Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Several well-known names, plus some rare names: 17 stories, some of them fairly long, all in the Life+70 public domain. 1: A Doubting Mama / Algernon Free 2: Long Pig / E. Charles Vivian 3: The Prize of Marchant / Guy Thorne 4: The Man with the Blue Nose / Harvey O'Higgins 5: Snatch / Scott Littleton 6: The Wild Girl / James Francis Dwyer 7: The Head of Iskander / George Allan England 8: Tartas The Terrible / H. Hesketh Prichard 9: Death Marks the Spot / Patrick Lawrence 10: Launched at Society / Victor L. Whitechurch 11: Mycroft's Luck / Muriel A. Pollexfen 12: The Development of Furlani / W.

PAST MASTERS 124

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

17 April 2023

Contents

1: A Doubting Mama / Algernon Free

2: Long Pig / E. Charles Vivian

3: The Prize of Marchant / Guy Thorne

4: The Man with the Blue Nose / Harvey O'Higgins

5: Snatch / Scott Littleton

6: The Wild Girl / James Francis Dwyer

7: The Head of Iskander / George Allan England

8: Tartas The Terrible / H. Hesketh Prichard

9: Death Marks the Spot / Patrick Lawrence

10: Launched at Society / Victor L. Whitechurch

11: Mycroft's Luck / Muriel A. Pollexfen

12: The Development of Furlani / W. L. Alden

13: A Cunning Escape / Sandy Sharp

14: Pygmalion's Spectacles / Stanley G. Weinbaum

15: A Bit of a Do / Eric Knight

16: The Other Room / Don Marquis

17: The Guilty Secret / Paul De Kock

______________

1: A Doubting Mama

Algernon Free
fl 20's-30s

Laughter, Dec 1926

From 1926 to around 1935, this author produced twenty or so humorous short stories for magazines such as Racy, Laughter, Pep!, Snappy, Ginger, and Bedtime Stories. Nothing else is known.

ONE night Ted Handerson wandered into a theatre just off Broadway. There was a play billed by the name of "Shuffletoe." All he knew was that he hadn't seen the damn thing. The middle of the first act greeted his blasé eyes as he made for his seat near the front. And then a strange thing happened. Just as he was about to sink into his seat, a girl came on the stage. One look at her, and he felt as though he had been struck by lightning. Heat lightning. The kind that does funny things. He felt as though it had hit him all over at the same moment. Felt as though it had unlaced his shoes and snatched off his underwear while leaving his dress suit intact. He fell into the seat and sat staring in horrible fascination at the stage.

Love at first sight, despite the fact that it is dealt in largely by morons who write sentimental junk having to do with spiritual and psychical love, that age old Pink Pill For Pale People that has kept neurasthenic women alive long after the should have been dead, and taken the thought of h ondriacs off their imagined ailments, is not wholly horses. There is a lot to it for even analytical thinkers like you and me to contemplate. It happens somewhat thuswise. Subconciously a man accepts woman after woman in spite of the fact that she does not exactly fill out his mental requirements for the perfect female. Back in his unconscious, however, his ideal woman always exists, nebulously outlined it is true, but nevertheless having every desirable physical attribute from his viewpoint. Almost every man subjectively, in this manner, creates a vision of perfection far beyond any of the women in this world with their legs too wide above the knee, too small or too large mouths, etc.; but every once in a great while

The girl that Ted saw upon the stage was as slim and agile as a young boy. Her hips were as narrow her eyes were wide. Her maddening mouth was crumpled up in an invitation to kiss that was enough to make a maniac out of the beholder. She had a shock of taffy colored hair that flopped all about her small, well-shaped head as she shook her diminutive self in the tortuously inflammatory movements of the Black Bottom. The curve of her glistening white throat was like the curve of a young colt's neck. She was like flexible, colored, heated glass. Wearing no tights, and laying on no liquid-form powder, nevertheless the tinge of her lithe limbs was not that meaty, overpinkness that so offends the eye since chorus girls stopped wearing tights; her skin, and there was almost none of it withheld by the costume of a bead or two that she wore, was paper white; ivory smooth, and tinged, somehow, with just the heat of a very warm rose.

At last she left the stage, and Ted let go the arms of his seat and sank back exhausted, like a man who has been struggling in an electric chair against a current not strong enough to kill, but just potent enough to torture. His face felt hot and dry; there was not a drop of perspiration on him— he knew that he was in a high fever. He felt as though he would die before morning, whether or not serum arrived. Dazed, he sat very still until he had gotten together sufficient strength to stagger out and consult with the manager.

"Sorry, Mr. Handerson, I know how you feel— I felt the same way myself when I hired her, but she's absolutely unapproachable. She will talk to no man... nobody knows where she came from... nobody knows who her parents are... nobody knows her age. She appears to be about sixteen or seventeen, though she claims she's twenty-one. If I ever saw a straight chicken in my life; she don't look as though anyone had even breathed upon her. Maybe you'll appreciate that I can't do anything for you with her, when I tell you that I've been trying to make her myself ever since I hired her, and I can't even get her to say good night to me or thank me for her check, even though I increase it fifty per-cent every time I hand it to her."

"But, my dear sir," insisted Ted, speaking as though in a dream, "you don't understand. I must have her— tonight— why, if I don't I shall certainly not live until morning."

"You look it," sympathized the manager, "but you'll have to die, then— I can't do nothing for you."

The manager smiled pityingly and indulgently. He knew that Ted Handerson had never been denied anything in his life before; the manager had been denied many things in his time, but he had learned that life is merely the working out of the Law of Averages; if you don't get one, you get the next, so why worry? However, he knew that Ted Handerson's money and family had always entitled him to a 100% bulls' eye when he shot at the Law of Averages. Ted hastily took out a card, and, with it, a fountain pen. He wrote for a moment upon the back of the card, very simple, potent words, four in number:

"Will you marry me?"

"Take that out to her," he ordered, "tell her who I am, if she'll listen to you if she marries me, I'll give you ten thousand dollars the day she does." Wide eyed, the manager took the card and hurried out. In a moment he was back, pop-eyed, speechless, white, all of his faith in human nature gone. Mutely he handed Ted back the card. There was a word printed upon it: Yes!

TED'S father having carried himself off, pre-embalmed. Ted's mother ran the mausoleum on lower Fifth which for a generation had been "East of the Water Tower," for New York's elite. The minute she heard of her son's marriage she cut him off without a penny, the which she had been longing to do for a long time because of his definite tendency to embalm himself before dying, after the manner of his father. But she did not cut him off fast enough to prevent his cashing a check for one hundred thousand dollars for his honeymoon. He didn't want to see Europe, there was just one thing he wanted to see, and an inexpensive palace that happened to be for rent in Italy did very well. For three months Ted and "Holly," as the uncanny little vision's name proved to be, remained at the palace. These: three months were a revelation to Ted in many ways. Accustomed to the beauty spots of the world, accustomed to great works of art, sculpture, architecture... familiar with the dreadful noise the sun made coming up out of China "across the bay," fully aware of all these things, yet now he was to learn that within one slender woman may lie more of beauty, more of complexity, more of fulfilment than there is in all of the scenic splendors, all of the graphic arts, all of the literature in the world. After three months of married life he still swooned with delight at the very sight of his wife— which is, of course, a miracle. Miracles, however, have no effect upon money. Presently Ted returned to New York with his wife and pled with mama, but to no avail. She was adamant. And, knowing that she looked her best while being adamant did not help matters along any.

In vain did Ted take his vision of love- liness to the family mansion one day, un- veil her before his mother much as one would unveil a statue, and then step back to wait for his mother to be struck blind with her beauty. The only comment mother had to make afterward was that she looked "bilious." No wonder there is so much trouble in the world when it is utterly impossible for a woman to see what a man sees in a woman, and vice versa.

Bilious or not, Ted for the first time in his useless life went to work for her. He got a job in a brokerage office, annoying patrons about putting up more margin when the market went against them, and managed with the proceeds to keep up a small flat in the Bronx. For entertainment they went to picture shows during the winter, and during the summer they found other occupations. But such is the magic of love that, after a year of this, Ted began to make money. Fistfulls of it. They moved to a hotel of ton in the Perfumed Garden district of New York. They bought a foreign motor car; were seen at the opera, at the better night clubs, and, finally, were invited about a little in society. This was too much for mother. That a relative should refuse to be de- pendent upon her was irritating. She investigated her sons affairs to see where all of the money was comin from, and to her astonishment found that it was coming from two sources. The primary source was the writing of moving picture sub-titles, the annoying explanatory remarks with which a picture is sprinkled. It seemed that he had developed the most amazing genius for this ever known to the movie world. The continuities of pictures were sent to him by dozens of big companies for sub-captions for which they gladly payed him anything he asked; the secondary source was keen investment in securities of various sort. This last did not amaze mother so much as the first. Latent in him, she knew, was the family insinct for the hock shop business; but to have awakened in him the cleverness to get money to manipulate with— ah, there was a miracle. Only one thing could have done it— the little white bilious hussy that wriggled like a chamelion. Mothers heart softened toward her; she must be one of the cleverest women in New York. Without inquiring further into the situation, mother arranged a ball for all of the wealthy morons in New York, at which Ted's wife was to be introduced to the élite. She realized, even as she sent out the invitations, that this was a somewhat risky business, for, once the ball were given, there would be no time to recede from her position of social acceptance. Broached on the subject of the ball, however, Ted proved recalcitrant.

"Why should I introduce my wife to all of the greatest male hazards in New York? I don't give a damn about your social prestige; leave me in peace with my wife."

"But it's so unhealthy for you to spend all of your time indoors, especially durin, the summer months—and besides you n exercise," argued his mother, "you are beginning to look bilious."

THE upshot of it was that she had to settle an income of a million a year upon him in order to get him to attend the ball and come back to her fireside. Some qualms assailed her as she thus one by one burned her bridges— still, she argued, the girl must be a miracle of cleverness to have assisted him to a substantial income, despite the fact that he was drawing-room broke and knew nothing of business.

The night of the ball came. It was, on the whole, a success; Holly was intro- duced to everyone in New York, murmur- ing after each introduction a set phrase which Ted had taught her. The evening went off well to mother's huge delight— but still, some doubts assailed her.

When the guests had gone home, and Ted had retired to his old rooms with his bride, she tapped at his door.

There was no response. After re- peated tappings she opened the door and gazed within. Holly and Ted stood in the center of the floor, arms locked and double locked. Lips glued together; both looking exceedingly bilious in their crepe nightgowns. With some difficulty mother, who had no more sense of delicacy than a straight commission salesman, managed to make herself heard.

"I just dropped in to tell you," she said, addressing Holly, "that I thought you were wonderful tonight; you were a huge success— I predict a brilliant season ahead for you."

"Yeh?" said Holly, noncomittally.

"But do tell me," insisted mama, "how you ever came to get Ted on his feet?"

"Me?" returned Holly. "I didn't do it— it was the movie caption business."

"But surely you must have been the incentive; he never did anything before except attempt to emblam himself, and raise patricular hades in general."

"Well," began Holly, "you see, it was like this. I was nuts about the movies, and althoughTed don't like movies— least-wise not that kind," she stopped to bend a peculiar look upon her husband, "he goes along with me anyways. Well, one night after we been going to the movies fer a long time, there was a moving pitcher magnet sitting behind us, and all of a suddent, while Ted was telling me what a caption said, this here moving pitcher magnet leans forward, and he says:

" 'Say, fellah, I been listening to you. You've reduced every damned caption in that hull picture from about ten words to two— say, that ability is worth money to me'— and from that time on Ted makes a lot of dough writing movie captions from his practice at reducin' em to a coupla words."

Mother felt a horrible premonition of disaster creeping over her; she had barely the strength to ask the question:

"But, my, er— dear; why did Ted—?"

"Aw, hell— he had to— I'm sorry, but I can't read."

___________________

2: Long Pig

E. Charles Vivian

1882-1947

Laughter, Dec 1926

Another entry from Laughter magazine, definitely not to be taken seriously.  Charles Henry Cannell, British editor, journalist and author used "E Charles Vivian" and "Jack Mann" as pseudonyms.

THE MATE was young, and had much to learn; the captain had faded eyes, his hair was grizzled, his nose was red and bulbous. He stood up in the long-boat and watched while the Jocunda canted up her stern and took her last plunge to the depths.

"Cocked up her tail and away she went," he soliloquised, with acid satisfac- tion— the mate had been at the wheel when she struck. "That rock must have torn yards out of her portside, under the water line."

"I don't care— it wasn't marked on the chart." In saying this, the mate continued his share of the argument which had begun before the Kanakas swung the long- boat out-board.

"Then," said the captain, "you suggest tħat a shark bit a piece out of the keel, or perhaps that a swordfish rammed her?"

"I went by the chart," the mate answered.

The captain, by his reply, inferred that the South Pacific climate was not warm enough for the chart.

"I shall make it clear to the owners that I went by the chart," the mate per- sisted.

The captain suggested a change of climate for the mate, as well as for the chart. He felt aggrieved, having been raked out of a comfortable bunk in the middle of a calm night, and it was poor satisfaction cursing Kanakas.

"We shall both get there, in time," the mate said, hopefully.

When the Jocunda had struck whatever it was that was not marked on the chart, and had shown clearly that the outward voyage from Auckland to the Solomon Islands was to be completed in the long- boat— if at all— the captain had transferred a wicker-covered stone jar to the locker under the stern seat of the long-boat. His other personal belongings he merely tumbled in when the boat was clear of the davits and the Kanakas had the oars unshipped; the jar had travelled with greater care. Now, in moody silence, he dragged it out and uncorked it. He ventured a remark, before applying himself to the jar, that there was a bite in the air.

The mate sniffed toward the jar. "Smells more like a nip than a bite," he reflected aloud.

"Plagues and pestilence!" the captain exploded. "Am I to sit here and be joked by you, you half-baked rudder-post? You and your chart—" He tilted the jar sky- ward, and gurgled a goodly draught. When he had got his breath back he held the jar out to the mate.

"Nip!" he bade, fiercely.

"I'd hate the mate got a grip on the two wicker handles— "to have any little jars, situated as we are." He drank, while the captain gazed at him wrath- fully. "What we want is big ones," he concluded, putting the jar down.

"Hor, hor!" the captain said scornfully. "Youre too funny." He diverted his attention to the six Kanakas, implying that the oars were good, stout stuff, not likely to break under such strain as might be put on them by a lazy, misbegotten, unclean, thick-headed, squab-faced, yellow-livered set of thieving back-boneless— here he paused to get his wind, and the Kanakas, grinning, pulled no harder than before. They were used to what they understood, and what did they not understand naturally failed to take effect. The captain, relieved, corked his jar and put it back in the locker.

"We'll make Wahe-Wahe by dawn," he said to the mate, more amiably. "I'll write up the log, then. Twelve-forty by Auckland, when she struck."

"Wahe-Wahe?" the mate inquired.

He faced a copper-colored individual, brawny and large, with a shining bladed spear.

"Ah!" the captain soliloquised. "Long pig land. Many's the joint of long pig been cooked on Wahe-Wahe."

"What's long pig?" the mate asked.

"What?" The captain was so blankly amazed that he lifted the lid of the locker and reached for the jar again. "You don't know what long pig is?"

"This is my first trip among the islands," the mate retorted, rather sullenly.

"Well," said the captain, changing his mind about the jar, "long pig is you, cooked. Pig is pig, but long pig— cannibal meat— you— anyone."

"And you're making straight for Wahe ahe?" the mate inquired, in utter consternation.

"Where else?" the captain said cheerfully. "It's nearest, by the chart."

But the mate began a protest.

"Look here!" the captain invited, interrupting him. "Who's in command you, me, or the biscuit bag. Am I responsible for this boat's course, or am I the ship's monkey? First you want to persuade me the old Jocunda struck a floating cocoanut, and now you question the course. You've got to find, young feller, that there's more things in heaven and earth than ever you learned at Sunday school. I am the law, and if them blasted Kanakas—" The rest of it went to the Kanakas direct.

The mate gave it up. Perhaps the Captain had a friend among the chiefs on Wahe-Wahe, and perhaps, with six beefy Kanakas as a bribe, the Wahe-Wahe cannibals would give one so lean as himself a chance to live and fatten up a bit.

"It's your risk," he said. "I don't know these seas— I got my experience and my ticket in the China trade— tea coasters, and such."

"Huh!" said the captain, scornfully. "China trade! Peddling teacups in a sampan, most likely."

"For two pins," the mate retorted, goaded to wrath by the insult, "I'd forget about rank and slosh that strawberry you wear in the middle of your face."

"Don't do it— don't even think of it," the captain advised, unmoved. "My private graveyard's about full, and a tablet to your memory would cost me a month's pay."

He ruminated while the long-boat rocked over the Pacific swell in brilliant moonlight.

And youre not worth it, he concluded, eventually.

THE sky gradually lightened eastward as the moon sank; the wind freshened with the coming of dawn, and a faint line appeared above the waters, beyond the bows of the boat.

"Dead on," the captain remarked in a satisfied way. "Take the tiller and keep her on that cut in the hills. It's Wahe-Wahe. I want a snooze."

He settled down uncomfortably with his head on the stern locker, and very soon was snoring peacefully. The mate looked down at him with vindictive gaze: he wanted to alter the course, but dared not.

So the mate held on until, as the boat's nose ran on to firm sand, and the Kanakas lay on their oars, the captain sat up with a start.

"Long pig land," he remarked. Then, in a roar at the Kanakas: "Out, you dev- ils, and haul her up!"

He stepped dry-footed on the sand, and the mate followed. The Kanakas, having pulled the boat up above high water mark, waited.

"Squat— sleep!" the captain bade. "Drink, if you want— no biscuit yet."

He turned to the mate. "We'll sleep, too, he announced. "I've not had enough yet, and you look as bleary-eyed as a chicken after a bath."

He grubbed himself a depression in the warm sand and got down in it. He was asleep— and so were the Kanakas— when the mate, still grubbing half-heartedly and wondering at his superior's indifference, looked up with a start as a shadow fell across him, and sprang to his feet.

He faced a copper-colored individual, brawny and large, who wore a sort of red flannel sash with the ends tied in front, a chicken bone through the lobe of his right ear, and a spear with a shining blade— the Wahe-Wahe cannibal advance guard, obviously. Stories of heroic actions flashed through the mate's mind; he could do little, he knew, but he could at least die defending the captain— if only he could get hold of that spear. He was still undecided as to what to do when the savage grinned at him unpleasantly, and slowly raised the spear; at that the mate leaped forward and struck at the ferocious face—

HE recovered consciousness slowly. He had seen many brilliant constellations, and had a vague memory of turning catherine wheels in the air for hours. Also he felt battered and dizzy.

"I hope you've quite finished knocking my friend about," the captain's voice came to him. "If so, we'll move around the point to the wharf under escort of Chief Moses here, and see about some breakfast. Then I'll see if I can't get a cable through to the owners."

The mate leaped to his feet. "You said they were cannibals!" he shouted, raging.

"So they were, fifty years ago," the captain answered calmly, "but they ain't now. How's trade in copra, Moses?"

_________________

3: The Prize of Marchant

Guy Thorne

C. Ranger Gull, 1876-1923

World's News (NSW), 11 Aug 1923

"Guy Thorne"  (C. Ranger Gull)

OLD Mr Marchant, proprietor or "Marchant and Miller," and thrice Mayor of Psalmster, was dead. Half the city was in mourning, as the long funeral procession wound its way to the cemetery after a service in the cathedral; and the great department shop in the High street was closed for the day.

All the male assistants attended the funeral, provided with new hats and gloves. The late Mr Marchant was a man of strong and determined character, with a decided opinion about, most things. He did not approve of women attending funerals, but the ladies of the establishment were to "take a quiet holiday and think as kindly as they could of their old employer and friend, who in life took an interest in their welfare and endeavoured to treat them with kindness."  A month's salary was given to everyone who had seen a year in the employment of the firm.

Dolly Cooper, in the gloves and ribbon department, and Ethel Baynes, from "fancy goods" left the hostel— as the assistants' living quarters behind the shop were called— early on the morning of the funeral. It was a beautiful summer day, but the girls wore black costumes, hats, and gloves, which were, a gift from the management. Dolly carried a little basket with cake and sandwiches for lunch, Ethel a thermos flack full of hot tea. They were going to spend a quiet day together in the country.

As they passed through the town towards the broad river, which ran round the cathedral-crowned hill in which the principal buildings clustered, neither of the girls spoke much, and their races were grave. But when they came out upon the towpath by the silver water and lush green meadows, their faces relaxed, and they began to chatter.

"Poor old 'Do it now,' " said Ethel. "One can't help being sorry for him,, can one. Dolly? He was a good boss, as bosses go, and I've had some in my time! He was a knifer for work, but he'd always hear anything you had to say, and he'd never let you be bullied."

Ethel was an extremely pretty girl of the showy type, with yellow hair and large grey eyes. Her manner was always eager and vivacious.

"He was a good man," said Dolly, more slowly. "They say he was sharp with the men sometimes, but he knew every bit of the business himself, from packing to wholesale buying. He was certainly always kind and gentle to the girls. He treated us all as ladies, as politely as if we were customers, and that's a thing you don't often meet with in business. He was the richest and best respected man in Psalmster, but he never put on frills or pretended to be above his staff."

"Well, he sprang from nothing himself. They say he sold papers in the street when he was a kiddy, and he never forgot that. We shan't meet his like again in a hurry."

About two miles from the town the girls came to Osmington Woods, which sloped down to the river bank, and were free to the public. Here, under the shade of a mighty oak tree, they made their camp, and sat among the fern listening to the music of the bees, the occasional splash of a fish, soft breezes rustling far overhead— all the drowsy, heart-hallowing sounds of the summer hour.

"I wish the Boss died every day,'' said Ethel, after a long silence. "No! of course I don't really mean that, dear. But how heavenly it is to get a day off like this. Think of the shop, the heat, the rattle of the cash-balls, the silly old cats matching shades, the small of furniture polish, and calico, and serges. Ooh!"

"I don't want to think of it at all. Let's just, enjoy the present. We shall have to go back to the grind to-morrow. I hate it too, though we are better off than a  lot of girls, as you've just said. All the same it's our fate, and we have got. to go through with it."

"Slaves! that's what we are. Living by rule, always at someone's beck and call. Oh, how I envy the girls front the Close or Bishop's Park that come and buy at Marchant's. Think what their lives are— the nice men they meet, openly, and not in the hole and corner way we have to. The time they have to themselves, the pretty clothes. It's a shame, a wicked shame. I'm as good-looking as any one of them, and what chance have I of meeting a man who will marry me and keep me in comfort, with pretty things, a refined house, and all that? None— and it's the same for you and all of us. Don't you ever want to meet a nice boy— and be married, Dolly?"

Tho last words were said kindly enough, every one liked quiet little Dolly Cooper, who listened so patiently to the troubles of others, never seemed t have any of her own, and was always willing to help. But Dolly was not pretty, at least none of the girls of Marchant's thought sir. Her figure was all right. She had nice dark hair, and there was nothing the matter with her brown eyes or clear-cut sensitive lips. But Dolly did nothing to make the best of herself, so her companions considered, and were content to have it so. she never touched up brow or eyelash or tinted a cheek. Men did not seem to attract her. She never flirted with the gentlemen of the staff, and had no "boy" in the town to take her to the pictures or on the river on Sundays.

So Ethel Baynes was unconsciously patronising in her tone, as she asked the all-important question.

"Of course I should like to be married. Wouldn't every girl? But l wouldn't marry a man unless I loved him, whatever he might he able to give me."

"You dear old-fashioned thing! If you wait for Prince Charming to come along and deliver you from bondage, you'll wait long enough— Perhaps you're thinking of Mister Charles. Promise you'll invite me to the wedding."

Dolly laughed.

"Very well," she said, and they began to talk of old Marchant's only son and sole heir to the business. No one in the shop, with the exception of Mr Peters, the general manager, and one or two of the heads of departments knew much about the young man. His visits to Psalmster had been few and far between. It was understood that he was learning the business, first in London, and then for a time in New York, so that when he came into it he would be trained in the very latest methods. It was said that his father had brought him up with great strictness. He had only arrived from the Continent the night before.

"As a matter of fact," said Ethel, "I don't for a moment suppose that Mr Charles will have anything to do with the business at all, except attend a board meeting now and then and draw the profits. 'Do it now' must have left him a huge fortune as it is. You mark my words, he'll marry some girl in society, set up for a country squire, forget all about the shop, and never come near Psalmster unless he's forced."

ABOUT a quarter to ten that evening, the young ladies of Marchant's who "lived in" began to gather in the dining-room at the hostel, where a cold supper awaited them. There were nearly thirty of them, all told, and the majority were in a state of pleasant fatigue, bursting with news as to the adventures of the day, but with a decorous sense that laughter and animated talk would be rather out of place to-night.

As they were whispering together. Mrs Mont, the housekeeper and house superintendent of all these girls came in together with Miss Carfax, the manager's shorthand-typist. Mrs Mont ruled her maidens with a, light and easy rod. She was a jolly old thing who did not forget that she had once, been young, and a comfortable feminine predisposition to gossip endeared her to the staff. Miss Carfax did not live in.

She did not, in fact, regard herself as belonging to the staff at all. Her father was the managing clerk to a good firm of solicitors in the town, and she had an irritating manner of condescension with the shop girls, who called her "Haughty Culture" behind her back. But she was too intimate with Mr Peters to be snubbed in public, and was also Mrs Mont's greatest friend.

"Girls!" said the housekeeper. "I've, got some new, wonderful news!"

Everyone saw that the good lady was greatly excited. There was dead silence in the room.

"It's the will," said Mrs Mont in a stage whisper, "Mr Marchant's with Miss Carfax here, owing to her connection with the law, her father being in the firm of solicitors that made out the— er— last testament of the deceased, knows all about it." A low murmur, from the assembled ladies. Why doesn't the old cat get on? "My dears, it's this. Mr Charles Marchant is left the shop and the money, but only on condition that he marries one of you young bodies employed in the business within a year!"

There was a loud, multiple gasp as from some gigantic pair of bellows. The colour on a dozen pairs of cheeks grew pale, on a dozen others grew rosy red. Then there was a rush of girls to where the housekeeper and the secretary stood, a sudden storm of questions, high hysterical laughter, a universal under-current of giggles, and from a very fat ugly girl with red hair a remark that, personally, she had far too much self-respect to sell herself for money!

Dolly Corner and the red-haired girl were the only two who ate any supper that night.

There were six girls in Dolly's dormitory. Usually, when going to bed, they carried on a general, conversation, recounting the events of the day and making plans for the future. Tonight they split up into parties of two, sat on each others' beds, and whispered. As if by magic, the usual comradeship had vanished. At 11, when only a single light was left burning near the door, Ethel Baynes crept to Doily's bed.

"Isn't it wonderful!" she said, in an awed whisper, "coming after what you and I were miking about to-day! It seems like fate, doesn't it?"'

Dolly was sleepy.

"Oh, go to bed, Ethel," she whispered. "I can't talk now. And your hair is tickling my face."

"You poor fish," said Ethel viciously as she returned to her own bed. And taking one heavy, golden lock in her hand, she kissed it.

"He won't see any other hair like, that in this establishment," was her last thought as she fell asleep.

The news was true, Old Marchant, prouder of his big business than anything else in life, had resolved to bind his son to it by links of steel. He did not want Charles to rise into a class above his own. His thought that an honest  English tradesman was as fine a specimen of humanity as existed. Charles must follow in his sire's footsteps, and there was nothing more cunningly calculated to keep him there than a marriage such as the shrewd old man ordained.

For a fortnight Psalmster was excited and amused. Little else was spoken of in all circles, and Charles Marchant as he drove to and from the shop in his car was the observed of all observers. Then, when the news was getting a little stale, a minor canon at the Cathedral eloped with the wife of a neighbouring squire, and the public forgot all about Charles and his affairs.

In the little world of Marchant and Alder it was very different. The place was utterly transformed. To begin with, Marchant quietly took the reins of the business in his hands. From the first day he showed that he meant to be supreme head even as his father had been, and Mr Peters, the manager, emphasised the fact, no doubt under orders.

About the question of the marriage, a dead silence had fallen over the establishment. None of the girls ever alluded to it in public conversation. It was considered the height of bad form to do so, and when any of the gentlemen made a bitter jest about "Turkish Sultans," or throwing the handkerchief— for the male members of the staff were having a singularly thin time of it— he wished he hadn't for very, many days.

But there was peace no more in the feminine departments or the ladies' Hostel. All the girls were split up into groups. The old fellowship entirely disappeared. Nothing was left but a kind of conference of actions and conspirators. Old friends with any pretensions to good looks or charm hated each other now, and only the hopelessly ugly girls became popular for the first time in their lives— they were wanted as confidants.

Three weeks went by. Never had work gone so smoothly. The sweetness and patience when serving customers were angelic. Girls hitherto inclined to be slangy became pensive and demure—Mr. Charles was a grave, reticent young man, with a somewhat ascetic face and steady, dark eyes—not for Him the giggle and the glad eye. He did not seem in the least embarrassed by his strange position; quite unconscious of it, indeed. His manners were perfect. He treated all the girls as if they were duchesses, but he treated them all alike, and showed no preferences. Now and then his rather melancholy eyes dwelt for a moment or two rather longer on one lady than another, but that was all, though when it happened the hostel rocked to its foundations. In fact, they were all in love with him, or thought they were, and the shop was a vast emporium of highly-explosive matter that only needed a single spark to turn it into a conflagration. And in due time it came.

The spark was Miss Step.

Mr. Charles went away to London for a week. The day after his return Miss Step made her appearance. She was a tall, dark girl, plainly, though well, dressed, and she was placed in the glove department with Dolly Cooper.

There was nothing strange in the arrival of a new assistant, put, under the circumstances, she was the subject of an intense and anxious scrutiny. Was she a possible candidate for the grand prize or not?

In two days everyone hated her. Mr. Charles had begun a systematic personal tour of every department. He held conferences with the respective salesmen and saleswomen, heard their ideas, listened to suggestions, or made them himself. It was noticed by jealous, eager eyes that Mr. Marchant spent a much longer time in "gloves" than anywhere else. Ethel Baynes, by now first favorite, professed to have discovered that the boss's manner was curiously familiar and friendly when he spoke to Miss Step. it was raid that he never passed through the shop without a glance at the glove counter and one of his enigmatic smiles.

Dolly was besieged with inquiries. Why had Mr. Charles spent half an hour yesterday at her counter, going through stock? Did he really know anything about gloves? What did he say exactly? On what terms did he appear to be with the new girl?

They got but little change out of Dolly. She seemed perfectly indifferent to the general excitement and refused placidly to gratify those feverish questionings. Miss Step had been put into her dormitory and occupied the next bed— it was soon obvious that the two girls had become friends. Any combination of two was dangerous, especially when one of them was the mysterious Miss Step, and the hostel hummed like a hive.

It was Ethel who precipitated matters. One morning Mr. Charles' car was waiting outside the shop. It was known that he was going to catch the midday train to London.

He passed through the drapery department, and an Instant thrill and shudder went through it. Would he, did he mean to—

Yes!

Mr. Charles stopped at the glove counter, and, laughing, held out his hands to Dolly and Miss Step. It took nearly a quarter of an hour for him to be suited with a pair of travelling gloves, during which time he seemed to be talking with great ease and animation. His bow, as he went away, filled twenty hearts with anger and despair.

After supper that night, when Mrs. Mont had withdrawn, a girl suddenly locked the door.

As if at a preconceived signal, Ethel Baynes rose iron her chair.

Her face was very white, her eyes gleamed.

"Girls!" she said, in a hoarse voice, which trembled with passion, "We all know of a certain circumstance connected with this establishment. From the first none of us have mentioned it in public, agreeing to behave ourselves as perfect ladies. But circumstances have arisen which alter that rule. There is someone among us who has not the instincts of a lady, whom nobody knows anything about. She has come here in a way which I don't suppose would bear investigation if the truth were known. Let that be. We have seen what we have seen, and it is enough. I propose that a certain so-called young lady should be sent to Coventry. I propose that no one shall speak to her or associate with her. You all know whom I mean—" she looked straight at Miss Step, whose face had grown pale, but who sat perfectly motionless by the window.

An angry murmur ran through the room. "Hands up those who agree with me," cried Ethel, with cruel exultation In her voice.

A forest of hands shot up into the air.

"Carried unanimously!" the girl shouted, and then stopped.

"No. Dolly, Miss Cooper, you haven't put your hand up."

Dolly took a step towards her former friend. Her eyes blazed. She, also, was trembling with passion.

"Send me to Coventry, too," she said, "or whatever you call it. Miss Step has never done any one of you any harm. You are a lot of mean, cowardly, vulgar-minded fools; and as for you, Ethel Baynes, I haven't words to say what I think."

She went to Miss Step and took her by the arm.

"Come alone, dear," she said. "I expect you and I can set on quite well without these man-hunters."

The two left the room in dead silence. She had frightened many of them. Burning cheeks and downcast eyes showed that her words had struck home.

ON THE Sunday afternoon the two girls slunk out together, not without bitter and ironic comments from their companions, and sought the solitude of Osmington Woods. Under the identical oak tree where she had picnicked with Ethel on the day of the funeral. Dolly threw herself upon the grass and sobbed bitterly. Her nerves were at breaking point She felt she could endure no more.

"Mary," she sobbed, "I don't know bow you stand it I can't bear it any longer. They are cruel beasts to us both. I am going to give in my notice on Monday."

The other girl stroked her hair with a white, slender hand.

"Dorothy," she said, in the low, cultured voice which was an additional cause of offending at the hostel, "you have been wonderfully loyal and true to me. Why hare you done it? I am a perfect stranger to you."

A tear-stained face looked up at her.

"I don't know, dear. I think it is because I love you. You are so different to all the other girls—end—and I am sure that ho would he so furious if he knew."

Mary bent over her friend and whispered in her ear.

"Dolly," she said, "though you have never shown a sign of it or said a single word to me, I believe that you care for him."

Doily's arms slid round her neck. "I should love him if he were a crossing-sweeper," she said. If he were imprisoned, I'd marry him directly he came out, if he were to ask me. But you— you love him too, don't you, Mary?"

"Not as you do, not in that way, but I am fond of him, yes."

Suddenly Dolly laughed. "What nonsense It is our talking like this," she said bitterly, "even to ourselves. Never let us mention it again, Mary. We might end by becoming like the others."

There was a silence, and then Mary got Up.

"Rest here, little, dear," she said. "You have not slept properly for three nights. Try and sleep now. I will go for a little walk and come bank in half an hour or so."

DOLLY sank into the deep sleep of exhaustion. At length she began to dream.

The drapery department was full of glorious sunshine. Somehow the roof had been removed and the place full of sweet, sylvan airs. And the young ladies were out, and there were no customers.

Then down a long vista of archways which led to "Woollen Goods" and "Bedding" someone came walking swiftly towards her.

The archways changed to interlacing boughs of green leaves, and the man who came, with a light in his eyes and outstretched hands was Prince Charming. He came to her with parted lips, and took her hands in his, drawing her towards him.

"Dolly, little girl, I know everything; but it is all over now, sweetest, dearest little girl."

She gave a great cry. The arms around her were real, the yearning voice that made music in her ears was no dream-voice.

"From the very first day that I came to the shop, I noticed you. I know instinctively that you were different from all the others, but I was determined to find out. There was no way of meeting you; so I went to London and told everything to Mary."

"To Mary!" The faint whisper only just reached his ear.

"To Mary, my step-sister, who has never lived in Psalmster. No one here knew anything about her. She came to be an assistant in the shop and, and—" The deep voice broke with passion.

"Dolly; say, tell me yourself, that you care for me— that you will marry me—"

A GREAT buzz of excitement in the supper room. All the young ladies' chattering together with extraordinary animation.

"Is it after locking up time. Mary Step and Dolly Cooper have not come in."

More than this, Miss Carfax was there with her friend, Mrs Mont.

"I tell you, girls," says Miss Carfax, "that I saw it with my own eyes. Miss Cooper and Miss Step caught the 7.30 train to London, travelling first class. There's not a doubt of it."

"Thank Heaven," cried Ethel Baynes. "Girls, we have been too much for them. Three cheers for a good riddance!"

Just at that moment, there was a sharp rap upon the door. It opened, and Mr Peters, the manager, entered. You could nave heard a pin drop at this unprecedented and extraordinary occurrence. Mr Peters bowed, put on his pince-nez,  and began to read from a paper he held in his hand;

"Ladies. I am instructed by Sir Charles Marchant to give you all one week's notice from to-morrow, Monday, the 29th. Double salaries will be paid on Saturday next, when you will kindly vacate the hostel. Any lady who wishes to remain for a few days will be accommodated in the hostel, free of charge, but will have no duties in the shop."

He bowed, cast a quick glance round, and withdrew.

They all knew the truth by 12 o'clock the next morning.

________________

4: The Man with the Blue Nose

Harvey O'Higgins

1876-1929

MacLeans, 15 Nov 1929

Harvey Jerrold O'Higgins

DUFF never looked like a detective. "In my business," he said, "you can't afford to." And, at the moment, he looked most like the unshaven patron of a Bowery doss-house, sucking his lonely morning pipe on a bench in Washington Square.

He had obviously slept in his clothes. His coat, his knee-bagged trousers, his soiled and wilted white collar were all as wrinkled as pajamas. Even his moustache needed a brush and comb, because he had a way of wiping the back of his hand across his mouth from right to left, so that the moustache was dragged over untidily to the left side of his pipe. It was a gesture that went well with the costume: it was what an actor would have called a good piece of character business; but, as a matter of fact, he used it as a signal.

On the signal, now, a newsboy who had been studying him from the south side of the Square, as if with a commercial eye, came up the path to him. (It was early in the morning and the Square was empty.) Duff watched him approach— watched him with a twinkle under the sweat-greased brim of his felt hat, for the boy's manner was so nervous that he looked guilty.

"I'd pinch you on it, any time," Duff grumbled.

"Want a paper, boss?" He was an undernourished small boy, and he offered the paper in a timid pretence of being a genuine newsy.

Duff stretched a huge lazy leg and explored a trouser pocket. "Do I look as if I could spend money on a paper, Mickey?"

"No, sir."

"Besides, this's yesterday's paper."

Mickey's faltering smile admitted it.

"Do you know the editorial page when you see it?"

He nodded.

Duff held out a nickel. "Next time, sneak the editorial page out of the paper he gives you and slip it inside the paper you sell me. Get me? I'd look nice buying yesterday's paper if any one was tailing me, wouldn't I?"

The boy nodded again, watching him with eyes as brown and eager as a spaniel's.

"You get so much fun out of this business," Duff teased him, "you ought to be charged admission. Run along and sell your morning murders."

Mickey, grinning, looked around him as if for another customer, and then drifted back to his station on the south side of the square. Duff opened his paper.

He glanced over the pages idly, indifferently, in the manner of a genial fat loafer sunning himself on a warm September morning. He knocked his pipe out and refilled it with loose tobacco from the gaping side-pocket of his coat, but he did not relight it. Something on the editorial page caught his eye. In the middle of the second column, scattered pencil dots had been marked for him, and under the printed letters, very lightly, through several paragraphs. He got out a pair of rusty-rimmed old spectacles, and having read the message, he grunted impatiently, folded the paper so as to make a strip of the first three columns of editorials, and felt in his vest pocket as if for a match.

He found no match, but a small piece of graphite caught under the nail of his thumb, and with this— holding the paper before him as if he were merely reading it— he pressed a pencil mark under a letter here and there as his thumb moved down the edge of the column of print. He stopped to take the pipe out of his mouth and yawned gigantically; and whatever else was cover and disguise about him, the yawn was real.

It was real enough to catch the eye of a meditative young man who was limping down the path toward him, from the direction of Fifth Avenue, with a heavy walking stick and a lame leg. Duff saw him in the middle of the yawn, and swallowed the end of it. "Hello!" he said to himself. "That's Billy Woodbridge." And he went back to the paper on his knee, innocently intent on the news.

WOODBRIDGE stared and frowned as he came nearer, his straw hat in his hand, the sun on his tanned bald forehead. He was fashionably dressed, in light summer grey, with silk socks and low shoes and a soft collar. He put on his hat to shade his eyes and puckered them in a puzzled scrutiny of Duff as he passed.

Duff ignored him.

He went by, stopped, felt in his breast pocket for his cigarette case, and limped back to ask: "Have you a match?"

"Yes, Billy, and so have you," Duff replied. He produced a box of matches as he spoke, and he held them out, in the manner of an absent mind, still reading.

Woodbridge took them as if from a stranger, but with an amused and excited twitching of his mouth. He said, "Thanks, Major," when he had lit his cigarette.

Duff grunted and put out a blind hand for the match box. "All right," he said. "If you live near here, go ahead and I'll follow you in a minute."

He dropped the newspaper on the seat beside him, lit his pipe, and sat smoking till he saw Woodbridge pass Mickey, the newsboy, at the end of the path. Then he brushed his hand across his mouth from right to left again, stretched, and rose to walk away in the opposite direction from Mickey, leaving his newspaper on the bench. Mickey promptly started toward him, watching as if he feared that Duff might turn and claim his paper. Duff did not turn, and Mickey carefully restored the paper to its original creases and put it with the others that were under his arm.

"Pay-pee!" he cried. "Mourny pay-pee!"

He had been silent hitherto. He carried his bundle, now, toward the north side of the Square, calling as he went.

Duff turned away toward the eastern side. One of his worn shoes had come untied, and he sat down to knot the laces. While he was ostentatiously busy at that, he saw a man servant issue from the basement of an old residence on the north side of the Square, buy several newspapers from the boy, and go back into the house with them.

"Pay-pee!" Mickey cried triumphantly. "Mourny pay-pee!" He turned up Fifth Avenue and passed out of sight.

And even if anyone had been there to suspect him, it would not have been easy to guess that Mickey and the houseservant were both "plants": that Mickey was a detective, in the small, whom Duff employed to watch and follow "suspects" as a newsboy: that Duff had received the report of one of his operatives from Mickey— on the editorial page of the paper— and written his orders on the same sheet, and sent Mickey to deliver it to another operative who was under cover as a servant in the Washington Square house.

PRECAUTIONS were necessary— elaborate precautions— because Duff had two operatives planted in the house, one of whom was known to the family and the other was not. The first could keep in touch with Duff in the usual way, but the other had to be more careful. There had been a spectacular robbery in the house— the Clements robbery. The servants were suspected of complicity, and the first operative was investigating that part of the affair. But, to Duff, there had been more in the Clements robbery than met the eye; he wanted to get what he called "a line on the family," and he had planted the second man for that purpose. Hence the complicated machinery of newsboy and editorial page to reach and direct this second operative.

And for all his machinery, Duff was arriving nowhere. He was as far from getting a line on the family as he was from opening communications with Mars. He knew it. Even while he had been marking his message into the editorial page, he knew it. The knowledge had suddenly oppressed him like an indigestion, and he had yawned. And in the midst of the yawn, lo! Billy Woodbridge had appeared.

Instantly, from the back of Duff's mind there had leaped into memory an incident that he had wholly forgotten. When he first went on the Clements case, Helen Clements, the daughter of the house, had been curious about him. Naturally. Her father had told her that he had employed "the best man in America," to investigate the robbery, and she was as interested to meet Duff as if he had been Sherlock Holmes. When she heard from Duff that he had served with Military Intelligence, during the war, she asked: "Did you know Willy Woodbridge?"

Yes, he had known Willy Woodbridge. Woodbridge had also served with Military Intelligence. But Duff had not known Woodbridge intimately. Woodbridge had been on desk-work and Duff had been out on his feet. They had met only occasionally at a lunch club, made up chiefly of Bohemians in uniform who had been unable to get to the front, and this club some wit had named "General Hindquarters." There, once or twice, they had sat side by side and listened to an after-luncheon speech, but that was all. Duff had not seen Woodbridge since the war ended, and he had nothing to tell Helen Clements by way of news of him. She had never mentioned Woodbridge again, and Duff had forgotten him— until he limped into the picture, from nowhere, when Duff was yawning with discouragement.

Was it a piece of incredible good luck? Or was it as meaningless as most of the casual incidents of life? Duff intended to find out. He proposed to "rope" Woodbridge, to learn all he knew of the Clements family, and to use him, if that were possible, in some way on the case.

With these things in his mind he sat patiently watching Woodbridge limp around the Square till he came to Waverly Place and turned toward Sixth Avenue. Then Duff rose to follow, his eyes on the path, as if he were one of those city beach-combers who are always on the lookout for anything that may have been dropped on the sidewalk or in the gutter.

HE FOLLOWED Woodbridge along the deserted pavement in the empty, early sunlight— a shabby old derelict walking behind a gentlemen of some degree of fashion, with whom he could naturally have no possible connection. About half way down the block, Woodbridge turned up a flight of entrance steps and disappeared into a vestibule— the vestibule of an old red-brick house with a Colonial doorway painted white. It had evidently once been a private home, but judging by the row of letter boxes in the vestibule it was now an apartment house. Duff entered it as nonchalantly as if he were the janitor; and Woodbridge opened the inner door to him with a conspiring smile.

"Well, you old high-flyer," Duff greeted him in a hoarse undertone, "how've you been?"

The "high-flyer" referred to the final incident of Woodbridge's service with Military Intelligence; he had gone to report on the distribution of propaganda over the German lines; and on this first flight in an observation plane, he had crashed and broken his leg. Hence his limp.

He grinned as Duff caught him by the hand and wrung it jovially. "Come upstairs to my rooms," Woodbridge said. "There's nobody up there."

"Fine!" Duff chuckled. "I want to talk to you. Where've you been? I haven't seen you for— how long is it? Three years, isn't it?"

"Yes. All of that. What are you doing? You're not with M.I. still, are you?"

Duff took him by the elbow, to help him up the stairs. "Billy," he said, "I'm now about the only man of my kind in America. I'm an honest private dick."

"A detective? No!"

"Sure's you live! What're you doing?"

"I went back to writing."

"Well," Duff sighed, as they climbed the stairs together, "I couldn't go back to law. It was too darn slow. I got an offer from an airplane firm to do some investigating for them. I took a lot of the boys in with me— and here I am, having a whale of a good time and making more money than I did as a lawyer."

"Well!" Woodbridge had taken a bunch of keys on a chain from his hip-pocket and unlocked a door at the head of the stairs. They entered a living room that was almost as large as the whole floor of the house.

Duff looked around it with a hearty admiration. "Gosh, Billy," he boomed— now that the door was closed—"this looks comfortable. Do you have it all to yourself?"

It had evidently been furnished by a woman whose fancy had run to Chinese rugs, great wicker chairs with China-blue cushions, gate-legged tables, parchment lampshades, and early davenports. Woodbridge's own taste might have added the Japanese prints on the walls, the Georgian book cases, and the cushioned window-seats, but the rest was certainly feminine.

"Yes," he said. "All to myself." And he glanced at it as if he had been lonely there.

Duff threw his hat on a table. "I'm almost afraid to sit down in a place like this. I've been hanging around a dirty joint all night, and I feel crawly."

"What were you doing in the Square?"

He had been waiting for Woodbridge to ask that question. He had been so eagerly waiting that he naturally pretended not to hear the question when it came. "What say?" he asked.

"What were you doing down in the Square when I ran into you?"

"Oh, nothing to write home about. There's been a robbery in one of those old houses on the north side, and we've doped it out that one of the servants hooks in on it. So we made a preliminary investigation and pretended we suspected the second man and had him fired. And now I've got one of our boys in his place, under cover, and I was over there picking up his report. What was the matter with you? You looked worried."

"Me? Worried?"

"Yes, worried. I saw you before you saw me. What's been eating you?"

Woodbridge scowled at his cigarette. "Oh, nothing. Nothing you could help me with, anyway."

Duff was twisting his bedraggled moustache back into curl. He looked down his cheek at it. "Well, you can't always tell," he joked. "Wait till you see me shaved."

He knew that Woodbridge must have heard of the Clements robbery: the papers had been full of it. And when he said, "There's been a robbery in one of those old houses on the north side," he was sure that Woodbridge, knowing the Clements family, would know that he was working on a robbery in their home. He had expected an admission from Woodbridge of his acquaintance with the family. Nothing of the sort came. And Duff, behind his cheerful jocularity about Woodbridge's worry, was saying to himself: "I'll have to get this bird. There's something in his crop. I'll bet he can help me with this Clements case."

THE Clements case was immensely important to Duff. Not because of the crime, but because of the client. He was like a young doctor with his first rich patient; the disease might be no more than simple indigestion, but the cure of it might mean as much to his practice as if he discovered an antitoxin for tuberculosis. Andrew Clements was the president of a Broadway bank and a Wall Street trust company; he was vice-president of the A.P.U. and a director of several railroads and public utility companies; and, back of all this, he was one of the real controlling heads of the amalgamated power-production plants of half the continent. If Duff could "sell" himself to Clements, as the advertising men say, he could get the most lucrative and easy practice that the money barons of America can provide for a confidential agent. Duff was curious about them; he was curious to see the inside workings of their so-called "invisible government" of the country. And he was curious about Clements; he was curious to learn the quality of the man's mind, the range of his ability, the explanation of his power.

It was undoubtedly this sort of curiosity in Duff that had made him a detective, as it might have made him a scientist or a realistic artist— a Balzac, perhaps. And in his work as a detective he showed a pretty combination of the artist's imaginative sympathy and the scientist's cold deductive logic. He was neither a mathematical genius simply— a Sherlock Holmes calculating machine that added up evidence with automatic accuracy— nor yet one of those inspired idiots of the profession who "play hunches," as they say, and often arrive at miraculously correct conclusions by some mystery of intuition which they do not understand themselves. No, Duff was neither of these species of detective. He was a bit of both. He worked almost wholly by human contact, feeling his way into the solution of a crime through the persons involved in it, and then manoeuvring them to such effect that guilt betrayed and trapped itself.

In the Clements case he had not been able to feel his way into any understanding of several details that baffled him. Andrew Clements and his daughter Helen had both remained impervious to Duff's penetration. It seemed to him that there was something in the case which the family kept locked against him. He had to find that something. He had to find it, even against old Andrew Clements' opposition, and certainly without his aid, if he was to make on Clements the impression of superior astuteness which he desired to make.

THESE things were in the back of his thought as he chatted idly with Woodbridge. He had an idea that if he could find out what was troubling Woodbridge and help him, Woodbridge might aid him in the Clements case out of gratitude. Unfortunately, he could find out nothing. Woodbridge, before the war, had been a free-lance writer of magazine articles and short stories; he was now a sort of editorial adviser in a publisher's office, and he professed to hate the work, but Duff did not believe that it was this discontent that had taken him out of bed at seven in the morning. Duff studied him. He was obviously an idealistic and impractical New Englander, with an Emersonian long nose and two heavy lines of discouragement from his narrow nostrils to the down-drawn corners of his mouth.

"The trouble with you is that you're bored," Duff said, untruthfully. "You ought to come in with me and the boys. You see, some of them that were in M.I. with me— they found that they were getting a dirty deal when the war was over, and we formed a little organization to help one another, and when I started this detective business I took them in with me. Bob Benedict's my office manager. We have a house, a sort of boarding house, over on Eleventh Street, where we hang out, and we call it General Hindquarters, after the old lunch club. Why don't you come in with us?"

"I'd like to," Woodbridge answered, insincerely, "if I weren't so tied up."

"Well"— Duff rose— "I must go and get cleaned up. Come and have lunch with me at the Wyndham at one. I've a case I'd like to talk to you about."

"I'll be glad to," he said, but it was evident that he accepted out of mere unwillingness to offend Duff by declining.

"You know this Clements family, don't you, Billy?" Duff asked, as if it were an afterthought, at parting.

"Well I used to. Why?"

"The robbery that I'm working on was over in their house."

He nodded, somewhat embarrassed. "Yes, I know. I used to go to college with the son, Hal Clements, but I haven't seen any of them for years."

They were at the door, and Duff, defeated, was consoling himself with the thought that he would contrive to come to the lunch with some bait which Woodbridge would be unable to resist. "All right, Billy," he said. "I'll look for you at one." He had his hand on the door-knob.

Someone rapped sharply on the panel outside.

"Just a minute," he said. He looked around him quickly. "I don't want anyone to see me here, in this costume. Is that your bedroom?"

Woodbridge nodded.

"I'll just duck in there, if you don't mind."

There were three doors at the end of the room. One was the bedroom door; another was the open door of a bathroom; the third showed a sort of corner cupboard that had been fitted up as a kitchenette. Duff shut himself in the bedroom, while Woodbridge opened the hall door— to find Tony, the iceman, waiting with the beaming smile with which he covered his inability to speak the language.

"Oh, hello," Woodbridge said. "Brought the ice, have you? All right." He went into his pocket for change while Tony carried his butter-firkin of ice into the kitchenette.

And Duff, with his hand on the bedroom door, stood blinking at a picture of Helen Clements on the wall above Woodbridge's dresser. "Well," he said to himself, "you old woodchuck!" He walked over to it quietly. There was an affectionate message to Woodbridge written on the photograph in her firm backhand. It was a girlish photograph, however— a portrait that looked some years younger than she was now.

He dropped his eyes to another photo on the dresser, a portrait of a dark woman who wore a medieval fillet around her temples. She regarded him inscrutably with a level eye. There was no inscription on this picture, but at the bottom of the heavy card-board backing on which the photograph was mounted, he saw the white corner of a calling card protruding. Nothing could have been more casual and innocent than his manner as he took up this photograph, drew the calling card from the slit in the mount, found that it was the card of a "Mrs. Albert Brewston," and read on the back of it "Yes, darling, yes! With everything that is in me. Lena."

He replaced the card, thoughtfully, in its hiding-place, put the photo in the inside pocket of his coat, regarded Miss Clements' photograph on the wall as if she were there before him, silent, and returned to his place at the door. When Tony had departed, he came out with his hat on the back of his head and his hands in his pockets. "All right, Billy," he said, genially. "Don't forget. The Wyndham at one."

DUFF never looked like a detective; that was one of the minor secrets of his success; and when he was receiving clients in his public office, he looked as little like a sleuth as he did anywhere else. At his desk, indeed, he looked most like what he had been before he volunteered for service with Military Intelligence during the war; he looked like a cheerfully unsuccessful office lawyer.

He had obtained the perfect background of this appearance by buying it from a discouraged patent attorney who had retired from practice. "If you haven't any old clothes of your own," he would explain genially to his friends, "you have to buy them. These fit me pretty well. The fellow that owned them must have been about my size as a lawyer."

The carpet on the floor had been swept threadbare. The walnut desk shone only where it had been polished by the owners' elbows. The leather cushion in the tired old swivel chair had been worn through to its horsehair stuffing. When Duff put on the office coat that went with the rest of the stage properties, he fitted into the old room as snugly as the room fitted into the old red-brick house, or the house into the dingy old street, off Union Square, that was given over mostly to second-hand book stores and antique furniture shops.

He had hurried back to his desk from Woodbridge's apartment, having changed his clothes in his rooms on Eleventh Street, and phoned to ask Helen Clements if she could call at his office for a moment. "You'd better leave your car in Union Square," he told her, "and walk around the block so the chauffeur won't see where you go. There's an architect's office on the first floor. I'm right above it on the front of the building. I want to report to you on the robbery."

Since some of the servants were supposed to be involved in the crime, his directions about the chauffeur were a natural precaution. But when Miss Clements arrived— less excited than curious and less curious than amused— he had nothing of moment to report. "Your maid wasn't concerned in it," he said. "I think I've located one man who was in on the job. He's over in London. But I haven't found the stuff."

She smiled at him lazily. "You know that 'the stuff' doesn't matter. Dad wants nothing but the man who gagged him and tied him to the bed-post. When you find him, you'll have to find some way to have him hanged. Nothing short of hanging him will satisfy Dad."

Fashionably dressed, in the small toque of the day and the short skirt, she was handsome, large, athletic-looking. She had a somewhat sarcastic twist to her lips when she smiled, and she spoke as if Duff and she tacitly enjoyed an understanding of the more human traits of her autocratic father.

Duff laughed. "He must have been a foreigner. Any native crook would have known he couldn't do a thing like that to Andrew Clements and get away with it."

