Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Mostly longer short stories this time, with two by Ethel Lina White and two by H Bedford-Jones. Jeffrey Farnol contributes a Bow Street Runners crime story featuring Jasper Shrig; William Morris and G G Pendarves contribute "Weird Tales", Sapper has what is possibly the last story he ever wrote, a Bulldog Drummond case first published posthumously. There is also a cumulative author index for the editions 101 to 130. 1: The Scientific Circle / C. C. Newkirk 2: The Messenger / H. Bedford-Jones 3: George, Tête Bêche / H. Bedford-Jones 4: Scum of the Earth: No Liability / Ambrose Pratt 5: The Book

PAST MASTERS 130

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.

27 June 2023

Contents

1: The Scientific Circle / C. C. Newkirk

2: The Messenger / H. Bedford-Jones

3: George, Tête Bêche / H. Bedford-Jones

4: Scum of the Earth: No Liability / Ambrose Pratt

5:  The Bookshoop / Capel Boake

6: The Footprint / G. G. Pendarves

7: The Secret Garden / Capel Boake

8: The Ghost Gavotte / Ethel Lina White

9: The Unknown / Ethel Lina White

10: Lindenborg Pool / William Morris

11: Footprints / Jeffery Farnol

12: Wyatt's Pearl Business / Captain Frederick Moore

13: Thirteen Lead Soldiers / Sapper

14: The Swine of Aeaea / Clifford Ball

Cumulative Author Index Past Masters 100-130

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1: The Scientific Circle

C. C. Newkirk

1870-1938

The Black Cat, March 1900

Clyde C. Newkirk

PROFESSOK THEOPHILUS WARD was a veritable living and walking encyclopedia of facts. He viewed everything that came before him from the only standpoint he knew— that of science. When Ward looked at the pink of a woman’s cheek, there is no doubt but that he at once began to calculate how many blood capillaries would be necessary to produce the degree of pink apparent; how deep these capillaries lay from the surface of the skin, and what addition, or subtraction, of heat, cold or emotion would heighten or diminish the glow. In short, Ward would look at a rose without seeing its beauty, but its integral parte he would pick asunder that he might analyze them in his cold, calculating, scientific fashion. He once said he had never encountered a problem in books or in life that he had not been able to solve by scientific deduction.

Physically he was tall and angular. As to the manner in which he moved he was ungainly, even awkward. The students called him “Old Cube Root” when his back was turned, or when he was so absorbed that he could hardly have heard thunder. Ward kept himself clean-shaven, but, in contrast to this, he never brushed his clothes. He had cold and keen gray eyes which invariably looked through great silver-rimmed spectacles. It is needless to add that Ward was never married and probably never will be. He would not know what to do with a wife. Possibly such a thing as marrying has never occurred to him.

In 1891 the professor’s too close application at the college in which he has for many years held the chair of natural science, began to tell on him. He became emaciated, and it was apparent that his strength was waning, but Ward took no reckoning. He was advised by his physician and his friends to take a few months’ rest in a change of scene and air, but lie paid no heed. Then his condition became so alarmiug that a meeting of the college trustees was called and Professor Ward was temporarily discharged from his chair, on full pay, with an appropriation voted to defray the expenses of a three months’ vacation, to be spent wherever his fancy might suggest.

Like a philosopher he acquiesced, and the day following started for Mexico, the flora and the mineralogy of which he had long sought an opportunity to study. Theoretically, he was as familiar with Mexico as book knowledge could make him. Professor Ward travelled by rail to New Orleans, from which point he embarked on a passenger and freight vessel bound across the gulf for VeraCruz. In the railway coaches he sat calmly surveying the panoramic landscape, and on the deck of the vessel, aft, he lounged by the hour, his hat drawn down well over his eyes, which looked vacantly out through those great silver-rimmed spectacles, over the sunlit surface of the tropic gulf.

From Vera Cruz, Ward travelled over the Mexican-Interoceanic Railway northwest to Jalapa. There he tarried two days, picking up all the information he could that would be of value to him on his trip inland and making preparations for the journey. His outfit, which he bought at Jalapa, consisted of a trusty, rather than a beautiful, horse of sufficient weight and strength to carry himself, a repeating rifle, enough provisions for a fortnight, his botanical specimen cases, some drugs and a light mineralogieal outfit. Thus equipped Ward left Jalapa and travelled north.

He had enquired carefully as to the possible sources of danger on his intended route, and was assured that lie would be perfectly safe from molestation so long as he remained on the main road. But his plans did not permit of adhering to this altogether, and he was especially warned against a belt of very rough and rocky country, some half a mile or more in width, which he would enter after crossing what was known locally as “the divide.” Amid the precipitous crags of that desolate region, where an incautious step or a deliberate push would send a man to swift and horrible destruction, many travellers had disappeared, and not by accident alone.

When the Professor had covered perhaps fifteen miles of plain, swamp and wood, the path became narrower and his progress slower. When, at the end of a three hours’ journey, he dismounted to tighten the saddle girth, he discovered the loss of a blanket, which had worked from under him. He remembered having seen it in place only a short time before and believed he would find it not far to the rear. Hitching his animal, he started back afoot. The quest led him a vain quarter of a mile, when he was suddenly diverted by what sounded like the tamp-tamp of a horse’s hoofs, around a turn in the route over which he had ridden. There was a thick growth of timber, and he could see nothing. Acting on a first impulse, he stepped a few feet to the side and entered the obscurity of some twining vines. In this covert he waited.

The hoof-beats drew near, and presently a mounted man rode into full view and stopped. The rider was a swarthy Mexican, with flowing black hair and his steed a magnificent roan. Across the pommel of his saddle the Mexican balanced a Winchester, and, leaning forward, he studied the ground over which Ward had ridden. Strapped behind the rider the professor espied the blanket he had lost.

Why had the Mexican halted? Why was he carrying his rifle unslung? Why did he examine the ground ahead?

While Ward was weighing these things over the man on the horse rode forward and passed from sight. The scientist then became concerned for the safety of his own horse and equipment and followed stealthily in the rider’s wake, keeping himself under cover and the Mexican in view. Thus the tinique procession moved ahead to a point where Ward’s horse came into view of the mounted man, who instantly crouched in his saddle, pulled his horse about, and moved noiselessly but more rapidly on the back track. Again Ward stepped aside into concealment and again the Mexican passed him, looking backward frequently. By a detour Ward reached his horse, mounted and proceeded with such apparent unconcern that he did not once look behind him. One would have thought he had forgotten the strange occurrence entirely. On the contrary he was carefully working out its solution, thus:

“The man behind me is a Mexican highwayman— a personage by no means uncommon in this territory. He is at this moment, ami lias been for several hours, Jogging my trail. He will pursue these tactics until I leave the beaten path and strike off through the rocks across the divide. Then he means to shoot at me from behind, take my home and effects and throw my body over a precipice! He believes me to be in ignorance of his presence and means to keep me so to the end. He is trailing me as much by broken twigs and earth marks as by sight, and can follow me unerringly and yet remain a mile or more behind. There is to be no open fight. I am not to have an equal chance. It is to be assassination. This move will not be attempted immediately. Fortunate thing I lost the blanket!”

The professor went into camp at sun-down. He chose a spot of considerable area, free from timber and much in the form of a natural clearing. In its centre he boldly built a fire and cooked supper, confident that, until he crossed the divide he would be perfectly safe. Afterward he opened his assortment of drugs and selected from among the many small phials one bearing a red label and containing a thin, colorless liquid, hermetically sealed. In¬ stead of the ordinary stopper the bottle was provided with an automatic injector. This fluid was one of Professor Ward’s triumphs in chemical discovery. Its most remarkable property was that on being exposed to the air its expansion into a gas was instant. Moreover, its particles as quickly permeated the atmosphere to an extent proportioned to the amount exposed, rendering senseless and helpless any living thing within its influence, for a period of from fifteen to twenty-five minutes, or until the gas became so widely diffused as to lose its power. In short, its action and effect was much like that of chloroform, except that the sensibilities of man or animal were paralyzed instantly.

The professor next took from his belt a Winchester cartridge, and after some difficulty removed the lead ball, leaving the charge of powder in the shell. He then inserted an air-tight, two-grain gelatine capsule of double strength, full of the mysterious liquid, being careful not to release any of it. This capsule he forced into the shell against the powder. The last step was to place the curious missile in his Winchester so that it would be the next load under the hammer. Ward then lay down, and feigned to sleep, knowing that where he was he was safe from attack, but kept such perfect vigil as to feel sure that the Mexican could not have passed his camp that night undiscovered.

At daybreak the professor started forward. There was nothing in his demeanor to indicate that he knew himself to be followed. After he had been in the saddle a short time he took from his pocket a small compass, which he carried in his left hand, directing the horse with his right. As he left the camp behind him he increased his pace, pushing the animal as fast as the growth of trees and brush would permit. Any one who could have watched the compass needle as to its bearings with reference to the direction the horse was moving would have concluded Ward to be traveling in a large circle. This was true, but a man following would not have suspected it, fust, because of the circle’s great circumference, and, second, because the mountains, or other elevations which might disclose the fact, were, at the point chosen by the professor, concealed by forests. The scientist’s purpose was now apparent. He had adopted a curious strategy to gain a position to the rear of the Mexican without the latter suspecting it.

An hour’s riding brought Ward to the point where he had started on his circular route, and so accurate were his calculations that he did not vary but a few feet from the trail. Dismounting, he carefully examined the ground, and as he climbed back into the saddle smiled grimly, something rare for Ward. The Mexican was ahead. Ward had found the hoof-marks of the roan. Again the scientist proceeded rapidly, yet with extreme caution. As he bent forward in the saddle and peered ahead through the silverrimmed spectacles, he presented a most grotesque appearance. He had thus traveled in the Mexican’s wake more than a mile. His usually imperturbable nature was keyed up to a snapping tension, not so much through fear as in anticipation of a new experiment. Suddenly he stopped abruptly and slipped from his horse. Leading the animal from sight he hastily tied it. Then he stole forward a short distance and dropped on one knee. About fifty yards ahead of him leisurely rode the Mexican. Quickly Ward brought his Winchester into position until the muzzle hung steadily and the broad back of the Mexican filled the sights on the barrel. Then the scientist pressed the trigger and jumped to his feet.

Almost simultaneously with the report of the rifle the roan and its rider sank to the ground. The elated Ward started to inn forward, but as he advanced was seized with a feeling of giddiness and, realizing that he was approaching the sphere permeated by the powerful gas, he beat a hasty retreat. Gradually the power of the anaesthetic became so diffused as to allow him to go forward a second time. The unconscious Mexican lay with one leg pinned under his horse’s body. Ward pulled him free, but only to bind him securely with a part of his own trappings. But a few minutes passed before the highwayman opened his eyes. When they met Ward’s they flashed in terrible hate and as the man made an effort to rise he discovered, for the first time, that he was a helpless prisoner.

Ward nearly lost his equanimity at the outcome of affairs and at the success of his experiment. Undoing the prisoner’s feet, but leaving his arms pinioned, Ward managed to lift him astride the roan and lash the highwayman’s feet together under the horse’s belly. Five hours later the exultant Ward entered Jalapa astride his own horse and leading behind him the roan on which sat the Mexican, tied to its back, outwitted and humiliated. The prisoner was turned over to the authorities and proved to be a notorious bandit, who for many months had terrorized the Vera Cruz country. Ward, having proved himself able to cope with all the dangers of the region, at once returned and systematically gathered all his desired specimens, and then departed for Yucatan, where the remainder of his vacation was pleasantly, safely and profitably spent.

AGAINST the wall in the scientist’s library rests a rifle. It is silver mounted and beautifully carved, with its rich ebony stock artistically inlaid with curious designs in ivory. Ward prizes it, not so much because it was once the property of a man who would have taken his life in a far-away country, but because it is a souvenir of a problem which his science solved.

_________________

2: The Messenger

H. Bedford-Jones

1887-1949

Adventure,  3 Dec 1920

Henry James O’Brien Bedford-Jones

THERE is no need of detailing how I came home again to the old house in the sand-lots, to find that my poor mother was taking in lodgers to support herself and her sister. The two of them lived up in the garret, renting out all the rest of the house. Even Aunt Nora's little place down the shore was leased, and the two poor women were roosting up in that bare attic, scrimping along for bare life and trying desperately to make both ends meet.

I changed all that, you may be sure, before I had been home an hour. Think of coming home after four years of wandering, to such conditions!

"Your aunt hasn't been very well lately, Craig," said my mother, dabbing happily at her eyes. "I'm terribly sorry you have to find things this way. I think we cag make room for a cot under the south gable if you're not too proud to put up with us, dear."

Never a word, mind you, about money or expenses or food. Just plain glad to see me in spite of everything. For ten minutes they talked ahead and then I opened up the grip and showed them what was inside.

I thought they would faint for a while. Then—

"Craig, did— did you come by it honestly?" faltered my poor mother.

"Honestly?" I let out a great laugh and caught her up in a hug.

"By the gods, I came by it as honestly as ever man came by gold! And now we're going to have a house-cleaning. You'll be back in your own rightful places, you two, within half an hour. I'm going to send your gentlemen lodgers packing in short order—"

"But, Craig!" interrupted Aunt Nora fearfully.  "They— they rent by the week and we have no right to eject them after taking their money. You know, by law—"

"Law be cursed!" I said, laughing. "Play with the gold while I'm gone. Here, wait."

I thrust a handful of the gold into my pocket and went down-stairs, leaving them to cry in each other's arms.

To tell the honest truth, I did wince a little on the way down. If those two women ever suspected just how that gold had been come by, I believe they'd never have touched it. But I told no lies. Did ever man come by gold, sudden gold, hard, round, yellow gold, with any degree of honesty?

Never mind; it caused me no loss of sleep. I had sweated over half the Orient for that gold. I had slaved and bullied and fought for it, from Vladivostok to Bombay but, thank the Lord, I hadn't schemed for it. Nobody could ever call Craig Day a thief or a swindler.

One can't deny that there had been rough work at times; yet, otherwise, why had I been blessed with a thick skull and a bunch of muscles? That affair in Celebes for example, with the Dutchmen and the oil-wells, and Ike Hastings from St. Louis, and the Chinese tong who thought they had first rights to the oil. Ah, well, poor: Hastings was dead, and the others were as leaves in an Autumn wind. Here I was home again. Nothing else mattered.

The thought of those two poor women crying for joy in each other's arms perhaps made me a little wee bit brutal in the way I went about it. Going down-stairs, I sought my mother's room first of all— the room where she had loved to sit and look out over the sea and the lonely sand-lots.

I knocked at the door, got no answer, and opened. There was a stifled cry and I saw an angry young woman jump behind a screen as the lock burst in.

"Get out of here!" she ordered in a shrill voice, peering over the top.

"Not yet, ma'am," I said. "It's nine o'clock. I want you out o' this room by noon, if you please—"

"Help!" she sung out, then swore at me. "As sure as I've got a friend on the police-force, you'll do time for this. You're no gentleman!"

"I don't claim to be," I said, and laughed as I tossed a twenty-dollar boy over the screen. "Take that, miss, and there'll be another if you're out at noon. My name's Day, this house is mine, and I'm occupying it at noon. No hard feelings."

I withdrew, leaving her silenced by the gold. Out in the hall I nearly ran over a man who seemed to think I was a burglar or something.

"What's this, what's this?" he cried excitedly. "Is Miss Matilda calling for help? Put up your hands, there! Explain your business in that room—"

He waved a gun at me, so I wasted no time on him. The gun did not go off, fortunately for my mother's peace of mind. This chivalric person looked pretty sick when I held him up against the wall and talked to him.

"I gave the lady until noon," I concluded, "but you're all ready to hike, and you've been rude. So hike, friend! Your trunk will be on the sidewalk when you come back, and if you make any fuss I'll have you pinched for assaulting me with that gun."

I gave the gun back to him and went on, cleaning out the other rats. It became evident, however, that the place could never be reoccupied by my mother in its present condition. Everything was dingy, the carpets were threadbare; and the house needed a complete overhauling. Meantime, the lodgers were getting out.

The last room was my own— my own room, where I had kept my own shelf of boy's books, where I had seen my father for the last time.  My room, dear with a thousand memories.

No one answered my knock. The door was locked. A surge of anger rising in me, I put my shoulder to it and entered. And this entry came within a half-inch of being my death.

Perhaps some intuition warned me, held me back the scant second of time that saved me. The knife flashed down past my face, sang by my ear like a bee in wing, ripped the cloth of my coat sleeve and went down into the floor beside my foot. For an instant I stood there in dead fright, since the room was all empty and clear before me. Then I looked up.

It was an easily constructed affair, to one who had the knack— a stout spring of steel, connected by a wire across the door. The lodger had the right to lay such a trap, perhaps; yet the thought of my mother entering that  room made me burn. Not that she would have entered when the door was locked, but— well, you understand.

I stooped and drew the knife from the floor, where it was buried for a good half-inch. The blade was six inches, the haft five. The blade was thin steel, the haft light bamboo— an ideal throwing-weapon, you comprehend. Upon the brass cap of the haft there was scratched what looked like a fish-hook.

Examining closer, it became evident that after setting the knife in its holder above the door, one could leave the room, close the door and then set the strap by pulling the wire which had been run through the door-frame. This tenant, I reflected, must have been here for some time; at least, so it looked at the moment. I turned my attention to the room, with a glow of interest in this gentleman.

Somewhat to my surprize; absolutely the only evidence of tenancy was a trunk. Now one must have socks, shoes, perhaps a toothbrush— never a sign of any here. The dresser was empty. This lodger lived, if he lived at all, from his trunk.

The trunk, however, quickened my interest. It was a foreign affair of wicker, covered over with a very heavy canvas and painted black. The lock was double. It was unlike any lock I had ever seen— and I have seen and tampered with several— but something about it had a hint of Chinese. Then, upon the end of the trunk and neatly stenciled in white letters, I saw the name "James Death."

There was a name for you. Any man placed far above the common herd and mingling only with the elect might carry it. It was hard to fancy any man with that name, however, going up and down the world and mingling with other men; that is, men who did things. He would either live up to that name and be a killer, or else he'd have another name in six weeks.

"If there's another man in this country by that name, I'll eat my hat!" I said to myself. "And that knife— hm! Out you go, James Death, and your knife to boot!"

I picked up the trunk, which was fairly heavy, and lifted it out of the room. Our house was at the ocean-fringe of San Francisco— that line of sand-lots south of the park, at the end of things— and we had a paved street which ended fifty feet beyond the house. There was no other building near by, except Aunt Nora's bungalow over toward the shore, three blocks distant.

THERE was considerable commotion in the house by this time. I carried the trunk out to the street and set it down by the steps. Then, taking the knife from my pocket, I drove it in through the top of the trunk— drove it in to the hilt and left it.

"And if you don't like it, Mr. James Death," I said grimly, "you just come along and interview me about it!"

This accomplished, I telephoned for a taxicab from the eorner drug-store, then went up to the attic and got mother and Aunt Nora together.

"This house will be empty today," I said.

"Your bungalow, Aunt Nora, I'll attend to a bit later—"

"Craig, you must not!" intervened Aunt Nora in dismay. "I've leased it to two very nice young men, an Englishman and his friend, and they're paying well—"

"Nothing doing," I cut in firmly. "When my cash gives out and I'm gone, then do as you like. But while I'm on the job with money in my pocket, my women-folks aren't going to live in an attic and rent rooms. Mother, who's the man in my room down-stairs?"

Poor mother went white.

"You— Craig— he wasn't there?"

"He was not," I said. "What about him? Is he a big bully?"

"No. Hes a— a little man." She stopped right there but I saw that she was afraid to say very much. "I— I wish you wouldn't interfere with him—"

"Nothing doing," I said again. "This is my funeral! Now, you two ladies get your jewelry together. Were going for a ride and you're not coming back for two or three weeks."

"What do you mean?"

They stared at me, while I fished more gold from the grip and filled my pockets. They must have thought I'd gone mad until I laughed and explained.

"I'm going to renovate here and you're going to have a rest, a complete rest. I'm going to ship both of you off to a mountain resort. First, we're going to chase down Post Street in a taxi and buy black silk dresses and lace nighties and things like that— all we can find. Hurry up and pack your jewelry, now; the taxi will be here directly."

My Lord, how they fluttered and protested and how happy they were. Just like two kids, those women. If I had several million dollars I'd like nothing better than to go around poking into other people's-business and making them happy.

Well, in half an hour the three of us drove away, leaving much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth in our wake. I had discovered without asking any direct questions that James Death was an old and wrinkled man, rather small and bent, an invalid. That was all, and I dismissed the matter.

We had an interesting time, working our way along toward Market Street and the ferry.

When we got there, mother and Aunt Nora had each a trunk crammed with all their hearts desired and more. I had ordered paint and other things sent to the house, had men coming to measure for carpets and so forth and was pretty well satisfied. It was four o'clock when I kissed mother and Aunt Nora good-by and saw them aboard a ferry bound for the mountains and mineral-waters and rest. Then I started home.

ii

FIVE o'clock saw me at home. Every bird had flown. The only thing left in sight was that trunk belonging to James Death, who had evidently not shown up. I brought it up on the porch out of decency, since the nights were fog-thick.

I wandered about the house. The kitchen and back rooms had been let as a house-keeping apartment. They were bare of everything. The realization smote me that I had brought home no grub, and there was not an eating place in miles. Still, there was a corner grocery some blocks distant, and I need not starve. Then came the recollection of Aunt Nora's bungalow. Seizing my cap, I shot out of the back door.

You must not think that my actions were crazy. Our place was fairly close to the Esplanade, so that most of our lodgers were hangers-on of the cafés and other establishments of that section. I did not care for them at all. The thought of Aunt Nora's neat, pretty little bungalow rented to cabaret people infuriated me.

I must have gone storming along over the sand rather gustily, for as I approached the bungalow with its neat hedge and its large garage, aman appeared at the garage door and eyed me, then turned and said something. Another man joined him and both watched my advent. In turn, I watched them and slowed my steps a bit.

Give me the grace of knowing a man when I see one. The red-headed chap who had first observed me I set down for the lesser of the two. The other was a slender fellow who must have topped my six-foot-two by another two inches; he had cropped dark hair, mustache, a face like a knife-blade— keen and virile and chin out— and his eyes told me that he was as good a man as I and perhaps better. I liked his looks at once.

None the less, I was here on business. So I came straight up the drive and halted before the two and set forth my errand.

"Good evening. My name's Craig Day. My aunt is the owner of this property. I've just come home and I want to know if you gentlemen will vacate at once."

Redhead gaped at me in amazement. The big chap looked rather annoyed.

"I fancy there's some mistake," he drawled, surveying me with a cool blue eye. "We have leased the property for six months. There's a month yet to run. My name is Kilgore; this is my friend Mr. McAuliffe. Since our lease has been paid in advance—"

"Its not a question of money, gentlemen," I responded, nettled by his cool survey. "I've just come home to find my mother and aunt sitting in a garret and living by the rental of their homes. It isn't square and I won't have it. They have some right to enjoy the last years of their lives in the sort of home they—"

"Quite right, Mr. Day," broke in Kilgore. "But we took this place to conduct certain experiments, which are now nearing a conclusion. Further, we have dealt throughout with your aunt, and while you may have every right to speak for her, I would much rather continue dealing with her. Of course, if she wishes us to leave—"

"I sent 'em off to the mountains this afternoon," I rejoined, "so you'll have to deal with me. I've got the big house cleared out already, thank Heaven!"

"We obsairved the exodus," and Mr. McAuliffe grinned. His accent was very Scotch. "But ye'll no find us vera tractable persons, laddie. We'll aye stand on our richts!"

"Be quiet, Mac," said Kilgore. His blue eyes bored into me. "I say, Day, there's no need to get spiffy about this thing. Suppose you have tea with us. We'll talk over the matter amicably, what? I've been going it rather hard and I fancy a cup of tea would buck me up. Mac, be a good chap and lock up the garage, will you?"

I found myself going to the house with Kilgore; the man had a way with him. I had begun to regret my hasty action. The man was a gentleman. Except from a standpoint of sentiment my position was dead wrong. Yet he was calmly taking me in to tea!

Before I realized it, I was warming to Kilgore. He explained that they had turned the garage into a workshop and had their meals sent out from a hotel in the city each day; they had no real need of a car, as the line to Twin Peaks Tunnel was within easy reach. It struck me as a trifle odd that they should have their meals sent from a hotel in town, but of course I made no comment.

I found Aunt Nora's dining-table spread with a snowy cloth. Kilgore uncovered a large dish of excellent sandwiches, set out cigarets and excused himself to set the kettle going in the kitchen.

A careless man is ever prone to the temptation of a snowy table-cloth. As I sat, I picked up a spoon and idly creased the linen. What fancy sped my hand, I know not, but I drew with the spoon-tip that same fish-hook figure which had been on the brass cap of Death's knife. I guessed that it meant something, and yet I knew of no written language that had any such form, though it was not unlike Tibetan.

McAuliffe came into the room and dropped into a chair. Kilgore followed a moment later. All stiffness had vanished among us, and with some bruskerie— for I never like apologies— I asked them to forget my words.

"When I came over here," I said, "it was with the thought that you were like the tenants at the house. You're not. Just forget the whole affair, if you will. I was a bit carried away with getting home and all that. You're an Englishman, Kilgore?"

"Canadian," he responded. "Mac here is American like yourself."

"Like myself is right," and I grinned across the table at Mac. "My father was Scotch and he had the same lowland burr."

KILGORE rose and switched on the electric lights, as fog was rolling in and darkening the sunset. The English blood in him showed when he pulled down the shades, although the house was in a lonely enough situation. At this instant a telephone-bell rang and McAuliffe answered the call. The instrument was on a stand in the corner of the dining-room.

"Hello," said Mac. Then abruptly he spoke in Hindustani:

"No, nothing new, Sir Fandi. You will not be out tonight? Yes, he is here."

Mac turned with a lift of his brows to Kilgore. The latter rose. At this I put out my hand.

"One minute, Kilgore. I'd better say that I understand the tongue."

Kilgore gave me a half-smile and a glance from his blue eyes, then nodded and went to the instrument. Whether because of my warning or not, he said scarcely a word, but listened to some message from the other end.

McAuliffe came back to the table, gave me two or three glances, then picked up a spoon and began tracing lines on the cloth. Now the lights were overhead. As he sat, he caught the shadowed lines of the figure I had traced. My first intimation of this was when he caught his breath and half-sprang out of his chair. Next thing I knew, he was holding down a gun on me, anger blazing in his face.

"Kilgore!" His voice bit out as the Canadian hung up and turned. "Look here— there's the devil to pay. This chap—"

He pointed to the figure on the linen. Kilgore looked at it, then came around to his chair, dropped into it, and his eyes glinted on me like a blue sword. I took a cigaret and lighted it.

"You chaps," I said, "are either stark crazy, or else— I don't know what! If you want a row, I'll give it to you. If not, cut out the comedy and bring on the tea."

Kilgore looked at McAuliffe. "Don't be a silly ass, Mac. Put up the gun."

"But there it is— the sign of the ten—"

"Put up the gun."

McAuliffe shoved the automatic into his pocket, swore and sat down.

"Mr. Day," said Kilgore, picking his words, pe you draw that figure on the cloth with any purpose?'

"No, " I said bluntly. "What does it mean?"

"It's a Mongolian word, and it means 'ten'. Kilgore looked at his pal. "Mac, get the tea like a good fellow."

Redhead rose and obeyed. Kilgore must have had quite a turn, for from his first glimpse of that Mongol word his face had looked stern and set. I said nothing and waited until the tea was poured. Then Kilgore, stirring his cup, took up the gauntlet.

"Would you mind telling us, Day, how you happened to draw that figure?"

He was very courteous, but there was steel in his words.

"Not a bit," I answered. "It was scratched on the handle of Death's knife—"

Mac dwopped an oath and sat back in his chair, his face white. Kilgore started.

"Death's knife!" he repeated. "Death's knife!"

Under those blue eyes I realized that I was closer to death this moment than ever I had been in my own house. I knew Kilgore's sort, and knew that something queer was afoot.

"Easy, you two!" I warned them. "This stuff is all Greek to me. This chap Death was of the lodgers at the other house—"

I told them the whole story as I knew it. And, while I talked, Kilgore sat and watched me with those piercing eyes of his, unmoved and calm; but McAuliffe was gripping the tableedge, and if ever there was murderous hate in eyes face, it sat in his. Not hatred for me, realized.

"What room in your house did this man occupy?" asked Kilgore, when I was through.

"The back room on the right-hand side."

"Ah! And the window overlooks the bungalow?"

I nodded.  This question gave me the clue, the connection between these two men and the man James Death. Kilgore looked at McAuliffe and Mac at him; between them passed a wordless message.

"Looks like a cursed queer name, that," I said reflectively. "I can't imagine any sane American or Englishman using it."

A twisted smile curved Kilgore's thin, aristocratic lips.

"The man is not an Anglo-Saxon," he answered, "He chose the name in some ignorance of our ethnic customs, I fancy. Day, you've done us a tremendous favor with this information of yours. From the moment you told us that you understood Hindustani, I knew you were all right. I regret that, just at present, we're not able to make explanations to you, but we are not the only persons involved, We have a friend—"

"No harm," growled McAuliffe, "in warning him."

"Righto," assented Kilgore. "This man who calls himself James Death was at one time an associate of ours in another country, Day. He left us there for dead. I'd strongly advise you to mind your step if you have any dealings with him. You understand?"

I nodded and came to my feet.

"All right, gentlemen; thanks for the warning. Don't worry about the explanations. I have no desire to pry into your affairs whatever. Perhaps you'd like to know whether the fellow comes back to get his trunk?"

McAuliffe grunted. Kilgore gave me a thin, thin smile.

"We'll know, thanks." Those three words were enough to show me that Mr. Death was in for a bad quarter of an hour if he ever ventured into this neighborhood— now!

I took my departure, Kilgore showing me out. My house was quite dark; not a light to show that Death or any one else was there. As I left the bungalow, I heard the voice of McAuliffe raised excitedly in Hindustani at the telephone.

"That you, Fandi Singh? Get here as quick as you can. Death has been watching us.'

I shivered as I walked over the grassy sand toward my own house. There was something ominous in such words, something suggestive of the double entendre of that name, Death. But I was glad that I had met Kilgore and Mac. They were real men.

iii

IF I took the darkness of my house for surety that James Death had not returned, I was reckoning without my guest. However....

I stumbled over the grassy, weedy sand-lots toward home. A heavy fog had swept in and had brought darkness with it, through which: rolled the boom of the surf from the beach.

This was a rum affair, and no mistake. Kilgore and McAuliffe were linked to a third man, a man named Sir Fandi Singh— from the name either a Sikh or a Rajput of India. Other links bound them to James Death and a link had caught me into the affair. Kilgore had said that Death was not an Anglo-Saxon; what, then, could he be? Did the Mongolian character for "ten" have any bearing here? And again, what experiments were Kilgore and Mac carrying on in the bungalow or garage?

Somewhere, something sniffed big of world-trails and high emprise.

I missed my way in the obscurity, failed of the back entrance and went ahead to the front of my house. At the top of the porch stairs  struck something and went a-sprawl, cursing the obstruction. Without waiting to see what it was, I picked myself up, opened the front door and switched on the lights.

In front of the door lay the paints and painting-materials I had ordered that day. I carried them into the house and considered what was next to be done. All told, I had not been absent over an hour or so. The evening lay before me, and being of an energetic turn of mind, I determined to fall to work at my redecorating without further delay.

The kitchen was the immediate base of operations. This required fresh white paint from truck to keelson; after the paint dried, new linoleum could be laid. Three hours of steady work ought to eliminate the kitchen from further calculation. With this in mind I laid aside coat and collar, got out my brushes and picked up a can-opener to attack a can of white enamel.

I had set the opener to the tin and was about to puncture it, when a sound halted me.

A sound? More like a shock. You try dropping a hundred-pound sack of wheat on an upper floor of an empty house and you will get some idea of how hard a man's body falls when it does fall. There was no mistaking that soft, heavy thud which fairly shook the house. Some one was up-stairs. Then came the distinct slam of a door— and silence.

For all my listening, there came no further sound— not a footstep, not the creak of a board. Abandoning my operations, I went out to the front hall, then at the foot of the stairs halted. Instead of going up, I went to the door and looked outside. The trunk belonging to James Death had disappeared. I had given it no thought when entering the house.

"Who the devil's up-stairs?"

With this query in my mind I switched on the upper hall lights and ascended. The dead silence of the house puzzled me. It was that intense silence which only comes upon a house in which no soul is moving, even breathing.

The upper hall was empty. I stood there staring about. In the silence I could have sworn that no living person was in the house.

"Anybody here?" I called. Only the echo of my own voice responded and I swore at the silence. I looked into one or two rooms— deserted and empty. It occurred to me that some of my ousted tenants might be trying some sort of revenge for the ousting. I had been gone since before noon. All the afternoon the house had stood deserted. Upon my return I had not even gone up-stairs. One or a dozen persons might be in hiding here.

That there was no one down-stairs I was certain. I went to the door that led up to the attic. It was locked, as I had left it, but I had certainly heard a door slam up here somewhere. That narrowed down the matter to a definite basis. I looked at the doors opening on the hall, and three of them were closed.

The first two opened upon empty rooms. Then I turned to the third and realized that it was my own room, the room occupied by James Death. Upon the instant I felt convinced that here lay the answer to the question; that when I opened this door, I would find something strange and sinister.

And I hesitated at the door, for my pistol lay up-stairs in my grip. Then I knocked but had no answer. Angered by my own weakness, I twisted the knob and flung open the door, at the same instant keeping back. That morning's escape had taught me a lesson. The room showed only blackness, for the hall light did not reach it. I stepped inside, felt for the switch and lighted the room.

For perhaps three minutes I stood there, absolutely motionless, trying to figure out what had happened here.

Near the window which overlooked the bungalow, James Death's trunk was standing open. Therefore, Death had returned, found no one about and, being ignorant of my return, had calmly brought his trunk back to his room, Also, he had replaced the knife over the door,

At my feet lay the body of a man, face down. He had entered the room with head down, hastily and furtively. The knife had caught him at the juncture of neck and shoulder; must have killed him instantly. He had fallen forward, probably had grasped at the door and caused it to slam behind him.

"No!" I muttered. "That door slammed after the man had fallen and he could not have done it himself by any possibility."

Then I looked again at the position of the knife, which was driven in clear to the haft. With this, all my reasoning showed wrong. The man could not have been killed from above. The knife had been slid into him as he looked into the room. The murderer had then let him fall forward, and slammed the door, and....

At this point in my reflections I glanced hastily over my shoulder and closed the door behind me. The murderer was in the house and I preferred to have an inch of wood at my back,

FORTUNATELY my Paisley father toy bequeathed me an excellent cool head in emergencies; it was apt to be hot at other times. Whoever had done this deed knew that I was in the house and alone. The size of the body on the floor was very large, as large as my own. Therefore, this was not James Death, as evidently James Death had done the work himself. What, then, would come next on his program?

"This chap is no fool," I told myself. "If he could get the police in a hurry, the chances are about even that I would be convicted of this murder on circumstantial evidence. A grand little plot for a detective story! Only things don't always work out that way in real life. If I'm right, the gentleman will be out of the house by now."

I turned, leaving the lights going, and went out into the hall. Sure enough, I felt a breath of cold salt air the first thing. A window had been opened since I stepped into that room.

I knew what window was open, instantly.

Often enough I had used it myself, when I had wanted to slip out of the house unheard, as a boy. Without hesitation I went to the adjoining room, turned on the light and found the window open. Directly under this window was the roof of the back porch with an easy descent to the ground. Not being a fool, I did not go near the window but turned off the light again and halted in the hall.

"The gentleman is gone," I reflected, cursing my own thick-headed folly in having missed him. "It looks to meas if my one best bet were to call in Kilgore and his friends. This seems to be more of their funeral than mine.'

At this moment the front door-bell rang, shrilling through the house with a suddenness that startled me.

The poelice— already? Impossible. Death had been gone only a few moments at best; he could not have set them on my trail yet, even if my conjectures as to his course of action were correct. Perhaps the fellow had the effrontery to slide out the back window, then come around to the front door and— but no; he had a passkey. This, more likely, was a visit from some other lodger who had forgotten some effects.

I went down the stairs, prepared for any-

The front doors were heavily curtained, so that not until I had opened them did I see who was outside. Then, with an exclamation of relief, I greeted Kilgore and McAuliffe. With them was a third— a dark man, bearded, his face proud and keen. I knew who this was even before Kilgore's introduction.

"Mr. Day, I'd like to introduce my friend Sir Fandi Singh— a Rajput."

"Delighted," I said, meeting a firm hand-grip. "But come inside; don't stand out here! You met no one?"

Kilgore's brows lifted. "No. Why?"

"The devil to pay and no pitch hot!" I Slammed the front door. "I was just deciding to run over and see you gentlemen. What fetched yot if I may ask?"

"We had decided to give you a little more information," and Kilgore smiled.

"Aye," said Mac heartily. "We liked the hook o' your neb, Mr. Day. And when Sir Fandi said aye to it, we came along."

"Well, you came at the right moment," Į responded. "There's been—"

The shrill whang of a bell cut me short. The telephone stood by us in this lower hall and I moved toward it with a premonition of the message.

"Excuse me, gentlemen."

"Park 1199?" asked a voice.

"Yes."

"Police headquarters speaking, Ingleside station. Anything wrong there?"

"Nothing wrong here," I responded. "Why?"

"We just had a message that there had been a murder out your way. Know anything about it?'

"Murder? Certainly not. This is Mr. Day speaking.  I've been here with three  of my friends for a couple of hours. No one sent any message from here."

The sergeant swore slightly.

"We had a 'phone half a minute ago. It sounded fishy—"

"Ah!" I exclaimed. "I threw out a couple of bum lodgers here today. I expect one of them is trying to make a little trouble. But send out a man, sergeant, if you like, and take a look around."

"We've no men to spare on no-name information like this," snapped the sergeant. "Sorry we troubled you, Mr. Day. Good night."

Hanging up, I looked around to see all three visitors looking fixedly at me.

"Well," I said cheerfully, "somebody has to get his hands dirty tonight, that's sure. Regular old nickel-novel stuff, too. One goes ahead with the spade, two come along with the corpse, and the fourth acts as covering and protecting convoy."

The Rajput's white teeth flashed.

"I gather," he observed, "that you have had some excitement over here?"

"Not me," I answered, and chuckled. "Somebody else had the excitement. He got your friend Death's knife in the back of his neck, and he's up-stairs now. I figured that Death would make this kind of a play, so when the police called up—"

Kilgore's blue eyes flashed.

"We'll get on, Day, we'll get on!" he said, and clapped me on the shoulder.

"Then let's move up-stairs," I said. "We can't take chances on that desk sergeant, and we want no police in this business, I fancy."

"Right," said Kilgore, cool as a cucumber. "So it's murder, eh? A stranger?"

"I haven't inspected him" was my response. "Maybe you'll know him, though."

They followed me in silence.

iv

THE four of us stood in my room, with lights on and blinds down, and surveyed things. McAuliffe looked calm enough, but blazed with excitement under the surface. Sir Fandi Singh sat down on the bed and lighted a cigaret, saying nothing but watching us sharply. Kilgore and I turned over the body.

"And that's the end o' Hat Shui, puir de'il!" said McAuliffe.

"You know him?" I asked.

"We have met him," said Kilgore dryly. No other explanation.

I studied the dead man. He was built very large, wore clothes of cheap quality, and held, or had held, a revolver in his hand. Rigor mortis, contrary to the belief of some folks, is slow in its action, starts in at the throat and goes downward. So the revolver had fallen from Hat Shui's hand.

The features of the man were peculiar. They were not Chinese, yet were somewhat tawny. The long mustache and tuft of beard had been gilded; quite freshly, too. I have seen some strange things, but this was the first time I had ever heard of a man gilding his whiskers. When I said as much, Kilgore smiled and Mac chuckled.

"Mair than likely," said the redhead, "ye'll learn ither strange things, friend Day! Hae ye searched him?"

At this suggestion Kilgore did I went through the chap. Buckled under his sleeve was a knife, twin brother to that knife of Death's which had killed him. Otherwise, he seemed to have nothing in his pockets, until Kilgore drew out his hand and showed a small roll of bills. Among the bills, flashing like drops of frozen blood, were half a dozen small rubies.

Small? Well, size is of no great moment. These stones were not large, but they were of the richest pigeon-blood hue. The sight of them held me astonished, but I was more astonished by the behavior of my companions.

Kilgore poked at them with one finger, almost contemptuously. McAuliffe looked at them and nodded to himself carelessly. Sir Fandi Singh gave them only a glance, then rose and crossed the room to deposit his cigaret-ashes somewhere. Kilgore dropped the money and rubies into my hand.

"Take 'em, Day. We don't need 'em; your share of the loot."

No man has to tell me such a thing twice, and I pocketed the stones. Now it was that Sir Fandi Singh spoke up. He had an incisive manner of speech, deadly serious, and he had been figuring things out in his mind all the while, evidently.

"Everything is very plain," he observed, with a sweep of 'his hand about the room. "While Mr. Day was away this afternoon, Death returned home. He found every one gone. Seeing his trunk outside, he brought it back to the room—"

"That must have been tonight, while I was over at the bungalow talking to you chaps," I struck in. "The trunk was outside the house when I got home about five."

Fandi Singh nodded and went on.

"There was no one to explain to Death, and perhaps he thought that we had discovered his presence. He began to watch us. Beyond a doubt—" and here the Rajput's tone became grave— '"he has had the bungalow under observation for some time. He has been watching your tests, Kilgore."

The tall Canuck nodded. That James Death had been doing some watching was clear. His open trunk showed only a mass of dirty linen. On the table beside it, the table at the window, was set up a little rack that held a pair of prismatic binoculars. With such glasses Death could have seen every detail of what was doing at the-bungalow or garage. '

"He was seeking some way to strike," commented Kilgore.

"Exactly," assented Fandi Singh. "And he knew that we were making ready to return to the Ten Dromedaries some day. While he was watching, he saw Mr. Day go to the bungalow and probably guessed at the entente being established. He promptly checked off Day as an enemy. At this moment something distracted his attention and he left the room—"

"The painting-materials!" I interjected. "I had ordered some; they arrived while I was at the bungalow and were left at the front door."

Fandi Singh nodded and went on with his inexorable logic:

"Very good. Death left the room at the ring of the bell but did not open the front door. While he was gone he probably got some warning that Hat Shui was in the house; he concealed himself, followed the Mongol, and as, Hat Shui entered the room, stabbed the priest in the neck. We know the rest."

"So Hat Shui was a priest, and a Mongol!" I exclaimed. "Was he a friend of yours?"

They all looked at me with varying degrees of amusement in their faces.

"Not exactly," returned Kilgore. "Hat Shui came to kill James Death— had been following him for a year or more."

"Do Mongols gild their whiskers?" I struck in.

"That was for the benefit of James Death," answered Fandi Singh. "It was to apprize him that Hat Shui, an emissary of the Ten—"

"See here," intervened Kilgore quickly, "we'll never get anywhere like this! I say, Day, we've concluded to give you the whole story. We'd better start in at the right end and go through with it. I suppose you've never been in the Gobi desert?"

"You suppose wrong," I returned, witha grin at their startled interest.

"Aye?" said Mac, rubbing his chin. "And ye'll ken the romance and the butterflies and things that the writer-chaps tell aboot?" He eyed me with a wary look as he spoke.

"The butterflies are there," I grunted. "I've treated men who saw 'em— aromatic spirits of ammonia is the remedy. Romance? I don't see any romance in riding with your guts gritty all day and sleeping with your head in a leather bag so you won't wake up dead. Nix on the romance! I went there on business. And if I'm forgiven previous sin, I'll never sin again."

They laughed at this. Kilgore was about to speak, when I held up my hand.

"Gentlemen, I like you fine, and I'd like to hear the story; but I'll confess that I'm a wee bit nervous at the present moment. Your friend Death is at liberty, and he's a swift actor. I suggest that we put Mr. Hat Shui out of sight before we do any more talking."

"Oh, aye?" assented McAuliffe promptly. "I misdoot me—"

"Righto," said Kilgore, leaning over. "Catch hold!"

He had the body by the feet, and I caught hold of the shoulders. We carried the corpse out into the hall and down the front stairs to the lower hall, and so into the kitchen and the rear poreh. There we paused.

If you remember, I was in my shirt sleeves. Snuggling Hat Shui's head up against my breast made it inevitable that I should get quite a bit of blood over my shirt and arms. This recalled to me that there must be a mess up-stairs.

"Let him wait here a bit," I said. "If you gentlemen will scout around, I expect you'll find a spade or something in the vicinity. My mother was always trying her best to raise some radishes in the back-yard, so there must be implements. Pll run up-stairs and clean up the floor— keep things straight as we go."

I SLIPPED up-stairs the back way.

It was no lie about being nervous. With all these things happening, and that suit-case full of gold in the attic, my nerves were on edge. I went straight to the attic room and dumped all the gold into a little old trunk of my mother's, locked it, and then came down to my own room again.

Within five minutes I was getting the floor cleared up with a wet towel. Naturally this work did not improve the condition of the towel, or of me either. To get rid of the rag temporarily, I went to the open trunk and tossed it in with the unclean linen.

A little box, in the corner of the trunk, caught my eye. I was thinking of the rubies, and it occurred to me that here might be a cache of stones; anything was likely, with this sort of crowd.. ĮI stooped over and took up the box, which looked like a large pill-box. One sniff of it told me the story, however, and when I opened it I was rather disgusted to find it filled with opium-pellets.

This gave me another line on my lodger— an opium-eater. Where he could get the stuff was a mystery, for in this country it's hardly made any more except as smoking-gun. I slid the box into my pocket and went down-stairs. My three friends were standing over Hat

Shui, whom they had brought back into the kitchen. "I say, Day!" spoke up Kilgore. "There's not a sign of a spade around here!'

"All right," I returned cheerfully. "There must be something to dig with. If not, use the two knives —"

At this instant the door-bell rang. It was a long, hard ring, as from a hand that did not intend to be kept waiting all night. I must have started, for McAuliffe grinned wickedly. This made me angry.

"Beat it outside!" I motioned to the back door and caught up my coat.

"Lay hold, Mac." Kilgore stepped above the body. "We'll get it out on the rear steps." I nodded. "Good enough. That's the best we can do."

Shutting the kitchen door behind me, I passed through the hall. If that confounded Death had really managed to get the police  on the trail, they would insist on looking around.

Then I came to a halt as the voice of Fandi Singh floated after me.

"Day! If anything goes wrong— l've a car on the street behind, near the bungalow."

"Thanks," I returned, and went on, buttoning up my coat tightly. At the front door my worst fears were realized.

I opened the door to confront two gentlemen whose hard-jawed features and general air bespoke the plain-clothes man. None the less, they were polite enough.

"Mr. Day?"

I admitted the fact.

"We're from the Ingleside station— the sarge called you up a little while ago?"

"About the murder?" I forced a smile. he said:

"Yep. Right afterward that no-name guy called up again. Said we'd find a Chink's body in a room on the upper floor, gave us the location and all. Say, what's all this about?"

I opened the door wider to admit them if they so desired.

"Well, I chucked out a couple of lodgers today and I imagine they're trying to make a bit of trouble. Want to look over the place?"

The first detective glanced at his partner, who nodded:

"If you don't mind, yes. Just to make sure it's a fake, you know—"

"Come along, then; the house is yours, gentlemen."

I flatter myself that my manner deceived them completely. They entered and I led the way up-stairs. It was plain that this accursed James Death had done his work thoroughly, for at the head of the stairs they went directly to my own room and stood in the doorway after turning on the lights.

"Looks like a hophead's yarn, eh?" said one, and entered the room.

Then I went cold— I remembered that confounded towel! Is there anything in telepathy? I can't say. But I do know that this plainclothes man went right across the room and took one look at the trunk.

The thing occurred so quickly that I was taken off guard, swept from my feet. The second man, beside me, must have caught some unuttered warning from the bearing of his companion; at all events, he simply turned and grabbed me by the coat before the first man had even uttered a word. Naturally I pulled away. My coat buttons went one-two-three and there I was, in all the glory of my bloody shirt.

All I heard was one startled oath, as I slammed the door and went out of the house the same way James Death had gone.

v

STRANGERS in the house, the two detectives had no chance of getting me. They did not even know which way I had gone. I slid off the back-porch roof and streaked it across the sand-lots, while the house behind me began to blaze with lights and to sound with excited voices.

I headed for the bungalow. Just before I reached its street, a number of figures showed in the fog ahead, and I heard Kilgore's voice.

"Day? What's up?"

"Bungled it," I returned. "—— it all! They'll find the body and go after me. Too bad we couldn't have hidden it."

"We did it," said Kilgore calmly. "At least, were on our way to the beach with it. You run along with Fandi Singh. No time to lose, now! Good luck. See you later."

There were men for you— the right sort, the real sort! It was none of their funeral, but they had made it so, quite literally. I followed Fandi Singh to a big car, and in two minutes we were heading away from there without lights.

"Where will you go?" said the Rajput, after we were two blocks away and he had switched on his lights.

"Anywhere down-town. How'll I get in touch with you later?"

He handed me a card and I put it into my pocket. Then he reached back into the tonneau and shoved a big rain-coat into my lap. That man never wasted words. He needed no explanation. He had a brain.

As for me, I lay back and enjoyed the silence as we swept over the Twin Peaks Boulevard.

It was, you will say, a strange thing for an innocent man to flee in this way. If you knew as much of the world as I do, you'd never take a chance; anyway, I wouldn't.  Since Kilgore would get rid of the corpus delicti in the surf or under the sand, the chances were good that I would never be looked up for murder.

However, I would be looked up, and if they found me, I would be locked up. That was certain. The whole affair would seem cursed queer to the police, and rightly so. They would trail me and look around for a corpse, you bet. And the papers would be full of theories, and my poor mother would have heart-failure up there in the mountains when she read them. If, on the other hand, they failed to apprehend me, they would certainly not mention the fact to the newspaper lads at all. They would look for me, right enough, but unless Hat Shui shoved a leg out of the sand to attract attention, they could prove no crime. Blood proves nothing. You can kill a man before a crowd of witnesses, but if you can make the body vanish into thin air, you're safe.

Why then did I run for it? Merely because I saw no sense in spending a week butting against police-brains and feeding lies to newspaper men, not to mention how the news-sheets might hurt my mother's feelings. Besides, there was no warranty that Hat Shui would not show up again.

"Let me out at California and Sutter," I told Sir Fandi. He nodded and turned into Haight Street. Never a word out of him.

I noted that the car was expensive, most expensive. And as Fandi Singh's hands lay on the steering-wheel, the passing lights gleamed on some remarkably fine jewels which adorned his fingers; jewels worth a small fortune. He may have noticed my glance, for now he took a pair of driving-gloves from beneath him and slipped them on. Then he spoke.

"Do you believe in telepathy?" he asked.

To me came the thought of that cursed detective, and I chuckled.

"Now and then. Why?"

"Hat Shui belonged to the finest organization of mental workers in the world."

"Ah! Theosophists?"

"No. The priests of the Ten Dromedaries."

We dodged a street-car. This was the second time I had heard my friends use this name, and it wakened some old memories in my brain.

"Look here," I said, "all that is a myth, a bit of Mongolian folk-lore! I heard all about the Ten Dromedaries place. It doesn't exist."

Fandi Singh chuckled. "Keep thinking that," he advised. "Don't let your mind work on what's happened. James Death used to belong to the organization also, and if he picks up your mental thought-waves, he'll be apt to give you away to the police, I'm warning you. Watch your min

Had any one else uttered such a warning, I would have sniffed in scorn. But these words from the grave Rajput startled me. His chuckle was sinister. Then I recalled the dagger with its Mongol character and I kept silence. Before this, I've found that the impossible frequently does exist and usually at the wrong time.

