trembling beside him, with half-suppressed growls rumbling continually deep down in his chest. The poor brute, in fact, was hard put to it to restrain his desire to bark, for the rats were pouring in faster and faster, and now the sleeping caravaners were, literally, ringed in by beady, watching eyes that glowed redly.

Then "something" fell with a dull "plop" from the roof ventilator to the floor of the caravan; a second and a third thud followed. Little Hector screamed as something scurried across his body, and instantly the two women in the caravan awakened.

Mary saw the red eyes first and she screamed and screamed again. There were dozens of these pin-points in the caravan already, while, in the barn itself, indescribable squeakings and rustlings in the hay had broken out immediately her scream was heard.

The dog started barking again, Mike Halliday sprang up with a savage oath, and Sir Edward awakened trembling. Both women were screaming now, the child was crying hysterically, the squeaking and squealing of the rats grew louder, over all rose the shrieking of the gale, backed up by the dull, incessant bourdon of the falling rain.

Then the man from overseas saw the circle of evil red eyes that was closing in upon them— slowly, inch by stealthy inch.

"The door, Ted," he shouted. "Get that damned door open. By God! the place is full of rats!"

For an instant the bright beam of an electric torch stabbed through the darkness. A solid black and brown wall of rats was creeping relentlessly forward from every angle of the building. The creatures in front strove frantically to retreat, as the white light focused and blinded their eyes; but there were millions of rats in that flitting. More and more rats poured into the bam every instant, fighting furiously to escape from the lashing rain and the rising water outside, so that sheer weight of numbers from the back drove the front ranks pitilessly forward.

Mike's hand dived beneath his pillow, and the staccato chatter of the automatic pistol he snatched up let pandemonium loose, for dozens of bats that lived among the dusty roof's beams overhead were disturbed and fluttered wildly to and fro.

Lady Fanshawe, leaping from the caravan, added maniacal screams and hysterical laughter to the general uproar when a bat became entangled in her hair and she felt her bare feet treading upon living rats, which bit cruelly into her bare ankles with needle-sharp teeth.

Mary, with her son in her arms, stood stock still, unable to move a step towards her husband, for she was literally engulfed to the knees by the tide of rodents. Then Pongo broke his lead and leapt to the aid of his mistress. In a moment she was free and moving towards Michael. But that was the end of the unfortunate dog. The rats literally flowed over him, squeaking, worrying, biting, and, within a minute, not a fragment, beyond his bones, was left.

"The door, why the hell don't you open the door, Ted?" Michael shouted.

"I can't, it's stuck fast," the answer was gasped back.

Then, in a rising scream: ''Oh, God! I'm up to my waist in rats. I'm being eaten alive!"

Again Mike's hand foraged beneath his pillow, found a new clip and slipped it into the butt of his automatic. And, if the eight shots availed not at all against the rats, the quick series of explosions did, at least, serve to awaken a number of farm-hands and villagers, living in cottages close at hand.

They came to the rick-yard, armed with lanterns, and fled away again in search of dogs and sticks and shotguns, for they had seen two things: firstly, that the yard was literally carpeted with the remains of a great flitting of rats, such a flitting as men had never known before; and, secondly, that a low hill, standing in the yard, had subsided, owing to the rain, completely blocking the only road of escape for the unfortunate caravaners who were thus imprisoned in the bam.

By this time the screams of the baronet had given place to silence, for the rats had pulled him down and he would scream no more. Lady Fanshawe, fainting from sheer terror, had felt her knees sag and had sunk into that living black tide from which there could be no rescue.

But Mike Halliday, big game hunter and explorer, who had faced a hundred perils clear-eyed and fearless in his time, put out all his mighty strength and, heaving up his whole light bedstead, literally flailed his way to a spot where he could get his back against a wall, with space enough behind him for Mary to crouch in, holding Hector.

The light of his torch was growing dim now, his last clip of cartridges was finished, but he wedged the base of his torch into a crevice of the wall, twisted the legs of his broken bed into a serviceable weapon for his great hands and fought on so long as the light lasted.

Meanwhile, the men outside had purged the yard, and willing hands were digging frantically to clear the door, while shouts of encouragement came to the ears of the man who was fighting grimly for his own life and the lives of his wife and child.

Already a mat of dead rodents lay deep about his feet, but, ever and ever, as he fought, fresh rats swarmed over the corpses of their kind to attack him. Rats sprang at him from either side and even dropped from the roof and walls on to his limbs, until there was hardly an inch of the man that was not bleeding.

Then, in ones and twos at first, and then in dozens, they stole past him, as his strength began to fail.

Mary knew their case was hopeless and made no attempt to fight. This brave woman crouched down, with her body covering her child, and let the foul brutes work their will upon her. The quiet fortitude of that mother is something to marvel at. Long before her husband was finished, the thin pyjamas were literally eaten from her body, and then tiny, razor-sharp teeth began nibbling tentatively at her living flesh. The temptation to scream, to kick and strike, anything to drive away that awful agony and the loathsome touch of small, furry bodies, was almost irresistible. But Mary knew that any overt act upon her part would bring the whole swarm of the rats surging over her. And so she endured the last, utmost limit of agony in silence and stillness. For already the heavy blows of axe-strokes were falling upon the door, which the caravaners' own hands had barred that night upon the inside, and every second that she endured brought nearer the fulfilment of her hope that Hector might be saved unharmed, for, covered as he was by his mother's body, the child had, as yet, received no injury.

But rats are swift workers. The blood, flowing freely from the woman's many wounds, the red "meat" they had already eaten, inflamed, to the last degree, their carnivorous passions, while the smell of blood set the rear-most ranks, that, as yet, had had no share in the fearful feast, surging forward; and, before the great double doors were beaten in, the last shred of that once beautiful woman and most faithful mother, Mary Halliday, had disappeared.

And the child? The rats had fed red, too, upon his little body when the eager rescuers broke in, and already the flitting was fading away, as such comings do mysteriously pass, through crack and cranny and crevice; and, outside, men killed rats until their arms ached from wrist to shoulder with striking. But still the noxious creatures fled away, leaving behind them no trace of the victims they had slain, save little heaps of bones, two deserted caravans, and a broken camp bedstead.

At the coming of the dawn the rain ceased and the sun shone out, but all was gloom in Berkeley. And, when the Coroner had finished his inquiries, the farmer bade his men pull down the grey bam, stone by stone, and bum the hay. For, as he said, after such a happening the place, if it was allowed to stand, must be for ever after both haunted and accursed.

_________________

13: The Wire That Wasn't Cut

F. Raymond Brewster

fl. 1910s-20s

Argosy June 1911

I WAS sitting at the assistant manager's desk, idly picking up bits of conversation on the various lines, when the first report of trouble floated in. The trouble itself was not of a serious nature, but it came at an inconvenient time, and led me into a situation that was perilous indeed.

Nichols, the assistant manager, was at a long table nearby, deeply engrossed in a report to headquarters. The usual buzz of voices which is so much a part of a busy telephone exchange during the day was missing, for, in the early evening these great nerve-centers of the large cities simmer down to a calm.

On this particular evening in June it was unusually quiet. The busy evening hour of social conversations had not begun. and I was growing a bit lonesome.

A tiny lamp flashed in the monitor-box, and the buzz of the signal dispelled the lonesome feeling.

" Manager's office," I broke in, throwing the key which picked up the line indicated by the lamp.

A feminine voice responded. "My telephone is out of order, and I want it fixed right away," came over the wire.

"What is your number?" I asked.

"Four five six, Main," the voice answered.

I jotted it down.

"And your address?" I questioned.

"Forty four Willis Avenue," was the reply.

I jotted that down, too, mentally noting that it was in a fashionable neighborhood in the southern part of the city.

"We can't get a man there to-night, madam, but— "

"You must!" the voice broke in. "My husband is out of town, and I simply cannot be here alone at night without the use of my telephone."

I tried diplomatically to put off the job until the next morning, but the woman at the other end was insistent.

"We'll do the best we can, madam," I told her finally. 'We'll have a man there within an hour."

"Thank you," she said, and the signal light faded.

"Nichols," I spoke up, distracting the assistant manager's attention from his report, "I've a chance to get out in the air. Can't you get Miss Nelson to take care of the desk?"

"Sure thing," Nichols replied readily. "Thanks for staying as long as you did."

Miss Nelson, who took my place, was the night chief operator, and she was a wonderfully pretty girl. I had stayed more than once beyond office hours so that I might see Miss Nelson and help her with telegraphy, which she was studying.

Before coming East to the telephone company, I had entered the telegraph service in the West when a youngster, and it was like the greeting of an old friend to hear the responsive "click-click" of the key under my finger.

Although I missed the occasional thrill of the telegraph service, I was not confined to routine work. The company sent me about from place to place, wherever a new switchboard was cut into service, and I was not in one place more than six months.

The "cut-over" of the new board at Newark had been made the previous night, and minor troubles and kinks had been straightened out the following day.

I assigned myself to the case just reported, but little did I know that it was destined to lead me into a situation that was so full of danger.

Darkness was rapidly enveloping the city, and the street-lights were beginning to cast long shadows on belated workers. It was an ideal evening, and I was glad of the opportunity to get out in the air. My pipe added no small drop to my delight.

I decided to walk to the seat of the trouble, for, although the trolley might be a little quicker, it reached my destination by such a circuitous route that the saving

in time would be very small. Besides, smoking was not permitted on the street cars.

When I rang the proper bell in the vestibule of the apartment house at 44 Wills Avenue, I was immediately shown to the library in which the telephone was located. I was not even asked to show my employee's badge of identification. Thus do thieves prosper.

The usual tests failed to reveal a spark of life, and an examination of the connections and visible wiring was without result. The instrument was positively dead.

The janitor showed me where the wires came into the house from the distributing pole on the corner, and I carefully examined all the wiring in the basement, but could not locate the trouble.  I pierced the wire with the clasps of my test-set, a combination receiver and transmitter, and listened for a response from the operator.

The wire was dead. The trouble was outside, somewhere between the house and the central office, a rather indefinite location.

The nervous woman who would not be without telephone service overnight, refused to be reconciled to a postponement of the search until morning.

"One of your own men cut the wire this afternoon," she said acridly, "and I don't propose to suffer for his blunder."

"One of our own men?" I repeated.

"Yes," she insisted. "I saw him walking along Willis Avenue trying to follow one of the wires with his eyes. He climbed the pole on the corner and apparently cut one of the wires and then disappeared. Soon after I had occasion to use my telephone and found it out of order. He cut the wrong wire."

I knew that it would be a dangerous task to climb the pole at night, but I also knew that it would be useless to try to convince the subscriber that the line had not been cut by one of the company's men.

I was really puzzled, but when I left the house it was with a promise to open the line that night. There was only one explanation of the cut line, and I revolved it in my mind as I climbed the tall pole on the corner.

I knew that a telephone man would never try to follow a line with his eyes for any distance. The cut had not been made in the service of the company.

I was glad when the working platform at the top of the pole was safely reached, for the changing shadows cast by the arc light on the copper confused me, and several times I nearly missed my footing on the narrow block steps. bolted to the pole.

Anticipating the task before me, I had left my kit at 44, and only brought the necessary tools and a bit of copper wire with a strip of insulating tape. In my bag I had found the stump of a candle, and this shed an uncertain light on the network of wires which centered at this pole.

I remembered that the woman at 44 had seen the man walking along Willis Avenue from the west, so I gave these wires my first attention. From that direction there were only five lines attached to the pole, and it was only the work of a minute to find the break.

The cut was a clean one, but the man responsible for it was clever enough to sever only one wire of the pair, thus preventing it from dangling in the street.

As I scraped the severed ends clean of the insulation, and twisted on the small piece of copper wire and covered it with tape, I could see the white, upturned faces and shadowy forms of a group of onlookers gathered below, evidently attracted, like moths, by the flickering candle-flame.

In the darkness it was impossible to make a permanent splice, and when this temporary connection was completed I descended the pole, and again entered the house at 44, resolving to complete the job next morning.

A test showed the line working satisfactorily, and the nervous woman readily granted me permission to leave my toolkit over night.

I got Nichols on the wire, and he gave me a list of the addresses where the other four instruments were located whose wires reached the distributing pole from the west on Willis Avenue.

"Watch for possible developments on those four lines," I told Nichols.

The fearless spirit developed in the Western telegraph service asserted itself, and I hurried out, not knowing that the real trouble was yet to come.

Contrasted with the busy social season, Willis Avenue was quiet and almost deserted.

Most of the darkened houses were set well back from the street, and they loomed up like huge black monuments against the glare of the lights in the distant center of the city.

The first on the list was still occupied, but the next was darkened and closely boarded up for the summer.

I walked up the gravel driveway, avoiding the noisy flagstones, and reached the rear. There was not a sign of life about the big place. The windows in the basement had not been boarded up, but they were heavily guarded with steel gratings.

An airshaft cut into the rear of the house several feet, and I peered into the black chasm.

My heart gave a startled leap.

A thin stream of light shone through a crack in the boards at the window. It was only a tiny crack, but in the inky blackness of the air-shaft it stood out clear and bright.

The light could only be accounted for in one way— the man who had cut the wire in the afternoon thought that he was severing the only link which connected the darkened house with the outside world, and that he could plunder undisturbed.

I thought of getting the police, but my work in the evening had taken considerable time, and it was now nearing nine o'clock, the hour when the night-platoon of police begin their tour. The night patrolman was not yet on duty, and the other man was probably at the far end of his post waiting to be relieved.

I resolved to go it alone.

This was not a foolhardy determination, for I knew that the telephone-line was intact. If I could only get Nichols and say a few words to him without being heard! I could then keep the thief under surveillance until help arrived.

An open basement window from which one of the steel bars had been loosened showed me where the burglar had entered. I took off my shoes and stepped into the house.

Outside my eyes had become accustomed to the semidarkness, but inside the blackness was impenetrable. I feared that in the gloom I might stumble against something and alarm the man on the floor above. I stood still, hoping that my eves would become accustomed to the dark and that I would be able to find the door which led to the hallway. But it was useless.

Presently I was conscious of a slight draft of air fanning my face, and I knew that it came from an open door at the end of the room.

Stealthily I made my way in that direction. Several pieces of furniture . interfered with my progress, but I was fortunate, and inch by inch I reached the door.

In my stockinged feet I could feel that I was walking on carpet, and by stretching out both my arms I could touch the wall on either side. I knew then that I was in the hallway.

Dropping to my hands and knees, I crept slowly along, feeling along the surbase for an opening.

Suddenly, on the right, the base stopped and I raised my hand. I had come to the stairway.

Looking up, I could see a faint glimmer of light, probably reflected from a mirror, but it was too dim to light my way up.

Still creeping slowly, I managed to climb the stairs without making a sound. As I gained the top, a sudden fear struck terror to my heart.

Except for my small pocket-knife, I was without a weapon. What would this avail against a revolver in the hands of the burglar? But the thought that terrorized me was that there might be more than one.

I rested at the top of the stairs a moment to collect my thoughts. I realized that the odds were overwhelmingly against me, but I resolved to depend upon getting Nichols on the wire.

I avoided the doorway through which the faint light shone, and tried to find some way out of the hall.

There was no carpet on the hardwood floors, and I had not gone far when my knees began to get sore. I endeavored to obtain the lay of the rooms, so that I could reach the library, where the telephone was likely to be, without any unnecessary risk, but the direction I took brought me up against a closed door. The hazard of opening it was too great, so I turned away.

There was only one way to get out of the hall, and that was through the room from which the reflection of light came.

I was puzzled to know just where the light itself was, for it jumped back and forth so between the rooms from mirror to mirror, from chandelier to chandelier, that I lost track of it in the maze.

My eyes had become accustomed to the darkness now, and the faint light cast by the baffling reflection enabled me to locate the doorway distinctly. I stood up straight and glided stealthily into the room.

I stood for a moment transfixed. It was like a glimpse of the Arabian Nights. The rich hangings— the rainbow beams from the crystal electroliers— the faint glow of the light, and the distant scene— doubly reflected, of the robber at work, seemingly far away in the recesses of a mysterious cavern — was a sight to inspire awe and— fear.