"Not," she agreed, "while there's money enough in the financial district to buy revenge."

"Well," he concluded, "I have a man going after him. I'm not telling your father. He'd want me to send my whole staff over in an airplane. And listen. Do you remember once— when you heard I'd worked with Military Intelligence— you asked me if I'd run across a man named Woodbridge?"

"Yes. Willy Woodbridge. What has he to do with it?"

"Nothing whatever. But, if you remember, I told you I hadn't seen him since the war?"

"Yes. I remember."

"Well, I ran into him crossing Washington Square this morning."

"It must have been in the very early morning," she said.

"Why so?"

She shrugged her eyebrows rather than her shoulders. "Because he never goes by when he thinks he might meet any of the Clements family."

"Oh." He considered that.

Whether or not he had consciously assumed the immobility of a weighty office lawyer, he certainly had that manner. He was slow. He was meditative. He spoke out of a sort of deep-chested ponderosity. She watched him with eyes that were a little disillusioned about life— but frankly so.

DUFF had discovered in her a delight in rough contacts. He had discovered that the one thing she asked in people was that they should be "real." There was no one she would not meet on those terms, but she would not endure pretensions. (Probably for that reason she did not succeed as well with women as with men— particularly with women who had social pretensions.) Duff had decided that her air of being as democratic as the occasion demanded was based on the aristocratic conviction that her own social position was secure beyond jeopardizing, but it was not easy to decide how far he might presume on that sense of security.

He said professionally: "Could you tell me what's the matter with Woodbridge? I got to know him pretty well in Washington and I liked him. From what little I saw of him this morning I should say he was fairly unhappy. I've a hunch that I might help him."

She had no illusions about detectives nor about successful men. She had been curious to meet Duff when her father reported that he had employed "the best man in America" to investigate the robbery, and she had been amused to see how easily Duff handled her distinguished parents; but she did not believe in disinterested motives in detectives or in any other men of practical affairs; and she had seen enough of Duff to know that his appearance of frank simplicity covered depths of astuteness.

She gave him an ironical smile and glanced around the office. "I didn't know that it was any part of your work to make people happy."

He was silent. She looked at a rusty old engraving or two. When she came back at last to Duff she found him sunk in meditation, unconscious of her, fingering his moustache, and staring ahead of him at nothing— at nothing unless it was at the memory of all the unhappiness that his eyes had ever seen.

Those eyes— now that the habitual smile and twinkle had gone out of them— she saw were gloomy, wrinkled eyes that could open very large and brown in a melancholy reflectiveness. He looked down quickly at his blotter. He rose. "No," he said, "you're quite right. Well, I'll be able to take my operative out of your servants' quarters at the end of the week." He had picked up a typewritten letter from his desk; he frowned at it. "I don't think there'll be any further difficulty."

It was the manner of dismissal, but she did not rise. "What do you want to know about him?" she asked.

He looked at her, quite absent-minded for a moment. He walked away and gazed out his window. He came back and sat down again at his desk. And all this, of course, was what detectives call "finessing."

He said, at last, out of his thoughts, as if with no attempt at all to present them to her in any order or with any craft: "Something serious has happened to him. It isn't only the accident to his leg, though his lameness may have affected him. And it isn't money troubles. He doesn't seem to like his work, but that's only a surface worry. I believe it's a woman."

"You said you'd only met him this morning. Now you tell me—"

"I met him about seven o'clock. I went to his rooms and had a long talk with him. He didn't tell me what's the matter— I'm only guessing at it." He had risen again and gone thoughtfully to his street coat that hung on a hat-rack beside a filing cabinet.

She said, with reluctance: "He met a woman in Paris."

He had taken something from a pocket of the coat. "Is that the woman?" he asked, and handed her a photograph.

It came with the suddenness of sleight-of-hand, and it startled her so obviously that she did not need to answer. She reddened when she looked up from the portrait and realized that her surprise had answered for her. "What is this?" she demanded. "Are you getting evidence against him for a divorce suit?"

"Who is she?" he asked.

"She's a Mrs. Bert Brewston."

"Thank you. And her maiden name was?"

"Selina Auld. That's all I'm going to tell you." She got up. "I don't like myself in the role of informer."

He might have answered that it was not unbecoming to her. It had heightened her color and stirred up a glow in her eyes. She stood, leaning on the back of her chair rather mannishly, and offered him her hand.

"Will you let me report progress to you?" he asked. "We're like all other criminals— we detectives. We have to have an audience."

"Gladly. Goodbye. Good luck to you— if you're really trying to help him." She swung to the door, high-shouldered, as if she were leaving a drawing-room in full state. "If you're not trying to help him," she added, as he opened the door for her, "you'll hear unpleasantly from your audience."

She strode out, without turning her head. He closed the door behind her and returned to the photo on his desk.

Mrs. Bert Brewston— Selina Auld. He drew out the card, again, and re-read it. "Yes, darling, yes. With everything that is in me. Lena." He turned it over and over moodily in his fingers, frowning.

He began to plan how he should feel his way into the situation cautiously.

He reached his office phone. "Who's in there?" he asked an inner office. "Who? Well, ask Benedict to come here."

He returned Mrs. Brewston's card to its slit in the backing of her photograph, and got up to put on his street coat.

"Bob," he said, to the young man who entered, "you remember Billy Woodbridge? Down in Washington?"

Benedict thought a moment. He was a boyish, dark young secretary in a Palm Beach suit. "Oh yes," he recalled. "Woodbridge. Yes."

Duff was not in the habit of telling his operatives the truth about the cases on which they worked; and he explained, now, to Benedict: "I ran into him this morning, and he's in trouble, and I want to help him, but we'll have to do it without letting him know. Put this photo in an inside pocket. I took it out of his apartment, to find out who she is. I want you to replace it." He was rapidly sketching the plan of an apartment on a memorandum pad.

Benedict nodded. "Sure. How do I get in?"

"I'll have to arrange that for you, some way. And while you're in his flat, I want you to look for any letters signed 'Lena' or 'Selina.' There's a writing desk, about here, in the living room, and the letters may be in that, or they may be hidden somewhere. I think she's making the trouble, and I want to find out what's going on."

He glanced at his watch. He went to look out the window a moment. Benedict put the photograph and the plan of the apartment in the inside breast pocket of his coat and stood waiting.

"Yes," Duff decided. "That will be all right. I'm to have lunch with Woodbridge, at the Wyndham, at one. Be there at ten minutes to— in the lobby. I've told him you're working with me, so there's no need of any cover. All right. See you at ten to one. Goodbye."

IT WAS not for nothing that the Duff Investigating Agency had been presented to Woodbridge as a sort of fraternal association of oppressed veterans of the great war who had united to aid and defend one another. In the lobby of the Wyndham at one o'clock, the tall ascetic Woodbridge met Duff and his young office manager in the manner of a crippled war veteran greeting a pair of pals who had served with him in Military Intelligence.

"You remember Bob, don't you, Billy?" Duff introduced Benedict.

"Well, rather!" Woodbridge shook hands as heartily as if Benedict and he were old friends, and his lean monastic face was warm and bright with smiles. "Are you going to have lunch with us?" he asked.

"No, thanks. I can't," Benedict said, shyly, like the young lieutenant invited by a civilian to have luncheon with the commander-in-chief.

Duff explained: "I want him to run over to your rooms for me. I dropped some memoranda somewhere, this morning, and it may be that I dropped them in your bedroom. That's the last place I remember having them. Lend us your key a minute, Billy, and he can look for them while we're eating."

"Why, certainly." Woodbridge had all his keys together on the chain that ran from his belt into a hip-pocket of his trousers. He was carrying a straw hat and the walking stick that he needed for his lame leg; and when he drew out the bunch of keys on their ring, he had only one hand free to pick out and remove from the ring the keys to the street and hall doors of his apartment.

"Let me do that," Duff volunteered; and instead of removing from the ring the two keys which Woodbridge had separated from the others, Duff unfastened the ring from the chain and gave the whole bunch of keys to Benedict.

"Trot along now, Bob," he said blandly. "We'll be here for an hour, anyway. If you find those notes, you might stop at the office and leave them with Bert before you come back. We'll give you an hour."

It was done so quickly that Woodbridge had no time to object, even if he had wished to. And why should he object? He was in the hands of friends.

Duff turned him toward the stairs that led down to the Wyndham's basement grill.

They made themselves comfortable and examined the menu in the silence of old acquaintances, who do not need to keep up conversation. Woodbridge, in his light summer grey, with a polka-dot necktie and a soft collar, got out his inevitable cigarette and lit it at the waiter's match that illuminated, ruddily, his high tanned forehead. He gave his order without reference to Duff. Duff was equally casual and self-contained. When the waiter withdrew, he leaned forward, his arms on the table, resting his massive shoulders. "Billy," he said, "that Clements robbery was the work of ex-soldiers."

"It was!"

"I'm sure of it. This is between ourselves, you understand. It was pulled off as smoothly as a night raid. There was discipline behind it. They hardly spoke a word. They got in a basement window, rounded up the servants, and marched them like a squad of Heinies to the picture gallery— where they locked them up. You remember the picture gallery?"

"Very well."

"Then the lad in charge of the operation woke old Andrew Clements, gagged him, trussed him up, and tied him to his own bed-post—"

"Where was Helen?"

"She was away for the night. And I believe they knew it. They were in the house from midnight till about four in the morning, taking their time and ransacking the whole place thoroughly. They cleaned up all the jewelry, some of the smaller pieces of silverware and every cent of cash. Then they blew the old man's private safe and went through it with a vacuum cleaner. They must have been off and away for two hours before the people next door heard the servants shouting— after they'd piled up furniture and tried to reach the gallery skylights and found they couldn't make it. That was about six o'clock. The police broke in the basement door at eight. And there they all were still locked in with the pictures. The man who bossed the job must have known— for one thing— that the picture gallery was as tight as a jail, yet I'll swear that none of the servants were in on the deal— and none of the ex-servants that had ever been in the house."

"What's the answer?" Woodbridge asked.

"I haven't the faintest notion. Thanks. Now bring me a glass of buttermilk." He paused till the waiter was out of hearing. "Did you know the son who was killed in the war?"

"Hal? Yes."

"What was he like?"

And since this was the question to which he had been leading up, he gave it as if he asked it, at the end of his story, just to make conversation and let Woodbridge talk a while.

WOODBRIDGE felt friendly. That was plain. But it was also plain that he was reluctant to talk about Hal Clements. They had been chums at Harvard, he said, but Hal had been "a wild boy— not so bad until his mother died, but, after that, pretty hard to hold." The father had not been wise about him.

"He hated his father, did he?" Duff asked, busy with his food.

"Well," Woodbridge admitted, "he was his mother's favorite. She and Helen rather spoiled him. The household was a good deal split up."

"A boy like that often goes bad," Duff put in, "to spite the father. I don't mean that he does it consciously, but that's the way it works out. He drinks, gambles, gets into trouble with women, and generally disgraces himself, because, away down deep, he's trying to disgrace the father. The more the father screams, the better satisfied he is, and the worse he becomes. Was that the way it went?"

"Yes. Pretty much."

"How did it end?"

Woodbridge put down his fork and lit a cigarette. He inhaled a chest full of smoke and exhaled it through his nostrils like a sigh made visible. "Well," he said, "this will have to be entirely between ourselves, Major."

"Absolutely."

"He forged his father's name to a check, to pay off a gambling debt. That was in the winter of 1914. And the old man started to put him in jail. I had him hidden in my rooms, and I kept in touch, through Helen, with what the father was doing. Finally— it was Hal's own idea— I went to Mr. Clements with the proposition that Hal should be allowed to go to Canada and enlist for the war. And the old man agreed, with the provision that he'd hold the forged check and arrest Hal if he ever came back here. I took him to Toronto, and saw him into uniform, and said goodbye to him."

"And it was goodbye, wasn't it?"

"Yes. He was killed."

"I hope the old man didn't draw the forged check on him— when they brought the body back."

"It was never brought back."

"Left him over there, did they?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, his body was never found."

"No?"

"No. He was killed in a trench that was captured by the Germans in one of their drives on Ypres. And when the trench was retaken, months later, no one knew where he'd been buried. I looked it all up when I was over there for Military Intelligence, in 1918. I thought Helen would want to know."

"And didn't she?"

"Oh yes, I suppose so. She didn't say."

"Why not?"

Woodbridge became interested in his cigarette. "She has never forgiven me for helping Hal to enlist."

"How did he behave in the army?"

"Oh, he ate it up. He'd have been decorated if he hadn't been snuffed out."

"What was it? A shell?"

"No. He was struck in the head with a hand grenade."

The headwaiter interrupted them. "You're wanted on the telephone, Major."

"Thanks. Just a minute, Billy. It's probably Bob to say he's found my notes."

When Benedict returned with the keys, they were ready to leave. "Here's something Bert wants you to look at," Benedict said, giving Duff the shorthand notes of Mrs. Brewston's letters to Woodbridge.

"All right." Duff took them in one hand while he was holding out the other to Woodbridge. "Goodbye, Billy. See you later." He turned to Benedict. " 'Phone Bilkey and tell him to meet me at the office right away."

He made no engagement to see Woodbridge again, because he was preparing a little plan that was designed to bring Woodbridge, in anxious haste, to call on him for help. And while Woodbridge was limping up the steps from the basement grill, Duff sat down again at the lunch table to glance through the specimens of Mrs. Brewston's secret correspondence.

His plan was simple enough. He had heard of Mrs. Brewston in connection with the relief work for devastated France that had become so fashionable after the war. She was the spirited young wife of a solid "sugar magnate". She had two daughters in their teens, a social position as distinguished as it was respectable, and an ambition, obviously, that would be anything but furthered by a scandal and a divorce. Her letters showed her engaged in a liaison with Woodbridge that must have begun in the happy atmosphere of victorious Paris when they had met there in 1918.

"Get on the trail of Mrs. Albert Brewston," Duff said to Bilkey, whom he found waiting for him in his office. "She may be away at her summer place, or she may be in town. I want you to get an interview with her, and it won't be easy. She probably has a private secretary you'll have to pass. Tell her you're from a man named Woodbridge if you can't break through in any other way."

"What then?"

Bilkey was an operative who had the manners of a confidence man.

"When you get her alone," Duff said, "you'll represent yourself as a police detective. You've been investigating a gang of blackmailers in town, trying to get evidence against them. In the course of your investigation, you've found Mrs. Brewston's name coupled with this man Woodbridge's in a note-book belonging to some member of the gang. You want to know whether she has been approached— whether she can give you any evidence to help you work up a case against the blackmailer.

"All I want to get to her is that a crooked gang has marked Woodbridge and her for blackmail. There's no chance of her making any trouble for you. She'll be scared stiff. Be as smooth as you can with her. I don't want to give her heart failure. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly."

"All right. Go to it. And ask Benedict to come in here a minute."

He watched, with an appreciative twinkle, the air of class and fashion with which Bilkey carried himself out of the room. He turned to his correspondence. It was the curse of his life. He hated all this "paper work" as he called it.

"Yes, Major?" Benedict had entered.

Duff raised his eyes reluctantly from a letter. "I want you to send a wire in cipher to that man in Ottawa— what's his name?— Campbell. You'll find him in the files. He helped us on the Harrington case, you remember? Well. One of old Andrew Clements' sons— a boy named Hal Clements— enlisted with the Canadian contingent from Toronto, during the winter of 1914-15. I want his record from the war department files in Ottawa. I want particularly the full description of him, height, weight, and all the rest of it, and especially any distinguishing marks he may have had, or physical peculiarities. Tell Campbell to wire that in cipher first and then mail the rest of the record. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. Has Benny been around to-day?"

"No. Not yet."

"See if you can reach him on the 'phone and tell him I want him to drop in here, right away."

"Yes, sir."

This "Benny"— whose name was Londoner— was less a detective than a stool pigeon, through whom Duff kept in touch with the gossip of the underworld and the news of crime that circulated in the dives and blind tigers and Bowery joints in which the crooks of the metropolis meet for social relaxation and the companionship of their fellow craftsmen. Londoner had been set to watch for ex-soldiers in these circles, as soon as Duff decided that ex-soldiers seemed indicated by the details of the Clements robbery; but all Londoner's watching and listening had been in vain. The Clements robbery was as much a mystery to the profession as it was to the outsider.

THERE WAS a pawnbroker on Hudson Street who usually acted as a fence for army veterans of a criminal way of life, because his son had been in France with the expeditionary forces; the son, known as "Lefty" Anders, had sailed for England immediately after the Clements robbery; and professional rumor whispered that he had boasted of having been on the inside of that notorious job. The rumor seemed verified to Londoner, and to Duff, when Benny found for sale in the pawnbroker's an old pierced diamond that looked as if it might have been part of a medieval necklace of unpolished stones belonging to Helen Clements. Such stones are rare, outside of museums. Duff had located "Lefty" Anders in London, and men were now watching him to see whether he would drop any more pierced diamonds as he went; but none had appeared, and it was possible that Anders had acquired the diamond from the man who had stolen it. It was equally possible that he had boasted of being one of the authors of the Clements robbery, as any unscrupulous artist will claim an anonymous masterpiece in order to advertise himself.

"You can't tell," Duff said. "Lefty may never have heard of that new slogan of the ad. men, 'Nothing but the truth.' "

It was not about Lefty Anders, however, that Duff wished to talk to Benny Londoner. It was about three Canadians, ex-soldiers, whom Londoner had seen, one night, at the Cosmopolis Cafe, on Broadway, among the high-class "cons" and wire-tappers and Central Office men who made the Cosmopolis their social centre when the Rosenthal murder drove them out of their 43rd Street resort. The Cosmopolis Hotel was managed by a Canadian, and many of his guests came from across the border, so it was natural that the three Canadians should be registered there. But the guests of the hotel did not often descend to the cafe in the basement, which was a Broadway resort; and, when they did appear on the leather settles around its panelled walls, they were far from being the type of these three. These were gentlemen of fortune, on a holiday from Montreal, and Broadway had no tricks that it could teach them.

One of them had a blunt and heavy nose of a peculiar shade of pale magenta, and this fascinated Londoner. The other two tried to persuade Benny, at first, that such a feature was the distinguishing mark of a "Nova Scotia blue-nose," but finally they admitted that it was a reconstructed nose, modelled by a face surgeon in a German hospital. They called their blue-nosed friend "English Artie" because he wore a monocle, haying only one eye to assist with a lens, since the sight of the other had been destroyed by the trench bomb that had blown off his nose. He had not a word to say for himself; he was drinking heavily, and he seemed to be one of those who sink, sodden with alcohol, into deeper and deeper glooms of dignified silence as they drink.

His companions told his story for him. He had been struck in the face by a bomb in a German night attack; and when he came to himself again, he realized that the attack had been successful, that the Germans had taken the trench. His face being mutilated beyond recognition, he had conceived the brilliant idea of changing uniforms in the darkness with a dead German; and he had done that so successfully by morning that he was gathered up, apparently unconscious, by a stretcher squad and taken to a German field hospital. There it developed that he had aphasia from shell shock; he spoke in disconnected phrases, with great difficulty, unable to remember who he was or to explain what had become of his identification tag. When his face was healed, he remained as an orderly in the hospital, but his appearance was so repulsive that a surgeon was ordered to work on him. Here was the result.

The story delighted Benny; it had such alluring possibilities for a criminal whose photograph was in the Rogues' Gallery. He spoke of it with enthusiasm to Duff, and Duff replied: "You ought to read more, Benny. That dope about facial reconstruction for criminals was worked to a fare-you-well by the Sunday papers, long ago. Besides, how about finger prints?"

"That's so." Benny resigned himself. "You couldn't reconstruct your fingers. An' you couldn't do much business without 'em."

The story had meant nothing to Duff at the time, and it meant little enough now, except that, as he recalled it, he realized that the three Canadians must have been at the Cosmopolis about the time of the Clements robbery. They were ex-soldiers, and they were crooks. It was possible that they had been regimental friends of Hal Clements and that they had picked on the Clements home to loot, for what you might call sentimental reasons.

THERE WAS another possibility, but it was too melodramatically improbable for Duff to consider it. He kept it out of his mind and merely acted on it without admitting it to his consideration.

"Benny," he said, when the little Cockney arrived in his office, late that afternoon, "do you remember the blue-nosed soldier you saw one night in the Cosmopolis?"

Benny stood with his hands in the pockets of his tight trousers, his bowler hat on the back of his head, chewing gum with a meditative shrewdness. He nodded non-committally.

"I want to find out who he was and what became of him."

Duff's method as a detective was the method of a trapper rather than a hunter. His genius lay in the inventing of the traps. If one failed, he tried another, as patient as an angler changing his bait, sitting at his desk like Isaak Walton under a river-side tree, quiet and humorous and kindly. And in that manner, he heard— as placidly as a fat bronze— Bilkey's report on his interview with Mrs. Bert Brewston.

Bilkey was apologetic. It had taken him two days to procure his audience with her, and he was afraid that he had failed in it, because she received him, standing in her library, heard his story in silence and said only "I know nothing about it." True, she had turned pale. She had confronted him with a desperate composure that overdid the haughtiness of indifference. But she had not said anything from which anyone could tell how she was going to jump, as Bilkey put it. And in the midst of his apologies for intruding on her, she had walked to a bell button, pressed it to call a servant, and left him without a word.

Duff regarded Bilkey with one eyebrow raised, amusedly. "That'll be all right, I think," he said. "Yes. I think that'll be all right."

"Will it? Fine!" He rose, much relieved. "Anything else. Major?"

"Yes. You'd better keep away from me for a while. Report to Tiernan in Washington, right away, and stay on the job with him till I send word it's safe for you to come back. I expect I'll be asked to investigate this blackmailing."

"Oh, I see." Bilkey smiled knowingly.

"No, you don't see," Duff assured him, "but it doesn't matter what you don't see, so long as you aren't seen. On your way, now. They may be here any minute."

Bilkey fled, but no one arrived to report his interview with Mrs. Brewston till the following morning. Then Woodbridge sent his card into Duff from the outer office, and Duff smiled and kept him waiting. He wished Woodbridge to be nervous and impatient. And he had his wish.

"Hello, Billy," he said, when Woodbridge hurried in and then checked himself at sight of Duff, as if he had been at once driven and reluctant. "What has happened? You look as if you'd had a bad night."

He was grey in the face. He had cut himself, shaving. It was raining outside, and yet it was evident from the wetness of his waterproof and the hat in his hand that he had walked, instead of taking a taxi, and walked without an umbrella. He cleared his throat, but he did not speak. He sat down in a chair by the desk, frowning. He looked at his hat and his stick for a moment and then dropped them on the floor. He got out his cigarette case. Duff moved the matches and an ash tray towards him, but he did not strike a light.

"What's the matter?" Duff asked.

"I— I want some advice," he said. And he said it in the hollow voice of the man who has received a blow.

"I'd be glad to give you more than advice." Duff had taken on the air of a physician receiving a patient, his chin on his chest, bending on Woodbridge a deep regard under a professional and sympathetic forehead. "You look as if you needed help."

Woodbridge swallowed painfully. "I do."

"In what way?"

He studied his cigarette, turning it over and over in his fingers as if it were the problem that he was trying to solve. "I've got a woman into trouble," he said huskily, "and I don't know what to do."

"What sort of trouble?"

"Well— blackmail." He looked up at Duff with eyes that were as guilty as they were miserable.

"Good," Duff assured him. "Blackmail's in my line, certainly. Tell me about it." And when Woodbridge hesitated, he added: "You don't need to tell me her name if you don't want to."

Woodbridge threw his cigarette on the ash tray in the manner of a man casting aside his final scruple. "She's a married woman. We've been friends for years. Yesterday, a detective came to her—"

"Just a minute," Duff interrupted. "What sort of detective?"

"A police detective," Woodbridge said in a voice that gave a sort of breathy shudder on the word "police."

"How do you know he was a police detective?"

"He said so."

"But that would be the last thing he'd tell you if he were really a detective. What did he look like?"

Woodbridge stared at him, dumbly. "I don't know."

"I see. What did he say?"

He jumped up as if the question had stung him. He limped two or three crippled strides across the room, turned, and came back and sat down again abruptly, as if both knees had failed him. "He said he'd been investigating some— some people— some blackmailers— and he'd found her name and mine written in a— in a note-book or something— and he wanted to know whether she could help him— whether they'd been trying to blackmail us— or something like that."

"Why didn't he come to you?"

"He said he didn't know who I was. She's a—  Her name's well known." His voice failed him.

"Stuff, Billy."

"What?"

Duff tilted back in his chair with a relieved smile and stretched elaborately. "You had me worried for a minute."

"What's the—  What do you— ?"

"He wasn't a detective."

"No?" It was the voice of a very weak, a very incredulous hope.

"No. He was probably a blackmailer."

And at that, the hope that had begun slowly to fill Woodbridge with a faltering breath of relief, went out of him again in a long tremulous deflation and let him sink in on himself, collapsed.

"What did she say? Did she give herself away? Did she admit anything?"

Woodbridge wagged his head in a merely mechanical movement of negation— an automatic reply of which he seemed unconscious. His gaze was fixed gloomily on the certain prospect of disaster.

DUFF rose and patted him on the shoulder. "Come out of it, Billy," he said. "This is easy. I can handle it."

"How?" His voice asked it but his eyes did not.

Duff began to walk cheerfully up and down the shabby carpet. "Well, they haven't anything real, or they wouldn't have come to her with that story. It sounds like one of Cleveland Dick's little games. I'll get after him and find out. Meantime, you two want to keep away from each other. If you have any letters from her— or anything like that— you'd better burn them."

Woodbridge did not move. From somewhere behind the mask of his set stare, he replied "I have."

"And tell her to do the same."

He made a pale grimace of contemptuous despair. "It's all off— between us. You don't need to arrange that part of it."

"You mean that when she saw herself threatened with exposure, she dropped you flat?"

He let his silence answer for him.

"Then I should think you were well out of it."

His lips writhed in silent sarcasm.

"No doubt."

Duff sat down. His trap had worked.

Woodbridge went into his pocket for his cigarette case again; and this time he struck a light and inhaled a deep consoling breath of nicotine. He blew it out, at his feet, leaning forward with a heavy scowl.

Duff asked: "Did Hal Clements speak German?"

Woodbridge looked up, under his eyebrows, without raising his head.

"Did your friend Hal Clements speak German?"

"Yes. What has that to do— ?"

"Did he speak it fluently?"

"Yes. His mother took him abroad for a year— to some German university. Why?" He mumbled it indifferently, with his depressed and sulky scowl.

"Because I don't think he was killed in the war," Duff said coolly. "I suspect that he was taken prisoner and he's still alive."

Woodbridge sat up as suddenly as if his silent worry were a bad dream from which Duff had wakened him. He even blinked stupidly, like a man roused from sleep. "Still alive!"

"Yes. I've been getting his record from the files in Canada, and it's incomplete. Several details are missing. He must have removed them himself— or got someone else to do it— since the war ended."

"I don't— I don't understand."

"No. Well, my guess is that there was something in his father's safe that he wanted to get hold of, so he engineered this robbery. He needed money, of course. The job yielded several thousand dollars in cash, besides the jewelry and so forth, but what he really wanted was in the safe. Papers of some sort. Have you any idea what it could be?"

"Wait a minute." Woodbridge was bewildered. "What are you talking about?" He laid down his cigarette and rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache. "Do you say Hal wasn't killed?"

"Well, I wouldn't say it to anyone but you." He was drawing on a scratch pad an intricate design of squares and circles while he talked. "Because I can't prove it. It's mostly guess work. I believe he had his face blown off in that night attack. When he found himself wounded, in the hands of the Germans, he stripped the uniform off a dead German and got himself taken to a German hospital, suffering from shell shock and unable to give any account of himself. They rebuilt his face for him and he remained as an orderly in the hospital till the war ended. Then, what was he to do? His father didn't want him back here— threatened, in fact, to put him in jail if he ever returned. And he was a weird-looking thing with a false nose and one eye blind, so he didn't care to face his sister or his old friends. Besides, in making his way out of Germany, he fell in with a gang of crooks, and he had a fine, rowdy, drunken, adventurous time with them— in London, say. Then he arrives in Montreal, where he's some sort of card-sharp or con man or bootlegger maybe— under the name of 'English Artie'— and he's afraid, perhaps, that if he's ever picked up by the police and identified, someone may accidentally stumble on the fact that those descriptions are Hal Clements' in the army files in Ottawa. So he finds some way to get hold of these identification items and destroys them.

"Then, he comes to New York, on a bat, with two of his criminal friends, and he needs money. He's decided to get married and buy a ranch, and settle down. Also he wants to get hold of something that's in his father's safe. So, he burglarizes the house, gets what he wants out of the safe, and beats it back to Canada. He may have taken a local man in on the job here, to dispose of some of the jewelry. I'm not sure of that. Anyway, back in Montreal, he marries a French-Canadian girl and starts out for Calgary. And that's as far as I've followed him."

WOODBRIDGE had listened in silent amazement. "Do you mean to say that this is all true?— that you can prove it?"

"No! Heavens, no! It's all pure guesswork. I can't prove a word of it— yet. That's why I'm telling it to you. I need your help."

"I don't—"

"Well, listen. I'm sure that Helen Clements won't want me to go ahead and follow this up if it means that her father is going to haul her brother back here and run him into jail. What would be the sense of that? The boy has evidently decided to straighten up. And I don't know how to handle the old man. I can't do anything officially, you understand, except pursue this poor mutilated sap and soak him. If I tell the old man about it, he may order me to go ahead, and I'll have to do it. I want her to know what the situation is. And I want you to tell her, because she may be afraid of me. She may not trust me. I want you to see her and help her to decide what to do. Then, with her permission, you can tell me as much or as little as you think it's safe to tell me, understand?"

Woodbridge objected feebly. "I don't see—"

"Well, suppose she happens to know that her brother's still alive. Suppose she knows what was in that safe, and sympathizes with his determination to get it. Suppose she was away from home, that night, purposely—"

"Great Scott!"

"Yes. All of that. Do you understand, now, why I don't want to go to her with a theory that will be like giving her the third degree?"

Woodbridge looked, for the moment, as if Mrs. Brewston and the blackmail had really slipped out of his mind in his excitement about Hal Clements' resurrection from the dead. "All right," he said. "I'll do what I can."

"That's the way to talk," Duff encouraged him.

Woodbridge put on his hat as if it were his resolution and grasped his stick determinedly. "Goodbye. I'll phone you."

"Thanks."

Duff sank his hands in his pockets and began to rock in his swivel chair, backward and forward, in a state of deep, excited satisfaction. He was as elated as a playwright who believes that he has written and rehearsed an imaginative masterpiece, but he was as nervous as that playwright when the final rehearsal has been dismissed and there is nothing left to do but to wait for the curtain to rise on the performance.

He was saying to himself, like Thackeray: "That's genius, my boy! That's genius!" He was delighted with his romance about Hal Clements. It accounted for everything in the robbery that was puzzling. It explained why the gang had been so disciplined; they were ex-soldiers. And how they came to be so evidently familiar with the plan of the house and the possibilities of the picture gallery: they were led by a son of the family. And why old Andrew Clements had been picked out for special indignities: the boy hated him. And why the safe had been so stripped of valueless and private papers: the boy wanted something that was among them. And why there was no trace or gossip of the gang among the fraternity in Now York: they were Canadians, and having pawned one jewel, perhaps, to supply some immediate necessity, they vanished at once across the border.

Yes, as an imaginative invention, it looked like a masterpiece. But how would it play? Suppose that the police had already caught some common second story man who was about to confess that he had planned and executed the Clements robbery! Or suppose that the Clements family had, long since, privately received an account of Hal's death and burial from some friend in the Canadian contingent! Or suppose that Helen Clements laughed at the whole story, and told Andrew Clements about it, and Andrew Clements said: "You've missed your vocation, Duff. You're not a detective. You're a dime novelist." Suppose! Suppose!

NOTHING of the sort occurred. Quite the opposite. Helen Clements swallowed the story whole. She came at once to Duff, with Woodbridge, to consult about how to manage her father; and she added a new link to the chain of circumstantiality that made the story possible. Hal Clements, as a boy, had stolen money from his father's writing desk; a detective had laid a trap for him and he had betrayed himself through his finger prints. Those prints his father had kept, and when the forged check appeared, years later, the smudge of an ink-stained thumb on the back of the check identified Hal as the drawer of it when he had carefully provided against being traced in any other way. All this evidence against him was in the looted safe, and he would naturally seek to destroy it, if only in the same spirit of mischievous defiance that had moved him to have his father gagged and tied to the bed-post, ridiculously, instead of locked up with the servants in the picture gallery.

And now Duff found himself in an embarrassing situation. He had invented a fable which his public accepted as true. Helen Clements not only demanded that Hal's resurrection should be kept from her father; she asked that Duff put her secretly in touch with Hal and let her send him money.

"I'll have to find him first," Duff said uneasily. "And you must remember that this whole thing's a theory. I'm not convinced that 'English Artie' is your brother. Not by any means."

"Find him," she insisted, "and let me have a look at him. It wouldn't matter how he's changed. I'd know him even by his walk."

"So would I," said Woodbridge. "And I'll run out to Calgary, any time, if you can locate him there."

The look that Helen Clements exchanged with him was something more than friendly. "We might make up a party for a trip to Banff," she said, "and go together."

Duff regarded cynically the young man who, a few days before, in that same chair, had sat wallowing in the depths of depression because all was over between him and Mrs. Brewston. "I'll do my best," he promised. "I have a man up there, searching for him. I'll let you know."

She rose to hold out her hand. "Your best," she said, "amounts to the miraculous."

He watched them go out together, and he watched them with no feeling of triumph in the thought that he had rescued Woodbridge from an unhappy love affair and thrown him into the arms of a waiting heiress. It meant little to Duff that he had apparently assisted in a very striking bit of sentimental drama. He remained indifferent to it, with his whole thought fixed, coldly, on the end that he had been pursuing when he forced Woodbridge into the path of felicity. Duff had still to win his way with Andrew Clements by producing an impressive and ingenious solution of the Clements robbery. That was all that interested Duff. The rest was nothing.

And here he was— after how many weeks— with how many operatives hot on the trail in spite of the most elaborate plants and the busiest finessing; here he was with nothing to show for his time and his expense but this absurd story about a man with a blue nose risen from the dead! Outside of that, nothing! Nothing but a pierced diamond in a pawnshop and a suspected man on the streets of London.

He could hardly go to Clements and say: "See how clever I am! I've had a second operative in your house for weeks and you've never suspected it. I've communicated with him through a newsboy, every morning, and you've none of you noticed it. I've got Woodbridge out of the clutches of a married woman with whom he was in love, and given him back to your daughter, who begins to look as if she were going to marry him. And in addition to all that, I've invented a completely wonderful story of how your son Hal rose from the dead, with a blue nose, in order to tie you to a bed-post and rifle your safe. Admire me. I'm a genius."

No. Duff could hardly offer that account of his activities to Clements, and yet it was the only truthful report that he could make. For three days, in the midst of his other troubles, he worried about Clements intermittently; and he was as far as ever from deciding which way to move when a wire from Benny Londoner, in Montreal, was laid on his desk.

Benny reported that "English Artie" and his bride had been killed, a month previous, in a railroad collision near Medicine Hat, on their way to Calgary.

DUFF read it, and re-read it, and read it again. At the first reading, he said to himself; "That settles the girl. I can't turn up her brother for her, anyway." On the second consideration, he looked startled. "Well," he thought, "if I can't prove my story about a blue-nosed burglar, this fixes it so that it can't be so easily disproved either." And, after the third reading, he said: "If I told the old man the story now, he couldn't order me to arrest his son. There's that much gained." And he began slowly to grin, and finally to chuckle.

He snapped his fingers and caught up his office phone. "Bob," he ordered his office manager, "get me an appointment to see Mr. Clements— to-night, if possible— at his home. Yes. Tell him it's important— an important development that I must consult him about. Yes."

He rose with a sort of giggle and began to pace and wheel about the room. "It's a wow!" he told himself. "And yet it's all I have to offer him. If I can get through it with my face straight, he may fall for it— the same as his daughter did. I don't know; it must have something probable in it or she would have given me the laugh, wouldn't she? I'll do it. I'll go the limit. I might as well be ridiculous as the way I am!"

And he went the limit.

AS soon as he got word that he might see Clements, after dinner that evening, at nine o'clock, he sent a 'phone message to Woodbridge asking him to meet him at the Clements home at nine-thirty, with Helen Clements. "If I can't do it in half an hour," he told himself, "I'm licked." And it was in this mood of gay desperation that he was ushered into the Clements library, at nine sharp, to find the formidable "old Andy" playing solitaire at a folding card-table, with a reading light at his elbow shining hard on the furrows of his sharp old face.

"What is it?" Clements asked, without looking up from his game.

"Well, Mr. Clements," Duff said, in a slow drawl, "I have to have a decision from you before I can go any further with this case. It's just faintly possible that the man at the bottom of it was a young fellow who was supposedly killed in the war."

Clements played an ace. "Who was that?"

"Your son Hal."

Clements did not so much as flick an eyelash. He studied his cards composedly. "Sit down," he said. "What makes you think so?"

Duff sat down, feeling a trifle flat. The old man, bald and red, but immaculately dressed in dinner clothes, continued with his "Canfield." Duff plunged into his story— or rather into his theory— of Hal Clements and the robbery; and Clements heard him in complete silence. He asked only one question. When Duff described the record against Hal Clements that was locked in his father's private safe, Clements inquired: "How did you learn that?" Duff replied: "By a piece of trickery. It would take too long to tell you."

"Quite so," Clements said drily. "Go on."

Duff went on. He went on, uninterrupted, to the end— which was Londoner's wire about the death of "English Artie" and his wife. "Now," he asked, "do you want me to continue this investigation?— to arrest his confederates, if we can trace them— which is doubtful— and to recover whatever may be left of the jewelry by the time we catch them? Or do you think, as I do, that it will not be worth the expense?"

Clements had gathered up his cards. He busied himself shuffling them for a new game, bent over them thoughtfully, with his eyes on his shrunken and corded hands. "All you have," he said, "is a theory— a very brilliant theory but nothing more."

"Nothing," Duff agreed, "as yet."

"The more brilliant," Clements purred, "because you haven't a fact to go on." He was laying out a new game. "A very brilliant theory," he said. "Very clever. And I think," he added mildly, "quite correct."

For a moment Duff believed that he had misunderstood that "quite correct." Did the man mean—?

"There was no light in my bedroom when they attacked me," Clements went on, as he played, "but there was a light in the hall. I watched them when they went out the door. They had handkerchiefs tied over the lower part of the face, but the general physique of one of the men seemed familiar to me. Knowing that this unfortunate boy had been killed in France, I supposed that I was mistaken. You will go no further with the case."

If Duff had been a fraudulent spiritualist who suddenly found that a real ghost had materialized in his sham seance, he could not have been more dumbfounded.

"Do any of your men know of this theory?"

Duff succeeded in saying "No" in a natural voice.

"You haven't spoken of it to anyone?"

"It was only a theory. I—"

"You will keep it to yourself."

"Of course." He glanced at his watch, as a man will when a situation becomes so improbable that he seeks mechanically for some assurance that the event of time, at least, is still stable.

"That's all," Clements said. "Good night."

Duff got up slowly. He looked at Clements as if he half suspected that the old man was playing some ghastly joke on him.

And Clements, still interested in his game, said in the same abstracted and indifferent tone: "You might give me a report, if you will, on this young man, William Woodbridge. I judge that my daughter intends to marry him."

"Very well," Duff said steadily. "Good night."

And neither Woodbridge nor Helen Clements could understand his manner when he came out of the library and found them waiting for him in the room across the hall. "The case is closed," he said, in a thick, uncertain voice, and handed them Londoner's telegram.

He was, in fact, struggling with an almost hysterical amusement and elation, and this frightened him. "I must be losing my grip," he thought. "I'm growing childish."

Their two heads were together over the telegram. They were silent.

"You'll say nothing about this to your father," he warned her. "There's no use raking up old scores."

She looked at Woodbridge with eyes that were moist with pity. "Poor Hal!" she said.

He put an arm behind her, and Duff left them there.

"THE QUEER thing about the whole case," Duff explains, "is this: Andrew Clements must have had his son Hal in his mind from the first, and I must have got it from him in some sort of flash, without ever knowing that I had it. That's why I fastened on Woodbridge the way I did, I'll bet. It's as if I knew Woodbridge could put me wise if I could only reach him. Then I turned right from Woodbridge to the girl, as if I knew that Hal was in between them somewhere, and I used Hal to bring them together again. If I believed in 'spirit control,' I'd think the boy had been directing me. Anyway, I'll bet there was some sort of thought transference, eh? Don't you think so? I did the right thing, all along, without knowing it. And when I made up the story that explained the whole case, I thought it was a joke. I tell you the human mind's a funny thing. The more I see of myself, the more I'm sure of that."

He says it with his usual twinkling smile, but the truth is that the Clements case is an excellent example of how Duff works— if nothing more— and, as such, it seemed worthy of being recorded, whether or not there was anything occult and mystical about it.

______________

5: Snatch

Scott Littleton
fl. 1930s

Liberty, 26 Nov 1938

Another unknown author whose career in print was brief: 1936-1939, some 20 stories, mostly in Liberty magazine.

LUCK'S a funny thing.

Jim Reilly and I both bought Sweepstakes tickets out of the same book. I happened to sign my name on the stub of the first ticket showing in the book, and Jim signed his on the stub of the next one.

If it had been the other way around— But it wasn’t. If it had been, I wouldn’t be telling you this yarn. I’d probably be—well, I wonder just what I would be doing now if I’d had eighty thousand smackers dumped in my lap like Jim had dumped in his.

Because that’s about what he got after John Bull and Uncle Sam grabbed their cut.

I was with him and Kitty his wife and little Jim, their ten-year-old, when the great news came. We listened to the race on his radio. Excited? I thought the guy was going to smash all the furniture in their living room before he got calmed down. I couldn’t blame him. I’m not married and haven’t got a living room to smash furniture in— but if I’d been in his spot I guess I’d have done the same thing.

I couldn’t blame him, either, when he threw up his job in the department and went over to Ireland to collect, taking Kitty and little Jim with him. It wasn’t that Jim hadn’t liked police work— him and me had been partners on the robbery detail for years— or that he felt he was too good for it now, or anything like that. But with eighty thousand dollars in his kick, why should a guy go on taking a oop’s chances the rest of his life?

Anyhow, old Jim came back from Ireland a lot richer than when he went over, and I was tickled to death for him. He was one swell guy, old Jim, and he and his wife were the kind of people you like to see a thing like that happen to. Outside of their moving into a little more comfortable house and Kitty having a maid in by the day to help her with the housework, it didn’t change them a bit. Jim insisted that I take five grand just for being with him when he bought his ticket. I took it, all right; good clean dough like that don’t grow on bushes!

And he was sure sensible about the seventy-five thou- sand he had left. He put it all in the best bonds he could buy, and he and Kitty and the kid settled down to enjoy- ing life on the income.

And that’s what they were still doing up until the night Jim phoned me.

“ Spike!” he said, before I’d hardly answered. “ You gotta come over ri’ away! Don’t say anythin’ to anybody— but get over here!”

“What’s the matter with you? ” I asked him.

“For God’s sake, Spike!” The guy sounded almost as if he was crying. “I can’t tell you— over th’ phone. But if you’re my pal, don’t say anythin’ to anybody— and get over here!”

“ All right,” I told him; “ I’ll be right over.”

I threw on my clothes, and half an hour later I was at his house. It was about half past two in the morning.

“What th—” I started to say, as he and Kitty both met me at the door in their dressing gowns. But I didn’t get any further. Their faces—I can’t begin to tell you what they looked like.

“Little Jim—” Kitty kind of gasped.

“ He—he’s gone!” Jim managed to say.

“Gone?”

I remember how Jim seemed to pull himself together by main strength, to tell me the rest.

“Snatched, Spike!” he said. “They left a note.”

“My God!”

I remember that’s all I could say, at first, as I stood there looking at those two poor devils and they stood there looking back at me. Little Jim! That great little guy who called me Uncle Spike— who wanted to be a cop when he grew up— who was full of the devil—

“When, Jim? ” I asked him. “When did you find out? ”

“A little while ago. Kitty went into his room—”

“Catch her!” I yelled at him. For Kitty had turned white as a sheet all of a sudden, and was toppling.

He caught her, and we got her over on to a sofa.

“I'm all right,” she said faintly.  “Don’t worry about me. But do something! Do something, can’t you?”

“We're going to do something, Kitty,” I told her.

Then I turned to Jim.

“Let’s have a look at his room,” I said. "We’ve got to work fast!”

We left Kitty there on the sofa and started for the kid’s room, which was in the back of the house.

“You didn’t touch anything, did you?” I asked him.

“I used to be a cop,” was all he said.

The light was burning in little Jim’s room when we got back there.

“I only lit it so I could read the note,” he said.

There it was, still pinned to the kid’s empty bed. It didn’t take more than a glance at the rest of the room to tell most of what had happened. Or more than a sniff of the air in it.

“They used chloroform,” I said.

“Yes.”

I couldn’t look at Jim. The window of the room was open; that’s how the snatcher had come and gone.

“He probably didn’t use more than enough to dope him,” I said, kind of weakly.

He didn’t say anything.

Careful not to touch anything or put my feet between the bed and the open window, I leaned over and read the note.

It was a man’s writing, and he wasn’t an educated guy—you could tell that. But he was smart enough! He came right out and said he was snatching Jim’s kid for two reasons. First, because he knew Jim could put his hands on ten grand, on account of winning that Sweep- stakes prize. Second, because Jim had been a policeman and ought to know better than anybody else what hap- pened to kids when the police got called in and the news- papers got hold of it. That’s just what was going to happen to little Jim, the guy said, if Jim called in the po- lice. But if he didn’t, and laid the reasonable sum of ten grand on the line in tens and fives like he’d be instructed to later, not a hair of little Jim’s head would be harmed.

“T wish it had been your ticket! ” Jim kind of groaned. “T wish it was me—instead of him!”

“Steady, old-timer!” I told him. ‘‘ We’ve only begun {o fight. The first thing we got. to do is call Central.”

I started out of the room for the phone, and I know I'll never forget the look on his face as he grabbed me.

“No!” he said. “ For God’s sake— no!”

“But, Jim!” I said, surprised. “We got to! We got to get fingerprint men over here and get going! We got to get a description of the kid out on the teletype—”

“No!” he said, fierce-like. “There’s going to be no police— and newspapers— in this! It’s our only chance! ”

And then Kitty was standing in the doorway, holding on to the doorjamb, her face still white as a sheet.

“You’re not going to tell anybody, are you, Spike? ” she begged in a weak voice. “ They’ll kill him! ”

“If you want me to help you—” I started to say, but Jim grabbed me again.

“Don’t you understand we don’t give a damn about catching him? All we want is Jim! They can have anything— I’ll do anything they say to get him back!”

“But, Jim,” I reminded him, “there’s a new law in this state making it a felony to pay ransom! ”

“Law?” he yelled at me. “What do I care about a law? They can put me away for the rest of my life— all I want is my kid!”

Well, I’d have felt the same way.

“ Maybe we could keep it quiet—” I said kind of weakly.

“You know we couldn’t, Spike,” he said. “‘ After winning all that dough, do you think they’d lay off of me and give the boys a chance? Do you think they’d pass up a story like this? ”

And he was right; there was no getting around it.

Help us—and keep your mouth shut,” he begged. *You’re the only person in the world we can trust.”

I didn’t say anything right off. He was asking a lot of me. Asking me to stick my neck out, for not reporting it. Asking me to help him compound a felony, maybe, in paying that ransom. Asking me to do something that was all against my best judgment. I couldn’t tell him— but I felt in my bones that little Jim was already dead, if his snatcher was running true to form. And if that was the case—

“Well, Spike? ” he said. And I’ll never forget how Kitty looked at me.

“O. K.,” I said. “ I’ll do my best.”

And that was that; and that’s what I did do for the next three days while we waited for the snatcher to make contact like he’d said he would in the note. As luck would have it, I had a lot of time off for overtime coming to me, and I moved right into their house and stayed with them.

I sneaked a fingerprint outfit from Central and dusted every inch of that room. I couldn’t take the note down to the police lab for examination, of course, without giving the show away. But I don’t think I’d have found anything. Whoever pulled the job had sure been careful; he hadn’t left a trace that I could find.

The note we were waiting for came in the late afternoon mail of the third day. I remember how poor old Jim had to stand talking politely to the postman before he could get it away from him. The postman wanted to know if little Jim was sick or something— he’d missed him. The kid was always playing on the front lawn...

“Thank God! Oh, thank God!” Kitty moaned, after we tore the envelope open and read the first words in the note, which said that little Jim was alive and well. That didn’t mean a thing to me, of course— but I didn’t say so....

The note went on to say that the snatcher was glad to see that it looked like Jim was following his instructions and saying nothing to the police. The next step was to get the ten grand together, in tens and fives. Jim was given two days to do this in; then another note would come— providing it still looked like he hadn’t said anything to the police— and he’d be given instructions for the pay-off.

EVER try to get ten grand together in tens and fives? It’s some job. Especially when you don’t want any questions asked. But the two of us— Jim and me— finally made it.

First, Jim got ten thousand-dollar bills from the bank. Then we split up the bills between us, and, by hitting a lot of banks, managed to get them all changed at last into tens and fives. I put my foot right down, though, when Jim didn’t even want me to copy their serial num- bers.

“Nothing in this green world will keep me from copy- ing them, Jim,” I told him. “ And after you get your kid back, all hell isn’t going to keep us from running them down, either! ”

He gave in; I copied them; and then all we could do was wait for instructions.

They came as per schedule, and were clear enough. If the dough was ready, Jim was to put an ad in the per- sonal column of one of the papers saying “ O. K. Mabel.” Then, two nights later, he was to bring the dough per- sonally to a deserted barn about ten miles out in the country, and leave it there. Shortly thereafter the kid— who was still alive and well, according to the snatcher— would be released within walking distance of his home.

The location of the barn was carefully given, and the note wound up with the usual threat that if there was the slightest sign of monkey business on Jim’s part the kid would be killed.

Of course I figured he’d been killed already. If the snatcher had been smart enough not to leave any traces at all, wouldn’t he be smart enough to rub out a bright ten-year-old who could identify him in a minute? Of course he’d be!

I decided that I was going to be in on that pay-off and do my best to grab the snatcher!

So after I got that “O.K. Mabel” ad in, I told Jim that I’d used up all my overtime staying with them, and would have to go back on duty. If I didn’t, it would begin to look funny, I told him.

He understood.

“I— we— can’t begin to thank you for what you’ve done, Spike,” he said. ‘‘ From here on out I’ve got to go it alone, anyhow.”

“Not alone, old-timer,” I told him—wondering what he’d say if he knew how true I was going to make that be. “I’ll be with you every minute I can spare.”

I didn’t go down to Central and check in. I went back to where I lived, and got out the oldest clothes I could find. I rubbed them in dirt before I got into them. Then I got some old blankets and dirtied them up, rolled them up and slung:them over my shoulder. I made a pretty passable-looking bindle stiff.

Then, tucking my rod in my pants and leaving my car in its garage, I set out to walk the ten miles from town to that deserted barn. If the place was such that I could approach and get into it without rousing any attention, I’d get into it and stay there. It wasn’t likely that the snatcher would be casing the place a day ahead of time.

I slung an old canteen of water over my shoulder along with the blanket roll and picked up some chocolate bars on the way. And late in the afternoon, with my dogs yelping for mercy, I got out there.

That’s all the place was— a deserted, ramshackle old barn a little ways from the road, without a house anywhere near it. I cased it pretty thoroughly before I went into it. It was as empty of any sign of life inside as out. But part of the old hayloft was still in place, with some moldy old hay still there. That would be the spot for me, I decided; and after smoking one last ciga- rette and burying it, I swung up into it and pulled the hay over me.

I WON’T bother you with how I passed the rest of that day, that night, and the next day up in that loft. It took patience— I’ll say that. But every time I began to get restless, I’d think of little Jim....

It was stiff sleeping that night. And Lord, how that next day dragged! Darkness came at last, though.

Just as my wrist watch showed nine o’clock, a car came along the road and, instead of passing by, slowed and turned in toward the barn. Jt wasn’t Jim’s car.

It stopped, seemingly back of the barn and out of sight from the road, and whoever was driving it switched off the engine.

I can’t begin to tell you how hard it was for me to lie there without moving, with my rod in my hand, lis- tening to the silence. It seemed like an hour before it was broken by the sound of another car in the distance. I recognized the sound of its motor. It was Jim’s!

I could hear it slow down—then, after a little pause, turn in from the road toward the barn and stop. And then what do you think? Directly below me, so close that in two steps I could have jumped down from the hayloft on to him, I heard a man clear his throat nervously.

So the guy was so sure of himself that he was going to meet Jim face to face! That sure changed my plans. I’d figured that he wouldn’t go for the dough until Jim got well away.

And then I heard Jim’s voice... as he came into the barn and saw the guy. ...

“Here I am,” I could hear him say in a low, suffering tone. “ Have you got the kid? ”

“Have you got the dough? ” I could hear the snatcher come back at him. He was keeping his voice low, too, and it sounded kind of muffled, as though he had something over his face.

“Yes,” I could hear Jim say. “ But you’re not going to get it unless you can prove that the kid’s O.K.”

“I told you he was O.K., didn’t I?” the snatcher kind of growled, “and that we’d let him out near your place? ”

We!  So the guy wasn’t working alone! That made it even worse.

“But how do I know you’re going to?” Jim said, desperate-like.

“You gotta take our word for it,” the snatcher said.

We're wastin’ time, copper. Do you want your kid or don’t you?”

I couldn’t hear Jim say anything, but I could hear him breathe, and I could make a picture of what he was doing, all right. He was handing over that ten grand, praying for strength to keep his hands off the guy. . . .

Then I could hear the paper it was wrapped up in being torn open, and the guy seemed to be counting it.

“Ts it all here? ” the guy asked.

“ Yes—” I could hear Jim gasp. “ For God’s sake— tell me—is he still alive? ”

And then I couldn’t stand it any longer, and exploded into action.

“Tt’s me, Jim! Spike!” I yelled down from the loft.

There was just enough moonlight coming through the barn doorway so I could see them, and to my dying day I won’t forget Jim’s face as I reared up there in that loft, with the hay dripping off me and my rod in my hand. I couldn’t see the snatcher’s face because he had it covered with a handker- chief. But Jim’s!

“Grab him!” I yelled at Jim, as the guy started to make a dash for the doorway. Thank God, Jim had been a copper and still had a copper’s instinct, because he didn’t stand there gawking up at me for more than a split second. He made a flying tackle, and brought the guy down before he’d taken two steps.

Then I was down on the barn floor—and something else was happening! Some- thing I hadn’t counted on at all.

The engine of the car the guy had come in was starting up! Which meant only one thing—that he hadn’t come alone, and that whoever had come with him was in that car and was making his getaway!

I left Jim struggling with the guy with the handkerchief over his face, and ran out and around the barn in the direc- tion from which the sound of that engine seemed to have come. Maybe little Jim wasn’t dead, after all! Maybe I’d been all wrong! Maybe he was in that car with the other snatcher! And if he was—

It was a powerful-sounding engine, and it was jerking the guy on his way, all right. I got a bare flash of the car—not even enough to tell what it looked like—as I rounded the corner of the barn. Then it was out on the road and roaring out of sight behind some trees. . . .

I made a dash for Jim’s car, standing about fifty feet away. I jumped in, jammed my foot on the starter—

But it wouldn’t start!

The other snatcher had been smart enough to jimmy the ignition. It had been part of their plan to keep from being followed, maybe, after the pay-off. That’s why only one of them had met Jim!

I was in a cold sweat. I’d messed things, all right— God help me! If little Jim wasn’t already dead, they’d be sure to kill him now. Jim would never forgive me; Kitty would never forgive me. I couldn’t blame them!

Yes... that was all in Jim’s face when I got back to him. He’d conked the guy with a rock and knocked him cold, and the guy was just stretched out there, breathing heavy.