Sir Fandi Singh said no more until he halted the car at the corner I had designated. Then he made a brief remark.

"Our best chance," he said, "is that James Death is so rotten with opium that his brain will be sodden without it. He was one of the priests. Turned traitor to them— that's why Hat Shui was after him. They never fail to get their man. Well, good luck! Au revoir."

I bade him good night, and he sped away.

The evening was still early. I walked along California Street, the rain-coat buttoned to the throat to conceal my collarless condition, and turned into one of those hand-me-down shops that keep open for the hophead and Chinese night-trade. Having plenty of money, I bought a complete outfit from hat to shoes, then retraced my steps to one of the modest but good hotels in the neighborhood and engaged a room.

Five minutes later I was at peace with the world and indulging in a good cigar.

Privacy! It tasted fine after the lurid events of this day and evening. So far as any danger from the police was concerned, I never bothered my head on this score— not for a minute. Of course, two of them had my face in their minds, and the whole crowd would get a perfect description of me, but they would never know me again. I had no distinctive marks.

Dress in an entirely different manner. Take charcoal from a burnt match, mix with water and apply the result beneath your lip and around your eyes, and so on. Then buy a pair of these big black horn spectacles and get a close haircut. If you do the job right, you could fool your own brother. So, as I say, I had no fear of the dicks. It was a good gamble, and the betting favored me at large odds.

Dismissing this from my mind, the next thing was to take stock. I had plenty of money of my own, and the roll of bills taken from Hat Shui was in my pocket— five hundred in that. Then, the rubies, six of the little beauties. After these, the box of opium-pellets from Death's trunk. My own automatic pistol. The card which Sir Fandi Singh had given me:

Take a bench in Union Square, near the women's reserved section on the St. Francis side of the park, between twelve and one tomorrow.

When had the Rajput scribbled this penciled instruction? Not after getting into the car, certainly. Then he must have written it immediately after I had left the three friends in the kitchen, immediately after calling to me that he had a car waiting.

"Gad, but you're a cool outfit!" I reflected admiringly. "You don't take chances. You prepare for every emergency and you act like a whip-crack. I've missed something not knowing you three chaps before. And the way Kilgore was toting that corpse out of sight, too! No lack of money."

What were they experimenting with, and why had James Death been watching them? To this, no answer.

To obey that final warning from Sir Fandi Singh, was a difficult matter.

In the Gobi? Well, I had been along the fringes of it, and naturally I had heard the stories about the temple of the Ten Dromedaries. Naturally, too, I had discounted the tales as every sensible man does, particularly if he has a drop of canny Scotch blood in his veins.

It sounded too dashed romantic, and well I knew the lack of romance in that accursed region, where every man carries his leather head-bag and the poor devils of camels will wear out a set of stout shoes in a week. No two people go into the Gobi and comé out with the same story— and right. No two sections of it are alike. The buried cities are there; I've seen them, The gravel and bare rock is there. "The sand is there. But romance? No, no! A good shaggy Bactrian will outstink anything on earth except another Bactrian, and where two or three of these are gathered together, I defy any sane man to find romance.

If the temple of the Ten Dromedaries did exist and the priests did exist and all the rest of it, I knew that I had better respect the warning and think about other things, So, when my cigar was finished, I shoved the whole affair out of my mind and rolled into bed.

UPON waking up in the morning it was to find myself a new man, or, rather the old Craig Day again. The temple of the Ten Dromedaries, ten priests, ten novices, ten virgins and all the rest of the farrago, flashed into my head and I broke out laughing in the midst of my bath. To think of a filthy old yellow devil, a slant-eyed Mongolian, an ignorant worshiper of images, squatting down in the sand and pulling off mental stunts that would make the combined heads of the Royal Societies go swimming!

"Nonsense!" I exclaimed cheerfully to my new shirt. "Nonsense! Craig, you've become your own sensible, sonsy self again. I must have been worked up to a nervous edge last night, and no mistake."

Cheerful? Mightily so. The stimulus of my present situation was a tonic. Not dangerous, in the least; but enough out of ordinary civilized ruts to be interesting tonic. When I was all rigged out in my new togs, I set about getting the proper shadows on my face, then went forth into the big city.

Breakfast, then a haircut, then a spectacle shop. These three enterprises kept me at work until nine, for I am an early riser. Slightly after nine I came sauntering into the park that lies in the heart of San Francisco, a big man with a big hat, big black specs perched on his big nose, and a big cigar to keep him company. There were plenty of bums, time-killers and loafers occupying the benches. I caught one chap raiding a scrap-paper bin for a morning newspaper, and since he was a decent old fellow I gave him ten dollars and sent him out to my house to attend to the carpeting, painting and other details. This in itself is enough to show the mood I was in. Any fool would have known that he would give the police a description of me and that he might steal half the stuff in the place. But I cared nothing for such trifles.

I went over to the St. Francis and got a morning paper. A glance over it told me that there was no mention of any "Mysterious Mongolian Murder," so I started back across the street. Just in time, too. There was a poor chap with a stick— a shrunken little old man— who was engaged in a mixup with a cable-car and a taxicab; he didn't know which way to jump first, and the brute of a taxi-driver was bearing down on him with a grin

Naturally impulsive, I   ere the old chap from the cable-car and planted myself, with him under my arm, in front of the taxicab. There was a grind of brakes, and the taxi driver backed water in a hurry. I carried the old chap across the street and set him down at the park path.

Then I perceived that he was pretty well gone to pieces. He leaned on his stick, mumbling at a great rate, and his eyes darting around, One glance at his face told me that he was an opiumfiend. I would have left him then and there, except that he made a grab at my arm.

"Help me!" he said. "Help me along to a bench. I'll tell you all about it."

"About what?" I said whimsically.

He chattered for a moment, then answered me.

"All of it, all of it!" he exclaimed, gripping at my arm. "Hat Shui and all of it! Only get me a pill; you never heard such a story! Get me a pill and I'll tell you."

My jaw dropped. Then my hand dropped likewise— to the pocket in which lay James Death's box of opium-pellets.

vi

I'VE read stories about the Gobi which made me want to shoot the writer, and  I've also read stories where somebody takes a pipe or a pill of hop and promptly goes to sleep. You ought to hear how those boys get the laugh. I'll defy anybody to produce anybody else who can take opium and go to sleep from the opium. It simply doesn't act that way. It bucks up the brain instead of lulling it.

Well, to get back to the old chap who had mentioned Hat Shui. I guided him to a vacant bench, of which there were plenty in the shade, and we seated ourselves. He was a decently dressed fellow, and except for the peculiar hophead complexion might have passed muster. Now, however, his nerves were flying wild and loose. I was afraid a policeman might come along and take him in as a suspect, so I fished in my pocket until I got one of the opiumpellets. Then I got my knife, cut the pellet in two and showed it to the old chap.

"Half for you now," I said, and gave it to him. "More later— when you have told me about Hat Shui. Who was he?"

He popped the pill into his mouth and surveyed me with bleary, bloodshot eyes. Except for his clothes, he looked like any broken-down old wreck who panhandles you for a dime. I really thought he had come across the name in a paper perhaps.

"Hat Shui?" he murmured vacantly. "Yes, yes! I'll tell you for more of it. He was one of the Ten, and he had formerly been the novice who arranged in Urga for the girls; you understand! He knew the outside world. One of them always did. It was he who bought me to join them, bought me with fifty thousand rubles, because I knew about guns. So I went, and then they would not let me go again. Then Kilgore came and we fought about the Russian girl, and when Kilgore beat me I did my best to betray him to Hat Shui—"

He trailed off into a confused babbling in a tongue that seemed to be Russian. But I sat there, a cold hand at the back of my soul. This man could be no other, was no other, than James Death!

Looking at him, I could not believe it possible. Those shaking fingers had not the force needful to drive home a knife. The face was that of a babbling fool. Yet— yet if this man were given opium and his brain lashed into action and all his vital forces stimulated—

"What's your name?" I demanded.

My voice must have frightened him. He rose and stood trembling.

"Be careful!" I went on, shaking the opium box in my pocket. "Here's more hop, old man. Here's a full box of it, and I'll give it all to you later on. All of it! Sit down and tell me things, and I 'll give it all to you. Whats your name?

He was down again. No hophead could have resisted that lure.

"Death," he mumbled, his eyes darting all around. "James Death. But that isn't my name at all. I am a Russian, a gentleman, an engineer and a rich man! Twill tell you how the Ten get their jewels, shall I? But give me more—"

"Nothing doing," I said, shoving away his hand. Already I was fearful lest the tiny bit I had given him should start his brain working normally. 'Tell me, first."

"All right. Everything they do is done by telepathy. Once a month the novices bring in the camels with the supplies and the ten fresh girls from Urga. They must be paid for. On the tenth day— everything goes by tens— comes a message from the Unseen One. They go out to the lake.

He babbled for a moment in his strange tongue. I sat there, absolutely astounded by what I was hearing. Then I recollected that the man might be lying. He might be repeating the wild legends which I had heard often.

"What lake?" I asked craftily. "The round lake where cliffs go down straight?"

He rose to the bait nobly, while his redrimmed eyes shifted from side to side.

"No, no! The lake where they have purple mists with the odor of violets, which put men to sleep. The Ten go to sleep there. When they waken, they find the fishes singing to the dawn, and on the shore the jewels and gold. Give me more, more!"

I was so utterly taken aback that I gave him the other half-pellet.

Good Lord! This man was actually improving on the wild legend— singing fishes! That was something new.

"Fishes can't sing," I said. "It's impossible."

"They do. I've heard them," he mumbled away. "Kilgore is a scientist. He said that they have an arrangement of the gills that makes sound in the air. They leap from the water and sing. They are a distinct race. So are the men there, the Ten; they come from the tribe in the valley. It is between the Sayan and the Khangais ranges, at the headwaters of the Kem, and the city of whirling sands lies around the temple. I saw a palace come up out of the sand, but it was gone again next morning before Kilgore could explore."

"And Hat Shui?"

"He came to kill me because I had escaped," exclaimed Death with more animation. "I had been forced to enter the novitiate, you know, before Kilgore came. So Hat Shui came after me and ran me down. But I was too smart for him, too smart!" The old devil chuckled evilly. "I sent him to hell. And then I got a message from the Ten. They knew he was dead already, ten minutes afterward. They willed me—"

He broke off and said no word more. His eyes had ceased to rove about. This sign gave me some alarm because I knew his brain was at work now; the drug had reached the stomach. 'How I regretted giving even that tiny pill! Now my time was running short with him.

"Wait here," I said, seeing no sign of a policeman about. "I'll be back in a minute and give you the whole box of opium-pills. Just a minute."

He made no sign, but I saw his eyes fastened on me. Was it my imagination that told me there was recognition in those eyes, and the recrudescence of a terrible, dominant spirit? Was it imagination which showed new life flooding back into this old babbler?

I HURRIED away, cursing my folly. I went directly to the street, opposite the St. Francis, and paused at the corner. Looking back, I saw James Death sitting there exactly as I had left him.

Confident that he would not leave, I glanced around. Just across the street was an officer, swinging down toward the hotel. I hurried toward him, caught his eye and beckoned. He met me at the curb.

"Come over here with me," I commanded. "There's an old hophead sitting on the bench here who's been telling me about a murder he committed the other day. You'd better take him along and see—"

"You bet," said the policeman.  We recrossed the street and started down the path. A stab of dismay seized me. The bench was empty.

I swore and then darted forward at a run. James Death was not in sight. I stopped to question one or two loungers, who had seen nothing of the man. It seemed impossible that Death could have gotten out of there so quickly.

Gone he was, however, and the cop favored me with a fine suspicious scrutiny when we gave up the chase and separated.

How I cursed my folly. All the cards in my hand, and I had played them like an arrant fool!

I dropped on the nearest bench, feeling the ass that I was. James Death had not known me at all, had never guessed that I could be Day. Lack of opium had left him all unstrung, his brain a dazzled whirl of desire, his body a helpless wreck. He was mine for the taking in that moment, mine to bring before a police court; he would have confessed the whole business like a shot.

Instead of doing the obvious thing, I had sat there and chattered about the Ten Dromedaries, carried away by the things he mumbled in my ear. Now, too late, I realized that he had told the truth, and that Kilgore would have told me the same story had he been given time the previous evening.

The truth! I sat up, staring at the greenery with wide eyes. Then this place actually existed— was no figment of the imagination. This Death was a Russian, a man of education. The Ten had bought his services, and once at the lamasery he had been forced into its permanent service. A useful man, as his late actions bore witness. Then Kilgore had come, had found the place of legend. The Russian had fought with him over a girl, had joined him to betray him, had been finally beaten— and had got away. After him had followed Hat Shui, one of the Ten, and Death had struck Hat Shui first.

And I had given this sodden wreck a taste of opium, enough to bring his poor brain back into coherence, enough to send him out with some vestige of himself at work. He would get more opium now, I knew. There was no lack of it around the city, in one form or another, and we could expect that within a few hours James Death would be equipped to work again.

He was in telepathic communication with the Ten, for he had admitted as much.

Whither did this tend, anyway? I might laugh at telepathy, but I am no blind fool. I had either to accept or deny the whole story of the Ten Dromedaries, and I could not deny it. The proofs were too obvious. It was not for nothing that theosophy came out of the Gobi. It was not for nothing that Fandi Singh had warned me. It was not for nothing that Asian legends had now become flesh. And I had chucked the whole game in one moment's folly.

Well, the thing was done now, and no use crying over it. With an effort I forced myself to open the paper that was folded in my pocket, and I tried to read it. A fresh cigar between my teeth helped a little. -

A good deal of time had elapsed, what with one thing and another, and it was now close upon noon. I read the paper idly, trying to keep my mind on the news-items. Presently I came to the shipping-page and folded the paper back with more interest. The shipping news is the livest bit in the whole sheet, to my notion.

The China Maru had pulled out that morning for the Orient, and the column was headed with the usual gossipy account of her departure. I was scanning it carelessly, when from the list of more notable passengers rose out a name that hit me square between the eyes, like an electric shock. I goggled at the type dazedly through my new specs.

No doubt about it at all. Among the passengers who had boarded at the last moment was Sir Fandi Singh, G.C.S.I., C.L.E., etc. etc., Rajah of Bhapure, who was engaged upon a world-tour.

I lifted blank eyes and stared at nothing. That Sir Fandi had sailed the wording proved beyond question. He had said nothing of it the previous night. What was the answer? It came to me that there were two answers. First, the Rajput I had met was an arrant fraud, which I dismissed as impossible. Second, he and Kilgore and McAuliffe had skipped out in a hurry and left me to pay the shot; which I dismissed as equally impossible.

While I was thinking over these things in a dazed manner, I was idly aware that a man had come past me, had paused, and then had dropped down on the bench close at hand. For a moment I paid no heed, naturally; I was absorbed in the blow that had just landed, trying to figure something definite from 'the chaos.

Slowly I felt that a pair of keen eyes were watching me and a brain was centered upon me. The man sitting on the bench! Was it possible that James Death had come back? E turned my head and looked at the man and then I returned my gaze to the paper in my lap.

The man was one of the two detectives from whom I had escaped on the previous night, and he had either recognized me or was on the point of recognition!

vii

I SAT still wisely. A move to get away, and the dick would have grabbed me on suspicion. As yet, he was not certain of his recognition. Was it possible that the old bum I had sent out to my house had given in my description? No; most unlikely. It was much more probably the case that the two detectives who had seen me were now out on a general scour of the city, on the chance of finding me. And this chap had found me, but he wasn't sure of me at all. At this moment of crisis a tall figure striding along the path drew my glance. Kilgore!

I looked up, and my eyes widened for an instant. He caught the warning. How I blessed the man for what he did next! No hesitation, no false moves— but action.

He came to a dead stop before me and his hand shot out. When he spoke, his voice held none of the British accent. It was full of delighted surprize.

"Hello! If it isn't old John Barsley— here of all places! Why, man, I thought you were plugging away in a Chicago law-office! Why on earth didn't you let me know you were in town?"

"Well, well!" I came to my feet, standing slouched and round-shouldered, and altering my voice as I seized his hand. "Hello, old man. I only got out of the hospital yesterday."

"Hospital?" he queried. One would have sworn that the quick sympathy was genuine. "Where?"

"Here— the Mount Zion," I responded. "I came out last week on a case to get evidence— got appendicitis instead. They popped me off the train into the hospital. I just got out yesterday, but I'm still pretty weak. See here, I have rooms at the St. Francis. Come along and have a chat. I've been sunning myself, and—"

"Sure thing!" he exclaimed, eagerly passing his arm through mine. "Good Lord, man, you should have had them call me up."

We stepped away from there toward Post Street corner. When we were safely out of ear-shot, I gave Kilgore the reason.

"You slick devil, you! See if that chap on the bench is following us. One of the detectives at the house last night."

I could have sworn that Kilgore did not turn his head, and yet a moment later he made answer.

"He's lookin' after us. Now he's rising."

"Beat it into the hotel, then," I responded quickly. "He recognized me but wasn't quite sure. He'll come in to see if any John Barsley is registered."

"My car's by the Post Street entrance," said Kilgore. ''Cheerio!"

We entered the hotel by the main entrance and a moment later came out the Post Street door. There was Sir Fandi Singh's big car, with red-headed Mac at the helm.

"Pull out!" snapped Kilgore as we climbed into the tonneau. "Quick! Out Sutter, through the park and to the Esplanade."

The engine hummed and we went away in a hurry. When we were heading out Sutter and were safely away from any pursuit, I broke silence—

"What's this I saw in the paper about Sir Fandi Singh leaving today on the China Maru?"

"He left," and Kilgore chuckled. "Said nothing of it last night? Just like ihe beggar! He's gone to make arrangements for us. Weve decided to go too, in a couple of weeks or so. We'll meet him in Pekin."

"Where's Hat Shui?"

"He's put away under three foot o' sand," spoke up McAuliffe.

I drew a breath of relief. "Good! Then I've nothing to fear. But I've certainly played — — with things this morning, boys. You'll not forgive me—"

"Keep it until we can chin," said Kilgore. "We need all three heads."

That was sound enough, so I kept silent.

We droned along to Golden Gate Park, slowed down, and came at last to the far side. To the left we took the upper Esplanade drive, and Mac halted the car at a lonely spot along the ocean-shore. A fine crisp wind was breezing in and the surf booming grandly. Then Mac squared around and lighted a pipe, and we had it out. I told them all about meeting James Death and spared myself nothing.

"No use hunting excuses," I concluded. "It was a plain case of being a silly fool. Now the devil is at liberty, will be twice as cunning and slippery as before, and his brain will be clear enough to let him find some opium somewhere. "Then— look out!"

"Aye," said Mac softly. "Oh, aye! You're richt. There's somethin' in that, as the thief said when he pit his haun' in the slop-jar."

Kilgore said nothing for a moment, but sat looking at the sea, a slight frown to his brows. Then his face cleared and a smile came to his lips as he brought his eyes to mine.

"Don't blame yourself, old chap," and the accent was on him now. "Little bit of a fluke, what? But no matter; carry on. Don't get the wind up at this stage of the game, old boy. Isay, Mac! Is that Scotch in the car?"

"Aye! In the locker."

"Then suppose we forget the whole affair. Drive down the coast highway and we'll lunch at one of those road-houses, then return to the bungalow. Excellent chance to talk, eh? Quite so."

"Quite so, ye ruddy Britisher," returned Mac genially, and turned to his wheel.

"There's nothing to do then at present?" I asked as we started forward.

"Nothing," said Kilgore. 'We must settle with James Death before we can leave, that's all. Never fear. He'll waste no time jumping us!"

WE HEADED south and were soon out of San Francisco. We halted at a roadside tavern, took a bottle of Scotch inside with us and made an excellent luncheon. After a drink or so our tongues loosened up, and between them, Kilgore and McAuliffe gave me the whole story.

Already I had learned enough to let me see through the chinks, but now I got it straight. This odd triumvirate was a result of the war. Mac, who was an American, had gone over with the Canadians and had run foul of Kilgore on the other side. Later they had encountered Sir Fandi Singh, who had brought a contingent of his own, and after peace came, the three of them joined forces.

Kilgore, I gathered, had no lack of money. Sir Fandi was of course rich— most native rajahs are millionaires several times over. McAuliffe was a machinist, while Kilgore was an inventor of sorts. The three had drifted, and finally dropped in for a visit at the lamasery of the Ten Dromedaries.

They must have had an exciting time of it over there. I shall not detail their story, except as it bears upon the present action. The lamasery, where the priests of the Ten lived, was some distance from the temple and the city of the whirling sands and the lake of legend; the three adventurers had come no closer than the lamasery. This was close enough, however.

Kilgore assured me that legend had not lied. Each month ten virgins were brought from Urga to the lamasery. He told what became of them at the end of the month, but that is another story. There was a Russian girl, and then there was James Death. The Russian girl had been killed and Death had first joined the three, then had betrayed them. At all events, they had managed to get away from the lamasery with whole skins and a sack of loot and nothing more. James Death had got clear also, no doubt with his own loot.

In the course of their association, Death had learned a good deal about the three, who had planned to return to the place in proper style. This brought up the question of why he had followed and spied upon them.

"Reason enough," said Kilgore. "We've been at work on a new sort of gun, and he wanted to get the details of it. When we get back to the bungalow you'll see for yourself. He knew, of course, that we were going back to the temple."

"Why?" I questioned. "What sane man would want to go back there?"

Kilgore gave me an eagle-sharp look. All the affected accent fell away from him.

"See here, Day! That place is a plague-sore on the face of the earth. We'll not argue the telepathic part of it; you must accept that as truth, and beware of it. But in a more concrete sense that place is damned. Every month ten girls from Urga— think of it!

"That's the thing, the whole thing, with us."

"Not the whole thing," put in Mac cannily. "Ye'll ken the hoard o' gowd and jewels that the Unseen One hauds!"

Kilgore brushed this aside with a gesture.

"Never mind. The main thing is that this place is a nest of devils. It's a peculiar race, Day, the mean between Russian and Chinese, Cossack and Mongol. Like the fish in that lake; Death brought me a specimen. A distinct species. Those fellows are beginning to touch the white races with their evil. That Russian girl was a sample. They keep in touch with the world outside; they are well armed and provided, and I've no doubt in the world that at this minute they know we are planning to come back. Don't you make any mistake about the telepathic stuff. It's dangerous."

"It's no skin off your nose how many girls they hook," I countered.

"Bah!" Kilgore looked at me, fire in his eyes. "We're men, aren't we? Gentlemen?"

"Not me," I said, pouring another drink. "I'm no gentlemen, thank Heaven! I'm just a man. If I was a gentleman, I'd have been dead and overboard years ago— —"

Kilgore laughed suddenly, and Mac uttered a cackle.

"Shut up, Day," snapped the tall one genially.  "We understand each other. Well, the three of us are going to put that cursed breed out of business. The Chinese can't do it; they only make a pretense at authority. The lama at Urga— the Hutuktu, you know, who has a government of his own— is probably drawing down a bit of graft from the Ten himself. The Japs are pushing that way, but no sane man out there has any dealings with them.

"And, as Mac says, there is loot to be had. I have a notion that the Unseen One, as he is called, who appears to live at the lake, has a big stock of jewelry on hand and that it comes from some old hoard, If I told: you that I thought it might be the tomb of Genghis Khan, you'd only laugh. If I told you who I thought Genghis Khan really was, you'd laugh."

"Oh," I put in, "I've heard that yarn, too. About his being a Jap prince."

Kilgore started, then broke into a laugh.

"Well, let it go. Now, Day, what do you say? Would you like to take a crack at the Ten Dromedaries with us?"

I stiffened with astonishment, until I saw that he really meant it. Mac was watching me, and nodded assent.

"Thank you, gentlemen," I said promptly, "but please count me out."

"If I ever sin again," quoted Mac wickedly, "the Guid Laird— —"

"I meant it, too," I shot at him. "I don't want to go back to that accursed Gobi! The smell of a camel nauseates me. I will admit that the loot part of it is an appeal—"

"Well." Kilgore rose as he spoke, "suppose you go back to the bungalow with us and take a look at the machinery. We'll stick together until James Death is attended to, anyway; then settle affairs."

"Good enough," I agreed.

It was nearly three o'clock when we started home. It was four when we sighted the bungalow. My house appeared to be deserted, but I was not going to look and see just yet.

I don't think it occurred to any of us that in this interval of a few hours James Death might have had esai of opportunity to get opium and plan things.

viii

MAC ran the car in the drive, off the street toward the garage, and we alighted.

At this instant some realization of the time involved came to me. It was not yet twenty-four hours since I had come to know Kilgore and McAuliffe; only slightly over that since I had been at home. And yet in this one day volumes had happened. At my short laugh the others gave me a glance of inquiry.

"Time," I explained. "Yesterday I was an honest citizen. Today I'm in your company. Where's the weapon?"

They turned to the garage. Why do I mention this incident? Because I firmly believe Kilgore would have gone into the house except for it. And if he had gone into the house then, things would not have turned out the way they did.

"Did you see Fandi Singh off?" I asked.

Mac was unlocking the garage doors. Kilgore shook his head, "No chance. He came out here this morning, left the car and taxied to the wharf. Why?"

"I was thinking that since the boat only left this morning, and the paper had been printed during the night, he—"

"Bright boy!" chuckled Kilgore. "Sure. He had passage long ahead."

"Oh! Then it wasn't yesterday that sent him kiting to China?"

"No. It was day before yesterday— in other words, our plans already made."

McAuliffe threw open the doors, and we stepped into the garage.

This was a fine roomy place with cement floor and.was excellently adapted to its present use as a shop. Money had not been spared to fit it up, either. There was a lathe with a drill beside it, run by electricity, and a good many more tools. Not being much of a mechanic, I can not describe the place in detail.

The main point of interest, to me, was the gun. And with this, I must confess, I fell in love at the first sight.

My initial feeling was one of surprize. The gun was small, and an exclamation broke from me as I picked it up— the thing scarcely weighed fifteen pounds. The length was only a foot and a half.

"Why, this— this is a toy," I said.

"Think ye so?" McAuliffe chuckled proudly. "It's a verra deadly sort 0' toy, then. Let me haver a bittie we' the lady, and I'll guarantee she'll aye speak to some purpose."

The gun was mounted on a quadrupod, two legs of which, I perceived, had grab-bands for weights of stone or other material. The legs, also, were telescopic, evidently for altitude, one pair being longer to offer a long recoilbase. With the machine lay its case, a stout leather affair twenty inches in length and five square, the shoulder-strap of which served when in action as a Stirrup-strap for the feet of the operator, thus forming a strong resistance to the firing-throb.

Kilgore went over the thing and explained its weight, or rather its lack of weight.

"It's built of a special steel and aluminum alloy. Here, the housing shows how thin it can be, yet I defy you to crack it with a sledge. She's air-cooled.

"She'll need air, all right," I commented bluntly. "Fifty rounds, and this jigger will be red-hot and blowing up!"

Kilgore laughed.

"Think so? We tried her out two days ago, Day, on the shore. We timed a set-up to first shot and take-down and load. From cargo-pack to first shot was fifty-two seconds, and one minute twenty-five seconds from mounted to cargo again."

"Oh, there's no denying she's a very handy little thing, except for the heat—"

"And we fired five hundred rounds within the minute. The gun showed less heat than would a rifle after twenty rounds."

I whistled.

"But where's the hammer to your gun?"

"None. It's fired by electric battery. Now you have the advantage of cheapness, light weight and strength."

"But you have to carry a battery—"

"It weighs less than a single box of cartridges," and he touched a battery-case on the work-bench. "Day, don't you think the three of us would be fools to go up against the Gobi and that crowd of priests, with their tributary people, unless we'd tried and perfected this weapon? Of course.

"Fandi Singh has taken the plans with him. He'll arrange to make the Chinese Government a free gift of this weapon, you understand? In return, we have free access to the temple of the Ten Dromedaries and protection for all the loot we bring out. Incidentally we hope to get a good deal of scientific data, ethnic and so forth."

"Oh!" I said, wrinkling up my brows. "I smell a mouse in this free-gift business, old man! If the Chinese Republic had a few batteries of these guns scattered along the border, the little brown brothers would scarcely bother their sovereignty any more, eh?"

Mac grinned. Kilgore looked a bit confused.

"Oh, I say!" He attempted to protest, coloring a trifle. "You know, Japan is our ally. I mean, Great Britain's ally—"

I had him by this time, however.

"You're a hot conspirator, you are!" I told him cheerfully. "This is where you fall down, old Canuck, you bet! I'm on to the game, all right. Let's see, now. You've got a strong pull with the Chinese Republic, eh? And you're making this gun here in San Francisco, where the Six Companies and the Welfare Societies can keep watch of things and assure no interference from Japanese gentlemen. Oh, this thing brightens up amazingly! Then you go over to China and presently the Republic equips its army with some new weapons, and the next time Japan comes along with a big bluff— blooey! The bluff doesn't work. And Japan finds out why, and backs down. And China gains her own place among nations. And of course Great Britain knows nothing at all about it, nothihg at all! But China will be properly grateful."

Mac broke into a peal of laughter and I was forced to grin a little myself at the confusion of Kilgore.

"Dash it!" he murmured,  "I never said anything about that at all!"

"No need," I returned. "Craig Day can figure out two and two, occasionally! To carry the thing a bit farther, James Death knew something of your plans and kept an eye on you. Why? Not because he was worried about the priests of the Ten Dromedaries— not much! He may be in communication with them, right enough, and probably is by his own account; but he's free of their power and intends to remain free. What's his one best bet, then? Why, simply to line up on this gun and interview one or two Japanese here in the city. Mac, get that bottle out of the car, will you? So much talking makes me dry."

McAuliffe went out to the car. Kilgore stood in frowning thought, staring down at the weapon. At length he roused.

"Day," he said slowly, "you're a shrewd man."

"I've been told so," was my dry comment. "Well?"

"I shan't affirm or deny what you've just stated. I've had nothing to say in the matter; it is formed entirely of your own conclusions. I will say, leaving my end of it entirely alone, that in your deductions as regards James Death you may have hit upon the truth."

He was picking his words carefully.

"In fact, if Death went to the Japs with what he knows about this gun, there's no telling where the thing might end."

"Then you don't admit that Death has been in Jap employ right along?"

"No—" he gave me a sharp look—"I don't. I admit nothing. I do think that he would not turn to the Japs until the last moment, until he was in desperate straits, until he was actually forced into it."

"Which probably happened this morning?" I queried.

"Exactly."

Mac came in with the bottle of Scotch in his hand and a doleful expression.

"Hardly one guid dram left," he mourned. "Not to mention a r-real drink all around!"

"There's another bottle in my trunk," said Kilgore, smiling at the expression. "Go in and get it, like a good chap. We've reached a point of celebration."

McAuliffe winked at me and then departed. I understood perfectly well. My deductions had been absolutely correct, but Kilgore would never admit the fact. When Mac was gone, I came back to the topic. d

"What do you expect, then?"

"I hardly know."

He frowned and lighted a cigaret.

"Death is afraid of Japs; he hates them and despises them, like most Russians. I imagine he'd go to them and promise details later, if they'd give him opium. He'd tell enough to get them interested. Then he'd start out alone to get the details."

"From you?" I laughed scornfully. "Why, the man is a weak old fool! If you'd seen him this morning, you'd have said he was fit for an asylum. Physically and mentally gone."

"You failed to catch him, didn't you?" said Kilgore dryly. "With opium in him the man is superhuman. I tell you, look out for him! Mac and I know what to expect. We'll wait here and let him come— and finish him. That's our only chance."

We stood silent for a little. I was impressed by the conviction in Kilgore's manner. He meant his words absolutely.

And now the thing was broadening out. Yesterday it had been a feud. Last night it had become a world-hunt. Today it had developed into an international affair— just like that. If Kilgore got his gun into the hands of the Chinese— I mean the Shanghai government, you understand, and not the old fossils at Pekin— then the Japs were done for in China. There were forces behind Kilgore. I am not saying who; but it was not England's game to see Japan sweep the Chinese Republic out of existence. Not America's game either.

Suddenly Kilgore uttered an exclamation: "Mac can't find that bottle, I imagine. Come into the house, old man; or wait here until we get back, and I'll show you a few details about the gun. The telescopic legs lock with a split band and cam, for example." I nodded, and Kilgore left the garage. He did not return.

ix

I WAS leaning over the gun, examining it, when the interruption came.

"Hands up!" crackled a sharp voice' behind me, followed by the click of a cocking hammer.

That voice spelled business, and so did the click. I wasted no time looking, but put up my hands. Then I glanced around, and judge of my amazement when the owner of that voice proved to be James Death!

He held a revolver in his hand, and the gun was steady as a rock. Now I saw how true was Kilgore's warning, for the man was not the same I had left that morning. No! The broken-down old derelict was gone completely. In his place stood a man, old certainly, but filled with a sparkling glow of evil power which made him a dominating personality. The slack features had become taut, cruel, purposeful. The bleary eyes had become keen and deadly.

"Keep your hands up."

With this, Death came toward me until he held the cocked revolver at my stomach and leered into my face. I was too paralyzed with astonishment to utter a word, as he took away my pistol.

"Turn your back.'

I obeyed and felt the revolver shoved into my spine. Now came an order to put my hands behind me, which I did. A moment later a cord passed around my wrists. With his one free hand the man tied me, and tied me securely. When his fingers clamped into my arm they were like steel points.

"Now march into the house."

At this, comprehension flooded upon me, and I uttered a choked oath. He understood, and I heard a chuckle sound from behind.

"Yes, I got them both. And I've got you. March!"

The ease of my capture, the scorn and disdain with which he treated me, was maddening, but that revolver-muzzle was very soothing to the excited brain. He felt in my pocket and drew out his own box of opium-pellets and chuckled again. Whether he remembered all that had passed that morning I can't say; but I imagine he did.

I hoped some one might see us leave the garage, but the street was empty as usual. We went up the front steps of the house, and I marched inside, as gentle as a sheep led to the slaughter. I could try no tricks with this fellow. The tone of his voice told me that much.

Passing into the dining-room, I saw first a bottle. of Scotch on the table. Then I saw McAuliffe sitting in a chair, with his head drooling over the back and blood on his face. Opening a bottle of whisky is an absorbing task, naturally, and Death had caught him at it; caught him with a blow from the front sight of the revolver, I judged, for his scalp was cut and he was senseless. Death had tied him into the chair.

Then in the corner I saw Kilgore likewise tied into a chair, but unhurt. He had been trapped as I had been, and like me he had too much sense to get shot. Probably he had counted largely on me at the moment.

"You reckoned without your host," I said

"Got me before I heard a thing."

Kilgore nodded. The revolver poked into my back again.

"Sit down with your hands over the back of your chair, your wrists behind it."

In two minutes he had me bound hard and fast.

There we sat, poor Mac with his bloody face and drooping head, Kilgore with his eyes very bright and keen, his face rather pale, and clumsy Craig Day; all of us helpless. James Death looked us over and popped a pellet of opium into his mouth. Then he grinned.

"Well, I've got you!"

"Where'd you get the hop?" I asked him casually. He broke into low! laughter.

"Ah! I got it from friends. And I shall take your fine new gun back to those friends, Mr. Kilgore! They are expecting me. They tried to follow me here, but I shook them off. I want no interference, you see."

Kilgore's eyes went to me in a glance that was significant. He had guessed exactly what Death would do— had already done. Now he spoke. By the quiet level of his voice I knew that we were in a deadly situation, held by a man who was no better than a madman.

"You know that I am a man of my word, Death. Will any price tempt you to let us go and abandon your purpose? Name your figure. I will give it."

"Money? Bah! I need none." Death's voice held scorn.

I saw Kilgore settle back in his chair as if further argument were useless.

"Nothing can tempt me. I am going to get my orders from the Ten, you understand? I am going to bargain with them— your lives, for freedom from further pursuit, for pardon and grace. You will please not interrupt me, or I shall kill you at once."

So saying, the man drew up a chair to the table and sat down, laying the revolver out before him.

Now, for what I am about to write, I pray your grace. You will not believe it. You will say that it was impossible. You will call it a trick of an opium-crazed brain, a madman's delusion. Conceded. Anything you like— but remember that this is my story; the story of what happened in that room.

"I am about to open communication with the Ten," said Death again. "Remember, please!"

His hand touched the revolver significantly and we saw that he meant his words.

I have always thought that the fellows who did this brainwork went into a savage concentration over it. Now, however, James Death did nothing of the sort. He stared at the mirror in the buffet, as if looking at something far away, and relaxed utterly in his chair. He untensed every muscle and sat motionless, absolutely at ease.

His face changed, very slowly and imperceptibly. He became totally absorbed in what he was doing. His eyes fixed into a glassy stare, and when I vainly tugged at my bonds he paid no attention whatever to me. But Kilgore gave me a startled glance and shook his head. I desisted.

Sweat came out on the face of Death, and his lips began to move. I could not follow his words, although I could hear them; they were in a strange tongue. But, all of a sudden, he broke into English. And now his voice was queer, not his own voice at all.

"I am standing before you," he said slowly, mumbling the words. That was all. Before whom? The Ten, I presume.

After this, his lips moved without sound. Was he really speaking in spirit with ten men on the other side of the world, ten men who sat in the temple of the Ten Dromedaries before that supernal pillar which upheld the ancient roof, and who answered his thought with theirs? I can not say. But I can avow that the thing was ghastly to see. The sweat rolled down his face, even trickled into his open eyes, and the lids never moved. This proved that he was in some sort of trance, beyond question; the physical was subordinated completely. The sweat rolled into his eyes and rolled out again'on his cheeks in large tears.

"Yes," he said suddenly. "I hear."

His eyes closed. Was he now receiving a message from those ten priests who threw their wills across the world through space to him? You may suit yourself. I believe, personally, that be was. I believe that he actually got their orders, made his bargain with them.

"Very well," he said again. "I will obey. I am satisfied."

His eyes remained closed for a time. How long had elapsed during all this I can not say. It must have been a considerable time, for I felt myself rather shaken by the tenseness of it when at last his eyes opened again.

This time they were sane and cruel and purposeful, as if he had wakened from a sleep. He wiped his brow with his hand, and his fingers were shaking; the man must have been far gone with the strain of the exertion. He took out a box of opium and shoved two pellets into his mouth. His face had become a ghastly livid hue.

Now he sat silent, his eyes watching us, waiting for the opium to work. Little by little, color crept back into his cheeks, and the tired lines of age faded out. From McAuliffe came a stir, a faint groan, then a relaxing into unconsciousness. James Death looked at him, grinned evilly and came to his feet.

"You will be interested in hearing what I have arranged," he said, addressing Kilgore. "The Ten have agreed that if I serve them to the extent of your deaths, no further pursuit shall be sent after me. So I have agreed to kill you. Perhaps you think I am lying? Then I will tell you that they revealed to me what had become of the body of Hat Shui. It was buried by you in the rough sands of the shore, a cable's length from the water!"

This gave me a startled twinge for a moment, but of course he might have deduced the disposition of the body. He picked up the revolver.

"There is no need of further talk," he said with a horrible simplicity. "I will shoot you and end it quickly. Will you go first or last, Mr. Kilgore?"

Kilgore, very pale, smiled slightly. "As you wish," he murmured. "Better take me first," I struck in. "I'd like to get it over with, — — you!"

James Death looked at me and smiled assent. His smile was unearthly, terrible, cruel as sin itself. In his eyes there was only a pitiless certainty as he lifted the revolver and cocked it again. I have seen death and murder in many a man's eyes, but never in such cold and frightful eyes as those.

"Through the brain," he said, and threw up his hand.

Somehow I forced myself to keep my eyes open.

JAMES DEATH was in the very act of firing. I could see his finger tighten on the trigger, could see the white knuckle show— when something bobbed through the air and struck his revolver. The something was a gray traveling-cap.

The gun went off and I heard the bullet whistle past my ear and plop into the wall. Before me had appeared a vision, following the cap— the man who had flung it. That man was Fandi Singh.

For an instant I thought myself dreaming or mad, until the reality of the affair was bitterly impressed upon me. The Rajput had thrown his cap from the doorway, had spoiled the aim of the shot and then had leaped forward. Death whirled about and fired at him but missed. Then Fandi Singh had him.

"Well played!" came the voice of Kilgore, cool as though at a cricket-match. "Oh, well played, Rajput!"

The revolver went down to the floor, and I thought the affair over. But no.

Fandi Singh was a big man and powerful. None the less, James Death was animated by something more than human strength in that moment. Snarling, fighting like a wild animal, Death gave the Rajput blow for blow, grip for grip; neither of them knew anything about boxing, and the affair was one of utter brute-ferocity from start to finish.

The finish was delayed, also. To my horror, Death actually got the big Rajput to his knees, forced him down and back until I thought the man's back was breaking. Then, at the wrong instant, he loosened his grip to gouge for the eyes.

He missed the stroke, and Fandi Singh canie up like a steel spring. Back and forth they reeled, one of them stamping on my foot and drawing a groan from me. That made me know the affair was real enough. The Rajput drove in hammer-blows that seemed to have no effect. Death hammered back at him.

Then in the midst of their struggle they both came down over the dining-room table. When they rose, Fandi Singh had the unopened whisky-bottle in his hand. Death pulled loose long enough to show the steel of a knife, but that knife never did him any good. There was a crash, and the acrid odor of raw Scotch filled the room. It was a man's blow, a fearful blow, and I did not need to look at the thing falling to the floor to know what had happened.

Panting, Fandi Singh stooped over, took the knife from Death's hand and cut us loose.

Our first thought was for McAuliffe. I held him, while Kilgore fed him a few drops of salvaged liquor. Presently his eyes opened and he groaned as I straightened him up. Then we had it out.

"Missed the confounded boat," said Fandi Singh, laughing happily, "and a good job I did, too!  Five minutes too late. They would have taken me out in a launch to her, but I refused. Fate was in it.

"I came back to the square, meaning to wait there for Day to come. I got there in time to see his meeting with James Death, and I watched. When Death slipped away, I followed him. He went through the bushes to Post Street and got into a taxicab. So I hired another and away we went— straight out Post to the Japanese quarter.

"Then I knew what he was up to, and I came here. You were gone. I went over to Day's house, found it deserted except for an old man who said Day had paid him to—"

"Yes, yes," I broke in. '"Go ahead. I hired him."

"I dismissed him," and the Rajput smiled. "Then I went to Death's room and settled down to watch this place. At three o'clock James Death came down the street, walking, alone. I was suspicious that Japs would come after him, so I waited. He went straight into the house as if knowing it to be empty. I had no arms of any sort, and I decided to await your return. When you came back, a man was walking down the street— a Jap. I stayed to watch him, but he went on and never looked back. Meantime, you had gone into the house. I saw Death and Day go in together, as I left Day's house. Unfortunately, there wasn't a gun in the garage, so I had to come in and do what I could."

"You took a devilish long time about it," I rejoined. "Feeling better, Mac? Look what your Rajput did to Death— brained him with that bottle of Scotch! This puts Mr. Death out of the game for keeps."

Mac felt his sore head, looked at the débris on the floor and groaned.

"Losh, what an awfw' waste o' good whusky!"

We all laughed at that, a little shakily, perhaps. Then Kilgore looked at me.

"Well, Day! The Japs have got word of this thing from Death. They know nothing definite but they suspect; they'll be after us, I imagine. Want to throw in with us and go to China?"

"Why the devil did you put it that way?" I grunted. "I don't, but I will, Not tomorrow, though; you fellows are too cursed hasty. I want a chance to see my mother."

Kilgore nodded. "All right. Tell you what. You sent her to a mountain hotel, didn't you? Well, go there yourself for a fortnight. Meet us at the China Mail dock three weeks from yesterday; there's a boat direct to Tientsin then. Look it up and meet us at the dock. We'll attend to everything, ticket and so forth. Suit you?"

"Can do," I replied. "What about this?" and I touched the body of Death with my foot.

"Let him go to join Hat Shui, the messenger of the Ten. We'll manage him."

Thus it was arranged. Kilgore also undertook to satisfy the police.

Tomorrow my period of rest and relaxation is up, and I am glad. Tomorrow I start back for the city, to meet my three friends at the China Mail boat. Not that I hanker for the Gobi, but I would hanker for hell with three such companions as those.

Besides, the monotony up here is deadly, and there is a fool woman who tries to make eyes at me. . Aunt Nora told her I was an adventurer or something. So I'll be glad to get away for a bit and stretch my legs, even in the Gobi. To kill time, I've written down here just what happened over across the bay. You may not believe it, but I don't care about that. You can call me a liar when I'm in China, and you'll be safe enough.

If I meet up with the three, and we do make that temple of the Ten Dromedaries, and get back, then just wait! What kind of a liar will you call me then? Not much, I guess, for I'll be right here on the spot, and if there are any names called you'll hear from C. Day!

W' al salaam, as the Arabs say; there ends the matter.

_______________

3: George, Tête Bêche

H. Bedford-Jones

Short Stories, 10 Feb 1926

GEORGE HANSON was threading his precarious way across the Place Vendôme, half an hour after being fired, when he sighted an erect, sturdy figure coming toward him from the Rue de la Paix. He changed his course instantly.

"Hey, there! Mac!"

Mac, otherwise Steve MacAllister, captain of detectives, turned and allowed a hearty grim to spread across his brown, hard-jawed face. He gripped Hanson's fist in a huge squeeze.

"George Hanson, you condemned young reprobate! Was just up to your newspaper office to hunt you up, and heard you'd quit."

"Nope, fired," said Hanson cheerfully.

The detective stared at him.

"Fired? You? One of the crack newsmen in France? What you giving me?"

"Give you a drink, if you'll come around the corner to a hole-in-the-wall where they don't charge tourist prices. I suppose you're over here to take somebody home?"

Mac grunted. "I am but I ain't. He slipped out on the prefecture folks and blew to Italy. I'm taking a two week furlough for my health and to see Paris. I guess they can get along without me in New York for a while longer. Come on, let's find your booze joint!" Concealed pleasantry here. Hanson, himself a dean at his own work, knew and respected MacAllister very well indeed. Intelligence in France during the war; and after it, all sorts of errands dealing with international crooks. Such was Mac, no ordinary criminal-chaser, but a genius in his own way. Silent, unobtrusive, he could be anything on occasion.

Gaining a side street, they came into one of the aluminum-like bars where tourists never intruded and honest prices were charged, and ordered aperitifs. Hanson grinned.

"I see you haven't forgotten your French. Wish I could talk Parisian like you do!"

"You get around," said Mac, with a keen look. "How come you're fired, George?"

"Well, the game here isn't like it is at home, you know. I got a rattling good story about a dame—a Bourbon princess, to be exact—and slipped it over. It was true as gospel, but it wasn't flattering. The lady pulled wires, and I'm here to say she could pull some! I was the sacrifice."

"Gosh!" said Mac disgustedly. "I bet it broke their hearts to fire you."

"It did, but they had to do it to stand in on the political stuff, savvy? It's all right with me; I'll land in the first vacancy down the line, and I've got enough correspondence to do to keep me busy anyhow. How's the family?"

"All fine. Let's have another."

Another was duly ordered and set forth. Mac lighted a cigarette, then glanced suddenly at his companion.

"By the way, I saw something today might interest you. That is, if you still are foolish as ever."

Hanson met the shrewd, laughing eyes, and broke into a sheepish grin.

"Well, it's six for me and half a dozen for you, Mac. Eh?"

Mac rubbed his square chin and glanced around,

"I guess so. If any of those birds on the force back home ever learned that a hardboiled jasper like me spent his spare time and some cash collecting stamps, where'd I get off, huh? You still at it?"

"Bad as ever," said Hanson, his cheerful blue eyes twinkling. "I've got a pretty good lot to take back home with me, whenever I go— picked them up here and there. F stick to English and colonials, you know. Not much pickings left in Paris these days, though. Tourists come over and spoil things, as a result of the Ferrari sales waking folks up. Funny how Jim Jones, back in Menominee, won't let a soul know— won't dare!— that he collects stamps like a kid. When he gets over here, he cuts loose; but excuse me, Mac. What have you dropped on to? Been nosing around the back districts as usual?"

Mac nodded and sipped his drink, taking his time about answering, his eyes exploring the men around. Most of these were chauffeurs or clerks, and none were listening to the words in English.

As the detective had said, if his coworkers at home knew he was a stamp collector, he would get the merry laugh. Too often the pursuit of these scraps of paper is regarded as a boyish pastime incompatible with age and dignity. In France, it is the opposite. There it may be both a hobby and a profession, most fit for the student, the gray-beard, the man of education and intelligence. Given shrewdness and foresight, too, the rewards are often large. France is a nation of stamp collectors, and Paris is the Mecca of the philatelic world.

"I've been wandering a little," said Mac slowly. "Haven't had time to see the exposition yet ."

"But you've been looking up stamps, eh?" Hanson laughed as he spoke. "You won't find many U.S.A. stamps here— the market's been about cleaned out."

"Never you mind," retorted Mac. "I've picked me up a few things, George, a few nice things, too! They don't all know the fine points of our stamps over here, just as over home we don't know the fine points of theirs. I'll clean up a couple of hundred on what I bought yesterday and this morning, but that's not what I started to say. I saw something that'd interest you, maybe. It would me, if I went in for English,"

"Yes?" inquired Hanson. Despite his own knowledge of Paris, and of its stamp dealers, he knew the man before him had an uncanny way of prying out queer information.

"I know where there are two pairs of King George three half-pence," said Mac.

Hanson frowned, a trifle puzzled.

"There are probably two thousand whole sheets of them in Paris," he observed slowly. "What's the catch?"

Mac finished his drink. "Well, I don't pretend to be up on the English current issues, and particularly the Georges," he answered, "The color varieties make me dizzy. But these two pairs are different. Bet you the price of a drink you haven't got 'em."

"Done," said Hanson. "I've the Georges and Edwards complete— found most of the varieties right here in Paris, at ridiculous prices. I can double my money today, and treble it a couple of— from now. What about these pairs?"

"Tête-bêche," said the detective curtly. "Unused. Mint condition. New."

Hanson whistled reflectively. The term "tête-bêche" is applied to a pair of stamps adhering to each other, yet upside down in respect to each other. Sometimes one stamp is inverted in a sheet, sometimes every other stamp in the sheet is so inverted; as the exact conditions are fully known in stamp markets, the measure of rarity can be easily affixed.

"You're mistaken," said Hanson slowly. "There are some queer things in Paris, but you'll find no tête-bêche Georges here. None were issued. None are known."

"Is that so!' demanded Mac. "And you a specialist in English stamps, too! But I can't blame you, George. As a matter of fact, mighty few people know about it."

"What?" snapped Hanson, suddenly all attention. The other grinned, enjoying his change of front.

"Well, tell you about it later— after you've seen em. Want to go now?"

"We've time before lunch. Where did you see them?"

"Up Montmartre way, in one of these arcades they call passages over here."

"Which?" Hanson, knowing most of the dealers in the city, frowned. "The Passage Gouffroy, by the Mazarin Café? Oh, I know that bird; he's a fine chap, but you want to keep your eye peeled."

"You know too blamed much," grunted Mac. "Nope, it's across the street from there."

"No dealers in that passage."

"Well, you have something to learn about Paris," said Mac. "Some side passages in the back end of it, 'look like the royal road to ruin, and there's a dealer in 'em. Some sort of a Slovack, I think. Named Kurtzel. Know him?"

"Never heard of him."

"Let's take us a taxi, bo, and go see."

Paying for their drinks, the two men stopped a passing taxicab and climbed in.

George Hanson had more than a suspicion that he was not on the trail of stamps alone. He had known MacAllister in his New York days, and was well aware of the piercing, astute brain behind those quiet gray eyes. What was more to the point, he knew into what a mixed company the pursuit of stamps might lead.