I lost little time in watching, for the thief was busily engaged and the minutes were precious. In the dim light I could make out the lines of a grand piano, shrouded in white, and I knew that I was in the music-room.

A black hole in the wall alongside me indicated a doorway, and I crept toward it and stepped quietly over the threshold.

My heart gave a joyous thump. On a desk the light glinted from the shiny nickel-plated surface of a desk telephone.

Eagerly I stepped to the desk and felt around for the wire. My hand rapidly followed it to the bell-box, which was fastened underneath.

I knew that extreme caution was necessary and I took no chances. Long familiarity with the telephone had taught me that when the receiver is lifted, or when central cuts in with "number, please," there is very often a tap of the bell. This would be fatal to me, so I reached under the desk and carefully unscrewed the two gongs.

I had placed one on the table and was bringing the other up when my arm brushed the first one off and it fell to the hardwood floor.

There was an awful crash.

The blood seemed to freeze in my veins and I dropped into the desk-chair, limp and cold.

The gong clattered down and rolled around the floor in diminishing circles, but before it was stilled the thief had me covered with an ugly-looking revolver.

I had seen him coming in the dim light of the room beyond, and had instinctively reached for a glistening small steel envelope opener on the desk, thinking that I might bluff him into believing that I had a revolver.

I raised my arm, but only as far as the transmitter, where I let it rest. The thought flashed into my mind that the ruse would only serve to-draw his fire, for we were both in a perilous situation.

Still keeping me covered, he reached over to the wall and pushed a button.

There was a flare of light as the green shaded library-lamp shed a brilliant pyramid over the desk.

His voice was tense.

"Are you one of the profession?" he asked in a low tone.

Sparring for time, I hesitated a moment.

"Yes," I finally answered.

In my hand I had the telephone, the only means of communicating with the outside world, and at the other end was Nichols.

How could I use the instrument? How could I make it talk— make it tell Nichols that I was in a desperate corner?

The thief was glaring at me with suspicion. Finally he spoke.

"You lie!" he said sharply.

I started involuntarily, as though about to rise.

"Sit down!" he commanded. "I saw your badge. Either a detective or a reporter."

"A poor guess," I answered, trying to control my voice.

My brain was working rapidly, but not clearly. I had the means of getting help under my hand, but without the human voice it was useless. If only it were a telegraph-key !

At the word "telegraph" my mind cleared instantly, and I began to tap the telephone lightly with the envelope opener.

I had placed the point of it on one of the little pegs by which the wire is fastened to the receiver, and with the other end I tapped the metal part of the transmitter. I knew that this would complete the circuit and flash the tiny lamp over this number in the central office. The instrument was useless to me as a telephone, but it would carry a telegraph message just as well.

But who was at the other end? Would he understand my flashes? If Nichols was there, "No!" but if it were Miss Nelson— "Yes."

At every tap, a current of electricity passed through me and made me wince slightly, but the thief, confident that the wire was cut, gave no thought to the silent instrument on the desk.

"Don't you think I had sense enough to fix that thing?" he asked contemptuously, indicating the telephone.

He evidently thought that I was awaiting a chance to call for help by speaking over the wire.

"Come quick! Come quick!" I was sending over the line in rapid flashes. I repeated the message many times, on the chance that Miss Nelson might be at the other end. It was my only hope.

In the meantime, the thief sneered at my clumsiness in dropping the bell on the floor. He gave it a vicious kick, sending it spinning across the room with an awful clatter.

I tried not to arouse his suspicions and talked slowly, drawing out my sentences and' sparring for time.

But I kept up an incessant tapping on the telephone. I changed my signal to the "S. O. S." of the wireless, hoping that if my first "Come quick" was beyond Miss Nelson's range, the simple "S. O. S." would be within her grasp.

"Hand over your badge," the thief commanded.

"S. O. S." I flashed.

It was my last message.

My signals stopped, and I unpinned my employee's device. Reluctantly I pushed it across the table.

The thief picked it up quickly.

"A telephone man!" he exclaimed. "The cut has been found out."

His voice was tense and a look of alarm came into his face.

"Out into the other room," he ordered.

I obeyed rather slowly, walking out ahead of him.

The dining-room was strewn with boxes and some papers, and on the table a pile of silverware and jewelry was ready to be packed.

"Sit on that chair," the thief ordered.

I obeyed in a listless way.

A faint sound seemed to come to my ears from the outside, and I listened intently, but it was not repeated.

The burglar snatched a cover off one of the chairs and hurriedly tore it. into long strips. I knew that he intended to tie me fast, and my heart sank. Would I still be sitting there, gaunt and cold, when the owner opened up the house in the fall? Were my signals understood? Why didn't help arrive?

It was but the work of a minute to tear the cover into strips, and as the thief approached me I squirmed uneasily in the chair. But I dared not resist.

From the outside of the house came the shrill whistle of the police. My flashes had been understood.

The burglar hesitated, and a puzzled, disappointed look came into his eyes. He involuntarily turned his head and, like an alarmed beast, listened.

I was on my feet in an instant.

Quick as I was, he was prepared, and, warding off my blow, he fired point blank.

The bullet whistled by me and crashed, with a dull thud, into the wall beyond.

Before he could fire again I had grappled with him, and we clinched and fell to the floor, the revolver flying out of his hand and crashing through the mirror of the buffet.

He was a powerful fellow, and I felt that my strength was fast giving out.

We struggled fiercely around the room, and it seemed to me that the help which was so near would never arrive.

A door slammed somewhere in a distant part of the house, and there was a heavy tread of many feet on the hardwood floors.

With help at hand I relaxed my muscles a little, and the burglar, feeling my resistance crumple, had me pinned beneath him as the officers burst into the room.

"You are just in time," the thief exclaimed, breathing heavily. "I couldn't have held him much longer."

Before I could say a word, two of the officers jerked me roughly to my feet and I felt the cold steel of the handcuffs on my wrists.

"You've got the wrong man!" I exclaimed hotly. "Arrest the other fellow; he's the fellow you want."

"I'm a telephone inspector," the burglar explained immediately, displaying my employee's badge.

I tried in vain to convince the police that they were being fooled, but my explanation was received with contempt.

They were sufficiently impressed, however, to insist upon taking the bogus inspector to the station-house along with me.

I was roughly handled while being led out, but I wisely controlled my desire to resent this.

Outside, the place swarmed with police. Two patrol-wagons stood at the curb and a small crowd of the curious had collected.

A lieutenant was in charge of the squad, and when those surrounding the house were called in, a guard was detailed to stay while the rest prepared to return in the wagons.

The burglar and I were separated, he getting into one patrol-wagon, while I was roughly pushed into the other.

As I took my seat there, a man broke through the crowd and rushed up to the step at the rear.

"What's the matter, Jim?" he yelled.

I recognized Nichols's voice.

He turned to the officers and exclaimed: "You've got the wrong man there! You don't—"

"Git out o' this!" a burly policeman growled, raising his club threateningly. "Do yez want to go wid him?"

"Take him, too, in the other wagon," the lieutenant ordered.

I saw and heard no more of poor Nichols then, for the officers clambered in, and with a startling clang of the gong, the wagon rattled off down the street.

I was not familiar with police methods, but I felt that I had not only gotten deeply into a mess of trouble, but that I had also dragged Nichols into it.

On the way to the station-house I heard the officers speak about my arrest as clearing up a number of robberies in the fashionable residential section, and I knew that they would try to fasten innumerable unexplained crimes on me.

I was indeed in sorry plight.

The other wagon had already reached the police-station when our wagon arrived, but Nichols was nowhere to be seen.

The burglar was standing on one side of the high desk with several officers near by. The sergeant was prepared to take my pedigree when the captain emerged from his private office and at once commanded him to stop.

I looked up in surprise, to find Nichols with the captain. The expression on his face told the whole story.

Fortunately the assistant manager knew the captain and was able to get an immediate hearing.

There was nothing for me to explain except a few details of my experience in the house with the burglar.

In the face of the evidence the latter confessed, and the police subsequently connected him with other robberies.

I was indeed glad to leave the stationhouse a free man. As Nichols boarded a trolley with me he asked the conductor for a transfer, but I paid little heed to this, for my thoughts were on other things.

"Nichols," I asked, after a while, "who was at the other end of the line when my signal flashed for help?"

"Who but Miss Nelson could read it?" he replied.

_________________

14: The Peppercorn Entail

Frederick Irving Anderson

1877-1947

The Popular Magazine, Nov 7 1916

A FEW steps off Broadway, and a stone's throw from that part of Fifth Avenue known as the Trough— since the myriad garment workers of the neighborhood have taken to congregating there in tribal units the while they consume their midday meal— stands an unpretentious red brick building of one story and attic, wearing a nicely polished brass plate with the magic legend— "The Aylesworth Estate."

It is a matter of notable surprise, even to the seasoned New Yorker, to encounter this staring yet dignified sign in this by-street, otherwise entirely consumed with the shouts of truck drivers, the rattle and slam of packing cases, the whir of sewing machines from open windows, and the cry of hucksters in many tongues beguiling the noonday throng into unwonted extravagance.

Yet the legend speaks for itself. There is only one Aylesworth family, as has been the case for eight generations— since the first Aylesworth was a gardener on the old Chelsea Road, which has long since been wiped out of existence, almost of tradition. For eight generations the Aylesworth family has passed itself and its fortunes on to an only son; and, its fortunes having grown quite considerable— into "interests," in fact— the Aylesworth name inevitably arrests the eye and challenges speculation. To the casual metropolitan the name calls up a somber, magnificent yet smoky edifice, somewhat like the Bank of England, in Wall Street, where the reigning Aylesworth has from time immemorial sat in state in his swivel chair and nodded, or turned down his thumbs, as his spirit or his spleen moved him.

At one o'clock in the afternoon, on the eighteenth of August of the present year, a young man, tall and slender and swinging a stick, a little overdressed, the look of the world in his eyes, and a quizzical expression playing about the corners of his mouth, stood on the pavement contemplating, first, the immaculately polished, white marble steps— as prim as a Quaker entry— and, second, the mirror-like brass sign with its portentous legend. His satirical survey took in the barred windows, the nail-studded door, even the well-scoured bricks, before he deliberately mounted the steps and entered.

In the seclusion of an inner office sat a second young man, before a mahogany desk, engrossed in the consideration of a bowl of brown milk and a tin of patent predigested biscuits. The milk on its silver salver had been brought to this table for this hour at a cost that would sustain any soul among the two hundred thousand nibbling onions, cheese, and dried fish, at the other end of the block, for a week. The biscuits bore the imprint of a well-known manufacturer, who, could he have guessed that his product was the sole solid food served daily to this man, would have spent a year's profits in advertising that fact. For this sallow, puffy, and altogether insignificant individual was none other than Francklyn Aylesworth, eighth of the line, and sole master of a great many millions. His father, recently dead, had been a grim humorist during the greater part of his life; but in nothing had he been so grim as in naming this son his residuary legatee, after the tradition of the Aylesworths.

The second generation usually solves the problem of hoarded wealth by playing ducks and drakes with it; very seldom do millions, constituting a family name, persevere after the third generation. The Aylesworth fortune, distinguished from other great fortunes in many things, differed from them in nothing so much as having persisted intact now to the eighth generation.

The eighth of the line, however, seemed to offer a prospect for the ducks and drakes. Francklyn Aylesworth was not the gilded youth commonly associated with such contingencies. He was quite the reverse. The family lawyers, McWethy, Milson & Hatch, in private diagnosed his weakness as "ingrowing conscience," and, with their fences in repair, were calmly awaiting the catastrophe. Young Mr. Aylesworth, master of one hundred millions in securities, and one thousand millions in directorates, shunned the grimy marble palace downtown; but, instead, at his desk in this by-street, he was contriving the most astounding plans for pulling down the pillars of the temple so carefully reared by his ancestors. His immediate concern was the restoration of what he conceived to be the piratical gains of his illustrious sires. Francklyn the Eighth lacked the humor, even in its grimness, of his predecessors.

The somewhat flamboyant visitor to the outer office found himself con-

fronted by a wall of brass wicker, similar in its proportions to the entry to the Tombs— with which he was not unfamiliar. On the opposite side of the window sat a youth at a table. The young man passed in his card with the information that his business was with Mr. Francklyn Aylesworth.

"Concerning what?" asked the youth at the table, without looking up from his task, which was sheet writing for the office baseball pool.

"I wish to know," said the young man, "if by any chance he possesses a lock which will fit this key."

He drew from an inner pocket a metal case, itself notable for an elaborate lock which fastened its two halves together. Opening this, he produced a great key of wrought iron, evidently fashioned at some remote period by a blacksmith with the crude tools of a forge. The youth took the proffered key, and, still without looking up, he called loudly. A second youth appeared.

"James," he said, "can you tell me offhand how many doors Mr. Aylesworth possesses?"

"Thirteen hundred and forty-six," responded James as solemn as an owl, stealing a look at the flashy young man at the wicket. It was the truth; or, at least, approximately so. This little office was the funnel through which filtered the rents of some thirteen hundred domiciles, business and domestic, which constituted a considerable, though not a major, portion of the Aylesworth fortune.

"Please see if this key fits any of the locks," said the sheet writer, passing over the ponderous bit of metal. "The young man will wait."

"Thank you," said the caller on the other side of the wicket, taking off his hat and fanning himself as he looked for a seat. "And, at the same time," he added from a corner where he found graceful repose, "will you please give me a statement of my account in peppercorns, compounded to date."

"Huh?" said the youth at the table, now for the first time looking up and examining the caller. He was impressed. Regardless of his gay attire, the young man challenged attention because of his build— broad and spare at the shoulders, narrow at the hips, with ears laid close to the skull, and tight, curly hair. It was the cut of a lightweight aspirant, which the youth instantly recognized.

"Peppercorns?" he said.

"Peppercorns," repeated the caller from over a morning paper which he was now reading. The youth shoved aside his tally sheets and went over to the head bookkeeper, with whom he held whispered converse, occasionally glancing at the caller and significantly tapping his brow. Together they examined the engraved card.

"Peppercorns!" said the bookkeeper; and he straightway sought out the office manager.

"Peppercorns?" said the office manager, peering out through a crack in the door at the languid figure in the corner. He at length tapped lightly on the door leading to the outer defenses of the young man at that moment sorrowfully sipping his brown milk and nibbling his patent biscuit. Mr. Priestly, secretary to the head of the house, took the card and the key, listened to the whispered explanation, and in turn ejaculated:

"Peppercorns? Peppercorns!"

He, too, tiptoed out for a glimpse of the extraordinary caller, who, to all appearance, was content to await the testing of the key and the compounding of his tally in peppercorns until the crack of doom.

Then, softly, the secretary tapped on the mahogany panels, and at the sound of a soft-spoken "Enter!" admitted himself to the inner shrine. There was no occasion for whispering; yet Priestly

whispered, holding the card under the nose of Mr. Francklyn Aylesworth as he confided his message.

Francklyn Aylesworth did not wait for him to finish. He rose with such precipitation as to all but upset his bowl of certified milk, and snatched the key from the hands of his man. His fingers were trembling as he held it up to the light of the window. He took a second key from his office safe and compared the two critically. They were identical— except for one detail: the key which the young man had produced from its elaborate strong box bore the unmistakable signs of age, great age. The ring was all but parted at its outer arc, as though the constant caressing of salty fingers had slowly burned a way through the iron of which it was fashioned. Aylesworth's key had been forged by modern skill and tools, though its design was ancient and a replica of the other. Calmness in the face of great emergencies was the dominant characteristic of eight generations of this house. No Aylesworth had ever before faced an emergency such at this, though in their time they had wrecked railroads and browbeaten kings. Francklyn Aylesworth carefully put away his own key, laid the second at his elbow, and sat down to his biscuits and milk.

"I will see him," he said. "Show him in."

Then, rising with sudden determination: "No; I will bring him myself."

For all his ingrowing conscience, Francklyn Aylesworth was not without guile. He could not have been the son of the mighty seven who had gone before without possessing guile. His unusual procedure in seeking out the caller, instead of awaiting him in his sanctum in state, with his back to the light, was a compromise between his ingrowing conscience and his genetic guile. He strode through the corridors through the brass gate to the corner where the somewhat overdressed young man was still immersed in his paper.