What could I say?

“I— I’m sorry,” I mumbled, kind of weakly.

But he just stood there looking at me dull-like.

“It’s too late now,” was all he said. Then he kind of collapsed down on the ground— when I told him about the car— and put his hands over his eyes and started crying like a baby.

I guess that was the lowest point in my life.

But all of a sudden I had an idea.

“Jim!” I said, shaking him. “We’re not through yet! Not by a damned sight!”

I don’t think he even heard me; but I started to put my idea into action right away.

I’d noticed some rope hanging on the barn wall; it was old but it would do. I got it, and while the snatcher was struggling back to consciousness I bound his hands and feet up tight with it. There were some old newspapers in the barn; I got those and began twisting them up tightly, to make torches of them.

Jim finally took his hands from his face and looked at me kind of blank.

“What are you going to do? ” he asked.

“Got any matches?” was all I said.

He fumbled in his pockets and handed me a box.

“ Now sit on him while I get his shoes and stockings off,” I told Jim. “ We’re going to find out where little Jim is if we have to burn him from the ground up!”

The blankness began to go out of Jim’s eyes as he got my idea. And you should have seen what came into the snatcher’s eyes as he came back to consciousness and got my idea too!

With Jim holding him down, I lit one of my newspaper torches and gave him a little taste on his bare feet of what I had in mind. Barbarous? Sure it was barbarous! But what is kidnaping? I just let him scream.

I won’t go into all the details. It still makes me kind of sick to talk about it, and I can still hear those screams.

But I’m telling you it didn’t take more than one of my torches to make Jim and me feel like new men! The guy swore, in his agony, that little Jim was still alive!

It took one more and the better part of a third, however— together with some pen-knife work by Jim under his fingernails— to make him tell where they were hiding the kid out. Little Jim hadn’t been in his pal’s car, the guy swore; a third guy was keeping him in a cabin up in the mountains in Coldwater Canyon— way up. And we made him describe it to us so we couldn’t miss it.

That’s where his pal was headed, he told us; headed up there to give the alarm. And our hearts sank again as we realized that, except for some kind of a miracle, he’d get there ahead of us. And little Jim—

“We've got to do it, Jim! ” I yelled at him as, carrying the moaning snatcher with us, we made for the car.

We threw the guy in the, back seat, and the two of us started working on that ignition like crazy men. It was a good hour and a half’s run up to that cabin, even at high “eed and the guy had a full twenty minutes’ start on us!

And then all of a sudden we found the trouble and had it fixed. I guess the wires themselves wanted to help us. And then Jim was behind the wheel, and we were on our way, wide open.

But even at eighty miles an hour—

“I’ve got it!” I yelled all of a sudden, after we’d put about ten roaring miles behind us.

“Got what?” Jim yelled back at me.

“The airport!” I yelled back. “ Go to the airport! ”

Jim got my idea just in time to go around the corner of the road that led to the airport on two wheels. If there shouldn’t be a plane available—

There was one available, and a pilot to fly it. But when we told him where we wanted to go, he just shook his head.

“There’s no place within miles, up there, where I could set a ship down,” he said.

“Not even on that big mesa just to the north?” I asked, beginning to feel cold all over.

“No,” he said. “It would be suicide.”

By that time, we figured, the snatcher must be almost to the foot of the canyon and starting up into it. We were stumped, all right. We’d shot the works, and lost. And once more it had been my fault. If we’d only kept on after that car, something might have happened to it and we might have caught it!

But wait a minute; what was it the pilot was saying?

“Bailing out” ? “ Parachutes” ?

I grabbed at what he was saying, like a drowning man.

“You mean”— I kind of gasped— “that you could drop us off—near enough? ”

“I’ll take a chance on coming down close— if you guys want to take a chance,” he said. “ That’s pretty rough country up there, and you might get pretty badly busted up, landing. How about it?”

“Let’s go!” Jim yelled at the pilot wildly.

“And how!” I yelled with him.

And five minutes later we both had chutes harnessed on to us, and were in the plane, sitting on the packs, and the plane was roaring down the airport runway and we were off.

It wasn’t over a fifteen-minute ride through the air, but it seemed like an hour before we got over the place where that cabin was. I knew that canyon like a book, and so did Jim. We couldn’t see the cabin, but we could tell just about where it ought to be.

We didn’t dare do any circling around trying to spot it, either; that might get the snatcher down there curi- ous. No; all we could do was follow right up the canyon until we got to the right spot— and go overboard!

“Here we are, Jim! Good luck!” I said to him, with a last quick grab of his hand as I got my nerve together and climbed over the side.

“Good luck— and God bless you, Spike!” he said, squeezing my hand and getting ready to follow me.

Then I jumped out into the darkness, and the last thing I saw as I left the plane was him leaving it right after me.

DOWN through the darkness... tumbling over and over . . grabbing for breath. The pilot had told us to count up to at least five before we pulled our strings. I don’t remember how long I counted. But I pulled the thing finally, and there was a blessed plop! above me and I was jerked upright in my harness.

My first thought was Jim. On account of the big white umbrella over me I couldn’t see if he had made it OK....

And then I saw him, dangling from his big white umbrella about a hundred feet above me and to the left. He was safe— we were both safe, so far. Now, if we could only land all right, without breaking any bones—

The Lord knows, neither of us had ever jumped in a chute before. There was a moon that night and we could see the ground pretty well. And it wasn’t smooth ground, I’m telling you! s

I’ve been scared in my life, but never more than I was watching those pine trees of Coldwater Canyon getting bigger and bigger and those rocks getting sharper-looking. The last hundred feet or so of that drop down into that canyon will always be kind of a nightmare to me. It looked like I was going to clear the trees, thank God! And then the whole canyon floor seemed to rise up and drive my knees up into my chin as I hit.

Again my first thought was Jim, when I got back the breath that had been knocked out of me. Up the canyon a little ways I could see a big blob of white draped over some pines. Ripping out of my harness as fast as I could, I started over the rocks toward it. I had to go over the rocks, because the automobile road was over against the canyon wall about fifty yards away. It was Jim’s chute, all right; and then I saw him limping to his feet and tearing himself out of his harness.

When I got up to him, his face was all bloody where the pine branches had gashed him, and I could see that one of his legs was hurt.

But he could still stand on it.

“We've got to get over to the road,” he said.

We scrambled over the rocks and the fallen dead wood like a couple of madmen. I didn’t know until later that one of his ankles was broken!

We got to the road.

“Which way?” Jim gasped. His face was white as a sheet, under the blood on it. And I guess mine was pretty white, too. I felt that way, I’m telling you!

“North!” I said, starting in that direction.

“Are you sure? ” he asked.

I was fairly sure, although the layout looked different down on the ground, mostly on account of the trees. And we couldn’t stop to talk it over at that point. We were ahead of our man now; but I figured he must be at least halfway up the canyon by that time.

With Jim holding on to my shoulder— every step must have been agony for the poor guy— we started up the road at a run. I was still fairly sure, after we’d gone about half a mile, that the cabin was in that direction.

And then all of a sudden I got cold all over as I realized we were wrong! The canyon was opening out, wider than ever. That wasn’t where the cabin was.

Poor Jim! When we started back, he got about a hundred yards and then fell flat. His leg couldn’t make it any longer.

“You go on!” he gasped.

I went on.

I ran down that road until I thought my heart was going to burst through my ribs. Still no cabin. Good Lord, I thought, had we made a mistake about it in the air? I had to find it; there was no two ways about it!

And then I ran around a turn, and there it a as the first snatcher had described it!

“I'll make it someway.”

For a minute or so I laid down on the road, fighting to get my breath back and expecting any second to see the headlights of that car we were trying to beat come tearing up the canyon. Then, half sick at my stomach and with my rod in my hand, I started crawling up to the place on my hands and knees.

There was a dim light burning in it that I could see through one of the windows that wasn’t completely covered. Carefully I inched myself to my feet until I could see inside through the crack in the curtains.

And what I saw was the most welcome sight I ever hope to see as long as I live. Little Jim!

But was he alive or dead? I couldn’t see very well. His arms and legs seemed to be tied together and his head was forward on his breast; his mouth seemed to be tied up with tape or something, and I couldn’t see whether he was breathing or not.

Then, past the crack in the curtains moved the form of a man— and I guess I must have gone crazy.

I smashed that window with one sock of the butt of my rod, ripped the curtains aside, and before he knew what was happening to him I was pouring the lead into him. My first blast knocked him down, but I kept pouring it into him just to be sure. Then I was inside the place and had little Jim in my arms.

He was alive, thank God! And when I got him unbound, and the tape off of his mouth, he seemed to be O.K., outside of being a badly scared little boy.

“Daddy!” was the first thing he said, kind of hysterically. “Uncle Spike! Where’s my daddy? ”

He didn’t have very long to wait to find out. There was a banging at the door, and when I opened it, Jim half fell inside. Little Jim screamed at the sight of him at first. Then the poor bloody-faced guy had his kid in his arms, and that was that.

Not quite that. All of a sudden we heard a car coming in the distance. As it got closer I recognized the sound of its engine!

Jim took one look at the guy I’d killed, lying there on the floor.

“Give me your rod,” he said to me, struggling up to his feet. “It’s my turn now! ”

__________________

6: The Wild Girl

James Francis Dwyer

1874-1952

Blue Book Sept 1937

James Francis Dwyer

JAN KROMHOUT, sitting on the veranda of his jungle hut, watched a silver gibbon or wou-wou climb along the limb of a tapan tree. There was a soft smile on the face of the big Dutch naturalist. The ape, to judge by his movements, was very old, and he climbed carefully. He reached a fork and seated himself, then with his long fingers he combed his beard and chased several small insects in the fur on his stomach.

"He is waiting for his wife," said Kromhout.

"Looks rather tottery," I commented.

"Ja, he is very old," said Kromhout. "He is one of the oldest of the Hylobates leuciscus that I have ever seen. Last year I thought he would die. He was so sick that he let me carry him in here and feed him. He thought he was dying, too. He did so. He looked at me as much as to say: 'What are you nursing me for? I am through with this jungle life. I am going somewhere else.' "

The gibbon from his high position looked down on the naturalist and made a grimace. He coursed another flea along a hip circuit, made a kill; then leaning back, he closed his eyes and dozed.

Jan Kromhout spoke.

"Did you ever hear of the steamer Soerakarta?" he asked.

"The Soerakarta?" I cried. "Why— why, of course!"

The mention of the steamer brought to my mind all the stories I had ever heard of that nearly legendary vessel— the S.S. Soerakarta that during the latter months of her life never charged a passenger for a voyage! The dream ship that waddled up and down the hot seas of the Malay, filled with guests who ate and drank of the best without paying a single guilder to the owner! Visiting little lost ports, debarking those who were tired of the owner's hospitality, taking aboard new voyagers whose only qualification was good-fellowship.

Jan Kromhout took a drink of schnapps, smiled over the excited manner in which I had answered his question, then stirred me again with a short statement. "I was a passenger on the Soerakarta," he said quietly. "I mean that I was a guest of General Van Shoorn. For five months I was on that steamer."

Now, if a man whom I knew to be absolutely truthful had calmly informed me that he had sailed out of Palos Harbor with Christopher Columbus on board the Santa Maria, the effect upon me would have been similar to that produced by Kromhout's statement. I had heard many extraordinary stories of the Soerakarta, but I had never met a man who had sailed on her with the millionaire General Van Shoorn. Old men, sitting on rotten wharves in ports from which the god of trade had fled, had told me that they had seen her during those golden days of free cruising. They would gabble of the strange passengers that came ashore from her— carousing devils from all ports of Malaysia. How some, tired of the vessel, stayed; and how others, hearing of the fine food and drink aboard the steamer, took their places.

"You never told me!" I cried, swinging upon Kromhout.

"You never asked me," he said gently. "I have never told you the Christian name of my father, or the breed of the little dog I played with on Nieuwe Kerk Straat in Amsterdam when I was a boy. I would have told you if you had asked."

"But— but the Soerakarta!" I shouted. "Why— why, she was the ship of romance! She was something that poets would sing of! She was a million dreams turned into wood and iron! She had the pennant of poesy on her foremast!"

The big Dutchman considered my excited remarks in silence. He glanced at the old gibbon on the limb of the tapan tree. "It is funny to think of the silly things that are stored up in the memory of fools," he said bitingly. "Always I have been puzzled. The world is so hungry for trash. Bits of colored rag and tinsel. Ja. The red and yellow petticoats of a gypsy will get the eye when she is walking close to an honest Frau in fine homespun. Poesy? What the devil is poesy but bits of colored nonsense! There have been great Dutchmen in Java and Sumatra, men like Daendels and Pilter van der Broeck; but they have been forgotten, while the name of General Van Shoorn stays in the brains of thousands because he owned the Soerakarta and pulled a lot of fools around the Malay and charged them nothing."

I ACCEPTED the slap without showing annoyance. I wanted to hear Krom- hout's story of his voyage on the Soerakarta, and it would have been inadvisable to argue with him.

"I knew General Van Shoorn before he owned the ship that he named after his home town," began Kromhout finally.

"Do you know the town of Soerakarta? Neen? It is just six hundred kilometers from Batavia, and it is a nice place. The natives call it Solo, and right there is the palace of the Soesoehunan. The Dutch have given him a little zoo to play with, and they have taught him to say yes or no when they want him to say yes or no. The Dutch are as good as the English in teaching colored rulers how to speak up quick. Ja, they are.

"GENERAL VAN SHOORN had twenty million guilders, and a bad heart— very bad! I was in Batavia when he came down to see a big specialist. That specialist listened to Van Shoorn's heart like you would listen to the ticking of a cheap watch. For five, ten, fifteen minutes he listened; then he straightened himself up and said: 'In six months you will be flying.'

" 'Flying where?' asked the General, pulling on his shirt.

"'I don't know,' said that specialist. 'P'raps to the Milky Way, p'raps to that red star that they call Betelgeuse. There must be plenty of places to fly to up there! My fee is three hundred gulden.'

"General Van Shoorn was sixty years of age. He had never married, and all his blood relations were dead. He went out of that doctor's office in Molinvliet West, and he took a carriage down to Tandjong Priok, the port of Batavia. He was thinking what he would do with those six months. It is not much time, six months.

"He sat down at Tandjong Priok and stared at the big ships. Some of them were filling their bellies with rubber and coffee and pepper and rattan and sugar and tin; and others were spewing out stuff that they had brought from America and Europe. And there was one steamer that was lying in the outer harbor, and she looked deserted.

"Van Shoorn asked a sailor about her. He was told that the firm in Amsterdam that owned her had gone bankrupt. They could not pay her port dues, and her captain and crew had left her because they had got no wages. There were only: two watchmen on board her.

"There was a nice breeze coming in from the Java Sea. It carried all the fine perfumes of the Malay— the hot spicy perfumes that stir the blood. They rolled in from the Karimata Strait, from the Anambas and Tambelan Islands, and they whispered to General Van Shoorn. They told him of little lost ports where the casuarina trees make soft music, where mystery has not been crushed by the big feet of western men, where there are still primitive graces that were ours in the days when the world was young.

"I know how they spoke to Van Shoorn, because I met him next day in the Deutsche Turnverein, and he told me. I thought he had gone mad. He had bought that boat by cable. He had given orders to chandlers and outfitters to get her ready with all possible speed. He had changed her name to Soerakaria, and was rushing around Batavia invit- ing every friend of his to go on a cruise.

"You will come, Kromhout ?' he said.

" 'Where?' I asked.

" 'Anywhere!' he cried. 'Up and down the Malay. I have six months to live! I have twenty million guilders—I am going to enjoy myself!'

"He had a sheet of paper in his hand, and he wrote my name on it before I could say anything. 'That makes twen- ty-eight,' he said. 'She has sixty cabins. If you know of any good fellows, give them an invitation. We will sail as soon as she is ready.'"

AN Kromuovut paused, looked up at J the old monkey and lifted his glass. I had a belief that the gibbon bowed his head in courtly salute. Quite a fel- low, was the ape; there was a man-of- the-world air about him.

"T met General Van Shoorn three days later at the Handelsbank," continued Kromhout. "I told him that I did not think I could go. 'But you must, Krom- hout!' he cried. 'I have a great idea. When we are ready to start, every one of my guests will write down the name of a port he would like to go to. We will put them in a hat, and get the barman at the Hotel des Indes to draw one out. We will go straight to that port. When we are tired of it, we will have another drawing. Of course, they must be ports of the Malay.'

" 'It is silly,' I said to him.

" 'Of course it is silly!' he snapped. 'But this is the first time I have had a chance to do something silly. I have been too busy making money, and now I find that I have but six months to live. Why can't I be silly? Are you coming?'

" 'I am not,' I said; and I left him as he ran after the big fat Dutch manager of the Nederlandsch Handels Maatschappij to give him an invitation.

"Three nights later I was in the bar of the Hotel des Indes. Van Shoorn was there with thirty-seven men who had accepted his offer of a free trip. Each one of those men put down on a bit of paper the name of a port in the Malay. They put the names in Van Shoorn's topee, and the barman drew one out.

"It was funny. For days and months I had been hoping that I could go to Amboyna. I do not know why; it was just one of those things that get into one's head. Ja, it was Amboyna that the barman pulled out of the hat. Next morning I packed my bag and went on board the Soerakarta. There were forty of us as we pulled out of Tandjong Priok. We sang 'Wien Nierlandsch' at the top of our lungs. There was much champagne drunk. Much."

Possibly the memories of that morning made Kromhout reach again for his glass of schnapps. As he lifted the glass, the old ape in the tree lifted his paw in salute. The ape had made a keen study of the Dutchman's movements.

"They were good fellows, those boys on the Soerakarta," continued Kromhout. "They ate and they drank and they sang and they played cards, and they had not a care in the world. It is nice to forget life. We Dutch have a proverb, 'De tijd is aan. God en ons— Time is God's and ours.' It was so on the Soerakarta as we rolled down the Java Sea. Ja, ja. Some of them were married, but they forgot their wives. Some of them had big business affairs, but they pushed them out of their heads. They lay in the sunshine and forgot their names, and I think that is something like a prayer. If the good Lord looked down on that steamer, I bet He would have smiled.

"We came to Amboyna, and I said good-by to all those men, thinking that I was going to stay there. But Amboyna did not taste quite right to me after that trip. It is not much, Amboyna. It was not the place that I had dreamed it would be. There is too much dark blood in the Dutch of Amboyna. It is the bad thing of the Orient. There are folk there that have a drop of all the bloods of the East in their veins, but they think they are Dutch!

WELL, in two days I was sick of that place. I heard the siren of the Soerakarta, and I ran down and caught the last boat for the steamer. When we all got on board, each of us wrote another little scrap of paper, and the barkeeper pulled one out of Van Shoorn's topee. Van Shoorn called out the name to the sailing-master. It was Makassar. I did not care. I was beginning to like that steamer. I was sorry for General Van Shoorn. In his cabin he had a calendar with the six months marked off in red ink, but he was never sad. Myself, I do not go near those doctors. They think it funny to say to a man, 'In three months you will be dead.' In Amsterdam there was a man named Peter Kruithof. One of those funny doctors made an examination of Peter and told him he would be dead in a month. Peter Kruithof killed him and was hanged. The medical papers did not say anything about it. They thought lots of patients might do what Peter did.

"We went to Bali, and from there to Bandjermassin. Then we went across the Celebes Sea to Sandakan, still pulling bits of paper out of Van Shoorn's hat!

"The people of the ports heard about that plan, the harbor-masters and the pilots; and they thought we were all mad. They would stare at the captain when he said he did not know what port he was going to till we had made the drawing. The Soerakarta became famous. They told tales about us at Bangkok and Penang, at Zamboanga and Port Moresby. And we waddled here and there, eating and drinking and collecting souvenirs.

That steamer was loaded with souvenirs— with brass gongs and knives, and bits of silver-work and bird-of-paradise feathers, and batik calico and sarongs. And there were seventy-four different kinds of parrots, and so many monkeys that no one bothered when half a dozen or so of them got sick of the steamer and went ashore at a port.

"It was after we left Sandakan that I made friends with Hugo Sonsbeeck. He was a young man who had been on board the Soerakarta from the time we left Tandjong Priok, but I had not spoken to him. That night after we left Sanda- kan, I found him sitting by himself. He was nearly drunk, and he was crying like a baby.

"I asked him what was wrong, and after a long time, he told me. Each time there had been a vote as to where that steamer should go, he had written down the name of a tiny island in the Paternoster Group— a little speck of ground that had fallen from the shovel of the Almighty when He was building Asia. It was called Upeil. Seven times that youngster had written it down, but the barman had never drawn it.

" 'Why do you wish to go there?' I asked.

" 'I have a reason,' he snapped.

" 'Ja, you have a reason,' I said; 'but if you tell me the reason I might help you.'

"After a long while that young fellow told me. One day on the Koningsplein at Batavia he had given a few cents to a sailor, and that sailor had told him a story about Upeil. He had said that there was a white girl living there. She had been washed up there from a wreck years before, and she had grown up by herself, living on fish and fruit and small animals. This sailor had seen her when his ship lay off the island. She had come to the top of a cliff and peered down at them, but when they put out a boat, she had fled into the palm trees.

"The story had got into that young man's head. He wanted to go to Upeil.

"I was sorry for him. Very quietly I told some of my friends on board the Soerakarta. some of them who did not care where they went to. We decided to play a trick on Van Shoorn. At the next drawing nine of us wrote Upeil on our voting papers, and the barman pulled one of those papers from the hat.

" 'Upeil?' cried old Van Shoorn. 'Where the devil is Upeil?"

"He sent for the navigating officer, and they found it on the chart. There was no harbor. There were coral reefs in shore. A ship would have to lay out two or three miles and send a boat in through the passage in the reefs.

"Van Shoorn hesitated. Then he said: 'All right! We made a rule, and we'll stick to it. We're going to Upeil.'"

Kromhout paused to moisten his lips. The gibbon on the tapan limb opened his eyes when he sensed the interruption in the narrative, and once again he lifted his right paw as the naturalist drank.

"We picked up that island one morning when the Java Sea was filled with all the fine odors of the Malay. Ja, it was a beautiful morning. And all the men on the Soerakarta were laughing and joking because they knew then why that young fellow wanted to go to Upeil. They had heard the story, and they were all on deck with glasses, watching for that girl who lived there. They did not believe it, of course. They thought it a great joke that a drunken sailor had told in return for the price of a meal.

"THE Soerakarta stood about two miles offshore; and eight of us, with Van Shoorn, went off in one of the boats. The young fellow was with us. He was much excited, and now and then he got mad with the others who were poking fun at him.

" 'There she is!' one of those fellows would yell; and when he swung round to look, they would laugh themselves sick.

"That passage was difficult. There were coral-mushrooms that were just a few inches under water, so that you did not see them till the boat was right on top of them. They were bad. They would come up out of thirty fathoms of water, and they were big enough to tear the side out of a ship. Van Shoorn thought if there was a girl on that island, the ship that had brought her there had struck one of those mushrooms.

"We made a landing in a little cove. The cliffs ran up straight above our heads. We climbed out of the boat onto a beach of pounded coral, and we stood around with silly grins on our faces. Just for a few minutes we stood there; then I caught sight of that young fellow's face.

"He was staring upward at the top of the cliff. Ja! And his face was not the face he had three minutes before. It was plastered with astonishment, with wonder, with joy. And he was gurgling like an ape with a bone in its throat.

"She was there! Ja, the girl! Standing on the very top of the cliff, looking down at us. Outlined against the sky!

"I have never seen anything prettier than that girl as she stood on that cliff. Never! She had nothing on her but a scrap of cloth around her loins, but she was dressed in her own innocence. Do you know what I mean? She made us who were staring at her feel like damned fools that had blundered into a place we had no right to enter.

"She did not move, and we did not move. Like a statue she stood there. Ja, like a golden statue. And we, with our heads up like startled giraffes, stared at her, feeling ashamed at what we were doing, but not able to pull our silly faces away.

"Van Shoorn was the first to come to his senses. He walked to the boat and took out the lunch that we had brought with us. He spread it on the beach, the sandwiches and the coffee, and he made motions with his arms that it was hers if she wished it.

" 'Get back in the boat and give her a chance!' he snapped, and we hopped back into the boat like naughty boys who had been caught peeping through the window of a girls' school.

" 'Pull away!' said Van Shoorn. 'We'll frighten her if we stay here!'

"That young fellow Hugo Sonsbeeck made as if he would leap back on the beach, but Van Shoorn grabbed him by the collar. 'You stay where you are!' he snapped. 'Leave this business to me!'

" 'But I first heard of her!' whined the young man. 'She—she is mine!'

" 'Like hell she is!' said Van Shoorn.

"That young Sonsbeeck was fighting mad, but Van Shoorn was in a temper.

"WE pulled back to the Soerakarta, and that steamer had a list on her because every man on her was at the rail with glasses watching the shore. They had seen the girl, from the ship.

"For more than an hour we watched her standing on the top of the cliff; then she started to climb down to the beach. She walked around those sandwiches as if she thought them a trap. Ja, like a nice animal she circled them, till at last she was sure that there was no danger and squatted down beside them.

"Those men on the steamer would not go down to the saloon for lunch. They would not leave the rail. They had food served to them there, and they jabbered like a lot of old women. Van Shoorn had much trouble with them. Now and then a bunch of them would say, 'Let's go ashore and talk to her!' and Van Shoorn had to stop them from stealing the boats.

"After lunch there was a great argu- ment. Van Shoorn decided to take that girl some clothes, and every man on that steamer ran to get the sarongs and the shawls that he had bought for a wife or sweetheart back in Batavia.

"They piled them on the deck, and Van Shoorn swore at them. He was getting mad. Muchmad. Ja! That young fool Hugo Sonsbeeck had his arms full of batik underwear that he had bought for his sister, and he wanted to carry the whole lot of it ashore to the girl.

" 'Your stuff is not going, and you are not going!' shouted Van Shoorn; but at that, the boy cried so hard that a lot of us asked Van Shoorn to let him go.

"We took the clothes and some more food to the beach. The girl had seen us coming, and she had raced up to the top of the cliff. She watched us as we laid the presents on the sand. Van Shoorn had not brought any of that souvenir stuff— sarongs and silk underwear; but he had brought his overcoat, on the chance that the girl might like it. The others grinned as he laid it on the sand beside the fluffy stuff. Ja, they grinned a lot. It was old, that overcoat, old like Van Shoorn himself. Old and friendly.

"When we had spread out the stuff, we pulled out to sea for about half a mile and waited. The girl came slowly down the cliff path, her eyes on the clothes and the food. On tiptoes she came toward the pile of petticoats, circled them and sniffed at them. She picked up one piece after the other. Nice pieces: Javanese slendangs made of beautiful cloth; pandjangs to wrap around her waist, all covered with patterns in gold thread; and little caps of silk with silver tassels. They were very generous, those fellows!

"We watched her from the boat. Five times she went round that spread of nice clothing; then she did something that made us laugh. She picked up that old coat of Van Shoorn's, turned it round and round as if she were trying to get the hang of it; then she put it on inside out and walked up the track to the top of the cliff. Now and then she stopped and listened to the laughter that came from the boat."

KROMHOUT paused and looked up at the old gibbon. The monkey sat up expectantly. With the air of a boulevardier, he stroked his whiskers, straightened his shoulders and gave a pat to the ruffled hair on his stomach.

"His wife is coming,"' whispered Kromhout.

From the leafy branches above the old ape dropped a graceful lady of his own breed, a lithe, alert female who moved with the speed and grace which characterize the gibbon, a speed which makes it possible for them to leap at small birds and capture them on the wing.

The lady gibbon reached the old chap. She was playful. She patted him on the nose with her long paw; and when he protested mildly, she gave him a dig in the ribs that brought a grunt that seemed to delight her. She danced around him, swung by two fingers from a bough above his head, then startled him by turning a complete somersault in midair and catching a limb as she was dropping toward the ground.

Jan Kromhout's broad face showed his pleasure. "She does that every day," he whispered. "It tickles him. She is very nice. I think he is pleased that I nursed him back to life when he thought he was going to die. Ja, I think he is pleased. That is why he lifts his paw when he sees me taking a drink of schnapps."

MY eagerness to hear the finish of the story of the wild girl made me interrupt the naturalist's contemplation of the gibbons. "Did they coax her aboard the Soerakarta?" I asked.

"Ja, they did," answered Kromhout. "It took five days to make that girl believe that no one wished to hurt her. They filled the beach with all sorts of things, trying to please her. I was a little tired of that business. On the third day I said it might be better to leave her there as she seemed to be happy, and that young fool Hugo Sonsbeeck tried to hit me. He did not sleep during those five days. He stayed on deck all night with a lamp, making signals to the shore. He made me sick with his goings-on.

"When we got that girl on board, we were all tired. Van Shoorn held a draw ing to see where we would go, and the barman pulled out a piece of paper with Batavia on it.... I will tell you something: Every bit of paper in Van Shoorn's hat had Batavia on it! Ja, Van Shoorn's too."

"And the girl?" I asked. "Did she marry this young Hugo Sonsbeeck?"

"Neen!" snapped Kromhout. "She married old Van Shoorn. That specialist who said he would die in six months was a fool. That was seventeen years ago, but he is still alive. That girl lives with him on his big estate at Soerakarta. She is very clever with animals. She can imitate the cries of all the birds and apes of the Malay. Once when I was standing in front of the Hotel Sleir at Soerakarta, she hissed like a cobra in my ear. I hopped so quick that I fell and sprained my ankle. I was very mad with her, but she only laughed at me."

Jan Kromhout lifted his glass and looked upward at the old gibbon on the limb. But the gibbon did not respond. He was asleep, his beautiful young wife cuddled in his long arms.

________________

7: The Head of Iskander

George Allan England

1877-1936

Blue Book May 1935

George Allan England

SHARP, insistent, the trilling of the door-bell startled Dr. Roderick Haviland. The hour, well on to midnight, betokened an emergency-call. And sitting there with his pipe and the Surgical Review in the bachelor apartment where he also had his office, he had just begun to grow pleasantly drowsy! Devil take it all, couldn't a man ever get a moment's rest?

An imperative knocking sounded on his door ; a voice, speaking in excellent English— though with a queer foreign twist of accent— exclaimed:

"Doctor! Are you there? For God's sake, open!"

Unlocking his door, he swung it wide.

He found himself confronted by three men, two of whom were supporting between them a third, who looked to be almost in the very article of death itself.

Along with a whiff of some very subtle and exotic perfume, Haviland caught swift impressions that the two sound men were in full evening-dress, crush-hats and all. The long overcoat of one, half-unbuttoned, showed a purple silk ribbon diagonally drawn across an expansive shirt-front.

As for the third man, the patient—  visible in the dimmish hall-light— he was lagging weakly between the other two, held up by their grip on his elbows. The garb of this one was only that of an ordinary business man. A tremendous bulk of a fellow he seemed, stocky and powerful, but now almost ready to collapse.

These impressions had had barely time to register, when the pair lunged forward, thrust the Doctor aside, and dragged their wounded companion into the apartment. One of them immediately closed the door, locked it and slid the bolt. Even while thus engaged, he began in a low, tense voice:

"Our friend, here, is badly hurt." The Doctor saw him as a tall, wiry fellow with a hard-set jaw and a pair of smoldering, ink-black eyes. The ribbon across  his shirt-bosom merely added a highlight to his innate air of aloof distinction. "We have been held up. There was shooting. And now—"

"Gangsters, eh?" queried the surgeon, his gaze narrowing. Devil fly away with all this! "Well, why didn't you go to the Memorial Hospital, then? I'm not prepared to handle a case at this time of night! These aren't my office-hours, and—"

"Pardon me, my dear doctor," cut in the other man who had the patient by an elbow. A short, muscular type, this one, with a close-cropped, curly beard and mustache. His foreign accent was more marked than that of the tall fellow. "Pardon me, but this is no time for argument, or we may have one dead man on our hands— and yours." Cold steel of menace grew plain through silk of courtesy. "Your office, sir— in there?"

A moment, Dr. Haviland faced them with some vague thought of defiance, of trying to summon the police. But there he stood, one unarmed man in bathrobe and slippers, against two determined fellows, both of whom obviously were packing guns. He gestured toward his office door.

"That way, gentlemen!"

"Thank you," crisply answered the taller man. With a few words in an unknown tongue that Dr. Haviland had already half-heard through the panels, he and his companion partly carried and partly dragged the patient into the office, eased him down into a chair.

Haviland switched on an incandescent and drew down the shades. As he faced round at his unwelcome visitors, once more he caught that hint of feminine perfume. The visitors were already divesting themselves of hats, coats, gloves— one pair blood-stained.

Grimly Dr. Haviland surveyed the patient. A tremendous bulk of a man he appeared, as he sagged there with heavy-lidded, half-closed eyes and with a trickle of blood seeping down from a corner of his full-lipped mouth.

"Shot?" demanded Haviland, peeling off his bathrobe.

"Yes," the black-bearded man assented. "Through the chest."

"All right, undress him! Strip him right down to the waist. Get him up on that operating-table, there! I'Il do my

"And it had better be a very good best, allow me to inform you," put in the taller man, already at work with his companion undressing the patient.

"Threatening me, are you?" the surgeon retorted angrily. "I'm under compulsion, and I'll do my best, but I can't work miracles. I can't guarantee anything, or do magic!"

Over that table, the doctor switched on a flood-light. He covered the table with a clean, sterile sheet and wheeled up his instrument-stand. His visitors stripped the patient to the waist and laid him on the table. Blood, the Doctor saw, was oozing from a small bluish wound in the mid-thoracic region of a peculiarly massive torso.

"Bear a hand, to roll him part way over," directed the surgeon. "I want to see if the bullet's come out."

They obeyed. On the man's powerful back, no other wound was visible.

"Still in there, all right," judged Haviland, after a span of tense silence. "Hmph! That makes this case much more serious. This is an exceedingly grave wound. Infection has almost certainly been carried into the pleural cavity. I tell you, gentlemen, I must positively decline to guarantee anything. As I told you before, I'm no miracle-worker."

Turning to his washstand, he began to scrub up.

IN an atmosphere a-reek with ether-fumes, some minutes later, a bullet dropped from Dr. Haviland's forceps into a basin.

"And that's that!" growled the surgeon. "Now if we can only control the internal hemorrhage!"

"Our friend has bled much?" queried the tall, purple-ribboned man, who had been a most keenly interested observer.

"A great deal, internally?"

"A very great deal, indeed. So much, in fact, that—"

"He may die?"

"It's not at all unlikely."

"He needs blood? Take mine!"

"Yours?"

"By transfusion!"

"Yes, yes, of course, I understand. But things aren't as simple as all that," explained the Doctor, still busily at work. "Human blood is divided into four classes, probably representing the four original anthropoid stocks from which the human race has evolved. The various classes have different agglutinating substances, so that if different kinds of blood are mixed, the red corpuscles will sometimes clump together, with results highly dangerous, and at times, even fatal. Rigid tests of the donor's blood are therefore necessary. So you see, transfusion is eminently a hospital procedure. Take your friend to a hospital! He may live long enough to get there. And after that, with immediate transfusion—"

"No!" exclaimed Blackbeard, "A hospital is impossible!"

"Why?" The Doctor's steely eyes squinted over his sterile mask. "Why impossible? What the devil kind of a case is this, anyhow?"

"Never mind!" from the other alien. His voice was sheer acid. "Make the transfusion here and now!"

"But without the proper tests—"

"Not necessary. It so happens that my blood has already been tested— and it appeared that I am what is called a universal donor. My blood may with safety be given to anyone. Quick, now, to the blood-transfusion, and—"

THE sudden ringing of the Doctor's phone interrupted Blackbeard.

"Answer that, please?" Haviland requested.

"I regret, sir, but it is impossible. No calls are valid now. You are engaged on more important business."

"Well, I'll be damned!" the surgeon exploded. '"You're going pretty far."

"We are, indeed," smiled the tall man. "Farther, perhaps, than you suspect. But necessity knows no law. Proceed with the transfusion!"

"I see! All right— you win. Transfusion it is. Take your coat off. Roll up your shirt-sleeve!"

"At your service, sir," smiled Blackbeard.

"But remember this," the other cut in, "I realize the transfusion is going to weaken my associate, So I shall take no chances— as you see."

From his pocket he withdrew a very businesslike automatic.

"Just another blood-letting instrument," he grimly smiled. "A most efficient one, Highly scientific, eh? Now then, shall we get to work?"

He an hour later the patient lay on the operating-table wrapped in soft warm blankets. Still alive and with much better color.

On the Doctor's leather couch, the black-bearded donor of blood was stretched out with a blanket drawn over him. Though pale and a bit weak, no danger menaced him. Near the door, gun in hand, sat he of the purple ribbon. His onyx eye departed not one instant from the surgeon, tensely standing beside the operating-table as he kept watch on the progress of the patient.

"So far, so good," judged Haviland, now divested of mask and cap and rubber gloves, and once more fully dressed. He bent over the prone figure, "Coming out of it, eh?"

The wounded man nodded, gazed upward under heavy lids. His pale lips soundlessly framed half-incoherent words.

"Yes— thanks to you!"

"To be perfectly frank with all of you," said the Doctor, turning, "the best thanks you three gentlemen can possibly give me will be to leave my office at the earliest feasible moment."

"And so we shall, indeed," nodded the armed man. "How soon can our friend be moved?"

"Your friend, eh?" remarked the surgeon. "Well, he oughtn't to be moved at all, for several days. If he were in a hospital, where he belongs, I'd keep him flat on his back for quite a while. But I don't suppose you gentlemen intend to remain here, upsetting my entire practice, for even twenty-four hours."

"Hardly! We must be away from here before daybreak."

"Suits me!" the surgeon approved. "But it must be at your own risk. I positively decline to be responsible for anything that may happen after you leave this office. Take the patient away— at your own risk."

"You have some kind of stretcher we can carry him on?" asked the armed man, getting up— a very impressive figure.

"Stretcher? Well, yes." Haviland's relief was all too plain in his voice. "But meantime, I've got to clean up here, a bit."

"You have an assistant, of course?" the purple-ribboned guard asked. "A nurse, or something of the kind?"

"Of course. Why?"

"She must positively know nothing of this operation. All this débris must be immediately destroyed. Your office must be left exactly as if nothing whatever had happened here. Wrap everything up in a parcel, and we will carry it away with us."

"As you wish. I'll get some paper and string, and make up a souvenir package for you gentlemen. And now I've done your work and made a good job of it. It's in order for you to pay me my fee and remove your patient!"

"Your fee shall be paid, all in good time. And you shall have no cause to complain of its size. But our business with you is far from completed yet."

"What are you driving at?" demanded the surgeon.

"What else," poisonously smiled the man with the purple ribbon, "what else than that you must accompany us? We are employing you as our private physician, to attend this case until cured."

"But my God, man! That's impossible! My patients, my practice—"

"This one patient alone, if you succeed, will prove vastly more profitable."

"Damn the profits! I'm not concerned with profits, now!" cried Haviland, his lean face burning with a flush of sudden anger. "There's something infernally fishy about all this, and I'm not going to be a partner to it. You can keep your fee. Take your patient, and clear out!"

"YOU certainly speak with characteristic American force," smiled the tall man mockingly, while the other— the blood-donor— sat up a bit weakly on the leather couch. "But for all that, sir, we cannot comply with your invitation. Au contraire, you must comply with ours."

"No!" exclaimed the surgeon, his nostrils white with anger. "No, I tell you!"

"Ah, then you most regrettably force us to resort to compulsion?" The tall man suggestively patted the pocket where now lay his gun. "I am sorry— I deeply regret—"

Something in the gleam of that onyx-black eye told Haviland his life depended on obedience. But still he protested—

"My other patients? What about them?"

"Leave a note directing your nurse to refer them to some colleague. And after all, how do your other patients concern us? When elephants tread, who hears the footsteps of ants? Come, come— up, and out of here!"

For a fateful moment, Haviland confronted them with eyes of defiant hatred. But life, at thirty-nine, still tasted sweet.

"All right," the Doctor nodded. "You win."

A few minutes later, the two aliens read Dr. Haviland's communication to his office-assistant:

Miss Baxter— I have suddenly been called away to operate on a colleague in New York. May be gone several days. Have Dr. Roth take care of practice till my return. — R.H.

"Very good," approved the tall man. "But to avoid every suspicion, you must have an address though which— under our supervision— communications may reach you, and from which you may answer. Put down 73534 West 72nd Street, Apartment 36."

Haviland wrote as directed, laid the note on his desk.

"Now then, pack whatever medical and surgical kit you will require."

"And some personal effects? I suppose you'll allow me those?"

"Never mind the personal effects. Everything you can possibly need will be provided. Make haste, Doctor. Night is passing, and we have far to go!"

PRESENTLY a strange little exodus took place from the Doctor's office, and in silence made its way to the rear exit of the building and thence to his garage.

Dr. Haviland arid the tall alien were bearing a stretcher whereon— wrapped in many blankets and with face covered—  lay an inert form, also the two parcels. Behind them, gun in hand, came Blackbeard. They reached the garage, opened it with the Doctor's key, switched on the light, carried the stretcher in and set it down.

"How can I outplay them?" Haviland was thinking. "What can I do— and how?" But no solution offered itself.

"Now then, Doctor," Blackbeard murmured, "now for you!" From his overcoat pocket he produced a broad roll of adhesive-tape— probably stolen from the Doctor's own office.

"No, by God!" Haviland exclaimed. "None of that, on me!"

He backed away; he struck out savagely. But lightning-swift the tall man gripped him, pinioned his arms. Haviland was a man of rather more than average strength, but in the savage clutch of this alien his muscles availed no more than a boy's. He found himself vised as by steel.

With great dexterity Blackbeard cast a loop of the adhesive-tape— sticky side out, thank heaven!— round the Doctor's head, over and over, hauling tight and securely clamping the jaws. Now dumb as a fish, the surgeon could utter no slightest sound. Another strip about the eyes, and Haviland was blinded. His hands were wrenched behind his back and tape cuttingly bound his wrists, his ankles.

"We deeply regret this necessity," said the tall man, releasing him.

With madness whirling in his brain, the Doctor felt himself lifted and shoved into the rear of the machine, on the floor. The legs of the wounded man were stowed on top of him, so that Haviland formed part of a mattress on which the patient might rest.

And there the eminent surgeon lay, trussed up like a fowl for roasting, helpless and outraged to the marrow of every bone. In that instant, gladly would he have dissected— alive and shrieking—  both his assailants!

With the sense of direction that tells us whenever we make a turn, Haviland felt his machine swing to the left along the alley; then right, and right again, into his own street.

In half a moment it stopped. The Doctor knew it was standing now in front of his office, near the long black car that all this time had remained parked there. He heard the crank of his front window turn, felt a breath of raw November night-air, and knew the window was being lowered. And now he caught the low-toned voice of Blackbeard, speaking in that queer foreign lingo to another man who— the Doctor sensed— must be in the long, waiting car.

And now, what? The Doctor's nostrils caught the faintest possible hint of that subtle perfume he had already scented when his assailants had entered his office. Perfume! So then, a woman in that other car?

The murmured conversation lasted but a moment. Then the window closed, the car once more growled ahead. Behind it, Haviland heard the starting of the other, which followed closely. The machines picked up velocity.

BY counting his respirations— twenty to the minute, the Doctor tried to make some estimate of time.

These had run up to just a little more than twelve hundred when suddenly the car slackened, turned sharply, hauled to a stop. One of the men got out. Haviland heard the creak of iron hinges. The machine moved slowly forward, stopped again. Behind it sounded another car. Once more the hinges gritted.

Now the car rolled onward, up a slope, at fairish speed. Gravel crunched and flew from beneath its wheels. He figured the car was clipping up a long driveway with many curves in it. Faint echoes indicated trees alongside this drive.

"Nearly there, now," thought Haviland. "Nearly there now— and let the fireworks begin!"

"Well, my dear Doctor, here we are at last!"

Dr. Haviland felt cold air gush in, as the car door opened. He heard still another voice— a wholly new one— exchanging rapid-fire questions and answers with his brace of captors. The wounded man's legs were hoisted from the Doctor's cramped body. Feet shuffled, then faded away.

Presently footsteps once more approached. He felt himself dragged out. Tuggings at his ankles told him the bandages there were being ripped off.

Now he was lifted to his feet, Numb, cramped, he swayed there. Somebody on either side gripped his elbows. Unsteadily, dumb and blinded, he staggered along.

"Up some steps, sir," he heard Blackbeard's voice. "Up a dozen steps, now!"

His uncertain feet found and ascended them. Half-borne by his captors, he climbed. They crossed what he recognized as a porch. Then a different quality of wood under his soles, a warmer atmosphere, told him he was entering a house.

"Kindly be seated now, and remain quiet. Nothing shall happen to you, if you show discretion."

The words came from the purple-ribboned magnifico. A powerful hand shoved him down into an exceedingly soft and luxurious chair. Boiling with renascent anger though he was, he could do nothing but remain there, passive and inert.

From somewhere above sounded heavy and uncertain footfalls, as of men carrying a heavy burden. Avidly the doctor listened. He sensed that the wounded man was being borne upstairs, was probably being transported to a bedroom.

Now— what was this?— other footsteps grew audible, as if somebody were carrying a considerable weight. Once more Haviland scented that baffling ghost of perfume; but quickly this faded, and he found himself apparently alone, helpless and a prisoner.

A new voice reached him, a voice deep-toned, suave and half-mocking, with a marked foreign accent, yet modulated in perfect rhythms. Haviland had heard no one approach, Had somebody crept up on him, or been standing guard over him all the time?

"If monsieur will have just a little more patience, he will soon be released. We regret infinitely what we have done, but necessity knows no law."

AT once deft hands commenced removing his bandages. As soon as his hands were freed, he brought them round in front, fell to rubbing his numb, ridged flesh. The bonds holding his jaws came loose, then those covering his eyes. He blinked, half-blinded, even in the subdued light filling a spacious room.

There in front of him he saw a burly fellow, apparently some kind of menial, in an odd, belted, foreign-looking jacket. Then his glance fell on Blackbeard, sitting near by in an easy-chair.

"Who the devil is this?" mumbled the Doctor, his mouth still half-paralyzed. "Servant?"

"Yes. We have several, here in this sanitarium."

"This what?"

"You are now in a private hospital, my dear Doctor. But for the present, never mind about details. I hope you have not suffered too much, from your unavoidable restraint?"

"A lot you care!" growled Haviland, chafing his jaws and stretching them. Dimly some details of the room impressed themselves on his rather confused senses. Tiered-up bookcases proclaimed it a library, its furnishings heavy and old-fashioned. All curtains were closely drawn. Before a brisk blaze in a fireplace with a carved marble mantel-piece, the tall man was standing, hands thrust deep into trousers pockets, an inordinately long cigarette a-smolder in his mocking lips.

AGAINST a desk littered with books and magazines another man was lounging— a presence so Olympian, ugly and overpowering, yet not devoid of a singular attractiveness, that the surgeon left off grumbling, and fixed on him a gaze of mingled astonishment and repulsion.

"Greetings, monsieur!" murmured this personage, in whom the Doctor instantly recognized the master of the group. "We hope to make monsieur eminently comfortable here."

Huge-shouldered and dressed in tweeds, with a great head thickly clustered with curling red hair, this dominant figure was now analytically surveying the prisoner— studying him with a single Cyclopean eye wherein amusement, interest and a hint of cold, implacable ferocity all seemed to glower.

Across this man's left cheek three angry scars were slashed— probably souvenirs of German university duels. That this huge Cyclops had won higher distinction than that of mere cicatrices was evidenced by the empty left eye-socket, not even protected by a patch.

What a Meisterschlag it must have been, to rip out an eye from this giant!

At fuller sight of the formidable creature, Haviland stiffened with rebellion. For there, if anywhere now, was the real enemy. Yet Cyclops' manner was amicable enough as he slid his vast bulk off the desk and advanced toward Haviland, his immense and red-haired hand extended.

Instinctively the surgeon stood up. But his hand did not advance to meet the other's.

"Monsieur is still resentful, eh?" And the man smiled. "Not to be blamed, after all. Our treatment has been a trifle summary? Admitted! But at all events, monsieur should try to cultivate a spirit of philosophy. For here, as the Spanish proverb says, monsieur is in his own house."

"Never mind diplomatic phrases! What's all this about, and why?"

"All in good time, my dear Doctor. First, let us become acquainted. As monsieur may be with us for some time, we must reach a modus vivendi. The gentleman by the fireplace is Lumo Dzhuvani. This,"— indicating Blackbeard, who stood up,—" is my excellent friend Djafer Noli. As for myself, I bear the name of Gurakuchi Bogdani. Odd names to monsieur's ears, I dare say. But after all, what is in a name?"

As Cyclops made the introductions, both the other men bowed very formally, as if now for the first time they were meeting Haviland. He, smiling satirically, answered :

"By contrast with such verbal magnificence, my own simple name of Haviland must seem very commonplace, I'm sure. But then, I'm just a plain, ordinary, every-day American. And you—  may I ask what nationality yours is?"

"One that has been little heard of, in this country," Bogdani countered. "After all, it matters little in our present situation, where so harsh a necessity drives ."

"Confound your situation! What I want to know is where I am, and why?"

"Unfortunately, we cannot inform monsieur as to the where. The why is merely to cure our friend. Monsieur shall be made most comfortable and shall be liberally compensated. Even though this may be hell for monsieur, remember that Satan himself is a gentleman, and that he richly rewards all who faithfully serve him. So then— shall we have a look at our patient? The so very important patient, who absolutely must not die? Will monsieur accompany us, to him?"

"Yes, since I must."

UP a broad curving stair in a richly furnished hallway the huge man led his involuntary guest. Followed by Dzhuvani and Noli, the surgeon mounted toward the upper hall. Two doors along this corridor they all entered a big old-fashioned bedroom, quite in the Victorian tradition, its windows protected by venetiennes. The bed stood in a sort of alcove, not far from the entrance-door; and on the outside of this bed lay the wounded man, still wrapped in blankets. Haviland's medical-kit bag had been placed on a table near at hand.

BY the light of a shaded incandescent, the Doctor surveyed his patient. Though still waxen-pale and greatly prostrated, he seemed no worse. His respiration, though painful and a little hurried, was "satisfactory enough. So too was his temperature, when Haviland had taken it; pulse by no means alarming.

"Everything favorable?" queried Bogdani, his one eye anxious.

"Not bad."

"And your prognosis?" "I shouldn't care to make any, just yet. It all depends on several factors—  whether the internal hemorrhage has been stopped, whether or not septicemia develops, and so on. A dozen things might or might not happen."

"But on the whole, you would judge—"

"An even chance, anyhow."

"Thank God! The importance of this man's life, monsieur cannot understand!"

"I might, if you'd be so kind as to enlighten me! Whatever your game is, gentlemen, I dare say the clean-up will be tremendous. Not so nice for me, though, is it? Having to aid and abet your crime?"

"Crime?" echoed Dzhuvani, his sloe-black eyes a-gleam, thin face twitching. "You are assuming much!"

"Am I? Well, don't you call a gang-raid a crime? A raid in which one of your men is shot?"

"How far from the truth!" murmured Blackbeard Noli, soft-spoken as ever. "Why cannot you believe us, sir, when we assure you this is no mere vulgar robbery or kidnaping?"

"If monsieur assumes that we are profiting financially by it," Cyclops added, "monsieur is greatly in error. Au contraire, this affair is costing us a fortune. And as for this wounded man here— he is certainly not one of us. Not even of our race, or speech."

"Well, in heaven's name, who is he?"

"Ah, that we cannot divulge, for the present. Sometime, monsieur shall know—  and justify us!"

"It would take a devil of a lot of explaining to justify bloodshed and kidnaping— especially the kidnaping of a woman!"

"Of a woman?" And Cyclops' huge fist knotted. "Monsieur knows—  that?"

"Certainly I know it!"

"But how?"

"Ah, there's a little mystery of my own, for you gentlemen to mull over," laughed the surgeon. "But now, enough of mysteries. The patient demands all our attention. Out of those blankets with him, and into some pajamas— and into bed!"

Cyclops, turning, clapped his huge hands thrice, to summon servants.

"Monsieur the Doctor has but to command, and we obey. For at whatever cost in money, time or labor, this man must live!"

THUS commenced for Dr. Roderick Haviland the strangest chapter in his life— his captivity on an almost baronial old country estate, somewhere among the woods and hills perhaps half a hundred miles to westward of the city.

His first night in this prison had almost worn itself thin to morning before he had quite finished caring for the wounded man. Only when fairly certain the patient was at least holding his own, had the Doctor sought any rest for himself.

"And be sure to call me at once," he directed Bogdani— the Cyclops—" if you note any change in his condition."

"Monsieur can count on me. My friend Dzhuvani here will show monsieur his quarters. Sleep well!"

Haviland followed the tall, hawk-nosed man to a room adjoining that of the wounded alien. And despite fevered nerves, anger at being held prisoner, wonder about the mysterious unseen woman who seemed to be sharing his captivity, exhaustion soon conquered him. Soothed by a bed that was a sheer miracle of comfort, he very soon drifted out upon the sea of sleep....

When he woke, confused and for the moment at a loss to recognize his environment, he found a little ormolu clock on a bureau marking nine-forty-five. The surgeon blinked, stretched, yawned. Then, with tensing memories a-rush back over him, he sat up, swung his pajamed legs out of bed— to find himself confronted by Blackbeard Noli, who was sitting in a huge wicker chair by a window, drawing at an extremely fragrant cigar.

"Good morning, sir," Noli greeted, in his suave and soft voice. "I hope you slept well?"

"Like a log! And the patient?"

"A bit restless, for a while. But later, more quiet. Just now, asleep. Nothing to report."

"Good!" Then, resentment welling up, he demanded: "But let me ask you— what's the idea, your invading my bedroom ?"

Noli made rather a failure of a smile:

"Ten thousand apologies, my dear sir. But I regret to inform you that we have decided against your having any real privacy at all, while honoring us with your presence."

"No privacy? What the devil?"

"So sorry, but—"  And Noli sketched a gesture with his cigar. "You must understand how it is, yourself. Suppose you should be so ill-advised as to attempt escape, during the night? Not that it would carry you far. We have arranged all that. But—"

"But what, damn it?"

"But we cannot— how do you say?—  take a chance. You might be injured, even killed, during the attempt. And that might be fatal for us. So you understand? No, Doctor. All we want, and must have, is your peaceful and continued assistance. So?"

Haviland glowered at him. Stood up, kicked his feet into slippers awaiting him— new slippers, to match a new and very complete layout of all other necessities. "I dare say you'll even supervise my morning bath?"

"Oh, as for your shower, and so on," conceded Noli, "we can trust you that far. Gentlemen do not escape naked from bathrooms— not in an American November !"

And with a wave of the hand toward the bathroom door, he smiled in his black beard.

LIFE continued, as the days passed, under inexorable surveillance. Whether caring for his patient, at meals— of the best— in a gloomy old-fashioned dining-room on the ground floor, walking out for exercise in the immense grounds, reading in the extremely well-stocked library, playing chess with Cyclops Bogdani, amusing himself at the grand piano, or sleeping in his bed, vigilance was never relaxed. At least one of this mysterious triumvirate was ever on guard over him.

According to promise, mail was delivered to him: letters that had been sent to the New York address arranged, and then— by means unknown to him—  sent or brought to this hiding-place.

He was allowed to answer whatever he chose, dating each letter from the same Manhattan address. These letters were taken away each day, and (he felt sure) posted in New York— after being carefully censored. For the rest, though, he might have been having only a rather luxurious vacation, with prospects of a whacking big fee.

The wounded man, known to him only as "Mr. Osman," also remained under close guard, watched night and day by one of the menservants. This guarding, the Doctor concluded, must be to prevent any attempt at suicide, since Osman was manifestly unable to escape. But why should Osman want to kill himself?

Barring accident, the wounded man seemed reasonably certain to get well. His only set-backs were a touch of fever and a hint of infection that soon cleared up under vigorous treatment. Never at any time was Haviland allowed to enter into any speech with the patient, beyond just the bare questions and answers necessary for treatment.

