Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: This issue comes with a cumulative index by author of the numbers 101-120. It includes a longish novelette by the ever-reliable H Bedford-Jones. There are some very rare stories by very rare authors from very rare magazines, too, as well as evergreens such as Ellis Parker Butler, C S Montanye, and so on. Approximately 100,000, words, as usual. The stories are all in the Life+70 Public Domain. 1: North of Singapore / H. Bedford-Jones (novelette) 2: Cephas the Paladin / Albert Peyson Terhune 3: Lucifer / Achmed Abdullah 4: A Gold Slipper / Willa Cather 5: The Blood Drips / J. E. Muddock 6: Plotl

PAST MASTERS 120

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.

21 March 2023

Contents

1: North of Singapore / H. Bedford-Jones (novelette)

2: Cephas the Paladin / Albert Peyson Terhune

3: Lucifer / Achmed Abdullah

4: A Gold Slipper / Willa Cather

5: The Blood Drips / J. E. Muddock

6: Plotluck / Theodore Seixas Solomons

7: The Canary that Sang Bass / W. Carey Wonderly

8: An American Comedy / H. Bedford-Jones

9: T. Jebberson / Ellis Parker Butler

10: Why, of Course / James Edmond Casey

11: That Wade Outfit / Christopher B. Booth

12: On a Steep Side Street / C. S. Montanye

13: Old Sinclair's Story / Frank Brandram

14: Sir Basil and Rue / Marjorie Bowen

15: The Valley of the Others / Elizabeth Taylor

Cumulative Index, Numbers 101-120

______________

1: North of Singapore

H. Bedford-Jones

1887-1949

Adventure 15 May 1929

1: A Half Million Mystery

IF YOU know Singapore at all it is quite needless to describe the offices of Mengleberg, Inc.— the shipping, insurance and general trading people in Hangchow Road. You recall the dignified, dingy exterior, the bustling, well lighted offices, the swarms of clerks, the polite Dutch managers, the queer little globelike electric fans, the oil paintings of steamers and clipper ships adorning the walls.

Still, you may not know the inner and secluded sanctum of Herman Mengleberg himself, into which Tom Carstairs was being shown. Few do know it, but since Carstairs told me the details, they are probably accurate. The place was bare as a bone except for a phonograph, a flat desk, a letter file and two uncomfortable chairs; but the bareness was something beautiful, since walls and floor were of the Philippine hardwood in which the early Menglebergs had piled up a fortune, and they were polished to the nines. The windows were of glazed glass so no one could look out or in, distragting business.

Herman Mengleberg, who looked up and nodded as Carstairs entered, was a skinny little old man who played big poker out on the Bubbling Well Road and chuckled over his losses; but in his office he was never separated from a single dollar Mex without a battery of machine guns and a lodge of sorrow. Carstairs knew there was something up when Mengleberg shoved his spectacles over his forehead, patted his bald dome and produced a box of good cheroots.

"Sit down, Mr. Carstairs, sit down. And how is everything with you this fine morning? Is the brokerage business good?"

Carstairs chuckled. Nobody, not even the Dutchmen in the outer office, knew that he worked for Mengleberg, Inc., and that his brokerage office was a bluff.

"Fine, Herman," he rejoined, taking a cheroot. "Work in prospect?"

"These agents make me sick, Tom," complained Mengleberg. "They go and run me into the hole and I'd die a pauper if it wasn't for you."

"Fine," said Carstairs cheerfully, biting at his cheroot. "I want an advance in salary if I'm to save you from a pauper's grave."

"Eh? This is nothing to joke about, my friend!" said the other. "Listen to me now, and do not joke again, for I have a bad heart. The Voordam has been chartered for a trip to Saigon with mixed cargo, which is good. She has been chartered for the return trip, which is also good."

"Looks too good, eh?" said Carstairs.

"Wait." Mengleberg caressed his bald brow again, and looked highly distressed. "This return charter party is to a man named Dubois, a Frenchman, who seems not well known; the cargo is a mixed lot of choice hardwoods, some silk, spice and a lot of very fine porcelains brought out of China. It is valuable. That foolish agent of mine in Saigon has already insured it for fifty thousand pounds and thinks it is fine business."

"Eh?" The eyes of Carstairs became alert. "Half a million Mex— whew! Yes, a good stroke of business—if! Where's the joker, Herman?"

"We shall see, my friend. That is what I want to ask you. I find that Lloyds have already refused the insurance because they do not know this man. My agent finds that he is an exporter, which means nothing, and says he is a gentleman. Well, well, perhaps that is so, but I do not like gentlemen who make a profession of it. I like a man who has a business. And I have had a dream of running water for three nights, which you know is a bad sign."

Carstairs did not smile, for he knew Mengleberg was not such a believer in dreams as he professed— not by a good deal.

"Looks O. K. to me, Herman," he said. "What did your dream tell you?"

"It made me think about the Hoang Soy," came the reply. "That was in 1926. She went from Hongkong to Kuching with a charter and had a charter back, which was luck. She brought back a load of hard camphor and such stuff for a trader in those parts, who went along as a passenger; and she wasn't heard from again, ever. Then there was the David Bolling last year— you remember her? Some chap turned up in Batavia and chartered her for Sabang with a cargo of expensive machinery, and he went along with her; and she hasn't got to Sabang yet— never heard from."

The lazy manner of Carstairs had fallen away; he was incisive, concentrated, eager.

"Queer, Herman. You think there's something phony about this Dubois, eh? But in these other cases, the trader, for instance. If he never showed up, who collected the insurance?"

"Lawyers." Mengleberg fairly spat out the word. He liked lawyers about as much as some women like cats. "It was collected, right enough."

Carstairs nodded. To look at him you would think he was not so much. Not tall, with a face like any other man, hair a bit sun bleached; regular features, inconspicuous in a crowd. But see him stripped on a ship's deck, with lascars emptying buckets of water over him, and you might look twice. Like silk, he was; no bulging muscle but all steel, and some few scars here and there on his body. His eyes were wide, reflective, and they could be cold and deadly at times. He did not look like an American, but like a five button Englishman who knew his way around.

"Now, my friend," continued Mengleberg, "I would be very sad if the Voordam went the way of those other ships. I would not care about the Voordam; on her I would collect insurance, not pay it. But that foolish agent of mine in Saigon has insured her cargo with us, you understand? And the lawyers would collect it, too, if she disappeared."

Carstairs could see the point— an expensive, gold-plated point. Mengleberg knew nothing, but he suspected much. If this was a game, it was an old trick dressed up in new clothes, and ominous clothes. Only an exceptional gang could pull it off. To makea ship vanish was not easy. To makc her crew vanish was even less easy. Any man who could do such a thing in order to make money, must be an able criminal and an able man to boot.

"Wel, speak up," said Carstairs. "You think it's fake cargo? It must be, if anything's crooked. Then it could be examined before loading."

"Oh, yes, yes," said Mengleberg with heavy sarcasm. "All but the hardwoods is shipped out of French China in bond, to be transshipped here in bond; and that foolish agent of mine did not make an examination. And the insurance is issued. The stuff is in our godown at Saigon now, ready for loading; but it is in the bonded compartment."

"Not so bad," said Carstairs lightly. "I haven't been in French territory for a couple of years, but it'd be funny if we couldn't work it— slip in and open up a few cases or bales. A little cumshaw will go a long way with the French boys, you know—"

MR. MENGLEBERG held up both hands and rolled his eyes to high heaven.

"Listen to the man— and he has the nerve to ask me for more salary. Anybody, my friend, who talks about bribes in Indo-China does not know his business and therefore I should lower his wages ten per cent. But I will forgive ` you, my friend, because you have been working in other quarters. Since that big scandal last year, there is no cumshaw in Saigon, you understand? Those frog eaters are scared stiff and if anybody tries to offer a bribe he is arrested on the spot. Everything and every one is watched, and they tell me the government has shipped out seventeen cases of uniform buttons because all the customs officials are so nervous that they have shaken the buttons off their uniforms. That is true, my friend. I should be extremely sorry if you tried to bribe any Frenchman up there, and I would not send you my lawyers."

Carstairs grinned at this.

"All right, Herman, shoot the works," he said. "How d'you want me to save your fifty thousand pounds?"

"The Voordam sailed yesterday," said Mengleberg, "but you know she is a slow old barge, and I have sent a long wireless to Cap'n Freeman. He will discharge his supercargo at Saigon and you will be hired. You can catch the Messageries boat north tonight and have a day or two to spare in Saigon with the French girls, and maybe you can pick up something. You understand, my fricnd, we must not be hasty. This is good business, very good business, if it is straight, and I do not want to spoil good business. But if it is crooked, then I do not want to wear any mourning band for that fifty thousand pounds."

"Sure," said Carstairs. "But you know our agreement as to commission on such jobs as this, Herman. The usual ten per cent. goes, ch?"

"My friend, my friend, this is not a usual job!" said Mengleberg with an expression of horror. "No, this is merely suspicion, you understand, and there is no risk involved. If there is anything wrong you will send me a wireless and I will do the rest. No, my friend; one per cent. is very high commission in such a case, too high altogether, but TIl pay it."

"All right, Herman," nodded Carstairs. "You get your one per cent. man on the job, because I've got a week end date up in the hills at Colonel Talbot's bungalow."

"Bluff!" said Mengleberg, but looked uneasy. Then he brightened. "Listen. You remember the little girl who was here last month, eh? The American widow who is a peach? She is at Saigon now. I know, because my foolish agent there cabled about cashing a large check for her and I told him she was O. K. Now listen, my boy. You take my advice. You go up to Saigon and you marry that widow. She is a peach, and she is rich, and you are made for life."

Carstairs chuckled.

"So you haven't forgotten Mary Fleming, eh? She hit you pretty hard at bridge, I heard. Well, Mephisto, you tempt me. She's a good scout, and I'd like to see her again, for a fact. I'll come down to seven and a half per cent., which is pretty low, but I'll accept it in this case."

Mengleberg looked at him with an air of startled concern.

"My friend, what you ask is impossible," he said flatly. 'Think of it, just think of what that commission would mean—on fifty thousand pounds—if there is crooked work."

"Sure. I'm thinking of it—" And Carstairs chuckled again. "Our working agreement is ten per cent. too. As you say, I don't have to spend weeks at this job and go over books and play Old Sleuth, so I'll come down to seven and a half and be generous about it."

"My Lord! If that is what you call being generous, what would you call being tight?" said Mengleberg. 'Come, we are good friends; you would not be too hard on an old man like me, I know it. I have your interest at heart, Tom. I will give you two per cent., eh?"

They talked at length. The upshot was that, if there were anything crooked on hand and Tom Carstairs could prove it and check it, he would have five per cent. of the fifty thousand pounds he would save Mengleberg, Inc. Which was fair enough.

Thanks to a father in the consular service, Carstairs had spent most of his life in the Orient. His knowledge of men and places, dialects and customs, was astonishing in so young a man. He was not yet thirty. For seven years he had been associated with Herman Mengleberg, and the fact was not yet known, even to the office force of Mengleberg, Inc. Which spoke volumes for the efficiency of Tom Carstairs. In Singapore, where the business of every man is known, where gossip floats on the tongue of Sikh and Chinese, Hindu and Malay, where rumor drifts from bungalow to bungalow, from office to office—any sccret service man, private or government, has a terribly hard time of it.

However, Carstairs thrived. And Herman Mengleberg was far from guessing that his little shot about Mary Fleming had gone home, square to the bull's-eye.

2: Saigon

ANY guidebook can give a description of the broad, tree lined streets of Saigon, the "Little Paris" of the Orient, so there is no point in outlining the impressions of Tom Carstairs during his first day in the city. He had been there before.

From the local agent of Mengleberg, Inc. he learned very little. Dubois was a handsome and distinguished French gentleman who had come there six months previously with letters of introduction from Paris, then had gone upcountry. He had returned lately to Saigon, evidently having been successful in trading up in Yunnan, and had put some money into the hardwoods he was taking back to France. He was a gentleman of position, lived at the Saigon Club, and was not addicted to any of the pleasurable vices which Saigon can offer in profusion to visitors.

Carstairs did not arrive with any pounding of drums or blowing of trumpets: His sun helmet was old, his whites were rather seedy, and his suitcase was shabby; he looked exactly like a white man who was down at heel and anxious to pick up anything. He went to a cheap hotel near the Hotel de la Marine, on the waterfront, and he kept away from the exclusive west end of town.

He was in the Mengleberg office early next morning. The agent knew only that he bore a letter from the Singapore office asking that he be given any opening that might turn up on any of the company's ships, and now came to him with a cordial greeting.

"Good day, Monsieur Carstairs. I have just received a wireless from the captain of the Voordam, due in tomorrow. He is discharging his supercargo and asks me to find a suitable man for the place. How do you like the idea?"

M. Carstairs liked it, discussed wages, and the bargain was struck. At this moment a rickshaw drew up before the doors, and Dubois entered.

Carstairs liked the look of the man; any one would. He was larger than most Frenchmen, lithe, square shouldered, with a finely set head. His features were regular, square, challenging; at first glance they were harsh and cold, but this dissonance vanished when he spoke. He was actually charming. The only trouble with charming men is that very often they find it casy to live by means of this gift of the gods.

"Well, what news of our ship?" Dubois hailed the agent. "Today? Tomorrow? Next week?"

"Tomorrow, M. Dubois," returned the agent. "She'll be up the channel and berthed before sunset. Pll have all arrangements made to get the cargo right out of her and I think three days will see her in shape."

"Good!" said Dubois, and gave Carstairs a sharp look that swept him from tip to toe.

The agent introduced them, showing the wireless he had received, and explaining that Carstairs would act as supercargo. Dubois shook hands and spoke in fluent English, and instantly Tom Carstairs had the impression that he was dealing with a steel image, not a man.

"Very glad, Mr. Carstairs, very glad. You're an Englishman?"

"No, an American," said Carstairs.

"Excellent." Dubois showed white teeth beneath his black mustache. "I like Americans, I may say. Where are you stopping?"

Carstairs named his hotel. Dubois shrugged.

"Miserable hole. Nonsense, my dear chap, take your things up to the Grand and let me foot the bill. You will?"

"Thank you, sir," said Carstairs, "but it's hardly worth while. I'll go aboard ship as soon as she's berthed, you know."

"Oh, quite so." Dubois nodded, and dipped into his pocket. "Here, let me give you a card to the club, at all events. No, don't mention it— you'll find the liquor very decent there." Waving aside the protestations and thanks of Carstairs, he turned to the agent. "By the way, I believe the Voordam has a license for passengers?"

"Yes, m'sieu," returned the agent, with a shrug. "But she has only half a dozen cabins and will carry none this trip. You were explicit on this point, if you remember."

"Certainly," said Dubois. 'However, we'll have one at least— an American lady who is anxious to return to Singapore and prefers a slow boat. A Mrs. Fleming. I'll give you full details for the necessary formalities in the morning. Come along, Mr. Carstairs, and we'll drop in at the club for a nip, if you like."

Mr. Carstairs was charmed. He was also staggered by what he had just heard, and he was astonished by the surprising hospitality of Dubois. In his experience things were seldom done this way. So, as usual when in doubt, he kept silent and played the little clerk.

Mary Fleming— going back to Singapore. Why? And with Dubois. Why? He knew she was a widow, still under thirty, not beautiful, but none the less one of the most entirely charming women he had ever met. Her sole ambition in life was, apparently, to travel and enjoy life. Tom Carstairs thought privately that her real object was to forget the late Mr. Fleming and drown sorrow. Which may serve to indicate the dangerous state of mind of said Tom Carstairs, who was as a rule a most unsentimental young man.

ON THE way to the beautifully situated club, Monsieur Dubois spared no pains to put his guest at ease, and Carstairs gradually but cautiously unbent. True, he remained the petty clerk, but he revealed himself as a person temporarily hard up who had seen better days, and in no long time Dubois was convinced that he had found a very amiable companion.

In fact, Dubois was soon reveling in his find. After the second drink he touched upon various adventures, and Carstairs begged for more in a wide eyed, fascinated way which would have flattered any man with the least bump of vanity. Thus Carstairs, while lighting upon nothing in any way suspicious, did elicit the fact that M. Dubois had seen a good deal of the Oriental world, and knew it very thoroughly— a perhaps important point. But M. Dubois was far, very far, from guessing that the somewhat gauche young man who listened so avidly to his tales, knew the Orient and its languages and its ways far better than he could ever hope to know them.

"Come, my friend," said Dubois, suddenly glancing at his watch. "I have an engagement for luncheon. You shall come with me. A charming lady, also an American, who sails upon our voyage past the Cambodian shores. You rank as one of the ship's officers; you must meet her."

"I d be very glad," said Carstairs.

Since he had to do the business sooner or later, he reflected, he might better do it now. Mary Fleming was no fool. She would not blurt out some silly exclamation as to how a man whom she had met at Government House in Singapore could be a supercargo in Saigon. Still, if she were fool enough to fall for a handsome Frenchman...

It left a bad taste in Carstairs' mouth. He wanted to find what was behind it. He could uncover no hint of rascality in Dubois— but every man slips up somewhere. If there were anything crooked in this business, Dubois might have unwittingly slipped up in his relations with Mary Fleming.

So they rode down to the Brasserie du Nord, and Dubois settled at a corner table of the glassed in terrace, and over an apéritif they watched the yellow, brown and bronzed world go past on the avenue. Until, abruptly, a rickshaw drew up and Mary Fleming alighted.

Dubois was out on the sidewalk instantly, bowing over her hand in his gallant fashion, while Carstairs remained at the table, watching. He saw the gaze of Mary Fleming sweep to him, knew that Dubois was telling her about him. He came to his feet and waited, politely, looking at her ina perfectly blank manner.

She was just the same— a slim, slender little woman giving an impression of vivacity and fluttering silks. Nothing pretty about her; her hair that was neither yellow nor brown, eyes blue enough, with a peculiar slant; features and  skin indifferent to creams and pomades; a figure of no extraordinary interest. Yet, with all this, a keen and vibrantly eager personality, a look that went in deep and square and firm, a warm handgrip. Not a woman to flatter and play with, thought Carstairs, but a woman to live with year in and year out.

He found himself shaking hands, looking into her astonished eyes, speaking calmly:

"I'm very glad to meet you, Mrs. Fleming, and to know that we'll have you aboard us on the way down. From what I've heard of her, the Voordam isn't a very elegant old barge, but I expect we can make you comfortable. Youre from home, eh?"

"Yes, from Dallas," came the vibrant voice, as her eyes searched him curiously. "You're not a Texan, Mr. Carstairs?"

She had asked him the same question in Singapore, and now he made the same answer.

"No, I'm a Buckeye, according to the family tree, but I've lived around all my life, a hobo from home."

She remembered then. He could see it in her eyes and face. Dubois intervened, fortunately, and held a chair for her; she adjusted herself in it, and' Carstairs knew that now all danger was past. Dubois glanced at him with a friendly laugh.

'I'm afraid Carstairs does himself injustice, Mrs. Fleming. He isn't a tramp, you know. He's only been out here a few months; what they call a 'griffin' up north. I think we'll have a pleasant bit of a voyage. Bridge, Carstairs?"

"I play a little," said Carstairs. "I'm a dud at the game, though."

Mary Fleming gave him a quick, almost startled look; in it he could see that she remembered how he had played in Singapore— "the ideal partner", she had called him. Carstairs chuckled to himself. She was getting more mystified every moment.

CARSTAIRS enjoyed himself as the luncheon proceeded. More and more clearly Mary Fleming comprehended each instant that he was the man she had known in Singapore, but that Dubois  knew nothing of him, that here he was playing a part and playing it well. And, realizing this, knowing him fairly well, she proceeded to prod him with questions as to his intimate activities and history, taking a malicious pleasure in stumping him or attempting to do so. Carstairs lied nobly, and she knew that he lied; but she did not say so.

They were lingering over coffee and cognac when Mrs. Fleming inquired as to the exact time of going aboard. Dubois offered to telephone the Mengleberg agent, who would be at his home during the noon hour, and so departed to struggle with the Saigon central. Mrs. Fleming sat back and gazed at Carstairs.

"Well?" she inquired. "The reason for this amazing imposture?"

"Gladly," said Carstairs, "on one condition. The reason for your return to Singapore?"

Her face broke into impish laughter.

"To meet you again, of course."

"Thank you." The level gray eyes of Carstairs were dancing. "That is exactly the reason I came here—to meet you again."

"Fair enough." She leaned forward, suddenly earnest, tense. '"Come, tell me the truth. Why don't you want Mr. Dubois to know who you are? Why shouldn't he know you're a broker?"

Carstairs shrugged, and spoke impulsively.

"Because I'm no such thing, Mrs. Fleming. You're the only person to whom I've made the admission. No one in Singapore, even, knows what I really am. So come, tell me the truth yourself. Why are you going back there?"

"Oh!' She leaned back again and gave him a laughing sidelong glance. "Don't you know that all widows are looking for men? Perhaps I'll marry Mr. Dubois."

Carstairs flushed suddenly, then smiled.

"I know you too well for that to take, believe me. Don't give me away, and before we reach Singapore Ill make a full confession. He's coming back now."

"Is it a promise?" she inquired.

"Word of honor," said Carstairs gravely, as Dubois rejoined them.

"You can go aboard tomorrow night if you wish, Mrs. Fleming," he said. "They'll have a cabin ready for ycu by then. The ship will be in this afternoon. Just when we sail isn't certain so far."

Carstairs rose and took his departure, under pretense of having packing to do and purchascs to make.

Refusing a rickshaw, he showed his assumed ignorance of the country by walking, which in the heat of the day was an absurdity compassed only by tourists and beachcombers. However, he wanted the walk.

He had got absolutely nowhere with his quest, he told himself. As a matter of fact, he liked Dubois very much, although he sensed a certain basic cruelty in the man, a certain cold calculation, hard to define, yet no more than might be found in any man who had made his own way in the world. And Dubois liked. the good things of life; his clothes, the handsome sapphire on his finger, his appreciation of the best in everything, went to show this.

"Still, I've got nowhere," reflected Carstairs.

He looked back and saw a flock of white uniforms and gold lace surrounding the table he had just quitted; officers flocked around Mary Fleming as at Singapore. Carstairs grimaced and went on. Where did she come in?

"Flirting with everybody, a gay butterfly enjoying life— hm! Maybe," he thought. "That's the mask she wears, anyhow. Did she spill everything to Dubois the minute my back was turned, in her vanity over knowing something he didn't know? Nine out of ten women would do that. I was a fool to tell her what I did. There's no trusting any of them."

Why was she going aboard the Voordam? Perhaps as a mere experience, a whim; perhaps in the serious endeavor to capture Dubois. The thought made Carstairs rebel. It did not jibe with his idea of her. And why was she traveling about the East alone? Most women would have a maid or companion of some kind, particularly if they had financial ease.

Carstairs spent the rest of the day loafing about the harbor, sitting at café tables and watching the water and ships and passing natives, and pondering many things. He was still sitting there late in the afternoon when the Voordam came in past the custom house and entered the Arroyo Chinois. She did not go to mooring buoys but made direct for the wharves and was presently neatly berthed beside the Mengleberg godown.

"Time to move," said Carstairs, and hailed a rickshaw.

3: The Guest of Dubois

CAPTAIN FREEMAN commanded the Voordam not from choice but from necessity, which had embittered him. He was a hard faced, deep eyed man, very harsh, a martinet for discipline, always saying what he thought and damning every one from harbor master to steward without regard for consequences.

"Mengleberg's a fool," he said when Carstairs went aboard with his agent's letter. "He sent me word to send back my supercargo by the first mail boat out of this hellhole and said he'd supply a man. You're it, huh? What d'you know about the job?"

"Talk's cheap, sir," said Carstairs. Freeman looked hard at him, an appraising squint.

"H'm! Fair enough. Mail boat goes out tonight and Van Hoorn with it. See him, go over his manifests and papers, and be ready to check out cargo in the morning. And watch your step with these Frenchmen. They'll steal the shirt off your back before you know it."

Carstairs looked up Van Hoorn, a quiet little Dutchman, and went over the papers with him, and naturally found everything very simple. Van Hoorn, who was already packed, departed in haste to catch his mail boat south. Carstairs had fetched his suitcase aboard and, taking over the cabin, set it to rights. Then he went down to mess and met the other officers, such as had not gone ashore.

The chief engineer was a black haired, vigorous man of forty, named MacAlpin. The first mate, Mr. Conway, was a frustrated specimen of humanity, ungainly, awkward, big mouthed, who knew nothing except his job and full details of all Asiatic vices; not a pleasant man, but an excellent first officer. The wireless man, oddly enough, was actually named Sparks. He was a laughing youngster with a weak mouth and sallow skin, a year out of Vancouver. Owing to his name, he had gone into commercial wireless, he said with a grin.

Carstairs brought the first news of a woman passenger south, and nobody welcomed it over much, except Sparks, who lacked superstition. Cap'n Freeman looked down his nose and swore, the chief grunted something under his breath, and Mr. Conway was about to make some obscene comment when he caught the eye of Carstairs and fell into astonished silence. After this he looked very hard at Carstairs, several times, as though trying to understand something.

For two days Tom Carstairs was a busy man, and saw nothing more of Dubois or Mary Fleming. They came aboard on the third morning, and Dubois stood by with Carstairs and checked over his precious boxes very carefully as they were slung aboard and stowed away in the No. 1 hold. Each box was marked, and Dubois talked a good deal about the contents. This was his precious porcelain, and he certainly knew his subject thoroughly. Carstairs, who knew a little about porcelains himself, was forced to admit that here Dubois could go him one better and then some. Dubois had been buying up old porcelains all over Yunnan, according to his own story, and had a very precious collection for resale in Paris.

Carstairs came to the conclusion that if Herman Mengleberg had been in his shoes, the old gentleman would have cast aside all his doubts of Dubois. Certainly the Frenchman had a small fortune here, between his silk bales and porcelains. The hardwoods mattered less, but would make a choice profit.

In the afternoon Mary Fleming came and stood beside Carstairs, as he was watching the timbers swung down the big after hatch. Dubois, less interested in the timber, had gone uptown to get off some last letters.

"Well? You look like a working man with your pens, pencils and papers," said Mrs. Fleming cheerfully. Carstairs saluted and shook hands.

"Like your quarters?" he asked. "They aren't wonderful, but the steward worked hard getting them in shape."

"They're better than I expected, thanks," she returned. "Isn't it wonderful to think that we're going to Singapore together?"

"Hm!" Carstairs looked at her for a moment. 'No, not a bit of it."

"What?" Her eyes widened on him. "You mean to say you're not as thrilled as I am?"

"Nonsense," he said curtly, and checked a sling that was going down. "You don't mean a word of it, and you know it, Mary Fleming. I'm not a good subject for a flirtation, so far as you're concerned."

His tone of voice brought a flush to her cheeks.

"Just what do you mean by that?" she inquired, her eyes dangerous.

Carstairs gave her a look and a swift smile.

"I mean that I think far too highly of you to have any flirtatious interest in you, Mrs. Fleming; and especially to credit you with any actual interest in me."

"Oh, really?" Her eyes belied her slightly mocking voice. "But aren't you interesting? A mystery is always interesting to a woman!"

"A mystery always intrigues a man," he retorted, "but it may end in becoming too interesting to him— Three, four— five sticks there—"

He made another check, and turned to find her gaze resting on him, suddenly serious.

"You mean there's a mystery about me, Mr. Carstairs?"

"Naturally," he said.

"How fascinating. And just what is it?"

Carstairs broke into laughter.

"My dear lady, that's what I don't know—but I'll find out, as soon as I can put my attention on it. Just at present, I'm responsible for errors here."

"Then Pll take the hint, thank you," and with affected offense, she moved away, but not before Carstairs caught the slightly startled look in her eyes.

Mystery, eh? Perhaps he had lighted on something there.

He laughed a little at thought of her. No, he need not have worried; she was the one in ten who would never give him away to Dubois, as he could tell from the Frenchman's manner toward him. Dubois was very friendly, very genial. He had brought aboard a surprise, in the shape of a tall, pock marked Chinaman man servant, who was going back to France with him, a man from French Yunnan named Yim Li, who spoke fair French. The Voordam's steward and cook were Chinese, the men forward and in the black gang were all lascars. The steward, a rotund, pot bellied little Straits Chinaman by the name of Tock, treated Carstairs with deference.

THAT night every one dined ashore. They were getting out by the next noon. Carstairs was the only officer remaining aboard for dinner, while Dubois and Mary Fleming went to the club. As Tock served his loncly meal, Carstairs asked idly how he liked the French Chinaman.

"Him Flench, sar?" Tock made a grimace. "Sabang, mebbe."

"No, from Yunnan," said Carstairs.

"Mebbe Peking, Canton, anywhere," said Tock with scorn. "You look-see. You lissen."

Carstairs looked sharply at him.

"Listen?"

"Uh-huh. You savvy plenty good."

"Oh, is that so?" said Carstairs. "What makes you think so?"

"My blother No. 1 boy along Mist' Meng' berg."

With this delicate shot, Tock grinned and slipped out of the mess cabin, leaving Carstairs blinking. So this yellow boy had at least a suspicion of him, eh? Probably was to be fully trusted, however. Any Chinese working for Mengleberg were hand picked and certified. Carstairs turned his attention to what he had just learned. Yim Li was perhaps from Sabang, but certainly not from Yunnan, a fact easily distinguished by any yellow brother. Then why had Dubois lied about it? Had Yim Li deceived Dubois? Perhaps. Yet Yim Li's papers must be fully in order, since he was bound for France. The tiny discrepancy served to put Carstairs wholly on the qui vive. It might mean anything and everything. It assuredly meant something wrong.

Once the hatches were on, Carstairs's work was finished; and they went on at ten the next morning. There was a storm warning in from Cape St. Jacques, and Captain Freeman wanted to get out to sea, so he clapped on the hatches and got away as soon as he was cleared. The pilot was aboard, and in no long time the Voordam was sliding out into the long, narrow reaches of the Saigon River that twisted down to the brassy sea.

THE SEA was brassy enough, no doubt of that. When they reached it and dropped the pilot, they headed out into rolling swells of brass under a brazen sky, and the Voordam at once showcd her true colors. She did everything except stand on her tail, and did that as soon as the wind came down.

There was no rain, only a howl of wind that whippcd up the spray and beat down the waves. Dubois left the scene early, somewhat green in the face and looking uncomfortable. Tom Carstairs was on the bridge deck behind the funnels, watching the sea, when Mary Fleming came up to him. It was getting close to sunset.

"What? Is mind triumphant over matter?" he demanded smilingly. "Are you one of those rare persons never rendering unto Caesar that which is Caesar's?"

She gave him a sidelong glance from her slightly oblique eyes.

"If that's intended as a pun, it's a horrible one," she said. "What are you thinking of? You look at me so queerly."

"Why," said Carstairs soberly, "I was thinking that since meeting you I can for the first time understand the French custom of kissing the hand of a lady."

She met his eyes for a moment, found no laughter there, and the wind whipped color into her face.

"Really?" she said, and tucked a lock of hair into place under her beret. "Some things should really be said with a smile, don't you think?"

Carstairs shrugged.

"No. You smile too much. You wear a mask of frivolity and think that everybody will accept it at face value. But not every one will. Tell me, please, why you came on this trip?"

She was, for the instant, disconcerted, perhaps a little angry.

"M. Dubois invited me, for one thing," she returned.

Carstairs smiled.

"Really? Why did you make him invite you?"

Now the look she flashed him was pregnant with sharp alarm. She turned, facing him.

"Why do you assume the right to question me, Mr. Carstairs?"

"Because I look upon it not as a right, but as a privilege, Mrs. Fleming. If you—"

Without warning, the Voordam stood up and tried to spit at the stars. Mary Fleming wore American rubber heels, which have no place on a spray wet deck; they slid, and she did likewise, and Carstairs all but went into the scuppers.

For a moment he held her tightly, felt her presence, felt her body against his; then he drew her into the lee of a lifeboat and they were laughing together. Yet this fleeting instant of contact had destroyed everything that had gone before, and what had been in their minds and on their lips was quite gone.

Mary Fleming held up her hand, and rubbed her wrist with a grimace.

"Mercy! Do you carry iron bars in your pockets? Something almost broke my wrist."

Carstairs put hand to jacket pocket and produced an automatic. She looked at at, then looked up at him— a queer look, inscrutable, questioning, yet not alarmed.

"Your habitual companion?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Temporarily, yes."

Sparks came out of his cubby, saw them there, and joined them with his usual grin.

"Do you know, Mrs. Fleming," he exclaimed, "that you remind me powerfully of a lady I saw a couple of times back at Vancouver? Yes'm, you do. Look just like her, only she was younger. That was quite a while back, though. Her husband was an engineer and he was putting up a big radio station and I was hanging around lookin' on. Gifford, his name was."

Mary Fleming made a laughing response, but not before Carstairs had caught the sharp rise of fear in her eyes— fear, and the widening of alarm.

Carstairs departed, leaving her with Sparks. He was more astonished than he cared to admit. Then her name was not Fleming at all? But what had she to do with Dubois?

Before that evening was over, he was to be asking even sharper questions of himself.

4: The Colonel's Lady

THE OFFICERS' cabins were directly under the bridge. Those assigned the few and far between passengers were at the rear of the bridge deck. Dubois, however, had taken a cabin adjoining that of Carstairs, leaving Mary Fleming, with a certain delicacy, to occupy the block aft herself.

After mess Carstairs went to his room for tobacco. He did not switch on the light but reached in for his pouch, then stood in his cabin an instant, bracing himself against the roll of the ship, as he filled his pipe. The door of Dubois' cabin opened and Yim Li came out with a tray. The voice of Dubois checked him, and he made answer.

"Very well. In an hour or two it will be managed, master."

Yim Li went his way. Carstairs thoughtfully sought the saloon again. He knew now what the steward had meant. Yim Li spoke the dialect of the Straits Chinese, and not the dialect of Yunnan at all. And what did the pock marked yellow man intend to manage?

The saloon cabin was impossible. The skipper was there with Mr. Conway, the second officer having the deck. Sparks was there, with the second engineer; and Mary Fleming was there, but it was all a matter of politeness. The Voordam was rolling in a diabolical fashion; it was impossible to obtain any comfort in a chair, and when Mrs. Fleming dismissed her circle there was vast relief. As Mr. Freeman observed to Carstairs, it was up to the officers to entertain a lady but right now it was a hell of a job.

Sparks took Mary Fleming on deck, but Carstairs came along and dismissed him, making no bones about it, then conducted the passenger to the lee passage. A gust of misty rain was sweeping the weather side of the ship.

"You are not polite," she said abruptly.

For the first time Carstairs caught the real quality of her voice, its natural timbre. He liked the full throated sound of it, a hint of contralto, a hint of reserve, a hint of cool ability underneath it all.

"On the contrary," he returned, getting his pipe alight, "I am very polite, with you. Not with the woman you pretend to be. I detest frothy people, and you're anything but that when one gets to the real person."

"I'm tempted to be really angry with you," she said calmly. '"You're impertinent."

"Then I apologize," and Carstairs, leaning on the rail, looked out at the black sea. "Each time I see you, two words come into my mind. Many of us fool ourselves, naturally, about people we scarcely know; yet sometimes we know comparative strangers much better than old friends."

"Sometimes," she agreed. "What are the two words?"

"You'll think them very impertinent, no doubt," said Carstairs. "Yet that depends on the way they're meant, on the spirit in which they're said, on what's behind them. Eh?"

"Of course. What are they?"

"Ave Maria," said Carstairs, and turned to meet her gaze under the overhead light. She was looking at him reflectively, serious for once. He smiled. "I thought of that when I met you in Singapore. Is the confession too revealing?"

"It's not very comprehensible," she said quietly. "I'm not easily fooled; my mirror tells me the truth. Therefore, why should you say such things seriously?"

"Mirrors don't reflect personalities; they only reflect exteriors," said Carstairs. "If I wanted to be impertinent, there are questions I might ask you. But I don't. You're too far above the level of the pack to be brought down to a plane of frivolity, of flirtation, of gay froth—"

"Thank you," she said, as he paused. "Ask one of your impertinent questions, please."

"Very well. Was your husband an engineer?"'

To his astonishment, she nodded and replied simply:

"Yes. You heard his name spoken this afternoon. He was killed two years ago by an accident— this was in Burma, where he was working on a railroad project. I was in Vancouver at the time. He went on a hunting trip and his gun exploded. He was after tiger, in company with a French gentleman— an army man on leave, Colonel De Bercy. They sent me back a snapshot taken of him with De Bercy. "Perhaps you'd like to see it?"

Somehow, in some mysterious and indefinable way, Carstairs felt a thrill at these words. Some electrical current caught at him, a warning that he was on the threshold of something more than appeared on the surface. This sixth sense fairly jerked at him. Yet there was nothing in her look, in her cool voice, to intimate anything unusual.

"Yes, very much," he replied.

"I'll go to my cabin and get it," she said, and was gone.

WHAT did she mean? Carstairs stood at the rail, staring out at the black sea, still feeling that curious warning thrill. Was it a mere confidence on her part? Why was she confessing that her name was assumed? What lay behind it all?

From these thoughts Carstairs was abruptly jerked by a wild, frantic scream almost at his ear, a scream that tore through him, that brought him around to glimpse something falling out past him, something from the deck above. A cry broke from the bridge, then another— a long wail in the shrill Malay voices.

Forgetting everything else, Carstairs darted to the port ladder and scrambled up to the bridge. As he reached it, the pulsation of the engines ceased. He saw the helmsman dart out to the rail, tear loose the lifebuoy there and fling it. An instant later the flare broke forth on the water and went bobbing astern.

Captain Freeman was up next moment, and amid a bawl of voices Carstairs made out that the second officer had left the chart house for some reason and had fallen overboard. The two men inside had heard him scream. So, for that matter, had Carstairs, and had even seen him falling. How he had gone overboard was a mystery, unless a roll of the ship had sent him over. Perhaps he had been inspecting the lashings of the lifeboats.

The Voordam was brought around and circled back to the bobbing flare, all hands lining the rail excitedly. The searchlight was broken out, but no boat was lowered.

The seas were too high, except in case of necessity. For an hour the angry face of the waters was searched without result. The lifebuoy bobbed empty. The second officer was gone.

"Well, sir, why in hell would he smash my outfit before he done it?" cried out Sparks, presently coming up to the group on the bridge. "Smashed hell out of it!"

"Your what? Who done it?" snapped the skipper.

"Well, I dunno who done it, but it's done," said Sparks excitedly. "Looks like some one went through the sending outfit with an ax— knew his business, he did. That there layout is only junk now, sir. Come and see for yourself."

THEY did come and see, all of them. They saw that, sometime between dinner and now, the wireless apparatus had been very thoroughly smashed to pieces. Having seen this, Carstairs left the upper deck, thoughtfully enough. Was this what Yim Li had undertaken to "manage"? Had he put the Voordam out of communication? Had the second officer caught him at it and been sent overboard as a result? Possibly. In fact, very probably...

Abruptly, he came upon Mary Fleming standing at the rail. He had forgotten her completely in the rush of events above, and now remembered of a sudden. She turned to him quickly.

"Is it true that some one fell overboard?"

"Yes." Carstairs' tone was dry. "It appears that the second officer went out of his head, smashed up the wireless outfit, and jumped overboard. Odd actions, eh?"

She stared hard at him.

"What does it mean?"

Carstairs shrugged.

"It means that this is no ship for a woman like you to be aboard," he said, then looked at an approaching figure behind her. It was Yim Li. Carstairs spoke to him in French.

"What were you doing on the bridge deck a while ago?"

"I? Nothing, monsieur." The impassive eyes of the yellow man swept him stolidly. "I have been below all evening."

Carstairs looked at him, and laughed, then spoke in Straits Chinese, so that Yim Li's eyes leaped wide in amazement.

"You lie, son of a turtle! You did the job you promised to do, eh? Go on your way, and there will be a reckoning later."

Yim Li passed on without reply, and Carstairs knew that he had made a dreadful and impulsive mistake in uttering this speech; but it was said. Anger had gripped him, and for once he had lost his head. Perhaps the presence of the woman beside him had done this, or it might have been the pool black eyes of Yim Li spurring him.

"You suspect that man of something?" It was the voice of Mary Fleming, low, controlled, rich.

Carstairs swung around, got out a cigaret, and lighted it.

"Yes, but I have nothing to back up my suspicion. I have made a mistake. Pardon me for having left you so long here."

"Don't be conventional." She laughed shortly. "I'm a widow, you know. I must settle down in the little world of widows, who are never conventional, always frothy."

"Lord!" said Carstairs, staring at her, touched by the half bitterness of her voice. "Mary, you'll never be a widow. Since the first time I saw you, I've thought of you as something shining, shining— that's the word that has come into my mind. I don't mean any disrespect."

"I know it," she said, as he paused. "I know it, of course. But I brought that picture and waited for you. I knew you'd want to see it."

"Oh! By all means," he returned. "Will it explain why you're Mrs. Fleming?"

"Why I took my maiden name for my passport? Yes. It will explain why I've been traveling around so aimlessly, why I have the air of frothy frivolity which you don't like, why I'm aboard this ship. Here's the snapshot of my husband and Colonel De Bercy."

Carstairs took the Kodak picture she handed him, and turned to hold it to the light of the electric bulb. He frowned, looked harder at it, incredulous. He saw a smiling American— and beside him, smiling also, the Frenchman in question.

This Frenchman was M. Dubois.

Carstairs swung around, questions on his lips. Then he found himself alone. In that instant, Mrs. Fleming had slipped away, was gone. Carstairs looked again at the picture, and a soft whistle broke from his lips.

"Good Lord!" he ejaculated softly. "So that's it. What does she mean by it? Has she been hunting him all over this part of the world, hunting this man? And now she's found him, what is she going to do? Well, this pins something on Dubois, all right, gives me the first tangible clue to the rascal. Did he murder her husband, then? Blessed if I know— but—"

A hundred things tugging at his brain, he turned to the companionway. As he reached it, still holding the picture in his hand, he laughed softly.

"I knew there was something back of it all— a woman to live with day in and day out, eh?" he muttered. "Yes, she's that kind. Nothing sexy about her, but something better— and rarer. Fine gold, shining, shining! That's the word for her..."

He came to his cabin, pushed the door open, reached for the electric switch.

That was all he remembered.

5: A Night on Deck

THAT night there was some electric feeling in the air, something queer and vague and scary that rode the tail of the blow. Everybody said so forward, and the off watch of lascars squatted on the hatch and talked together in their guttural, chirpy Malay, firemen and crew together. The serang, who acted as boatswain, sat in the middle of the circle and told horrible ghost stories. They did not break up until the watches changed and Mr. Conway took over the bridge from the skipper.

The serang went to the bridge. Mr. Conway, after lighting his pipe and glancing at the chart and binnacle, stepped outside to enjoy his smoke in the open. The serang came and stood beside the helmsman, chewing his betel paste, and presently spoke—

"Salatan-daya?" he asked, frowning a little.

The man at the steam gear nodded.

"Aye, my father, south-southwest."

The serang wrinkled up his nose and sniffed the air, which made him look all the more like a dog. It happened that the stars were still cloaked from sight. The Voordam was heading dead into the wind's eye.

"I smell, by Allah!" said the serang. "Karang and lumpar."

"Coral and mud? Great is thy nose, father of many!" jested the other lascar. "Can ye smell the kahasi awaiting thee under the thatch in the river hut?"

"I talk of things that matter, not of women," said the serang. "By the Prophet—may his name be exalted!—I think we are off our course." He glanced into the little lighted well of the binnacle. "Right enough. Yet I could swear that this is the east wind that blows off the islands, and that we are heading into the east."

"Swear a bellyful," said the placid helmsman. "I steer and swear not."

The serang cursed in perplexity. Just then Tock, the steward, came up and told Mr. Conway that the captain wished he would step down to the cabin for a moment. The mate liked to bluster and show off before the others.

"What for?" he demanded with profane and obscene objections. "Don't he know I can't leave the bridge night like this? Serang! Keep your eye peeled until I get topside again."

Mr. Conway, like many another, was given to the soothing and practically armless vice of opium. He slipped a pill under his tongue, and a good thing he did; he had need of all the sedative his nerves would takewhen he got down to the skipper's cabin and pushed open the door, since his knock remained unanswered. Captain Freeman was sitting in the chair before his desk; that is to say, the piece of clay that had been Freeman was there, but Freeman himself was far and away from there. A bullet had gone in at his ear and had come out above his eyes, and it had not come alone.

When Mr. Conway had impatiently turned the skipper a little around, and had seen what there was to see, he became in the full sense of the word a sick man, a very sick man. He had seen a lot in his day, but the shock of this was a bit too much for him, taking it by and large. When he was able to speak, he reverted to his boyhood days and crossed himself.

"Holy saints!" he gasped out, and signed himself again.

His foot struck against something hard, and he groped for it. He stared at the thing he picked up, a long barreled revolver fitted with a silencer.

Then, all of a sudden, he became aware that he was no longer alone in the cabin, and he swung around with a frightened look in his weak face. There in the doorway stood the passenger, Dubois, with Tock peering in past him, slack jawed and wide eyed. Dubois was not over his own sickness by a good deal; he was unsteady on his feet, and his face was blue white, but his gaze was hard and piercing enough. An automatic was in his hand, covering the mate.

"You see, Tock!" he said in English. "You see for yourself, do you? Go away and say nothing about this. I'll talk with Mr. Conway. Be ready when I call you."

Meek little Tock obeyed, pattering away, while Dubois came in and shut the door, his eyes and his automatic never leaving the mate.

"Holy Mother!" slobbered out Mr. Conway suddenly, getting the full idea. "You fool, I didn't do it— I tell you I didn't do it—"

"That's enough out of you," said Dubois calmly. "Listen to me, now. Here you are with the gun in your hand, and blood on your hand to boot. We've seen you. Don't talk, now— you'd better listen to me, Mister, and listen closcly! Lay down that gun, you murderer!"

Mr. Conway obeyed quickly, and swallowed hard, so that his prominent Adam's apple bobbed two or three times. Dubois came closer to him and spoke in a lower, more deadly voice.

"You're done, Mister, done, you understand? I can put a bullet into you, aye, and I'll do it if you give me one chance. But I like you. I'll save your life if you want. I'll keep quiet about this, and you can shut the steward's mouth yourself. Understand? Here's your choice— here, man, here! Between my right hand and my left. Make your choice."

THERE was nothing charming about M. Dubois at this moment. His voice and his eyes were cold, merciless, terrible; his livid face was streaming with the sweat of his sickness, but the willpower behind those eyes was enough to freeze a better man than Mr. Conway.

Mr. Conway froze. There was nothing strong about him. His loose mouth quavered; for a moment he did not perceive, in his fright, the choice being offered him. He saw only that Dubois and Tock had him cold, dead to rights, beyond any escape or explanation.

Then, abruptly, he saw what was in the free hand of Dubois. It was a spanking new, bright lavender, Bank of France note for one thousand francs. His distended eyes narrowed on it, and he shot a sudden glance to the face of Dubois, who laughed harshly.

"This and nine more like it— in your pocket. Yes or no? Right hand or left?"

Mr. Conway put down his half raised hands. He licked his tremulous lips, and slowly put forth his right hand to take the banknote. Greed flickered in his eyes.

"Gimme it," he said thickly. "You win. What you want?"

"Obedience," said Dubois. 'You become captain of this ship, and you're taking my orders. Agreed?"

"My gosh, yes!" cried out Mr. Conway in huge and awful relief. He fairly grabbed the banknote and pocketed it. "But, but what about this? Who done it?"

"So far as I know," said Dubois, "you did. So far as the steward knows, you did. I leave the steward to you, Mister. Shut him up. Thats my first order to you. Savvy? Then I'll cover you up on this."

Red surged up into the sallow features of the mate.

"By the Lord, I'll do that quick enough!" he swore. "And then—"

"Take the deck," said Dubois. "Behind the binnacle you'll find a bar of magnetized iron. Chuck it overboard and trim your course for the Brothers. Understand?"

Conway's jaw fell, but he gulped quick assent. Dubois gestured to the door, and the mate hurriedly departed, almost in a daze. Left alone, Dubois staggered, drooped against the wall, pocketed his weapon with fumbling fingers. His chin fell on his breast; the strength seemed to go out of him, and his eyes closed. The door silently swung open, and his man Yim Li stepped into the room and caught his arm. Dubois shook him off, head swaying but eyes alight once more.

"All right," he said in French. "I'm all right, Li. Need sleep. Weak. Watch the mate. If he attends to the steward you can trust him. If not, kill him before dawn."

"Very well, master," said Yim Li stolidly. "If you are ready, I can send word to Ali, and we can manage everything ourselves. Now."

"No!" exclaimed Dubois. "Not now. No need. Tock this door. Watch the mate. If he obeys, we can trust him."

"As the mongoose trusts the cobra?" said Yim Li. A thin smile broke on the face of Dubois.

"Exactly. Until we choose to strike him. Now, help me. Thank heaven the sea has gone down. I was never sick like this before."

The pock marked yellow man helped Dubois down the passage to his cabin. Without turning on the light, Dubois dropped on the lower berth, stretched out, and was silent.

YIM LI went back into the captain's cabin with the silenced revolver. He looked it over, nodded, and replaced the empty cartridge with another from his pocket; then he put the weapon away, glanced around, turned out the light, and locked the door from the outside. This had taken a little time. He started up the port ladder for the bridge, and halfway up he came to a sharp halt. From above, he caught a startled cry in Chinese—a thin, pitiful little cry of fcar and terror, and felt rather than heard the thudding of booted feet on the deck above.

He came up to the bridge and found only the serang and the helmsman there.

"Where is the mate?" he asked in Malay.

The serang jerked his head toward the outer air, vaguely. A moment later Mr. Conway appeared, looking rather white and rumpled. Yim Li regarded him impassively, then glanced at the binnacle.

"What you doin' up here?" snapped Mr. Conway.

"Look-see Tock," said Yim Li.

Mr. Conway jerked his head, looked at the tray which the steward had left for him on the chart table, and flew into a passion.

"Gone below. Get to hell out o' here, you damned yeller scum; you ain't allowed on the bridge and you know it. Get out!"

Yim Li calmly departed.

He spent an hour roving about the ship like a silent saffron ghost, moving, moving, never staying in one spot. Presently he was in the forecastle, where the off watch was asleep. He touched one of the sleepers, a thin chested Malay, and came back to the deck. Ina moment the lascar joined him there. The Voordam was gently pitching into the west wind. and the long rolling scas, and across the horizon stars were glittering. The morning would come clear and fine.

"In the name of Allah the Compassionate," said the lascar sleepily. "It is time?"

"No," replied Yim Li. "We are to do nothing. Everything has been done, and now the rest will be done for us. When you have put the stuff in the engines, our work is done."

"May Jehannum take me if I understand," muttered the lascar.

"It is not necessary," said Yim Li. "You will see. Tomorrow many things will happen. The men will be afraid. You must talk to them of evil spirits, so that tomorrow night when the engines stop they will all come down here to be safe. Then it will be simple."

"Nothing is simple with that chief engineer," said Ali. 'There is a demon in him."

"He will not be there to trouble you," said Yim Li placidly.

"By Allah, that is good, and better than good!" declared the lascar. A few words more and he departed again to his place, and Yim Li was seen no more about the deck.

MARY FLEMING'S cabin was the after cabin on the starboard side, overlooking the after well deck. Something wakened her that morning very early, before dawn— an odd thudding crunch, as if something heavy had struck the ship's side and broken. Presently she rose and put on some clothes and went out on deck. She saw no one, not even a man on watch in the bows. The ship was churning along, the sea had gone down, stars were glinting on the sky. She went up at the bridge deck and saw a light in the wireless house. The door was gently swinging and banging, unfastened. She looked in, but no one was there. Tools were spread about, as if Sparks had been atwork trying to repair his outfit. So, perhaps, he had. Mary Fleming looked up to
the bridge, but did not goup. Instead,she went below again to the deck passage and so to her own cabin.

Outside the cabin, she halted, perplexed. Something had struck the rail of piping, had struck it so hard that the rail was actually bent inward. The ''something" could only have come from the bridge or deck above, hurled with terrific force. There was nothing to show what had caused the blow, however. To one side a crumpled cap bearing the insignia of Sparks lay on the deck. It might have lain there for a long time.

She remembered all this in the morning, when she heard that Sparks had vanished.

6:  The Prisoner

WITH daylight, change of watches, and a warm morning in prospcct across a sun glinting sea, Mr. Conway made an observation which no one who knew him well would have denied.

Nobody relieved him, which was singular in the extreme, except for the fact that there was nobody to relieve him. The second officer had slipped his moorings the first night out— centuries ago, it seemed, yet not more than a few hours past. The first night out had just come to an end.

Mr. Conway knew in his own mind where the second officer was, and he was in no doubt about the skipper. He wanted to find Sparks, but did not summon the steward to this end. He sent the serang, who returned with brief word that Sparks was not to be found. Mr. Conway went to do the finding, and had the same luck. Sparks was simply not aboard. So Mr. Conway thought he might as well look up the supercargo and give him the deck, but Carstairs was not to be found either. The officers' cabins were empty, save for that occupied by M. Dubois, and that in which the clay of Captain Freeman still sat at a reddened desk.

It occurred to Mr. Conway, who was by this time feeling somewhat confused, that he might look up the chief. He descended to the engine room. Mr. MacAlpin was not there, being off watch; the Eurasian second stared blankly at him, and Mr. Conway went up and searched Mr. MacAlpin's cabin. He drew a blank. Out in the passage he was scratching his head and staring around, when he heard Mr. MacAlpin's rich Scotch brogue coming from behind a door, the door of the strong room, adjoining the skipper's cabin.

"Is that you, Mac?" called the mate.

"Who the hell you think it is?" came the muffled reply. 'Open the door."

Mr. Conway tried to open it, but the door was massive and well garnished with locks, and all of them were clicked shut, with no keys in sight. Catching a faint sound, Mr. Conway turned around and saw M. Dubois standing in his cabin doorway, smiling grimly. The Frenchman made a gesture, and Mr. Conway, obedient, went to his own cabin and there made the observation as aforcsaid.

"Well," he observed, "I'll be damned!"

As for Dubois, he went back into his cabin, closed the door and chuckled softly as he met the gaze of the man who, gagged and bound, was lying in his upper berth.

"Everything is now quite safe, Mr. Carstairs," he said. 'You may do all the shouting you wish, if you so desire. Therefore, we may now talk at our ease."

And reaching up, he untied the long silk scarf which was wound about the mouth and chin of his prisoner.

Carstairs did not do any shouting. He had been lying there awake for quite a long time, and judged shrewdly that if shouting would do him any good, he would not have been freed of his gag. There was a bump on the back of his head where he had been hit, but otherwise he was not damaged.

Dubois drew off and regarded him.

"I had a certain affection for you, Carstairs," he said coolly. "I meant to put a neat little sum of money in your pocket and turn you into an assistant; however, Mr. Conway has filled that post excellently. A very fortunate discovery I made last night— it was most kind of you to hold that picture in your hand. We shall talk about it in a moment."

The door opened and Yim Li came in with a breakfast tray. Dubois, who now showed few signs of sickness, rubbed his hands briskly.

"All well, Li?"

"All, master," said the yellow man, and looked at the upper bunk.

Carstairs was not wasting his breath on any useless talk. Ever since the growing daylight showed him, lying on the writing table, the snapshot Mary Fleming had given him, he had realized what was going to happen, and why his life was spared. Also, he had been getting himself into shape to appease the natural and lively curiosity of Dubois about that snapshot.

He knew, with a species of horror, that Dubois must not suspect the truth, must not suspect that Mary Fleming knew him for De Bercy. Whatever Mary Fleming intended, whatever she had planncd to do, she was no match for Dubois when it came to physical force; and it would come to this if Dubois suspected the truth.

"You are well, master?" Yim Li turned to Dubois inquiringly. "Shall I help you with this man?"

"No, no, quite useless." Dubois smiled thinly as he glanced at Carstairs. "I'ma trifle shaky, but hungry. Never been seasick before. A devilish bad blow yesterday. Almost knocked me out. No, Li, go ahead and take the steward's place. Poor Tock! I suppose Mr. Conway threw him overboard?"

Yim Li assented.

"A black dog which did not bark," he returned in Straits Chinese slang, signifying that Mr. Conway had hit Tock with a pistol butt.

"Very sad, very sad." Dubois gave Carstairs a glittering look. "Well, we are now about to eat ducks. You understand these things, Mr. Carstairs? Good. To breakfast."