"Mister— ah—" began the head of

the house of Aylesworth; and then, as if the name had slipped him— which it had not— he consulted the card. "Mister Stewart Calthorpe?" he inquired.

The young man continued reading to the end of some absorbing bit of news before he turned.

"Yes," he said, "I have sent my card to Mister Francklyn Aylesworth."

"I am Francklyn Aylesworth." The young man apparently was ill prepared for this announcement. As he surveyed the soft, yellow personage before him, at first as though in surprise, then obviously with a sudden embarrassment, for the moment he continued seated. Then he sprang to his feet and began lamely:

"I beg your pardon! I beg your pardon! I— I— I You understand— I think I have never seen your picture. Now— your father—" He ran on, getting better use of his tongue, "now, your father— I was familiar with his face and bearing."

With undisguised impertinence he took stock of this master of millions before him. The recent Francklyn Aylesworth was a great bull of a man, beside whom his son was as so much overweaned veal. The son of the great house saw the look, appraised it, and was not offended. As a matter of fact, he rather took pride in his flabbiness, played on it, in his self-appointed role of Jesuitical justice. So he reached out and took this young man, who had come with a key seeking peppercorns, by the arm, and led him into the innermost sanctum, and begged him to be seated. They sat for some time, neither speaking, regarding each other; the master of the Aylesworth millions peering out through eyes that glistened earnestly with the call of his conscience; and the claimant of peppercorns waiting with a languorous ease of some confident feline.

"So you are Stewart Calthorpe?"

The caller admitted it with a nod and a smile.

"You are— the— eighth— of the line?"

"The seventh. We have been longer-lived than the Aylesworths."

The assumption of equality was perfect.

"Undoubtedly you have your proofs?"

"That goes without saying," said the other easily. "This is what has delayed me. Otherwise," he smiled, "I should have been here earlier. I had the proofs," he said, lounging deeper into his chair and balancing one elbow on top of his slender cane, "eight months ago. But," and again he smiled oddly, "I studied your father's picture— and I decided it were more prudent to wait."

"For me?"

Stewart Calthorpe nodded.

"Yet we have been waiting for you a long time," said the young master, not insensible to the subtle flattery. "Since— let me see— since 1710."

"1712," corrected the caller.

"Yes, quite true, 1712— two hundred and four years. There have been great changes since that time. You will scarcely recognize the place, I am afraid."

For the first time young Francklyn Aylesworth permitted himself to smile; and his visitor, noting the smile, drew himself together a little closer. They surveyed each other again in silence. Aylesworth's gaze sought a framed map of the island of Manhattan on the wall before him. Calthorpe followed his eyes, and studied the thing attentively. Toward the lower end of the island, enveloping Fourteenth Street north and south, and extending from Union Square well over to the North River, an irregular section had been blocked out in red ink. It consisted, possibly, of four hundred acres, though one seldom thinks of New York real estate in terms of acres, any more than one thinks of cut diamonds in terms of pounds. It was this demesne which had been turned over, some two centuries before, by the notorious pirate Calthorpe, to the keeping of his Francklyn Ayleswythe, for a consideration of twenty peppercorns per annum. Aylesworth turned from his contemplation of this kingdom, on which the fortunes of his house were founded, and took from a drawer a neatly bound bundle of papers.

"You were born the seventeenth of November, 1878," he said, reading.

"The sixteenth of June, 1876," corrected the visitor, still intent on the map.

"Your father was the Reverend Stewart Calthorpe, curate in the village of Wolden, Surrey. He died in 1897 at the age of seventy-two. His son was educated, against his own inclinations, for the church; and in 1896, following a series of escapades, the last one of such a nature as to shock the elder Calthorpe into a stroke of apoplexy, he was withdrawn, and, for several years, nothing was known of his whereabouts. We have another record here, beginning with the Boer War, when Stewart Calthorpe enlisted in the 117th Surrey Yeomanry "

"Northumberland," corrected the young man.

"And— following some details which I shall not recount— he was listed among the 'missing' at Maegersfontein."

"I deserted, and came scot-free through Johannesburg!"

"Yes, yes, so it appears. This Stewart Calthorpe was five feet ten in his stockings; he weighed one hundred and sixty-five pounds; he had light-blue eyes, brown hair; a scar from a bolo on his left thigh, and a strawberry mark under the hair just forward of his right ear. You see, Mr. Calthorpe, we have pursued some rather diligent inquiries during the last eight months, seeking a possible heir to the ancestral— ah— freebooter, shall we say?"

"You seem to have acquired a considerable mass of misinformation," said the visitor imperturbably. "The strawberry mark is in front of the left ear— and the bolo wound on the right leg. You put me at a disadvantage, sir."

Francklyn Aylesworth rubbed his hands, and wrinkled his flabby face in another smile; at which the young man in the chair tightened his muscles again imperceptibly.

"And now," said the sole heir and residuary legatee of the leaseholds inclosed in the blood-red square on the map of the city, "I suppose you have come for your peppercorns."

"Yes."

"Only twenty a year, so the— ah— tradition, runs. Compound twenty for two hundred and four years," said Francklyn Aylesworth ruminatively, gazing intently at the bronze ceiling. "Do you know," he said, leaning forward and smiling, "you remind me of the wise man who, when the king sought to reward him for a great service, said, 'Sire, place one grain of wheat on the first square of the chessboard; two on the second; four on the third; and so on through the sixty-four.' We have a big wheat crop this year, Mr. Calthorpe, but it would not have satisfied him. Possibly we can make accounting in some other medium than peppercorns."

He laughed aloud at his own jest.

"Your great-grandfather, fifth removed, sailed for England in 1711. His ship never touched shore."

"Seventeen-twelve," corrected the peppercorn claimant imperturbably. "His ship never touched shore. But he was not lost at sea."

"Indeed! I have spent a great deal of money trying to establish that fact, Mr. Calthorpe."

"I could have saved you the trouble," responded the young man; and he took a packet of papers from his pocket and laid them before the young master. ''You will find it all there. Those documents, of course, are duplicates," he added, with an almost imperceptible curl of the lip.

"Duplicates, naturally," said the young master, and he pushed the packet into an open drawer "You have no idea how much you interest me."

"He was shipwrecked— touched shore— made one of those horrible journeys across continents, to which sailors of the old days were subject— and he survived long enough to leave a son— and a story of possessions in the New World— the story, which has been handed down from father to son as a tradition, is to the effect that he made a deed of rent in writing, and confided it to the security of a vault on the premises."

"A deed of rent— in writing!" exclaimed Francklyn Aylesworth, suddenly sitting erect. Calthorpe nodded.

"A vault on the premises! It is in a vault on the premises?"

"It was— so the story runs."

Aylesworth let the implication pass. The peppercorn claimant, all his cards face up on the table, was calmly studying the map on the wall.

"You are a very— pardon me— a very ingenuous person, Mr. Calthorpe. We have always had records, of course, of our original ancestor religiously paying twenty peppercorns each year to a rather phantom fund entitled 'Calthorpe.' But we never had a record of a deed of rent being actually in existence, in writing. How does it happen," he went on, with an encouraging smile, "that you have waited until a time when five million people settled around the old plantation, before coming forward?"

"Because," said the young man blandly, "I am the first Calthorpe with wit enough to identify the 'Francklyn named Ayleswythe' with Francklyn Aylesworth, the money king of the present day. If I had any doubt, it would have been removed instantly by the discovery that your agents were looking up us Calthorpes in England, lately."

"I feel this is going to be simple," said Francklyn Aylesworth, rising. "We are going to be of great help to each other. You say you are Stewart Calthorpe, the only lineal descendant of this— Sindbad the Sailor. I believe you! I admit I have tested you. The strawberry mark is on your left leg; and the bolo scar is above your right ear."

The peppercorn claimant let this last slip pass, with rather a wry smile.

"Now, I ask you to leave your proofs and give us time— say a week or so. Do you need funds for immediate wants? I am pleased to advance them."

For just the fraction of a second indecision played about the eyes of the caller.

"No; I am prepared for immediate necessities." In another minute he was in the street again, examining the front of the building bearing the sign "The Aylesworth Estate."

"He's not 'the safest of the family,' " he was humming to himself, as he strode off down the street, in blissful unconsciousness— or seemingly so— of the fact that two men of the office force of the building he had just quitted had suddenly and innocently found business in the direction he was pursuing.

ii

THE whole affair was, of course, grotesque, absurd. Any one who took the pains to inquire could have learned that the Aylesworths did not own the land in the heart of New York, upon which they had paid taxes for two hundred years; that in every pernicious instrument of ground rent negotiated by them in the last century, their name had invariably appeared as "trustee." Still, there are laws of adverse possession, statutes of limitation, and a hundred and one usages in equity, by which time is made a means to destroy obligation.

Yet Francklyn the Eighth, as he dropped two keys in his pocket, adjusted his hard-boiled hat, and left his office, an hour later, was thinking neither of discriminatory laws, nor of the absurdity of the situation. He was thinking that he was very much pleased with himself. In the .beginning he had foreseen that his quixotic campaign of restitution, for the sins of his fathers, must needs be prosecuted with secrecy and guile— even with stealth. And he was thinking, sadly, of how the young man, who had come like a ghost out of the past, had insisted that he had been born on the sixteenth of June. And he was also thinking, as he strode along, that he would have to fight all alone in this first battle of the campaign. His lawyers, who regarded him somewhat as an inexplainable runt in an otherwise true litter, would fight him to the death, with commissions in lunacy, if necessary.

A few minutes' brisk walk brought him to the home of his fathers. It still stands, the manor house of the old plantation, in the midst of a neighborhood that crowds grudgingly on all sides, with tall office buildings shoulder to shoulder.

Twenty peppercorns was probably a very fair valuation of the barren plantation itself, in the old days. During the early period, there had come to be a road cut through the alternate ridges of rock and slough cesspools, of this part of the island, connecting the old village of Greenwich with the newer house— hewn in incongruous magnificence out of stone by English artisans who had learned their trade over centuries of building abbeys and castles and machicolated towers— then looked out over a dusty, neighborly highway instead of scrubby fields of grain. The road took a little twist at this stage, so that the fine old house, erected by the original Calthorpe, might face it squarely. But the originators of the present city plan— during the fourth generation of the tenant Aylesworths— were less considerate. In their mania to erase the circuitous cowpaths that had come in time to affect the dignity of streets, they disregarded line fences and ridgepoles. They ran streets east and west, and avenues north and south, just a point or two off the compass; and to effect their purpose they lopped a corner off the mansion, and ran an avenue through the grand saloon on the first floor. This mutilation was accomplished notwithstanding the righteous indignation of the tenant Aylesworths, who straightway turned the key in the lock and deserted the home of their fathers.

It still stands to-day, this dog-eared mansion, viewing the passing city life from an angle of seven degrees west of north; an ugly side wall to show where the desecrating ax fell; a stout picket fence surrounding a dismantled garden upon which stare sullenly four floors of grimy windows each of many and very small panes leaded together.

Aylesworth applied a key to the rusty lock of the gate and admitted himself to the garden. As he picked his way among the paths— once, to judge from the outcroppings, lined with brilliant fragments of quartz and rare shells, now all but lost under the dust of ages— passers-by stopped and peered through the pickets, wondering what ghosts of long ago must be called to life by the clang of the great front door, creaking on its hinges. The key fitted. That, of course, was of little consequence. Any one, in the darkness of night, behind the shrubbery, might fashion a key even for this antiquated lock. Any one, were he so minded, might even sweat the ring all but in twain to simulate the effects of salty fingers caressing it over ages of time. The reverberations were still ringing thorough the dusty corridors when Francklyn Aylesworth slammed the door behind him, and advanced and peered up the great stair well.

At five o'clock that afternoon, a starved rat— after waiting for ages for a silent figure seemingly asleep in an old chair to show some sign of life— risked a journey across the drawing-room floor. At midnight, the same rat risked a like journey. At six in the morning, when the sun forced a sallow ray through a dirty fanlight in the door, the young master of the house of Aylesworth was still sitting in his chair. At nine he was back in his office in the bystreet calling for the old Mayhew map of the island of Manhattan, dated 1803. This map set forth, if Francklyn remembered with accuracy, the fact that a salt-water creek, navigable by a longboat at high tide, once poked its nose into the very heart of the present city of New York. That estuary, if tradition were correct, was a very important item in the original Stewart Calthorpe's traffic in rum and molasses after nightfall. It was very important in the present emergency.

But the map was not in its usual place. Nor did a long search of the office files reveal it.

"It is of no importance," said Francklyn Aylesworth. "If I require it, I can find a copy in Marleybone's Surveys, which will be in the library. Priestly, I am going away for a time— a week— two weeks— I don't know for how long. While I am gone, relax your vigilance over our friend. Say in a day or two. Treat him well. Surfeit him with good things— anything that money can buy. I think he is a very interesting young man, and he will probably be of great service to us if we treat him right. And, Priestly, put those documents in that safe and have the safe people change the combination. Keep the combination in your head till I come back."

So saying, he walked out of the office. At the first corner he paused.

"The only question in my mind," he mused, pleased with the new logical trend of his thoughts in the last few hours, "is as to the confederate. The confederate, as I see it, must be something of an—" He paused and smiled. "Yes, that is it. He must be something of an ass."

He caught sight of his own reflection in a show window, and he smiled again. Francklyn the Eighth was slowly but inevitably acquiring some of the grim humor of his fathers.

iii

ON THE fifth day following the disappearance— for it was no less than a disappearance, so the legal firm of McWethy, Milson & Hatch anxiously decided— of Francklyn Aylesworth, the young man seeking peppercorns presented himself again at the brass wicket of the little office in the by-street. He was told politely by Mr. Priestly that Mr. Aylesworth was out of town, but that the matter of his account was being pursued vigorously, none the less. Meantime, and that he might not be put to inconvenience by the delay incident to cabling, et cetera, et cetera, an account had been placed to his name in the Aylesworth bank, and he was at liberty to draw to such an extent as his personal requirements necessitated. If he would put aside any objections on the grounds of delicacy in this regard, the young master would regard it as a personal favor.

It was ten days later that Stewart Calthorpe again entered the offices of the Aylesworth estate. His restless spirit had begun to chafe.

"My affairs are beginning to press," he confided to Priestly. "I am afraid I may be forced to put my claim into the hands of attorneys unless something definite develops shortly."

There was a veiled threat in the softly spoken words.

"I was about to suggest that course, myself," said the gracious Priestly. "If you will pick out a firm, we will be very glad to attend to the matter of fees."

Stewart Calthorpe did not nominate a firm. Instead, he strode away, conscious of the fact that the taste in his mouth, which had been bitter for some time now, was growing more bitter. The young man was still at the same hotel. He had moved into more commodious quarters, but his windows still looked out on humdrum city life such as one encounters in the back eddies on either side of the main thoroughfares. One versed in the ways— and the appearances— of the world, would not have set down Stewart Calthorpe as a bookish young man. Yet through these weeks he had devoted himself assiduously to books— though it must be confessed that the reading was not of the weightier sort calculated to improve one's mind. He saw no one, except the occasional haberdashers' representatives from Fifth Avenue, sent by Priestly to urge him to profane extravagances in the w T ay of outfits of apparel. Priestly, in his endeavor to drive the claimant out of his seclusion, had gone the length of assigning one of his "happy-days" men— professional entertainers attached to all great firms. But Calthorpe, though he recognized a fellow craftsman in the glorious youth who called, abstained.

All his bills were mysteriously paid. All his wants were miraculously supplied. If anything could have drawn him forth from his perusal of French novels, the temptations strewn in his path by the artful hand of Priestly should have done so; but they did not. One thing, only one, Calthorpe accepted. That was the use of a racing runabout, from the Aylesworth garage.

It was a low-slung, sportive-looking thing, stripped for action. Calthorpe came out of his hermitage and tested it out. It -was like flying. With shrewd eyes that saw, yet seemed to see nothing, he had scurried hither and yon in the popping monster. He was not being watched— so much was plain. No one could follow with such an engine at his command. This removed his last suspicious doubt.