Even this limited conversation, though, conclusively proved that Osman was of some different race than the others. His pronunciation of certain consonants was quite unlike that of the Triumvirate. Though he spoke perfect English, like all the three, it was a different kind—  softer, more liquid.

"Turkish?" Haviland wondered. "Armenian, Syrian, or what the devil?"

And the kidnaped woman? She seemed to have totally vanished. No sign of her now was evident, no sound, not even that elusive fragrance. Had she been released? Was she still a prisoner in some other part of the huge, rambling old country-house?

Out walking every day with one or another of the Triumvirate, he took occasion to observe with considering eyes the construction of the house, to study it from various angles. An immense and inchoate old structure it was, with a vast ell at its western end, high-pitched roofs and weather-beaten chimney-stacks that seemed to have defied the batterings of a hundred winters.

"IF the girl is here, she's certainly being kept in that ell, far away from the rest of us," decided Haviland. "Probably locked up and guarded in some rooms there— and I think I know which rooms, at that!"

The place he decided on was the corner of the ell, on the third floor; for here three windows had been barred, and the Venetian blinds were closed. Whether this closing was only during his outdoor exercise, he could not tell. But at all events, he never saw those windows otherwise than shuttered.

THE diabolical intelligence of his captors showed itself in the way they mutilated every newspaper they let him read. Every morning at breakfast, he found his favorite paper, the Globe, beside his plate. He was free to read it then, or talk with his jailers and defer the reading till later. But invariably he found every issue had been carefully censored with the shears.

At first, large sections and headlines were clipped from the front page and from inside pages. As days passed, the extent of these deletions shrank, until after a week or so only a column or less was removed.

"And all this cut-out matter deals with the disappearance of the woman, the girl, whoever she may be," the surgeon shrewdly guessed. Elsewise, why the importance of the prohibited news? Surely it could not refer to the patient, a man of apparently too slight moment to warrant so much space.

As for the prohibited news dealing with the Doctor's own absence, a very little analysis put that theory out of court. Thought Haviland:

"I'm only supposed to be in New York— and beside, I'm not important enough for all this to-do. No, it must be the woman. And to judge by the amount of space, she must be pretty damned prominent!"

BUT the first definite clue of any value Haviland was able to lay hands on came to him the 19th of November— a rainy, windy day when heavy cloud-banks huddled low, when fretworks of black wet branches swayed against the leaden sky, and all Nature seemed weeping for the death of autumn. As the rain lulled, toward noon, Haviland proposed a little walk. Bogdani that morning accompanied him, ostensibly as companion, really as guard. Right well Haviland sensed the presence of a gun in Cyclops' ulster pocket! Their jaunt led them far through winding paths toward the rear of the vast grounds, where a stone wall topped by a sharp-spiked iron fence bounded the estate.

Striding along with the inscrutable Bogdani, Dr. Haviland sighted a wet, torn scrap of newspaper lying beside the path; a bit that had probably blown in from the road.

And a needle of thought pierced his brain:

"Oh, Lord! If I could only get hold of that, some way!"

The scar-slashed Bogdani seemed to pay the thing no heed. He was forcibly condemning Japan's Manchurian aggression. Nothing else seemed in his mind. As he and Haviland came nearly abreast of the paper, the Doctor glanced up, paused, pointed at a gnarled and secular old giant of a tree.

"Pardon me, but that's something strange, eh?" he exclaimed.

"What is strange?" the giant red-head asked.

"Have you ever seen a live-oak growing so far north?"

"Live-oak?" And Bogdani squinted with his one eye at the tree-tops, over which wind-driven clouds fled smoking. "Monsieur means—"

"It's a Southern species. But just look at those dead leaves still clinging up there, will you? Can't you see the difference between those and an ordinary oak?"

The tree in question was only an ordinary white-oak, no more a live-oak than it was a pine. But never mind; for the moment Cyclops' interest was diverted, his attention fixed aloft.

In that moment, Haviland stepped behind him, swiftly caught up the half-sheet of rain-soaked newspaper. He instantly crumpled it into a ball, plunged it into his pocket. Already Bogdani was shaking his huge red head in denial.

"Pardon, but monsieur must be mistaken. This is merely a guercus alba, by no means a quercus agrifolia, as monsieur seems to think."

"So? Well, perhaps." And Haviland once more ranged up alongside the huge alien. "I thought, for a minute— but I see I'm wrong. What's a mere species of oak, between friends?"

He managed a laugh, to mask his agitation. But his heart was pounding more than a trifle, his nerves taut and jangling, as they resumed their walk.

IN a fever of impatience, hard to dissemble, he regained the rambling old mansion-house. Nothing seemed to have been noticed.

In the hallway, he managed to transfer the paper to his house-coat pocket.

The paper, wet though it was, seemed to burn in his pocket all that evening. He made shift, at bedtime, to slip it into his bathrobe pocket; and so, next morning, to smuggle it into the bath-room.

The spraying of his shower made good camouflage. With feverish eagerness he smoothed out the paper, found it to be somewhat less than half a page of the Globe, for November 17th. His eyes fairly devoured it.

Nothing of any importance at first seemed evident. With a sickening sense of frustration he realized that he had already seen all this news. All? No—  what was this, now? Ah! Here was something important!

The surgeon's heart began to pound as he discovered part of a column that— in the paper which had been given to him, of that date— had been clipped out. With the most intense concentration he read this forbidden matter, though it was only a few imperfect and broken lines:

"Damnation!" growled the surgeon. "If I only had the rest of this page!"

"Missing heiress— Karl— stant Secretary of the Alba— leave of absence—"

Well, now?

"Stant Secretary!" That could only mean "assistant secretary." But secretary of what? And Karl was a common enough name. And "leave of absence?" Yes, that made sense. But what could "Alba" mean?

"By gad, I've got something to go on now, anyway!" he exulted, as he tore the paper to shreds and summarily disposed of it. Emerging from the bath-room, he continued his usual routine.

His regular morning visit to the patient took place, this morning, under the surveillance of Blackbeard Noli. The wounded man, now able to sit up in bed with plenty of pillows at his back, seemed coming on famously.

"Condition quite satisfactory, sir?" Noli purred.

"Couldn't be better. I'll soon have the drainage out, and finish closing the wound."

"Excellent, sir. The sooner the better, eh?"

Haviland nodded.

"Rather! I'm anxious to get back to my practice."

"All in good time," smiled Noli.

LEAVING the patient under guard of a servant— a fellow the Triumvirate always called Charliro— the Doctor and Noli went down to the library. Dzhuvani and Cyclops were there; conversation knit itself pleasantly enough, in that comfortable room made all the more cozy by bleak November outside.

From this to that, talk drifted to crime-detection. The Doctor pricked up his ears. Readily he lent himself to answering, when hawk-nosed Dzhuvani plumped out the question:

"By the way, Doctor, how much is there in the statement that certain drugs may force a man to tell the truth, even against his own will?"

"There's a good deal in it, according to what I've heard. Many a crook has been trapped, that way."

"I know, of course," put in Bogdani, with an arrow-like glance from his Cyclopean eye, "that during the World War both the Germans and the Allies sometimes etherized prisoners, to gather information from them while coming out of the anesthetic. And other drugs may act similarly?"

"Why, yes," Haviland answered. ("What the devil, now?" he was thinking. "Let's give them plenty of rope, this time. May well be they'll hang themselves!") Aloud: "Yes, indeed; there's scopolamin, for instance."

"Which acts how?"

"Well, it's a soporific drug, a sleep-producer. A person going under its effects grows drowsy. He can hear and understand everything that's said to him, but he's too damn' sleepy to think up lies. He can't imagine anything but just the simple, unvarnished truth— and there you are."

"By Jove, how entertaining!" exclaimed Noli. "Marvelous science, medicine!"

"Quite so— especially when practised under compulsion."

"Now, my dear sir," smiled Blackbeard, "surely you are not still holding that against us?"

"Who said I was?" And so the matter died.

THAT morning, Haviland found only half a column clipped from his paper; and this half-column, moreover, was on an inside page. The case, he saw— whatever it might be— was losing public interest.

His paper finished, once more he fell a-thinking of what "Alba" might mean. Smoking, pacing up and down the library, he paused before a bookcase containing an encyclopedia. As though acting only with indifferent interest, he took down Volume One— "A-Asher."

With this he returned to his easy-chair. Idly thumbing the book, he glanced through some of the topics: Aardvark, Abiogenesis, Acoustics, Admiralty, Aeronautics, Agate, Albacore, Albadara—

Ah, here was something, now! Albania!

Eagerly he glanced at the map, fell to devouring the text:

Albania; an independent kingdom lying on the west coast of the Balkan Peninsula, along the Adriatic Sea, between Greece and Yugoslavia. It has an area of 27,500 square kilometers, and a population of about 1,000,000.... The language is practically unknown beyond the borders. Some 70% of the people are Mohammedan.

Hastily the Doctor read, trying to absorb all he possibly could before any interruption.

The Turks captured Yannina in 1431. This united all the Albanian clans wader the leadership of Gjerji (George) Castrioti, Centuries of turmoil and warfare were unable to deprive the Albanians of nationalistic spirit and pride. In 1912 they won autonomy from Turkey....

George Castrioti is the national hero. During his lifetime, 1404-1468, he over-whelmed the Turks in 23 battles, Called "Iskander Bey," meaning "Alexander Bey," his name was shortened to Skanderbeg, or Iskander. The head of this great military leader—

Nervously the Doctor started, as Bogdani's voice interrupted him:

"A thousand pardons, but we have a little business to transact this morning. May we ask monsieur's assistance ?"

Haviland closed the book, his finger still marking the place. Bogdani, having approached on noiseless foot, was standing at his shoulder.

"My help? Why, certainly," the Doctor answered. "I have no alternative, when you need anything of me."

"Monsieur is exceedingly kind," murmured Cyclops with a mocking little crack of laughter. He tossed his cigarette into the fire. "So then, shall we go upstairs ?"

Haviland laid his book on the table, with all the indifference he could muster. How much had Cyclops spied on him? How much did he know?

UP in the sick-room, Blackbeard and Dzhuvani were waiting. A tense atmosphere seemed to grip the place.

"Here is the Doctor to see you again," smiled Bogdani to the wounded man. "I hope," Bogdani went on, "you are feeling well enough to indulge in a little friendly discussion?"

Osman, the patient, made no answer. His swarthy, big-jowled face bore an Oriental mask of noncommittal blankness. Noli, tugging at his black beard, cast a glance at the clinical chart hanging beside the bed.

"No fever," he commented. "Everything seems quite normal?"

"Yes," nodded the surgeon. "If our patient holds this gain, he will be able to leave in a few days now."

"As soon as he pleases," Dzhuvani put in. "Do you think, Doctor, our friend here is able to stand a little amicable questioning?"

"Yes, provided the discussion is not too long."

"It need not be long, at all. Just a few words will suffice— if they are the right words. And after that, Mr. Osman can leave here as soon as he pleases. He well understands the terms on which he can depart."

"Terms?" repeated the Doctor.

"No need to go into all this again," the patient spoke up. His lips drew taut with stubbornness. "My answer today is absolutely the same as it was yesterday. The same as it has been all along. The same as it will always be!"

"Ah, indeed?" dangerously smiled Cyclops. "My dear fellow, for heaven's sake why not be a trifle reasonable?"

"That is for me to decide! And you can do nothing to make me change my mind. Nothing, you hear? Nothing! Your keeping me a prisoner here cannot be of any possible advantage to you. The longer you keep me, the worse for you. Sooner or later this hell's corner is bound to be smoked out, and then—"

His words frayed off to nothing, finished with a gesture of contempt. Under heavy lids, he blinked defiantly.

"My dear friend, how very distressing a picture you paint!" murmured Blackbeard. "And how lightly you view your position!"

"Why not lightly? Allah knows best!" The wounded man's eyes burned defiantly in his swarthy-yellow mask of a face. "You are all absolutely helpless in my hands. Not even killing me would serve any purpose. On the contrary, that would ruin you, because my death would put a permanent end to all hopes of your ever—"

"What gives you this absurd idea of killing?" demanded Bogdani. "That is farthest from our thoughts."

"Naturally! Since your only possible chance is keeping me alive, and probably — when I get strong enough— subjecting me to torture. Well, gentlemen, let me assure you that torture will accomplish nothing. Men of my race have long been schooled against it. Nothing you can do will—"

"Very well, my friend," smiled Cyclops. "Why stroke a thistle? Until tomorrow, then?"

HE turned away from the bed, and beckoned Haviland, and with him left the room.

"Extraordinary fellow, that," he murmured, as together they descended the
stairway. "His obstinacy is perfectly amazing. He has already refused an offer in cold cash, for— for a certain service— which would have turned the head of all but one man in a million. Our patient is that one man."

"So I should judge," assented the Doctor. "I dare say you could smash every bone in his skin, and be none the wiser."

"True, true. And now he faces— well, some extremely unpleasant consequences. Admirable, in a way; but how foolish, how short-sighted!"

"My dear sir," the Doctor exclaimed, as they came to the bottom of the stairs, "why not explain what's going on here? I know perfectly well a woman— a girl—  of great wealth is being detained in this house. And yet you claim this isn't a kidnaping racket. Then, for heaven's sake what is it?"

"Far from what you Americans call a racket," nodded Cyclops. "Tremendous issues are at stake. There are binding oaths, oaths of blood, that hold us silent."

Cyclops stood aside to let Haviland precede him into the library. There the one-eyed man of mystery strolled over to a tall window, and stood gazing out at the bleak November morning.

The Doctor, once more picking up Volume One of the encyclopedia, turned again to the article on Albania.

To his unspeakable astonishment, that article had now completely disappeared.

Amazed, the Doctor stared, his wits moon-raking with incredulity : The pages had been cut away, cleanly, as by a razor-blade.

THAT afternoon, when the Doctor went up for his routine visit to the patient, he took with him a package of cigarettes— a package the label of which he had covertly managed to prepare with his fountain-pen, in furtherance of a new-hatched scheme.

Blackbeard Noli accompanied him, stood at the foot of the bed while Haviland asked the usual questions, took the wounded man's pulse and temperature, changed the dressings. Haviland passed judgment:

"Well, now, my friend, you're coming on so well that I'm going to relax a little of the discipline."

"That will be fine, Doctor," smiled the sick man. "Am I to sit up in a chair, like a human being?"

"Well, hardly that, as yet. However, if you were to have a cigarette or two daily, they wouldn't hurt you— provided you didn't inhale."

"Wonderful!" The patient's dark face lighted with a smile that revealed strong, white teeth. "You don't know what a deprivation of tobacco means to a man who has always been a heavy smoker!" His big chest expanded with a deep breath.

"I can imagine." Haviland drew out the packet, loosened a cigarette, and extended the packet, which had borne — among other printing— the words:

FINEST TURKISH TOBACCO

But Haviland had so "doctored" these three words that only the four letters TURK remained, with a penned question-mark just below. As the patient took a cigarette, his glance rested on this query. A second's glint of comprehension flickered in his glance. He veiled it under heavy lids, nodded almost imperceptibly.

That nod must have seemed to Noli just a part of his, "Thank you, so much."

But perfectly well Haviland understood.

"It won't hurt you," the surgeon casually remarked. "It's a very friendly smoke.

"If friendly, then extremely welcome," smiled the patient— and lo, communication, though but the slenderest thread, had been established!

With a sense of tremendous progress made, Haviland shoved the cigarette-box back into his pocket. From this point on, though, what next?

The next step, of course, must be to establish some safe and undiscoverable means of communication with the Turk. ... And, when next morning he visited his patient and drew from his thermometer-case the fragile glass cylinder, he palmed this cylinder. He held it hidden so that Dzhuvani, the hawk-nosed—  watching like a hawk indeed from the other side of the bed— could not see it.

The patient, though, saw it plainly
enough. With quick intelligence he comprehended, as he perceived a narrow strip of paper wound closely round the tube. Only a glimpse he had of it, for Haviland immediately popped the thermometer into the Turk's mouth.

"Hold it very carefully under your tongue, please," he directed. "As usual."

There the thermometer remained, about three minutes. When Haviland drew it out again, and read it, the tube was bare. Right well the Doctor knew he had been understood.

A few moments later, he and Bogdani departed, and only a servant known as Ahmed was left on guard in the sick-room.

Cautiously, then, the patient brought to his lips a thin wisp of paper, coughed it into his hand, let it lie there a while. Then with infinite precautions against being observed, he unrolled it.

On the paper was penciled in tiny characters :

Friend!

Two contractions of your wrist-muscles mean yes. One means no.

Swallow this paper!

Twice "Mr. Osman" read this message. Then, unsuspected, he palmed the paper strip into his mouth. A slight chewing, a draft of water from the bedside carafe, and the communication was gone.

Next morning, during the usual medical inspection, Dr. Haviland by the same means conveyed this question:

Are you being held for ransom?

That afternoon, while taking Osman's pulse, he felt one distinct muscular contraction of the wrist: "No."

The following day, this question was secretly asked:

Is the woman held for ransom?

Again the answer was negative.

"So far, great!" exulted the surgeon. "It's like a game of twenty questions."

On the third day of this queer game, Haviland conveyed the question:

Are you being held because you have something they want?

The answer had come back, hours later, a most emphatic "Yes!"

AND then it was, when the Doctor felt himself just on the edge of discovering something really vital, that Fate willed an arbitrary interruption,

For that evening, with the Triumvirate assembled in the library, Cyclops Bogdani suddenly remarked:

"Well, monsieur, our patient is gaining fast, now?"

"Reasonably fast," the Doctor answered, sensing trouble, hoping to delay it. "But still, he's far from a well man."

"Naturally. However, he will soon be up again?"

"Yes," Haviland admitted, while the others listened in tense silence. "If no relapse takes place."

"None must! Or the results may be unfortunate, for monsieur. In monsieur's opinion, will our friend soon be strong enough to undergo a certain little experiment?"

"Experiment? What experiment?"

"If monsieur will favor us now with his undivided attention, we shall soon make perfectly clear this most important matter! Monsieur remembers a conversation we had, some days ago, concerning the drug scopolamin, and its use in extracting the truth from a man?"

"Before I answer that, let me ask if you're referring to the wounded man upstairs?"

"Plain words are best," nodded Bogdani. "We are."

"Nothing doing, gentlemen!"

"What do you mean, nothing doing?" demanded the hard-jawed Lumo Dzhuvani, his black eyes a-glitter. "You refuse to administer such a drug, for such a purpose?"

"Absolutely!"

"But consider the case, monsieur," argued Cyclops. "Liberal offers have been made to this man— almost fabulous offers, I may say. And yet, he still resists them. So—"

"Offers, in exchange for what?"

"For information of high international importance. Of infinite value, to us!"

"Ah, so? And one of you shot the Turk, in the course of your— researches?"

"Turk?" exclaimed Blackbeard. "How do you know that?"

"How do I know many things?" the Doctor smiled. "Believe me, gentlemen, I am aware of far more than you suspect, and—"

"And you refuse to help us?"

"I refuse to violate my ethical code, as a physician."

"Refuse, eh?" laughed Dzhuvani, his lean, saturnine face positively wolfish.

"As your own Scripture says," observed Cyclops, grimly, "all that a man hath will he give for his life."

"That may not apply to a conscientious physician."

"Perhaps not. But let monsieur remember that certain contingencies may be far more painful than even death."

"Why resist?" put in Djafer Noli, with his most silken tone. "It can do no good. If you refuse, and thereby undergo—  well, certain disagreeable consequences, we can easily enough get some other physician to administer a drug. So how will your elimination help your Turkish friend?"

"And again, how do you know he is right, and we are wrong?" asked Dzhuvani. "Maybe the information we require is useful to the world, to the cause of peace and international goodwill. Who knows?"

"I don't!" the physician answered, facing them all. "But this I do know: that you shot and kidnaped him. You kidnaped a girl, too, a very rich and socially prominent girl, And— no matter what your motive— that's a beastly, criminal way of doing business! And I do know this wounded Turk has the courage and the manhood to defy you all. I only hope to God I shall continue to have as much."

"Ah, well," purred Blackbeard, "tomorrow is another day. And tomorrow may yet change your mind."

BEFORE tomorrow dawned, however, the picture changed: Just after mid-night Haviland awoke from an uneasy slumber. And a cautious glance brought him astonishment— for he saw his guard was sleeping! Cyclops Bogdani himself, it was. And for once the red-headed giant's inhuman alertness had relaxed.

With infinite precautions, noiselessly as a wraith, Haviland slid out of bed. Half a dozen steps in naked feet brought him to the hall-door. Locked, of course! And to search Cyclops for the key would be too risky.

The bathroom offered possibilities. Slipping on his robe, he stole into that little adjoining room, closed the door, switched on the incandescent. Were Cyclops to wake, he would see light fingering out under the bathroom door, would think nothing amiss. And with luck, Cyclops might not waken.

SILENTLY Haviland raised the window and peered out. A thin, anemic little butt-end of a moon wandered aimless among the leaden clouds. Silence reigned. Noiselessly he swung himself up on the sill, and over it. Some two feet to the left, a water-pipe hugged the wall. Haviland leaned over, gripped it, swung clear. Bracing his naked feet on the wall, he half-slid, half-clambered down. A moment, and there he stood on frosty dead grass.

Acutely listening, he crouched. Still no sound or hint of danger. Above him, his bathroom window gleamed, but all else was dark. Hope quickening his pulses, he stole along the house, in deep shadow.

He reached the ell, paused, made his way along it and turned its corner. Above, on the third story, he perceived a vague light in the barred window which he had already determined as belonging to the prison of the kidnaped girl.

He stooped, gathered a handful of pebbles from the driveway. Across the drive he scuttled, into the shelter of tall, ragged boxwood bushes. From this lair, with accurate aim he flung a pebble at the barred window, heard it go "tink!" on the glass.

A second pebble, a third. Alert, tense, Haviland waited, listening. Nothing. A fourth pebble missed its aim, but a fifth and sixth registered.

He was about to throw another, when the light in that barred window suddenly blacked out. Then Haviland heard a tiny sound, as of something that slid. The window had been partly raised. He could dimly make out a whitish aura, the faintest possible hint of a human figure, ghostly in that pallid moonlight.

Who might it be? One of the Triumvirate? A servant? The kidnaped girl? Grasping at bare chance, Haviland exclaimed in a carrying whisper:

"I am the doctor! And you—  are you the woman prisoner?"

"Yes!" drifted the answer.

"Can you get out?"

"No! My door is locked. A woman guard is asleep, outside it. Hopeless—"

"Nothing is hopeless! I'll get you out, some way. They're not holding you for ransom?"

"No!"

"Same reason as the Turk, then? Because they hope to find out something, from you?"

"That's it! They—"

"What is it they want to know?"

"Where the Head of Iskander is!"

"The Head of Iskander ?"

"Yes— they're bound to have it. They'd kill us, if that would help them any— but it won't. With us dead, they'll never find it, and—"

"For God's sake, girl! What Is the Head of Iskander?"

"Why, it's—"

The answer was never completed. For suddenly the Doctor heard a stifled cry. The dim figure at the window vanished. The window itself was banged down. Suddenly light flared in the room, throwing the bars into strong relief. A shade was violently pulled. Cursing, Haviland whipped across the driveway and into the shadow of the ell, then along this to the main body of the house, and so regained the water-pipe.

Some of his athletic prowess when he'd been a medical student flared back into his muscles as he went up, hand over hand, feet gripping the wall.

He reached the level of his bathroom window, clung with tense legs to the pipe, leaned over and gripped the sill. Swinging free, he hauled himself up and with a supreme effort dragged in over the sill. Into the bathroom he lunged, picked himself up, panting.

THE door was jerked open.

"Monsieur is indeed an athlete!" sounded Cyclops' mocking voice. His scarred face darkening, he bored at his captive with that one Polyphemus eye. "But just what does monsieur expect to accomplish by clambering up and down walls at such extremely inopportune hours?"

"That's for you to guess!"

"Ah, pardon— no, not for me. I never waste time in fruitless speculation. All that monsieur has gained is that a certain young lady— most charming, I assure you— will henceforth remain under much more strict surveillance. Like monsieur himself. And now, if monsieur will be so kind as to return to bed—"

"Why should I?" "Ah, why?" The Albaniah's smile was cryptic. "Remember, monsieur, sleep builds up nerve-energy. And who knows but what the thing which monsieur may see, tomorrow, may require much nerve-energy on monsieur's part?"

THAT morning, when Haviland paid his routine visit to the sick-room and to the patient— now sitting in a wheel-chair— a tiny slip of paper on the thermometer bore this message:

They intend drugging you for information re head of Iskander. Resist. Understand?

And that afternoon, when the Doctor took "Mr. Osman's" pulse, the answer "Yes" came with a look so eloquent of gratitude and of powerful determination, that Haviland's heart quivered with the sheer joy of battle.

But another hour put quite a different face on matters. For toward half-past three, Bogdani invited Haviland out for a walk through the stark grounds. And on the way back, nearly at the house, Cyclops suddenly queried:

"Perhaps monsieur has been so intelligent as to change his mind, about co-operating with us?"

"No!" retorted Haviland.

"Ah, but monsieur might change it, if he knew the alternative."

"What's in prospect ?" Haviland asked.

Bogdani unlocked the garage.

"This way, monsieur, s'il vous plait."

And Cyclops led his prisoner past the two cars there— the Doctor's own, and the long black sedan. He opened a door to another room at the right. The dim light of a single incandescent vaguely illuminated this room, which— singularly enough, it seemed to Haviland— was warmed to almost tropical heat by an oil-stove.

A peculiar odor, apart from that of the stove, pervaded the close-shuttered place; a scent animal-like, repellent. The suggestion of an animal of some kind was heightened by the fact that nearly half the space was divided off by a cage.

This cage, provided with a door, was constructed of strong steel bars, lined all the way from floor to ceiling with very small-meshed galvanized-wire netting.

"Cage, eh?" mocked Haviland. "Well, at all events you've got it nice and warm out here."

"Ah, monsieur mistakes," explained Cyclops, his one eye crowfooted with sinister wrinkles. 'This temperature is not for the comfort of the subject. Monsieur has only to observe."

Fascinated, horror-stricken, Haviland approached the cage. Now, by that dim light, his widened eyes beheld a wooden box in the corner of the cage; and through a door cut in that box— what was this? A coil, a sinuous and lithe curve of clear bright yellow, of speckled black and pink. As he watched, with breath suspended, the coil slowly rippled. Staring, Haviland beheld a slithering motion, a cold and repulsive creeping. And into view slid a triangular head with two lidless eyes, with slit-like pupils orange-hued and crimson-glowing, like charcoal that burns; eyes of deadly, implacable malignancy.

"A snake!" gasped Haviland, knowing it a deadly species.

"Oui, monsieur,' Bogdani assented. "A snake, indeed. A serpent, of the most venomous. And how difficult, how costly in this climate, to feed it properly, to maintain it in health and vigor! For it is a native of far-away tropical lands. A fer-de-lance. Monsieur has heard of this so remarkable reptile?"

"Who hasn't! But—"

"Well said, monsieur. Now, let us imagine a case, merely hypothetical: Suppose a man were given his choice between doing something to which he greatly objected, or else being stripped stark naked and locked into a cage with an active fer-de-lance? Well, what does monsieur think that man would do?"

"I only wish I could answer you with a prescription of a few grammes of lead, administered from any suitable firearm!"

"No doubt," laughed the red-haired giant. "But since that is manifestly impossible, perhaps this may be of some slight interest to monsieur ?"

Speaking, he drew from his pocket a page that had been neatly cut from a book, and handed it to the surgeon—  "Two Years in the French West Indies."

He read:

"When you are bitten, then you will need help, and most quickly; for within the span of a few heart-beats the wounded flesh chills, tumefies, softens. Soon it changes color.... Even if life is saved, the danger is not over. Necrosis of the tissues is likely to set in; the flesh corrupts.... the Death of the Woods is upon him!

Aghast, the Doctor finished, stood a moment quivering with repulsion and nausea, then crumpled the page into a ball and flung it down.

"Out!" he choked. "Out of here!"

"And tomorrow's experiment, of administering the truth-drug to our patient? What of that, monsieur?"

Making no reply, Haviland jerked open the door of the horror-room, stumbled through it into the garage and outside. Cyclops followed him, smiling in mockery, toward the house.

Now the hour for temporizing was past; the struggle just for life was on Haviland.

A plan? No. A forlorn hope? Yes.

Toward evening he remarked to Djafer Noli that Osman's temperature had been a bit up, that afternoon, and asked to see the patient again. This request excited no suspicion, and the examination served to transmit this brief message:

Keep awake be ready escape 2 AM.

The Doctor could of course receive no answer, but well enough he knew Mr. Osman would obey. Of just how much physical exertion the Turk might be capable, however, was problematical.

That evening, with now a steady drench of rain whipping the tall windows, with November wind soughing among the immemorial trees, Dr. Haviland passed a couple of hours at chess with the lean, black-eyed Lumo Dzhuvani. Though Hawk-nose mated, the battle was severe.

"Excellent, my dear Doctor," Dzhuvani approved, while huge red-haired Polyphemus looked on, and from the broad divan in front of the crackling fire Blackbeard surveyed the group through perfumed cigarette-smoke. "You are quite a fighter, eh?"

"Not much of a one, I'm afraid," disclaimed Haviland, sweeping the pieces all back into their box. "If I really were—"

"You would not be here?"

"Exactly!"

"Monsieur need not let that thought trouble him," put in Cyclops, with one of his robust laughs. "No man living could combat the elements here opposed to monsieur. Why stand against us? Why not cooperate— win freedom, wealth?"

"I won't discuss that, any further!"

"Too bad; for tomorrow we really must get to work. Tomorrow, monsieur will write a prescription so that we can procure the necessary drugs— which monsieur will then administer to our Turkish friend."

"Tomorrow?" smiled the Doctor.

"Tomorrow— why, tomorrow I may be Myself with Yesterday's seven thousand years."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Djafer Noli, stroking his black beard. "That, sir, is truly a most philosophical attitude. Who knows how much philosophy you may not need— tomorrow?"

IT was close on midnight when Haviland finally settled himself as if to sleep. Cyclops himself kept guard— sat in his accustomed chair with a book, on which a pool of light lay quiet from his shaded reading-lamp. For something like half an hour the Doctor lay still, listening to the driving rain-storm's ruffles of drums. Then he turned over, grumbled, turned again. About one-thirty in the morning he sat up in bed, with a curse. "I say there, Bogdani! Can't sleep—"

"Is monsieur possibly nervous about the impending experiment?" mocked Cyclops, laying down his book. "He need not be. Only provided he will be reasonable, all can be so amicably arranged for him."

"You be damned! All I want is some sleep! I've simply got to have a sedative, Bogdani!" Now the Doctor swung his legs out of bed, kicked his feet into slippers. "Get me my medical-kit bag, will you?"

"Ah? Monsieur wishes to take some drug?" Cyclops' tone betrayed suspicion, "Surely, we cannot allow that!"

"You think I'm going to commit suicide?"

"Everything is possible."

"Oh, hell, don't be a complete idiot! And besides, you can see everything I take. Get me my bag. Let me have a few hours' rest!"

"Well— as monsieur wishes," Bogdani unwillingly agreed. "But while I am gone, no indiscretions, please!"

CYCLOPS unlocked the door communicating with the sick-room, and in a minute or so fetched back the bag, again locking the door.

Haviland opened the bag on his bureau, and switched on a light over it. He got out his hypodermic needle, brought water from the bathroom.

"Morphine, eh?" queried Bogdani, squinting his sole optic as he watched Haviland crush a tablet and aspirate the solution up into the glass barrel. "I was not aware that monsieur had this engaging habit."

"Lots of things you're not aware of, Bogdani," growled the surgeon. "But never mind. Bear a hand now, will you?"

"Monsieur is asking if I will assist him?"

"That's right. Help me take this hypo."

"Rather heroic measures, I should judge, for a trifle of insomnia?"

"Perhaps. But I find that nothing else quite does the work of a shot in the arm. Ever use the stuff?"

Cyclops shook his massive red poll.

"Non, Dieu merci!"

("Don't thank God too soon," the Doctor thought. "Because you're going to use some right away, now— if nothing slips!"')

Saturating a wad of cotton with alcohol, he pulled up the left sleeve of his pajama-jacket and scrubbed a bit of skin on his forearm.

"Just pinch up the skin here, will you?" he asked, his glance resting a second on a heavy shaving-mirror that lay upon the bureau. "It's a bit hard to insert the needle, unless the skin is held taut."

"At monsieur's service," mocked Cyclops. "Our little fer-de-lance friend out in the garage has a pair of natural hypodermic needles that require no assistance, and that work unfailingly. How superior is Nature, over man's clumsy inventions, eh?"

With clumsy strength, Cyclops took hold. Now all his attention was concentrated on the Doctor's left arm. Haviland extended his right hand, as if to pick up the hypodermic, but instead he grasped the shaving-mirror.

Crash!

It struck like a blue jag of lightning, on the giant's mastoid-process, behind the right ear.

Cyclops gasped, staggered, clutched at empty air— collapsed like an empty sack on the rug at Haviland's slippered feet.

In a twinkling instant of blood-red exultation, the surgeon was on him. He rammed the hypo into Bogdani's wrist, let him have the whole shot— emptied an almost lethal dose of morphine right into his blood-stream.

Haviland laid the needle on the bureau, ran to the bed and stripped off a sheet. Three seconds, and that sheet was torn in strong, good strips.

"Hold even you, I reckon!" he jeered, kneeling beside the fallen Hercules.

QUICKLY he wrenched Cyclops' red-fuzzed and powerful hands behind his back. Sheeting strips, quickly and firmly knotted, secured them. Haviland made "surgeon's-knots," guaranteed not to work loose.

Panting a little, he lashed the ankles and securely "hog-tied" him, then bound up the jaws with another strip. Then from Bogdani's pocket he hauled the gun he knew he would find there— a flat, ugly .38. The pocket also yielded a bunch of keys. Haviland laid keys and gun on the bureau.

"And that's that," he growled, straightening up and smearing sweat from his forehead. "And this war has only just begun !"

Whereupon he hauled his unconscious victim to the clothes-closet, dragged him inside and closing the door, noted a fairish crack at the bottom.

"Air enough, through that, to keep the animal alive, anyhow. He'll last, till this show is over!"

Haviland locked the closet-door, dropped the key into his coat-pocket and hastily dressed himself. '"One down, anyhow," thought he. A glance at the clock showed him the hour was 1:52. "Time's almost up," he realized, thinking of his promise to the wounded "Mr. Osman," for two o'clock,

Quickly he arranged the bed so that the absence of one sheet might not be apparent. Then he switched on the light in the bathroom, closed the door and locked it from the outside, removing the key.

"On a pinch, anybody might think I was locked in there, and waste a bit of time trying to get me out."

He reloaded his hypodermic with a full shot of morphine, and put it into his left-hand coat pocket.

Now, with keys, and with the loaded gun, he turned toward the sick-room door.

Quietly Haviland opened that door. His glance swept the room. Dzhuvani was sitting on guard there, smoking. In the bed lay "Mr. Osman," apparently asleep. But well enough Haviland knew keen wakefulness possessed the sick man.

Dzhuvani, hook-nosed and keen, glanced up. At sight of the Doctor, dressed and gun in hand, he sprang to his feet, hand swinging to his coat-pocket.

"None o' that!" Crisply the surgeon's order crackled. "Up with 'em— high!"

Dzhuvani snatched out his gun, but Haviland's spoke first. In that quiet room, the concussion was stunning. Dzhuvani crumpled.

Panther-like, Haviland leaped on him. Blood was guttering down the Albanian's right cheek from a crease on the temple.

"He won't die!" the Doctor decided.

ALREADY "Mr. Osman" was struggling up in bed. He slid out of it, stood up— weak and shaking, yet with determination writ large on his massive face.

"He— is dead?" rumbled Osman, in that deep bass of his. "This son of hell is dead?"

"No, but we may be, if we don't get a move on! There's still Noli and all those servants to deal with. Pull yourself together— grab that gun!" He pointed at Dzhuvani's revolver, lying on the rug. "If anybody tries to get in here, let 'em have it!"

The Turk stood there, now armed, as Haviland rammed a full charge of morphine into Hawknose, then ripped up a sheet from Osman's bed, and triced the second member of the Triumvirate.

"And where," asked the Turk, "shall I find clothes, shoes? Where is Bogdani? Dead?"

"No! Only out. In my room."

"Not dead?" Osman's voice echoed infinite regrets. "What a pity! For he is the son of Satan who shot me."

"Can't say I'm really sorry either," Haviland admitted. "Just yesterday he showed me a deadly snake he was going to kill me with, if I didn't drug you, so you'd tell about that— what the devil is it? The Head of Iskander, or something ?"

"The Head of Iskander! Yes, indeed!" gulped Osman. "And you refused—"

BUT a clatter of running feet along the corridor interrupted him. Haviland sprang to the door, locked it. Gun in hand, he retreated to the prone, half-bound figure of Dzhuvani. He tossed his bunch of keys to Osman.

"Lock that other door, into my room!" he commanded. "Quick!"

As Osman obeyed, the hall-door knob rattled. A heavy fist banged the panels. Then a shout:

"Hape deru!" It was Djafer Noli's voice, silken no longer. "Dzhuvani, shpote?"

"Understand that, do you?" whispered the Doctor. Gun hard-gripped, he faced the door. "What's he saying?"

"He's saying: 'Open this door! Dzhuvani, what's the matter, here?' "

"Wants to know what the matter is, eh?" laughed Haviland. "All right—  let's show him!"

Point-blank at the panels, Haviland fired. Splinters flew. A yell echoed, out there in the hallway. Something heavy thudded down.

Came a dragging sound, a muttering. Then a key rattled and was turned. The door clashed back. Near the sill, Haviland and the Turk saw one of the servants lying— the chauffeur.

Osman's eyes goggled at him. Gun held taut, he retreated across the room. Djafer Noli— where might he be?

Suddenly, from close to the floor, an ugly gun-muzzle was poked round the door-jamb. That gun spat fire; a bullet slapped into the wall, close behind Haviland. Another, and glass splinters flew from a shattered mirror. Osman's gun blazed, and at once Noli's weapon vanished from sight.

Haviland leaped to the door, kicked it shut again. A chair, jammed under the knob, made a "Dutch lock" that would stand a lot of punishment.

"Out of here!" commanded the surgeon. With the word, he gestured at his own door. "Out, through my quarters!"

Already more footsteps, louder shouts, were ringing down the hallway.

A gasping groan from Osman. The Turk, gray-faced, stood leaning heavily against a table, clutching at his old wound.

"I—  I—"  he gasped. "Leave me— save yourself, Doctor! My hour— has struck. Get away— while you can!"

"Not by a damned sight! Buck up, man! Let's go!"

Crash! Crash! sounded ferocious, shivering blows on the braced door. medley of cries woke the night. Haviland gripped the Turk's elbow, half- steered and half-dragged him to the bedroom the Doctor had just left.

"And now, where?" panted the half-fainting Turk. "A window?"

"No! All barred, here. Out through the hall!"

"They are out there— Noli and the servants. It is suicide!"

"That's the way we're going, though! Remember there's a girl upstairs— we've got to get her!"

FROM the hallway, batterings against the sick-room door mingled with curses. Suddenly the door-panels crashed. The door disintegrated into flying fragments, and into the room tumbled, stormed, catapulted the attackers.

"Now!" whispered Haviland.

Unlocking the door from his bedroom into the hall, he cautiously peered out. For the moment, the hallway was deserted. All the attacking forces had swirled into the sick room. Haviland grabbed the wounded Turk, hauled him along the dim-lit corridor toward the door communicating with the stairs that led up to the third story of the ell.

In the just-vacated sick-room, shouts and oaths told of the attackers' rage at having found the place deserted, with Lumo Dzhuvani lying wounded and unconscious on the floor. A few seconds, and the enemy would be out again, hotter than bloodhounds on the trail.

The fugitives had reached the ell door and Haviland snatched the door open. Osman staggered through, then the Doctor. With the door locked from inside, Haviland ordered:

"Upstairs, now! Lean on me. Buck up, man— you can make it!"

Before they were halfway to the top, heavy feet came pelting along the hall. Blows began to crash against the door.

Turning, the surgeon let drive a couple of crackling shots through the door. A yelp of pain on the other side cheered him. "Tag!" he shouted. "You're it!"

Now he and "Mr. Osman" were at the stairhead. Along the third-floor corridor they scouted. A dim figure scuttled away— a woman, one of the servants, chattering unintelligible words.

A second, and Haviland seized her by the shoulder.

"Where's the room?" he snarled, and shook her. "The girl's room?"

"Skopeto Anglish!"

"Oh, to hell with you!" snapped Haviland, sensing that she meant, "I don't speak English."

But Osman intervened, addressing her in her own tongue. And with his gun threatening her, she pointed to a door and fumbled a key from a pocket of her voluminous peasant skirt.

The Doctor snatched it, unlocked and flung the door open. Neck-and-crop he hurled the servant through. The Turk tottered after her, and Haviland followed— just as the stairway door below crashed in. And as the Doctor slammed and locked the door, a fusillade from the attackers, now pelting madly up the stairs, swept the hall.

"It's you, Doctor?"

The voice, a bit uncertain in tone, came from behind him and turning, Roderick Haviland saw the girl of his puzzled speculations.

HER voice shook a little, as she faced him— an appealing figure, in pajamas with a gold-embroidered Chinese robe belted over them. Haviland caught impressions of tousled dark hair, of a lovely face, of eyes frightened yet brave.

"Here at last!" she whispered. "I knew you'd come! Oh, I—  I—"

"Never mind, no hysterics, now!" he grimly retorted. "Get busy tearing up your sheets— for ropes. We're going out that window!"

"It's barred!"

"You there, Osman! Guard the door while I rip those bars out. Nobody must get in— understand ?"

His eye fell on the cringing servant, and gripping her by one rawboned wrist, he dragged her to a clothes-closet. "In you go, there!"

The door, slammed and locked, removed her from any possibility of treason.

"Now, then!" And he pocketed his gun.

The floor-lamp seemed his one best bet. He snatched it up and wrenched the top fixtures off. This gave him a very formidable metal bar, more than four feet long.

"If you're not using that gun, let me have it?"

The girl, even as she ripped sheets, seemed to have warlike yearnings.

"Never you mind the gun! Your job is rope!"

HAVILAND ripped away the window-shade, flung up the window and thrust his lever between the sill and the lowest bar. He put all his strength into a wrenching twist. His lever bent—  but the iron bar started in its wooden embedding. As he took a fresh purchase, Djafer Noli's hoarse and raging voice drifted in through the door:

"Surrender, in there! Your only chance for life!"

"Mr. Osman," now unable even to stand, had sat down in a chair. Most unheroic he looked, huge and bandaged and short of wind; but from his chair he blasted away at the door. And silence fell, out there in the hallway.

Obviously, till the defenders of that room should have exhausted all their ammunition, direct attack was unwise.

Already straining at the next iron bar, Haviland dodged back as a jet of fire leaped from the shrubbery down there below, and sharp gunfire echoed. Jangles of shattered glass flew. A splinter caught the Doctor's cheek. Blood began to trickle down his jaw.

At least one of the enemy had got the range, from sheltering bushes whipped with rain and wind.

Haviland swung round away from the window, and with a sweep of his metal lever dashed out the one still-burning incandescent. Velvet dark swallowed the room. In that dark he turned back to the window, once more attacked the bars.

"Here's your rope, Doctor!" said the girl.

With furious strength he labored. Irons twisted, wrenched clear. Haviland seized them, hauled them inward.

"All right, now!" he whispered. "Rope, here!"

Gale-driven rain drenched him as he stood there. The girl put the sheet-rope into his hands. Strongly he knotted it to the bars; and down his cheek rain and blood, intermingled, trickled to his neck.

Haviland drew the gun from his pocket, thrust it into the girl's hands.

"Here you are, at last," he whispered. "I don't know how many shots are left in it, so go easy. But stand here by the window. If anybody shows, let him have it....

"YOU there, Osman!"

"I am coming, sir."

"He can't go out in just those pajamas!" the girl exclaimed. "In that storm? He'll die! Here!"

She ran to the bed, caught up a blanket, flung it round him. Another dash to the bureau yielded safety-pins. Swiftly she worked; and now the Turk was very unheroically bundled up, with woman's most effective implements.

"Out you go, now!" growled Haviland. "You're the advance-guard!" He was noosing the sheet-rope under Osman's blanket-swaddled arms. "When you get down there, cast loose. And shoot at anything that moves!"

Half climbing, half boosted, Osman struggled through the ragged opening. A moment, his blanket caught. Haviland ripped it clear, slid Osman over the rain-whipped sill, and down. Hard-holding, the Doctor paid out rope, easing the wounded man down... . Lord, but the Turk was a ponderous lump of a man! Haviland let him run fast. Suddenly the cord went slack. The Doctor twitched, and up the rope sprangled.

DOWN in the garden, a shot that crackled was answered by another in reply. Osman had been heard from! The party was getting good. Getting interesting, this Head of Iskander business !

He turned to the girl, looped the noose about her, under the shoulders. She had slipped on a thick, warm coat, over her gold-embroidered robe and her pajamas. Something like an electric charge thrilled through him, from head to heel.

"Up now, and out with you— but wait — my gun!"

"Let me keep it! I'm a good shot."

"All right! Down you go."

He swung her up and over the sill, out the broken bars, into that night of gale and slashing rain to where the wounded Turk stood guard with a pistol. Down spun the rope, burning his hands. It slackened.

Instantly Haviland scrambled out, went down by the run. More palm-scorching, but what the devil!

The ground seemed leaping upward to his feet. He landed with a terrific impact, plunged forward on hands and knees; scrambled up, and for a second or so stood there with the other two, crouching in the rain-drenched lee of the ell.

Silence. Disconcerting silence. Where might the enemy be lurking?

Whang!

Gunfire plunging from almost directly above shattered his thoughts. A bullet spudded the frozen grass. Attack was beginning from the room adjoining the girl's.

"To the garage!" cried Haviland.

Crouching, they fled across the gravel of the driveway, Haviland dragging the blanket-swathed Turk along. Osman panted hard, but suppressed groans.

THE dark was cleft by spitting fire from the boxwood hedge. Haviland felt a sort of heavy thrust on the left shoulder, a shock as if a frozen snowball had struck his flesh.

"My gun, quick!" he commanded the girl. Already they were at the garage door.

With a hand that quivered with shock, he jammed his gun-muzzle into the padlock, twisted it off. Now they were inside. The deadly snake— where might it be? No time now even to think of that! Haviland felt a queer numb paralysis in his right leg, something hot trickling down into his shoes.

"God's sake!" thought he. "When did they shoot me in the leg too? Damned if I ever felt it!"

He turned to his car, fumbled the doors open, and the girl climbed into the front seat. Then he grabbed the Turk, boosted him blanket and all into the rear, slammed the door.

Groping for the Albanians' long black machine, he yanked up its hood, felt for the distributor.

A crashing, point-blank shot into this, and the enemies' car was temporarily junk. Then he leaped back to his own car, scrambled in, grabbed the wheel, jammed his foot on the starter.

Infinitely welcome was the sound of its churning, as the engine caught. He flung on the lights.

The car leaped ahead, catapulted out of the garage, full-tilt.

"Get him!" yelled Haviland, at sight of a figure in the headlight-beams— a figure that crouched by the corner of the house.

A shot crashed right past his ear, as Osman fired through the windshield. Darkness swallowed the figure; the car surged past.

From upstairs, and from the bushes and the surrounding trees, rattled volleys. A slug caromed off the body of the car, another from a mudguard. Thank heaven, no tire had been winged!

Already the machine was far down the winding driveway. Ghost-like trees fled backward at dizzying speed, sweeping shadows through the rain-drenched night. Suddenly, through the headlight glares, swiftly cross-hatched by falling lances of water, loomed tall iron gates.

"Hold on!" the girl cried. "Stop while I open them."

Dazed though Haviland was, and weaving in his seat, he understood. Brakes clamped. The machine slid on rain-drenched gravel. Before it had stopped, the girl was out, was running to the gates.

Full glare of the lights revealed her with wet, tousled hair, eyes dancing with excitement, as she flung off chains, hauled the gates open, ran back and scrambled into the car beside him.

Once more the machine leaped ahead, swinging sharp left. A white concrete road began spinning by. Rain whipped the shattered windshield, flurried in through the bullet-break.

Dizziness grappled the Doctor. He swayed at the wheel. What was this roaring in his ears? He had just strength enough to brake to a halt.

"Sorry," he gasped. "But you— you'll have to take hold. I- I'm— all in—"

Black floods rose up about him; a humming dark, vaster than any night, wrapped him with Stygian mists. Nirvana itself received him as he dropped through infinite abysses.

SOME vague consciousness of life dimly told Haviland he was lying on his back in a most untidy place that stank of gasoline and oil. Beside him he dimly perceived a figure on silk-pajamaed knees, with a gold-embroidered robe over which a loose coat hung. From tremendous distances he heard:

"He's coming out of it!"

Then he felt cold water dashed in his face, and sensed the burning of strong liquor in throat and mouth.

"Gee, I was gettin' scared he wouldn't never make the grade, an'—"

It was another voice that spoke, a strange one.

"But where are those officers?" the girl impatiently demanded. The Doctor sensed that she was working over him, as he lay on a blanket. He felt strong pressure as from a tourniquet on his leg. His coat was off, shirt and underclothing torn away. And now the girl was bandaging his shoulder. "Oh, dear, why don't they come?"

"Listen!" exclaimed the strange man. Now Haviland perceived him as a tall, gangling young fellow in greasy filling-station uniform. "Get an earful o' that, eh?"

He held up an amazingly dirty hand, in signal for them to listen. Afar in the rain-swept night wailed the faint woooo wooo00 o00000! of sirens madly rushing. Swiftly that tumult swept nearer, grew ear-crashing, then sagged to silence as a brace of cars swooped up and hauled to a stand.

Men in blue, with leather leggings, jumped out. They stormed into the filling-station. A pale, spare man with a black bag knelt beside Haviland.

A PRIVATE room at St. Mark's Hospital. Shaded light from a broad window showed Dr. Haviland's face as white, almost, as the pillow where rested his head. Wan and spent he lay there, with bandaged arm, shoulder, face.

Flowers were everywhere; flowers that mocked the bleak November desolation outside. Behind the bed a nurse was holding a thermometer that she ought to have been using, but with which she was really only stalling. Too much was being said for her to lose anything by undue haste.

Another woman beside the nurse was in that sick-room; an opulent-haired girl with broad brows, steady dark eyes, and a sensitive mouth to which smiling and laughter were no strangers. About her there clung like an aura, a subtle, exotic perfume. And at the bed's foot stood a ruddy-faced man with thick, grizzled hair and a jovial smile.

"So you see, after all," he was saying, "even the greatest apparent mystery can all be cleared up, when you hold the key!"

A head-nurse popped in, briskly impersonal.

"Sorry, Mr. Fletcher, but your time is up."

"Hang the time! Give us five minutes more, or I'll withdraw my annual contribution to St. Mark's Hospital— so help me!"

"Oh, well—"  the head-nurse weakly temporized.

"YOUNG man," went on old Oliver Fletcher, "as sure as I'm a banker, you're one consummate idiot!"

"Thank you," the Doctor faintly smiled. "I've often suspected that, myself."

"Risking your life, sir, and nearly losing it, just to buck a gang like that! Of all outrageous, quixotic nonsense!"

"I dare say," admitted Haviland, while the head-nurse laid down a five-minute-more limit on the interview, and not a minute longer. "But after all, till I'd found out what the Head of Iskander really was, how could I quit?"

"Yes, that Iskander business— interesting, I'll admit. Iskander, with his head engraved on the great national seal. A racial talisman, that great seal— the Toorah, they call it."

"Kind of a fetich?"

"Exactly, sir. A symbol to every Albanian, from king to peasant, that so long as the Head remained in their keeping, the nation could never be permanently defeated or enslaved."

"Isn't it just too exciting?" exclaimed the girl. "To think of that wonderful great cameo disappearing from the capital of Albania, during the World War, and then turning up unrecognized in a Constantinople pawnshop, God knows how! And to think of Dad just happening to buy it for me for a pendant on a neck-chain—"

"And then I, like an idiot," said the banker, "showing it to some people on the Ile de France, a couple of months ago, when Diana and I were coming home!"

"Strange enough," Haviland agreed, "that it could have lain hidden all that time in Constantinople. But after the people on the steamer saw it, how did news of it reach Albania?"

"You can search me," shrugged the banker. "Some kind of subterranean service. Naturally, Albanians must have boiled over, right away. Imagine if our U. S. great seal were stolen and lost! No wonder some of the most astute and cultured of their people took a blood-oath to recover it. But instead of explaining to me its national significance and allowing me to restore it to its rightful owners, they must needs assume I was a conscienceless malefactor of great wealth, and undertake to steal it back again. Wires were pulled to get three Albanians invited to Diana's big blowout that night, and—"

"And then they staged the kidnaping?"

"Precisely," the girl laughed. "There I was, wearing the Head of Iskander. And away they whisked me from the party, cameo and all. If they'd just snatched it, and left me behind, of course it would have raised a hue-and-cry. So I was elected to go along and stay till they could get it safely carried by special courier back to Albania. They had that country-place all ready as a hide-out. Of course, after the Head was back in Albania, they were going to turn me loose. But—"

"But now comes the queerest part of it!" exclaimed old Fletcher. 'You see, I'd taken the cameo to a Turkish jeweler on Maiden Lane, to be set. Took it to Mr. Osman. And when he returned it to me, I saw at once—"

"He gave back only a replica?"

"Good guess! He recognized the Toorah, all right enough. Figured he might clean up a million or two, with it. But—"

"But the Albanians saw the substitution, and went gunning for the Turk?"

"Did they! Rather!" exclaimed Diana.

HER dark eyes glinted with diamond flecks, as the excitement of that adventure swept over her again. "What a night of it, when they found out, and made me tell who the Turk was, and went after him! He wouldn't tell where he had the genuine Toorah hidden, and in the mix-up one of them shot him. And after that—"

"Of course they simply had to keep him alive," the Doctor said, "or they'd never find out where the Head of Iskander had gone to. Has Osman given it up?"

"He has, I've seen to that!" And into the banker's eye crept a fighting gleam. "I'll say he's given it up— to dodge a pretty stretch in the pen. Want to see it?

"It? You mean— the Toorah itself?"

"No, the replica. The real heirloom is in safe-deposit."

Smiling, while Diana watched him, and the Doctor felt his pulses quicken, Oliver Fletcher drew from his pocket a jeweler's box, snapped it open, exposed a velvet bed on which reposed a magnificent cameo.

This gem, as Fletcher handed over the box, the Doctor saw was oval, and some two inches on its longest axis. Soft milky lights welled up from its depths, gleams almost mystic in their other-worldly soft splendor.

Boldly cut in relief on this magnificent object outstood a majestic face in profile: a face with deep-set eyes and a prominent nose, sweeping mustachios and beard, ringleted hair. The face of a master, a fighter, a leader of men, did one ever live!

FOR a long minute, the Doctor studied this extraordinary gem. The girl, her skin the color of cream and roses, watched him with a softening light in her dark eyes.

"Beg pardon," the head-nurse sharply cut in. "You really must go, now. The patient will be running a temperature, if you stay any longer."

"All right, all right," the banker assented, getting up. He took the jewel-box from Haviland, snapped it shut, slid it into his pocket. "Come along, Diana. Tomorrow's another day."

"A long way off, though," the girl regretfully murmured.

"And till then I'll be on hot grids," protested the Doctor. His bandaged face was drawn with anxiety. "Hot grids, sir, for you haven't told me yet what you're going to do with the Head of Iskander, now you've got it back. I'll run a temperature, sure enough, if I don't know that!"

"Young man," answered the banker, "are you too scientifically unimaginative to picture a transatlantic and Mediterranean cruise, on my yacht, for the purpose of restoring a national treasure, personally, to a grateful government? A number of less entertaining contingencies might possibly be thought of."

"By gad, what a trip for you two! And do I envy you— both of you!"