Carstairs understood, well enough; and the fact that Dubois was also acquainted with this slang language showed him all that was necessary to know. "To eat ducks" meant in plain terms to pirate a ship.

Yim Li departed. Dubois sat down and discussed his meal with growing appetite. From the passage came occasional dull and faint sounds, which amused Dubois.

"Poor MacAlpin does not like his confinement," he observed, sipping his tea. "There is no other opening to the strong room, and he can not break down the door, so he is safe. You may join him presently, if you talk the truth. Otherwise I do not envy you."

"Can't talk— water," mumbled Carstairs. His lips were thick and his mouth dry.

DUBOIS finished his meal, placed the tray aside, and poured water into the mouth of Carstairs, who was lying partly on his side but was able to swallow well enough. Then, having lighted a cigaret, he held it to Carstairs' lips for a puff or two, and finished it himself. He looked sardonically at his captive.

"We treat you well, eh?" said he, with a thin smile. "If there's anything else you want, my dear chap, you have only to ask for it. We may, at least, come to terms."

Carstairs laughed a little.

"You're a cool one, Dubois," he said. "The devil of curiosity is riding you hard, isn't it? You want to know a whole lot of things, and you want mighty bad. About that snapshot, and so forth. Well, you already know or guess enough, thanks to my own folly, to put me out of the way; and if you'll do a little frank talking yourself, I'll promise to come clean."

Dubois nodded and sat on the edge of the writing table, looking up at Carstairs.

"Cool one yourself, young man, he rejoined. "You fooled me in Saigon, and that's saying a good deal. Yes, I'll talk readily enough. No reason why I shouldn't."

"No?" said Carstairs. "You mean to scupper me, do you?"

'Not a bit of it." Dubois grimaced as if in distaste.  "There's been too much of that already, thanks to my seasickness. What a beastly nuisance it was. No, I'll lock you in the strong room with Mac and take my departure."

Carstairs had a flash of what lay behind these words. So that was it. Sink the ship and wipe every one out of sight or sound!

"This isn't the first time you've played the game, eh?" he said.

Dubois laughed.

"Hardly, old chap. The inquisition has begun?"

"Not much to it," returned Carstairs. "T'm under no illusions as to your kind intentions, but what worries me is our lady passenger. Where does she stand in your scheme of things?"

The hard, steady gaze of Dubois narrowed through the smoke.

"So your interest is acute there, is it? I suspected as much."

"Don't be a fool," said Carstairs, and the Frenchman laughed softly.

"T'm not a fool, Carstairs. You ought to realize it at the moment. As to the lady, she does not remain with the ship. She goes with me— and she goes willingly. She will become Madame Dubois, you comprehend? That is all arranged between us."

"Which is more or less a lie," said Carstairs pleasantly. "However, let's have one more bit of clearing up. The cargo aboard here is fake, of course?"

"Of course," assented Dubois, who seemed amused by the question. "That satisfies you, does it?" He reached out, flipped up the Kodak picture in his fingers and tapped it. "Well, my dear chap, do you care to explain this to me?"

"Of course," said Carstairs. "You were the last person known to be with Gifford— that is, Colonel De Bercy was the last person. It seemed that investigation disclosed no such person known to the French army list, and Gifford's heirs wanted to find out a little more about the accident which finished him. I got the job."

"Upon my word," said Dubois, looking a trifle astonished. "Do you mean to say you're a sort of detective— eh?"

"In this case, yes," responded Carstairs. "All I had to go on was that photo, but I got quite a ways on it, as you'll probably admit. Somebody said a man like that had been up at Sabang a while back, and I was drifting around when I got word that some one of your description was at Saigon. So I came along, located you, arranged to get on this ship. My extradition papers would only cover you in British territory, you see."

Dubois looked alarmed, very keen and alert.

"Extradition papers! Look here, d'you mean there's actually a warrant out for me— rather, for De Bercy? And that you've stirred up the police about it, all over this part of the world?"

Carstairs laughed at the way his shot had gone home.

"Well, not exactly," he replied. "There's nothing definite known. I've got everything in shape to issue a warrant. What about Gifford? You killed him, of course?"

For a long moment Dubois stared straight at him, motionless, a deadly glitter in those hard, level eyes. Then the Frenchman drew a long breath.

"Mon dieu, of all the nerve!" he exclaimed, and broke into a laugh. "Well, young chap, you might as well have the whole story. I killed him, yes. We had found quite a lot of stones, nearly all rubies. A new field, unsuspected. You comprehend? What do you expect to do about it, if I may ask?"

"Nothing, at present," said Carstairs. "When I get back to Singapore, I'll swear out a warrant—"

Dubois laughed heartily at this.

"And you'll have a devil of a time proving anything, I can promise you. See here— all your talk about being fresh to the country was pure bluff, eh? How do you know so much? Where did you learn Chinese?"

"Picked it up. I've lived around," said Carstairs whimsically. "How long do you expect to keep me trussed up like this? My hands are numb."

"By heaven," said Dubois in French, "they'll be still more numb before I get through with you, my beauty!"

He looked at Carstairs, and the fingers of his hands twitched; into his eyes had come a queer and unholy light. Sudden passionate anger and hatred had flamed in his heart and was breaking out at the surface. This information must have shattered his plans and schemes sadly, to have so upset him.

He suddenly rose, turned to the washstand mirror, straightened his cravat, and went out of the cabin.

Left alone, Carstairs relaxed, felt sweat on his face; it had been a strain, and a stiff one, but he had conquered. Dubois believed him implicitly. Why not, indeed? Unless she gave herself away, Mary Fleming was safe; and she was not the one to give herself away. Carstairs laughed to think how Dubois would face the actual truth.

He did not laugh, however, when he thought of what would happen— later.

7:  Plague

THE VOORDAM had altered her course and was standing south when Dubois gained the bridge deck and found Mary Fleming tucking herself into a long Singapore chair with a robe over her feet. The serang and two lascars were stretching the deck awning, for the sun was already hot, and the sea was like green jade.

"Good morning," she said brightly, with the radiant smile that seemed to illumine her whole person. "Did you see the islands off the starboard bow? You can see them from here. The serang says we'll pass close to them."

"Yes, the Pulo Condore group," returned Dubois, drawing up a chair. "We'll not pass close to them, however. We'll pick up the Brothers very soon now— two islets about twenty miles off the coast."

"Why are we changing course so much?" she asked. "When I got up, we were heading west, and now we're sailing south, aren't we?"

Dubois nodded and produced a cheroot.

"So it seems," he rejoined carelessly. "Got off our course during the night, I suppose. This is a slow old tub, all right."

"She seems terribly deserted this morning." Mary Fleming frowned in perplexity. "There was nobody except Mr. Conway down to breakfast, and he looked frightfully sleepy and wouldn't say a word to me. And your man has taken the place of that funny little steward, too. I suppose Captain Freeman's on the bridge?"

Dubois glanced up, then struck a match and lighted his cheroot. After a minute he turned to Mary Fleming and met her gaze with an intent and serious look.

"Mrs. Fleming," he said quietly, there's something which I must tell you—  strictly against orders. You are not supposed to know. However, it's folly to keep you in the dark about it. You're no silly schoolgirl, apt to break into hysterics and lose your head; on the contrary, you're a very level headed woman, and I know of no one I'd sooner have beside me in an emergency."

Her blue eyes widened a little.

"Why, thank you for the compliment she rejoined. "But tell me the mystery, by all means. I'll promise to behave myself."

Dubois looked at his cheroot, then his eyes swept up to meet her gaze.

"Prepare yourself for a shock then," he said simply. "We have plague aboard."

"Plague?" she repeated, with a slightly startled air.

"Bubonic." Dubois nodded gravely. "Doesn't mean much to you, I expect, but it means a lot to any one who knows these seas. In its virulent form, which we have with us, a man is alive one moment, and an hour later he's dead. Where this accursed ship picked it up, there's no saying; perhaps from some other ship at Saigon, perhaps ashore. It's a mystery. At any rate, we have it. And it took toll last night, Mrs. Fleming."

At his manner, at his voice and look, Mary Fleming had slowly whitened. Perhaps she had heard of bubonic plague ere this.

"Just— just how bad is it?" she asked. "Surely I can be of service, if some one is sick—"

Dubois laughed harshly. This laugh cut short her words, as with a knife. It held a metallic note, a strange ironic edge that fairly drove into her.

"Service!" he said. "Dear lady, here one can give no service, save to the dead. I have conferred with Mr. Conway. Forgive us, but you must go nowhere on board. You are limited to your cabin and to this chair. I will take your tray from the hands of Yim Li, and we eat together here, while the weather holds fair; in your cabin, otherwise. The same rule holds for me. My cabin, and the bridge deck here. You understand?"

As she regarded him anger stirred in her eyes, then a growing and helpless realization of what he was saying.

"But surely it can't be so bad!" she protested. "The captain—"

"Mr. Conway is captain," he cut in, and she shrank as she realized what he meant. "We think the second officer brought it aboard, knew what he had and jumped over. I must be very frank, dear lady. There is no officer left except Mr. Conway. Tock, poor little steward, is gone. We have no doctor. Fortunately the men are not as yet touched. It may break out among them at any moment."

Now horror grew in her face, but she settled to it calmly enough. She knew the worst.

"'And— plans?" she said quietly.

"We are going to make the Brothers, a pair of islets ahead that give shelter."

Dubois spoke calmly, and his gaze went to the horizon. On their right, the rugged peak of Condore broke the sky, but he looked ahead to a second purplish break, and pointed.

"There. We shall anchor, and face the worst. No passing ship will take us aboard. I have already made plans for you. Weare afraid lest the men discover the situation and take in panic to the boats. If this happens—"

He shrugged, and the gesture was eloquent. Mary Fleming methodically straightened the rug about her feet and legs as she stared at him.

"You say the officers are gone? And the supercargo, Mr. Carstairs—"

"Was buried before dawn," said Dubois. "It has been a terrible night, I assure you."

HE LOOKED out at the  horizon, and thus he did not see the slow pallor that came into her face, the odd way her eyes flinched at his words. Next instant she was herself again, but there was a dazed, hurt something in her voice and eycs, as though the blow had gone very deep into her. Dubois remained tactfully silent, in his air a tacit hint of sympathy. Any one would have been shocked at such information.

If Dubois had stopped there, if he had only trusted to silence, his game was won. But he was, naturally, entirely sure of himself. He had not learned that the greatest power, the least risk, the deepest truth, lies in silence. This was one lesson that the Orient might have taught him, but had not. Dubois liked to elaborate his successes.

"Too bad," he said musingly. "Carstairs was a rather decent sort. It took him suddenly. He was gone in ten minutes. I was at the doorway of his cabin, couldn't go in, you know, and he wanted a picture sent home to his brother. A snapshot of himself and a friend. Too bad! Couldn't be done, of course. His door's locked. The lascars who buried him cleaned out all his things. Conway was a fool to let them touch anything, because itll spread the contagion, of course. Conway lost his head a bit, I'm afraid."

He should have watched Mary Fleming instead of the sea. It was a very deft touch, this about the snapshot— but unfortunately it was not the right touch for Dubois to add.

For Mary Fleming, after one swift glance, dropped her eyes; she, who ever looked forth so bravely and laughingly, now veiled that bright gaze and color came again in her face. Then she laid aside the rug and came to her feet, before he could take her hand to aid her.

"I think I'll go below for a little while," she said quietly. "Here at noon, you say— not in the mess cabin?"

"Yes, here," said Dubois, with a grave little bow that expressed his sympathy and understanding, as only the French can do these things.

She went away, taking the after ladder from the after end of the bridge deck, and Dubois did not offer to accompany her, but looked after her with sharp eyes.

WHEN she had disappeared, he sat in his chair again and chewed his cheroot, smiling a slightly as though at some very pleasant recollection. After a little Yim Li appeared, and Dubois beckoned him and spoke in Chinese.

"The boats are ready?"

"All ready, master," said the pock marked yellow man impassively. "The starboard bow boat, here, is ours."

"Ali is off watch now?"

"Until noon, master."

"Good. Tell him this. Bubonic plague is aboard and has already killed most of the officers. The mate is going to anchor near those islands ahead, and the coast is not much over twenty-five miles to the west. The men have only one chance— to take the boats and gain those islands tonight. They must do it soon after dark, because the mate will smash in the boats later to prevent their escape. Do you understand?"

A thin, ironic smile touched the lips of Yim Li, and was gone.

"I understand, master. Ali will spread this story. I will tell the cook. And I will see to it that they do not take our boat."

"Tell them, also," went on Dubois, "that they must take the mate with them. He will fall asleep after the evening meal— put the stuff in his coffee. The serang will see to this, if he is properly scared, and will take the mate with them."

Yim Li nodded and went his way. Dubois sat and looked again at the sea, again smiling a little; perhaps he visioned panic struck lascars lowering away those boats, desperate to get to shore, to get clear of this plague ship. Although the Voordam was in the track of ships between the straits and Saigon, the horizon was clear. The lascars would know, of course, that they could easily reach the mainland, or that ships would take them off soon, if they remained on Pulo Condore.

Presently Dubois rose and strolled over to one of the starboard boats. The cover was lashed fast down, apparently undisturbed. Standing by the boat, he examined it sharply and carefully, moved along it, nodded to himself in a satisfied way. No one else would have seen anything amiss, but Dubois knew what to look for. Gray squares, three of them, bow and stern and amidships; two inch holes, covered over with paper, the paper daubed with dirty gray paint that matched well enough to pass any casual eye. Once in the water, once filled with men, the painted paper would last for a little while before the pressure burst it. Perhaps five minutes, perhaps less.

A little later Dubois went up to the bridge. He was there when Mr. Conway appeared, sleepy eyed, and he nodded to the mate, who stood squinting at the Brothers ahead. They lay three miles apart— a low, barren white rock off to the west, and closer to the ship, a round islet that stood two hundred feet above the sea and was green with brush and trees.

"How long, another hour yet?" asked Dubois. The mate nodded and turned to him curiously.

"What you aim to do, huh?"

"Run between them," said Dubois. "Anchor. By the way, I forgot to give you this."

He passed a sheaf of thousand franc notes to the mate, who gulped hungrily and shoved them into his pocket without counting.

"What's your game?" he demanded. "This is a hell of a v'yage. I don't know how it'll come out, and after what's happened I don't give a damn. I'll likely lose my ticket anyhow. But I'd like to know your game, that's all."

Dubois looked at him and smiled, so that Mr. Conway warmed to him at once.

"I'll tell you that— tomorrow. Better go to half speed. We don't want to get there any too—"

Mr. Conway was hastily summoned to the speaking tube. It appeared that there was something wrong with the engines, and the Eurasian second did not know what it was. Dubois, who knew exactly what it was—emery dust in the bearings, perhaps— looked at the islets and chewed his cheroot until Mr. Conway returned.

"Quarter speed suit you better yet, huh?" said the mate. "Well anchor about six bells, maybe. Got to do some overhaulin' down below. Say, where's MacAlpin? Still locked up down there?"

Dubois nodded and lowered his voice.

"Bubonic," he said laconically. "Understand now?"

"Holy Mother!" ejaculated Mr. Conway, and turned pasty white. He reached for the little box of opium pills. There was no danger of Mr. Conway going near the chief engineer, not this trip.

8: Land, Ho!

CARSTAIRS, lying in the upper berth, was hot and miserable. His hands and feet were dead to all feeling, for the cords were tightly drawn. He was hungry, and not having drunk since morning, he was thirsty. He was drowsing in his misery when he felt the slow thudding of the engines cease altogether, and heard the forward machinery manned, and the metallic rattling of cable. Then the Voordam swung around  and heaved gradually, gently, to the sea.

"Anchored," thought Carstairs, in blank amazement. 'Where, in the devil's name?"

To this, no answer. After a time Dubois came in, whistling cheerfully, and began to pack up his things. He flung Carstairs a sardonic grin.

"Shore party, young man."

"See here," said Carstairs. "You promised to put me with Mac, you know—"

"Promise is broken," said Dubois. "You stay here and go to hell gracefully."

A grip packed and shut, Dubois went out again. The closed cabin was suffocating. Presently Carstairs fell asleep.

Mary Fleming had lunched on the bridge deck with Dubois. None of the crew came within sight. Mr. Conway, having brought the ship to anchor midway between the islets, followed the advice given him by Dubois and went below, making up lost sleep with the help of little brown pellets.

Their luncheon over, Dubois and Mary Fleming talked. Dubois was an interesting talker, and Mrs. Fleming displayed the proper attention— indeed, she had never been brighter or more vivacious, as if she were trying to dispel the dark cloud that overhung them all. Yim Li came to them, about the middle of the afternoon, and stood silent until Dubois gave him permission to speak.

"I found one, master," he said in Chinese, using slang at that. "A black dog, a very handsome one. It was in her suitcase."

"All right," said Dubois. "File off the firing pin and replace it. Replace everything with care. I will keep her here for another half hour."

As the yellow man departed, Dubois turned to Mary Fleming.

"Things are getting bad," he said gravely. "Li tells me that two of the lascars are sick, and the men are waking up. The second engineer is down, too."

This was truc. The Eurasian second, having emptied a bottle of cognac, was down and out, and likely to remain so.

"You expect trouble from the men?"

said Mary Fleming. 'Surely not! These Malays look so meek and gentle. They are such little men."

"Time will tell," said Dubois. "If they break for the boats I'm not the man to try and check them. I know Malays, dear lady. And if the worst happens, I have onc of the boats ready and waiting. With Li and another man, we could make the coast very easily— within a few hours. We may have to do it. You'd trust yourself in my hands?"

"Anywhere!" said Mary Fleming, with her most dazzling smile. "But you'd not leave the ship with all your cargoaboard?"

Dubois shrugged.

"Why not? The cargo is nothing. You are everything."

Mary Fleming parried this, but with difficulty. Dubois was sure of himself now. Everything had broken well for him. With evening, his game was won. And, other things thus settled, he could give more attention to this woman who had fascinated him— and whom he believed he had fascinated. After half an hour he went away in search of something cool to drink.

ALONE, Mary Fleming's gaiety vanished. She went to the break of the bridge, searched the decks; the ship, to all appearance, was empty and deserted. Not a soul was in sight. Her features became sharp with anxiety, with bewilderment. She could not comprehend what was going on, what had happened. Whether or not Dubois had lied— this was the burning question. And Carstairs, oh, surely not Carstairs! There was something queer about it all, yet she had taken warning. She must make Dubois think that she believed him implicitly, would obey him. When Dubois returned, she was sitting in her chair again, looking at the islands, smoking.

Mr. Conway rolled out very late in the afternoon. He found Dubois on the bridge, talking with Yim Li and a lascar. The mate was in a horrible temper, and he was hungry and full of dreams from the opium he had eaten.

"Bring Mr. Conway a cup of coffee, Li," ordered Dubois.

"And make it strong, damned strong," said Mr. Conway. Lascar and Chinaman departed, and the mate swung on Dubois, his eyes stormy and uneasy, his lips slobbering. "Listen here," he began. "I want to know a few things, savvy? I don't understand the half o' this business. The more I think about it, the worse fuddled I get."

Dubois made an indolent, careless gesture. He was superbly self-confident, for his afternoon had passed off very well indeed, and Yim and Ali had reported that the men were in a blind, mad panic after the fashion of Malays.

"Wait," said Dubois. "Drink your coffee. It'll clear your head a bit. We'll go over the whole thing. Must get to work in the morning."

Mr. Conway mumbled and swore obscene oaths that he had not learned as a boy. Presently Yim Li came with a steaming mug of coffee. Mr. Conway mouthed it, gulped it avidly yet not too fast, for it was hot. When he came to the bottom of the mug, he went to the locker and sat back on the cushion.

"Now let's talk," he said thickly, but Dubois did not reply. He did not need to reply, for Mr. Conway did not repeat the words, but fell into deep snoring.

"We might do worse than let the woman taste of it also," said Yim Li, appearing softly.

"No," said Dubois. "With such a woman, that would be a mistake. It is not needed. Go and knock at her door and tell her that we eat in ten minutes."

Dubois and Mary Fleming ate at the table on the bridge deck, in the sunset glow, while the Voordam rocked to a gentle sea and the two islets, each a mile and more distant, beckoned the clump of lascars who stood in the bow and talked of plague ships.

"Dear Lady, you must smoke a cigaret, then go to your cabin and lock the door," said Dubois earnestly, when Yim Li had fetched their coffee. "It will soon be dark. Some of the men are sick. Mr. Conway is sick. Death will strike hard and sharp. Li says the men will break for the boats the moment it is dark. They are mad, wild with fear. Well, let them go. I must see to it that they do not touch the boat I have made ready, that's all. You understand?"

She nodded and assented, but she had plans of her own.

An hour later dark figures slipped along the bridge deck. The serang went to the bridge and found Mr. Conway there, breathing hard, and in terror the lascar plunged away and told his fellows that the mate was dying of the plague.

In the shadow of the starboard bow boat waited Dubois, Yim Li and Ali. They heard the whispcring talk, the rustle of canvas cut free and whipped away, the creaking of sheaves and davits. No one came near them. Sharp orders came from the scrang; well trained, the men got the three other boats swung out, let go the falls, sent them down to the placid sea.

Then there was a rush. With sudden shrill voices outbreaking, the men went down, lascars and yellow cook and scrang. Overside, a swift tide rip had set in, bearing towards the reefs of Little Condore, so that the Voordam lay tugging and straining at her cable. Down the falls slipped the thin brown shapes, there was a clatter and knock of oars, and now the , last man was gone. Down below, a boat shoved off from starboard, two others were already sweeping out from port, the dipping oars stirring the phosphorescent water in dim fires. The three boats stole away and merged into the darkness, but those odd flitting water flames betrayed whither they were bearing.

Three figures by the starboard bow boat stood at the rail, waiting, listening, watching.

MEANTIME Mary Fleming, having found that the ship's lights were off, donned a dark wrap, slipped something heavy into the pocket and left her cabin. She heard the noise above, and knew that the men were going. She did not make for the bridge deck, however, but groped her way forward, to the cross passage off which opened the officers' cabins. Here she paused in some perplexity.

"Mr. Carstairs!' she called softly. "Tom Carstairs!"

The sound of her voice, the sound of those words echoing hollowly from emptiness, checked her and frightened her. She had no reason to call Carstairs. He was dead, Dubois had said, dead and buried. Yet she could not believe Dubois, and she called Carstairs. She turned and jumped nervously when from a door at her very side came a queer husky response.

"Salut, Marie! That you? Inside, quick!"

"Oh!"

The gasp broke from her, then she tried the door, swung it open on darkness, and leaned against the doorpost, feeling faint.

"Mary! Where are you?" came the voice of Carstairs. "I'm in the top bunk. There's a tray on the desk. Get a knife. What's happened? Where are we?"

She pulled herself together, and began to grope in the darkness.

"Oh, thank God!" she breathed. "Were anchored, near islands. I don't know what's happened. Dubois says it's bubonic plague. I think the men are leaving the ship."

"Bubonic hell!" said Carstairs. "That devil has murdered everybody, like he murdered your husband. He told me about it. To get some rubies they'd found. Can you reach me?"

Sobbing, yet cool enough, she was fumbling at his numbed body with the knife she had found. Carstairs could feel nothing except, for a moment, the soft rose leaf touch of her hand as it came to his face. He kissed her palm with his lips, and her fingers pressed his cheek for an instant in response. He felt his arm moved, but it was a thing of wood.

"There, get down, get down," she
exclaimed softly. "Are you hurt? Can't you move?"

"I'll not move for a bit," said Carstairs. "No, I'm not hurt, merely numb. You run out of here, now— go to your cabin, lock the door. It's horribly dangerous here for you. If that devil knew the truth, he'd kill you in a flash. Go on! I'll be along pretty soon."

Mary Fleming would not, at first, but he prevailed urgently upon her, and after a moment she touched his face again with her fingers, and then slipped away and was gone. Carstairs, breathing deeply, sat up in the berth, rubbed his ankles, chafed his hands and wrists; but he was a man of wood in all his extremities, and a low groan broke from him as he realized that he was, momentarily, helpless.

Up on the bridge deck, the three figures by the rail suddenly stirred. The water, halfway to the black mass of Pulo Condore, broke into a flurry of whipped up fires. A long shrill yell rose from the night, followed by an outbreak of shrieks and terror stricken voices. These were checked abruptly, but the water became a radiant mass of quivering and liquid brightness. A burst of frantic cries lifted faintly to the ship.

"Hai lung," said Yim Li, and laughed in his cruel Chinese fashion. The words might mean several things, but Dubois caught their meaning.

"Yes, I saw a couple of shark fins this afternoon," he commented, and struck a match to his cheroot. The faint cries were thin now, gasping, dying out. "Ali, go and switch on the ship's lights, then get that grip out of my cabin and bring it here to our boat. Li, you and I can get off the forward hatch cover and finish the job."

The three separated.

WHEN the ship's lights went on, everything suddenly blazing with electricity, Carstairs abruptly lay down again in his upper bunk. His feet were a blank. He could not feel anything in them. A little life was coming back into his arms and hands, however, but the hurt of the returning circulation was cruel enough. When the blaze of light in the passage warned him, he resumed his prostrate position and waited, rubbing his wooden hands and fingers.

The door opened, and into the room came a lascar. Relief swept Carstairs. He had expected the yellow man or Dubois. He never dreamed that Dubois had an accomplice in the ranks of the crew. Stirring, he swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, started to speak. A choked gurgle halted him. He looked down to see the lascar gaping up at him, eyes abulge, dismayed terror in that brown dish-face.

Then, quick as the lashing stroke of a snake, the Malay whipped out a knife and lunged upward.

Carstairs, taken wholly by surprise, tried to evade the blow. He did so, but he fell forward awkwardly, off the bunk's edge. Ali was caught under his falling body, tried to drive home another blow with the knife, and cut open the back of Carstairs' hand. Then he went down, flat, with all the weight of Carstairs smashing him against the deck. The wind was knocked out of him; for the moment, he was helpless.

"You'll stay here, my beauty," said Carstairs grimly. With the knife, he ripped off the lascar's dirty sarong, split it, and bound Ali hand and foot. Then, coming to his knees, he looked around the cabin.

Yes, it was there, his own automatic, lying where Dubois had carelessly tossed it. He picked it up, examined it with a grunt of satisfaction, pocketed it. Then he rose, only to topple sidewise against the wall. He could not stand. His feet were as yet almost useless.

Sliding down, sitting against the wall, he took a towel from the washstand and began to tie up his dripping left hand. Thought of Mary Fleming was tugging at him with horrible strength—and he was helpless, until life came into his feet.

9: Vengeance

THE FORE hatch cover was slid aside. Yim Li, who had gone down into the hold, came up the ladder and spoke calmly.

"Everything is right, master. Shall I break it out?"

"Yes," said Dubois. "Break it out. Light the fuse. I'll slip the cable and let her drift. She'll go straight on the reefs and we'll have an casier time putting over the boat if we're with the current."

He went forward. He knew that, even with a hole in her bow, the Voordam might not sink easily; ships are made to swim, and whether or not an explosion has torn a ragged piece out of her bottom, no ship goes down readily. But if she is swept upon recfs of sharp living coral, it is only a little while before the sca tears out her plates and knocks her to bits. Safe enough here, too. The Brothers were out of the steamship lane and no one would see her.

When he had knocked out the pin, when he saw the cable slithering and rattling out of the hawse hole, Dubois nimbly avoided the rushing links and hurried aft to where Mary Fleming awaited him in her cabin. When he knocked at the door, the ship already had an easier motion, drifting as she was.

"Who is it?" asked the woman's voice.

"M. Dubois. Come quickly— bring whatever you want!" he rejoined. "We've just discovered that the men set the ship afire before they left. We must go at once!" , Her door opened. He stepped inside and saw her standing there, one hand down at her side, her blue eyes wide and fastened upon him in a way he did not like.

"Your things, dear lady!" he exclaimed. "Come, I will take them—"

"I am not going," she said quietly. Her voice was quiet, cool, restrained, for all the desperation in her eyes. Dubois stiffened a little.

"Not going?" he said, incredulous.

"But you must! There's not a moment to lose."

"I'm not going," she repeated; and added, "With you."

"What do you mean?" he asked, reading sudden sharp warning in the blue eyes so steadily fastened upon him.

"I mean that my name is not Fleming but Gifford," she responded, and there was not a quiver in her voice. "I mean that I have searched a long time to find you. I mean that I know how you killed my husband, how you murdered him for the sake of those rubies, as you have murdered other men aboard this ship. Get out of here before I forget myself!"

Dubois did not move. A mortal pallor swept into his face, and was followed by arush of blood. But for the moment, her words paralyzed him.

"You— you— you are— he was your husband?" he stammered.

"Yes," she said. "I have warned you. Get out! If you dare to touch me—"

Dubois was galvanized into life. The ship lifted, jerked a little sidewise, rose and fell again. There was a subdued roar, a shock, an explosive shudder that all but flung them to the deck. Then, with a startled oath, Dubois reached out for her.

Mary lifted the revolver, shoved it against him as she shrank, clicked the hammer. No shot sounded.

"Charming little fool!' laughed Dubois, as he picked her up, despite her cry, her frantic struggle, her lashing hands. He had her in his arms, gripping her tight. "So you would shoot me, eh? No, no, dear lady, such a fate is not for me. Come, we shall go, you and I, and we shall reach the Siamese shore and we shall enjoy life together— your husband, eh? Well, so much the better for me."

He laughed again, and carried her out of the cabin.

When he came to the after ladder leading to the bridge deck and shifted her weight, she escaped momentarily from his grip and turned upon him furiously, passionately, fighting him so savagely that the veneer of culture in him was shattered. With an oath Dubois caught her by her thin dress, ripping it asunder, and as she staggered his fist struck her. At this she went limp.

"Hellcat!" panted Dubois. 'You'll pay for this!"

He caught up her slim body and mounted the ladder quickly.

The bridge deck was dark, but lights glimmering from up above gave a faint glow. Dubois was surprised and angry when only the figure of Yim Li showed at the starboard bow boat.

"Ali? Where is he?"

"He has not come, master. Shall I seek?"

"Devil take him, no! She's down by the head now. Here, catch hold! Put her in the boat. We'll swing it out."

They ripped the cover from the boat and placed Mary Fleming in the bow, where many things were already piled— water and wine, cabin stores, odds and ends placed there by Yim Li or Ali. The Voordam was, true enough, slightly down by the head; half her bow plates had been ripped away by the explosion of that previously prepared bomb, and she was sinking faster than Dubois had anticipated.

"Swing out!" commanded Dubois.

Yim Li slipped the gripes, and next instant the boat was swinging out across the rail. Then Dubois, hearing something, turned his head.

"There's Ali now," he said.

"In with you, Ali! Quick, you fool!"

THERE was a laugh. Yim Li uttered a low, incoherent cry, and flung himself sidewise. A pistol vomited flame; in the obscurity here beneath the awning everything was indistinct and vague.

"This is for Gifford, De Bercy!" cried the voice of Carstairs, and the pistol smashed out its deathly vomit again, and again.

Dubois spun around, then darted aside. Neither he nor Yim Li could know that Carstairs had, upon firing, dropped to the deck and was crawling under the swung out boat. Both of them converged on the dark ventilator where he had been standing a moment earlier, searching the obscurity. Dubois caught a moving shape and leaped in at it, pistol in hand. A knife drove into his shoulder. His pistol spoke, muffled by flesh.

Yim Li screamed— the unearthly, horrible scream of a Chinese which rings in the ears and is not forgotten. The two men were grappled. And, as each of them realized their ghastly error, came the laugh of Carstairs.

Standing by the boat, he fired deliberately, bullet after bullet, fired until the clip in his pistol was empty. The last bullet drove into a crawling shape, twisting toward him across the deck— the shape of Yim Li. It lay still. Dubois had fallen against the ventilator and was gripping at it, his weapon lost.

"Carstairs!" his voice came faintly. "Carstairs— you damned—"

Then he choked, and his head fell forward, and when Carstairs approached, he had gone to meet Captain Freeman in the far spaces. At this instant the Voordam lurched, struck heavily, swung around, and with a crunch and a scrape, came to shuddering rest across a reef, listing heavily to port so that the outswung boat swung in again over the rail.

10: A New Employee

THE VOORDAM was immovable, swung neatly across a coral ledge. She would break in two, give her time enough; but not for days yet. And from the bridge, Chief MacAlpin, now released and cursing everything in sight, was making ready the rockets that would fetch in any steamer that might be passing outside the Brothers.

On the bridge deck, beneath the awning, Tom Carstairs felt the fingers of Mary Fleming grip hard at his hand, felt her sit up in her chair with a little gasp.

"It's all right," he said. "Take it easy, Mary! Nothing more to worry about."

"Dubois!" she exclaimed. "That man—"

"Requiescat in pace," said Carstairs, and laughed a little. "It's more than he deserves."

She leaned back in the chair, drew a long breath. Silence rested upon them. After a little Carstairs lifted her hand and touched his lips to her fingers.

"I've always wanted to do that," he said whimsically. "Lord, what a woman you are, Mary!"

She laughed, but her laugh was shaky.

"Silly. Are all men so silly?" she asked. "You haven't known me a week. You haven't really known me at all— and here you act like a silly boy—"

"In love," he added, as she paused. "Well, why not? I don't need to know you any better, Mary."

"Please don't talk about love," she said, half in desperation.

"Right," said Carstairs quietly, holding to her hand. "Listen, Mary. I'm not talking about love. What I'd like is to be near you always; that's the way I think of you. A person to be near, to be with, to know better all the time. Is that love? I don't know. But I'm going to talk business here and now, if you'll listen."

"Business?" she repeated.

"Just that. I can use you. Mengleberg can use you. Let me tell you something..."

He told her about his work, about what he had been doing for Mengleberg here and there in far corners of the seas. From the bridge above the curses of MacAlpin came to them dimly; from below the swirl of waters on the reef lifted through the night with luminous glowings.

"Now," said Carstairs, "I don't want to lose you, Mary. No need for you to go back home. You weren't made for widow's life— not you. Stay in Singapore. You and I can do things. I'll guarantee that Herman Mengleberg will be delighted to take you on—"

"But I don't understand. You seem to be entirely cheerful over it!" she exclaimed. "Here the ship is wrecked—"

"And Herman collects insurance on her," said Carstairs, laughing. "Also, she's not too much wrecked for us to make an examination of a few bales and boxes up forward, which will clear things in great shape. Instead of Dubois sitting beyond the law in Siam while his lawyers collect insurance on fake cargo, he's sitting somewhere else, and there'll be no collecting done. Yes, I may well feel cheerful, except for the poor devils whom Dubois sent to their account. And best of all, I feel cheerful over you, Mary Fleming."

"That's good of you— to take such interest in a stranger," she said, half laughing.

"Right." Carstairs spoke almost crisply. "I'll not talk love. I'll talk partnership! I know how you feel about it. Love's all right in the movies, but when you give yourself to another person, there's a lot more to it. That is, in real life, there would be for a woman like you. Well, suppose we stick together a bit? We'll have work enough. There are things you could handle which I'd never dare try. We'll be good friends, we'll get to know each other; and perhaps you'll come to think of me as I do of you. Perhaps— it's a slim chance, but I wouldn't want you unless you did. What do you say? Yes or no?"

Mac, on the bridge, uttered a loud and triumphant curse. There was the hiss and flaring splutter of a rocket flaring high into the sky. It burst, and in the pale greenish glare Tom Carstairs saw the face of Mary Fleming close to him.

He did not need the quick pressure of her hand to know that Mengleberg, Inc, was about to take on a new employee.

________________

2: Cephas the Paladin

Albert Peyson Terhune

1872-1942

Popular Magazine  15 Feb 1914

CEPHAS was his name. He was a pig. But he was, none the less, a paladin. A porcine St. George when fate at last sounded the call for his great adventure.

Byram owned him. Byram was the man who had mortgaged his up-State farm to buy a half share in the "Trip to Mars" concession at the Pan-Universal Exposition.

Most expositions, or world's fairs, are financial failures. But most of their side-show attractions make money. And— thanks to Cephas— the Trip to Mars was one of these money-makers. Through its gingerbread-gilt gateway on the Street of a Thousand Laughs trickled a goodly stream of sight-seers, and of dimes, throughout that long, hot summer.

Byram, exiled for the season from his beloved farm in order to make ten times as much money at the exposition, was acting as his own ballyhoo man to draw trade to the Trip to Mars. And on the third day of the season his raucous cries of "Greatest, most ree-fined, most side-splitting show of the century," were suddenly punctuated by a squeal that split the looser volume of his clamor as a sword blade might cleave past-worthy melon.

And at that imperative insult to the eardrum, full a thousand hurrying, bab- bling people stopped and, for a flash of time, were silent. The sound had wafted Byram momentarily back to his farm. It carried the memory of many another listener to a similar starting point.

Byram sought to locate the cause, and at a glance he found it. Down the narrow Street of a Thousand Laughs rumbled a big market wagon, taking this short cut to the heart of the city. The wagon was loaded high with crated poultry, calves, and pigs.

An insecurely fastened crate at the very back of the pile had shaken loose, and had fallen to the ground, where, from the tumble, it promptly disintegrated. Its late occupant stood free, dazed, indignant, in the middle of the thronged street; giving forth squeal after squeal, that filled the whole walled space with a series of shrill and unlovely echoes.

The vocalist was a very small, very thin, very youthful pig. For scarce a month of time at most could he have been on earth. And during that brief month he had apparently cultivated his voice at the expense of his anatomy. For, seldom has so much leanness been seen in conjunction with so much youth. Indeed, only the most optimistic of farmers could have hoped to sell such a rawboned and stunted baby porker at any market.

The wagon vanished around a corner, leaving the baby pig stranded and deserted; a bit of noisy jetsam on the shores of the Street of a Thousand Laughs. Byram gazed. So did every one. And a Homeric guffaw arose. The Street was for once living up to its name. The piglet retorted with an ear-racking squeal.

A long-legged, rangy dog dashed from the crowd and charged the waif. The baby pig, no whit daunted, wheeled to meet the charge. Yes, to meet it half- way. His pink lips drawn back over tiny, white milk tusks, his scant spine hairs a-bristle, his vocal cords throbbing with a long-drawn squeal of glad challenge, the pig scampered toward his thrice-larger foe.

Whereat, the dog, which was of many breeds, checked its attack in mid-course, tucked a: grubby tail between its flanks, and wheeled in flight; turning piggy's solo squeals into close harmony by the addition of a long, fear-stricken howl.

The baby paused, blinking his near-sighted little red-rimmed eyes in search of his flying foe. And at that moment Byram was mastered by one of the inspirations that had lifted him at thirty from farm hand to risirg showman.

He strode forth and snatched up the valiant little porker. The latter seemed to know from the way he was handled that Byram was accustomed to pigs. So, unresisting, he allowed himself to be tucked under the man's arm and carried into the cubby-hole office of the Trip to Mars building:

A boy was sent on the run for a half-gallon can of buttermilk, and with further orders to hunt up the market man from whose wagon the pig had been jolted, and to pay him two dollars for the attenuated prize. Just then Byram's partner, Bud Crane, happened i in,

"We aren't showing freaks," was Bud's comment, at sight of the Little Stranger. "What good is a living skeleton to us?"

"But we're selling the dear public," gently corrected Byram. "And I've just bought for two dollars the best barker on the Street. I'm going to tie this pig to a six-foot cord alongside of my ballyhoo bench outside there. His squeals will make every mother's son in earshot stop and listen to me."

But Crane was dubious. Byram expounded his theory of the farm memory that lurks in the back of every one's brain. And he told how the crowd had waxed silent, and had turned, as one man, at piggy's unrehearsed recital.

"But won't the S. P. C. A. butt-ins get after us?" objected Bud, "for— for torturing a dumb animal— or something?"

"This animal's worst enemy couldn't call him dumb," retorted Byram, "And, besides, nobody' s going to torture him."

"Then how'll we make him squeal ?"

"We'd have harder work to stop him. A pig of that age and breed squeals every few seconds, anyway. Just as he's doing now. He'll be a dandy card. Folks'll get talking about it, too. And then—"

"All right," conceded Bud comfortably. "And say! I've got a corking idea for a name for him. 'Spareribs!' How's that? Look at his sides. You see, he's 2

"His name," coled decided Byram, "is Cephas."

"Cephas ?" echoed Crane, in blank wonder. "Why Cephas?"

"Why not Cephas?"

This argument could not be parried. It could only be ignored. Crane pro- tested feebly:

"It's a fool name."

"It's my father-in-law's name," rebuked Byram, with icy dignity.

"Oh, I see. The old man's the one who's got the mortgage on your farm, isn't he? I remember. All right. Let it go at Cephas."

And Cephas it was; thenceforth and for the season.

Through the torrid, sticky summer, Byram, from his ballyhoo bench, extolled the marvels of a Trip to Mars. From noon to midnight he added his ever-hoarsening shouts of praise to the clamor of the Street of a Thousand Laughs.

And on the sidewalk beside Byram, every week day, from noon to midnight, stood, or sprawled, or trotted Cephas; ever and anon lifting to high heaven a squeal or a succession of squeals that tore the busily humming summer air into shreds.

Never did Cephas squeal without drawing as much attention as did all the Street's human barkers combined. City folk would jump in amaze and turn to see whence emanated the fearsome sound. Memories awoke in most passers-by, and curiosity in all. And the Trip to Mars speedily became the best- advertised show at the exposition.

Cephas, with a brazen collar about his brazen throat, and a long brass chain connecting him with Byram's bench leg, went through the business of the day with undying spirit.

Sometimes he would pace or gallop from one end of his tether to the other; shrieking in drawn-out fervor at every step. Again he would stand and survey the passing hundreds with the impersonally curious eye of a philosopher, squealing only occasionally and in a dispassionate tone, as one with a dull but needful duty to perform. When rain pelted heavily, or the August sun fell like a fiery scourge on the cement pavement, Cephas would lie at ease in the sparse shadows under the bench, squealing with a somnolent but racking dreaminess,

Thanks to the new ballyhoo, the Trip to Mars did unparalleled business. It drew quarters when equally meritorious shows drew nickels. It paid the mortgage off Byram's farm, and started a plump little bank account for him. It earned for Bud Crane a pale-yellow diamond, with crinkly depths and of unbelievable area.

Cephas toiled on; sleeping in the mornings to an hour that would have brought a flush of shame to his farm ancestors; and sitting up till every other pig in America had finished half its night's sleep. He ate in large quantities and at frequent intervals. Beyond his regular diet, there were many and heterogeneous' contributions— ranging from apple cores to crack-jack— from passing admirers. And his physical exercise was limited and spasmodic. Yet he gained no flesh. Perhaps nature did not intend that he should. Perhaps squealing for a livelihood twelve hours a day on a crowded, hot, ill-savored cement pavement, and sitting up until midnight do not tend to put flesh on little pigs. In any case, Cephas remained svelte; not to say bony. And his general size increased so imperceptibly that he was scarce three inches longer, or an inch taller, in September than he had been in June.

Cephas' lack of growth, and his perpetual thinness, worried Byram. Yet he could see nothing amiss with the squealer's appetite or general health. He had grown genuinely fond of the queer little fellow during their months of jointly haranguing the multitudes. And Cephas reciprocated the man's affection.

Cephas was not demonstrative. But on such rare intervals as he was loose he would always seek out Byram and trot gravely at his heels, or lie curled in an angular bunch at his feet. Bud Crane the pig openly and throatily disliked. And Bud regarded Cephas merely as an unlovely, but paying, adjunct to the show.

Strewn through the summer there were several happenings to lighten the monotony of Cephas' life. Once, for example, he was stolen. And his squeals of wrath furnished a running clew to his negro captor's movements, until Byram and a patrolman could overhaul the fugitive in the crowd.

Again, the shed wherein Cephas slept, at the back of the Trip to Mars build- ing, took fire just before dawn one day. And the flame-defying squeals of fear- less Cephas awakened Byram and other sleepers barely in time to save the pig's bacon from more than a superficial, if painful, scorching; as well as to save the building, and probably the entire flimsy Street of a Thousand Laughs.

An exposition newspaper published a story of the scant-averted holocaust; heading it, "PIG TURNS IN A SQUEAL ALARM," and running a picture of Cephas, the hero of the account. (Cephas never having been photographed, a "stock cut" of a prize Berkshire boar was printed as substitute.)

Then, dog fights were matters of such frequency that they hardly called for comment. It was a favorite amusement for the Street's youthful hangers-on to catch some large or small stray cur, haul him to the' space in front of the Trip to Mars, and then gleefully "sick him onto" Cephas.

The baby pig met all canine comers. Yes, met and routed them. Such few dogs as withstood his first indignant rush found his teeth amazingly sharp, and his skin incredibly tough, And the assailants seldom wasted time over the useless combat; but withdrew as early in the action as they could tear them- selves free.

Thus— fighting, squealing, half baking, singed, stolen, stared at, the butt of inextinguishable laughter— Cephas wore out the red summer and shrilled a gallant greeting to the purple-and-gold autumn.

The exposition was 'at its last gasp. The Street of a Thousand Laughs pre- pared to put up the shutters. The crowds had dwindled. Summer and shows were past; winter and work were at hand.

Byram and Crane on the first of October, counted up their comfortable profits, divided a good sum of money, and rejoiced. Byram next day was going back to his worshiped farm, to make ready for a record agricultural year, wherein labor should for once be reinforced by capital. Crane, buying out his. partner's interest in the Trip to Mars, prepared to take the show to New Orleans for the winter.

Byram went over to the Agriculture Building, on the Street's last day, to buy some farm implements at end-of-season rates. Crane was packing some of the Trip's paraphernalia. Cephas, his position now a sinecure, was snoring shrilly under the vacated ballyhoo bench. The show was closed.

Then it was that Ophido, the Cobra King, from the Hindu Village across the Street, honored Mr. Bud Crane with a morning call. Ophida, in private life, bore the more reasonable cognomen of Murtha. And Bud had known him in the olden years before ever Ophido was a Hindu. The Cobra King's visit was of a business nature. His star python, Brahma— second largest of its species in captivity— was ready to be fed. Brahma, python fashion, ate but once in seven or eight months. And he always evinced his periodic desire for food by an increased liveliness. Such liveliness, Ophido told Crane, had now obsessed Brahma. Nor would the reptile quiet-down sufficiently for transportation, or for safe handling in public, until hunger should have been appeased, and sweet reflection should bring back the snake's wonted laziness.

Pythons, Ophido prattled on carelessly, will eat nothing but live food. A half dozen kicking rabbits, a month-old kid whose horns have not yet sprouted, a lamb, or even a small dog, will serve amply for the semiyearly banquet. Or—here Ophido coughed discreetly— at a pinch a young pig might do.

Crane pricked up his ears. Ophido dropped glittering generalities and went further into details.

"Business is dead," he explained. "Here's the last day; and the only way we could get a handful of boobs into the Village was by advertising that Brahma's to be fed. Now, that squealing pig of yours is pretty well known about here. If I could send word around the Street that he's the dinner picked out for Brahma, it ought to draw a whole bunch of folks. Get the idea?"

"Yes," said Crane doubtfully.

"The feeding's advertised for an hour from now," went on Ophido, "and I could get the news around before then. How about it?"

"No," decided Crane, after a moment's wistful thought— during which he covertly surveyed a half-healed scar on his thumb, the imprint of Cephas' tusks on an occasion when Bud had tried to slap the pig into louder squeals. "No. It won't do. Byram would never stand for it. He's fond of the measly little cuss."

"I thought you'd bought out Byram."

"I have."

"Then the pig's yours. He's part of the show, isn't he?"

"Why, I s'pose that's so," admitted Crane, hope dawning in his voice. "But," he added, "Byram would raise an awful kick just the same."

"Afraid of him. I see."

"No," glumly denied Crane, "I ain't afraid of anybody. Besides, he's away for the morning. And the pig's no use to me down South. He'd cost more to transport than he's worth. What'll you gimme for him?"

After some slight dicker, five dollars and Cephas changed hands. And Ophido-Murtha, the Cobra King, departed for his Hindu Village, bearing with him the indignantly protesting Cephas.

"Twon't hurt him? Not so very much?" queried the conscious-twinged Crane, as he escorted his guest across the Street.

"Not a bit!' Ophido assured him. "When a python looks at the critters that's put in his cage, they just get paralyzed, all at once, with fear. Kind of hypnotized. And they don't move a muscle, but only crouch there, with their eyes popping while he gets 'em ready to eat. It's a painless death. The S. P. C. A. folks themselves says so. Some of 'em."

An hour later the Serpent House of the Hindu Village was: full to over- crowding with eagerly morbid sightseers, who had paid double rates for the dual privilege of seeing Brahma feed and Cephas die.

"Ladies'n gentlemen,' began the hirsute lecturer, mounting a box beside a glass-faced cage that filled one end of the narrow hall, "you will now be treated to one of the most instructive sights in the fascinatin' domain of Ophidian natural history. Brahma, the mammoth python, second largest snake in captivity, will proceed to break his eight-month fast, before your very eyes, by devouring a large and livin' pig. Please keep as quiet as you can, ladies'n gentlemen, until this wonderful exhibition is over. For pythons is very dainty about their eatin'. And if they're disturbed or distracted, why, they won't eat at all. Ready, Mr. Ophido?"

Ophido advanced from behind a screen, carrying at arm's length between his hands the struggling Cephas, whose presence had been audible throughout the entire brief "lecture." The Cobra King went to the rear of the cage; an attendant with him. The audience sat mute; every eye glued to the interior of the glass-fronted inclosure.

There, on the floor, before a painted backdrop supposedly depicting an India jungle at sunrise, moved something— enormous, sinuous, hideously beautiful.

Fold on fold the python had assembled together his squirming length; the satin pattern of red-brown and black widening, as the body expanded in process of coiling, to the girth of a human thigh. Then, untangling his massed convolutions, Brahma flattened out to almost the full depth of the huge cage; and glided restlessly from end to end, from corner to corner of it; running his head and neck man-high along the slimy surface of the glass.

Nothing short of famine or intense pain could rouse a captive snake to such unwonted activity. Clearly, Brahma was hungry. He could not stay quiet. His habitual dead-and-alive lethargy was shed like last year's skin. He nosed in corners; and, coiling himself once more, gazed at the spectators in expressionless malignity from lidless bead eyes set in a triangular head as large as a dog's.

Uncoiling again into a thick, sinuous bar, he recommenced his undulating tour of the cage. Suddenly he halted, slithering to one side of the inclosure, and raising his three-cornered head as though in preparation for attack.

At the same instant a panel in the back of the cage was shot open, and then shut. In the momentary interval the gaping spectators caught a glimpse of two hands that tossed an object through the aperture.

And Cephas stood in the cage's cleared central space.

The pig's little white-lashed eyes blinked with a fleeting look of bewilder- ment— none who knew him could call it fear— at his strange surroundings. He gazed beyond the sheet of glass, and beheld the staring audience. Professional instincts seemed to tell him that here was a show of some kind, and that it was incumbent upon him to squeal.

The pink mouth opened for a vocal effort. Then, evidently, a swift, rustling sound distracted his attention, and showed him he was not the cage's only occupant. He wheeled abruptly. And Brahma came into his blinking line of vision.

The python, at sight of his prey, had coiled tight, and was now thrusting forth and drawing back his three-sided-head, almost on a level with the floor; to gauge the distance for a strike.

"Yes, ladies'n' gentlemen," the lecturer had resumed in a carefully subdued voice, "the first glance from the python's mysterious hypnotic eye charms the trembling Prey into a sort of stoopor. And—"

He got no further. Just then Brahma, having satisfactorily measured the distance, struck, flashing forward his head and ten feet of his mighty length with a speed that the eye could not follow.

At that juncture, Cephas had caught for the first time a full and comprehensive view of his horrible cage-mate.

The python struck. But Cephas was not there. With a squeal whose shrill fury paled all his life's former attempts at song or at displeasure, the pig sprang forward to meet the assault.

Yes, and he launched himself into the fray a fraction of a second sooner than did Brahma. High in air leaped Cephas, above the swift-darting triangular head.

And down he came, all four pointed trotters bunched together on the neck scales of his adversary. His sharp little white tusks promptly buried themselves to their entire short length in the flesh at the very base of Brahma's skull.

With one convulsive start the giant snake upreared; until his head, and the neck in whose nape Cephas' teeth were sunk, smote resoundingly against the cage roof.

The impact was terrific. It shook the cage like a miniature earthquake. But it did not shake loose the hold of Cephas.

Dearly, no doubt, would the pig have loved to exhaust in a battle squeal such little breath as the blow against the roof had left him, But, to squeal, a pig must open wide his jaws. And Cephas' long, narrow jaws were otherwise engaged. So, in his hour of mortal stress, this one beloved expression of emotion was denied. He must fight without the inspiring thrill of music.

The python dashed himself against the painted walls and the floor, striving in growing panic to shake free and to strike. Each smashing beat of the flail head and neck seemed more than enough to flatten Cephas into shapelessness.

But he was a hard, gristly little fellow, this sacrificed pig; as resilient as a rubber ball, and bothered by no easily crushed flesh. Also, he had the heart of a paladin: zealous, flamboyant, unafraid. D'Artagnan's, at the Gascon's glowing best; even if swathed in porcine skin.

Finding the puny foe refused to die, the python resorted to the constrictor tactics of his race. Around the bristling, tense body of the pig he swept his giant folds.

Coil upon coil Brahma cast around his enemy; hampered vastly, it is true, by the fact that Cephas was behind, instead of in front, of him; but none the less managing to secure a fairly close grip on the tiny hero. Then the python proceeded to "constrict."

Had Brahma been able to coil himself in his customary way, around the pig, the end might have come quickly. But Cephas' position made this impracticable. So the python merely held such hold as he had caught.

Ophido, and the lecturer, and the attendants, and every one else remained almost as moveless as the combatants; powerless to shake off the primitive spell of battle.

That was the situation when Byram— a rumor of the intended slaughter spectacle having reached him in the distant Agriculture Building— elbowed his way into the hall.

Byram was as dangerously angry as only an even-tempered man may become. He was yellow-white, and there were gray dents on either sides of a mouth that was clenched as tight shut as Cephas' own.

He went through the packed crowd without causing the remotest inconvenience— to himself— and made straight for the glass-fronted cage. He stopped only once, and then but momentarily, in his swerveless progress. That was when Crane, as Byram pushed past him, tried to say something by way of excuse or explanation. Byram halted only long enough to aim— and land— a left hook that reached Bud's jaw, and caused him to sit down with great force and promptitude.

Byram, not even troubling to look back, continued his way to the cage. In his right hand was the thick blackthorn stick he always carried.

He had nearly reached the cage before he was first able to see, through the press, the motionless duelists on its floor. Another step brought him to the glass. And he smote its polished surface with the full swinging force of his stick,

At the first blow of the blackthorn knob, the thick glass split in five direc- tions like so much skin ice under a boy's toe. The second, third, and fourth, de- livered with a speed that seemed to make therm but a single stroke, shivered the entire glass front, leaving a huge, ragged gap in the center.

Through this gap, Byram stepped; the jutting point of glass tearing his clothes and his hands as he went.

Above the two fighters he towered, his stick upraised, seeking the most vulnerable section of the snake's anatomy. The smash of glass had broken the spell that had gripped the crowd. Silence was replaced by confused shouts and babbling; through which boomed the quite unheeded imprecations of Ophido-Murtha, the Cobra King. There was a surge and a scramble in every direction, too; with much scuffing of feet. No one greatly cared to be so near the abode of the second largest python in captivity, when that captivity was lessened by a broken cage front.

But the incipient panic was wholly groundless. Nor did Byram's upraised blackthorn descend upon the snake. For, even as the man poised the stick for the blow, there was a sudden movement in the mountainous mass of coils, from tail to head. Then, very slowly, the thirty-foot body unwound; twisted feebly over on its back; exposing an endless stretch of white, scaly underside; and lay there. The python's neck was quite scientifically broken; by the incessant and ever-fiercer grinding of a double row of white little tushes.

Beside his huge foe lay Cephas; a small, crumpled heap, curiously awk- ward and twisted in pose.

Ophido strode vengefully toward the wrecked cage, chanced to observe Bud Crane scrambling up dazedly from a sitting posture on the floor, paused, and reconsidered his planned onslaught.

"If I'd charged ten dollars a head for admittance to this fight," half blubbered the Cobra King to nobody in particular, "it wouldn't half 'a' paid me for losing that python!"

Byram did not hear. He was kneel- ing beside Cephas, running a tender hand over the limp body, and straight- ening out the cramped limbs and back.