But, as he moved away now from the too-obliging Priestly, every sense was again on the alert. With eyes in the back of his head, but outwardly still bearing his indolent air, he began the slow task of throwing off a. possible shadow. He lost himself repeatedly in department-store crowds, doubling and redoubling on his trail. A taxicab took him to Columbus Circle; and from a second cab he emerged at Sixteenth Street and Fifth Avenue, and started at a brisk walk toward the North River. Some distance over he abruptly descended a flight of steps into a basement beer saloon, dignified with the sign "The Funnel." It was an untidy place, with a beery smell in the air, unclean sawdust on the floor, and flies clustering about greasy tables. He took a seat and rapped sharply with a piece of money. The Funnel was not exactly a thriving business center. In fact, even the entry of the lone customer did not arouse the fat German balanced on one elbow on the bar reading a newspaper.

It was not until the customer uttered a sharp command that the host looked up. He immediately gathered together a collection of bottles and set them before the impatient one. Calthorpe looked at him questioningly. The fat German, in the act of depositing change in the center of a wet pool on the table, shook his head as though in answer to some spoken question, and went back to his newspaper.

At length the young man arose. He went out not by the front door, but by the rear, which let him into a small, inclosed yard, on two sides of which stood the bastion-like walls of loft buildings. On the third side, the rear, stood a high board fence, through the cracks of which was to be had a view of the dismantled garden of the old Aylesworth mansion.

He descended a flight of steps. These steps were interesting in themselves. To descend them, one must first ascend three rising blocks of granite. The steps were arched over with a groin of masonry of unusual proportions; in fact, the shabby old building that housed The Funnel looked like a mere house of straws to the massive foundations on which it rested. At the bottom of the steps the young man paused and examined a rusty padlock on the door minutely. Then he opened the door, not by unlocking the thing, but by the simple expedient of removing a section of the hasp, which came away easily from the rotten wood in which it was sunk. Inside there was the unmistakable smell of salt water, something a thousand years of time cannot eradicate from mouldy timber and clay. He stood still for a long time, listening; but no sound came, except from the tenant rats. When he started forward, it was with the aid of a pocket torch to guide him. He came to a pile of rotten timbers in a corner which he began removing. Under the timbers was an old iron grating, and under the grating was a short reach of decaying steps down which he crawled into a subcellar, so foul with damp stenches that he breathed with difficulty. What he sought hung on the wet wall. It was a rusty, iron door held by hinges, and a lock rendered so fragile from the ravages of time that a slight blow would have crumbled them to bits. With the minutest care he examined the door and its fastening. He drew a sigh of disappointment. He threw the light ahead of him. It revealed the fact that the arched vault in which he stood came to an abrupt end an arm's length away, shut in by an irregular wall of stone, bricks, and earth, evidently dumped in from above. If one consulted the old Mayhew map of Manhattan Island, it would have revealed the interesting fact that at one time a subterranean passage connected this spot with the manor house in the adjoining yard. Doubtless the original Calthorpe had uses for such a means of egress, which connected with a water gate by which he might put out to the river in a longboat at high tide.

Five minutes later the peppercorn claimant had replaced the iron grating and the pile of decaying timbers on the cellar floor, and carefully reset the hasp of the unsprung padlock.

The taproom of The Funnel had, in his brief absence, lost its lonesome air. Seated at the tables, or lounging against the bar now, were, perhaps, a dozen porters, men in blue jeans who had been busy trundling trucks in the street when Calthorpe had entered a short time before. They did not appear to be particularly intelligent men, nor curious, either; but it would be just as well not to give them grounds for curiosity. This resolve was strengthened by a movement on the part of the now busy German. He caught sight of the peering face of the young man in the rear door, and he cautiously batted one eye. Two hundred years ago, old Sindbad the Sailor who, for reasons of his own, constructed this retreat, had more than one way out. When he felt honest he could leave by the front door. The peppercorn claimant at the present moment felt honest; and the impetuous young man in another moment had vaulted the rear fence and let himself in to the old mansion fronting on the next street. As he entered the main corridor on the drawing-room floor, he was thrilled by a discovery as momentous to him as must have been the discovery of the footprint by old Robinson Crusoe on his desert island. For there on the floor, in this old rookery so long tenanted only by rats, lay a scattered heap of empty condensed milk tins, also a handful of empty biscuit tins.

And, peering cautiously round the door jamb, he was electrified by an even more momentous discovery. A figure, which could be none other than that of young Francklyn Aylesworth, lay at rest in a musty old easy-chair, his hat drawn over his eyes, as though he were asleep.

Stewart Calthorpe was stealthily revolving for flight, on tiptoe, when the well-known voice of Aylesworth broke the silence.

"Well, well!" said the voice. "At last! I had begun to think, Mr. Calthorpe, that this business about a murderer revisiting the scene of his crime was all bosh. Did you find the vault intact, Mr. Calthorpe?"

The person addressed thus languidly by Francklyn Aylesworth, who was stretching and yawning in his chair, stood rooted to the floor, dumb, for a precious second. There was only one way out now. With a bellow of rage and a bound, he was at the side of the soft young master, pinioning him. The task of overpowering one of Francklyn Aylesworth's physical capacity was child's play for this lightweight aspirant. Aylesworth did not attempt to struggle. Instead, when his assailant, holding him fast, finally came to rest menacingly over him, Francklyn said :

"If you will take the trouble to go to that window, you will see two men in blue jeans, astride a pushcart, outside the gate. Across the street, in front of the cigar store, is a third. There are two more under the porch, whom you cannot see. There are several more at the— ah— the postern gate. They all have instructions to let you in— but not out, Mr. Calthorpe."

The peppercorn claimant released his fierce hold, and stepped to the window. It was true. There were the men in blue jeans, innocent-looking porters. There was no way out, now.

"Well," he said airily, forcing a laugh, "what are you going to do about it?" .

"What am I going to do about it? What are you going to do about it, you mean. Calthorpe— or whatever your name is— you can leave this house, alone, if you want to, by either gate. If you do, those men have business with you. If you leave with me, they have instructions to let you go. Sit down, and make yourself at home in the old place."

Distinctly, there was no humor in the situation. The peppercorn claimant continued to glare savagely. If there were only a hole to crawl through, he would cheerfully have turned himself into a worm. Aylesworth resumed his seat and produced a paper from a pocket. Sullenly, Calthorpe sat down.

"Here we have the deed of rent," said the young man, holding the dirty paper at arm's length and surveying it critically. "As an antique, it is admirable. Except for one fact. Old Sindbad, who was shipwrecked and suffered a horrible journey across uninhabited continents before reaching his beloved England, was careless enough to sign his name in Prussian blue ink. Now, maybe you don't know it, Mr. Calthorpe, but Prussian blue precipitate is a comparatively recent invention, for use as ink; and how old Sindbad got hold of it two hundred years ago is more than I can make out."

The recent Stewart Calthorpe squirmed in his chair, but still he said nothing.

"Would you mind telling me, Mr. Calthorpe, how you managed to secrete this paper inside of that musty old vault without removing the hinges. No? You won't tell me. Very well. I will tell you how I took it out without removing the hinges. I dug out the wall, sir, and I hired a mason to put the wall back. The mason made a most remarkable discovery. The wall had been taken out once before, and put back with Portland cement! Very careless of old Sindbad, on the second count. Cement, like Prussian blue ink, is of comparatively recent history on Manhattan Island, and how the old pirate got hold of it before its time is more than I can make out."

Again he placed a quizzical eye on the recent Stewart Calthorpe; the latter muttered something under his breath, and looked out of the window.

"No, Calthorpe, I am sorry to say that you are not constituted temperamentally for the profession you have sought to follow. In the first place," said the young master, spreading out his fingers to keep tally of his points, "you were not born on the sixteenth of June. It was very wrong of you to suggest— insist on it. When you helped yourself to the Calthorpe documents, which I spent so much money to gather, you carelessly got hold of a copy full of clerical errors. Mistake number one. In the second place, in helping yourself to my old 1803 map of Manhattan Island, to locate your deed of rent, you forgot to return it. Mistake number two. Number three is the grade of ink, to which we have already alluded. Number four is your prehistoric use of Portland cement. I ask you, Mr. Calthorpe, if you do not think you have been very careless. You have failed to make allowances for accident, ignorance, and carelessness. There is only one feature in the whole affair on which I can compliment you for astuteness."

He paused expectantly, but the peppercorn claimant had no question to ask.

"You embarrass me," said Francklyn Aylesworth. "I congratulate you on your choice of a confederate."

"Confederate?" The peppercorn claimant looked up, puzzled. "You don't mean old Dutch Louey— the saloon keeper "

"No, no, not Dutch Louey. Poor old Louey didn't know what you dragged him in for. I refer to the other one."

"The other one?"

In spite of his dilemma, the late Calthorpe could not help being curious.

"Yes; the other one. I refer to the consummate ass you had in mind to help you— the flabby milksop, so obsessed with the idea of justice that he would excavate all Manhattan Island, if he thought he could find a deed of rent that would disinherit him from his landed possessions. I refer to myself, Mr. Calthorpe."

The prisoner stared at first, unbelieving, at Francklyn Aylesworth. Then he broke into a laugh, in spite of himself.

"I seem to have picked the wrong generation of Aylesworths," he exclaimed, with conviction. He looked at young Francklyn now with different eyes. There was nothing to do but take his medicine. "Well, what's the damage?" he said curtly.

"Damage?" exclaimed Francklyn Aylesworth. "Damage? Why, my dear sir, there is no damage! In fact, quite the reverse! The diversion you provided has been very entertaining— and quite flattering, too, I assure you, to my sense of vanity. I am in your debt. Indeed, yes. Will you take a little stroll with me, sir? We will talk over your prospects. I really believe you are destined for a career of honest endeavours, with my assistance, Mr.— ah— By the way, what is your name?"

"Stewart— Angus Stewart."

A few minutes later the squadron of carelessly placed guards, disguised as porters, picked up their tools and dispersed, on seeing young Francklyn Aylesworth and Angus Stewart stroll down the steps and up the avenue, chatting in the most friendly fashion.

_______________

15: The Undoing of Le Croix

Eric A. Darling

fl. 1915-1921

Saucy Stories Feb 1921

]The author, about whose life nothing is known, had a brief career writing for the lower paying pulps, with an occasional story in Black Mask.

THAT year a little settlement bad sprung up about the halfway house at Devereaux Point. Cabins grew mushroom-like, a store and saloon appeared, and as there was a constant stream of goers and comers the days were full.

Le Croix was an anomaly, a mystery, a man to set one guessing with the mere sight of his face. He put up a cabin and a small saloon, wherein he opened a gambling house.

He was a huge man, a veritable giant, with black hair and swarthy skin. His eyes were a challenge to everyone who looked into them, hot, fiery, daring eyes that seemed to cover a lot of things.

In a land where the elemental rules, they pay little heed to such things; but even here Le Croix was marked.

And not the least of what made him conspicuous was the woman whom he installed in the cabin— a small, sweet, fairy-like girl of a woman, whose little head seemed ever bending under the weight of white-gold hair that burdened it.

Her face bloomed like a flower, but when she raised her great blue eyes one had a distinct shock and looked instinctively at her husband— for they were an open tragedy.

Fear rode them like a witch, and anguish unspeakable.

She went hurriedly about her household tasks, a neat, faithful worker who made the best of what she had, and she looked out from her shining small windows very much like a prisoner.

Lola Lambert, swinging by that way with the carrying stride of perfect health and perfect joy of life, caught sight of the flower face with its haunting eyes, and abruptly stopped.

She laid a hand on White Ears' head and smiled at the other woman.

"Gray Lad," she said softly to her wolf-dog, "here's a soul in trouble." And with the freedom of the open lands she went and leaned in the doorway.

"Do you want a friend?" she asked, without preface.

The girl looked at her in silence for a moment. Then she dropped the cloth with which she was drying her few dishes, and came swiftly to the door. She put her little hands on big Lola's shoulders, and searched her handsome face, where courage and tenderness and love of humanity shone forth belligerently— if such gentle attributes could be said to do so— and a catching sigh came from her lips.

"Oh!" she said half tearfully, "oh, a friend! More than anything else in all the world, mam'selle! And I have none."

"You are French?" asked Lola, touching her fair hair wonderingly.

The girl nodded.

"And yet you are so fair! And you need a friend. Would you like me for that?"

Dull, indeed, would have been that one who could look into Lola Lambert's face and not sense the strong, sweet heart behind it, the reliant and capable nature.

This little friendless, unhappy woman saw deep into those rich recesses and her lips quivered piteously.

"I— I— have not the words, ma'mselle," she said wistfully, "but you, who could make this offer, will know what it means to me. I want you— oh, how much !"

"All right," said Lola frankly, "you've got me."

And she reached out her strong arms and hugged the stranger. She was not given to caresses, but with her kindly tact she saw that here they would be better than fine gold.

"Elsie," she said to her friend, Mrs. Wright, that night as she brushed her hair in her friend's room, "there's something the matter there. Something deep and awful, and I'm going to dig it out."

"You take my advice and leave that affair alone," said Elsie Wright grimly. "Word has already come down about Le Croix. He's from far up Yakinna way, and he's a bad man."

"He may be all that," said Lola judiciously, "but all bad men meet their Waterloo sooner or later. He can't bluff all the people all the time."

ii

TWO DAYS later Lola went deliberately to the new cabin for a regular womanly visit. She took a bit of sewing to bring her nearer to the blonde-haired girl, and White Ears walked sedately at her side.

They found a tremulous, glowing welcome. The girl was eager for a woman's speech, though she labored under a fear that kept her great eyes traveling from window to door and back again to Lola's face.

Of the Gray Lad she was half afraid— he was so huge, bulking grimly in the narrow space of the neat room.

She put a timid, rose-leaf hand on his rough head, and looked into his steady, pale eyes.

"What a great, wild creature!"

But Lola laughed and shook her head.

"Wild?" she said. "He is the tenderest thing I know. I know of no other heart in all this world so melting with love. Why, the Gray Lad would give his life for one he loved, and, you know, 'greater love hath no man than this.' "

"True," said the girl quickly, "and few men have so great."

And while they sewed a bit and drank a cup of excellent tea which the girl brewed deftly, Lola told her, in rambling anecdote and eulogy, the whole long story of White Ears, from the first night when he had sniffed a wild wolf in the California mountains, at her cabin door, to a dark day at Kunman's Bend, when he had leaped at the throat of Le Brun, the half-breed.

"Mother of mercy!" breathed the little woman. "He is no brute, but a human lover! Has he not, think you, a human soul gone astray in his brute's body ?"

"No," said Lola. "He is but the highest type of animal; but they, after all, are only our little brothers."

"And love— ah, ma'm'selle! It is love that makes humans of brutes and brutes of humans!"

And she looked swiftly out the window, but not before Lola had seen the heavy tears that filmed her eyes.

"Ah," she thought, "here is her tragedy !"

At that moment there came a step at the door, and Le Croix entered.

At sight of the two strangers in his house he stopped abruptly, and a scowl drew deep between his eyes.

He looked at them with unconcealed displeasure, flagrant in his rudeness. That needlessly hostile glare set the blood racing in Lola's veins with hot resentment.

"How do you do?" she said insolently. "Monsieur Le Croix, I believe? Your wife has already found two friends in her new home, you see." And she touched White Ears with an airy gesture.

But whatever she declared for him, the Gray Lad declared himself most pointedly. Here was no friend for him, this evil man with the daring eyes. The bristles rose on his spine, and his white ruff fluffed with challenge.

Le Croix scowled at them a moment, then, without a word, turned on his heel and went out, slamming the door behind him.

Lola looked fixedly at the girl.

She was pale as a sheet, and one small hand fumbled at her throat, while the fear rode up in her face like a cloud.

"I have brought you trouble," said Lola simply, at which understanding words the other dropped her face in her hands and fell to weeping wildly.

Lola leaned forward and put a reassuring hand upon her heaving shoulder.