"Why envy us, when it's to be a threesome?" the banker laughed. "I'm the doctor now, and I prescribe a long sea-voyage, with plenty of fireworks at the end, over there in Albania. So now, young Hotspur, go to sleep! The quicker you get well, the better. Eh, Diana?"

_________________

8: Tartas The Terrible

H. Hesketh-Prichard

1876–1922

Top-Notch Magazine, May 1 1915

Hesketh Hesketh-Prichard

DINNER had just commenced for the Baron de Tartas. He sat alone in front of a heavy table ; a single attendant stood behind his chair. From time to time he lifted his dark, bearded face and laughed as a man does who enjoys a cynical recollection, but there was no mirth in the laughter nor any glint of humor in the hard, black eyes. "Pierre!" he called.

"Yes, monsieur le baron," was the reply.

"I grow lonely. I must have company."

"Yes, monsieur le baron," came the same reply.

"Is the Comte Andre de Lavelle at home?" asked the baron.

"Yes, monsieur le baron," repeated the man, with a grin.

"Then I shall be glad of his company."

Pierre crossed the room and touched, or seemed to touch, a spring in the wall, for a panel backed with iron, on which was painted a scene of the chase, slipped back, disclosing an aperture behind it. Across the mouth of this aperture, which evidently belonged to a secret chamber, thick iron bars showed in the lamplight.

"Light monsieur le comte's lantern," ordered De Tartas.

Pierre picked up a taper, and in another moment he had kindled a light which threw the whole interior into relief. An iron cage had been introduced into the secret chamber, and from between its bars a human face peered forth through a thatch of hair and beard uncut for months.

The Baron de Tartas rose in his place and bowed low. "Permit me to greet you, my dear comte," said he.

"You devil!" was the count's response.

"Tut, tut, this is very foolish! But I will pass it over since you are so young. Let me see, how old are you?" The man in the cage made no reply. "Let me see: You were twenty-three when—"

"When you betrayed and trapped me!" put in the prisoner.

"And you have enjoyed my hospitality for just eleven months. You are, therefore, twenty-four years old. By the way, Pierre, when did monsieur le comte dine last?"

"On Tuesday, monsieur le baron," said Pierre.

"And this is Thursday!" exclaimed the baron. "Tut, tut, he must be hungry! Take him a cup of this excellent soup, Pierre."

Pierre did as he was bidden, and passed a cup of soup through the bars.

The wretched prisoner seized it and swallowed the liquid.

"You love life," sneered the baron, watching him.

"While I live I hope!" said the count.

"For what, my good fool?" was the next question.

"That some day— some day you may lie at my mercy!"

The baron laughed long and loudly. "You are of a sanguine disposition," he remarked ; then, turning to Pierre: "Go! I desire a tête-à-tête with monsieur."

As soon as they were alone, the baron helped himself to a huge grilled bone. When he had cut off the greater part of the meat, he caught up the bone and hurled it at the man in the cage. "There'" he cried. "Feast, and be merry."

The bone struck the bars and fell to the ground. The Baron de Tartas, with his eyes fixed on the prisoner, continued his dinner. Dish after dish he ate and pushed away. Then at last he poured out a great bumper of wine and drained it.

"And now," said he, as he set it down, "I have news for you, my dear comte. I saw mademoiselle to-day. She is more beautiful than ever."

The prisoner in the cage, who had been sitting facing his tormentor, turned his back deliberately. De Tartas smiled. "It may interest you to know that I asked her whether she had changed her mind, and would become my wife."

The man in the cage sprang up. "And she refused! I know it. She refused with contempt and scorn !"

"Not at all, my dear Andre; you are wrong. She accepted— on one condition."

"What was that condition?" asked the prisoner.

"A condition which she thought impossible, but which we know is by no means so," replied his tormentor smoothly. "She imagines that you are not dead, and declares she will never accept me until she hears you renounce her with your own lips,"

"I will die first!" cried the count.

"No doubt, my young friend; but, unfortunately for you, it is not a question of dying but of living— ten, twenty— perhaps thirty— years like a blackbird in that comfortable cage. You fool! On the day when first I saw you cast your eyes on Adrienne, I had this chamber prepared. On the day she consented to marry you the cage was placed in it. Twenty days later my men waylaid you as you rode, singing, through the woods. As to Adrienne, she does not know what has become of you any more than the rest of the world, always excepting the good Pierre and myself. But one day she shall know— one day!"

The baron laughed suddenly and harshly. "Ah, if she saw you now what would she think of you? Would she love you still ? You have changed from the debonair creature she remembers ! The curling, dark hair, the clear, bronzed cheeks, where are they? But I forget! You have not seen yourself !"

De Tartas seized a mirror, and, crossing the floor, held it up to the cage. In it Andre saw reflected a thing hardly human, a wolfish face snarling from a mass of tangled hair. He recoiled.

"You give me an idea. She shall see you!" cried De Tartas. "She shall see you! Will she rush into your arms, I wonder, as she did under the chestnut trees ?"

ii

THE Baron de Tartas could climb, on the clearest day, to the highest tower of his castle, and north, south, east, and west, as far as he could see, stretched his own land ; and over its cowering inhabitants he held the right of the high justice, the middle, and the low. Far from the capital, and shut in by his mountains and forests, he lived practically the life of a robber chieftain, a last survivor of those the fear of whom once lay heavy upon the countryside. He was indeed a terrible man, and at sight of His cold eyes and pointed beard the children slunk into the thickets, and their parents trembled in the sunlight.

De Tartas was forty-three years old when first he saw Adrienne de Carteret, and from that hour he set himself to win her. Apart from her great beauty, she was well worth the winning, for she possessed broad lands in her own right. Her father was dead, and she lived with her mother in the Chateau of Noirmont.

At first De Tartas, who could be very pleasant when he so desired, had seemed to make some headway in her good graces, but at the coming of the young Comte de Lavelle all was changed.

The handsome youth, who possessed nothing but a few hundred barren acres in one of the farther of the Pyrenean valleys, came and saw and conquered, and was conquered in his turn. De Tartas found himself slighted, as he conceived, and forgotten, as he most truly was. And then, one day young De Lavelle had gone hunting in the dark mountain woods, and from that hunt he never returned. For De Tartas' men had waylaid and captured him after a desperate fight, and he was thrust, bleeding and wounded, into the cage which had been prepared for him.

A story was circulated afterward by the retainers of the baron that Lavelle had been slain by a bear; but, of course, his body was not recovered, and Adrienne continued to hope against hope that one day he would return to her.

After a decent interval, De Tartas renewed his suit, but Adrienne would not listen to him, exclaiming that if Andre were dead, she would' die unmarried. And when De Tartas hinted that the young man had loved and ridden away, she swore she would never believe that

Andre was fickle until she heard him renounce her with his own lips.

Such was the position of affairs on the summer evening when the baron held the mirror to his prisoner's eyes.

iii

THE Baron de Tartas rode out from his castle gate and struck across the hills for Noirmont. He had made up his mind to try a new move in his game, and he passed slowly arid thoughtfully through winding valleys, along forested hillsides, and stony ravines, till the sun was high, and he found himself overlooking a green hollow beyond which rose the heights of Noirmont— the dark mountain that gave its name to Adrienne's home. This was a huge castellated building that stood out boldly upon one of the lower spurs of the mountain.

As De Tartas urged his horse up the steep roadway to the gate, he argued with himself that fate, who favors the brave, should, by all the rules of chance, be with him in the daring bid for success that he was about to make. He believed that he had fathomed Adrienne's character, gauged her strength and her weakness ; and on this knowledge he relied.

She came through the shadows of the vaulted hall to meet him, and he trembled as he bent over her hand and kissed it, for his hopes were risen high, and he was shaken by the thought that this beautiful girl soon might be his wife.

She shuddered, and withdrew her hand, but looked straight at him with eyes as deeply blue as the summer sky. From the folds of lace crossed upon her bosom, her round neck rose proudly, its ivory accentuated by the splendor of her dark hair.

"Am I, then, so hateful to you?" he asked, stepping back a pace as if to make her look at him.

And, in fact, he was a personable man, for though no taller than herself, he had the torso and shoulders of a Hercules, his lean, large-featured face was far from uncomely, and once he had fancied that she had looked with kindness on him.

She shook her head slightly, as if his question needed no answer. "My mother is sleeping; she is wearied and ill," she said.

"It is you, mademoiselle, with whom I must speak," he replied. "Is it not time you ceased to mourn for Monsieur de Lavelle?"

"I must always mourn for him," said Adrienne.

"I can bear that, but give yourself to me!" pleaded the baron. "The years must teach you comfort; the law of the world is the law of change."

"I have told you that I do not believe that he is dead, and that I will never give him up until his own lips disclaim my promise."

"In that case, I have news for you," said De Tartas.

The blood slowly left her face. "He is alive?" she asked.

"Yes," replied the baron.

"I have always felt it." For a moment she stood, too moved to speak; then the words came: "Who told you? How did you find out? Where is he?"

De Tartas smiled as he watched her with his cold eyes. "You are asking a great many questions, mademoiselle. In my turn, I will ask you one only. It is this: Why should I tell you?"

She turned a gaze of horror upon him. He wilted a little under its reproach.

"Mademoiselle," he continued, "every man must fight for his own hand, since there is never another to fight for him. And you know that, though Monsieur de Lavelle is so fortunate as to possess your love to-day, I still have hopes."

"Which can never be fulfilled," said the girl coldly.

"Exactly— which you say can never be fulfilled. But what if I were to find a way to change your resolves, perhaps even your affections?"

"It is not possible," she told him.

"Will you permit me to make the attempt?" asked De Tartas.

"To what end? No, monsieur le baron, I will not permit you to make the attempt, seeing it would be useless."

"You forget that if you refuse to accept my terms you will hear no more of Monsieur de Lavelle," suggested her suitor.

She looked at him with loathing and contempt. "What are your terms?" she asked.

"Come to my chateau and I will answer your questions, and tell you all I know of the whereabouts of the Comte de Lavelle," promised the baron.

"My mother is not well enough to make the journey," parried Adrienne.

"There is no need for her to do so. You must come alone; you can return before dawn."

"You ask me to come at night, and in secret!" exclaimed the girl in astonishment. "You know it is impossible ; I will not!"

"Pierre shall meet you in the valley and bring you back again," said De Tartas.

Then, as she stared at him, the baron bowed low before her. "I go, mademoiselle," said he, "but I will return tomorrow. If you do not then agree to my condition, you will never hear of your lover again!"

iv

ADRIENNE met De Tartas on the terrace, when he came again. "Do you mean to trust me?" he asked.

"How can I be certain that it is not all a lie, this news you promised me of Monsieur de Lavelle?" she said uncertainly.

"By this." De Tartas put his hand to his breast and drew out a miniature.

Adrienne could not suppress a cry; it was a likeness of herself which she had given to De Lavelle after their betrothal. "He is dead! He never would have parted with this while he lived!"

"I swear to you that he lives, mademoiselle, and I will add this— it may be that he is in danger. He may, perhaps, be saved if—"

"I will come to-night!" she interrupted hastily.

"That is well," approved the baron. "The moon rises in good time. It will show you the path along the valley, and Pierre shall be waiting for you by the Dent-du-Chat. Au revoir, mademoiselle."

The Baron de Tartas strode into his gloomy hall. He had been watching for the last two hours from his battlements, and had just seen, under the Dent-du- Chat, the flicker of the little beacon which he had ordered Pierre to light as a signal that Adrienne was on her way.

In the hall a sumptuous feast was laid out upon the table. A roast lamb stood at one end facVd by a young swan of which the baron kept many pinioned upon his waters. Dishes of fruit and beakers of wine glinted and shone in the flaring lights. De Tartas glanced at the preparations and nodded his head in satisfaction; then he stepped across and touched the spring which rolled back the secret panel, and disclosed the cage upon the straw-strewn floor of which crouched De Lavelle.

"Ah, my dear comte!" said he. "You will perceive that my table is laid for two."

The prisoner did not move. De Tartas laughed. "I doubt if even your quick intelligence could guess the name of the visitor I am about to have the honor of entertaining."

Still the prisoner did not move. Many a time had De Tartas tortured him with the sight of food.

"It is just eleven o'clock," continued the baron. "Eleven at night, for I suppose it is necessary to add that— since except when in my great mercy I push back the panel, you pass your time like a mole in the darkness."

Still the prisoner lay inert upon the straw.

"Ah !" said the baron. "I see that I must tell you exactly what has occurred. Yesterday I did myself the honor of visiting Mademoiselle Adrienne and of telling her that I had news of you."

"You told her that!" said the prisoner in a hollow voice.

"Yes, indeed I" said the baron. "And I added that if she would come here to-night I would communicate this news.

"Adrienne here to-night!" cried the prisoner.

The baron laughed. "Does not her coming rejoice you? Will she not be overjoyed to meet you once again ? Can you doubt it, since you have seen yourself as you now are? She, who is so proud, so fastidious. But enough of that ; when you see her, you will tell her that you no longer love her, and that you give her back her promise. If you do this, you shall be set free before morning."

"And if I refuse?" demanded the prisoner.

"Why, then we shall enjoy ourselves together for many years to come— you and I. Be wise, my dear comte; the sunshine and the winds are so very pleasant. Not that the choice will be a very difficult one, for she will spurn you and loathe you. But there are one or two details concerning the reasons which have caused me to put you in this cage that I shall expect you to corroborate. First, then, I captured you not because Mademoiselle Adrienne loved you and I loved Mademoiselle Adrienne— oh, no! But because, although you were betrothed to her, you were paying your addresses to Diane l'Oiseau, the daughter of one of my foresters. I, hearing of this, and being naturally and righteously enraged at your perfidy, seized you and punished you. Do you ttnderstand?"

"You wish me to acknowledge and bear witness to the truth of these lies before Mademoiselle de Carteret? You forget that she will question this Diane," said the count scornfully.

"She will say anything that I tell her," the baron assured him. "Understand that. You have your choice. It is not a hard one. On the one side freedom, on the other such a life as few have endured since the beginning of the world. Ah, that must be Pierre. They have come!"

The baron's quick ear had caught the sound of horses in the courtyard. He pressed the spring, and the panel shot forward, hiding the cage.

Soon after, Pierre threw open the door. "It is mademoiselle," said he.

"Good! Go! Wait with the horses in the courtyard. See that they are fed."

Meantime, Adrienne had advanced into the room. Pale though she was, she made a beautiful picture, with her blue eyes and her raven hair against the dark and rugged background of the somber hall of De Tartas, who kissed her hand with an exaggeration of respect.

"You will eat after your ride?" said he. "See, I have drawn upon all the resources of my poor estate."

"I am grateful," replied Adrienne, "but I am not hungry. I have come here for a purpose. I desire to fulfill that purpose and then depart."

"Tut, tut !" cried the baron. "I shall take it ill if you thus refuse my hospitality on this, your first visit to my poor chateau. Come, sit down and taste some of this swan that has fattened in a lake surrounded by chestnut trees, and on the shores of which are beds of wild celery."

Adrienne sighed, and the two took their seats at the table.

v

THE baron had arranged the lights so that they fell full upon his visitor's lovely face, from which, even as he ate and drank, he hardly removed his eyes. Again and again Adrienne tried to lead the conversation in the direction that she desired, but the baron baffled her with his laughter and his boasting of his woods and his deer, and of the bears and wolves he had slain — for the man was a great hunter, and, after his infatuation for Adrienne, the chase was the passion of his life.

At length, however, the meal was over, and Adrienne broke out: "Have you lured me here with a lie, that you evade all my questions?"

"Your pardon, mademoiselle," he answered courteously. "I am sorry if I have offended you. I will make immediate reparation. You desire to know many things concerning Monsieur de Lavelle. You shall know them all. First, then, I have the honor to inform you that Monsieur de Lavelle is here, and has been here during the last eleven months."

"What!" cried Adrienne. "This is incredible! Why have you kept him hidden?"

"For a very good reason, mademoiselle. I must ask you to listen to the facts of the case. They are simple. You will hear me?"

Adrienne inclined her head.

"You must know, then, that from the day I saw you I loved you. No, no, mademoiselle, do not interrupt me"— for Adrienne had made a movement of anger— "it is all part of what I have to tell you. I say that I loved you, and until the coming of this De Lavelle, it may be that you looked not unkindly upon me. But before long I realized that for you there was but one man in the world, and, mademoiselle, such was my love for you that I was willing it should be so, provided I could assure myself that that man was indeed worthy of the great good fortune which had befallen him.

"Once I was assured of this, I decided that I would wish you happiness for the last time, and retire here to my hunting and solitude and my memories of you. But I am the lord of no small domain, and whatever may occur within my marches comes to my ears sooner or later— generally sooner, dear mademdiselle.

"And now my men told me that you were not the only woman for Andre de Lavelle. There lives over yonder"— the baron waved his hand to the east — "a certain forester, Jean l'Oiseau. He has a daughter, Diane is her name, of whose beauty even you in your Chateau of Noirmont may have heard. Well, they told me that your betrothed, when he left you, rode straight to the hut in the forest and spent the evenings of the days he passed with you wandering through the woods, his arm around her, and his black locks mingled with her golden ones."

"Do you expect me to believe that?" asked Adrienne scornfully.

"You will believe it before you leave this hall," the baron assured her. "But let me continue: When I learned of De Lavelle's treachery, rage overpowered me, and at first it was in my mind to ride to you. I should have done so had I not realized, and rightly, it seems, that you would laugh me to scorn. So I thought of another way in which I might save you. Near the hut of Jean, the forester, I placed an ambush, and presently the fox was in the trap. His lips were upon Diane's when they captured him, and dragged him before me. He flung himself upon the ground and begged me to keep silence. Yes, he offered to renounce you if I would let him go, but my wrath was to be measured only by my love, and, swayed by it, I cast him into prison."

"And then— then?" asked the girl breathlessly.

"I treated him as he deserved. Did I do right?" said De Tartas.

"You left me without word of him all these months!" she cried.

"For your own sake. I knew how painful it would be to you to realize that you had been betrothed to a creature so unworthy— a traitor."

"I thank you, but I condemn no man unheard," said mademoiselle proudly. "You say that Andre is imprisoned here; I must see him and permit him to defend himself."

"I was about to suggest that you should do so," returned the baron smoothly.

She had been far from expecting this easy acquiescence. "In that case, the sooner the better. Shall I accompany you?" she added, for the baron had risen.

"There is no need. I keep him close to me, and watch over him very carefully." With these words, De Tartas left the table and walked slowly across the hall.

When he arrived opposite the secret spring, he turned and faced Adrienne, who was following his movements with a gaze of mingled agony and expectation. Then, as he touched it, the panel drew back into its socket. De Tartas lifted a lamp.

"There!" cried he. "There is the traitor who insulted you !"

The figure in the cage rose to its knees, blinking, for the sudden change from utter darkness to light rendered him blind for a moment. The next he seized the bars of the cage, shaking and tearing at them like some, imprisoned animal.

Adrienne stood still. The horror of the moment completely deprived her of the power of speech. At last words came: "Who is this? Who is this?"

"You do not recognize Comte Andre de Lavelle?" mocked De Tartas.

"Oh, it cannot be! It is impossible! Andre! Andre! It is not you— it cannot be you!" she cried.

"Adrienne, it is indeed I!" came Andre's voice.

Adrienne turned on De Tartas. "You have done this, this ! There is no word J know that would describe you !"

"All for your sake, mademoiselle," said the baron. "You forget that; and you have not questioned him. Ask him of the kisses he gave to Diane l'Oiseau, and of how he confessed to me that he cared not for you, but for your possessions."

"Andre," cried Adrienne, "tell me this is not true. I know you too well; it is a lie, a wild invention. Tell me, and I will believe you. Oh, my Andre, my poor Andre, tell me!"

"Your Andre!" repeated the man in the cage. "Do you mean that? He said you would turn from me with hatred and disgust, that you would loathe the sight of me, who have no longer the appearance of a human being."

"Bah!" cried the baron. "You see how he shirks an answer. If you do not answer at once I will press this spring."

"Then I will answer, most noble Ambrose, Baron de Tartas, and high seigneur of Jaurac," replied the prisoner contemptuously. "You have said that I walked in the woods with Diane l'Oiseau, and that I renounced the Lady Adrienne in my fear of what you might do to me in your righteous indignation. I will answer, oh, yes, I will answer that charge. Diane I never heard of till an hour ago, when you told me that if I acknowledged my love for her I should be free before dawn. As to the renunciation which you commanded me to make, I have this to say: I love the Lady Adrienne and her only, and her I will continue to love until death !"

The baron sprang forward. "Do you understand what you say?" he cried. Then, seeing in Adrienne's eyes how utterly his plan had miscarried, he broke into uncontrollable rage. "Do you realize that the words you have spoken condemn you to spend the rest of your life where you are?"

"I shall at least have the sweet memory of your chagrin to keep me company," said the prisoner.

"Have no fear, Andre, I will raise the countryside. I will rescue you !" cried Adrienne.

The baron smiled. "The castle can stand a two years' siege," said he, "even if you can prevail upon people to come and besiege it, which I think you will find it hard to do. Besides, I will deny that Monsieur de Lavelle is here."

"And I will tell every one that I saw him myself/' said the girl.

"Do not forget to add the fact that the hour at which you saw him was in the middle of the night, and that you came alone of your own free will to the Chateau de Tartas !" the baron reminded her.

A haughty smile crossed Adrienne's features. "Can you imagine that I will shrink from telling the whole truth?" said she.

"Adrienne ! Adrienne ! You give me courage to die, not once, but many times," cried Andre.

"You will need it," said the baron grimly. "And now, mademoiselle, my last word: Wed me, and this man shall have his liberty. Refuse, and return home, and when you lie upon your bed, think that he and I are together, and that some of the old implements of torture, which my ancestors used so wisely, are still to be found in my castle. Those thoughts will give you pleasant dreams. And now I will leave you to talk it over and to make your choice. You shall have ten minutes together. I will wait in the next room."

vi

THE moment they were alone, Adrienne rushed forward and caught the hand which Andre had thrust through the bars, and covered it with kisses.

"There is no one like you in the world, Adrienne!" he told her.

"Can I not free you ?" she asked.

"No, he carries the key upon his person." "

"It may be possible to break the padlock," suggested Adrienne frantically.

"To do so would need the strength of six men, and is far beyond yours. Adrienne, how did you find the courage to come here ? Do you realize the risks you have run for my sake?"

"I am running no risks," she said calmly.

"What do you mean ?"

"I have a vial of poison. I brought it in case— in case he should refuse to let me go."

"Poison!" whispered Andre. "You have a vial of poison? Where?"

"In my bosom."

"Then I pray you to put some of it in a cup of wine and give it to me. Once I am dead, his threats will have no power for you."

But Adrienne's eyes were blazing with a light that Andre de Lavelle had never seen there before. She crossed swiftly to the table, and lifted the great flagon of Tarragona wine that stood upon it. From this she poured out a cup, and then, shielding the flagon with her body from any gaze which might be turned upon it from the direction of the door, she emptied into it the vial of poison. Next, with a firm step, she went to the door and called out the name of the baron.

It was a full minute before he came, for he had gone to give some orders to Pierre. As he entered the hall, Adrienne spoke. "I have decided," said she.

"And your decision?" asked her host.

"That I will marry you when and where you wish," and, lifting the cup of Tarragona wine, she drank it to its dregs. "And so I pledge you, my lord and master!"

The baron stared for a moment; then, springing forward, he filled a cup from the great flagon, and, turning to his prisoner, who was clinging to the bars and pressing his bearded face against them, he shouted:  "She comes readily to my arms; does she not, my most dear comte? I drink, I drink deep to the loveliest of wives !"

De Tartas placed the cup, empty, upon the table ; then, seized with a new thought, he filled it again.

"And you, too, shall drink— you, too!" he cried, and he handed it through the bars of the cage.

Andre de Lavelle took it and held it up as if about to drink.

For a moment, Adrienne's heart stood still, for she had no idea how long the poison would need for its work, and she knew that, did the baron suspect anything, all hope would be over. But De Lavelle was equal to the occasion. With a wild gesture, he dashed the cup to the floor of his cage.

"I do not drink from the cup that has been touched by the lips of a traitor!"

The baron laughed. "As you wish. Those lips have other work to do," he said, and advanced toward Adrienne.

She shrank back from him, and then, as he still came on, she saw that his steps were not steady and that his eyes were filled with a strange wildness. He caught her in his arms. She struggled, fighting him off. Suddenly, without warning, his jaws snapped together, and he fell forward upon his face.

"He carries the key in his belt," said the prisoner.

In a moment more, Adrienne had opened the cage, and, blessing her name, Andre de Lavelle crept across the threshold. It was the first time for eleven months, so he could not stand upright, but shambled round the hall with uncouth and hesitating paces.

He came to the body of the baron. "He is not dead !" he cried. "See ! He moves!" De Tartas' eyes were open and his hands groped feebly. De Lavelle bent over him. "He is recovering! The poison was much diluted in the great flagon," he cried again. "Ah! Heaven is not unjust, after all!"

He plucked the pistol from the baron's belt and put it in the breast of his own shirt; afterward, with a strength born of fury which none could have believed him to possess, he dragged De Tartas to the cage and thrust him into it, locking the door upon him. Then he touched the secret spring, and the panel shot back.

"However loudly he shouts, he will not be heard. The triple iron deadens all sound."

"Quick, Andre, let us leave this dreadful place!" cried Adrienne.

"Where are the horses?" he asked.

"Pierre is waiting with them in the courtyard."

Swiftly they passed down the stair, and stood in the shadow of the arch. In the courtyard they could see two horses tied to rings in the wall, but Pierre was not visible. They ran across, untied the bridles, and mounted.

"Away, Adrienne, my darling. Ride on!" said Andre. "I follow!"

Without a word, Adrienne turned her horse down the steep incline from the castle gate, and soon they were flying along the track between the chestnut trees!

Andre de Lavelle watched until a bend in the road hid her from his sight. Then he lifted up his voice and shouted: "Pierre!"

"Coming, Monsieur le Baron, coming!" called out a voice, and a man, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, ran out from a firelit doorway in which he had been snoring.

De Lavelle, wrapped in the baron's cloak, sat in the saddle with the pistol aimed carefully over the crook of his arm. At the shot Pierre fell. Then Lavelle gave rein to his horse, and galloped after Adrienne.

By dawn two of the three human beings alive who knew the secret of the cage were nearing Noirmont. The third was beating the bars with bleeding hands and screaming: "Pierre! , Pierre! Pierre!"

But Pierre came not, and the thick walls held their secret for many a year.

___________________

9: Death Marks the Spot

Patrick Lawrence
fl 1936

Clues Detective Stories March 1936

Possibly the only story by this otherwise unknown author

AS A STAGE SETTING for a murder, the scene lacked authenticity. The nearly deserted street drowsed in the quietude of the early-morning hours. The doorman of the swanky Graceland Arms, idling under the marquee which:ran out over the sidewalk to the curb, cursed the dullness of his life and wished for quitting time.

Diagonally across the street a nighthawk cab driver lounged under his. wheel and yarned sleepily with a patrolman who leaned against the door of the cab, languidly twirling his nightstick. Behind them on the sidewalk a loutish news vender periodically raised his voice and croaked of battle, murder and sudden death in the early editions.

The scene was innocent. enough— spuriously innocent. For on this stage the stark drama of murder awaited the lifting of the curtain. The supporting cast was on stage. And, as the bored doorman retreated into the lobby of the building for a surreptitious cigarette, the principal made his entrance.

A sleek, black sedan purred to a smooth stop before the Graceland Arms. In the rear seat a swarthy, heavy-jowled man, immobile except for the vigilant flickering of his heavy-lidded black eyes and the rhythmic rippling of jaw muscles as he chewed a cigar, waited in stolid expectancy until a second sedan, carrying four silent, alert figures, ranged alongside. Two of the convoying car's occupants alighted briskly, scanned the street with hard-eyed thoroughness, their eyes lingering distastefully on the policeman.

"All clear, boss," said one of them, opening the door of the first -car. The passenger grunted and. stepped to the sidewalk.

"Pull up behind and wait," he snapped. "I'll see what the hell this is: all about."

He moved toward the entrance, and his two bodyguards resumed their places in. the car. Across the street the patrolman glanced at his wrist watch and sauntered toward a call box in front of the Graceland Arms.

Murder caught its cue.

The taxicab lurched into roaring motion, swerved across the pavement, and the tranquillity of the night was ripped into hysterical shreds by the raving chatter of submachine-gun fire from its darkened interior. '

Belching death-laden streaks of orange flame, the cab zoomed past the two sedans, splashing a crazy pattern of cracks on their bulletproof glass, blasting chips from the marble facade of the building.

And on the. sidewalk the black-eyed man threw his arms futilely before his bowed head, writhed in a jerky dance of death, plunged headlong, blood-streaked foam bubbling through clenched teeth. His hands beat convulsively, clawed at the concrete, then stilled.

The cab spurted down the street, and, close behind, the carload of guards took up the symphony of death, hurling screaming torrents of vengeful lead. From mid-street the policeman went into action, flung a few shots after the fleeing cab; then, apparently realizing the impotence of a single gun in that hurricane of bullets, hurried toward the sprawling figure on the sidewalk.

He bent over the fallen man, something in his hand flashing in the light, and worked swiftly. From the corner the newsboy shouted hoarsely. Down the block the street lights glinted on shield and brass buttons as another officer pounded toward the murder scene. Above the corpse the first policeman straightened, threw a sharp glance at his oncoming colleague, and stepped over the crumpled form into the lobby.

"Telephone?" he barked curtly to the white-faced clerk behind the desk. Dumbly, the clerk pointed a trembling finger toward a corridor behind the desk inclosure, then crept cautiously to the door, staring fearfully at the oily, dark pool gathering sluggishly on the sidewalk,

The second patrolman panted up, bent briefly over the body, then opened the call box with his brass key, yanked down the receiver.

"Clancy calling," he said crisply. "A murder in the street at Maple and Dearborn."

ABOVE the clamor of the agitated, half-dressed crowd in the 'street-a'siren wailed dolorously, and 'the crew of 'a radio car cleared a path for a gleaming, black roadster that edged through the throng to the curb.

A youthful figure, jaunty in camel's-hair coat and snap-brim hat, slid out and strode to the outskirts of the crowd that ringed the lifeless heap on the walk. Murmuring excuses, the newcomer wormed his way through the press, came sharply against the bulky back of a loudvoiced citizen, overcoat over pajamas, who blocked his path obdurately while he mouthed denunciations of the police.

The young man laid a polite hand on his shoulder.

"Excuse me, please."

The fat shoulder twitched impatiently.

"Who are you shoving around, you?" roared the critic of the police department, glowering backward.

Abruptly the polite pressure of the languid hand tightened into a steely grip which bit deep into the fat shoulder, and the suave courtesy hardened into crackling, metallic command: "Out of the way!"

Slack-jawed, the fat man shrank away from the cold violence glinting from narrowed, gray eyes. The dapper young man turned away, and the fat man regained a fraction of his voice.

"Who's he think he is?" he blustered feebly. A hard-bitten newspaper photographer, setting up his tripod near by, surveyed him humorously.

"That, my fat friend,' he said, "is probably the closest you have ever been to a sock on the jaw. That is Lieutenant Barry Court of the homicide squad, and I'd rather get between a hungry tiger and a rare roast of beef than between Court and a job of work."

"A detective?" gasped the fat man. "He looks like an actor!"

The description was not badly worded. There was little in the appearance of the meticulously dressed Court to suggest the ruthless man hunter. Faultless tailoring softened the ruggedness of his wiry figure into deceiving slenderness, and the engaging openness of his lean countenance masked lightning sagacity and blind courage which had carried him upward through the detective division to a rank inconsistent with his years.

Acknowledging the respectful salutes of the uniformed officers around the corpse, Court said: "Caught the flash on the radio on the way home,"

He jerked up his beautifully creased trousers legs, squatted on the sidewalk and stared at the distorted countenance of the slain man, eyes stonily wide, teeth bared in the grimace of death, the jaws still clamped on the dead cigar.

Court whistled in astonishment.

"Slick Morrell, the mob leader who reformed— like hell," he said softly. "Come to his reward after a full life— a very full life. What happened?" he asked the patrolman on the beat, who stood behind him, a puzzled frown on his face.

"There's something damned funny about this, lieutenant. There was a plant in a taxicab across the street, and they cut Morrell down as he started into the building. The doorman and the clerk say there was another copper in the street during the shooting, and that he fired after the murder car. He came over here, turned Morrell over, went into the lobby and asked for a telephone. Then I guess he vanished off the earth. At least, he hasn't come out again, and the clerk says all the other doors are locked. There's a squad going through the building now, and they may find him."

"Hm-m-m! Too many policemen!" Court stared down abstractedly at the corpse, then his eyes flared sudden interest as they caught a metallic gleam. Swiftly he stooped over the body, fumbled in the folds of the gaudy topcoat. Wonderingly he examined the shining thing that had attracted his quick eye, and his brow wrinkled as he fingered the fabric of Morrell's coat and vest, slashed in a dozen places.

COURT stood up, his preoccupied gaze sweeping casually around the circle of morbidly interested spectators. A pair of eyes, dimly familiar, caught his fleetingly. When he sought them again he decided he was mistaken. There was no one in the crowd he knew. In the distance a gong clanged resonantly.

"All right, officer— here comes the ambulance. Take the mortal remains of Mr. Morrell around the corner to Eckstein's morgue. Mark him held for the coroner. Come in here, you."

He motioned Morrell's chauffeur, still quaking from his narrow escape.

"What do you know about this?" Court demanded curtly.

"I don't know anything, chief," whined the beetle-browed driver. "All I know is the boss gets a hurry call from his girl— she lives in this building— and we beat it out here from the hotel downtown. The boss gets out of the car, and they cut loose with the gun from the taxicab."

Court quirked an inquiring eyebrow at a detective who had just emerged from the elevator.

"Check on the girl angle, Brannigan?"

"O. K. on that, lieutenant. We found her tied and gagged in her apartment. Two guys busted in and fried her finger tips with cigarettes until she called Morrell and told him to come up here. One was a big blond guy with a beard, a big nose, and glasses. The other was Short and dark."

Court turned back to the driver and held up the object he had found beside the body— an open pocketknife, the blades honed to a razor edge.

"Ever see this before?" The driver shook his head.

Court shrugged and turned again to Brannigan: "Turn this place inside out. That phony copper is important. I'll call the bureau and send out a pick-up on him."

He strode to the desk, picked up a telephone indicated by the clerk. "Give the radio and the teletype a pick-up on a hoodlum masquerading as a harness bull, sergeant— somewhere on the north side, probably— wanted in the Morrell killing." At his elbow, the clerk eyed a man slipping through the lobby, threw a startled glance at a hatrack behind the desk, and yelled: "Stop that man! He's got my coat and hat!" Court dropped the telephone, barked a command to halt. Without checking his stride, the fugitive veered and shot through a pocket. A long rent appeared magically in Court's sleeve. The detective's gun coughed, and the fleeing man stiffened spasmodically, fell with a jarring thud on the threshold. Court knelt beside him, noted the jagged hole in the temple, and yanked open the coat. Underneath, the man was clothed in police brass and blue.

"Gunner Kersten!" said Brannigan, over Court's shoulder. "The last survivor of the Bugs Jernigan mob!"

"Maybe," said Court laconically. He looked again at the keen-edged knife in his hand.

FROM the crowd choking the street outside the door, a tall, bearded man, professorial in appearance, detached himself and drifted away. At the corner he turned and hurried in the darkness to a sedan parked midway in the block. A dim figure crouched at the wheel. The tall man cursed luridly in bitter undertones,

"Kersten made a mess of it, and that lousy copper, Court, rubbed him out, He found the knife, and I think he's beginning to get ideas. He's lived too long, anyway. We've got to work fast. Listen—"

At the morgue Court went through Morrell's clothing and the contents of his pockets with minute care. Then he drove slowly downtown to the detective bureau, groping mentally for light on Morrell's killing and Kersten's seemingly stupid venture with the knife.

A block away, in a street parallel with Court's route, a black car kept carefully abreast. When Court parked in front of the bureau it eased into a parking space down the street, and the driver settled down doggedly to wait.

The desk sergeant hailed Court: "The chief wants you in his office, lieutenant."

Outside the office door Court paused a moment, listening to the hard, measured thump of heavy feet inside— Dan O'Malley, chief of detectives, trying to walk off a mood of exasperation. Court knocked and went in.

"You're out late, chief."

O'Malley, massive and grayhaired, wheeled and glowered at Court, swore colorfully around the frayed stump of a cigar.

"The damned newspapers! My telephone has been red-hot ever since Morrell was blasted. Sit down." The chief motioned to a chair, then planted himself squarely before the younger man, shook a gnarled forefinger in his face.

"Court, we've got to produce, or some heads will fall, yours and mine among them. I've bragged to the papers that the hoodlums were through in this town, and I thought I was right, since we found Bugs Jernigan's body in a grave of quicklime. With Jernigan dead and Morrell out of the rackets, the last two warring mobs folded up for lack of leadership.

"And now, within a week, they slap us in the face with two killings— Dr. Hanson, the renegade surgeon who did the repair work for the mobs, found in the lake with his skull beaten in; and to-night Morrell, who had become, in effect, a law-abiding citizen."

Court laughed harshly. "Yeah— a law-abiding  citizen— cruising around town in a bulletproof car with a carload of gorilla militia behind him. Nuts! And another thing: a few minutes ago I killed Gunner Kersten, trying to slide away from the scene of Morrell's murder in a police uniform. The copper on the beat scared him away from Morrell's body after the shooting, and he dropped this."

Court tossed the knife on the chief's desk. O'Malley looked at it curiously, tried the edge with a cautious finger.

"Finished him with a knife! They wanted to be sure, didn't they?"

"There wasn't the slightest scratch of a knife on Morrell. I went to the morgue to see. But his clothes were slashed to ribbons."

COURT hunched forward in his chair and tapped the desk with an emphatic forefinger.

"Chief, there's something deeper than a routine hoodlum killing back of this. You know the story we've pieced together from stool pigeons and blind tips.

"Bugs Jernigan and Slick Morrel belonged to Soapy Landers' mob when the Northern Trust Co's armored car was hoisted. The loot was nearly half a million in cash, But the money was hot— the bank had the serial numbers of the bills. So Landers didn't cut it up— he planted it somewhere, even though Jernigan, always a big spender, demanded his split. They quarreled; Jernigan formed a mob of his own and battled Landers and Morrell.

"Later, Landers was killed; Jernigan disappeared, and Morrell announced that he had gone legitimate. Everything was serene.

"But if Jernigan was dead and Morrell was out of the rackets, why didn't Morrell dare make a move without trailing a flock of bodyguards? Why was Doc Hanson bumped off? Why should Kersten try to knife Morrell, when he was already ten pounds overweight with machine-gun slugs? What became of the Northern Trust Co.'s dough? Why was some one so anxious for us to know Jernigan was dead? Gunner Kersten was Bugs Jernigan's pal. Does that suggest anything to you?"

Chief O'Malley threw up his hands in a gesture of disgust.

"You're a good officer, Barry, but you've got a single-track mind. You've never admitted the body we found was Jernigan's, although it wore his rings and watch and Jernigan's dentist identified his false teeth. Even though the body was so far gone we couldn't get any fingerprints, the proofs were good enough for me. Hell! Look here!"

O'Malley fumbled in a desk drawer, tossed a police circular across the desk to Court. "You know there isn't a hole dark enough to hide a man with a mug like that, with that picture in every police station and sheriff's office in the country."

Court stared reflectively at the face on the circular— a dark face, warped almost out of human semblance by a jagged scar which ran obliquely across the forehead, across the shattered and twisted bridge of the nose, and into a cheek; wide, staring, black eyes—

Court's pulse leaped. He rose tensely from his chair and laid the circular back on the desk.

"Chief," he grated, "I saw Bugs Jernigan to-night!"

Dan O'Malley's eyes grew frosty and his jaw set grimly.

"Lieutenant, if this is your idea of a joke, it has gone far enough. My orders to you are to bring in the man who killed Slick Morrell. That's all." O'Malley motioned to the door and turned away.

Court walked slowly down the hall toward the elevators, mentally recreating the scene around Morrell's body, cudgeling his brain to recall the face which went with the eyes that had caught his casual glance— the same eyes that stared at him from "Bugs" Jernigan's picture. He cursed himself angrily for his carelessness, tried desperately to think how he might pick up the killer's trail.

"Lieutenant Court!" The desk sergeant's voice recalled him from his bitter reverie. "Here's something that might interest you. Some one stuck up the attendant over at Eckstein's morgue, made him open up the cooling room, then knocked him cold with the butt of a gun. Doesn't seem to be a stickup— nothing taken."

Court bounded down the stairs without waiting for the elevator, leaving the dumfounded sergeant gaping after him, flung himself into his car, and hurtled northward through the dribble of early-morning traffic. His eyes narrowed and his lean face set in grim lines. Stickup? Not by a hell of a lot! This was the trail of murder!

"Even with him shot they won't let Morrell rest," he muttered to himself. "I'll bet a month's pay there's a knife wound in Morrell's body now! Damn me for a blind fool!" Court slid his car to a screeching halt before Eckstein's morgue. As he flung open the door and raced across the pavement another car rolled by, made a lazy U-turn and parked near the corner.

IN THE OFFICE the personnel of a scout car worked over the palefaced morgue attendant, trying to stanch the flow of blood from a deep gash in his scalp.

"What did he look like?" queried one of the officers as Court entered.

"Big, with glasses—"

"Big nose, blond hair and beard," snapped Court. "Am I right?"

The attendant nodded agreement.

"He's had a big night, that guy," said Court grimly. "But it may be his last one." He dispatched the scout car to a hospital with the injured man, then hurried down a corridor to the open door of the cooling room, past the sheeted rows of corpses, directly to the slab which supported the bullet-torn body of "Slick" Morrell.

Hastily he jerked back the sheet, Below the left collar bone, above the shattered wreckage of the chest, was a long, clean gash, from which some object embedded in the flesh had patently been removed.

The detective replaced the sheet, certainly replacing the speculation in his eyes. This was the key— the answer to the riddle of the outlaw surgeon's death, to the machine gunning of Slick Morrell, to "Gunner" Kersten and his knife.

Slowly, probing the recesses of his mind for the next move, Court walked through the deserted office to the curb. He couldn't afford to guess wrong. Somewhere, he knew, bloodstained, greedy hands were already unearthing half a million dollars in hot money, as surely as they had ripped the secret of its hiding place from the riddled body of Slick Morrell. But where?

Court stuck a cigarette in his mouth, lighted a match. A sauntering pedestrian approached, held up a cigarette.

"How about a light, bud?"

Absently Court extended the flaming match. The man bent his head over the flame, straightened, and Court flinched from the burrowing snout of an automatic. Deftly a probing hand flicked the detective's gun from its shoulder holster.

"What's all this?" Court demanded. The pock-marked, deeply lined face was strange to him.

"A guy wants to see you," replied the other, hard eyes watchful. "Put your hands in your pockets and walk ahead of me to that sedan at the corner. And remember, I get a big kick out of killing a copper."

Court hesitated, and the gun jabbed deeper into his ribs. He knew a dozen tricks to disarm the gunman, but something warned him that this was a break— that this hoodlum was leading him into a solution of the last angle of his perplexity. Obediently he turned and headed for the car.

"You're going to drive, and I'm going to sit beside you with this rod against you," grated his captor, swinging open the door of the car.

"If you even look tough, you get it now instead of later." Court climbed behind the wheel docilely, kicked the starter. "Which way?" he asked, as the motor responded throbbingly. "North— out the drive."

THEY drove wordlessly northward, the gunman sidewise in the seat, the automatic digging relentlessly into Court's side. As they rolled past the last scattered lights into the open country the hoodlum snarlingly demanded more speed. The speedometer registered sixty.

"Step on it," he barked. "This crate'll do ninety."

Court jammed his foot down to the floor boards. The lights of a suburb twinkled ahead, flew' past. Farther on, the road split in two directions, and Court slowed down, glancing interrogatively at his silent companion,

"To the left— through Hazelton."

The detective heaved an inward sigh of satisfaction, That was what he wanted to know. Beyond Hazelton lay "Soapy" Landers' farm.

His destination was unmistakable now; the fellow beside him had served his purpose. Now he was in the way, and Court reflected grimly that the odds in the crisis ahead of him were probably heavy enough already. Coldly he prepared to shorten them.

They roared through Hazelton, and on a long stretch of pavement beyond, the finger on the speedometer crept past eighty. Out of the corner of his eye Court saw that his passenger was dividing his attention between him and the blur of pavement spinning beneath them. Carefully, Court drew himself compactly together, braced one foot against the floor boards, jammed his forearms tightly against the steering wheel. The speedometer neared ninety.

Court yanked his foot off the accelerator and slammed home the brake. Shot from his relaxed position by the sickening force of the maneuver, the hoodlum crashed into the windshield. Above the screaming of the tires Court heard the brittle crunch of the man's skull against the metal standard. The gun exploded harmlessly across Court's lap.

He fought the careening car to a standstill and drew up at the roadside. Hauling the huddled form from the bottom of the car, he satisfied himself, with a swift examination of the battered head, that he had reduced the odds against himself by one.

Court retrieved his gun from the hoodlum's pocket, dumped the body unceremoniously into the rear seat, and hastily yanked the car into gear. That, he told himself, was only the curtain raiser. The big push awaited him at the farm a few miles farther on. And, if he knew his man, therewouldn't be a dull moment.

He whirled into a narrow country road, switched off the lights, and drove the sedan deep into the underbrush that bordered the road. Scarcely a hundred yards farther on lay the old farmhouse which had served as headquarters and hide-out for Soapy Landers. And here, unless all the signs were misleading, he would find his quarry.

Court climbed a fence and walked deep into a field that bordered the farmyard, making his way silently to the back of the house. Indistinctly, he made out the shape of a heavy roadster in the grass-grown driveway, and a beam of uncertain light poured through a chink in a shuttered window near the front.

The detective drew a long breath and his pulse quickened. His hunch had not failed.

HE MOVED cautiously toward the rear of the house, located a door, and gently twisted the knob. The door swung open under his touch, and he slipped noiselessly into the kitchen, musty with the odor of abandonment.

At the end of a passage that led from the kitchen to the front of the house a doorway framed flickering light. Court edged forward, trying each board before he shifted his weight to it. An excited murmur of voices came from the lighted room, and as Court slid farther toward the door two'men came into his line of vision. They bent over a bundle on a table, faces thrown into strong relief in the light of a candle stuck to the table top.

With an impatient curse the taller of the two, tawny-haired, bespectacled and bearded, ripped at the fastenings with a knife. The bundle flew open, disgorging a torrent of tightly wrapped packages of bank notes. The smaller man, squat and swarthy, gasped and swore delightedly, fondled the bundles of currency.

"Half a million bucks!" he gurgled rapturously. "Planted in the bed of the creek! And only a threeway cut, with Gunner out of it."

The tall man, black eyes glittering incongruously on either side of his jutting, high-bridged nose, gloated briefly over the display of wealth, then snapped: "Pack it in the suitcase, Maxie. I'm worried about that damned copper, Court. I won't feel right until Tony gets here with him and I give him the works. Where the hell is Tony? He should be here by now."

Court slid around the edge of the door, gun leveled.

"Tony?" he said mockingly: "Don't wait for Tony. He had some bad luck. When you send punks like that out to bring me in, better send a lot of them. One just aggravates me."

He leaned negligently against the wall and grinned irritatingly; but his gun hand was unwavering, and there was no mirth in the steely gray eyes, alert for the slightest menacing movement.

"Welcome back from the grave, Bugs— temporarily. And I like your new face a lot. It looks more like a face than the old one. Doc Hanson's last job, wasn't it?"

Bugs Jernigan, shaking with the frenzy of frustration, answered with a blast of profanity. Court listened tolerantly, the amused smile playing about his mobile mouth. Jernigan cursed himself breathless, then abruptly dropped his voice to a tone of wheedling smoothness.

"Court, you've got us cold, and I'm ready to play ball with you. You're a smart guy— too smart to spend your life working for sucker dough. There's enough in that pile for us all. Take your cut, and give me a pass."

Court laughed derisively.

"There isn't enough dough in the mint to buy you a pass from me, Jernigan. You're through. You've got a red-hot date with a lot of high-powered electricity. You can burn even for killing a heel like Slick Morrell, to say nothing of the poor devil we dug up with your false teeth in his mouth— "

Jernigan's eyes wavered slightly, and Court streaked a shot toward a furtive movement in the dimness of the candlelight. The squat hoodlum yelped and reeled from the shock of a bullet in his shoulder. In the instant Court's gun swung away from him, Jernigan launched a lightning kick at the table. It crashed upside down, smashing the candle beneath it. Court shot twice in Jernigan's direction before the wounded Maxie, snarling with the pain of his bullet-torn shoulder, struck his arm up in the darkness, jolting the gun from his hand.

Court clinched desperately with his assailant, crashed to the floor on top of him. Maxie, his breath jarred out of him, brought up his knee savagely into the pit of Court's stomach, wriggled away as the paintacked detective relaxed his hold.

"He's lost his gun, Bugs," screamed Maxie. "Let him have it!"

Court slithered silently across the floor, bullets ripping splinters out of the boards beside him. The fusillade stopped, and he halted his squirming progress, straining to catch a sound of movement. The floor boards squeaked under a furtive step, and Court heard heavy breathing above him. He lunged forward, and his arms wrapped around a pair of legs. He heaved, heard a grunt of pain as a body slammed to the floor. Then flamestreaked shock and pain  tore through his head.

COURT returned to consciousness through a haze of dull agony.. His head throbbed from the blow of the heavy pistol butt that had felled him, and some one was hammering at his unprotected face with hard fists.

"That's enough— he's coming out of it," said a voice he identified as Jernigan's.

Court opened his eyes, and saw before him the maliciously grinning face of Maxie, fist poised for another blow. The detective licked his 'bruised lips, salty with blood.

The sharp beam of a flashlight shone in his eyes, and behind it he saw the hate-filled mask of Jernigan's face.

Dimly, through a surge of pain and nausea, he sensed that his arms were pulled high above his head, that his feet barely touched the floor. Something sharp tore steadily at his wrists. Shackled with his own handcuffs, he was suspended from a heating pipe that traversed a rubbish-strewn, cobwebby cellar, terminating in a rusty furnace in a corner.

"Wise guy— honest copper, eh?" Jernigan sneered. "Well, copper, I'm going to make a martyr out of you. You're going to die for your job."

Maxie shuffled forward and jammed his gun hard into Court's ribs.

"Shall I blast him, chief?" he asked eagerly.

Jernigan held up a restraining hand. "No, Maxie. That's too tame a finish for such a spectacular career as Lieutenant Court's. I've got a much more interesting way."

He stepped close to Court, held the flashlight in his face and grinned wolfishly.

"Court, you've got a reputation as a pretty tough monkey. Let's see if you can take it. Up in the garage there's a drum of gasoline. This joint is going to burn to the ground, and then what's left is going to fall into the basement. You're going to fry, copper, and I wish I could be here to watch you. But I'll be on my way to South America with my share of half a million. I might bump you off the easy way, but I don't like you."

Court grinned painfully, clear eyes arrogantly unafraid. '

"A lot of rats didn't like me, Jernigan, but I'm still around, and some of them have been dead a long time."

Jernigan struck him viciously on the mouth, and motioned Maxie ahead of him up the rickety stairs. Then he hesitated, turned back, and fumbled in the detective's pockets.

"Just to be dead sure," he said, holding up Court's key ring, to which was attached his handcuff key.

Alone in the darkened cellar, Court listened to hurried steps and the jangle of metal containers above. A chill of dread ran through him; this looked bad. He strained at the handcuffs, tearing the skin and flesh from his wrists. Then his body sagged hopelessly against the cutting edges of the cuffs.

There was no hope that he could dislodge the heavy pipe, set firmly into the framework of the house. Still less that he could yell and attract attention in time. The house was off a traveled road, and by the time the flames had attracted passers-by, he would be trapped beyond saving.

In a frenzy of rage Court lashed out with his legs, recoiled from the pain of a barked shin. The furnace! Wild hope flared in his mind. Carefully, poised on the extreme tips of his toes, he edged along the pipe toward the furnace. His groping feet located it, and he raised himself with a foot on the edge of the door, easing the biting pain on his bleeding wrists.

He rested a moment; then, setting his teeth, drew himself inch by inch upward until his chin hooked over the pipe. Holding his whole weight by his chin, he swung a manacled arm over the pipe, shifting the burden to the crook of an elbow. Finally, with a desperate heave, he swung a leg upward and over the pipe, hung gasping.

Slowly he drew his body up into the narrow space between the pipe and the ceiling until he balanced precariously at full length. With numbed, fumbling fingers he probed into his watch pocket, fished out with his finger tips the spare key to his handcuffs, clenched it between his teeth, An instant of maneuvering and the cuffs popped open, dropped in the darkness.

Exhausted, Court tumbled to the floor, listened an instant to the preparation of his funeral pyre, his nostrils full of the pervasive reek of spilled gasoline. Then, lips twisted in a grim smile, he located the rotting steps that led to an outside cellar door, and slipped out into the driveway—

"SHE'S READY, Maxie, and there won't be any time to waste when she goes," said Bugs Jernigan, pausing on the front porch. "Toss that in the rumble seat and get the motor running, and we'll lam out of here when I touch it. off."

He handed Maxie the traveling bag packed with currency, and the hoodlum hurried to the roadster, threw the bag in the rear compartment.

Jernigan struck a match, tossed it into the gasoline-drenched hallway, and slammed the door. The oil-fed flames flashed through the house with a dull boom, and Jernigan raced to the car, hurtled into the driver's seat. The roadster sped down the driveway and turned into the road. Behind it, the darkened sky reflected faint radiance that brightened into lurid crimson as the car whirled through side roads toward the city.

"About now," gloated Jernigan, glancing backward over his shoulder at the spreading glare, "things are warming up for the copper. By the time we've ditched the car and holed up, he ought to be grilled to a nice turn."

He settled low in his seat and urged the car into a burst of speed that carried them within a few minutes into the outskirts of the city. Then he slackened the pace, unwilling to risk a chance pick-up for speeding, with the bag of currency nestling under the cover of the rumble seat.

"This is close enough," he muttered, as they glided smoothly into the warehouse district. "We'd better separate, Maxie. You take the dough and hop a cab somewhere along here. I'll ditch the crate and meet you at the hide-out."

The car slowed, crept toward the curb, and Maxie prepared'to get out, grumbling at the painful awkwardness of his wounded shoulder. Then he jerked erect in his seat. Something, with the menacing touch of cold steel, nestled against his ear. Flashing a panicky glance at Jernigan, he saw that the car was gliding erratically across the pavement toward the opposite curb.

Jernigan's hands lifted instinctively, as a cold voice grated through the opened rear curtain: "Grab the wheel, Bugs, and drive slowly and carefully to police headquarters. And you, Maxie, keep those hands in sight!"

Jernigan found his voice ina long, animal howl of rage; but a threatening metallic prod in the back of his head goaded him into despairing obedience. Hopelessly he drove the few blocks to headquarters, with Court sprawled across the rear deck,

"Don't ever try to burn a fireproof copper, Bugs; it's a sign of bad luck," Court added softly as the car came to a halt before the blue globes that marked the entrance to the detective bureau.

Court yelled at a cluster of detectives unloading from a squad car: "Take the guns off these rats and slap the cuffs on them."

THE BURLY OFFICERS dragged the two hoodlums from the seat and shackled them together. Only then did Barry Court stir from his commanding position, in the rumble seat. He fished the heavy bag from the compartment under his feet, vaulted over the side of the car, and held up two sections of a hollow jack handle before the bulging eyes of his prisoners.

"Thanks for coming along so quietly. Don't know what I'd have used for guns if I hadn't found this in the bottom of the car. Lost my own inthe fracas out in the farmhouse."

Jernigan swore a last despondent oath. He shuffled obediently ahead of Court into the elevator and down the corridor to Chief O'Malley's office, where a light still glowed despite the gray hint of dawn in the sky.