"Somebody's going to get the licking of his life for this!" ke announced to all and sundry, as he gently lifted the small hero in his arms.

Cephas the Unafraid opened one white-lashed, red-rimmed eye, and contributed to the babel of surrounding din a feeble but dauntless squeal. Byram, in incredulous joy, fanned the half- swooning warrior with his hat, and once more ran practiced fingers over Cephas' battered anatomy.

"A rib bashed in, and shoulder 'way out of joint," was his half-audible diagnosis. "But he's beginning to breathe free. And his heart's going. It doesn't hurt him when I punch him anywhere but on the shoulder and the rib. No inside injuries. He'll live— the gaudy little scrapper."

"Say, Byram!" hailed a freak-show manager as the rescuer bore his wounded pet, unopposed, through the excited crowd, out of the Serpent House, "I'll give you fifty dollars for that pig, for my mu-see-um. I'll bill him as the Porcine Paladin and Python Killer, and he'll be—"

"You'll buy me as easy as you'll buy Cephas," growled Byram. "He goes back to the farm with me to-morrow, after the vet has fixed him up. And there he stays forever and ever. In clover. As Providence meant a pig to. Not ballyhooing and killing pythons for breakfast. Hey, Cephas?"

And Cephas, the porcine paladin, gave assent, in a muffled but defiantly happy squeal.

_____________

3: Lucifer

Achmed Abdullah

Alexander Nicholayevitch Romanoff, 1881-1945

Everybodys Magazine Aug 1923

FOR years the three Pell Street merchants had traded with Ta Chen, the Peking millionaire, by correspondence, acting as his American brokers and gaining large sums in commissions punctually paid. Ta Chen, whose name was a household word wherever the yellow man did business at the expense and ignominy of the white man's beard, had casually mentioned former visits to America— to New York— in some of his letters. But they could not recall him; and this was strange, considering the clannishness of the Chinese abroad and their tight, intimate gossiping, considering, furthermore, that a man of his wealth could not have passed unnoticed through the shuffling, felt-slippered crowds. Nor, though they eagerly searched the back cells of their brains for a glint of remembrance, were they able to place him now, when they had gone to meet him at the Grand Central Station in answer to his telegram from San Francisco that he had arrived on a sudden business trip and was proceeding to New York.

He, on the other hand, recognized the older two of the three, called them by name, made rapid, sardonic comments, proving that he was familiar with their reputations and peculiarities.

"Ah, Yung Long!" He smiled. "It is years since I have seen you. Do you still braid ribbons into your cue to lengthen it? Do women's hearts still flutter when you pass through the mazes of Pell Street?" And to Nag Sen Yat :

"You have not changed the least bit, O brother very wise and very old! Tell me"— the typical wealthy Chinese who could afford to cause a loss of face to poorer men— "do you still cheat your belly to swell your money-bags?"

While Nag Sen Yat stammered for a rejoinder, Ta Chen looked questioningly at the third, the youngest.

"And you are—"

"I am Nag Cha Lee."

"Ah! Of the Nag clan?"

"Yes."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"You were born after my time. Your father is—"

"Nag Hop Fat."

"Ah! The soothsayer. He is still alive? His soul has not yet jumped the Dragon Gate?"

"He is old and feeble, but still alive."

"The which is luck for the excellent Lord," came Ta Chen's slurring comment. "For doubtless in the beyond your father would succeed in cheating the very Buddha. I knew your father well. Twice he told my fortune with the painted sticks—  and twice he lied. Had he told my fortune again, he would have lied three times."

Nag Cha Lee was intensely Chinese in his filial veneration for his aged if disreputable father. A harsh reply bubbled to his lips. He changed it into a cough at the suggestion of his cousin Nag Sen Yat's bony thumb boring into his ribs. He was silent. So were the other two. They did not know what to say. To tell Ta Chen that they did not remember him would be a gross breach of manners, and they were his brokers, gaining largely by his shrewd generosity. They sucked in their breath, blushed slightly as they saw the expression on his face— amused, cynical, as if he had read their minds, had unraveled the coiling, nervous twists in their brains.

So they looked at each other from beneath lowered eyelids, bowed with hands clasped across chests and bade him welcome in courtly, stilted phrases.

"I loufou sing— may the star of happiness always illuminate your path!"

"Ten thousand years!"

"Ten thousand times ten thousand years!"

"And yet another year!" Suddenly, at least in external pomp of Mongol breeding, Ta Chen became as polite as the others.

Then he turned to the negro red-cap who carried his suitcases, with clipped East Side jargon which proved beyond a doubt that, sometime, somehow, he had indeed been a denizen of Chinatown's viscous, sluttish reek.

"Say— wottahell d'yeh mean slingin' my bags about as if they was iron? For two cents I'd bust yeh one on the bean— see?"

And to Yung Long, smiling:

"Ah! I have not forgotten my English."

All this very much to the surprise of the red-cap, who mumbled:

"Ah beg yo' pa'don, Captain! Ah didn't know as yo' was a white gen'l'man," to the surprise of several unclassified New Yorkers hurrying through the station to catch the eleven-o'-clock train for Albany, to the evergrowing surprise, finally, of Ta Chen's countrymen. Who was he, they wondered. Why could they not recall him? Why did the fact of their not being able to do so upset their equanimity?

Nag Sen Yat stared at Ta Chen. A fleeting glint of remembrance came to him. Where had he seen those opaque eyes, those thin lips, those heavy jowls? The half-remembrance passed. But on the spur of the moment he made up his mind to ask the other straight out.

"Forgive me," he began, "but—"

He had no time to finish the sentence. Ta Chen interrupted calmly, as if he had guessed what the query would be.

"You reserved rooms for me as I telegraphed?"

"Yes. At the guest-house Of the Hip Sing Tong."

"Thank you. Ah"— as they entered the taxi-cab— "it is good to be back in New York. What shall we do to-night?"

"We arranged a little private dinner party."

"Delightful!"

"At Nag Hong Fah's place—"

"The Great Shanghai Chop-Suey Palace? I remember it well. Who will be at the dinner?"

"Just you, and we three, and Tsing Yu-ch'ing."

"Who is he?"

"The editor of the Eminent Elevation, our local Chinese newspaper."

"A new venture— since my time. You invited the editor— ah— to gain face?" Ta Chen demanded brusquely.

"Yes," admitted Yung Long.

TSING YU-CH'ING had indeed been asked to the dinner so that he might report it in the next issue of his tiny weekly and thus help the three merchants to gain face, businessly as well as socially. Already Pell Street had heard about Ta Chen's arrival, had heard about the dinner. Already Pell Street envied. Yet that same night, knowing Pell Street's envy, the three were not happy. They were, somehow, afraid. Nor was there a reason for it. There was nothing in Ta Chen's words or manners to inspire uneasiness. On the contrary. He had been smilingly polite all evening. He had given them large orders over the sharks'-fins and birds'-nest soup, had promised them larger orders when Ling Yang, the waiter, had brought in the duck cooked sweet and pungent, the braised bamboo- sprouts, and an exquisite pale-blue Suen- tih Ming bowl filled with pickled star-fruit.

Now the dishes had been cleared away—  all except the bottles of rice gin and the glasses. Ling Yang had arranged a low tabouret with a jar of treacly first-chop opium, needles, horn and ivory boxes, lamps, pipes and all the other meticulous paraphernalia for the smoking of the kindly, philosophic drug; and Tsing Yu-ch'ing, the editor, had toasted Ta Chen in charming, flowery language, comparing him, after the Pekingese manner, to dawn reddening the black wake of night, to a river jeweled with summer hues, and to purple leaves carpeting the forest for autumn's avatar.

Ta Chen sat smoking serenely. Gorged, he seemed, as much with food as with a gross, blotchy surfeit of prosperity. Sleepy, he seemed, and comfortable. But when he opened his eyes there was in their depths a strange expression. "Like the memory of ancient sin," Tsing Yu-ch'ing described it afterward; "proud, consciously unrepenting sin." And the three merchants sensed it, quailed under it, tried to reassure each other with slanting glances, with discreet coughs, with gliding, crooked smiles.

Nag Cha Lee felt it more intensely than the other two. Ta Chen's remark of that morning about his father had rankled in his heart. During the evening he had drunk a great deal of heady rice gin. He had smoked six opium-pipes. He drank two more glasses of gin, smoked another pipe. He was slightly dizzy. He was sure— clearly sure— of only two things: his fear of Ta Chen and, resultant from this fear, his hate. It was the hate, not the fear, which suggested revenge. He poured himself another glass. Again, with shaking fingers, he reached for the opium-jar. He filled his pipe and smoked, inflating his lungs, letting out the pungent fumes in tiny, vaporous globules that sank to the floor and ran along the matting. And, as the poppy-ghosts drew swiftly about him on silver-gray wings, building round him a wall of dreamy, gossamer clouds, the fear disappeared temporarily. Reminded only the hate, the lust for revenge. He watched his opportunity.

It came shortly afterward.

Ta Chen had turned to Yung Long. He was holding forth on the worth of old age, by the same token ridiculing the claims of youth.

"Age is a fig tree, strong and tall and straight, bearing sweet fruit," he pronounced, "while youth"— with suave irony and a subtly derisive look at Nag Cha Lee— "the worth of youth in the reckoning of life is tinier than a rice-corn or a barleycorn or, a mustard-seed— or the pulp of a mustard-seed."

Yung Long smiled. He, too, looked at Nag Cha Lee. Often in the past had the latter scratched his thin-skinned Mongol prejudices by tactless, youthful boasting.

"You are right," he said.

He laughed. So did Nag Sen Yat. So did Tsing Yu-ch'ing.

And then Nag Cha Lee blurted out suddenly that, speaking of fig trees, once his father— "who does not always lie"— had told him a legend "which"— addressing Ta Chen direct— "might be of interest to you, O wise and older brother!"

"Ah?" the other inquired.

"Indeed. For one day the Buddha asked one of his disciples what was the secret of the fig-tree's worth, and the disciple saying that it was the fig, the Buddha replied, 'Bring me a fig.' 'Lo, my Lord,' came the disciple's answer, 'I have brought a fig!' 'Break it.' 'It is broken, my Lord.' 'What seest thou in it?' 'Lo, little seeds, my Lord!' 'Break one of the seeds.' 'It is broken, my Lord.' 'And what seest thou in it?' 'Nought my Lord, except a void.' And," Nag Cha Lee wound up, "out of this void rises the seed, out of the seed the fig, out of the fig the fig tree— the fig tree, belike, of old age, great age, wise age. Still— let us all have faith in the Buddha's blessed miracles. Perhaps— ah— perhaps in this void of the broken seed the All of old age finds indeed its final, precious essence."

THUS came the insult, deadly and unforgivable from the oblique Chinese angle— insult that, typically, implied more than it spoke. And silence dropped.

Yung Long drew from his sleeve a tiny fan exquisitely embroidered with butterflies and opened it slowly. Nag Sen Yat sat like a statue, his face expressionless, only the Adam's apple in his scrawny throat rising and falling and betraying the excitement that swept over him in waves. Tsing Yu-ch'ing watched eagerly, his keen, repor- torial brain alive to every word and gesture and impression.

Nag Cha Lee himself, his words beyond recall, had suddenly become sober once more— sober and terribly afraid. He squirmed in his chair, thinking of credit and discounts and future business and Ta Chen's swollen money-bags; thinking, too, that he was hard-pressed for cash and that, in the last transaction with the Pekingese, he had paid the latter by a six months' note which was due and which, earlier in the evening, as a matter of course, he had asked Ta Chen to renew.

The latter leaned forward a little. "Younger brother," he said, "about that five-thousand-dollar note which you asked me to renew—"

And after a pause full of elusive suspicions and hesitations— a pause splintered by Nag Cha Lee's hysterical stammering that he didn't care, that he meant what he had said, that he would not apologize and eat dirt, even though it ruined him financially— Ta Chen continued very gently:

"I shall renew the note. I also asked you to sell for me three thousand bales of that easily placed Cantonese crape, didn't I? Very well. Make it four thousand bales."

The other's relief was sudden, ludicrous and complete.

"You mean it?" he asked, between laughing and crying.

"Yes."

"But— oh— why—"

"You are young and so, perhaps, you were a little envious of my wealth, my claim to respect, my regrettable habit of causing younger, poorer men to lose face— is that right? Come; confess, little brother."

"Yes."

"It is natural. During youth, envy and desire are like roses on a bush, to be plucked regardless of thorns. Youth is so careless. I like it. I admire its strength, its courage, its arrogant ruthlessness. I, too, once—" He interrupted himself. A slow flame eddied up in his eyes. His hand stabbed dramatically out of the poppy vapors and pointed like a pistol at Yung Long's chest. "You remember me?"

"I— oh—"

"I want the truth!"

"I do not remember you."

"And"— Ta Chen turned to Nag Sen Yat— "do you?"

"No, O wise and older brother!"

"Hayah!"

Ta Chen smiled a crooked, wintry smile. He rose, walked to the window, opened it, flung the shutters wide. Chinatown jumped into the focus, hiccoughing through the sooty dusk with luminous colored flame, crimson and green and sharp saffron, blaring shamelessly the symphony of its grimy bastard world. His hand took in at one sweep the whole Mongol and half-breed maze that teemed and cursed and sweated below— the rickety, secretive brick dwellings, the painted bird's-nest balconies, the furtive shops, the scarlet-smeared joss temple, the stealthy, enigmatic alleys, the little mission chapel, lonely here amidst the spicy, warm reeks of opium and sandalwood and grease and incense, like a drab, insistent stain upon Pell Street's tough, sneering yellow nakedness. His hand swept on. It pointed east, toward the Bowery, leering up with a mawkish, tawdry face, toward the elevated road, a block away, rushing like the surge of a far sea. West swept the hand, where Broadway leaped toward the Battery with pinchbeck stucco and the blatant, stridently, alive vitality of its shops and lofts.

"This," said Ta Chen, "was once my world— the world which, being young and poor, I envied— the world which, being strong and ruthless, I forced to disgorge."

HE CLOSED the window, stepped back into the room and stopped in front of Nag Sen Yat and Yung Long.

"You do not remember me?"

"No," replied Nag Sen Yat, though again clogged cells in his brain trembled with the effort to place those thin lips, those heavy jowls, those opaque, ironic eyes.

"I remember neither your face nor your name," agreed Yung Long.

"As to my name, I changed it— for reasons. Twenty-five years ago I was known as 'Wah Kee.' "

"Wah Kee?" puzzled Yung Long.

"An ordinary name," commented the newspaper editor, "like 'John Smith' among the coarse-haired barbarians."

"But they nicknamed me 'Yat-Pak-Man'— 'One Million'— because I boasted that I would earn a million before I died."

"Yat-Pak-Man—" The clogged cells in Nag Sen Yat's brain opened wider. Then full remembrance came with a rush, to be checked immediately by his incredulity. "Impossible!"

"Impossible!" echoed Yung Long. "Yat-Pak-Man is—"

"What?" asked Ta Chen.

"Dead."

"Murdered!" Yung Long chimed in.

"He is alive," came Ta Chen's flat, cozy accents, with just the brittle suspicion of a laugh. "He has made his million, and more millions, and"— dropping his voice to a minatory purr— "he gives you orders to buy and sell for him. You are in his debt, deeply in his debt, eh? And yet"—  turning to Nag Cha Lee— "twenty-five years ago I used to envy these two— oh, yes! For they were already well-to-do, while I was poor. I envied them. I envied all Pell Street. But most did I envy Gin Ma-Fu—"

"The miser?" interrupted Nag Sen Yat.

"Yes. He was a worse miser even than you. A miser— and a hypocrite— like the cat which killed nine hundred mice and then went on pilgrimage."

"I remember," said Yung Long; "a miser, indeed— and a criminal. He did not even stop at murder to swell his moneybags."

"Whom did he murder?" asked Tsing Yu-ch'ing.

"He murdered Yat-Pak-Man."

"No!" Ta Chen smiled. "I repeat— I am alive. My soul has not yet jumped the Dragon Gate."

AND he told how, many years earlier, he had come to New York, a poor, ignorant coolie, working for a pittance, how, finally, he had become messenger for Soey Kwai, the wealthy private, banker.

"Soey Kwai," he said, "was vary Americanized. He married a white woman. He named his son 'George Washington.' He made me dress in a blue uniform with brass buttons— just like the bank-messengers of the foreign devils. And he paid me fifteen dollars a month. Hayah! I could not save a cent, though I pinched my belly and shriveled my bones. And I wanted money— yat-pak-man— a million! I knew that dollars are golden pills that cure all ills. Give gold to the dog— and all the world will call him'mandarin dog. ' Three thousand dollars, I used to say, was what I needed for a start. After that I would rely on my own brain and strength. But I could not save a cent, and Pell Street laughed at me— called me 'Yat-Pak-Man.' " Nag Sen Yat sighed reminiscently.

"Yes— yes— Yat-Pak-Man—"

He stared at the other, utterly fascinated, convinced now that he recognized him. Yat-Pak-Man, Soey Kwai's messenger, who had been Pell Street's butt with his eternal talk about the million that he was going to earn! Yat-Pak-Man, whom he had thought dead, murdered! And he wondered— feared— and his leathery, angular features became marked by an expression of almost ludicrous alarm. He looked at Yung Long as if for help. The latter, too, was frightened. His jaw felt swollen, out of joint. His hands opened and shut convulsively.

Nag Cha Lee, on the other hand, was no longer afraid but frankly curious.

"But," he asked, "as bank-messenger you handled large sums. Didn't you feel tempted to—"

"To steal? No. To feel temptation you must feel that temptation is wrong. I did not. I had no scruples. My hand was against the world."

"Then why didn't you—"

"I feared the law. No other reason. But the desire in me grew stronger and stronger. Desire—  envy— jealousy— hate— resolve! Like ghosts they were about me— all day, when I hurried through the streets, my black-leather bag filled with money and commercial paper, when I saw the rich Pell Street merchants in their houses and shops, and at night, when I lay in my little room above Soey Kwai's bank. Yes— desire and hate and envy— jealousy— resolve— and ruthlessness! Like ghosts! At first these ghosts— gray ghosts, crimson ghosts— had but the faintest spark of life, stirring me up so little that they left no more than a blurred, indistinct impression upon my soul. Again they would rise, look at me reproachfully, telling me to stop thinking and to act, act, act— to seize my chance by the throat. Then they would squat in the corner of my room and mock me and leer at me, call me a fool, a weakling, a coward. 'Yat-Pak-Man!' they would sneer. 'Yat- Pak-Man, you will never make your million unless you listen to us. ' And— hayah!—  I would go into the street, and the little ghosts would come along; they would stick to my hair, my clothes, my fingers, my tongue. I could feel them and smell them and taste them— and then, one day, they crystallized into a fact. I made up my mind—"

"To do what?"

"To rob and murder Gin Ma-Fu, the miser."

"No, no!" exclaimed Nag Cha Lee, horror- stricken.

"Yes, yes!" mocked Ya Chen. "Did I not tell you that I wanted money? Did I not tell you that I had made up my mind, and that my hand was against the world? It was thus the Buddha created me. Curse the Buddha, or bless him— as you wish. I, personally, hold not by the yellow Buddha. I hold by myself— to myself, for myself enough!" His voice rose clear and high and challenging. "Yes! I made up my mind to rob and murder Gin Ma-Fu."

Came a heavy pall of silence. Outside, in the pantry, Ling Yang, the waiter, had his ear glued to the keyhole. Inside, the four listeners carefully avoided looking at each other. Their faces were like carved masks. The smoke wreaths of tobacco and poppy drifted to the ceiling and hung down like an immense, transparent beehive. Through the shutters the Pell Street symphony leaked in with a thin wedge of sound.

A policeman whistled shrilly. A barrel-organ creaked a nostalgic Sicilian melody. The elevated rushed.

"Carefully I attended to every detail," continued Ta Chen, with slow deliberation. "Gin Ma-Fu lived all alone in a small house on Mott Street. He kept no servant. He cooked his own meals, swept the house himself. But he had one peculiarity: he hated the cold. So he, the miser, had had a large and expensive American furnace installed in his cellar, which, all through the winter, he kept at a red heat with his own hands."

"Yes; I remember," whispered Nag Sen Yat, then was silent, frightened at the sound of his own voice.

"It was part of my duty," went on Ta Chen, "to bring him every Monday morning three thousand dollars in cash, which he needed for small loans. I waited for a certain Monday morning when— ah, I was so careful!— I had other sums in my bag, a very large black bag, besides Gin Ma-Fu's three thousand. The night before— unusual luxury which I could ill afford— I went to the Place of Sweet Desire and Heavenly Entertainment to smoke a pipe and sip a cup of tea. There, in the presence of Gin Ma-Fu and several witnesses, I mentioned casually that I had to visit two or three people the next morning, that I would carry a considerable amount of cash, and that I hoped no gunman of the foreign barbarians would hold me up. Came Monday morning. It was very cold. I went to Gin Ma-Fu's house. On former visits I had noticed a heavy hammer which was always in a corner near the door. As soon as I entered I asked him for a glass of water. He turned. I picked up the hammer. I felled and killed him at one blow. Then, carefully, unhurriedly, I went to work. I locked both outside doors. I dragged the corpse into the cellar. The furnace was at full blast. And then— hayah!— there was myself— my strength— my ruthless resolve. There was a sharp knife; there was the furnace. And after a while there was no trace at all of Gin Ma-Fu except a heap of charred bones. Then I took off my blue uniform and burnt it in the furnace after tearing off a few ragged pieces and two or three brass buttons which I dropped here and there. I plucked a handful of hair from my cue and stuck it in the blood on the hammer. I hid hammer and knife behind a heap of coal. I opened my leather bag, took out the money and a change of clothes which I had brought with me, dressed, went up-stairs, opened the street door, watched my chance and slipped out. Three weeks later, traveling circuitously, I arrived in Seattle. Seven weeks later I was in China. I heard afterward how the police of the foreign barbarians discovered my charred bones, the ragged pieces of blue uniform, the brass buttons, the hammer with blood— his blood— and hair— my hair, how they reconstructed the crime— the miser murdering the bank-messenger because of the money which the latter carried in his bag. The miser, the assassin, was never found, although the police of three continents searched for him."

CAME again silence, dropping like a pall.

Only the sizzling of the opium-pipes, a smacking of pursed lips as Nag Cha Lee, prey to terrible excitement, scalded his throat with hot tea.

Yung Long looked at Nag Sen Yat. The latter looked back, slowly closing one heavy-lidded, opium-reddened eye. There was an exchange of wordless questions and answers. These two understood each other. As for Nag Cha Lee, the third, the youngest, they would talk to him afterward. But here was Ta Chen, the millionaire, their best client. Here was, furthermore, Tsing Yu- ch'ing, the newspaper man, keenly alive to every word and gesture. It was one thing to gossip— to gossip with other Chinese. That did not matter; it was a sealed book to the coarse-haired barbarians. But there was the Eminent Elevation which, though written in Chinese, was read— and understood— every week by certain foreigners at police headquarters.

Yung Long cleared his throat. He must be careful and circumspect, he thought, lest he should lose too much face.

"Life," he began sententiously, "is as uncertain as a Tatar's beard." He turned to Tsing Yu-ch'ing. "Little brother!" he called with a clear voice.

"Yes?"

"Ta Chen has delighted our worthless ears with the elegant and exquisite harmonies of his words."

"Indeed!" chimed in Nag Sen Yat sonorously, while Ta Chen watched, silent, an ironic smile curling his lips.

"Ta Chen," continued Yung Long, "has woven for our enjoyment a delicious fairytale, yet a fairy-tale which, belike, would miss its point if reprinted in the Eminent Elevation— chiefly considering that I own a controlling interest in this esteemed and valuable newspaper. You understand?"

"Quite," replied Tsing Yu-ch'ing.

"Very well. As for myself"— Yung Long turned to Ta Chen— "permit me to thank you. I enjoyed your fairy-tale— every word of it. It was worthy of the most delightful classic traditions of the black-haired race."

"Ah, yes!" agreed Nag Sen Yat. "Worthy of Han Yu and Ts'ui Hao and all the other poets of the glorious T'ang dynasty."

"But," came Ta Chen's purring query, "suppose the fairy-tale is true. Suppose I am really a murderer."

"Then," replied Yung Long shamelessly, "I would say that you are a very rich man. I would say, furthermore, that every man should clear away the snow from his own housetop."

"Yes, yes!" Nag Sen Yat smiled. "It is written in the Book of the Yellow Emperor that it is only the relative value which makes evil evil— and good good."

"And you," asked Ta Chen, addressing Nag Cha Lee; "what would you say?"

Nag Cha Lee did not look up.

"Who am I," he whispered, "the very little and worthless one, to bandy words with my wise and older brothers?"

Then laughter, sharp, crackling, pitiless, and Ta Chen made a derisive gesture with thumb and second finger.

"Ahee! Ahoo!" he cried. "It is true! Dollars are golden pills which cure all ills. Give gold to a dog— and all the world will call him 'mandarin dog'."

AND many weeks later, when Ta Chen had returned to China, while his three agents were coining a rich harvest through the orders which he had left behind, Tsing Yu-ch'ing, the editor, who was Harvard-bred and a good Baptist, discussed the happening with Ling Yang, the waiter, who had listened through the keyhole.

He made enigmatic allusion to Ta Chen's brain reminding him of moonbeams shining in silver unison on three cups of mottled jade, and emphasizing, not their own glittering falseness but the flaws in the latter.

To which Ling Yang, American-born, replied:

"Wottya givin' us— silver moonbeams and cups o' jade? I ain't got no idea if Ta Chen lied or spilled the truth. But, either way, he made them greedy three fatheads lose plenty face. That's all— see?"

"You think so?" Tsing Yu-ch'ing smiled.

"Sure!"

"He had no other reasons?"

"No."

"You are wrong."

"How come?"

"I myself," said the editor, "believe that Ta Chen told the truth. He told it for one of two reasons. For one, the crime weighed on his conscience. And, like many a murderer before him, he returned to the place of the crime. He decided to confess— to make a clean breast of it. He did so. But, being a shrewd man, he did it in such a way that it did not hurt him— ah— from a worldly angle. The other possibility—"

"Well?"

"Lucifer," said Tsing Yu-ch'ing laconically.

"Wottya mean?"

"Aren't you a Christian?"

"Yeh bet I am, bo! And a damn sight better one than you are— see?"

"Well then, don't you know who Lucifer was?"

"Sure! The— aw— fallen angel, eh?"

"Yes. The fallen angel who gloried in his wicked deed, who never repented. Ah! There was that expression in Ta Chen's eyes when he told about the murder, like the memory of ancient sin, proud, consciously unrepenting sin. Lucifer! And who knows if Lucifer was right or wrong— if Ta Chen was right or wrong? You see— at times I forget that I am a Christian, a Baptist, and then— "

"G'wan; ye're nutty!" cut in Ling Yang, the waiter.

_________________

4: A Gold Slipper

Willa Cather

1873-1947

Harper's Magazine Jan 1917

Willa Sibert Cather was an Pulitzer Prize winning American literary author known for her novels of life on the Great Plains, including O Pioneers!, The Song of the Lark, and My Ántonia.  She also wrote numerous short stories, the most-reprinted being "Paul's Case", which has appeared some 20 times in anthologies and magazines, including Past Masters, #103

MARSHALL MCKANN followed his wife and her friend Mrs. Post down the aisle and up the steps to the stage of the Carnegie Music Hall with an ill-concealed feeling of grievance. Heaven knew he never went to concerts, and to be mounted upon the stage in this fashion, as if he were a "highbrow" from Sewickley, or some unfortunate with a musical wife, was ludicrous. Aman went to concerts when he was courting, while he was a junior partner. When he became a person of substance he stopped that sort of nonsense. His wife, too, was a sensible person, the daughter of an old Pittsburgh family as solid and well-rooted as the McKanns. She would never have bothered him about this concert had not the meddlesome Mrs. Post arrived to pay her a visit. Mrs. Post was an old school friend of Mrs. McKann, and because she lived in Cincinnati she was always keeping up with the world and talking about things in which no one else was interested, music among them. She was an aggressive lady, with weighty Opinions, and a deep voice like a jovial bassoon. She had arrived only last night, and at dinner she brought it out that she could on no account miss Kitty Ayrshire's recital; it was, she said, the sort of thing no one could afford to miss.

When McKann went into town in the morning he found that every seat in the music-hall was sold. He telephoned his wife to that effect, and, thinking he had settled the matter, made his reservation on the 11.25 train for New York. He was unable to get a drawing-room because this same Kitty Ayrshire had taken the last one. He had not intended going to New York until the following week, but he preferred to be absent during Mrs. Post's incumbency.

In the middle of the morning, when he was deep in his correspondence, his wife called him up to say the enterprising Mrs. Post had telephoned some musical friends in Sewickley and had found that two hundred folding-chairs were to be placed on the stage of the concert-hall, behind the piano, and that they would be on sale at noon. Would he please get seats in the front row? McKann asked if they would not excuse him, since he was going over to New York on the late train, would be tired, and would not have time to dress, etc. No, not at all. It would be foolish for two women to trail up to the stage unattended. Mrs. Post's husband always accompanied her to concerts, and she expected that much attention from her host. He needn't dress, and he could take a taxi from the concert-hall to the East Liberty station.

The outcome of it all was that, though his bag was at the station, here was McKann, in the worst possible humour, facing the large audience to which he was well known, and sitting among a lot of music students and excitable old maids. Only the desperately zealous or the morbidly curious would endure two hours in those wooden chairs, and he sat in the front row of this hectic body, somehow made a party to a transaction for which he had the utmost contempt.

When McKann had been in Paris, Kitty Ayrshire was singing at the Comique, and he wouldn't go to hear her— even there, where one found so little that was better to do. She was too much talked about, too much advertised; always being thrust in an American's face as if she were something to be proud of. Perfumes and petticoats and cutlets were named for her. Some one had pointed Kitty out to him one afternoon when she was driving in the Bois with a French composer— old enough, he judged, to be her father— who was said to be infatuated, carried away by her. McKann was told that this was one of the historic passions of old age. He had looked at her on that occasion, but she was so befrilled and befeathered that he caught nothing but a graceful outline and a small, dark head above a white ostrich boa. He had noted with disgust, however, the stooped shoulders and white imperial of the silk-hatted man beside her, and the senescent line of his back. McKann described to his wife this unpleasing picture only last night, while he was undressing, when he was making every possible effort to avert this concert party. But Bessie only looked superior and said she wished to hear Kitty Ayrshire sing, and that her "private life" was something in which she had no interest.

Well, here he was; hot and uncomfortable, in a chair much too small for him, with a row of blinding footlights glaring in his eyes. Suddenly the door at his right elbow opened. Their seats were at one end of the front row; he had thought they would be less conspicuous there than in the centre, and he had not foreseen that the singer would walk over him every time she came upon the stage. Her velvet train brushed against his trousers as she passed him. The applause which greeted her was neither overwhelming nor prolonged. Her conservative audience did not know exactly how to accept her toilette. They were accustomed to dignified concert gowns, like those which Pittsburgh matrons (in those days!) wore at their daughters' coming-out teas.

Kitty's gown that evening was really quite outrageous— the repartée of a conscienceless Parisian designer who took her hint that she wished something that would be entirely novel in the States. Today, after we have all of us, even in the uttermost provinces, been educated by Baskt and the various Ballets Russes, we would accept such a gown without distrust; but then it was a little disconcerting, even to the well-disposed. It was constructed of a yard or two of green velvet— a reviling, shrieking green which would have made a fright of any woman who had not inextinguishable beauty— and it was made without armholes, a device to which we were then so unaccustomed that it was nothing less than alarming. The velvet skirt split back from a transparent gold-lace petticoat, gold stockings, gold slippers. The narrow train was, apparently, looped to both ankles, and it kept curling about her feet like a serpent's tail, turning up its gold lining as if it were squirming over on its back. It was not, we felt, a costume in which to sing Mozart and Handel and Beethoven.

Kitty sensed the chill in the air, and it amused her. She liked to be thought a brilliant artist by other artists, but by the world at large she liked to be thought a daring creature. She had every reason to believe, from experience and from example, that to shock the great crowd was the surest way to get its money and to make her name a household word. Nobody ever became a household word of being an artist, surely; and you were not a thoroughly paying proposition until your name meant something on the sidewalk and in the barber-shop. Kitty studied her audience with an appraising eye. She liked the stimulus of this disapprobation. As she faced this hard-shelled public she felt keen and interested; she knew that she would give such a recital as cannot often be heard for money. She nodded gaily to the young man at the piano, fell into an attitude of seriousness, and began the group of Beethoven and Mozart songs.

Though McKann would not have admitted it, there were really a great many people in the concert-hall who knew what the prodigal daughter of their country was singing, and how well she was doing it. They thawed gradually under the beauty of her voice and the subtlety of her interpretation.

She had sung seldom in concert then, and they had supposed her very dependent upon the accessories of the opera. Clean singing, finished artistry, were not what they expected from her. They began to feel, even, the wayward charm of her personality.

McKann, who stared coldly up at the balconies during her first song, during the second glanced cautiously at the green apparition before him. He was vexed with her for having retained a débutante figure. He comfortably classed all singers— especially operatic singers— as "fat Dutchwomen'" or "shifty Sadies," and Kitty would not fit into his clever generalization. She displayed, under his nose, the only kind of figure he considered worth looking at— that of a very young girl, supple and sinuous and quicksilverish; thin, eager shoulders, polished white arms that were nowhere too fat and nowhere too thin. McKann found it agreeable to look at Kitty, but when he saw that the authoritative Mrs. Post, red as a turkey-cock with opinions she was bursting to impart, was studying and appraising the singer through her lorgnette, he gazed indifferently out into the house again. He felt for his watch, but his wife touched him warningly with her elbow— which, he noticed, was not at all like Kitty's.

When Miss Ayrshire finished her first group of songs, her audience expressed its approval positively, but guardedly. She smiled bewitchingly upon the people in front, glanced up at the balconies, and then turned to the company huddled on the stage behind her. After her gay and careless bows, she retreated toward the stage door. As she passed McKann, she again brushed lightly against him, and this time she paused long enough to glance down at him and murmur, "Pardon!"

In the moment her bright, curious eyes rested upon him, McKann seemed to see himself as if she were holding a mirror up before him. He beheld himself a heavy, solid figure, unsuitably clad for the time and place, with a florid, square face, well-visored with good living and sane opinions— an inexpressive countenance. Not a rock face, exactly, but a kind of pressed-brick-and-cement face, a "business" face upon which years and feelings had made no mark— in which cocktails might eventually blast out a few hollows. He had never seen himself so distinctly in his shaving-glass as he did in that instant when Kitty Ayrshire's liquid eye held him, when her bright, inquiring glance roamed over his person. After her prehensile train curled over his boot and she was gone, his wife turned to him and said in the tone of approbation one uses when an infant manifests its groping intelligence, "Very gracious of her, I'm sure!"

Mrs. Post nodded oracularly. McKann grunted.

Kitty began her second number, a group of romantic German songs which were altogether more her affair than her first number. When she turned once to acknowledge the applause behind her, she caught McKann in the act of yawning behind his hand— he of course wore no gloves— and he thought she frowned a little. This did not embarrass him; it somehow made him feel important. When she retired after the second part of the program, she again looked him over curiously as she passed, and she took marked precaution that her dress did not touch him. Mrs. Post and his wife again commented upon her consideration.

The final number was made up of modern French songs which Kitty sang enchantingly, and at last her frigid public was thoroughly aroused.

While she was coming back again and again to smile and curtsy, McKann whispered to his wife that if there were to be encores he had better make a dash for his train.

"Not at all," put in Mrs. Post. "Kitty is going on the same train. She sings in Faust at the opera tomorrow night, so she'll take no chances."

McKann once more told himself how sorry he felt for Post. At last Miss Ayrshire returned, escorted by her accompanist, and gave the people what she of course knew they wanted: the most popular aria from the French opera of which the title-réle had become synonymous with her name— an opera written for her and to her and round about her, by the veteran French composer who adored her— the last and not the palest flash of his creative fire. This brought her audience all the way. They clamoured for more of it, but she was not to be coerced. She had been unyielding through storms to which this was a summer breeze. She came on once more, shrugged her shoulders, blew them a kiss, and was gone. Her last smile was for that uncomfortable part of her audience seated behind her, and she looked with recognition at McKann and his ladies as she nodded good night to the wooden chairs.

McKann hurried his charges into the foyer by the nearest exit and put them into his motor. Then he went over to the Schenley to have a glass of beer and a rarebit before train-time. He had not, he admitted to himself, been so much bored as he pretended. The minx herself was well enough, but it was absurd in his fellow-townsmen to look owlish and uplifted about her. He had no rooted dislike for pretty women; he even didn't deny that gay girls had their place in the world, but they ought to be kept in their place. He was born a Presbyterian, just as he was born a McKann. He sat in his pew in the First Church every Sunday, and he never missed a presbytery meeting when he was in town. His religion was not very spiritual, certainly, but it was substantial and concrete, made up of good, hard convictions and opinions. It had something to do with citizenship, with whom one ought to marry, with the coal business (in which his own name was powerful), with the Republican party, and with all majorities and established precedents. He was hostile to fads, to enthusiasms, to individualism, to all changes except in mining machinery and in methods of transportation.

His equanimity restored by his lunch at the Schenley, McKann lit a big cigar, got into his taxi, and bowled off through the sleet.

There was not a sound to be heard or a light to be seen. The ice glittered on the pavement and on the naked trees. No restless feet were abroad. At eleven o'clock the rows of small, comfortable houses looked as empty of the troublesome bubble of life as the Allegheny cemetery itself. Suddenly the cab stopped, and McKann thrust his head out of the window. A woman was standing in the middle of the street addressing his driver in a tone of excitement. Over against the curb a lone electric stood despondent in the storm. The young woman, her cloak blowing about her, turned from the driver to McKann himself, speaking rapidly and somewhat incoherently.

"Could you not be so kind as to help us? It is Mees Ayrshire, the singer. The juice is gone out and we cannot move. We must get to the station. Mademoiselle cannot miss the train; she sings tomorrow night in New York. It is very important. Could you not take us to the station at East Liberty?"

McKann opened the door. "That's all right, but you'll have to hurry. It's eleven-ten now. You've only got fifteen minutes to make the train. Tell her to come along."

The maid drew back and looked up at him in amazement. "But, the hand-luggage to carry, and Mademoiselle to walk! The street is like glass!"

McKann threw away his cigar and followed her. He stood silent by the door of the derelict, while the maid explained that she had found help. The driver had gone off somewhere to telephone for a car. Miss Ayrshire seemed not at all apprehensive; she had not doubted that a rescuer would be forthcoming. She moved deliberately; out of a whirl of skirts she thrust one fur-topped shoe— McKann saw the flash of the gold stocking above it— and alighted.

"So kind of you! So fortunate for us!" she murmured. One hand she placed upon his sleeve, and in the other she carried an armful of roses that had been sent up to the concert stage. The petals showered upon the sooty, sleety pavement as she picked her way along. They would be lying there tomorrow morning, and the children in those houses would wonder if there had been a funeral. The maid followed with two leather bags. As soon as he had lifted Kitty into his cab she exclaimed:

"My jewel-case! I have forgotten it. It is on the back seat, please. I am so careless!"

He dashed back, ran his hand along the cushions, and discovered a small leather bag. When he returned he found the maid and the luggage bestowed on the front seat, and a place left for him on the back seat beside Kitty and her flowers.

"Shall we be taking you far out of your way?" she asked sweetly. "I haven't an idea where the station is. I'm not even sure about the name. Céline thinks it is East Liberty, but I think it is West Liberty. An odd name, anyway. It is a Bohemian quarter, perhaps? A district where the law relaxes a trifle?"

McKann replied grimly that he didn't think the name referred to that kind of liberty.

"So much the better," sighed Kitty. "I am a Californian; that's the only part of America I know very well, and out there, when we called a place Liberty Hill or Liberty Hollow— well, we meant it. You will excuse me if I'm uncommunicative, won't you? I must not talk in this raw air. My throat is sensitive after a long program." She lay back in her corner and closed her eyes.

When the cab rolled down the incline at East Liberty station, the New York express was whistling in. A porter opened the door. McKann sprang out, gave him a claim check and his Pullman ticket, and told him to get his bag at the check-stand and rush it on that train.

Miss Ayrshire, having gathered up her flowers, put out her hand to take his arm. "Why, it's you!" she exclaimed, as she saw his face in the light. "What a coincidence!" She made no further move to alight, but sat smiling as if she had just seated herself in a drawing-room and were ready for talk and a cup of tea.

McKann caught her arm. "You must hurry, Miss Ayrshire, if you mean to catch that train. It stops here only a moment. Can you run?" "Can I run!" she laughed. "Try me!"

As they raced through the tunnel and up the inside stairway, McKann admitted that he had never before made a dash with feet so quick and sure stepping out beside him. The white-furred boots chased each other like lambs at play, the gold stockings flashed like the spokes of a bicycle
wheel in the sun. They reached the door of Miss Ayrshire's state-room
just as the train began to pull out. McKann was ashamed of the way he was panting, for Kitty's breathing was as soft and regular as when she was reclining on the back seat of his taxi. It had somehow run in his head that all these stage women were a poor lot physically— unsound, overfed creatures, like canaries that are kept in a cage and stuffed with song-restorer. He retreated to escape her thanks. "Good night! Pleasant journey! Pleasant dreams!" With a friendly nod in Kitty's direction he closed the door behind him.

He was somewhat surprised to find his own bag, his Pullman ticket in the strap, on the seat just outside Kitty's door. But there was nothing strange about it. He had got the last section left on the train, No. 13, next the drawing-room. Every other berth in the car was made up. He was just starting to look for the porter when the door of the state-room opened and Kitty Ayrshire came out. She seated herself carelessly in the front seat beside his bag.

"Please talk to me a little," she said coaxingly. "I'm always wakeful after I sing, and I have to hunt some one to talk to. Céline and I get so tired of each other. We can speak very low, and we shall not disturb any one." She crossed her feet and rested her elbow on his Gladstone. Though she still wore her gold slippers and stockings, she did not, he thanked Heaven, have on her concert gown, but a very demure black velvet with some sort of pearl trimming about the neck. "Wasn't it funny," she proceeded, "that it happened to be you who picked me up? I wanted a word with you, anyway."

McKann smiled in a way that meant he wasn't being taken in. "Did you? We are not very old acquaintances."

"No, perhaps not. But you disapproved tonight, and I thought I was singing very well. You are very critical in such matters?"

He had been standing, but now he sat down. "My dear young lady, I am not critical at all. I know nothing about 'such matters'."

"And care less?" she said for him, "Well, then we know where we are, in so far as that is concerned. What did displease you? My gown, perhaps? It may seem a little outré  here, but it's the sort of thing all the imaginative designers abroad are doing. You like the English sort of concert gown better?"

"About gowns," said McKann, "I Know even less than about music. If I looked uncomfortable, it was probably because I was uncomfortable. The seats were bad and the lights were annoying."

Kitty looked up with solicitude. "I was sorry they sold those seats. I don't like to make people uncomfortable in any way. Did the lights give you a headache? They are very trying. They burn one's eyes out in the end, I  believe." She paused and waved the porter away with a smile as he came toward them. Half-clad Pittsburghers were tramping up and down the aisle, casting sidelong glances at McKann and his companion. "How much better they look with all their clothes on," she murmured. Then, turning directly to McKann again: "I saw you were not well seated, but I felt something quite hostile and personal. You were displeased with me. Doubtless many people are, but I seldom get an opportunity to question them. It would be nice if you took the trouble to tell me why you were displeased."

She spoke frankly, pleasantly, without a shadow of challenge or hauteur. She did not seem to be angling for compliments. McKann settled himself in his seat. He thought he would try her out. She had come for it, and he would let her have it. He found, however, that it was harder to formulate the grounds of his disapproval than he would have supposed. Now that he sat face to face with her, now that she was leaning against his bag, he had no wish to hurt her.

"I'm a hard-headed business man," he said evasively, "and I don't much believe in any of you fluffy-ruffles people. I have a sort of natural distrust of them all, the men more than the women."

She looked thoughtful. "Artists, you mean?" drawing her words slowly. "What is your business?"

"Coal."

"I don't feel any natural distrust of business men, and I know ever so many. I don't know any coal-men, but I think I could become very much interested in coal. Am I larger-minded than you?"

McKann laughed. "I don't think you know when you are interested or when you are not. I don't believe you know what it feels like to be really interested. There is so much fake about your profession. It's an affectation on both sides. I know a great many of the people who went to hear you tonight, and I know that most of them neither know nor care anything about music. They imagine they do, because it's supposed to be the proper thing."

Kitty sat upright and looked interested. She was certainly a lovely creature— the only one of her tribe he had ever seen that he would cross the street to see again. Those were remarkable eyes she had— curious, penetrating, restless, somewhat impudent, but not at all dulled by self-conceit.

"But isn't that so in everything?" she cried. "How many of your clerks are honest because of a fine, individual sense of honour? They are honest because it is the accepted rule of good conduct in business. Do you know"— she looked at him squarely— "I thought you would have something quite definite to say to me; but this is funny-paper stuff, the sort of objection I'd expect from your office-boy."

"Then you don't think it silly for a lot of people to get together and pretend to enjoy something they know nothing about?"

"Of course I think it silly, but that's the way God made audiences. Don't people go to church in exactly the same way? If there were a spiritual-pressure test-machine at the door, I suspect not many of you would get to your pews."

"How do you know I go to church?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, people with these old, ready-made opinions usually go to church. But you can't evade me like that." She tapped the edge of his seat with the toe of her gold slipper. "You sat there all evening, glaring at me as if you could eat me alive. Now I give you a chance to state your objections, and you merely criticize my audience. What is it? Is it merely that you happen to dislike my personality? In that case, of course, I won't press you."

"No," McKann frowned, "I perhaps dislike your professional personality. As I told you, I have a natural distrust of your variety."

"Natural, I wonder?" Kitty murmured. "I don't see why you should naturally dislike singers any more than I naturally dislike coal-men. I don't classify people by their occupations. Doubtless I should find some coal-men repulsive, and you may find some singers so. But I have reason to believe that, at least, I'm one of the less repellent."

"I don't doubt it," McKann laughed, "and you're a shrewd woman to boot. But you are, all of you, according to my standards, light people. You're brilliant, some of you, but you've no depth."

Kitty seemed to assent, with a dive of her girlish head. "Well, it's a merit in some things to be heavy, and in others to be light. Some things are meant to go deep, and others to go high. Do you want all the women in the world to be profound?"

"You are all," he went on steadily, watching her with indulgence, "fed on hectic emotions. You are pampered. You don't help to carry the burdens of the world. You are self-indulgent and appetent."

"Yes, I am," she assented, with a candour which he did not expect. "Not all artists are, but I am. Why not? If I could once get a convincing statement as to why I should not be self-indulgent, I might change my ways. As for the burdens of the world—" Kitty rested her chin on her clasped hands and looked thoughtful. "One should give pleasure to others. My dear sir, granting that the great majority of people can't enjoy anything very keenly, you'll admit that I give pleasure to many more people than you do. One should help others who are less fortunate; at present I am supporting just eight people, besides those I hire. There was never another family in California that had so many cripples and hard-luckers as that into which I had the honour to be born. The only ones who could take care of themselves were ruined by the San Francisco earthquake some time ago. One should make personal sacrifices. I do; I give money and time and effort to talented students. Oh, I give something much more than that! something that you probably have never given to any one. I give, to the really gifted ones, my wish, my desire, my light, if I have any; and that, Mr. Worldly Wiseman, is like giving one's blood! It's the kind of thing you prudent people never give. That is what was in the box of precious ointment." Kitty threw off her fervour with a slight gesture, as if it were a scarf, and leaned back, tucking her slipper up on the edge of his seat. "If you saw the houses I keep up," she sighed, "and the people I employ, and the motor-cars I run— And, after all, I've only this to do it with." She indicated her slender person, which Marshall could almost have broken in two with his bare hands.

She was, he thought, very much like any other charming woman, except that she was more so. Her familiarity was natural and simple. She was at ease because she was not afraid of him or of herself, or of certain half-clad acquaintances of his who had been wandering up and down the car oftener than was necessary. Well, he was not afraid, either.

Kitty put her arms over her head and sighed again, feeling the smooth part in her black hair. Her head was small— capable of great agitation, like a bird's; or of great resignation, like a nun's. "I can't see why I shouldn't be self-indulgent, when I indulge others. I can't understand your equivocal scheme of ethics. Now I can understand Count Tolstoy's, perfectly. I had a long talk with him once, about his book 'What is Art?' As nearly as I could get it, he believes that we are a race who can exist only by gratifying appetites; the appetites are evil, and the existence they carry on is evil. We were always sad, he says, without knowing why; even in the Stone Age. In some miraculous way a divine ideal was disclosed to us, directly at variance with our appetites. It gave us a new craving, which we could only satisfy by starving all the other hungers in us. Happiness lies in ceasing to be and to cause being, because the thing revealed to us is dearer than any existence our appetites can ever get for us. I can understand that. It's something one often feels in art. It is even the subject of the greatest of all operas, which, because I can never hope to sing it, I love more than all the others." Kitty pulled herself up. "Perhaps you agree with Tolstoy?" she added languidly.

"No; I think he's a crank," said McKann, cheerfully.

"What do you mean by a crank?"

"I mean an extremist."

Kitty laughed. "Weighty word! You'll always have a world full of people who keep to the golden mean. Why bother yourself about me and Tolstoy?"

"I don't, except when you bother me."

"Poor man! It's true this isn't your fault. Still, you did provoke it by glaring at me. Why did you go to the concert?"

"I was dragged."

"I might have known!" she chuckled, and shook her head. "No, you don't give me any good reasons. Your morality seems to me the compromise of cowardice, apologetic and sneaking. When righteousness becomes alive and burning, you hate it as much as you do beauty. You want a little of each in your life, perhaps— adulterated, sterilized, with the sting taken out. It's true enough they are both fearsome things when they get loose in the world; they don''t, often."

McKann hated tall talk. "My views on women," he said slowly, "are simple."

"Doubtless," Kitty responded dryly, "but are they consistent? Do you apply them to your stenographers as well as to me? I take it for granted you have unmarried stenographers. Their position, economically, is the same as mine."

McKann studied the toe of her shoe. "With a woman, everything comes back to one thing." His manner was judicial.

She laughed indulgently. "So we are getting down to brass tacks, eh? I have beaten you in argument, and now you are leading trumps."

She put her hands behind her head and her lips parted in a half-yawn. "Does everything come back to one thing? I wish I knew! It's more than likely that, under the same conditions, I should have been very like your stenographers— if they are good ones. Whatever I was, I would have been a good one. I think people are very much alike. You are more different than any one I have met for some time, but I Know that there are a great many more at home like you. And even you— I believe there is a real creature down under these custom-made prejudices that save you the trouble of thinking. If you and I were shipwrecked on a desert island, I have no doubt that we would come to a simple and natural understanding. I'm neither a coward nor a shirk. You would find, if you had to undertake any enterprise of danger or difficulty with a woman, that there are several qualifications quite as important as the one to which you doubtless refer."

McKann felt nervously for his watch-chain. "Of course," he brought out, "l am not laying down any generalizations—" His brows wrinkled.

"Oh, aren't you?" murmured Kitty. "Then I totally misunderstood. But remember"— holding up a finger— "it is you, not I, who are afraid to pursue this subject further. Now, I'll tell you something." She leaned forward and clasped her slim, white hands about her velvet knee. "I am as much a victim of these ineradicable prejudices as you. Your stenographer seems to you a better sort. Well, she does to me. Just because her life is, presumably, greyer than mine, she seems better. My mind tells me that dulness, and a mediocre order of ability, and poverty, are not in themselves admirable things. Yet in my heart I always feel that the sales-women in shops and the working girls in factories are more meritorious than I. Many of them, with my opportunities, would be more selfish than I am. Some of them, with their own opportunities, are more selfish. Yet I make this sentimental genuflection before the nun and the charwoman. Tell me, haven't you any weakness? Isn't there any foolish natural thing that unbends you a trifle and makes you feel gay?"

"I like to go fishing."

"To see how many fish you can catch?"

"No, I like the woods and the weather. I like to play a fish and work hard for him. I like the pussy-willows and the cold; and the sky, whether it's blue or grey— night coming on, every thing about it."

He spoke devoutly, and Kitty watched him through half-closed eyes.

"And you like to feel that there are light-minded girls like me, who only care about the inside of shops and theatres and hotels, eh? You amuse me, you and your fish! But I mustn't keep you any longer. Haven't I given you every opportunity to state your case against me? I thought you would have more to say for yourself. Do you know, I believe it's not a case you have at all, but a grudge. I believe you are envious; that you'd like to be a tenor, and a perfect lady-killer!" She rose, smiling, and paused with her hand on the door of her stateroom.

"Anyhow, thank you for a pleasant evening. And, by the way, dream of me tonight, and not of either of those ladies who sat beside you. It does not matter much whom we live with in this world, but it matters a great deal whom we dream of." She noticed his bricky flush. "You are very naive, after all, but, oh, so cautious! You are naturally afraid of everything new, just as I naturally want to try everything: new people, new religions— new miseries, even. If only there were more new things— If only you were really new! I might learn something. I'm like the Queen of Sheba— I'm not above learning. But you, my friend, would be afraid to try a new shaving soap. It isn't gravitation that holds the world in place; it's the lazy, obese cowardice of the people on it. All the same"— taking his hand and smiling encouragingly— "I'm going to haunt you a little. Adios!"

When Kitty entered her state-room, Céline, in her dressing-gown, was nodding by the window.

"Mademoiselle found the fat gentleman interesting?" she asked. "It is nearly one."

"Negatively interesting. His kind always say the same thing. If I could find one really intelligent man who held his views, I should adopt them."

"Monsieur did not look like an original," murmured Céline, as she began to take down her lady's hair.

MCKANN slept heavily, as usual, and the porter had to shake him in the morning. He sat up in his berth, and, after composing his hair with his fingers, began to hunt about for his clothes. As he put up the window-blind some bright object in the little hammock over his bed caught the sunlight and glittered. He stared and picked up a delicately turned gold slipper.

"Minx! hussy!" he ejaculated. "All that tall talk—! Probably got it from some man who hangs about; learned it off like a parrot. Did she poke this in here herself last night, or did she send that sneak-faced Frenchwoman? I like her nerve!" He wondered whether he might have been breathing audibly when the intruder thrust her head between his curtains. He was conscious that he did not look a Prince Charming in his sleep. He dressed as fast as he could, and, when he was ready to go to the wash-room, glared at the slipper. If the porter should start to make up his berth in his absence— He caught the slipper, wrapped it in his pajama jacket, and thrust it into his bag. He escaped from the train without seeing his tormentor again.

Later McKann threw the slipper into the waste-basket in his room at the Knickerbocker, but the chambermaid, seeing that it was new and mateless, thought there must be a mistake, and placed it in his clothes-closet. He found it there when he returned from the theatre that evening.

Considerably mellowed by food and drink and cheerful company, he took the slipper in his hand and decided to keep it as a reminder that absurd things could happen to people of the most clock-like deportment. When he got back to Pittsburgh, he stuck it in a lock-box in his vault, safe from prying clerks.

McKANN has been ill for five years now, poor fellow! He still goes to the office, because it is the only place that interests him, but his partners do most of the work, and his clerks find him sadly changed— "morbid," they call his state of mind. He has had the pine-trees in his yard cut down because they remind him of cemeteries. On Sundays or holidays, when the office is empty, and he takes his will or his insurance-policies out of his lock-box, he often puts the tarnished gold slipper on his desk and looks at it. Somehow it suggests life to his tired mind, as his pine-trees suggested death— life and youth. When he drops over some day, his executors will be puzzled by the slipper.

As for Kitty Ayrshire, she has played so many jokes, practical and impractical, since then, that she has long ago forgotten the night when she threw away a slipper to be a thorn in the side of a just man.

__________________

5: The Blood Drips

An Unsolved Mystery

J. E. Muddock

1843-1934

Stories Weird and Wonderful, Chatto & Windus, 1889

FOR A long time— for years, in fact— at short intervals, the following advertisement appeared in most, if not all, the London papers, and many of the provincial ones:

TO LET, on long lease at low rental, or Freehold to be sold cheap, a magnificent Family Residence, complete with every convenience, suitable for a large family. The house stands in its own grounds, comprising nearly three and a half acres, part of which is natural wood, while the remainder is laid out as flower and kitchen gardens. There is stabling for four or five horses, with commodious carriage house, harness room, hay and corn lofts, and spacious apartments for coachmen, grooms, &c. The property, which is only twenty-five miles from London, enjoys an unequalled situation both as regards salubrity and views. The country is open all round, with extensive woods in the neighbourhood. The climate is bracing; gravel soil lying on chalk, an adequate supply of water, and drainage perfect. Apply in the first instance to Smeaton, Weardale & Smeaton, Estate and House Agents, Valuers and Auctioneers, &c, 105 New Bond Street, London, W.