In America, an Armenian refugee turns naturally to rugs; in Paris, he turns to stamps. So with Russians and all the other backwash of the war. The game demands keen wits, shrewdness, attention to detail. Further, Paris is flooded with stamp forgeries. To make or trade in any forgery of French stamps brings the instant attention of the police, but so large are the profits that this apparently petty criminality can go to far lengths, and may command the interest of a king of crooks.

"Have you been to the Bourse?" asked Hanson, as they halted in a traffic jam at the turn before the Opera, before gaining the boulevard.

"Not yet," said Mac, knowing he referred not to the bourse of commerce, but to the open air stamp bourse in the Champs Elysées. "Tomorrow's Thursday, eh? Go then. Still going strong, is it?"

"Been going strong since 1860, and isn't weakening yet. I know a good many people there—we may pick up some valuable information if you're on the trail of something."

MacAllister nodded without other response, and the reporter felt convinced he was on the trail of something stronger than postage stamps. The taxi came free, turned into the boulevard, and chugged on toward Montmartre. Mac did not speak until they neared the Rue Drouot, close to their destination, and then asked a seemingly casual question. "Ever hear of a girl named Lasalle, George? Jeanne Lasalle? Her dad was a French professor back home in an upstate college. He died last year. She went into department store work and got to be assistant buyer. Came over here. Pretty widely known."

"Never heard of her. Crook?"

"Well—" and Mac hesitated, "that remains to be seen. Ever hear of Mrs. Goober's pearl necklace?"

"I should say so! You don't mean the girl was mixed up in that?"

"I dunno." Mac heaved himself up to look at the meter. "Here we are— pile out. I've got some brass to pay; glad to get rid of it. All aboard for your tête-bêche Georges, now—"

The two crossed the sidewalk and entered the arcade before them, with its rows of tiny shops on either hand.

ii

AS HANSON accompanied his friend along the long reaches of the arcade, which had more than one odd turning and cross-passage, he was thinking less of the philately than of pearls.

It was only a few months previously that the Goober case had broken into the news— one of the countless affairs going to make wealthy Americans a byword in careful Europe. Mrs. Goober, widow of a motor manufacturer, had lost in a taxicab a string of pearls worth thirty thousand dollars— or so she reported to the police, tearfully. How it was lost, she could not say. It remained lost, and Mrs. Goober went home again, a sadder and wiser lady.

George Hanson, in common with every other newspaper man in Paris, knew the "inside" of the story, which powerful and wealthy friends of the lady had suppressed with golden hands. Such suppression is nothing new to Paris, where newspapers exist for political and financial reasons, not for news. There might have been an Argentine dancer in the taxicab, or a military gentleman might have been involved in the affair; the pearls, even, might have been quietly recovered. Mrs. Goober had stirred up a hornet's nest which buzzed far from her ken, poor woman! However, it was all over with and forgotten now—except for MacAllister, who never forgot or overlooked anything.

"You interested in the Goober case?" asked Hanson suddenly.

"Nope," came the light-hearted response. "Only I know where the pearls are."

"Where?"

"Jeanne's wearing them— maybe thinks they're fake." Mac chuckled softly. "They were let go, you know, to hush the thing up. How they dropped into her pretty hands, is what I'd like to know. Just for curiosity! Might lead to something, too— you can't tell."

"Oh! They were let go, eh?"

Mac nodded. "Yep, the affair raised so much hell it scared all hands. Well, there we are ahead. Turn left."

Hanson turned into a dark little passage leading to a side street, and occupied by dark shops where furniture was manufactured for antique sales to tourists. Then, suddenly, he found a stamp emporium ahead— a tiny place, barely large enough to hold a pair of tables, with only the sheets of stamps in the windows to announce its wares. Mac opened the door and spoke.

"Morning, miss! I told you Pd bring a friend of mine along. Here he is."

After the open street, the place was gloomy, and Hanson well knew the value of this gloom, and the greater value of the electric lights—if this dealer were dishonest.

"Mr. Hanson's a friend of mine, Miss Lasalle, can't talk much French, and will be tickled to death to hear real language again."

Too pretty for such surroundings, thought Hanson, as he shook hands with the girl. Alive with an intense vivacity, and her absence of all artificiality was so rare in Paris as to be noticed instantly.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Hanson, especially if it means business ahead," she exclaimed. Just as Hanson had not missed his cue from Mac, he now did not miss the slight hint perhaps meant to discourage any personalities.

"To hear real home talk is some treat," he said. "Mac was telling me you had some tête-bêche Georges here, so I came along."

"You're interested in English, then?" she inquired,

Hanson nodded. "Yes, and any such a pair is news to me, Miss Lasalle."

She smiled and turned to a large safe in one corner, whose door stood open. With a movement she switched on electric lights. The safe was revealed as filled with redbacked stamp albums, and from a small compartment she brought out a classeur or small pocket-book.

This she brought to one of the tables. Hanson seated himself, while Mac remained on his feet, sharp eyes intent on what passed. Taking the opened classeur handed him by the young woman, Hanson took from the table a pair of tweezers and removed from the files of the little book a pair of ordinary three-halfpenny stamps— ordinary in themselves, yet set in reverse to each other.

"Have you a glass?" he asked.

Silently, she handed him a magnifying glass. He held up the stamps to the light, laid them on his sleeve and regarded them, then gave them a careful examination with the glass.

"This year's watermark," he observed. Mac came up behind him and chuckled.

"Tell him the story," he said to the girl. Then, to Hanson, "We got pretty well acquainted over those stamps, George. She knows all about 'em, and it's gospel."

"There is a history, yes," said Jeanne Lasalle. "You see, they are careful about this sort of thing in England. When the reversal was discovered, all the sheets printed from the block were ordered destroyed— to preserve any of them amounted to a criminal offence. One of the engravers saved a sheet— to be exact, he stole it. There were, I believe, about forty such pairs in the sheet. There'll never be any more, for the theft was discovered."

"And he's in jail?" asked Hanson.

She shook her head, and Hanson looked at the glints of gold in her brown hair.

"No, he's in France— a very clever engraver. He can't go back to England now,"

"I suppose not," said Hanson dryly. "But this is news to me, Miss Lasalle! And I thought I was pretty well up on the English issues. How long ago did all this happen?"

"Not very long ago. Of course, the pairs are not yet catalogued. They'll be listed next year, however, for most of them have been disposed of, and they are absolutely authentic. In five years they'll be held at enormous prices."

Hanson could readily understand this He saw that by good fortune he was in the presence of one of those rare chances which come to few collectors, of which all collectors dream. And when Mac had vouched for the girl's story, he knew it could be accepted as true. Within a few years such a pair of stamps as this would be worth anywhere from a hundred to five hundred dollars, perhaps double such a sum.

He determined instantly to buy at whatever price was

HE asked. "They're for for sale?"

She nodded, and Mac chuckled again.

"If you saw Gurtzel, George, you wouldn't have asked. He'd sell his grandmother if she had the right perforation and watermark. He's interested in more than stamps, too."

The girl glanced up, half in annoyance, half in challenging inquiry. "Indeed?"

"Sure," explained the detective. "In pearls, you know. He has an interest in that business, hasn't he? Pearls like yours."

"Oh! Yes, I think he is connected with some artificial pearl business, but I really know little of his private affairs," said the girl coldly.

Her fingers toyed with the necklace she was wearing, and Hanson glanced at it. Scarce a woman in Paris but had just such a necklace— at first sight.

"Well, about these stamps," said Hanson. "You have another pair here, I see. The price?"

"A thousand francs each."

Hanson whistled. "I'll take one pair now," he said. "Will you hold: the other for me until tomorrow, late in the afternoon."

The girl hesitated. "Why— I'd have to ask— Oh, theres Mr. Kurtzel now! I'll ask him. He speaks a little English."

The door opened, to admit a rather small, middle-aged, bearded man.

"Bonchour, bonchour,' he exclaimed, and passed to one corner to hang up hat and coat. The accent apprised Hanson instantly that he was dealing with a man who might by a Slav, but was more probably a Teuton. Kurtzel came to the table, and peered down as Miss Lasalle proffered Hanson's request. Then he looked at Mac, and nodded, holding out his hand in the cheerful French fashion.

"Tomorrow's Thursday," put in Mac significantly. "Perhaps M. Kurtzel will be gone to the bourse."

"Yes," said Kurtzel in hesitating English. "I sometimes go."

"It's like this," said Hanson, playing the role Mac had tacitly assigned him. "These pairs are rare, and I'll take three if you can get me another. But I'll not have enough money until tomorrow. I have a friend who'd like this other one, I know—"

"Sure, sure," said Kurtzel, rubbing his hands. "Maybe I find one at ze bourse— if, what you call—"

"Speak French," said Hanson.  "I understand it if I don't speak it well."

"Good," said Kurtzel, looking down. His face was stubby, ugly, his eyes gleaming with lights Hanson did not care for. "I will see a friend tomorrow, and think I can get another pair. Shall we meet there?"

"Yes," and Hanson. nodded. "PH be around there about three. If I get the money I expect, I'll take the other pair from you, then come back here and pick up this second one— but the shop will be closed!"

"No," spoke up the girl. "I'll be here, Mr. Hanson."

As she spoke, she looked down at the table and then up again. Hanson fancied a certain implication, a thing not to be put in words; he determined to return here on the morrow.

"Very well," he said, and produced a thousand franc note. "I'll pay for this pair now, and leave it here until tomorrow, if I may— get them all at one crack."

He rose and handed the note to Kurtzel, then, smiling, spoke in French which he purposely made halting.

"I hear you are interested in artificial pearls."

The man started visibly. The hand holding the note remained aloft, transfixed. The cunning eyes lifted and widened on the gaze of Hanson, almost wonderingly. On the instant, Hanson knew that with these idle words he had all unawares plumbed some far depths.

"What you mean?" demanded Kurtzel.

"Why, nothing!" The American laughed. "I have one or two friends in the pearl business myself over here— Murphy, Barnett and others."

Kurtzel nodded, his face cleared, and his smile was unmistakably one of relief.

"Oh! Yes, I am in ze business a leetle, a leetle," he said.

"Well, come along," exclaimed Mac with an impatient air. "We'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Kurtzel—good day!"

When the usual adieux were said, and Hanson had met with a business-like smile from Miss Lasalle, the two left the shop. When they were a little way down the passage, Hanson spoke.

"I hear you're interested in artificial pearls."

Mac grunted. "You sure hit something there— I'm not sure what! And what sort of a game are you playing by leaving the stamps there? That rascal sells nothing but counterfeit stamps and false surcharges!"

"He can't switch pairs on me— and the girl won't. I'll buy all those pairs I can get, to the bottom of my pile! They're not counterfeit."

"No," said Mac. "Did you notice the pearls ?"

"Not particularly. They all look alike to me. But did I play your game right?"

"Right enough," said Mac, rubbing his chin, "Hm! You struck something in that phrase you used— don't forget it!"

"Are you after the girl?" demanded Hanson bluntly. "Come across!"

"No, I'm not," declared the detective. "You couldn't imagine a safer place for the Goober necklace than around her neck, and her thinking it artificial, until it's safe to break it up and get rid of it. But it's not my funeral, unless I can stumble on to something good. Only the insurance people are interested in those pearls. I'm hoping I may get led on to something."

"All right, I'll lead you on to a drink right now," said Hanson, chuckling.

He was not sure why he was so relieved at Mac's declaration.

iii

"IT'S a great show," said MacAllister, interested. "And always new. How long has it been going on?"

"For the past sixty years," returned Hanson, "Outside of the curb jewel market, here's the finest collection of honest men, rascals, freaks and petty thieves in Paris. A lot of Russian and Armenian refugees, too; the Armenians all turn to stamps here, instead of rugs, I have some pretty decent friends here, too."

Under the spreading trees of the Rond Point des Champs Elysées, beside the puppet-shows and the Theater Marigny, now in course of rebuilding, lay the famous open air bourse of stamps— here met the collectors every holiday in the year, rain or shine, hot or cold. Out of chairs and planks were made tiny tables and stands, and around these regular merchants eddied the crowd in hundreds. As Hanson said, it was the queerest crowd to be found in Paris, and numbered few or no tourists.

Many irregular merchants, who desired to pay no tax for a regular stand, circulated in the crowd, proffering wares with furtive air. Little knots collected wherever a buyer found something of interest, there was no privacy, everyone was curious with the cheerfully amiable air of your Parisian, and good-humor was prevalent. A diplomat, his button-hole threaded with ribbons of decorations, might be seen cheek by jowl with some nondescript utterrat. Many Levantines were in evidence, and Russians and Slavs.

The two friends came to a pause before the stand of a yellow-whiskered gentleman whose eyes held a curious glint. Among his displayed wares, Hanson spotted a set of English stamps, one of which was a rare variety. He picked it out and demanded the price.

The yellow-whiskered one objected violently. Monsieur could have the whole set, at a price three times its value, but not that one stamp alone. When Hanson argued the matter, the merchant calmly pocketed the whole lot and began to talk politics with a bland air. Indignant, Hanson drew the grinning Mac away.

"Something queer," Hanson said. "I'll ask Aramian about it— he's an Armenian lawyer from Constantinople. There he is, to the left."

The Armenian in question, a man of no little culture and education, removed his hat and shook hands, courteously acknowledging the introduction to Mac. He had observed their encounter with the yellow whiskers, and chuckled over it.

"Yes, I know him," he told Hanson. "He is a famous surgeon, m'sieu; during the war he was many times decorated, but he was shell-shocked and now is a trifle mad. He is not to be taken seriously, m'sieu."

"So I perceive," said Hanson dryly. "Au revoir, m'sieu."

They sauntered on amid the crowd, refusing all proffered bargains, Hanson giving his companion bits of gossip or information about this or that dealer, and after a time Hanson caught a glimpse of Kurtzel.

"There's my bird, Mac," he exclaimed. "I'm going to nail the odd pair, if he has them, then go keep an appointment. Later on PII get around to his shop and pick up the other two pairs.'

Mac nodded. "I'll stick around here for a while, I think. May pick up a stamp or two— or other things. No telling."

Kurtzel was approaching, worming his way through the crowd, but did not perceive them until Hanson tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled swiftly, then nodded in recognition.

"Ah! I have them, yes; and two other pairs, which I am holding for another customer."

Hanson noted that the dealer's English had improved since the previous day, but he did not comment on the fact. Kurtzel produced a small pocket classeur and opened it to disclose three pairs of the English stamp, all of the rare variety. He indicated one of the three and handed the classeur to Hanson, who noted the one indicated had a damaged perforation.

Holding up the little book before him as though examining the stamp against the light for thinning, Hanson unobtrusively and swiftly, with deft thumb, removed another of the pairs and shoved the one indicated into its place. Then, taking out the pair he had removed, he pocketed it and returned the classeur to Kurtzel, who did not observe the substitution. With it Hanson passed over a thousand-franc note, which he had previously made ready.

"Merci, m'sieu," he said casually, and turned away. Kurtzel pocketed the little book and the note, lifted his hat, and passed on. Mac smiled grimly at Hanson.

"You worked it like a charm, George! Was he passing off a damaged one on you?"

"Yes. And I think I'll hop right back to the shop and get my other two pairs before he finds out I did not fall for his crooked work. Hello! This is signed, too."

He had taken out the pair to place it in an envelope. On the back, he noticed the tiny, violet-inked impression or seal which constitutes a Parisian dealer's guarantee of his wares, always affixed to any stamp of price. It was too small for deciphering without a glass, and at the moment Hanson paid no attention to it, beyond a mental ironic query as to the value of any guarantee from Kurtzel.

"Well, I'm off," he said. "Where'll we meet, Mac?"

"At the Bodega on the Rue de Rivoli, if you can stand the tourist quarter," responded Mac. "Any time you say. The Madeira there is first-rate."

"Four-thirty, then."

"Good enough. Give the young lady my love if you see her!"

Mac watched Hanson stride off, then turned his phlegmatic attention to matters closer at hand. Walking up the Avenue Gabriel side of the bourse until he was past the thickest of the crowd, he found a place vacant on one of the benches from the sidewalk, and pre-empted it. From this vantage point he could watch comfortably and smoke, and enjoy life.

Mac was composed in large portion of cold-rolled steel. He liked George Hanson very much, and was entirely willing to work with him or for him; but if Hanson were blunderer enough to get in the way, Mac would ruthlessly sideswipe him.

Just now, the detective was working to no definite end. He was following a hunch, a sixth sense warning him he was sniffing at the edge of something big. This hunch had brought him to Kurtzel's shop more than once, yet until the previous day he had really chanced on nothing to back it up. To Mac, all the world was divided into two parts— crooks and non-crooks. If Jeanne Lasalle was a crook, she would find no mercy in him, but Mac had not yet made up his mind about the girl.

Now he caught sight of Kurtzel, moving apart from the crowd and talking earnestly with a tall, dark man wearing a wide-brimmed black hat, a man as distinctly not a Parisian as Mac himself. Both men were gesturing, and to Mac these gestures conveyed a good deal. He gathered that Kurtzel was about to depart, and wished the other man to remain here; at length Kurtzel glanced at his watch, shook hands hurriedly with the dark man, and slipped away. At the corner, Mac saw him hail a prowling taxi.

The detective rose and followed the dark man, who had plunged into the crowd. He found himself interested in this saturnine, almost sinister, individual.

This open air stamp bourse had its own peculiarities. Three out of every four people, whether buyer or seller, were known by name or sight to each other; if a client came here three times, he found himself recognized and greeted, remembered. The same faces were seen here week after week, yet everyone was here with a definite purpose, from the small boy who came to seek certain two-sou stamps he might lack, to the gray-haired financier willing to pay his thousands for rare specimens. There were also plenty of hawks seeking to victimize both small boy and gray-haired specialist.

Knowing these things, Mac found that the dark man did not quite fit in. He appeared to seek, yet no one exchanged greetings with him. He was not here for stamps, since he brushed aside with obvious impatience all offered books, yet he constantly aes in the thick of the throng, kept peering into faces. He was expecting someone or something.

Mac drew closer to him, lighted a cigar, and bided his time. At length, in a twist of the eddying throng, he came face to face with the dark man.

Their eyes met. "I hear you're interested in artificial pearls," said Mac, not trying to speak French.

Instantly the dark eyes lighted up, the hand of the saturnine man came to Mac's arm.

"What's that?" he responded in English. "Hamburg?"

Mac nodded silently, and flashed a look around as though to warn of caution. The game was a blind one, but Mac was a perfect player. The grip of the long fingers tightened upon his arm.

"You know the Café Mazarin on the grand boulevard?"

Mac nodded, his eyes steadily meeting those darkly blazing eyes of the other man.

"Very well. Eight tonight at the Mazarin?' Left hand side as you enter—a corner table outside near the windshield?"

"Right," said Mac, shifting his cigar, "I'll be there."

The other nodded and slipped away. Mac watched him worm out of the crowd and then head at a rapid pace past the puppet-shows toward the Champs Elysees. Mac took the cigar from his mouth, exhaled slowly, and smiled a little.

"Hm! Looks like I'm getting hep at last," he observed to himself. "I'll nab Nick Ignatieff anyway !"

iv

GEORGE HANSON paid off his taxi at the corner of the Rue Caumartin and walked up that narrow thoroughfare at a rapid pace. Presently he turned in at a narrow entrance, went through to a large courtyard, entered a door on the right, and found himself in the shop of an exporter of artificial pearls, an American whom he knew well,

"Hello, Bill," he said. "I'm in a devil of a rush, and hope you can help me out. I want a necklace of graduated pearls— about the size of the famous Goober necklace, if you recall it. I want a good one, though."

The exporter laughed. "The best one in the world will only set you back twenty-five bucks, George. That is, unless you want to play tourist and think the quality depends on the price! Or, again, a diamond clasp—"

"Nix on the shiners," said Hanson. "Give me the best quality— ah! That's the ticket !"

He gazed at the necklace handed him. "Just about a double for the Goober," said the dealer. "In fact, I made it up at the time of that sensation for one of your fraternity who wanted a photo of the Goober necklace. It's not a replica, of course—"

"Trust me for the money, will you?"

"Sure thing."

"All right. Thanks."

Hanson hurried out, regained the boulevard, hailed a taxicab, and in half a minute was being whirled toward the shop of Kurtzel. He took the necklace from its tissue-paper wrapping and stuffed it loosely into his pocket, and relaxed over a cigarette.

"If I get the chance, I'll do it," he reflected, as he stared out at the passing scene, oblivious. '"There's still a five-thousand dollar reward posted for that necklace."

Leaving his taxi at the Rue Drouot, he cut down to the "passage," threaded its mazes, and in no long time was shaking hands with Jeanne Lasalle. It being Thursday and therefore a holiday, two schoolboys were investing in stamps, and Hanson waited at the other table, his eyes on the girl. At the enthusiastic chatter of the two boys, she lifted a smiling glance to him— a whimsical, sympathetic glance of amusement. Then, a moment later, the boys settled up and departed with an inclusive "Bonjour, m'sieu et 'dame!"

"You've come for the two tête-bêche pairs, Mr, Hanson?" she inquired.

"Yes," said Hanson. "May I ask whether you've been here long, Miss Lasalle?"

She had turned to the open safe and now paused, looking around.

"No. A few weeks— why?"

"To be frank, it's rather surprising to find anyone like you in the employ of such a man as Kurtzel."

She shrugged slightly. "I'm earning my living," she said. "My father was a collector, quite a famous one, and I know stamps pretty well. There are no personalities in business."

"I differ with you there," said Hanson quietly. She came back to the table with the classeur and set it before him, with the two pairs of stamps. "I met Kurtzel on the bourse, a little while ago, and got another pair from him. Not the one he wanted me to have, only he didn't know it. He tried to foist a damaged pair on me."

"Yes," she said with calm acceptance. "But what would you? The bourse is the bourse— it is a game of wits there, you know. When I first came here, we had a clear understanding, and I earn my money honestly,"

Hanson did not miss the implication in her words. He added the two pairs to the one already in his pocket, and then asked to see some colonials. As he had expected, most of the French Colonials offered him were patent forgeries. He did come upon a number of the rare four-penny Jamaicas, and promptly bought the lot at five francs each.

"I'm surprised those slipped past you," he said, laughingly, when he had paid for them. "A sheet of them got loose in Paris— none of the dealers here distinguish between the brown and the brown-orange. I'll get two pounds apiece for these in London."

She smiled. "I knew about them, but I didn't care to cheat the man I'm working for," she said quietly. "Is there anything else I can show you?"

"Nothing," said Hanson. "If the police drop on to those French Colonials and pay a call, what will happen to you?"

She met his eyes squarely. "Is that impertinence—or curiosity ?"

Like most red-headed and normally cheerful young men, George Hanson was impulsive.

"Curiosity," he said promptly. "I feel you're out of place here— why shouldn't I? I'm no tourist looking for diversion. I'm working in Paris, and so are you. I'm an American, and so are you, or I miss my guess. To show you how curious I am, will you let me look at those pearls you're wearing ?"

For a long moment she studied him, her violet eyes appraising, steady, direct. Then, as Hanson smiled again, she gave him a quick nod and a laugh.

"No, I don't think you mean to be impertinent," she observed, and her fingers went to the pearls at her "When I first came here, Mr, Kurtzel gave me these. They're very good imitation pearls, aren't they? Rather he loaned them to me. Hes a queer man in some ways, you know. He thinks a good deal depends on looks, and ordered me to wear these because I had no other jewelry—"

The necklace coiled into her hand and she passed it to Hanson. He held it up.

"Wonderfully like the real thing!" he declared. "Of course I'm no expert, but—"

Rising, he took the necklace to the door as though to examine it in more true light. For an instant his back was turned to her, then he came back to the table.

"Pretty baubles," he said, and fet the string of beads curl down into her hand, "Thank you. Do you know that the very finest imitation pearls are worth something like nine francs the inch? Then figure out what profit is made off tourists!"

"The tourists get what they're looking for, usually," she answered, re-fastening the string about her throat. Hanson leaned forward.

"Do you know what I'm looking for, young lady? Not a flirtation, by a good deal. But I look for this joint to be investigated one of these days. Now, you probably know that over here a newspaper man has about a hundred thousand times as much pull as he has at home— real honest-to-gosh pull! If anything happens here and you need a friend, will you let me—"

The door opened and Kurtzel entered, breathing hard.

He stared at the two faces turned toward him, then recognized Hanson and flung up his hands in a swift gesture.

"Ah! I hoped to find you!" he exclaimed hurriedly. "There has been a terrible mistake—look, I show you—"

Hanson rose. Kurtzel fumbled in his pocket for his classeur. Then, abruptly, he seemed to freeze, become petrified. His eyes were fastened upon the girl's throat. Hanson smiled.

"I hear you're interested in artificial pearls," he said, with a chuckle.

He was totally unprepared for what happened. He had thought to face down the dealer, bluff him if necessary, protect Jeanne Lasalle from his anger, perhaps get her out of the place here and now. Instead—

Like an uncoiled spring, Kurtzel lost his immobility. His outstretched arm thrust the rising girl back into her chair. He darted forward to the safe. Then he whirled, with a cry of wild rage, a pistol in his hand.

As he lifted the weapon, Hanson wakened from his amazed stupor and rushed. His hand knocked up the weapon, and the bursting report sent a bullet into the ceiling. Grappling with the cursing, raging Kurtzel, he frantically bent back the man's wrist, trying to force away his grip on the pistol; the blazing eyes before him were those of a madman.

Despite his small size, Kurtzel was no weakling, He fought in raging fury, hot oaths on his lips. There came a second report, and Hanson knew the bullet had burned his coat. The two men swayed, each putting forth every energy, and Kurtzel, getting one foot against the wall, thrust forward. Hanson twisted more powerfully on the captive wrist, and lashed out a jabbing blow to the mouth with his right.

A third explosion, this time muffled. Kurtzel staggered backward, then his knees gave way and he dropped in a huddled mass, still gripping the pistol.

For a long moment Hanson stood looking down, panting, unable to realize the truth. Then he bent over and touched Kurtzel's breast. It was still, motionless, red-smeared. Hanson rose and looked at the staring girl.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "He forced it on me, of course. He's dead—"

Five seconds of silence, then the girl wakened.

"Quick— go!" she exclaimed. "No one heard— it's empty overhead."

"Run, and leave you?" Hanson laughed Sory: "That would be nice, wouldn't it!"

"You must! I can take care of myself," she said swiftly. "You know what it means if you get involved with the police here. Your pull would do you small good—"

Hanson started, as he remembered the pearls in his pocket. For a moment he went cold. No, true enough; nothing could save him! He drew a long breath.

"You're right, Miss Lasalle," he said. "I'd better locate my friend Mac at once, and send him here. They know him at the prefecture. I'll tell him just what's happened, and if you are at all suspected, he'll clear you. Give me ten minutes, in order to explain and get him here as soon as possible—"

"I'll be all right," she returned, wide-eyed, "I mean it! Go quickly. I'll bring a gendarme from the boulevard— there'll be an hour or so of preliminary inquiry."

His hand met hers— a swift grip in which he found his pressure returned with a frightened little smile. In the passage outside, he straightened his collar and tie, looked at the burn in his coat, shrugged, and felt the necklace in his pocket. Slowly the crimson died out of his face.

"Seems like a cursed cheap and cowardly thing to do, to run and let her face the music," he thought, "but it's got to be done. And Mac can step in if she needs help. There's five thousand cool cash in my pocket, and half of it goes to her. She's a brick! Mac will be content to split the other half with me. Besides, if needs must, I can get rid of the pearls and then give up to the police— if she's held for the killing."

Emerging on the boulevard, he hastened to the taxi-stand and in half a minute was on the way to his appointment with Mac.

Behind him, at the boulevard entrance of the passage, stood two gendarmes, chatting amiably. To them came running Jeanne Lasalle, panting out an incoherent, frightened story. They hastened back with her to the little dark shop in the side passage.

For doing their work in their own way, the gendarmes of Paris have no equal. In another ten minutes Jeanne was telling her story to a very courteous, insistent, probing officer. No, she could not say who the man was— a new client. He had come in and had bought a few stamps, and had made some strange remarks about some of the stamps. Would ma'mselle indicate which stamps had drawn these remarks? But certainly. The officer looked at them, nodded, and impounded the volume of forgeries. If ma'mselle would have the great kindness to continue—— Kurtzel had entered suddenly. He seemed to know the visitor, appeared very angry, darted to the safe and produced the pistol. The stranger grappled with him. Three bullets had been fired. The third had killed Kurtzel. The murderer had bolted at once.

The investigation was immediate and efficient. Three shots had been fired from the pistol still in Kurtzel's hand, the two missing bullets were found in ceiling and wall. The stamps in the album were patent forgeries—of French stamps, A police affair. At this point, one of the two gendarmes addressed the officer.

The two had been chatting when a man passed them, coming from the passage. A young man. An Englishman, by his appearance, or an American. One side of his coat had been blackened or burned. Perhaps ma'mselle could indicate whether the murderer were a foreigner?

Jeanne nodded assent. Yes, English or American by his accent. She heard the two gendarmes give an amazingly complete description of George Hanson, almost to the smallest item. Another official arrived with a surgeon. There were bows, polite inquiries, liftings of hats and salutes galore.

The investigation was under way.

v

"—SO YOU'LL have to get back there in a hurry and clear her," finished Hanson, after a hurried outburst.

"Take it easy," said Mac, "They'll be pottering around for an hour or two. She's in no danger, anyhow. Believe me, George, these Paris cops make darned few mistakes! Now lets go over it. Shot Kurtzel, huh? Or made him shoot himself— all the same."

Hanson glanced around. Two stolid waiters were in sight, otherwise the Bodega was empty.

"Yes. He dived for his gun the minute he saw Miss Lasalle was not wearing the pearls any more—"

"Hold on," interrupted Mac, a sudden glint in his eye. "Why wasn't she?"

"Because they were in my pocket— are yet. That's why I skipped out. I got her to let me look at the necklace, and substituted another for it. Kurtzel saw the change at once. Never even stopped to talk, but dived for his gun—"

"And what in hell do you want to fool with that necklace for?" demanded Mac angrily.

"Five thousand reward. Half to the girl would only be fair. We split the balance—"

Mac smashed his heavy fist down on the table until the siphon danced.

"You fool! You child in arms— that necklace was worth five million where it was, with Kurtzel as a decoy! Why, we've all but got our hands on—"

He checked himself abruptly, glaring at Hanson.

"But," argued the latter, "suppose she had been wearing it now? Then—"

"Arr, shut up with your supposings!" snarled the detective. "See any cops on your way out of that passage?"

"I went by two, yes."

"Then you're done for," said Mac with an air of finality. "I know these birds! You'll be pinched for killing Kurtzel, and so cursed much will be blown out in the newspapers that my game's snuffed. Well, be arrested, then! I'm not stopping you! And the girl's in no danger."

"I won't be suspected," said Hanson angrily. "I'm not worried about myself—"

"Well, you'd better be!" shot back Mac. "I'll bet you the drinks that inside another twenty-four hours you'll be under cover and out of the rain."

"If you're so sure of it, get busy and lend me a helping hand, then," demanded Hanson. "I'd win out in the end, with her evidence. And you know enough about these frog courts to know that when no politics are involved they're square shooters. But I don't want to be dragged into the thing at all, naturally, if she can be kept out of it—"

"You do your own keeping, then," retorted Mac. Behind the anger in his eyes was a cold resolution. "You've queered my game, and I'Jl see you a long way before I shield you! Besides, I can't risk it, in a murder case. There's got to be the usual routine action. I'll pull the girl out of any mess she's in, because I believe she's straight— but you cut your own path. Your grab for a reward has busted my biggest scoop, and you can damn' well take care of yourself."

"That's on the level?" inquired Hanson.

"Yes. I couldn't help you if I would. I'm not the chief of police here. I'll bet a description is already out for you this minute."

"Then I'll go make a change of clothes," said Hanson. "I'm sorry I've spoiled your game, Mac. I didn't know you had one in mind—"

"Well, I didn't then but I have now," grumbled the detective. "If I were you, I'd stand up and see it through. You'll spend a couple of weeks in the cooler, and then get out. Anyhow, it's ten to one the prefecture knew Kurtzel had that neckace."

Hanson went cold at this suggestion.

Two men came in and glanced around. One of them nodded to Mac. At this, Hanson rose.

"Then I'm off. If you won't help me, Mac, at least do your best for her. Will you?"

Mac growled an assent.

Going out into the street, Hanson walked down to the Rue Royale, with that final suggestion burning into him most unhappily. There was a lot behind the Goober necklace story that was never made public—a lot that he and other newspaper men, even, did not know. The thing had ended in the air, hushed up, choked off. Perhaps the Paris police did know of the necklace being in Kurtzel's possession. Perhaps they had left it there deliberately, waiting

Hanson whistled softly. "If that's so," he reflected, "then I know somebody who's going to be in a devil of a fix— and it's me! Mac is sore, for the moment, and I don't blame him in a way, but he'll get over it. My job is to get connected with a newspaper right away in case I need the pull, too."

He felt for a cigarette, and his fingers touched the pearls in his pocket. Mac's attitude had prevented his giving the pearls to the detective, as he had first intended. He was up a stump, and had no idea just what to do first.

Turning up the Rue Cambon, he made his way to the Madeleine, less afraid than sorely puzzled. He stopped on the way at a hole-in-the-wall and revolved the situation over an apéritif, but without result. Paying for his drink, he strolled on and came out on the-boulevard near the metro entrance.

Not for a moment did he doubt Mac's estimate of his position. If the police really had his description and were looking for him, he could not very well go home, for they would not be long in identifying him. He might better take Mac's advice after all, go through all the weary delays, the questionings, the inaction, the suspicion— and yet his possession of the necklace complicated everything! It would be thought he had killed Kurtzel in order to steal the necklace, of course.

"This way, Mr. Hanson. They have your description. Follow me."

The words struck him softly, clearly, distinct above the hoots of taxis and the whirring thrum of busses. He glanced around, and saw Jeanne Lasalle brushing past as though ignoring his existence.

Startled anew, by those words so closely chiming with his own fears, Hanson followed her across the street as traffic was held up. She turned into the Rue Vignon almost at once, and Hanson followed her at a dozen feet's distance. At the Rue de Seze traffic brought them together, waiting, and she spoke again, without looking at him.

"If I'm not followed— wait and see. They are looking everywhere for you."

"Did my friend show up to help you?" asked Hanson.

"No. They let me go at once—"

She was darting across the street, following the Rue Vignon. Hanson followed, more leisurely, wondering. She must have left the shop, then, before Mac arrived to help her. Why had she been released from the inquiry so swiftly? Either her innocence was undoubted, or else— Ah, these devils of Paris police! The old trick of following her!

The click of rapid, decisive footsteps behind Hanson arrested his thoughts. He did not dare to turn around, expecting to feel a hand on his shoulder at each instant. He slowed, and the other man came abreast of him, passed him without a glance, eyes fastened on the girl ahead. Not a gendarme, but a bearded, sturdy man of official type. He caught up with Jeanne Lasalle, touched her on the arm. She halted. Some distance ahead was a gendarme, as. though to cut her off.

"Will you accompany me without disturbance, mademoiselle?"

Without looking at Hanson, she made a slight gesture of the hand— forbidding any interference. He stopped, lighting a cigarette, to overhear what came next.

"Certainly, monsieur," returned the girl quietly.

A file of taxis were crawling along the street. The sturdy man held up his hand to the first. As he did so, Hanson, at the curb, signaled the second and leaned over to the driver.

"The taxicab ahead, follow it, m'sieu, and let us see where it goes," he said with a smile. The chauffeur nodded—this adept touch was the right one, this taking the man into his confidence. Any other course, with a Frenchman, would have brought questions and shrugs.

Hanson was in and his taxi moving, instantly. Knowing the Parisian chauffeur, had no fear that his quarry would be lost.

When he found himself circling into the Place de !'Opéra and turning to-the left, he took for granted Jeanne Lasalle was being taken back to the scene of Kurtzel's death, perhaps for further questioning. He resolved to make sure of this at any cost, and, if Mac were not on hand, to give himself up and deliver a full and frank statement of the circumstances.

To his astonishment, however, he passed the Rue Drouot without pause, passed the arcade beyond, and headed straight on for Montmartre. This looked queer, unless they were headed for the prefecture of police on the Ile du Cité; when the cab swung to the right in the Boulevard de Sebastopol, this hypothesis gained alarming strength.

Then, abruptly, Hanson's taxi swerved from the boulevard into a narrow street. Peering ahead, Hanson saw the other taxi halted at the curb before an old building, whose doorway gave directly upon a flight of stairs. No bureau of police, nothing! The sturdy, bearded man paid his chauffeur as Hanson's astute driver crawled past, and entered the building with Jeanne Lasalle at his side.

Hanson was out instantly, thrusting a fifty franc note at his driver.

"M'attendes!"

The driver nodded comprehension and Hanson went back to the doorway. Without hesitation, he entered. Why had the girl been decoyed to such a place? He passed the door of the concierge swiftly, to evade questioning, and went up the stairs silently on his rubber-soled shoes. He thanked heaven for those soles of crépe rubber, as yet a novelty in Paris.

The dusty flight of bare board stairs curled to the left into gloom. Footsteps came from above at the second landing, and Hanson was quick in his ascent. At the landing he paused and reconnoitered. Here was a long, dark corridor, with one door open to emit a glimmering of electric light. He approached it, and a deep, sonorous voice came to him in English.

"Nonsense! Worth a couple of hundred francs. Where is the other one?"

The voice of Jeanne thrilled him in response:

"But this is the one! This is the only one I've had!"

A moment of silence. Then another voice in French, obviously that of the bearded man.

"Mademoiselle, it is necessary that you tell us everything. The man who killed our poor Kurtzel was, perhaps, your acconrplice ?"

Silence again, and Hanson could imagine the girl shrinking, wondering, frightened. Then the sonorous voice leaped out.

"Here, give me those pairs of stamps! Miss Lasalle, you have five minutes in which to produce the pearls or else tell us the whole thing. The stamps, Hartman!"

"Here," said the other voice. Almost at once, came a sonorous oath.

"These are not the ones— neither pair has the print, the address of Sweeny!"

"No. Kurtzel sold the other pair on the Bourse this afternoon, by mistake," came the reply. "He was to have given Ignatieff the address, and when he came to do it he found the mistake."

"The devil! Then we can't get in touch with Sweeny!"

"Not unless he gets in touch with us."

A thud, as of a fist crashing on a table. "But I'm due to sail on Thursday!" came the sonorous voice. "I have to make that boat— we can never work the game without the help arranged! If I miss her, I must wait until she returns, unless I can reach Sweeny at once. Here, grab her—"

A short, frightened cry from Jeanne. Hanson put his foot against the door and shoved it violently open. He uttered a quick call in French.

"Voilà! We have them. Come swiftly!"

The old wheeze worked. The bearded one went in a headlong dive through a doorway on the far side of the room. The other, a tall, scrawny individual, had been holding Jeanne by the arm. He released her and went staggering, as Hanson's fist impacted under his chin. He tripped across a chair and plunged headlong at the wall. To the fall, he lay senseless.

Hanson looked at the astonished girl and laughed.

"My turn!" he exclaimed cheerfully. "Looks like I've evened up what I owe you, young lady!"

"We must leave, quickly," she cried. "Did you—did you hear what they said?"

"Most of it."

"Then—the pair you bought from Kurtzel! I see it all now—he thought you had discovered —"

Loud voices from the adjoining room wakened Hanson to action.

"Quick!" He seized her arm and propelled her gently from the room. The key was in the door and he seized it. "Go ọn down—I have a taxi waiting ee

She did not hesitate but started on. Hanson, key in hand, closed the door, inserted the key on the outside, and turned it. Then he darted after the girl.

He caught up with her before she was at the bottom of the stairs. Outside, his taxi was waiting, and he handed her into it swiftly.

"Place de l'Opéra!" he instructed the driver, then climbed in and slammed the door.

The vehicle churned away down the nartow street. Looking back, Hanson saw two or three figures erupt from the doorway and stand staring, then start after the taxi at-a run. Next instant they turned a corner, then turned another corner and were in traffic, well lost.

"So that's that!' observed Hanson, and threw himself back on the cushions. To his quick laugh, the girl smiled tremulously. "Good driver I picked up—he'll earn his tip. Now, then, what's all this about the tête-bêche pairs?"

vi

"I'M NOT altogether sure," said the girl. "For one thing, there was a forged pair—"

"A what?" interjected Hanson incredulously. "A forged pair? It's impossible! It could not be done beyond detection by a glass."

"This was an experiment. Somebody in Italy, where most of the forging is done, had been making pairs of tête-bêche French stamps, which are highly valuable; I think it was done by some process of hydraulic pressure. Well, this one pair— the first pair— of English ones was made up several months ago at least, before any were known to; really exist. When real ones turned up, Kurtzel was terribly disconcerted."

Hanson frowned, puzzled.

"I can't make head or tail of it," he said. "Why should he be disconcerted?"

"There again I'm not certain," replied the girl frankly. "He kept the first pair always either in the safe or in his pocket. Sometimes he lent them to someone, perhaps to examine. That's how I got the impression they were false, by scraps of talk. I know this one forged pair was marked to differentiate it from the real ones— it had some sort of violet stamp on the back, which the others did not have."

Hanson groaned. "And that's the pair I slipped from Kurtzel's pocketbook in place of the damaged pair he was trying to foist on me!" he exclaimed. "Talk about poetic justice. I handed myself the forged pair! But those chaps mentioned an address on the back me

"Perhaps the violet signature was really an address of some kind," said the girl. "I don't know— Oh! Look— your friend!"

Hanson looked, and as swiftly sat back in the cab. A block in traffic had halted them half a block from the Place de l'Opera. Going in the opposite direction was an open taxi, its top back, and sitting in it were MacAllister and an officer of gendarmes.

"He's heading back to Montmartre, eh? Well, let him go," said Hanson. "I'm not hunting him at present."

"But other people are probably hunting you. What are you going to do?"

"Have dinner first, with you, and discuss plans. Say yes?"

She looked at him, met his eyes with a smile, and nodded. A moment later, the taxi wheeled in before the Café de la Paix, since Hanson had given no definite address. He turned to her.

"Here as well as anywhere, I suppose, thought I hate tourist traps. Eh?"

"If you like."

The evening had become cloudy and threatened rain, yet it would not be dark until nine or so. Jeanne took his hand and descended from the taxi, and Hanson was feeling for money when he caught a sudden pressure of her fingers on his arm.

"Look—quick !"

He turned, feeling her shrink against him. "What?"

"That man, the same one! He has followed us after all— perhaps by Juck— but I saw him look at us— getting out of. the taxi

Behind them, at the corner, another taxi had stopped. The fare was paying off his driver, and the fare was the sturdy bearded man who had accosted Jeanne in the Rue Vignon. Hanson made a signal to his driver.

"Let him pay off his taxi—now! Tell our man some place to dine, and tell him you're being followed—your French is quicker than mine."

The girl turned.

"Swiftly!" she said to the chauffeur, "A man is following us. You must throw him him off— if possible. You know sees the boulevard restaurant at the corner of the Rue Drouot? End up there."

"Entendu, madame," returned the driver, as she re-entered the car. He flung a knowing wink at Hanson.

"These husbands— they are the very devil, eh? Come!

Jeanne looked at him with flushed cheeks, having caught this observation. Hanson grinned, and slammed the door as the taxi moved off. He peered through the tiny rear aperture and saw the bearded man frantically signaling a taxi.

"We may and we may not," he said. "Anyhow, let's hope for the best. See here, won't it be dangerous for you to stick with me, though? If for any reason the police pinch either of us, and recognize me as the man wanted for Kurtzel's killing, they'd naturally think we were some sort of accomplices,"

"No," she returned quietly. "Don't borrow trouble until you come to it! I'd much sooner you remained with me until we get rid of this man, please—then you can take me home, or do as we may decide."

He nodded and relaxed on the cushions.

In two minutes their driver dived into the Rue Edouard VII, went roaring through the archway and came out into the street beyond on two wheels, circling back to the Opéra. Like any Frenchman, he took a sympathetic interest in flinging the supposed husband off the trail of two lovers, and cutting around the front of the Opéra, chugged on to lose himself in the intricate and narrow streets around the Chaussée d'Antin. It seemed rankly impossible that any other taxi could have followed them, although the vehicle was a Yellow and therefore noteworthy among the more common Renaults.

In ten minutes they came down the Rue Drouot, to pause at the side of the restaurant indicated by Jeanne. The driver opened the door and grinned triumphantly.

"Come, we've made some dust for him!" he exclaimed. "That's worth a good pair of cymbals, eh?"

"Yes, but there are no more cymbals— only crackling paper," said Jeanne laughingly, and translated the argot for Hanson's benefit. "Two ten-franc notes, he says."

"And another for good measure," said Hanson. "My pile's getting low, but fortunately I cashed my pay-check this morning."

They entered the restaurant, and in two minutes were snugly ensconced at a front corner table, beside an open window giving on the boulevard. The wax-like leaves of magnolias, planted in the window-box, shielded them from: sight of the outside tables below yet gave them opportunity to see all and hear all. It was still early for Parisian diners, and the place was nearly empty.

When they had ordered, Hanson leaned back in his chair with a sigh of relief.

"It's good to feel free again— this is the first minute of relaxation I've had for some hours., We've become pretty well acquainted today, haven't we?"

"I'm afraid we have," responded the girl, with a slight smile.

"Why afraid? Well, come to think of it, IK'm to blame all around as far as you're concerned," said Hanson. He resolved swiftly to make a clean breast of the whole thing to her. "That pair of tête-bêche Georges has'obtained some swift action! Now, about Mac—"

He told her of himself and just who his friend MacAllister was, while her steady violet eyes regarded him and an occasional nod bespoke her interest. For the moment he omitted afl mention of the pearls, however; he had to make plain Mac's position, and did so.

Their meal arrived by sections, and as it progressed, Hanson still lacked courage to make the plunge of confession. The steak arrived, done in the usual French fashion, and Hanson promptly sent it back for further cooking. Just as the waiter departed, he saw the face of the girl change, lose all its smiling happiness, suddenly become frightened and wary.

"What is it?" he asked, seeing her eyes directed past him. "Who?"

"The same man," she said quietly, and met his gaze. "He has just come in. He looked at us. Now he's taken a table near the door, behind you."

"But we came in the side door," said Hanson calmly, stifling a natural impulse to curse this ubiquitous trailer, He caught the eye of the head waiter and beckoned, then felt for a fifty franc note and handed t to the girl, with a rueful reflection on his vanishing funds.

"Tell him to hail a taxi now, and have it standing by the side entrance. Have the driver come in and take a look at you. Quick."

The head waiter bowed. Jeanne handed him the note and instructed him, and with a murmured assent he departed. The girl looked inquiringly at Hanson.

"If that taxi is standing for half an hour or so, it only costs us four francs," he explained. "Well have it ready for a quick getaway. Our friend won't find another very quickly on the Rue Drouot side."

"But it seems impossible to throw him off!" she said, with a hopeless gesture.

"We'll do it, never fear," he encouraged her. "Meantime, we'll take plenty of time to our meal; the longer the taxi waits, the better, and the same is true of our friend yonder. If we can sit him out, we will, though I haven't much hopes of sitting out any Frenchman in a restaurant!"

"But all this is costing you a terrible lot of money," expostulated the girl frankly. "And you're doing it for my sake! You'll have to let me stand my share of the expense, please. I insist!"

"Nonsense!" Hanson laughed. "We'll get it all back and good interest besides, if the police don't jump on me before ten tomorrow morning. If we don't leave here before eight-thirty, I'll only have thirteen and a half hours to put in— somehow, You had no trouble over Kurtzel?"

"Little," she returned. "To tell the truth, the gendarmes unearthed some of his stock. I gave them a hint about it. When they found he was dealing in forged French stamps, it put a different light on the matter. I'm to report tomorrow morning at the prefecture, and that's all."

"They must have let you go almost at once, then."

She nodded. "Yes. Probably before your friend Mac could arrive. I took a taxi to the Three Quarters and got out, meaning to catch the Métro home— then I saw you, and at the same time had a feeling someone was watching me— and you know the rest! But what do you mean by speaking of ten tomorrow morning ?"

"The insurance companies will be open then," said Hanson, and took the plunge. "And I'll have five thousand to collect— dollars, not francs! The reward is still offered for the Goober pearls. You've heard of them?"

"Of course!" she agreed, interest in her eyes. "You know where they are, then?"

"Sure," said Hanson cheerfully. "In my coat pocket."

"What!"

The re-cooked steak arrived and for a moment there was no further chance to talk. Then, when the waiter had departed, the eyes of the girl struck at Hanson eagerly, wonderingly.

"You mean it? You really have those pearls?"

"Sure. They're all mixed up with this case, in fact. They're the real reason why I ran off and left you to face the gendames alone. I knew they'd be found on me!"

"But what have they to do with this case?"

"You were wearing them until late this afternoon."

Her bewilderment drew a laugh from Hanson. He explained why Kurzel had  given them to her to wear, Then he abruptly confessed.

"When you let me look at them this afternoon, I substituted another necklace just like yours. I found an imitation one made up by a friend of mine. Kurtzel noticed the difference at once. Those men who decoyed you, wanted the pearls, of course."

She stared at him, angrily at first, then with a slow smile growing in her eyes. About Hanson was an ingenuous frankness which robbed his confession of all slyness, and the admiration in his gaze would have disarmed most women.

"You see the complications?" he said. "After the way Mac has acted, he's out of the split. You and I will divide that five thousand tomorrow at luncheon. Since we're both out of work, it will wa us in our affliction. You're not angry?"

Her quick smile was his reply.

vii

AT SEVEN-FIFTY that evening, MacAllister annexed a corner seat of the Café Mazarin's comfortable padded cushions, with all the boulevard for a passing show, and the glass windshield to keep off the cold night wind. Just the other side of the windshield, where the café lights did not strike him, stood a gendarme muffled in his blue cloak, apparently much interested in the night life wending to and from Montmartre.

Mac seemed quite cheerful and stirred his hot grog with much appreciation. It was just one minute to eight when he observed a tall, black-hatted figure threading its way across the street, to finally dodge a taxi and leap safely to the sidewalk. Mac beckoned the waiter and ordered another drink like his own.

The tall, saturnine figure came directly to him and the black hat was lifted. Mac gripped the hand extended to him, as its owner sat down opposite him at the little table, and held on to the hand.

"How's everything, Nick?" he demanded, unsmiling.

The other started. His eyes widened. He wrenched at his hand, but Mac shook his head, and now smiled.

"Don't do it, Ignatieff, don't do it! My left hand's in my coat pocket, and there's somebody looking at you through the glass—"

Ignatieff, looking around, saw the gendarm regarding him through the windshield. He turned pale, then relaxed in his chair. Mac loosed his hand.

"So the game's done, is it?" asked the dark man.

"Done, Nick," said Mac quietly, with an undertone of menace in his voice.

The waiter came with the hot grog. When he had gone, Mac sat back on his cushions and addressed the other.

"Better attend to your drink, now., It'll do you good, and we'll have a nice little chat. Kurtzel's done for, and you're— Well, it rests largely with you yourself what'll happen, Nick. That gendarme has moved up to the edge of the windshield now, and these birds over here carry their guns where they can get at 'em. You'd better sit pretty."

Ignatieff stared at him for a moment.

"So you are an American!" he said at last. "But how— how did you know—"

Mac smiled again. "About the proper way of addressing you? Oh, we know a lot we don't say anything about, Nick. Here's luck all around."

The detective finished his drink, and Ignatieff sipped his own, without evident pleasure.

"S'pose we get to business," suggested Mac. "I might go right ahead with the pinch, but again I might not. I've attended to all the formalities, so don't get your hopes up on that score. You know what state's evidence is? Having been in America, you do. And you Ruthenes or Slovaks or whatever you are, are pretty good at it. Kurtzel's dead, remember. I'm in charge of this case, and I'm offering you a chance to give up information. Get me?"