"What's this, Lieutenant Court?" O'Malley asked, still frostily polite, as Court set the traveling bag on his desk and indicated the prisoners with a wave of his hand.

"This is your answer to the newspapers, chief. I've brought you the men who killed Slick Morrell, as ordered. And this"— tapping the bag— "is a by-product of the job— the Northern Trust Co.'s half million."

"The hell!" said the chief, startled out of his icy reserve.

"This is a bush-league hoodlum named Maxie— not important," said Court. "But the other one is the genuine article— Bugs Jernigan, the report of whose death was grossly exaggerated."

Chief O'Malley's face reddened and his brows lowered. He glanced at the police circular, back at the distinguished features of the tall man, and prepared to annihilate Court with a verbal blast. Then his eye caught the glint of green from the open bag.

"Go on," he said grimly.

Court turned to Jernigan and deftly rifled his pockets. With a grunt of triumph he produced a crumpled sheet of thin paper and a small silver tube, discolored with a network of dried bloodstains.

"Morrell, knowing that Jernigan was alive and that neither he nor the map was safe, conceived a most original hiding place for it. He had Doc Hanson slip it into this tube and insert it under the skin on his chest. Doc Hanson, who did the remodeling job on Jernigan, was, of course, killed.

Court turned to the shackled men; his eyes hardened; he said, "Maxie, I don't know how much we can hang on you, but you, Jernigan— you're going to fry, and I'll be there to watch you!"

_______________

10: Launched at Society

Victor L. Whitechurch

1868-1933

Strand Magazine July 1899

West Australian 9 Sep 1899

Victor Lorenzo Whitechurch

"I TELL YOU, the curse of our so-called civilisation, in Western Europe at least, lies not so much in tyrannical government and fools who submit to them, as in pleasure-luxury. What is it that makes men and women apathetic to the shrieking cries of humanity? The race-course, the theatre, the ballroom, the whirl of selfish, social pleasure and amusement. It is against this that blows must be directed in the future if we would achieve our ends. It must not be the single tyrant struck with the dagger, the public building ruined with the bomb, unless the bomb is cast into the theatre rather than into the council chamber!"

These extraordinary words were borne forcibly upon my ears as I awoke from an afternoon siesta one sunny day in the beginning of June.

I was spending a week or two on the north Cornish coast, and had walked from my hotel at Tintagel to a charming little inlet known as Tregaget Strand, taking my lunch with me in a satchel. After my modest repast, partaken of at the foot of huge, rugged cliffs, with the waves breaking in upon the smooth rocks in the foreground, I had strolled aimlessly along the shore until I had hit upon a cave in the cliff. Bent on exploration, I penetrated this cave for about twenty yards, sat down on a comfortable rock within, lit my pipe, and gave myself over to the contemplation of the sunlit sea sparkling beyond the en-trance. The day was very hot for the time of the year, and the cool atmosphere of the cave was a welcome change. Finally, half-reclining as I was upon the rock, I must have dozed off to sleep, and, as I said before, the above sentence fell on my ears as I woke.

At the entrance to the cave were two men. One a small, rather stout, bearded individual, seated with his face turned slightly away from me; the other a young man of about six or seven and twenty, with an excited ruddy face, fair sandy moustache, and curly hair of the same colour. He was standing up before his companion, declaiming to him. with earnestness and many gestures.

I saw at once that they were not aware of my presence, hidden as I was in the semi-darkness and shadow of the cave's interior. My first impulse was to come forth and declare myself, but laziness and curiosity combined got the better of me, and I kept still.

"And so we are going to put this theory into practice, eh?" said the man who was seated, slowly and deliberately.

"We are, my friend, yes— at last we are," went on the other, excitedly. "I have worked the scheme out to the full, and we and our two good comrades are agreed. Yes, in a month's time we shall strike a blow at which society shall indeed shudder and take warning-a blow to pleasure on a gigantic scale."

"Meanwhile," rejoined his companion, "I should keep a little cooler, if I were you, and not talk so load. One never knows where danger exists."

"True," replied the other; "my excitement carries me away sometimes, especially when I think what we have undertaken."

"Well," said the stout man, rising from his seat and taking his companion's arm, "it's lucky I know something about submarine—"

That was all I heard. The breaking of a wave drowned the rest of the sentence as the two men disappeared from the mouth of the cave.

I rose to my feet and prepared to follow them. Then I reflected for a moment. If I left the cave at once, and they chanced to see me, the consequences might not only be disagreeable to myself, but, at least, I should excite suspicion. So I waited for a few minutes. When I emerged into the daylight once more I saw them disappearing in the distance towards the little bay from which one mounted the cliffs. I started quickly after them, but scarcely had gone a dozen paces when my foot slipped on a bit of seaweed attached to a rock, and I fell heavily with an awful crash on my knee. When I picked myself up I could only walk slowly and with pain, and the end of it was that I lost sight of the two strangers altogether. Subsequently inquiries in the neighbourhood failed to draw any information concerning them. The incident remained in my memory for a week or so, and then gradually died away.

At the time of which I am speaking I held a lieutenant's commission in the navy.  I had been invalided home from an African station for six months, and was gradually recovering my health, which had suffered from fever, and was taking things very easily. One day I received an invitation to go and spend a week at Henley during the regatta. Some friends of mine, had taken a house-boat, and were getting up a fairly large party. Now, as there happened to be a certain lady in the case, who I knew was also invited, I accepted with alacrity, looked up all manner of boating costumes, packed my portmanteau, and took an afternoon train from Paddington on the day before the regatta.

As we moved out of the station I noticed a man seated in the farther corner of the carriage. Something, I could not at first tell what, about him seemed familiar, and presently as he turned to face half way from me to look out of the window, there flashed across my mind the scene of the cave at Tregaget. It was the small man with the dark beard. My curiosity was aroused, especially when it flashed to my mind that the month was just up. He appeared the very essence of a boating man, clad in light summer costume and a straw hat.

When the train drew up at Henley there was a father development. A tall young man in flannels and blazer was on the platform, and lounged up to my travelling companion as he alighted. It was the other of the two men.

"Got it?" I heard him exclaim in a casual tone of voice.

The bearded man nodded, and they walked towards the brake van. I waited on the platform for a few moments.

Presently I saw them assisting a porter to lift a large package out of the brake van, a box about 4½ feet in length and some 18 inches square. They seemed very particular about the way it was laid on the trolley and wheeled down the platform. I saw them both deposit this box in a cab end up, and drive off. I engaged another cab and as we journeyed to the river I pondered over this somewhat mysterious affair, but forgot all about it a few minutes afterwards, when I met Hilda Carr at the tea table on the house boat.

I had come to Henley with the express purpose of proposing to Hilda Carr. She told me afterwards she guessed it herself. But my love-making by no means made much headway for the next twenty-four hours. Girls are such, idiots, or at least they behave in such a silly way, that they make a fellow feel mad. They can't be serious when a man wants to be serious. When I got her up in a quiet little corner of the upper deck that same evening and managed to blow out the Chinese lantern nearest to us to make it darker and give me a better chance; and when I began talking seriously about the stars and things, instead of seeing what I was driving at, she simply said:

"Oh, Mr. Barton, do come and listen to these lovely niggers."

And then she went of to the others, and encouraged a pack of wretched blackamoors who were serenading the house-boat from a punt."

It was just the same the next day. She sat next to a fellow named Willoughby at lunch and he seemed to get on famously with her. It nearly drove me wild. I hinted to. her that I was put out, but she only laughed at me.

But in the evening, after dinner, my luck turned and I managed to get her alone in a Canadian canoe belonging to the house-boat. We paddled up stream beneath the quaint old bridge, now crowded with people returning to the station. The sun had set by the time we reached Marsh Lock, about three quarters of a mile from the course. I paddled into the lock with some other craft.

"Are you going farther, Mr. Barton?" said my companion.

"Oh," I replied, " let's just go through. "There's lots of time."

To tell the truth, I was anxious to get into a quiet reach, for I had a certain question to ask. That was why I wanted to go through the lock.

I was just beginning to ease down a bit when we had gone a few hundred yards farther, and was thinking of how I had better begin, when a certain voice arrested my attention.

It came from a house-boat. Now, during Henley week most of the house-boats are moored alongside the course on the Bucks side, and it was somewhat unusual to find one above Marsh Lock. It was a small dingy-looking concern and only four men were aboard her, sitting on the deck smoking. The voice I recognised was that of the fair moustached young man— and there he was, one of the group.

The coincidence set me thinking as I paddled on. Was there some deep plot about to be unfolded? Were they Nihilists or Anarchists? I remembered the outburst against society pleasures and here was the man who made it, present at one of the gayest scenes in England— Henley Regatta; what did it mean?

"A penny for your thoughts!" said Hilda. "Why so silent?"

"They're not worth it," I replied. Why do men always make bungling replies at the wrong moment?

"Oh," she said, rather tartly.

"No," I said, realising that I had put my foot in it. " If I'd been thinking of you it would be different."

" I'm sure I don't want you to think of me," she replied; "but really we'd better be turning. It's getting quite dark."

I turned the canoe rather surlily. It had choked me off for the moment. As we neared the house-boat once more, I rested on my paddle so as to drift by silently. A punt was alongside and in the gloom I could see a figure stepping on it. Then I distinctly heard the words:

"To-morrow afternoon I was to drop my handkerchief."

I dipped my paddle in the water and we shot ahead, the punt following close astern.

We entered the lock together and lay there side by side. As I struck a match to light a cigarette the glare of it showed me the face of the man in the punt.

It was the young fellow with the red moustache.

I am not going to weary the reader with the details of how l proposed to Hilda Carr on my way back. Suffice it to say in spite of my pleading, nothing would induce her to give me a decisive answer. She would neither say yes or no, and I simply felt a fool.

I felt a bigger one next day. She snubbed me horribly, and I nearly kicked young Willoughby. I'm afraid I got in a temper, so much so that I sneaked away from lunch and embarked in the canoe by myself, determining to paddle up and down the course.

Anyone who has tried this at Henley knows what it means. Between the bridge and "Regatta lsland" are hundreds upon hundreds of boats, punts and canoes, a veritable carnival of colour and beauty such as can only been seen on this beautiful reach of the Thames. Every now and then the warning bell commands the clearance of the course, and the craft on either side become still more densely packed. It is no easy task to pilot one's way through the endless flotilla, and skill and patience alike are necessary.

Bump! The nose of my canoe ran into a punt. It was not my fault. The occupant, who using paddles only, ought to have seen me.

"I beg your pardon, sir!"

It was my old friend of the fair moustache, got up in flannels and blazer, working his way up stream.

Good! I wanted something in my present mood to take my mind off things.

So I determined to follow him. It was a good five minutes before I could turn and when I did so he was fifty yards away from me.

Bang! A race had begun. I was hemmed in for a minute and could not stir. I could see him moving on, though.

"Well rowed, Eton!— go it, Leander! now then, stroke!"

The crews came in grand style. My eyes were fixed on the punt creeping ahead.

Splash, and an ugly rocking. The "wake" of the umpire's steam launch.

All clear now ! I slipped into the course and picked up a little speed. In and out carefully, gingerly, went the punt and my canoe. At length we were beyond the crowded part, and as I shot under the bridge an unconscious quarry was punting hard about a hundred yard ahead upstream.

I kept this distance between us, for I did not want to raise his suspicions.

Presently we drew near Marsh Lock. He punted up to the shore, made his punt fast, and stepped out. I followed in a lazy manner, lighting my pipe carelessly as I strolled after him towards the lock.

The latter was full of boats coming down stream. They had just closed the upper gates and opened the sluices, I watched the water swirling into the lock, and then I marked the movements of the man I had followed.

He was close to the upper gates, gazing at the stream beyond. I looked, too, and saw rather a curious thing. There was a large boat with two men in it close alongside the mysterious boat-house some little distance up stream. Apparently at a sign from the man who stood on the lock they came rowing towards us.

When they were about a hundred yards away they stopped pulling, and in an aimless manner, allowed the boat to drift round, so that the stern pointed towards the lock gates. Then I saw not only was the boat of unusual size for a river craft, but that she carried something rather heavy in the stern— something covered over in a peculiar manner.

One of the two men in her kept her in position with her head upstream, the other stood up and gazed towards the lock.

The latter had now filled, and the lockkeeper and his assistant were opening the lower gates to allow the boats out. Presently both of them were opened wide and the procession commenced.

It was then that I turned to look at the man of the punt. He was apparently studying the water, and puffing away at a cigar. Suddenly I noticed he held a handkerchief loosely in his hand.

A moment afterwards and he dropped it— dropped it into the water above the upper gates.

I looked at the boat. The man was standing up and apparently stooping. There were no other boats near him.

Suddenly I saw some dark object drop from the stern of the boat into the water. The man who was standing near me instantly turned and walked quietly away from the lock gates, while the boat immediately put towards the shore.

I was fairly puzzled— but only for an instant. For I saw something the next moment that appealed to my knowledge of naval gunnery, and revealed one of the most diabolical plots that the mind of man could conceive. That something was air bubbles-air bubbles rising to the surface of the water and travelling quickly to-wards the lock gates by which I stood. I knew the meaning of them only too well, and realised the appalling situation in a moment.

A small torpedo, driven by compressed air, had evidently been launched from the stern of the boat, and in about ten or fifteen seconds -would strike the lock gates beneath the surface of the water.

And then what would happen? It was three miles to the lock above— the lower gates of Marsh lock stood open. It meant that three miles of water, four feet or so in height would come sweeping down. It would be impossible to close the lower gates, and in five minutes a huge a "tidal wave" would rush irresistibly and without warning upon the thousands of pleasure seekers on the regatta course below. The destruction would be simply appalling.

All this dashed through my mind as I watched the ominous babbling of the escaping compressed air drawing nearer and nearer. For a couple of seconds or more I stood petrified with the horror of the situation. Then I threw off my coat took a running dive; and plunged into the river.

I had determined to turn the course of the torpedo.

I rose to the surface and struck out. The bubbles were only twenty yards off. I measured the distance with my eye and swam on.

"Crack!" "Splash!"— close to my head in the water.

The light-moustached man had seen my dive, rushed to the bank, and was firing at me with a revolver, regardless of the sundry spectators who were running towards him.

"Crack!" "Splash!" Missed me again The bubbles were very close. I dived, opened my eyes beneath the surface, and saw the ugly black thing coming at me.

I knew that if I touched the apex I stood a chance of exploding the thing. But I was perfectly cool. I waited a moment, then put out my hand, seized it by the head very gingerly, and with a push deflected its course towards the bank; the screw at the end struck my face slightly as it turned and I rose to the surface and swam in the other direction for dear life.

Towards the bank! Yes, as I looked over my shoulder I saw my adversary, standing close to the edge of the water.

"Back for your lives!" I yelled to some men who were making for him. "Back!"

The torpedo struck the bank. There was a dull roar, and I could see the earth fly and a mighty splash of water. Then I felt it— felt as if I were struck on every part of my body, and I knew no more.

WHEN I recovered consciousness I was lying on a sofa in the lock-keeper's cottage. Some fellows in flannels were standing around me.

"You're all right," said one; "I'm a doctor, you know. You've only had a shock. My Jove, though, you're done a plucky thing."

"Did you see it."

"Only partly— you know what happened, eh?"

"No— what?"

"Why the thing exploded just at the foot of the fellow who was potting at you. We halted in time, but he was blown clean off his legs— it was awful. I couldn't do anything with him."

"Where is he?"

"Dead," said the doctor. "He came round for a couple of minutes first and began to curse you, Than he told us it was a small torpedo, with eight pounds of gun cotton and an air motor, and that if it hadn't been for you Henley would be swamped by now. He died gloating over the thought."

"Have they caught the others?"

"What others?"

I told them. But no one had seen the two men in the boat make off, and they were never caught. The boat was searched afterwards by the police, and sundry tools and machines discovered, together with a few pounds of gun-cotton

From these it was evident that the torpedo had been about 4ft long, and weighed about 50 lb, quite a small one, but sufficient to have blown up the lock gates, and thus have brought destruction on thousands.

They punted me back to Henley, took me aboard the house-boat, and told the story.

And a couple of hours later I forgot the horror of it when Hilda Carr said "Yes." She told me she meant it all the time, but intended to wait till the end of the week but that now I had done something to earn it sooner.

And Willoughby had been sweet on another girl, after all. So it all ended happily— except for the young Anarchist.

______________

11: Mycroft's Luck

Muriel A. Pollexfen

1876-1923

Border Watch (S. Aust), 17 Feb 1912

WHATEVER Mycroft touched it turned good. Whether it was buying stock that had sunk to the lowest point or backing a horse that had the sorriest prospects of getting to the post at all, let alone winning, or whether it was merely investing in sixpenny raffles at bazaars— no matter what it was, he won, always won. The stocks would go bounding up to a price never reached before, the horse would surprise the field and win by a clear length, the sixpenny ticket would make him owner of a motor bicycle, a roundabout, a two-seater, a talking machine.

Friends said he had a "lucky touch"; enemies said that Mycroft was "a deuced clever fellow— h'm!"

His habit of luck brought him into touch with many trades. He tried his hand at running a society paper; a sporting rag; financing a bad play which coined him a fortune on tour; building and endowing an aerodrome for young fliers— there was nothing he did not take a pinch at. And none of the pinches made him smart, not one.

Success ad lib. No wonder that, finally, Mycroft sickened of it and longed for a good stinging slap in the face; a hearty, knock-me-down-flat failure; something that would take the stuffing success had crammed into him out of him a bit, and sort of make him shiver, shake the water off and feel a glow of human sensation!

"I've everything and I've nothing!" he said to his friend. "I'm a poor beggar, and you're a millionaire! I'd change with you this minute, Harbord, I would, indeed. I'm a dried-up mummy and you're a full-blooded giant. Tell me how you do it!"

Case Harbord laughed shortly. He was anything but a giant in stature or an Adonis in looks, but he knew what Mycroft meant quite well.

"You've got the needle, dear chap," he said slowly, twirling a cigarette paper round and round between his finger and thumb. "You're fed up and I'm pumped out— down and out, that's what I am, Curly, boy. Flat, down, broke, smashed! That's what gives me this benign, contented, happy expression you're hankering after. Wish to God, Curly, I could give it to you— and yet I don't, either. You'd never stand the worry of it."

Harbord had begun well, but his words ended badly, somehow. They twanged, and Curly Mycroft's quick ear caught the jar. He looked for the first time sheer down into his friend's eyes, and realised that he was up against a tragedy. Harbord was speaking seriously. He was such a dapper, neat little turned- out- by-the dozen bank clerk, and always so free and easy and unawed in the presence of the wealthy Mycroft, that the latter somehow always associated him with the simple things of life— parsonage teas, tennis, lake boating. Anything but tragedy! And yet here it was writ quite large in his insipid light blue eyes.

A minute before Mycroft had called him a millionaire, envying him, as he said. He had seen a stationary salary of one hundred and twenty pounds a year through rose-colored glasses, and believed it must be bliss to know the agony that must confront one when the weekly allowance to the house did not stretch wide enough. He found too much money a bore, and until this moment he never realised what the other thing meant— meant to decent chaps like Harbord. The other thing-squalid poverty— he was more familiar with than people knew. But a friend of his own in want of ready cash disturbed him greatly.. In a trice he was all sympathy.

"Harbord, my dear fellow, why ever didn't you tell me long ago? Here am I pining away in idleness and riches, and you, one of my own pals, in trouble! Case, I didn't deserve this!"

"Good God, Curly, don't be kind to me; I can't bear it. I'm a cad, a real cad, and if you .knew you wouldn't touch me! You'd tell me never to come here again."

"When I know everything I'm going to do more than shake your hand, Case, my boy. I'm going to lift you sheer on your feet and out of the muddle. I can shove you into any office you like, and decide your salary for you. What do you think of that, eh? That's money, that is— not mere brains! There's Levi Cushtein— he'd give you a billet to-morrow if I asked him. Shall I?"

Harbord writhed in the great crimson chair, and his finger crushed the cigarette to dust. His pale face burned curiously with a stifled fire, and his weak lips quivered in spite of restraint. Mycroft appreciated what he had never noticed before— the sliding weakness of the narrow chin, the loose lips, the small, pinched nose.

But now he judged the man, and judged correctly. He could almost have written down, word for word, the story Case was going to tell him. And he blamed himself terribly for not seeing behind the veil long ago and giving a helping hand to the poor, terrified creature who was his friend, instead of trying to gain sensations by risking thousands on aerodromes and chorus-plays.

He poured a stiff whisky into a priceless glass and passed it to Harbord.

"Drink it and tell me everything," he said, putting the glass into the out stretched fingers. "Don't spare yourself— or me. Everything, Case."

"It began two years ago. I was in love with a girl. She wasn't in our station— she was a milliner in a little shop in Kensington. But I loved her, Curly, better than honor. I told my mother and sisters, and asked if I might bring her home. But they refused— all of them except Clare; she stuck by me and went to see Amy. Amy was ill, Curly... Oh, my God, don't hate me, Curly, don't despise me! Don't; oh, don't! My soul is scorched up, and yet feeling is still there-searing it. I'm a good one to preach, but, Curly, never you let a temptation master you!"

The room was very still. A coal dropped from the bars on to the tiled hearth, and the tinkle of it was like a pistol-shot in the silence. The men's two chairs faced each other on either side of the fireplace. Mycroft was in the shadows, but the gleam of the firelight rose and fell on Harbord's face, and Mycroft's eyes never turned from it.

"She was ill, Curly, and there was no one to look after her. The bank, refuse to keep their clerks if they marry under a salary of a hundred and seventy, and I had nothing saved. I was mad with anxiety and suspense ran fear. I didn't know which way to turn, Amy pulling one way, my duty to the bank the other. If I married secretly they might find out any day and sack me out of hand, like they did that poor young Borland. Then Clare came. She stayed with Amy, and I told her everything. She was an angel, that girl. She insisted that Amy and I should marry, and she got accurate friend of hers to come in one morning and marry us. I was glad to have it so, but infinitely thankful, Curly, when my son was born. Then I went to Clare and thanked her from my soul. I can call my wife my wife and my son my son in the face of the whole world and not be ashamed. If it had not been for Clare Curly, I'm such a rotten cad— such a cad, Curly!" He broke down, perilously near tears.

Mycroft took a long drink and leaned further back into the darkness of his deep chair.

"Go on," he said, no hint of his own feelings betrayed in his calm, passionless voice.

ii

"THE REST is the usual dry-rotted story. You read it in the papers seven days in the week. There's never any deviation in lives like mine; they run in the same grooves from the day we're born to the day they tie up our jaws for the last sleep. My people would not take us in— not even when sonnie arrived—  Me alone they'd receive, but Amy was an outcast— Amy and the lad; though once the mater did pay us a state call when matters were at a crisis and offered to adopt her grandson if we would renounce all claim and consent never to see him again. She took care to pay that call during my business hours. Amy was ill with fretting and fright when I got home; she had persuaded herself that I would be tempted to accept. Curly, you'd only have to see the kid to understand the horror that had mastered her, or to understand the utter impossibility of any offer bribing me. I was in deep water— how deep, Curly, old chap, you could never appreciate, not ever having experienced hard times— but I'd sooner have cut out my heart than give up the tiny chap. You ought to see him! A rascal with yellow hair and blue eyes. I believe I had rather nice blue eyes as a kid, and they all say he's like me— better looking, I hope!"

"I'd like to see him, Case. I am very fond of rascals. I'd like a dozen or so of my own. I must come and make his acquaintance."

"You're such a pal, Curly. Don't you shrink from me?"

"Finish first, and I'll tell you what I think of you afterwards. Go on!"

"When the son came, it meant getting a home together. Amy had of course given up her situation at the milliner's, and there was nothing but my salary. A hundred and twenty a year doesn't go a very great way when it's divided between three, and I had bachelor debts to pay off as well. I didn't start clear. I had nothing saved—  not a penny. If I'd started out of debt, and enough saved to pay for the furniture, I believe Amy would have pulled along well; but we were handicapped from the first, and she was so ill that the doctor seemed to be always in the house. We took a small flat at Fulham, and were ideally happy. Clare came every day, and worked like a nigger. I know that she spent nearly every penny of her allowance on us, though she never admitted it. But my subscription to the housekeeping would not pay for invalid's food such as I knew Clare was buying for Amy. And then there was the perambulator to get for sonnie, as Amy wasn't nearly strong enough to carry such a fat ruffian very far. Oh, it ought to make you laugh, Curly, all these details of a married man's life, but they're tragic to me. I'm sitting here smoking and drinking as if I hadn't a sorrow in the world, and yet if ever carking care sat in a man's soul it's in mine. If it wasn't that it would leave Amy to face the thing alone I'd end it all in the river out there."

Harbord leaned forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees, his face, ashen white and streaked with deep lines, buried-in his hands..

"How much are you short?" Mycroft asked, his tone almost curt, for the lump in his throat was most unpleasant.

"How much?"

Harbord's fingers dropped stiffly away from his face, and his red-shot eyes stared as though unseeing into Mycroft's face.

"What?" he said thickly, "What did you say?"

"I said 'How much?' Come, come, man, pull up. I can finish your story for you, see if l cannot. You got more deeply into debt, they came to sell you up, sister Clare was penniless until next quarter-day, and— and opportunity, the brute, sprang suddenly up before you in the office. There was an oversight you could turn to your own account, something that would not be noticed for a couple of months, and by then you would have paid it back and cleared your conscience. That's it, isn't it?"

Harbord nodded.

"And I couldn't, of course. It's always the way, I suppose. It lightened-. the weight for a time, but it's worse than ever-now, and-and-and they've found out at the bank... there's going to be an investigation of my books to-morrow morning.... I'm going to face it out, though; don't think I'm going to run away. Clare insists that I stay, and hopes they'll be lenient and accept her offer to repay them by transferring to them some Consols she holds. Yes, I'm going to face it out, Curly, though I did talk clap-trap a moment since. I'm pretty rotten, but I'm not as black as that.... Amy says, she'll wait for me, and love me just the same. But God knows what she'll do while— while— I— I am away—"

Mycroft leaped to his feet with a great shout. After all, he came quickly to the very definite conclusion— he did not appreciate a good stinging sensation half so much as he had imagined he would. Anyway, not sensations arriving via the medium of a pal's sufferings. That was a bit more than he could sit calmly down and listen to. So he just leaped, to his feet and shouted at the top of his lungs to let the steam off a bit.

"Case, you're a— you're a fathead!— you want to see me blubbing as I've never blubbed since old Hughenden caned me, then just keep on talking drivel. If not, shut down the lid on everything except the amount you are short. How much do you owe the bank?"

"Ninety pounds... Ninety pounds." Ninety pounds! Good heavens! And a man was ready to take his life for such a sum! Would go to gaol on the morrow for such a sum! Ninety pounds! If he ever felt like blubbing it was in this little pent-up, strung-up moment.

"The name of your bank? I forget it. Who's your manager?"

"The Windlefield Development and Banking Corporation, in Lombard-street There's a new manager. His name's Erstlak."

"The Windlefield Development and Banking Corporation. Why, it's a kind of bucket-shop, isn't it? Money-lending and that sort of stuff. Buys and develops estates for profit, eh? And Erstlak, eh? Augustine Erstlak! That's lucky for you, Case, old pal."

"You know him?"

"Rather well. And you look here. You trot home to Amy and the little 'un and sister Clare, and all three of you sleep like tops. You can sleep late if you like, because there's no need for you to go to the city. I'll go instead of you, and interview my old friend Augustine of the Jew-boy nose. Now, I'm going to ring Blake to get a taxi for you, and you're going home to the little flat in Fulham just as quickly as the police will let you. Now, if you begin to thank me I shall throw you out. Good-night, good-night. No, I'll not be thanked.... Well, I'll come to Fulham and be thanked to-morrow, and tell you all about Gussie and how he took it. Now, good-night. Blake, get Mr. Harbord into a taxi. 'Night."

Mycroft turned back into the curiously silent and suddenly lonely room and filled a great pipe full of tobacco.

He sat down into his easy-chair, propped his feet up on the mantelshelf, and blew dense clouds of smoke from the yellow pipe-bowl.

The little gold clock on the high shelf struck two o'clock.

"I wonder what Clare is like?" he said.

iii

IT WAS four o'clock when Mycroft's car drew up at the entrance doors of the block of flats in the New King's road in which Case Harbord and the "little 'un" lived.

Not even to himself— and he was generally fairly honest with himself— would he admit that the feeling of nervousness which obsessed him was anything other than a natural condition to be in considering that he was deliberately going to permit himself to be thanked by three people for a benent he had done them. Well, he hoped— that is, he was afraid them would be three. That sister might be there—

He was ushered right into the room where she was. He guessed at once that it was she, and that it was Amy who had opened the door to him. The girl who had opened the door was little, thin, delicate, with big sunken eyes of washed-out blue and the peevish look of a worried, worn-out mother about her lips; though they smiled beautifully at him when their owner realised who he was, and tears of sheer joy and almost unbearable relief flooded into her eyes as she tried to murmur "Thank you! Oh, thank you! Thank you!"

But the girl in the little sitting-room was different— appreciably different. She was slim and tall and slender, and soft hair; done up high with yellow pins, crowned a round laughing face. Not much of the accepted idea of the saint about her appearance; nothing of it. She was a laughing, sporting, jolly little gill, and she was playing on a big rug with the "little "un," making him shout with glee and shake his fat hands furiously and aimlessly in the air in vain attempts to catch her hair in his ruthless clutches.

She jumped up with a merry laugh as Mycroft came in, and held out her hand to him over the gurgling baby's head.

"I know you're Mr. Mycroft before Amy tells me! And you've come to see this young man, haven't you? Case was telling me you didn't mind babies a bit— or said you didn't! Do you?"

Thank heaven! this girl, at least, wasn't going to thank, him yet. He knew she would later on, when there was no one to hear; and paradoxically he found himself rather looking forward to that moment.

She had picked up the baby from the floor, and was making him hold out his fat little grubby hand in welcome. In a flash he Knew that the simple little movement meant something deeper, the girl was making the unconscious son of his father thank that same father's good Samaritan. Without looking he knew that there were tears in the merry eyes above the baby's golden head.

"Say 'howdy' to the nice, nice man, baba! Flap your little handy-pandy! That's the great boy! Amy, your son is really marvellously intelligent. I think he must get it from his auntie. Don't you, darling?"

Amy smiled at the little trio, and a quick, thought was born of the tableau in her shrewd, sharp little Cockney mind. A thought she confided to her husband later on, and got laughed at for her pains; but which came true, after all....

"Mr Mycroft, would you think me very rude it I took baby away and gave him his bottle? It's just his time, and it's ready for him. Clare will pour out tea-won't you, dear?

"I shouldn't mind one bit, Mrs. Harbord. The young person to be most considered is his majesty there, should like some tea, Miss Harbord. Can I help you?"

For one little moment consternation appeared on Clare's pretty face, and then she laughed. "

"What's the matter?" inquired Mycroft.

"Isn't that just like Amy," she said, laughing. "There's no tea ready!"

"Shall I ring?" said Mycroft, and then could have bitten his tongue out for the slip. To his relief, the girl only smiled more broadly.

"If we want tea, Mr. Mycroft, we must get it for ourselves. If Case were here, he'd get it; but he did not expect you until five or later, and he's slipped round to a friend of his to tell him of your kindness and his luck. The kitchen is just along the passage. It won't take me five minutes. Er— would you like an album or something to look at while I'm gone?"

"I'm coming with you— there might be heavy kettles or things like that to lift. May I come?"

In an instant the laughter died out of Clara's eyes, the mask of conventional politeness fell from her.

"We'll never be able to refuse you anything ever, Mr. Mycroft!" she said, thrusting her little hand into his reluctant one. "You'll have to be very careful what you ask us, because,, you see, we'll have to say yes. Oh, but you don't know how happy you've made this little household. And its been the making of my brother, it has really. He was always rather weak, and Amy, poor little soul!! Doesn't bring much ballast to the ship, but his fright has done them both good. If Case can get something else to do at once, I think they'll get along famously. I suppose the bank wouldn't have him back?"

"I'm afraid not; and if they would, it wouldn't be pleasant for poor Case. But there's a snug little billet at three hundred a year that I can get for him which will just suit him down to the, ground. It's down in the country, too, so he and the wife and the little 'un would blossom out, eh? You live at home, of course?"

"Oh, yes; but I'm very often here. You see, my sister-in-law is not at all strong. Oh, how' they'll love the country. They're always talking of it, Mr. Mycroft "

"Now you're going to begin thanking me again, Miss Harbord, and there's the kettle foiling over. That's what comes of persisting in thanking people against their will. Let me."

"I shall thank you some day all the same, Mr. Mycroft. Three spoonfuls, please."

"Some day I shall let you, perhaps. And some day I shall remind you of something you said just now."

"Will you? What was it?"

"You said, 'We'll never be able to refuse you anything. We'll always have to say yes.' "

"What dreadful things you make us consent to. Why, it's vesting you with enormous powers. Why, you'd be dictator."

"All the same there's one thing I'm going to ask you one day, and I'm going to hold you to your promise to say yes... Do you like the butter thickly spread?"

"Not very thickly. But you make me most awful curious, Mr. Mycroft. How soon will you ask me?"

"Just as soon as you will let me, Miss Clare, and the conventions are complied with."

"There's Case, now," said Clare hurriedly, and dashed to the door of the kitchen with the teapot.

Mycroft followed her with the plate of bread and butter.

"I may ask you?" he whispered softly. "Some day you'll let me ask you? Say you will."

"Yes, Mr. Mycroft."

But, after all, he couldn't wait for more than a month. He had had such few opportunities for seeing her that he was nearly driven mad. The little family from the Fulham flat were safe and sound and prosperous in a Hampshire, village, and Clare had gone on a round of visits. Mycroft spent days tracking her from place to place, and he had more, than a suspicion that she was leading him a dance to test him.

In that month he saw her just five times, and he determined to end it one way or the other.

He asked her in the shady garden of Case's little home, and the fat baby was sprawling and kicking on the lawn between them.

He had come down unexpectedly, and had seen her playing with the little 'un as she had done that first day he saw her at the flat.

She lifted to his a face that was very, very serious, and there was not so much as one little tiny glimmer of laughter in the merry eyes.

For one wild, unhappy, unending moment he believed that his luck had deserted him at last. Deserted him on the thing he coveted most in all the wide, wide world.

But it didn't. It held firm. Mycroft's luck!

_________________

12: The Development of Furlani

W. L. Alden

1837-1908

The Idler, Jun 1896

Willam Livingstone Alden

MR. McCartney was an admirable example of the effects of judicious training on the American parent. He knew no law except his daughter's will. One day she said to him, "Popper! I have made up my mind to live in Venice, so you must just get ready and we'll sail three weeks from to-day." Mr. McCartney did not show the slightest surprise. He merely said, "That's midling short notice, but if the thing's got to be of course I'll be ready in time." Accordingly he made his preparations without delay. He subscribed for two Chicago daily newspapers, and a monthly barrel of the best Chicago pork, and thus armed against famine and ennui, faced the prospect of spending the rest of his days in what he assumed to be a semi- barbarous city, with courageous cheerfulness. Once arrived in Venice, and lodged in a Gothic palace on the Grand Canal, his spirits somewhat revived. He conceded that the architecture of the palace was not greatly inferior to that of Mr. Armour's pork-packing establishment in Chicago; and that the steamboats on the canal were proofs of unexpected civilisation on the part of the Venetians. He was even happy, when the tide was low, and the smaller canals made themselves obvious to more than one of the senses, for he declared that on such occasions he had only to shut his eyes in order to imagine that he was once more walking down the chief street of Chicago.

Miss McCartney had resigned her position as Professor of Mathematics in a Chicago High School in order to devote herself wholly to the elevation of the human race. She had once made a brief visit to Venice, and had caught sufficient glimpses of its poverty and misery to feel sure that the Venetians stood greatly in need of elevation. Besides, there was in her a vein of romance which she had never recognised, but which made Venice more fascinating to her than even the very highest kind of higher mathematics. She honestly believed that she had chosen Venice as a field of philanthropic labour, because the people needed her help, but the real truth was that the siren city had charmed her.

Miss McCartney knew a little Italian, which she spoke with a pure Chicago-accent, before she came to Venice, and as her knowledge of the language increased, she made acquaintance with several Venetian families, as well as with the members of the English colony. She read both the Venetian newspapers, and carefully followed the course of national and municipal politics. She studied, as best she could, the condition of the poorer classes, and formulated many pleasing and impossible schemes for their relief. She had nearly determined to open a free school for the children of the poor, when she discovered, not only that Venice had free schools, but that all children were compelled to attend them. Then she dreamed of establishing a small hospital, but on enquiry she found that Venice was fully provided with hospitals. It was certainly vexatious that Venice should be so well provided with schools and hospitals, but Miss McCartney knew that the life of a philanthropist is a difficult and disappointing one. Finally she decided to form a society among the Venetian ladies for the emancipation of their sex, and for that purpose, while waiting to enroll her first convert, she drew up an admirable constitution for the proposed society. It is possible that in time she would have found the desired recruit, had it not been for an unexpected incident which temporarily diverted her attention from her own to the opposite sex. Miss McCartney fell in love.

She had met the young Marchese Furlani at the house of the British consul. He was handsome, charming in his manners, and irreproachable in his morals— that is to say, from a Venetian point of view. He spoke a variety of English that was perhaps more intelligible to Miss McCartney than it would have been to an Englishwoman, for he had taken lessons from a stranded American sailor, who had undertaken to teach him the purest English at his command in exchange for a daily frugal dinner. Furlani was greatly pleased with Miss McCartney, who, although she had been a Professor of Mathematics, was still young, and by no means devoid of good looks. Her bright intelligence and her calm confidence in her own judgment were wonderfully attractive to him in their sharp contrast to the sweet insipidity of the women he had hitherto known. It was true that she was a heretic of some unknown and unintelligible kind, but he was certain that she was as good as she was intelligent. Her ignorance and disregard of the rules of Italian society never shocked him, for he knew before he met her that American girls are as free from European conventions as are the lunatics at San Clemente. So, when Miss McCartney asked him to call upon her, and a little later proposed to him to accompany her to the opera, he did not misconstrue conduct the very mention of which would have covered a Venetian young lady with blushes of shame. He saw her nearly every day, and when he learned that Mr. McCartney's practice of withdrawing from the room and leaving his daughter alone with her visitor was obligatory upon every American father, he was lost in admiration of the manners and customs of America.

Miss McCartney, liked the Marchese from the first. His education was extremely limited, and his capacity for reasoning was not much better than than of a child, but he was so simple, sincere, kindly, and honest that he won her regard in spite of his deficiencies. She looked on him as an overgrown child; and while his prattle amused her, she fancied that she was exerting an elevating influence upon him. It had never occurred to her that he could be in love with her, but when he suddenly asked her to marry him, she unexpectedly discovered that he was a dear boy, and that she was sincerely attached to him.

Furlani asked Miss McCartney to be his wife purely because he loved her, or fancied that he did. His own income was just sufficient for his daily wants, and he knew from the way in which the McCartneys lived that Miss McCartney's dower would be a very modest one. He had no doubt that the combination of their resources would enable them to live much as he had been accustomed to live, and perhaps with a little more comfort; and he felt sure that he would prefer Miss McCartney with a very small dowry to another American girl with a great fortune. All this he told her in his frank way, assuring her that if she "would husband herself with him he would make her happy, b'gosh!"

Miss McCartney, brought face to face with the idea of marriage, was at first astonished beyond measure; and then, looking at the matter from the philosophic point of view, asked herself "Why not?" At all events, she would not instantly come to a decision, but would think over Furlani's proposal, and see if her acceptance of it would not open the way for her to elevate not only her husband, but also his fellow-countrymen. So she smilingly told the Marchese that, while he must not think that there was any probability that she would marry him, she would of course treat his proposal with respect, and would give him a final answer on the morrow. In the course of the next twenty-four hours she had decided that she liked Furlani; that as his wife she would have opportunities for exerting an elevating influence on Venetian society that would otherwise be beyond her reach; and that she could fill her former friends and acquaintances with awe and admiration by signing herself "marchioness"— though this consideration was, as she said to herself, quite unworthy of attention. Her chief objection to marrying Furlani was that he had neither occupation nor aim in life. However, she was sure that he had noble possibilities within him, and perhaps it was her duty to develop them. The result of her careful study of the question was that when Furlani came for his answer, she told him that she would marry him at the end of the year, if, during that time, he had proved that he was something more than an idle boy.

Furlani gladly accepted these terms, and conscientiously strove to meet Miss McCartney's requirements. She set herself to the task of convincing him that his life had hitherto been unworthy of a man, but her success was slow. Furlani cheerfully told her the exact truth about himself— that is, up to a certain point. He explained to her that he dressed himself, that he ate sparingly, and drank with still greater moderation; that he spent a certain number of hours daily at the café; that he walked in the Piazza at certain fixed hours, and that he nightly went to the theatre. "I spend very little money," he said. "I have no vices that a young man should not have, and my confessor thinks a darned sight of me. What more can my dearest angel desire?"

"Do you never read anything, or improve your mind in any way?" asked Miss McCartney.

"Oh, yes! I improve him very often. I read the Gil Blas, and the Fanfulla, and your English Dellynoose. I think everyone should improve his mind."

"I am afraid the Fanfulla and the Gil Blas do not do you much good," returned Miss McCartney. "Can't you see, Carlo, that you are wasting your life, and doing nothing for the benefit of your fellow-creatures?"

"And there, dear one! you are mistaken. I went to a benefit last night. It was of our prima ballerina at the Rossini, and I took four tickets, b'gosh."

"I don't mean that sort of benefit," said Miss McCartney. "I mean that you do nothing to make mankind wiser and better. Why, for instance, do you not take part in politics, and become a Deputy?"

"I do not care for the politic," replied the young man. "There are many who like him and will manage affairs. Besides, it costs a good deal of money to be a Deputy, and I have none. We cannot all be Deputies. Otherwise the Chamber would be what you call a blasted bear-garden."

"I call it nothing of the sort, Carlo! and I do wish you would not use those expressions, such as blasted and that other horrid word. They are very improper."

"I learned them from my teacher," said Furlani, humbly, "but I will try to forget them."

"Have you ever thought of going into the army?" pursued the girl. "I don't like armies, still, if I were a man, I would rather be an officer than to be nothing."

"I am too old to go to the military school. Besides, I am too tall to look well in a uniform. My legs are too thin. Perhaps you have observed those legs. I am quite ashamed of them. But then, one must take the legs that the Madonna sends."

"Can't you go into some kind of business?" continued Miss McCartney, hurriedly. "In my country a young man like you would either have a profession, or he would go into a broker's office, or travel for some mercantile house. At any rate he would do something to make himself independent. Is there no business here in Venice that you could learn?"

"Is it possible that you would wish that I should make myself a darned tradesman?" asked Furlani, with his big eyes full of wonder.

"Hush!" cried the girl, "Never let me hear you use that word again."

"I beg your pardon," said the Marchese. "I forgot that it was improper. I should have said 'damned tradesman.' I will be careful always to say damned, after this. I remember now that my teacher told me that 'darned' was a corruption of damned."

"Worse and worse!" wailed Miss McCartney. "Dear! dear! what a wretch the man who taught you must have been. Now do try to remember that all those words are bad, and must not be used. I have told you so over and over, but you still keep on using them."

"I am sorry that I do not please you," said Furtani. "I know that you are right. Upon you there are no— — Ah! I have forgotten the word. What is it that is never upon you?"

"I'm sure I haven't the slightest idea what you mean," said the girl. "So far as I know I have nothing on that I ought not to wear."

"Now I come to remember him," cried Furlani triumphantly, "it is of flies that I should speak. There are no flies on you. That is why I always know that what you say is true."

Miss McCartney sighed. Furlani's English tried her sorely at times, but after all it was a small matter compared with his inability to comprehend that he was wasting his life. She felt that it would be absurd for her, an earnest woman, wholly devoted to philanthropic work, to marry him; and yet she found him thoroughly loveable. Morally and mentally he was little more than a child, but he had a child's charming sincerity and sunny cheerfulness, and she never for a moment doubted that he truly loved her. She sat gazing at him sadly for a moment, and the answering tears rose to the young man's eyes.

"I know, dear one!" he said, "that I am of the most worthless, but I promise you that I will try to do something as you desire. I will work with my head, and perhaps I shall find out how to make myself such as you wish me to be. I will what you call hustle around without delay. This very night I will hell around among my friends, and perhaps some one of them will have an idea."

The next day Furlani presented himself earlier than usual at Miss McCartney's drawing-room, and his face beamed with excitement and happiness. "At last," he cried, "I have done something, and I know you will be pleased, and perhaps even a little proud of your poor friend. Behold!" And he drew from his pocket a thick package of bank-notes, and laid them with a bow on Miss McCartney's lap.

"What in the world does all this money mean?" she asked. "Where did you get it, and why do you bring it to me?"

"There are nearly fifteen thousand francs," cried Furlani. "I won him all at baccarat last night. It is very nice to have all that money, but if you are pleased, that is worth a thousand times more."

"My dear Carlo!" said Miss McCartney solemnly, "don't you know that it is very wrong to gamble?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Furlani. "It is very wrong if you lose. I had a brother who always lost, and yet he would always play until at last he had no more money, and we were all very much ashamed of him, and told him that he was a cussed fool. But it is not wrong to play if you win. That is a very different thing. For myself I never lose more than I can spare. Yes! I disapprove very much of play, except for those who have the happiness to win."

"Carlo! Carlo!" cried the girl, sadly. "Can I never instil any sort of principle into you! You must promise me never to gamble again. I don't expect to make you understand how wrong it is, but you must promise me this, if you love me."

"I will promise you anything. Only be patient with me. I have no other wish but to please you. I will even become a blooming tradesman if you insist upon it, but I kind of guess you won't."

"Can't you find the man from whom you won this money and give it back to him?" asked Miss McCartney.

"But if I were to do that everyone would say that I was a lunatic," replied the wondering Furlani. "I need not tell you that I won the money fairly. If you wish me to give it away, it would be better to give it to the poor, for the man from whom I won it is very rich. Besides, he was only a Frenchman who was passing through Venice, and by this time he is far away." Furlani was sincerely anxious to shape his conduct in all things by Miss McCartney's wishes, but it was really too absurd, this suggestion that he should return his lawful gains. His fleeting Frenchman was invented on the spur of the moment, and he was greatly relieved to find that Miss McCartney accepted his transparent fib without the slightest question.

"Very well, then!" she said. "If the money can't be returned it must be kept, but I trust it is the last that you will ever win at the gaming-table."

She arose, and walked up and down the room. Furlani regarded her with admiration. "She was now thinking," so he said to himself, and he regarded that process with awe. He too, would learn to think, and who knows what great things might come of it?

"Carlo," said Miss McCartney suddenly, "you must and shall make a man of yourself, but you can never do it here in Venice. I am awfully sorry that you gambled, but now that you have the money, and cannot return it, you shall take it and go to America. There you will learn what life ought to be to a young man. I will give you letters to my friends, who will show you how our young men live. Very likely you will find some opening in business there, and in that case I will come to America and marry you. If you return at the end of the year, you will find me waiting for you here, and by that time you will have learned far more than I can ever hope to teach you, and will have become a man whom I can respect as well as love."

Furlani's handsome face fell. "Dearest!" he said, "you know that I could never live away from you and from Venice. And yet you ask me to go and live a year in that most barbarous of lands. But you shall see how I love you. If you insist upon it, I will go at once. I am your slave, b'gosh! You are my angel, my saint, my holy terror on wooden wheels!" Miss McCartney cast a hurried glance at the closed door, and then, to Furlani's immense astonishment, kissed him. It was not, on the whole, a very skilful kiss, for it alighted on the tip of his ear. Still, it should be said, by way of excuse, that a Professor of Mathematics is not expected to be an expert in kissing, and that Miss McCartney had never before kissed any man except her father.

"Go, and come back to me the noble, earnest man that I am certain you can become," cried the girl; "you are a dear boy, and I am now sure that I love you, but I must be able to look up to you. Make this journey for me, and I promise that when you return, whether you have learned much or little, I will marry you."

Furlani knew that Miss McCartney was inflexible in her determinations.

She had decided that he must go to America, and there was nothing for him to do but to go. He had an unspeakable dread of leaving Venice, but he was honestly anxious to transform himself into the new and as yet incomprehensible sort of person that Miss McCartney wished him to be. So with many tears he bade her farewell, and early in October sailed for New York, having his affianced to resume her temporarily neglected work of elevating the Venetian women.

During his first month in America he wrote almost daily. It was easy to see that he was horribly home-sick, but Miss McCartney fancied that she could detect in his letters signs that his moral nature was awakening, and that he was beginning to understand that he had a loftier mission in life than that of lounging in the Piazza. His English improved rapidly, and he completely dropped those pecularities of expression which had so shocked her. But after a time Miss McCartney became uneasy. A certain worldliness seemed to be creeping into his letters that was wholly foreign to the nature of the frank, childish boy whom she had sent away from Venice. Doubts as to the wisdom of her course began to trouble her. what if her efforts to develop Furlani's moral nature should end in making him a sordid, money-getting Philistine, like too many of her fellow-countrymen? With the first days of spring there came a letter which told her how well the young Venetian had learned the lessons that America had to teach him. It was long, and began with many protestations of the writer's undying love for his "angelic guide." Then it continued as follows:

"I have tried to look at affairs as your Americans look at them. I asked many Americans what a young man like myself, well born, but without money or the means of making money, ought to do, and they all told me that he ought to marry a rich lady. At first I did not like their advice, for I had wished to marry only you. But after a little I saw that they were right, and that to marry wisely is the only business for such a one as I. So I am to be married to a young lady who has a dowry of five hundred thousand francs, and she will come with me to Venice. She is a good one, and I like her very much, but I shall never love anyone but you. I hope, dear one, that you will think I have done wisely. Now that I am to be rich, I will become a Deputy, and you shall be proud of me. In four weeks more I will be at your feet, and you shall tell me that I have done right, and that you love me."

"Popper!" said Miss McCartney, after she had read her letter, "I guess you had better pack up your things at once. We are going to Germany to-morrow, for I must improve my German."

"Ain't this pretty middling sudden?" asked Mr. McCartney. "I thought you calculated to do some reforming among the women here?"

"I'm tired of Venice," replied the girl. "So just you pack up like a dear old Popper. I don't think the climate here suits me very well."

"I'll do exactly as you say," said the father. "Of course it ain't any of my business, but won't young Furrlanny be a little put out if he comes back and finds you are gone?"

Miss McCartney kissed her father, and he saw that there were tears in her eyes, so, like the well-trained father that he was, he decided that he had better make no further mention of Furlani's name. Together with his daughter he left Venice at once, and Miss McCartney vanished completely and for ever from the knowledge of her astounded lover. He is still living luxuriously on the money of his rich wife, but he cannot understand why the woman who took such pains to develop his moral nature deserted him just when he had, as he imagined, made himself the sort of man whom she would respect. He talked the matter over with all his friends, and they unanimously agreed that Miss McCartney, like all Anglo-Saxons, was quite mad, and that Furlani was fortunate in losing her. But he could never take precisely that view, and there were times when he sincerely wished that he had never gone to America, but had remained in Venice, the poor, but faithful lover of his "angelic guide."

________________

13: A Cunning Escape

Sandy Sharp

(fl 1890s)

Riverina Recorder (NSW) 12 April 1905

'THIS IS Mr. Sharp, Mr. Forsyth. Take the gentleman into your office, Mr. Sharp, and he will tell you his story,' said our chief, with a look which I interpreted to mean that the visitor was a bit of a bore.

I was certainly not over favourably impressed by Mr. Forsyth. His face was by no means prepossessing; he high cheek bones, small shifty eyes, fang-like teeth in the upper jaw, and protruding chin making him anything but a beauty. His attire gave small indication of his station in life, for it was of a nondescript brown tweed that might on occasion be worn by a millionaire, and might also be the Sunday lest of a plough-man.

'Sit down, Mr. Forsyth,' I said, when we had gained my 'den.'  'I presume your business is urgent, or our chief would not have sent for me.'

'Urgent! I should think so. Man, I've been robbed of £6,000!' exclaimed the man, mopping his perspiring face with a spotted cotton handkerchief.

'Tell me all about it,' I said, beginning to be interested, the result naturally of the sum he mentioned.

'I will, Mr. Sharp. I'm told you can be trusted. I came home a year syne last Candlemas, after being nine years in Australia at the gold diggings. I brought  home with me over £14,000, and, not wishing to have the money lying idle in the bank, I looked out for a safe investment.

'I had plenty of chances, but none of them seemed safe, until I met Mr. Archibald Anderson, of Vincent-street. Do you know him— a lawyer?'

'Yes, I know tho gentleman.'

'Gentleman, indeed! The man is a downright rogue. I lent him £6,000 on the mortgage of property, and the deed is a forgery.'

'A forgery! Then why not apply for a warrant?'

'I cannot do that yet. Anderson says it is genuine, and I have no legal proof it is not. But there is another deed in existence, and which was granted first is what I want you to find out. Both are dated the same day, and now the gentleman is in the asylum.'

'Have you the, deed with you?'I asked.

'Yes. Mr. Sharp? Here it is.'

I glanced through it, and so far as I could judge, it seemed to be in perfect order.

' Have you been to an agent respecting this affair?'

'Ay. Mr. Mearns, of Sauchiehall-street, has had the matter in hand, and someone here.'

'Has the interest been paid to you regularly?'

'Ay, but when I heard that Mr. Beattie was in the asylum I wanted to get  my money. Mr. Anderson kept putting me off asking me to wait: but I got suspicious, and advertised the mortgage for sale. Then I found there was another mortgage in existence.'

'And the party who owns the other deed?'

'Mr. M'Whinnie, a gentleman who lives in Sardinia-terrace, Hillhead. The two witnesses to his deed are both in Glasgow, and I have seen them. The witnesses to my deed cannot be found; and what is more, no one knows them at the addresses stated in the deed.'

'What do you wish me to do?'

'Find out if Mr. Beattie really signed the deed, or whether that scoundrel Anderson did not employ someone to personate the owner of the property.'

'You will leave the deed with me, then?'

'Oh, ay. I ken ye can be trusted '

'I suppose it is your money you want more than the punishment of the man who has got your money, supposing your belief that you have been swindled turns out to be true?' I asked.

'That's it. But I would rather lose the lot than that the scamp should go free.'

'Very well, Mr. Forsyth; I will do my best for you. Give me your address.'

I was by no means surprised to find that he lived in an obscure street in the Gorbals, and promised to communicate with him when I had made some inquiries.

I spent a couple of days in making an investigation into the history of the duplicate deeds, and the result more than justified the strong suspicion entertained by the returned gold-digger that he had been swindled out of his £6,000.

My inquiries also resulted in the not over-gratifying information that Mr. Archibald Anderson had been speculating extensively, and was known to be in very low water. The prospect, therefore, of recovering the £6,000 from him would be an exceedingly remote one.

I explained all this to Mr. George Forsyth and he declared his intention to proceed forthwith in applying for a warrant.

'In that case you must instruct an agent, and I will be present in Court tomorrow to give evidence,' I said.

' I will bring Mr Mearns with me in the morning.'

I happened to be looking out of my office window as Forsyth left, and espied a small boy on the other side of the street, with his eyes intent upon the exit of my visitor. I recognised the boy as Anderson's errand-boy, and saw at once that the rascally lawyer was playing the spy. I thought it highly probable, as Anderson must know of my recent inquiries, that he would endeavour to escape, and in my turn I set a spy upon him.

One of our youngest plain-clothes constables, a sharp young fellow, not long away from his father's farm, therefore looking the country stranger as though to the manner born, was told off to maintain a strict watch on Mr. Anderson, and to keep me well posted as to his doings.

At 10.45 that night Mr. Archibald Anderson— at least, a gentleman who was taken for him— left the Central Station, having booked for London. Donald M'Alpine, who had the lawyer under surveillance, took a similar ticket, for as  the warrant had not been granted, he had no authority to prevent the absconding lawyer from going where he thought fit.