On the first blush this advertisement was very attractive, and its bona fides was beyond question, seeing that such a well-known and old-established firm as Smeaton, Weardale & Smeaton was responsible for it. But a second reading would naturally have caused any thinking person to ask himself why, if this property was all that was represented, it should be offered at a very low rental, or cheaply if bought.

Now, it was very certain that there was something wrong, otherwise 'a magnificent family residence,' and 'three and a half acres of ground' need not wait long for a customer. But, as already stated, this advertisement continued to appear at short intervals for years, so that those who were familiar with it knew quite well that out of the hundreds of thousands of people who must have read it, no one had yet been induced to invest. Now, what was the object in con- tinuing the advertisement, upon which a large sum of money must have been spent, if a customer was not forthcoming? The only answer to this was that the owner or owners of the property hoped that by continuing it long enough, the advertisement would at last attract the right person, and in the end this hope was realised.

One morning— an August morning it was, brilliant with sunlight, when even grimy London looked bright and cheerful— a gentleman entered the office of Smeaton, Weardale & Smeaton. There was something about him that suggested long residence abroad— his dress and appearance generally. He wore a soft grey felt hat, a large, flowing necktie, and loose collar, and a grey check suit of clothes, which, though faultless as to their cut, had never been made in England, or, at any rate, not in London. For your London tailor has a style which, to the practised eye, is unmistakable. The gentleman was evidently an invalid or a convalescent. He was thin, languid, and delicate looking. There were dark rims under his eyes, and, though his face was tanned with sun, it was greyish in its hue, and suggestive of an undermined constitution.

Smeaton, Weardale & Smeaton's offices were extensive, and luxuriously fitted, as became a first-class firm of estate agents in so fashionable a neighbourhood as New Bond Street. The gentleman was received by a page-boy, and shown into a waiting-room, which was furnished with velvet lounges and chairs, and plentifully supplied with newspapers.

'I wish to see one of the principals,' said the gentleman, handing the page-boy his card, on which was engraved :

Walter Reginald Minton, M.E.,

British Columbia.

The boy bowed, took the card, and retired. In a few minutes an obsequious clerk entered, and with many bows requested Mr. Walter Reginald Minton to 'kindly step this way, sir.'

Mr. Minton followed the clerk, who showed him into a large, handsomely-furnished room, the walls of which were covered with photographs of houses of all kinds and coloured plans of estates. At a massive mahogany desk sat a well- preserved gentleman long past the prime of life, but with silver hair, a bright, keen eye, and a rubicund face that suggested a fondness for good living and old crusted port.

'Do I address Mr. Smeaton?' asked the stranger.

'Yes, sir. I am the head of the firm. Pray, take a chair,' and Mr. Smeaton put his white, fat hands together with professional dignity, and waited for his visitor to state his business.

'I've noticed an advertisement in the Times,' began Mr. Minton, taking from his pocket-book a half sheet of note- paper, on which the advertisement alluded to had been neatly gummed. 'It has reference to the sale of a family residence, and I should like to have some further particulars about it.'

Mr. Smeaton's eyes brightened up with joyful expectancy, as, glancing at the sheet of note-paper, he recognised the advertisement which had become fossilised, so to speak, in the London dailies.

'Oh, yes,' he answered pleasantly, and with a most becoming smile. 'The advertisement accurately describes the property.'

'Where is it situated?'

'About six miles from —— Station on the South-Eastern line— an hour's run from London.'

'There will be no difficulty in my seeing it?'

'Oh, none whatever.'

'I may mention that I am a mining engineer, and have been for many years in British Columbia. But having made a moderate fortune, and being in very bad health, I am anxious to settle down in my native country.'

'Ah, just so,' remarked Mr. Smeaton blandly, and stroking his smoothly- shaven chin. 'Are you a family man, Mr. Minton, may I ask?'

'Yes, I have a wife and one daughter, twenty years of age.'

Mr. Smeaton's countenance seemed to fall just ever so little, as he replied:

'Umph ! I am afraid then if your family is so small you may find the house larger than you require.'

'Oh, no,' answered Minton quickly, and Mr. Smeaton's countenance recovered again ; ' we like a large house, for we keep a good deal of company.'

'Then I don't think you can do better than purchase Dumthorpe Hall,' said Mr. Smeaton, with a gracious smile.

'Is that the name of the place?'

'Yes. Of course, if you become the owner you will be at liberty to adopt any other name you like. Now, I suggest, before entering into any further particulars, that we go down and see the property; you couldn't have a better day. The country will be charming under this brilliant sun. If you will allow me I shall have much pleasure in accompanying you.'

'That will suit me admirably. I am staying at the Tavistock Hotel; we can call there in a cab, and pick up my wife and daughter.'

Mr. Smeaton struck his bell, and the page-boy appeared with such alacrity that one might have thought that the bell set some spring in motion which shot the boy into the room.

'Peter, look up the next train for ——.'

'Yes, sir.' Two minutes later the boy came back. 'There is a train at 12.50, sir.'

'Good!' Mr. Smeaton looked at his massive gold watch, although a handsome clock stood on the mantelpiece, the force of habit, no doubt: 'We have an hour and a half— ample time ; and as I have a little business to do, perhaps you will permit me to meet you at the station?'

'Oh, certainly.'

A few minutes later Mr. Minton was on his way to his hotel; and, punctual to the time, he and his wife, a charming but delicate and nervous-looking lady, and his daughter, a no less charming girl, were at the station, where Mr. Smeaton had already arrived and procured first-class tickets.

On alighting at , after an hour's run through a pleasant country, a brougham and pair of horses, which Mr. Smeaton had ordered by telegraph from the landlord of the hotel near the station, were waiting, and the party at once drove to Dumthorpe Hall, a distance of over six miles from the station.

'I should mention,' remarked Mr. Smeaton, just before reaching the place, 'that the property has, unfortunately been allowed to fall into a somewhat dilapidated condition, for the owner, who is in India, has sadly neglected it. However, that will be duly taken into consideration in fixing tbe purchase money.'

As regards the situation, the advertisement had scarcely done it justice. The country, diversified with wood, hill and dale, was charming, and looked at its very best on this brilliant summer's day. The entrance to the grounds of Dumthorpe Hall was through a gateway, the gates being wrought-iron, and of a handsome design, but now rusty, and out of the perpendicular, owing to the sinking of the foundations of one of the pillars on which they were hung. Some difficulty, therefore, was experienced in getting in. There was a small lodge at the entrance, but it was overrun with ragged creepers, and the windows were covered with the accumulated dirt of years.

As the visitors stood for a few moments looking about them, after the difficulty of opening the gate had been overcome, Miss Minton suddenly uttered a startled cry, and clung in alarm to her father's arm.

'What is it, what is it, my dear?' he asked quickly.

'Oh, look there!' she exclaimed, pointing with her parasol to the ground a few feet away; and he did look and beheld an adder leisurely moving across the pathway. Mr. Smeaton saw it too, and, springing forward, he struck the reptile with his stick, killing it at once, and he tossed it among the trees out of sight.

'If I were superstitious,' remarked Mr. Minton, 'I should take that as an evil omen.'

'I am glad you are not superstitious,' replied Mr. Smeaton with a laugh, 'for the fact is this place has the reputation of being haunted.'

He utteredthis quickly— jerked it out, as it were— as though he was glad to get it off his mind, the incident of the snake having given him the opportunity of making the remark.

'Haunted!' exclaimed the two ladies in a breath, while something like a scared appearance came into their faces.

'Of course that won't affect you, ladies,' said Mr. Smeaton with his bland smile. 'You are above being affected by such silly nonsense, I am sure.'

They walked on, the brougham followed slowly. The drive was all overgrown with moss and grass, and strewn with decaying leaves and pieces of branches of trees that had been whirled off by gales. Presently the drive took a turn, then expanded, and the house came in view. It was an old Elizabethan mansion, with pointed gables and a red-tiled roof that gave it a very quaint appearance ; but it looked for- lorn and mouldering to decay, even with the sun pouring down a flood of golden light upon it. Had it been seen under less favourable atmospheric conditions it would certainly have worn a repellent aspect. Ivy and honeysuckle had struggled to the very'eaves, and hung in straggling and ragged festoons about the windows.

The interior of the Hall was worse than the exterior. Cobwebs hung from the ceilings in long ropes. The paper had peeled from the walls; the fire grates were red with rust; the windows obscured with dirt; the floors black, and in some places rotten; while pervading the whole house was a dank, earthy, mouldering smell, like that which comes from a newly-opened tomb.

The ladies shuddered, and were evidently repelled by the cheerlessness and gloom of the house. But Mr. Smeaton chatted pleasantly and glibly. He had a smooth tongue and great fluency, and knew how to say pretty things in dulcet tones. He was very anxious to get the property off his hands, and as Mr. Minton seemed a likely customer he was not going to let him slip if talking would secure him. The premises were thoroughly examined. They certainly were commodious and not ill-planned, but paint, paper, and whitewash everywhere wanted renewing. The same neglect characterised the grounds. They were howling wildernesses of ill weeds, and the conservatories were falling to pieces.

The ladies certainly were not impressed, although they expressed admiration for the position and view; and there could be no doubt that the situation was healthy, for it stood high; gravel and chalk were the geological features for miles round, and the air was singularly pure, while the water was liquid crystal.

'Well,' said Mr. Minton, reflecting when the survey was over, 'I can see certain potentialities in that place,'

'Potentialities ! I should think so, my dear sir,' exclaimed the agent joyfully. 'With the expenditure of a little money it can be made into a palace.'

Without answering this remark, Mr. Minton, turning to his wife and daughter, said :

'What is your opinion, darlings?'

'Well,' answered his wife cautiously, 'we have seen it under every possible disadvantage as far as neglect and dirt go, and I think it would want a lot of money-spending to put it in order.'

'But what is the story about its being haunted?' asked the young lady, addressing Mr. Smeaton, and unable to suppress a little shudder.

Mr. Smeaton laughed loudly, almost boisterously, as he made reply :

'My— dear— young lady, such stories as these are always so ridiculous that they cannot be discussed by sensible people.'

He dismissed the subject with his bland smile and a lofty wave of his white hand.

As they returned to town, Mr. Minton for the first time asked the price, and the figure named by Mr. Smeaton was so low that the other opened his eyes in astonishment.

'Is there anything the matter with the place?' Mr. Minton asked with great point.

'Nothing ; I pledge you my honour,' answered the agent equally emphatic, 'beyond its reputation as a haunted house, but it is right to say that that reputation has kept the place untenanted for twenty years with one short break. It was let on a yearly tenancy to a family who only remained, however, six months.'

'Why did they leave?' asked the two ladies in concert.

'They said that they heard noises, and that what looked like blood dripped from the ceilings.'

'Oh!' exclaimed the mother and daughter with a little start, and nestling closer to each other, as if for mutual protection.

Mr. Minton smiled sceptically, and this smile did not escape the agent, who said quickly:

'I have told you frankly the cause of our not being able to let or sell the place. That is the sole reason; and it certainly does not say much for our boasted enlightenment that so splendid a property should go begging through such a senseless cause.'

'You are right, you are right!' exclaimed Mr. Minton, and the other felt from this that the customer was secured.

The following day, Mr. Minton, not wholly with his wife's and daughter's approbation, instructed his lawyers to make further inquiries, and examine the title deeds. The inquiries elicited nothing beyond what the agent had stated, namely, that people said it was haunted; while, as for the title deeds, they were beyond dispute or quibble. The price asked was very low. but Mr. Minton's lawyers offered a still lower price, and, as the agents' instructions were to sell at any price rather than let the place fall into absolute ruin, the bargain was closed, and Mr. Minton became the absolute possessor of Dumthorpe Hall. He immediately set a little army of workmen to work— gardeners, painters, paperhangers, plumbers, &c, as he was anxious to move in before the winter. Very soon the place had been transformed, and the prejudice of the ladies gave way. As they saw the change they expressed themselves delighted. As soon as the workmen were out, the upholsterers entered, and as they had carte-blanche to furnish the house thoroughly and well, they had soon diffused comfort, warmth, and beauty where erstwhile all was decay and mildew.

It was the last week in October when the family moved in. The autumn tints were on the land, but beyond that there was no trace of the approaching winter. The days were still warm and bright and sunny, for it had been an exceptionally fine season. A number of servants were already installed. The greenhouses and conservatories were filled with flowers; the gardens were already bright and gay; while in the stables were horses and carriages. In fact, the place was complete with everything that could give comfort or enjoyment to the family. Mr. Minton was a liberal provider, and being wealthy— having made his pile out of mines in British Columbia— he spared no expense.

For the first few weeks all went merry as a marriage bell. The ladies expressed themselves charmed with the place. The dark days of November were drawing to a close, and the house was full of visitors, when one morning the cook approached Mrs. Minton, and said :

'Can I speak to you, mum, for a few minutes?'

'Certainly, cook. What is it?'

'Well, mum,' she began sheepishly, 'I've been awfully annoyed for several nights by somebody walking about over my head.'

'Oh, nonsense, cook. That couldn't be. The room over you is a lumber-room, and it's just filled up with boxes.'

'Yes, mum, I know that, and that's what makes the noise all the queerer. And then yesterday morning something came down from the ceiling in the kitchen like blood.'

Mrs. Minton turned a little pale and shuddered, for she remembered that the agent had mentioned the story about blood dripping from the ceiling.

'What an extraordinary thing!' she said, with a forced laugh; 'but the next time you are troubled with these phenomena, cook, pray come and call me.'

The cook did not seem quite satisfied as she went away; and that night, about ten o'clock, she went to her mistress again with a scared white face, and said:

'It's there again, mum. Will you please to come to my room?'

Mrs. Minton went, and to her surprise she heard a steady measured tramp, tramp, tramp, overhead. She sent for her husband. He came, and he heard the same sounds. He went into the room above, but there was nothing to account for those footsteps. In fact, so full was the room of boxes, trunks, &c, that there was not a clear floor space of two yards.

Mrs. Minton did not go into the upper room. She waited for her husband coming down ; and suddenly, as she was looking up towards the ceiling, something wet fell on her face. She uttered a little startled cry, and, taking out her handkerchief, wiped the wet off, and what was her astonishment to find that the handkerchief was stained with blood, or what seemed like blood. Such a shock did this cause her that she almost fainted, and when her husband returned she was pale and trembling. He expressed himself mystified, and it was evident that he was very much impressed. It was agreed that nothing should be said about this to anyone in the house, and the cook was enjoined to keep the matter secret for the present. But the following morning after breakfast the gentle- men retired to the smoking-room for a few whiffs, when a young fellow named Dobell called out as he filled his pipe:

'I say, Minton, old fellow, who is lodging over me?'

'I don't think anyone is over you. In fact I am sure there is not. Why?'

'Well, I don't know, but it seemed to me that some fellow with heavy boots did nothing but tramp about all night.'

Mr. Minton started. He could not help it, and he who had indignantly disavowed any belief in the supernatural was becoming superstitious. He laughed the matter off, how- ever, and told his friend that he must have been suffering from nightmare.

For the next two or three days nothing else occurred, or at any rate was mentioned, until Miss Minton went into her mother's room in a state of great fright, and exclaimed :

'Oh, mamma, I've had such a shock. As I was dressing something fell from the ceiling on to my face and neck, and when I wiped it off it was like blood.'

Mrs. Minton grew deadly pale as she heard this, but, recovering herself quickly, she answered:

'Well, darling, I have experienced the same thing, but it is better to say nothing about it. As long as it is not more serious we must put up with it. When the guests have gone we will have the house examined. Possibly some trick is being played.'

Although she thus dismissed the subject for the time being she could not get rid of the mystery so easily, and that strange drip from the ceilings was impartial, for it dripped on all alike, and in all parts of the house. Other ladies and gentlemen complained of it, and the ladies became alarmed; while a thorough investigation organised by the gentlemen was entirely barren of result. They could discover nothing, absolutely nothing, and the ceilings, which had all been newly whitened, were stainless. These people felt they were in the presence of some mystery which they could not solve. But what was it? Of course the gentlemen scoffed, and even some of the stronger-minded ladies pooh-poohed. But there were others who held their peace, and, as soon as they could courteously do so, they took their departure.

Mr. Minton was greatly concerned. If this sort of thing was to continue he would hardly get guests to stay with him, while, as for his wife and daughter, it was evident they were suffering in their nerves. Then a fresh trouble arose; some of the servants gave notice to leave, saying they were afraid to stay in such a place. The cook, who was an exceedingly good servant, and liked her place, was loath to go, but she said that she would certainly have to leave if the annoyances did not stop.

It need scarcely be said that the matter preyed upon Mr. Minton's mind. He had spent a large sum of money upon the house, and to be the victim of such an unsolvable annoyance was a great hardship.

As Christmas approached things seemed to get worse. Those drips from the ceilings were constantly falling, and the tramping, which was confined to two rooms, still went on. It became very obvious to Mr. Minton that his wife and daughter were suffering in health, though they tried not to show it, and he became greatly concerned.

A new set of guests came down for Christmas, and care was taken not to put anyone into the room below that where the tramping was heard. But people complained, nevertheless, of red moisture dripping on them from the ceilings, and nervous people became frightened. Mr. Minton was not a man to be easily subdued. As a mining engineer, he had faced dangers in all shapes and forms, and had overcome difficulties that would have daunted less determined and less strong-minded men. But now tins constant interruption to his domestic comfort and peace was telling sorely upon his already shattered health. He had come here for quietude and rest, but in spite of his care and lavish expenditure it seemed as if his hopes were doomed to be blighted. As he was not quite able to divest himself of the idea that he was the victim of some stupid trickery, he, with the aid of a builder from the neighbouring town, examined the house from roof to basement, and all the time that he was pursuing his investigation that mysterious dripping of a fluid like blood continued from the ceilings, and the tramping in the lumber-room never ceased at night time. The examination, therefore, resulted in nothing, and the mystery was a mystery still.

At last, driven to desperation, Mr. Minton resolved to try another expedient. That was to clear out the lumber-room, have a bed put up there, and sleep in the room himself. This he did against the earnest, prayerful entreaties of his wife and daughter, and even of the servants. But he was resolute, saying he had never feared living man, and nothing dead could harm him.

The arrangements completed, he wished his wife and daughter a fond good-night, and when they exacted a promise from him that he would violently ring his bell if he required assistance, he laughed heartily, and retired to what had now come to be called in the house 'the haunted room.' His wife and daughter were restless and uneasy, but as the hours sped, and there was no sound of the bell, they dropped off to sleep.

In the morning, about nine o'clock, Mr. Minton's valet went up to the room with hot water. He knocked at the door, there was no response. He knocked again, still no answer, so he tried the handle; it yielded, and he entered. Then from his hand fell the hot-water jug he was carrying, and he staggered back with a wild cry of alarm. For lying on the bed, his limbs all contorted, the sheets twisted about his body like ropes, as if he had rolled and writhed in some torturing agony, his eyes starting from his head in horror, his mouth wide open, his hands clenched, the nails digging into the palms, was Mr. Minton, stone dead. Medical men were hastily summoned, but their services were of no avail. They could only certify that Mr. Minton, being in very delicate health, had received a shock of some sort, which had caused death. 'A shock of some sort!' That was only too painfully evident. It did not need a medical man to state that. What they could not state was how the shock had been produced.

Poor Mrs. Minton and her daughter were carried prostrated from the fatal house to a neighbour's, and they only entered it once again to take a last look at the remains of the husband and father. When he had been borne to his final resting-place, his widow instructed her lawyers to sell off all the furniture immediately. That done, the accursed house was shut up, and it remained shut for over a dozen years. No one could be found to take it; and, at last, only a few years ago, the estate was sold, the house razed to the ground, and some small villas erected on the land, and Dumthorpe Hall became only a memory.

Many people will no doubt remember what a fierce controversy raged at the time of Mr. Minton's tragic death, and how nearly every paper in the kingdom, big and little, advanced some theory to try and account for the phenomena which had alarmed servants and guests alike. Some of the papers discussed the affair banteringly, some with glib platitudes about the 'pitiable superstition which still lingered in some of the remote country districts'; others, again, half seriously, and others still with appalling learnedness. Divines and laymen alike entered into the conflict of opinions, but in the end nothing was proved, nothing was solved, and the extraordinary mystery remains a mystery still.

________________

6: Plotluck

Theodore Seixas Solomons

1870-1947

Popular Magazine 7 Aug 1925

An explorer of the California wilderness and a very early member of the Sierra Club, as well as a photographer and short story writer. One of his stories was made into the silent movie "The Barbarian" in 1921.

AS he looked over the garden wall and gazed into the well-lit study, Fletcher Barrett, hungry, shivering, began to mutter— a thing he had never done before his mind fell prey to the despair of the down-and-outer.

"Observe him at his desk, his surroundings sumptuous!" Even in soliloquy Barrett's English was irreproachable. "The fat, sleek rascal! Books, papers, swivel-chair— everything. Ah, and leisure— confound him!"

Not that Barrett knew the occupant of the study who, in a velvet smoking jacket, his hair immaculate, seemed somewhat under thirty. The shabby man in the tattered overcoat standing in the side street obviously was venting his spleen against a type, or a class, not an individual. He might have been a Red— if he were not just then so blue!

Small wonder, for the early evening of that December night was perishing cold.

Sleet lay on the pavement. Fletcher Barrett stood like a crane, on one foot. Only he changed feet frequently.

He had been a good-natured fellow, and his scowling outburst brought some of this back to him now. "Rather nice face, however— come to think of it," he hastened to amend. And with this thought a bold project entered his mind, hunger born.

"Nobody with him, and an outside entrance to his study. Dash him, he ought to!"

He considered his approach to the little side entrance. He might climb over the wall at the rear end, or go around to the front of the house on the brilliantly lighted avenue and boldly enter the garden instead of mounting the broad, stone steps to the front door.

He decided upon the former route, retreated down the dim side street to the back of the premises and painfully vaulted the wall, dropping into the soft earth of a flower bed on the inside. He walked quickly to the side entrance, noiselessly ascended to the door— and paused.

If he knocked, the sleek-haired young man within would naturally come to the door, open it, and subject his visitor to a careful inspection. Fatal! On the other hand, should the door be unlocked, Barrett might enter, approach, speak— and his chance was better for the loan he proposed to suggest. It was wretched form, of course, but—

He turned the knob, the door opened, he stepped within and closed the door as he glanced past many bookshelves and a long, magazine-littered center table to the desk at the room's end. The swivel chair was vacant! Evidently the young man had decided to leave at the very time when Barrett had decided to enter.

The intruder shrugged his shoulders indifferently. The young man had gone for a drink, perhaps, or to answer some sort of summons, and would probably return shortly. In the meantime—

"Gracious, this is comfortable!" muttered Fletcher Barrett, as he turned his back to the ruddy glow of an open hearth.

Waiting, he observed that the appointments of the library were sumptuous indeed. Not only was it a perfect work-room for an intellectual, but a delight to the eye of an artist, being adorned with many rare and beautiful objects. The rug must have cost— Barrett placed the tips of four thin fingers to his forehead at the thought.

THE minutes passed. He could hear no sound. Was the man coming back? It was extremely doubtful. Temptation assailed the hungry, desperate man. He would surely be taken for a burglar, anyhow. Why not have the game— a little, at least; for a few meals, a pair of whole shoes— as well as the name? Temporizing, he approached the desk, looked it over— papers, writings, cigarette ends innumerable in a large receptacle, boxes of unsmoked ones close at hand. On the right an immense dictionary on a stand of its own; on the left a little carved table.

Gingerly, his heart beating, Barrett opened a drawer. Papers, documents— whatever they were. He hesitated, loath to go on with this, and glanced again at the objects upon the desk. Conveniently placed were several books between book-ends of costly design. A thesaurus, a book of quotations, something on photoplays and— Barrett's eyes dilated— "How to Write Salable Fiction."

Footsteps in a hallway leading to the study froze the intruder with horror just as his brow had darkened at the sight of a book that strongly suggested the occupant's vocation— or avocation.

"Curse him!" Barrett muttered— but whether for coming back at an inopportune moment or for writing fiction, who could say? The mood was a decisive one, however. He jerked out the contents of the drawer, thrust them into his overcoat pockets and fled the study precipitately, goaded by fear of detection.

A moment he crouched in the shadows in the rear of the garden. Then he sprang over the wall and walked rapidly down the side street, turning into Fourth Avenue and joining the throng— safe!

A dozen blocks south, and he halted in front of a cheap coffee stand. He took off his hat and felt in its lining for a dime hidden there against a time of dire emergency. This was the time!  Excitement and self-disgust had united with the cravings of hunger to make him sick with weakness. Coffee was what he wanted— two cups of it, if that could be arranged. He entered and put his proposition to the greasy counterman who presided— no doughnuts or other food accompaniment to a cup of coffee, but another cup, instead.

He won his point, took the first cup of the beverage— it was just that rather than coffee— in much-restrained sips, and avidly gulped the second. Then he re- sumed his long way down, across, and down again to his lodgings, and up and up to the small cubical space that was his room.

He lighted the gas, bolted the door— though it was only conscience that created the necessity— and withdrew the spoils of his first burglarious raid from the overcoat pockets. He did not remove the overcoat. For two weeks he had not removed it, indoors, until ready to go to bed.

Sitting down at a small wooden table, he pawed over the loot, hoping, yet fear- ing, to find valuables. These emotions were defeated— papers, only papers, and of a strictly non-negotiable kind. Some letters, some copied-out quotations, many notes— and a manuscript of a story, neatly typewritten, the first few lines showing corrections.

Fletcher Barrett threw back his frowzy head and laughed until his sides ached. "Not," he gurgled, "grand larceny, at least. Petty, only. Exceedingly petty, or I miss my guess!"

Contemptuously he felt the thickness of the clipped manuscript. "Six or seven thousand words of it, at least," he de- cided. "Words, words!" He buried his face in his hands.

Again he laughed— raucously, this time, with a very ringing of derision. "Im- agine it! My first stooping to crime. And this!"

He seized the thing, ready to fling it on the floor. He remembered how often in the past, when he read manuscript for a stipend, he had refrained from flinging them into a waste-paper basket— he had such a thing, then— only because the writers, poor fools, valued them. But, as he held the absurd thing aloft, he suddenly remembered the book— his book— "How to Write Salable Fiction," and he laughed again and put the manuscript on the table in front of him.

"I wonder," he mused, "whether it would be possible to detect the influence of this masterpiece of mine." Iodine, or aniline or something of that sort, he remembered, would color appreciably a million, or ten or twenty million times its volume of water— or some other fluid. Could it be possible that in these six or eight thousand words his own "Hows" had produced appreciable coloration?

He doubted it. He knew that during three years of effort to apply those "Hows," he himself had not been able to impress any editor of standing with any such conviction. But he was a theorist, alas! He had form, technique, a skill in mere words. He was substanceless, empty. He was, himself, no living proof of the uselessness of his book. This other chap, whose den he had burglarized, might—

He began to read the manuscript, and knew by his wanting his pipe that he intended to read on. Not that the fellow could write— not in the least. He wrote grammatically— that was all. But something was going to happen. You knew that right from the beginning. Even the rambling start could not conceal the fact that an interesting man was going to meet an interesting situation and do something strange, gripping.

"By Jove!" said the mutterer. "What's this, anyhow?

He read on, starting to turn a page before he reached the bottom of it. His pipe went out, but he did not know it. Feelingly, he cursed the writer for thwarting, by his clumsiness and circumlocution, the desire, indeed the very lust of the reader, to get on— and on— and find out what was to be next in this most singular, most absorbing plot.

BARRETT felt like one wading through a wheat bin for gold pieces scattered through it. No, not wheat— chaff. But the gold! It was worth the wading.

Toward the end he had a vague sense that what he was really doing was eliminating and reconstructing as he read— thrusting aside the noxious phrases and substituting pith and point and felicity, weaving a suitable vehicle for the splendid thing that the writer— calling him a writer!—had conceived.

And then the end— the marvelous end! He did not anticipate it. How could he— or any one? And yet it was the only ending— logical, inevitable, just as it was unpredictable and dumfounding.

"Gosh!" almost shouted Fletcher Barrett. He sat back in his rickety chair, enjoying the miraculous story that had been buried in the mess— enjoying it too much, as yet, for thought of anything else.

When he came to, as it were, his first reaction was against himself.

"If," he averred solemnly,  " 'The Barrett Hows' are in the least responsible for the annihilation of this great story my sleek young plutocrat has written, I ought to be burned in effigy by every editorial office in the country."

It was clear, however, that even if his book had not depraved this piece of fiction, it certainly had not leavened it; and Barrett decided that the colorative power of "The Barrett Hows," as his college classes had called it, was something well under that of aniline or iodine— or whatever the substance was.

The amateur burglar had slept part of the day— in lieu of dining. He was anything but sleepy. Zeal— the old zeal for this work that he had thought flickered out long ago— seized him. He got out paper, found an old-fashioned pen— his fountain pen had been pawned a week before— and attacked the manuscript, recasting it as he proceeded.

It was a labor of love. He had no thought of doing anything with the pilfered piece of property practically— which is our common term for remuneratively. It was just that here was this fairy princess of a plot, imprisoned in the formless monstrosity that the young man had thought to be a story, crying to Barrett to be let out that she might shine upon him effulgently.

Food? What was food? Warmth? Who needed it? Or, rather, this princess was both food and warmth to the artist, the visionary, the ex-medallist of belles-lettres, sunk through an obstinate impracticality to the bottom of the pit of poverty and want.

He was, or had been, a genius, many had said, marveling at his elegance, his style, his superficial craftsmanship. No editor had said it, however; for he could not plot. He had no ingenuity, no fancy. He could shape, he could not create.

"What the fiction editors had said— in regretful notes, for he rarely had received a straight rejection slip— was that it seemed too bad to waste so exceptional a talent for expression upon plot material that was not worth being expressed! He might have done hack work— but not Fletcher Barrett! He much preferred dishwashing. He was not a good dishwasher, however. Any active young negro could wash dishes all around him.

Here was a plot that was a super-pippin! To it Fletcher Barrett applied all of his old cunning and much that was new, sprung by magic into being at the siren call of the enchanted princess. He toiled, he sweated— but whistled at the toil.

Day dawned, and still he toiled— lovingly, over the ending, the marvelous, undreamed-of ending, a fit exemplar for a new "Hows," or a new "How," rather— "How to End a Story!" With the last words penned, he rose, reeled to his bed, tucked himself under the blankets and fell asleep.

Shortly after noon, he arose and sought a friend only less needy than himself, a young Italian who was too much a musician to make a good dishwasher. With him, now that he felt himself possessed of a potential asset— for practicality had come with sleep and the reassertion of the hunger pangs— he was willing to dine. He refused dessert, out of consideration for his friend's purse, but took a second cup of coffee. Then he returned to his lodging and reread the story.

IT was excellent— the telling, that is.

The story itself defied adjectives, of course. And Barrett now, for the first time, glanced at the name and address typed at the head of the first page and at the bottom of the last. The address was that of the house he had burglarized. The author's name was Waldo Franklin Edgeworth.

It was only at this moment that Fletcher Barrett became conscious of the nature and gravity of the dilemma in which his theft had placed him. How could he publish the story? There was no question of its acceptability to any one of a dozen editors of America's greatest magazines.

But under what name could it be published?

Hardly a phrase remained of the original story, but Waldo Franklin Edgeworth would recognize the tale as his own the moment his eyes fell upon it. It was likely that he would not read the magazine in which it might appear, but some friend would.

Barrett knew these amateur writers. They possessed, each of them, a comfortable complement of victims to whom they read their work. No, it was a cinch that sooner or later— probably sooner— the sleek-haired aspirant for literary honors would confront the theft, or the plagiarism, to put it more mildly.

Then what? Why, recourse to the editor, naturally. And the editor would look up Mr. Fletcher Barrett— or have a minion of the law attend to it!

Besides, Fletcher Barrett already had bitterly repented his one lapse from honesty. He had been the victim, in a sense, of a peculiarly malign series of circumstances— a concatenation of them he might have called it but for his passion for the simple words of the true stylist. Never again! But he could as easily have vaulted the Woolworth Tower from the bottom of a coal hole in the sidewalk as renounced the chance to spring that wonderful piece of fiction upon the editorial and reading public.

He must publish it, but he could not take the money— not all of it, certainly. Nor the credit. Or, again, not all of it.

Yet to divide either with the rightful owner of the original tale seemed equally impossible. His very hair tangled at the complications the idea suggested.

He evolved, finally, what he felt to be the only solution of the problem. He would send the story to the very high-class and liberally paying magazine, which he knew it fitted, in the name of the original writer— Waldo Edgeworth. But he would write the accompanying letter as though he were an agent of Edgeworth. Of course he would use a fictitious name and an evasive address.

Edgeworth should have the fame. He, Barrett, should have the money. It was more than a fifty-fifty division, for Barrett was in dire need of both money and fame, while Edgeworth, obviously, was only in need of fame. He was quite sure that if he were to put the question to that wealthy young dilettante, Edgeworth would give up twice or thrice the price that any magazine would pay, for the sake of securing for himself the authorship of the story.

He borrowed a typewriter and next day sent the story to the magazine he had selected. His note named, in curt politeness, a specific price for the manuscript— seven hundred and fifty dollars. He signed himself as James L. Marsh, and gave the address of his young Italian friend.

Fletcher Barrett was an excellent judge of literary values and knew it. He was quite sure of what would happen.

THE reason why Waldo Edgeworth left his study for fifteen minutes, during which an amateur burglar occupied it, was that his sister, Millie, wanted him to see how she and Elaine looked before the two of them and two young men left the house to attend a wedding party.

Elaine was their third cousin who lived with them when she was not living with her maiden aunt or doing stunts around the world. Elaine did things, and did not like people who did not, or could not— except. Waldo. Of course she liked Waldo. In the first place it was the natural thing to like Waldo, for he was not only harmless but charming. In the next place— well, she liked him anyhow.

But there was a fly in the ointment of her marked esteem. He did not do things, He was not inclined to stunts, though he traveled, retiredly, as it were. Elaine had not the slightest objection to literature, if one was minded that way. Provided one did something in it.

Waldo was quite sure that his sane and efficient management of the Edgeworth properties was warrant enough for Elaine to risk marrying him, and that whether he became a celebrity in current literature or not, marry him she would, eventually, provided some other man did not heave-to in the offing of the young lady's regard with a bunch of stunts to his credit. It was that risky it kept Waldo plugging away at his fiction.

He knew his weakness— just as Fletcher Barrett knew his. Only Fletcher Barrett had not needed to be told that he had nothing to offer in the way of plots. But Waldo Edgeworth would have imagined that his form and style were excellent, his technique faultless, and only his plots ridiculous and futile if sundry amiable editors had not explained to him, by letter and in personal talks, that his difficulties were the other way round. So, more to please them than because he thought they were right, he studied and studied and studied books on the art of the thing. Barrett's had had its turn— at and just prior to the date of the bur- glary. Waldo agreed with everything Barrett, and his numerous predecessors between the book-ends on the desk, had said about the art. Who could disagree with them? It was all so plain!

Waldo Franklin Edgeworth returned to his "work" in fifteen minutes, after assuring both girls that their regalia was a knock-out. He was somewhat knocked out himself when he found his study door ajar and a drawer of his desk open—and rifled.

He could not remember what was in the drawer, exactly. He had that in common with the literary artist, that he was no martinet about having things in their places and just so. But he had intended, in a few minutes, to go on with the final revision of "The Loved and Lost," and he had a vague impression that he had thrust the manuscript in that drawer.

Frantically, he made search of the other drawers and found he was right. The fool burglar, surprised by his return, had had time only to clean out that drawer, leaving real valuables— that is, things valuable to the burglar— elsewhere in the desk.

The reason why Waldo would have preferred the loss of these other things— yes, and the mahogany desk and the rug and the walls and ceiling of the room, also— to the loss of the manuscript was because, while he did not care for the plot so much, he believed that now, at last; he had done a good piece of writing— form, structure, unity, suspense, climax— the whole complement of qualities necessary to dress up a story to go out and win an editor. Ae was torrid!

His first impulse was to ring up the police. Indeed, he had already grasped the desk phone and fingered the receiver when he reflected that if the culprit were found— though that was unlikely— a policeman, a desk sergeant, an inspector, and a dozen reporters would finger "The Loved and Lost," and—

Heavens! "The Loved and Lost!" That's what they would say of it. It was Mr. Waldo Franklin Edgeworth's loved-and-last attempt at a short story. They might even go so far as to recall that it is the nondescript cur that the small boy loves and weeps for— when it is lost— and not the thoroughbred. He gritted his teeth and resolved to forget it— and especially to say nothing of the occurrence either to his mother or his sister or Elaine.

ONCE or twice, during the next few months, he attempted to rewrite from memory the story of "The Loved and Lost." But each time he threw the first pages into his wastebasket, where, he supposed— or in some equivalent of one— the burglar, too, had thrown the story. Then, one day, while he was "working" on a novelette, in upon him burst Millie.

Her hands were behind her. On her face was a stern expression falsified by twittering eyes.

"You're a splendid specimen!" she began caustically. "Think you're clever, don't you? Mean, contemptible thing!"

Waldo carefully drew two small, upright, parallel lines on the sheet before him, indicating that his villain had ceased hissing, and turned a calm face upon his irate sister.

"Rather scathing of you, Miss Edgeworth. What's it all about?"

"Innocent! What I want to know is how long you intended keeping it from the family?"

"Well," answered Waldo consideringly, "murder will out, you know. Why confess until it is out? Eh, may I ask again what it is you have up your sleeve, or rather, I should say, behind your back?"

"This!" she almost shouted at him, waving aloft the current issue of one of the magazines. "If Elaine hadn't looked it over idly in a hotel lobby this morning— and seen your name— mother and I would have had the humiliation of being rung up by some friend or other and made to seem fools!"

Millie could maintain her dignity no longer. "Oh, Waldo, you dear, sweet thing!"

Waldo Franklin Edgeworth, uninterested in stunts, was nevertheless a sport. The magic of Elaine's name on his sister's lips galvanized him. He was stunned, bewildered— but self-possessed. One of his comrades had a favorite expression. Waldo had made a note of it, for fictional use, only. But he remembered it now— and acted on it: "When in doubt, keep your trap closed!"

"Lemme see, sis," he requested casually, though his brain reeled.

He tried to handle the infernal thing with unshaking hands. On the first page of magazine matter— page one sixty-five of the "book"— was the feature story, "By Waldo Franklin Edgeworth." The story was called "The Painted Fang!"

He had glanced over the first half column before he saw that "The Loved and Lost" was found. It seemed to have suffered a stroke of amnesia, but this was it. Waldo turned away, to lay the magazine down on his desk— and hide his face while he did some lightning brain work.

"As I said, murder will out," he remarked to his sister.

"Give it to me!" she shrieked. "I want to show it to mother. None of us have read it, yet— even Elaine hasn't more than glanced over it." She looked up at him proudly. "Well, you might let me kiss you!"

Waldo obligingly turned his cheek. He felt as if it were "the other one!" Then Millie escorted him— half dragging the modest fellow— into the hallway and upstairs.

His explanation was something like this: "Well, you know, I've emitted quite a bit of smoke, but no fire. You've all conceded that I had some promise, but mighty little performance. At least that's what you were too kind— too infernally kind— to say right out. I got rather tired of showing you encouraging letters. Come now, wasn't this the best way?"

"Very likely," replied Elaine, speaking for herself. "Congratulations, of course."

His mother and sister went part of the way with her. But they stopped at the acceptance. When the story was accepted it was sheer cruelty of him not to tell them— not to have shown them the check— the real money that was said to be the test, always. And, by the way, what was the check?

The check, explained Waldo— well, you know, that depended on the magazine, the repute of the author— many things. Waldo discoursed on this point until his mother, who was an exceedingly sympathetic woman, intimated that it was rather hard on a young writer to force him to divulge the amount of a first check; whereupon Waldo smiled wryly and assured them that while he had reasons, of dignity and otherwise, for not caring to mention the precise sum, he would at least say that the amount of it would probably surprise them when he told them what it was— some day.

"All I want to know is," said Elaine, "that you didn't pay them anything, or at least, let them have it for nothing. You didn't, did you, Waldo?"

"I certainly did not," was the indignant reply. And this most embarrassing feature of the conversation disposed of, comments and felicitations were general.

WALDO EDGEWORTH, escaping at last, flew out of the house to the news stand, returning presently— by his private study entrance— with a copy of "The Painted Fang." He had the rest of the magazine with it, of course, but he was not interested in anything but his story— except its illustrations. These were excellent, of course.

He read it, at first with pain. The plot was there, with practically no change. But the handling of the plot— the writing of the story— well, he felt strongly the foreign note.

Later on he got used to this foreign note and rather liked it.

He exhaled a long breath, lit a cigarette and cogitated. He felt like a castaway who had had a crown thrust upon him by a bunch of cannibals. It was up to him to go on playing the part or be eaten alive. Could he go on playing it? Could he deliver the goods— more goods?

The genesis of this luck, or ill luck, whichever it was to prove, was plain to him, The burglar had shown the manuscript to some comparatively intelligent friend who had told him what it was and suggested that he take it to a professional and get his advice.

Of course the burglar, when he went to the professional, had told him— no, no, it must have been the intelligent friend who went on behalf of the burglar. And he told the professional that here was a story he had written— palming himself off on the writer as Waldo Franklin Edgeworth, of course— and would the professional kindly look it over and say what to do with it.

The writer, or some other writer, who knew the trick of the entrée— the selling technique— rewrote the story, sold it, and presumably divvied up with the burglar or his friend.

It was plainly a case for letting sleeping dogs lie. The burglar or his friend would never go back to that writer again, and the magazine editor knew, professionally, only Waldo Franklin Edgeworth. He must have thought mighty well of the revamped work or he wouldn't have featured it.

Waldo threw out his chest. Here was a good beginning— somewhat meretricious, but distinctly encouraging. And, whether he wanted to or not, he'd have to take advantage of this delectable burglar's adventure in literature, and come along with another story— and another. It was do or die!

He looked up old notes of the story and managed to piece out a fairly accurate redraft of it. He then made an intensive comparative study of the two. It was clearly up to him to eat humble pie on the question of style and form. The professional writer's version had sold, and sold well. His, he knew, would have elicited the melancholy tribute of a rejection slip.

He thought he had got the combination when he finished this exhaustive analysis. And he proceeded to apply what he had learned in the rewriting of his most promising story. He took great pains with it, even coming as near as he dared to plagiarizing upon himself, as it were.

He sent out the story to the same magazine and walked his study floor for six days. Then the story came back— with labored apologies and regrets. The editor would be delighted to see some recent work of Mr. Edgeworth's!

Waldo cursed feelingly, thrust out his jaw and tackled another. But the first he sent out again to another magazine, just to see what would happen. What happened was a rejection slip.

The new story, worked over and over, went out to the magazine that had published gladly "The Painted Fang." It came back with more regrets. But the letter was shorter this time and a trifle more formal.

They were asking him— in the house, the three women— how he was getting on with his newer work. And he had told them, with cheerful mendacity, that things were going swimmingly. Any more acceptances? Oh, no. You see it doesn't do to try a story at all— he'd found that out— until it was right! They approved this course. "The Painted Fang" had been right.

WALDO saw the handwriting on the wall. On the wall of the royal cannibal hut! So he decided to take his pride in his hands— and advertise. The text of his "personal" was guarded.

"Would the writer who lately revised a story for an amateur very successfully kindly communicate with advertiser and thereby learn something greatly to his advantage ?"

He would have liked to be more specific. But Elaine and others idled over newspapers as well as magazines in hotel lobbies and elsewhere. To make up for the indefiniteness of the ad, however, he published it in every paper in Greater New York as a standing advertisement— until withdrawn.

It took two weeks. Then he received an answer through the roundabout means he had devised for the purpose. The writer, signing himself James L. Marsh, confessed that he had been the poor instrument through which Mr. Edgeworth's splendid piece of fiction had been published. He would await with interest anything further that Mr. Edgeworth cared to suggest in the matter.

Mr. Edgeworth replied that he knew just what he meant— of course. He understood that Mr. Marsh had been imposed upon by some one who had pretended to be Waldo Franklin Edgeworth. This other person, who had stolen his work, might go to Hades for all Edgeworth cared. Forget him! Mr. Edgeworth would be pleased to see Mr. Marsh at the earliest possible moment.

Marsh rang him up and made an appointment. He agreed to call on Waldo in half an hour. That would be ten o'clock in the morning. His mother and the girls were out.

It was a rather different-looking man— thanks to the potentialities of seven hundred and fifty dollars— whom Waldo ushered into his sanctum than the tattered, shivering figure that had entered it, un- ushered and without invitation, some months before.

Fletcher Barrett listened to his host with interest. The latter's proposition was a frank one.

"I won't say what I think, Mr. Marsh," he began. "But I'll say that certain magazine editors take the position that my work lacks the— eh, technical finish, the peculiar requirements as to form and style, that they require. They usually say they like the plot."

"Gosh! I should think they would," interjected the visitor.

"I will say that your style seems eminently suited to— eh, their needs. How are you as a plotter?"

"Rotten," replied "Mr. Marsh" concisely. It was only on the subject of his plotting that he ever condescended to the use of slang.

"Let's collaborate!" suggested Waldo without further preface. "While I still need you, you may have all the money, since you, presumably, sell in spite of your— eh, rotten plots." Seeing his visitor's hesitation— and mistaking its cause— he added:

"Money, you see, is not the prime object; and if you have any counter proposition to make as to compensation, I'll consent to it in advance. The fact is I have a— there is a young lady in whom I am much interested who rather looks to me to sell more stories. I have not bothered her with the details of the sale of 'The Loved and Lost'— pardon me, I mean 'The Painted Fang.' Be a sport and help me out."

BARRETT liked the young man tremendously. He felt safe; yet shame lent caution to his reply.

"The pecuniary feature of your offer is entirely satisfactory. Too generous, in fact. I'm thinking of the burglar."

"Don't," requested Edgeworth, waving a generous hand. "Except that if you ever meet him again tell him I want to see him. I want to shake hands with him and present him with a bottle of very fine old port."

"I don't drink, myself," returned Barrett, "but I'd be glad to shake hands with you— if you're still willing!"

"You! You're a— you took that story? And you rewrote it?"

"Both," confessed Fletcher Barrett, and he told him the tale. He added, smiling bitterly, that he had been called a good fiction-writing coach both before and since his instructorship days in a great university.

"Do you smoke?" asked Edgeworth, proffering him a cigar. "When do we start?"

"Whenever you have a plot?"

"I've invented dozens of them."

"That's good. I'm responsible for only one!"

"We'll use it," offered Waldo graciously.

"We will not!" asserted Barrett with profound conviction. "If we did you'd have to look for another girl!"

__________________

7: The Canary that Sang Bass

W. Carey Wonderly

1885-1931

The New Eve, May 1926

Wonderly was a prolific short story writer for the pulps and the slicks, a novelist, and a Hollywood scriptwriter.  "The New Eve" was a very short-lived theatre-oriented magazine published in 1926-7.

VANTINE, rolling luxuriously along the road in his big limousine, saw the figure of a girl leaning forlornly against a telegraph pole. It was bitter cold and snowing by fits and starts, and under the mauve light from the electric arc her face looked like death. Vantine spoke to his chauffeur sharply.

"Jeems," said he, "that Eliza on the ice we just passed—! Don't you think it would be the humane thing to go back and investigate? She might be somebody's mother, you know."

Without replying, the chauffeur turned around and drove back to the bleak, windswept corner.

"Don't tell me it's all a movie and the camera's hidden in the bushes across the way," Vantine cried, opening the car door. "If you're one of the 'Orphans of the Storm,' where is your sister?... My God, Jeems, she's fainted!"

James, without comment, picked the girl up bodily and deposited her in the warm, comfortable automobile. Vantine regarded him with a pained expression.

"You might have consulted me first," he muttered. "Why, I may be compromised for life!"

As the car started off again, Vantine leaned forward and studied the girl closely. Under-nourished she was, yet in spite of this there were traces of beauty, even of refinement, and she was young. But her clothes were an abomination, either hopelessly out-of-date or the last word in provincial style, and they had been brushed threadbare and pressed shiny, and besides were certainly too thin for a New York winter.

"What would you advise?" Vantine asked his chauffeur, after a silence.

"Try a little brandy," suggested James, without turning around.

"Thank you, I will. I meant for our heroine."

"Give her a stiff drink and hold the smelling salts to her nose. It's either cold or hunger— she's fainted."

"God bless me, Jeems, I didn't know there were any fainting girls left in New York!"

The limousine was as large as a Pullman, and Vantine. who was used to making quick changes in stuffy dressing-rooms, worked as easily and as quickly as a magician in a straight jacket. Holding a crystal vial under her nostrils, he saw her eyelids flutter and a sort of shudder pass over her. Then he reached for his silver flask and forced a little brandy between her bloodless lips.

"It's all right, dearie,— hasn't scratched yet," he told the feebly protesting girl. "Good for what ails you. There's many a dame that would give her gold tooth for a swig of this."

"Where am I?" she asked, struggling to an upright position, her eyes tragic with despair.

"Oh, Jeems, she's said it,— she's said it, just like they do in stories!" cried Vantine enthusiastically. "I felt you wouldn't disappoint me, dearie," he beamed in the girl's face. "You're among friends. When I first got a glimpse of you, you were doing a 'Lost in Siberia' sequence, but it's all jake now. Where shall my mechanician take you? Is it the Ritz—? ... My God, she's fainted again! Do you think it's catching? Home, Jeems home!"

Arriving at the actor's home, a handsome apartment in the East Fifties, just off Fifth Avenue, James opened the car door to find Vantine sitting with the unknown girl's head on his shoulder. And what was more, he had discarded his fur-lined topcoat and wrapped it around her slender figure. His eyes were shining with mischief like a school-boy's when he met the chauffeur's disapproving gaze.

"It's all right, Jeems," he insisted; "all in the interests of my art."

"You'll have laryngitis next and won't be able to sing a note," muttered James. "What do you propose to do with her?"

"Well, Jeems, we can't put her under a neighbor's cabbage and say the stork left her," grinned Vantine. "Brodie took a chance and who am I to dodge the issue? Let's get her into the house and see if it's bad booze or good morals. You know, Jeems, there are still ladies who die for their convictions, in spite of the comic strips. She might have been walking home when we found her."

"Pick up the marbles, you win," groaned James, and led the way into the apartment.

Half an hour later the doctor stated it was a clear case of malnutrition, which prompted Vantine to observe that it sounded as complicated as smallpox. But he was tireless in his efforts to help, giving freely of time and money, hovering around the sick couch like an anxious mother hen. James had retired with the car, but a grim-visaged housekeeper surveyed the scene with silent disapproval, helping only when she was requested to by Vantine himself.

"God knows who she is!" muttered old Henrietta sternly. 'Bellevue is the place fur the likes, of her. I never thought I'd live to see you bringing promiscuous females home with you, sir."

"Oh, is she promiscuous, Etta'" demanded Vantine. "I thought the doctor said she was sore of anemic. Well, if you won't have her in your room, I'll have to let her stay in mine— Wait— wait, good creature! I mean that I'll go elsewhere of course. Oh, yes, indeed, I'll go elsewhere. But she can't be moved for a day or two, you know. If she developed pneumonia and died her death would be on our heads— or on your head, for I'm billing to let her stay. Now, make up your mind quickly, my friend— do I move to the Ritz or does she share your room?... Atta-gal, Etta!"

It was late the next afternoon before the girl gave a clear account of herself to Vantine. When he was ready to depart for the matinee, he said to his housekeeper, "Don't badger her, Henrietta!" and while he was smiling, as usual, she never dreamed of disobeying him. Though she would have denied it, as heresy, Vantine was the old creature's god.

Nor had James forgotten her. "How's the little stranger?" he asked, as Vantine stepped into the car.

"My God, Jeems, if the neighbors hear you. they'll think I've got a maternity ward in there," gasped the actor. "And, hands off, or I'll tell your wife on you. That's the way with you big, handsome sheiks,—never satisfied unless you've got the entree to a harem

"Not I," said the chauffeur "I was thinking of you. Better have Henrietta nail down the furniture. What has the girl to say for herself?"

"I have refrained from questioning her until she becomes acclimated, answered Vantine, grinning

"Oh! Booked for an indefinite engagement, eh?"

Vantine was headlining at a vaudeville house in Yonkers and it was six o'clock when he returned to his apartment for dinner. Dressed in one of Henrietta's gowns which was much too large for her in every way, the girl, obviously, was waiting for her host in anything but a tranquil frame of mind. It he had known it, this was because the housekeeper had refused to listen to her explanations without Vantine's being present. Frightened, friendless, with an unpleasant experience behind her, this had awakened her suspicions and she would have run away if the actor himself hadn't walked in at that moment

Vantine stopped, bowed, and observed with a smile, "Well, I'm glad to see you without a mortuary slab, but if we're going to celebrate with a masquerade, give me time to dress for it, too.... Etta! Are you trying to make this poor child resemble you? She looks like Mrs. Noah, as if she came out of the Ark in that costume. For shame, Henrietta Wickham!"

The old dame's face turned red in spots. "It was the best I could do, sir," she muttered. You said to burn her own things— "'

"Telephone to Jenny, to Larry Collins, to any one of the dozen ateliers." Vantine began, when the girl interrupted to say quietly, "Indeed, this is very comfortable and warm and I am very much obliged to Mrs. Wickham. I am sorry that you had to burn my things, because— they were my best — "

"Nonsense, my child!" cried the actor. "If we didn't do away with old clothes, how do you expect the dressmakers would get rid of their new ones?... She's really pretty, you know, Henrietta I wonder if you mind telling me your name my dear? Mine's Vantine "

"I am Olga Lee," explained the girl, with a slight blush rising to her cheeks. "You have been most kind, Mr Vantine—"

At this, both the actor and his housekeeper made a little clucking noise with their tongues against the roof of the mouth, and Olga stopped short, startled. But after Vantine and Henrietta had exchanged glances, he nodded to the girl, encouragingly.

It kind of took my breath for a moment, that's all," he said. "No one ever calls me Mister Vantine. You see—"

"You wouldn't say Mister God, would you?" demanded Henrietta, up in arms.

At dinner Olga told the story of her experiences since coming to New York in quest of a career. No, she wasn't stage-struck, she was ambitious to succeed as an artist, which Vantine explained to Henrietta was a hundred times worse. For pretty girls often have a stage career, while pretty artists seldom get anywhere on their looks alone. After several months of discouraging results, down to her last dime, Olga had accepted a position as housemaid in a rich middle-class family in the suburbs There a rather usual occurrence had happened and when she had resisted the advances of the young cub. who was the son and heir, he had gone to his mother, denouncing Olga, with the result that the girl was turned outdoors, then and there.

All this Olga Lee told in a simple, straightforward way. without heroics, so that even Henrietta became indignant and threatened vengeance on the family in the suburbs. And this good opinion was strengthened when Olga added that she supposed art was not for her, and that she had decided to pocket her pride and return to her home town. She had been a school teacher. Precious little romance had entered her life, but she had some good friends there. Quietly she announced her intention of telegraphing for her fare home— her brother. who wouldn't advance her money to remain in New York, would send her that.

"Of course that's the sensible thing to do," nodded Vantine gravely, when she had finished her story, "but whoever did the sensible thing when he or she was twenty? Etta, you know the child ought to have her chance. What a lovely climax if our little friend here painted the prize picture of the season and then ritzed suburbia when it came to pay homage!"

"If you mean that woman and her son Miss Olga ought to turn them out of doors, the same as they did her," Henrietta snorted. "If I know relatives, there's not going to be any fatted calf killed when you go home, dearie—"

"No," said Olga. sighing, "but it will all be secure and safe. After the last few months I feel that I desire peace and security even more than romance or a career."