"You are burdened with some tragedy," she said gently. "I saw it that first day when our eyes met through the window. That was why I came to you. There is nothing so bad that it cannot be helped. I am your friend, and I am very strong. Also, I have an inordinate faith in myself. If you will open your heart to me I may be able to help you. Your husband," she finished frankly, "is a beast and a bully, but I am not afraid of him."

The girl gasped, and raised her fearful eyes.

"Oh, ma'm'selle! You do not know; you must not speak so! He might hear!"

"Bah !" said Lola. "Let him. I hope he does. His eyes displease me. Also the Gray Lad. Didn't you see?"

But the little woman was in a very tumult of terror, and Lola rose to go.

"Sooner or later you will tell me," she said. "Think about it. Think it all over, and remember that I am strong — and fearless. And that I am longing to help you."

iii

IN THE days that followed Lola knew that she had made an enemy whose quality she did not underestimate.

When they met, Le Croix looked at her with eyes of such deadly malice that she felt a creeping in her spine. But this only served to make her bristle in every nerve, as White Ears bristled.

The arctic winter swept down upon them in a night, and the cold pressed in upon the land like a blue crystal cup, inverted, holding it in a vacuum.

The snow came and rose to the windows, and life drew in to the fire-bright interior of the Wright House, with its swarming stream of goers and comers who traveled the snow-packed trails as if it were summer.

Several times again Lola went to the Le Croix cabin, but after each visit she found the terror so intensified in the little woman's eyes that she desisted.

"If you want me, Felice," she said gravely, "I am always ready— always waiting for the word from you— but I think I cause you more sorrow than pleasure, so I will not come again."

But this the lonely girl could not bear, as the next few weeks bore witness. She came at night, trembling and afraid, to the Wright House for an hour's talk in Lola's room. She seemed to droop more and more, as if the weight of the pain she carried was growing unbearable. Lola's heart ached for her.

And then, just before the Christmas holidays, Felice told her story.

"Oh, ma'm'selle," she said, "it is the end of a year, today, since I have seen him! A year that has been a thousand! My heart is dying within me. What shall I do, ma'm'selle? Oh, what shall I do?"

"Do?" said Lola Lambert sturdily. "Do? Tell me first— and see him later, if it is possible of human accomplishment, whoever he may be."

"It is Louis Boileau— French Louis, they call him at Siskit Gulch. His heart is true, and mine, always mine to the end of our sorry lives, as my heart is his. He is beautiful— oh, beautiful as sunset over golden waters, a flaming lover of a man! Mon Dieu! What do I say. He was beautiful— straight and tall as a pine-tree— until that awful day — that black day when— when— "

She hushed her sobs, and glanced furtively around.

"When Le Croix broke his body like a child's toy! That was at Siskit Gulch, when Pierre Gaefline went broke at the gaming tables. He was my uncle, my own mother's brother, and he had raised, me— he and Francia, his wife. It was a mighty night of play— it was talked of long in those parts— and at its end Pierre had laid down all he had in this world.

"He still owed Le Croix much— oh, so very much that when Le Croix found he could not pay there was one great scene. There were guns and knives and men's oaths, and it seemed that there would be murder done. I know, for we came to the door, Francia and I, drawn by the word of Pierre's trouble, when the affair was at its height. There were many men in the great room. I can see them still, under the lamps on the walls. And in the crowd I saw Louis. He smiled at me and I, for all my fear, smiled back.

"My lips were still warm from his kisses, for he had left me but a short time back, and, oh, ma'm'selle, we were betrothed!"

Here the sobs broke the story for a time, and Lola smoothed the bright head bowed under its memories and its grief.

"And then a strange thing happened. Just when it seemed that Le Croix would kill Pierre, cowering before him like a coward— the whole camp feared Le Croix, ma'm'selle— the gambler's eyes fell on us there in the doorway. They lighted— oh, how they lighted with the fires of hell! He stopped in his evil oaths, held still the hand raised with the shining knife, and then he laughed and lowered the knife.

" 'Voilà, Gaefline!' he cried. 'Maybe this can be arranged, after all. I'll take little Gold Hair yonder and call it square. Eh? What do you say? Give her to me and get out yourself, and you shall have your life.

"I could hear the men breathing in the awful silence that fell. Me— I could not breathe. Pierre, white as a ghost, looked at us and wet his lips. He had no love for me, but even so I think he felt sorry for me. He waited but a minute, then he flung up his hand and said: 'Done!'

"The word rang in the walls, and I felt the cheek of the door come over and hit me upon the temple. I caught myself, and kept my senses with an effort. And then— oh, then something happened that will light my heart to its dying day! I saw a slim form cut through the crowd, and, leaping high like a panther, reach for Le Croix's throat.

"It was Louis, ma'm'selle; French Louis, and his red cheeks were white, while his black eyes were flames of fire.

" 'Beast!' he cried to Le Croix, 'I'll kill you for that!'

"I covered my eyes at the fight that followed, for I knew that it could have but one ending. Louis was but a lad— a slim, graceful lad, and Le Croix was, as you see him, a great giant of a man. And, besides, he had a knife. I could hear the sounds of their feet on the floor and a word or two, and at last pitying oaths from the men, and then a fall. When I dared look he lay at Le Croix's feet— my gay Louis.

"He did not die; I thank le bon Dieu for that; but he was ruined. The knife had found some muscle in his slender back that was vital, and he will never walk again, they say. He sits all day in his cabin at Siskit Gulch, eating out his heart, while I— live with Le Croix. Pierre and Francia left that night. That is all, ma'm'selle, except that I am not Le Croix's wife. He has already a wife somewhere below. And I— wish I could die this night. It is a year— a year!"

For a while there was no sound in the fire-bright room save the girl's hopeless weeping. Then Lola Lambert put a firm hand on Felice's soft shoulder.

"Come!" she said. "Lookup. From this minute you've got to fight. You have followed the line of least resistance because you feared Le Croix— "

"Not for myself, ma'm'selle! Not for myself!"

It was a cry of anguish.

"I follow him like a dog because— because of Louis. If I disobey one word he threatens to go back to Siskit Gulch and— kill him where he sits alone!"

"Of all things! Well, the time has come. We'll take a fall or two out of Le Croix. Now tell me— if Louis sat in this room this minute and a priest stood there, would you marry him?"

"I would kiss the ground under that human who made it possible!"

"Has Louis money ? Could you live?"

"No. But I would work a million years for him!"

"Then go home. We'll see what we can do with this Le Croix who threatens."

iv

IN THE following week, Lola held speech with Artuk, the Indian, and the result was the gathering together of the pick of two crack teams of dogs that had proven themselves that winter, and the overhauling of the lightest sledge.

"I guess, Gray Lad," she told White Ears, after a manner she had of conversing with him, "that we can cover some ground, eh, boy?"

She had never driven him. Something had always held her back from it, though she had longed to see the great gray dog in full sweep at a team's head. She knew that Artuk's dogs were the best in all that part of the country, and she chuckled and thought far ahead. The coming battle with Le Croix exhilarated her like wine, and she made careful plans, minute in detail.

She was very happy that winter. The wild land had laid its mystic touch upon her; and the open homage her beauty brought her everywhere was sweet. She learned to know men in the abstract and to use her power of appeal to them.

She sent a secret agent— Artuk's son — to Siskit Gulch, a broken camp, but a matter of five days away, with a frank epistle to one Louis Boileau.

The reply she received brought tears to her eyes, it was so truly a lover's heart that had dictated it, yet so hopeless a one.

"Verily, this Le Croix is a fearless man, and an arrogant!" she mused. "He sets up his wicked life within five days of that camp where all men knew him! I wonder what he did up Yakinna way."

She gave the letter from Louis to Felice, and saw its magic work.

The girl was transfigured, lighted by a white fire from within, and for the first time she seemed to lift her little body under her weight of fear.

Then Lola sent Artuk's son on another journey, and shortly after his return Father Harrick happened up to Devereaux Point.

Now, Father Harrick was the best man in a radius of a thousand miles, bar none. He was beloved as far on the hard trails as his winsome old face was known, and he carried under his rusty cassock the heart of a lover, a dare-devil, and a Galahad in one. It was wholly given to his Master's service, but Father Harrick had his own ways of interpreting that service, and often high romance played a leading part therein.

Lola told him the pitiful story in her own bright room, and he walked up and down, with his sinewy hands locked behind him, while his blue eyes sparkled and burned with the light of battle.

"Tis me fer th' undoing av this sinner" he said at its close, "an' 'tis the tinder hearrt ye have, my daughter. Oh, the great good hearrt! Where is this lad, Louis ?"

And presently he departed into the white ways as quietly as he had come, and none save herself and Artuk's son knew his business.

Lola, for the first time, put White Ears in harness. He looked fully the king, towering in the lead of Artuk's picked team, and she thrilled with pride in him. And the Gray Lad himself stood proudly, for he had learned this work in a hard school, and knew his powers.

With his first work-out, Lola came back with cheeks glowing and a light in her eyes.

"Pete," she said solemnly to Artuk, "this is no wolf-dog, this friend of mine. He is a monarch of his double breed!"

But that same week an important event transpired.

A man came down from the Cheehuk Rapids with a team of dogs which he delivered to Le Croix. Great, snarling malemutes they were, lean as wire and hard as nails.

They were matched to a hair, all five of them, and they were better dogs than Artuk's. They would have hopelessly outclassed Lola's team had it not been for White Ears, with his amazing height, power of shoulder, depth and breadth of chest. White Ears dwarfed all of his kind that came in contact with him. Even as it was, Lola pursed her lips and her eyes were thoughtful.

"The old devil!" she said to herself. "He has sensed something."

Twelve days she waited after Father Harrick's departure; twelve days wherein she drove her picked team daily, hard, sweeping drives, that, beginning with a few hours, had lengthened to the whole day.

White Ears ran in the lead, forever leaning into the harness as a born leader runs, his strong heart recognizing no difficulty. They would return at night like a triumphant procession, tearing in on the run, the gray bodies stretching against the snow and Lola's cheeks flaming like poppies.

"What does it all mean, my friend?" Felice begged, with her troubled eyes searching Lola's face.

"It may mean all the world to you," Lola answered. "Have you got the small, light pack ready, as I directed?"

"Yes, ma'm'selle."

"And you will take a great chance for life and love— and Louis?"

"Anything! Anything for me— only— only—  You are quite sure that Le Croix can be kept from fulfilling his threat ? That it is which wakes me, cold with fear, in the night! I am afraid he will kill him, as he said!"

"If I know men," said Lola Lambert grimly, "these rough, quick, fair-play loving men of the North— and I think I do— we'll take a fall out of Le Croix the Bully! We'll call his bluff; we'll strip him to rags at his own game and make him a joke in the diggings; or else we'll make him kill himself preventing it!"

At dusk on the thirteenth day an Indian came into the Wright House with a scrap of paper, which he gave to Lola unobtrusively, drifting out with the night again.

It was a letter from that religious knight-errant, Father Harrick, and it was beautifully written, full of hope and excitement and love— of love and belief in God and man:

My dear Daughter—

I have found Louis, the poor lad, chained to his chair, but sweet and true. I have found all the hearts in Siskit Gulch, and laid them bare with the story. I have sent the tale by runner to every camp within reach, asking every strong man who hears it to come here to attend the finish.

You are known all over the land, and men swear by you for your courage and your beauty. Now I have added the news that you are to snatch Felice from Le Croix, present her to Louis, and give the pair a settlement of money for life, which is the last thing needed to make your word the law. Already they are coming in from the near camps, and the saloon is a buzzing hive of excitement.

There will be here a great committee of reception, and what you ask of them you may count on getting. But be very careful of Le Croix, and start when you wish. The trails are good, all except a point below Caribou Clip, where there are a few miles bad going.

Lola read this letter and raised her eyes to the curtained window, where the blue night crackled with its cold and its stars, and they began to shine like stars themselves.

She laid down the paper and opened her closet door, her fingers already fumbling with the buttons of her house- dress. Inside that door, arranged for instant use, there stood every smallest thing she would need for such a trip as she Had never taken— garments for the trail, a pack of provisions that were graded down to the day and hour, simple tools, her rifle and its ammunition.

In thirty minutes she stood with her hands on Elsie Wright's shoulders, bidding her good-by.

"Oh, Lola!'' the other was gasping

fearfully. "This is madness! The man is a killer, a regular beast, a terror!"

"A cheap bluffer you mean. And I'm quite a bluffer myself, if it comes to that. Now, good-by!"

v

AT four o'clock that night Le Croix came into his cabin, having closed the saloon, as was his custom, at that hour.

He found an empty house, dark and cold, where there was wont to be warmth and light and one who rose to brew him his cup of strong tea.

He swore softly, struck a light, and looked at the neatly made bed.

No little head had overslept on its pillow.

Then did Le Croix fling out in the crackling cold like a lunatic and run to the Wright House kennels, where Artuk's dogs were used to snarl and fidget the night through.

They, too, were empty.

His evil face was a mask of fury in the darkness, his eyes red points of light.

It took him but a few minutes to kick his team into harness, to fling together those things he had to have, to strike the signs of their going, and to drift away on the trail to Siskit Gulch.

Far ahead, in the blue arctic night, Artuk's picked team followed their leader at a swinging, easy gait. The leader ran like a great, gray shadow, as lightly, as swiftly, his huge brush waving, his white collie collar gleaming faintly. Be- side him ran Lola, tall, tireless, of amazing strength, cheeks blooming, eyes shining, lips smiling now and then; alert, keen, watchful, her heart in tune with adventure and the great things of life.

The trail was smooth as glass, well trodden and packed. She had nine hours' start of Le Croix. Her dogs were strong, well fed, of proven courage, and she knew them all. Moreover, she was engaged on the business of humanity, which, of all things in this vitally interesting world, was the most important to her. And she was pitted against a savage enemy well worth her steel.

Therefore she was happy.

Above, in the dark sky, long streamers and ribbons of color waved, as if a god played with divine confetti— the ancient and magical display of the Northern Lights.

On the light sledge little Felice sat, wrapped in her furs, her blue eyes wide and abrim with excitement.

At dawn they stopped for rest and food. Lola unhitched the dogs, fed them abundantly— the bulk of the sledge-load was food for them— ordered them down in the snow, where they curled obediently, each soft brush covering four bunched feet for warmth, and fell to the sleep that these dogs learn to snatch at a moment's notice.

Felice got stiffly out of her wrappings, all eagerness to help.

"Do you curl down on the sledge, ma'm'selle," she begged, taking the tiny alcohol stove from Lola's hand. "Rest, as the dogs do, while I make the breakfast."

And Lola laughed, and yielded. She, too, slept in a moment, and when Felice awoke her, forty minutes later, for steaming tea, crisp bacon and hardtack, she felt fresh as at the start.

She ate, and went promptly to sleep again, however, for she knew the value of conservation of forces, while Felice sat on guard, thinking of Louis, an odd little sentinel in the frozen land.

At the end of another hour they were under way again.

Behind them Le Croix had gained that hour and fifty minutes, for he had not stopped. The team he drove was as hard and strong as himself— a fitting complement.

That night Lola made a fire behind a bank in the lee of a wooded rise, and slept like the dead while Felice kept frightened watch.

The girl was strung to the breaking- pitch with fear and excitement, but she was game to the last ounce of her little body.

Le Croix also camped that night, but he was up an hour sooner, so that he gained a bit more. And he pressed his dogs, riding more, for he was no fit runner of the trail like Lola Lambert. Had Lola known those dogs, she, too. would have pressed a bit, for they were famous for a thousand miles around.

And so it went, from blue dawn to blue night. The cold pressed upon them like a finger, striving to squeeze out that mysterious and conquering enemy of the elements— life. Gray clouds shut out the pale light of the days, and the white expanse of the land was appalling in its loneliness.

Hour by hour they swung ahead in the trail, and always Lola ran close to her leader's side, sometimes with a hand on the outstretched head.

Two, three— the days swept by, and Felice was dumb with the strain and the wild hope.

"Oh, ma'm'selle," she gasped, "will we make it?"

"Make it?" laughed Lola. "Haven't we the great Gray Lad to pull us in ahead of the devil and all his imps? We'll make it like a top!"