From Crewe M'Alpine sent us a telegram saying that he would again wire when Anderson had located himself in a London hotel. Soon after nine we got a second telegram telling us that the runaway had taken up his abode at the Langham.

I thought this somewhat strange, it was so contrary to my expectations. I thought Anderson would proceed to France, if not further; and to find him going straight to a big hotel upset all my preconceived notions. The warrant was applied for, and immediately granted. Information of this was sent to M'Alpine, but there was a surprise in store for him. Presenting himself at the Langham, and asking for Mr. Archibald Anderson, he was blandly informed that no gentleman of that name was in the hotel.

'I wish to see the gentleman who arrived from Euston, after travelling from Scotland by the sleeping saloon train over night.'

'The gentleman's name is Davidson— Mr. Charles Davidson.'

'It may be so this morning. At Glasgow last night his name was Anderson,' said the constable.

Mr. Charles Davidson was sent for, and presently appeared in the hotel vestibule, But he bore no resemblance whatever to Mr. Anderson. The latter was at least forty-two to forty-five years old; Mr. Davidson did not look more than twenty-seven. But the attire in which M'Alpine had seen lawyer Anderson tho previous evening was exactly similar to that worn by the man now present.

'You wish to see me, I believe? I shall be glad if you will cut short your business as much as possible. I have an appointment at noon.'

'You left the house of Mr. Archibald Anderson last night to catch the 10.45 at Glasgow Central station, Mr, Davidson?'

'Yes; that is true.'

'If your business is of a private nature I must ask you to postpone it until my return to Glasgow. I shall be back there on Tuesday next,' said Davidson hastily.

The young constable had the good sense to see that he could not compel the gentleman to answer questions, and, after a lame apology, withdrew. I was not unprepared for his third telegram telling us that he had been 'shadowing' the wrong man.

As may be imagined, our chief was awfully annoyed, for we soon discovered that while M'Alpine was after the supposed runaway, the man we wanted made good his escape. The swindled gold-digger was furiously angry. At first he throw out hints that we had been bribed to let the fellow get away, and had to apologise again before he was admitted into the detective office. He offered a reward of £200 for the capture and conviction of Mr. Anderson, but it was not claimed.

Every possible means that ingenuity could devise were set on foot to get on the track of the absconding lawyer but not a brace had he left behind. He had one daughter, a good-looking girl of twenty and when it transpired that she had been left behind to bear the brunt of her father's misdeeds, much sympathy was expressed for her, and when Mr. Anderson's estate was realised for the benefit of creditors, the daughter was allowed to take away her piano and various other articles— books, pictures, and so forth.

For months a watch was kept on Isabel Anderson, but without result. Sympathetic friends managed to secure for her a situation in a stationer's shop, and cautious inquiries anent her correspondents, companions, and acquaintances made time after time revealed nothing of a suspicious nature. A year after her father's disappearance Isabel Anderson suddenly left Glasgow without notice to her employers. Her friends professed complete ignorance as to her whereabouts, and I could not avoid the suspicion that she had joined her rascally father in his retreat, wherever that might be.

And when another year had passed I had almost forgotten the lawyer's clever escape. But he was not fated to escape altogether from the consequences of his misdeeds. Entering the office one morning I found on my desk an open envelope containing two photographs from the Edinburgh police, asking if the man and woman whose likenesses wore enclosed wore known in Glasgow. The photos had been examined by all our men before I saw them, and neither of them had been identified.

The couple had been systematically robbing a number of lodging-house keepers in Edinburgh, and their modus operandi indicated that they were not  quite the novices at the game they wished the police to believe. I fancied somehow, that I had seen the woman before, and for some time could not determine where and when, and I sat with that photo before me for more than an hour scanning each feature of the good-looking face trying to recall the original.

'I have it!' I said suddenly to myself, 'This is no other than Isabel Anderson. She now wears her hair in curls; and the alteration has apparently added to the length of her face. And her eyes have a shifty, uneasy expression, the result of association with the man she has been living with.'

I went to the chief, and he agreed that the clue was worth following up. We might yet succeed in tracking her father to his hiding-place. It had not been deemed necessary to show the photographs to any of the constables, but Donald M'Alpine happening to come into my office that afternoon I asked him if he knew the couple.

'That is the man I followed to London in the belief that I was tracking Anderson,' said M'Alpine.

'Are you quite sure?'

'Positive. I can swear to him, if required. Look at that white mark in his right eyebrow; it is a scar, and I noticed it when we met at the Langham Hotel.'

'Then keep the knowledge to yourself, M'Alpine, and we'll capture Mr. Archibald Anderson yet. It is evident that this man purposely attired himself to represent Anderson, whose daughter is now his wife.'

I said nothing of the new discovery to our chief, but waited patiently until Mr. and Mrs. Charles Davidson— they had given their own names, a circumstance in their favour— were to be tried at the Edinburgh Sheriff Court. As I anticipated, the young wife was found not guilty, as being under the control of her husband, who was sentenced to six months' imprisonment.

I expected a scene in court when he was sentenced; that Isabel would show some sign of grief for his fate, but she was cool, calm, and collected. Even when parting with him ere he was taken back to prison she shed not a tear, and her voice had no tremor in it when she said—:

'Good-bye, Charles Davidson, and I pray heaven I may never see your face again.'

'Take care. If I were to tell all I know—'

'You dare not, you coward! I have never known an hour's peace since I met you.'

'And you would leave me like that, Isabel?'

But she had quickly left the room, and, muttering curses on her, he was taken back to his prisoner companions for conveyance to jail. I knew that the young wife had no money in her possession when discharged from custody, and wondered what course she would pursue.

I was not loft long in doubt, for she went straight to a pawnshop and borrowed 7s. on her wedding-ring. Then she went to the railway station, and booked in Helensburgh. I travelled with her in the same compartment, but in the coat and vest of clerical cut, shovel hat, and gold-rimmed spectacles I knew she would not recognise me.

I noticed that on the Glasgow stations she not only kept her veil down, but held a newspaper in such a position that no one on the platforms could see her veiled face. Apparently she did not wish to be seen by any of her acquaintances.

On arriving at Helensburgh she went straight to a respectable-looking house in the west end of the town, facing the sea, and after a short parley at tho door was admitted. On the gate of the house was a brass plate inscribed, 'Mr. Angus Carmichael, Teacher of Music.'

I made some inquiries about Mr. Angus Carmichael, and learnt that he was a very quiet, respectable gentleman, about sixty years or so, much liked by the Helensburgh folk, being always ready to give his services as accompanist at concerts got up in behalf of religious or charitable objects. As one result of his willingness in that direction, his profession as a teacher of the pianoforte was now well established. He had come to Helensburgh a couple of years before from Edinburgh for the benefit of sea air.

'A couple of years since! Sixty or so! Mr. Archibald Anderson suddenly left Glasgow a couple of years since, but he cannot be much, if anything over 45. I will see him, however.'

This was much easier to decide upon than to carry into effect. The music teacher was ill— confined to the house— and, knowing the importance of not arousing the slightest suspicion by injudicious inquiries, I could not make any attempt to obtain an interview with him. But as it would not do for me to remain in Helensburgh much longer unless I could feel sure I was on the right track I resolved to see the doctor in attendance on Mr. Angus Carmichael.

The doctor was a gentleman well advanced in years, and I knew he would not prove an easy nut to crack. Beating about the bush would have been useless with him, and, handing him my card, I told him my business with him.

'What? You dare to come here and ask me to play the role of police spy upon one of my patients. There is the door, Mr. Sharp.'

'Not so fast, Dr. Thorburn. I have asked you if your patient wears a wig. You refuse to answer my question. That, to my mind, is a plain proof that Mr. Angus Carmichael does wear a wig. If he did not you would have said so at once. But I would much prefer to go to his residence with the certainty that I was on the right track, and therefore if you do not wish to be afterwards summoned as a hostile witness, and thereby raise a suspicion that you know who Mr. Angus Carmichael really is, you will reply to my questions.'

'You scoundrel! Do you dare accuse me of being the accomplice of any man who has committed forgery?'

'No, I don't; but the public who read newspapers will draw their own conclusions,' I replied coolly.

'They can think what they please; I will tell you nothing. If l am obliged to divulge certain facts that become known to me while attending upon a patient, it shall be on legal compulsion. Good morning.'

I had no further doubts in the matter, and, wiring to my chief, he sent one of our men with the original warrant for the arrest of Anderson.

Presenting ourselves at the door of the house in which he had lodged for two years, I asked to see Miss Carmichael.

'There is no lady of that name here,' said the servant trying to close the door.

'Perhaps she is known as Mrs. Davidson,' I said.

'No, we have only one mistress here.'

'The lady I refer to came here by train on Thursday afternoon,' I replied, giving the door a push, and walking in. The staircase fronted the door, and looking up I saw tho face of Isabel Davidson with a look of affright that I could easily interpret.

'I wish to have a few words with you, Mrs. Davidson,' I said. 'It is useless going back to your father, for I have a warrant for his arrest. If he is too ill to be moved there is no reason why he should know that we have discovered Mr. Archibald Anderson in the person of Mr. Angus Carmichael. If you are a sensible young lady you will see the wisdom of doing as I wish.'

With a heart-rending cry the forger's daughter fell in a heap on the landing at the top of tho first flight of stairs. The mistress of the house had been fetched by the servant, and scouting the notion that her lodger had done anything to make himself amenable to the law, actually sent for a local constable to have us turned out of the house.

But in the meantime I had insisted on having a look at the sick man, and quickly saw that his illness was one of the mind more than of the body. He groaned in despairing anguish when I made myself known to him— I was still disguised as a minister— moaning— 'My poor child! My poor Isabel! Would to God I had never listened to that double-dyed villain Davidson. I should not be in hiding now, with the felon's dock and the convict's cell staring me in the face. But I will never meet such an ordeal. Ha, ha! Did you ever arrest a corpse?'

He had half-risen in bed on my entrance, and now, as he ended with the startling question, he fell back quite dead.

His daughter seemed turned to stone when made acquainted with the calamity, that had befallen her. The doctor stated that Anderson had taken enough strychnine to kill half-a-dozen men, and that  the suicide must have had the poison ready for such an emergency.

The affair, of course, got into the papers, and George Forsyth, the gold-digger came over to Helensburgh the following day. Possibly, he thought, there might be a chance of recovering part of the large sum of money of which he had been defrauded.

I CHANCED to meet Forsyth as I was on my way to the station, intending to return to Glasgow, and at his request I went back with him to the house where the body of the dead lawyer was lying. It was a strange wish of the ex-gold-digger to see the body, but the daughter of the man who had cheated Forsyth out of £6,000 made no objection.

She was in the hall as we descended the stairs, and said— 'Will you give me five minutes alone with you, Mr. Forsyth?'

'Great heaven's, lassie, surely you are my sister Isabel's child? Was your mother's name  Helen Forsyth?' he asked eagerly.

'Yes. sir, it was.'

'If I had only known of it before! My own sister's child to be robbed of her father in such a way.'

'It has not been your fault uncle. Neither was it so much the fault of my poor father as that of the man who compelled me to marry him,'

I left the uncle and niece together, wondering what the next chapter of this strange romance would be.

I had not long to wait for the first chapter of the sequel. Mr. Forsyth gave his brother-in-law a respectable funeral, paid his debts, and brought the daughter to Glasgow, where he took a handsome house near the West End Park, and ensconced Isabel therein as its mistress.

The six months of Charles Davidson's imprisonment glided by, and a couple of days before he would be released Mr. Forsyth Milled on me to ask my advice as to the best means of keeping Davidson away from his wife.

I told him that they had nothing to fear, that Davidson could not force his way into the house, and that if the fellow came there he could be given into custody if he committed a breach of the peace.

'If the scamp would quit the country I would be willing to pay his passage mono; to Australia, and give him £50 to begin with when he got there. I thought you would maybe go and meet him coming out of jail and manage the business for me. I would make it worth your while, Mr. Sharp.'

He had previously given me proof of his generosity, and having arranged with my chief for a half-day's leave I went to Edinburgh overnight, there being no train early enough in tho morning to enable me to catch Davidson as he left Calton Jail.

I had had not much faith in the success of my commission, for the story of the lawyer's temptation by Davidson, of the terrorising he had been subjected to after the forged deed was successfully palmed off on the unsophisticated gold-digger, of Isabel's consent to marry the scoundrel to save her father from arrest, and the fleecing process by which such money as Anderson possessed when he absconded was obtained by his villainous son-in-law— which had been narrated to her uncle by Isabel, and then told to me— showed that Charles Davidson was as big a scamp as could be found anywhere.

The discharged prisoners begun to emerge from the jail gate as the city clocks were striking six, and presently Davidson stopped out, stopping short as he recognised me, his face indicating how frightened he was.

'I've come to meet you, Davidson— as a friend, if you are a wise man,'  I began. I could see at once that he felt relieved, and gradually his face reassumed its wonted look of contempt of the world in general.

'I cannot understand what you can have to say to me, Mr. Sharp, if you are sent by my wife or her father?'

'He is dead.'

'What? Dead? Do you think to make a fool of me in that way?'

'If you are an adept at lying, Mr Charles Davidson, I am not. Mr. Andrews  poisoned himself to avoid arrest.'

'And his daughter?'

'Resides with her uncle, Mr. George Forsyth, the man whose money you share with Anderson.'

'It's a lie! I knew nothing about it! Nobody can prove I had aught to do with the forgery.'

'I never mentioned the nature of the crime, Mr. Anderson was alleged to have committed. You have convicted yourself out of your own mouth, Charles Davidson.'

'Bah! Where is your proof of my complicity in Anderson's crime? What do you want with mo?'

'l am commissioned to offer you a sum of money on condition that you leave Scotland for Australia.'

'How much?'

'A passage and £50.'

'Tell Mr. Forsyth, I'll go if he'll make it £500.'

We were emerging into Waterloo-place, Davidson being evidently bent on returning to Glasgow when my companion suddenly turned his face aside to avoid recognition by a shabbily attired young woman, who was leading a child of four or five by the hand.

'Charlie my husband! Oh, don't run away from me!'

The fellow started to run, but apparently his six months in Calton Jail had weakened him, for I caught him easily.

'Let me go, or I'll murder you!' he hissed. My response to this threat was prompt and effectual, for with a sudden twist I threw him on the pavement, and in a trice had him handcuffed.

'What has he done? Let him go!' cried the woman who had claimed him as her husband. A constable coming up, I quickly explained matters, and Mrs. Davidson was quietly requested to accompany us to the police station. There she was informed that Davidson had another wife in Glasgow, and she needed no pressing to sign the charge sheet. The vagabond was thoroughly humbled by the turn events had taken, and made all sorts of protestations to me if I would help him out of the scrape.

'I would walk ten miles to see you hung,' I said.

It would be impossible to describe the gladness that irradiated the countenance of Isabel Forsyth— she had agreed to take her mother's name— when I made known to her and her uncle the startling news of Davidson's arrest for bigamy.

'Oh, Mr. Sharp, the knowledge that I am practically free from that man— it is, indeed, good news,' she said, when I had related the result of my journey.

'Ay, you have indeed done well, and the lassie hersel' can pay you well for it,' said Mr. Forsyth. 'So long as there was a chance of that scamp claiming her property I kept it to myself; now I can tell you and her. Her father bought a lot of shares in a Yankee silver mine, and soon afterwards they were said to be worthless. But the mine has since proved to be one of the richest in Nevada, and Isabel is a wealthy woman, far richer than I am. She must pay you, Mr. Sharp.'

After Davidson's trial, when some of the facts concerning the forged deed were laid before the judge, who sent the prisoner to penal servitude for five years, I had no reason to grumble at the payment I received from the now contented Isabel Forsyth. Her uncle no longer regretted the loss of his £6,000, seeing that it had led eventually to the possession of a loving, adopted daughter.

__________________

14: Pygmalion's Spectacles

Stanley G. Weinbaum

1902-1935

Wonder Stories June 1935

Stanley Grauman Weinbaum

Weinbaum died of lung cancer at just 33.  He is one of the great names in the new science fiction of the 1930s, author of the ground-breaking story "A Martian Odyssey", which has been reprinted many times.

"BUT WHAT is reality?" asked the gnomelike man. He gestured at the tall banks of buildings that loomed around Central Park, with their countless windows glowing like the cave fires of a city of Cro-Magnon people. "All is dream, all is illusion; I am your vision as you are mine."

Dan Burke, struggling for clarity of thought through the fumes of liquor, stared without comprehension at the tiny figure of his companion. He began to regret the impulse that had driven him to leave the party to seek fresh air in the park, and to fall by chance into the company of this diminutive old madman. But he had needed escape; this was one party too many, and not even the presence of Claire with her trim ankles could hold him there. He felt an angry desire to go home— not to his hotel, but home to Chicago and to the comparative peace of the Board of Trade. But he was leaving tomorrow anyway.

"You drink," said the elfin, bearded face, "to make real a dream. Is it not so? Either to dream that what you seek is yours, or else to dream that what you hate is conquered. You drink to escape reality, and the irony is that even reality is a dream."

"Cracked!" thought Dan again.

"Or so," concluded the other, "says the philosopher Berkeley."

"Berkeley?" echoed Dan. His head was clearing; memories of a Sophomore course in Elementary Philosophy drifted back. "Bishop Berkeley, eh?"

"You know him, then? The philosopher of Idealism— no?— the one who argues that we do not see, feel, hear, taste the object, but that we have only the sensation of seeing, feeling, hearing, tasting."

"I— sort of recall it."

"Hah! But sensations are mental phenomena. They exist in our minds. How, then, do we know that the objects themselves do not exist only in our minds?" He waved again at the light-flecked buildings. "You do not see that wall of masonry; you perceive only a sensation, a feeling of sight. The rest you interpret."

"You see the same thing," retorted Dan.

"How do you know I do? Even if you knew that what I call red would not be green could you see through my eyes— even if you knew that, how do you know that I too am not a dream of yours?"

Dan laughed. "Of course nobody knows anything. You just get what information you can through the windows of your five senses, and then make your guesses. When they're wrong, you pay the penalty." His mind was clear now save for a mild headache. "Listen," he said suddenly. "You can argue a reality away to an illusion; that's easy. But if your friend Berkeley is right, why can't you take a dream and make it real? If it works one way, it must work the other."

The beard waggled; elf-bright eyes glittered queerly at him. "All artists do that," said the old man softly. Dan felt that something more quivered on the verge of utterance.

"That's an evasion," he grunted. "Anybody can tell the difference between a picture and the real thing, or between a movie and life."

"But," whispered the other, "the realer the better, no? And if one could make a— a movie— very real indeed, what would you say then?"

"Nobody can, though."

The eyes glittered strangely again. "I can!" he whispered. "I did!"

"Did what?"

"Made real a dream." The voice turned angry. "Fools! I bring it here to sell to Westman, the camera people, and what do they say? 'It isn't clear. Only one person can use it at a time. It's too expensive.' Fools! Fools!"

"Huh?"

"Listen! I'm Albert Ludwig— Professor Ludwig." As Dan was silent, he continued, "It means nothing to you, eh? But listen— a movie that gives one sight and sound. Suppose now I add taste, smell, even touch, if your interest is taken by the story. Suppose I make it so that you are in the story, you speak to the shadows, and the shadows reply, and instead of being on a screen, the story is all about you, and you are in it. Would that be to make real a dream?"

"How the devil could you do that?"

"How? How? But simply! First my liquid positive, then my magic spectacles. I photograph the story in a liquid with light-sensitive chromates. I build up a complex solution— do you see? I add taste chemically and sound electrically. And when the story is recorded, then I put the solution in my spectacle— my movie projector. I electrolyze the solution, break it down; the older chromates go first, and out comes the story, sight, sound, smell, taste— all!"

"Touch?"

"If your interest is taken, your mind supplies that." Eagerness crept into his voice. "You will look at it, Mr.—?"

"Burke," said Dan. "A swindle!" he thought. Then a spark of recklessness glowed out of the vanishing fumes of alcohol. "Why not?" he grunted.

He rose; Ludwig, standing, came scarcely to his shoulder. A queer gnomelike old man, Dan thought as he followed him across the park and into one of the scores of apartment hotels in the vicinity.

In his room Ludwig fumbled in a bag, producing a device vaguely reminiscent of a gas mask. There were goggles and a rubber mouthpiece; Dan examined it curiously, while the little bearded professor brandished a bottle of watery liquid.

"Here it is!" he gloated. "My liquid positive, the story. Hard photography— infernally hard, therefore the simplest story. A Utopia— just two characters and you, the audience. Now, put the spectacles on. Put them on and tell me what fools the Westman people are!" He decanted some of the liquid into the mask, and trailed a twisted wire to a device on the table. "A rectifier," he explained. "For the electrolysis."

"Must you use all the liquid?" asked Dan. "If you use part, do you see only part of the story? And which part?"

"Every drop has all of it, but you must fill the eye-pieces." Then as Dan slipped the device gingerly on, "So! Now what do you see?"

"Not a damn' thing. Just the windows and the lights across the street."

"Of course. But now I start the electrolysis. Now!"

THERE was a moment of chaos. The liquid before Dan's eyes clouded suddenly white, and formless sounds buzzed. He moved to tear the device from his head, but emerging forms in the mistiness caught his interest. Giant things were writhing there.

The scene steadied; the whiteness was dissipating like mist in summer. Unbelieving, still gripping the arms of that unseen chair, he was staring at a forest. But what a forest! Incredible, unearthly, beautiful! Smooth boles ascended inconceivably toward a brightening sky, trees bizarre as the forests of the Carboniferous age. Infinitely overhead swayed misty fronds, and the verdure showed brown and green in the heights. And there were birds— at least, curiously lovely pipings and twitterings were all about him though he saw no creatures— thin elfin whistlings like fairy bugles sounded softly.

He sat frozen, entranced. A louder fragment of melody drifted down to him, mounting in exquisite, ecstatic bursts, now clear as sounding metal, now soft as remembered music. For a moment he forgot the chair whose arms he gripped, the miserable hotel room invisibly about him, old Ludwig, his aching head. He imagined himself alone in the midst of that lovely glade. "Eden!" he muttered, and the swelling music of unseen voices answered.

Some measure of reason returned. "Illusion!" he told himself. Clever optical devices, not reality. He groped for the chair's arm, found it, and clung to it; he scraped his feet and found again an inconsistency. To his eyes the ground was mossy verdure; to his touch it was merely a thin hotel carpet.

The elfin buglings sounded gently. A faint, deliciously sweet perfume breathed against him; he glanced up to watch the opening of a great crimson blossom on the nearest tree, and a tiny reddish sun edged into the circle of sky above him. The fairy orchestra swelled louder in its light, and the notes sent a thrill of wistfulness through him. Illusion? If it were, it made reality almost unbearable; he wanted to believe that somewhere— somewhere this side of dreams, there actually existed this region of loveliness. An outpost of Paradise? Perhaps.

And then— far through the softening mists, he caught a movement that was not the swaying of verdure, a shimmer of silver more solid than mist. Something approached. He watched the figure as it moved, now visible, now hidden by trees; very soon he perceived that it was human, but it was almost upon him before he realized that it was a girl.

She wore a robe of silvery, half-translucent stuff, luminous as starbeams; a thin band of silver bound glowing black hair about her forehead, and other garment or ornament she had none. Her tiny white feet were bare to the mossy forest floor as she stood no more than a pace from him, staring dark-eyed. The thin music sounded again; she smiled.

Dan summoned stumbling thoughts. Was this being also— illusion? Had she no more reality than the loveliness of the forest? He opened his lips to speak, but a strained excited voice sounded in his ears. "Who are you?" Had he spoken? The voice had come as if from another, like the sound of one's words in fever.

The girl smiled again. "English!" she said in queer soft tones. "I can speak a little English." She spoke slowly, carefully. "I learned it from"— she hesitated— "my mother's father, whom they call the Grey Weaver."

Again came the voice in Dan's ears. "Who are you?"

"I am called Galatea," she said. "I came to find you."

"To find me?" echoed the voice that was Dan's.

"Leucon, who is called the Grey Weaver, told me," she explained smiling. "He said you will stay with us until the second noon from this." She cast a quick slanting glance at the pale sun now full above the clearing, then stepped closer. "What are you called?"

"Dan," he muttered. His voice sounded oddly different.

"What a strange name!" said the girl. She stretched out her bare arm. "Come," she smiled.

Dan touched her extended hand, feeling without any surprise the living warmth of her fingers. He had forgotten the paradoxes of illusion; this was no longer illusion to him, but reality itself. It seemed to him that he followed her, walking over the shadowed turf that gave with springy crunch beneath his tread, though Galatea left hardly an imprint. He glanced down, noting that he himself wore a silver garment, and that his feet were bare; with the glance he felt a feathery breeze on his body and a sense of mossy earth on his feet.

"Galatea," said his voice. "Galatea, what place is this? What language do you speak?"

She glanced back laughing. "Why, this is Paracosma, of course, and this is our language."

"Paracosma," muttered Dan. "Para— cosma!" A fragment of Greek that had survived somehow from a Sophomore course a decade in the past came strangely back to him. Paracosma! Land-beyond-the-world!

Galatea cast a smiling glance at him. "Does the real world seem strange," she queried, "after that shadow land of yours?"

"Shadow land?" echoed Dan, bewildered. "This is shadow, not my world."

The girl's smile turned quizzical. "Poof!" she retorted with an impudently lovely pout. "And I suppose, then, that I am the phantom instead of you!" She laughed. "Do I seem ghostlike?"

Dan made no reply; he was puzzling over unanswerable questions as he trod behind the lithe figure of his guide. The aisle between the unearthly trees widened, and the giants were fewer. It seemed a mile, perhaps, before a sound of tinkling water obscured that other strange music; they emerged on the bank of a little river, swift and crystalline, that rippled and gurgled its way from glowing pool to flashing rapids, sparkling under the pale sun. Galatea bent over the brink and cupped her hands, raising a few mouthfuls of water to her lips; Dan followed her example, finding the liquid stinging cold.

"How do we cross?" he asked.

"You can wade up there,"— the dryad who led him gestured to a sun-lit shallows above a tiny falls— "but I always cross here." She poised herself for a moment on the green bank, then dove like a silver arrow into the pool. Dan followed; the water stung his body like champagne, but a stroke or two carried him across to where Galatea had already emerged with a glistening of creamy bare limbs. Her garment clung tight as a metal sheath to her wet body; he felt a breath-taking thrill at the sight of her. And then, miraculously, the silver cloth was dry, the droplets rolled off as if from oiled silk, and they moved briskly on.

The incredible forest had ended with the river; they walked over a meadow studded with little, many-hued, star-shaped flowers, whose fronds underfoot were soft as a lawn. Yet still the sweet pipings followed them, now loud, now whisper-soft, in a tenuous web of melody.

"Galatea!" said Dan suddenly. "Where is the music coming from?"

She looked back amazed. "You silly one!" she laughed. "From the flowers, of course. See!" she plucked a purple star and held it to his ear; true enough, a faint and plaintive melody hummed out of the blossom. She tossed it in his startled face and skipped on.

A little copse appeared ahead, not of the gigantic forest trees, but of lesser growths, bearing flowers and fruits of iridescent colors, and a tiny brook bubbled through. And there stood the objective of their journey— a building of white, marble-like stone, single-storied and vine covered, with broad glassless windows. They trod upon a path of bright pebbles to the arched entrance, and here, on an intricate stone bench, sat a grey-bearded patriarchal individual. Galatea addressed him in a liquid language that reminded Dan of the flower-pipings; then she turned. "This is Leucon," she said, as the ancient rose from his seat and spoke in English.

"We are happy, Galatea and I, to welcome you, since visitors are a rare pleasure here, and those from your shadowy country most rare."

Dan uttered puzzled words of thanks, and the old man nodded, reseating himself on the carven bench; Galatea skipped through the arched entrance, and Dan, after an irresolute moment, dropped to the remaining bench. Once more his thoughts were whirling in perplexed turbulence. Was all this indeed but illusion? Was he sitting, in actuality, in a prosaic hotel room, peering through magic spectacles that pictured this world about him, or was he, transported by some miracle, really sitting here in this land of loveliness? He touched the bench; stone, hard and unyielding, met his fingers.

"Leucon," said his voice, "how did you know I was coming?"

"I was told," said the other.

"By whom?"

"By no one."

"Why— someone must have told you!"

The Grey Weaver shook his solemn head. "I was just told."

Dan ceased his questioning, content for the moment to drink in the beauty about him and then Galatea returned bearing a crystal bowl of the strange fruits. They were piled in colorful disorder, red, purple, orange and yellow, pear-shaped, egg-shaped, and clustered spheroids— fantastic, unearthly. He selected a pale, transparent ovoid, bit into it, and was deluged by a flood of sweet liquid, to the amusement of the girl. She laughed and chose a similar morsel; biting a tiny puncture in the end, she squeezed the contents into her mouth. Dan took a different sort, purple and tart as Rhenish wine, and then another, filled with edible, almond-like seeds. Galatea laughed delightedly at his surprises, and even Leucon smiled a grey smile. Finally Dan tossed the last husk into the brook beside them, where it danced briskly toward the river.

"Galatea," he said, "do you ever go to a city? What cities are in Paracosma?"

"Cities? What are cities?"

"Places where many people live close together."

"Oh," said the girl frowning. "No. There are no cities here."

"Then where are the people of Paracosma? You must have neighbors."

The girl looked puzzled. "A man and a woman live off there," she said, gesturing toward a distant blue range of hills dim on the horizon. "Far away over there. I went there once, but Leucon and I prefer the valley."

"But Galatea!" protested Dan. "Are you and Leucon alone in this valley? Where— what happened to your parents— your father and mother?"

"They went away. That way— toward the sunrise. They'll return some day."

"And if they don't?"

"Why, foolish one! What could hinder them?"

"Wild beasts," said Dan. "Poisonous insects, disease, flood, storm, lawless people, death!"

"I never heard those words," said Galatea. "There are no such things here." She sniffed contemptuously. "Lawless people!"

"Not— death?"

"What is death?"

"It's—" Dan paused helplessly. "It's like falling asleep and never waking. It's what happens to everyone at the end of life."

"I never heard of such a thing as the end of life!" said the girl decidedly. "There isn't such a thing."

"What happens, then," queried Dan desperately, "when one grows old?"

"Nothing, silly! No one grows old unless he wants to, like Leucon. A person grows to the age he likes best and then stops. It's a law!"

Dan gathered his chaotic thoughts. He stared into Galatea's dark, lovely eyes. "Have you stopped yet?"

The dark eyes dropped; he was amazed to see a deep, embarrassed flush spread over her cheeks. She looked at Leucon nodding reflectively on his bench, then back to Dan, meeting his gaze.

"Not yet," he said.

"And when will you, Galatea?"

"When I have had the one child permitted me. You see"— she stared down at her dainty toes— "one cannot— bear children— afterwards."

"Permitted? Permitted by whom?"

"By a law."

"Laws! Is everything here governed by laws? What of chance and accidents?"

"What are those— chance and accidents?"

"Things unexpected— things unforeseen."

"Nothing is unforeseen," said Galatea, still soberly. She repeated slowly, "Nothing is unforeseen." He fancied her voice was wistful.

Leucon looked up. "Enough of this," he said abruptly. He turned to Dan, "I know these words of yours— chance, disease, death. They are not for Paracosma. Keep them in your unreal country."

"Where did you hear them, then?"

"From Galatea's mother," said the Grey Weaver, "who had them from your predecessor— a phantom who visited here before Galatea was born."

Dan had a vision of Ludwig's face. "What was he like?"

"Much like you."

"But his name?"

The old man's mouth was suddenly grim. "We do not speak of him," he said and rose, entering the dwelling in cold silence.

"He goes to weave," said Galatea after a moment. Her lovely, piquant face was still troubled.

"What does he weave?"

"This," She fingered the silver cloth of her gown. "He weaves it out of metal bars on a very clever machine. I do not know the method."

"Who made the machine?"

"It was here."

"But— Galatea! Who built the house? Who planted these fruit trees?"

"They were here. The house and trees were always here." She lifted her eyes. "I told you everything had been foreseen, from the beginning until eternity— everything. The house and trees and machine were ready for Leucon and my parents and me. There is a place for my child, who will be a girl, and a place for her child— and so on forever."

Dan thought a moment. "Were you born here?"

"I don't know." He noted in sudden concern that her eyes were glistening with tears.

"Galatea, dear! Why are you unhappy? What's wrong?"

"Why, nothing!" She shook her black curls, smiled suddenly at him. "What could be wrong? How can one be unhappy in Paracosma?" She sprang erect and seized his hand. "Come! Let's gather fruit for tomorrow."

She darted off in a whirl of flashing silver, and Dan followed her around the wing of the edifice. Graceful as a dancer she leaped for a branch above her head, caught it laughingly, and tossed a great golden globe to him. She loaded his arms with the bright prizes and sent him back to the bench, and when he returned, she piled it so full of fruit that a deluge of colorful spheres dropped around him. She laughed again, and sent them spinning into the brook with thrusts of her rosy toes, while Dan watched her with an aching wistfulness. Then suddenly she was facing him; for a long, tense instant they stood motionless, eyes upon eyes, and then she turned away and walked slowly around to the arched portal. He followed her with his burden of fruit; his mind was once more in a turmoil of doubt and perplexity.

The little sun was losing itself behind the trees of that colossal forest to the west, and a coolness stirred among long shadows. The brook was purple-hued in the dusk, but its cheery notes mingled still with the flower music. Then the sun was hidden; the shadow fingers darkened the meadow; of a sudden the flowers were still, and the brook gurgled alone in a world of silence. In silence too, Dan entered the doorway.

The chamber within was a spacious one, floored with large black and white squares; exquisite benches of carved marble were here and there. Old Leucon, in a far corner, bent over an intricate, glistening mechanism, and as Dan entered he drew a shining length of silver cloth from it, folded it, and placed it carefully aside. There was a curious, unearthly fact that Dan noted; despite windows open to the evening, no night insects circled the globes that glowed at intervals from niches in the walls.

Galatea stood in a doorway to his left, leaning half-wearily against the frame; he placed the bowl of fruit on a bench at the entrance and moved to her side.

"This is yours," she said, indicating the room beyond. He looked in upon a pleasant, smaller chamber; a window framed a starry square, and a thin, swift, nearly silent stream of water gushed from the mouth of a carved human head on the left wall, curving into a six-foot basin sunk in the floor. Another of the graceful benches covered with the silver cloth completed the furnishings; a single glowing sphere, pendant by a chain from the ceiling, illuminated the room. Dan turned to the girl, whose eyes were still unwontedly serious.

"This is ideal," he said, "but, Galatea, how am I to turn out the light?"

"Turn it out?" she said. "You must cap it— so!" A faint smile showed again on her lips as she dropped a metal covering over the shining sphere. They stood tense in the darkness; Dan sensed her nearness achingly, and then the light was on once more. She moved toward the door, and there paused, taking his hand.

"Dear shadow," she said softly, "I hope your dreams are music." She was gone.

Dan stood irresolute in his chamber; he glanced into the large room where Leucon still bent over his work, and the Grey Weaver raised a hand in a solemn salutation, but said nothing. He felt no urge for the old man's silent company and turned back into his room to prepare for slumber.

ALMOST instantly, it seemed, the dawn was upon him and bright elfin pipings were all about him, while the odd ruddy sun sent a broad slanting plane of light across the room. He rose as fully aware of his surroundings as if he had not slept at all; the pool tempted him and he bathed in stinging water. Thereafter he emerged into the central chamber, noting curiously that the globes still glowed in dim rivalry to the daylight. He touched one casually; it was cool as metal to his fingers, and lifted freely from its standard. For a moment he held the cold flaming thing in his hands, then replaced it and wandered into the dawn.

Galatea was dancing up the path, eating a strange fruit as rosy as her lips. She was merry again, once more the happy nymph who had greeted him, and she gave him a bright smile as he chose a sweet green ovoid for his breakfast.

"Come on!" she called. "To the river!"

She skipped away toward the unbelievable forest; Dan followed, marveling that her lithe speed was so easy a match for his stronger muscles. Then they were laughing in the pool, splashing about until Galatea drew herself to the bank, glowing and panting. He followed her as she lay relaxed; strangely, he was neither tired nor breathless, with no sense of exertion. A question recurred to him, as yet unasked.

"Galatea," said his voice, "Whom will you take as mate?"

Her eyes went serious. "I don't know," she said. "At the proper time he will come. That is a law."

"And will you be happy?"

"Of course." She seemed troubled. "Isn't everyone happy?"

"Not where I live, Galatea."

"Then that must be a strange place— that ghostly world of yours. A rather terrible place."

"It is, often enough," Dan agreed. "I wish— " He paused. What did he wish? Was he not talking to an illusion, a dream, an apparition? He looked at the girl, at her glistening black hair, her eyes, her soft white skin, and then, for a tragic moment, he tried to feel the arms of that drab hotel chair beneath his hands— and failed. He smiled; he reached out his fingers to touch her bare arm, and for an instant she looked back at him with startled, sober eyes, and sprang to her feet.

"Come on! I want to show you my country." She set off down the stream, and Dan rose reluctantly to follow.

What a day that was! They traced the little river from still pool to singing rapids, and ever about them were the strange twitterings and pipings that were the voices of the flowers. Every turn brought a new vista of beauty; every moment brought a new sense of delight. They talked or were silent; when they were thirsty, the cool river was at hand; when they were hungry, fruit offered itself. When they were tired, there was always a deep pool and a mossy bank; and when they were rested, a new beauty beckoned. The incredible trees towered in numberless forms of fantasy, but on their own side of the river was still the flower-starred meadow. Galatea twisted him a bright-blossomed garland for his head, and thereafter he moved always with a sweet singing about him. But little by little the red sun slanted toward the forest, and the hours dripped away. It was Dan who pointed it out, and reluctantly they turned homeward.

As they returned, Galatea sang a strange song, plaintive and sweet as the medley of river and flower music. And again her eyes were sad.

"What song is that?" he asked.

"It is a song sung by another Galatea," she answered, "who is my mother." She laid her hand on his arm. "I will make it into English for you." She sang:

"The River lies in flower and fern,

In flower and fern it breathes a song.

It breathes a song of your return,

Of your return in years too long.

In years too long its murmurs bring

Its murmurs bring their vain replies,

Their vain replies the flowers sing,

The flowers sing, 'The River lies!'"

Her voice quavered on the final notes; there was silence save for the tinkle of water and the flower bugles. Dan said, "Galatea— " and paused. The girl was again somber-eyed, tearful. He said huskily, "That's a sad song, Galatea. Why was your mother sad? You said everyone was happy in Paracosma."

"She broke a law," replied the girl tonelessly. "It is the inevitable way to sorrow." She faced him. "She fell in love with a phantom!" Galatea said. "One of your shadowy race, who came and stayed and then had to go back. So when her appointed lover came, it was too late; do you understand? But she yielded finally to the law, and is forever unhappy, and goes wandering from place to place about the world." She paused. "I shall never break a law," she said defiantly.

Dan took her hand. "I would not have you unhappy, Galatea. I want you always happy."

She shook her head. "I am happy," she said, and smiled a tender, wistful smile.

They were silent a long time as they trudged the way homeward. The shadows of the forest giants reached out across the river as the sun slipped behind them. For a distance they walked hand in hand, but as they reached the path of pebbly brightness near the house, Galatea drew away and sped swiftly before him. Dan followed as quickly as he might; when he arrived, Leucon sat on his bench by the portal, and Galatea had paused on the threshold. She watched his approach with eyes in which he again fancied the glint of tears.

"I am very tired," she said, and slipped within.

Dan moved to follow, but the old man raised a staying hand.

"Friend from the shadows," he said, "will you hear me a moment?"

Dan paused, acquiesced, and dropped to the opposite bench. He felt a sense of foreboding; nothing pleasant awaited him.

"There is something to be said," Leucon continued, "and I say it without desire to pain you, if phantoms feel pain. It is this: Galatea loves you, though I think she has not yet realized it."

"I love her too," said Dan.

The Grey Weaver stared at him. "I do not understand. Substance, indeed, may love shadow, but how can shadow love substance?"

"I love her," insisted Dan.

"Then woe to both of you! For this is impossible in Paracosma; it is a confliction with the laws. Galatea's mate is appointed, perhaps even now approaching."

"Laws! Laws!" muttered Dan. "Whose laws are they? Not Galatea's nor mine!"

"But they are," said the Grey Weaver. "It is not for you nor for me to criticize them— though I yet wonder what power could annul them to permit your presence here!"

"I had no voice in your laws."

The old man peered at him in the dusk. "Has anyone, anywhere, a voice in the laws?" he queried.

"In my country we have," retorted Dan.

"Madness!" growled Leucon. "Man-made laws! Of what use are man-made laws with only man-made penalties, or none at all? If you shadows make a law that the wind shall blow only from the east, does the west wind obey it?"

"We do pass such laws," acknowledged Dan bitterly. "They may be stupid, but they're no more unjust than yours."

"Ours," said the Grey Weaver, "are the unalterable laws of the world, the laws of Nature. Violation is always unhappiness. I have seen it; I have known it in another, in Galatea's mother, though Galatea is stronger than she." He paused. "Now," he continued, "I ask only for mercy; your stay is short, and I ask that you do no more harm than is already done. Be merciful; give her no more to regret."

He rose and moved through the archway; when Dan followed a moment later, he was already removing a square of silver from his device in the corner. Dan turned silent and unhappy to his own chamber, where the jet of water tinkled faintly as a distant bell.

Again he rose at the glow of dawn, and again Galatea was before him, meeting him at the door with her bowl of fruit. She deposited her burden, giving him a wan little smile of greeting, and stood facing him as if waiting.

"Come with me, Galatea," he said.

"Where?"

"To the river bank. To talk."

They trudged in silence to the brink of Galatea's pool. Dan noted a subtle difference in the world about him; outlines were vague, the thin flower pipings less audible, and the very landscape was queerly unstable, shifting like smoke when he wasn't looking at it directly. And strangely, though he had brought the girl here to talk to her, he had now nothing to say, but sat in aching silence with his eyes on the loveliness of her face.

Galatea pointed at the red ascending sun. "So short a time," she said, "before you go back to your phantom world. I shall be sorry, very sorry." She touched his cheek with her fingers. "Dear shadow!"

"Suppose," said Dan huskily, "that I won't go. What if I won't leave here?" His voice grew fiercer. "I'll not go! I'm going to stay!"

The calm mournfulness of the girl's face checked him; he felt the irony of struggling against the inevitable progress of a dream. She spoke. "Had I the making of the laws, you should stay. But you can't, dear one. You can't!"

Forgotten now were the words of the Grey Weaver. "I love you, Galatea," he said.

"And I you," she whispered. "See, dearest shadow, how I break the same law my mother broke, and am glad to face the sorrow it will bring." She placed her hand tenderly over his. "Leucon is very wise and I am bound to obey him, but this is beyond his wisdom because he let himself grow old." She paused. "He let himself grow old," she repeated slowly. A strange light gleamed in her dark eyes as she turned suddenly to Dan.

"Dear one!" she said tensely. "That thing that happens to the old— that death of yours! What follows it?"

"What follows death?" he echoed. "Who knows?"

"But—" Her voice was quivering. "But one can't simply— vanish! There must be an awakening."

"Who knows?" said Dan again. "There are those who believe we wake to a happier world, but—" He shook his head hopelessly.

"It must be true! Oh, it must be!" Galatea cried. "There must be more for you than the mad world you speak of!" She leaned very close. "Suppose, dear," she said, "that when my appointed lover arrives, I send him away. Suppose I bear no child, but let myself grow old, older than Leucon, old until death. Would I join you in your happier world?"

"Galatea!" he cried distractedly. "Oh, my dearest— what a terrible thought!"

"More terrible than you know," she whispered, still very close to him. "It is more than violation of a law; it is rebellion! Everything is planned, everything was foreseen, except this; and if I bear no child, her place will be left unfilled, and the places of her children, and of their children, and so on until some day the whole great plan of Paracosma fails of whatever its destiny was to be." Her whisper grew very faint and fearful. "It is destruction, but I love you more than I fear— death!"

Dan's arms were about her. "No, Galatea! No! Promise me!"

She murmured, "I can promise and then break my promise." She drew his head down; their lips touched, and he felt a fragrance and a taste like honey in her kiss. "At least," she breathed. "I can give you a name by which to love you. Philometros! Measure of my love!"

"A name?" muttered Dan. A fantastic idea shot through his mind— a way of proving to himself that all this was reality, and not just a page that any one could read who wore old Ludwig's magic spectacles. If Galatea would speak his name! Perhaps, he thought daringly, perhaps then he could stay! He thrust her away.

"Galatea!" he cried. "Do you remember my name?"

She nodded silently, her unhappy eyes on his.

"Then say it! Say it, dear!"

She stared at him dumbly, miserably, but made no sound.

"Say it, Galatea!" he pleaded desperately. "My name, dear— just my name!" Her mouth moved; she grew pale with effort and Dan could have sworn that his name trembled on her quivering lips, though no sound came.

At last she spoke. "I can't, dearest one! Oh, I can't! A law forbids it!" She stood suddenly erect, pallid as an ivory carving. "Leucon calls!" she said, and darted away. Dan followed along the pebbled path, but her speed was beyond his powers; at the portal he found only the Grey Weaver standing cold and stern. He raised his hand as Dan appeared.

"Your time is short," he said. "Go, thinking of the havoc you have done."

"Where's Galatea?" gasped Dan.

"I have sent her away." The old man blocked the entrance; for a moment Dan would have struck him aside, but something withheld him. He stared wildly about the meadow— there! A flash of silver beyond the river, at the edge of the forest. He turned and raced toward it, while motionless and cold the Grey Weaver watched him go.

"Galatea!" he called. "Galatea!"

He was over the river now, on the forest bank, running through columned vistas that whirled about him like mist. The world had gone cloudy; fine flakes danced like snow before his eyes; Paracosma was dissolving around him. Through the chaos he fancied a glimpse of the girl, but closer approach left him still voicing his hopeless cry of "Galatea!"

After an endless time, he paused; something familiar about the spot struck him, and just as the red sun edged above him, he recognized the place— the very point at which he had entered Paracosma! A sense of futility overwhelmed him as for a moment he gazed at an unbelievable apparition— a dark window hung in midair before him through which glowed rows of electric lights. Ludwig's window!

It vanished. But the trees writhed and the sky darkened, and he swayed dizzily in turmoil. He realized suddenly that he was no longer standing, but sitting in the midst of the crazy glade, and his hands clutched something smooth and hard— the arms of that miserable hotel chair. Then at last he saw her, close before him— Galatea, with sorrow-stricken features, her tear-filled eyes on his. He made a terrific effort to rise, stood erect, and fell sprawling in a blaze of coruscating lights.

He struggled to his knees; walls— Ludwig's room— encompassed him; he must have slipped from the chair. The magic spectacles lay before him, one lens splintered and spilling a fluid no longer water-clear, but white as milk.

"God!" he muttered. He felt shaken, sick, exhausted, with a bitter sense of bereavement, and his head ached fiercely. The room was drab, disgusting; he wanted to get out of it. He glanced automatically at his watch: four o'clock— he must have sat here nearly five hours. For the first time he noticed Ludwig's absence; he was glad of it and walked dully out of the door to an automatic elevator. There was no response to his ring; someone was using the thing. He walked three flights to the street and back to his own room.

In love with a vision! Worse— in love with a girl who had never lived, in a fantastic Utopia that was literally nowhere! He threw himself on his bed with a groan that was half a sob.

He saw finally the implication of the name Galatea. Galatea— Pygmalion's statue, given life by Venus in the ancient Grecian myth. But his Galatea, warm and lovely and vital, must remain forever without the gift of life, since he was neither Pygmalion nor God.

HE WOKE late in the morning, staring uncomprehendingly about for the fountain and pool of Paracosma. Slow comprehension dawned; how much— how much— of last night's experience had been real? How much was the product of alcohol? Or had old Ludwig been right, and was there no difference between reality and dream?

He changed his rumpled attire and wandered despondently to the street. He found Ludwig's hotel at last; inquiry revealed that the diminutive professor had checked out, leaving no forwarding address.

What of it? Even Ludwig couldn't give what he sought, a living Galatea. Dan was glad that he had disappeared; he hated the little professor. Professor? Hypnotists called themselves "professors." He dragged through a weary day and then a sleepless night back to Chicago.

It was mid-winter when he saw a suggestively tiny figure ahead of him in the Loop. Ludwig! Yet what use to hail him? His cry was automatic. "Professor Ludwig!"

The elfin figure turned, recognized him, smiled. They stepped into the shelter of a building.

"I'm sorry about your machine, Professor. I'd be glad to pay for the damage."

"Ach, that was nothing— a cracked glass. But you— have you been ill? You look much the worse."

"It's nothing," said Dan. "Your show was marvelous, Professor— marvelous! I'd have told you so, but you were gone when it ended."

Ludwig shrugged. "I went to the lobby for a cigar. Five hours with a wax dummy, you know!"

"It was marvelous!" repeated Dan.

"So real?" smiled the other. "Only because you co-operated, then. It takes self-hypnosis."

"It was real, all right," agreed Dan glumly. "I don't understand it— that strange beautiful country."

"The trees were club-mosses enlarged by a lens," said Ludwig. "All was trick photography, but stereoscopic, as I told you— three dimensional. The fruits were rubber; the house is a summer building on our campus— Northern University. And the voice was mine; you didn't speak at all, except your name at the first, and I left a blank for that. I played your part, you see; I went around with the photographic apparatus strapped on my head, to keep the viewpoint always that of the observer. See?" He grinned wryly. "Luckily I'm rather short, or you'd have seemed a giant."

"Wait a minute!" said Dan, his mind whirling. "You say you played my part. Then Galatea— is she real too?"

"Tea's real enough," said the Professor. "My niece, a senior at Northern, and likes dramatics. She helped me out with the thing. Why? Want to meet her?"

Dan answered vaguely, happily. An ache had vanished; a pain was eased. Paracosma was attainable at last!

________________

15: A Bit of a Do

Eric Knight

1897-1943

Story, Oct 1937

Yorkshire-born Eric Knight is best know for his novel "Lassie Come-Home", made into a movie in 1943 with a very young Elizabeth Taylor, and also for his "Sam Small' stories. He also wrote a tough American hardboiled private eye novel "You "Play the Black and the Red Comes Up"as by Richard Hallas. The family moved to the US in 1912 where he became a novelist and screen writer. In WW2 he served in the US Army Special Services as a journalist and died in a US Army cargo place crash in Dutch Guiana (now Surinam).

Eric Mowbray Knight

THE STRETCH of land was covered with coarse heath grass.

There was nothing to see on that flatness except the colliery railway going straight over it and, far across the moor, the group of brick houses which seemed to stand there for no reason.

You always got that feeling about Cawley Village when you came over the moor. You felt that it might have been built to the right or to the left, or nearer or farther from you, with just as much reason.

It was toward this village that the two men walked, following a path beside the railway. These men had heavy caps that came low over their grimy faces; they wore blue silk kerchiefs knotted trimly about their throats; and their corduroy clothes were stiff with grime and dust from the coal mines.

They walked on, in step and silent. And then the younger one said, almost violently:

‘A chap’s a bit of a mug to be married these days.’

It was as if his remark came from nowhere and then disappeared. The other took no notice. So they walked, again unspeaking, along the twin files of the path. Their heavy-shod boots fell silently on the packed earth, which thousands of feet passing to and from the pits in years of time had tamped smooth and bare. I’hat way they went on until they were in the village, and then the silence was gone, for there were cobbles now that clanged under their hobnails.

When that sound of marching feet crashed into the sleeping afternoon of the village, it was like an alarm. Yet the village did not spring to life. It became hushed, like a wood where you walk of a summer afternoon and, treading on a dry branch that cracks too loud, you hear the quietness become even quieter, and you know that in unseen places the wild animals are standing, unmoving, waiting until they discover where you are heading before they go plunging away in sudden panic.

That was how the village was, listening to the sound of feet at a time when no feet should be marching, and as the men walked on, the curtains at the cottage windows sw ayed as gently as if someone had breathed on them. Then the men knew that women they could not see were watching them stealthily.

They passed the first four houses. By the fifth a woman stood in the sunshine, pegging out the washing. She stood, waiting, a clothespin in her mouth and her hands aloft in the frozen motion of pinning laundry. As the men walked along, only her head moved twisting farther and farther over her shoulder as she watched them, farther and farther until, at last, they had passed her home. Then she ran to the gate in a fierce, agitated sort of way and stared after them.

The men went on, down the sunny street, and then they looked up at a house and halted, staring in a helpless way. And as they waited the village waited with them, and it was so quiet you might believe you could hear the bees working among the blossoms in the tiny front gardens. The older man stared steadily at the house before him. The other shifted his feet and looked back along the street. In the yards that they had passed the women now stood outside their cottages, each one at her garden gate, unmvoing, watching the men. But in the other direction the women still waited inside their cottages, as if hiding there.

The older man cleared his throat.

‘Well, this is Tich's,’ he said.

‘Aye,’ the other said.

‘Away ye go dahn to thutty-two,’ the old man ordered. Then he walked with heavy tread to the house.

The young man watched until the other had knocked at the door, then he turned quickly and went on down the street, looking up at the numbers of the houses. Almost at the end he paused. He then pushed open a gate, walked the few paces up the garden path, and knocked at the door. When it opened he stared at the woman. He had not expected her to be so young.

‘Is tha Mrs. Barraclough?’

He knew as he said it that it was all a useless routine. He knew that because of the way her hand clutched at the door.

So there was no need to say anything— but everything in life had to be done ‘proper.’ 'There were ways of doing things, and you did them that way.

‘Ah’m Percy Meggalt, missus— fro’ over t’ pit,’ he said. ‘We’ve had a bit of a do.’

He watched her as she backed away into the darkness of the cottage, leaving the door open. He stood uneasily for a moment. Then he knocked the dirt from his feet, kicking the sides of his bools against the stone step. He did this partly because he wished to be polite, but more because he wanted to put off what he had to do, if only for a few seconds more. Then he pulled off his cap and went in. He saw her sitting in a rocking-chair, staring fixedly at the fire.

In the warmth and half-dark of the cottage the moments slipped past, and he could hear no sound except his own breathing and the occasional bubbling hiss of the gassy coal. He took a red kerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. The movement wakened her.

‘What was it, lad?’ she asked.

‘Well, we was in us gallery, and we had a bit of a cave-in. Well— now doan’t tak’ on but Ah gate to tell thee. Well, thy measter, now, he were hurted a bit. Now doan’t thee be upset—’

‘Bad?’

The flat shortness of her voice cut away his words.

‘Well, now doan’t tak’ on,’ he droned. ‘Us digged him out right fast, but a bit o’ summat had cotched him on t’ yead—’

‘Dee-ead?’

He didn’t know whether she had asked it or stated it. He could find no ready words; so instead he fumbled in his trousers pocket and drew out a heavy watch and chain. Walking over, he put them in her unresisting hands. She did not look down at the watch; only let her hands fall to her lap and then, staring at the fire, she began to rock in her chair, gently at first, and then faster and faster. It was as if that rocking were releasing all that she could not express in words.

The young collier, watching her, felt that it was not as he had expected, and he was uncomfortable. It had not gone in a ‘proper’ manner. Properly you went through an accustomed routine. You said that there had been an accident. Then you said the man was hurt a little bit. Then you said he was hurt quite a deal. After that you said he was ‘right bad.’ Finally you admitted that he was dead.

That was the way you broke the news gently— bit by bit. And when the woman heard it she covered her face with her apron and cried and could not be comforted; so you took the poker and rapped on the chimney-back for the woman next door. Then she came in and the other women came with her and took matriarchal charge of it all, and that was the point where you slipped away, having done all things properly.

But this woman had done none of the things properly. She had known everything from the first. She had not cried. And because the routine was broken, there was no cue for him to leave.

He felt disturbed because it was not as he had pictured. The woman herself was not as he had pictured. She was much too young— anyhow, much too young for Barraclough. He had worked for months beside Barraclough; yet, in their curious, rough, Northern way they had spoken of little beyond the details of the work which took up most of their waking hours. He had known Barraclough was married. But he had pictured the wife as being middle-aged and rough-voiced like Barraclough himself; not young with bright, corn-gold hair that glinted in the firelight as this woman’s did.