After dispatching the telegram, Vantine set to work to make Olga as comfortable as possible, while awaiting her brothers reply. He saw no reason why she couldn't remain in the apartment, under the capable wing of Henrietta Wickham, and he gave instructions, while he was at work, to use the motor car— to "woo the roses back into the child's cheeks." So, after taking Vantine to the matinee, James came back and picked up Olga and old Henrietta, riding them around until it was time to call for the actor and go home for supper. It was a not unpleasant routine and when her brother didn't reply to her wire the next day. Olga wasn't exactly plunged into deepest despair. He would send the money, and in the meanwhile Henrietta was most kind.

Henrietta's kindness, besides bed and board included an extensive and stunning wardrobe, more beautiful than anything Olga had ever dreamed of, even as a successful artist. It was more than her feminine heart could do to withstand the clothes

"Though how I am ever going to pay for them repay you—" she murmured, looking at Vantine with mild reproach.

He laughed loudly, in excellent spirits "After you've captured the rich man's son in your home town, send a check to the fund for Fangless Serpents and we'll call it square," he said "You know. Etta, she does look charming. The child does us proud. We'll have to celebrate tonight; I'll take you all to Tex Guinan's new place. How's that?"

That night Olga made a half-hearted inquiry regarding her benefactor. She knew he was an actor, headlining in vaudeville, but the name Vantine meant nothing to her, much to Mrs. Wickham's displeasure. Henrietta thought Vantine was just about the finest artist in the business and she said so in a voice which made Olga feel suddenly very small and ashamed. She apologized and changed the subject, wondering out loud why her brother didn't answer her appeal for help.

That afternoon, however, when they called for Vantine in Brooklyn, where he was headlining that week, James came back to the car to explain that the actor was still on the stage, the star having been placed to close the bill.

"I'll just go in and hurry things along," Henrietta muttered, climbing out of the machine. "His dresser is about as useful as a fifth wheel to a wagon and it's quite a step to New York and back between shows."

As she got out, Olga made a move as it to follow her. and then drew back, waiting for the old woman to invite her into the theatre. Which Henrietta did. all kindness again, and the two disappeared through the stage door.

Vantine was on the stage, responding to what proved to be the fifth or sixth encore that afternoon

"They love him.  The audiences everywhere just love him!" old Etta whispered, with pride in her voice.

On tip-toe Olga followed her to the first entrance, but before that she could hear a man singing. While the "foots " half-blinded her, she could still make out the figure of Vantine facing that black, yawning space which was massed with people. Her first thought was that Vantine seemed taller and huskier than she imagined him to be. He was dressed in overalls, open at the neck and with sleeves rolled up and he carried a battered straw hat in his hand Boyish, good-looking, his fine baritone carried the rather cheap words and sticky melody with a swing that brought the house to its feet. Vantine held the audience in his hand, and left it begging for more. Back he came again and again, bowing, but shaking his head

"He won't sing any more Henrietta whispered to Olga. "Go back and wait in the car; I'll see if I can hurry things up and we'll be with you in a jiffy

The last she saw of Vantine he was bowing himself off the stage into the opposite entrance, but as she fumbled with the heavy stage door Olga heard the orchestra begin another tune, and then a high soprano voice But one of the stage hands was holding the door open for her and she passed out without stopping to listen.

At the end of the alley, James was smoking a cigarette which he didn't throw away when he saw her coming. That was a peculiarity of Vantine's help— they were his friends. The chauffeur leaned familiarly against the car door, willing to talk.

"What did you think of the canary?" he demanded, eyeing Olga over his cigarette.

She drew herself up a little stiffly, not resenting his manner but his words.

"Meaning Mis— meaning Vantine?" she countered, coolly.

James laughed. "Think he's wonderful, like the rest of 'em, don't you?"

"I know he's been most wonderful to me," Olga replied, flushing. "It is only when I think of others, that I realize how wonderful Vantine has been."

After looking at her long and thoughtfully, James shook his head. "Poor kid, I believe you did get a raw deal," he observed. "And Vantine's all right, I guess I'm just small and mean enough to be jealous, that's all. I suppose old Henrietta's told you what he's done for me?"

"No, she hasn't," Olga answered, thinking that he'd be quite handsome but for the bitter mouth and cynical eyes.

At that moment Vantine came running out of the stage entrance with the housekeeper in tow and they piled into the car and hurried home to the apartment in the Fifties. And after the night show the four of them repaired to a supper club, Henrietta looking very much the grand dame in black velvet and James wearing a Tuxedo under his liveried greatcoat.

"James's other name is Cowper," explained the old creature, watching Olga closely. Evidently the name meant nothing to the girl and so she continued: "His father is J. Sterling Cowper, worth a couple of million or more, and obviously not on very good terms with his son. Really, you can't blame the parent— for once. While at college James got himself married to a first-class little gold-digger and Cowper kicked him out. There's where Vantine comes in. He gave James a job when all the father's friends were afraid to help the son. Why shouldn't he come with us tonight? Let me tell you, child, Vantine wouldn't high-hat a skunk."

They recognized Vantine at the night club and the orchestra played over a number of his songs, while the energetic hostess tried to coax him into singing; but he murmured something about his contract and performing in public, and after that they let him alone. He was immaculately groomed, with a clean, rosy, blonde appearance. Also he danced well, as Olga discovered when she danced with him.

"Enjoying yourself?" he wanted to know, with his habitual good-natured smile. "You'll dance with Jeems, won't you? When he discards his scenery, he's just a regular guy, like me. Never judge a person by his scenery, Ollie. Cowper won't always be a chauffeur, but Etta told you, she says."

So the next time the music started Olga danced with James. As a matter of fact, he didn't dance as well as Vantine, yet there was a difference. Taller, broader, he hadn't the air, the finish of the professional— that was it, she decided. She danced a second time and then Vantine cut in.

"Look here, I asked you to dance with him, not spend the evening," he avowed. "If he needs exercise, let him drag Henrietta around the room. Or, I believe she is flirting with that distinguished looking butter-and-yegg man in the corner. We're never too old to yearn, Ollie. It's a great life if we don't waken."

It was dawn when they arrived home, tired but happy, and Olga found her telegram.

"Your brother sick with measles. Do not care to worry him with your ill-starred adventures at present. Ada."

Ada was her sister-in-law. White and crushed, Olga handed Vantine the message without comment.

"Oh, sweet, sweet!" murmured the actor, passing the telegram to old Henrietta and James. "I suppose if the lady herself opened her heart, a moth would fly out. You should worry, child. Think no more about it and stay right here until your brother comes out of the ether... What?... Dearie, no man related to you ever married a woman like 'Ada' while he was in his right mind. He'll come to."

Olga looked as if she was going to cry. "I— I oughtn't to remain— here," she said, looking at Henrietta Wickham. "If Ada ever found out I'd been here with you this long— you don't know what a small town is, Vantine. Thank you, but I'll have to look around for something to do."

Vantine ridiculed the idea, but for once James and Henrietta were against him and in the end Olga went to live in a moderate-rate hotel on the other side of Fifth Avenue, while waiting for something to turn up.

It turned up, promptly and forcibly, in Vantine's declaration of love. At first Ollie didn't know what to say to him. In spite of his many kindnesses, his daily visits, the car always at her service and everything, she didn't dream he cared for her— well, in that way, until he said so. Now, he wanted her to marry him— at once— and thumb her nose at Ada and her home town. There was never a callow youth so impetuous, so ardent and yet so tender. She looked at this man, this man, who in spite of his unlined face and supple body, was no longer a boy, and... felt a little sorry for him without knowing exactly why. She liked him well enough. His thoughtfulness, his generosity won her admiration and made her very gentle with him. That was it— she couldn't bear to hurt Vantine. He was such a dear, a darling old dear, who deserved the best in life.

And so Ollie said "yes"— and almost immediately regretted it. For when his household heard the news, Henrietta and James acted for all the world as if she had robbed an infant of its candy.

"They don't like me," Olga whispered to her fiancé. "Either that or they don't trust me. I wonder! I wonder if they believe what I've said is true. So help me, Heaven—"

"It's all right, sweetheart, I believe you," Vantine interposed, drawing her into his arms. "And Etta believes you too, of course. It's only that I've been an old stick-in-the-mud so long—"

"They think I'll interfere with your career?"

"Good Lord, no! Don't pay any attention to them— either of them. It's none of Cowper's business. It's none of Etta's, either, as far as that goes, but she's been with me so long— worked so faithfully— I guess she thinks I'm still a kid. I'm not! Sometimes I get to wondering if I'm not too old, sweetheart—"

"You— old?" she mocked.

"Well, I'm older than you, Ollie," he smiled. "The trouble is Henrietta regards me as a sort of Peter Pan, when as a matter of fact I'm just like other men. Just! Exactly! And we're going to live and love and grow old and die just like thousands of other couples, honey. Like regular folks— that's what I want. You know, my real name is Robinson— Frank Robinson. Well, I'd like you and me to be Mr. and Mrs. Frank Robinson, in our own home, away, far away from the theatre and Broadway and the night clubs."

Through the old, gay smile Olga glimpsed the seriousness that was in his heart, divined the eager, pathetic longing for sympathy and understanding that pleaded for recognition.

"You are Peter Pan," she said suddenly, and leaning forward, kissed him.

His happiness shone from his eyes, was reflected in everything he did. It was impossible to remain displeased with him, or to shun Olga because he loved her, and presently old Etta capitulated.

Only, "Be good to my boy," she said, taking Ollie by the shoulders and gazing into her eyes. "I used to think he was happy before you came, without a care in the world, but... he wasn't then like he is now. He seems to worship you. I'm sure your life will be a bed of roses if you're only good to him."

James still remained a bit skeptical when he called with the car to take Olga anywhere.

"Of course his salary is two thousand a week net and he can work fifty weeks a year if he chooses. When it comes to buying a country home, you can live in Newport if you like. Vantine's saved a lot, too."

She looked at him long and steadily. "I'm sorry you've formed that opinion of me," she said at last. "I hadn't an idea what Frank's salary is, and nobody ever told me he had saved a penny. It isn't money. He has been so kind to me—"

"Then it's gratitude, not love?" James Cowper interrupted quickly.

Olga flushed and glanced away. "I think you should be the last man in the world to try to show Vantine the flaw in the sapphire," she murmured.

James shook his head. "I'm not made of the stuff of heroes," he pointed out. "I'm selfish, ungrateful, a damn rotter if you like, but... that's me. I can't stand aside for another man, even a man who has been my benefactor. You see, I happen to love you myself, Olga. I love you, do you hear that? And when he touches you I want to punch his head and when he kisses you I'd like to kill him. Now go and tell him so. Maybe he'll give me my chance to beat him up.

The girl lifted her head and drew a deep breath and he saw that her eyes were shining like stars.

"All this while I've tortured myself that you didn't think I was good enough for him," she said simply.

"Good enough!... You not good enough for him?"

"Yes. Perhaps I'm not, James."

"Say 'Jim'," he pleaded.

Olga nodded. "Yes, I like that— Jim," she pronounced. "Well—" She breathed hard and seemed to wait.

Then he took her in his arms and began to rain kisses on her upturned face, on her shy, young eyes, her cool brow, her flushed cheeks and her dewy lips. Kisses came short, sharp, hot. It was almost as if they left a scar. Olga, after a moment, fought herself free, resentful, frightened, hungry for more at one and the same time.

"You mustn't!" she gasped.

Jim Cowper smiled, "You can't marry Vantine now," he said. "But—"

"You can't," he reiterated. That was all.

It was true enough, but what could she do about it? Vantine was going ahead with plans for their wedding and at his urging Ollie had written home, telling the parsimonious Ada that she was engaged to a man whose income exceeded the President's. Incidentally, this letter brought about the immediate recovery of the brother and an invitation from Ada to spend their honeymoon with them. Vantine said he knew he was going to enjoy his sister-in-law, but he said it without rancor. Always generous, thoughtful of others, smiling.... And Olga couldn't marry him— she couldn't, now.

Ollie didn't see much of her fiancé these days. He was rehearsing a new act, Henrietta said. And Ollie did see too much of Jim Cowper— too much for her own peace of mind. One afternoon he brought the car for her and around five o'clock, following some shopping, set her down at the stage entrance to a vaudeville house uptown. Olga went in to look for Vantine. Usually she waited in the car, but since she knew it would mean a long, dangerous conversation alone with Cowper, she decided to go into the theatre.

Music, lights, silent, creeping figures. Someone was singing, a soprano which was affected and irritating. It rubbed Olga Lee the wrong way. It jarred upon her nerves. She disliked the voice before she saw the singer.

Strolling to the first entrance, she saw a simpering blonde, half nude in clothes that were supposed to be daring, with too much chest and back and bare legs. But the house roared its delight at the conclusion of the song, and the singer returned again and again. Olga watched the scene listlessly, wondering what manner of artiste was this to work an audience into such a frenzy of enthusiasm. And then, while she looked, the singer's jeweled hand went up and the golden wig came off revealing the close-cropped head of a man. Of Vantine, of course. Before she had fully recovered from the shock, the impersonator was off to change to his farmer's boy overalls, when he would sing an encore in his natural voice— baritone.

Somehow Ollie made her way out of the theatre, found the automobile, and got in. Since her agitation was apparent, James threw away his cigarette and came to question her.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked him reproachfully.

"Tell you— what?" demanded Cowper. "Good Lord, Ollie, you look as if you had seen a ghost!"

She shook her head. "I have just seen Vantine — for the first time," she said. "Funny I never gave it a thought! And I suppose you thought I knew all about his — his line. It was... terrible!"

Jim frowned. "He's rehearsing a new act now Perhaps he suspected you wouldn't care for the— the wig— "

"I loathe it! I loathe him! Any man who would do such a thing — "

Jim Cowper reached for a cigarette. "Oh-h, there are worse," he ventured begrudgingly. "As a matter of fact," he added slowly, as if the words were wrung from him against his will, "Van's a regular. After all, what does it matter whether you don skirts and sing soprano or jump into boots and follow a plow?"

"You wouldn't do it," Olga flashed.

"Me? Well, I— I couldn't. Too big, too hefty. It wouldn't be an impersonation, it would be a burlesque. Vantine's framing a new act, I believe, with all 'straight' stuff— no skirts, you understand."

A little shudder ran through her. "It makes no difference. I can never forget what I've seen this afternoon."

Vantine saw the change which had come over her, for love had sharpened his wits, and Ollie wasn't a good actress. For that matter, it seemed to the girl the kindest thing she could do, to let him know once and for all that she couldn't marry him. Every time she saw him he had some new and wonderful scheme to unfold, gifts to offer. It wasn't fair to let him go on this way, hoping, giving, while in her heart she knew his dreams could never come true and so Olga told him. It was all a mistake. She didn't love him. They could never be more than friends to each other.

At first Vantine couldn't believe it. Then, when Ollie drew away from him and presented her cheek when he tried to kiss her, he seemed to realize the full significance of her words and he collapsed, like a doomed man in sight of the gallows. He dropped to his knees, he clung to her hands, her dress, weeping and pleading. He'd rather a hundred times die than lose her; he couldn't give her up!

Olga suddenly found herself hating his tears. They weren't just manly. They seemed to go with the golden wig and the décolleté gown and all at once she grew a little cold, hard, indifferent.

"You should have told me," she said, with sullen eyes.

"Told you what, sweetheart?"

"That you are— well, what you are. This afternoon I saw your act for the first time, and I— I loathed it! I've always felt that a man was a sort of superior being. It was a privilege to be born a man. I've just got to look up to a man— my man anyway And then today... you... blonde curls and short skirts and a falsetto voice— I'm sorry; I can't help it. I hated you for being that, Vantine."

"Then," said he emphatically, "I'II never be that again, dearest. That's easy, that s simple, Ollie As a matter of fact, I've been rehearsing a new act for sometime The booking office likes the impersonation, but— yes, I had decided to get away from it even before you expressed your views on the subject. Fortunately I'm blessed with a good natural baritone— "

She couldn't let him go on like this, hope and plan again, when she knew the futility of it all in her heart.

"It's no use, Vantine."

"What?... For God s sake, Olga ''

"It's no use. Oh, I know I'm the most ungrateful wretch in the world! After all you've done— your sweetness and kindness to me—"

"That's out!" he interposed. "No matter what I've done for you, you've done more for me Ollie."

"I don't believe I understand," she faltered.

"Ollie, you've waked me up," Vantine said then pleading with bloodshot eyes. "Before you came into my life there was something— something lacking. Maybe I was the Peter Pan that Henrietta tried to keep me. I wasn't a man, I only played at living as a child plays with his toy soldiers.... And then you came and everything changed overnight almost. I loved you from the first, Ollie! I didn't know it because I had never been in love before... but I loved you. And I was no longer a child. I became a man. through loving you. Now that you've done this thing— awakened me— you can't you can't.... leave me flat, dearest. You can't run away and expect me to go back to my toy soldiers. I'll promise anything in the world Olga. I'll never appear on the stage again, if you say so. I've money— plenty of money. We'll go to Europe sweetheart.... Only for God's sake don't leave me.... neither man nor child. You can't— you daren't, Ollie!"

She tried to spare him, tried to lie, but the truth was Olga knew if he kissed her ever again, with her heart full of another man, she would want to do him physical injury.

"Vantine," she said, with cruel kindness, "there is somebody else. Looking back, I think I've loved him from the very first, just as you say you've loved me So perhaps you'll understand. It's Jim Cowper."

His surprise was genuine. "Jeems?"

"Don't call him that!" Olga stormed "If you knew how that silly affected talk sounded—"

"I beg your pardon," Vantine said, with dignity. "Of course I shan't do it again if you dislike it so much. But of course you're not in earnest either about caring for him—"

"With all my heart and soul I care, Vantine."

"He's a married man!"

"He doesn't live with his wife. They haven't lived together for more than a year. After Jim's father turned him out, and cut off his allowance, this— this girl left him. It was only Jim's prospects she cared for, you see. When he had no money why— Oh-h, I don't consider her at all."

Vantine looked at her strangely "But you've got to consider her, Ollie." he insisted. "You're not the kind of girl who can be happy without your neighbors' respect. You're a— a homebody—" His voice broke and he began to cry again, weak, silent tears that left her helpless.

"Well," Olga ventured, after a pause, "I suppose I'll never see you again, and I suppose you'll go to your grave cursing and hating me, but—"

"One more chance, Ollie. If you're ashamed of the skirts and wig and we go to Europe... nobody will ever know—"

She shook her head and at last he saw that nothing he could say or do would ever change her.

"Where are you going?" he asked, swallowing a lump in his throat

"To Jim."

"I see. And then?"

"We're going away together."

Vantine turned the color of chalk.

"He oughtn't to ask it, Cowper oughtn't to ask it of you," he muttered, half to himself. "That damned frail, if she had the decency of an alley cat she'd give him a divorce. But she won't, she won't of course. Old man Cowper will have to die some day and she s hanging on for that. And in the meanwhile— Ollie stealing her happiness—"

He was still talking, half to himself, when Olga stole noiselessly away.

That night he told Henrietta that "everything was off" between him and Ollie Lee and the old dame scarcely knew whether to be relieved or angry. She was not unlike a mother who finds it hard to give up her boy even to the finest girl in the world but if Vantine wanted this girl— He shook his head, laughed, and said he guessed he was wedded to his art.

As usual, James called at the theatre the next afternoon for Vantine, and as usual, Olga was in the car, at the actor's special request. But if she had hesitated at coming along, Ollie soon realized that her fears were groundless, for Vantine seemed quite like his old self, joking, gossiping in a simpering, affected manner that made you smile even while you disapproved. No regret, no reproach. Everything merry until at Forty-second Street the actor remembered that he had an appointment to meet a friend at the Club Bleu at five o'clock. He asked James to wait for him and left Olga in the car.

The "friend" he met there was a young woman who apparently couldn't speak without a sneer and whose eyes were suspicious, mocking, avaricious, at one and the same time. Handsome in a way, yet unpleasant to look at. Vantine thought of Ollie and understood Jim Cowper's infatuation. What he couldn't understand was how James had ever got himself entangled with Dot.

"I was just going," she told Vantine, as he hurried forward to join her at a small table in the nearly empty restaurant "What's the big? Why did you send for me to meet you here? Has Jeems been naughty?"

"Be your age. dearie," Vantine retorted, sitting opposite to her. "Don't attempt to high hat me, because I know you, woman. Why did I send for you? Because you are so fascinating. What'll you have to drink? And where did you get that hat, Dorothy? My God, it looks like a ravaged market cart."

"You should worry, she muttered sullenly. "You didn't bring me here to say that, Vantine. And when I want some of your brand of comedy I'll go to the show."

He shrugged his shoulders and took a pocket flask from his clothes. But when Dot Cowper reached for it, Vantine drew the flask towards him and called a waiter for drinks.

"What's the matter, saving your special poison for your pals?" the girl sneered. "I suppose it's too good for me, eh? Well, remember you asked me to come here, not I you."

He merely grinned. The waiter returned with their order and Dorothy raised her glass to her lips.

"Dot,"' said Vantine, watching her closely, "have you ever thought about getting a divorce from Cowper?"

"No," she answered coolly.

'Well, will you consider getting a divorce?— for a— a consideration, of course!"

She burst out laughing. "What s the matter, do you want to marry him?" she cried.

The blood rushed to Vantine 's cheeks and his hand closed around the pocket flask he had brought along with him. then he called their waiter back for a second round of drinks.

"Will have your little joke, won't you, Dot?" he remarked, after the fellow had gone.

"Jim Cowper may seem like a joke to you," she countered, "but he's a damn good investment for me. His old man won't live forever. And he's going to leave Jim his, never fear. And then I'll get mine But, yes, I'll divorce him— for a million cash."

"A million! What are you doing, telling me your telephone number?" he jeered.

"Why should I tell you my telephone number you poor fluff?" the woman said. "Look here, I don't know what your game is, but get this straight— I'm watching my p's and q's; I'll never give Cowper the pleasure of divorcing me, and I'll never divorce him— until after the old man's gone to Glory. Chirp your feeble little tune elsewhere, canary. I know my groceries."

She pushed back her chair, ready to leave the table, when Vantine, with a smile, suddenly raised his flask.

"Just to show there's no hard feeling," he ventured. Dorothy Cowper hesitated, and Vantine filled her glass.

"Where's yours?" she demanded, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Dearie, have a heart, I've got to sing tonight."

She pushed back her glass. "I guess I don't want any of your rotten brew," she laughed.

There was a pause. Vantine cast a glance around the room and noticed it was almost empty. Like his life, he thought. All the light and gaiety had disappeared. A supper club is a dreary place when deserted. Dead, without the decency to bury itself.

He filled his glass and raised it to his lips. "Here's to love!" he toasted.

"My God!" snickered the girl, and swallowed her liquor.

Ten minutes later their waiter, returning for another possible order, saw the pair of them limp in their chairs. He hurried over and said something, and though the man smiled faintly, the woman was beyond human aid. The waiter shook her; then grabbed Vantine.

"Friends... in car at the door—" he whispered, with the smile frozen on his lips.

The waiter shrieked for help.

"One of youse guys get them folks in the car at the door," he cried. "Here's a bird and his skirt gone dead on our hands!"

________________

8: An American Comedy

H. Bedford-Jones

Blue Book, July 1941

The 14th of a series, "The World Was Their Stage".

MRS. HENRY'S "afternoon" at the yellow brick house in Fulton Street was an event in the theatrical world— a small world, more shunned than courted in the year 1787. John Henry, whose lameness demanded a crutch close at hand, was a partner with Hallam in the management of the American Company, so called because most of the players were English.

Royall Tyler, in fine blue broadcloth with golden seals dangling from his flow- ered silk waistcoat, was an erect and soldierly figure, as he should be, having soldiered for the past ten years. He knew most of the players, and as he glanced about the drawing-room he caught suddenly at the arm of Tom Wignell, his particular crony, who played such juvenile leads as were no longer suited to the famous Hallam, now in his fifties.

"Tom! Look— that woman by the fireplace! Who is she?"

Wignell, who had lately got his ward- robe out of pawn by Tyler's help and was not only gayly attired but in rollicking spirits, turned, looked and grimaced.

"God preserve us! A school-teacher!" said he. "Thats Mrs. Hallam's friend, Lillian somebody... I forget her name. No matter. Come along and I'll present you. She teaches in the Female Academy opposite Trinity Churchyard— a noble situation to improve the young mind! Come on!"

Tyler was dragged over to the fireplace and presented grandiloquently.

"Mistress Lillian! Allow me the honor of presenting Fortunatus, a rugged specimen of our New England manhood— my friend Royall Tyler, of Boston, late major on the staff of General Benjamin Lincoln and instrumental in putting down Shay's rebellion up north— an authentic American from Harvard College, cut out for a lawyer but turned soldier. Excellent family, never been out of New England before and now never going back, his eyes having been dazzled by the foot-lights of the John Street Theater."

Mistress Lillian laughed heartily. She had gorgeous red hair, twinkling eyes in a pleasant young face, and a direct, energetic manner.

"Fortunatus! A nickname of good omen, Major Tyler," she said. "Mrs. Hallam has spoken of you, I think. And I must confess that I'm surprised to find you frequenting such company."

"Your surprise is only equaled by my astonishment," retorted Tyler cheerfully, "to learn that so charming a woman teaches school, and can so far demean herself as to consort with the base personages of the stage!"

"Good land! I'd lose my position in a moment did the Academy know it!" she exclaimed, with a comical grimace. "But it's worth it. And I like people. I like these people."

"And the act of Congress is still in force," said Tyler, "by which anyone in the service of the country who attends a play shall be dismissed. However, I've resigned the service, so I'm safe."

"Whatever is Mr. Hallam so furious about?" asked the lady.

TYLER turned to follow her glance, knowing that there was only too much truth in what she said about losing her position. Falling into association with Wignell and others, he had himself become fascinated by the hitherto despised Thespians. A Bostonian of blue blood that held the theater in utter horror, he had now settled down in New York to enjoy himself, and he was doing it beyond measure.

Hallam, a ruddy, hearty man who for the past thirty-five years had been the central figure in the budding American stage, was talking with Wignell and was evidently in a passion.

John Henry, limping up to bow over Mistress Lillian's hand, shrugged at her query.

"It seems that Mrs. Hallam was walking in Nassau Street this morning, and a pack of urchins ran after her shouting foul names," he explained. "Lewis takes the matter ill, quite naturally. Any man who could make the theater respectable in the eyes of Americans could have fame and fortune for the taking! Tyler, there's a task befitting you."

"Not so; its a woman's task," broke in Mistress Lillian, her eyes sparkling. "And a woman could do it. Didn't some actress marry a lord, years ago?"

"Aye," said Henry. "That was Peggy Cheer; she took Lord Rosedale to the altar. But lords are out of fashion these days, and rare to boot."

HE moved away. Tyler, who was fascinated by the red-haired teacher, remained. He liked her charm, her energy, her sparkle, her lack of all pretense. He saw that she, like himself, was vitally interested in the people around them, perhaps in the stage itself.

"And just how, Miss Lillian," he inquired, "would you go about making the stage respectable ?"

Hallam caught the words, during a lull in the buzz of tongues, and came over to them.

"Aye, how can such a thing be done?" he demanded, "I've tried— and failed— for the past thirty years."

Mistress Lillian took up the gage instantly.

"By means of a play," said she. "Youre an Englishman, Lewis; you produce English plays. Well, this is the year 1787, not 1750. Our people look on the theater as an English importation. Revolutionize their whole outlook, give them a play dealing with Americans, by an American playwright!"

"I would in a moment, but no such playwright or play exists," said Hallam. "Find me such a play, and I'll produce it gladly— good, bad or indifferent!"

Tyler looked at Miss Lillian, and deliberately winked. Then, resolutely, he carried her off to the little garden in the rear of the brick house, handed her into the rose-arbor, and seated himself opposite her.

"Madam, I have guessed your secret!" he exclaimed. "And here, in the privacy of these roses, it may safely be discussed. God help you if any other guessed it! Your shame would be re- counted to children yet unborn, if you know what I mean— the disgrace would probably put the Female Academy out of business!"

She laughed lightly, but her shrewd eyes were appraising him, not unkindly. He was good to look upon, with his grave, strong features, and his dancing eyes.

"My secret?" she echoed.

"Precisely. I read it in your face, in your eye, as you spoke to Hallam. 'Thou art the woman!' And you have written, or are writing, a play."

Color stole up her cheeks.

"Well, I— I've tried," she confessed. "At least, I'd like to write one. I know what it should be, too, but somehow I can't make it sound right."

"I know precisely how you feel," said Tyler. "I have the same trouble— that is, with the female rôles. You see, I left college at eighteen, and for the past ten years I've been tramping around New England with the Continental Army, and I just don't know how women talk."

Her face lighted up. "Oh! You, too! But it's the other way around with me— I can't make my men talk as they really should, and I don't know the New England speech very well, and my character of Brother Jonathan is a New Englander!"

"Dear lady, Providence has directed us this day, my word on it!" exclaimed Tyler, perhaps with more feeling than he was aware, for she colored again. "Tom Wignell has been lending me a hand with the work; I knew nothing about the theater until I came to New York. But I can fill your play with round New England oaths that will send a shudder through the quills of the Female Academy—"

"I can put in my own oaths, thank you," she broke in. "It's the dialect that I don't know, the ordinary way of speech. Really, Major Tyler, it would be wonderful; but you must take all the blame for it— for the play, I mean. For it to be written by me would be impossible. It would indeed be a disgrace; I would be a woman shunned and ostracized— and, you see, I support myself; I need to keep my position at the academy."

"Be damned to the money! plenty for two or a dozen—"

Tyler did not utter the impulsive words that rose to his tongue. Leaning forward, he phrased his thought in less startling language.

"We must talk about this. Would it cause any scandal if I called at the Academy to take you for a drive?"

"Heavens, yes!" she exclaimed. "That is, unless you can assure them of your deep respectability. Miss Semple is from Boston or near there."

"Then account it done; my family has a good name, at least," said he, radiant. "I'll rescue you from the Semple dragon on Sunday, Miss Lillian— Oh! That's all I know of your name!" he added, in dismayed confusion. "In fact, it's all I want to know, but since you're a rather practical young woman, and I might have to ask for you at the door."

"The name is Gentry," she said, bubbling with amusement. "But remember, you must promise to be the author of the play!"

"The promise is given," said Tyler.

SUNDAY beheld his carriage and spanking pair of bays throwing the Academy into a flutter by carrying Miss Lillian away; and it beheld Royall Tyler definitely in love. He even admitted the fact that same night to Wignell.

In the little tavern in Nassau Street, around the corner from Theater Alley and the John Street playhouse, the two of them sat late with pipes and a bowl of punch. Wignell read the first scene that Tyler handed him, and roared with delight.

"Man, it's wondrous fine!" he exclaimed. 'Those two girls argufying over the foibles of dress— why, it's perfection! You've hit 'em off to the very life! Where'd you learn so much all of a sudden?"

Tyler beamed. "I'm in love, Tom; you may as well know it first as last. I'm the happiest man in New York this night! Though, to be honest, I doubt if she'll have me. She's so radiant—"

"Yes, I know all that by heart," broke in Wignell. "But do I know her?"

"You do not," lied Tyler. "She's a young lady of the town. Not so young, either; a woman, not a chit of a girl. A woman who's wise and lovely, a very rose in bloom!"

"Watch yourself, Fortunatus!" said the cynical Wignell. "Where's the thorns, eh?"

Where indeed? Tyler asked himself this question during the days that followed, and found no answer. There were stolen meetings with the Hallams, or at the yellow brick house in Fulton Street; good Mrs. Henry could keep a secret. There were furious scribblings, exchanges of thought and word and ac- tion, while the play grew marvelously under Tyler's hand; and, as he came to know Lillian Gentry better, as he came to realize that his ambition was by no means hopeless, he wondered uneasily whether the gods might not indeed be- come jealous.

He had everything; he had too much, and knew it well. Miss Semple's Female Academy smiled upon him, not guessing that he was a friend of actors. He had family, money, position, and to these the greatest gift of all bade fair to be added. There was nothing to prevent. Upon him grew a dread that perhaps he had too much; did any man have a right to such complete and unalloyed blessings and happiness?

As the play grew, as its scope widened, Lillian became more firm in her refusal to have any public share in it. The mere- tricious standards of fashion, the foibles of the day, were sketched with merciless precision, as contrasted with the artless
simplicity of Brother Jonathan. Lillian unremittingly worked over the dialogue, ever putting in something new and apt, holding up to ridicule the smug conceits which she daily encountered, with a sparkling reality that amazed Tyler. Indeed, she confessed that she had drawn much of this from real life, as he drew Brother Jonathan.

"But not a word— don't breathe a word, even to Wignell or Hallam!" she pleaded, and Tyler promised anew, and kept the promise.

"The Contrast." Tom Wignell was responsible for the title, in a burst of delighted roaring mirth. It was Wignell, indeed, who thrust the play under Hallam's nose.

"Wait for the right moment, till we're rehearsing 'Romeo and Juliet,' " said he. "When Lewis is playing Romeo, he's in excellent good humor; he forgets his fifty years and becomes young and passionate again,"

So here, rehearsal ended, he gave Hallam the completed play.

"A tasty bit for the managerial eye, worshipful sir," said he, and screwed up his face, adopting a nasal drawl. "Why, aint cards and dice the devil's devices? And the playhouse, where the devil hangs out the vanities of the world on the tenterhooks of temptation— you won't catch me at any playhouse, I warrant you! How's that, Lewis? The speech is mine, the character is mine, I speak for it this minute and must have it! But read the comedy, and rejoice."

Hallam read it. He called the company together, and in huge delight read it to them all. Tyler, who was present, was astonished by the enthusiasm evoked. But had Hallam accepted it? he asked.

"Accepted it?" roared Hallam. "Sir, the play is in production! Now let's discuss the terms."

These mattered little to Tyler. He signed what was put before him, and rushed off to tell Lillian the news. Sitting in the prim little reception parlor of the Academy, he told her, under his breath.

Her eyes widened on him— not in ecstatic joy, but in swift terror.

"Royall— I am afraid," she murmured. "Afraid! Except for your sake, I'm almost sorry that I ever put pen to paper! None of them know— upon your honor?"

"Upon my honor," said Tyler. "Not a soul suspects that I'm not the sole author. And why worry? There's nothing in the play to betray your hand. I'll sneak you in to one of the rehearsals."

"No, no! I'll have nothing to do with it!" she exclaimed. "Nothing! That's final. Not now, nor later."

In vain he attempted argument and protest; she remained adamant. And when Mistress Lillian was adamant, there was nothing more truly adamantine in this world. Tyler argued until Miss Semple, scandalized by the length of this visit, rattled the door-knob significantly; it did him no good, and he departed knowing that he, and he alone, must be known as author of "The Contrast."

He thrilled to his name on the announcements. The newspapers were full of the news; a play by an American was a huge novelty. The publicity increased, the rehearsals were on, the night of the first performance arrived.

TYLER called that afternoon at the Academy, to be coldly informed that Mistress Lillian was indisposed. He was persona non grata, most emphatically so, now that it was known that he was actually a playwright and an associate of players. In fact, he received a note next day requesting that he would never again bring the evils of dissolute living and vice before the eyes of the innocent young ladies of the Academy by presenting himself there. He tore up Miss Semple's horrified epistle with a laugh. He might well laugh. The play was an enormous success; it was, on the instant, the talk of the town. The sensation it created was tremendous. Its ridicule of the vices then so fashionable in England, its authentic American note, its open derision of smug hypocrisy and above all its piercing cleverness, made it a mad success overnight.

During three days, Tyler was overwhelmed by the publicity all this en- tailed. And during these days, he heard nothing whatever from Lillian Gentry. He wrote letters, he sent messengers; Mrs. Hallam went to the Academy and was turned away from the door. "The Contrast" played to crowded, delirious houses and all New York raved about it.

AT length Tyler, vaguely conscious of impending storm and a bit alarmed, braved the den of the lioness in person. He was resolved to see Lillian, to speak with her, at any cost. Tom Wignell, in whom he confided to a certain extent, accompanied him as far as the corner, deeming it best not to defile the Acad- emy with his presence.

Tyler, upon mounting the steps, had just rung—when the door opened and a number of ladies came forth, Miss Semple herself bidding them adieu. Upon sight of Tyler, standing aside to give them passage, there was a flutter; he was conscious of stern looks, of chill glances. Then, as he stepped to the door, Miss Semple firmly closed it in his face— but not entirely. Tyler's foot intervened.

"Good morning, madam," he said, through the crack. "I have come to see Mistress Lillian, and I intend to see her if I must scandalize your school and the entire neighborhood. Will you have the kindness to practice the courtesy you no doubt teach your pupils?"

Thus challenged, Miss Semple flung wide the portal and planted herself in the opening, her very ringlets shaking with indignation.

"You unspeakable scoundrel," she declared, "you have been told—"

"No falsehoods, if you please," broke in Tyler. "I'm not asking your opinions. I'm here to see Miss Lillian."

"That viper whom I have sheltered in my bosom is no longer here," was the retort. "Now will you have the goodness to depart?"

"I will not," said Tyler. "Frankly, I don't believe you."

Miss Semple gasped. "Oh! This passes all bounds! We have discovered your low and vicious imposture, sir: A play-actor, a companion of players, in- deed! A person who stoops to sell his very soul for filthy lucre! A—"

Tyler broke in:

"Madam, will you have the kindness to summon Mistress Lillian?"

"She is not here. She has been dismissed from her position, upon our learning the shocking fact that she, a teacher in this abode of innocence, became so contaminated by your acquaintance as to share in your disgrace."

"I don't understand, I'm afraid. what disgrace do you allude?"

"The authorship of this shameful and vile play which has secured such deplorable notoriety, sir, that I must blush at the very mention of it! In all the years that I have conducted this Academy, its good name has never before been sullied. And to think that this calamity should have been caused by a deceitful woman who was trusted and—"

"Apparently you are laboring under a delusion," cut in Tyler coldly. "If you refer to my play 'The Contrast,' Mistress Lillian had nothing to do with it. I, and I alone, am the person responsible."

Miss Semple eyed him with venom.

"From a person of your description, this brazen effrontery might be expected. It is quite useless to descend to falsehood, sir. The ladies who were just here, and who honor this heretofore unsullied institution with their patronage, have traced the matter beyond any doubt. Miss Gentry's association with you, alas, is all too well known. The language used in the play, its opinions and speeches, are directly traced to her in three specific cases. She shall never darken these doors again; nor, I trust, will your presence contaminate this threshold."

Tyler smiled. He attempted no fur- ther argument; it was obvious that Lil- lian had, indeed, drawn her characters, and had used words and phrases, from the very life.

"Very well, Miss Semple. If you will tell me where to find Miss Lillian, I shall be only too happy to accede to all you desire in the matter of purity."

"T am unable to give you any information," she retorted icily.

"You had best do so, I, warn you." Tyler's temper rose. "If you make it necessary I'll raise a scandal that will rock your smug select circles— if I have to obtain a search-warrant and come here with officers !"

"Indeed!" she laughed defiantly. "And upon what right do you base your im pudent demand?"

"Upon my right as the fiancé of Miss Gentry."

Miss Semple gasped again, and drew herself up in dignity.

"So! You would drag down to your own level this young woman whose character and morals you have so insidiously seduced! I would have you know, Mr. Tyler, that she left this place yesterday, after having confessed her fault with tears of shame. Aye, sir, she confessed! She was very lucky to escape legal prosecution, as I told her frankly, but for the sake of her family, whom I have advised of her disgrace, that matter has been waived. I did not ask her destination, she did not impart it to me, and I desire to know nothing of her actions."

Tyler bowed and turned away, accepting defeat. But he was now alarmed. The fact that neither he nor the Hallams had received any news of Lillian was disturbing. That she had been broken down and had confessed her share in the play, indicated only too well what she must have been through.

A he crossed the street, Wignell joined him with a cheery question.

"Gone," said Tyler. "Dismissed. Disgraced. Left the sacred precincts yesterday and not a word from her!"

"Ha! This demands consultation," said Wignell. "All signs point to the tavern and a touch of the proper spirit. Come along, disconsolate swain!"

"It's no light matter," said Tyler, deeply worried. "Tom, I'll have to confess the truth; don't let it go any farther, on your life." He told Wignell the facts about the play and kept nothing back.

"A bad matter made worse," said Wignell. "So that's how you got such damned fine women characters! Taken direct from the Academy! Well, it's nothing to laugh over. The first thing to do is to scour the town for Lillian. Where does she come from? What family has she?"

"A sternly puritan mother and sister in some upstate town. I forget the name, but I have it wrote down somewhere." Tyler frowned. "She was their sole support, Tom. That damned virago has advised the family of her shame— oh, devil take it all, when I think of the state Lillian must be in mentally, I could wring the neck of that blasted Semple woman!"

"You'll be in a worse state if you don't get a grip on your nerves," said Wig- nell truthfully. 'Now, I'll keep the secret; fear not. Get a letter off to the mother, and we'll go to work frisking the town for Lillian. If she feels that she's disgraced for life, we'll get her out of that frame of mind in no time. Have you popped the question yet?"

"No," replied Tyler. "But I think we understand each other."

"A woman never understands such matters until the bargain's signed and sealed," said the cynic Wignell. 'All right. Get the town's name, and write. This afternoon we'll go to work here."

Tyler complied; the town was a small one in western New York named Gibsonville, of which he could learn nothing. Then he set about the search in the city for Lillian Gentry with Tom Wignell's whole-hearted assistance.

DAY followed day, with no result; a week passed. It seemed impossible that she could disappear without a trace, unless some foul play had occurred. Tyler's worry became alarm, and deepened into anxiety of the sharpest. No response came from Gibsonville. He wrote again and again; he sent money; but he drew completely blank. He advertised, he offered rewards, all to no avail.

Meantime, the furious success of the play continued, as it was to continue for months and years. Tyler paid no heed; he withdrew from the company of the players, he would not appear in public, he was wholly absorbed in the search that now became an obsession. Another week passed.

Suddenly, one morning, Wignell showed up at his lodgings in high excitement.

"I've found her!" he cried. "Come along, Tyler, come along! The man's downstairs who carted her things. He knows the place!"

Tyler, half shaven, rushed down and talked with the carter whom Wignell had brought. Yes, the man could give him precise information. He had called at the Academy and had taken Miss Gentry's trunk. Where? To Harlem, to the house of one Gansevoort ; a mighty pretty place, said he.

Heaping money on the man, Tyler dressed and hastened forth to the livery- stable where his horses and carriage were kept. In ten minutes, with Wignell at his side, he was driving north out of the city at a mad pace. They came into Harlem with horses foam-white, found the Gansevoort house on the edge of town, found the stolid Gansevoort himself— but nothing else.

Yes, said Gansevoort, Miss Gentry had been with him— but had not given satisfaction. She had departed the last weekend, leaving her trunk here. There were eight children to be cared for, and what with the cooking and the housework, the job offered plenty to do.

"She was willing enough," said Gansevoort, "but I was afraid from the start she was too much of a fine lady, and so she was. Now we've got a black woman, and the place gets looked after. Where did she go? How do I know? She'll get no reference from me, that I can tell you! Why, I give you my word she'd be till ten o'clock at night just doing the house- work, let alone the sewing and darning and keeping the bricks scrubbed!"

Tyler walked back to the carriage with set, bitter face.

"A slavey— my God, a scrub-woman!" he said. "Tom, we must search the town."

They did so, and at the post-house came reward. The tavern-keeper remembered her well. She had taken the post on the Sunday— yes, the Albany stage. A sweet creature, said he, with a big bundle and a mighty sad face: ill, she was. George, the driver, had told him she went clear to Albany; that was all he could tell of her.

Wignell, perforce, returned to New York. Tyler went on to Albany with the carriage, and was there all the week, with no result whatever.

He returned to New York by boat, his search fruitless. Wignell met him; he looked ten years older, and his eyes were like gray stone eyes in a dead face. He had hoped desperately to find some mes- sage, some letter awaiting him here; there was no word of any kind.

"I'm packing," he said. "Then to Albany again, where I have searchers at work. If I learn nothing there, I'll go on to Gibsonville. It's somewhere in the western part of the state."

"Hallam wants to see you—"

"Hallam be damned!"

"But, man, it's about your next play!" cried Wignell. "You must do another at once!"

Tyler turned a look of torture upon him.

"There'll be no next play, Tom. I'm done with it for good and all. I never want to hear, speak or think of the theater again— never! Toss me that carpet- bag, will you?"

"But won't you at least see Hallam?"

"I'll see nobody."

THREE weeks later, Tyler drove into Gibsonville. Since his letters had received no answer, and since his search in Albany had produced nothing, he was certain that the answer must be here.

The place was little more than a village, a cluster of farmhouses grouped about a church, a store and a post tavern. When he had put up his horses, Tyler fell into talk with the landlord and asked in regard to Lillian Gentry.

"T don't know of her, your worship," was the reply. "Seems to me I have heard some talk about a Gentry girl who left town; must ha' been afore my time. There's Miss Abigail, and her mother; that's all that's left of the family. Cap'n Gentry, he was killed in the war, fightin' under Gates. I guess he didn't leave much behind him."

"What kind of a woman is Mrs. Gentry?"

"The Widder Gentry? Well, your worship, she's a tarnal proud woman. Right proud family all around, though gosh knows they got nothing much to be proud of, far's I know! I hear tell they used to be rich folks afore the war. They got a fine house, and a farm that keeps 'em in vittles. My wife's brother runs it, and he allows the widder is terrible hard in her dealin's. Her house is the green one up the street, second one past the meeting-house. And if you're aiming to sell her something, use the contraption on the door that knocks it for you. The pull-bell don't work, and if you knock with your fist they won't never come to the door. Mighty aristocratic folks, you bet; aint fittin' to have such feelin's in this country, but I reckon they ain't Tories, account him having been in the army."

Tyler walked up the street, passed the church, and turned in at the Gentry gate. Now that he was here, foreboding deep- ened to fear in his heart; he knew not what he would find, but had a feeling it would be nothing good. .

As directed, he used the door-knocker. The house reéchoed emptily to the sound. After a moment, the door opened; he bowed to a young woman, primly attired, who looked at him with eyes of fear.

"Good day," said Tyler. "Is Mrs. Gentry at home?"

"Yes," was the response. "Will you come into the parlor?"

"My name is Tyler. I'm trying to get some information about Miss Lillian— you must be her sister?"

The young woman ushering him into the formal parlor looked at him with eyes filled with actual terror. Before she could make any response, another voice sounded.

"Abigail! Did I hear my name?"

"Yes— yes, Mother," stammered Abigail. "It's a gentleman—" She still looked at Tyler, but now with something very like horror. "It's Mr. Tyler."

"Oh!"

Mrs. Gentry swept into the room with the word. She was an angular woman, tall and severe; in her eyes Tyler read a chill that was a thousandfold more uncompromising than the angry vehemence of Miss Semple.

"May I ask what you seek in this house, Mr. Tyler?" she demanded.

"Why, of course! I'm hoping to get some information about Mistress Lillian. You see, I'm a friend of hers."

"I know all about your friendship," said Mrs. Gentry. "I know about you, Mr. Tyler. The letters which you had the presumption to address here, are awaiting you. Abigail! Get the packet of letters from my room.'

"But— good Lord, Mrs. Gentry!" exclaimed Tyler. "I don't know why you should treat me as though I were some enemy! I've no intention of forcing myself upon you. I only hope to learn where your daughter is."

"I have no daughter, Mr. Tyler, except this child Abigail," said Mrs. Gentry inflexibly. She took the packet of letters that Abigail brought, and handed them to him as though the touch of them burned her. "Here are your letters, sir."

"Do you know where Lillian is?" demanded Tyler. A glance at the letters showed that none of them had been opened. "I have sent her money—"

"Your money is not desired here, Mr. Tyler, nor yourself," was the reply.' "I must now ask you to leave this house."

Tyler met her gaze. "If Lillian's here, I intend to see her. I don't know why you say that you have no daughter of that name—"

"I had a child of that name who brought vile disgrace upon this house and upon my family," said Mrs. Gentry with uncompromising hauteur. "She forfeited the right to be known by my name, Mr. Tyler. I believe you're fully aware of the shame her conduct in New York has entailed."

"I'm aware that she's a woman who might well be ashamed of such a mother," lashed out Tyler. "A woman of the finest, noblest character, so far above your petty and intolerant viciousness as to put you to shame indeed! And whether you like it or not, I'm going to find her if I have to walk through this house."

Mrs. Gentry turned. "Abigail! Ring the bell for the farmhands, and tell them to eject this obnoxious gentleman of the stage. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Mother," piped up the frightened Abigail. Then, as she looked at Tyler, something came into her eyes— some sudden gusty courage and resolve. "Lillian's in the spring-house," she blurted out, and fled.

Tyler bowed to Mrs. Gentry and walked out of the door, white with fury.

He strode around the house. At some little distance, in the rear, he saw the small structure that must be the spring-house. The clop-clop of a churn came to him as he drew near it. Something moved there— someone came into the doorway— a woman, toil-weary and ragged of dress, whose drooping figure was not that of Lillian at all. But the hair falling about her ears and face— that gorgeous red hair— that face, so wan and pallid—

"Thank God!" said Tyler devoutly, as he heard her cry out. "Lillian, Lillian—  what on earth does this mean?" He hurried to her, caught her in his arms.

"I should ask what it means, Royall," she said, her breath sobbing in her throat. She regarded him with something of the same terror Abigail had evinced, a woman's terror, not of the body but of the senses. "I heard—they told me the disgrace was such that you— you were ruined, your career was ended— that I had brought it all upon you!"

Tyler burst into a wild, mirthless, incredulous laugh.

"Good God! Why, it's insanity, rank madness, all of it! They never gave you my letters? Look, here they are, unopened! We've been searching night and day to find you; why didn't you come to me, in New York?"

"I was afraid." Her eyes flickered with the memory of that fear. "For you. Miss Semple— the other women— they were going to get the law upon you, they said. Oh, it may seem strange to you; to me it was terrible, terrible! And I had confessed, had told everything; I was afraid to face you, Royall. I was ill, too; ill and bewildered.... A woman has no place to go—"

"You have now, by the Lord!" he said.

IN the little tavern around the corner from the John Street Theater, Tom Wignell sat with Lewis Hallam over a bowl of punch; he was laboriously deciphering a letter.

"Well, speak up!" growled the veteran actor. cWhat does he say about another play? When is he coming back?"

"He isn't,' said Wignell. "Says he's going to Boston and stay there, and be a lawyer— a canting, sniveling rantipole of a lawyer!"

"Are those his words?" demanded Hallam suspiciously.

Wignell grinned. 'Well, words to that effect, anyhow, Lewis." Putting out a hand to his mug, he lifted it high. "Here's a toast to him, a toast to Fortunatus!"

Hallam clinked mugs solemnly. "To Fortunatus that was," he corrected. "And to the first play written by an American. Damn it all, Tom, what are we going to do if he won't write another play ?"

Wignell emptied his mug with a flourish and wiped his lips.

"Wait; there's a postscript to his letter that answers your question."

"Read it, then."

Wignell leaned forward, peering at the paper with an impish light in his eyes. He traced with his finger imaginary words across the blank lower part of the sheet.

"Here's what he says, Lewis: 'Happiness is where the heart is, and let the world go hang!' And amen, say I."

__________________

9: T. Jebberson

Ellis Parker Butler

1869-1937

The Blue Book, Aug 1916

NEW YORK boarding-houses shelter, from time to time, some extremely differing types, and it would be hard to imagine two couples more different than Grandma and Grandpa Bunker, and Colonel and Mrs. Jebberson, who had rooms on the same floor at Mrs. Wimmer's. Jabez Bunker was as sweetly innocent as a baby, and with his bald, pink head, kindly eyes and little nubbin of a nose, he looked like a baby. He was round and cheerful and guileless, and his gold-rimmed spectacles and little bunch of white chin-whiskers only emphasized all this. He looked, as he was, an innocent mid-West retired farmer; and nothing but his desire to do New Yorkers as they like to be done had induced him to give up the comforts of his home at Oroduna, Iowa, and come to the great metropolis to enter the profession of bunco-steerer and confidence man.

Dear old Grandma Bunker— than whom no gentler and sweeter old lady ever lived— was right proud of the way in which Grandpa Bunker has thus far succeeded in buncoing New Yorkers.

"Jabez," she often said to him, "it ain't right becomin' for your own wife to praise ye, but I must say that I'm downright glad you ain't loafin' around the grocery at Oroduna, listenin' to land knows what shameful gossip. A hundred times a day I thank my stars you've got a nice, clean, honest bunco-business to keep you busy."

Mr. Bunker agreed with her. Not for all the money in the world would he have turned his hand to anything dishonest, but bunco-steering was an easy, respectable calling. It kept Mr. Bunker from getting rusty, and as the cashier of the Oroduna Bank had once told Mr. Bunker: "It's a favor to take money from them New Yorkers; when they ain't being stung, they don't know they're alive."

The Jebbersons were a different couple entirely. Colonel Jebberson was an elderly and distinguished-looking gentleman, but at the time Mr. and Mrs. Bunker first entered Mrs. Wimmer's boarding-house, he seemed in evident hard luck. It was understood, vaguely, by Mrs. Wimmer and her boarders that Colonel Jebberson had some connection with Wall Street, but just what he had do with that money lane no one seemed to know. In any event Colonel Jebberson was quite evidently waiting for the hard times to take a turn for the better. He was a large and ruddy-faced man, somewhat Southern in appearance, and this he emphasized by wearing a long, black frock coat, a wide-brimmed soft hat and a goatee.

Mrs. Jebberson was, in a way, a holdover. She might have been called, if you chose, a remnant of one of Colonel Jebberson's jags of prosperity, for she still retained seemingly unending supplies of once fashionable and expensive gowns. She had jewels, too, but these faded from sight week after week as the Jebbersons remained at Mrs. Wimmer's.

In spite of his aristocratic Southern bearing, there was something sporty about Colonel Jebberson. He did not at all give the impression of a Virginia gentleman who had come to New York to wither peacefully among the high-balls. His wife's appearance increased this effect. Her hair was a mass of that yellow that comes naturally from no place but the peroxide-of-hydrogen bottle; her complexion quite evidently came in tubes and boxes. For all this. Mrs. Jebberson was, as Grandma Bunker said, "a real nice lady."

And so she was. The Colonel's lady could not help her looks. During one of his periods of prosperity the Colonel had snatched her from the front row of the chorus of the "Giddy Widow" burlesque troupe, but Mrs. Jebberson was a kindly, simple creature at heart. The weeks spent at Mrs. Wimmer's were intoxicating to her. She looked back on her many years of champagne suppers quite as ordinary mortals look back on Mother's cooking, and the gay life of Broadway was to her what to me or you would be the old life back on the farm. She enjoyed Mrs. Wimmer's boarding-house, and she loved Mrs. Bunker. They were great friends. One thing, however. Mrs. Jebberson never did: she never touched on the subject of Colonel Jebberson's past.

YOU may remember, if you have a  good memory, that in 1915 things began to look better down Wall Street way. If you can't remember that far back, you can look it up in the newspapers of that year, and you will see that Bethlehem Steel went to shocking heights, and an entire long list of stocks tagged along. Brokers who had been eating dry crackers, and wishing they had not used the cheese-rinds to bait mousetraps seven years before, began once more to scold the waiters because the pheasant was browned a bit too much. Little Bo Peep, the patron goddess of Wall Street, was leading whole droves of lambs back to be sheared. Everybody was gathering wool.

By the beginning of 1916 everyone was feeling fine.

"My dear," said Mrs. Jebberson to Grandma Bunker, early in January, "I'm just as happy! The Colonel is in business again, and when the Colonel gets into business, you can believe me— things hum. When it comes to this stock-and-bond thing, the Colonel is no slouch. Don't ask me anything about it; I'm a dead one when it comes to business, but the Colonel says we'll be rolling in wealth. Gee! do you know, I kind of hate to have to leave here. I've been happy!"

"Do you have to leave?" asked Grandma.

"Say, honest, you don't think the Colonel will stand for this hashery when he has a million in his pocket, do you? No," she sighed, "it will be Riverside Drive and a limousine and champagne for me again. Gee! but I hate it! It will be start the Swedish, and begin the Turkish baths, and commence the bant and do that 'Eat and Be Thin' stuff all over again! Honest, you don't know how I've enjoyed prunes and old clothes!"

"Poor thing!" said Grandma Bunker sympathetically.

"What's your husband makin' money at?" asked Jabez. looking up from his favorite book, "The Complete Confession of the King of Grafters."

"Oh ! stocks, I guess !" said Mrs. Jebberson.

That evening, when they were alone together, Grandma spoke to Jabez.

"Pa," she said, "don't you think maybe you'd ought to speak to Mis' Jebberson's husband? Seems like he's such a nice, well-meanin' man, and sellin' stocks don't seem it was honest. Ain't it kind of gamblin'?"