"How can I ever thank you, ma'm'selle? What can I do to pay for this?"

"Pouf!" said Lola. "Love your Louis as payment; make his helpless life to bloom like a garden; and if it ever comes your way to pass it on to another in trouble, do it. So shall I be paid. For that is the gold of life— the helping hand to the under dog."

They made the bad pass at Caribou Clip without mishap, and stretched away for Siskit Gulch. This was late on the fourth day.

And that night Le Croix also passed the Clip, so near had he drawn in his hatred and his seething fury.

Lola camped that night, without a fire, for there was a tightening about her heart, a tensing of her muscles for the final struggle.

The swift, unceasing pace had begun to tell a bit on Artuk's dogs.

Mokwa was getting a trifle footsore, and Hunnun, the usual leader, was developing temper. Lola held them firmly to the trail, but it was a constant strain.

The last day dawned gray as smoke; a heavy day, warmer, and with a low sky.

All through the morning Lola kept looking back over her shoulder.

Felice, too, watched the back trail in silence, though her little hands were clenched until the knuckles stood out white beneath her heavy mittens. They made short shift for noon, stopping barely long enough to feed the dogs and snatch a mouthful themselves.

And at that moment Le Croix was eating up their trail, a scant hour back.

Verily, that famous team from Cheehuk Rapids deserved their fame.

At two o'clock, Lola, running at White Ears' side, heard an inarticulate cry from the sledge behind. She turned in time to see Felice slump forward among the furs, the tension broken at last by oblivion, and far behind, on the crest of a rise, she saw Le Croix.

"Lord love us!" she cried aloud.

Then she turned back again.

"Gray Lad!" she cried. "Lola's Lad! Now is the time! Mush! Mush!"

And at the unaccustomed word from her lips, the great dog dropped in his tracks, lowered his flowing tail, stretched out his head, and flew away like the wind. That was a pace that Lola, hard as she was, could not keep, so she flung herself at the sledge, scrambled on, and hung, leaning forward.

From time to time she looked back at Le Croix. His team was coming fresh and strong, as if they had not been rushed and driven by a cruel hand. The man himself had out a whip, and was beginning to ply it, flushed with rage at sight of his quarry.

Never in all the eventful years had Lola lived such an hour as followed. The blood pumped slowly in her veins, her head felt clear, her brain keen. As the danger heightened, she grew cool and calm, without underestimating the danger that rode with Le Croix, the killer. She did not try to revive Felice. Indeed, she hoped the girl would remain unconscious until the issue was decided.

Away and away down the long, white trail they flew. Artuk's dogs, when the need arose, forgot their grievances and their pains, and ran as she had hoped they would. But finest, freshest, most courageous was that friend of her heart speeding in the lead. For an hour they kept the pace, and Le Croix had not gained. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly she saw that he was closing up.

She slipped off the sledge and ran awhile, lightening the load, resting the dogs a trifle. But she soon saw that would not do, and flung back upon it. The man was gaining.... There was no doubt about it....

"Mush!' she cried. "Mush, Gray Lad!"

And White Ears mushed! He would have strained to obey that voice from the edge of death itself. The others responded valiantly, and for a time they drew away. Then Mokwa fumbled a foot, and went floundering for a hundred yards. White Ears, redoubling his efforts, pulled her with him, so that she did not slacken the pace.

But strain as they would, that relentless pursuer kept creeping up.

Lola knew that Si skit Gulch was scarce an hour's run away, and she prayed wildly that she might hold her own, and make it. Le Croix knew that, also, and was ready to kill every dog in his team to prevent just that.

Ahead there was a great circle where the trail made a turn to the north. Felice had told her of this turn as they had talked over the trail at night. As it came in view, Lola felt a presentiment grip her heart.

She dreaded the moment when they should present their broadside to Le Croix.

As they swung into the turn, she looked back, and her blood went cold within her. Le Croix was fumbling among the furs at his feet. The next moment he straightened up with a rifle in his hands. It was a long shot, but he would take chances.

"Mush! Mush!" screamed Lola. "White Ears! Go!"

But with the words there came the bark of the shot, and Mokwa tumbled among her mates' feet. Instantly Lola was out, knife in hand, cutting the traces of the luckless dog.

Again they were away, but Le Croix was taking careful aim once more.

"Oh, God!" cried Lola in anguish. "Not the Gray Lad! Don't let him kill the Gray Lad!''

Again the rifle snapped out, but the shot went wild. Once more, and yet again. Le Croix had stopped on the turn, that he might hold them side on, and was kneeling on the sledge. He aimed for the huge gray leader, and fired again. Not White Ears, but Hunnun, took the ball, and dropped.

Again Lola cut the traces and started forward, this time crippled indeed, with only three dogs against Le Croix's full complement.

And then Le Croix settled on his sledge and leaped forward after them. It looked as if the game were up. And at that minute, Lola, turning her straining eyes ahead, saw, far down the trail, the smoke from the cabins at Siskit Gulch.

The sight aroused the old fighting spirit within her.

"No!" she said between her teeth. "No! Not now!"

And she slid off the sledge. With every ounce of her strength she forged to White Ears' side.

"Come!" she gasped. "Come, lad!"

The great dog was already doing his own work and that of Mokwa and Hunnun, but he leaned forward a little harder. His brave heart recognized no difficulty so long as Lola lived. Therefore, with a great straining of all his mighty body, he kept up his pace, and Lola, straining every nerve, kept it also.

She did not look back; she could not and keep up that speed. She watched the distant smoke, and prayed. And Le Croix, back on the sledge, raised his rifle twice to shoot her in the back, and twice desisted, held only by that too- near smoke. But he rose on his swaying sledge and took a snap shot at the dogs again.

This time, as the rifle spat, the Grey Lad flinched, and squatted for a second's space, while a red stain came slowly out on the edge of his white collar and slowly spread. But he did not even slacken speed. The ball, clipping across Felice's prone body, and over the two smaller dogs, had found the king at last.

At sight of that bright stain Lola's eyes dilated, and she flung herself on the sledge, snatched up her rifle, turned, and fired...

She saw Le Croix drop his gun, and she leaped off again to run.

That was a grand finish, that last, long stretch into the huddled camp, with White Ears pulling like a fiend; with Lola, her hand in his shoulder band, pulling with him; with the third dog down, and dragging with a crippled leg; with Felice rolling in oblivion; with Le Croix, the killer, sweeping so near that his oaths were audible.

Lola knew that there was something moving on the trail ahead; that a great swarm of small, black objects was coming to meet her like a whirlwind; and then that they were men, who whooped and shouted as they plunged forward. And ahead of all the rest there ran a grotesque figure, whose white hair flew in the wind, whose rusty cassock flapped at his feet— Father Harrick, who caught her in his tender old arms just as it 6eemed she must sink.

"Le Croix!" she gasped. "Stop him!"

But there was no need for that. A hundred men surrounded the bully, and his life hung in the balance. He was hauled off his sledge with scant ceremony and dragged to the saloon, where Louis sat in his chair. Strong arms lifted Lola bodily and took her there. Other hands pulled the sledge with its helpless burden. But Lola cried like a child, and reiterated that the Gray Lad was shot. The Gray Lad was shot!

So they carried the great dog, also, and the other two, that had done such gallant service. And it was a strange, triumphant procession that stopped before the door of the Gold Drift Saloon and finally entered it, bag and baggage.

It took an hour to straighten it all out, to get the tears from the eyes of the big, handsome girl, to see that White Ears was only scratched, that Le Croix would never use his right hand again, and to bring little Felice out of her swoon and lay her in the trembling arms of French Louis— Louis, who had grieved a year, chained to his chair.

And presently Father Harrick brought his book and married them, while a hundred men stood by. And Lola smiled, and promised a lifelong settlement for the bride. And Felice wept, and kissed her hands, kneeling to do it.

And for Le Croix?

Well, the hundred men took it upon themselves to tell him, singly and collectively, what choice fate they would hand out to him if so much as a hair of Louis' head was harmed.

And they furnished him with fresh dogs for his famous team, and sent him adrift that night, refusing him the common hospitality of the camp. Which proved his status to the last shade.

Lola, swaying on her feet with weariness, smiled round at the ring of faces in the lamplight.

"Commend me to you men of the far places!" she said. "I knew I could count on you— I and the Gray Lad!"

And White Ears, at mention of his name, slipped a slim muzzle into her hanging hand.

_________________

16: The Cunning of the Serpent

Henry S. Whitehead

1882-1932

Adventure  20 May 1925

Celebrated for his uncanny tales of the Caribbean, Whithead also produced this natty Western...

THE mail came into Carnation twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays. It was brought over from Red Hills, the nearest rail-road station twelve miles across the desert, by Joe Sowers, a superannuated cowman. Sowers made the trip to Jim. Peterson the postmaster, keeper of Carnation's chief emporium of general trade. Therefore, even when he was at home in his rare intervals of rest from the constant visitations through-out his enormous district, the Bishop of the Niobraras had two heavy days of "inside work," since his mail receipts were larger than those of any other citizen of Carnation.

The bishop's mail had another distinction. It contained the only regular pay-check that came into the little frontier town which was the geographical center of his work. This was because, being a missionary bishop, he received his salary from the missionary headquarters in New York once a month. As Jim Peterson was also the banker, the bishop had fallen into the habit of taking his check to the storekeeper as soon as he got it, and having it cashed.

This unusual method of receiving one's income had excited much local comment, and it was well known that Bishop Kent always carried his check to Peterson's and came out with a roll of two hundred and fifty dollars, once every month.

This sum was far more than the bishop needed for his simple requirements, but it made it possible for him to perform a good many kindly acts with his right hand of which his left hand knew nothing. The recipients could be counted on to say nothing.

But the case of Rosie, Rosie of the Gopher Hole's Bevy of Blossoms, had leaked out some time after Rosie's unexpected departure for the East. It had leaked out through the ugly mouth of Clark Shadwell. In a moment of very bad judgment, complicated by a certain amount of the Gopher Hole's very bad red liquor, poor Rosie had succumbed to the allurements Shadwell had been holding out to her, and had abandoned the frying-pan of the Gopher Hole's precarious housing for the fire of Clark Shadwell's tumbledown shack on the edge of town.

Rosie had never ceased to regret this step. But regrets did her no good. Like everybody else in or near Carnation she soon came to know Shadwell for what he was, a truculent, transplanted hill-billy from the Tennessee mountains, a gun-fighter, who, weaned on corn-licker and fed on rat-tail tobacco since before he had teeth, had found the scope of his native land too narrow for his expansive nature. He had come out into the Bad Lands where he would have room to swing a gat, and had picked on Carnation as his habitat. He had made it clear to Rosie that if she ever left him to go back to the Gopher Hole he would get her. This threat had held her through every variety of ill treatment the "pizenest" citizen of Carnation could think up.

One Monday night the bishop had arrived home from a long visitation, and after his usual process of cleaning-up, after three weeks away from his famous bathtub in the alkali-dust, had stepped over to Peterson's for his accumulated mail. There was such a huge stack of it that he had not waited even to cash his check but, intending to do so the next morning, had carried it all home with him.

He was in the midst of this large batch of mail the next morning when a tap on the door interrupted him. He opened the door and Rosie stumbled in. She was weak and sick and half starved, and she was suffering acutely from the effects of the beating Shadwell had administered the night before.

Nobody except the bishop and Rosie, and the Personage— above Who was the bishop's boss, knew what the two said to each other, but about an hour later they came out of the bishop's little house and walked. together along Carnation's main street of shacks to Peterson's store. Old Joe Sowers was outside beside his dilapidated buckboard with its pair of rangy cow ponies, and the bishop paused to speak to him.

"Kindly defer your leaving for a few minutes, Mr. Sowers. There will be a passenger going with you to Red Hills."

Old Joe nodded his dusty old head and spat reflectively in the thick dust of the roadway, saying nothing.

The bishop accompanied Rosie into the store, cashed his check and, while the store loafers stood agape, counted out into Rosie's hand ten ten-dollar bills. The loafers followed the oddly assorted pair out in front of the store, and saw the bishop deferentially hand Rosie into the buckboard.

"Take this young lady to the station at Red Hills, if you please," came the bishop's precise voice speaking to old Joe. "Perhaps, too, you will be kind enough to see that she gets her ticket through to New York, and is placed safely on the train."

"Uh-huh," responded old Joe, shifting his quid nervously from one side of his leathern jaws to the other.

The girl looked unutterable things at the little bishop who, removing his hat, bowed to her stiffly, and the buckboard started off at a great rate.

Gravely saluting the men about the store doorway, the bishop turned on his heel, and with a measured tread which he never varied, about twenty-one inches to the step, Reddy Larimore had once reported, walked gravely back to his little adobe house by the creek side.

Ed Hammond, proprietor of the Red Horse Restaurant and Bar, having learned what was in the wind, overtook the little man before he had reached his house. Hammond laid a huge, protective hand on the neat shoulder of the bishop's neatly pressed black coat.

"Land sake, Bishop, y'aint mixin' in on this yere Clark Shadwell's deals, are ye? Goshamighty, man, that cattymount ain't got no respec' fer nothin' ner nobody. They tells me ye're a-helpin' this yere gal o' his'n to get away east. Why, man, he'll jes' plum ruin ye with lead bullets fer that, soon's he knows what ye've ben up to. It's a wonder he haint a-rearin' roun' right now. Why— likely' s not he'll be ridin' after 'em an' kill the gal an' old Joe to boot. Hain't ye got no sense?"

The bishop turned on Hammond a cool, level eye.

"It's very good of you, Mr. Hammond, to warn me like this. I appreciate it highly, sir. But there is no immediate likelihood of his doing anything I am informed by this unfortunate young woman that he is at the present time, drunk, sir, dead drunk in fact.

"She will be aboard the noon train long before he awakens. I have no doubts about her safety. You may be interested to know that I have given her letters to people in New York who will see to her welfare."

"Yeah— but!" Hammond choked at the little man's simplicity. "Look yere, Bishop; I wasn't thinkin' so much about her; only kinda incidental-like. Hits mos'ly you I'm a-thinkin' about. You've gotta live right yere, ain't ye? Well, then, all's I gotta say is, gosh sake, heel yo'self. Kin you do anythin' tall with a gun? I s'pose not. Good land amighty! Hev ye stopped to think what that— roarin' son of a gun'll do to you?"

The bishop looked pleasantly up at his big friend who loaned him his dance-hall and bar to conduct services in whenever he spent a Sunday in Carnation. He smiled like a child The Cunning of the Serpent

"As I said before, it is extremely kind of you to take this interest, Mr. Hammond. I may tell you that I am not unmindful of my own personal safety. Perhaps you did not know that before I entered the ministry I studied law."

Hammond interrupted. He spoke as a person speaks to a lovable but very inexperienced child.

"Lord love ye, Bishop! This yere ain't no question of law. Don't you see? You're dealin'-in with a sharp an' a bad egg. What's this yere Shadwell care 'bout law Good land!"

Ed Hammond threw up his hands in a hopeless gesture. The bishop was incapable of understanding the situation.

The bishop merely continued to smile like a child.

"You misapprehend me, I am afraid, Mr. Hammond. What I meant to convey was only this: That in my study of the law I was frequently confronted with the maxim, 'Never cross a bridge until you come to it!' You see, while I am very grateful to you for your thought of me, yet, after all, we are anticipating, are we not? I fear you are crossing a bridge before arriving at it, Mr. Hammond. Just now Shadwell is in no condition to do anything. He may even remain unaware of what has become of this unfortunate young woman. He is not very popular, is he? There is no occasion for anybody to tell him of my small part in the matter, is there?"

Hammond took his departure abruptly at this point in the conversation. He could not trust himself to speak again without profanity, so strong were his feelings at this moment. He did not wish to use profanity in the bishop's presence.

The bishop continued placidly, twenty- one inches to the step, toward his little house, his mind on his unfinished letters.

Hammond proceeded straight back to Peterson's store, gathered the loafers together, and discharged his mind.