Ignatieff stared down at the reddish liquor, sipped it again, and nodded.

"What d'you want to know?" he asked sullenly.

"Just as a matter of interest," said Mac, "where did you land all that nice paper you brought over here from America?"

Ignatieff shook his head. "No! Not if it meant all the difference."

"Oh!" said Mac sagely. "A skirt in it, huh?"

"Never mind," returned the other. "Other things— the little I know—"

"Forget it," snapped Mac. "Think I'm offering you something for nothing, you big boob? I know all about your bringing over that paper from America—have known it for a long while. That was your part of the job. Now, what about the printing ?"

"I do not know," responded the other sullenly.

"You're about as much use as a tin brick for a lifebelt," said Mac in disgust. "And that yarn won't dash worth a cent! Don't tell me you got away with the paper for two million in bank notes and don't know where they're being printed!"

"But it is the truth!" broke out Ignatieff with sudden access of energy. "Sweeny knows. I have never even seen Sweeny. All our orders came through Kurtzel. He knew where to find Sweeny, and nobody else knew."

"H'm!" grunted Mac, eyeing him. "You saw Kurtzel this afternoon at the stamp bourse and had a confab with him. What about?"

Ignatieff looked up and met the boring eyes squarely.

"Why should I tell you?"

"Why?" said Mac. "I've already tried to beat the why of it into your thick head! You got away with all that paper, and half a million of it has already gone back with printing very nearly as good as the paper. Your little share in the game is worth about twenty years up the river when I get you back— and I've got the papers all made out. Now, listen here!"

Mac leaned forward, and suddenly became alert, hard, intent.

"I want Sweeny a lot more than I want you, see? I won't let you off going back to face the music, but I can shorten that twenty-year stretch a hell of a lot. If you want to help your Moscow friends any more, before you're too old to work, you'd better come across with the dope on this job."

Ignatieff sat silent, glooming at the table before him. Mac went on curtly.

"The greatest good for the greatest number— ain't that political economy? You can't help Sweeny by silence, but you can help me catch him a bit quicker. That way, you'll be able to go back to work with your bolshevist friends pretty soon."

Ignatieff brought out a cigarette and lighted it.

"If," he said, exhaling a thin cloud of smoke, "if I tell you all I know, it will not help much. Only Kurtzel was in touch with Sweeny—"

"Who engraved the plates and did the printing."

"I suppose so. All I know is so little—"

"Spill it," ordered Mac, "and I'll guarantee to do my best for you, even if I make a bad bargain. But hold out on me, and I'll send you up for the full stretch!"

"All right," said the other, with a nod. "If anything happened to Kurtzel, it was arranged that Sweeny's address would be found on the back of a stamp, where it was put like a signature. Nobody would ever examine that closely or suspect it. The stamp would be a tête-bêche pair of English three-halfpenny stamps."

"Hell!" exclaimed Mac in astonishment. Then he gestured. "Go on. You're earning your pay fast. Keep it up."

"Sweeny arranged all that," pursued Ignatieff. "It was only in case of anything happening to Kurtzel that we would know where to find the address. It would be so easy for somebody to send the address to the police, if they knew it! But Kurtzel alone knew, and only four of us knew where to find it if anything, happened to Kurtzel. Well, Kurtzel was to give me that stamp this afternoon. I was to take it to Sweeny, as evidence that I came from Kurtzel, but it seems Kurtzel made a mistake and sold a similar pair of stamps—"

A disgusted oath escaped the detective.

"Good Lord! And to think I had the whole game under my very eyes and didn't know it! So Kurtzel sold the wrong pair by mistake— oh, Lord! No wonder he was excited when he met you! And he went back and—"

Mac broke off short with another round oath, and motioned Ignatieff to go on.

"That's all," said the other. "Until we get in touch with Sweeny or he with us, we are helpless. And time is short, because we might miss the boat we arranged—"

"Don't worry about boats, you'll get yours free,' said Mac grimly. "Which boat?"

"The Ville de Paris, sailing Thursday."

Mac nodded. "And the Goober pearls were to have gone over with this consignment of bank notes, eh?"

Ignatieff gave a gloomy assent.

"Good scheme," said Mac. "Worth more in America than here. And if you could get in a half-million in counterfeit notes, a pearl necklace would be a fleabite to your gang. But why print over here?"

"Because our organization wants to put much of the money into circulation abroad— we have already done so in Italy and Spain. The notes are not questioned so much."

"On the real paper, too— I should say not. Lord, how I'd like to cut all your throats, you damned political scoundrels !"

Ignatieff stirred in sudden alarm, but Mac rose and tapped on the glass. He flung a note on the table to pay for the drinks, as the gendarme came toward them.

"Come along, Nick," he said. "I got a busy night ahead, finding that pair of tête-bêche stamps. Lordy, if I'd known this before!"

A common human complaint, but something new for MacAllister to voice. His chagrin would not have been lessened had he known he was within a hundred yards of Hanson at the moment.

viii

"DID that taxi driver ever show up to look at you?" asked Hanson.

"Yes. He nodded and saluted and went out again."

"Our friend still on deck?"

"With his Paris Soir, quite comfortably. He is just sending a note by the waiter to somebody outside, I think. Yes— the waiter's going out."

Hanson started, under the spur of an alarming possibility.

He had done even better than hoped for— it was now nearly nine o'clock and the liqueurs were not quite finished. Conscious that this might be his last meal in freedom for some time, he had done the thing well, and was rewarded by the sparkle of animation that had flowed back into the girl's face. They had found one or two mutual acquaintances, and all in all, Hanson was extremely satisfied with the way things had turned out. He would have been content to sit here all evening, but for the ominous presence behind him.

The restaurant was well filled by this time and an orchestra was at work. Hanson soberly reflected that this note sent out 'by the bearded man might be very embarrassing. What better game could the man play than send word to a gendarme that the murderer of Kurtzel was dining here at the corner table? Instinctively, Hanson knew he had hit the nail on the head. He could feel it, could sense it. Seeing Jeanne Lasalle in company with him, perhaps recognizing him as the man who had broken up their afternoon session, the man might well jump at such a conclusion.

"Why so sober of a sudden?" demanded the girl gaily.

"Danger," said Hanson, pushing back his chair. "Are you willing to sacrifice your coat— at least, until we can recover it tomorrow?"

"Yes," she returned, questioning him with her eyes.

"Then I'm off— I'm leaving money for the waiter. They'll think I've gone to the dressing room. You can powder your nose, then go, too, leaving your coat here. I'll have to give up my hat— no loss. Come to the back of the place, and then to the side entrance. No time to lose about it— good luck !"

He rose and carelessly threaded his way among the tables toward the rear of the place, cut off from the front by a row of potted trees coming into the room from either side. Here, as he slipped into the passage leading to the side entrance, he glanced around to see a gendarme just entering the front door.

He went on outside, and waited. The taxicab was standing at the curb, the driver engaged in animated conversation with two men who had evidently wished to hire his vehicle. Recalling that he himself was unknown to the driver, who had seen only Jeanne, Hanson forced himself to patience, and lighted a cigarette.

A moment later he heard her quick, light step, and she was at his side. The chauffeur looked up, touched his cap, and swung open the door, then climbed to his seat. Hanson had his foot on the car step to follow the girl— when something happened.

The two men nearby fell upon him bodily. One clutched his collar and dragged him back, the other drove in a short-arm jolt in the ribs that sent him staggering and gasping across the sidewalk. As he recovered, he saw both men climbing into the taxi, which set off at once. Winded by the blow, Hanson tried to follow, but vainly. Before he had taken three steps, the taxi was swinging into the boulevard and dodging away amid traffic.

Out-generaled!

Hatless, disheveled, Hanson staggered toward the corner— then came to frantic pause. From nowhere, apparently, came into sight a gendarme, heading for him, and a whistle shrilled. Without hesitation, Hanson whipped around and broke into a run down the dark and deserted street, dodging across to the opposite side as he did so.

Vainly he cursed his plight— he was a fugitive now, and his chance of getting decently out of the affair was lost. Glancing back, he saw running figures, heard the resounding echoes of pounding feet from the buildings around. Shouts pealed up in his wake, reiterated commands to halt. A bullet would come next, he felt.

Before him loomed the barren vastness of the Hotel Drouot, that tremendous building of auction halls. Hanson sped past it, then ducked suddenly up the street to the left. He knew where he was now, had his wind back, felt he had a fighting chance to slip clear. Then, from the gloom ahead, emerged the shape of a strolling gendarme,

Hanson went forward. His crépe-rubber soles made no noise, He was not seen until he came within ten feet of the gendarme, who turned suddenly as the view-hallo of the chase broke at the corner behind. Hanson sent him staggering with one push, and plunged desperately forward. An instant later, a shot roared out behind, and he heard the bullet whistle, then came a renewed tumult of yells and shouts, amid which he distinguished his own name. So they knew him! That meant the end of everything.

None the less, he kept on, refused to stop now.

The strong glare of headlights suddenly filled the street behind him—a police car! None other would dare use full lights in the city. Down another street, and before he got to the corner, the headlights had followed him with their glare.

Hanson doubled around corners, down narrow streets. He made time and had flung off some of the pursuit, yet could not get rid of those devilish headlights— between corners they had the speed of him.

Then, abruptly, he plunged out into the Rue Taitboud— and ahead of him, crawling along the curb, appeared a cruising taxicab. Knowing that his hatless appearance would mean nothing in Paris, where one does as he pleases, Hanson dashed at the cab and pulled open the door,

"Etoile, Avenue d'Iena, and across to the left bank," he ordered. "And quick!"

As he clambered into the still moving vehicle, his one idea was to get clear away from it all and have a chance to think— to reflect on how he might aid Jeanne Lasalle. By getting across the Seine, with his pursuers flung off the track, he would gain breathing-space.

Whether or not his method of evasion had been observed, he could not tell. A moment later his taxi was in the Boulevard Haussman and heading for the Arc de Triomphe amid a thin stream of traffic, every vehicle traveling as though the end in view were more death than destination. Hanson lay back on the cushions, resting, relaxing, panting from his long dash.

They had him now. Since they knew his name, had identified him, there could be no hope of ultimate escape, and he cursed the net of circumstance which had enmeshed him. Jeanne was in the clutches of the gang, and lost to him. The pearls in his pocket would damn him utterly if found, yet he dared not try to get rid of them. He had staked too heavily on the reward to throw it up. His mad flight had practically condemned him for the murder of Kurtzel.

"The one chance left," he thought desperately, as the heavy masses of the Arc and its top rim of lights broke the perspective ahead, "is to get away, lie low, and turn in the pearls tomorrow for the reward. That done, I can face the music and clear myself. Otherwise, I'm done."

He looked back, trying to make out any glare of headlights, but the car had swerved to swing around the Etoile and against the dazzle of street lights everything else was lost. He lighted a cigarette and forced himself to relax his tension again and sit back, smoking.

The circuit of the Arch completed, the taxicab swung into the Avenue d'Iena and went downhill at mad speed, horn clawking industriously, for the river. Off to the right hung the lighted masses of the Trocadero— and behind, the white spread of headlights picked them up. Hanson looked back, swore softly to himself, threw away his cigarette.

The spidery, ghostly outline of the Eiffel Tower soared up into the sky ahead, looming over everything. The taxicab missed a tram by inches, frightened another taxicab into wrathful oaths, and took the crossing before the bridge with that utter disregard of other traffic only compassed by a Parisian chauffeur. Now they were whirring over the bridge, the dark waters of the Seine and the glowing red navigation lights to either hand, and off to the left the glittering splendors of the exposition.

Then, abruptly, Hanson was flung forward off balance as the taxi came to a halt with a scream of brakes. Two gendarmes stood ahead, with upraised truncheons gleaming white, and two others were running to their aid. The taxi halted, an electric torch played its lights over the interior, and Hanson met with a curt order to descend.

He obeyed, with a sense of utter futility, helplessness. He was trapped. As he alighted, the flaring headlights of a car coming over the bridge picked out the scene in detail.

"Attendez, m'sieu," said a gendarme. Another ordered his taxicab on, and there was an immediate and violent protest over the fare. Hanson held out a twenty-frane note, and a gendarme passed it on. The taxi churned away.

The four gendarmes regarded him impassively. None made a move to touch him, yet they had him hemmed in. The car with the glaring headlights came to a halt, and from it descended a number of officers— and MacAllister.

"So you squealed on me, did you?" said Hanson angrily.

ix

MAC regarded him grimly. "Squealed nothing, you poor boob!" he growled. "Hand over that pair of tête-bêche stamps with the signature— quick!"

Hanson stared. "The stamps— what? Arent you satisfied with getting me jailed—"

MacAllister swore heartily, amazedly.

"Jailed? Forget it! My Lord, every cop in Paris is hunting you to get hold of those stamps! We don't want to jail you. I want those stamps, and the prefect wants to hang a medal on you for killing Kurtzel."

"You— what?" demanded Hanson. "What's all the shemozzle about, then?"

"Those stamps, damn it!" exploded Mac. "They've got the address we need— get 'em!"

Hanson felt in his pocket and drew forth his wallet containing the stamps he had bought that day. In the light of an electric torch he opened it and sorted out the forged pair of stamps in question. Mac seized upon them, someone thrust forward a pocket magnifying glass, and the detective bent over.

"Quarante-trois, Rue de Marsan, St. Cloud," he read aloud, and there was a buzz of voices at the words. "Quick, George! In with you—get to the finish of it and you'll have a cracking good story! I owe you that much anyhow."

Half dazed, Hanson felt himself thrust into the police car, Mac and others crowding in after him, and with a roar the machine started away. The readjustment was violent. Instead of facing a murder trial, Hanson found everything much ado over little; he had not been chased for murder, but for the sake of these stamps he was fumbling back into his pocket! It was hard to realize,

Suddenly he clutched the arm of the detective.

"Mac— they've got her, Jeanne!" he cried hoarsely. "We left that restaurant—"

"I know— and they got those birds in the taxi with her— were getting 'em when I came on the scene after you," said MacAllister grimly, "You'll find her at the prefecture when we get through here, never fear! Now shut up. I got to talk French with these frogs."

Jeanne safe, then! Hanson sat back and lost himself in blissful relaxation.

A little later, after a wild ride, he found for the first time in his life it was possible to evade the cumbrous law which compels all cars to have their gas measured, nominally, on entering or leaving Paris. The big car slowed somewhat at the Port de St. Cloud, the driver shouted something at the uniformed gendarme by the curb, and then they were leaping down the gloom of the Avenue de la Reine with headlights on full flare.

It was a wild, mad ride down to the bridge at the entrance to St. Cloud, with tram crossings shot at reckless speed. Then they were across the Seine. Here, swerving sharply, is one of the steepest grades to be found near Paris, but they went up the hill with a roar, passed the station, and thundered along for half a mile farther. Then, before Hanson realized it, they had reached their destination and he was tumbling out of the car with the others.

There was narrow pavement, an alley that disgraced its pretentious name, torchlight flashing on door-numbers. What followed was swift and sharp, electric in its accuracy, and even Mac looked on admiringly. Two men disappeared, two others knocked at a door. When it opened, they thrust in at it. A pistol barked, and a bullet flew wild.

Ahead showed a corridor, with a man bolting down a stairway. They were after him at once, Mac and Hanson after the gendarme officer. A moment more and they were in a large basement room equipped with tables and presses.

Three men here. Two bolted by a rear door— and recoiled before two gendarmes with leveled pistols. The third, a quiet, anemic individual, swung at Mac's voice.

"Got you, Sweeny! Put 'em up."

Sweeny looked at the detective and smiled. "Life?" he queried. "Life, Mac?"

"It's life if you've touched French notes, all right," said Mac. "Here— keep 'em up."

But Sweeny only smiled a little more, put down his arms, and quietly toppled forward.

"Life," he said again.  "Beat you, Mac—"

He lay quiet, and the odor of bitter almonds rose in the room.

"Hell!" said Mac, disconcerted. "Cleverest counterfeiter of the age, George, and look at the poor devil!"

"I'm more interested in Jeanne," said Hanson, turning away. "Lets go find her."

"All right." Mac took his arm. "The frogs can have everything here, and, George, you give her my share in the Goober pearl reward as a wedding present, savvy? On condition you give me that pair of tête-bêche as a souvenir."

"Done with you," said Hanson, and grinned. "They're yours, but they're forged!"

________________

4: Scum of the Earth: No Liability

Ambrose Pratt

1874-1944

The Bulletin 8 Dec 1904

Ambrose Goddard Hesketh Pratt

JULIUS SACHMEYER, the Hollander, and Manoel Yallejo, the Spaniard, attended to the air-pump; Nicholas, the Greek (he had another name, but it is long and unpronounceable), dived for shells; while Felice Trapero, the Italian, captained the boat, and mellifluously cursed and slave-drove his crew of one— lnch'i Chen (a poor hybrid cripple and a dreamer of dreams, half Cantonese, half Malay), whose services the partners rewarded with a pittance which provided him with just sufficient rice and chupatti to enable his shrunken flesh and bones to hang together.

Thursday Island, in bar and billiard-room, dubbed the partnership "The Scum of the Earth No Liability Company." The name fitted to a charm.

The other pearlers called their boat, in spite of Calypso bravely written on its bows, The Raven, because it had once been painted black and because it always croaked as it moved. It was so old, so disreputably smellful, and so cranky that it was a disgrace to the fleet.

When ashore, the partners lived rent-free in a dilapidated yellow bungalow that was perched on the beach, just outside the town. Its builders and former occupants had died of some malignant fever, and on that account it had been deserted and given over to decay, until the partners arrived at the island. But its evil reputation did not frighten them. They took possession at once, and in time they effected certain improvements in accord with their several dispositions. For instance, Manoel Vallejo, a modest man, plastered sheets of richly-greased brown paper over the windows of the room that he shared with his wife. Sachmeyer stopped up the crevices in the wall of his crib with mud; he had a weak chest and detested draughts. Nicholas, a second Hercules, loved fresh air, and despised the elements. He smashed the few of his window panes that had remained intact.

Felice Trapero, who had acquired a taste for art while serving as a model in his younger days for various Roman daubers and female American art-students, covered his walls with crude representations of nude women drawn in charcoal. His work was much applauded by the others. But he smiled in a superior fashion when they praised him. He was not a vain man, and his ignorance was a form of wisdom when compared with theirs.

Sachmeyer, on the other hand, was prodigiously conceited. He thought himself deserving of men's attention and women's worship. He boasted that he had been imprisoned in three European capitals for bigamy. He was forty-seven years old, and he still feared, or hoped, to be imprisoned somewhere or other for bigamy again. He declared and believed it to be a noble crime, because he had heard somewhere that thousands of women die spinsters every year.

Inch'i Chen was never permitted to enter the house. He slept behind a ruined fish-basket in a corner of the verandah which the termites had not yet attacked.

Juanita Vallejo kept house for the partners, She was a kind-hearted woman, and, when opportunity offered of doing so without being observed, she fed Ineh'i Chen with stale scraps from her pantry. Her husband beat her whenever he caught her defrauding the partnership in such a fashion. Trapero and Sachmeyer, unable or unwilling to visit their resentment on Juanita, kicked Inch'i Chen. Nicholas was no less parsimonious than his companions, but he was lazier than they, and never kicked Inch'i Chen unless the cripple got in his way. His indolence, however, was improperly interpreted by the half-breed. Inch'i Chen was foolish enough to imagine that the giant spared him out of pity, and he loved him in consequence with the devotion that a dog bears to its master; his affection being constantly fed by contemplation of the enormous size an d strength of Nicholas.

"For," thought he, "this man might kill me at a blow, and though I anger him he does not touch me!"

Being a dreamer of dreams, he set up a stick on a lonely part of the beach, which he ornamented with rags and feathers as the Malays do their fetish-poles, and this he worshipped by the name of Nicholas. Inch'i Chen was a fool; but he alone of all the party was not a scoundrel.

Sachmeyer's record has been described. Manoel Vallejo had poisoned his wife's lover at Valencia, for he was not even sufficiently courageous (although a Spaniard) to creep upon his rival in the dark and stab him in the back. Felice Trapero was wanted by the police of Colombo, Singapore, and other places, for various jewel robberies which he had engineered; while Nicholas had wound up his career as a music-hall strong man by crushing his manager almost to death in Montreal. That was seven years ago, and three of these years he had served in gaol. Most of the balance he had employed in searching the world for the man whom he had failed to kill. But Providence had favored his enemy, and Nicholas had at length abandoned the quest in the hope of making a fortune out of pearls. Sachmeyer had picked him up somewhere in the Persian Gulf after he had served his apprenticeship, and had already acquired fame as one of the best divers on the coast. But Nicholas had there been working for a master at a wage, and the wily Hollander persuaded him to try Thursday Island, as his partner. On the way thither the pair had fallen in with Vallejo and Trapero, whom Sachmeyer had induced to buy into the venture, and so had the Scum of the Earth Company been formed.

Juanita Vallejo was sallow, lean, and thirty, but her eyes were magnificently large and languorous, and nothing blacker has been seen in this world, except perhaps her hair. Before they had been settled a month on the Island her husband's partners were in love with her, in varying degrees, Sachmeyer wanted her because he was of lusty habit and she was the only white woman on the Island placed within his range or reach. He did not care for Japanese women. All others of European origin had insultingly flouted his advances. Even the ugly barmaid at the Hotel had on one occasion requested him to stand to leeward of her while he sipped his rum and when he failed to comply she pinched her nostrils be tween disdainful thumb and forefinger, wondering audibly why "furriners " always smelt of rancid grease. The fact is Sachmeyer was afflicted with a mad dog's aversion to water. It was not said he, that he was naturally filthy, but his father had perished of heart-disease under a shower, and he had taken the warning to heart.

Trapero's passion for Juanita was sincere and in some measure disinterested. He was ready to elope with her at any moment, and marry her after the divorce or not, as she preferred. He was, however afraid of Vallejo, and not wishing to share her former lover's fate, he honored her husband's hearth-stone and bided his time.

Nicholas was least in love of all three, and for that reason Juanita liked him the best. That was at first; but as the weeks passed, his magnificent proportions and god-like strength made her mad for him, and there were occasions when she felt she could not wait. Nicholas one night returned from their common drinking den in advance of his companions. It was so hot that he had thrown off his coat and bared his breast in order to obtain the full benefit of what breeze there was. Juanita behaved like a silly girl in her teens. The sight of his white marble-tinted skin thrilled her with such long-forgotten tremors that she swooned. When she recovered it was to find Vallejo dashing water in her face. Heaven, how she hated him! The difficulties that encompassed her intensified her hatred for the one man and inflamed her desire for the other.

The partners were always together. For one reason, they were despised and ostracised by the people amongst whom they dwelt. For a second, they profoundly distrusted each other, and their steadily accumulating stock of pearls and money was concealed in a spot known to all four. They could not bear to remain out of each other's sight for longer than ten minutes at a time. But Juanita had the cunning of her sex.

Three evenings later she skilfully contrived to persuade the partners that she had fallen a victim to the dreaded plague. Vallejo and Sachmeyer, overcome with terror, fled immediately to the saloon in order to pickle their interiors with rum against infection. Trapero, who truly cared for her, rushed hot-foot for a doctor. Nicholas, whose character she had studied with great success, did not move immediately. He was tired from his day's work, and his natural indolence detested the thought of seeking other quarters, although he recognised the necessity, and intended to desert the stricken woman soon. Before, however, he had collected energy to depart, the other men had vanished, and the woman stood before him with dishevelled streaming hair, laughing like a siren.

He believed she was mad, that the plague had already affected her brain, and, shaking with coward fears, he attempted to elude her. She tried to explain, but he would not listen. She followed, and finally she flung her arms around him, but he struck her to the ground and dashed away as though pursued by Furies.

The blow sealed the woman's love. After that she would have waded to his side through seas of blood. But Inch'i Chen saved her the trouble.

One day he took Nicholas a message, and that night the Greek treated his partners so lavishly to gin and rum that they suspected his generosity was the result of a mild sunstroke. But they drank all that he gave them, and when the sun arose Vallejo, Trapero, and Sachmeyer were still sleeping like drunken pigs, while Nicholas and Juanita, screaming with laughter, splashed each other's gleaming bodies in the surf, a hundred yards away.

Nicholas was a Greek; Juanita— a woman. The intrigue, therefore, was not suspected by the others for several months ; by which time the Scum of the Earth Company had amassed a considerable store of pearls, thanks to the wonderful strength and skill of the diver Nicholas.

Felice Trapero was the discoverer. His passion made him watchful and jealous, even of glances. Of those he intercepted several exchanged between the pair. Juanita, moreover, suddenly adopted the habit of occasionally repairing by night to the house of a Japanese woman in the neighborhood, for company's sake, she said. The Japanese lady was married and respectable.

Vallejo rested tranquilly indifferent; but Trapero was a lover. He noticed that Nicholas always retired earlier than usual on such occasions, and he knew that the window of Nicholas' room was nought but an open frame. He played the spy.

As he was an Italian, of mountain peasant origin he soon wished to kill his rival. But Nicholas was a giant, he a weakling. Unwilling to trust the issue to his unaided dagger, he awaited his opportunity, and the next time that Nicholas sneaked away to keep an assignation with Juanita, Trapero confided his discoveries to Vallejo and Sachmeyer.

Vallejo merely shrugged his shoulders. "Nicholas is our diver," he observed.

Sachmeyer, however, much to Trapero's delight, viewed the affair less philosophically. "He is a cursed villain; a treacherous rascal, unfit to live!" the Hollander declared.

In fact, Sachmeyer was furious. He had been stabbed in his weakest spot—self-love. For twelve months he had vainly endeavored to accomplish Juanita's seduction. The news, then, of the Greek's success filled his soul with gall.

"He is our diver," repeated Vallejo. "He has made us rich, and he will make us richer!"

"Are you or are you not a man of honor?" snapped Sachmeyer.

"As your friend, Manoel, whatever help I can give is yours to command," said Trapero. "My knife is at your disposal."

Vallejo blushed. He cared nothing for his wife. He had tired of her years ago, but he did not wish to appear contemptible. Moreover, the disinterested devotion of his friends touched him.

"I meant but to postpone my revenge for your sakes," he replied, with dignity.

Trapero brushed the suggestion aside. "We have enough," he said. "Besides, Nicholas is not the only diver in the world."

"I have some poison left," said Vallejo.

But Sachmeyer shook his head. "There is the woman and the law," he muttered, sagely. "She would know, and inform on you! These English doctors cut up corpses— no, that is too dangerous!"

Vallejo looked relieved. "Why should I not appeal to the law?" he demanded. "I could make him pay, I think!"

"Bah!" cried Trapero, "if it is money you want, there is his share of the treasure. Let us first kill him, and then divide it among us!"

"But how?"

"Come closer to me, you two, and I will breathe it in your ears! "

Inch'i Chen, who had been listening throughout, feigning sleep, heard no more, for the remainder of the colloquy was conducted in whispers. But even had he heard all, the cripple would have been very little the wiser, for they spoke in the Lingua Franca of the Levant, and he could only understand a word here and there of that bastard tongue. Instinct, however, taught him that there was a plot afoot against his beloved giant, and when the conspirators retired he quietly rose and slipped into the night. Ten minutes later he tried in his pigeon-English to make Nicholas understand that his life was imperilled. Juanita was greatly disturbed.

"There leaves a steam-boat to-morrow morning, mio caro," she said tenderly. "Let us kill them all to-night, rob them and depart! "

But Nicholas laughed loudly and kissed her on the lips. "I can take care of myself," he replied. "We will kill and rob them anon; they are not worth the trouble yet."

He was a pig-headed man, obstinate as a mule; and Juanita, who knew him as well as her mirror, said no more. But she thought of the spot where the partners' treasure lay hid— she had, herself unseen, watched them bury it—and she began to dream of the pleasures it could buy for her in Paris or Madrid. Juanita was growing rather tired of Nicholas. He was so lazy that he took no pains to keep her passion for him alive. He never even beat her.

On the next day, five minutes after Nicholas, clad in his immense, unwieldy helmet and diving-dress, had climbed over the boat side and sunk into the deep, his partners resumed their plotting.

Sachmeyer and Trapero wished to dispose of him forthwith, but Vallejo, animated with the soul of a skinflint, kept stolidly working at the pump, repeating ever and anon in answer to the protests of the others— "Mañana, mañana. He has not yet given us the signal to pull him up!"

Vallejo desired to make his victim slave until the last second. "Who knows?" thought he; "in his last hour he may send us a thousand pounds in pearls! "

Therefore, while Sachmeyer and Trapero fretted and chafed, anxious to get their ghastly business concluded, Vallejo toiled bravely at the pump, showing his white teeth in grins of wide triumphant malice each time a basket of shells was hauled aboard the dirty craft. But he often sighed ; Nicholas was a great diver. It was a cruel pity to lose him.

At length, however, the long-expected signal was given. Vallejo suppressed a groan of disgust. He had silently offered up three "Aves" for just one more basket— in vain!

His companions cried "At last!", and looked into each other's eyes.

Vallejo left the pump reluctantly and took a seat to face them.

"We shall never get another diver like him!" he muttered, dismally.

Inch'i Chen stared at his masters like one dazed. He did not at once understand what they were waiting for. But he saw the signal-rope jerk twice most violently, and he knew that Nicholas was asking for more air.

"Work de pum'— de pum'!" he cried, excitedly, his eyes starting almost out of his head— "Tuan Nick— he wan' air— air!"

Trapero gave him a look of warning. "Sit down!" he commanded.

But Inch'i Chen was desperate— the rope had jerked again. "You bad orang!" he shouted, and darted forward towards the pump.

Trapero stood up, and, lifting his hand, which held an iron bar, laid the cripple senseless in the thwarts. He sat down again and the others nodded approval. The faces of Vallejo and Trapero were set in fixed, wolfish grins. Now that the die was cast, both were enjoying themselves. Sachmeyer, however, looked unhappy. It was his first murder, and, callous as he was, he could not help pitying his victim.

Meanwhile Nicholas, standing on the ooze of the sea bed, had ceased jerking the signal-rope. He had realised his doom. Placing his crowbar between his knees, he stretched out his arms and, fumbling above his head, turned the stop cock of the pipe, so as to keep within his helmet what little air remained.

Nine out of ten would have already despaired or lost consciousness. Nicholas was the tenth. He had often held his breath for two minutes at a time in order to win trifling wagers. To save his life he might hold it for three. Seizing the life-line, he began surely but slowly to haul himself up. He knew that the murderers would never dare to cut that, because of the inquest that must inevitably be held on his remains and into the cause of death. He rather admired his partners. They were certainly clever scoundrels. His corpse would merely show that he had died of heart-failure or the breakage of some blood-vessel.

His corpse! But would it? Clever as his partners were, they had failed to reckon with his giant strength. Terribly weighted as he was, he rose, steadily, steadily. Not once did the rope slip through his desperately clutching fingers. He always rose. Finally his head, his monstrously encumbered head, emerged from the element, under the counter of the boat. Nicholas had already accomplished a feat worthy of Achilles. But it had brought him only a step farther from the grave. His helmet would as certainly accomplish his destruction as ever unless he could remove it. But without an assistant that was impossible.

Yes, he was doomed! His face, although he did not know it, was purple. In another second or two, or three, some artery must burst! Holding to the rope with one hand, he dashed his other, clenched, against the glass sight-piece of the helmet. In vain ! Then he remembered his crowbar. It was still tightly clutched between his knees. Stretching down he caught and drew it up. In another instant the glass shivered in his face; his left eye was destroyed for ever, his lips were slashed across, his nose was almost severed— but he breathed!

"What is that?" cried Vallejo, Sachmeyer and Trapero.

They sprang erect and instinctively drew their knives. The noise made by the breaking of the glass, had aroused them from a reverie. Nicholas caught the gunwale of the boat in his left hand and drew himself, with a sudden awful laugh, into their view. His right hand clutched his crowbar.

"Caramba!" shouted the Spaniard. Nicholas had swept his arm. Vallejo fell to the boards, howling frightfully; the bone of his right leg was splintered into fragments.

Nicholas swept his arm again.

"Donnerwetter!"shrieked the Hollander. He said no more, for he had been struck in the pit of the stomach, and he was dead.

For a third time Nicholas swept his arm. But Trapero, yelling with terror, stumbled backwards, and, in trying to avoid the bar, fell overboard. Unable to swim, he sank like a stone, just as Nicholas, with a last supreme effort, drew himself over the side and rolled into the bottom of the boat, where for the next hour he lay in a stupor of exhaustion beside the insensible body of the Spaniard. By that time Inch'i Chen, awaking from the effects of the blow with which Trapero had felled him, went to the Greek's assistance, and toilfully removed his helmet.

Nicholas thanked his benefactor with a scowl, and curtly ordered him to work the boat ashore. There arrived, they lifted out the unconscious Vallejo, and bore him between them to the yellow bungalow. "It might be dangerous," thought the Greek, "to leave him in the boat. He might awake and call for help and be heard!"

"Juanita!" shouted Nicholas.

There was no reply. Nicholas dropped the Spaniard on the verandah, and, watched timidly by Inch'i Chen, entered the house.

Juanita was not there. Impelled by a sort of brutish prescience, he rushed out into the compound where grew a little clump of banana trees. In the midst of the plantation the partners had buried their treasure. Nicholas came presently on an open hole, freshly dug. It was empty.

He staggered to the verandah, pale as death, trembling in every limb.  Then, shading his uninjured eye with his open palm, he looked seawards. Along and across a section of the horizon trailed a long line of sooty vapor. At the point where the smoke abruptly halted he saw the top of a funnel and a slender stick.

"Juanita!" he gasped. "Juanita!"

"Tuan! Oh, Tuan!" sighed Inch'i Chen, who had divined all, and was watching his master with eyes of anguished pity and affection.

But the giant had a grievance, and something to trample upon was at hand, revealed by the cripple's foolish sigh. Nicholas turned on the half-breed like a hunger-maddened beast.

"Take that!" he shrieked. "And that!"

______________

5: The Bookshop

Capel Boake

(Doris Boake Kerr, 1889-1944)

Weekly Times (Vic.), 14 Jan 1922

Doris Boake Kerr

ANNE ALEXANDER looked around her with a sense of satisfaction. It was a quaint little shop she had happened on, with a tiny, narrow window through which she could catch a glimpse of the corner of the opposite street and the red and blue signboard swinging above the draper's shop. When she sat at the counter and looked out it was just like watching figures pass in a cinematograph show. They seemed to come from nothing and vanish into nothing. She saw them for a moment, and then they were no more, unless of course she liked to get up and go to the door; but this would have spoilt the whole illusion. She liked that sense of stories begun and never completed, and it pleased her to fit her own fancies to the people who hurried by.

The stout gentleman with a tightly-buttoned waistcoat and the white spats, who passed every morning at eleven o'clock, would have been considerably astonished if he had known the romantic story the little girl in the bookshop opposite had woven around him; but then one has to do something to pass the time when one keeps a second-hand bookshop to which business simply refuses to come.

Anne had always longed to possess a second-hand, bookshop of her own. It had always been one of her chief pleasures to poke about in them in the quest for treasures, which, however, she never found. Her father had taught her, as a child, to love books, and when he died and left her with a capital of three hundred pounds and an income of one pound a week, it seemed to her like a special act of a beneficent Providence that old Franzi Rignhold should want to sell his business for exactly that sum.

Within two days the three hundred pounds had changed hands, and Anne Alexander was the proud possessor of Franzi Rignhold's second-hand bookshop.

It was rather alarming to find, when she came to add up her first week's profit and loss, that she had only taken twelve shillings in cash, of which she had given five away to beggars who had come to the door with a story about six children starving at home and a wife— or a husband as the case might be— dying in the hospital, and was the poorer for the loss of four books stolen from the sixpenny box outside.

Still, to counter-balance this, there were all the charming friends she had made. The boys from the college close by who came to sell their text books; the old lady with the bonnet and mantle who had a craze for collecting Bibles, and came every day to see if she had an original edition of the time of King James; and the courtly old gentleman with the long frock coat and white beard who called Anne "Madam," and gravely discussed archaeology with her. Anne knew nothing whatever about archaeology, but that did not prevent her discussing it, and she felt flattered when the old gentleman complimented her on her knowledge.

"Such erudition, Madam, in one so young astounds me," he said. It was rather a shock to discover later that this courtly old gentleman was in the habit of concealing books beneath his coat-tails. However she put this down to an amiable idiosyncrasy on his part, though she nevertheless took the precaution of removing all loose books beyond his reach.

Besides Anne, the bookshop had to support Janet. Janet was some sort of a relation of Anne's— they had never been able to work out exactly what relation, the effort was too exhaustfng— and she had come to look after the housekeeping, as Anne had expected to be so engaged with her large financial operations as to have no time for domestic worries. Janet was thirty-five, though she looked fifty, and was a persistent pessimist. For Janet no cloud ever had a silver lining; it was always sable on both sides. Janet did not approve of Anne's venture, and predicted disaster for it.

"Why books?" she said. "And if you must have books, why second-hand books? Couldn't you sell new ones instead? Nice clean ones without a smell?"

Anne sighed. Sometimes she found Janet rather tiring. There were so many things she did not approve of, such as too much laughter, which she said gave her a headache; fresh air, which gave her a cold; and flowers, which she said only made a mess about the place. She really belonged to an age of antimacassars and German oleographs, and Anne was sometimes tempted to wish that she had never left it. Still, she had to admit that Janet was a thorough housewife, and she supposed that was a virtue. She could hear her now banging things about in the little sitting-room at the back of the shop, and raising a great dust. Anne sighed again— she hated dust— and leant her elbows on the counter.

"Oh," she said aloud, "if only something, interesting would happen!"

As she spoke the shop door opened with the protesting squeak it always gave and a young man entered. He had bright blue eyes, and was dressed in a grey Norfolk suit that had evidently seen better days a long time ago. Under his arm he carried a large book which he thumped down on the counter.

"Why, hullo," he said, expressing some surprise as he saw a stranger. "Where's old Franzi?"

For answer Anne twinkled at him. Then she looked grave. She remembered that young persons behind shop counters do not twinkle at young men, even though they are particularly nice young men with merry blue eyes.

"Mr Rignhold is not here," she said with dignity.

"Gone for a holiday, has he? Not before he wanted it, poor old chap. You're the assistant, I suppose? Well, I say."

He leant confidentially across the counter.

"You can fix me up. I want a loan of a pound on this book. Old Franzi would give it like a shot if he was here. He's often lent me money on it. It's a valuable book, you know, and I believe the old rascal used to hope I wouldn't be able to redeem it some time."

Anne looked taken aback. Her idea of business had not included lending a pound to any strange young man who came in and demanded it, even though he left a valuable book behind. Besides, she was doubtful as to whether she had a pound in the till.

"What's the matter?" asked the young man. "You needn't be frightened of getting into trouble with old Franzi. I'll bring back the pound all right. I wouldn't lose that book for anything. Hurry up, there's a good girl. I must have the money."

Anne took up the book and turned the leaves uncertainly. It certainly looked valuable, and she wanted to oblige the young man if she could, as he was evidently so desperately In need of the money. She could, of course, tell him that old Franzi was no longer the owner of the shop, but then in that case he probably would not take the money. He did not look the sort of man who would borrow from a woman. She made up her mind. Opening the till, she counted out twenty shillings— the last shilling had to be made up of coppers— which she handed to him.

"Thanks," he said gratefully, as he jingled the coins into his pocket. "Thanks for making it seem such a lot. By the way," he added, "you'll want my name in case old Franzi comes back. It's Donald McLean. But," he waved his hand, "Franzi will recognise the book."

He laughed, the door banged behind him,and he was gone.

Anne sat down at the counter so that she could see him when he passed the corner of the street. He had a quick, alert step and carried himself well.  Altogether he was a decidedly presentable young man. She was glad she had lent him that pound.

"Humph!" said a disapproving voice behind her. "So that's the way you do business! Giving money away to the first good-looking young man who comes along and asks for it."

"My dear Janet." Anne tried to speak with, smooth dignity, though the flush on her cheeks showed she was rather discomposed that Janet should have overheard the transaction. "You don't understand. That was a perfectly legitimate business deal. As a matter of fact, I hope he won't come back with the money. I would rather keep the book. It is extremely valuable. The plates alone are worth a guinea each, and there are thirty of them."

"A lot of rubbish," said Janet, looking at the hook with unconcealed scorn. "I suppose he wanted to get rid of it. I just came in to tell you," she went on, "that the bath wants mending and we'll have to get a plumber in. There's always something," she added gloomily.

NEARLY a fortnight passed before Donald McLean came to redeem his book, and Anne had almost given up hope of seeing him again. Her own inner doubts had not been helped by the predictions of Janet, who was obviously hoping for the worst.

"He's probably stolen it somewhere," she remarked when Anne, more to reassure herself than anything else, pointed out again the value of the book.

"The next thing will be a visit from the police, I suppose."

It was in the evening when Donald came. Anne was writing at the counter while Janet was sewing in the little room at the back of the shop. Anne could see her shadow through the glass door which separated the two.

"Hullo," said Donald, cheerfully.

"Good evening," returned Anne rather primly. She was conscious of the disapproving figure of Janet in the background, and Janet always had the effect of making her feel prim.

"How will you have It?" Donald went on, as he spread twenty shillings on the counter. "In notes or gold?"

Anne's air was severely business-like as she gathered up the money and handed him his book. Then she waited for him to go.

But Donald seemed in no hurry to leave. He leant easily against the counter, and his attitude seemed to say that, he was willing to stay there for ever if necessary. Anne glanced uneasily behind her. She had heard the murmur of voices and wondered whom Janet was talking to. Then she dismissed the matter from her mind with the consoling thought that so long as Janet was talking to someone else she could not be watching her.

"What do you do here all day?" asked the young man, conversationally. "Don't you find it a bit slow?"

"Slow? Certainly not," said Anne, indignantly. Now that Janet was otherwise engaged she felt more at ease with him. "I read, and when I get tired of that I watch the people outside and try and guess what they are and what they do."

"That sounds rather a fascinating game," remarked Donald. "How do your guesses pan out?"

"Well, I don't know," replied Anne doubtfully. "You see, I've not been able to test them."

"Let's begin now," said the other. "What do you think I am?"

"What are you?" Anne looked him up and down, and hesitated. Then the untidy Norfolk suit decided her. "I think you might be a poet," she said.

"Good Lord!" His face fell. "Do I look as bad as that?"

"But," protested Anne, "I always thought a poet was a nice sort of person."

"My dear girl," said Donald gloomily, "have you ever seen one?"

Anne shook her head.

"Well," he said, "I have."

He stared moodily at the toes of his boots and looked so depressed that Anne faltered an apology.

"Oh, it's all right," he said sadly, "you couldn't know. As a matter of fact," he went on, "I am a poet— of sorts, but I don't want to look like one."

"I think you're the most ridiculous person I've ever met," said Anne, unaccountably annoyed with him. "If you are a poet you ought to be proud of it."

"No one could be proud of my poetry," sighed the young man. "One of these days I will bring in my last little booklet and read it aloud— just to punish you!"

But Anne refused to carry on the conversation. She suspected him of teasing her, and Anne was young enough to dislike being teased. Nevertheless she felt curiosity enough to go through the files of the weekly papers in which she saw his name attached to verses and stories, and discovered that his poetry really was poetry. He came often after that. In fact, he came every day and sometimes twice a day.

Anne grew to look for his coming, but, unfortunately, Janet felt a strong distrust of him, no doubt engendered by that first monetary transaction. She looked at him with a cold and suspicious eye, which had the effect of reducing him to silence and generally lead to his utter defeat and rout. Janet was not always there, however. Latterly, to Anne's unbounded surprise, she often went out in the evening, returning, a little flushed, perhaps, but more taciturn than ever. Anne wondered where she went to, but was too much In awe of Janet to question her.

"I do hope nothing is wrong with Janet," she said to Donald one evening. "She is always out lately, and when she comes in she looks so queer. I hope she's not ill, but I'm frightened to ask her."

"She's all right," returned Donald, easily. "But don't let us talk about her."

He swung himself on to the counter and looked down at Anne.

"I say," he said, "I am glad old Franzi went away for a holiday. It was rather a sporting thing to leave you in charge."

Anne looked demure, but said nothing.

"You know," he went on, "I nearly bought this place once. At least, when I say I nearly bought it, I mean I would have bought it if I had had the necessary cash. Franzi wanted £300 for it, but I only had £3 at the time. I tried to solve the problem, but the two sums wouldn't meet, so I had to give it up. It is rather a jolly little place."  He looked round approvingly.  "I've always wanted to run a second-hand bookshop. I feel I've got a flair for it."

"Have you?" said Anne.

"Yes. Well, who knows? I may own this place some day. If I ever do I could offer you a permanent job."

"Could you?" said Anne. Her voice was non-committal, but her face looked a little flushed and her eyes were shining.

"Yes, I could. Would you like that?"

"Perhaps." He looked at her keenly.

"Anything wrong?" he asked.

"Wrong?" repeated Anne, gazing at him with wide and innocent eyes. "Certainly not. Why?"

"Oh, nothing," He moved a little uneasily. "Only your conversation seems a little— limited. There's not the ceaseless flow I've been used to."

"But you held the floor," said Anne, I was only acting as an occasional chorus. Anyway," she went on hastily, as he was about to interrupt, "Janet might come in at any moment and she doesn't like to see me talking to strange young men."

"Strange young men! But dash it all, you can't call me a strange young man. Why, you lent me a pound the first time you saw me. An action like that establishes an Intimacy at once. Life can never be the same again, and all that sort of thing."

"I wonder," said Anne, looking at him reflectively, "if you can ever be serious?"

"Serious? Of course I can. I've been trying to be serious all the evening, but I never seemed able to get the opportunity. Listen, little girl—" He laid his hand over hers. "Do you think— " He paused and cleared his throat; for a poet he was singularly inarticulate. "Do you think," he began again, "you could like me a little?"

"Well, perhaps I could." She looked at him from under her long eyelashes. "Just a little."

"But—" He cleared the counter and stood by her side. "That's not what I really meant," he whispered. "I don't want you to like me. I want you to love me."

Anne gave a tremulous little laugh.

"That's just what I want you to do to me," she said softly.

It was Anne who remembered first that they were standing in the shop with a window looking onto the street, and drew away from his embrace.

"Donald," she said rather timidly, when she had quite recovered herself, "Did you really mean it when you said you would like to own this place?"

"Of course I did. Wouldn't it be jolly," he went on, "if I could save up enough money to buy it? I would rather like to live here— with you."

"Donald." Anne's voice sounded a littlo breathless. "I've got something to confess to you, but don't be angry with me. Oh, please don't be angry with me. I own this place. I bought it from old Franzi. He's in Germany by this time."

"Well, I'm jiggered!"

Donald stared at her in amazement, then threw back his head and burst into a shout of laughter.

"What a game you've had with me, and what a blatant ass I must have seemed, boasting about what I was going to do."

"No you didn't. Only it made me a bit uneasy, because I knew some time you must find out, and I was afraid you'd be angry."

Her face lit up and she looked at him eagerly.

"Donald," she said, "would you really and truly like to live here when we're married? We could, you know, and I would love to. But— there's Janet."

"So there is," he agreed gloomily. "I'd forgotten her for the moment. Janet certainly seems to be a bit superfluous. What are we going to do about Janet?"

"You needn't worry about Janet," said an icy voice. They turned with a guilty start, horror in their eyes. Janet was standing In the door of the shop, a peculiar expression on her face.

"You needn't worry about me," she repeated. "I am going to be married."

"Married!" gasped Anne. She put her hand to her head. For the moment she thought she must be dreaming.

"Who to?" she asked weakly.

"To Mr Brown."

"Mr Brown?" repeated Anne. "Janet, you can't mean you are going to marry Mr Brown? Mr Brown sounds so— so indefinite. Who is Mr Brown?"

"Mr Brown is the gentleman who came to mend the bath," explained Janet coldly.

"Oh, Janet, not— not the plumber?"

"And why not?" asked Janet grimly. "Better to marry a plumber than a poet, I should say," she added, with a cold eye on Donald who was trying unsuccessfully to look as though he was not there. With an air that defied them both she stalked into the inner room, while Anne leant against the counter helpless with laughter.

"Oh, Donald," she said, when at last she could speak, "I wish you could have seen your face when Janet was breaking the news to us. Why, where are you going?" she I asked, as Donald made a move towards I the door.

"I am going," he said, "to find that plumber and shake him by the hand."

____________________

6: The Footprint

G. G. Pendarves

Gladys Gordon, 1885-1938

Weird Tales, May 1930

I HAVE very little hope that you will understand, still less believe this incredible adventure that poor Jerry and I went through only a year ago. But if I write it all down perhaps the memory that haunts me, sleeping or waking, will fade from my tortured mind. They think here that l am mad! And I am afraid that I really shall go mad soon, if no one will believe this true and frightful story.

Jerry Nicholls and I were at Dawlish University together, as close pals as two young enthusiasts could be, and shared everything from our views on evolution to a teapot with a broken spout.

It was in our third year that Jerry’s grandfather died; and, being the last of the Nicholls and the sole heir to the old man’s property, of course Jerry was bound to appear at the funeral.

I heard nothing from him until two weeks later, when this letter arrived on the last day of term:

For the Lord’s sake, Frank, come down to this beastly hole! I can’t start with you immediately for Switzerland, according to plan, because of all the business connected with this rotten old estate. Come at once. A few more nights alone in this howling wilderness will turn me gray.

JERRY.

That was enough for me. I stuffed a wet sponge and a few more pairs of socks into an already bursting suitcase, tied an extra bit of string round it, and caught the next. train going north.

Jerry was waiting at Doon station, and his face lit up with a grin of delight as he gripped my hand. We walked home across the marshland, and poor Jerry fairly babbled all the way. He had been so lonely that he couldn’t talk fast enough.

Doone House was the center and soul of a gray, solitary world. Built of the dark ironstone peculiar to that dreary district, it stood at one entrance to a long, narrow ravine known as Blackstone Cut, whose frowning rocky walls opened out at the farther end on a limitless waste of moor and bog.

The first time I saw it, Blackstone Cut looked to me like a road to hell. It looked like a road to hell, and so it was ... for Jerry and I trod that road, and Jerry still...

I can’t tell this story as I should. The horror of it is too vivid, the hell of which I speak too near for me to write calmly and clearly. But try, try to believe me!

2

"YOU'VE noticed it too!" Jerry said a few days later. "Nasty atmosphere in this house, isn’t there?" He hesitated, then went on abruptly. "I’m not proud of my progenitors, and Grandfather—well, dead or not, he was as near a devil as any human being could be, and still be human.”’

I laughed with some embarrassment and murmured something about the old man being gone now.

Jerry got up from the luncheon table and stared moodily, hands in his pockets, at the driving rain against the window-panes. "Grandfather may be gone, but he’s not gone far!"

"What on earth—" I began.

"No, not on earth— in hell!" Jerry replied. "He’s waiting there for his dutiful grandson to join him. It would spoil his pleasure completely to know that I had escaped him in the end."

I stared dumfounded at this outburst from Jerry. The suppressed bitterness of years was in his voice, and his face was a mask of hate. He came back to the table and sat heavily down in his chair again, his dark eyes smoldering.

"You don’t know— you can’t understand what it has been all these years. On the one hand, Dawlish; on the other hand, Grandfather! The long fight to hold out against him! The knowledge deep down within me that some day, sooner or later, he would win."

“Win!" I echoed feebly.

"Win, yes, win out against the college and all that it stood for to me. He was forced to send me to Dawlish; my father’s will provided for net, but he meant to win in the end."

"Your grandfather wanted you to be—to be—er—”

"To be the sort of beast he himself was," finished Jerry. "That’s exactly what he wanted. I was destined to carry on his experiments, you see."

I didn’t see in the least, and waited dumbly for Jerry to explain. However, he jumped up suddenly, his face lit with his old familiar grin.