‘Happen tha’d like me to knock o’ t’ chimney-back for a neighbour, missus?’ he suggested.

‘Nay,’ she said quickly. Then she explained: ‘Ah keep to mysen.’

‘Aye,’ he said.

There was an awkward silence.

‘Happen Ah could mak’ thee a cup o’ tea,’ he offered. ‘Ah’m handy, like,’ She shook her head.

‘Well, if there’s owt Ah could do for thee,’ he said. ‘They’ll be bringing him hoam here tonect.’

‘Thank you kindly,’ she said.

‘Well,’ he said, lamely. ‘Ah sadly hate to leave thee like this... but Ah maun get ovver Cotherbeck way — ’

She rose as he shuffled his feet, and she saw, now that his cap was off, the wliite of a bandage against his crisp, black hair.

‘Why, tha’s hurted, too,’ she said. ‘And me setting here!’

She stood facing him, her eyes shifting in a troubled way.

‘Eigh, missus, it’s nowt,’ he smiled.

‘But they’ve bandaged it.’

‘Nay, it were nobbut a bit of a cut— just enough soa Ah had to knock off for t’ day. That’s why they axed ma to coom tell thee— Ah had to laike t’ rest o’ t’ day onyhow.’

‘And all that road to walk,’ she said. ‘Nay, it’d be a poor thing if Ah let thee goa all the road to Cotherbeck be-out a little summat i’side thee.’

‘Nay, missus. Ah wouldn’t want to put thee to all that bother.’

‘High, it wouldn’t be noa bother, surely, measter. Heh, and thee poorly wi’ thy yead and all! Just sit thee there.’

‘Well, if tha says.’

So he sat, watching her as she moved about the cottage preparing tea in a distracted sort of way. He felt that he should be saying comforting things, but she didn’t seem to need them.

‘Now, if tha needs ony help wi’ t’ burying,’ he began, ‘t’ lads at pit—’

‘Nay,’ she interrupted, and her voice had a sort of pride in it, ‘the’s t’ lodge. Ah allus kept up t’ burying dues, no matter what. And there’ll he insurance, too. Ah kept both them up.’

She seemed not to encourage his formal words, so he was lost and sat there, watching her move about, and seeing how the fire-light glinted on the lightness of her hair and on the great white apron she wore.

It was then he saw she was far gone in pregnancy, so he jumped up and took the kettle from her hand and filled it at the sink.

When the tea was made and the table set, she sat opposite him. He was looking at her intently, and feeling the nearness of himself to a woman, and then he remembered almost guiltily that he had forgotten about death. He knew she had, too. It seemed unbelievable that they could have become more aware of each other than of death itself. Because they had not said the things properly in the custom, they had lost the thing itself.

So, feeling lost, he clutched at custom again. They were taking tea. There were things always to be said about that.

‘Eigh, there’s nowt like a real nice cup o’ tea,’ he said.

Almost gladly she reached for the firm ground with him.

‘Tha’s nice to say soa,’ she said. ‘Ah’m that sorry there’s nowt but bread ’n’ booter.’

‘Well, tha couldn’t be expecting company, like,’ he said.

As she spoke he was looking at a small, purple bruise on her cheekbone. He thought of Barraclough, alive. He was a dour, rough sort. When a man like that was drunk, he would beat his wife.

Her mind saw what he was thinking, and she put up her hand to the bruise. She said, fiercely:

‘Ah rubbed it too hard wi’ a towel. That’s what Ah did.’

He bowed his head over his tea, and they reached once more for the comfort of routine. When she spoke again her voice was flat, interrogating in the way of women when they were being the polite hostess:

‘Tha said thy hoam were i’ Cotherbeck, Measter Meggatt.'

‘Aye— in a sort of way. Ah’m nobbut lodging theer.’

He swilled his tea politely in his cup. The silence seemed to call for more words, so he said:

‘Ah’m a gipsy sort of chap truly— moving hither and yon, as you might say. Properly Ah’m fro’ up ayond York.’

‘York?’ she echoed happily. ‘Dosta knaw Malton way?’

‘Middling well. Ah dew.’

‘Then tha knaws Aller Green, happen?’

‘Aller Green? Like the back o’ ma varry own hand. Ah dew. Ba gum. Ah wish Ah hed a bob for ivvery time Ah’ve cycled threw Aller Green.’

Cycled!’ she repeated. ‘Eigh, dosta mind a farm, now, t’ fust ’un just ovver t’ brig t’ other side Aller Green?’

‘Tha means t’ little white place wi’ a laburnum tree this side o’ t’ house?’

‘That’s it!’

‘Aye, Ah dew that. The’s hawthorn hedging dahn one side of about a ten-acre pasture, then the’s huddle fencing t’ other side, and two year ago they hed about fower acre o’ curly broc’li set out theer— and the’s a couple o’ Airedales they got.’

‘That’s it,’ she cried. ‘Now doan’t that cap all! Why, that’s ma feyther’s farm.’

‘Thee fro’ farming folk? Well, if this ain’t a do! Eigh, Ah’m a farming lad mysen.’

‘Thee? Well! Fancy that, now!’

She shook her head in admiration.

‘Well, no wonder tha remembered so well,’ she said. ‘And the tarriers, too.’

‘Eigh missus, them’s varry likely-looking tarriers. If Ah said that to mysen once Ah’ve said it a hundred times. Ah’d be cycling past— Ah were working near Malton— and Ah’d say to mysen, Ah’d say: “Now there’s a varry, varry likely-looking pair o’tarriers, if ivver Ah clapped eyes on one." That’d be the varry thing Ah’d say to mysen.’

She beamed with pride.

‘Them’s our Alfred’s,’ she said.

Their minds wandered happily over what they had said.

‘Well, what made thee goa into t’ pits if tha’s a farming lad, Measter Meggatt— if tha doesn’t mind me axing?’

He studied his cup.

‘Well,’ he said slowly. ‘It were the brass. Tha sees, Ah’m saving up for a varry special reason.’

‘Oh,’ she said.

He hardly heard her.

‘Ba gum,’ he said, ‘here Ah were fretting ma yead off on what tha’d do. Why, tha can goa back to thy feyther after t’ burying and things.’

She shook her head, slowly.

‘Ah cannot goa back,’ she intoned.

He looked at his cup, and at his hands, grime-blackened.

‘Tha sees,’ she said suddenly, 'Him and me— well, we weren’t churched. That’s why them will n’t coom.’

She motioned wdth her head toward the wall dividing her from the next cottage.

After that they were silent a long time. Finally she rose and began clearing the table. He wanted to say something— to comfort her— but he knew no words that would march happily with his meaning.

‘Well, Ah maun be off,’ he said.

He rose and, holding his cap, walked to the door. She gave no sign of awareness and that troubled him. He felt as if there were tangled ends, flying loose, and that if he could catch them somehow, a bright pattern would begin weaving between them.

He turned at the door and watched her. Suddenly he walked back to the table, feeling almost angry.

‘Sitha,’ he said, brusquely, ‘that varry special reason Ah’m saving up for— tha knaws what it is?’

She stood, her eyes looking at the stone floor, as she waited. He wondered why he had asked her the question— why he had come back. Then she looked up at him and her eyes seemed, somehow, to be full of fear.

‘Well, it’s this way,’ he said, and his voice was soft now. ‘If a chap gets to Canada, like, and— well, now— happen he’s a chap that knaws a little summat abaht farming, in a manner of speakirvg, well, then, there’s a hundred and sixty acres waiting that the Gov’ment’ll hand him if he’ll nobbut work on it three year.’

He waited.

‘A hundred and sixty acres,’ she said.

‘Aye. That’s a sight o’ land, ent it? And all a chap’s got to do is last it out three year, come fair and come foul, and it’s his. And that’s what Ah mean to say, is if a lad saves up, like... well, he can get to Canada and all for twenty pound. And that’s the varry special reason Ah’m saving up for. Ah’ve saved nigh on eighteen pound, and the varry same day Ah mak’ it twenty— then Ah’m off.’

They stood and looked at each other.

‘Ah s’all have more nor twenty pound, Ah will,’ she said soberly. ‘Ah’ll have twenty pound and more when ma insurance cooms in.’

When she had said that, they both smiled, suddenly, as if what she had said had opened a path before them.

With a quick motion that was youthful, he swung his cap round on his finger. Then he caught it with a slap of his other hand.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘Ah suppose Ah maun be off.’

‘All suppose tha maun.’

But he didn’t go. He shifted his feet.

‘Dear me,’ he said. ‘Ah doan’t knaw what coom ovver me— telling thee about Canada and all.’

‘Eigh, it is a fair puzzle sometimes what mak’s folk talk,’ she said. ‘It’s right mystifying.’

‘That’s what it is,’ he agreed. ‘Right mystifying.’

He went to the door. 'I'hen again he turned and waited.

‘Sitha,’ he said. ‘Ah just happened to think. If Ah could do ow't for thee wi’ t’ burying, like.’

‘Nay, t’ lodge’ll send pallbearers,’ she said.

‘Aye, Ah knaw. But if tha should like somebody to walk behind t’ coffin wi’ thee, happen. It’d lewk all reet, because it’s little enow a chap could do— for his own mate in the same gallery and all, as you might say.’

‘Well there’s that,’ she agreed.

‘On course there is,’ he said firmly. ‘And then, after all is said and done w ith, it ent exactly like we’re strangers: thee cooming fro’ Aller Green— and me fro’ up beyond York and all. Well, Ah feel like we are almost relatives, or summat— in a manner of speaking.’

‘Why, that’s it,’ she said, happily. ‘It could be we were varry much like relatives. Happen that’s why Ah could talk so free, like, wi’ thee.’

‘Why, surely,’ he agreed. ‘That would be it.’

They stood and looked at each other until time caught them.

‘Ba gum,’ he started. ‘Ah’ve been saying Ah’ll goa for t’ last ten minutes. Ah doan’t knaw what tha’ll be thinking o’ ma manners. Well, All’ll see thee at t’ burying, then, missus.’

Then he opened the door, and the women waiting at the cottage gates saw him stride down the path. Instead of heading for Cotherbeck he struck out to the open moor, going with quick, urgent strides.

Inside the cottage the woman still stood by the window after he was out of sight. Her mind kept telling her that she was going to see him again— that he was coming back for the funeral. She tried to stop thinking it, because she felt that she ought to be thinking about her husband who was dead. She became so angry and ashamed at herself that she began to sob.

And as she cried there the women came from the other cottages. For they were tridy helpful to one another in bad times, and they wanted to console and comfort her even though she was a woman who lived with a man without marriage lines.

So, now the women were there, and the contact with the young collier was broken and gone, custom began to seize her. Custom was stronger than she— stronger than them all. She threw her apron over her head, and crossed her arms over her breasts and embraced herself, and rocked on her heels, moaning pitifully. And still her mind kept thinking of the young collier, even though her cries and her pain were real.

But the women, comforting her, were very satisfied and proud of her, thinking her grief properly splendid for a woman whose husband had been killed.

_______________

16: The Other Room

Don Marquis

1878-1937

Harper's Magazine  Oct 1930

Donald Robert Perry Marquis

American author, poet, journalist, playwright and humourist. His "achie and mehitabel" poems in blank verse, and novels such as "The Cruise of the Jasper B" are at the comic end of his wide spectrum. This short story is at the other end...

DR. HARVEY HERBERT was not only an M.D. but a Ph.D.

His familiars referred to him as a 'psychological shark'; but the world in general did not permit itself such slangy informality. What the world saw was a man who had attained an unusual position at thirty-eight years of age, who was acknowledged to be solid as well as brilliant, and who was spoken of with enthusiasm by his professional and academic brethren.

Doctor Herbert specialized as a neurologist, but his private practice was not large, and it was not easy to get him to take a case unless it had some extraordinary feature which piqued his interest. He lectured on psychology in one of the universities, and he had written extensively on his subject. He was, among other things, a recognized authority upon criminology. He had devoted a great deal of time to the study of hallucinations.

Some strange cases came to the attention of Dr. Harvey Herbert cases involving very fine ethical points, at times; cases in which a matter of conscience often lay concealed under the surface of some mental trouble, just as a bit of broken needle may work itself through the flesh of the body for years causing physical disturbances difficult to diagnose because its presence is unknown. Doctor Herbert was a rather acutely conscientious person himself.

But with all his exploration of the shadowy caverns of the subconscious mind, no case ever came to the attention of Dr. Harvey Herbert that was stranger than the case of... Dr. Harvey Herbert.

IT WAS one day last spring that Doctor Herbert called at the surgery of his friend Dr. Howard Vokes, after telephoning to make sure that Doctor Vokes had time for a lengthy consultation, and dropped into the big chair in front of Vokes' desk, a picture of weariness.

Vokes, a general practitioner and a lifelong comrade, looked at Herbert with keen eyes, noted his fag, and offered him a drink. Doctor Herbert nodded his acceptance.

'Which one of my patients has been sneaking off to you, Harvey?' said Doctor Vokes. 'I don't think I've sent anyone lately.'

'None of them,' said Doctor Herbert. 'I'm here to consult with you about— about myself.'

'Quit drinking,' said Vokes, with a smile, pouring a liberal allowance of whisky into a glass for the famous psychologist. 'Give up smoking,' he went on, pushing his cigarette case towards his friend; 'and have your teeth, tonsils, and appendix taken out at once; take a trip to Bermuda, play golf more, raise violets, eat pineapples, and come back in three days and tell me how you feel.'

But this facetiousness elicited only the feeblest of smiles from his famous friend; Doctor Herbert was twisting his pointed brown beard with his slender fingers, his face and worried eyes averted. Doctor Vokes went on, seriously:

'Stomach, Harvey? Liver? Kidneys? Something in my line?'

'I wish it were,' said Herbert, with a sigh. 'But I'm afraid it's— nerves.'

'Consult the eminent neurologist, Dr. Harvey Herbert,' said Vokes. His remark was really a question as to why the specialist had come to a general practitioner to confer upon a case involving his own specialty; and Doctor Herbert understood it so. He shrugged his shoulders and said in a tired voice:

'I've been to Dr. Harvey Herbert. The man doesn't do me any good.' And then, after a brief pause, 'Howard, you're the oldest friend I have.' He paused again, and resumed, with a smile which made his face very attractive in spite of the ravages of his worry, 'And, with the exception of my wife, about the best one, Howard,'

The two men exchanged that glance of perfect understanding which is so much more eloquent than words. Presently Vokes suggested, I suppose you've been down in the sub-cpllar of the human mind again, hunting your ghosts — and one of them has turned on you this time.'

'Something like that,' admitted Doctor Herbert.

'You prowl into some queer, dank places,' said Doctor Vokes. 'They almost frighten me.'

'This time,' said Doctor Herbert, 'I was frightened. I still am. I saw...'

His voice trailed off into a brooding silence.

'What did you see?' insisted Dr. Vokes.

'Myself,' said Dr. Harvey Herbert. He shuddered, took another drink, and presently began.

I'M HOPING that when I'm finished (said Doctor Herbert) you and I may be able to get together and diagnose my case as something physical— but if we can't, at least I will have told everything to a friend. As a psychologist, I can assure you that there is sometimes great value in a sympathetic father confessor. And now that I've said that word, I recognize that I am really coming to you for the assurance of absolution— an assurance that I've not been able to give to myself.

It was about three weeks ago that I got the jolt I'm still staggering from. You remember Aunt Emma Hastings, who lived with us for so many years? Well, it was three weeks ago that Aunt Emma died.

She was distantly related to both my wife and myself, although Margaret and I are not related to each other. Although we both called her Aunt, she was really a second or third cousin of Margaret's grandmother; she was connected, even more remotely, with my mother's father. We were the only people left in the world who could by any stretch of the imagination be called kinsfolk. So we gave her a home, took care of her.

I don't mean that we took care of her financially. She was a great deal better off than I am. I've grubbed for knowledge, rather than money, as you know; always giving more time to research than to my practice. We took care of Aunt Emma Hastings physically; and not even our best friends have known what a strain it has been or how Aunt Emma tyrannized over us. Entrenched in invalidism, age, sentimentality, the habit of years, she was the very pattern of a petty domestic tyrant. Her death should really be a release and a relief to me; but, for reasons which you will gather, it is anything but that.

The night she died Margaret and I had planned to go to the theatre. We had dined early, and at a couple of minutes after eight o'clock I was waiting in the living room for Margaret, who was putting the finishing touches to her dressing. Getting out to the theatre was more of a treat to Margaret and me than you might suspect, for Aunt Emma had grown increasingly querulous if one or the other, or both of us, were not with her. In fact, for some time we had foregone almost all social diver- sions.

Margaret came in from her room, her face shining with pleasant anticipation, and I picked up my top-coat and hat. 'Ready at last!' she said, gaily.

But just then Miss Murdock entered. Miss Murdock was Aunt Emma's own attendant— nurse, companion, and maid all at once. There had been a long succession of these companions. Aunt Emma seldom kept one more than six or eight months, and she had had an astonishing variety. But they were all alike in one thing— they seemed to enjoy the tyranny which Aunt Emma exercised over Margaret and myself and to relish the opportunity to participate in it in a minor way. Miss Murdock said, with a prim exterior, but with a certain latent gusto:

'Mrs. Herbert, Miss Hastings sent me to inquire whether you and Doctor Herbert were going out to-night.'

'Why, yes,' said Margaret; 'we're just starting. Does Miss Hastings want anything? I'll go to her if she wishes to speak with me.'

Miss Murdock became a composite picture of the petty malice of all her predecessors as she announced:

'Miss Hastings said, in case I found you were going out, that I was to tell you not to do so.'

'Not to do so!' I exclaimed. I felt a flush of anger, a sudden red rush of it all over me. If my face looked like Margaret's, I showed what I felt. This was a little too much!

'That's what she said,' returned Miss Murdock; and I saw the tip of her tongue run along her lips as if she tasted a creamy satisfaction. 'She said, in case you were going out, you must give up your plans and stay at home.'

With a triumphant glance. Miss Murdock started for the door, but she paused to give us her final thrust. 'Since you will be here with Miss Hastings,' she said, 'I think I'll go out myself.' She left.

Margaret and I sat in silent humiliation for a moment. The anger that had gone all over me seemed to culminate in something that writhed in my head— fluttered and writhed as if a grub were turning to a butterfly all in one instant somewhere among the convolutions of my brain. I rose, with the words forming themselves upon my lips, 'Come on, Margaret, let's get out of here at once— she's gone too damned far this time!'

But I did not utter those words. I saw something, suddenly, that made me pause.

I saw another room, with Margaret and myself sitting in it. Listen carefully, Howard; for just here is the beginning of the train of events that has brought me to you.

I say I saw another room. I should have said I saw the room that we were in, or a part of it— our own living room, and she and I sitting in it, dressed to go out for the evening, just exactly as we were.

I saw it as if I were looking into a mirror, only it was dimmer than that, as if a fine gauze were in front of the mirror. No, not so much a gauze as a light mist, a faint fog. A somewhat denser mist, a heavier fog, made a framework around the finer mist— a framework irregularly oval in shape. And through the medium of the fine mist I looked into a room which was the exact replica of the room in which Margaret and I actually were. I looked into it and saw ourselves there.

Our apartment, as you know, is high up in one of the new buildings on the upper East Side. The east windows of our living room look out over the East River. The apartment, which is large, is one of the corner ones. The north windows of the living room overlook Fifty-Seventh Street,

My first flickering notion, of course, was that I was seeing the actual reflection of our living room in the east windows, as in a mirror. But that comforting thought lasted only the merest fraction of a second.

For I, Dr. Harvey Herbert, was standing up ~ and the man who looked just like me in the other room beyond the mist was still sitting down!

I sat down myself and covered my eyes with my hands. I have been, as you know, a student of the various phenomena loosely listed as hallucinations. I have had a certain amount of success in my attempts to analyse the mental states back of these phenomena. But I had had no previous experience of a personal nature. And I realized, in the moment that I sat there with my hands over my eyes, that it is one thing to attempt to diagnose the condition of a patient, and another thing to give an answer to one's own problem during the time when it is actively presenting itself. That wriggling grub, about to become a butterfly, was still stirring in my head, trying to flutter his new, feeble wings; and I thought when he went away, as he should in a moment, that would be the end of my aberration.

Margaret spoke, and there was a struggle for kindliness in her voice— a struggle to regain the altitude of forbearance, love and pity, which was usual to her in her relations with Aunt Emma. I knew from her voice that she was not sharing my hallucination with regard to that other room.

'Aunt Emma isn't so well to-night, Harvey,' said Margaret, 'or I'm sure she would have put her request in some other way.'

'Yes,' I replied, trying to imitate Margaret's spirit, trying to ^ conquer the anger that possessed me — and that, no doubt, had brought on my queer vision— 'yes, she's getting pretty old, and we must remember that she's very fond of us. Well have to bear with her.'

I had hardly finished speaking when I heard another voice— and it was Margaret's voice, but yet it did not have in it the Margaret I knew. It said:

'She gets more spiteful every day! She knows her power; and the more childish she becomes the more malevolent delight she takes in playing tyrantl'

And then a voice answered— a voice that was my voice, and yet not the voice of any Harvey Herbert I had ever visualized in the full light of consciousness:

'Cheer up, Margaret! It can't last for ever; and if the old hell-cat doesn't change her will before she dies it means fifteen thousand dollars a year for us. That's worth a little trouble, isn't it?'

'A little trouble!' said the voice of the Margaret whom I did not know, with a passionate vibration which I had never heard in the voice of the Margaret I knew. 'You're away, at your surgery or your lectures, most of the time, but I'm here at home with her day and night. A little trouble! It's killing me!'

I took down my hands and opened my eyes. The other room was still there. The Harvey Herbert in it, and the Margaret in it, were on their feet now and were facing each other with a bitterness of face and tone that, surely, my wife and I had never permitted ourselves in any of our rare outbursts of irritation.

The room was still there, but it was not where I had first seen it. I had first looked towards the east wall of our real room, where the windows that overlooked the East River. Now I was looking towards the north wall, where the windows were that overlooked Fifty-Seventh Street. I turned and looked towards the west wall, which had neither door nor window in it. The other room was there, too. I stepped to the middle of the real room and looked at the south wall, which had two doors in it and no window. The other room was there. I looked above me, and I looked up into it. I looked at the floor, and I stood upon the verge of it, opening below me. And the two figures were in it, the figures of Margaret and of me, walking and talking independently of us.

Let me tell you just what it looked like again, Howard, so that you can realize something of the effect I got, no matter how I turned my head. A thin, fine mist, and around it, framing it, a denser, heavier mist. Beyond the thin, fine mist, the other room. The opening in the thin, fine mist, framed by the denser, heavier fog, an oval in shape. I walked towards the oval entrance, towards the other room. It receded before me. It kept about ten feet ahead of me. When I turned it was still the same distance ahead of me. I went to one of the windows in the east wall and looked out. The other room was out there in the night, overhanging the water front!

I came back and sat down by Margaret. She was brooding.

'Did you see anything peculiar?' I asked her. She moved her head with a brief negative gesture, without looking at me.

'Or hear anything?' I asked.

'Why, no,' she said. I was sure she had neither seen nor heard. But she looked at me with a glance that was strained and puzzled, as if she had almost heard and seen something, if you follow me.

The two people in the other room looked out at Margaret and me with a faint satirical smile upon their faces. I tried to ignore them, thinking maybe they would go away if I could get my mind off them. No matter how much this interested me as a student, at the same time it was distinctly uncomfortable, I said to Margaret:

'What are you thinking of?'

'I was thinking, what a poor lonely old soul Aunt Emma is, Harvey.'

And as if in answer to this, the man in the other room turned to the woman in there and spoke:

'Damn her! She'll live to be a hundred and ten!'

I made a gesture of repudiation— this creature, this vision, this person, whoever or whatever he was— did not speak for me, although he had somehow seized upon my appearance and my voice. I told myself passionately that I had never 'thought of Aunt Emma like thatl And the man peered out at me with an immense, disconcerting knowingness.

I knew that Aunt Emma had come into the room before I saw her. I knew it by the actions of the people in the other room. They leaned forward eagerly, and there was a tense, rapid interchange of low voices:

'You see,' said the man, 'she stumbles!'

'She totters,' said the woman; 'she's getting weaker!'

Aunt Emma had, indeed, stumbled on the edge of a rug just within the door. Margaret and I ran to her and supported her to a chair and settled her in it. And as we did so, those other voices kept on:

'She's not really much weaker. She'll live for ever!'

'Perhaps— the mean kind always do!'

Margaret, leaning over Aunt Emma in her big chair, said solicitously: 'Shan't I get you a wrap. Aunt Emma?'

Aunt Emma lifted her petulant and sneering face and broke out in her high-pitched, feeble voice:

'You're mighty anxious about a wrap, Margaret! But you were thinking of going out and leaving me practically alone— with nobody but Miss Murdock!'

'But, Aunt Emma,' I began, reasonably, 'Miss Murdock is employed to—'

'Don't excuse yourself, Harvey!' she interrupted. 'Can't I see you were going out? Can't I see your evening clothes?'

I could tell by the look Margaret gave me that she was school- ing herself to gentleness— as she always did. I tried to imitate her.

Margaret said, 'Aunt Emma, we're going to stay with you the rest of the evening— aren't we, Harvey? We'll go change to something else.'

'No!' cried Aunt Emma. 'Don't take off your evening clothes. I don't want you to! What do you want to take them off for? Are they too good for me to see? Ain't I as good as anyone you'd see if you went out? Eh?'

'But, Aunt Emma, I meant—'

'I know what you meant! You meant to slip out and leave me alone, both of you! It's lucky I caught you in time! It's lucky I have money of my own. I'd be left alone to starve, if I were poor! I'd die of hunger and neglect!'

Margaret and I looked at each other helplessly. Aunt Emma put her hands in front of her face and began to whimper. Mar- garet tried to soothe her, to take down her hands and pet her, but Aunt Emma resisted like a spoiled and spiteful child.

In the other room the man murmured:

'This is to be one of Aunt Emma's truly pleasant evenings!'

The woman over there retorted with vehemence, 'This sort of thing happens a dozen times a day!'

I looked over Aunt Emma's shoulder at them. They were regarding Aunt Emma with a frowning intentness.

'She's not really crying,' said the man.

'Pretence!' said the woman. 'She works it up at will.'

'The old hell-cat!'

Aunt Emma lifted her head with a startled look, almost as if she had seen and heard; and a puzzled expression, confused and puzzled, flitted across Margaret's countenance. But neither of them had quite got it; it was for me alone that the full perception of this phenomenon was reserved.

'Aunt Emma,' said Margaret, soothingly; 'you know Harvey and I try to be good to you, don't you?'

'You try to be good to my money!' said Aunt Emma. 'But I may fool you! I may fool you yet! It's not too late to change my will! It's not too late yet to leave it all to charity!'

She spoke with a cunning leer. The man in the other room nudged the woman beside him and said, 'The old cat's capable of doing just that, too, Margaret!'

Aunt Emma lifted to me a disturbed and pitiable face. She took one of my hands, she took one of Margaret's; she took them in both of hers, and she clung to us. For that moment, every-thing dropped from her except the expression of her dire need— her need to be loved. Her gestures, her manner, were infinitely pathetic. They were a plea for genuine affection. It was as if she had said that she was an isolated human spirit on the brink of the unknown, and that she dreaded the next step which she must take; dreaded it, and must have our understanding, our kindliness, to go along with her. What she really said was:

'Margaret... Harvey... you really do care for me, don't you? It isn't all on account of my money, is it?'

I was profoundly touched. All religion, all life, all art, all expression come down to this: to the effort of the human soul to break through its barrier of loneliness, of intolerable loneliness, and make some contact with another seeking soul, or with what all souls seek, which is (by any name) God. She pleaded and she clung. She said:

'If you knew I hadn't a cent, you'd still be good to me, wouldn't you?'

'Yes,' I said eagerly. And, 'Yes!' said Margaret. Eagerly, and sincerely. And in that instant I know that both of us were grateful for the patience we had shown to the old woman through the years; grateful that we had been able to rise above our frequent exasperation, to trample it down, and act and speak from worthier impulses.

'If I lost it all... if I told you that I'd lost it all,' said Aunt Emma, 'you'd both still be just the same, wouldn't you?'

'Yes,' I said unhesitatingly, still shaken with the vibrations of my emotion and thankful that I was conscious of nothing in me that did not move spontaneously with my answer. 'Yes,' I said.

But the man in the other room said to the woman there:

'My God, you don't suppose she's really lost her money, do you?'

'No!' answered the woman. 'This is just one of her cunning spells. She can be as crafty as a witch!'

This, while they looked out of their room at the old woman in her agony! I faced them sternly; I was minded to denounce them, these figures, whatever they were, that had stolen, the outer aspects of me and of my wife and spoke from sentiments we had never acknowledged or acted upon! I was about to cry out to fhem that they did not represent us, that they were not we. But I did not cry out. Again they turned upon me that faintly satirical smile, those faces informed with an irony drawn from— from what? From some ulterior deep springs of knowedge? I became confused, and did not speak to them.

'I'm hard on you at times,' said Aunt Emma. I have never found it very easy to face expressed sentiment, and now the old woman broke down into a mood that embarrassed me. 'I'm unjust,' she said, and there was no doubt of the genuineness of her contrition. 'I don't mean to be spiteful, but I know I am spiteful. When you get old, you get suspicious of people.' I tried to avert my mind from her self-accusations; it is neither pleasant nor inspiring to witness any sort of dissolution, and she was dissolving into a self-pity that I found it harder and harder to face. 'Suspicion makes us spiteful and unjust— and I'm suspicious of everybody,' she went on. 'Oh, I know I'm not easy to live with, Margaret!'

There wasn't anything to say to that— God knows she wasn't easy to live with! The man and woman in the other room grinned at me with a touch of frank malice. My pity for her, momen- tarily clouded by my embarrassment at her own self-pity, returned. Presently Margaret said:

'Don't you think you'd better go to bed now, Aunt Emma?'

At that she jerked herself up in the big chair she was sitting in, immediately all suspicion and meanness and snarling petulance again, and spluttered at Margaret:

'To bed? Why to bed? Why do you want to pack me off to bed? Oh, I know!' Her pinched countenance was a mask of cunning malignance as she went on; 'I know why— so you can talk about me, talk me over! So you can speculate on how long I will live! I know you! I know what you talk about when I'm not around. I know what you've been waiting and hoping for the last ten years!'

She began to cry again. She stretched out her arms- towards us. Once more there was that terrible appeal in her manner, terrible to witness, terrible to have directed towards one.

'Well, you won't have long to wait now,' she whimpered. 'The time's almost come.' The tears ran down her cheeks in silence for a moment— those daunting, weak tears of the aged who accuse us and the gods because death cannot be delayed so very much longer— and then she said, 'You'll get the money soon enough.'

Distressed, Margaret said, 'There, there, Aunt Emma; you mustn't go on like this.'

'You'll live ten years yet,' I added. It is one of the things one says.

'If I thought she'd live ten years—' began the man who was peering out from the other room.

'Well?' cut in the woman beside him. 'If you thought she would— what?'

'My God— ten more years like the last ten!' he said.

The woman who looked like Margaret turned upon him fiercely and shot at him a tirade that mounted from step to step of bitter- ness:

'You see it mornings and evenings; but I have it all day long— and every day! I've had it for ten years. I go nowhere. I see no one. I have no pleasures. I have no friends. I'm losing my youth. I'm losing my looks. Harvey, I'm losing my very soul!

I shed my life's blood drop by drop to keep that querulous fool, that dying viper, alive— just merely alive! I'm tired of it— I'm sick of it— I'm wearied, wearied, wearied to the soul! I'm dying from her, I tell you, dying from her!'

She sank to a chair, shaken and pallid; and there came a silent moment. But something— a note that had been struck — the impulsion of occult wings... something... vibrated in the silence of that moment.

I SAY a moment. But what are moments? What is time? Some theologians, some men of science, say there is no such thing as time; that we live, always, in eternity. A moment is long, or it is short, because of the stuff that is packed into it. Can we, somewhere in illimitable space, somewhere in the valleys of infinity, catch up with old moments and live them newly again? Well, I do not think we can ever again take out of a moment what we have put into it, even though we should catch up with it again. Am I speaking foolishly, Howard? I want to cling to the moment before... before it had occurred... before what happened, did happen. I want to....

LISTEN: for all the events of that night I can advance as good a theory as most psychologists. There are rational explanations for the phenomena I witnessed, and was a part of. I know them very well. The man in the other room— I can write you a thesis on who and what he was, and why I saw him and Margaret did not; I can discourse to you, as cleverly as anyone, on every angle of this case.

But it isn't the mechanism of this thing that concerns me now. I am concerned with the things that lie behind the mechanism.

I want to cling to the moment before... before it had happened: what did happen. To the moment before what we call the conscience had become involved.

MARGARET said, 'Come, come, Aunt Emma, you really should go to bed.'

'I won't go to bed,' she said, with the pettishness of a small child. 'I won't go to bed until I've had my medicine. I want my sleeping tablets now.'

'Where are they?' asked Margaret.

In my bathroom,' said Aunt Emma. And Margaret went out of the room for them.

'See here,' I said to Aunt Emma, 'didn't Miss Murdock give you one of those tablets right after dinner?'

'No,' she said. And then, 'I don't remember. I want one anyhow! My nerves are on the jump. You've got my nerves to jumping! Ill take one and nap here in the chair.'

The man in the other room said in a low, speculative tone:

'I suppose if one ever gave her the wrong medicine by mistake it would be called by some ugly name.'

The woman answered him: 'People like her never get the wrong medicine given to them by mistake, and never take it by mistake themselves. They live for ever.'

I turned and spoke to them, 'There is a volition in your words,' I said sternly, 'that is not my volition nor my wife's volition.'

'What did you say?' asked Aunt Emma, looking about in bewilderment.

'Nothing,' I answered. The two figures in the other room did not reply to me. They looked at me steadily, levelly.

Margaret returned with a small phial. I took it from her and examined it.

'I'm afraid she had one an hour ago,' I said. 'I don't think it is quite right to let her have another so soon. They are what Dr. McIntosh prescribed, and they have a powerful, depressing effect on the heart if taken in excess.'

As you know, Howard, I did not treat Aunt Emma medically myself— you once had her case until you gave it up— and she has gone from doctor to doctor, always intimating to me that she had little faith in me. That was one of her ways of annoying Margaret and me; but it was no real annoyance, as she did not come within the limits of my specialty.

'You did have one right after dinner, didn't you, Aunt Emma?' said Margaret.

'No! No!' said Aunt Emma. With a sudden monkey-like agility, for which I was not prepared, she reached and snatched the phial from me. She clutched it to her breast, in a childish triumph.

'I didn't have one,' she said. 'I will take one. You don't want me to get to sleep! You don't want me to get any rest! You want me to die!'

Her hands trembled as she hugged the bottle to her; her jaw chattered, and her lips shook; her victory in getting the bottle had made her all one tremor.

I took hold of her hands, and tried to take the phial away from her gently. She grasped it with her crooked claws until white spots showed on the knuckles, and rocked herself back and forth. Her fingers were interlaced about it.

'See here, Aunt Emma,' I said; 'you musn't be stubborn about this. I think you did have a tablet right after dinner, and another one now might be dangerous.'

I used a certain amount of force, and she whimpered and actually gnashed her teeth at me. Margaret interposed:

'Don't struggle with her, Harvey. Doctor McIntosh says the least strain is likely to prove fatal,'

I knew that was true, and released her hands. She had had a dilated heart some years previously, from which she had never really recovered. Emotional strain as well as physical strain was dangerous.

'You want me to die so you can get my money,' she said, leering up at me from under her thin white eyebrows.

Tentatively, I reached my hand towards her again. She suddenly grasped it and sank her teeth into it. And then she pulled the cork from the phial.

I was in a quandary as to the right thing to do. If I struggled with her, I should almost certainly kill her. On the other hand, I was not absolutely certain whether she had taken one of the tablets previously or not. She had said she hadn't. I had heard Miss Murdock speak of giving her one; but I hadn't actually seen her take it. I wasn't sure.

I didn't know then what I should have done. And I did the wrong thing— I did nothing. It is easy enough now, Howard, to see that it was the wrong thing. It is easy enough now to say that I should have risked the struggle, risked killing her by the struggle. But I put it to you, man to man, how was I to know then that it was the wrong thing?

She shook two tablets from the bottle and put both of them into her mouth.

'Not two, Aunt Emma!' I cried. I actually tried to take them from her mouth, and I got myself bitten again.

The situation was now changed, in a way that no one could have foreseen.

Two tablets within the hour might not kill her; but three almost certainly would.

'Aunt Emma,' I said, 'you didn't have one before, did you.'

She had closed her eyes and sunk back into the chair, after swallowing the two tablets, as if thoroughly exhausted by such struggle as there had been. Now she opened them again, and looked up at me with a look indescribably impish — impish and foolish, and puerilely triumphant. She rocked herself from side to side, and she said:

'Yesl' And then, 'I've had three, now, and I'm going to sleep— you hate me— you both hate me— but you can't keep me from going to sleep.'

And she leaned back in the chair again.

'I don't believe she did have three of them,' said Margaret. 'She's only saying that now to worry us.'

'She says she did,' I returned; 'but she doesn't know. I think you're right— she's probably only saying it to irritate us. I know she didn't.'

She opened her eyes a little, opened and closed them, with a blink of cunning.

'You know I did!' she murmured.

I hadn't known it— hadn't been sure of it— but evidently the man and woman in the other room had been sure of it.

'She did have one before,' said he.

'Yes,' said the woman; 'I know she did.'

Margaret and I stood and looked down on the old woman, whose shaking agitation was now leaving her, who had now begun to breathe quite quietly, in a condition that was strangely helpless; in a sort of suspension of the will-power. I can think now of several things that I should have done. But I give you my word, I could think of nothing then; the only thing that filled my consciousness then was the desperate, working hope that she would not die. And while I looked down on Aunt Emma's silent and shrunken figure I heard the man and woman in the other room speaking. Their voices were cool and quiet; they came to me clearly enough, but they seemed to come from a distance, too.

'Will she die?' said the man. 'Shall I see her die?'

'I should hate to look on while she died,' said the woman. 'But she will die; she is dying and I am looking on.'

'She was very old.'

'She was very old. She will be better dead.'

'She has not died yet.'

'She is breathing very quietly. Old people breathe very quietly. '

'Old people die very quietly.'

'And she is dying.'

I heard this monstrous litany, and every fibre in my being was in revolt against it. But, for a time, it seemed impossible for me to speak or to move. I tried to combat, in my own mind, what they were saying in the other room.

Aunt Emma stirred, feebly. Her eyes said that she wanted to say something. Margaret and I bent over her, and she whispered faintly:

'Margaret... Harvey... you... you really love me... don't you? You really... really....'

She relapsed, relaxed. Her head was slightly on one side. She did not speak or move again.

Margaret said, with a note of alarm, 'Harvey, she's scarcely breathing! She does not seem to be breathing at all!'

'If I had struggled with her,' I said, 'it would have killed her,'

The man in the other room spoke, 'And now she's dead because there was no struggle!'

Margaret cried out, ' 'Phone for Doctor McIntosh! I'm alarmed!'

'Too late for any doctor,' said the man in the other room; and the woman there echoed, 'Too late!'

Margaret said to me, 'Harvey, I'm afraid ... I'm afraid that Aunt Emma has left us!'

'Thank heaven,' I answered, 'that we've always tried to be good to her. You've been like an angel to her, Margaret, and I've tried to do my best. Poor Aunt Emma!' For the pathos of her last words clutched at my heart. 'Poor Aunt Emma,' I said. Somehow I could not stop saying it for a moment; I chattered it over and over again, 'Poor Aunt Emmal Poor Aunt Emma! Poor Aunt Emmal'

'Fifteen thousand a year! Fifteen thousand a year! Fifteen thousand a year!' chattered the man in the other room.

I turned angrily and faced him. I wanted to have it out with him.

For he was not I! Oh, I know what had happened— any man in my profession knows what had happened! In that other room I was seeing my other self. The part we all hide and deny, the ungenerous part, the selfish part, the hideous part if you will, had come up out of the caves of the underworld, out of the realm of the unexpressed, out of the repressed subconsciousness, and met me face to face. I need not dwell, in talking with you, on the mechanism of it as I have said, the mechanism interested me far less than the things behind the mechanism. The man in the other room was compounded of all the unuttered things in my nature which I consciously disavowed, which I fought down, which I never permitted to get into the field of fact and deed. We have all fought them down or there would be no such thing as civilization to-day, not even the imperfect semblance of it which exists.

But I cried out within myself, and I cry out to you now, Howard, that the man in the other room was not and is not the real I ! But he was saying that he was! He was claiming to be! It was his will that had triumphed here, for he had willed the old woman's death; while I, the conscious I, had fought against it.

I cried out and I still cry out against the monstrous injustice that he should be able to make the conscious I feel guilty because of a thing that was his doing! Are all the years when I was consciously kind, in spite of my exasperation, to count for nothing— all the years in which I fought down my irritation, all the years in which Margaret had acted, as I told her, like an angel? We had had our ungenerous thoughts, our angers, our selfish impulses; but we had trampled them under our feet, and was that fight, that struggle, that victory, to be as if it had never been? Was not the better part of us, whose deeds were gentle and considerate, to be accepted as the real individual, the real ego? Were these cold and selfish usurpers to be able to pretend that they were we? Able to make us feel that, guiltily? Is the fight towards decency, after it has been won, after its victory has been sealed and signalized by deed and fact, to be lost again merely because of the sneering assertion of these creatures who come bursting up out of the unplumbed depths of life? Are the whispers and nods and looks of those cave men to impose on us and make us think that we are cave men again? I protested, and I protest, that this cannot bel It is not merely my own case that I have brought you, Howard; it is the case of all men, of all humanity.

I turned angrily towards the man in the other room with this protest rising to my lips. But again I was stopped from speaking. He was gazing down on the big chair in his room. Aunt Emma was in it over there in the other room, beyond the mist. Her eyes were open, and she was looking out at me. On her face was the same faintly satirical smile as on the faces of the other two people in that room.

Margaret was bending over the big chair in our room, weeping. Aunt Emma, from the other room, gazed on Margaret's attitude with something like ironic amusement.

DOCTOR VOKES was silent for several minutes after Dr. Harvey Herbert paused in his narrative. Then he said, 'No, the case is scarcely in my line.'

'Nor in mine,' said Doctor Herbert. 'When I have considered everything that comes within the province of the psychologist, the essence of it all escapes me— the thing behind the thing.'

'Why should a sense of guilt cling to you?' said Doctor Vokes.

'That sense should belong to the man in the other room. Can't you make him take it and keep it, and dive down with it into whatever strange and shadowy hell he came up out of?'

'He won't stay down there,' said Doctor Herbert simply, and with a despairing gesture. 'He keeps coming up again, asserting himself.'

There was another silence; presently Doctor Vokes said, 'And his assertion He hesitated; then murmured, T suppose it turns upon the fact that, after all, he spoke and acted with a direct and vigorous candour.'

Dr. Harvey Herbert repeated his gesture.

'I have thought several times I was rid of him,' he said; 'but he keeps coming back. To-day I knew certainly that I was not rid of him. I discovered it when I found myself arranging with my lawyer to turn over Aunt Emma's fifteen thousand a year to a charity, a home for old ladies.'

'You did that?'

'Yes. For a few moments after the transfer was completed I felt a relief. And then there floated in front of me the face of the man who had been in the other room, with a quizzically .sarcastic grin upon his lips. The expression said he knew just why I could never touch any of Aunt Emma's money he knew, that grin said.'

______________

17: The Guilty Secret

Paul De Kock

1793-1871

The Scrap Book Jan 1910

Translator unknown; from Munsey's "The Scrap Book", 1910. De Kock was a hugely popular French novelist in his day.

Charles Paul de Kock

NATHALIE de Hauteville was twenty-two years old, and had been a widow for three years. She was one of the prettiest women in Paris; her large dark eyes shone with remarkable brilliancy, and she united the sparkling vivacity of an Italian and the depth of feeling of a Spaniard to the grace which always distinguishes a Parisian born and bred. Considering herself too young to be entirely alone, she had long ago invited M. d'Ablaincourt, an old uncle of hers, to come and live with her.

M. d'Ablaincourt was an old bachelor; he had never loved anything in this world but himself. He was an egotist, too lazy to do any one an ill turn, but a the same time too selfish to do any one a kindness, unless it would tend directly to his own advantage. And yet, with an air of complaisance, as if he desired nothing so much as the comfort of those around him, he consented to his niece's proposal, in the hope that she would do many kind little offices for him, which would add materially to his comfort.

M. d'Ablaincourt accompanied his niece when she resumed her place in society; but sometimes, when he felt inclined to stay at home, he would say to her: "My dear Nathalie, I am afraid you will not be much amused this evening. They will only play cards; besides, I don't think any of your friends will be there. Of course, I am ready to take you, if you wish to go."

And Nathalie, who had great confidence in all her uncle said, would stay at home.

In the same manner, M. d'Ablaincourt, who was a great gourmand, said to his niece: "My dear, you know that I am not at all fond of eating, and am satisfied with the simplest fare; but I must tell you that your cook puts too much salt in everything! It is very unwholesome."

So they changed the cook.

Again, the garden was out of order; the trees before the old gentleman's window must be cut down, because their shade would doubtless cause a dampness in the house prejudicial to Nathalie's health; or the surrey was to be changed for a landau.

Nathalie was a coquet. Accustomed to charm, she listened with smiles to the numerous protestations of admiration which she received. She sent all who aspired to her hand to her uncle, saying: "Before I give you any hope, I must know my uncle's opinion."

It is likely that Nathalie would have answered differently if she had ever felt a real preference for any one; but heretofore she seemed to have preferred her liberty.

The old uncle, for his part, being now master in his niece's house, was very anxious for her to remain as she was. A nephew might be somewhat less submissive than Nathalie. Therefore, he never failed to discover some great fault in each of those who sought an alliance with the pretty widow.

Besides his egotism and his epicureanism, the dear uncle had another passion— to play backgammon. The game amused him very much; but the difficulty was to find any one to play with. If, by accident, any of Nathalie's visitors understood it, there was no escape from a long siege with the old gentleman; but most people preferred cards.

In order to please her uncle, Nathalie tried to learn this game; but it was almost impossible. She could not give her attention to one thing for so long a time. Her uncle scolded. Nathalie gave up in despair.

"It was only for your own amusement that I wished to teach it to you," said the good M. d'Ablaincourt.

Things were at this crisis when, at a ball one evening, Nathalie was introduced to a M. d'Apremont, a captain in the navy.

Nathalie raised her eyes, expecting to see a great sailor, with a wooden leg and a bandage over one eye; when to her great surprize, she beheld a man of about thirty, tall and finely formed, with two sound legs and two good eyes.

Armand d'Apremont had entered the navy at a very early age, and had arrived, although very young, to the dignity of a captain. He had amassed a large fortune, in addition to his patrimonial estate, and he had now come home to rest after his labors. As yet, however, he was a single man, and, moreover, had always laughed at love.

But when he saw Nathalie, his opinions underwent a change. For the first time in his life he regretted that he had never learned to dance, and he kept his eyes fixed on her constantly.

His attentions to the young widow soon became a subject of general conversation, and, at last, the report reached the ears of M. d'Ablaincourt. When Nathalie mentioned, one evening, that she expected the captain to spend the evening with her, the old man grew almost angry.

"Nathalie," said he, "you act entirely without consulting me. I have heard that the captain is very rude and unpolished in his manners. To be sure, I have only seen him standing behind your chair; but he has never even asked after my health. I only speak for your interest, as you are so giddy."

Nathalie begged her uncle's pardon, and even offered not to receive the captain's visit; but this he forbore to require— secretly resolving not to allow these visits to become too frequent.

But how frail are all human resolutions— overturned by the merest trifle! In this case, the game of backgammon was the unconscious cause of Nathalie's be~ coming M'me d'Apremont. The captain was an excellent hand at backgammon. When the uncle heard this, he proposed a game; and the captain, who understood that it was important to gain the uncle's favor, readily acceded.

This did not please Nathalie. She preferred that he should be occupied with herself. When all the company were gone, she turned to her uncle, saying: "You were right, uncle, after all, I do not admire the captain's manners; I see now that I should not have invited him."

"On the contrary, niece, he is a very well-behaved man. I have invited him to come here very often, and play backgammon with me— that is, to pay his addresses to you."

Nathalie saw that the captain had gained her uncle's heart, and she forgave him for having been less attentive to her. He soon came again, and, thanks to the backgammon, increased in favor with the uncle.

He soon captivated the heart of the pretty widow, also. One morning, Nathalie came blushing to her uncle.

"The captain has asked me to marry him. What do you advise me to do?"

He reflected for a few moments. "If she refuses him, D'Apremont will come here no longer, and then no more backgammon. But if she marries him, he will be here always, and I shall have my games." And the answer was: "You had better marry him."

Nathalie loved Armand; but she wovld not yield too easily. She sent for the captain.

"If you really love me—"

"Ah, can you doubt it?"

"Hush! do not interrupt me. If you really love me, you will give me one proof of it."

"Anything you ask. I swear—"

"No, you must never swear any more; and, one thing more, you must never smoke. I detest the smell of tobacco, and I will not have a husband who smokes."

Armand sighed, and promised.

The first month of their marriage passed smoothly, but sometimes Armand became thoughtful, restless, and grave. After some time, these fits of sadness became more frequent.

"What is the matter?" asked Nathalie one day, on seeing him stamp with impatience. "Why are you so irritable?"

"Nothing— nothing at all!" replied the captain, as if ashamed of his ill humor.

"Tell me," Nathalie insisted, "have I displeased you in anything?"

The captain assured her that he had no reason to be anything but delighted with her conduct on all occasions, and for a time he was all right. Then soon he was worse than before.

Nathalie was distressed beyond measure. She imparted her anxiety to her uncle, who replied: "Yes, my dear, I know what you mean; I have often remarked it myself, at backgammon. He is very inattentive, and often passes his hand over his forehead, and starts up as if something agitated him."

And one day, when his old habits of impatience and irritability reappeared, more marked than ever, the captain said to his wife: "My dear, an evening walk will do me a world of good; an old sailor like myself cannot bear to sit around the house after dinner. Nevertheless, if you have any objection—"

"Oh, no! What objection can I have?"

He went out, and continued to do so, day after day, at the same hour. Invariably he returned in the best of good humor.

Nathalie was now unhappy indeed. "He loves some other woman, perhaps," she thought, "and he must see her every day. Oh, how wretched I am! But I must let him know that his perfidy is discovered. No, I will wait until I shall have some certain proof wherewith to confront him."

And she went to seek her uncle. "Ah, I am the most unhappy creature in the world!" she sobbed.

"What is the matter?" cried the old man, leaning back in his armchair.

"Armand leaves the house for two hours every evening, after dinner, and comes back in high spirits and as anxious to please me as on the day of our marriage. Oh, uncle, I cannot bear it any longer! If you do not assist me to discover where he goes, I will seek a separation."

"But, my dear niece—"

"My dear uncle, you who are so good and obliging, grant me this one favor. I am sure there is some woman in the secret."

M. d'Ablaincourt wished to prevent a rupture between his niece and nephew, which would interfere very much with the quiet, peaceable life which he led at their house. He pretended to follow Armand; but came back very soon, saying he had lost sight of him.

"But in what direction does he go?"

"Sometimes one way, and sometimes another, but always alone; so your suspicions are unfounded. Be assured, he only walks for exercise."

But Nathalie was not to be duped in this way. She sent for a little errand boy, of whose intelligence she had heard a great deal.

"M. d'Apremont goes out every evening."

"Yes, madame."

"To-morrow, you will follow him; observe where he goes, and come and tell me privately. Do you understand?"

"Yes, madame."

Nathalie waited impatiently for the next day, and for the hour of her husband's departure. At last, the time came— the pursuit is going on— Nathalie counted the moments. After three-quarters of an hour, the messenger arrived, covered with dust.

"Well," exclaimed Nathalie, "speak! Tell me everything that you have seen!"

"Madame, I followed M. d'Apremont, at a distance, as far as the Rue Vieille du Temple, where he entered a small house, in an alley. There was no servant to let him in."

"An alley! No servant! Dreadful!"

"I went in directly after him, and heard him go up-stairs and unlock a door."

"Open the door himself, without knocking! Are you sure of that?"

"Yes, madame."

"The wretch! So he has a key! But, go on."

"When the door shut after him, I stole softly up stairs, and peeped through the keyhole."

"You shall have twenty francs more."

"I peeped through the keyhole, and saw him drag a trunk along the floor."

"A trunk?"

"Then he undressed himself, and—"

"Undressed himself!"

"Then, for a few seconds, I could not see him, and directly he appeared again, in a sort of gray blouse, and a cap on his head."

"A blouse! What in the world does he want with a blouse? What next?"

"T came away, then, madame, and made haste to tell you; but he is there still."

"Well, now run to the corner and get me a cab, and direct the coachman to the house where you have been."

While the messenger went for the cab, Nathalie hurried on her hat and cloak, and ran into her uncle's room.

"I have found him out— he loves another. He's at her house now, in a gray blouse. But I will go and confront him, and then you will see me no more."

The old man had no time to reply. She was gone, with her messenger, in the cab. They stopped at last.

"Here is the house."

Nathalie got out, pale and trembling.

"Shall I go up-stairs with you, madame?" asked the boy.

"No, I will go alone. The third story, isn't it?"

"Ves, madame; the left-hand door, at the head of the stairs."

It seemed that now, indeed, the end of all things was at hand.

Nathalie mounted the dark, narrow stairs, and arrived at the door, and, almost fainting, she cried: "Open the door, or I shall die!"

The door was opened, and Nathalie fell into her husband's arms. He was alone in the room, clad in a gray blouse, and— smoking a Turkish pipe.

"My wife!" exclaimed Armand, in surprise.

'Your wife— who, suspecting your perfidy, has followed you, to discover the cause of your mysterious conduct!"

"How, Nathalie, my mysterious conduct? Look, here it is!" (Showing his pipe.) "Before our marriage, you forbade me to smoke, and I promised to obey you. For some months I kept my promise; but you know what it cost me; you remember how irritable and sad I became. It was my pipe, my beloved pipe, that I regretted. One day, in the country, I discovered a little cottage, where a peasant was smoking. I asked him if he could lend me a blouse and cap; for I should like to smoke with him, but it was necessary to conceal it from you, as the smell of smoke, remaining in my clothes, would have betrayed me. It was soon settled between us. I returned thither every afternoon, to indulge in my favorite occupation; and, with the precaution of a cap to keep the smoke from remaining in my hair, I contrived to deceive you. This is all the mystery. Forgive me."

Nathalie kissed him, crying: "I might have known it could not be! I am happy now, and you shall smoke as much as you please, at home."

And Nathalie returned to her uncle, saying: "Uncle, he loves me! He was only smoking, but hereafter he is to smoke at home."

"I can arrange it all," said D'Ablaincourt; "he shall smoke while he plays backgammon."

"In that way," thought the old man, "I shall be sure of my game."

End

Table of Contents

- 1: A Doubting Mama / Algernon Free

- 2: Long Pig / E. Charles Vivian

- 4: The Man with the Blue Nose / Harvey O'Higgins

- 5: Snatch / Scott Littleton

- 6: The Wild Girl / James Francis Dwyer

- 7: The Head of Iskander / George Allan England

- 8: Tartas The Terrible / H. Hesketh Prichard

- 9: Death Marks the Spot / Patrick Lawrence

- 10: Launched at Society / Victor L. Whitechurch

- 11: Mycroft's Luck / Muriel A. Pollexfen

- 12: The Development of Furlani / W. L. Alden

- 13: A Cunning Escape / Sandy Sharp

- 14: Pygmalion's Spectacles / Stanley G. Weinbaum

- 15: A Bit of a Do / Eric Knight
- 16: The Other Room / Don Marquis
- 17: The Guilty Secret / Paul De Kock