"An' if any of yo' shoats," he ended, "opens yo' traps about it, the old man's cooked, I'm a-tellin' ye; an' if that heppens, by the goshamighty, they'll be two more folks full of lead in this yere mee-tropolis, the same bein' that there skunk Shadwell an' the saphead that spills a word to him!"

Peterson promised to see to it that old Joe kept his mouth tight shut.

CLARK SHADWELL'S first inquiry took place late that night. He was cold sober when he walked into the Gopher Hole, and he said little. Reluctantly convinced that nobody there knew anything about the subject of his inquiry, he was nonplussed. Shadwell's imagination did not reach the possibility of any one's shipping his light o'love out of town. If she hadn't gone back to her old life at the Gopher Hole she must necessarily be in some other man's house, or dead. As the days succeeded one another, and no evidence of Rosie's being above ground in Carnation, the conviction grew upon him that she must have met accidental death in some form; or, possibly— well, she had more than once hinted at doing away with herself.

The bishop was away from Carnation for several weeks at one stretch, during the rest of the month, and when he returned Shad- well had made up his mind that if he had lost Rosie, at least no other man was hiding her out.

On a certain Tuesday afternoon the bishop and several other persons were in Peterson's store waiting for the contents of old Joe's mail bags to be sorted and distributed. The bishop received his letters and opened the first two or three that came to hand while talking to some of his acquaintances. He glanced through the contents and dropped the envelopes into the waste-box which stood near the central stove.

As soon as he was gone, Clark Shadwell who was present poked at the trash in the waste-box. Then, stooping, he picked out a stamped envelope which had caught his eye. It was the kind of envelope already stamped, and with three dotted lines in the upper left-hand corner, along with the words: "If not delivered in —— days, re- turn to ——"

In, these blank spaces were written a New York address, and the name, Rose Hollister.

Shadwell spelled this out carefully, then, quickly crumpling the envelope, he dropped it back in the waste-box and, without a word to anybody, walked out of the store and, unhitching his cayuse, loped off in the direction of his shack at the town's edge.

As soon as he was gone, Ed Hammond picked out the crumpled ball and, straightening it out read what Shadwell had read.

Then, with a suppressed oath, he started for the bishop's house.

The bishop, urbane as always, listened to his fervid second warning.

Clark Shadwell knew! By Rose Hollister's foolishness, and the bishop's innocence, there was no further concealment possible, and, as Ed graphically imparted it, —— was about to bust loose.

Was the bishop heeled?

"Goshamighty! Here! Take this! Pack it constant, too! Goshamighty!"

Hammond left, too full of wrath and concern for the bishop's safety to trust himself for further utterance, and the bishop picked up gingerly, and examined curiously, the small, compact, double-barreled derringer he had left on the table.

That evening Doc Ellis had a hurry call to the bishop's house, and the next day the Carnation Tocsin and Range Bulletin carried a circumstantial account of how the chief ecclesiastic of the territory had slipped and fallen on the floor of his famous bathroom, the bathroom his predecessor had installed, with a patent ram which pumped water from the creek, and a straining apparatus which removed part of the alkali mud from the water, and broken his right arm. The paper referred to this injury as a compound fracture, this descriptive item being furnished by Carnation's leading scientist, Doc Ellis.

The next day the bishop with his right arm in elaborate splints and a sling concocted of many rolls of bandage, went uncomplainingly about his affairs, and to all inquiries responded with the cheerful statement that his injury was nothing—

"Just nothing at all, thank you."

How he managed for the subsequent days to dress would have puzzled Carnation if Carnation had been critical of such matters. But Carnation wasn't critical and, as Ed Hammond pointed out scornfully to one curious customer of his at the Red Horse—

"That there old bishop don't have to tie no necktie like other Easterners, 'cause he wears one of them purple dickies."

To Hammond's importunities to watch his step, the bishop always returned assurances of his complete immunity from danger, and cited the fact that Shadwell had made no hostile move whatever against him. All Shadwell knew from having read Rosie's envelope was that Rosie had got away to New York and had written to him. There was no necessary connection between those facts and his complicity in her escape.

On Friday of that same week, the bishop received his mail as usual and carried it home with him. Later in the evening he returned to Peterson's store to cash his check. Shadwell and several others were at the store. Peterson handed the bishop his bills, and the bishop placed them with his free left hand in the left-hand pocket of his neatly pressed black trousers, and took his departure after greeting pleasantly everybody in the store.

Shadwell left within a minute afterward, and as there was no one present who could guess that anything was in the wind except Peterson himself, his exit excited no comment whatever. Peterson, greatly worried, and unable to leave because he was alone in the store, sent a boy for Hammond.

Hammond arrived in a minute or two, and Peterson whispered to him that Shadwell had trailed the bishop out.

Hammond sprang out of the door and hurried down the street toward the bishop's house. Past the lighted section of the main street he hastened and broke into a run as soon as he had left this behind him. As he ran he slid his holster around on his belt, and loosened its flap.

The bishop was out of sight, and there was no trace of Shadwell, but Ed had noticed his cayuse still tied to the rail in front of Peterson's when he rushed out, and knew that Shadwell must be afoot, and not far away:

He found the bishop's house in darkness, as he slowed his pace on arriving before it, and looked, with a worried expression, at the unlighted windows. He came nearer, walking stealthily now, his hand on the butt of his forty-five. He started to walk around the house, and as he neared the first corner. he heard Shadwell's voice suddenly and stopped, drawing his gun, just within the concealing shelter of the house's edge.

It occurred to him that at his usual gait the bishop had had just about time to reach his house, and had gone around to the door at the farther side which he commonly used, Shadwell had probably taken the other side of the road, and had managed to pass the bishop on the way, unobserved in the dark. He had been waiting for the bishop around the corner of the house, and had confronted him there. That was it! He, Hammond, had managed to arrive just in time!

Hammond edged himself along against the rough wall of the little house, ready to intervene at an instant's notice.

HE heard clearly Shadwell's ugly snarl, low-pitched as it was, around the corner of the house.

"I said shove up yo' han's, —— yo'! Shove 'em up, now, right sudden— 'way up— or I'll blow yo' to ——!"

"But, my dear sir''— it was the bishop's clear voice— "can't you see that it is out of— the question? I can not move my right hand because it is bandaged tight."

"Then shove up yo' good arm— pronto, now— yo' mis'ble li'l pup yo'!"

Ed Hammond stepped softly around the corner. He had guessed, correctly, that the bishop would be facing him, Shadwell standing so as to present his back, facing the bishop. He saw Shadwell's back and slouching shoulders, and the little bishop beyond him, his free left hand and arm perpendicular, the huge white bandage which confined the other conspicuous in the dimness of early evening. Shadwell was edging up toward the bishop, his gun held upon him.

What could he be up to, exactly? Then Hammond saw through it. He was intending, first, to secure the roll of bills. When he had once got that safely away from the bishop, he could easily overcome the slightly built, elderly and now disabled little man. He would not risk the sound of a gunshot.

Hammond raised his forty-five.

But he was very unexpectedly interrupted. There came from close at hand a roar which made him jump, and ruined his steady aim.

Shadwell had shot down the little man after all.

Ed plunged forward. A gun was too good for Shadwell. He wanted to get his big powerful hands on him and choke the miserable life out of his worthless carcass.

He stopped, confused in the dim light. The figure which he had dimly perceived as it tottered and fell to the ground in a limp heap lay almost under his feet. It writhed and rolled about, and from it there came a steady stream of profanity.

At a little distance there stood the bishop, busily engaged with his left hand in unwinding the huge bandage from his right hand and arm.

"What the—" gasped Hammond.

"Ah, it is you, is it not, Mr. Hammond?" said the bishop.  "You quite startled me, I assure you."

He threw the loosened bandage to the ground and, transferring from his right hand to his left the double-barreled derringer from which a thin wisp of acrid smoke yet rose, he handed the deadly little weapon back to its rightful owner.

"Doctor Ellis was very obliging," remarked the bishop, rubbing his cramped right hand which had just discharged the derringer through the bandage. "He took great pains with this arrangement. You see, Mr. Hammond, I have been for years unused to firearms, and so I could take no chances. That is why I waited until Shadwell came so close that I could hardly miss. I shot him— accurately, I think— through the right shoulder, so as to disable his gun arm. I hope I have not injured him too severely."

Around the corner of the house came a confused group of men, in the lead, Tom Hankins, a deputy sheriff, carrying a lantern in one hand, a glistening blue-barreled forty-five in the other.

"What's all this rannikaboo?" inquired Hankins in a voice of authority.

By the light of the lantern the bystanders envisaged the scene. They looked at the bishop, the bandage on the ground; they sniffed the sharp smell of burned cloth which rose from the crumpled bandages. Hankins, stooping over, hauled the still cursing Shadwell roughly to his feet. His right arm hung helpless. One of the men picked up his undischarged revolver and looked at it curiously.

"You come along with me to the calaboose, Shadwell," said Hankins grimly. "We've had our eyes on you for some time and now I reckon we've got you to rights."

Hankins led away his captive, the other men closing in around them as they wended their way back toward the calaboose.

The bishop looked at Ed Hammond who stood, his jaw hanging, and again the bishop smiled like a happy child.

"I can not help wishing that I had not been obliged to resort to such an expedient, Mr. Hammond," he remarked, as he picked up the bandages and turned toward his house, "but you may remember that we are exhorted in the Scriptures to combine the harmlessness of doves with the cunning of the serpent! Good evening, Mr. Hammond, and thank you very much."

________________

17: The Rhino Charges

William J. Makin

1894-1944

Blue Book Aug 1933

One of a series of Jonathan Lowe stories

AT ten o'clock that night the little man with the electric lamp in his hand turned into a street that was a cul-de-sac. He flashed his white light at the numbers on the doors of the houses, as he muttered:

"Five— seven— nine.... This must be the house!"

He creaked open a garden gate, and stumbling over a broken-flagged path he came to the door. Not a light showed in the house. His electric lamp revealed a rusty bell-handle at the door. He gripped it and pulled; somewhere in the darkness of the house a bell clanged.

He waited. There was no response. He flashed his lamp upon the doorway again, and compared the number with a sheet of paper he held in his hand.

"This is the house, sure enough!"

Once again he pulled out that rusty bell-handle. Again the clang resounded in the regions beyond. Then he detected the shuffle of feet approaching the door. A key turned. A bolt was drawn. Slowly, ever so slowly, the door was opened a few inches.

"Good evening!" said the little man brightly. "Does Simon Grant live here?"

There was an answering grunt.

"I have called on behalf of the Independent candidate, Sir Joseph Rope. I feel sure that when you have heard what I have to say you will realize that he is the only man to represent this constituency in Parliament."

There was silence. The little man put his electric lamp down on the doorstep.

"Now I have with me here, Mr. Grant, the election-address of Sir Joseph Rope. Perhaps you would care to read it. Also his exposition of the tariff question, in this pamphlet." The little man was diving into the pockets of his overcoat for literature. "Perhaps there is some point that you would like me to elucidate?" he queried hopefully.

The door creaked open a few inches farther. "P'r'aps I would," said a voice in the darkness. "Come inside!"

The little man entered. Silently the door closed; the key was turned; the bolt was shot. But the electric lamp still shining remained on the doorstep....

At eleven o'clock that evening, Constable Browne of the Ferryton police observed this electric lamp burning against the doorway of Number Nine.

"Queer!" he muttered. "Them boys been up to mischief again?"

He drew forth his own lantern, opened the garden gate and walked heavily along the flagged pathway. The electric lamp blazed cheerfully. Constable Browne then turned the beam of his own lantern on the house. It showed him an ivy-grown frontage, and a big bay window with drawn, slatted blinds. But in the window was a white placard; it was the announcement of a real-estate agent.

THIS HOUSE

TO BE

LET

Constable Browne examined the electric lamp, then replacing it on the door-step, he plodded back on his beat.

At midnight he was again passing the house. This time the electric lamp was flickering; the battery was almost finished. With a puzzled expression on his face, he again opened that garden gate and walked along the flagged pathway.

He flashed his own lamp, bent down to pick up the electric one, then stood transfixed.  A trickle of blood came from beneath the door.

Constable Browne realized he must act quickly. He scurried to the gate, opened it, and started, half-walking, half-running, to the police station.

'I'M not interested in politics," growled Jonathan Lowe, "and therefore I fail to see why I should be interested in the brutal murder of an obscure little election-canvasser."

The man who was known to the Indian natives as the "Father of the Jungle" stretched out his long legs before the fire in the dining-room of his house in St. John's Wood and lit one of his rankest cheroots, His white monkey Blanco sat on the arm of the chair.

"But the circumstances, at least, are queer," I protested.

"All murders seem queer— until they're explained," he pointed out. "The ways of a man-eating tiger are queer, until you know his habits. Then you go out and get him. Man-hunting can be as simple as big-game hunting."

"Yet here is a man found murdered in an empty house," I insisted. 'The house hasn't been occupied for over twelve months, It's said to be haunted. Now why should the body be in that particular house?"

Jonathan Lowe snorted behind the blue cloud of smoke sent up from his cheroot.

"Use your common sense, young man," he advised. "Think a little. Do you know that there is only one safe place where a murderer can hide a body?"

"And where is that?"

"On a battlefield," he retorted unexpectedly. "But your murderer today cannot find a battlefield conveniently near. He can find an empty house. He naturally imagines that the body will be safe there, for a time."

"If it hadn't been for the electric lamp left on the doorstep I don't suppose this man's body would have been discovered soon," I said. "A policeman gave the alarm. An Inspector and two men broke into the house after midnight; they found the body of Ambrose Price lying battered to death in the passage— a brutal murder. He'd been dead about two hours."

"Well, it oughtn't to be difficult to find the murderer," yawned Jonathan Lowe, luxuriating before the fire. His eyes closed as though he was no longer interested in the affair. Even the white monkey drooped his tail listlessly.

Bur. I knew Jonathan Lowe was most alert when he adopted this pose of indifference. He had told me that this was the camouflage of the jungle. "It is when the tiger is slinking away that he is most to be feared," he had said. "The beast does not want you to read in his eyes what he is plotting in his mind."

So I continued folding garments into my traveling-bag in preparation for my journey to the little country town of Ferryton. The news editor of the Daily Courier had called me back from a dull day's reporting at the Old Bailey and thrust the first "flash" of the affair into my hands.

"This by-election has been dull enough, so far," he growled. "A murder makes it a front-page story. Get to it, my lad, and see if you can persuade that lion-tamer to go along with you."

The news editor had never met Jonathan Lowe. He had an idea that Lowe was a mixture of an out-of-work circus-hand and an old gentleman who stroked stray cats. But he never failed to chortle with joy when I brought in an unusual story for the paper, the thanks for which were really due to Jonathan Lowe and his uncanny jungle instincts.

"That empty house will make a fine story," I said now to Lowe, exercising what I considered my journalistic flair. "I rather think it would be a good idea if I spent the night there. One never knows— the house may really be haunted, and the murderer a ghost."

Jonathan Lowe snorted his disgust. He crossed and uncrossed his long legs.

"If you think you'll find a murderer by sitting and mooning in an empty house, you're vastly mistaken," he growled. "Go into the streets— go among the living! Your man will be hiding in the biggest crowd. It's always the safest place. You say there's an election on. Go and listen to the speakers. He'll be there, listening and watching, licking his chops like a wild dog that has fed. By the way, who are the candidates in this election?"

I grinned secretly at this angry enthusiasm.

"There's Sir Joseph Rope, who insists upon being Independent, and there's the Labor candidate, Tom Towers. Labor held the seat at the last general election, but I'm told that Sir Joseph is making great headway." `

Jonathan Lowe grunted. I closed my bag.

"I suppose it'll be like all other elections," he said. "I'm never quite sure which is in the worse taste— the rash promises made by the candidates, or the bad tomatoes thrown by some of the crowd. Who was the murdered man canvassing for?"

"Sir Joseph. Our political man interviewed him this morning. He's highly. indignant. Says it's another example of the lawlessness that is spreading to this country from America."

"Did he now?" smiled Jonathan Lowe. "And how does he propose to end it?"

"By creating a new party, the Independent Party— of which he will be the first member if he's elected."