“Come on, Frank! I’ve got the blues today, and you’ll be pushing off on the next train if I’m not careful! I’ve got something to show you— come on!"

He hooked his arm in mine affectionately and steered me up dismal stairways and along endless corridors, whose closed doors made me shiver; I felt that each door opened as we passed and that leering faces peeped after us.

Jerry caught me looking back and tightened his grip on my arm.

"Horrid sensation, isn’t it? That’s an old trick of my grandfather’s. He used to punish me when I was a youngster by making me walk up and down these corridors at dusk. There’s no one there, really! I’m used to it; the performance is for your benefit now."

“My benefit!" I gasped. "Look here, Jerry, what’s come over you? What kind of tricks do you mean?”

"What kind of tricks? Oh, hypnotism partly, and partly— something else!" said Jerry. "I tell you he was a devil— a devil! And he’s still here trying to get me.”

"He’s dead, Jerry!" I protested, “If you get to imagining things like this you’ll be in a straitjacket before you know it! He’s dead and gone now."

"He’s not gone far," repeated Jerry obstinately.

“You’re talking absolute rot," I answered hotly. "The sooner you get out of this damned hole the better! What do you suppose the fellows would say if they knew you believed such bunkum?"

“It may be rot," he said slowly. “I try to persuade myself that I think so too."

"Of course it is," I assured him heartily. "Wait till you’re climbing the Alps next month! You'll laugh at all these nightmares.”

His face cleared still more. "Two weeks more and we shall be in Switzerland! I shall have escaped once and for all from this old dungeon, and— him." His voice sank involuntarily, and he glanced round as if he expected to see a visible challenge to his words.

"Free!" he repeated in a defiant voice, and only the moan of the wind and the dripping rain answered him.

3

"THIS is what I wanted to show you.” Jerry’s voice was eager as he opened a door at the top of the house and led the way into a huge, dim room under the roof, where great rafters stretched overhead, and a shining wood floor mirrored them in its polished surface.

The walls, from ceiling to floor, were lined with books.

“My word, Jerry!" I said, in an awed voice. "What a stunning library !"

"I thought you’d appreciate it," he said, enjoying my surprize. "The Nicholls’ were famous for their love of learning, among other less pleasing vices. This little lot has taken some hundreds of years to collect."

For some time I browsed among the shelves, bewildered at the immense choice they offered. Jerry left me to my own devices, and it was some hours later when I looked up to see him in a distant corner of the vast attic room.

“What’s your latest fairy-tale?" I called out as I went over to him.

Poor old Jerry! I can see him now, as he looked up at me, his eyes blazing with excitement and interest. He was dangerously enthusiastic, and liable to get right off his track when anything gripped him really hard.

“I’ve never noticed this book before!" and his voice was queer and husky. "It’s not even catalogued; but here it is cheek by jowl with good old Fabre!" He laughed on a high, excited note. "Bit of a contrast— what?"

I took the book from him. If I had known— oh, if I had only guessed what that harmless-looking book was going to mean to Jerry and me, I’d have cut off my hand before touching it. Instinct indeed! Why, our instincts simply lay down and went to sleep, while Jerry and I gamboled light-heartedly across the threshold to hell.

The book was written by a certain Count von Gheist, and at first it appeared to be a sort of skit on various dreamers and mystics of past centuries.

That was the trap— the cynical baffling style in which von Gheist approached his subject. Jerry and I sat side by side in one of the deep window-seats and chuckled delightedly over the early chapters— the gay malicious way in which the author exposed the ignorance of famous charlatans of old

Subtly and imperceptibly, by cunning, devious routes, von Gheist merged his style from the cynical to one of deadly earnestness, which finally gripped me as strongly as it had Jerry.

The book is burned to ashes now; I did that after Jerry— after Jerry— No, that comes later!

What a blind, ignorant fool I was! For him, with his grim childhood in that cursed house, there was a reason and excuse for weakness. For me there was no such excuse. I might have warned and guarded him from that seeking devil that reached up out of hell.

Jerry! Jerry! Where are you now?

4

IT was Jerry who first put our thoughts into words, as we sat one evening before the red glow of a log fire, after a prolonged discussion of von Gheist’s theories.

"It’s a full moon on Friday, you know!"

I nodded; the same idea had been in my mind all day.

“It would be rather a joke, wouldn’t it?" he went on, trying hard to camouflage his real earnestness.

Again I nodded; the same consuming desire burnt in my breast as, in his. To try it out! To prove von Gheist’s words— to test that final superb claim of his!

In cold blood, reading this, you will say we were fools, and worse than fools. But you have never lived at Doone House, never heard the voices that whisper and call when night falls on Blackstone Cut, never seen the faces in the dim corridors that vanish at a look or cry.

Above all, you have never imagined a creature as vile as Jerry’s grandfather, or been caught in the mesh of his deviltries. And here I warn you, as you value your immortal soul, never to enter Doone House, for you can not hope to escape him there.

He is dead and gone— but he is not gone far! Jerry was right, horribly right, when he said that.

"After all, there is no reason why such experiments should be out of reach," Jerry continued. "We can project sight and sound to vast distances, and these are purely human and physical attributes. Why not the intelligence which directs our bodies? If we could direct our minds as von Gheist did his, we could give a tremendous jolt to science!"

"It appears to be chiefly a matter of concentration."

"Yes," replied Jerry. "That more or less spectacular ceremony he mentions is merely a means von Gheist suggests to fix the will-power."

"I don’t quite see—" I began.

“Of course not," interrupted Jerry. "That’s why we ought to experiment! Von Gheist says plainly that his experiences may only serve to baffle other experimenters. Reaction varies according to the intelligence and will. Fear, he says, is the one great deterrent."

My mind went off suddenly at a tangent. "What kind of experiments did your grandfather make?” I asked,

Jerry frowned, and kicked a log into flame. "Why, he believed in all the people that von Gheist ridicules— Paracelsus, Lully, Count Raymond, Dr. Dee and all the rest. His experiments were all along their lines, more or less. I think—”

"Well, go on! What do you think?"

"I think he really did achieve unholy power by some means or other. But since reading this book I don’t feel quite the same about Grandfather as I did. He seems farther away now; it’s like a weight slipping from my neck."

As he spoke, my glance caught a very strange effect of light and shadow cast by the dancing flames of the log fire— a tall, wavering outline beside Jerry’s chair, which swayed in a horrible semblance of mirth, while the rain and wind hissed savagely in the old chimney.

The dog saw something there too; for he got to his feet, growling, his teeth bared, as he stared at that moving shadow.

“Quiet!" said Jerry, lightly cuffing the animal’s head. "There aren’t any rats here, old fellow!" Then catching sight of my face, "Why, what’s wrong, Frank? You’re absolutely green!"

I blinked my eyes, feeling remarkably foolish as a great log broke and roared in an upward stream of flame and sparks, and the shadow I had seen vanished in the clear red light which bathed the hearth. Inwardly I cursed myself for an imaginative fool, and told Jerry I had a rather bad twinge of neuralgia.

"No wonder, in this damp old tomb of a house,”’ he said. "Poor old chap, this is no picnic for you!”

“Oh, don’t rot!" I answered gruffly, my nerves still jumping from the effect of that momentary terror I had experienced.

5

WE SPENT the next few days like two kids in expectation of Christmas. Looking back now, I see so clearly the warnings given me that we were on a dangerous road, but at the time I purposely ignored them; for I was dull and bored at Doone House, and our coming experiment proniised relief from the monotony of the long wet days and quiet nights.

Friday night came at last. A high wind drove off the rain-clouds, and a full moon lit Blackstone Cut from end to end, as we climbed up the stairs to the library, shut out the terrier, locked all the doors, and prepared to follow the directions given by von Gheist.

Jerry won the toss, and was therefore first to make the experiment.

I sat in a window-bay to watch. In the stillness of the great library every sound was exaggerated, and the howl of the wind and the whining of the dog outside the locked door got on my nerves at first. Then Jerry’s preparations absorbed all my attention.

I laughed inwardly at his childlike absorption in drawing the cireles and figures on the wood floor, referring with frowning intentness to von Gheist’s diagrams, but nevertheless I was impressed when all was ready and Jerry stood, erect and triumphant, in the midst of his braziers and touched the alderwood in each to flame with the burning torch in his hand.

All this mummery, I reflected, was childish in itself, but, taken as a means to absorb and concentrate the faculties, it certainly worked well.

Jerry was as completely withdrawn from his physical surroundings as a Buddhist who has attained Nirvana. I heard his low muttering voice repeat the words:

Phlagus! Taram! Zoth!

Founts of all knowledge, will, and power!

By the Wandering Bull, and the Four Horns of the Altar,

Pierce the veil of my darkness...

The wind dropped outside, and a queer heat began to invade the room. My skin felt dry as parchment; and when I saw Jerry raise a great goblet to his lips and drink deep, my own thirst tortured me.

Then I forgot everything as fear gripped me, for the things that were happening in that brazier-lit circle were not things of which von Gheist had written in his book!

Hell and heaven were to him merely fabrications of primitive man! Ghosts and devils he derided as the sick fancies of the unintelligent!

What, then, was it that Jerry saw as he stood with face convulsed with terror, and blazing eyes fixed on something within the circle— something from which he retreated step by step to the very edge of the fiery barrier he had made, and halted there like a man with his back to a wall?

“No! no! no!" I heard his low, agonized voice. "Not that, Grandfather!— not that!"

Panic seized me as I watched the despairing fear and loathing on dJerry’s face. What in the name of all that was evil did he see? Although I did not know what I feared, insensate terror shook the heart out of me and left me as helpless to move or speak as if I were paralyzed.

I tried to call out; my brain shrieked the words: "Jerry! Jerry! Hold on! hold on, I’m coming, Jerry!" But my cold, shaking lips refused to utter a syllable.

Dumb and powerless, I watched as he tried to beat off his enemy and escape from the maze of circles and pentacles he had drawn about himself, the net his own hands had made!

Within the glow of his fiery barrier, I saw his desperate eyes— his face wet with hideous effort, as he ran doubling here and there across his narrow prison, gasping, fighting, struggling blindly with the deadly Thing which pursued.

His eyes met mine, and from his twisted mouth came a hoarse, desperate appeal: "Break it! Break the circle!"

Something burst in my brain. I lurched forward and fell right across the outer circle of his prison, knocking over two braziers and smearing the diagrams in blind, clumsy haste.

The fires leaped up into sudden flame with a sound like crackling laughter, then died out completely, and Jerry and I found ourselves in a dark, silent room, our hands holding one another fast.

6

NEXT morning, after pacing restlessly up and down the long avenue to Doone House, Jerry came to sit beside me on a low, crumbling wall.

“You don’t understand, even now, Frank," he said. "I can’t escape because I have brought this on myself. It was all a trap— and I chose to enter the trap of my own free will; that’s what puts me within his grasp! I called him back to me. I opened the gate between the dead and the living with my own hands, last night."

I rubbed my red hair fretfully and scowled.

"I don’t believe it! You’re letting the past hypnotize you. You’ll soon forget all this when you get away from this cursed place."

"Can you forget?" he asked in a low, strange voice, his dark eyes burning into mine.

I hesitated for a moment and he took me up with passionate earnestness.

“You don’t— you can’t forget! You never will forget! It’s no use, Frank, old chap, I’m done!"

"Rot— absolute rot, you priceless fool! I don’t pretend to understand our experience last night, but I’m sure we worked ourselves up unnecessarily. There are some experiments one is wiser not to make, and apparently ours was one of them."

"Experiment!" echoed Jerry, "You realize, don’t you, who von Gheist was— and why he wrote that book?”

"He’s a most convincing rascal, at all events," I said. "And fooled us pretty thoroughly."

"My grandfather wrote that book! He left it as a last weapon for me to turn on myself!"

“Von Gheist— your grandfather?”

"Of course," Jerry replied, staring out over the desolate wind-swept arden. "That book was a trick after his own heart.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, feeling surly and baffled by my own new thoughts and fears. "But you'll go right off the deep end if you’re not jolly careful. Come away with me today and let that damned old lawyer whistle for you."

"I can’t" His voice was low and sullen.

"Meaning—?”

“I’m not allowed," he continued. “I’m not sure yet— if there’s a way out for me— I’m trying to discover."

"Well, for heaven’s sake let’s do something, not mope about the place like a couple of wet owls!"

"You won’t understand, I know," he answered reluctantly. "But I think— I feel pretty certain that I can’t pass the gates."

I stared at him, then broke out impatiently.

"What’s to prevent you walking out of your own gates? For the Lord’s sake, Jerry, are you quite off your head? I’m not going to stay if you don’t buck up. There is a limit, you know.”’ He looked as though I had struck him.

"Not stay with me!" He came close and stared wildly into my face. “I ’m going mad, d’you hear? Mad with fear! You can’t go! I won’t be left alone!" Tears softened the wild glare of his eyes, and I stood like the embarrassed fool that I was, pretending not to notice his emotion.

“Oh, all right!’? I managed to blurt out at last. "Don’t lose your wool about it. Ill stay; but its pretty thick if you’re going to moon round like this all the time.”’

“I know— oh, I know what a putrid time you’re having! I’ll make it up to you later— in Switzerland. If I can get there!" he added in an undertone.

Then he took my arm with a strange air of resolution, saying, “After all, now or later, it will be all the same in the end. We’ll go over to Hightown."

How little I guessed of the horror he was facing or of the ghastly effort it needed for him to leave that house and garden! I saw that he went white to the lips as we passed through the gates at the end of the long avenue, but I pretended not to notice his frequent glances over his shoulder.

He walked closer and closer to me, making no response to anything I said, edging me all the time against the wall on my other side. At last I offered to change places with him.

"You try the wall!" I laughed. "It’s a good hard one.”’

Then I glanced at the muddy road and stood staring in bewilderment. Jerry saw it at the same moment, and with a choking ery he lurched up against the wall.

For long we stared in fascinated horror at the colossal footprint there before us. I was shaken and puzzled, but Jerry’s fear was something beyond all words.

"He’s winning... winning! You see it now!" His voice rose to a wild note of hysteria. "If I don’t go back he’ll torment me for hours. It’s no use... no use."

He began slowly to drag himself back along the road, while I protested and argued hotly, until I turned to see that the impress of that infernal foot followed us back to the very gateway of Doone House.

My heart stood still as we walked up the gloomy avenue to see those awful footprints following— following to the hateful threshold of the house itself. And over the threshold they followed on. I saw how the dust of the neglected corridors rose and swirled in little eddies behind poor Jerry, as that vast Evil swept on in his wake.

He made for the library— that dim gorgeous antechamber to hell— and there, strangely enough, whatever it was that haunted Jerry withdrew For a long time the horror slid from his soul, leaving him cheerful and sanguine once more. Possibly certain hours were more favorable for the thing’s manifestation than others; but Jerry put aside his fears, and even made light of the visible signs of his grandfather’s power we had both witnessed so recently.

"It’s another of his tricks! I hope he’s exhausted himself this time. There is a limit to what he ean do. I'll come away with you tomorrow, and not give him another chance to get me!"

WE WENT late to bed, and I was just dropping off to sleep when I heard Jerry’s cry. Without stopping even for shoes, I dashed off along the corridor to his room. As I reached his door, he burst out with mad terror on his face, and ran past me like the wind.

I felt a suffocating sense of heat, and staggered back as from an open furnace door. Then, with no courage at all, but simply a blind instinct to follow, I went after Jerry.

As I ran, I saw that the carpet under my feet was scorched and blackened, and that the marks were identical in shape and size with those we had seen in the muddy road earlier that day.

On raced Jerry, a mad flying figure ahead! Down the big central staircase he went, across the tiled hall, and I heard the groan of bolts and bars as he tore open the great double-doors and fled out into the night.

And as I followed, I felt the burning heat under my bare feet—smelled the odor of charred wood as I stumbled over the threshold, and vaguely wondered if the house were on fire.

Outside, in the dark night, I saw Jerry running as though pursued by all the fiends of hell. And so he was... so he was! I know that now; but, then, I did not understand, and I ran after him, panting and cursing because he would not stop, or listen to my assurance that he was running from his own fears and nothing else!

On and on through the darkness raced Jerry. On and on I stumbled behind him— farther and farther behind, as the road grew rougher and steeper.

He headed for Blackstone Cut, and rushed on between its somber walls, keeping up an incredible speed until he approached the head of the ravine, where its rocky walls rose to great frowning crags— two grim guardians at the portals of hell.

To my amazement, Jerry began to climb the rocky face of one of the crags. His speed and sureness of foot were nothing short of miraculous, and only the madness of overmastering fear could have lent him wings to take that terrible way.

He looked like some crazy little insect crawling over the bare face of the rock, blindly seeking safety where none was to be found, clinging— leaping— running— scrambling on hands and knees, until he stood at last on the topmost height, a tiny frenzied figure against the sky.

But whatever pursued him, had pursued him even to his giddy eyrie; for I was near enough to see his wild gestures— his frantic repulsion of something at his side.

Oh, Jerry, if I had only overtaken you!— if I had not left you to fight that last awful fight up there alone!— alone with him!— it would be easier for me to think of you now.

But you were alone— most awfully alone— and so you lost, Jerry! Had Ibeen there, perhaps you would have won— perhaps you would have won! That thought is driving me mad— perhaps you would have won!

A high, thin scream of agony floated down to me from the heights. I saw Jerry leap out into the darkness and fall, turning and twisting with outflung limbs to the floor of the ravine.

HIS body was never found. The whole of Doone village turned out to hunt for him, but he was never found, and they said he had fallen into a bog and been swallowed up in the black ooze.

But I know better, for I found and followed the trail of those colossal footprints, and they led to a grassy hollow under the crag from which Jerry had flung himself down. The green of the hollow was charred and burned to the black earth itself, and there was no trace of Jerry— no trace of flesh or bone!

But there was something else which I recognized with terror. On the flat surface of a piece of granite, lying in the hollow, was a peculiar and significant mark roughly cut in the stone. It was the mark of von Gheist— the key to von Gheist’s great experiment with which poor Jerry had unlocked the door between the dead and the living.

The villagers of Doone shook their heads over me pityingly when I showed them the mark. They saw nothing in it, save the furrows caused by the fret of time and weather!

But I recognized it, and I remembered. I am going mad with remembering... and no one will believe me!

Jerry’s grandfather had won!

______________

7: The Secret Garden

Capel Boake

(Doris Boake Kerr, 1889-1944)

Australasian (Vic)  2 August 1919

Written shortly after the Great War, in which Australian forces (all volunteers) suffered heavy losses.  On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918, the Armistice ended World War 1, and the date is observed in Australia as Remembrance Day. The author was an Australian novelist, poet and short story writer.

MOST of us hold within our hearts a shrine, which keeps us always young. It may be only a memory of our childhood, a tender smile on the face of our friend, a chance sight of the sun setting behind tall city buildings, or the moon rising shrouded in mist above the brow of a bracken-covered hill. Whatever the picture we carry in our hearts, it is, in its subtle elusiveness, the very breath of romance.

Barbara O'Neil kept in her heart the story of a secret garden; but she was so busy pretending to be grown-up that she almost forgotten it was there. She had grown-up for quite a considerable time, although she was not so grown-up as she imagined. She did all the things that grown-up young ladies do; went to dances, led conscientiously; tried to save young men from doubtful courses by promising be a sister to them; and altogether outwardly acted in a very grown-up manner. But mixed with all this was a curious feeling of unreality. She did not really feel different than she had done as a child, when she wore socks and short frocks and was afraid of the dark and hated school  and grown-ups. She had an uneasy feeling that one day someone would come along and discover she was a fraud and not grown-up at all, even though she had her hair up, and had already refused two offers of marriage.

It was Bob who had seen the secret garden first. Bob was Barbara's brother, and perhaps because they were orphans they meant more to each other than brothers and sisters usually do. It was Bob who, when they were quite tiny little things, had shown her the secret garden. It was bounded by great hedges of cypress-trees, which grew so thick and close around it that no matter how they tried they could not see through into the garden. Above the close, dark hedges of this mysterious place they could just see the tops of two pine-trees. The secret garden was quite cut off from the world; but if you just went over the road, and through the tea-tree, there in front of you was the sea. They knew if they could only look inside they would find most wonderful things; but though there was a gate, the lock was too high up for their tiny hands to reach, and they were never able to enter the enchanted garden.

But this was half its charm, for at night an they were in bed and the lights were out, and the shadows on the floor grew darker and the moon looked in at them rough the window, and the tree outside tapped against the wall, they flew to their secret garden, where it was always light and where dwelt fairy princesses and the Sleeping Beauty, and all the dear things that live in children's imaginations. They were very secret about the garden, and only whispered to each other, for once they a told a grown-up, and though he was particularly nice grown-up, he had laughed, and immediately both children had been possessed of a feeling of shame, and hastily tried to disown the garden.

"Of course, it's only pretend," said Barbara loftily. "We know it's not real."

"Of course we do," echoed Bob. "We just pretend."

Having thus put the matter on a satisfactory footing for the grown-up, they exchanged a secret glance, for they knew their garden was the realest thing in the world, but they never trusted that grown-up again .

As they grew a little older the fairies vanished from the secret garden, and personalities began to take their place. Bob had his own ideas as to what lay beyond the closed gate and thick hedge, and Barbara had hers. Bob knew it was the happy hunting-ground where the souls of dead animals went, and he was sure that if he could see inside he would find the soul of his favourite dog, a mongrel of very mixed parentage, named Don, which Bob loved more than anything else in the world.

Where Don originated nobody knew; but he made a mysterious appearance one day on the back verandah, a large, ungainly figure of a dog, of a hideous ginger colour— a very awful ginger colour— wagging an inordinately long tail, and gazing at an unsympathetic world out of a pair of most pathetic-looking brown eyes. He seemed to know that he was uglier than the ugliest dog that ever lived, for he wore an apologetic expression, as though humbly , begging pardon for being on the earth. It was the eyes that chained Bob's heart to him. Don looked up at him and wagged his tail, and Bob was his for ever.

Don was treated with extreme coldness by the grown-ups of the family, for he seemed unable to remember that his vagabond existence was over, and would seize the family joint whenever the opportunity presented itself. One grown-up, whose objection to Don had reached the high-water mark of positive hatred, used to take him for long walks, then board a train or a tram, hoping thus to lose him, but Don always returned ah hour or two later, so confident that everyone would be pleased to see him that the heart of even the sternest grown-up would melt. But Don was a child of destiny. Not for nothing were those brown eyes of his so pathetic. He met a sudden and violent end. In those days dogs had not become acclimatised to motor-cars, and one of these strange monsters, coming suddenly round a corner, struck Don on the head as he was careening joyously along the road after Bob. He died in Bob's arms, looking at him lovingly, and trying to lick Bob's face, down which the tears were streaming— though Bob thought it girlish to cry— and thumping the ground feebly with his ridiculously long tail.

Don's soul immediately went to inhabit the secret garden, and at night Bob, choking down his sobs, would tell Barbara how happy he was, running about the garden, jumping on the flower-beds, with no one to tell him to get off, or to scold him, or call him an ugly brute, because his body was too big and lumpy and his tail too long, and his colour so very ginger.

Barbara's ideas as to what was in the garden were quite different. At one stage she peopled it with King Arthur and all his knights; another time it was the Roman soldier who died on duty at the gates of Pompeii; then it was Mary Queen of Scots. She was quite impartial. She even made it a home for Kitchener and Baden Powell; this was during the Boer war, and the children had been given mugs adorned with portraits of those two gallant soldiers, both looking very smug and pleased with themselves, and decorated with very bright colours. The mugs had been made, probably in Germany, for the portraits washed off with constant use, and Kitchener was left without a moustache and Baden Powell without a nose.

But then they got older and more self-conscious they never spoke to each other about the secret garden. Bob went to his school, and learnt to play football and cricket, and to be a man, while Barbara went to her school, and learnt to dance and play tennis, and be a proper young lady. Neither of them learnt very much else, for they were not very clever. Then the big war came, and Barbara stayed at home, and knitted socks for soldiers, and Bob went away to fight Germans, and at last to be killed by Germans in France.

They came to Barbara and told her that Bob, laughter-loving; casual, happy Bob, was dead, and for the first few days she refused to believe it. It was impossible that he should be dead! Others might die, but not Bob. Bob, who was so full of life and happiness; Bob, who had said good-bye to her so cheerily, with a "So long, old girl. See you again— some day." But at last she had to realise it, and for the first time Barbara knew what it was to shed real tears. Not childish tears or grown-up tears, but real human tears, that come straight from the heart and seem to tear it in pieces. The others left her alone; they were sorry for her, but they could not comfort her.

Unable to bear the restraint and the hushed atmosphere of the house any longer, she went out and down to the road winding along the beach, where they had played as children. At the corner, where two roads meet, she paused. It was here that Don had been killed, and she could see again Bob's small figure and grief-stricken face as he held him in his arms. She sighed as her mind flew back to those childhood days, and then, for the first time for years, she. consciously remembered the secret garden. It had lived in her heart, but she had tried not to think about it, for it seemed foolish and unreal to her grown-up mind; but now she felt that if only she could believe in its reality as she once had done it would bring some relief to her. Bob had said that one day they would see inside; but now that hope was gone, for Bob was dead and the garden did not exist. It was a dream, an illusion. Nothing was real without Bob.

She walked blindly on. She did not know where she was going or what she wanted to do; she only wanted to keep moving, so. that she might outdistance her thoughts. But as she walked the remembrance of the secret garden went with her, and then, just at the turn of the road where it cuts close to the cliff, she saw it again. It was as she remembered it, with, thick cypress hedges, waving pine-trees, and little closed gate. Just over the road was the sea, and to-day it was very quiet, only sighing a little as it broke against the cliff. She touched the hedges, and they were quite real, She touched the gate— now she was tall enough to unlatch the lock— opened it and walked in.

It was a garden, yet not a garden, for under the pine trees lay a thick carpet of pine needles on which one could rest, and there wee tea-trees, covered with starry-eyed blossoms, and broken twigs and boughs on the ground, and long, long grass, very ragged and untidy. There were deep shadows on the grass, and the sunlight was brighter and the shadows darker than ever she had seen outside. There was an old blue gum, rather twisted and torn about the trunk; not moody and mysterious like the pine trees. which held themselves aloof and whispered unfathomable secrets to each other, but dear and comfortable and friendly, like a homely friend who is always the same, and not tortured by temperamental moods. On one of its boughs sat a kookaburra. He looked at Barbara with almost parsonic gravity, and solemnly winked one eye. A blue wren and a redbreast flashed among the leaves, and a blackbird poured out a flood of melody.

It was all careless and sweet and untidy. There were no formal flower-beds, and the flowers grew just as they wished. There were purple and white violets growing among the grass, and yellow, white, and orange Iceland poppies, standing up very straight, and nodding to each other very gravely. In all this tangle of sweet confusion it did not surprise Barbara to see Bob coming, towards her, followed closely by the mongrel, Don.

"Hullo," said Bob, as she came up.

"Hullo," said Barbara, still not in the least surprised, though this was strange, for she knew Bob had been killed in France.

"So you've come at last," said Bob casually. Bob had always been a casual fellow. He had sauntered casually through life, and had met his death with the same casual, indifferent smile.

"Have you been expecting me?" asked Barbara, trying to attract Don's attention, who steadfastly refused to see her, and kept his brown eyes fixed on Bob's face.

"I've been trying to get you to come for a long time," answered Bob. "I wanted to show you what was really inside— you know what I mean— the secret garden."

"Its different from what I expected," said Barbara. "But I like it better all the same."

"It's all right," returned Bob emphatically. "Isn't it, Don, old fellow?" He snapped his fingers at the dog, who jumped up and tried to lick his face. "I always knew he was waiting here for me," he added.

"Why won't he come to me?" asked Barbara.

"He can't see you," answered Bob. "He can only see me. Ten years he waited for me. it must have been lonely for him all that time. I'm glad I came."

"Bob," said Barbara suddenly, "After we stopped talking about this— the secret garden did you ever think about it? Really think about it, I mean, so that you believed in it?"

"Why, yes," answered Bob, gazing at her wide-eyed. "Didn't you? I always knew it was waiting for me, and that one day I would get inside. I was going to speak to you about it that day I said good-bye. You remember. But you seemed so grown-up that I couldn't. But, of course, that was silly of me, for you weren't grown-up at all. You were only pretending."

"But I'm grown-up now," said Barbara with a sigh..

"No, you're not," answered Bob confidently. "You think you are, but you're not really. You've got your hair up of course, and wear long skirts, and do silly, grown-up things, and try to think silly, grown-up thoughts; but that's all pretence. You couldn't have come here if you'd been really grown-up."

"I m glad I'm not grown-up," said Barbara. "I never will grow up."

Bob laughed, and Barbara could hear the faint voice of the sea outside the garden, the ceaseless whispering of the pines, and smell the faint scent of violets.

"This is a dear place, Bob," she said, suddenly. "I'm glad you're here. But aren't you lonely?"

"Lonely?" scoffed Bob. "I'm not lonely. Why, I've heaps of company. Though you can't see them, all the boys who passed over in France are here, and more keep arriving every day."

"Are they here, Bob?" asked" Barbara, in a hushed voice.

"Yes, all around us," answered Bob.

"But why can't I see them? I can see you, so why can't I see the other boys?"

"Because you love me, I guess," said Bob cheerfully. "We are only real to the people who love us and remember us. When they forget us we cease to exist."

"Bob," asked Barbara, softly, "have many ceased to exist since— since you've been here?"

"A good many," said Bob. "Each morning someone has gone, and we know that someone has forgotten. The boys are lucky who have mothers to remember them, for mothers never forget; but sometimes others do."

"I won't forget, Bob," whispered Barbara, "I promise you I won't forget."'

"Then don't grow up, Barbara," said he, "because if you really grow up and think this is all pretence, I shall have no hold upon earth. I can only live in your heart."

"I won't grow up, Bob, dear, I won't grow up, and I will often come to the garden."

"Ah, no," said Bob, "you can't do that. It is not good for little girls to come to secret gardens too often. One day they might forget to back. You may never see this garden again, Barbara, so look at it well— then you will remember."

He took her to the gate, and before she opened it picked some violets and thrust them into her hand. "Take these with you." he said. "Take them from the real world into the unreal."

Then Barbara was left standing in the middle of the road, and the garden, with its cypress hedges and pine-trees had vanished. Her right hand was tightly clenched. She opened it, and for a moment smelt the faint fragrance of violets. Then it too vanished, and. she was left with nothing but the memory of what she had seen and heard. But, though she has never entered it again, the secret garden grows green in her heart. Once or twice she has fancied that she caught a glimpse of it in the clouds of a stormy autumn sky and once beyond a distant hill, but it was only the merest shadow, and faded away before she had realised it was there. But so long as she remembers it ever so faintly Bob lives still in the secret garden, where the grass grows long and green, and the shadows are so dark and the sunlight so bright.

____________

8: The Ghost Gavotte

Ethel Lina White

1876-1944

The Grand Magazine July 1909

Journal (Adelaide) 20 May 1916

Ethel Lina White

"YES, DOCTOR, fifteen proposals, and me not turned twenty! My! You should have seen the depot the day I left Chicago! Forty men fighting around our saloon to get a last spy at me! And— I'd refused every one of them!"

Virginia L. Pine sighed plaintively as she uttered her last words. Her inventions had not been artistic this afternoon. In her anxiety to strengthen her claims to distinction she had recklessly weakened her arithmetic. But Adam Aubroit's thin lips never relaxed to a smile as he looked at her pretty face and listened to her ingenuous lies. To the brain specialist she represented the interest of a "case."

A frown, however, gathered on his brow and from his perch in the musicians' gallery, he gazed down at the scene in the hall below. The vaulted roof echoed with wild merriment, and the Torquil portraits, dim and dark with age, seemed to be clearing the dust from their eyes as they, too, looked down on the revels. The house party, which was composed largely of flappers, was amusing itself by strenuous efforts to catch a small greased pig. The rain, which dashed against the great oriel window, was the cause of this ingenious device to escape boredom. In Aubroit's eyes it was the fitting climax of a distasteful week.

The specialist was a dealer in brains. The more damaged the article the keener his interest, but he abhorred the spectacle of no brains at all. Therefore, the young and frivolous guests gathered under the roof of Torquil Towers, although they excluded him from their extensive ragging, irritated his nerves by their high spirits.

Moreover, be personally disliked the American purchaser of Torquil Towers—Theophilus A. Pine, the soap king, who, despite the cleanly nature of the commodity be handled, had emerged from the labours of making his pile with considerably soiled hands and a besmirched name. But the crown of Aubriot's disappointment lay in the fact that the interesting case he had been detailed to watch was little better than a fraud.

It had sounded so promising when Cornelius Van Cruch, the doctor relative of the Pine family, had given him its details before handing over his cousin for the opinion of the specialist. Mrs. Pine had been even more emphatic in her statements.

"Yes, I know you don't go out as a rule," she had remarked. "They have to  come to you; but we don't mind what we pay, so long as you cure Virgie. She's only queer so far, but she'll end in being crazed. It's this way. When Poppa bought this place of those Torquils, Virgie was just set on all the old mouldy part of it. She got dreamy like, and mazed. She's wonderfully spry at music, and she started off to learn the spindle. Spinet? Yes, of course, spinet. Then she got into the way of playing minuets, and those old-fashioned dances. And there you have the whole trouble in a hickory nutshell!"

Aubriot proceeded to wind up the loquacious lady anew. "Well?" he had enquired, sympathetically.

"Well, you know, doctor, if you were to play a waltz for folk to dance you'd keep straight on, not troubling about anything so long as you kept the time. Virgie's not like that. When she starts playing one of those old dances she's got a notion she's playing to folk she cant see. To give them a name, I just call them 'spooks.' And she looks downright struck, and acts silly. She's getting worse every day. Cornelius calls her a real baffling case!"

Aubriot had looked forward to seeing Virginia. From what he had heard of her strange personality, springing from so sordid a stock as the parent Pines, he expected to find a throwback to a period before the sailing of the Mayflower. He was very forcibly struck by the idea of little American, uprooted from her brand-new surroundings, and planted into the venerable pile of Torquil Towers, finding her mind straying back into the past as, subconsciously, through the notes of her spinet, her spirit sought communion with the shades of departed generations.

The actual Virginia proved an electric shock. There was nothing of the dream maiden about her. Radically American, with scraps of surface veneer from every European capital daubed freely all over her, the whole French-polished by a Parisian education, she strongly reminded him of a black butterfly. It was true that her face, from which the hair frizzed back, was colorless, but her pallor was easily traceable to a very unpsychological cause— candy.

She was spoiled, self-centred, and neurotic, and Aubriot was inclined to attribute her supposed delusions to hysteria, engendered by indigestion, especially as he could see no signs to justify her parents fear of mental malady. Virginia was evidently shrewd enough to understand the value attached to the unknown, quantity, and resisted any attempt to be drawn regarding her claims to be an object of general interest. Aubriot looked at her now impatiently as she leaned forward, a delighted spectator of the pig hunt.

"Isn't that just cute?" she asked? "I'd like to join in, but it might give me palpitations." The next minute, with a squeal or laughter, she had rushed down into the fray, leaving Aubriot deep in reflection.

The result of his meditation he imparted later lo a council of three—Mrs. Pine, van Crouch, and Capt. Blair, R.N., one of the guests.

"You have had my opinion of your daughter this morning, Mrs. Pine, he said. "I believe her delusion is simply the result of hysteria, but, with her temperament, it is undoubtedly dangerous to allow it to take deeper root. I do not say your daughter is untruthful."

Blair raised his brows at the memory of Virginia's romances, but Aubriot took no notice.

"Your daughter apparently firmly believes," Aubriot continued, "that she plays for unseen dancers. Now, I want her to see them, and with your help, Capt. Blair, I think we can effect our object."

"I?" stammered the astonished young man.

"Yes, you. Young people are always on the qui vive for a fresh sensation. Give them one to-night— a ghost gavotte. Rig yourselves out in white, and don't the sparing of the powder. Dance on one of the lawns to her music. Miss Virginia is very sensitive to ridicule, and if it can be proved that she has simply been a victim of a practical joke, we shall hear no more about it."

Mrs. Pine scratched her nose thoughtfully.

"You'll never get Virgie to play!" she asserted.

Van Crouch grinned at the specialist.

"Guess you've cut off a bigger chunk than you can chew there, doctor," he said. "But you leave that part to me. I've got an idea."

The young American had not overrated his powers of resource. Aubriot felt uneasy that evening as guest after guest slipped unostentatiously away, all alert with suppressed excitement about the coming masquerade. He tried to pin Virginia down to a tête-à-tête, but she soon grew restive, and he was relieved beyond measure when Cornelius came towards them.

"Come on, Virgie," said Cornelius, "into the music room. We have a dandy treat on to-night, doctor. Virgie's going to play for me to make records."

Virginia's eyes sparkled with vanity. "We're going to Bend the records after to the folk we know in the States,'' she explained to Aubriot. "My! They will be tickled to hear me play again."

Two minutes later the girl was seated at the piano in the music room, her wine-coloured dress making a vivid splash of t brightness against the gloomy background. Aubriot, who had not expected much of a performance, was astonished at the brilliance and precision with which she tossed off a couple of Sousa's marches. That she was quick to notice his admiration was evident from the artifices and eye battery with which she embellished her playing. The two men kept feeding her with piece after piece, as though she were an animated pianola.

Presently Aubriot looked at his watch. Although a bachelor, he was enabled by the aid of his professional experience to determine the time-limit of the most exacting feminine toilette. Even now his keen ear seemed to detect the faint rustle of a silken petticoat and the tap of a high heeled slipper on the staircase outside, as though the ancestors had stepped from their frames and were banded together in a mighty Passing of the Portraits. When an unmistakable twentieth-century giggle, keyed up to the high pitch of "society," broke through the frou-frou and click of skirt and slipper, Aubriot spoke hastily.

"Thank you so much, Miss Virginia. Now just one more. One of your old English dances."

Virginia lowered her lids and looked at him sideways, with the slanting glance of a suspicious cat.

"I can't?"she muttered sullenly. "If I do they will want to dance."

"Well, why shouldn't they?  Very good taste on their part! Any one would want to dance to your playing. You would make the  Archbishop of Canterbury join in a cellar-flap. That is the whole secret, of this puzzling business. Have you ever seen them?"

Reassured by the matter-of-fact tone of Aubriot's voice, Virginia was betrayed into answering the carelessly tacked on question. The black pupils of her eyes seemed to split for the fraction of a second, revealing a glimpse of mystery.

"I don't Know—exactly," she said. "I— I think so. At least I'm not sure."

Aubriot smiled at the hesitation, so typical of her case. He had evidently taken her unawares— tapped a weak spot. By to-morrow she would be well coached up in the appearance of the dream dancers, with every detail supplied by the fertile imagination of hysteria. He took the girl's arm and led her towards the spinet.

"Just one," he pleaded. "Something to remember you by. The flattery in his voice, drew Virginia down to the music stool, but her hands still hung motionless over the yellow keys. Then she looked up at Aubriot.

"I'm afraid always when I play," she said, pitifully. "I am afraid I might lose the time. I can't explain, but if ever I put them out of stop something will happen."

"What?"

"Something terrible. Something— I don't know "

Aubriot looked at her keenly as her voice dragged away. It was evident she was once again romancing, but although her hesitating words were neither fluent nor convincing, she had plainly succeeded in taking in herself; for her black eyes were now dark pools of staring fright. He flung aside the portiere that divided the music room from the drawing room, and, crossing over to the great windows, drew hack the curtain.

"The moon is just full," he said, softly. "What a night to dance! Can't you fancy you see them on the lawn?" He was about to switch off some of the lights when he felt a hand touch his shoulder, and Cornelius— unobtrusive, alert, and endowed with the self-effacing qualities of a perfect witness—spoke softly—

"Say," he whispered. "Leave me one light. I'm going to have a record of this. Sure!"

Aubriot nodded. Then he threw open the great window and waited. The room was almost in shadow, but a circle of light flickered like a great golden moth over the figure of the girl at the spinet.

"They are waiting!" whispered Aubriot, conscious of his nerves being at extreme tension. Virginia gave an affected little wriggle.

"Well, you must neither of you speak, or hum, or do anything to distract me," she commanded. Promise!"

The instant the men had given their word her fingers fell hungrily on the old keys, and through the room stole the thin strains of a gavotte. Aubriot looked at the girl. To his astonishment he noticed that the moment she began to play a tidal wave of oblivion seemed to pass over her face, completely sweeping away every sign of self-consciousness. Her head nodding in time with the stately measure, her body swaying in unison, she seemed to have merged her whole personality into the expression of the music. As the man watched, his own foot suddenly began to tap the parquet flooring— an involuntary tribute to the spell.

There was a curious fascination about the old-world air thus loosed from its prison in a faded manuscript. Daintily the notes minced through the room, picking their way with high-stepping precision. It was starchy and prudish, yet. withal graceful, and sweet with the lilt of eternal youth and romance. An oft-recurring refrain wove itself again and again through the melody, like the blue ribbon of a true lover's knot. Up and down, down and up, now loud, now soft, it rippled on with an exquisite rhythm that rose and fell like the swell of a stately tide.

Aubriot broke free from his reverie. The time had come for action. Crossing again to the window, he looked into the night. But, even though prepared for the spectacle that greeted his eyes, so strong was the witchery of the gavotte that he started in spite of himself as he looked on to the lawn.

The dark sward stretched before him with the softness of black velvet, but the moon, shining brightly through the tall trees, shed a tracery of light on the darkness like the laced edge of an old valentine.

Moving to and fro in measured tread to the strains of the spinet was a shadowy company of dancers in shimmering drapery and courtly dress. Silhouetted whitely against the dark yew hedges, they seemed ghostly and unreal, stranded strays from the Age of Patch and Powder, called back by the spell of the music once more to foot it on the dew-spangled grass under the limelight radiance of the moon.

"Capital effect!" thought Aubriot, rubbing his chin with appreciation.

Then he turned towards Virginia. Her eyes were closed, her lips pressed together, as if in a passionate exclusion of all outside interests.

For some long seconds the specialist hesitated. It seemed almost akin to wanton cruely to break in on her absorption; and rudely shatter her reverie. At last shaking off the fancy with as effort, he spoke suddenly and sharply

"Look." He pointed to the window. The word was like a pistol shot crashing through the crystal of a magic globe. Something seemed to snap in the air.  One could almost hear the whirr of the crotchets and quavers as they were suddenly leashed off the stave like a swarm of black bees; the music tripped in its lilting rhythm— floundered to a fall.

A low cry burst from Virginia's lips.  Aubriot expected her to spring to her feet and come to the window. To his surprise, without another glance she leant again over the notes, hot on the trail of the air, picking up the mangled melody, until, with hardly a break, it rippled on again in fluting sweetness.

The specialist frowned with annoyance. Apparently his plan had failed. Again he turned to the window; but the dancers had now disappeared. A few moments later, with one final nerve-tingling chord the gavotte was over.

For a space Virginia sat staring into vacancy, her hands hanging limply by her sides. Then, without warning, she threw herself on the ground in an unrestrained passion of grief. When Aubriot bent over her she shook off his hand in a frenzy of terror.

"You broke your word!" she shrieked. "I lost the time. I put them out. It means— death!"

Cornelius, who bad been an interested of the scene, now, as he stroked his cousin's hand gently, darted an angry glance at Aubriot.

"Why did you scare her like that, doctor?" he asked angrily. "You've made her real sick now. Guess we don't treat our women that way. I wouldn't touch your methods with a long pole."

"Turn on the lights," was Aubriot's sole answer. He heard the sound of footsteps outside, and he knew that the masqueraders had returned. As the great cluster of electric bulbs burst into golden bloom, flooding the place with light, the door was flung wide and a laughing throng of quaintly garbed figures dashing into the room, made a ring round the girl.

Virginia gazed at them with bewilderment. In spite of paint, patch, and powder, face after face grew familiar. As one by one her guest's identity peeped through their disguises she suddenly grew scarlet.

To Aubriot's intense joy she flung aside Cornelius's hand as though he had been red-hot iron, subjecting his own to similar treatment as she hastily drew her skirts violently over her dainty ankles. He gloried in her restoration to her fierce sense of the proprieties after her former distressing self-abandonment.

"What does this mean, Capt. Blair?" she demanded of the nearest masquerader. "It means I'll soon be a blancmange if I don't get this stuff out of my head," was the prompt answer. "Powder ran out, and they dredged me with cornflour. Its been a ripping lark, Miss Pine. We rigged ourselves up like old-time Johnnies, and went dancing out there on the lawn to your music. Didn't you see us?"

"Yes, I saw you," answered Virginia quietly.

"It was simply divine," chimed in one of the Carstair twins. "The smartest thing we've done this year. Our ghost gavotte! And that sweet quaint spinet! But you put us out once."

"You lost the time. You remember?" remarked Aubriot meaningly, turning to Virginia. Her visibly increasing humiliation gave him added satisfaction. Getting up from the ground, she looked squarely into the laughing faces of her guests. Then she summed up her feelings in one tense sentence. "Well! I guess I've just made a real fool of myself!"

With a glow of professional pleasure Aubriot registered another success. He took little note of the noisy commotion amid laughter that followed, for his thoughts were dwelling on trains back to town. But when the exuberant crew finally started upstairs to shed their borrowed plumage he stopped Capt. Blair for a moment.

"Thanks, Blair," he said. "You did capitally, and put it all in. I am hopeful that you've bounced that silly girl out of her delusions."

"Well, I flatter myself it was no nine carat affair," replied Blair modestly. "All the same, it seemed rather rotten to guy one's hostess like that! Only the Momma was with us, egging us on. What did we look like, footing away on the west lawn?"

"South lawn," corrected the doctor. Blair drew his mouth to one side.

I'm ready to give you best over pills and blisters, doctor," he answered. "that you must allow a sailor to know a little about the points of the compass. West— I say, west."

As. he went out of the room, leaving the specialist alone, Aubriot turned towards the great south window, repeating obstinately— "And I say, south."

But immediately he gave a violent start and then sprang in the direction he was gazing. For a little space his eyes strained into the shadows of the lawn. Then he threw away his cigar, crossed to a mirror, and looked at himself closely, criticising his tired eyes and dragged cheeks with professional scrutiny.

"I'm going to prescribe for you, old man," he said softly to his reflection. "Something you're not specially keen on— bed."

But as he passed out of the room he threw a last glance at the south window— a glance of half-expectation, wholly nervous trepidation. He could have sworn that a moment previously, pressed against the panes, its dark eyes glazed with terror, he had seen a strange white face set in a frame of powdered hair.

In finite of his good resolutions; Aubriot proved that he possessed a very bad patient in himself, for he did not rest long that night. Moreover, whatever he put on at one end he took off at the other, for early in the small grey hours of the morning he was pacing the grounds of Torquil Towers. In the dim light everything looked chill and eerie as he approached the south lawn. The clipped peacocks on the yew hedge watched austerely over the prim turf, whose unruffled surface disclaimed any suggestion of having been a scene of over: night revelry.

Aubriot whistled softly then he walked round to the west lawn. There a very different scene met his eyes. Alas for the graceful slide and bend of the stately gavotte! Rutted with the imprints of high heels, and bearing the marks of many a slip and stamp, the wet grass reminded him forcibly of the mutilated ground after a cattle show.

"Blair was right," he admitted. "The dance evidently took place here."

Then he loaned against an did sundial and began, to reflect on the face he imagined he had seen at the window. It rose up instantly in vivid relief before , his mental vision. Triangular in shape, eyes set widely apart, chin tapering to a sharp point, it did not correspond in any single detail to the face of any one of the guests.

The brain specialist knitted his brows.

"Rather interesting," he mused. "Clearly a case of mental telepathy— automatic suggestion of some kind. In my keyed-up, receptive condition last, night I was a fit subject to received vivid impression of the creation of that girl's imagination.  She was hazy about what she thought she saw, but she transmitted a very clear mental photograph to my sensitised brain. Very interesting!"

He looked forward with eagerness to meeting his patient.

At the first sight of her at the breakfast table, he was further reassured. During the night she had shed her air of self-importance, and appearing now shamefaced and unwilling to meet his eye. It was only by dint of strong maternal persuasion that she was coaxed into the drawing room after the meal for a final interview.

Before he could speak she burst into the subject.

"It's real mean in you, doctor, to talk about last night," she cried. "I feel so mortified I could just... I reckon I got crazed about this old house, and started to moon and fancy. But I allow I'm cured now, that's a cinch. I'll never be caught again grovelling on the Axminster showing inches of stocking!  Not me!"

Aubriot smiled. "That's all right," he said. "Now, with a confident heart, I  can wish you goodbye, with the very pleasant hope that I may never see you again. But before I go, suppose you play a me that gavotte again. I want to hear it."

Virginia pouted. Nothing on earth would induce her to play that dreadful piece, she vowed, yet in the midst of her protestations she began to play.  Leaning back in his chair listening, Aubriot looked round the great room. Two old portraits of the Stuart period at the end of the room caught his eye and stirred a vague wonder in his breast. But his brain only worked feebly. Virginia's performance engrossed his attention, and when she had finished he thanked her heartily.

There was no doubt that the neurotic girl had been laughed out of her hysteria. The haunting quality had completely disappeared from her playing, and no touch of mystery now transformed her pretty face from the commonplace. Aubriot's interest in her died on the spot. She was no longer a case.

The next day found him back in London, starting fresh researches, tracking to its lair the spark of reason that had strayed from its rightful course and been lost in the labyrinth of a diseased brain. But the Pines did not forget Aubriot as easily as Aubriot forgot the Pines. From time to time he received grateful letters, giving copious details of Virginia's improvement as expressed principally in golf scores.  She was a different girl, they asserted, adding with a true Irish touch that they had to thank Aubriot for her restoration, and could not be sufficiently grateful. The specialist yawned over the letters, but duly filed them away with the record of the case.

ABOUT six months later Aubriot had further news of Virginia Pine. On the eve of his departure to-India for a long-overdue holiday, he received an unexpected visitor in the shape of Dr. Dan Crouch. The young American was evidently permeated with joy. He bore unofficial news of a great event that had taken place in the Pine family, and which was shortly going to press under the heading of "A marriage has been arranged."

Virginia Pine had become engaged to no less a personage than the present Lord Torquil.

"Thought you'd like to know, seeing you're responsible for rubbing the moss off Virginia, doctor," said his American colleague, on parting, mauling Aubriot's hand painfully. "And, by the way. I brought you some of the records I took of her playing that night. You remember. They're real good, and I suspicioned they'd sort of interest you as souvenirs."

Aubriot thanked his visitor mechanically and went upstairs to his packing. Pitching the bundle into a half-filled bag, he let his thoughts wander momentarily on the strange chance that had led the little American interloper to link her lot with the original owner of Torquil Towers.

Then, suddenly, he gave a short laugh of excitement; an extraordinary thought had struck him.

"That face at the window," he said, aloud. "I have it now. It bore a strong resemblance to the Torquil family portraits. Very apt. Fits in with the girl's delusions, which were evidently engendered and colored by her surroundings."

Aubriot's interest, however, was but perfunctory, for the case of Virginia Pine had long been shelved to make room for fresh arrivals.

In the months that followed it receded entirely from his memory, for although his visit to India was to partake of the nature of a rest cure, his life work had built him a reputation that rose up, like Macbeth, to murder peace, and social engagements and invitations poured in.

After a constant round of sightseeing, and being seen, as England's latest lion, Aubriot accepted with Keen relief an invitation to spend a week in a bungalow high up in the hills.

His host, Major Croft, a man who spoke little, but who smoked most eloquently, proved an ideal companion at the end of the long days which the specialist spent rambling among the hills, finding in the pure air and solitude a perfect panacea for brain fag.

On the last day of his visit he walked down the steep path among the deodars with a feeling, of deep regret. On one side the ground fell sheer away, and as he looked down the precipice to the blue distances the thought of the grime-filled streets of London set his teeth on edge, he shook his fist at a grey ape that ragged him from the branches above his head.