"All depends," said Mr. Bunker as he removed his shoes. "Some stock- sellin' ain't gamblin'— it's straight bunco-business. Ma."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Banker, much relieved. "Then it's all right. Maybe the kind of stock-sellin' Mis' Jebberson's husband is doin' is bunco-business. If it is, I don't feel so bad. Jabez, do you reckon it is bunco stock-sellin' he is into?"

"Shouldn't wonder. Ma," said Mr. Bunker. "He sort of strikes me as the kind of feller that would sell bunco stocks."

"Yes," said Mrs. Bunker placidly, "he is a nice man, ain't he?"

WITHIN a day or two after this conversation, newspapers in New York and several other large American cities blazed (if black and white can blaze) with advertisements of the Timpantee Oil Wells Company. The stock in this company was offered at the shockingly generous price of ten cents per share, but as the company was incorporated for $100,000,000 with a par value of one dollar a share, it was easy to see that, if all the stock was sold, the amount received would be ten million dollars.

What particularly interested Mr. Bunker was the fact that the firm of Jebberson & Hick was given as the fiscal agents of the Timpantee Oil Wells Company. Hardly a week later, another striking advertisement appeared in the newspapers, and this time it was the Podwolloger Munitions Company, and again Jebberson & Hick were the fiscal agents. The capital stock of the Podwolloger Munitions Company was $50,000,000, par value one dollar per share, and Jebberson & Hick offered the stock at twenty cents per share.

The advertising of these two companies was enticing, but it was safe. The fiscal agents of the Timpantee Oil Wells Company stated, in bold headlines, that hundreds of billions of dollars had been made in oil wells, and that millions had been made out of properties on either side of the Timpantee holdings, but they did not promise anything for the Timpantee. They avoided making any definite promise of returns: all they promised was to sell stock to whomever wanted it.

The same was, in a general way, true of the Podwolloger Munitions advertising. Bethlehem Steel and Dupont Powder were mentioned, but Podwolloger Munitions did not promise, in cold type, any such profits as those companies had reaped. It left that to the imagination of the possible investor. This was wise, because time and again fake companies that had seemed veritable gold mines for their promoters had jolted against the law by promising what they could not perform. Many an eager fiscal agent and promoter has had to drop a bonanza and fly into hiding because he was so careless as to promise some definite return on a sucker's investment. Such promises were often made before it was learned that no such bait was needed to catch the sucker. Many a promoter has gone out of sight forever because, in a moment of enthusiasm, he has written into his prospectus "We feel safe in promising—"

The week after Jebberson & Hick began advertising Podwolloger Munitions, they advertised with equal publicity Camera King Photoplay Company, capital stock $100,000,000.

"Well," said Mrs. Jebberson to Mrs. Bunker the Sunday morning the Camera King Photoplay Company advertisement first appeared, "I guess it's pack the trunks for me."

"Goin' to move?" asked Mr. Bunker.

"Oh, yes!" sighed Mrs. Jebberson. "Back to the champagne belt for me and the Colonel! It's perfectly awful, the Colonel says, how money is coming in. His partner, Mr. Hick, is a wonder."

"Old hand at it, I reckon," suggested Mr. Bunker.

"That's just what he ain't." said Mrs. Jebberson. "He's new and fresh at it. The Colonel says that's why he is so good. He ain't afraid to cut loose."

"Young man, hey?" said Mr. Bunker.

"Twenty-eight." said Mrs. Jebberson, "but wise— wise as Noah, or whoever the feller was."

"Solomon." suggested Mrs. Bunker.

"Seems like this fiscal agenting was a good business," said Mr. Bunker.

"Well, I'll tell you one thing," said Mrs. Jebberson. "The office took in forty-seven thousand dollars week before last from Timpantec Oil Wells alone, and last week sixty-live thousand from Timpantec and Podwolloger, and goodness knows what it will be this week with this Camera King added on. And the Colonel is going West to-night to pick up a couple of flivver copper prospects so they can spring the Rory O'Boris Copper Company week after next. Honest, I feel all wined up already!"

"Colonel going to be gone long?" asked Mr. Bunker.

"Ten days," said Mrs. Jebberson. "He's got to be back then to help launch the Ultra-oceanic Mercantile Marine Company."

THAT evening Mr. Bunker sat long studying the advertisement of the Camera King Photoplay Company.

"Pa." said Mrs. Bunker, "ain't you goin' to bed to-night?"

"In a minute. Ma, in a minute!" said Grandpa. "I'm tryin' to figger out what kind o' bunkin' I'll do this week."

"Oh!" said Grandma, "I thought maybe you was wastin' your time readin' the Sunday paper. If it's business. Pa, you can set up as long as you like,"

"Well, I guess I wont set up no longer," said Jabez. "I guess I got a kind of idea I can sort of work up, somehow."

The next morning Mr. Bunker was up bright and early. He chuckled from time to time as he drew on his socks and laced his shoes, and Grandma Bunker, as she dressed, cast loving glances at the bald top of his head, for she liked to see Jabez happy in his work. After breakfast she gave him a kiss and nestled his scarf neatly under his overcoat collar.

"Well, Jabez," she said. "I hope you'll have good luck. Don't do nothin' you'll be ashamed of, but if you have a chance to bunk, bunk good and hard. A man had ought to put his whole heart in his work."

"Yes, Ma," he answered; "I wouldn't feel honest if I slighted my work."

Once before, Mr. Bunker had had occasion to do business with a small printer in one of the side streets off Fifth Avenue, and now he went there again. The printer looked up as Mr. Bunker entered.

"Hello!" he said. "How's the Italian-American War Supply Company?" for that was the name Mr. Bunker had had printed on certain stock-certificates at his former visit. "Come back to have a few more bales of that stock printed?"

"Why, no, I ain't." said Mr. Bunker as he unbuttoned his coat and removed his scarf. "I reckon I wont bother with no more of that stock. I wonder if you could print me up some nice, likely-lookin' gold-mine stock?"

"Sure!" said the printer. "Sure! but between you and me, sir, gold-mine stock ain't what folks are crazy for now. If you want to catch 'em now. you ought to have oil-well or copper or motion-picture stock printed, or stick to this war-baby kind — munitions or something like that. Look at how this Timpantee and Podwolloger and Camera King is advertising!"

"Seems like I did take notice of it," said Mr. Bunker. "I guess maybe you're right; fashions change, don't they? One time the easy marks don't want nothin' but gold mines, and another time copper mines, and another time the style runs to something else. But I don't know! I been wearin' the same style of pants for goin' on forty years, and I reckon I ain't stylish, anyway. I guess an old feller like me had better stick to what he's used to. In my day gold-mine stock was what we was buyin' out to Oroduna, Iowa, and I guess if it's all the same to you. I'll let you print me up a hunk of nice gold- mine stock."

"You're the boss!" said the printer.

"I sort of figgered on gold-mine stock with some sort of name like Orobotoro Gold Mining Company. Something with, say, about five "hundred thousand dollars capital, five dollars par per share, one hundred thousand shares."

"Now, listen!" said the printer earnestly. "Folks don't fall for five-hundred-thousand-dollar-capital companies any more. You take my advice and make it one hundred million, or something like that, and—"

"I kind o' set my heart on havin' it one of them old-style conservative companies," said Jabez, so reluctantly that the printer waved his hand.

"Have it your own way!" he said. "How's this for the sample of the certificate?"

"Kind of nice, ain't it?" said Mr. Bunker as he examined the golden yellow engraved sheet. "I guess you can print me up about a quire or two like that."

"And how do you spell this name, Orobotoro, or whatever it is?"

"Spell it any way you want to," said Mr. Bunker. "It don't make much difference how it's spelled. I ain't particular."

MATTERS being thus nicely arranged, Mr. Bunker left the affair in the hands of the printer, and when he returned, later in the day, the printer had the stock-certificates ready. Mr. Bunker took the package under his arm and went home with it.

When Mr. Bunker entered his room, he found Mrs. Jebberson and Grandma Bunker having tea together for the last time before Mrs. Jebberson 's removal to her superb apartments on Riverside Drive.

"Well, Jabez," asked his wife after he had greeted her with a kiss and had shaken Mrs. Jebberson's hand, "have you done good?"

"I got started. Ma," he said cheerfully, and he unwrapped the stock-certificates.

"My! them look real nice!" said Mrs. Bunker, and Mrs. Jebberson agreed.

"They certainly ought to make the heart of an easy mark happy," she said. "The Colonel was saying to me that the time for him to make money out of this stock game was right now, because everybody would jump into it as soon as they saw what a lot of money Jebberson & Hick were making. If this don't prove it, I don't know what does, but I don't know who I would rather see make money than your husband, Mrs. Bunker. Only—"

"Only what ?" asked Mr. Bunker.

"Only I do think you hadn't ought to have blown your cash for gold-mine certificates. Gold mines are back numbers. You might as well try to make a Broadway audience go crazy over a 'Black Crook' show as to get the easy marks to buy gold-mine stock in this day and age. There was a time not so long ago when the Colonel went in for gold-mine stocks, but— never again! Not until the style changes back to gold mines, anyway."

"Pshaw, now!" said Mr. Bunker; and Grandma Bunker looked glum for just a moment, until Jabez winked at her slyly. Then, her faith renewed in her husband's wisdom, she was happy again.

"Ma," said Mr. Bunker, looking at his thumb, "these here certificates ain't right dry yet, and I don't want to fold 'em up whilst they're wet. S'pose you and Mis' Jebberson help me spread 'em out to dry?"

Mrs. Jebberson and Grandma were glad to be of assistance. They spread the certificates over the bed and over the chairs until the room glowed with yellow, and then Jabez seated himself at the table, and with a stub pencil, began composing the document advertising the Orobotoro Gold Mine stock. Again and again he erased a word with the greasy rubber in the end of the pencil, until at last he had the document to his satisfaction; then he set his gold-rimmed spectacles firmly on his nose, and like a boy reading a school composition of which he is proud, he read it aloud.

To dear old Grandma Bunker it seemed a work of genius, but when Jabez had completed the reading. Mrs. Jebberson wrinkled her brow and shook her head.

"Let me see it," she said, holding out her hand. "I don't pretend to be up in such things,— if the Colonel was here, he could tell you easily enough what is wrong about it,— but there's one thing I do know: this is dangerous."

"Hey?" asked Mr. hunker. "Dangerous?"

"This line here," said Mrs. Jebberson. "There's one thing the wife of a man who has been selling stocks as long as the Colonel has gets to know in spite of herself. Hick could tell you; he's a wise boy; but I know enough to know this is all wrong. This line says: "We guarantee enormous profits.' You had better scratch that right out, Mr. Bunker, because that is where fraud comes in, and the post-office people come right down on you."

Mr. Bunker took the paper and held the stubby pencil poised over it

"You think that's enough to get me into jail?" he asked.

"Oh, absolutely!" said Mrs. Jebberson, and Mr. Bunker ran his pencil through the offending sentence.

IT was still early, and Mr. Bunker went out with the manuscript, leaving the ladies to their own devices. There was a small printer near at hand (for printing a circular was less of a job than printing the stock-certificates), and Mr. Bunker confided the printing of the circular to him; but before he handed the manuscript to the printer, he added a line in which the name of T. Jebberson appeared; and he carefully rewrote the sentence, "We guarantee enormous profits."

The printer noticed the offending sentence the moment his eye fell on the circular manuscript.

"I'd leave this out." he said, indicating it. "Maybe you know this game, but somebody told me once that that was the sort of thing that gets all you stock fellers into trouble."

"Leave it in!" said Mr. Bunker.

"All right. I suppose you know your business," said the printer, "but you must have a jim-dandy of a mine if you are willing to take a chance like that. You must have a mine that will make good."

"I guess maybe I have," said Mr. Bunker.

"And about how many of these do you want printed?" asked the printer. 'Well, now." said Mr. Bunker, beaming through his spectacles, "I reckon one might get torn or something. Print up two of them."

"Two?"

"Yes, two."

"It wont cost any more to print a hundred."

"Well, I guess two will be about plenty," said Mr. Bunker, and he seated himself cosily until the printer had set up and struck off two copies of the circular. These Mr. Bunker folded carefully and placed in his pocket, after which he returned to his rooms.

MRS. JEBBERSON had departed when Mr. Bunker returned; Mrs. Bunker was gathering up the Orobotoro certificates, which were now thoroughly dry. Mr. Bunker wet one of the printed circulars in the water pitcher and hung it behind the gas-jet After supper he and Grandma spent a pleasant evening folding the Orobotoro stock-certificates.

The next day was Tuesday, and opened with snow which turned to slush as it fell. By nine o'clock one of the pleasant New York drizzles had set in, but Mr. Bunker did not care. He did not intend to go out until noon. All morning he sat at the table in his room, folding and refolding one of the circulars he had had printed, until it was limber at the creases and greasy at the folds. Long before noon it looked as if it had been carried in a pocket many days, and then Mr. Bunker placed it in his pocket From the closet he dragged his empty oil-board telescope valise, and into this he threw a few garments. From the neat pile of Orobotoro Gold Mine shares he selected enough to represent three thousand dollars par value, and these he placed in the telescope valise on top of the garments.

"Pa," asked Mrs. Bunker anxiously, "be you goin' to take a trip somewheres?"

"Yes, Ma', I be." said Mr. Bunker, his eyes twinkling; "us bunco men don't ever know when we got to go travelin."

"Are ye goin' to be gone long, Jabez?" asked his wife.

"Well, I sort o' figger on gettin' back in time for dinner to-night." chuckled Mr. Banker. "Matter of fact, Ma, I ain't startin' for nowhere; I'm arrivin' from Oroduna, as you may say. I'm an old fool of an Iowa farmer arrivin' in New York and gawkin' up at the tall buildings. I'm a jay with straw clingin' to my heel, and the stable smell not quite wafted out o' my clothes."

"Jabez!" said Mrs. Bunker sharply, "don't you talk to me that way! Where be you makin' this trip to?"

"Well, Ma," said Mr. Bunker seriously, "I'm goin' down to Wall Street to bunk folks there. I'm goin' down to sell some o' this Orobotoro Gold Mine stock before it gets fly-specked. Don't you fret. Ma; I'll be back in time for dinner."

IMMEDIATELY after the light lunch Mrs. Wimmer provided for such of her boarders as did not take lunch elsewhere, Mr. Bunker issued from the boarding-house with his telescope valise in his hand and walked to the subway station. Here he boarded a train for Brooklyn Bridge, where he changed cars to the Brooklyn Express, which, as all the world must know, stops at Wall Street and other downtown stations before it plunges under the river. At Wall Street, Mr. Bunker left the train and climbed the stairs to the street. Three boys (one newsboy and two W. U. messengers) laughed at him the moment he reached the street, which is Broadway.

Unmindful of their mirth, Mr. Bunker stood awhile looking up at the tall buildings while the hurrying pedestrians bumped into him and pushed him from side to side. He seemed confused and lost when he next gave his attention to the street, and a policeman stepped up to him.

"Well, Uncle." he said to Mr. Bunker, "lost? What are you looking for?"

Mr. Bunker placed his telescope valise on the walk and put a foot on either side of it. He searched his pockets until he found a crumpled clipping and unfolded it. It was an advertisement of "The Timpantee Oil Wells Company, Jebberson & Hick, Fiscal Agents."

"Where kin I find them folks at?" he asked.

The policeman grinned. It was not his duty to steer innocent country folk away from Jebberson & Hick. He took Mr. Bunker by the arm and pointed down Wall Street.

"You see that building down that street?" he said. "That's Wall Street, and that's the building you're looking for. You go into that building, and you'll find a man there in uniform. He's the elevator starter. You ask him where to find Jebberson & Hick and he'll tell you. Don't be afraid to go right into the elevator; they're safe, those elevators. And when you get to the floor where the elevator man tells you to get out, you just look around and you'll find. the name on a door."

"Much obliged. Officer," said Mr. Bunker, and insisted on shaking the officer's hand. He picked up his burden and crossed Broadway and entered the gully called Wall Street. As the policeman had said he would find the elevator starter, so he found him, and in a few moments he was before the entrance to Jebberson & Hick's offices on the eighteenth floor of the building. He opened the door cautiously and entered.

THERE were some eighteen or twenty clerks in the office, and many of them seemed to have nothing to do but open mail and take out checks and money-orders. Boys were carrying heaps of these from desk to desk, and through an open door Mr. Bunker had a view of seeming dozens of bookkeepers and other clerks. There was an unending rattle of typewriters and jingling of telephones and call-bells. Across the front of the office, shutting Mr. Bunker off from this busy enclosure, was a mahogany railing with a small gate, and just inside the gate sat a young woman, alert, saucy and overdressed for her position. As Mr. Bunker stood staring, she turned her head toward him, and he walked up to the gate.

"Hooja wanta see?" she asked.

Mr. Bunker looked past her at the clerks.

"I don't see no sight of him in there," he said. "Maybe this ain't where he stays at."'

"Whatziz name?" asked the girl.

"Well, now," said Mr. Bunker, "I reckon it's Jebberson. Tall, fine-lookin' feller, with a sort of goatee and a reddish face. Looks sort of like a Confederate gen'ral."

"It's Jebberson," said the girl. "Sowta town."

"Pshaw now!" said Mr. Bunker regretfully. "Jebberson, hey? Yes, that's the' name. Well, I guess maybe it don't matter; I guess maybe you can give me my money back."

The look the young woman gave Mr. Bunker indicated that, in her opinion, he must be the prize easy mark of the world. Money back ! Who ever heard of such a thing!

"Fyou gottany Timpantee 'r Podwolloger, you better hang onto it. 'S goinup," she said briskly.

"Well, now. I dare say maybe you're right," said Mr. Bunker, "but I ain't got My of them stocks. I've got Orobotoro Gold Mine stock, a whole hunk of it, and seein' as Mister Jebberson said when I bought it that it was goin' to make a lot of money, and as it ain't made a durn cent, I reckoned maybe he'd buy it back. Bill Ransom, he's the county attorney out to Oroduna, Iowa, and he says all I got to do is show a post-office detective the letter I got from Mister Jebberson, and I can have Mister Jebberson jailed, but I don't want to do nothin' as mean as that 'less I have to. But I guess I can't spend no great time around New York. I'm figgerin' on startin' back to Oroduna to-morrow and I guess if Mr. Jebberson ain't in town, I'll go to the post office and—"

" 'Staminute! Maybe Mr. Hick'll see you," said the young lady, and she hurried into an office opening into the main room. Mr. Hick came out not a minute later he walked right up to the gate and opened it and invited Mr. Hunker inside and led him into the private office. He waved Mr. Bunker into a chair and thrust a cigar at him.

MR. HICK was a brisk young man with a face as hard and keen as a flint. His eyes were like bits of metal.

Jebberson & Hick were making money so rapidly he was almost frightened. It was pouring in on Them by every mail, and he saw new deluges of money threatening as soon as the new ventures were launched. He was keen, and he had a high-priced attorney go over every form letter and advertisement to make sure Jebberson & Hick were well within the law, but the rapid growth of the firm's mail had attracted the attention of the post-office authorities, and he had no doubt his firm was being investigated. It was evident that if the golden flood was to continue for a while, Jebberson & Hick must bear a decent reputation.

"What's this Miss Miggs is telling me?" he snapped. "Did you buy some stock from Jebberson? When? Where? What kind of stock?"

"Out to Oroduna, Iowa, by mail," said Mr. Bunker, unstrapping his telescope valise. " 'Bout eight years ago. Three thousand dollars. Orobotoro Gold Mine."

"Never heard of it I" said Mr. Hick. "Well, there she is!" said Mr. Bunker, slapping the pile of stock certificates on Mr. Hick's desk. "Never paid me a cent, and here's the letter Mr. Jebberson sent me; it says right here. 'We guarantee enormous profits.' "

"The swelled-up old idiot!" said Mr. Hick angrily, glaring at the crease-worn circular that Mr. Bunker had had printed Monday afternoon. "Orobotoro Gold! A nice name! That's what a soft-brained fellow like Jebberson does when he tries it on his own hook. Eight years ago?"

"Well, I reckon it was about eight years ago," said Mr. Bunker. "'Twas the year my red cow got into the turnip-patch and—"

"I don't want to hear about your turnip-patch!" snapped Mr. Hick. "You say you paid three thousand dollars for this stuff?"

"That's what it says on the certificates." said Mr. Bunker, leaning forward to take one of them.

"Oh, tut!" exclaimed Mr. Hick angrily. "You wait here— understand?"

With the bundle of Orobotoro shares and the circular letter Mr. Hick went  into another room. He closed the door. In a chair in this room sat an elderly man with an unusually large head, almost as bald as Mr. Bunker's head.

"Judge," said Mr. Hick, "here's a nice business! There's a jay in my office who brought in this stock and this circular. Some of Jebberson's brilliant work! Read that circular!"

The judge read it slowly, shaking his head as he read it.

"Penal offense, Hick," he said.

"Yes, and I had an inkling Jebberson had been in some dusky games." said Hick angrily. "He swore his skirts were clear, but I had a feeling, I tell you! A young man shouldn't tie up with a man as old as Jebberson; who knows what will pop up out of his past? Well?"

"Hick," said the lawyer, "buy him off! Buy his stock back! You might say wait until Jebberson comes back and let him buy his own dead horses— but can you take the chance? How much are you and Jebberson taking in now? Ten thousand a day? Twelve thousand? You and Jebberson are well inside the law in these new deals; they're making you a mint of money; you can afford to buy up all the old dead horses Jebberson has floating around, and you can't afford to have any scandal strike this firm now. Buy him off!"

"My idea exactly!" said Hick, and being a man of action, he walked back into his own office.

"You say you want three thousand for this stock ?" he asked.

"Well, I sort of thought—" Mr. Bunker began.

"I'll buy it from you for three thousand, and not a cent more." said Mr. Hick. "Take it or leave it!"

Mr. Bunker sighed.

"I'll take it," he said, "but I feel sort of cheated. The letter said enormous profits was guaranteed."

"And the price includes the circular letter," said Mr. Hick.

"Well, I guess you can have that if you want it," said Jabez. "Tain't worth nothin' to me. If you was to pay me in cash, I guess I can throw in the letter."

Mr. Hick pressed one of the numerous buttons at the side of his desk.

"Brownlee," he said to the man who appeared in answer, "bring me three thousand in bills and charge it to advertising expense."

WHEN Mr. Bunker had pocketed his three thousand dollars and restrapped his telescope valise and disappeared down the elevator, Mr. Hick entered the judge's office.

"A thing like that we can't afford to have get out," he said.

"No," said the judge, who was still scanning the circular, "you are right. Hick. A thing like that you can't afford to have noised around. Why, hello I"

He bent his head closer over the circular.

"What is it?" asked Hick.

"Look here!" said the judge. "See this printer's mark on the bottom of this circular? 'P. Murphy. Printer, 963 W. 122 Street, New York.' Hick, there wasn't any printer there eight years ago. There wasn't any printer there five years ago. There wasn't any printer there two years ago. I know, because I own that property. Two years ago that was a vacant lot—"

"Stung!" said Hick. "Worked for easy marks by a jay!"

"Yes, stung! Buncoed!" said the judge. "And Hick, that's another thing a prosperous firm of fiscal agents can't afford to have noised around!"

When Mr. Bunker returned home, Grandma Bunker was already in the dining-room; he took his seat at her side, and opening his napkin, tucked it in his collar and spread it across his broad front.

"Well, Jabez," said Mrs. Bunker, "I guess by the way you look you done some business."

"Yes, Ma," said Mr. Bunker, "I'm right proud of it, too. I stang the Wall Street folks themselves to-day. I sold 'em them certificates you and me folded last night."

"Well, I dunno as they'd feel bad about it," said Grandma Bunker. "Most anybody'd be glad to own them certificates— they're so pretty."

__________________

10: Why, of Course

James Edmond Casey
fl. 1910s

Top-Notch Magazine, Feb 1912

THE stout, loud-waistcoated man struck out of the swirl of the Broadway crowd and into the dazzling jewelry store of Radlang & Co., at Oakland, California.

"I want to buy a diamond ring for my daughter," he informed the first clerk behind the polished glass counter. "Doubtless you've read about my daughter and her coming marriage." he pompously went on, as his thick fingers fumbled amid the array of rings. "Dorothea De los O'Brien, you know. I'm Pedar De los O'Brien." And he proffered a card.

The clerk was astounded. For he had judged the man, from appearances and manner, a cheap sport, or politician of the prosperous saloonkeeper brand. But De los O'Brien! That was a name to conjure with across the bay in San Francisco. Here, in Oakland, O'Brien was known only by reputation as the lumber and shipping king of the Pacific Coast.

"This about hits what I want." The expensively though flashily dressed Mr. De los O'Brien held up a plain band gold ring set with a handsome diamond. "What may be the price of this?"

"Two hundred and ten dollars, sir."

Without another word, the portly money king drew out as portly a wallet. But, after a quick examination of its contents, it appeared something was wrong. Mr. De los O'Brien looked up.

"I have only a hundred and sixty-five dollars here," he explained. "And, worse luck, I haven't my check book on me. But— oh, I forgot—" And he withdrew from another recess of the wallet a crisp pink check.

He handed that to the waiting clerk.

"This is for one thousand dollars," he said. "You can take it out of that."

But the clerk seemed doubtful.

"I don't think we can cash it," he hesitatingly explained. "You see, sir, it is a rule with us never to accept a check for more than the amount of the purchase. But, if you'll pardon me a moment, I'll see Mr. Radlang, the boss, and find out just what we can do for you in this case."

Quickly the clerk reappeared, in the wake of a small, gray, wizened man, who was red of face and evidently angry.

"Look here, sir!" said this little person, leaning across the glass case. "You sure have got your nerve with you! Coming in here and trying to work off a bad check and pocket the change! But I'm too wise to fall for any such old game as that! Tut, tut ! I don't care who you say you are! I never saw you before in my life! But I think you—"

"That'll do, sir!" The portly man had drawn himself up, indignant. "You've gone far enough. So I am trying to swindle you — I, Pedar De los O'Brien! I'll have you to know, sir, that I could buy your store ten times over and never feel it. Bad check! I wouldn't have offered it, only I never for a minute thought there was any one in business in Oakland who didn't know Pedar De los O'Brien, of San Francisco."

The stranger's hurt, confident manner, and his quiet repetition of that powerful name, all had an effect on the little jeweler. He calmed down with surprising suddenness, and when he spoke again, it was in a more reasonable tone of voice.

"But can't you see it's a business proposition, Mr. De los O'Brien?" Radlang expostulated. "My attitude is only businesslike and perfectly proper. Personally, I would take your word for it and cash your check right now. But that isn't good business."

Mr. De los O'Brien saw that.

"You're right," he said. "You're perfectly right. But, just the same, it roiled me a bit to be mistaken for a swindler." Suddenly his face brightened, as though with an inspiration. "Jingo!" he exclaimed. "I'll tell you what I'll do. I can't let you take my word for it and cash this check. No; that isn't good business, as you say. But I'll prove to you who I am, and that will show I am far above committing any swindle."

His enthusiasm was contagious.

"How?" from Radlang. "What is it?"

"This, just this : I'm going away for a few days— up to Eureka to look over some shipments of timber. I'll call in when I return. In the meantime, you can find out whether my check is good by putting it through the bank. You will keep both check and ring till I look in again. Now, what do you think of it?"

The jeweler failed to see how he ran any risk so long as he retained both check and ring. Added to this, his curiosity had been aroused in regard to his would-be customer. For his own benefit, he wanted to determine the true status of the man.

"I guess the old fellow's Pedar De los O'Brien all right, after all," he said to himself, as he indorsed the check and inclosed it with others for the banks.

And, as the days passed, the stronger his convictions grew that the check was good. Why, otherwise, should the portly stranger so desire to have it put through and proven? Imagine his surprise, then, when, three days later, the check for one thousand dollars came back from the bank on which it was drawn, with a little slip attached which read: "No funds."

"Well, I see it all now," the jeweler said, communing with himself, after the first shock. "He was just saving his face by trying to make good on his bluff. Anyhow, I'll keep this as a souvenir of Pedar De los O'Brien, or whatever his real name is. For I know I'll never see him again."

ii

THAT very afternoon, who should * stride largely into the store but the smiling, portly Mr. Pedar De los O'Brien.

"Well, how about that check of mine?" were his first words.

Radlang broke into that "I-told-you- so" smile so common after elections and prize fights. Without a word, he laid before the stranger the pink check and the attached "no funds" slip.

A look of blank amazement came over the other's face. He studied the check as though unable to believe the evidence of his eyes. Then, of a sudden, he burst out laughing, his ample stomach heaving up and down and his broad face going red with merriment.

"Well, and no wonder !" he exclaimed when he had regained sufficient control of himself. "No wonder it came back ! I asked the clerk up at my hotel for a blank check on my bank— and he gave me this. Why, it is drawn on the wrong bank. Ha, ha! No wonder it came back. But no matter—"

He drew out his now well-filled wallet, and deposited the check therein. Then he withdrew two one hundred dollar bills and a gold eagle, which he tendered, amid profuse apologies, in payment for the diamond ring.

"I guess you won't  object to taking this kind of money," he laughed. And, pocketing the ring, he departed.

Behind him, he left a sadly muddled little gray jeweler. What in the world, Radlang asked himself, was beneath all this jugglery? That something was afoot he felt in his bones; but what it was, old business man though he was, he could not tell. He had an uncomfortable feeling of being the victim of an exceedingly clever swindler. It was uncanny, like a premonition of danger; but all he could do to combat it was to breathe the hope that he had seen the last of the suave, well-fed Mr. Pedar De los O'Brien, of San Francisco.

iii

IT was the intention of the portly check giver that he should see no more of the uncheatable Mr. Radlang. Yet that fact did not account for his going to another jewelry store that day.

It appears that Radlang was not the only jeweler in Oakland whom Pedar had favored with his patronage. For, when he called at Hatton & Jenkil's "Diamond Palace" that afternoon, the head of the firm, Mr. Jenkil, gave him a nod of recognition.

The store was pretty full with the Saturday afternoon shopping crowd. De los O'Brien went to the repair counter, presented a ticket, and received a diamond ring which he had left there to be reset. He had decided to give this commission to Hatton & Jenkil after Mr. Radlang had cruelly refused to favor him with change in real money on the thousand-dollar check.

Strangely enough, however, the usually wise Pedar De los O'Brien had not profited by that humiliating experience. For here he was standing at the cashier's window, bill for the resetting of the ring in hand, and again tendering that scorned thousand-dollar check in payment.

To be sure, the check now bore the indorsement of a certain financially sound jeweler— Mr. Radlang, to be exact.

Mr, Jenkil, who was taking cash that day, said, after examining the check on both sides:

"I beg your pardon, sir, but we have never done business with you, except to the extent of resetting this ring ; and this is rather a large check— one thousand dollars— to offer in payment for that service. There would be nine hundred and seventy-eight dollars change."

Mr. Pedar De los O'Brien's face began to take on that look of indignation which he could so easily summon to his aid. He did not have a chance to speak, for, noting the change in his countenance, Mr. Jenkil went on, in a conciliatory tone:

"As Mr. Radlang has indorsed this check and put his O.K. on it, it must be good. It's after banking hours, as you say, and there is no other way you can cash the check, so—"

He did not finish the sentence. Instead, he stepped off his high seat, backed out of the cash cage, slammed the grated door behind him, and stepped briskly to the rear of the store, where there was a telephone.

De los O'Brien's first impulse was to "beat it"; but by the time he got to the door, he reflected that he might be throwing away a chance to get that nine hundred and seventy-eight dollars change.

He had lived on chances several years, and his waist measurement had increased steadily. Chances were his stock in trade. The present one was rather desperate, he had to admit. He knew that Jenkil had gone to the phone to ask Radlang about his indorsement of that check. Of course— well, time enough to lay down your cards when you see the other chap has you beaten.

Mr. De los O'Brien decided to remain just where he was, standing at the door; and when Jenkil came away from the phone he would be able to see from the man's face just what had happened— whether the reply had come from Radlang himself, exposing the attempted game, or whether the reply had come from a clerk, Radlang being absent.

De los O'Brien had figured that it was about time for Radlang to be absent from his store, on his way to the ball game. If some one else answered the inquiry, the information given about the check might be such as to make Jenkil waver and possibly cash it. A slim chance, to be sure ; but a chance, nevertheless ; and Mr. De los O'Brien did not find it in his heart to throw it away. If it became necessary to beat a swift, undignified retreat, he had a taxi- cab awaiting him.

So he stood by the door, pretending to be looking at articles of jewelry, but really with his sharp eyes fixed on the telephone and the man before it.

Presently Mr. De los O'Brien saw the jeweler rattling the hook excitedly, and heard him crying "Hello!" repeatedly. Evidently the connection had been broken before his talk was finished with whomever the person was who had answered the call.

After a while, Jenkil hung up the receiver and walked back to the cashier's cage, an annoyed look on his face. The watcher at the door saw him take up the check again, put it in a drawer, and begin counting out the cash.

Expanding his chest, with renewed courage and a tolerant smile on his ample countenance, Mr. Pedar De los O'Brien moved toward the cashier to receive his hard-earned change.

iv

RADLANG, the rich jeweler, but poor casher of strange checks, was an ardent baseball fan. It was his delight on Saturday afternoons to take off his collar and sweat on the grand stand, rooting riotously for the Oakland team. Usually he was accompanied by a man the public believed his bitterest rival, Mr. Jenkil, of Jenkil & Hatton, manufacturing and retail jewelers, of Broadway.

Radlang was about to call up his friend to see if he were going to the game that afternoon, when a call came from Jenkil himself.

''Say, Radlang," came over the wire, "there's a man named Pedar De los O'Brien here with a check for a thousand dollars bearing your indorsement. Did you indorse it?"

By the time Jenkil had got to his question, Radlang was so excited that he burst into hysterical laughter. "Oh, yes, I indorsed it," he answered, his fingers twitching so that he could scarcely hold the receiver to his ear. "Oh, yes. But don't you pay it, Jenkil! Don't you take it. I'll be right around. Hold the scoundrel, and I'll pick up a policeman on the way, and we'll have him locked up. Be sure you hold him, now. Get me?"

There was no response.

"Jenkil!" shouted Radlang into the transmitter. "Do you understand?"

Still no answer. Then the jeweler began to rattle the hook, just as Jenkil was doing at his end. Blessing the girl at central, and realizing that there was not a moment to be lost, Radlang caught up his hat and tore out of the store.

"Afraid of missing the first of the game," sneered one of the clerks.

"Yes," chimed in another. "The boss is getting to be a bigger bug every day on baseball."

As Radlang dashed through the street, it all came to him in a staggering flash. It was plain to him now that the purchase of the diamond ring and the putting through of the one-thousand-dollar check was only a brilliant scheme to get his good indorsement on a worthless check. Then the portly swindler, by means of having a ring reset, or something, had scraped a business acquaintance with Jenkil. And now in payment he was proffering that bad check with the excuse that he could not change it elsewhere because the banks were closed.

And poor Jenkil was falling for the swindle— until he had been told not to pay it. A horrible thought entered Radlang's mind. Had Jenkil heard that part of the message? Had it reached him before the connection was broken?

With a cold shiver from head to foot, the little gray jeweler vaulted into control of himself. He arrived at the store, and stepped forward just in time to block the way of Mr. Pedar De los O'Brien.

But the latter was not in the trade of swindling business men because of any lack of brains on his part or presence of mind. His right hand shot forward to grasp that of Mr. Radlang.

"Why, how d'ye do?" he beamed. "So glad to meet you again. But I'm in a fierce hurry to get a train for Los Angeles! Good-by!"

But the jeweler, though a small man, held so tightly to the swindler's hand that he could not wrench away.

"Not so fast, Mr. O'Brien," he said loudly, to attract attention and help. "It was a close shave, but I got you by the skin of my teeth. And I'll trouble you, before I hand you over to the police, to return Mr. Jenkil his one thousand dollars."

"Wrong again, sir," returned Pedar, still calm, although a policeman now appeared at the door. "The amount is nine hundred and eighty-seven. As well be precise in business matters."

_________________

11: That Wade Outfit

Christopher B. Booth (as by "John J. Chichester")

1889-1950

Detective Story Magazine 31 Dec 1921

TOM WADE, delivery boy for Crawford's grocery, as he emptied out the peck of potatoes, was bitterly conscious that Nora Williams, the maid of all work, had suspended her task of dusting the dining room that she might keep a watchful eye upon him. He found it like that all over Owendale; his appearance in every kitchen was greeted with a suspicious scrutiny which made his cheeks flame.

Mrs. Julia Traughber appeared in the doorway of her spick-and-span kitchen, smoothing on her black silk gloves.

"Nora," she said, "I'm going down to the bank to draw out some money, for I've made up my mind that I'm going to the city to-morrow, and the train leaves in the morning before the bank opens. I'm going to buy a sealskin coat. If that stuck-up Mrs. Crews can afford one we—"

Mrs. Traughber paused abruptly as her lips compressed into a thin line which shut off further speech. Her quick-tempered black eyes followed the trail of shoe prints which led from the back porch across the kitchen floor, ending at the patched, broken brogans which incased Tom Wade's feet. From Tom's shoes her indignant gaze traveled up his faded, frayed overalls, his tagged, out-at-the-elbows coat, until it rested upon his flushed face and troubled eyes.

"Boy!" she said snappily, "haven't you ever learned to wipe your feet before you come trackin' into decent people's houses ?"

"I— I did wipe 'em," stammered Tom. "It's the floor, ma'am; it's fresh mopped, an' it ain't dry yet."

"Sassin' your elders, are you?" exclaimed Mrs. Traughber. "I warn you, Tom Wade, I never seen a boy yet that began by talkin' back to grown-ups who didn't turn out bad. Well, I suppose it's only to be expected— considerin' your bringin' up. You watch out or you'll be followin' right in your father's footsteps."

Tom bit his lip to block the retort which trembled on his tongue; he found it very hard to endure these things in silence. The people of Owendale were always throwing it up to him, in countless cruel ways, that he was the son of a convict. It had been worse since a week ago, when his father's return to Owendale from serving five years at Jefferson City revivified the old local scandal— and it had always been bad enough.

There it was again! Always, even when people tried in their awkward way to be kind, they were reminding him of the family blot.

"Yes," said Nora, nodding brightly, "I think your ma's done right well, left to shift for herself with five kids an' workin' out most every day like she done when your pa was— was away. A woman ain't got much time and patience left to teach her young-uns manners, situated like your ma was."

"Yes'm," muttered Tom huskily, as he picked up his basket, "I think ma was real brave; I think she did mighty fine, keepin' a stiff upper lip like she done, with folks sneerin' at us an' actin' like their things weren't safe when any of the Wades was around. It— it ain't right; it ain't fair!"

He slumped out across the porch, suddenly wishing that it was he instead of Mrs. Traughber who was taking the early morning train for the city. There, he knew, people were too busy minding their own affairs to concern themselves so much with those of other people; every man, woman, and child he passed would not turn to stare and whisper behind him. In Owendale crime seldom appeared to disturb the bucolic tranquillity, and Jasper Wade stood out as the one horrible example of the stern justice that overtakes evil doers.

"I'd go— I'd go to the city in the mornin'— if I had the money!" he exclaimed as he swung himself into the seat of the rattly old delivery wagon and slapped the reins smartly upon "Napoleon's" back, urging the habitually weary horse down the road. "If I could only get hold of the money!" he repeated, and suddenly his spine tingled. He was thinking of the never-bolted windows in Owendale, and of two women alone in a detached cottage— and money in the house. With a horrified shudder he tried to put the picture from his mind.

Tom's day of work was ended, and he drove the delivery wagon to the tumble-down shed which Grocer Crawford maintained as a stable, unhitched, fed Napoleon, and then plodded across lots and past Spires' poultry house, to the forlorn shack which was the home of the Wade family— "the Wade out- fit," Owendale was in the habit of saying.

His mother, always tired, but doggedly going ahead with what at times seemed nothing short of superhuman vigor, was over the hot, cracked kitchen stove, preparing supper; the rest of the children were clamoring about her skirts.

Jasper Wade, a smallish, timid sort of man, sat on the stoop of the back porch, staring somberly out over the weed-grown, rubbish-strewn yard. The prison pallor was still upon his cheeks.

"Pa," said Tom, "I s'pose you ain't got— twenty dollars you could let me have the lend of?"

"Twenty dollars!" Jasper Wade laughed bitterly. "Where'dja think I'd get twenty dollars, kid? I ain't been home but a week, an' ain't gone t' work yet. Whatcha want so much money for, Tom?"

"I— I want to go away," answered Tom chokingly. "I can't stand it no more, the way folks in Owendale is always throwin' it up to me, about— about—"

Jasper Wade clenched his hands and his weak chin trembled.

"I know, kid; I know," he said gruffly. "It ain't no fun fer a family t' live things down in a town like this."

"But it ain't me that's done anything, pa; why do folks always have to be watchin' an' spyin' on me, when

"When you ain't done nothin' except have a father what was sent over the road. It ain't fair, kid, but folks kinder figure that there's elm branches on an elm tree. I ain't blamin' you, kid, for wantin' to get away, an' I'm sorry I ain't got the money."

"I'll declare to goodness I don't see why George Crawford can't be more particular in picking his help," complained Mrs. Traughber as she snapped the glove fasteners across her wrists and flounced toward the front of her cottage.

"Don't you mind about the floor," said Nora Williams consolingly; "a couple of swipes with the mop and it'll be all right. Don't you mind about Missus Traughber, either; her bark is worse'n her bite. She's always fussy. As for me, I think you've been brought up pretty well— that is, of course, considerin'.

"A— a fellow might as well steal— when— when he gets the credit for it anyways!" exclaimed Tom fiercely. "It— it pretty near drives a fellow to stealin'."

Jasper Wade leaped to his feet, and his fingers bit deep into his son's shoulders.

"Kid!" he whispered hoarsely. "What— what do you mean?"

"N-nothin', pa," stammered the boy.

"Yes, you was, kid; tell the truth."

"I didn't really mean nothin', pa; honest I didn't. I just got t' thinkin' of Missus Traughber's goin' to the bank t' get a lotta money, an'— an' every- body thinkin' I was a thief anyhows, but— I wasn't really goin' t' do it, pa, although— although I did want some money mighty bad."

Jasper Wade pulled Tom to the steps beside him, and the little man's faded blue eyes suddenly glowed and glinted.

"Kid," he said slowly, "I reckon I can't make you see in your mind what I seen with my eyes in the last five years. Folks say I've been to the pen— I've been t' purg'tory, kid, that's where your daddy's been— just b'cause he guzzled some whisky an' swiped an express package off'n the Wabash platform when he didn't scarce know what he was doin'. Didn't even know what was in it.

"A feller does a lotta thinkin', kid, when he's locked in behind them big stone walls an' can't talk t' nobody or do nothin' but think— an' think. There was some smart fellers in there with me, fellers what had been t' college— an' nary a man Jack of 'em smart enough t' keep out of stir when they' went crooked!

"They say, kid, that some of them fellers spends years figurin' out how t' pull off some more crooked work an' gettin' by with it. An' I spent my time there figurin' out that it couldn't be done! I tellya, kid, there ain't nothin' in it. I'd rather be took out an' hung right this minute t' the highest telephone
pole in Owendale than t' go back t' Jeff City. I ain't never goin' back, Tom, an' I don't want nobody else t' go, leastwise not you, kid.

"Promise me you'll keep straight, kid; promise!"

Slowly Tom raised his eyes until they looked full into his father's strained, eager face.

"All right, pa," he said; "I promise."

ii

OPENING the drawer of her bureau, Mrs. Julia Traughber placed her purse beneath a neatly folded pair of silk stockings. In the purse was four hundred dollars which she had just drawn from the Owendale State Bank for her shopping trip to the city.

"I'll declare, Nora, I don't know what's comin' over me," she com- plained as she sank wearily into a rocker by the window and removed her hat. "I'm plumb tuckered out by that little walk. You'll agree, Nora, that ain't natural. I feel sort of headachy an' dizzy, too, off an' on. An' "— thoughtfully completing her diagnosis— "it sort of hurts my throat to swallow."

"Land, that's jest the way I began the time I was took down with the diphthery," declared Nora.

Mrs. Traughber's mouth twitched open and her eyes dilated with horror as her hands dropped limply to her sides, permitting her hat to slide to the floor.

"Diphtheria!" she cried. "I might have known that's what it is; I've got the diphtheria!"

"But I don't s'pose it really could be diphthery, Missus Traughber," said Nora consolingly. "We ain't had no diphthery in Owendale since the Skaggs twins an' Missus Truitt an' Bob Pool an' ol' lady Hackett was all took off the same week— that's five years ago."

"I caught it at Moberly," wailed Widow Traughber. "There's more than forty cases in Moberly."

"An' you visitin' your sister at Moberly just ten days ago!" exclaimed Nora. "It always breaks out in ten days, Missus Traughber."

The widow began tearing frantically at the hooks on her dress.

"Call Doctor Prentiss, Nora!' she commanded. 'And then you come back and help me get into bed."

"Ain't it lucky, Missus Traughber, that I've had it? An' I've had some experience in nursin' diphthery cases, too. I helped nurse ol' lady Hackett, jest before she died."

In twenty minutes Doctor Prentiss' flivver coasted to a rattly stop in front of the Traughber cottage and the gray-haired, kindly-eyed practitioner hurried up the pansy-bordered walk. Like his car, the doctor was somewhat ancient, rather shabby in appearance, but, like his car, too, he was always on the go. He had been treating fevers and fancies, curing stomach aches, and patching up broken bones in Owendale for twenty years, and he knew his towns- folk as only a country doctor can; he knew, for example, that Mrs. Julia Traughber would never waste a two-dollar doctor's fee on some trifling indisposition, and he had answered the call with great promptness.

Seated beside Widow Traughber's bed, with wide-eyed Nora Williams standing in the doorway, the doctor's palm touched his patient's hot cheek. The fire of fever was now burning hot in her blood, leaving her languid and almost stupid.

"I— I'm afraid I've got the diphtheria, Doctor Prentiss,' she murmured drowsily. "I was visiting my sister, Ella, in Moberly, and :

"Let me see that throat," commanded the physician; as he saw the inflamed membranes his face became grave.

"You have that," he agreed, toying thoughtfully with the chain of his old- fashioned silver watch. "We'll have to get a nurse for you."

"I've had the diphthery, doctor," volunteered Nora. "An' I helped nurse Missus Hackett jest before she died."

"Well, that wasn't your fault, Nora," returned Doctor. Prentiss smilingly. "I remember now; yes, you made a rather good nurse. You've gumption enough to follow the doctor's instructions without trying methods of your own.

"Of course, the first thing is to quarantine the house. The last time we had diphtheria in Owendale, five years ago, it was a serious business, and we're not going to let it get loose on us again. Now, Nora, if you'll get me a glass of water, like a good girl."

iii

THE clock on the village hall, eight blocks away, had just struck two o'clock, and Nora Williams tiptoed over to the bed to see that Mrs. Traughber was resting easily. Then she turned off the electric light, around which had been tied a newspaper to dim the incandes- cent glare, and slipped out to the kitchen to prepare herself a bowl of milk and crackers.

Mrs. Traughber's bedroom window was opened wide, and through the raised shade occasional patches of moon-light crept through the scurrying banks of clouds and intermittently lighted the interior. A shadowy figure slipped across the shaded lawn and paused for a moment behind the lilac bushes near the bedroom window. The kitchen, wherein Nora was warming milk, was on the other side of the house, and the blinds were lowered, permitting no ray of light to creep out. From where the crouching figure stood the house seemed dark and asleep, as all houses in Owendale were at this hour.

And, moving near the window, the blurred outline of a slim form raised itself upright and listened. From within there came only the sound of heavy breathing. Cautiously, and with scarcely a sound, a hand grasped the sill. A figure, in a dark suit of clothes, drew himself up until a leg slipped over the sill. A rift in the clouds let through a faint flash of moonlight, showing an improvised mask across the fellow's face— two jagged holes punched through a large red handkerchief. He wore a cap drawn low over his forehead. He edged forward until he was within the room, peering intensely forward into the shadows in a search to locate articles of furniture that might be in his path.

Mrs. Traughber moved restlessly.

"Nora, I want a drink," she called faintly.

Almost in a bound the man was beside the bed.

"Sh!" he warned in a hoarse whisper. "I want that money you drawed out of the bank. Where is it? Quick— 'fore I cave your head in!"

Widow Traughber lay still for a mo- ment, blinking up through the blackness, not quite sure if it was the fever's nightmare or actuality. A cruel pressure on her shoulder decided her that it was not a dream.

"I— I haven't any money," she whimpered, and as the fingers pressed deeper into her flesh she choked back a sob. "It— it's in my purse— in the dresser drawer—the top drawer," she said.

The masked figure sprang across to the dresser and pawed through the top drawer. He drew in his breath with a gasp of satisfaction as his fingers touched the leather purse. He was trembling, even his knees were shaking beneath him.

"If you scream I'll brain you!" he whispered over his shoulder at Mrs. Traughber, who was at that moment contemplating that very thing. Before his clumsy, nervous fingers could find the purse's catch he heard the rattle of tinware out in the kitchen and the open- ing of a door on the other side of the hall between.

The purse still clutched in his hand, he stood for a moment in petrified fear before he leaped to the window, crashing into a chair and sending it spinning against the wall; halfway over the sill, the door of the bedroom opened, and Nora Williams, in the shaft of light which came from behind her, caught one fleeting glimpse of the shoulders as they dropped from sight; she heard him plunge against the lilac bushes, and then all was still.

"He— he got my purse," sobbed Mrs. Traughber; "he's got my four hundred dollars !"

Nora tried to scream, but the sound stuck in her throat.

Doctor Prentiss' instructions had been most implicit that Mrs. Traughber should be kept in absolute quiet, and the excitement almost at once began to raise her temperature to a point where she babbled almost incoherently. Nora, badly frightened, rushed to the telephone and called the physician.

The doctor arrived within half an hour and at once administered a seda- tive.

"It's that Wade boy who took it," Mrs. Traughber kept repeating. "I know it was him."

Nora nodded her head emphatically.

"Yes, doctor," she agreed, "it was that Wade boy."

"Oh, you saw him then?" questioned the doctor, with a frown.

"Yes, I saw him— jest as he was jumpin' out the window. He had a mask on his face, but— I know it was him all right."

"Do you just imagine it was Tom Wade, Nora, or do you know?" demanded the doctor. "There are people in this town who would accuse the Wades of almost anything that happened. I find it hard to think that Tom—"

"Huh!" said Nora.

"I guess it don't take nobody very smart to know that the Wade outfit is the only dishonest folks around here."

"Give a dog a bad name!" exclaimed Doctor Prentiss, knitting his shaggy white eyebrows.

"But Tom Wade heard Missus Traughber tellin' me that she was goin' to the bank t' draw out some money fer her shoppin' trip to the city. It was when he was deliverin' groceries yesterday afternoon. I know he heard her."

"Oh, I see," replied the doctor thoughtfully. "We'll have to look into it."

"I tried to get Constable Boatman on the phone when I called you, but cen- tral couldn't raise him," explained Nora. "I reckon he's that deef he couldn't hear a shotgun fired off right behind him."

"Perhaps it's just as well," said Doctor Prentiss. "I'll go past and see Boat- man as soon as I get Mrs. Traughber quieted."

It was half past four when the physician, having gotten Mrs. Traughber's nerves soothed into sleep, climbed into his flivver and drove over to Constable Boatman's house. The latter, aroused only after a siege of rapping and "hel- los," listened sleepily to what the doctor told him, nodding sagely.

"Been keepin' my eye on that boy," he said. "I kinda suspected somethin' like this was goin' to happen."

"That's just it, Boatman," said the doctor snappily. "If Tom has done it, it's because the people of Owendale have made it happen. I suppose it's only natural that any one would want something else besides the credit of being a natural-born thief. If that boy is guilty I blame the people of Owendale more than I do him. Sometimes I get very weary of people's smug, holier-than-thou attitude."

"W-why, doc!" exclaimed the horrified constable. "I hope you ain't excusin'—"

"Get into your clothes," interrupted the doctor almost testily.

It took the slow-moving Boatman half an hour to dress, and when he came out the physician headed his auto across the railroad tracks, where the Wade shack was.

"Kinda gets under your skin, eh, doc?" queried the constable. 'It was you, wasn't it, that got Jasper Wade's term reduced from seven years t' five?"

"I used my influence, yes. I thought five years was more than enough for a man to pay for taking an express package containing half a peck of seed corn that he had no more use for than I have for a hand organ— and when he was so drunk he didn't know what he was doing."

"You'd better have let him stay there," retorted Boatman. "I reckon the whole family: ss

"Don't you think it would be a good idea, Boatman, to have a little more evidence?"

"Oh, he done it, all right, doc. wait."

"That's just what I propose to do."

Smoke was curling from the kitchen chimney of the Wade shack when the two men stopped in the mean street. In answer to the doctor's knock Mrs. Wade appeared at the door, and her eyes widened apprehensively as she saw that one of the men was the town constable.

"Can we come in, Mrs. Wade?" requested the doctor. "We want to ask Tom a few questions."

"A few mighty p'inted questions," emphasized Boatman.

"Y-yes, of—of course," she stammered as she held the door open for the two early morning visitors. "Tom is eatin' breakfast; we— we got up kind of early this mornin', for Tom is goin' to the city."

"No, I reckon he ain't; he only thought he was goin'," amended the constable grimly, pushing his way into the combination kitchen-dining room where Tom and his father were seated at the oilcloth-covered table. The other children were still in bed.

"T-Tom," quavered Mrs. Wade, "the doctor an'— an' Mister Boatman want to talk with you."

"Seems like you're takin' a sudden notion to go to the city, ain'tcha?" demanded Boatman accusingly.

Jasper Wade, his face even more pale than the prison pallor of his cheeks, cringed before this note of authority.

"I reckon Tom's got a right to go if he wants to," he said, with an effort at defiance, but his voice quavered.

"Well, mebbe he has, an' then mebbe he ain't," retorted the constable. "It depends whose money he was takin' with him. There was money stole from Widder Traughber's house this mornin"

Mrs. Wade gasped, her work-worn fingers clutching at the edge of her faded, patched calico apron. Jasper Wade half rose fram his chair, a stifled cry on his lips as he stared at his son.

"No! No!" exclaimed the mother. "He's only got the money what I give him. I swear I give it to him— fifty dollars. Tom wanted t' go away on account of folks always throwin' it up to him about—"

"Fifty dollars!" exclaimed Boatman sneeringly. "Where'd you get fifty dollars?"

"It's money what I saved— nickel at a time almost."

"Likely story," answered the constable. "I'd be a heap more liable to believe that except fer the time when you lied till you was most blue in the face tryin' to save Jasper from goin' to jail— told that one of the children had found that express package. If you'd lie t' save Jasper I reckon you'd do it fer Tom, too."

"I ain't stole nothin'," insisted Tom chokingly.

"Tom," broke in Doctor Prentiss, "did you know that Mrs. Traughber was drawing a large sum of money from the bank?"

"Y-yes," admitted the boy, "I— I knowed that."

"Ah!" exclaimed the constable. "Now come on an' admit that you broke into the house." The boy shook his head insistently.

"Just a minute," interposed Doctor Prentiss; "let me ask a question or so, Boatman. Tom, I want you to tell me what you did last night— everything."

The boy felt the kindly tone of the doctor's voice.

"Ain't much t' tell," he began haltingly. '"Missus Traughber throwed it up t' me, like folks is always doin', about— about pa, an' I couldn't stand it no more. I asked pa if he could let me have the money, an' he didn't have it. When I went to bed I lay there thinkin' an' thinkin' about goin' away, an' then I thought about the freight that comes through long about midnight, so I got up an' dressed. I was goin' to bum my way to the city. I knew how ma'd be about me ridin' the rods, so I sneaked out of the house—"

"It's a fine fish story!" exclaimed the constable. "Fixin' up a fine yarn to account fer sneakin' out, huh?"

"Let the boy finish, constable," urged Doctor Prentiss.

"I waited an' waited over by the water tank, but the train never showed up, an' I sort of changed my mind, for it was kinda skeery thinkin' about ridin them rods. When I come back to the house ma was up. I told her what I was aimin' to do, an' she says that if I was that set on leavin' Owendale she had some money saved up an' I could pay it back when I got a job in the city."

"He's as good a liar as he is a bum thief," declared Constable Boatman.