"I'm beginning to be roused," said Jonathan Lowe, stretching himself. "And I always thought politics so dull! Have you a picture of Sir Joseph?"

I was waiting for this. I produced the picture page of the Daily Courier.

"There he is, addressing a crowd in the market square. A powerful-looking fellow, isn't he?"

Jonathan Lowe squinted his gray eyes at the picture. The monkey lifted a paw as though to grab it. Lowe stroked the soft white coat of the little animal.

"I suppose he does look powerful," he drawled. "But from this very bad photograph he might be a cheap-jack trying to sell a corn-cure, in the marketplace."

"Maybe," I said casually, and took up the bag. "I must be off, if I'm to catch that train."

JONATHAN LOWE uncrossed his long legs, and rose.

"Give me five minutes," he growled. "I'm coming with you. You'll only make a fool of yourself and your paper if you go alone."

He clapped his hands. The negro servant appeared.

"Yes, baas?"

"There's a man coming today, Milestone, with a young lion cub."

"Really, baas?"

The negro looked startled.

"Tell him to take it away and bring it next Thursday, as I won't be here today."

"I sure will, baas," said the negro decisively, "And if he ask where you gone, baas?"

Jonathan Lowe scratching the ear of his white monkey in farewell, grinned.

"Tell him I've gone big-game hunting," he said,

WE arrived in Ferryton amidst the excitement and panoply of the election. Motorcars with streamers choked the main street, Crowds gathered at street corners. This was polling-day, and therefore all speeches had finished. But the amateur politicians of the country town were still airing their views amidst a fire of derisive comment.

Everywhere posters proclaimed the merits of the rival candidates. "ROPE AND PROSPERITY," one proclaimed in brilliant blue. "TOM TOWERS IS YOUR MAN" asserted a poster in red. The little country town hummed like an angry hive. And Jonathan Lowe stood amidst the crowds with his white hair bared to the breeze and seemed to be enjoying himself.

In fact, Lowe began to disappoint me during the next few hours. He was like a schoolboy at a pantomime. He couldn't keep his eyes off the political stage.

"I'm going along to see the house where the body of Ambrose Price was found," I whispered to him, as we stood on the outskirts of a little crowd that jeered at a self-appointed speaker.

Jonathan Lowe nodded casually.

"All right. You go along," he said. "We'll meet at the Blue Lion for tea."

And he turned again with a grin on his face to the rattling repartee of the crowd and the huckster.

In the bright noonday I went into that cul-de-sac and like the doomed Ambrose Price passed one house after another until I came to the fatal Number Nine. It looked shabby, disreputable, and even sinister, by daylight. The "To Let" notice still stared from the window. How the miserable little canvasser could have mistaken this for an occupied house passed my understanding.

A solitary policeman stood at the doorway. My newspaper-pass and a few words sufficed to gain an entry. The local Inspector was there, and evidently gratified that this murder should have attracted the attention of a London newspaper, personally took me in hand.

"The poor fellow was murdered just inside the doorway," he explained, "on the very spot where you are now standing." I hastily moved. "He was killed by some bludgeon-like instrument. The attack must have been brutal and sudden."

"Have you any suspicion of the murderer?"

The Inspector smiled tolerantly.

"I don't think we shall have to call in Scotland Yard for this affair," he said. "It seems obvious to me. A tramp had been sleeping in this house. We discovered footprints in the thick dust of the floors. He was disturbed last night by Ambrose Price ringing the bell, having mistaken the house.

"The tramp went to the door and invited Price to enter. Unsuspecting, the election-canvasser did so. No sooner had he stepped inside than the tramp brutally attacked him. It was all over in a few minutes. The murderer washed his hands at the kitchen sink, and then lost his nerve."

"Lost his nerve?"

"Yes. He left the house— ran away. He's probably roaming the roads somewhere now. I've telephoned the whole County police-force, and every tramp in the vicinity is being arrested. It won't be long before we get our man."

"What was the motive of the murder— robbery?" I asked.

The Inspector shrugged his shoulders.

"Who can tell? When we discovered the body of Ambrose Price he had on him exactly"— the Inspector glanced at his notebook— "a sum of two pounds eight shillings and fourpence halfpenny. The murderer didn't take it."

"Then the motive wasn't robbery?" I hazarded.

"Probably fear— stark fear," said the Inspector. "The tramp was hungry and desperate. He had settled down for the night. Suddenly the bell is rung, and a man is on the doorstep. Unreasoning fear drives the tramp to murder. I think that explains it."

I FOLLOWED the Inspector as we made a tour of that empty house.

"It's an uncanny sort of place," I shivered, as we went from room to room, "Is there any truth in the report that the house is haunted?"

The Inspector smiled.

"None at all, The original occupant, Simon Grant, was a queer old bachelor, but he left the place about a year ago. Went to London, I believe. Never heard of him since. Haunted! Well, I expect that'll be said about the house now."

My short tour of the house ended. The Inspector himself opened the door. I thanked him.

"That's all right," he remarked. "But please see that your newspaper gets my name correctly. It's Detective Inspector Toaste— with an 'e' at the end. I'm in full charge of the case."

"I won't forget, Inspector," I said, writing down the name boldly in my book, while he scrutinized my writing for the final "e."

"And if you come to the station later on this evening, I may have news of an arrest for you," he condescended at parting.

It was not until late afternoon that I again saw Jonathan Lowe. His mahogany face flushed, and his white hair blown about by the wind, he strode vigorously into the Blue Lion and rubbed his hands gleefully in front of the blazing fire.

"Let us have tea and hot buttered toast," he commanded the waiter. "Lots of toast, and lots of butter. I'm famished."

"Been enjoying yourself?" I asked.

He turned to me, a grin on his face. It was then I noticed that the snuff-colored coat he wore was decked with a blue ribbon. He was wearing the badge of Sir Joseph Rope, the Independent candidate.

"I'm enjoying myself immensely," he chortled. "Do you know, young man, that Tom Towers will probably be defeated? This is a Labor seat, but it seems likely to be lost. I shouldn't be surprised if Sir Joseph Rope gets home with a good majority."

And he began to whistle, badly out of tune, something that resembled "Rule Britannia."

"I've been visiting the house where the murder was committed," I interposed soberly.

But he ignored my remark.

"A remarkable man, Sir Joseph Rope," he went on. "The sort of man who gets what he wants. Forcible, direct, decisive. Imagine, he began life as a boy laborer on one of the farms here! Now he owns the biggest bacon factory in Britain. Captured a title. Possesses a fortune. Now he's after a seat in Parliament. And he looks like getting it."

I was thoroughly disgruntled.

"Its a pity all the electioneering speeches have been made," I retorted. "You would have been an excellent supporter for Sir Joseph."

He gave an irritating cheer as the tea and toast arrived, and set to, without delay.

"It's going to be an exciting evening," he went on. "This election fight has been one of the keenest ever known in Ferryton. I've been invited to see the counting at the Town Hall tonight. I think I shall go."

"I thought you weren't interested in politics," I said witheringly, and snatched a piece of toast before it was seized by Lowe.

"I'm not," he replied. "But I'm interested in men— and beasts. That is why Sir Joseph Rope interests me so very much."

"Have you met him?" I asked idly.

"Of course!" He smiled. "Who wouldn't want to meet such a powerful, headstrong man? I made it my business to meet him. And I was not disappointed."

"And does he fit into your theories?"

"What theories?"

"That men are like beasts."

He nodded. There was silence for a moment; the eyes of Jonathan Lowe seemed lost in speculation.

"He reminds me of a rhino," he murmured. "A charging rhino. Pig-like eyes, head lowered, and charging straight for the nearest object within his vision. No hesitation— a roar, and off he goes like an express-train, shouldering all obstacles aside. That's the real secret of the man's success."

"Rhinos are ugly brutes," I said. "At least, those I have seen inside the Zoo are."

"The rhino is the most dangerous beast in the jungle," said Jonathan Lowe quietly. "Even the lion and the tiger fear him. With his ugly snout he can rip the hide of an elephant. He is the mad beast of the jungle, and the hardest to kill. You've got to shoot and shoot straight for one vital spot."

I lit a cigarette and yawned.

"Anyhow, I must begin writing my story of this murder for the Daily Courier,' I said. "I think my news editor will be more interested in that than the result of the by-election."

"Ah, yes, I had almost forgotten," said Jonathan irritatingly. "What happened at the mysterious house you visited?"

I told him briefly. For once, he listened attentively.

"And so they think a tramp committed the murder, eh?" he murmured.

"It seems feasible," I suggested.

He snorted, and lit a cheroot.

"There isn't a vestige of proof. Not even robbery," he said.

"I saw the footprints in the house, myself," I argued.

"Of course there were footprints. You're not still trying to persuade me that there's a murderous ghost in Number Nine?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Anyhow, I'm calling at the police station later this evening to see if they've made an arrest," I said. "The Inspector told me he expected to have the murderer by tonight."

"I expect he will," mused Jonathan Lowe. "But don't waste your time going to the police-station this evening. Come and watch the counting of the votes in the Town Hall."

"Damn the Town Hall!" I exploded. "Why should I go there?"

"Because the murderer of Ambrose Price will be there," said Jonathan Lowe slowly. "I'll point him out to you."

And with a nod, he walked out of the room, smoothing the blue badge on his coat with a sort of boyish pride.

IT was a strange scene. Long bare wooden tables with the ballot-boxes being emptied. Piles of paper slips on which the marked crosses determined the fate of one or the other of the candidates. A medley of hands, grasping the slips and rapidly dividing them into two piles. And alongside the sorters were watchful men who oversaw the proceedings. Outside the Town Hall, in the main square, a large crowd had already gathered in anticipation of the result. They surged and sang, while good-humored policemen kept them in order.

THE two candidates, at this the eleventh hour, stood in the center of the room. Outwardly calm, they were nevertheless two men on the rack.

It was the first time I had seen Sir Joseph Rope. How apt was Jonathan Lowe's description! A rhino. Big and solid, he stood there, his small eyes staring out of a fleshy face. His head wavered nervously from side to side and his big broad nose seemed to be scenting hostility. Yet there was a confident smile on his face. He felt he had won. He was a man who must win. And the dapper election-agent at his side endeavored to emphasize that confidence by cackling absurd and meaningless jokes.

His opponent Tom Towers had seated himself in a chair. Already the stacked-up votes showed that it would be a near thing, a very near thing for the victor. Towers, a thin, nervous-looking man, merely grinned amiably when anybody made a remark.

Whatever the conversation taking part in the center of the room, it must have been mild compared with the exciting whispers exchanged between Jonathan Lowe and the local Inspector as they stood in a corner, regarding the scene.

"Three tramps arrested, and each with a perfect alibi?" Jonathan Lowe smiled. "Well, I warned you, Inspector. You were concerning yourself too much with the murderer and too little with the corpse."

"You mean we ought to have inquired into the life of Ambrose Price?"

Jonathan Lowe nodded.

"Then you would have discovered," he went on, "that Price was one of the cleverest blackmailers in London— clever, because he didn't look the part. He deliberately accentuated his shabby, nervous appearance. Yet out of his trade, a dirty trade, he was making at least six thousand a year. But I've no doubt Scotland Yard has confirmed that."

I stared at Lowe reproachfully.

"And you've discovered too, I suppose, that this blackmailer Ambrose Price, was deliberately recommended for canvassing work by Sir Joseph Rope."

"Yes, his election-agent confirmed that," admitted Inspector Toaste. "But that's what I can't understand. Why should Sir Joseph go out of his way to recommend the man for such work? And why should Price accept such a job?"

"Simply because Price was blackmailing Sir Joseph, blackmailing him heavily. It was necessary that Ambrose Price remain on the scene. He was dangerous and expensive, as long as the election lasted. You'll probably discover that Sir Joseph was paying him a thousand pounds a day for his services. Moreover, it suited the camouflaged crookedness of Ambrose Price to be on the scene, apparently an ordinary election-canvasser."

"But the murder—" began the Inspector.

"Became inevitable," Lowe broke in. "Sir Joseph Rope was not the man to stand continuous blackmail. Just take a look at him! He must have been hard pressed by Ambrose Price. He realized, too, that these first payments during the election were only the beginning of life-long blackmail. So he determined to get rid of Price; and naturally, he determined to do it himself. He evolved a clever plan.

"There was the empty, supposedly haunted house once occupied by Simon. Grant. It would be easy enough to break into during the darkness. He decided upon this house as the scene of the murder, and all that remained was to entice his victim to it. The fact that Ambrose Price was taking his duties as an election-canvasser seriously, helped him in his plan.

"He drew up a special list and casually instructed his election-agent to hand it to the new canvasser from London— Ambrose Price. On that list he had put down Number Nine, in that cul-de-sac. Against it, he put the name of Simon Grant. He also penciled some instructions: 'Anti-Labor sympathies. Will probably vote Independent. Call at ten o'clock.' "

"How do you know that?" I asked.

Jonathan Lowe smiled.

"I calmly lifted the list from the committee-rooms of Sir Joseph's election agent this afternoon. I found it there, because I suspected it existed. The murderer took it from the pocket of his victim and was then fool enough to let it lie with other electioneering papers in the committee-room. I took it to the police-station."

"Yes, those instructions were certainly in Sir Joseph's handwriting," the Inspector murmured. "And the election-agent confirmed that he handed it to Ambrose Price that night, on instructions from Sir Joseph. But of course he didn't understand the significance of the question."

Jonathan Lowe smiled grimly.

"Well, the rest is mere supposition, but I think you'll discover I'm correct. Sir Joseph broke into that empty house an hour before the canvasser was expected. He waited there, bludgeon in hand. Right on time, Ambrose Price appeared. It was dark enough for him not to notice that the house was empty. Probably Sir Joseph had taken down the 'To Let' card, and replaced it after the murder. He opened the door when the canvasser rang. He invited him inside. Then he charged, bludgeon in hand— charged like a rhino!"

Jonathan Lowe's words seem to ring through the room; for at that moment a deadly silence fell on all. The counting was finished. The Mayor, a slip of paper in his hand, was coming forward to the center of the room to announce the result. Even the crowd in the square seemed to sense that moment and waited, tense.

"Ladies and gentlemen," began the Mayor. "It is my duty to declare to you the result of this by-election in Ferryton. The figures are—"

"One moment, sir!"

It was the Inspector who broke in. Slightly pale and nervous, but nevertheless determined, he stepped forward beneath those glowing electric lights and approached Sir Joseph Rope.

"Sir Joseph Rope," he said, and his voice sounded strained, and reedy in that silence. "I hold a warrant for your arrest."

The pig-like eyes were turned upon him.

"For the murder of Ambrose Price. It is my duty to tell you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you."

The silence was suffocating. In the middle of it some one laughed hysterically. That laugh broke the spell.

"Look out!" yelled Jonathan Lowe.

Head down, and bellowing rage, Sir Joseph charged. He cleared a table, smashed his way through the window onto the balcony where the victorious candidate was expected to address the crowd. A cry of horror rose from the crowd in the square below. For nothing stopped that mad rhino-like charge of Sir Joseph— to the screams of women and the cries of men, he toppled over the balcony and went thudding to the ground beneath.

"He's killed 'isself!" screamed a voice from outside.

Jonathan Lowe nodded to me.

"It's time you were on the telephone to your newspaper, young man," he said.

________________

Table of Contents

1: The Risen Dead / Tip Bliss

2: Black Cat / J. Allan Dunn

3: King of Swindlers / Arthur Somers Roche

4: The Hands of Horror / Karl Schiller

5: Mistral / Raoul Whitfield

6: The Hairy Devil / Morgan Robertson

7: Viking Loot / H. Bedford-Jones

8: The Third Ovanoff / Ernest G. Henham

9: A Presentiment / Marcel Prévost

10: A Dish of Macaroni / Richard Dehan

11: The Parasite / Arthur Conan Doyle

Unnamed

13: The Wire That Wasn't Cut / F. Raymond Brewster

14: The Peppercorn Entail / Frederick Irving Anderson

15: The Undoing of Le Croix / Eric A. Darling

16: The Cunning of the Serpent / Henry S. Whitehead

17: The Rhino Charges / William J. Makin