His face was still clouded with the thought of his return when he reached the bungalow.  Croft met him on the verandah, and his host's first words did not dispel his gloom.

"Rotten nuisance!" Croft grumbled. "Sha'n't have our final jaw! Visitor— Lord Torquil— girl he's engaged to told him to look you up."

Back again went Croft's pipe, as if loth to leave his lips for so long a spell.

Aubriot swore expressively.

"Where is he?" he asked.

"In my room— sleeping— fagged out. He's playing in some theatricals—'School for Scandal'— in Simla to-night, and has come a deuce out of his way, ready dressed, to take you in. Had to make a triangle to do it. Heard you were leaving to-morrow and knew it would be his only chance. Said the girl would never forgive him if he didn't manage it somehow. I fancy he wants the chance to jabber about her."

Croft looked gloomy 'as he uttered his dark suspicion about Torquil's desire for conversation; and then collapsed into silence, completely worn out by the strain. For a moment the pair smoked in silence. Then Aubriot spoke petulantly:—

"I don't know the fellow from Adam. Hang the Pines! I never had a case that kept cropping up so after it was done, with. I always have the feeling that I'm never to be clear of it— that there's still something to come."

Blue rings from Croft's pipe answered him effectually.

"He'll have a hundred questions to ask about that girl," resumed Aubriot, "and it will, be talking through the back of my neck to answer them. Just out from home with his regiment, isn't he? Well, I suppose I must sacrifice myself, and resurrect a few creditable anecdotes of Miss Virginia L. Pine, of U.S.A."

"He can't stop long," grunted Croft, hopefully. This optimism was contagious. Aubriot suddenly gave a smile of inspiration.

"I have it!" he exclaimed. "I have some records of Miss Pine's playing. Packed them by mistake and carted them round India. Evidently for this. There's a reason for everything, Croft, my boy, as we learn in our scientific A.B.C. Just put them on the gramophone. They will interest him."

As Aubriot hurried off to find bundle it struck him as a strange freak of fate that the records he had hitherto regarded as an incubus should be tested for the first time in the pretence of the sole person for whom they could possess   any value.

Croft slipped on a record and started to winding the gramophone. He grunted sympathetically.

"Torquil will have a breakfast," he said. "Hearing his beloved playing to him in benighted India. Hang it all, Aubriot, they're young! And they're infernally in love!"

Aubriot nodded.

As the strains of the gavotte broke free from the whir of the instrument an unwonted feeling of sentiment stirred in his crusted heart. From the sweet notes of the spinet a young girl in her sheltered English home seemed to he calling to her lover in his Eastern exile.

Croft stole along the verandah in the direction of Torquil's room.

"I'll dig him out," he said. Carelessly be raised the click. Then Aubriot, who was watching his host, saw a sudden change sweep over Croft's face. His fingers sawed blindly in the air, until he beckoned frantically to his friend.   Aubriot in turn stole noiselessly to the doorway.

At first, as he looked into the darkened room, he could see nothing. Then he became aware of a man stretched out on a cane lounge chair. He wore a court suit of the Georgian period, and a powdered white wig framed ghastly features set in a stare of agony.

With a sharp stab at his heart Aubriot recognised the face of Lord Torquil. He had seen it before. It was the face of the window!

In that tense moment the brain specialist realized the riddle of his vision It  stood revealed in a baleful light of significance. The episode of Torquil Towers was only one-half— the unconnected half was—tragedy.

On Torquil's breast a dark mass bulged, coil upon coil of hideous life, and the man's terror-stricken gaze was concentrated on the threatening head of a cobra. Aubriot could see the spectacle marks on the scales shining in the light of the setting sun as the creature swayed to an fro but a foot distant from the forehead of the motionless man. Daintily and mincingly the notes of the gavotte trickled in with the sickly sweetness of the old-world air, steeped with lavender and pot-pourri. Up and down, down and up, it rippled with perfect time and beat. As the spell of the rhythm threw its noose over the reptile Croft clutched Aubriot's shoulder with a grip of iron.

The snake was dancing to the music!

"My gun!" Croft whispered. "Pray to God I'll be in time before the record ends!"

Aubriot could not stir. One tiny sip from the awful draught of the prescient Immortals had been vouchsafed him.  He knew the end

The year ago in a quiet English home, the tragedy had played out in the sound of a girl's shriek. The white face, the staring eyes, the swaying snake, all passed away.  He could only see a darkened room and a girl in a wine-colored robe playing in a gold circlet of light.

"I have lost the time. It means death!"

The words rang through his brain again and again, the dainty notes still rippling like a thread of delicate beads. The oscillation of the reptile grew dreamy , as the music steeped its senses.

Like a shadow the form of Croft slid down the passage.

A moment passed with the dragging eternity of an hour. As he waited Aubriot's scalp tightened as if from the pressure of an encircling vise.

Then suddenly it came— the dreaded flaw in the record!  The music stumbled to discord.

At that moment two things happened almost simultaneously. The snake struck and Croft fired. But before the smoke cleared Aubriot had answered the unspoken question in Croft's eyes. He shook his head, for he knew that, even as it was in the beginning, it was the hour of the Snake.

_____________

9: The Unknown

Ethel Lina White

The Grand Magazine March 1922

Express and Telegraph (Adelaide) 3 May 1922

OUTSIDE the church— leafless trees riding the crest of the hill; a white, windy sky and the scent of early primroses; the open road, unwinding like a ribbon, on— on— to the very last milestone in the world.  All the magic and mystery of the elusive promise of spring. None to mark it.

Inside the church— a red carpet, crooked, down the aisle; two palms and four white camellias on the altar steps; and a large company, chiefly women,  whose eyes were misty with the supreme romance of a wedding.

Marcus Orme looked about him with savage contempt. He was conspicuous not only for his great stature, but also for his deeply graven features, instinct with deflected powers:  Niagara dribbling through a myriad suburban bath-taps.  It was an unhappy face— the face of one who has lived many lives and died as many deaths.

At the height of ha prosperity he had been socially important by reason of his fourth place in the succession to a title; now that only two bad lives stood between; he was nominally filling the post of-mathematical coach at a famous boys college, buried in the heart of the country, but, in reality, washing himself in the waters of Jordan.

Of course, it was a girl who had worked his cure,  only nineteen years of inexperience and a sunny smile, but all-powerful to wipe out the corroded bitterness of the past and to re-create the golden promise of a future.

Janet Hardcastle was the eldest daughter of the rector of Watermead. She was possessed of an exceptionally pretty face and a sweet and wholesome nature. Without being clever, she had brains enough for the usual, course— senior Cambridge at sixteen, and matriculation at eighteen and now was filling her time with domestic and parish duties in the home and family which she adored.

Marcus studied her face covertly, with almost famished longing.  In spite of the war-paint which he so derided in the other women, Marcus thought that Jan looked lovelier than ever; even if her white furs were rabbit in fancy-dress, they were snowily pure in contrast with the purple violets pinned to her stole and the red flush of her cheek.

But he knew that that flush was not for him— nor for any mortal man.

In his sense of baffled longing, the whole scene irritated him unreasonably. The bride and bridegroom kneeling at the altar, bound on the Great Adventure, yet only conscious of first returns to Bournemouth, the palpitating women thrilling to the bridesmaids' costumes and the bridal-veil, and, above all, Jan singing, "Oh, perfect love"— congregation kneeling— her eyes wistful  with the thought of her own wedding. Some day— some man...

The waste of it! Women had helped Marcus to place his own price in his; days of lotus-eating, and he knew of the great heart and brain and the yet undrained reserves which he was storing up for his best beloved.

Yet not one word nor one hint could he breathe so long as there stood on either side of Jan's writing-table the framed portraits of stage beauty-men. There were many picture-postcards in Jan's den, but all preserved the general idea of straight nose, curved lips, and satin-smooth hair— the ideal lover of a young girl's fancy.

Thump. Thump. The "Wedding march." It was over.

Marcus drew a deep breath of gratitude as he stepped out into the radiant white Spring afternoon. Disdaining the huddle of hired cabs, he walked to the doctor's old-fashioned house, where the reception was being held. Immune to the lure of refreshments, he searched for Jan.

"Wasn't it a topping wedding?" she cried. "Didn't Agnes look a lamb? And the bridesmaids! I love yellow for a spring wedding. Charlie Partridge spoiled it rather. Not a bit like a bridegroom!"

Marcus compressed his lips firmly.

"Has it ever occurred to you, Jan, that the world is chiefly populated by ordinary people? The ordinary married man has to start. somehow, and most of them begin by being ordinary bridegrooms; in short, being much like themselves the ordinary chaps who, in the war, went over the top, just in the ordinary coarse of things, as Partridge did."

She felt that she was being reproved, although she knew not her exact crime.

"I— I know. Tell me,  which do you think make the prettiest brides? Fair girl— or dark?"

"Fair."

Jan, who was dark as any blush-rose, winced.

"Why do you always say things like that?"

"Why do you ask questions like that? Keeping some wedding-cake to dream on to-night?"

"Nothing so silly. Besides, I expect I shall be an old maid."

"Yes. I expect you will."

She looked up, startled, but his eyes were serious. In spite of her youth and beauty, and an existent lover who was slightly more than life-size, he honestly believed her doomed, for he knew that she had been born under that fatal star which forced her to follow the dream.

In her case, it was this wretched ideal lover— the composite being she had created from picture-postcards, cinemas, and her own dreams. A creature, partly pasteboard, partly flicker, partly, red firelight, and largely idleness.

"Do you know one difference between wives and spinsters, Jan?" he asked. It's this. A married woman is generally a woman who has had but one offer of marriage and accepted it. A spinster very often is a woman who has had many offers of marriage, but just one less than she expected. Know why?"

"Why?"

"She waited for the unknown. And Jan— he rarely comes!"

Jan recovered) her forces.

"Now its your turn to listen to me. Marcus. I've got one mother. Should I marry, I shall have two. So I really see no reason why you should lecture me like a third. Besides, why should you tick me off because I want to marry someone different?"

It was out, at last, and he listened to her frank avowal.

"Everyone's got to know what they want. The men my friends have married  wouldn't satisfy me. I don't see it's so awful to want a— a smart man. one who has a club and— is good at everything and has travelled and— and— you know!"

Marcus nodded savagely. He knew. Suddenly, he made up his mind to risk a rebuff.

"Jan, what kind of a face have I got?"

She looked at him— her usual unconscious gaze— and then, as though she saw something there which disconcerted her, she averted her eyes.

"A blasted face," she said, simply. "Oh, you needn't laugh. It's not— language. I must find mother."

The unusual touch of nervousness consoled him for the verdict. Even if she had looked down into deep waters which had disturbed her, at least, in future, she would regard him other than furniture. She must know that one very definite personality was preparing to enter the lists against the unknown.

"Only this, Jan," he said, as he rose to his feet. "Don't waste your whole life over a dream! I'm ready to wager half my soul that he doesn't exist."

HAD the bet been registered, any sporting devil who'd had the usual flutter over Marcus would only have drawn halfprices, for within three days Orme was proved to be conclusively in the wrong. Not only did the Unknown exist, but they actually met him, in all his glory, at the Cottage Hospital Ball, at Marketville— the neighboring town.

Marcus escorted Jan, partly because the rector had complete confidence in him, partly to pay for her cab fare, and partly to behold her in the crowning charm of her party-frock.

He was waiting for her in the rectory hall when she fluttered down the shallow stairs, and she looked up at him with the new touch of timidity. .

"You always ought to wear evening dress, Marcus. It make you look a— a personage. You just want a few stars and orders and things."

"Trimmings in fact. Sorry you don't like me plain."

But all the 'same, he felt a good inch taller as he walked into the ballroom, his great shoulders expanded and his head held high with the pride of a victor.

The very first person he saw was the Unknown.

His name was Lewis Ford and he had motored down from town with the Wyndhams, smart and fashionable newcomers to the neighborhood.

He was, in every respect, the exact counterpart of the ideal lover. God alone knows how he managed to achieve such unnatural perfection. He was like a perfect Grecian statue, warmed to requisite temperature, colored to life, and clothed by an inspired tailor! His hair, broken by the slightest crisp, reflected the lights as he bent his head deferentially over the programmes of the Wyndham girls.

Jan gave a little gasp. This was her man. This was the face which had smiled at her from the red heart of many a fire. This was the form which had been her companion in many a magic adventure in the misted regions of Make-Believe.

At that moment Ford raised his eyes and looked at the radiant white figure, her soft, dark hair crowned with roses and her cheeks carnation with excitement. He had an unfailing eye for the prettiest girl in the room and he instantly requisitioned the introduction.

It was the rushing together of the moth and the star, and Marcus, knowing his services to be superfluous, only waited long enough to see him take Jan's programme. Then, with a face dark as a thunderstorm, he dug himself into the smoking-room for the rest of the evening.

"Don't look!" said Ford, as he handed back the programme. His voice was low and pleasant, and his smile held a hint of delightful audacity.

Of course, Jan looked.

"Oh, you've taken far too many!"

But she gave him those and many more before the end of the. evening. He was a perfect dancer, and she herself had never danced t so well, unconscious that half her skill was due to her partner. Her code of fair play in sad eclipse, she cut the dances of her luckless partners in favor, of many minutes of stolen bliss in discreet alcoves.

The hours flew away on wings, bringing her to the tragedy of the Last Extra and "God Save the King."

"I'm going to see you home," he said. "Is your car waiting?"

"I'm not going, home to-night. It's too far out in the country. I'm stopping with friends in the town."

Arm-in-arm, very slowly, they walked through the little old-fashioned town. All the lamps were extinguished and the narrow streets were bathed in milky moonlight, giving it the unreal quality or a hamlet in fairyland, with sugar-loaf steeples and cobbled roads.

"Ripping little place," said Ford. "Reminds me of Switzerland."

"Isn't it? Exactly."

"Know Geneva?"

"Why, yes!"

"Paris, of course?"

"I've stayed there. And at Lucerne and Interlaken and Territeta."

"Splendid. I knew you weren't the ordinary stay-at-home country girl.   Do you know, I tossed up whether I  should fag or come to-night?"

Jan's heart froze. The carelessness of men's methods! To think she might have missed him by the spin of a coin!

"I thought I should be fed to the back teeth; instead of which, I met you."

His hand pressed her arm.

"Do you know, you are quite unlike any other girl?"

She too, experienced that priceless feeling of being unique, which is a lover's supreme gift.

"Here we are!" She stopped before a tall dark house with blind windows and a double flight of steps which met before the front door.

"I— I suppose we shan't see each other again."

Her voice shook slightly, but she could not believe it all the same.

"Oh, we shall. Somewhere, some time. Don't you feel it's ordained? We've not met for nothing. I know it's soon to talk like that, but I never funk my fences. I— I'll write."

But Jan, the practical, noted that he had not asked for her address.

Suddenly her brain was fired by a daring idea which held, in its development, infinite possibilities.

"I suppose you wouldn't care about a week-end in the country? We live at the Rectory, at Watermead. People rave about the place. There's a good football match next Saturday. And— and— people seem to like staying with us."

"I should love it; You alone would be sufficient inducement. But I shall bore your people?"

She laughed happily.

"We're quite used to week-end visitors. But l must warn you we're unconventional. Do you mind? Daddy's not a bit like a parson. He's out-of-doors."

"Topping."

"Then, suppose you come by the four-thirty on Friday. We have a  railway station. I'll meet you."

As she pulled the dangling bell-chain he caught her in his arms. Thrilling to his kisses, she returned them simply and naturally. Wasn't he her own Fair Prince?

"Have you ever kissed a girl before?" she asked.

As the door was opened by a sleep-sodden maid he released her swiftly.

"Never!"

ii

"MARCUS, you've stopped at a lot of big houses, haven't you?"

Marcus, who in the purple gloom of his tempestuous past had been a guest at more than one historic mansion, twitched an eyebrow. His face was set in stiffer mould than usual as he watched Jan fill a big blue bowl with daffodils.

"Just a few— calling with samples and all that."

"Please be serious. How does this drawing-room strike you? It always seems perfect to me. but, perhaps I am prejudiced!"

Marcus could give a genuine opinion, for the room never failed to please him. It was long and narrow, with tall windows and a floor of dark-grained oak; its carpet of delphinium-blue was faded and the roses on the cretonnes were washed out, but it still suggested taste and comfort.

"It'll pass, Jan. It has atmosphere."

"I'm so glad. I often wonder if I'm silly over my home."

"Fact is, Jan, you've made a corner here in happiness.

Marcus was always responsive to the spell of the Rectory. It was a pleasant white house, facing— south, shabby, but full of comfort. It was run on the general lines of-good fires and plenty in the larder.

"You can't really know a person until you've seen her in her own house," went on Jan.

"That's so. Twenty-four hours together within four walls is more effective than a whole season's casual meetings in drawing-rooms."

Marcus turned the knife in his heart. The sooner the tragedy was finished the better.

Jan looked at her wrist-watch. "I must fly to meet Lewis."

"D'you call him 'Lewis' already?"

"Well, it's a surname, anyway."

"Nice girls don't call men by their surnames."

Jan's sole answer was a laugh of pure happiness.  She had lived up in the  stars since waking the morning after the dance, to the rapture of the knowledge that the same sun was shining upon Lewis.

Her mother, who was used to hospitality, could not understand her insistence upon special preparations.

"Mum, all that's lovely, but he— he's used to different things. He's different altogether from the other boys. Oh, just splendid!"

Enlightened by her daughter's blush, her mother was on her mettle.

As Jan flew across the fields towards the railway-station she wondered fearfully if the picture she had retained of Lewis Ford would prove a glamorous fancy.

But when he stepped on to the platform, in just the wondrous travelling coat to which she was accustomed by the films, she thought that she had under-rated his perfection. Swelling with a girl's natural pride of conquest, she piloted him home the long way through the village.

A motor passed them and he looked up, with sudden interest, as a golden-haired girl in spectacular motoring kit, turned to wave to him.

"Hulloa! Lady Sylvia Wells! Didn't know she was staying here. That's the Wyndhams' car. Oh, no....  Just met her, that's all."

Jan felt that his eyes were fixed upon her as he spoke. She knew that her cheeks were flushed with exercise, and, with a remembrance or the rouge on the London girl's face she had a swift glow of triumph.

They stopped at the stile to gaze over the expanse of swelling meadows.

"Ripping field for a gallop. I suppose your dad can mount me?"

"We've only the pony-cart. We've all bicycles."

"Quicker, too. Are you near the links?"

"There aren't any. I am sorry you've brought your clubs for nothing."

"No matter. I'll teach, you on the lawn. I suppose there is something I can teach you?"

"Lots.  We'll begin with golf."

"And end with—"

"We're nearly there."

Filled with shyness at the ardor of his tone, Jan snatched at postponement. She did not want the crown of her romance to come too quickly. The present moments were so entirely sweet.

Later on, as she gave Lewis afternoon tea in the drawing-room, she felt that a dream had come true. The firelight gleamed on the old Queen Anne teapot and the great bowls of daffodils on the window-ledges. It was home at its best.

Ford looked at her feet as she stretched them to the blaze.

"I specially noticed your slim ankles at the dance."

"They don't look slim now!" she laughed. "Mummy knits all my stockings."  "Ripping of her! Uncommon, aren't they? Most girls seem to wear brogues and sports stockings in the country."

"Rather! And dresses up to their knees to show them off. Daddy would give me a sermon, five heads and a "lastly—" all to myself if my skirt ever rises more than two inches above any ankles."

"All the same, you wore shorter skirts than that at the Winter Sports in Switzerland?"

"But I went to Switzerland in the summer."

"Oh! Climbing?"

"No. We went for the scenery. Lunn's three-week tour. Oh, it was gorgeous."

She broke off in her recital as the clock struck six.

"You'll want to go to your room?"

The best guest chamber— called the Blue Room because of the color of its   hangings— was bathed in hospitable firelight. From the window was a view of a ridge crowned with a clump of fir trees darkly silhouetted against the rose-flush of sunset. With a satisfied sigh Jan slipped away to help in the preparations for the high tea.

It was a festive meal, for Mrs. Hardcastle— a sport to her backbone— had killed the fatted calf. She set and kept the ball rolling as she beamed from behind the tea-urn. She was a stout, tweed-clad lady, with learning glasses and rosy cheeks. Gold and grey were fighting it out in her hair.

There were cold fowls and a York ham, as well as eggs and home-made cakes, and Jan was delighted at her lover's appetite.

He had come down to the meal attired in dinner clothes, and, later on in the evening, Jan, despite a pang of shame, had to contrast his with Marcus, who dropped in attired in the casual Norfolk of an uninvited guest.

"What do you do in the evening? asked Ford. "Jazz— or auction?"

"We play games. We made a Cambridge don, and a colonial bishop, play  'Cat-and-mouse' the other evening, and they loved it."

"Topping! I know, Kiss-in-the-ring. The Wyndham push coming over?"

"No. We called, but they're not parishioners."

When candles were lit at the end of an uproarious evening. Jan felt her first slight pang of hesitation as she turned to Ford.

"I— I hope you don't mind family prayers to-morrow morning. Remember, you're staying in a parson's family!"

"My dear child, of course! We always had them at the Bishop's. Otherwise, it would be Hamlet without the Ghost."

His charming smile dissipated her last doubt.

But, all the same, prayers were over by the time he appeared the next morning for breakfast, and Jan, who had missed her cold bath in order to hold the bathroom at his sole disposal, scolded him gently.

"You've made me late, so I may have to leave you for a bit. I must look in at the church to do the altar flowers, as we're going to the match this afternoon. Come and see me feed my fowls!"

To her surprise he shook his head.

"Just wash me out, my dear! I want to get a trunk call through at the post  office if I can. Stocks and shares. Mind you tell your hens to lay me a nice brown Buff Orpington egg for my tea."

So Jan obediently trotted off to tell her White Leghorns to lay Buff Orpington eggs.

Later on, Ford helped her to carry her bundles of ivy and primroses to the church, and there, was no prouder girl than Jan as she walked up the aisle with her escort.

But her rapture was dispelled when Roger, her small brother, chattered into the church, elated with the distinction of bearing a' telegram.

Ford tore it open, and, remembering where he was, bit off a naughty-word in time.

"Of all the rotten luck! I positively must go back to town by noon. Important business."

"Business? You're a barrister, aren't you?" faltered Jan, who, on the strength of his profession, had waded through the most disreputable case in the paper the day before, for the sake of the duel of the counsels.

"Reading for the bar. But this is finance. I must pack up my kit immediately. Coming?"

"Of course. But I can't see you off at the station, for I simply must do the altar flowers. I'm so sorry."

He rallied her on her forlorn looks as they hurried through the churchyard.

"I shall be coming back, of course. Not likely I shall keep away for km^. Why, in time, I expect the good folk planted out here will get to know my step so well that you'll have the whole graveyard out in purple and red, like Tennyson's 'Maud.' Rotten color-scheme."

Jan was comforted. And when he stood, bag in hand, outside the Rectory gates, she felt that their farewell was only the first instalment of a serial.

Marcus, walking down the lane unseen, gritted his teeth as he witnessed the long rapture of their parting.

iii

"HELLO, Pony! Where on earth, are you hithering?"

Ford's face lit up, as he walked on to the sun-drenched railway station, to find it not only gay with polyanthuses in the flower-beds, but brilliant with a flamboyant cluster of ladies— the Wyndham girls and Sylvia Wells. Instantly nicknames flew like chaff in a gale.

"Called back to town business," said Ford.

There was a howl of laughter. Then Lady Sylvia, in the most hectic of sports coats ..and. skirts,...which displayed the maximum of smart hosiery, turned to Ford, her pretty, eyes filled with persuasion.

"We simply screamed when we heard that you were staying at the  Rectory. We're dying to hear all about it. How did they manage to net you?"

He shook his head.

"What's there to tell? I've had a delightful visit— what there was of it. Charming family, country air, and all that."

"Not good enough, Pony. Be a sport. Tell us! We won't let on!"

It is accepted that three generations go to the making of a gentleman. Lewis Ford was the son of a rich father, who had taken his first steps in clogs. Although he might have remained proof to the Wyndham girls persuasions, he could not resist the blue eyes— and title— of Lady Sylvia Wells.

He lowered his voice.

"Well, in, strict confidence, I'll own up to the most ghastly suck-in. She—Miss Hardcastle— "told me that her dad was 'out-of-doors,' and I went down, expecting plenty of sport and a port wine, fox-hunting parson. Instead of which he just digs in his garden."

He was spurred on by delighted ripples of laughter.

"Oh, she warned me that they were unconventional. What would you make of that? I spelt it, dinner in pyjamas and so on. Burt I found out it means no dinner, a saucer instead of a soap-dish, and nursery games "

'What's the house like?"

"Very shabby. Oh, very nice people, but a bit below the top-drawer."

"Did you have family prayers?" gurgled Olive Wyndham.

"We did! I attended, very reverently, in bed."

"Pony! You really are the limit!"

But Lady Sylvia had heard of Ford's infatuation at the dance and she knew that a man could survive all that— and more— for love.

"What's the girl like?" she asked, and then watched him narrowly.

"The prettiest kid. She looked topping at the dance. But she's shockingly  dressed. I tried to drop her a hint."

"A flirt?"

"Lord, no."

It was the only decent thing he hid said, for, quite honestly, he had misinterpreted the situation, which was the chief extenuation of his conduct! He did not know that he was the substance of a dream, and Jan's bulging  eyes, upon meeting, and her subsequent response to his kisses, had led him to conclude that she had a hectic taste for experience.

AS the train came in the eldest Wyndham girl caught his arm.

"You're not going, Pony! We've a houseful for the weekend and a dance tonight. Come back with us. Car's outside. You'll simply mope about in London, without a date."

He protested feebly.

"I say, it's not done. I handed out all the usual dope to that poor kid when I said 'Goodbye.' Whatever would she think? It's not done!"

But it was done, and done that very afternoon. Jan and Marcus cycled out to Marketville for the football match. As she sat on the base boards of the stand Jan was keenly expectant of an afternoon's enjoyment, and also bright with triumph, of having the handomest lover in the town. He was soon coming back to her.

Suddenly, Marcus who was packed, sardine-wise, by her side, felt her flinch away. She just managed to stifle a cry.

Following the direction of her eyes he saw, parked outside the rails, the Wyndham car with Ford at the steering wheel. His handsome head was bent in total absorption in his charming companion, Lady Sylvia Wyndham.

In that moment of shock Jan grew ten years older. Although she did not look again at Lewis, every detail of the scene, was stamped upon her brain.

She saw him now in his proper setting— as she had been wont to see him on the screen— the guest in palatial country-houses with billiard-rooms, lounges and swimming baths, and surrounded by smart butterfly girls, expert in the social game.

A lump rose in her throat as she thought of her cherished family and home. She felt that he had rejected what she loved best and had trampled it in the dust.

No one on the field watched the match with more meticulous interest. She commented on every point just to show Marcus to show that her attention was focused upon the ball.

But, at last, her ordeal came to an end, and with cheers ringing in their ears, she and Marcus silently retrieved their bicycles. She made the pace so furious along the hard white road that Marcus had his work cut out to keep up  with her. When they came to the bridge which spanned the river, just outside Watermead , she slipped from her wheel and stood gazing silently down at the sliding grey water.

"E'en the weariest river  Winds somewhere safe to sea," quoted Marcus consolingly.

She raised her head and he saw that her eyes were hot and angry.

"Why don't yon laugh at me. too. You've seen. I felt everyone at the match was staring at me. I told them in the village about the telegram. 'Had to go.  Coming back, of course!' Oh, isn't it funny?"

"Now, Jan, depend on it, there s some good reason for all this. Did you quarrel with him?"

"Quarrel? I was too nice. I'll scrub my lips with carbolic to-night."

Marcus frowned angrily.

"Then, what did you do to?"

"Just gave him the best I had, of myself, of everything, of everyone. Oh. Marcus, I'll never give up my family for anyone! They are dears, aren't they. And to think that all the time he was making fun of Mum's riddles and Dad's  tales.

"My dear girl, family jokes are admittedly a ferocious blight. It takes someone who's been brought up in a decent family to appreciate them, and probably, this splendid fellow's been reared in a foundling hospital."

In spite of his dutiful attempts at sympathy Marcus was enjoying the present turn of events, for he was a tremendously human person.

Jan struck the stone parapet with her clenched fists.

"I've made myself the laughing-stock of the parish. The people! Oh, the people! I would give all I have if I could announce my engagement to someone else."

Marcus looked at her and made up his mind swiftly. He was very sorry for her, for he knew the depths of pain and humiliation in which she groped, but he had to hurt her yet more for her own salvation.

"Anyone in particular?" he asked.

"I—" she stared at the reeds waving in the current— "I only know you."

"And I'm damned if you'll have me, " Marcus exploded at white heat. "Isn't it enough for me to have loved you with all of myself— month in, month out— while you oozed sickly sentiment for something unknown with a straight nose and a stiff collar? Do you think I have no feelings? Haven't I stood by and held your hand while you turned your heart inside out and invited me to look inside and see someone else? And now you dare to offer me the pale ghost of a simulated passion, just to satisfy the conventions of outraged pride! You're dealing with a man not a door-mat! I'm through with you. You've only got what you've asked for. And serve you jolly well right."

"How— how— dare you—"

But when Jan found her breath she only saw the dust whirling behind his furiously revolving wheel.

On the crest of the hill Marcus paused before the downward plane and laughed into the twilight.

"What a brute!"

He was right. Jan lay awake during the first hours of the night— she thought of course, that she never closed her eyes— but no tears were shed for Lewis. The smart of outraged pride had burnt out the self-pity of a deceived maiden.  Marcus had brutally shown her that she had made a fool of herself, and she, consequently, thought of Marcus. She thought of him with anger— with shame— with feelings of revenge. But still— she thought of him. In spite of her former indifference, he had two years' standing against Lewis' two days.

The whole of the next day it rained and Jan stayed inside the rectory, for fear she should meet somebody. The whole of the next day it rained and Jan walked in the dripping fields. The whole of the third day it rained, and Jan sallied out in the village, in fear lest she should meet nobody.

She met nobody.

The fourth day the sun shone, and Marcus, with inward trepidation, called at the rectory. Mrs. Hardcastle, in short serge skirt, was in the garden, cutting cabbages.

They met with a smile of understanding. "Is she convalescent?" he asked.

"Sitting up and taking nourishment. I'm rather grateful to this Ford man!. I think he's done Jan good. She's upstairs in her den, Marcus."

He found her standing before her desk, upon which were two empty frames. She held the torn fragments of the photographs of her stage favorites.

"Now what have they done to you?" asked Marcus soothingly, apparently regardless of her downcast eyes.

"I don't like their silly faces. They're so— so good-looking. They bore me to tears. I want someone who's strong and ugly— someone who looks like a man!"

Very firmly Marcus extracted his own portrait from the rim of the mirror, and deliberately fitted it into one of the frames.

"Is that ugly enough for you? he asked. She looked up, sudden laughter in her eyes, and he saw that her good sense and sanity had been restored by the four days in the good company of herself. Once again, she repeated her regrettable expression.

"It's a blasted face. But— it is a man!"

As she placed it upon her writing-table Marcus took a sudden dive into a golden future, which held a country church, a red carpet, for white camellias—and Romance.

______________

10: Lindenborg Pool

William Morris

1834-1896

Oxford and Cambridge Magazine Sep 1856

Weird Tales, Nov 1929

William Morris

Yes, the famous 19th Century textile designer, fantasy writer and social acitivist

I READ once in lazy humor Thorpe's Northern Mythology, on a cold May night when the north wind was blowing; in lazy humor, but when I came to the tale that is here amplified there was something in it that fixed my attention and made me think of it; and whether I would or no, my thoughts ran in this way, as here follows.

So I felt obliged to write, and wrote accordingly, and by the time I had done the gray light filled all my room; so I put out my candles, and went to bed, not without fear and trembling, for the morning twilight is so strange and lonely. This is what I wrote:

YES, on that dark night, with that wild unsteady north wind howling, though it was Maytime, it was doubtless dismal enough in the forest, where the boughs clashed eerily, and where, as the wanderer in that place hurried along, strange forms half showed themselves to him, the more fearful because half seen in that way: dismal enough doubtless on wide moors where the great wind had it all its own way: dismal on the rivers creeping on and on between the marshlands, creeping through the willows, the water trickling through the locks, sounding faintly in the gusts of the wind.

Yet surely nowhere so dismal as by the side of that still pool.

I threw myself down on the ground there, utterly exhausted with my struggle against the wind, and with bearing the fathoms and fathoms of the heavily leaded plumb-line that lay beside me.

Fierce as the wind was, it could not raise the leaden waters of that fearful pool, defended as they were by the steep banks of dripping yellow clay, striped horribly here and there with ghastly uncertain green and blue.

They said no man could fathom it; and yet all round the edges of it grew a rank crop of dreary reeds and segs, some round, some flat, but none ever flowering as other things flowered, never dying and being renewed, but always the same stiff array of unbroken reeds and segs, some round, some flat. Hard by me were two trees leafless and ugly, made, it seemed, only for the wind to go through with a wild sough on such nights as these; and for a mile from that place were no other trees.

True, I could not see all this at that time, then, in the dark night, but I knew well that it was all there; for much had I studied this pool in the daytime, trying to learn the secret of it; many hours I had spent there, happy with a kind of happiness, because forgetful of the past. And even now, could I not hear the wind going through those trees, as it never went through any trees before or since? eould I not see gleams of the dismal moor? could I not hear those reeds just taken by the wind, knocking against each other, the flat ones seraping all along the round ones? Could I not hear the slow trickling of the land-springs through the clay banks?

The cold, chill horror of the place was too much for me; I had never been there by night before, nobody had for quite a long time, and now to come on such a night! If there had been any moon, the place would have looked more as it did by day; besides, the moon shining on water is always so beautiful, on any water even: if it had been starlight, one could have looked at the stars and thought of the time when those fields were fertile and beautiful (for such a time was, I am sure), when the cowslips grew among the grass, and when there was promise of yellowwaving corn stained with poppies; that time which the stars had seen, but which we had never seen, which even they would never see again— past time!

Ah! what was that which touched my shoulder?— Yes, I see, only a dead leaf.— Yes, to be here on this eighth of May too of all nights in the year, the night of that awful day when ten years ago I slew him, not undeservedly, God knows, yet how dreadful it was!—Another leaf! and another!— Strange, those trees have been dead this hundred years, I should think. How sharp the wind is, too, just as if I were moving along and meeting it;— why, I am moving! what then, I am not there after all; where am I then? there are the trees; no, they are freshly planted oak saplings, the very ones that those withered last-year's leaves were blown on me from.

I have been dreaming then, and am on my road to the lake; but what a young wood! I must have lost my way; I never saw all this before. Well— I will walk on stoutly.

May the Lord help my senses! I am riding!— on a mule; a bell tinkles somewhere on him; the wind blows something about with a flapping sound: something? in Heaven's name, what? My long black robes.— Why— when I left my house I was clad in serviceable broadcloth of the Nineteenth Century.

I shall go mad— I am mad— I am gone to the Devil— I have lost my identity; who knows in what place, in what age of the world I am living now? Yet I will be calm; I have seen all these things before, in pictures surely, or something like them. I am resigned, since it is no worse than that. I am a priest then, in the dim, far-off Thirteenth Century, riding, about midnight, to carry the blessed sacrament to some dying man.

Soon I found that I was not alone; a man was riding close to me on a horse; he was fantastically dressed, more so than usual for that time, being striped all over in vertical stripes of yellow and green, with quaint birds like exaggerated storks in different attitudes counterchanged on the stripes; all this I saw by the jantern he carried, in the light of which his debauched black eyes quite flashed. On he went, unsteadily rolling, very drunk, though it was the Thirteenth Century, but he sat his horse fairly well.

I watched him in my proper Nineteenth Century character, with insatiable curiosity and intense amusement; but as a quiet priest of a longpast age, with contempt and disgust enough, not unmixed with fear and anxiety.

He roared out snatches of doggerel verse as he went along, drinkingsongs, hunting-songs, robbing-songs, lust-songs, in a voice that sounded far and far above the roaring of the wind, though that was high, and rolled along the dark road that his lantern cast spikes of light along ever so far, making the devils grin: and meanwhile I, the priest, glanced from him wrathfully every now and then to That which I carried very reverently in my hand, and my blood curdled with shame and indignation; but being a shrewd priest, I knew well enough that a sermon would be utterly thrown away on a man who was drunk every day in the year, and, more especially, very drunk then. So I held my peace, saying only under my breath:

"Dixit insipiens in corde suo, non est Deus. Corrupti sunt et abominabiles facti sunt in studiis suis; non est qui faciat bonum non est usque ad unum: sepulchrum patens est guttur eorum, linguis suis dolose agebant, venenum aspidum sub labiis ecorum. Dominum non invocaverunt; illic trepidaverunt timore, ubi non erat timor. Quis dabit ex Sion salutare Israel?"

and so I went on, thinking too at times about the man who was dying and whom I was soon to see; he had been a bold bad plundering baron, but was said lately to have altered his way of life, having seen a miracle or some such thing; he had departed to keep a tournament near his castle lately, but had been brought back sore wounded, so this drunken servant, with some difficulty and much unseasonable merriment, had made me understand, and now lay at the point of death, brought about by unskilful tending and such like. Then I thought of his face— a bad face, very bad, retreating forehead, small twinkling eyes, projecting lower jaw; and such a voice, too, he had! like the grunt of a boar mostly.

Now don't you think it strange that this face should be the same, actually the same as the face of my enemy, slain that very day ten years ago? I did not hate him, either that man or the baron, but I wanted to see as little of him as possible, and I hoped that the ceremony would soon be over, and that I should be at liberty again.

And so with these thoughts and many others, but all thought strangely double, we went along, the varlet being too drunk to take much notice of me, only once, as he was singing some doggerel, like this, I think, making allowances for change of language and so forth:

"The Duke went to Treves

On the first of November;

His wife stay'd at Bonn—

Let me see, I remember;

"When the Duke came back

To look for his wife,

We came from Cologne,

And took the Duke's life;

"We hung him mid-high

Between spire and pavement,

From their mouths dropp'd the cabbage

Of the carles in amazement."

"Boo— hoo! Church-rat! Church mouse!  Hilloa, Priest! Have brought the pyx, eh?"

From some cause or other he seemed to think this an excellent joke, for he almost shrieked with laughter as he went along; but by this time we had reached the castle. Challenge, and counter-challenge, and we passed the outermost gate and began to go through some of the courts, in which stood lime-trees here and there, growing green tenderly with that Maytime, though the wind bit keenly.

How strange again! as I went farther, there seemed no doubt of it; here in the aftertime came that pool, how I knew not; but in the few moments that we were riding from the outer gate to the castle-porch I thought so intensely over the probable cause for the existence of that pool, that (how strange!) I could almost have thought I was back again listening to the oozing of the landsprings through the high clay banks there. I was wakened from that, before it grew too strong, by the glare of many torches, and, dismounting, found myself in the midst of some twenty attendants, with flushed faces and wildly sparkling eyes, which they were vainly trying to soften to due solemnity; mock solemnity I had almost said, for they did not seem to think it necessary to appear really solemn, and had difficulty enough apparently in not prolonging indefinitely the shout of laughter with which they had at first greeted me. "Take the holy Father to my Lord," said one at last, "and we will go with him."

So they led me up the stairs into the gorgeously furnished chamber; the light from the heavy waxen candles was pleasant to my eyes after the glare and twisted red smoke of the pine-torches; but all the essences scattered about the chamber were not enough to conquer the fiery breath of those about me.

I PUT on the alb and stole they brought me, and, before I went up to the sick man, looked round on those that were in the rooms; for the rooms opened one into the other by many doors, across some of which hung gorgeous tapestry; all the rooms seemed to have many people, for some stood at these doors, and some passed to and fro, swinging aside the heavy hangings; once several people at once, seemingly quite by accident, drew aside almost all the veils from the doors, and showed an endless perspective of gorgeousness.

And at these things my heart fainted for horror. "Had not the Jews of late," thought I, the -priest, "been very much in the habit of crucifying children in mockery of the Holiest, holding gorgeous feasts while they beheld the poor innocents die? these men are Atheists, you are in a trap, yet quit yourself like a man.'

"Sharp one," thought I, the author, "where are you at last? try to pray as a test.—Well, well, these things are strangely like devils—O man, you have talked about bravery often, now is your time to practise it: once for all trust in God, or I fear you are lost."

Moreover it increased my horror that there was no appearance of a woman in all these rooms; and yet was there not? there, those things— I looked more intently; yes, no doubt they were women, but all dressed like men;—what a ghastly place!

"O man! do your duty," my angel said; then in spite of the bloodshot eyes of man and woman there, in spite of their bold looks, they quailed before me.

I stepped up to the bedside, where under the velvet coverlid lay the dying man, his small sparkling eyes only (but dulled now by coming death) showing above the swathings. I was about to kneel down by the bedside to confess him, when one of those— things— called out (now they had just been whispering and sniggering together, but the priest in his righteous, brave scorn would not look at them; the humbled author, half fearful, half trustful, dared not): so one called out:

"Sir Priest, for three days our master has spoken no articulate word; you must pass over all particulars; ask fora sign only."

Such a strange ghastly suspicion flashed across me just then; but I choked it, and asked the dying man if he repented of his sins, and if he believed all that was necessary to salvation, and, if so, to make a sign, if he were able: the man moved a little and groaned; so I took it for a sign, as he was clearly meapable either of speaking or moving, and accordingly began the service for the administration of the sacraments; and as I began, those behind me and through all the rooms (I know it was through all of them) began to move about, in a bewildering dance-like motion, mazy and intricate; yes, and. presently music struck up through ail those reoms, music and singing, lively and gay; many of the tunes I had heard before (in the Nineteenth Century); I could have sworn to half a dozen of the polkas.

The rooms grew fuller and fuller of people; they passed thick and fast between the rooms, and the hangings were continually rustling; one fat old man with a big belly crept under the bed where I was, and wheezed and ehuekled there, laughing and talking to one who stooped down and lifted up the hangings to look at him.

Still more and more people talking and singing and laughing and twirling about, till my brain went round aud round, and I scaree knew what I did; yet, somehow, I could not leave off; I dared not even look over my shoulder, lest I should see something so horrible as to make me die.

So I got on with the service, and at last took the pyx, and took thereout the sacred wafer, whereupon was a deep silence through all those rooms, which troubled me, I think, more than all whieh had gone before, for I knew well it did not mean reverence.

I held it up, that which I counted so holy, when lo! great laughter, echoing like thunder-claps through all the rooms, not dulled by the veiling hangings, for they were all raised up together, and, with a slow upheaval of the rich clothes among which he lay, with a sound that was half snarl, half grunt, with helpless body swathed in bedelothes, a huge swine that I had been shriving tore from me the Holy Thing, deeply scoring my hand as he did so with tusk and tooth, so that the red blood ran on to the floor.

Therewithal he rolled down on to the floor, and lay there helplessly, only able to roll to and fro, because of the swathings.

Then right madly skirled the intolerable laughter, rising to shrieks that were fearfuller-than any seream of agony I ever heard; the hundreds of people through all those grand rooms daneed and wheeled about me, shrieking, hemming me in with interlaced arms, the women loosing their long hair and thrusting forward their horribly grinning unsexed faces toward me till I felt their hot breath.

Oh! how I hated them all! almost hated all mankind for their sakes; how I longed to get right quit of all men; among whom, as it seemed, all saeredest things even were made a mock of. I looked about me fiercely; I sprang forward, and clutched a sword from the gilded belt of one of those who stood near me; with savage blows that threw the blood about the gilded walls and their hangings right over the heads of those— things— I cleared myself from them, and tore down the great stairs madly, yet could not, as in a dream, go fast enough, because of my passion.

IT was out in the courtyard, among the lime-trees soon, the north wind blowing freshly on my heated forehead in that dawn. The outer gate was locked and bolted; I stooped and raised a great stone and sent it at the lock with all my strength, and I was stronger than ten men then; iron and oak gave way before it, and through the ragged splinters I tore in reckless fury, like a wild horse through a hazel hedge.

And no one had pursued me. I knelt down on the dear green turf outside, and thanked God with streaming eyes for my deliverance, praying Him forgiveness for my unwilling share in that night's mockery.

Then I arose and turned to go, but even as I did so I heard a roar as if the world were coming in two, and looking toward the castle, saw, not a castle, but a great cloud of white lime dust swaying this way and that in the gusts of the wind.

Then while the east grew bright there arose a hissing, gurgling noise, that swelled into the roar and wash of many waters, and by then the sun had risen a deep black lake lay before my feet.

And this is how I tried to fathom the Lindenborg Pool.

_________________

11: Footprints

Jeffery Farnol

1878-1952

Collier's, 11 May 1929

Jeffery Farnol

MR. JASPER SHRIG of Bow Street, leaning back on the great, cushioned settle, stretched sturdy legs to the cheery fire and, having lighted his pipe, sipped his glass of the famous "One and Only" with a relish that brought a smile to his companion's comely visage.

"Pretty cozy, Jarsper, I think?"

"There ain't," sighed Mr. Shrig, glancing round about the trim, comfortable kitchen, "a cozier place in London, say England, say the universe, than this here old 'Gun'— thanks to you, Corporal Dick. You've only got an 'ook for an 'and but you're so 'andy wi' that 'ook, so oncommon 'andy that there ain't no word fur it, so Dick— your werry good 'ealth, pal!"

Corporal Richard Roe, late of the Grenadiers, flushed and, being a man somewhat slow of speech, muttered:

"Thankee, comrade," and thereafter sat gazing at the bright fire and caressing his neatly-trimmed right whisker with the gleaming steel hook that did duty for the hand lost at Waterloo.

"On sich con-wiwial occasions as this here," murmured Mr. Shrig, also gazing at the fire, "when I'm as you might say luxooriating in a pipe, a glass and the best o' pals and comrades, my mind nat'rally runs to corpses, Dick."

"Lord!" exclaimed the corporal, somewhat surprised. "Why so, Jarsper?"

"Because, Dick, in spite o' windictiveness in the shape o' bludgeons, knives, bullets, flat-irons and a occasional chimbley-pot, I'm werry far from being a corpse— yet. Fur vitch I'm dooly thankful. Now talkin' o' corpses, Dick."

"But Jarsper— I ain't."

"No, but you will, for I am, d'ye see. Now folks as have been 'took off' by wiolence or as you might say The Act, wictims o' Murder, Dick— with a capital M— said parties don't generally make pretty corpses, not as a rule— no."

"Which," said the corporal, shaking his comely head, "can't 'ardly be expected, Jarsper."

"But," continued Mr. Shrig, sucking at his pipe with very evident enjoyment, "contrairywise I 'ave never seen an 'andsomer, cleaner, nater ca-darver than Sir W. Glendale made— so smiling, so peaceful— and mind ye, Dick, with a knife, a ordinary butcher's knife druv clean into 'is buzzum, up to the werry grip, or as you might say 'andle. Smiling he was, Dick, as if 'e 'ad been 'took off' in the werry middle of a bee-ootiful dream ...

"'Twas the face of a man... as died... in his sleep... fast asleep!" mused Mr. Shrig. "Now why should a man sleep... so werry sound...? You'll mind the case I think— eh, Dick?"

"For sure, Jarsper, the misfortunate gentleman was murdered about a year ago—"

"A year?" mused Mr. Shrig, pausing with toddy glass at his grim, clean-shaven lips. "Say nine months, say ten—stop a bit till I take a peep at my little reader." Setting down his glass he drew from the bosom of his neat, brass-buttoned coat a small, much-worn notebook whose close-written pages he thumbed slowly over, murmuring hoarsely.

"D. E. F. G.... Griggs... Goreham, Grant—and 'ere we are—Glendale... Sir William... Baronet... Murdered... June 1... sitting at desk... Murderer— wanting!"

"Ay," nodded the corporal, leaning forward to touch the cheery fire with caressing poker, "'tis one 'o them crimes as was never found out."

"And, Dick, your memory sarved you true—for the Act was commit— eggsackly a year ago this here werry night!"

"And I suppose it never will be found out now— eh, Jarsper?"

"Why, since you axes me so p'inted, Dick, I answers you, ready and prompt— oo knows? Hows'ever I'm a-vaiting werry patient."

"Ay, but wot for?"

"Another chance p'raps... dewelopments!"

"Jarsper, I don't quite twig you."

"Dick, I didn't expect as you would. Lookee now— there's murderers vich, if not took and 'topped' or, as you might say, scragged— as gets that owdacious, well, murder grows quite an 'abit wi' 'em and— wot's that?"

"Eh?" said the corporal, starting. "I didn't hear anything."

"Sounded like a dog whining somewheres," murmured Mr. Shrig, glancing vaguely about. "There 'tis again!"

"That's no dog, Jarsper!" muttered the corporal. "Somebody's ill or hurt— that's a child's voice or a woman's."

"No, Dick, that's the voice o' fear... terror, Dick— lad. Now, stand by, pal." Then soundlessly the corporal unbarred the door, drew it suddenly wide and with a slithering rustle, a vague shape swayed in and lay motionless at his feet.

"A woman, Jarsper!" said he in a hushed voice, stooping above this vague shape.

"Oh, dead, Dick?"

"Looks that way, Jarsper."

"Then in wi' her— so! Now shut the door— quick! Lock it, pal, and likewise bar it and shoot the bolts!"

"Lord love us, Jarsper!" whispered the corporal, ruffling his short curly hair with glittering hook, and staring at the lovely form, outstretched upon the wide settle. "Anyway, she ain't dead, thank God!"

"No, Dick, she's only swounding."

"But what's to do now, Jarsper? What's the correct evolution? How to bring the lady round, comrade?"

"Cold vater applied outwardly is reckoned pretty good, Dick, but sperrits took innardly is better, I fancy. So get the rum, pal, or brandy— vich ever comes 'andiest— stop a bit, this'll do!" And reaching his own glass of the "One and Only" Mr. Shrig knelt beside the swooning girl whose face showed so pale beneath its heavy braids and coquettish ringlets of glossy, black hair, and tenderly raising this lovely head, he set the toddy to her lips—but, even then, she shuddered violently and, opening great, fearful eyes, recoiled so suddenly that the toddy-glass went flying.

"DEAD!" she cried in awful, gasping voice, then checking the outcry upon her lips with visible effort she stared from Mr. Shrig upon his knees, to the towering, soldierly figure of Corporal Richard Roe, and wringing her slim, gloveless hands, spoke in quick breathless fashion:

"I want... who... which is Jasper Shrig, the Bow Street officer? I... I want Mr. Shrig of Bow Street—"

"Ma'm," answered Mr. Shrig gently, "that werry identical same is now a-speaking."

"Yes," she cried, leaning toward him with a strange eagerness. "Yes... I see you are, now! You... oh, you surely must remember me?"

"Ay... by Goles... I surely... do!" nodded Mr. Shrig.

"I am Adela Glendale... a year ago I was suspected of... of—"

"Not by me, lady, never by me, ma'm."

"No, no, you believed in me then, thank God! You were my good friend—then! But tonight... Oh, Mr. Shrig— dear Jasper Shrig..." she cried and reaching out she clutched at him with both trembling hands in frantic appeal.

"You believed in me then, you were kind to me then, you stood between me and shameful horror a year ago... Oh, be kind to me now, believe in me now... for tonight... it has happened again... horrible! Oh, God help me, it has happened again!"

"Eh?... Murder?" questioned Mr. Shrig in a hoarse whisper.

"Yes— yes... and the house full of guests! But he's dead... Uncle Gregory is dead— horrible! See— look at me!" And with swift, wild gesture she threw open the long mantle that shrouded her loveliness and showed her white satin gown—its bosom and shoulder blotched with a hideous stain. "Look! Look!" she gasped, staring down at these dreadful evidences in horror, "His blood... I'm foul of it... dear Uncle Gregory!"