"I'm goin' to look around a bit." While Doctor Prentiss cross-exam- ined Tom further, the officer went into he back yard, prowling about the rub- bish piles and looking under the low back porch. Presently he reappeared with a grim but triumphant smile on his face.

"I reckon you needn't bother, doc, listenin' to any more of them fairy tales," he said; "I've got the proof right here— found it right out in the yard by the fence."

And in his outstretched hand was Mrs. Julia Traughber's purse.

iv

WITH a groan Jasper Wade slumped over into a chair and buried his tousled head in the pillow of his shaking arms. Presently he pulled himself together with a jerk and got slowly to his feet.

"It wasn't Tom that did it," he said heavily ; "it— it was me. I stole it. Tom, he was tellin' me about Missus Traugh- ber drawin' all that money out of the bank, an'— an' the temptation was too much. I snook out of the house an' went over to the Widder Traughber's. Tom's tellin' he truth; he didn't have nothin' to do with it. It's me you want, constable."

Mrs. Wade began to sob.

"An' Jasper, you promised me—you promised me you never would—why, Jasper, you didn't am

"You keep a still tongue in your head," said Jasper Wade growlingly. "Don't stand there whimperin'; I done it, an' I allow t' take my medicine."

"Where's the money?" demanded the constable.

Jasper Wade thrust his chin forward defiantly.

"I aint goin' to tell!" he shouted. "Ain't nobody goin' to know what I done with that money."

"You give fifty dollars of it to Tom, huh; we'll get that much of it back, anyhow," said Boatman.

"It wasn't the money I stole that Tom got," replied Jasper.

"That was my money— money that I saved up, just like I said," substantiated the mother.

"Gosh, what a pack of liars!" cried Constable Boatman.

Doctor Prentiss, his white brows knitted into a straight line over his kindly blue eyes, stared from Jasper Wade out of the window.

"Jasper," he urged, "if you'll tell what you did with the money it'll go a lot easier with you— a lot easier."

"I ain't ever goin' to tell," Jasper Wade insisted stubbornly.

"Jasper," went on the doctor, "do you remember that talk you and I had the day that you got back from Jefferson City? You promised me that you'd behave yourself—told me that you'd rather die than go back to that life of living in prison. I guess you didn't mean that, eh?"

"I did mean it, doc," answered Jasper Wade shudderingly, "but— but—" He shrugged his shoulders with a hopeless gesture. 'You don't understand, doc; you don't understand."

"Ain't no use stickin' around here listenin' to him blubber," cut in the constable. "I'll take him on down to the lockup. We ain't had nobody in there for more'n a year."

"Not the lockup, constable," interposed Doctor Prentiss. "Take him before Magistrate Roddy; I'm going to go his bond."

"He'll skip it sure's you're a foot higk to a grasshopper," warned Boat- man.

"You won't skip out, will you, Jasper?" asked the doctor.

"No, doc, I ain't goin' to run away," promised the confessed culprit.

"That's good enough for me, Jasper," replied the doctor. "Let's move along, constable."

It was some days later when Doctor Prentiss stopped his flivver in front of the post office and motioned to Constable oatman, who was standing on the sidewalk.

"Hop in, constable," said the doctor; "I want you to take a little ride with me."

"I see Jasper Wade's left town, doc," declared Boatman.

"Yes," answered the physician; "he's working in the brick plant over at Fallsburg. I got him the job."

"An' you'd better get off'n that bond before he skips," advised the constable. "Where you takin' me to, anyhow?"

"Just for a little ride," replied Doctor Prentiss carelessly. "I'm going to call on a patient." He turned off Main Street and for several minutes drove in silence, stopping before the ample house of Herbert Gately, one of Owendale's prosperous citizens.

"One of the Gatelys sick?" demanded Boatman curiously.

"So I understand over the telephone," replied the doctor. "Bish Gately, the son."

"Probably strained his back liftin' a pool cue," volunteered the constable. "I declare, doc, I don't see why old Herb Gately don't make that boy go to work. He ain't goin' to amount to a hill of beans."

"You wait here, Boatman," instructed the doctor as he climbed out of his car. "I may need you in a few minutes; chances are I'll call you." He hurried up to the porch and jabbed the bell button. The Gately housekeeper opened the door; Gately's wife had been dead some years.

"Bishop is mighty sick, doctor," she said. "He woke up with a headache this morning and hasn't been able to hardly get out of bed."

"We'll have a look at him," replied the doctor briskly as he followed her upstairs to Bishop Gately's room.

The young man tossed restlessly on the bed and glanced up peevishly as Doctor Prentiss entered. He was a lad of perhaps twenty-one, with uneasy black eyes, and signs of former dissipation in the days when liquor was not contraband had left its mark upon him.

"It sure took you long enough to get here," he complained. "I'm darn sick. Something I ate, I suppose."

Doctor Prentiss drew his chair up beside the bed to begin his examination. His face became grave; in fact, positively funereal in expression.

"Bish," he said slowly, "your father's out of town, isn't he? I thought so; I think I'd better send for him."

Young Gately's face blanched with terror.

"Doc!" he whispered tragically. "You— you don't think I'm going to die!"

Prentiss shrugged his shoulders evasively.

"Doc! I am— you're afraid to tell me! Oh, doctor, don't let me die— I— I am afraid to die— I'm afraid!"

"If you've got anything on your con- science, Bish, I'd advise you to get it off— now."

"Yes, I have, doc; I have, but— I can't tell you— I— I can't tell."

"It's about money, isn't it, Bish— some one else's money?"

"How— how did you know?" gasped out the sick youth.

"A doctor gets so he can read people's minds, sometimes," murmured Doctor Prentiss. 'You'd better tell me— now."

"It's about that money that was taken from Widow Traughber's," whispered Bishop Gately. "I— I took it; I took it that night. It was me who broke into her bedroom, and F

"Just a minute, Bish," interrupted the doctor. "I think we'd better have a witness to your— er— confession."

He stepped into the hall and from the front window called to Constable Boatman to come in. A moment later the local police officer lumbered up the stairs and entered the sick room.

"Boatman," announced Doctor Prentiss, "Bish, here, is a very sick boy, and he wants to confess that it was he who robbed Mrs. Traughber. Go ahead, Bish, and tell us how you did it."

"I was hard up, and dad shut down on my allowance," blubbered young Gately. "It's all dad's fault; I wouldn't have done it if dad had let me have the money. I had to raise some money— I had to, and then I was standing in the bank when Mrs. Traughber drew out that four hundred dollars. I knew she lived all alone and that Nora Williams, who works for her, generally went home nights.

"And it looked easy, so that night I slipped out and went over to the Traughber place. She coughed right up and told me where the money was. I did get a bad scare when that girl came in, but I got away all right. As I was coming back home I thought of Jasper Wade, just back from the pen, and I knew that everybody would think of him first. So I sneaked across the railroad tracks and dropped the empty purse in his yard. I didn't think it would make any difference— he'd have gone back to jail for something else, anyhow. I didn't mind that except— well, since I know that I'm going to die, I— I seem to think about it differently."

"Die? whispered Boatman. "Is— is he going to die?"

"Certainly," replied Doctor Prentiss; "that is— um— sooner or later. We all have to do that, you know."

Bishop Gately saw through the trick and struggled to his elbow, his face livid.

"You—you devil!" he shouted. "You— you lied to me!"

"Well, Bish, I'll admit that I might have— er— misled you just a little," said Doctor Prentiss. "I just had to get that confession out of you, Bish; that seemed the simplest way."

"You— you knew all the time that I took that money!" gasped out Gately.

"I was mighty positive of it, son, when your father's housekeeper telephoned to me that you had a high fever and a sore throat. You've a first-class case of diphtheria, although you lack a good deal of being sick enough to die. You caught it just ten days ago when— when you robbed Widow Traughber. Diphtheria is highly contagious, and as Mrs. Traughber's was the only case in Owendale, I've been waiting for a second case to develop.

"You see, constable, I was very sure all the time that Jasper Wade didn't commit the robbery."

"But— but," stammered the  bewildered constable, "Jasper Wade confessed, too."

"Certainly he did," admitted Doctor Prentiss impatiently. "Why, you block- head, don't you see that he confessed to save his son from what he knew a prison meant? When you found the purse in the yard Jasper thought that Tom was simply lying and his mother was shielding him. For a man who holds a prison in as much horror as Jasper Wade does, it was a supreme sacrifice.

"And, constable, after I give Bish, here, an injection of serum and get you disinfected so that you won't carry out any germs with you, we'll go over and make Tom Wade and his mother very happy; after that we'll go before Magistrate Roddy. I'm in a position now to take your advice and— and get off of Jasper Wade's bond."

"Doc," gasped out Constable Boatman, "you tell Jasper Wade that if he ever wants a recommend for a job just t' use my name. A feller that demeans himself like that— drat my hide, doc, he's a real, sure-enough man. I reckon that when I get through passin' the word around town as t' what's happened, there ain't goin' to be nobody that'll be ashamed to be seen speakin' to them Wades."

_________________

12: On a Steep Side Street

C. S. Montanye

1892-1948

Thrilling Detective, March 1945

BIG DAVE McCLAIN of the Homicide Department, got out of the prowl car that had brought him up to Washington Heights. It was raining; a thin, melancholy drizzle. McClain hated rain. He hated having to get out of bed at six in the morning. Most of all he hated people who went and got themselves murdered at such unorthodox hours. There should be a law against it. Mac turned up the collar of his coat and scowled as he crossed the pavement to the areaway of the empty private house. It was on the corner of a steep street. Below, the Drive, and the Hudson beyond, were desolate and chilly in the gray light of early morning.

A cop kept back a group of five or six curious spectators craning their necks to see what was in the areaway. Mac, shifting his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other, nodded to the medical examiner and the two plainclothes men who stood with their hands in their pockets, looking bored.

"Shot through the back of the head, the M.E. said. "Probably with a thirty-eight. Dead about an hour." He snapped his bag shut.

Mac looked at the stiff. An ordinary chap in a wet brown suit. Black shoes, blue shirt and striped tie. Man about twenty-eight or so. Sandy hair and a lumpy kind of face. Mac glanced at the death wound, then took a drag on his cigar.

"Get his prints when you take him down to the morgue," he grunted. He squinted up at the house. "What's the story?"

Wheeler, one of the plainclothes men, told him that a passer-by, happened to give the area-way a gander, saw the body and reported to the first cop he could find. There were no identifying papers on the body, nothing to give a clue as to who he was.

Mac snapped the brim of his felt hat to get rid of some of the rain.

"Shot and dumped here." His scowl deepened. "He looks kind of familiar. I've seen him before— somewhere. Get the wagon and give him a ride downtown. I'm going in next door."

Slouching out of the area-way, the detective went up some brown stone steps and rang the bell of the adjoining house, Neat curtains were behind spotless windows. He rang twice before the door opened and a little old lady with the whitest hair and the bluest eyes Mac had ever seen smiled up at him.

"McClain, Headquarters." He took off his hat— something he seldom did. "Mind if I come in? I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Certainly," the little woman said. "Come right in."

Mac looked at his cigar. It was only half smoked. He shrugged as he tossed it away, carefully wiped his feet on a mat and walked into the house.

The aromatic smell of coffee made Mac sniff. The little old lady opened the parlor door and ushered him in. Mac looked dubiously at the furniture and shook his head.

"Guess I'd better keep on my feet, ma'am. I'm pretty wet."

"So you are. And you'll probably catch your death of cold. You'd better take that coat off and sit down over there. I'll light the gas logs. I just know you'll enjoy a cup of coffee."

"Well," Mac said and grinned, "I've never been known to refuse one."

"You make yourself comfortable and I'll be right back."

She put a match to the gas logs and bustled out. Mac heard her talking with someone outside.

"What is it, Mother?"

"A gentleman who says he's from Headquarters. He wants to ask us some questions. He's awfully wet and I think he should have a cup of good hot coffee."

"I'll get it."

"No, you go in and talk to him, Pa. I'll only be a minute."

Portieres rustled and in came a rotund little man with apple-red cheeks, eyes that twinkled, and something McClain hadn't seen around for a long time. The man featured a snowy white beard.

"My name is Loring, Oscar Loring. You were talking to Mother—my wife. Is something the matter?"

He held out a pudgy, soft hand. Mac shook it and shrugged. Somehow the Lorings reminded him of New England boiled dinners, apple pie and cider, hay-rides and quiet green pastures. They certainly didn't belong on a steep side street in Washington Heights.

Mrs. Loring came in with a steaming cup of his favorite brew. Mac took it gratefully and then explained his mission.

"Murder?" the little old lady exclaimed. "How terrible! And right next door! Dear, dear, what is the world coming to?"

"I thought maybe you folks might have heard something," McClain hinted. "Car stopping, men talking—" Oscar Loring shook his head. "Not a sound, sir. You see, our bedroom is in the rear, on the top floor. Besides," he smiled over at his wife, "we're rather heavy sleepers, Mother and I, Takes a lot to disturb us."

Mac put on his coat. "Thanks for the mocha. Sorry to have bothered you."

"You didn't." Mrs. Loring beamed again. "We're sorry we couldn't help you."

MAC hopped the prowl car and went back downtown.

A short time later Wheeler came in with the fingerprint report.

"Guess you had something when you said he looked familiar, Mac. Party by the name of Jed Connors. Ex-con. Six years in Sing Sing. Little matter of grand larceny. Connors swung the derrick on that Fifth Avenue diamond drag. Remember?"

"Yeah." McClain automatically reached in his upper vest pocket for a cigar. "You mean the deal Mickey Raffner was in on?"

Wheeler nodded. "This Connors used to be Raffner's right hand man."

"That's right," Mac said thoughtfully, fumbling for a match.

Wheeler went out and McLain sat down at his desk. He shoved his long legs out before him, puffed lazily on the cigar. As the department's number one weed killer, Mac's daily batting average for cigars led the nicotine league. He always said he couldn't think if he didn't have a stogie to chew on.

He thought about Mickey Raffner. Raffner had done his bit, too, for the Fifth Avenue hoist. But Raffner had reformed. The past couple of years Mickey had been around town, though out of circulation so far as his former cronies and usual haunts were concerned. In fact, Mac remembered, someone had told him that Raffner was holding down a job behind the newspaper-cigar counter in one of the Broadway hotels.

From where he sat, the Connors kill looked like a misfit to the big detectives. One of those things that didn't mean too much. One rat had bumped another rat. So what? Probably a settle-up on an old grudge or something. Just another one of those things.

Mac yawned. Six o'clock in the morning, piling out of the hay. It wasn't human. Particularly after he had turned in at two that morning. He had been playing gin rummy in the squad room and his knuckles were sore from knocking. He thought of the Lorings' coffee and sighed. His favorite diner would have to do better in the future if they expected his patronage.

One of the Headquarters cops opened the door and stuck his head in.

"Busy, Mac? There's a fellow here who knows something about the Washington Heights smear. Want to talk to him?"

The man who came in wore a taxi hackie's cap. He was about five feet two, looked metropolitan, smart. McClain got up and shut the office door.

"What's yours, buddy?"

"My name's Heller, Herb Heller. I drive for the Blue Cab outfit, I had a funny one this morning. It's stuck in my mind ever since."

"Have a chair." The detective pushed one over with his foot. "Unload."

"It was about ten after five." Heller rubbed his chin. "I had a call at One Hundred and Fiftieth and Broadway. After I dropped my fare I cruised a few streets. Then I hit for the Drive, through a west-bound street."

"What's unusual about that?" Mac yawned again.

"Near a private house on a corner, a party hailed me. He hopped in— fast. Told me to take him to an address on Ninety-first Street, near Columbus, I let him off there. Rooming house."

Mac began to register more interest.

"You picked this party up near the house where the stiff was found in the areaway? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"Right. I just read about it in the paper and thought I ought to tell somebody. On account," Heller added, "of something else happening."

McClain frowned over at him. He flicked the ash from his cigar.

"Yeah? What else?"

"My ark was tailed down to Ninety-first Street. I didn't say nothing to my passenger, but a black coupe followed us all the way."

"Then you'd know the man you rode down?" McClain asked.

"Sure. I had a good look at him when he put on the light to pay the meter, He didn't out because it was raining. I'd know

"Then, let's take a roll up to Ninety-first and see what we can pick up. Got your cab handy?"

"Right at the curb."

THE rooming house, Mac saw, was typical of its kind. A furrier occupied the basement. The first floor was given over to a hemstitching and initialing shop. McClain went in, Heller following. He asked information and in a few minutes the landlady appeared,

A buxom woman, faded and worn, Mac imagined that in her youthful days she might have carried a spear in some burlesque troupe. He gave her straw-colored hair an interested glance.

"Police business, lady," he said. "This man will give you a description. If it fits any of your roomers let me know. Okay, Heller. Spin it out."

The taxi driver supplied an exact description of his early morning fare. Before he had finished the woman nodded.

"That's Mr. Robinson. Second floor rear. But I'm sure he ain't the type to be in trouble. He works up on the Heights— he's a clerk in an all-night drugstore. He's in now, if you want to see him."

Mac told Heller to go back to his cab and wait. He lit a fresh cigar and followed the landlady up the stairs. With every step she wheezed like a broken accordion.

"Funny thing— you asking about Mr. Robinson," the woman was saying. "Just a little while after he came in another detective stopped here wanting to see him. He didn't stay long."

"Yeah?" Mac frowned.

The woman stopped before the last door on the right.

"Mr. Robinson," she called, knocking on the door. "Somebody to see you, Mr. Robinson."

There was no answer. McClain brushed by the woman and tried the door.' It was un- locked. He opened it, walked in and came to a quick stop.

Half across the bed, still fully dressed, Heller's passenger lay in a pool of blood. But he wasn't dead. His eyes were half open and he was trying to say something. Mac was over in a stride.

"Claws—"

The man repeated the one word again, slowly, gasping it out almost inaudibly. McClain swung around to the landlady. She had had an oblique view of her roomer over Mac's shoulder and was backing away quickly, her none-too-clean apron crushed to her trembling mouth.

"Where's your telephone?" McClain asked abruptly.

AT TEN to five that afternoon Dave McClain was in the office of Captain Fred Mullin, head of Homicide.

"Robinson passed his checks in at the General Hospital twenty minutes ago," Mullin said.

"Any statement?" Mac wanted to know.

"He was unconscious from the time they took him out of the rooming house until he went skyward. What have you got on the Connors thing?"

"Not a heck of a lot," Mac admitted. "I'm checking on Raffner. There's just a chance he might know something. These prison birds flock around together. And you know what the jewelry grift is to-day, diamonds being as scarce as porterhouse and bringing top prices. I figure that maybe Raffner and Connors were back at the grind again."

Mullin's pale, humorless eyes fastened coldly on McClain. .

"No facts. Just a hunch, in other words?"

"In other words— yes."

Mullin's smile was ironic. "You're all hopped up with cigar poisoning, Mac. Your mind's in a fog. Go out and get some fresh air— and come back with something concrete that'll stand up. Such as," Mullin suggested, "the party who bumped the slug into Jed Connor's topknot— and the one who sapped Robinson into a better world."

"I'll do that, Chief."

McClain got up, stretched and reached for his hat, It had dried since the morning's rain, but there was a roguish curl to the brim that no amount of smoothing out could do away with. McClain put it on and steered his big feet toward the door.

The word the unfortunate Robinson had gasped, stuck like a burr in the big detective's thoughts. Claws? What did it mean, what was its significance? Though he sounded incoherent, Mac had a pretty good idea Robinson's mind was rational when he choked the word out. Robinson was trying to give him a clue, give him the tip-off... Well, that was one for the book.

The air had become a lot colder after the rain. Mac stopped at the diner, a couple of streets up Lafayette. His cup of coffee tasted like old box tops and chicory. He suddenly recalled the Lorings' spic and span parlor, the agreeable warmth of the gas logs and the smooth, gratifying flavor of the coffee the little old lady had brought him.

The lids went down over Mac's eyes. His fingers drummed nervously on the greasy counter. Deep in thought, he sat without moving until the counterman loomed up in front of him.

"Looks like rain, Mac."

"Yeah. And tastes like it." McClain pushed his cup aside and dropped a dime down on the counter. 'Sometime, when you think of it, try making it out of coffee."

Taking the subway as far as Times Square, McClain walked one block and turned east away from the swirling neons, the crowds and the confusion of traffic. That brought him to the Hotel Rosemont. Entering the lobby, he sat down in a corner and looked around with some curiosity. Finally his wandering gaze focused on the newspaper-cigar counter and the man in charge.

Mickey Raffner hadn't changed much. Tall, thin, saturnine, the former guest of the State had a natty appearance. As Raffner knew him, McClain was careful to be unobserved. He didn't want the man to know he was watching him.

FIFTEEN or twenty minutes passed before Mac got a break. Then a round-shouldered youth in a camel's hair coat came in from the street. He wore a green felt hat slanted over his thin face. For decoration, a cigarette was in one corner of his mouth, a bright red muffler around his neck. He carried a folded newspaper under his arm and headed for the cigar counter.

McClain raised a Barrymore eyebrow. The party in the green hat was Tod Sterling, but unlike his name, this lad was pure alloy.

Around the main boulevard Sterling had a reputation for being a crook's errand boy. A small-time grifter who played for pennies, he had been arrested several times but discharged for lack of evidence. McClain knew Tod Sterling from a couple of cases he had handled. The man was a rat, a punk.

Sterling rested an elbow on the cigar counter. Raffner let him dangle there for a couple of minutes. Then he walked over to him. Sterling slipped the newspaper in his pocket and said something, the cigarette bobbing in his mouth as he spoke.

Raffner bent over and evidently opened a closet into the counter. He came up with a cigar box.

Raffner didn't open the box and to McClain that was the tip-off. Instead, Raffner got a piece of paper and wrapped it up. Sterling didn't bother to produce any money, He put the box under his arm, lingered for a little more gab and then walked off.

When Sterling went out of the Rosemont, Mac had already chartered a taxi, to use if necessary, and was waiting. Sterling turned toward Sixth Avenue.

"Drift along after me," Mae told his hackie. "I'll peg this lug on foot."

Sterling crossed the street and walked into a parking lot. That was all McClain wanted. The big detective climbed into his taxi, "Park here until he comes out. Then stay with him."

It wasn't long before Sterling, driving a black coupe, rolled out to the street. With a grunt of satisfaction Mac reached for a fresh cigar and settled back on the worn upholstery. From here on in it was strictly his driver's job.

The coupe threaded through side streets, crossed Longacre and continued on to the ramp entrance that led to the river-front express highway. Mac's taxi chugged along in its wake, the driver taking his bearings from the coupe's tail-light. There must have been a loose connection because, Mac saw the light winking at them like a sly, evil eye.

There wasn't much traffic when the highway merged with Riverside Drive at 72nd Street. If Tod Sterling figured he had a shadow on him he gave no evidence of the fact. He kept going in a straight line at the same speed. After awhile Mac saw where he was. He nodded, not greatly surprised to find himself on the same steep side street where, that morning in the rain, he had given Samuel Stiff a gander in the areaway.

Sterling parked the coupe on Broadway and went down the street as far as the deserted house on the corner below. McClain scribbled something on the back of an envelope and handed it to his driver— with instructions. Then he dropped off and, in the gloom beyond the street lights, watched Sterling duck into the area-way of the empty house.

The basement's iron-grille gate was shut. But it didn't need a Houdini to open it. Mac slipped a hand through one of the squares in the grille, drew the lock back and let the gate swing in. He-had good luck with the half-wood half-glass door under the stoop, too. Sterling had pushed it shut after him, but the latch hadn't caught.

Mac crossed the threshold and melted into darkness so thick it could have been cut with blunt scissors. The musty smell of long desertion was no Channel No. 5 to his nostrils. He listened until he heard faint footsteps upstairs.

Following on, his fingers brushing a plaster wall to guide him, Mac came to the stairs.

He stopped at the head of them. Not a dozen yards away he was in time to see a door open, admitting a yellow gush of light. The door closed, voices sounded on the other side of it. Again Mac used the raised brow, lifting his big, flat feet until he was on tip-toe. Like a ballet dancer he steered his brogans toward the door. The voice were dying away on the other side of it. Smiling a little, McClain wound his fingers around the knob and— pulled.

On well-oiled hinges, the door opened so quickly and easily it almost threw him off balance. He blinked like an owl with eyes full of sunshine, as he stared into the same spic and span parlor where the gas logs had given out their agreeable heat that morning. The same setting where he had gargled the welcome java!

Mac stepped into the room, closing the door noiselessly behind him. He was giving his surroundings a second and more complete gander when, to the right of him, Tod Sterling's disagreeable voice spoke quietly.

"All right, copper! Stop where you are and start pointing at the ceiling— with both hands!"

BUSINESSLIKE automatic, with its working end beaded on McClain, got immediate service. Mac reached. Sterling came around and took his police gun from its leather holster. He shoved it in the pocket of his camel's hair coat and grinned crookedly.

"Sit down, copper."

Mac took the same end of the sofa he sat in that morning.

"Graduated?" he asked matter-of-factly. "Real important now. Hold people up and everything."

The door opened and Oscar Loring came in. The apple-cheeked man with the white waterfall beard let his twinkling eyes play over McClain.

"What a coincidence," he said, almost jovially. "The same gentleman who stopped in this morning. And Mother doesn't have the percolator on now."

"Keep him covered." Sterling handed Loring the automatic. "I've got to telephone. Blast him if he makes a move. I know this monkey. He's one of Mullin's gang. His name is McClain and he's dynamite."

Loring made a clucking sound with his pursed lips.

"Dear, dear. Dynamite? Sounds dreadful."

"I'll buzz Mickey," Sterling said and left the room hurriedly.

Mac looked at the benevolent little man facing him.

"Bad business, Mr. Loring. Maybe you've heard— the law always wins. Chuck that shooter away and I'll see that they go easy on you."

Oscar Loring chuckled. "A nice sense of humor, young man. 'Chuck the gun away'? Don't be ridiculous— in a very short time we'll be using it on you."

Mac nodded. "A double-header. Connors this morning and me tonight. A perfect score. What did Jed do— try to cross you up?"

"Poor, foolish Jed." Loring sighed. "He thought he could get away with his own ideas. Such a stupid boy!" He was about to add something else when the door opened and Sterling came back. "Mickey's on his way. He says to wait until he gets here."

Loring returned the automatic to Sterling. The latter was out of the camel's hair coat now, but stuck to the green hat. His eyes, blank and expressionless like all of his "stripe, evaded McClain's direct glance.

"How much does he know, Oscar? I heard you two talking."

"I know enough to put you on sparks," Mac drawled, taking a cigar from his vest-pocket humidor. "Mind if I smoke? Don't say you don't care if I burn. That privilege is reserved for you— on a murder rap!"

"Oh, you're entirely incorrect," Oscar Loring cut in briskly. "Tod didn't shoot Jed. I did that."

He smiled reassuringly at Sterling, rubbing his pudgy hands gently together. McClain stared. A case for a straight jacket and a laughing academy, he decided.

"Close your yap!" Sterling rasped. "Don't be telling this dick anything!"

McClain leaned comfortably back, crossing one leg over the other. He puffed the cigar into a glowing tip and shifted it from one side of his mouth to the other.

"Same old racket— stolen jewels. Diamonds, probably. The market's high on them. I suppose Loring breaks them up, re-cuts and re-sets them. Mickey Raffner's the receiver at his counter in the Rosemont. Dovetails nicely. And Loring bumped Connors— when Jed got greedy or something."

The little man with the rosy cheeks gave Mac an admiring glance.

"Dear, dear. He's a regular Sherlock Holmes, isn't he, Tod? The way he figures things out, it's remarkable."

"Wait a minute." McClain straightened. Sterling's gun hand moved an inch forward. "Robinson, through for the night and going home, must have seen you boys easing Connors out into the areaway of the house next door. He must have got a close-up view before he ducked—grabbing a cab. Raffner must have followed him down to his boarding house. Raffner put the finishing touches on him there."

"Amazing!" the little man murmured.

"Connors' body wasn't supposed to have remained permanently in the areaway," Mac said, as if to himself. "It was to be transferred to the black coupe and dumped somewhere, But Robinson, getting a preview of the act, spoiled it. And then, before Raffner could come back and play undertaker, a nosey passerby had lamped the corpse. It fits right down to the last word Robinson managed to deliver when I found him in his room."

LORING'S twinkling eyes moved from Sterling back to the big detective on the sofa.

"Indeed? And what word was that?"

"'Claws'." Mac grinned faintly. "Funny, I couldn't figure it— white beard and all— at— first. The whiskers must have stuck in Robinson's mind, together with the merry eyes and the apple cheeks. Not to mention the pot under your belt, pal. Robinson was trying to say 'Santa Claus'!"

"Once," Loring admitted, "I took a department store position at holiday time to play Kris Kringle. The children adored me and I will always remember—"

"Quiet!" Sterling interrupted. "Car's stopping! Take a peek, Oscar."

"Mickey," Loring told him, parting crisp curtains cautiously, "Mother," he said from the doorway, "Would it be too much trouble to let Mickey in?"

Mac tensed himself as Raffner came into the room. The former convict was heavier caliber than Sterling. Raffner had brains, was plenty tough. And Raffner knew that when he tangled with the law he had to act fast and make it good.

"Dave McClain." Raffner's forehead corrugated into thought wrinkles. "I don't like it.

"What's the odds?" Sterling spoke carelessly. "Put a slug in him and drop him in— the river."

The plump Loring massaged his double chins with his pink fingers.

"I think that's an excellent suggestion," he said happily. "If we took him down in the basement next door, Mother wouldn't hear the shot. It's ridiculous, of course, but she can't stand the sound of a gun going off."

"No, wait!" Raffner pulled his neck into his collar. "If this dick knows enough to edge in here, he might have a throwback to the Department. He's not a dope. If he moved in there's a big chance that he's passed the word."

"Sent it— special delivery— on the back of an envelope by a taxi driver," Mac informed them. "I told him to phone it in to headquarters for me." He looked from one to the other. "They ought to be around any minute now."

"Okay!" Raffner ripped it out. "Knock him off and let's get the heck out in a hurry!"

"I took the precaution of asking Mother to pack the three valises," Loring said. "I'll see if she's ready. You know women," he added, over his shoulder, as he streaked for the door.

"One shot— through the heart!" Raffner husked, as the door closed behind Loring.

McClain came to life as if touched with a live wire. He saw the automatic in Tod Sterling's hand slide up to cardiac range. Before Sterling could squeeze the trigger, Mac was up and off the sofa like a flash of light.

He ducked left, spinning around as the automatic roared. The slug came so close it burned through the sleeve of Mac's coat, Raffner was tugging for his own artillery as a oversized fist crashed into Sterling's face.

The big dick felt muscle and cartilage bend under the impact of the blow. Sterling let go of his rod and collided with Raffner. The backward stumble spoiled Raffner's aim. Before he could get his pistol wrist in firing position again, Mac let him have a right hook to the jaw that jolted the ex-con's bridgework.

Whimpering, Sterling, meanwhile, was feeling around the floor for the automatic he had dropped. Mac slammed his pavement-worn shoe into Sterling's stomach and waded up to finish Mickey Raffner.

There was nothing McClain liked more than a bare knuckle brawl. The police gym kept him at the peak of physical perfection. He had all the assets necessary for the prize or wrestling ring— plus the hot-headed impetuosity of good old Erin, handed down through generations of shillelagh-swinging ancestors.

Mac grabbed Raffner, hauled him to him and was about to curtain-sock him when
he saw the door open and Loring came in. In the .white bearded man's hand was a Luger, large and formidable.

McClain did the only thing possible. He used Raffner as a shield while he twisted the man's snub-nosed gat out of his hand. The chill of its cold steel in Mac's fingers felt like money from home. He did some fancy snap-shooting, angling two shots from around his shield's right arm.

Either one would have sufficed.

The first bullet caught Loring a couple of inches above the wrist. The second thudded into the little man's shoulder. With a scream of pain Loring lost interest in the proceedings while, from the hall, through the echoes of the twin shots, the woman who had made McClain think of New England boiled dinners and quiet, pastoral scenes, looked in.

"Pa! Pa, what's happened?"

But Mac didn't pay any attention to her apprehensive query. Out on the steep street his quick ears heard the familiar whine of a police prowl car's siren.

Mullin and reinforcements from Headquarters!

Mac dropped down on the sofa, blowing on his knuckles. He switched his gaze from the twitching Sterling on the floor to the cowering Raffner, and then up at the little old lady on the threshold.

"Let the cops in, Mother," he requested. "And then be a dear, and put on a big pot of coffee for all of us. I need it!"

___________________

13: Old Sinclair's Story

Frank Brandram

The Black Cat, October 1899

Nothing is known of this author, except this, his sole published short story.

IT had been the affair of young Wilkes that had taken me to the club that evening. When I met him, wandering aimlessly about in a half- frozen condition, I knew that there was something unusual on his mind, and, as I was his chosen confidant, counsellor and confessor on all occasions, I simply dragged him to the club smoking-room, determined that he should unbosom himself.

"Now, Wilbur," I said, when the waiter had brought us something designed to thaw out the iciness, both physical and mental, in which Wilkes seemed bound, "go ahead and tell me all about it."

"Sh!" said Wilkes, " we are not alone."

"Nonsense! " I exclaimed, yet speaking in a low voice, " It's only poor old Sinclair I He doesn't count anyway."

"Old" Sinclair was a gentleman called old by reason of obvious, indisputable and respectable age. He was known certainly to have been a member of the club for over forty years, and it was often said that he never failed to put in a nightly appearance there during those four decades. He always occupied the same seat in the smoking-room— though he never smoked— nor did he ever drink or become intimate with any of the members.

He was certainly not a deaf mute nor an imbecile, for, on rare occasions, he had been known to converse with intelligence and spirit on the topics of the day. But usually he sat there and said nothing. He sat there and, apparently, heard nothing. He sat there and, to all appearances, thought nothing.

Wilbur's trouble proved to be a really very unnecessary misunderstanding with a young lady, with whom I happened to be acquainted, and my opinion, therefore, was quickly formed and my advice promptly given:

"Go to her at once, my boy, and explain to her as you have to me!"

With an expression of thankfulness and relief Wilbur lighted his cigar, and we were leaning back to enjoy the luxury of our shelter from the storm without, when the silence was suddenly broken by an unexpected voice:

"Gentlemen."

It was spoken sharply, but in a high-bred tone, and came from "Old " Sinclair, the only occupant of the room besides ourselves.

"Gentlemen!" he repeated, as we turned in our seats, " I trust you will not think me capable of eavesdropping, but I really could not help overhearing your conversation, without moving away."

The look of senile oblivion had vanished from the old gentleman's face. He seemed blight, alert, and agitated by some deep emotion.

"Certainly, Mr. Sinclair," I replied, "pray do not apologize."

"I heard the story of Mr. Wilkes, and your reply, and I wish to Heaven I had had such a friend, to give me the same advice!"

We started slightly at the disclosure that this seemingly unobservant old man knew even our names, and at the vehemence of his words.

"Pray allow me to explain," he said, with the air and manner of a Grandison: "I hope I shall not bore you with my little story, but the case of Mr. Wilkes and my own are almost identical, or, I should say, parallel.

"Parallel," the old gentleman continued, in measured tones, relapsing somewhat into the old-fashioned, ponderous manner of speech— "parallel in a certain sense. In a certain sense, not parallel. Mr. Wilkes, in his unfortunate embarrassment, has nothing, so far as I can perceive, for which to blame himself. I, on the other hand, was wholly to blame for the misunderstanding which separated Ruth and me.

"She had many admirers, of whom I was one— certainly not the least devoted. We had known each other from childhood. She admitted me to her friendship and confidence to a greater extent, perhaps, than she did any other of her admirers. Still, she never gave any sign that she really cared for me in the way that I desired, and one night I returned to my rooms from an entertainment at which she had made me furiously jealous.

" I sat brooding for an hour or more, inflaming my mind with thoughts of Ruth's inconstancy and heartlessness.

" At last I determined to write to her, to tell her that my heart, my life, were at her disposal, that I was content to wait for years, if need be, but that I must have some kind of an answer within twenty-four hours, or that thereafter we should meet as strangers.

"I carried out my resolution. I went to my writing-table and took up a sheet of paper. In those days, gentlemen, we wrote on large letter-sheets, of rough white or blue linen-paper, which we then folded and fastened with sealing-wax or wafers, writing the address upon the outside of the letter itself. Envelopes were only just coming into fashion.

"It occurred to me that I had a small sample of choice French notepaper, then something new, with envelopes to match, imported by a friend and given to me as a curiosity. It was like satin in finish and of a beautiful, delicate tint. There were only two sheets of the paper and two envelopes, enclosed in the original box, a tasteful Parisian affair, tied with gilt cord.

"On one of the two sheets I penned my letter, which I read carefully over, and then, as though fearful lest even the angels in heaven should look down and gaze upon the message sacred to her eyes, I turned it face downward on my desk, while for a few moments I leaned back in my chair and smoked, in dreamy reverie.

"Then I enclosed my letter in one of the envelopes, replacing the other sheet carefully in the box with its envelope. As I tied it up with the golden cord, I said to myself:

" 'If Ruth accepts me, then the first note that I write to her, if ever we should be separated for a day after our marriage, shall be written upon this sheet. But if she does not accept me, it shall remain hidden here till I die.'

"Sir," continued Mr. Sinclair, in the same well-modulated, measured tone, "Ruth never answered me. I met her a few days after writing, and she would have spoken to me, but I would not respond— I had said in my letter that we must be strangers. We have lived here in the same city ever since, and met many times— always as strangers. Though she did not accept me she did not marry any one else. And I never knew the reason till to-night."

"Indeed!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, and the reason was— she never received my letter, for, idiot that I was, I never sent it! "

"Never sent it! " said Wilkes and I almost in a breath, "how was that?"

"I will explain," said the old gentleman, with dignity. "It was fifty years ago, this very day, that I wrote that letter, and as I sat to-night in the same room, thinking over the old times, I half resolved to write to Ruth once more before I died. Fifty years! I thought. We might have been celebrating our golden wedding, but instead I was standing over the grave of golden hopes, buried under the ashes of fifty joyless years! Yes, I would write to her once more.

"I took out the old, faded, tawdry box from its secret drawer in my writing-table, but, as with trembling fingers I untied the tarnished cord, there fluttered out no empty sheet— there fell upon my desk the very letter I wrote to Ruth fifty years ago to-day! I wrote that letter and never posted it. Instead, I had folded the blank sheet, enclosed it in the envelope, and mailed that!

"When she received that blank sheet of paper she must have wondered what it could possibly mean, but when I would not speak to her she probably thought, 'Ah, he meant it was all he had to say!' "

As Mr. Sinclair concluded he handed me the letter. It was brief, manly and respectful, and written in a beautifully neat hand.

I knew not what to say as he resumed, in a hesitating, embarrassed manner, "Do you think it is too late? Don't you think we might make it up— Ruth and I— and be happy together for the short time that remains to us?"

"Do I know the lady, Mr. Sinclair" I enquired, at length.

"Miss Ford," he answered simply.

I knew Miss Ford. A dear old maiden lady, who was always at the head of all kindly works, and spent her time and her wealth in going about doing good wherever good might be done. A sweet-faced maiden lady, with old-fashioned curls, in which the glossy black still lingered, and with a kindly voice and a gentle manner that soothed the sick and cheered the fallen.

"Don't you think we might make it up— Ruth and I ?"

The question was still in my earn, and I was pondering it over, and wondering what possible answer I could give to the old gentleman's singular and embarrassing query, when, to my great relief, further confidential conversation was prevented by the entrance of a noisy party, and Mr. Sinclair slipped away, with a courteous expression of hope that we two should continue our conversation on the following evening.

The next night I visited the club chimney-corner again, and as I approached old Mr. Sinclair I heard Dr. Barry saying to the little group assembled there:

"I've just come from a strange call. Miss Ford is dead. Died suddenly an hour ago. No pain. Heart failure. Just left there."

As the doctor made this announcement, I heard Mr. Sinclair say softly:

"Ruth!"

I looked intently at him and saw him leaning back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling, a gentle smile upon his face. Apparently he was talking to himself and had not heard what the doctor said.

I made a sign to Bariy, and he continued in a lower tone, relating as a peculiar circumstance that Miss Ford, when found, had in her lap an envelope bearing a postmark of fifty years ago, while beside it was an apparently blank sheet of paper. On close examination he had found, written in a corner in a neat feminine hand, the words " Richard's letter."

I took the doctor aside and whispered, "Was the paper like this?"

"A twin sheet!" he answered, as I passed him Mr. Sinclair's letter, which I had been unable to return the night before.

I put my finger to my lip and pointed over my shoulder.

Barry looked in the direction of the old gentleman and immediately exclaimed:

"Hello! What's this?"

Striding past me he halted in front of Mr. Sinclair.

"The old gentleman is dead!" he said quietly.

He was right. Old Sinclair had heard the news of Miss Ford's death, uttered that one word, "Ruth," and then died— as she had died— of heart failure, and sitting in his chair before the fire.

His question was answered without my aid— speedily and satisfactorily. They had made it up now— Ruth and he. He had gone to meet her, it may be, as she had known him long ago, not frail and feeble as he had appeared to us, but gifted with eternal youth.

Yes, they had made it up— Ruth and he.

__________________

14: Sir Basil and Rue

Marjorie Bowen

Gabrielle M. V. Long, 1885-1952

The Cornhill Magazine Jan 1916

NO. 489.— A cornelian ring engraved with a woman's head, probably antique, brass setting.

THIS IS HOW the item is entered in the old catalogue— the ring lies carelessly in the corner of a long dusty glass case; near is a fragment of an Etruscan necklace, the fine filigree work broken into shreds; occupying the centre of the case is a shrivelled and half unwrapt mummy of a sacred ibis, and another object of horror, the dried head of a Maori chief with hard painted cheeks and long tufts of coarse black hair.

If anyone should chance to glance here, the interest of these ghastly relics would obscure that of the cornelian ring, dull under the dust, with the setting dirty and tarnished. Yet once it played a part in a tale at once romantic and pleasant— once it was bright and polished and handled by youthful fingers, and treasured as an antique fresh from the new ploughed vineyards of the Roman campagna, though a later judgment considered its pretensions doubtful, and the label is dubious.

This is the story of the cornelian ring.

The date is the date of the one English regency. The scene is first in Kent, and the curtain goes up on the figure of a young girl walking along the terrace of a fine old manor-house.

She was a young girl, not more than twenty, and pleasing as any fair Englishwoman of her breed and age, slender, erect, self-composed, delicate featured, with wide grey eyes more than a little discontented in expression.

Her name was Ruth Fairfax, and as she had been destined for her cousin's bride ever since she was a little child, and his name was Basil, some fantasy had shortened her name into Rue.

Basil and Rue they had always been as children playing together— Basil and Rue at the formal betrothal and during the few months of their position as serious lovers.

And they were Basil and Rue to each other now when they wrote to each other— he from London, she from Featherstonehaugh Manor-house, which she had never left in all her life.

Nor was she ever intended to leave it— she had been bred with that one idea— that she was to be the wife of Basil and the Mistress of the Manor.

Early an orphan, Basil's mother had brought her up, and her not inconsiderable fortune had gone in acquiring fresh land round Featherstonehaugh, and in improving the property which was one day to be hers, which was, in fact, partly hers now.

And she loved the place with an ardent response to all the careful training she had received to love and revere it, with a keen sense of all the tradition it stood for, the fine life it was symbolic of, and she asked nothing better than the destiny prepared for her— to reign over Featherstonehaugh as she had been taught to reign.

She looked over the noble sweeps of lawn broken by magnificent beech and yew trees, that extended to the great iron gates, then glanced up at the house, built under the Tudors and turreted, and now stately under a sombre June sky.

Then she skirted the wide terrace and walked rapidly and gracefully to the back of the mansion.

There a simple garden brought its sweetness to the very arched doorways of the dwelling; there was no exotic flower, only those blooms that had flourished here almost as long as the Featherstonehaughs themselves— large Canterbury bells of a pale shell pink, Jacob's Ladder, purple and white sweet-williams, bushes of lavender, pink poppies, azure cornflowers, and the tall spikes of white lilies yet in bud:

And behind this border grew the roses, now in full glory, heavy crimson blooms amid deep crimson foliages, roses with sulphur hearts, blush roses with sea-green leaves, and rambling roses of white and crimson, minute and multitudinous among the fine trails of green.

Among these roses walked a tall lady, snipping the faded flowers into a rush basket that she carried on her arm.

She wore a shawl over her gown of black and white striped taffetas, and a frilled muslin cap fastened under her chin.

At the girl's approach she turned towards her a fine, thin and determined face.

Rue came and stood beside her; neither spoke.

There was something ominous in this silence, as was something ominous in the grey sky and chill wind of this June day.

The elder lady used her scissors vigorously, and the girl watched with the intentness of preoccupation the heavy heads of the roses fall on to the moist ground.

Presently she stooped and began picking them up and placing them in the basket on her aunt's arm.

Lady Featherstonehaugh glanced at her serious face and spoke.

"You heard from Basil this morning?"

Rue answered as if replying to a challenge.

"Yes."

"And I was not told?"

"I was awaiting an opportunity of telling you, Aunt Ellen."

"You have it now."

The lady dropped the scissors into the basket and stood facing her niece, who had flushed at the cold tones directed to her so haughtily. But her tone also was resolute and calm as she replied :

"It is time Basil returned."

"I know that."Lady Featherstonehaugh spoke frankly but with the same coldness.

"He must come back."

Rue pronounced the words with energy; the skirt of the dark close gown was ruffled by the wind, her fair hair blown across her brow; she looked very resolute, and, in a delicate manner, strong.

The elder woman eyed her keenly.

"Can you make him come back ?"

Rue answered slowly.

"No— nor can you, Aunt Ellen;"then, reluctantly facing a contemptuous truth, "He cares no more for either of us— nor for Featherstonehaugh."

Basil's mother stood as one outraged; she was speechless at this tearing aside of the veil she had hung before reality, at this ruthless levelling of the defences her love had built round her son.

Looking at her Rue was stirred into passion.

"Please let us help each other! Please let me tell you how it is— he gambles."

Rigid his mother answered.

"I know— all young men do."

Rue was unflinching.

"He plays high— and loses."

"We can afford some losses."

"Not these losses."

Lady Featherstonehaugh shivered and glanced up at the clouded sky.

"What has he written to you?"she demanded on a note of surrender.

"That he loses— and worse than money."

"He stakes?"

Rue's eyes were dark; she answered with a certain fierceness.

"He begins to stake Featherstonehaugh."

The elder lady set her lips and her brow in frowning lines; she stood erect before the blow of a horrible suspicion confirmed. Just for a moment she was on the defensive, excuses, even denials, on her lips, the life-long spirit of devotion refusing to be utterly quenched, even at this moment, which was but the climax of long weeks of trial and suspense.

Then, under the straight glance of the girl, a glance which was singularly fearless and ardent, she surrendered.

"Yes, Rue,"she said, and her voice sounded old and uncontrolled. "You are quite right— something must be done."

But there was a hopeless sound in her words, as if she said, "What can two women do against a man, who is at once their lord and their beloved ?"

Rue took her arm very gently and relieved her of the basket of dead roses, and the two erect, yet pitiful, figures passed from under the shadow of the grey sky into the shadow of the ancient house.

In the tapestried drawing-room, proudly kept unchanged through all changes of taste and mode, they faced each other and their trouble.

"It is Lord Muskerry,"said Rue.

Lady Featherstonehaugh bowed her head.

"I have realised that,"she answered.

Her manner was quite meek, the manner of one towards another who has shown the courage he himself has lacked.

"That man,"continued the girl with emphasis, "has Basil by the throat— he will get every penny from him— and every rood of Featherstonehaugh."

Basil's mother was dumb; she was hardly prepared for this extreme facing of the situation. Basil was Basil— to be adored and reverenced— "my son" and "master of Featherstonehaugh," yet the energy and decision of the younger woman silenced this tradition and this pride. Deep in her stalwart heart Basil's mother was afraid; she kept her hands tight locked in her lap, and looked at Rue with an intensity that grew piteous.

Rue looked at the window; the clouds had broken now and a fine rain fell on the swaying flowers; the horizon began to glow a luminous colour of pearl, and in rifts in the clouds shafts of light gleamed against which the rain looked like a veil of diamonds.

"It is Lord Muskerry,"repeated the girl; her figure in the blue gown, straight, tight and showing the limbs, the elegant feet in the white stockings and black sandals looked incongruous against the old massive oak chair built to frame ruff and wimple, stomacher and farthingale.

"He has been in the hands of Lord Muskerry,"she added, "ever since he went to London— 'twas his first friend— his ruin."

"It is with Lord -Muskerry he plays ?"the question came reluctantly.

"He himself admits it,"replied Rue; with scorn she quoted her lover's letter, " 'Playing with my Lord Muskerry I have been unfortunate— I staked and lost some of the Haugh Woods.' That is what he said."

"The Haugh Woods!"muttered Lady Featherstonehaugh.

Rue proceeded with her indictment.

"Betty Morton has written the same thing to me. She says her husband hears of Basil at all the night clubs— that he is in the foremost of every folly, every devilry in town— this has been going on for more than a year, Aunt Ellen."

"For a year and three months— and two days, dear." She had the date of her son's departure engraved in her heart.

"And during that time he has not once thought to visit us— his return is ever postponed— and our marriage is never referred to."

She turned her eyes on her aunt; she was very moved, the fair face was flushed— she was thinking of more than Basil, she was thinking of Featherstonehaugh.

"Are we going to wait here while he squanders and stakes the estate?"

The elder lady looked at her in silence; she had no suggestion to make; she was so trained to inaction, as the only dignified course for a woman, that she could think of no alternative; her married life had been an admirable training in patience; the late Sir Basil had had so many faults that she had hardly been able to suppress a sigh of relief at his demise; but he had not gambled beyond the ordinary trifling play of a gentleman. This was a new disaster— and threatened ruin— horrors impossible to contemplate.

"He could never gamble Featherstonehaugh," she broke out suddenly.

"He has begun,"replied Rue. "This Lord Muskerry will suck him dry— do you think that he will be content with a portion of Haugh Woods? He will play for the whole estate."

"Impossible!"

"It is very possible— larger estates than this have been lost this way."

"Who is he, this Muskerry ?"

Rue's clear eyes flashed hate.

"Who can he be ? A greedy adventurer— a penniless peer, a fribble of fashion— a rook on the outlook for such a pigeon as Basil! Who else?"

"Is there no one,"asked Lady Featherstonehaugh desperately, "who can save Basil? One of his father's friends?"

"Would he listen to them? You know he would not."

"There must be someone."

"I know of no one."

"But something must be done."

The girl raised her hand impulsively and put back her soft hair.

"We must go to London,"she said.

Amazement flushed the other lady's face.

"We? I have not been to town since Basil's father died."

"We must go now."

"Where?"

"To London— to the town house— to stay with Basil to— to fight Lord Muskerry."

Hope began to light the clouds of Lady Featherstonehaugh's bewilderment.

After all why should they not break through the tradition that as females they should wait decorously in the country till their lord pleased to return.

"I believe that you are right, my dear,"she said, and flushed. "Basil certainly needs us, and as he will not come to us, we must go to him."

Rue was thinking more of Featherstonehaugh than of Basil.

Before one rood of the manor fell into the hands of strangers she was prepared to make a valiant fight.

Bending together with interlocked hands the women took counsel.

It ended by Basil's mother drawing the girl to her bosom and crying over her. Rue did not cry at all.

Within the week they were ready to start. Sir Basil had had but a day's notice of their arrival; his cousin did not wish to give him the chance to write putting them off with any excuse either specious or laboured.

They did not expect the warmest of welcomes; of late their correspondence had been cold and tinged with reproach; he would be sure to suspect their motive in this sudden unparalleled visit.

He did indeed mark his displeasure by being out when they arrived at the town mansion.

This disturbed Rue very little. She took command of the household, established the new servants she had brought with her, then took the coach and went shopping with her aunt in the Haymarket and the adjacent fashionable streets.

She was not indifferent to the trifle of clothes; she had never looked a country miss, and now she ordered the finest gowns she had ever worn with surety and taste.

Lady Featherstonehaugh approved; she grew younger and less formal in this atmosphere; she almost enjoyed the constant spectacle of the changing crowd, but Rue wished that she was back at Featherstonehaugh.

Nothing distracted her from the one set purpose in her mind.

That night Sir Basil returned so late that both the ladies were abed.

The next morning his mother came into Rue's room.

The girl lay yet in the heavy old bed, shadowed by folds of silk curtains.

"What, have you seen him?"

"Yes, dear."

"So early?"

"He was up early— I heard him come down— his voice on the stairs— I hurried down— he was going for a ride "

"To avoid us!"

"He says he rides every morning."Lady Feathers tonehaugh still strove to defend him.

"What did he say?"

"Oh— greetings— surprise— he behaved well— asked for you "

Rue was still unmollified.

"Could he do less?"

She slipped from the bed and stood in her long ruffled gown gazing at her aunt.

"You do not look pleased,"she said keenly.

"He was changed?"

Basil's mother was startled.

"How did you guess?"

"I thought that he would be— lately his letters have changed."

For a little they were silent; the elder woman sat on the edge of the bed.

"We shall never do anything with him,"she said sadly.

"He is— so changed as all that?"demanded Rue frowning.

"I am afraid so."

Rue said nothing more; she braced herself to meet this Basil, so changed that his mother spoke of it— changed indeed he must be!

His betrothed had found him easy to deal with in the past, bright, laughing, good-humoured, malleable— too malleable. Now another and sinister influence had moulded him.

Rue felt bitter towards London, very bitter towards Lord Muskerry.

If Basil had remained at Featherstonehaugh he would not have changed, but have remained the same dear lord, the centre of their adoration and interest.

That day she did not see him; she armed herself with patience, surrounded herself with such friends as there were in London, found out what she could of the formidable Lord Muskerry.

She found that she had been mistaken in her estimation of him; he was no fop of fashion, no starving adventurer, but a man of wealth and distinction; he had a reputation as a diplomat— would soon be in the Government, so much even his enemies admitted. Rake and gambler he might be, but this had never hindered his success nor smirched his reputation; he was spoken of as one destined to a notable career— compared to Bolingbroke, was a wit, an author— a man certainly distinguished.

Rue hated him the more.

She had a capacity for hatred as some have for love; often she was surprised herself at the quick passion of her feelings against some person or object who wounded or vexed her; and Lord Muskerry had done both.

For he had taken from her what was most peculiarly hers— her lover, and was on the way to take from her her fortune and her home.

The first meeting with Basil was one of perfect courtesy.

He behaved with a frankness that was the most perfect guard to his thoughts and feelings, and her manner had always been one of easy reserve, even towards him.

But while the two exchanged commonplaces in the great drawing-room of the town mansion, she asking after the London season, he after Featherstonehaugh, they were keenly regarding each other.

It was almost the keenness of enemies— certainly it was a keenness free from all illusion and almost from kindness.

He could not but approve her bloom, the glow of wind and sun in her cheeks, the clearness of her eyes, the abundant glossy hair looped round the high amber comb; her figure, not concealed by the close gown of tight silk, was too full for his taste, a freedom in her movements seemed boldness, her feet seemed large, though finely shaped, her hands were browned on the backs, he noticed the scars of rose thorns on her fingers— worse than all, she had now an air too composed, even too commanding for one who had become used to the adoration and thousand veiled flatteries of town ladies.

He hesitated in his judgment, sometimes considering her a beautiful woman, sometimes as one without charm.

At least she was not the country miss, awkward and shy— it was equally certain that she was not a fine lady adept in the art of fascination.

In Rue's judgment there had been no hesitancy; even before their greeting hands had parted, after the first alert glance she had said to herself— "He will not do."

As they sat side by side on the long yellow settee this first swift verdict of hers was confirmed.

His mother had said that he was changed. To Rue's quicker perception he had not changed but matured; she realised, with a cruel pang, that all the faults she saw in him now were always there, latent but potent— his charm had become affectation, his weakness, before unconscious, now on guard, was veiled by an air of obstinacy. He was now no longer afraid of disregarding emotions he had been awed into holding sacred, nor ashamed to own his love of folly; he spoke with a shrug of his mother, with a sneer of Featherstonehaugh; his shallowness very completely aped the gentleman a la mode. His face had altered; the rosy freshness was changed into a thick pallor, becoming but unhealthy, the fullness of the lips and chin was emphasised, the eyes were heavy lidded; he wore the extreme fashion, and carried himself with the air of a man who gives too much attention to his dress.

"When are you returning home?" asked Rue— she used the last word with meaning; she saw that his vanity resented it.