Mr. Shrig surveyed these ghastly smears with eyes very bright and keen, his lips pursed as if about to whistle, though no sound came; then he drew the cloak about her.

"And now," said he when their visitor seemed more composed, "now Miss Adele, ma'm, s'pose you tell us all as you know."

"But what— what can I tell you?" she answered with a gesture of helplessness. "I only know that Uncle Gregory... dear Uncle Gregory is... horribly dead. Oh, Mr. Shrig, I shall never forget the awful—"

"There, there, my dear!" said Mr. Shrig, patting the quivering hand that clasped his so eagerly. "But you mentioned summat about guests."

"Yes, there were people to dinner, five or six .... But—"

"Oo invited them?"

"My half-cousin Roger... but oh, when I think of how Uncle—"

"Any strangers among 'em— these guests, Miss Adele?"

"No, they were family friends... But Uncle Gregory had not been very well today and so soon as dinner was over, he excused himself and went to his room."

"Upstairs to bed, ma'm?"

"Not upstairs. He sleeps on the ground floor at the back of the house, looking on to the garden."

"And 'e vas ill today, you tell me? Sick, eh?"

"Oh, no, no, it was only a touch of gout."

"Gout, eh? Now did 'e say anything to you afore 'e went to his room?"

"Yes, he told me he felt very drowsy and could hardly keep his eyes open."

"But gout, ma'm, don't make a man drowsy. Had Sir Gregory drank much wine at dinner?"

"Very little."

"And yet," murmured Mr. Shrig, staring down at the slender hand he was still patting gently, "and yet— so werry sleepy! Did he say anything more as you can call to mind now?"

"He ordered the butler to take his coffee to the bedroom, and told me he would come back later if the drowsiness passed off.... And those were his last words, Mr. Shrig, the very last words I shall ever hear him speak—"

"And now, ma'm, tell me o' poor Mr. Roger, your cousin."

"Half cousin, Mr. Shrig!" she corrected hastily. "Roger was poor Uncle William's step-son—"

"Bit of an inwalid, ain't 'e?"

"Roger is a paralytic, he can't walk and uses a wheeled chair, but surely you remember this, Mr. Shrig, you seemed to fancy his society very much a year ago... when—"

"A YEAR ago this werry night, Miss Adele, ma'm!" said Mr. Shrig with ponderous nod. "And a parrylitick... to... be... sure! Instead o' legs— veels, and at his age too, poor, unfort'nate young gentleman!"

"Roger is older than you think, older than he looks... sometimes I think he never was young, and sometimes—" here she shuddered violently again and clasped the strong hand she held fast between her own. "Oh, Mr. Shrig," she gasped, "what... what can I do... Uncle Gregory... I left him... sitting there in his great elbow-chair beside the fire... so still and dreadful! Oh, tell me... what... what... what must I do?"

"First," answered Mr. Shrig gently, "tell me just 'ow you found him?"

"As soon as I could leave the company I stole away... I knocked softly on his door... I went in... the room was dark except for the fire, but I... could see him... sitting in his great chair. I thought him dozing so I crept up to settle him more cozily and... to kiss him. I slipped my arm about him, I... I kissed his white head... so lightly and... Oh God, he slipped... sideways and... I saw—!"

"Dick," murmured Mr. Shrig, clasping ready arm about that horror-shaken form, "the brandy!"

"No, no!" she gasped, "I'm not going to... swoon. Only help me, Mr. Shrig, be my friend for I... I'm afraid... terribly afraid! I was the last to speak with him, the last to see him alive—"

"No, Miss Adele, ma'm, the last to see 'im alive was the man as killed him."

"Oh... friend!" she murmured. "My good, kind Jasper Shrig," and, viewing him through tears of gratitude, bowed her head against the shoulder of the neat, brass-buttoned coat and, with face thus hidden, spoke again, her voice ineffably tender: "But I'm afraid for— another also, Mr. Shrig."

"Ay, to be sure!" nodded Mr. Shrig, "Oo is 'e, Miss Adele, ma'm?"

"JOHN!" she murmured. "Mr. Winton— you remember him? He was Uncle Gregory's secretary. But, oh, Mr. Shrig, three days ago they quarreled! That is, Uncle was very angry with poor John and— discharged him because... John had dared to fall in love with me."

"Humph! And do you love said Mr. John, ma'm?"

"With all my poor heart. So you see if you're my friend and believe in me, you must be his friend too, for the danger threatening me threatens him also... there is a dreadful shadow over us—"

"But then, ma'm, a shadder's only a shadder— even if it do go on veels—"

"Oh, Mr. Shrig—"

"And 'ave you seen Mr. John since day of discharge?"

Here she was silent, staring down great-eyed at her fingers that twined and clasped each other so nervously, until at last Mr. Shrig laid his large firm hand upon them and questioned her again:

"Miss Adela, ma'm, if Shrig o' Bow Street, bap-tismal name, Jarsper, is to aid you and said Mr. John you must say eggsackly 'ow and also vereabouts you seen 'im this night."

"I... I thought I saw him... in the garden," she whispered.

"Didn't speak to 'im, then?"

"No, I was too distraught... sick with horror, I could only think of—" the faltering voice stopped suddenly as there came a loud, imperious knocking on the outer door.

"Now oo in the vide universe—"

"THAT must be John, now!" she cried, looking up with eyes bright and joyous. "I hope, I pray it is—"

"But 'ow should he come to the 'Gun,' if you didn't tell 'im as you—?"

"Oh, I bade Mary, my old nurse, tell him I'd run off to you... and, oh, please see if it is indeed John." So, at a nod from Mr. Shrig, away strode the corporal, forthwith. Voices in the passage, a hurry of footsteps and in came a tall young man who, with no eyes and never a thought for anything on earth but the lovely creature who rose in such eager welcome, dropped his hat, was across the kitchen and had her in his arms, all in as many moments.

"My dear," he murmured, "oh, my dear, why did you run away? What new horror is this—?"

"John, tell me, tell me— why were you in the garden tonight?"

"Dear heart, for word with you. Roger wrote me he'd contrive us a meeting, like the good, generous friend I'm sure he is—"

"Oh, John," she wailed, clasping him as if to protect, "how blind, how blind you are!"

"And, Mr. Vinton, sir," murmured Mr. Shrig, pointing sinewy finger, "your fob as was— ain't!" the young gentleman started, turned, clapped hand to fob-pocket and glanced from the speaker to Adele with an expression of sudden dismay.

"Gone!" he exclaimed. "The seal you gave me, dear heart."

"Ay, 'tis gone sure enough, sir," nodded Mr. Shrig. "The question is: how? and likewise where? And now, seeing as none of us ain't likely to tell, vot I says is— Corporal Dick, send out for a coach."

Pallid faces, voices that whispered awfully and became as awfully hushed when Mr. Shrig, opening the door of the fatal room, passed in, beckoning Corporal Dick to follow.

"Dick," said he, softly, "shut the door and lock it."

A stately chamber whose luxurious comfort was rendered cozier by the bright fire that flickered on the hearth with soft, cheery murmur; and before this fire a great, cushioned chair from which was thrust a limp arm that dangled helplessly with a drooping hand whose long, curving fingers seemed to grope at the deep carpet.

"So, there it is, pal!" quoth Mr. Shrig briskly. "Let's see vot it's got to tell us," and crossing to the chair he stooped to peer down at that which sprawled so grotesquely among its cushions.

The big corporal, who had faced unmoved the horrors of Waterloo, blenched at the thing in the chair which death had smitten in such gruesome fashion amid the comfort of this luxurious room.

"Oh—ecod, Jarsper!" he whispered.

"Ay," nodded Mr. Shrig, bending yet closer, "'e's pretty considerable dead, I never see a deader, no! And yet, in spite o' the gore, 'e looks werry surprisin' peaceful... werry remarkably so!... Killed by a downward stab above the collar-bone, lookee, in the properest place for it.... A knife or, say a dagger and same wanished... eh, where are ye, Dick?"

"Comrade," exclaimed the corporal in sudden excitement, "will ye step over here to the winder?"

"Eh... the vinder?" murmured Mr. Shrig, his keen gaze roving from the figure in the chair to the gleaming moisture beneath it to those helpless fingers and the shining object they seemed to grasp at, to the small table nearby with open book, the box of cigars, the delicate Sevres cup and saucer. "Eh... the vinder? Why so, Dick?"

"It's... open, Jarsper!"

"Oh?" murmured Mr. Shrig, his roving gaze fixed at last. "Is it? Look thereabouts and y'may see summat of a dagger, pal, or say, a knife—"

"Why, Jarsper... Lord love me, here it is!"

"Werry good, bring it over and let's take a peep at it... Ah, a ordinary butcher's knife, eh, Dick? Vally about a bob— say, eighteen pence. Has it been viped?"

"No, comrade, it's blooded to the grip—"

"That cup and saucer now?" mused Mr. Shrig. "Half full o' coffee... vot's that got to tell us?" Saying which, he took up the dainty cup, sniffed at it, tasted its contents and stood beaming down at the fire, his rosy face more benevolent than usual. Then from one of his many pockets he drew a small phial into which he decanted a little of the coffee very carefully, whistling softly beneath his breath the while.

"What now, Jarsper?"

"Why, Dick, I'll tell ye, pat and plain. There's coffee in this vorld of all sorts, this, that and t'other and this is that. And Dick, old pal, the only thing as flummoxes me now is veels."

"Wheels?" repeated the corporal. "Jarsper, I don't twig."

"Vell, no, Dick; no, it aren't to be expected. But you've noticed so werry much already, come and take another peep at our cadaver. Now, vot d'ye see, pal?"

"VERY remarkable bloody, Jarsper."

"True! And vot more?"

"The pore old gentleman 'ad begun to smoke a cigar— there it lays now, again' the fender."

"Eh, cigar?" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, starting. "Now dog bite me if I 'adn't missed that. There 'tis sure enough and there... by Goles... there's the ash— look. Dicky lad, look— vot d'ye make o' that, now?"

"Why, Jarsper, I makes it no more than— ash."

"Ay, so it is, Dick, and werry good ash, too! Blow my dicky if I don't think it's the best bit of ash as ever I see!" Here indeed Mr. Shrig became so extremely attracted by this small pile of fallen cigar-ash that he plumped down upon his knees before it, much as if in adoration thereof and was still lost in contemplation of it when the corporal uttered a sharp exclamation and grasping his companion by the shoulder turned him about and pointed with gleaming hook:

"Lord, comrade— oh Jarsper!" said he in groaning voice. "See— yonder! There's evidence to hang any man, look there!" And he pointed to a small, shining object that twinkled just beneath the grasping fingers of that dangling, dead hand. "Mr. John's... Mr. Winton's seal!" he whispered.

"Oh, ar!" murmured Mr. Shrig, his gaze roving back to the cigar-ash. "I've been a-vonderin' 'ow it got there, ever since I see it, Dick, so eggsackly under corpse's daddle."

"Why, Jarsper, he must ha' snatched it, accidental-like, in his struggle for life and, being dead, dropped it."

"Lord love ye, Dick!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, beaming up affectionately into the corporal's troubled face. "Now I never thought o' that. You're gettin' as 'andy with your 'ead as your 'ook! Deceased being alive, snatched it and, being dead, naturally drops it. Good! So now s'pose you pick it up and we takes a peep at it."

"It's his'n, Jarsper, and no mistake," sighed the corporal. "See, here's a J. and a W. and here, round the edge: 'To John from Adele.' So, God help the poor sweet creetur, I says!"

"Amen, Dick, with all my heart. So the case is pretty clear, eh?"

"A precious sight too clear, comrade."

"Couldn't be plainer, eh, pal?"

"No how, comrade."

"Then, Dick lad, the vord is— march! No— stop a bit— the window. Open? Yes. And werry easy to climb. But this here bolt now... this latch... pretty solid— von't do! But that 'ook o' yourn's solider, I reckon, and you're precious strong, so— wrench it off."

"Eh? Break it, Jarsper?"

"Ar! Off with it, pal! Ha— so, and off she comes! By Goles, you're stronger than I thought."

"Ay, but Jarsper, why break the winder lock?"

"Hist— mum's the vord. Dick— so march it is and lively, pal."

IN THE HALL they were stayed by one who goggled at Mr. Shrig from pale, plump face, bowed, rubbed nervous hands and spoke in quavering voice:

"A dreadful business, sirs, oh, a terrible—"

"Werry true!" nodded Mr. Shrig. "You're the butler, ain't you? Is your master about, I mean your noo master?"

"Mr. Roger is... is in the library, sir. He desires a word with you. This way, if you please."

For a long moment after the door had closed, Mr. Roger Glendale sat behind his desk utterly still, viewing Mr. Shrig with his dreamy yet watchful eyes.

"So, Shrig, we meet again?" he said at length. "Our last meeting was—"

"A year ago this werry night, sir!"

"A strange coincidence, Shrig, and a very terrible one. By heaven, there seems to be some curse upon this house, some horrible fate that dogs us Glendales!"

"Werry much so indeed, sir!" nodded Mr. Shrig, and his voice sounded so hearty as to be almost jovial.

"And 'ow do you find yourself these days, Mr. Roger, pretty bobbish I 'opes, sir?"

Mr. Roger blenched, throwing up a white, well-cared-for hand:

"An odious, a detestable word, Shrig!" he expostulated.

"Vich, sir?"

"'Bobbish'! A hideous word and most inappropriate as regards myself for—" the sleepy eyes glared suddenly, the pale cheek flushed, the delicate fingers became a knotted fist. "I am the same breathing Impotence! The same useless, helpless Thing, Shrig!"

"I shouldn't eggsackly call ye 'useless,' sir, nor go so fur as to name ye ''elpless,' not me— no!"

"Then you'd be a fool, for I'm a log! I'm Death-in-Life, a living corpse, live brain in dead body— look at me!"

"And yet," demurred Mr. Shrig, "you're astonishin' spry with your fambles, sir, your 'ands, Mr. Rogers, or as you might say, your daddles, sir!"

Mr. Rogers glanced at the white, shapely hands in question and flickered their fingers delicately.

"Well, Shrig, my cousin, Miss Adele, forestalled me in summoning you, it seems, but you have seen... you have looked into this new horror that has smitten us Glendales?"

"Vith both peepers, sir!"

"Well, speak out, man! Have you discovered any trace of the assassin? Formed any conclusions?"

"Oceans, sir!" nodded Mr. Shrig. "The ass-assin is as good as took! Ye see the fax is all too plain, sir! First, the open vinder. Second, by said vinder, the fatal veppin— 'ere it is!" and from a capacious pocket he drew an ugly bundle and, unwinding its stained folds, laid the knife before his questioner.

"Very horrid!" said Mr. Roger in hushed accents, viewing the dreadful thing with a very evident disgust. "Anything more, Shrig?"

"Sir, me and my comrade, Corporal Richard Roe, found all as was to be found— this! Number three! A clincher!" And beside that murderous knife he laid the gold seal, beholding which Mr. Roger started in sudden agitation, took it up, stared at it and, dropping it upon the desk, covered his eyes with his two hands.

"Aha, you reckernize it, eh, sir?" asked Mr. Shrig, thrusting it back into his pocket, and wrapping up the knife again. "Yes, I see as you know it, eh, Mr. Roger?"

"Beyond all doubt... to my sorrow! And you found it... near... the body?"

"Beneath its werry fingers, sir, looked as if it had fell out of its dyin' grasp. Pretty conclusive, I think. And now sir, 'aving dooly noted and brought along everything in the natur' of evidence, I'll be toddling— no, stop a bit— the cup!"

"Cup, Shrig? Pray, what cup?"

"The coffee-cup used by deceased."

"Why trouble to take that?"

"Well," answered Mr. Shrig dubiously, "I don't 'ardly know except for the fact as 'twere used by deceased aforesaid and might come in as evidence."

"How so, Shrig? Evidence of what?"

"WELL," answered Mr. Shrig, more dubiously than ever, "I don't 'ardly know that either, but I'd better take it along. Ye see, sir, there's some coffee in it as they might like to examine."

"But my poor uncle was stabbed, not poisoned."

"No more 'e wasn't!" nodded Mr. Shrig. "And I ought to get my report in sharp. And then again if the said cup should be wanted I can fetch it tomorrow."

"You locked the door, Shrig?"

"Seein' as the key was a-missin', I did not, sir, but I've took all as is needful and vot I've left ain't a-goin' to run away, no, 'twill stay nice an' quiet till the undertaker—"

"Good night!" said Mr. Roger, ringing the bell at his elbow.

"Sir, good night!" answered Mr. Shrig, and, turning at the opening of the door, he and Corporal Dick followed the pallid butler, who presently let them out into a pitch-black night, whereupon Mr. Shrig became imbued with a sudden fierce energy:

"Now Dick— at the double!"

"Eh, but Jarsper what... where—"

"Run!" hissed Mr. Shrig, and seizing his companion's arm, he broke into a heavy, though silent trot... In among shadowy trees, across smooth, dim lawns along winding paths to a terrace whence a row of windows glinted down at them; which he counted in breathless whisper:

"Number five should be it... At Number five she is! After me, pal!" And speaking, he opened this fifth window and clambered through with surprising agility. "Eh— back again?" whispered the corporal, glancing at the great chair before the dying fire. "What now, comrade?"

"The bed, Dick, it's big enough to hide us both, and— sharp's the vord!" The heavy curtains of the huge somber four-poster rustled and were still, a cinder fell tinkling to the hearth and then came the corporal's hoarse whisper:

"What are we waiting for, Jarsper?"

"The murderer."

"Lord!"... A distant clock chimed the hour.

Silence, for the great house was very still; the clock chimed the quarter, the dying fire chinked, this room of death grew slowly darker; the clock chimed the half-hour... A faint, faint rattle at the door and into the room crept a sound of soft movement with another sound very strange to hear— a crunching rustle that stole across the carpet towards the hearth; a moving, shapeless blot against the feeble fire-glow, a faint tinkle of china and then a voice sudden and harsh and loud:

"In the King's name!" A leap of quick feet, a whirl of sudden movement, a flurry of desperate strife, an inhuman laugh of chuckling triumph, and then Mr. Shrig's gasping voice:

"Ecod, Dick, he's done us! Catch that arm... no good! I'm diddled again, by Goles, I am! Get the candles a-goin'— sharp!"

"Lord love us!" gasped Corporal Dick, the lighted candle wavering in his grasp, "Mr. Roger!"

"Ay— but look— look at 'im!"

ROGER GLENDALE lolled in his wheeled chair, his eyes fixed upon the speaker in awful glare, his lips up-curling from white teeth... and from these writhen lips issued a wheezing chuckle.

"Right, Shrig... you were right... I'm not... not so helpless... as I seemed. I was Master of Life... and Death. I'm... master still! I'm... away, Shrig, away... And so... Good night!" The proud head swayed aslant, drooped forward— the shapely hands fluttered and were still, and Corporal Dick, setting down the candle, wiped moist brow, staring with horrified eyes.

"Love us all!" he whispered, "Dead—eh?"

"As any nail, Dick! Pizen, d'ye see?"

"Comrade, how... how did ye know him for the killer?"

"'Twas very simple, Dick— in that bit o' cigar-ash as you p'inted out to me, I see the track of a veel, his footprints, so to speak, and— there ye are, pal!"

"Why then... what now, comrade?"

"Now Dick, get back to them as is a-vaitin' so werry patient in the coach and tell 'em as Jarsper says the shadder, being only a shadder, is vanished out o' their lives and the sun is rose and a-shinin' for 'em and so—let all be revelry and j'y!"

______________

12: Wyatt's Pearl Business

Captain Frederick Moore

1881-1947

Short Stories 10 Oct 1941

Captain Frederick Ferdinand Moore

There are many stories of Singing Sands Island. The author had an adventurous career in real life, from tramp steamers to military intelligence. In his last years he was a deputy marshal with the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department, and was murdered while on patrol. His killer confessed to the murder, and to having buried his body, which was never found. The killer was declared to be insane.

WHEN I went down into the bar of the South Seas Eagle House for breakfast, I found Wyatt standing over a stranger at a table, pencil poised over pad, saying wrathfully, "I want twenty-one bucks for a week's board and room in advance. This hotel, Cap'n Johansen, is run strick'ly on a cash basis, and unless I git it this is the last meal of vittles you git in, the place."

Captain Johansen was eating fried eggs in a platter with a spoon. Half a bottle of trade gin and an. empty tumbler were alongside the platter. He was a big man in wrinkled duck, flaxen hair that almost hid his blue eyes, and freckled hands.

A schooner had come in after midnight and left three men at Singing Sands Island. Snake Eye Smith and I heard the tumult but remained in bed. The three had been drinking and my impression was that an annoyed skipper had dumped his passengers on the beach and took his vessel out to sea.

"Hah? Vat you says?" demanded Captain Johansen. He threw his head back to shake the hair out of his eyes, tried to focus them on Wyatt, failed to see the Cape Codder, and resumed the job of chasing the last egg yolk across the platter with the spoon.

"You heard what I said! You slep' here last night, drinked up a quart and a half of my best imported gin, and you've et a dozen eggs for breakfast. Naow, I've got o have twenty-one bucks for the comin' week."

Johansen looked at Wyatt, waved the dripping spoon at him, and remarked, "Ay ban goot for gusoline enschines."

Wyatt's thin face twisted in disgust. He hitched up his bar apron and wet the pencil on his tongue. "We ain't got no gasoline injines on the island. If we did, it wouldn't make no difference. I'm ready to give you a receipt for a week's board and room."

Johansen regarded the yellowed platter solemnly. His wind-dried face was etched with a network of genial lines. His flaxen eyebrows were bushy and resembled filigtee ivory carvings stuck on his brows with glue. He took a swig directly from the gin bottle.

"Ay vant six more schicken eggs!"

"You can't have no more eggs till you pay up."

Johansen wrinkled his brow in thought. "How many schickens you keeps?"

"I don't keep no chickens."

JOHANSEN turned and tried to stare in astonishment but his eyes refused to go into gear. "Vat? No schicken eggs! But Ay ban eat schicken eggs! Vhere you gets 'em, you no keeps schickens?"

"My Chink cook keep chickens and I buy the eggs off'n him."

"Hah! So you gets your eggs scheap you buys 'em from Chinks!"

"They ain't cheap at all. The hens lay wild in the jungles, spite of hell, and it's dangerous to hunt the eggs like, that."

"Vat! To pick schicken eggs up is dangerous?"

"Ayah. P'int is, the jungles on this island are just crawlin' with head hunters. Mostly, they stay up in the mountains, but in the dark outside, they're likely to be under foot, and they're jumpy about gittin' stepped on."

Johansen's big face showed a spasm of astonishment. He even tried to see me across the table, but his wavering eyes missed stays and he gave up the attempt. "Goot Gott!" he roared. "Het hunters! Ay am not likes het hunters!"

"I don't give a damn what you like. Don't try to change the subject, neither, but show me the color of your cash."

SNAKE EYE SMITH came down the stairs. The former vaudeville hypnotist looked at Johansen with a wary eye and took the chair next to me.

"Don't bodder me vit cash talk," said Johansen. He gave Snake Eye a glassy stare and demanded, "Hah, Mister! Does you likes to keep schickens for laying eggs?"

"I've always wanted to but never got around to it," said Snake Eye. "Ought to be an interesting business."

Johansen wiped egg yolk from his chin and waved the spoon at Snake Eye. "Hah! It is werry, werry goot pusiness! One shicken, one day, one egg! One hunnert schickens, one day, one hunnert—"

Wyatt took a stab at his pad with the pencil and broke in, "You pay your bill for a week and never mind the chicken business!"

"Fife-teen hunnert schickens, one day, fife-teen hunnert—"

"Twenty-one bucks, spang down, here and now, Cap'n!"

Johansen took another swig from the gin bottle and slammed it down hard on the table. "Hah! I tells you not to bodder me vid money. Ay ain't got no money!"

"Godfrey mighty! Who's goin' to pay—?"

"Take it easy with this bird," cautioned Snake Eye. "If he started to wreck the place, he'd do an expensive job."

"Ayah, and I'd cut him in two with my shotgun." Wyatt went on with Johansen. "What do you think this hotel is? A pore house?"

Before Johansen could answer, a resonant voice came booming down through the split bamboo flooring over our heads, saying, " 'Tis all men's office to speak patience to those that wring under the load of sorrow,"

"That's Shakespeare!" said Snake Eye in astonishment. "And I know the guy! Last time I saw him he was up in Burma when I was selling elephant hooks to mahouts."

"That ain't his name," said Wyatt, "Haow I happen to know, when he got here last night, he was too boiled to sign the register, so I writ the name down for him. It's Rook."

"Sure!" said Snake Eye. "Cato Brutus Rook, the Shakespearian actor! Last job he had was as a barker for a circus side show over in Australia."

Chang Su came in with another platter of fried eggs. Johansen took the platter and started in with his spoon.

"By Godfrey, the Hussar brings me the champion three-ring egg eater of the universe, and he's busted, and it's likely that the show feller recitin' po'try up in my four-dollar room ain't got a red cent to his name.

"The other jasper may have a pair of nickels on him, but I dunno as any of 'em can pay their keep." Wyatt threw pencil and pad on the nearby bar.

"Hah! Ay bet you nobody got any money!"

"You mean that the little squirt in the derby hat, name's Beamish, ain't got any money, too?" demanded Wyatt.

"Ay bet no, if you likes to bet."

"How can you bet with no money? Tell you one thing! Somebody's goin' to pungle up some cash out of this Hussar lot of passengers, or I'll have the hull kit and kaboodle of you put in jail over on Lantu Vanna Island."

"Yale! Ay don't likes yales."

"Pay up, of you're headed for one, Cap'n."

Rook's voice drifted down through the split bamboo floor in a sonorous cadence. "Tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in a stealing pace from day to day." Then he hiccoughed.

Sundown Skelly, the professional wrestler, who was in the room next to Rook's, woke up and demanded of his wife, "Babe, I didn't know that he was in a theater in Boston like we are from hearing actors while I'm asleep and all." They were on their honeymoon from Shanghai.

"You big lug, let me sleep! We ain't in no the-ater in Boston, but in a hotel on a wild island, and don't I know they're both wild." .

"But, Babe, you don't hear no actors rehearsin' like that on wild islands what have got hotels."

"You lay off gin or you'll be seeing things as well as hearing, Hon. And shut your trap or I'll sock you one."

Sundown turned over in bed with sound effects like a grampus coming up through a thick field of floating seaweed. "It must be somebody's got a bum needle on that phoneygraft that was playing last week."

Rook sounded off again. "Trifles, light as ait, are to the jealous, confirmation strong as Holy Writ."

"Slap me down!" cried Mrs. Skelly. "If that ain't Cato Rook, I'll drink the oil out of the lamp!"

"Is that Clarice, the Venus Fire dancer?" demanded Rook in astonished tones. "Clarice darling!"

"How'd you get to this wild island, Cato?"

"Taking my sabbatical year. Are you still in vaude with your fire dance, darling?"

"No, I'm on my honeymoon with Sundown Skelly. The Shanghai cops was mean to him, so I married the big lug."

"That's wonderful, darling!"

Sundown growled through the braided wall, "I'm the only one that calls me wife darling and all, so pipe down, or you'll be givin' me.a slow burn."

"Aw, Hon, Cato don't mean no harm. You know we been on the same bill together many a time when vaude was good."

"We ought to have a spot of gin to celebrate our being in the same hostelry  together," said Rook. His rattan bedcreaked as he climbed out.

We heard Sundown's feet hit the flooring like an elephant gone amok. "When an actor buys a drink I'll be at the bar," declared Sundown. I'm dry."

"All we need now," said Wyatt, "to be a three-ring circus, is a twenty-four piece band and some ladies in tights."

Captain Johansen finished the platter of eggs with a flourish of the spoon. "Fife t'ousand schickens, one day, five t'ousand eggs. Ten t'ousand schickens, one day—"

"Ayah. You quit the chicken business, pay your bill, and git back to sea, Cap'n."

"Ay don't like the sea," said Johansen sadly. "Ay don't like pearlin'. Ay don't like fishin'. Schickens! If Ay had me some schickens—"

"All I gits is show folks and busted sailors," said Wyatt. "I'm workin' my fingers down to stubs goin' bankrupts with this hotel."

"Ay am tired of schooners. Ay am tited of ships. Ay am tired of stimmers, but Ay am goot for gusoline enschines. Hah!"

"I'm tired of gab," said Wyatt. "You've et all the eggs of the other boarders and Chang Su's got to start all over again."

"Ay vant me sax more schicken eggs."

"Come on, Babe—"

The whole hotel swayed as Sundown Skelly came down the bamboo stairs. He burst in on us, wearing the polo shirt he had stolen in Shanghai and the white pants he had stolen on a ship. The Japanese girl tattooed on his chest danced mincingly as he swung his shoulders and went around the end of the table.

"Cato Rook and me and me wife is coming down for some gin in our coffee to wake us up and all. Cato'll pay for the round," Sundown told Wyatt.

"Ayah," said Wyatt: "If he's got any money he'll pay for my gin, but he's likely busted. If it ain't one damn thing around here it's another."

Mrs. Skelly came in. She wore a blue mandarin coat with dragons embroidered in gold and red slacks. Her red hair was high on her head. She smiled at Johansen. He waved his eggy spoon at her as he tried to get his eyes into focus.

Sundown scanned the empty platter. "Who scrammed the scrambled eggs, if it ain't polite to ask, but it looks like the gazook wit' the spoon has had his turn at em."

"Bigger the appetite round here," said Wyatt, "the less money they got."

"Yerp," agreed Sundown. "Pass the gin.

"That's Cap'n Johansen's private bottle," said Wyatt. "Don't gum the game up drinkin' none till he's paid for it."

"We want some strong gin with some weak coffee into it," said Sundown.

A tall thin-faced man with long white hair, wearing a derelict morning coat, striped trousers and cracked patent leather shoes bowed in the doorway. He was well past seventy, and his faded eyes resented the strong morning sunlight.

"Hello, Cato!" said Snake Eye.

"By my halidom! The king of the stage hypnotists; Snake Eye Smith, who played the same kerosene lamp circuit with me from Bangor to Barstow!" They shook hands. "And Sundown Skelly, the sultan of stranglers! And Clarice, the fire dance Venus!"

"Yerp," said Sundown, as he reached for Johansen's gin bottle. "The last time I seen you you was recitin' the 'Rock of the Hesperus' in the depot in Manchester New Hampshire at three in the mornin' and you was good on account of you was drunk."

Wyatt thrust out a restraining hand. "Just one minute, gents! Thar ain't nobody goin' to lap up my best imported gin 'thout they show me some cash!"

Captain Johansen, who had leaned back in his chair and fallen asleep behind the hempen hair falling down over his forehead, said to an imaginary seaman, "Take in the yib sail."

"This is Cato Rook, in poison," said Sundown, "and me and me wife pays for what he eats."

"Is the board good?" asked Cato.

"The best meals I ever drinked," said Sundown.

Rook sat. "As Shakespeare said, sometimes I am a king, then treason makes me with myself a beggar."

"Yerp," said Sundown, filling a glass with gin, "I always liked your riddles. Me uncle in Brooklyn, when he was sober, was fine at makin' up riddles. He had one—"

"Now, Hon, we don't need no cracks about Brooklyn."

"I wasn't makin' no cracks about Brooklyn, but he had one that goes—"

"There is ladies present, Hon."

"It goes like this— the oily boid catches the woim when he toins."

"Splendid," said Rook, as he lifted his glass.

"Naow you show folks hark to me," insisted Wyatt. "This ain't a oprey haouse, and I like po'try and riddles good as anybody, but this seafarin' man, Cap'n Johansen ain't paid for that gin. What's more, he ain't got no money, or so he says."

Johansen shook the hair away from one eye and glared at Wyatt. "Ay got frents— they pays you." He pointed at Sundown.

"Me friends is personal," objected Sundown. "You is a stranger."

"Hon, you shouldn't ought to have stuck your neck out like that for trouble."

"You wake up and gimme twenty-one bucks," said Wyatt. He shook Johansen's shoulder.

"Ay ban't asleep." Johansen cleared the other eye and stuck two fingers into the watch pocket under his belt. His knotty fingers tonged up a small roundish pink object. He thrust it toward Wyatt. "It's a pearl. It pays for my schicken eggs."

Wyatt took the pearl, staring in astonishment. So did Mrs. Skelly and Snake Eye and myself.

"A poil!" said Sundown, his eyes wide as he looked,

"Buy it, Hon. I need me some more pearls."

"Babe, you don't need no more poils. I brung you four from Thursday Island that time I went and come back in a ship."

"Hon, I'm collecting pearls to make me a necklace like that Russian dame had her in Shanghai."

"Babe, you shouldn't ought to be like Roosian dames."

"Godfrey mighty!" said Wyatt. "This looks vallybel! What you think of it, Snake Eye?" He handed it across the table.

Snake Eye scanned the pearl in the palm of his hand. He said to me in an undertone, "It's worth a couple of thousand bucks." He handed it back to Wyatt and nodded approvingly to the Cape Codder.

"You want me to hold it for security, Cap'n, that it?"

"Ay sells it to you for fife-ty dollars. Don't bodder me vid money."

"BUY it, Hon, for fifty bucks," said Mrs. Skelly.

"Naow, wait a minute," said Wyatt. "Thar's a ketch into this somewhars, Cap'n Johansen. You come in here with the schooner Hussar as a passenger, and you're busted flatter'n a skate fish. Whyn't you sell this pearl afore you got here in the fust place?"

Johansen opened his eyes and brushed away his hair. "Ay tells you. If I goes to sell it, pipples says Ay schteals it. So vat doI do? Vell, Ay comes here busted. Ay don't bodder vid money, like I tells you. A vants more schicken eggs."

"I knew thar was a ketch," said Wyatt.

"When I was on the stage," said Snake Eye, "sawing a lady in two, I bought a pearl for ten bucks that I thought was a bargain until I found out that it had been made in a glass works in New York."

Mrs. Skelly glared at Snake Eye. "That's just to scare my hubby off buying this one, you big chiseler!"

Sundown spoke. "You never sawed no lady in two. She come out of the box like she went in, healt'y. You can't fool me— I peeked."

"Hon, dear, shut your trap and think of pearls."

"Babe, you don't need no necklace for your neck."

Snake Eye asked Johansen. "How many you got, Cap'n?"

"Ay tank Ay got fife more."

"Could I have a look at 'em?"

"The big foot in the door, like when you was selling pills in Yonkers," said Mrs. Skelly to Snake Eye.

Johansen fished a second pearl from his pocket and held it it the palm of his hand, squinting at the pinkish gem.

"Three thousand for a pearl like that is pew rent," Snake Eye whispered to me from behind his hand.

"Hon, whyn't you ask the man to look at a pearl yourself?"

"Babe, we don't want no pearls."

"Fife-ty dollars," said Johansen.

"Godfrey mighty, he's got a hull pocket full of 'em."

Johansen brought a third pearl out and laid it in his hand with the other.

Mrs. Skelly raged, "Pearls kicking around like shirt buttons in a Chink laundry and my hubby has a mouth full of mango!"

Johansen found two more pearls and handed the four over to Mrs. Skelly. "You looks at 'em, Missus! Fife-ty dollars for one, a hunnert dollars for two, a hunnert and fifty dollars for three—"

Mrs. Skelly spoke to Wyatt. "My hubby wants you to get two hundred bucks out of the safe to buy me these pearls."

Sundown dropped his mango. "Babe, we ain't buyin' no pearls wit' no two hundred bucks, so—" He stopped to inhale coffee.

"Hon, don't slup your coffee! Didn't I read to you out of a book by a lady that gents don't slup?"

"I don't want to be no gent and buy pearls that—"

"Captain Johansen, my hubby's taking four pearls at fifty bucks a throw."

"Don't bodder me vid money," said Johansen from behind the fringe of hair over his eyes. "But if you wants to buy the pearls—"

"Will you give me fifty bucks for this one, Snake Eye?" asked Wyatt. "I dunno nothin' about pearls, but I need some cash."

Snake Eye hesitated. "I'll look up my horoscope for the day," he said, taking a little book from his pocket and thumbing the pages.

I knew that he wanted time to think over the business of the pearls. They were such bargains that I was suspicious myself, and more than one man in the islands has found himself in jail for buying pearls at prices too low. There was also something fishy about the way Captain Johansen had arrived at Singing Sands Island loaded with pearls and short of cash.

THERE was a gentle cough at the foot of the stairway from the upper rooms. A gnome-like little man, wearing a battered suit of seersucker cloth with brown stripes, walked into the bar. He had on a flat-brimmed straw hat that had been turned into a visored cap by cutting away the brim except in front.

He took the nearest chair at the table and oozed his knees under the hanging end of the cloth.

"By Godfrey, I forgot all about you, Mr. Beamish," said Wyatt, as he came from the safe and laid four fifty-dollar banknotes alongside Mrs. Skelly's plate.

"Good morning, ladies and gents," said Beamish. "Hope I ain't too late for a cup of corfee."

"You might take off your hat at the table," said Wyatt. "This hotel ain't the depot quick lunch counter at Nashway, New Hampshire."

"No," said Mrs. Skelly. "This is what you might call a roughfined place We keep cockroaches as big as mud turtles."

"Don't knock the joint, Babe," said Sundown.

"Hon, I'm buying pearls— and don't slup your coffee, like I told you."

"We ain't buyin' no pearls, Babe, didn't I say onct."

"If you got other ideas, Hon, I'll slug it out with you." Mrs. Skelly picked up the banknotes and counted them.

Beamish took off the hat and threw it out on the veranda. "Did I hear something about pearls?" he stared at the banknotes in Mrs. Skelly's hand and then shifted his swift eyes to the pearls on the table before Captain Johansen.

"Yerp," said Sundown. "We was talkin' about pearls."

"And if I might ask, polite as hell, what is it to you?" Mrs. Skelly demanded of Beamish.

Wyatt asked Beamish, "While you was listenin' to gab about pearls, did you happen to hear any remarks about us being gummed up about board money?"

Beamish picked up the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. "AI I heard about was pearls."

"Want to make anything of it, bud?" demanded Sundown.

Beamish sucked coffee from his saucer and replied, "Not exactly, but Pll remark to the cockeyed world this morning that I'm buying no pearls, even at bargain prices."

"Mebbe that's because you ain't got no money," said Wyatt. "It's a p'int I'd like to clear up before you've et too much. Go ahead with the coffee on the haouse but don't start reachin' for vittles till we know more about your pants pocket bank balance. This is a hotel and we got rates."

Snake Eye looked up from his horoscope book. "Might I ask, Mr. Beamish, what's wrong about buying pearls— if you happen to know anything about it?"

Captain Johansen stirred uneasily in his chair and said in his sleep, "Ve put her on the shtarboard tack, Mister, so stand by the yib sheet."

Beamish flattened his ears like diving rudders and submerged again into the saucer of coffee. He surfaced, and said, with a thumb pointed at the napping Johansen, "I ain't buying no bargain pearls because I come here in the same boat with him, that's why."

Snake Eye turned his basilisk gaze on Beamish. "You mean that the pearls are not safe to buy?"

Beamish finished the coffee in the saucer and answered in a careless tone, "Don't put words in my mouth. I didn't say that."

"You hinted that something was terrible wrong," charged Mrs. Skelly. "Don't you try to slick over what you said! And don't crab the party when I'm buying pearls, Mister."

"Want me to lick him, Babe?" asked Sundown.

Beamish took a nervous gulp of coffee directly from his cup.

"He slupped, Babe!"

"That's because he ain't a gent, Hon."

"The pearls may be a good bargain," said Beamish. "But at Lantu Vanna they've got a good jail."

"Yust a leedle schmall yale," said Johansen in his sleep.

"What's your horrorscope for the day, Snake Eye, before we buy that pearl?" asked Wyatt. "I'm in on the trade, fifty-fifty with you, if the stars are right."

"Ay don't like schmall yales."

Snake Eye read from his book. "For this date, Gemini is in the ascendant. Not a good day for bargaining. Act with caution. Delay all financial matters with strangers."

"Hell!" said Wyatt. "That sounds dangerous. We better go slow with this pearl business."

Snake Eye pocketed his book and swung to Beamish. "Why do you make cracks about jails when we're going to buy pearls from the man who owns em?"

"Owns 'em!" said Beamish, in pretended amazement. "Oh, in that case, it's okay by me. Go right ahead and buy 'em. I wouldn't know a thing about the pearls, seeing that I was only a passenger with Captain Johansen in the schooner Hussar from Thursday Island."

"Just the same, you shot off your trap," said Mrs. Skelly.

"Yerp," agreed Sundown. "When we was buyin' pearls and all."

"What you mean, Beamish, is that the pearls were pinched."

"How would I know?" demanded Beamish with an aggressiveness that was startling from such a little man.

"You know something or you wouldn't be making cracks," said Snake Eye. "Just what is your line, anyhow?"

"Collar buttons and firecrackers."

"Oh, is that so?" asked Mrs. Skelly scornfully. "Happen to have any suspension bridges in odd sizes?"

"Are you kidding me?" Snake Eye.

"I kin lick him," said Sundown.

"I'm not kidding anybody," protested Beamish, now alarmed. "The gents in these islands buy collar buttons and the Chinkies buy firecrackers to scare away the devils."

"You're crawling out of that crack you made about jails," said Mrs. Skelly.

"Listen, lady! I could've bought them pearls cheap before I got here. I come in the same boat with him, didn't I? Think I'd pass up any bargains in pearls?"

Mrs. Skelly handed her banknotes back to Wyatt.

"Bed down the cash in the safe again. Snake Eye's book said that Gemini was against a cash deal for him today, and I've a hunch that the dame's right, even if she has got a name that sounds Russian."

"I've got a right to take a pearl against a board bill," said Wyatt, who hated to let a bargain get past him.

"Mister," said Beamish. "You got a right to do anything you want to till John Law tells you different. Anybody with a pinched pearl can't argue with the law in these islands. If you've got a hot pearl, you're in the same boat as the guy that pinched it in the first place. Ain't I right?"

Snake Eye pushed the pearl before him back toward Wyatt. "The man knows his law, I'll say that much. And my horoscope for the day seems to run right along in the same groove. I'm not buying any pearls."

"You hark to me, Beamish," said Wyatt. "Johansen ain't got enough money to buy a pair of swimmin' pants for a mosquito's brother. There's a law about payin' for board and room at hotels in these islands, includin' of this one."

"That's not my troubles," said Beamish.

"By Godfrey, don't you try to talk me out of any board and room. And you pay me twenty-one bucks yourself for a week in advance, or git away from the table!"

Beamish took out a wallet, stripped off a thick wad of banknotes a pair of twenties and laid them on the table. "That's for Johansen. I'll back him on his board. And here's two more for my board and room. Let me know when I've used up my forty— and when Johansen's at the end of that other pair."

"That," Snake Eye said to Wyatt, "looks as if the man's got sense about pearls. He could've bought 'em himself before he got here. Mr. Beamish, I apologize if I've questioned your integrity and truthfulness."

"Don't mention it," said Beamish. He picked up the coffee pot.

"Fair and squar'," said Wyatt, pocketing the cash. "You're a gent, Mr. Beamish. Now I don't have to git in no trouble 'bout the pearl business."

"As the Bard of Avon says," remarked Rook, "our doubts are traitors and make us lose, by fearing to attempt the good we oft might win."

"I dunno 'bout that," said Wyatt. "Looks to me like we got out of trouble with these pearls just in time."

"Time," said Rook, "shall unfold what plaited cunning hides—"

Wyatt broke in, "Eat your vittles and never mind the po'try." And he added to Snake Eye Smith, "That Jiminy in your horrorscope book got the shadder of that Lantu Vanna jail off'n my neck, and that's all I give a damn about."

Johansen woke up. "Yale?" manded. "Vat Yale?"

"You put these here pearls in your pants pocket and don't ask questions. Your board is paid and I'm shut of a dicker that could've got me in a mess with the police." He gathered the pearls and put them into Johansen's hand. The big man pocketed them and lapsed back into slumber. When he began running gasoline engines in his sleep Beamish helped Wyatt carry the big fellow up to bed.

SNAKE-EYE was mopey after breakfast. He walked around in the palm grove muttering to himself about how tough the luck was that his horoscope for the day prevented him from picking up a fortune in pearls from a very small investment.

"That big chiseler and his book that kept me from getting more pearls," Mrs. Skelly complained out on the veranda. "He's always pulling the stars on us when we want to do somethin' that puts us in the dough."

"Yerp," agreed Sundown. "But you didn't need no pearls, Babe, like I said, and we got in the safe them two hundred eatin' bucks."

Before tiffin time Beamish went up to his room for a nap. He was still asleep when a schooner came into the bay. Wyatt woke him for he had remarked that he wanted to run over to Lantu Vanna if a boat came in.

By the time the vessel tied up, Beamish was on the rickety pier with his suitcase. It turned out that the schooner was not going to Lantu Vanna, so Beamish came back up from the beach with two men. But he left the suitcase on board.

We were all on the veranda as the three walked up to the bamboo steps of the hotel. One man was tall and he had a set to his shoulders that suggested a uniform as his usual garb. He scanned us all with severe gray eyes before he mounted the steps.

Sundown whispered to Snake Eye, "Them two is bulls."

"Looks like it— one is a cop in plain clothes. Beamish looks worried."

The other stranger had a sun-blackened face, wearing white drill, and he walked with the limp knees and wide gait of a sailor. Beamish was behind them, and as Snake Eye had noted, I felt that the little man did have a worried look.

"Come right in and set, gents," said Wyatt.

They walked into the veranda and the tall man looked us all over in a swift glance. He seemed to miss somebody. "Isn't Captain Johansen here?"

"Wal, yes, he is, but as he's a little behind in his sleep he's takin' a nap."

"Wake him up," said the tall man, grit in his voice. "It's important. We've come from Thursday Island to see him."

"Wal, gents, if you want to be polite, you might say who you be."

"My name's Hutton," said the tall man, his voice still gritty, "and this is Captain Neilsen. The schooner can't wait but a few minutes. So you just dig Johansen out of bed."

Wyatt's face twisted in sudden anger. "I don't take orders 'round here less'n I feel like it, gents. And Cap'n Johansen's board and room is paid for a week, so I don't feel like trottin' after him jist on your say-so to wake up a boarder that's paid in advance."

"Mr. Hutton's connected with the government," said Captain Neilsen.

"Ain't that nice," said Wyatt. "And jist what's your business on this island?"

"Captain Johansen has some pearls that belong to me."

"Eh, what's that?" demanded Wyatt. "You mean— police?"

"I've police authority if I have to use it," said Hutton sharply. "Our business is with Johansen. You call him, and we can attend to it without any advice from you."

"Wal, if you've got authority, that's jest a mite different. I'll see if I can whistle him up. Come along into the bar and set a spell while you have some cold beer on the house." He led them into the bar, Beamish tagging along, looking more worried.

"Beamish was right," whispered Snake Eye. "Them pearls Johansen's got are hot."

"YERP," said Sundown. "He'll be took by the law."

"Hon, I'm glad them pearls ain't on my neck— and you was right for once, you big lug."

Wyatt stepped to the speaking tube that went up to Johansen's room, took a deep breath and blew hard. The whistle at the end not far from Johansen's pillow gave off a blast like a wailing banshee on a dark and rainy night in Kerry.

"Stharboard your hellum!" yelled Johansen. "Ve got a vhistling buoy to poort!"

Wyatt bawled up at the bamboo ceiling, "Thar's gents here from Thursday Island to see you!"

"Ay don't vant to see nobody from Thursday Island."

Captain Neilsen bellowed, "Come below, Johansen! I've come for my pearls!"

"Hah! Pearls! Ay haff no pearls from you."

"No nonsense! I'm Neilsen and I want my pearls."

"Ay selled the pearls. Don't bodder me."

"No, you didn't sell no pearls!" yelled Wyatt. "You got 'em in your pants pocket— the watch pocket. And thar's a man here from the police."

"Ay don't vant to see no police yentlemen."

"Git along down here!" Wyatt yelled. "This is a respectable hotel and we don't want no monkey business with the police."

"Vell, Ay comes.  Anyvay Ay vants a trink of chin."

We heard Johansen roll out of bed. He started for the stairway, made a bad coutse, and had to start all over again, before he finally came blundering slowly down the creaky stairs. He staggered in to the bar, sleepy eyed, holding his white pants up with one hand, his feet in socks. He looked at Neilsen, then turned and tried to focus his eyes on Hutton. "Vat you vants?" he demanded.

"Captain Neilsen is here to get his pearls from you. My name's Hutton, and I'm the collector of customs at Lantu Vanna. Major Swift, chief of police at Lantu Vanna sent me along with Neilsen."

"Ay don't like police," said Johansen.

"Maybe you don't, but you sold a pearling lugger to Captain Neilsen, didn't you?"

"Sure! Vat is it to you?"

"I owe you three thousand dollars on the lugger, and I've come to settle up. You've got pearls that I gave you as security for the balance due on the boat."

"And I'm here," said Hutton, "to witness the final payment on the vessel as the law requires."

Captain Neilsen took out a fat wallet, extracted a packet of banknotes and laid it on the bar. "There's three thousand— and I want my pearls."

"Hah!" said Johansen, waking up abruptly at sight of the cash. "Sure! Ay vas ashleep! Ay treamed I selled the earls! Ay got em." He stuck two fingers into the watch pocket— then a look of horror crossed his face. "Yumpin' Yiminy! De pearls is vent out from my pants!"

"I'll bet they're up in your bed," said Wyatt.

Johansen clutched at his shirt breast pocket. "My vatch, too, is vent! Look! All I got is some of the schain!" He pulled a few links of gold chain from his pocket, the end being toggled to the buttonhole.

Wyatt thrust a finger toward the sign that warned guests not to keep valuables in their rooms. "This hotel ain't li'ble unless cash and jewelry is put in the safe. You can't hold me responsible for anything you've lost while you're asleep."

Beamish began to edge out toward the veranda. Snake Eye was looking into the bar through the open kajang. He rose swiftly and stopped Beamish in the doorway. "You stay here, Mister!" said Snake Eye.

"What is it to you where I go?" demanded Beamish.

"Plenty! You said them pearls were hot to keep us from buying 'em. Now they've been pinched from Johansen—and I've a hunch that you didn't want him to sell 'em because you were set to pinch 'em yourself.

Beamish cried, "Don't you talk to me like that!" Then he swung his right for Snake Eye's jaw.

The hypnotist ducked and sent a right and left to the little man's chin. He rocked back on his heels and fell inside. Snake Eye frisked Beamish and from his pockets took a small silk handkerchief with the pearls knotted in a corner— and handed to Johansen his watch.

"Hah! Ay get my vatch! And my pearls! He takes 'em vhile Ay schleeps!"

"Make a charge and I'll arrest him," said Hutton.

"Ay scharge him yust twanty dollars he pays for my board."

"Put that bird in jail!" said Wyatt.

"Vat is the goot to put him in yale? It is yust a schmall leedle yale."

Beamish got to his feet, rubbing his jaw, and edging back from Snake Eye. We heard the tramp of heavy feet behind us. A big man in a white coat and a limp straw hat roared, "Any time today, gents!— 'I hold my schooner while you come up here for some kind of a bear dance! Come on, git goin', before I lose that draft of air I need to get out of the bay." He was the skipper from the schooner.

Hutton thrust a document before Johansen and handed him a fountain pen. "Sign that! All right, Captain, we're all set to go along."

Johansen signed. Then Hutton and Neilsen ran down into the palm grove after the irate schooner skipper. And Beamish followed them.

"You can see," said Snake Eye to Wyatt, "that my horoscope for the day was right. This is the eighteenth of the month and—"

Wyatt reached for the calendar pad behind the bar, and tore off a page. "This is the nineteenth, Snake Eye. I should've tore that page off this mornin', but it's just been one damn thing after another around here."