"Have you come to fetch me?" he parried. "Like a school dame after a truant ?"

She considered her reply.

"Well, perhaps," she said slowly.

He made a movement that he could not divest of impatience.

"This is my mother!" he exclaimed.

"Nay, it was I, Basil."

"You ?"The enmity in his glance was unmistakable.

11 I want you to come back to Featherstonehaugh."There was no flattery in her tones.

He spoke lightly to cover his vexation.

"Do not be provincial, Rue. Men do not stay on their estates nowadays. London is the only place for a man of position."

"What will you do in London?"

"Muskerry has promised to get me a Government place."

"And Featherstonehaugh?"

"My dear!"His tone was a protest against her insistence. "The place has a very capable steward."

She locked her hands about her knees and her eyes were dark with earnestness.

"You cannot afford this life, Basil."

He blushed from the tight folds of his muslin cravat to the curls of his carefully arranged hair.

"You are gambling,"she proceeded. "You are beginning to sell the estate."

He curbed the haughty answer he desired to give; she was his cousin, would be his wife, and had a large money interest in his property, and she was not displeasing to him, nor was he in love with any other woman.

Also considerations and a weak desire to have a confidant moved him to take her reproofs humbly.

"In town one must gamble"— his defence was voluble— "you do not understand that yet, Rue. Muskerry is a great player— it is done at all the clubs; I have my way to make and cannot hang back. Muskerry is a patron worth having, he could send me to an Embassy in Europe. I thought you would like that, the life of foreign courts— as for the land, it is easily bought back— and the mortgages "

"Mortgages?"she cried; she had not thought of that.

Reluctantly, yet with a certain relief, he gave her the truth; yes, the estates were mortgaged— in part— every gentleman's estates were, it meant nothing; yes, he had been to the Jews, it was incredible how money went in town, but a man had to, there was no making a career else. Why, she did not realise the state of things; everyone from the Regent downwards was in debt, it was the way things were done; the only alternative was to rot in the country, and he couldn't do that— didn't she understand?

Rue understood; her calmness reassured him; he left her affectionately and promised to take her riding in his white and gilt phaeton that afternoon.

Rue sat for a long while silent on the satin settee.

She knew all that she needed to know now; this one interview had told her everything.

Gambling, debts, mortgages— these words indicated, like signposts, a wilderness of folly.

How far things had gone she did not need to know; it was obviously but a question of how long it took for Featherstonehaugh to slip through Basil's loose fingers.

Rue wept in sheer passion; her lover was gone. The boy of the past she might have loved, the man of the present never, and with her lover her future had vanished too— small chance had she now of reigning in Featherstonehaugh as from her childhood she had been taught to reign.

She went to Lady Featherstonehaugh, as one going to seek comfort from an ally, but Basil had been before her; he had spoken to his mother, made excuses, told half-truths, she was again wholly his; Rue felt herself shut out; here was one who would always adore Basil and listen to no evil of him; all would come right, she said, Basil was as other young men; let them wait without anxiety— after all, women should not interfere.

Rue felt her blood flaming; like a poisoned dart her rage went out to Lord Muskerry— she wished that she could go and seek him— women were so chained....

Basil did not come to take her out that afternoon; in the evening she saw him intoxicated; she knew that this was merely fashion, that no man was exempt, yet it increased her sense of his carelessness and folly.

Next day he dined at home; his mother, the decorous hostess, delighted to receive her son's fashionable guests.

Rue found herself in the window embrasure talking to a gentleman very quietly dressed in grey cloth.

"You are new to London?" he asked her.

"I understand London," she replied.

He looked at her with interest; he liked her carriage, her air of fearlessness, her beautiful arms and shoulders— her gown of heavy white satin with borders of gold embroidery and gold cords under the bust showed no country taste; her robustness, which had repelled Basil, attracted him— it was like the perfume of clover, the fragrance of lavender and honey to one to whom these things had the charm of variety.

"It is a little difficult to understand London," he answered.

"I know,"she answered him; and looked at him carefully and quite frankly.

Dark he was and slender, of a type new to her, aquiline in feature, with large and powerful eyes, an air of great ease and perfect mastery of himself.

He seemed amused and interested in others and absolutely self-assured; she thought there was more than a little of the devil in him— suddenly, on a quick intuition she said, "You are Lord Muskerry !"

"Yes," he said, "did you not hear my name when we were presented "

"No."

"Then— how did you guess?"

"I do not know."

They looked at one another steadily, astonished at the interest each had for each.

He had never considered Basil Featherstonehaugh with any particular attention, nor gone beyond his first summary of him as another youngster from the country more or less foolish and more or less amusing.

That his estates could not probably stand the strain of the rate he was living at, Lord Muskerry guessed, but that had been no matter of his; he knew too what Rue did not know, that Basil was a born gambler, difficult, if not impossible, to save.

Now he was interested in the man because of the woman; this girl was not the type he had expected the young squire's betrothed to be; he admired her— the kind of woman to help a man, he thought, but not such a man as Basil Featherstonehaugh.

"Are you long for town?" he asked.

"It depends upon the success I meet with,"answered Rue; she continued to give him her keen attention; she thought of him as the most dangerous enemy, as such he held her with an endless interest.

He probed the frankness that pleased him.

"If you succeed?"

She flushed a little.

"Succeed in persuading Basil to return home," she answered bluntly. "We country folk, my lord, do well to keep away from London."

He looked amused.

"A rare sentiment and one that does credit to your intelligence, Miss Fairfax."

She continued, speaking rapidly, as if explaining her position and her motives: she had a desire to make herself very clear with this man.

"Here, Sir Basil is nothing— in Featherstonehaugh he is something; he will never be distinguished in London, in Featherstonehaugh he is always a great man."

"You love the place,"said Lord Muskerry keenly.

"It is,"she answered proudly, "my home and my kingdom."

He was speaking to her seriously as if they had long known each other.

"You realise he is entangled ?"

"Yes."

She dropped her glance and her lips trembled, for she wondered if it were much worse than she knew.

"I think,"said Lord Muskerry carelessly, "that he is much embarrassed."

Rue suddenly turned on him, beating her foot on the floor and speaking in a low accent of intense rage.

"This is your doing, my lord!" she flung at him. "You have made this poor youth's ruin your amusement— and now your boast!"

Lord Muskerry was sincerely astonished; he laughed in her face.

"You mistake. Sir Basil is a born gambler, he plays with any who will take his stakes—"

"You are his tempter,"returned she unappeased.

He shrugged his shoulders, and looked at her with narrowed eyes.

"Make the request, Miss Fairfax, and I will never play with Sir Basil again."

But her pride was in arms; vanity and loyalty to Basil combined to lead her into a foolish action.

She defied instead of conciliating.

"Basil is no gambler, I know him. I do not need your lordship's assistance."

The dark devil that had so often borne down his opponents leapt to his eyes.

"Would you challenge me, madam?" he asked very soft.

"I do not need your lordship's assistance,"she repeated; she told herself that this fire in her heart was hatred of the man, driving her into wildness.

"You do not know Sir Basil,"he said with an air of mocking.

He held out his firm handsome right hand, which bore one ring, a cornelian in a brass setting.

"You see this,"he continued, "an almost worthless thing though a pretty antique— but set in brass as I bought it in Italy?"

"Well?"said she, breathing a little heavily, but with eyes very courageously on his dark amused face.

"Well, Sir Basil would stake, when he is in his madness of play, all Featherstonehaugh against this "

The thing was too monstrous, she laughed it away.

"You are at liberty, my lord, to endeavour to obtain Featherstonehaugh at so low a rate."

He bowed.

Rue turned and hastened away; she was beginning to lose her composure; certainly this man had a power, a force; she could not help comparing him with Basil, but angrily checked that disloyalty.

She felt lonely in the great house, lonely in the crowd of strangers, and, for all the proud front she had shown to Lord Muskerry, utterly unprepared as to how to cope with the situation; she believed the best of Basil, but at the best he was changed, even his adoring mother had admitted that— weak he was, too, and vain and obstinate, and what was her influence over him?— she could not be sure even that he still regarded her as his friend.

When the reception was over she went again to his mother.

"Lord Muskerry says Basil is a gambler born,"she said abruptly.

"These fashionable men use the term as a compliment,"was the reply; there was beginning to be considerable strain of feeling between the two women; the presence of Basil had entirely lulled his mother; she could not now bear to hear anything against him; he seemed to her to be leading the life of any young man of quality in town, and she was quite satisfied with his careless assurance that the estates were safe.

"The entanglement is more than we know of," continued Rue; "you cannot, will not realise it."

"My dear, you listen to gossip,"replied the elder lady; "if you are going to make yourself unhappy about Basil, let us go back to Featherstonehaugh."

"And wait for the day when he comes to us with empty pockets," cried Rue, "telling us that no stick nor stone on the estate is any longer ours?"

"This talk,"said the elder lady, "is an insult to my son."

Rue left her without another word; she felt hardened against both the Featherstonehaughs.

Lord Muskerry and some other gentlemen dined with Basil that evening; afterwards, as was usual, they passed into the card-room; the girl reluctantly mounting the wide staircase to the decorum of the drawing-room gave a backward look in time to catch a glance from my lord.

A glance of amusement, she thought, at a country miss who had defied him.

She looked from him to Basil; her betrothed was sober as any gentleman there, she took some comfort from that.

Long after Lady Featherstonehaugh had gone to bed and Rue was in her chamber, with her maid dismissed, the men remained in the cardroom.

Several times she went out on to the stairs and leaning over the white baluster listened; the door was opened and shut occasionally as the servant carried in fresh bottles and glasses; she heard the voices of the gamblers, not raised, but sharp with excitement; once she heard Lord Muskerry laugh.

One o'clock came and she had not undressed; all her candles, save one on the dressing-table, had guttered out unheeded; this last vague light showed her pale and haggard in her coral red silk, a string of garnet gleamed dark on her pale throat, and a high gold comb sparkled in her bright hair.

When she moved she felt a strange pain in her head and limbs, a feverish coldness which was a heat and yet a shiver.

Her complete healthiness was startled at these symptoms of weakness; she was forced to admit that this was the mind affecting the body, forced to realise how she had suffered during those hours that she had waited here, her thoughts following every incident, her imagination picturing every movement that was taking place in the cardroom— a room she was fast beginning to regard as fatal.

She had seldom been awake, never been up and dressed, so late; she looked from the window; the silence and darkness of the city was worse than the silence and darkness of the country; the air was cold— the uncharitable cold of an English summer.

She took from the press an Indian shawl, Basil's one present to her since her arrival, and put it round her shoulders, then, without any formed resolution, she opened the door and descended the stairs.

The decoration of the house was white, showing now a pale opal colour in the subdued light from the silk-shrouded, crystal-hung lamps on the stairway.

Rue hated this coldness— the tears rose in her eyes as she thought of Featherstonehaugh house, that rich palace of her dreams.

For a moment she paused before the card-room door, conscious that her limbs were heavy, that her head was giddy, conscious of the serene classical lines of the moulding in the panels before her— then she opened the door and stood before the flushed party of men intent on their play.

Her eyes were only for one face; in looking for Basil Featherstonehaugh she forgot all confusion and weakness.

He was close to her, leaning across the slender table, a dice-box of goat's hair bound in silver grasped in his right hand.

The multitudinous folds of his cravat were loosened and the billows of muslin fell in disorder over his bosom; his hair was pushed out of the fashionable arrangement of curls and hung awry on his damp forehead, his face looked quite fallen and old and ill; with every second that the girl looked at him she knew that what Lord Muskerry had told her was true; even her inexperience could not fail to see that here was a man absorbed by the intense and overwhelming passion of the born gambler.

She went straight up to him; the other men in the room did not exist for her at that moment.

But they were all staring at her; none of them had paid much attention to Miss Fairfax either at the reception or the dinner, but now her sudden and strange appearance, her vivid dress, bright shawl, and unusual pallor that set off a beauty hitherto unnoticed, set all eyes on her; play was stopped; all, with tacit consent, waited for her to declare herself.

But her thoughts were only for Basil, and he was the only man who paid no attention to her.

She called his name in a tone in which she had never uttered it before.

"Basil!"

He looked up; his dazed eyes showed neither surprise nor resentment at her presence.

"Basil!"

She laid her hand on his shoulder.

He shook himself like a man trying to shake off sleep.

"Why, you should be in bed,"he said, and his gaze turned again to the dice-box.

Rue looked from him across the table— she saw that his opponent was Lord Muskerry, who surveyed her with a brilliant glance.

She drew her breath sharply, her hand tumbled from her bosom, letting slip the Indian shawl and revealing her pale throat and shoulders with the necklace of dark lustrous stones.

The other guests left their own play to gather about these three; one or two advised Basil to desist; they saw tragedy in the tired face of the woman.

"You have played high enough for to-night, Sir Basil."

He took no heed of these words a friend whispered in his ear.

Lord Muskerry heard them and repeated them aloud.

"Best play no more to-night, Sir Basil, lest you lose further."

The young man lifted his head, roused at last.

"What do you mean? To cheat me of my revenge? I must and will have my revenge— luck will turn."

"I'll play no more,"said Lord Muskerry, but he did not move from the table.

"Why do you say that?" demanded Basil, his eyes ugly.

"Because I always beat you— in games of hazard as in games of skill."

"A good reason,"said Rue. u Leave it now, Basil— cards and dice— for to-night."

He looked up at her and laughed.

"You have come to bring me luck, eh, Rue? To see me win what I have lost?" He turned keenly to the other man. "My lord, my lord, I will play you any stakes you wish— to prove my luck."

Lord Muskerry took the brass-mounted ring from his finger and placed it on the table.

"That against all you possess, that is the only stake I play to-night."

The company drew closer round Basil; he picked up the ring and laughed unsteadily.

"A fine intaglio— I always admired it—"

"Against all that you still possess of Featherstonehaugh— your town house, your horses—"

"I am sure of my luck," interrupted Basil.

Rue Fairfax came closer to him; the candle-light threw out her brilliant figure against the dark garments and white cravats of the men.

"You are not sane to-night, Basil,"she said in a voice rough with distress. "You do not know what you are doing."

"I am perfectly sober, my dear," he cut in with impatience.

She clasped her hands with agonised entreaty.

"Basil, consider me—"

He looked her up and down.

"I'll add you to the list," he said with an eager laugh. "What do you say to that, Lord Muskerry, the hand of this lady?"

"Done,"said my lord quietly.

Rue leapt from the card-table as swiftly as if he had struck her from her balance.

An elderly man caught her arm kindly.

"You must not think of him at all, Miss Fairfax— a born gambler— a reckless gambler, I fear quite worthless "

Rue did not hear the words, she was listening to the clatter of the dice, then the smart smack of them on the table.

Basil had thrown first; he pushed his chair back, red in the face.

"Did I not tell you that my luck had changed?"— he had thrown the five and six.

My lord cast his throw in silence.

An instant's silence held the company, then from each man broke a soft subdued exclamation.

The last throw showed the double six.

"Chance was always against you," remarked my lord; he picked up the ring and rose.

Basil sat dumb and foolish; his usual sickly pallor had returned, he drummed on the table sharply.

"I had a purpose of my own in this gamble," said my lord very easy and grand, "which was not to ruin Sir Basil. Gentlemen, bear witness, he remains as he was— master of all that for which he played"— here my lord looked at Rue, who stood with her head down— "since the only item I value among Sir Basil's possessions was that one which I may not take."

"Which is that?"asked the young man stupidly, ashamed and bewildered by this turn.

"The last you offered,"said my lord.

Rue looked up at that; she was flushed and breathing hard, and looked as beautiful as a country rose.

"If you mean my hand," she said, "it is yours; you may be a devil, as I make no doubt you are, but you are not a coward or a fool."

Before them all she put her hand in his and he slipped the brass ring on her marriage finger.

"You and I together, madam," he answered, "will make our way in the world."

SIR Thomas Laurence left a portrait of Ruth, Lady Muskerry, in a red velvet gown; her robust beauty suited his facile brush, her frank face looks from the canvas radiant with health and success.

Later he sketched Sir Basil, an old man at thirty, ruined and weary; this drawing, however, was never finished, but remains in the artist's sketch-book.

And in this case in the old museum chance has thrown the cornelian ring, which was never mounted in gold after all.

___________________

15: The Valley of the Others

Elizabeth Taylor
fl. 1910s

The Atlantic Monthly Dec 1912

Not to be confused with famous actress Elizabeth [Rosemond] Taylor, 1932-2011, nor British novelist Elizabeth Taylor, 1912-1975, this author flourished briefly in the first decade of the 20th century. Nothing else is known.

I HAVE come to Dalen to spend the whole night here alone. The Pastorinde and I have often talked of coming— just we two— to see what goes on here during the sub-Arctic summer night, how the birds and flowers conduct themselves through the hours that are dark in more southern lands. Dalen is a great, lonely valley, two miles from the Parsonage. On three sides are high, rugged fjelds, but the fourth is open to the northern sea, to distant islands, and to wonderful shore-cliffs. The Pastor affirms that his best sermons are composed here on snipe-shooting days, and I know that when I come here fishing I return a much better woman than when I left home, even though midges bite and trout do not. When a rare guest visits the Parsonage in the summer, the Pastorinde brings him here as the best her hospitality can offer. If he grumbles at the rocky, boggy trail and looks with a cold eye on Dalen, finding her desolate, then the Pastorinde knows that to one chamber of her heart that guest will have no key. It is a great heart, that of the Pastorinde, and I have learned to know its strength and sweetness during my winter in the little parsonage of Vidareide.

In August, ten months ago, I did my Christmas shopping, talked my last English to the Danish officials in Thorshavn, the capital of the Färoes. Then I sailed away to this northern island where Danish is the language of the Parsonage, old Norse that of the little turf-covered cottages.

The last boat of the year came in November. After that we were shut off from the outside world. No telegraph, no cable, no post! Truly I had need of the Pastorinde, and she has not failed me. There are no children at the Parsonage, but long ago the Pastorinde learned to call me her 'pleie-barn'— her foster child; and I call her 'pleie-mor'— foster mother.

It is because the Pastorinde slipped and sprained her ankle that I am here all by myself to spend the night in Dalen. Viktorinus and Jakob Johan, small boys of my acquaintance, bore on their sturdy shoulders provisions, spirit-lamp, warm wraps, and sketching-things, and I have made a little camp not far from the sea-cliffs. The boys have shaken hands and said in Danish, 'Farewell,' and 'A pleasant night to you,' and I have answered, 'Thanks for thy friendly assistance.' As they left me, I heard Jakob Johan say in old Norse (thinking I would not understand) that he was glad it wasn't he who was to spend the night in Dalen, and Viktorinus murmured something about a Nykur that is supposed to dwell in a tarn up on the hillside. The sentiment of the village is expressed: in the words of old Sigurd, said, not to me, but to the Pastor's milk-girl.

'Dalen in the day-time,' said Sigurd, 'is for Men, there to cut and dry the peat, or to hunt down the sheep from the fjelds. The daylight is theirs, but Dalen at night is for the Others. They would think the Fróken [Miss] had come to spy on them; they are easily offended, and might take revenge. No, that the Fróken should not do.'

But to me the peasant women say only, 'Will not the Fróken catch cold?' 'Is not the Fróken afraid of cows?'

It has been what we call a myra-snipa day, the kind that the myra-snipa or marsh-snipe love, and the air seems to vibrate with their curious bleating sound; a day when the mild south-west wind blows gently and all is bathed in luminous mists. There are many rainbows, distant arches, and fragments close by that spring out of a Straw-covered chimney, a big boulder, the prow of a boat, or the cliff's edge. Clouds are bowled softly in from the sea-levels, and wander in a casual fashion over the home-fjelds and between the houses. As I sit in sunshine one envelops me in damp gray walls, then flashes by and whisks in a great hurry round a corner. In rose and violet and gold they come, some stately and full-breasted, others frolicking along like a band of playing children. On every side rises the happy chorus of bird-song. Though many of the notes are harsh and plaintive, they are softened to the ear by the mellow air. A curlew is not a cheerful bird, but he has one sweet contented croon, 'To-whee-e! to-whee-e! to-whee-e!' On a myra-snipa day it tells the joy of living as well as the song of the bobolink.

Ten o'clock, and a change is coming. The clouds have risen, colors are darker, outlines harder. The sheep are slowly mounting, grazing as they go. That is a sign of bad weather. Far out at sea is a heavy bank of cloud. Only the upper fjelds are in sunshine now. There is wind up there. The braided clouds writhe and toss, and from each blood-red peak swings up and away a mighty fiery banner like that of a volcano in eruption.

It will not be a friendly night in Dalen; but I cannot go home now, lest the cows invade my camp. Curious beyond the common wont of cows, they rend and trample objects that are new to them, and some cows will eat garments of cotton and of wool. I am told that a true Färoe cow is never guilty of such evil. When it occurs, it is due to a vicious strain of Danish blood. The Firoe attitude toward things Danish always reminds me of Kipling's conviction that Canadian political morals and private principles would be of a snowy whiteness if it were not for the contaminating influence of Americans.

I have just remembered that it is the twenty-fourth of June, Midsummer Night, when evil spirits are freed to fare abroad at will. In Norway the fires of Saint John are burning now; but how can one keep the feast in this treeless land? The Norse forbears of the Faröe folk found here, a thousand years ago, a scanty growth of juniper and willows,— and bonfires burned for Balder, God of Light. Now, not a tree or a shrub breaks the outline of the hills.

The old pagan beliefs died slowly here in the Färoes, isolated as the islands were by distance and by dangerous seas. On land and water lingered a host of evil spirits, jealous of the faith that had supplanted Thor and Odin. Even yet an uneasy belief in the supernatural dwells curiously with the religion taught by the Pastor and accepted by his flock; and with the exception of the two at the Parsonage there is probably not a soul in Vidareide who could be persuaded to spend Midsummer Night alone in Dalen.

Eleven o'clock, and I have just had a visit from a messenger, but whether for good or for evil, I do not know, since he could not tell his message to me. Sitting under the shelter of a huge rock, huddled in my warm wraps and halfmusing, half-dreaming, in the silvery light that is neither day nor night, I saw a hooded crow, usually one of the most wary and timid of birds, flutter to the ground just beyond my reach. He did not caw as usual, but looking up at me intently, he bobbed his head up and down and said, 'Boo-a! Boo-a!' Now in this way the old Norse word 'bud' is pronounced, and 'bud' means "a message.'

Both ravens and crows, as all the Faröe folk know, have gone far in the Black Art. They can foretell events, and know when the flocks of driving whales are in neighboring waters; but alas, they lack human speech in which to give their warnings. Last winter a crow came to the cabin of an old woman in Vidareide, looked in at the window and gave the message-call.

'Now what does this betide?' said old Ranaa. An hour later a column of smoke on distant Bordö told that whales had been seen off the coast and that men and boats must come at once.

'Ah, so ol-o!' said old Ranaa; 'that is what the message-bird was trying to tell me.'

It is pleasant to sit here in camp, mulling over in my mind fragments of story and Faröe memories, but I had better go a-fishing if, as I promised, the Pastorinde is to have Dalen trout for her breakfast to-morrow. Up among the fjelds that inclose Dalen like an enormous semi-circular amphitheatre, a brook takes its rise and comes leaping and foaming down between the rocks, to run, gathering other little brooks to itself as it goes across the grassy slopes of the valley, to cliffs where it plunges downward to the sea. And in that brook there are trout such as anglers dream of when their sleep is sweet; beautiful trout like those of the Scottish streams. One can easily catch a string of fish weighing from one eighth to one fourth of a pound. Larger than that I have never caught in Dalen, but one day, when I wandered through the valley without my fishing-tackle,— a warm day with little midges swarming in the air,—I saw in the brook, rising for the midges, great lusty trout such as I had never seen before in Dalen,— trout of fully two pounds, and I without so much as a string and a bent pin! Gray or White Millers, or perhaps a Royal Coachman, are the flies to use to-night. They resemble the thousands of moths that are flying over thousands of little pink-and-white orchids in the marshy grasses. I must crush the flowers' waxen petals beneath my feet as I fish along the banks, and a delicate fragrance of bitter almonds will fill the air. These little orchids are potent in love-charms and have, it is said, power as whalecharms. If the white hand-shaped root, 'Mary's Hand,' is cast into the water, it will drive away whales; and if the black, withered root, the 'Devil's Hand,' is used, it will attract them. There are blue-and-white speedwells, eye-brights, yellow tormentillas, and buttercups growing with the orchids, but the rarer plants are high on the fjeld slopes.

MIDNIGHT now, and in the north the sunset colors lingering. Nature seems painted with a large brush, forms and colors showing, but insignificant detail omitted. Far away, on the heights of Villingdal-fjeld, the clamor of the seafowl has almost died away. From the ledges under the sea-cliffs comes that monotonous droning that often precedes a storm at sea. A pair of ravens are playing and turning in the air above the dark crags of Morna-fjeld. Now and then an oyster-catcher scurries by, but the birds are strangely still. In friendly weather they would be heard the whole night through. In the hush of bird-life other voices are calling— the little brooks of Dalen. On the black cliffs they show like strands of silver. They bubble up from the peaty soil, cold, sweet, undefiled. Shrill notes are heard on pebbly beaches, deeper murmurs from over-hanging banks. Here and there one gushes up from a mossy basin, swirls over a flat rock, and buries itself with a chuckle beneath the heather. I walk on grassy slopes and hear the rushing of water below my feet, and all around the rumor of waters hurrying to the sea.

I had planned to climb high on the fjeld-side to see what the little alpine flowers are doing, which ones are sleeping, which keeping their petals and leaves unfolded in the midnight hour; but somehow, I feel reluctant to go far from my camp. Not that I am afraid. No, one feels such confidence in islands. There is no mysterious interior as on the mainland, where terrors may lurk. The only danger would be from falling stones loosened by the winter's frosts and dislodged by the hoofs of grazing sheep.

There are over a hundred thousand sheep in the Färoes, hardy, active creatures that scramble like goats along those terraces where I would not dare venture. They live out, uncared for, all the year. The ordinary winter storms they bear well enough. Early spring is the time of danger, when sometimes a cruel northeast wind blows for many days. It comes from the Arctic icefloes, the glaciers and snow-fields of Spitzbergen, often bringing with it a bitter fog that whirls drearily over the land, obscuring the light. The freshly springing grass is seared and withers away, the grass that the mother-sheep need if they are to have milk for the coming lambs. And so the babies die— by thousands they die— not only from starvation, but killed at birth by the ravens and crows. The birds linger near. They know the approach of travail, await the event, and the lamb is killed before the mother's eyes when she is too weak to rise and defend her young.

A great boulder has just fallen from the heights of Breides-skard, bounding from ledge to ledge, and disappearing over the cliff's edge; and as the clamor of the echoes died away, a loud cry rang out, so wild and despairing that I sprang to my feet in dismay. Then came a crazy laugh, and I laughed, too, though a little shakily, for I recognized the voice of a loon— the northern diver. That laugh is strange enough, but it is cheerful beside the rarer doleful cry like that of a woman in extremity. Night hours in Dalen seem to strain even stout nerves slightly. I know that frost and sheep are responsible for that boulder, but, in spite of sturdy common sense, I find running through my head fragments of queer tales heard beside cottage hearths, or in the boats, or on the trails.

Dalen is said to be ibygd— inhabited— not by human beings but by Hulder-folk, underground creatures who look like men and women, and pursue various avocations by land and sea, as do the Färoe folk. And now is the time of the Hulder-folk. From midnight until three o'clock there is danger on the fjelds, and on the bird-cliffs. Land-slides come often. Boulders fall from the heights upon unwary human intruders in the hours of the Hulder-folk.

These creatures are usually invisible, but, at will, they can appear to human eyes. A Fremsynt, or one who has second-sight, can see them, and so can those who follow in his footsteps or go side by side with him in the wild outfjelds.

The Hulder-folk, though they are heathen spirits and in league with the powers of evil, sometimes perform kindly deeds. Stories are told of their coming to the rescue of milk-girls lost at night in the fog, and leading them safely to the village boundaries. They have given warning of dangerous seas, have provided a Färoe man with food for weeks when he was storn-bound on an uninhabited island. Sometimes they are present at a wedding, hidden in a dark corner, or dancing, seen by the Fremsynt, in the Bride's dance.

Once, before a wedding, a woman who had second-sight saw a pretty girl, a stranger to her, stepping from one of the arriving guest-boats. She turned to ask a companion who the girl was, but she had disappeared when they looked for her. She saw the girl again dancing in the Bride's dance.

'Who is the pretty girl with the blue kerchief and apron?' she asked a man who stood near, 'the one who is dancing in the ring between Drikke and Sunneva?'

'But there is no one dancing between Drikke and Sunneva, they dance hand in hand.'

'Why, don't you see her?' the woman cried. 'Wait until the girls pass us and I'll take hold of her skirt so you can see which girl I mean.'

Across the room she saw her plainly, but as the girls danced by, behold Drikke and Sunneva danced hand in hand.

An old woman told me of an experience she had had when a child of nine years. She was walking in the outfjelds with her uncle one Sunday afternoon when she saw a pretty bunch of ribbons hanging on a rock, and near it a handful of sweets. Delighted, she took the treasures and ran to show them to her uncle. He looked at her in a puzzled way and asked her what she meant.

'Why, don't you see the pretty ribbons?'

But he saw nothing in her hand.

'And these?' showing him the sweets. To him her fingers seemed empty. Then a fear seized her and she threw the things away, for she knew they were a temptation of the Hulder-folk, and had she worn the ribbons and eaten the sweets, from that day the Hulder-folk would have been visible to her and she would have been in their power.

A man living in Sand went one day east to Skola-vikur to a wedding. He was on horseback, and as he passed under the heights of Trondadals-li he heard a voice crying, 'Hear thou, man that rides by! Take word to the house where the wedding shall be, that Bembil is dead, and the child is burned.' When the man came to the house where the wedding was, he opened the door, and standing in the doorway called out, 'Bembil is dead, and the child is burned.' Then sprang one who was not of the invited guests, out from under the table and ran out, crying, ' That was my son!'

And there was a peasant of Sumbé, who found a little Hulder-maiden under a rock, and he brought her home with him. He set her to spinning night and day, giving her no rest. On one condition could he keep her, but I do not understand how or by whom the condition was made. It was that no one should call her by name. If he did she would vanish away. Titil-tata was her name. One Christmas Eve she was dead tired of spinning and she began to sing to herself as she worked,

Titil-tata is my name

Titil-tata is my name.

Over and over again she sang it, hoping to make some one speak to her. No one paid any attention to her, but she sang on and on. At last one of the working women suddenly lost patience, whirled around and cried, 'There she sits gabbling away! Don't we all know your name is Titil-tata?' Z-z-z-Z-p! Titil-tata vanished away and was never heard from again.

Here is another tale, but whether it is about the Hulder-folk, who shall say? Rossva is a big red setter, powerful, conceited, and fearless. He has thrashed every dog on the island, and carries himself with a lofty superciliousness which is almost more than they can bear. We can trace his progress round the scattered hamlet by the vituperative chorus of his victims. But lately Rossva has known fear. One calm clear evening, the Pastor was crossing the island, Rossva, as usual, careering on in front. Suddenly Rossva stopped, his eyes fixed on the way before him. His hair bristled on crest and back, his tail drooped, and turning, he fled whimpering, and took refuge between the Pastor's legs. Then, wondering, the Pastor saw his trembling dog's eyes, dilated with fear, watching, following an invisible something that approached, passed close by, and went its way. Then Rossva, with a sigh, emerged from his shelter, and the two went homeward,— the Pastor much 'shaken,' as the Pastorinde confessed to me later with a twinkle in her eye.

One o'clock, and now the storm is here, bringing the northeast fog. Between the flying scud are glimpses of a leaden sea with great white surges. The surf thunders at the base of the cliffs, and from the brink the spray blows landward like a cloud.

Dalen is very strange to-night, unfriendly, inhospitable. I am not afraid, but never, I think, have I been more wide-awake. All my senses are alert, and all kinds of things that I half believed in as a child all at once seem possible. If I should see a little troll, gray, hairy, misshapen, seated crosslegged among my possessions, or if a queer face peeped at me from behind a boulder, or a line of odd little creatures ran past me down the hill, I am sure I should not be frightened. It would all seem fitting, seemly, what we would naturally expect to see to-night in Dalen.

There is really no relation between the degrees of a thermometer and the sensation of cold in the Färoes. One suffers greatly at a comparatively high temperature, from the violence of the salt winds and the penetrating dampness of the air. I doubt if it is colder now than thirty-five or forty degrees, and the passage of the hours has been marked by the assumption of many warm and woolly garments, and yet I shiver miserably, and must often leave my camp to tramp vigorously up and down to get warm, a teapot full of hot water clasped fondly to my heart.

A few minutes ago I heard distinctly the voices of women and children chattering not far away. I was glad, surprisingly glad. My lonely uncomfort-able vigil was ended. The Pastorinde had grown anxious in the storm and had sent some women to bring me home— but why had they dragged their children from their beds to travel the long, hard way? Hurriedly, happily, I ran forward to a point from which I could overlook the Vidareide trail and see my relief party as soon as it came out of the fog. As I stood waiting, listening, the wind tossed the fog aside. The gay voices died away. There was no one on the trail.

Queer things happen in Dalen.

I have had more visitors. The first contingent came waddling from the cliff's edge, — low, clumsy shapes, emerging gradually from the fog, mottled gray and brown creatures that stood in a row and stared solemnly at me and said, 'Kwa-a-a!' in low guttural notes. Eider ducks they were, that probably came to the spot every night and were vastly surprised to find a human being here in Dalen. 'Kwaa-a!' they exclaimed again, looked at one another as though to say, 'Did you ever see the like?' and so backed away into the mists.

Hardly had they disappeared when I heard a gasping sound from a bank behind me, and turning, I saw, half obscured by the clinging fog, a great gray object. It was about seven feet tall. Its shape was not that of a beast, —rather a grotesque caricature of a woman's form. The face was oval, the features indistinguishable through the fog, the neck very long and thin, the shoulders sloping. From the head long hair blew in the wind. The body was clothed in a loose tunic or blouse, and short skirts whirled about, disclosing two thin ankles. I was not frightened. It was all too wonderful to admit of fear. Only a mighty curiosity possessed me. 'What is it? Oh, what is it ?' The creature tossed its head and stamped its foot. It gasped again, and it looked like nothing of which I had ever heard or dreamed.

Then the storm-fog parted and there stood a large gray-white sheep. I could see that it was a sheep, yet so unnatural, so fantastic, was the figure that it seemed hardly less wonderful than before. It had escaped the men and dogs at the two 'mountain goings' of June when the wool is taken. The long, heavy fleece, with the straight outer hair, had come off on neck and shoulders, leaving them quite bare. The hair on the head was still fast, and at the ends other hair had tangled, lengthening it to eighteen or twenty inches. On the body, part of the fleece had come out, caught in the ends of the fast hair, and had been carded and raveled by rocks and heather, making a great fluffy mass like a woman's draperies. Dimly seen through the fog, the illusion was perfect. The creature faced me, and as the skirt tossed in the gale, two slim legs were revealed. The gasp I heard was the alarm note given by these half-wild sheep.

And the size? Have you ever heard of the peculiar magnifying effect of fog under certain conditions? Warburton Pike in his book on the Barren Lands of Canada tells of one foggy evening in camp when some large animal, presumably a timber-wolf, was vaguely seen charging on the camp. The men seized their weapons and sprang to their feet as into the circle of the fire's light ran a little field-mouse. And Sir Martin Conway's party in Spitzbergen, on such a day, hastily prepared for an encounter with a polar bear whose form was dimly distinguished through the mists. A few steps farther on and they met that bear— a little scrap of white paper skating along the frozen snow.

But there is something about my apparition that I cannot understand. There are hundreds of sheep high on the fjelds to-night, and surely not another one among them like this curious caricature of a human form. Why should this one sheep have left its fellows and sought my little camp down on the sea-cliffs? Is this also 'a sending' from 'the Others'?

It is four o'clock. The storm is lessening. I am too tired to tramp any longer. Rolled up in as small a compass as possible I will rest a while in the shelter of this big boulder.

'GOOD-DAY, Thou Blessed. Is all well with thee?'

I open dazed eyes and there stands old Sigurd looking at me anxiously. It is six o'clock. He has come, he explains, to work on the peat, as the sea is too stormy to go a-fishing. So he says, but I know that he has risen three hours earlier than usual, made his own coffee, and come to Dalen to look after me. He will carry my things home when he leaves work, and I am free to go when I will.

The way is long and weary. The surf, thundering far below, the sea-birds' cries make a sleepy confusion of sound; and as I drowse and stumble over rocks and rouse to clearer consciousness, it seems as though I had been going on for hours and hours. At last I reach the outer dike of the hamlet. The homes of men are a pleasant sight after my night in Dalen. In the quiet air the blue peat-smoke lingers in wreaths above the grassy roofs. I hear the pounding of coffee in the little black mortars. The fragrance of coffee is in the air. Half-dressed babies are sitting in the sunshine. Friendly faces greet me as I pass the open doors.

'Ah! God be praised, it is the Fróken!'

'And what kind of a night did the Fróken have?'

'I could not sleep all night for thinking of the Fróken!'

On again over the Pastor's glebelands, and there at the foot of a grassy slope is the Parsonage. Rossva comes cavorting and barking to meet me. Graa-mis (gray puss) follows, picking her way daintily, her tail held carefully erect.

'The Fróken is coming!' I hear Sigga's voice calling within; and there is the Pastorinde hopping on one foot to the door, and waving a dish-towel.

"Welcome!" she calls in her clear, ringing voice, 'Welcome home, my pleie-barn!' And she takes me in her motherly arms. Within that shelter I make confession.

'Yes, pleie-mor, Sigurd was right. Dalen at night is for "the Others".'

_______________

Cumulative Author Index to

Past Masters Anthologies 101 to 120

__________

Anthony Abbot (1893-1952)

—About the Perfect Crime of Mr. Digberry  111

Achmed Abdullah (1881-1945)

—Fear  109

—Lucifer  120

—Pell Street Blues  114

W. L. Alden (1837-1908)

—A Sleeping Car Tragedy  109

Grant Allen (1848-1899)

—Fra Benedetto's Medal 102

Frederick Irving Anderson (1877-1947)

—The Hunter's Moon 108

—The Peppercorn Entail  119

Anonymous

—Crocodile Tales  113

—Detective Death  109

—The Garage Crime  103

—Lost: A Millionaire 106

—The Phantom of Castle Ballyran 102

—Rogue's Room 86,  109

—The Stolen Ship 105

—The Young Earl  113

Arthur Armstrong, (fl 1930s)

—Her Ladyship's Necklace  117

William Waldorf Astor (1848-1919)

—Balkameh  110

Bertram Atkey  (1880-1952)

—The Call of the Wildwater 111

—The Case of the Drugged Golfers 111

—The Deadly House 118

—Ghosts at Stoneylands 111

—Ragan in Ruins  112

—The Statue Stealers 111

—Wolfmaster  111

—The Woman With The Wolves  112

Stacy Aumonier (1877-1928)

—The Old Lady with the Two Umbrellas 114

__________

J. F. B. (fl. 1867-1917)

—Throne of Chaos

Reginald Bacchus (fl 1890s-1900s)

—The Doctor's Luck  112

John Kendrick Bangs (1862-1922)

—The Water Ghost of Harrowby Hall 103

Charles Beadle (1881-1944)

—The Double Scoop  39

H Bedford-Jones (1887-1949)

—An American Comedy  120

—The Dance of Life 101

—North of Singapore  120

—The Temple of the Ten 107

—The Trail of Jeopardy 118

—Viking Loot  119

E. B. Bell (fl 1927)

—The Stolen Rubies  117

Robert Benchley (1889-1945)

—How to Get Things Done 103

James A. Beverly  (fl 1910s)

— At the Crack o' Doom 105

Earl Derr Biggers (1884-1933)

—Henry and the Restless Sex 106

Ottwell Binns (1872-1935)

— The Derelict  (as by "Ben Bolt")  117

Eugene Shade Bisbee (1864-1933)

—The Compass of Fortune 101

—A Hundred Thousand Dollar Trance 101

Tip Bliss (1890-1944)

—The Risen Dead  119

Christopher B. Booth (1889-1950)

— That Wade Outfit (as by "John J. Chichester")  120

Marjorie Bowen (1886-1952)

—Cambric Tea 111

—Florence Flannery  112

—Sir Basil and Rue  120

Max Brand (1892-1944)

—Spy!   101

—Wine on the Desert 110

Frank Brandram (fl. 1899)

—Old Sinclair's Story  120

Broughton Brandenburg (fl 1900-1933)

—The Mystery of the Steel Disk 105

F. Raymond Brewster (fl. 1910s-20s)

—The Wire That Wasn't Cut  119

Roy Bridges (1885-1952)

—The Desk  113

—The Oak  113

—The Voyager  113

Thomas Charles Bridges (1868-1944)

—The Seringapatam Medal 106

—The Slatter Case 106

Willis Brindley (fl 1920s)

—The Strike at Too Dry 102

Rhoda Broughton (1840-1920)

—The Man With the Nose  109

John Buchan (1875-1940)

—The Grove of Ashtaroth 110

Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1803-1873)

—The House and the Brain  108

Walter Noble Burns  (1872-1932)

—The Man the Law Forgot  110

Ellis Parker Butler  (1869-1937)

—Brother Bill  108

—T. Jebberson  120

____________

Hayden Carruth (1862-1932)

—Uncle Bentley and the Roosters  107

James Edmond Casey  (fl. 1910s)

—Why, of Course   120

Willa Cather (1873-1947)

—The Bohemian Girl  108

—Paul's Case  103

—A Gold Slipper 120

Robert W. Chambers (1865-1933)

—The Case of Mrs Helmer 107

—A Matter of Interest  106

G.K. Chesterton  (1874-1936)

—The Mask of Midas   113

Peter Cheyney  (1896-1951)

—La Belle Dame Sans Souci  103

Eugene A. Clancy (1882-1952)

—Flies on the Ceiling 111

Frederick Ames Coates (fl 1919-1936)

—Strictly Private  112

Irvin S. Cobb  (1876-1944)

—Ace, Deuce, Ten Spot, Joker   114

—Darkness   118

Sylvanus Cobb, Jun. (1823-1887)

—My Mad Engineer 105

Thomas Cobb  (1854-1932)

—The Witness 106

Nym Crinkle  (1835-1903)

—The End of All  53

Bithia Mary Croker (1849-1920)

—The Red Bungalow  114

Arthur Morris Crosby (fl 1930s)

—The Little Affair of the Eiffel Tower 101

Oliver F. Crothers (fl 1932-4)

—Facsimile  118

___________

Eric A. Darling (fl. 1915-1921)

—The Undoing of Le Croix  119

Sam P Davis   (1850-1918)

—Bigler's Barometer

Carlton Dawe  (1865-1935)

—Why Mrs. Wetherton Went Home  101

L. de Chavanne (1861-?)

—The Artists Story  109

Richard Dehan (1863-1932)

—A Dish Of Macaroni  119

—In The Fourth Dimension 110

—Lady Clanbevan's Baby  112

—The Man Who Lost Himself  104

—The Motor-Burglar 103

—Ponsonby and the Pantheress 106

—The Revolt of Rustleton  107

E. M. Delafield (1890-1943)

—Time Works Wonders  112

C. J. Dennis (1876-1938)

—The Mother  101

—While Jerry was Away 102

Captain Dingle  (1879-1947)

—Roll and Go!  109

Dick Donovan (J E Muddock, 1843-1934)

—The Barnfield Murder Case 105

—Some Experiments With a Head  107

Laurence Donovan (1885-1948)

—Death Dances on Dimes 118

—Never Hire a Killer 112

—Pistol-Packin' Gran'ma  113

Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930)

—My Friend the Murderer  114

—The Parasite 119

—The Striped Chest  117

J Allan Dunn  (1872-1941)

—Black Cat  119

—The Flying Skull 102

—On the Account 100

James Francis Dwyer (1874-1952)

—The Bandaged Foot  112

—The Blush of Venus 111

—The Citizen 114

—The Kafir's Skull 111

—The Little Green Devils  111

—A Midnight Burlesque  112

—The Murdered Ships  112

______________

George Allan England (1877-1936)

—The Man With the Glass Heart  118

—Verdict: "Suicide"  118

Cyril Etheridge (fl 1907)

—The Death of Kalu's Hand 102

H. Havelock Ettrick (fl 1899-1902)

—The Red and Black Death  101

____________________

Harcourt Farmer (fl  1919-1922)

—When Brasset Forgot  110

B. L. Farjeon (1838-1903)

—Little Liz  114

Jeffery Farnol (1878-1952)

—Bagged   117

—Cat Luck 111

—Not Much to Look At  111

Ernest Favenc (1845-1908)

—The Drought Demons 107

—Fraulein von Heslau 108

—The Justice of Captain Dampier  108

—The Lady Ermetta; or, The Sleeping Secret  110

—The Living Dead  109

—My Only Murder 103

—Never Save a Man from the Sea 108

—Spirit-Led 103

—A Tale of the Western Desert 107

—The Story of a Long Watch  112

—The Swagman's Dream 107

—The Wastrel  109

—Those Dissipated Cows 114

John Ferguson (1871-1952)

—The White Line 111

F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940)

—Dice, Brassknuckles & Guitar  114

—Three Hours Between Planes 65

Mrs. May Agnes Fleming  (1840-1880)

—How The Lone Star Went Down  68

J. S. Fletcher (1863-1935)

—The Revolver 105

—A Shot in the Night 105

—The Tiger Lily 108

Homer Eon Flint (1892-1924)

—The Man in the Moon 114

John Taintor Foote (1881-1950)

—Actress Grows Old  117

Hulbert Footner  (1879-1944)

—Four o'Clock in the Morning 102

Sewell Ford  (1868-1946)

—Seed To The Sower  110

Mary Helena Fortune (1833-1911)

—The Red Room 103

Gilbert Frankau (1884-1952)

—Mustard-Pot—  Mountebank  111

—Patricia Jackson's Pearl Necklace  112

—Pug-Face's Daughter 111

—The Way of Silence  117

_____________

John Galsworthy (1867-1933)

—The Two Looks  113

Ltnt Edgar Gardiner (fl 1920s-1930s)

—Eyes of the Dead  108

J. U. Giesy (1877-1947)

—The Rose-Colored Rug 112

R. Murray Gilchrist (1868-1917)

—The Return 107

Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1860-1935)

—The Giant Wistaria  114

Guy Gilpatric (1896-1950)

—The Flaming Chariot 106

Laird Goldsborough (1902-1950)

—The Great Buddha of Kwang Ki  117

Joseph Gollomb (1881-1950)

—A Case Without a Clew  110

Jack Gray (fl 1930s)

—The Nudist Gym Death Riddle  110

Zane Grey (1872-1939)

—Tigre  107

C. Ranger Gull  (1875-1923) and Reginald Bacchus (1874-1945)

See also Guy Thorne

—Le Maitres de l'Affiche  108

—The Ordeal By Fire 101

_________

James Norman Hall (1887-1951)

—Sing a Song of Sixpence 110

Mark Harper (1874-1952)

—Six Heads on a String 111

Nathaniel Hawthorne  (1804-1864)

—Dr. Heidegger's Experiment 105

Ernest G. Henham (1870-1946)

—The Third Ovanoff  119

Roy W. Hinds (1887-1930)

—Mirrors  112

William Hope Hodgson (1877-1918)

—Bullion!  88

Anthony Hope (1863-1933)

—Count Antonio and the Wizard's Drug 105

—The House Opposite 105

—The Philosopher in the Apple-Orchard 105

E. W. Hornung (1866-1921)

—The Magic Cigar 104

Robert E. Howard (1906-1936)

—The Shadow of the Vulture 106

William Dean Howells (1837-1920)

—Braybridge's Offer 109

________

Washington Irving (1783-1859)

—Rip Van Winkle 102

____

M. R. James (1862-1936)

—Rats  109

Val Jameson (fl 1900-1920s)

—Dixon's Theories 106

"J. F. B."

—Thone of Chaos  109

_________________

Richard Ashe King (1839-1932)

—Disinherited  103

—Trapped 103

Otis Adelbert Kline (1891-1946)

—Servant of Satan  117

Meyer Krulfeld (fl  1937-1942)

—The Thing From Antares  109

_______

Henry Lawson (1867-1922)

—The Mystery of Dave Regan 101

—On The Tucker Track  101

Arthur Leeds (fl. 1915-1926)

—The Man Who Shunned the Light  109

Sheridan Le Fanu (1814-1873)

—Schalken the Painter  107

H. Field Leslie (fl 1920s-early 30s)

—The Night the Devil Walked 107

Lottie Lesh (fl 1930)

—The Circle of Illusion 108

Henry Leverage (Carl Henry, 1879-1931)

—Imagination 105

—Two Aces 103

—Two Voices  118

—The Voice in the Fog 110

Sumner Locke (1881-1917)

—Paper Ladies  113

Jack London (1876-1916)

—The Pearls of Parlay 102

Edwin Truett Long (1904-1945)

—Once An Outlaw—  113

—Rain in Dahomey  113

Dorothy Margarette Selby Lowndes, 1871-1950 (as by Dolf Wyllarde)

—The Hunting of Chilton Sahib  113

Marie Belloc Lowndes (1868-1947)

—The Haunted Flat  107

__________

Arthur Machen  (1863-1947)

—The Ceremony  117

Fred MacIsaac (1886-1940)

—The Ghost City  101

William J. Makin (1894-1944)

—The Rhino Charges  119

Lucas Malet (Mary St. Leger Harrison 1852-1931)

—The Birth of a Masterpiece 103

Richard Marsh (1857-1915)

—The Haunted Chair  117

—The Pipe 110

Archibald Marshall (1866-1934)

—The Anonymous Letter 118

Herman Howard Matteson (1876-1951)

—The Shadow Jumper  108

—The Whispering Shell 109

—With Much Gusto 109

Harold Mercer (1882-1952)

—Keeping Killick Killed 111

—The Servicetown Mystery 111

Cleveland Moffett (1863-1926)

—On the Turn of a Coin  101

C. S. Montanye (1892-1948)

—On a Steep Side Street  120

Dick Moreland (fl 1934-41)

—Tramp  117

J. E. Muddock (1885-1948) (see also Laurence Donovan)

—The Blood Drips  120

_______

Douglas Newton (1884-1951)

—Contrary to the Evidence  117

Hume Nisbet (1849-1921)

—Norah and the Fairies 118

Charles G. Norris (1881-1945)

—The Beach  103

_____

Owen Oliver  (1863-1933)

—As Told To The Children  110

Baroness Orczy (1865-1947)

—The Man in the Inverness Cape 114

"Ouida" (Louise Rame) 1839-1908

—A Lemon Tree 102

John Barton Oxford (Richard Barker Shelton, 1876-1944)

—Short Rations  117

________

Elia W Peattie (1862-1935)

—A Michigan Man  113

G. G. Pendarves (1885-1938)

—The Djinnee of El Sheyb 101

James Clifton Peters (fl. 1929-37)

—The Upas Tree  117

Austin Philips (1875-1947)

—Sailors' Luck 102

Marjorie Pickthall  (1883-1922)

—The Desert Road 107

Ernest M Poate (1884-1935)

—Big, Bad Annie  113

—Mirage  101

Muriel A. Pollexfen (1876-1923)

—The Fox's Earth  109

Rosa Praed (1851-1935)

—The Ghost Monk  118

Marcel Prévost (1862-1941)

—A Presentiment  119

Mearle Prout (fl mid-1930s)

—The House of the Worm 103

___________

A. T. Quiller-Couch  (1863-1944)

—Old Aeson  109

________

W. Pett Ridge (1859-1930)

—A Model Crime 113

—Mr. Barling's Income 101

_____________

Morgan Robertson (1861-1915)

—The Hairy Devil 119

Arthur Somers Roche (1883-1935)

—Alicia goes a-Burgling   101

—King of Swindlers 119

Damon Runyon  (1880-1946)

—Palm Beach Santa Claus  117

________

"Saki" (H. H. Munro, 1870-1916)

—The Talking-Out Of Tarrington  112

Charles Wesley Sanders  (c1876-1937?)

—A Girl Who Was Afraid  110

"Sapper" (H C McNeile): (1888-1937)

—Uncle James's Golf Match 103

Karl Schiller (fl 1914)

—The Hands of Horror  119

M. P. Shiel (1865-1947)

—Dickie 106

Margaret Busbee Shipp (1871-1936)

—The Priestess of the Purple Petunia 106

—The Prethereau Sapphire 108

Helen Simpson (1897-1940)

—Young Magic  101

Lady Eleanor Smith (1902–1945)

—No Ships Pass 118

Albert Snow  (fl. 1941)

—Devil's Fire   113

Theodore Seixas Solomons (1870-1947)

—Plotluck  120

C. C. Spruce (fl. 1934-5)

—Cave of the Criss-Cross Knives  108

Allan Stephens (1875-?)

—A Golden Grave  113

______________

John Talland (fl. 1928-36)

—Conscience Money  117

Elizabeth Taylor (fl. 1910s)

—The Valley of the Others  120

Emile C. Tepperman (1899-1951)

—Sleuth of the Air Waves  108

Albert Payson Terhune (1872-1942)

—Cephas the Paladin 120

—The Sights They Missed 106

—The Twenty-Four-Hour Croesus  107

William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863)

—The Devil's Wager 103

Guy Thorne (C. Ranger Gull, 1876-1923)

—A Desperate Choice  103

—The Ordeal By Fire 101

—A Regent of Love Rhymes 102

Roger Torrey (1901-1946)

—Mansion of Death 102

J. T. Trowbridge (1827-1916)

—The Man Who Stole a Meeting-House 105

Parry Truscott  (Abbie Hargrave,  1871-1936)

—The Woman Who Sat Still  110

Hartridge D. Tyler (fl 1910-1912)

—A Steam-Room Fracas  112

Katharine Tynan  (1859-1931)

—The Castle Of Dromore  118

_______

Louis Joseph Vance (1879-1933)

—Night  108

Charles E. Van Loan (1876-1919)

—The Crusader 106

__________________

W. B. Wallace (fl 1900s)

—The Demon of the Opal  101

George Arthur Walstab (1834-1909)

—The House by the River  112

Harold Ward (aka Ward Sterling, 1879-1950)

—"I Am Dead!"  118

Edward Parrish Ware (1883-1949)

—Hell's Back Room  109

—Killer's Can't Fly  109

Henry Brereton Marriott Watson (1863-1921)

—The Devil of the Marsh  117

F A M Webster (1886-1949)

—The Black Patch 118

—Rats  119

Hugh C. Weir (1884-1934)

—The Man With Nine Lives  114

Carolyn Wells (1862-1942)

—Christabel's Crystal   117

Albert Richard Wetjen (1900-1948)

—The Fortunes of War  114

—Strain 105

—You Can't Explain These Things  114

Edward Lucas White, 1866-1934

—The Skewbald Panther  117

Ethel Lina White (1879-1944)

—At Twilight  113

—The Call of the Tiger  118

—The Sham Shop  118

Fred M. White (1859-1935)

—Adventure  109

—The Western Way  110

—The Wings of Chance  117

Henry S. Whitehead (1882-1932)

—The Cunning of the Serpent  119

—No Eye-Witnesses 102

—West India Lights 102

Raoul Whitfield (1896-1945)

—Kiwi  113

—Mistral 119

—Smoky Skies  110

H. C. Witwer (1890-1929)

—Lady of Lyons, N. Y.  112

Thomas Wolfe (1900-1938)

—The Sun and the Rain  105

W. Carey Wonderly (1885-1931)

—The Canary that Sang Bass  120

__________________

Table of Contents

- 1: North of Singapore / H. Bedford-Jones (novelette)

- 2: Cephas the Paladin / Albert Peyson Terhune

- 3: Lucifer / Achmed Abdullah
- 4: A Gold Slipper / Willa Cather
- 5: The Blood Drips / J. E. Muddock
- 6: Plotluck / Theodore Seixas Solomons

- 7: The Canary that Sang Bass / W. Carey Wonderly

- 8: An American Comedy / H. Bedford-Jones
- 9: T. Jebberson / Ellis Parker Butler
- 10: Why, of Course / James Edmond Casey
- Unnamed
- 12: On a Steep Side Street / C. S. Montanye
- 13: Old Sinclair's Story / Frank Brandram
- 14: Sir Basil and Rue / Marjorie Bowen

- 15: The Valley of the Others / Elizabeth Taylor

- Cumulative Index, Numbers 101-120