"Then I had the wrong day!" said Snake Eye. He pulled out his horoscope book. "Let me see what the aspects are for today. Here we are! An auspicious day for all transactions, especially favorable for anything pertaining to precious stones."

"Them is pearls," said Sundown.

"You are right again!" said Mrs. Skelly. "Nothing like brains, Hon."

Captain Johansen stuck his roll of banknotes into his pocket. "Ay neffer bodders vid money," he said. "Ay likes a trink of chin. Ve celebrates. Giff everybody a trink."

Wyatt reached for the gin bottle on the shelf behind the bar. "I was a mite sharp about you payin' your board and room in advance, Cap'n. Naow, what is it you'll want for tiffin?"

"Ay vant sax more schicken eggs."

We lined up at the bar and glanced down at the beach. Beamish was going up the gangplank of the schooner as the stern line was being cast off.

"Some day, Hon," said Mrs. Skelly, "you'll have a chance to buy me pearls again like you started to this morning."

"By Godfrey!" said Wyatt. "That was a narrer escape for everybody. If you don’t mind, Cap'n, I'll take a shot myself on this round you’re payin' for, jist for the wear and tear on my heart in this pearl business I've been through."

________________

13: Thirteen Lead Soldiers

"Sapper"

H. C. McNeile, 1888-1937

The Strand Magazine Dec 1937

Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine March 1943-03

Herman Cyril McNeile

A "Bulldog" Drummond story, published posthumously. The author died in August 1937

"YOU mustn't touch them, Uncle Hugh, because they're still wet. Mr. Stedman is going to paint some more when he comes back."

Hugh Drummond— uncle by courtesy— looked down at the small boy on the floor. Around him was strewn the litter inseparable from small boys, be it trains, airplanes or hairy bugs. In this case the central motif consisted of toy soldiers, with paints and brushes and pools of multi-colored water. In addition there were boxes of infantry, and cavalry, and guns all of a dull gray color, whilst on a tray, resplendent in scarlet, stood some freshly painted heroes.

"Mr. Stedman says it's far more fun to paint them oneself," explained the proud owner. "He says it doesn't matter if there is no full dress no more."

"I quite agree with Mr. Stedman, Billy," said Drummond. "Red looks much better than khaki, doesn't it. That's a good looking Highlander next door to the General on the horse."

"Yes. I've got some more of those. They're Cameron Highlanders,"

"Not Camerons, old man. They might be Gordons."

"Mr. Stedman said Camerons," persisted the boy. "Didn't you?"

He looked up as a tall, dark man entered the room.

"Didn't I say what, Billy?"

"Say these were Cameron Highlanders. Uncle Hugh says they're Gordons."

"Only after they're painted, son," said Drummond. "Before they're painted they might be any Highland regiment."

"But Mr. Stedman painted him and he said he was a Cameron. Why can't he be a Cameron?"

"Because he's got the wrong colored kilt on, old man. I might stretch a point and say he was a Seaforth, but I can't allow Cameron, I'm afraid. You see that kilt gives the general impression of being dark green, or even black, whereas the Cameron kilt strikes one as red."

The complete Scotchman, I see," said Stedman with a smile, and Drummond glanced at him. There was no friendliness behind the smile.

"Even to the extent of always saying, 'Guid nicht the noo'," he answered placidly.

"The color of a kilt seems a somewhat trifling matter to worry the child's head with."

Drummond raised his eyebrows and laughed. .

"I don't suppose that it would materially affect Billy's future career if he was told that the Archbishop of Canterbury always preached in purple pajamas," he remarked. "At the same time if you are painting soldiers and thereby giving the child a little lesson in things military, it does no harm to get such trifles as facings and kilts correct."

He lit a cigarette and strolled over to the window.

"The rain has stopped: I think I shall take exercise. I suppose the great ones are still conferring?"

"They are," said Stedman shortly, and with an amused glance at him Drummond lounged out of the room. One of those tedious individuals, he reflected, who hate to be found wrong in anything. And yet able, presumably, or he wouldn't have his present job.

"Algy, you noxious blight," he remarked to Longworth, whom he found in the hall, "you may accompany me to the village. The evening paper should be in by now, and I want to see if I've backed my fifteenth consecutive loser. Tell me," he continued as they walked down the drive, "what do you think of the man Stedman?"

"I don't," said Algy, "if I can help it. Why?"

"I just wondered. We have been chatting on kilts and things, and I don't think he was amused. Incidentally, painting toy soldiers is a new one on me."

"Same here. But the kid seems to like it. And I suppose it was decent of the fellow to go all the way to Manchester to get unpainted ones. What's this about kilts?"

"Nothing of importance," answered Drummond, halting for a moment and looking back at the house. "What a magnificent old pile it is."

Outlined against the westering sun the towers and battlements of Oxshott  Castle stood out dark and somber. Trees as old as the house flanked it on each side: in front lay a lake, placid as a sheet of glass. And as they looked, four men came through the front door and strolled across the drive.

It was easy to recognize them even at that distance. Slim and upright, their seventy-year, silver-haired host, Lord Surrey, came first with the Frenchman, the Comte de Dinard: behind them, the smoke from their cigars almost motionless in the still air, were the Belgian, Monsieur Meteren, with Sir Charles Dorking. And as they disappeared round a corner of the house Drummond gave a short laugh.

"Its quaint, Algy, you know, when you think of it," he said. "At this moment the fate of Europe is quite possibly being settled: Stedman is painting toy soldiers for Billy, and you and I are going to see who won the two-thirty."

Algy looked at him anxiously.

"You'll be quoting Ella Wheeler Wilcox in a moment, my lad," he remarked. "What you want is beer in a large can. And what has stung you now?"

Drummond, his eyes narrowed, was staring down the drive towards the lodge.

"I'd know that walk anywhere," he said. "If that isn't our old friend Andrews of Scotland Yard, I will consume my headgear. Now what the deuce is he doing here?"

They strolled on, and a few moments later the three men met.

"Good evening, gentlemen," cried the jovial-faced Inspector cheerily. "I was hoping I might meet you."

Drummond glanced at him in surprise.

"Very kind of you, old lad," he remarked, "and the same to you and all that. But may I enquire how you knew we were here?"

"Because I suggested that you should be asked," answered Andrews calmly. "When discussing the house party with his Lordship it transpired that he knew both you and Mr. Longworth very well. So, as I say, I suggested that he should send you invitations for the week-end."

"Again very kind of you," said Drummond, looking even more surprised. "But why?"

"Because I may want your assistance," replied the Inspector. "What about a pint at the Barley Mow, and I'll tell you the lay of the ground."

"A brave thought, bravely spoken," said Drummond. "By the way, d'you know what won the two-thirty?"

"Moonlight. Sharpshooter second."

"Hell!" grunted Drummond. "Another fiver down the drain. I shall soon be known as the bookmaker's friend."

They entered the bar, and found it empty.

"What about that table over in the corner?" suggested Drummond. "I am frankly very curious, Andrews, to hear why you should have discussed the party with Lord Surrey."

"I suppose you're aware, Captain Drummond," said the Inspector, as they sat down, "that some very important discussions are on foot at the present moment between England, France and Belgium."

"I am," replied Drummond.

"That being the case, has it struck you as strange that a reporter isn't lurking behind every bush at Oxshott Castle?"

"It had not struck me up to date," admitted Drummond. "But now that you mention it, I get your meaning."

"The reason why they're not here," continued Andrews, "'is that this conference has been kept a profound secret. The Press, of course, know that Meteren and the Comte de Dinard are in England. They know further that they are not over here to enjoy the English climate, but for the express purpose of meeting Sir Charles. And since the one thing the statesmen wished to avoid at the present stage of affairs was publicity, this week-end was arranged at Lord Surrey's suggestion. The whole plan was kept completely dark, and the very fact that there are no reporters here proves that we succeeded."

He paused and took a pull at his tankard, while the others waited.

"Yes, Captain Drummond," he repeated, "We succeeded— so far as the reporters are concerned— which, believe me, is no mean feat. But we have not succeeded entirely. Some unauthorized person knew of this conference four days ago."

"At any rate he seems to have kept the information to himself," remarked Drummond. "Incidentally, how did you find out that somebody knew?"

"I'm coming to that," continued Andrews. "Four days ago when I went to my office in the morning I was as certain as a man could be that everything was all right. The only people who knew about the week-end were Lord Surrey himself: the three statesmen and their confidential secretaries— Mr. Stedman and the other two— and, of course, myself. I had fixed all the staff work over cars and, as I say, I felt quite confident that all was well. You can judge then of my consternation when I received a letter by the second post that blew my optimism sky high. It was undated, bore no address, and naturally was not signed. And it ran as follows.

" 'Guard the Comte de Dinard at Oxshott. Guns are useless.'"'

He took another pull at his beer.

"Short and pithy— you'll agree," he went on, "and it gave me the devil of a jolt. To trace the writer was, of course, an utter impossibility even if there had been time. And there we were confronted with the fact that what we thought was a jealously-guarded secret was nothing of the sort. So I went off post haste to see Lord Surrey. Should we alter the arrangements: postpone the conference or what? Well, postponement was out of the question: Mr. Meteren has to be back in Brussels on Monday. To alter arrangements would have been difficult since the Comte had just flown back to Paris and was only returning that night. So we decided to carry on, and do as the anonymous writer had suggested— guard the Comte. And it was then that I took the liberty, when I found out that his Lordship knew you both, of asking him to invite you. Your methods, Captain Drummond, may at times be irregular, but there are few people I would sooner have beside me if there's any trouble about than yourself."

He made a little bow.

"Very nice of you to say so," said Drummond. "I should like to play."

"The trouble is," continued Andrews, "that I have no idea whatever as to what the game is likely to be."

"It's just possible," put in Algy, "that the letter is a hoax."

"Possibly, but not likely, Mr. Longworth. And even if it were, it doesn't alter the fact that somebody, inadvertently or otherwise, has spilled the beans. Because it's preposterous to think that any of the other seven people in the know could have sent me that note. No: I don't think that letter is a hoax. It is, I believe, a definite warning, sent by someone who has found out about this week-end, who knows that an attempt may be made on the Frenchman's life, and whose conscience has pricked him. You see, there's no secret about the fact that there is a large section of people in France, and in other countries too, who would rejoice if the Comte was out of the way."

"Has he been told about it?" asked Drummond.

"He has. And pooh-poohs the whole thing. Takes up the line that if people in his position paid any attention to threats of that sort they might as well chuck up the sponge straight away. Which is quite true. But the last thing I, or Lord Surrey want, is that the chucking up should occur here."

"Naturally," agreed Drummond. "You've got some men down, I suppose?"

"Four," said Andrews. "They're in the grounds now; they'll be in the house tonight."

" 'Guns are useless.' I wonder what that means. Poison?"

The Inspector shrugged his shoulders.

"Possibly. But unless he eats or drinks something different to everybody else the whole house party is in for it."

"Thanks," said Drummond with a grin. 'What about the servants?"

"Been with his Lordship for years. Besides it is inconceivable that one of them should have sent the note, or given the show away. It would mean that Lord Surrey himself had been indiscreet, otherwise they could never have known."

"Still somebody has given it away," remarked Drummond. "And assuming what you've said to be correct it must be one of you eight."

"My own belief is that it's the Comte himself," said Andrews. "Quite unintentionally, of course. He's one of those men who is reckless to the point of foolhardiness where his own safety is concerned. For all that, he's got to submit to some safety measures tonight, whether he likes it or not."

"Are they hush-hush?" asked Drummond.

"Not from you," said the Inspector, "though I don't want you to pass them on at present. But he is not going to sleep in the room he occupies now. He will dress for dinner there, and then just before he goes to bed a strange defect will be discovered in a fuse. Or else Lord Surrey will tell him the truth point blank. He will sleep in another room, with one of my men outside his door, and I shall spend the night in his present one. Which may lead to us finding out something."

"You evidently take this as serious," said Drummond.

"I do. But in any case it's just as well to be on the safe side. And I think my arrangements, simple though they are, give the maximum of security with the minimum of inconvenience. If trouble comes from the outside it finds me; if it comes from the inside it has to pass one of my men."

"And what do you want us to do?"

"Keep your eyes open during the evening for anything that strikes you as being suspicious. I shall be on hand in one of the sitting rooms, if you want to get hold of me. And if the phrase 'Guns are useless' means anything in the nature of a rough house, you won't want any prompting," he added with a grin as he rose. "No, I won't have another, thanks. I must go and inspect my myrmidons. Probably see you later."

"So that's why we were honored, Algy,"' said Drummond as the door closed behind the Inspector. "I had hoped that my advice was going to be asked on high matters of state, but life is full of disappointments. However, if we've got to do the Sherlock Holmes stunt more beer is indicated. And then we'd better toddle back. But one wonders," he continued as another tankard was put before him, "why the letter writer was so cryptic. Having gone to the trouble of saying what he did, why the dickens didn't he say more? Didn't he know himself, or what stung him?"

"It's that that made me suspect a hoax," said Algy.

"You frightful liar," remarked Drummond dispassionately. "You never thought of the point till I mentioned it. Now mop up your ale, and wipe your chin, and then you must go back and change your dickey. And for heaven's sake don't tell old Dinard that French story of yours or all Andrews' precautions will be wasted. Though I admit," he added brutally, "that death could only be regarded as a merciful release from listening to it."

Any setting less suggestive of violence or murder than Oxshott Castle that night it would have been hard to imagine. They had dined in state in the large banqueting hall, a dinner which reflected credit on even Lord Surrey's far-famed chef— and the conversation at times had been amazingly indiscreet. It had taken the three diplomats a certain amount of time to understand the reason for Drummond's and Algy's presence, since by tacit consent no mention was made of the threatening note. The Comte especially appeared to think that Algy was mental—a skeleton in the family cupboard and Drummond his keeper— but the fact did not prevent him making one or two remarks that Fleet Street would have paid thousands for. And Meteren was not far behind in frankness.

IT WAS a dinner to remember.

No women were present, and no other guests had been asked in. And as the meal progressed, Drummond found himself so absorbed in the glimpses— the human, scandalous glimpses— that lie at times behind the wheels of state that he almost forgot the real reason for his presence. And then, the drawn curtains— drawn ostensibly to keep out the mosquitoes— with the motionless bulges behind them on each side of the open window would bring him back to reality. For the bulges were two of Andrews' men, and two more were outside the door.

He was sitting between the Belgian minister and Mark Stedman, who seerned to have recovered from his temporary irritation of the afternoon.

"I had no idea, Captain Drummond," he said over the port, "that you were such a friend of Lord Surrey's.

"Hardly the way to put it," smiled Drummond. "His eldest son, who married my first cousin, and I were at Sandhurst together, and the old boy has asked me to shoot several times. Hence grandson Billy calls me uncle."

"Quite. I thought you were a sort of unofficial bravo brought in to help to protect our guest.'

"You're perfectly right: I am. I should not be here but for that anonymous threat."

"What is your opinion of it?" asked Stedman.

"I haven't one," said Drummond frankly.

"I saw Inspector Andrews before dinner, and he seems equally at sea. However he is neglecting no precautions. Would it be indiscreet to ask what is your role?"

"Not at all," answered Drummond. "Since neither Andrews nor his merry men can actually join the party, my job is to keep my eyes skinned in the room itself for anything unusual that may happen."

"But what could happen?" said Stedman with an amused smile. "It sounds like the thriller of fiction: a secret death-dealing ray or something ridiculous of that sort."

"It does rather, I admit," agreed Drummond. "Certainly nothing could appear more removed from anything of that sort than the table at present."

"And yet," said Stedman thoughtfully, "it is an amazing thing how science has helped crime, though it sounds rather as if I was contradicting myself."

"It has helped the detection of crime just as much," Drummond argued.

"I wonder. I agree with you, of course, over crude commonplace crime, but in those cases the criminal is not availing himself of science, whereas the detective is. The crime I am alluding to belongs to a higher category, and of necessity must be murder."

"Why, of necessity?"

"Because in burglary or forgery, let us say, however much science is employed in the committing of the crime, the criminal can only obtain his reward by a process where science is of no avail. He must go to a fence: he must pass his dud fivers. And it is in the disposal of his goods, a thing over which the technique is much the same as it was last century, that he gets caught. That does not apply to murder."

"Perhaps not. But since the time of Cain and Abel there is one thing that has always applied to murder, and no science can alter that."

"And supposing there is no motive."

"Then the murderer is a madman," said Drummond. '"'Or someone of the Jack the Ripper type."

"I will amend my remark. Supposing there is no motive that points to any particular individual."

"I don't quite get you," remarked Drummond.

Stedman hitched his chair a little nearer and lowered his voice.

"Let us take an academic case," he said, "our friend over whom the precautions are being taken tonight. Now the reasons why anyone desires his removal are nothing whatever to do with his private life. There is no question of love, or jealousy, or personal hatred pointing at a specific being, and saying, "Thou art the man.' The reasons are purely public and apply to his political views, which are intensely unpopular amongst thousands of people. That is why I say that if the Comte was murdered tonight, though the motive would be obvious, it wouldn't help the police to find the murderer."

"That is true," agreed Drummond. "And provided the crime was committed with such skill, that the criminal made a clear getaway and left no obvious clues behind him, doubtless he would never be discovered."

"Which is what I was getting at in the first place," said Stedman. "Fifty years ago, with the precautions that have been taken tonight a getaway would have been impossible, because the methods of committing the crime were so crude. Short of a gang of men overpowering the police and shooting him, or someone poisoning his whiskey, there was no method of doing the deed. Today that is not the case. And that is where science has helped the criminal more than the detective."

"I wonder if the Yard would agree with you," remarked Drummond with a smile.

"Somewhat improbable," grinned Stedman. "Though it doesn't alter the fact that it's the truth. I am firmly convinced that given time, brains and a sufficiency of money it would be a comparatively simple matter to commit an undiscoverable murder."

"A good many people have thought the same thing and found they were wrong," said Drummond as they all rose from the table.

"And quite as many have found they were right," replied Stedman as they moved into the hall. "However let's hope there's no question of its being put to the test tonight. I've promised to finish two more soldiers for Billy, and high art of that sort requires a steady hand."

Certainly there had been no question of it when the house party reassembled about midnight prior to going to bed. The three statesmen had disappeared with their host into secret conclave; Stedman, refusing to join the others at drink, had devoted himself to things military in a corner of the billiard room. And now, as everyone helped himself to his own particular night cap, he pointed with pardonable pride to the result of his labors.

Ranged in single file on a tray were the twelve gallant infantrymen and the field marshal on his prancing black horse. The command was small, Stedman admitted, for such an exalted officer, but any attempt to reduce him in rank had been firmly vetoed by Billy. And his actual position on parade was hardly according to the drill book. Instead of leading his army into action the cowardly old gentleman very nearly brought up the rear. Behind him strode a Greenjacket, a stouthearted warrior leading an Army mule, and the sanitary squad in the shape of an R.A.M.C. orderly. The remainder of the force led by the drum major stretched out in front, glistening in their scarlet tunics.

"Don't touch," warned Stedman. "They're still wet."

"I don't envy the Highlander," laughed his Lordship. "It seems to me that the off fore of the Field Marshal's charger is down his neck."

"Specially arranged by Billy, sir," said Stedman. "The Highlander is the Field Marshal's own private guard."

He put the tray on the window sill, and glanced at Drummond.

"We compromised on the Black Watch," he laughed. "So honor is satisfied. Hullo! What has stung the Comte?"

He was gesticulating freely by the fireplace, and Lord Surrey was soothing him down.

"But, my dear fellow," cried the Frenchman, "'it is absurd. I appreciate greatly your care for my safety, and the precautions of the good Inspector. But to change my bedroom, because some madman has written a crazy note — it is surely ridiculous. You will be asking that I look under the bed next, like a hopeful old lady. However — if you insist I can only obey my so charming host. I will go, I think, now, if I may."

"What's all the excitement?" whispered Stedman to Drummond.

"One of Inspector Andrews' precautions," answered Drummond. "Even the servants don't know. The Comte's bedroom has been changed, and Andrews himself is occupying the one he had originally. What on earth is the matter?" he added with a laugh. "You seem quite distressed about it." "Don't be ridiculous," said Stedman. "Why should it distress me? Though I'm inclined to agree with the Comte as to its being most unnecessary."

"Perhaps. Still it's as well to be on the safe side."

He turned away: why had Stedman registered any reaction at all on hearing the news? It had only been momentary — gone in a flash: but to a shrewd observer like Drummond it had stuck out a yard. And how could it possibly affect Stedman personally if the Comte slept in his own bedroom or the coal hole, unless...

He sipped his drink thoughtfully, the conversation at dinner came back to him. Also Stedman's annoyance over the matter of the kilt. Could it be possible that they were two widely different manifestations of the same failing — conceit? The kilt — irritability because he had been proved wrong; the other, a sort of inverted pride in something planned, and which he could not resist bragging about even though his audience should be unaware of the fact.

"Old 'ard," muttered Drummond to himself. "You ain't even trotting: you're galloping. You're accusing this bloke Stedman of being the thorn in the flesh. And that's rot."

"Then why," came the reiterated question, "'should he care the snap of a finger which is old Dinard's bedroom? And he did. Of that there's not a shadow of doubt."

He turned round to find Algy at his elbow.

"Coming to bed, old bird?" remarked that worthy. "I thought of taking up one of the pikes out of the hall in case a general action occurs during the night. The only thing against it is that a man impaled on the end of a pike would be a dreadful sight at three in the morning. He wouldn't go with my yellow pajamas at all well."

He looked at Drummond curiously.

"What's stung you, Hugh? You seem devilish thoughtful."

"I'm just wondering, Algy, if I'm being a complete half-wit, or if I'm not. By the way, Andrews did say, didn't he, that one of his minions was going to be on guard outside Dinard's door tonight?"

"He did and there he is. Further there is one on guard in the corridor. I've just been up to fill my cigarette case and I saw 'em."

"Good. Then let's go to bed. I've probably got the mental jitters."

It was half an hour later that the door of Algy's room opened. He had just smashed his tooth glass with his slipper, in an unsuccessful attempt to swat a mosquito, and was engaged in picking up the fragments, when Drummond came in.

"Unless I'm much mistaken, Algy," he remarked quietly, "strange things will be abroad tonight."

The other one stared.

"What sort of things?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," said Drummond. "So the curtain goes up on a completely unknown play."

"You annoying blighter," cried Algy. "'Can't you be a bit more explicit?"

"I can't," answered Drummond simply. "I give you my word of honor I'm completely in the dark."

AND he still was the following morning, when by ones and twos the guests drifted into breakfast. For nothing had happened in the night, except that, in common with most of the others, he had been bitten by a mosquito. Once in the distance he thought he had heard the sound of a motor being started and driven away; beyond that nothing had occurred. And with the coming of dawn he had slept.

Breakfast over he strolled out of doors followed by an openly derisive Algy. And outside the open window of the billiard room he paused and looked through at Billy arranging his army, now dry, in new formations, whilst fresh victims were being prepared for Stedman's art. Then, still in silence, he walked on with Algy beside him.

"What did you think was going to happen, old boy?" asked that worthy for the tenth time. "Or what made you think that anything was going to happen?"

"The Cameron Highlanders," said Drummond. "Anyone who is sufficiently interested in toy soldiers as to paint them, ought to know the color of their kilts. Hullo! what has Andrews got hold of?"

Coming towards them was the Inspector with one of his men, holding in his hand what seemed to be a long thin twig.

"Good morning, Captain Drummond," he cried cheerfully. "What do you make of this?"

On closer inspection it proved to be part of the top joint of a salmon rod, snapped off about three feet from the end. But the interesting thing was the small attachment. About an inch below the top of the rod was a small muslin box, fastened securely to the rod. The box was about two inches square, and the framework was made of wood with the fabric stretched taut between. To one side was tied a piece of fine string which passed through the top ring of the rod in the fashion of an ordinary fishing line, and now hung trailing on the ground.

"As you can see," said Andrews, "when you pull that string you open the box. And unless you pull the string the box can't open because the lid is held in position by that bit of elastic inside."

"Where did you find it?" asked Drummond.

"Snapped off in the bush which is Jenkin's hiding place by day. Moreover it was not there yesterday, or he'd have seen it then."

"Which means it was broken off last night. Any footprints?"

"None. But with the ground like a board one wouldn't expect any help in that direction."

"What do you make of it, Andrews?" said Drummond,

"Since it obviously didn't get there by itself, there must have been someone prowling around last night carrying the rod of which this is the top. In the darkness it got tangled up in the bush and snapped off, and whatever was inside here escaped. It was something, Captain Drummond, that he intended to poke up from outside through a window in the Castle and allow to escape into the Comte de Dinard's room. 'Guns are useless,' don't forget. But when he broke his rod, and the thing escaped, the whole plan failed."

"Somehow or other I don't think I'd have left that in the bush even if it was broken," said Drummond thoughtfully. "That little muslin box is beautifully made and could be used again on another rod."

"But he did leave it there."

"Yes. But I wonder if it was on the way to the Castle. I wonder if by any chance he did just what you have suggested, then got alarmed or something and broke it on the way back, when the box was no longer of any use and he didn't mind losing it."

"Ingenious, my dear Captain Drummond, except for one point you overlooked. You forget that so far as any outsider could know, I was occupying the Comte's room. And you may take it from me that nobody flapped boxes last night outside my window."

"No: I hadn't overlooked it, old boy," said Drummond quietly. "Anyway the great point is that the Comte's health, judging by his verbosity at breakfast, is quite unimpaired."

The Inspector looked at him curiously.

"You're not satisfied, sir?" he said.

"I'm not," answered Drummond. "Though I daresay I shall prove utterly wrong."

"But what's stinging you?"

Drummond frowned.

"The fact that the kilt of the Camerons is reddish in hue."

The Inspector looked at Algy; Algy looked at the Inspector.

"He'll be better after he's had some beer, Andrews," he said. "Captain Drummond gets taken like this at times.'

THAT afternoon the party broke up, and a few days later the whole episode was beginning to fade from Drummond's mind. He had made a mistake: his suspicions had been fantastic. In any even the Comte de Dinard was still going strong in Paris, which was all that really mattered. No harm had come to him at Oxshott Castle; the worthy Andrews deserved full marks. And, so far as he knew, no harm had come to anyone else. So it came as almost a shock to him when, returning to dress for dinner one evening, he found the Inspector waiting for him in his sitting room.

"Have you a few minutes to spare, Captain Drummond?" he said gravely.

"Certainly, Andrews. As long as you like. I see," he added, "that something has happened."

"Something so strange that I have come straight to you. I remember that you were not satisfied when you left the Castle, but at the time you would say nothing. Now, you must."

"Go on," said Drummond quietly.

"Have you ever heard of yellow fever?" asked Andrews.

"I have. A tropical disease," answered Drummond, surprised.

"And a very dangerous one. It is fatal more often than not. Do you know how it is carried?"

"I can't say that I do," Drummond acknowledged.

"By mosquitoes," Andrews paused. "You may remember there were a good many mosquitoes at the Castle," he continued.

"There were," agreed Drummond.

"You may also remember that little muslin box?"

Drummond nodded.

"And our theory as to what it was for? To let out something— we knew not what— into the Comte's bedroom."

Once again Drummond nodded.

"We were right. And what is more you were right when you suggested that the rod had been broken after the owner had been to the Castle and not before."

"I was, was I?" said Drummond softly.

"That muslin box, Captain Drummond, contained mosquitoes carrying the germs of yellow fever. And the owner of the rod succeeded in reaching the Castle and liberating those mosquitoes. Only he set them free in the wrong room. This afternoon Mr. Stedman died of yellow fever in the Hospital for Tropical Diseases."

There was a long silence; then Drummond rose and began pacing up and down the room.

"You may further remember," continued Andrews, "that you told me you hadn't overlooked the point when I alluded to the nocturnal visitor coming to my window. That now requires elucidation. Have you any idea as to why he went to Mr. Stedman's? Or was it a fluke?"

"It wasn't a fluke," said Drummond gravely. "I sent him there."

"You sent him there?" The Inspector shot out of his chair as if he had been stung. "What on earth do you mean?"

"You needn't think that I took him by the hand and led him there," answered Drummond with a faint smile. "Until this moment I didn't even know he'd been there. In fact I've never seen him or spoken to him. For all that, I sent him there. Listen, Andrews, and I'll tell you."

"You remember the billiard room, don't you, with its broad window sill? Before we went to bed that night a tray of newly painted toy soldiers was placed on the sill. They had been painted by Stedman for the little boy, and we were all of us instructed not to touch them. They were arranged in single file — twelve infantrymen and one large man on a prancing horse. And one of the infantrymen was a Highlander in whom I was particularly interested, because of an argument on kilts that I had had with the artist. And my Highlander was placed so that he was just in front of the horseman.

"Then quite unexpectedly it was announced that the Comte de Dinard was going to change his room. He protested but complied and everybody went to bed— everybody, that is, except me. I wasn't feeling sleepy, and I sat down in an alcove in the room with a book. I was practically hidden, so that when Stedman returned he didn't see me. And he crossed to the window, remained there a second and then went out again.

"So, after a moment or two, I also went to the window, and there I noticed a very strange thing. My Highlander, in whom I was so interested, had changed places with the Field Marshal!"

"Good heavens!" whispered Andrews.

"You see it, don't you," said Drummond gravely. "Stedman neither knew nor cared anything about soldiers, but hearing that little Billy did, he thought of a darned original scheme for indicating the Comte's bedroom to someone on the outside. Soldiers that had to be painted and so couldn't be moved: a tray placed on the window sill so that any man looking in from outside could see it and see where the Field Marshal was. Thirteen bedrooms there were on our floor: thirteen soldiers there were on the tray. And when the Comte moved into the next room..."

Drummond shrugged his shoulders.

"I wonder why Stedman wanted to have him murdered," he went on  thoughtfully.

For a space there was silence whilst Andrews stared at him.

"Stedman's bedroom was third from the other end," he said at length.

"I know. That's why the Field Marshal made yet another move. Just before I turned out the lights and went to bed, I placed two men in front of him. Have a drink."

___________________

14: The Swine of Aeaea

Clifford Ball

1908-1947

Weird Tales March 1939

Ball was born in Millerstown, Pennsylvania, and wrote six stories for Weird Tales between 1937 and 1941. He enlisted in the USAAF in 1941 and served with the 788th Bomber squadron. He was discharged in 1946 and settled in Baltimore with his wife. He drowned in the harbour in Baltimore in January 1947.

THE waterfront dive was murky with layers of smoke and the vileness of its liquor was exceeded only by the language of the customers, a motley throng of sailors, bar-flies, and driftwood wreckage spewed from a hundred seaports. In Portuguese Joey's joint the color line was no barrier to trade; here swarthy lascars rubbed shoulders with saffrontinted, pantalooned yellow men, and I watched a gigantic Negro surreptitiously fingering the haft of his concealed knife as he contemplated slitting the throat of a bearded racial prodigy wearing rings in his ears. It was not exactly a place where you could sit down to a quiet game of checkers. Portuguese Joey, the proprietor, was already half drunk but still able to keep a speculative eye wandering over his staff of burly bartenders.

It was no fiesta, no gala occasion, but merely the ordinary evening one experiences at Joey's. The Portuguese did a good business with these wanderers of the seven seas, and sometimes they unwittingly aided in substantially increasing my own income, which I can assure you is meager enough. I am a writer; not a good one, but nevertheless one whose local description goes unquestioned even when I am depicting scenes in far-off wastes of lands or waters which I have never seen or expect to visit. I gather a chance word uttered over the cracked mahogany of Joey's bar, a few sentences exchanged with a stupefied sailor or inebriated wanderer of the deserts, and thus I may garner the nucleus of a plot which, by afterward consulting a thumbed encyclopedia, can be developed into a remunerative article or story. Many of the tales I hear are lies, of course, constructed during the bacchanalian revelry to impress a lady of the evening, but sometimes I encounter a leather-faced adventurer whose words bear the ring of truth; and though my mind may rebel at times as I listen, I must perforce acknowledge in my heart that I believe I am hearing actual occurrences which have not been born from the fumes of the grape. More civilized persons read these things later and laugh— when they have been set into the convenient sanity of printed type. They are temporarily amused by a crackpot writer and his opium-laden imagination. So they laugh. They are entertained; my publishers pay me.

I wonder if they would laugh so heartily if they could see, as I have, the clenched hands, the beaded brows above those world-ravaged faces, the wild eyes of a man whose mind is torn from the security of infrequent pleasures to dwell on some distant scene of stark horror....

I believe one man in every thousand walking the earth today really believes there is a basis, a faint seed of truth, in every one of those old myths historians have handed down to us in their quaintly fashioned hieroglyphics, legends told from mouth to ear when the world was young and records were not so well kept. Crudely as we may interpret their meanings, fantastic as they may appear to the polished cosmopolite, I venture to accept or acknowledge a grain of truthfulness in most of the mythological legends. In the face of the fact that so many generations implicitly believed in the Minotaur, Medusa, and Jason of the Golden Fleece, I contend that they or their counterparts actually existed in some form or other during past ages.

I WAS cogitating in this manner as I lounged against the bar of the Portuguese's tavern, perhaps because some inner sense was questioning my integrity as a writer or perhaps because the whirling, smoke-laden atmosphere and the foul whisky I was sipping (to maintain character) was affecting my wits, when the Creole, returning from a brief rendezvous held in the upper regions of Joey's establishment, touched my elbow and brought me back to consciousness of immediate surroundings.

"Drink?" she inquired, flashing white teeth in what was intended to be a provocative smile.

"No. Go'way!" I did not have to hear her story; I have heard like ones a thousand times. Her descent into the inferno was written in her face.

Someone stumbled heavily into my short ribs from the left.

"Heigh!" exclaimed a husky voice. "You look like a likely lad, sailor! How about buying an old-timer a slug before he courses homeward? Just one, matey. I'm broke."

After the first glance I could perceive the truth of his statement. He was obviously penniless. His clothes, if but momentarily scrutinized, gave visible proof of his assertion; he probably possessed no home to set forth toward, for the cloth of his threadbare suit was grimy with the soot of alleys and the sandy earth of parkways. It begrimed his entire five feet and a half of height up to his ragged collar, and unless I was mistaken, extended onto the skin of his scrawny neck. A dilapidated and crumpled sailor's cap, its vizor torn and its form sadly askew, perched disconsolately on the peak of his gaunt, whisky-seamed, weatherbeaten face. His bushy eyebrows almost met above a predatory, beaked nose evidently inflamed by liberal libations. A heavy lock of coal-black hair dangled between his 'eyes like a turned-about scalp-knot. It was his eyes, however, that assured me he was not yet entirely drunk; they were steady, undimmed, holding the alert intelligence expressed in the orbs of an animal.

"What about it, Mister?" he inquired, anxiously. "Just one?"

He had not imbibed too much to keep him from seeing, after his second glance, that in spite of my attire I was not really a sailor. His beady eyes dwelt on my fingernails, which were not split by the harsh toil of the open sea, and I saw that not even the grime I had so carefully smudged into their tips could deceive him. The "mister" warned me, too. I hesitated.

"Cochon! Sprite of the Devil!" It was mustached Francois, the burliest of Joey's gigantic waiters. From the opposite side of the bar he flicked a dirty, beer-sodden towel at my companion. "Get off! Va! Do not annoy the patrons, peeg!"

With a movement so swiftly executed that even I, probably the only sober person within a dozen feet, was too slow to halt it, my solicitor launched the upper part of his body across the bar, poised a tattered shoe on the slippery and precarious surface of its rail, and presented a wicked pocket-knife before Francois' Adam's apple.

Accustomed as he was to quick action, the Frenchman remained paralyzed by the suddenness of the man's motions.

The little man's voice was husky with the dregs of drink, but somehow it managed to take on a ringing resonance which had been manifestly absent in his begging.

"Ape! Apologize at once; d'ye hear? Call me 'dog' if you wish— but unless you can give me a suitable excuse for naming me a pig I'll slit your gullet from lee to starboard!"

The nearest individuals became suddenly aware of the tableau and turned to gape. Francois had been recognized as a strong and dangerous man; it was surmised among the throng habitually gathered before Joey's bar that he had once been an Apache who had slain his share of victims. The sight of a scrawny, five-feet-five tramp seriously threatening the Frenchman's muscular frame astounded them. His attitude proclaimed that his intentions were sincere and the deadliness of his attack was obviously recorded by the concentrated stare Francois held upon the bright blade in such close proximity to his neck— so close, indeed, that the waiter's strained efforts to gaze upon its dangerous point caused him to appear cross-eyed.

Still, the man could not apologize. If he did so he would lose "face"— and probably his position as Joey's foremost settler of trouble between customers.

I decided to interfere.

"Buddy," I said, "climb down and forget it. We'll have a drink— a couple of'em. And don't hack up this garçon. Francois is my friend, and a most efficient server of the wine" (the last in stumbling French).

Francois beamed above the glittering blade. His "face" was preserved. I think his life was saved also.

"Certainement!" he cried. "I am desolated, monsieur! To mistake a friend of yours for one of the—the other sort! A thousand pardons! I bow my head; it is most— most— ten thousan i

"A thousand will do, frog," said the little man. He slid nimbly back to the floor and his knife magically disappeared into some recess in the rent garments. But I noticed he kept a vigilant eye on Francois, doubtlessly alert for the possible appearance of a dirk or bungstarter.

"A bottle of the red at a table," I ordered hastily.. I had no wish to become involved in a physical dispute in Joey's, not only because of the dangerous aftermath but also because a fight might close to me forever this source of material which I so greatly relished. A minute later my new friend and I sat at a corner table where the sociable confusion of the center bar was noticeably diminished in our ears. He was grinning, companionableness written on his seamed face, across the scarred table-top.

"Name's Sam Mercer," he announced, quickly pouring a second glass of bubbles in the wake of the one he had downed before I had more than sipped at mine. "From Norfolk... but a long time ago. Lots of wind has spread my sails since then."

A Dae! wine brightened him almost at once. His eyes took on a cunning gleam and he surveyed me more carefully.

"What's the racket, Mister? I can tell you don't belong here; I've eyes, I have !"

"They call me 'Brighty' here," I told him, desperately. "I come here often."

"What for?"

"Perhaps for the same reason as yours. You're trying to talk like a waterfront bum, but I'll bet that if you tried you could talk decent English!"

His eyes narrowed. "What makes you think that, Mister?"

"An instance. If you were really a type, you would have pronounced 'for' just now as either 'fur' or 'fer'. You forget yourself. That's only one."

I had to trust him, to take the chance of throwing myself upon his shrewd mercy; for to have the disreputable patrons of Joey's recognize me as an uptowner "on the slum" would have precipitated a catastrophe, perhaps bodily harm as well as the loss of my privileges of conversation with choice characters. I had never been detected in my chosen réle before and I was rather at a loss to find that such an apparently discredited personage as Mercer could unmask me. So I temporized.

"Listen," I said, in what I trusted was a confidential tone. "Keep your tones down and I'll buy you all the wine you want— or liquor."

He smacked his cracked lips and suggestively emptied the remainder of the bottle into his glass.

"You a dick?"

"No; a writer. Now be decent, will you, and keep it under your hat?"

"What d'ye want in a joint like this?"

"I find story material here."

"A pen-pusher, eh? Well, you're not a bad sort, at that, Mister. You don't have the dumb looks some of those pinch-nosed bags-o'-bones have, either. If you've the sense to keep your trap shut while I'm gassing and the pocket provisions to keep the wine flowing, I'll tell you a story that will raise your hair— it did mine. What d'ye say?"

"I would be interested, except that—"

"I don't tell it often because folks get to thinking maybe I'm a little touched. Maybe I am, come to think of it, and maybe you would be too if you had seen what I did. I hate to think 'of getting sober after the telling of it, too, for although it happened ten years or more ago I sometimes see that damned island as plain as if it were today! Want to hear?"

"As long as it's not the old Spanish prisoner gag or the 'come-on' goldmine-pearls-or maharajah's rubies stuff. Go ahead."

"None of that. And you don't have to invest any dough beyond the price of the wine— unless it's worth the price of a night in the flop-house to you. I could spin a lot of tall yarns; I've heard plenty and made up a few of my own. But this is the truth, Mister; I saw it with my own eyes and I wish to God I hadn't. My memory is too good....

WE WERE beating it down the coast from Athens [said Mercer] in a rusty tramp steamer with the usual crew of waterfront bums you find on those gipsy ships. You know, I guess, what a "tramp" is; sometimes she don't touch her home dock for five years or more— mostly more— because she will take on whatever cargo she can get at any forsaken port or hole in the river's bank and carry it to whatever other miserable spot she's paid to reach. When she gets too rusty the owners or the captain sink her for the insurance. Her name, if you are interested, was the Maid of London when I joined, but it wasn't for long; because at Athens, while we were unloading windmill machinery one of the cases broke open and dumped a sweet assortment of sub-Thompson machine guns right under the noses of the port authorities. We paid the grafters plenty to get clear. Out at sea we painted the letters blank and changed her name to the Belle of Orleans, under the orders of Captain Lewell. Then we beat it down the coast again before the greaseballs should change their minds and decide to bring us back.

Captain Lewell was a limey; one of the smartest Englishmen I ever knew, and a swell smuggler. He was almost able to convince the customs inspectors that an elephant was a weathered balloon bag. But he had an awful temper, and he beat up a couple of the boys the first day out because he was sore about losing the fighting-irons and having to pay through the nose for them besides. He was an old-time bucko. ...

When the cook found the stowaway hiding behind the canned goods he got mad first because the fellow had eaten some of the supplies, but he wasn't as sore as Captain Lewell. I was one of the men who took the fellow up to the captain's quarters, and I know.

I give the fellow credit; he wasn't scared. He didn't fight us, although we shoved him around pretty roughly, for at first we thought he might be a spy posted at our last port and up to no good. He wasn't Greek, but we wasn't sure what any man might decide to lend himself to in those days.. The boys in France had been turned loose and three-quarters of them hadn't any jobs any more. The job they had been told was saving the world for democracy was over and quite a number of them didn't know what to take up next. Odd jobs were in line, even if it meant working for grease-balls. They had had a taste of excitement and were still hungry.

This guy had big, broad shoulders and a pair of knotty hands I took care to stay away from in case he did get mad. His skin was fair as a baby's and his long yellow hair blew all over his face as we were hustling him across the deck. He must have stood six-feetfive and he weighed accordingly. He dwarfed us all. 'Every pound of him was solid and he could have dragged that waterfront crew of beer-bellies around for a while before they mussed him up, but he laughed at us and came along without raising a fuss.

Old Lew, who limped and had only one finger left on his right hand but was fast enough to poke a man's eye out with it before the man could move, was in the lead and staring over his shoulder at the prisoner. I saw Lew was looking kind of funny, but then he was funny in the head at times, you know, and very superstitious. Pretty soon he dropped back to me and whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

"Sam," he said, "he's a Jonah! I wish we hadn't found him! He's bad luck, Sam!"

"Shark-bait, you mean, after the captain's seen him," I told him.

Old Lew shrugged. "Go look at his eyes," he said.

To humor the old fool I skipped ahead to where I could see the fellow's face.

The prisoner noticed me and grinned. "Hello, shrimp," he said.

I didn't answer, because I was seeing what Old Lew had intended me to see. One of the stowaway's eyes were a deep blue color, and the other, the left one, was brown! By the grace of the sea's unwritten log-book the old man was right! A man with two-colored eyes was bad luck. We don't laugh at these beliefs. I know they may sound funny to a landsman, but some of us old-timers have seen them come true too often to laugh any more.

THE captain was in an ugly mood, as I've said before, and when we knocked I think we interrupted his hourly whisky-and-soda, which was bad for all concerned. I heard glass rattling and a desk-drawer slam before he bellowed: "Yeah, what in thunder is it now?" We knew that now we could go in.

The captain didn't always talk like that. In port he used the common speech of an ordinary A.B. because he was always sober then and knew what he was saying. He had to know, meeting the tricky monkeys we dealt with, but once or twice when we were well at sea and he could afford to let down the barriers (something most captains can't, when at sea) he spieled off some mighty fine language, talking to him self in the manner some people use when they think they're alone and no one else less than a thousand miles away— or maybe like some of the derelict bums I've heard reciting poetry over a glass of some alcoholic beverage.

"A damned stowaway, eh!" he swore, after we had explained. He glared at the big blond fellow with bloodshot eyes and his tobacco-stained mustache bristled like a worn comb. I could see he was a little drunk. "Well, he can work in the cook's quarters or jump the rail— and I don't care which he chooses! Here's something to break him in."

With that, the captain lurched forward and, drunk as he was, swung one of those uppercuts for which he was famous. The stowaway moved his head an inch, so that the blow just glanced off his chin, but I knew his jaw would ache anyhow. Once I hadn't been fast enough to duck. ...

"My name," said the blond fellow as calmly as if nothing had happened, "is Charles Brighton."

Just like that, as if he wasn't in a jam on one of the toughest tramps it has ever been my fortune to sail upon and before a whisky-mad limey ready to work out a grudge. He was a man, all right, this baby-face with the different-colored eyes, and my heart warmed for him, Jonah or no.

"What's in a name?" asked the captain, lurching back against his desk. Old Lew and I looked sideward at each other, for somehow the captain's voice had changed and become rather dignified, just as it always did when he talked to himself. I looked at the fellow who called himself Brighton and I saw that his eyes had narrowed; the smile was gone and he was staring at the captain sort of eagerly, like a man looking at a half-filled bottle he has just discovered he hadn't finished the night before.

"What's in a name?" repeated the captain.

Without any warning at all, this Brighton began to talk just like Captain Lewell, in the same queer singsong way. Here's what he said, Mister. I don't know why I remembered it, for I can't understand all it means, but it sounded beautiful then, like the temple bells at Canton. We were clinging to him, arm and arm, when he began:

"But man, proud man,

Drest in a little brief authority,

Most ignorant of what he's most assured,

His glassy essence, like an angry ape,

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven

As makes the angels weep."

Don't that sound swell, Mister? He even taught me how to pronounce those words. Like "fantastic." I watched him pretty close but I never caught him laughing at me. He seemed to enjoy showing me, in fact. He said it was Shakespeare.

But Captain Lewell, when he heard that, almost slid off his desk to the floor. He grabbed at the wall and his face was as white as death. When he spoke again he sort of choked and stammered.

"You— you're no bum!" he said to the stowaway. "You've been among decent people. You've been to—"

"Harvard," said Brighton.

"My God!" said the captain. "Sit down, will you? Sit here. Have a whisky-and-soda? Have a cigar— best Havanas, they are! Hey— you bilge rats! Get out of here! Get out!"

We got, not knowing what to say. Old Lew limped off muttering: "Jonah— as sure as you live!"

About fifteen minutes later the captain roared down from the upper deck:

"Mercer, you shrimp, get that weaselfaced rat that calls himself a cook to dish up a meal for Mr. Brighton. As fit a one as he can, d'ye hear?"

"Aye, sir!" I answered, stumbling toward the galley and wondering why, in the name of Buddha, a stowaway deserved the captain's food, liquor and cigars just because he could talk some outlandish poetry that made no sense. I took the meal up myself; I was as curious as an old maid.

THE captain had both elbows planted on the table he had dragged into the center of the room, the one he kept the old, shrieking phonograph on, and I saw the machine itself lying where he had thrown it in the corner of the room. Thrown it, mind you! And one day he had kicked Old Lew down a companionway just for reaching out to touch it! The captain had a big smile on his face. He had washed it, too. His hair (what was left) was combed. I could see he was sobering. He waved his hand for me to put the food Cooky had sworn over on the table. As soon as I did he pushed it in front of the stowaway with the air of a Continental waiter. His eyes never turned in my direction; they were fixed on the fellow Brighton as a dying sailor's are on Heaven.

"The best I have, Mr. Brighton," he said. "My apologies, but it's the best I have!"

"Mister" to a stowaway!

I lingered as long as I dared so as to hear what story the fellow would have to tell, wondering if he was going to protest honesty and bad luck, watching him sprawled there in the best chair the cabin afforded, and in spite of my prejudices I couldn't help but like his smile and the queer pair of eyes that seemed to go with it.

He said: "Thank you, Captain Lewell, I appreciate all of this no end, y know! Most hospitable, you are, to treat a common, sneaking stowaway in this fashion!"

"Common? Ffit!" exclaimed the: captain. "It's twenty years since I talked to a gentleman, Mr. Brighton. Imagine— twenty years!"

I never saw the captain looking sad before; he had a poker-face that only changed when he got mad. Then he wanted to fight and I didn't dare look. But now he had a face like an heir whose uncle had forgotten to leave a will.

"As I was saying, Captain," said Brighton, flashing the smile, "I'm on a quest— perhaps an indefinite quest, y'know. But then I think sometimes the power of the mind can be utilized as a compass."

If "utilized" meant what I thought it did, then Brighton was plain crazy, I figured.

"Yes?" inquired Captain Lewell, encouragingly.

"This may sound strange to you," said the blond-head, "even idiotic. I'm searching for the Isle of Aeaea."

"AEAEA?" repeated the other, wrinkling his forehead. "Never heard —no, that is... Look here, Mr. Brighton! You can't mean the mythical isle mentioned in the Odyssey? Not Ulysses' Island of Enchantment?, Not the goddess id

"And Circe, the enchantress!" finished the stowaway.

"Are you pulling my leg?" inquired the captain, grinning. "I have not set my course for Ithaca, you see."

He certainly was standing for a lot of bosh, I thought.

"No, honestly, I'm not, Captain," said the fellow. "Here's the truth. I always was fascinated by Homer and his contemporary writers, even in early childhood. I never had to work, as my friends did; the pater had too much to allow me. And things were boresome, y'know. Last year I got fed up with the old homestead, y'see, and I said to the governor: 'I'm off ona little trip.' He was so busy devising extra laws for a kingdom already overburdened with them that he paid little attention to me. Besides, I'm twentyseven and I've always done as I pleased. He said: 'Right-O, take the yacht and some friends and enough chaperones. The last, at least, so you don't ruin my political career! Where are you bound?' I hadn't decided yet, so I told him: 'Maybe I'll search for the Holy Grail or form a new Crusade or discover the Isles of Enchantment.' He replied, laughingly, that perhaps I did not sustain enough morality to prolong a quest for the Holy Relic, but with a sufficient amount of bad luck I might discover a Circe."

HERE I, the chronicler, interrupted.

"Look here, Mercer! Why is it that sometimes you speak a jargon, a combination of Limehouse and Bowery slang, and then with so little difficulty manage to produce an Etonian accent! You had to be taught to pronounce 'fantastic', yet terms such as the 'Crusades' or 'the Holy Grail' are no strangers to your tongue and slide so readily off of it. You didn't memorize everything Charles Brighton said, did you?"

"I told you, Mister, I have an awful good memory. I can remember back almost to the day I was born. A lot of those words meant nothing to me but I sort of remembered how they sounded, that's all. This wine isn't bad, is it?"

His was once more the last portion remaining in the bottle; because of the delicate intimation I hastily beckoned a waiter.

THEN [continued my narrator] the captain began to laugh. He laughed until his mustache bristled, slapped his palms on the table until the dishes danced a cachinnation, and even smiled at me.

"Ha! Ha!" he roared. "A good one, Mr. Brighton! Almost, for the moment, you had me believing you were crazy!"

Brighton kept on smiling. "I ditched the yacht, because y'see Circe might be somewhat astonished if I invaded her ancient premises with an engine-room full of Diesel machinery and a crew of sophisticates who would want to examine her gowns or compare her with Garbo, and grabbed a job, incognito, as an ordinary steward in the Green Line. If I would go into details it would surprise you— what I've seen. For instance: I saw your guns crashing out before those surprised blockheads back there on the dock. So I deserted my present ship and boarded yours dressed as a vagabond sailor while you were still arguing with the port officials. You looked interesting, and I have the money to pay for my passage. I can keep a still tongue in my head— you need have no worry—"

"Please, please, Mr. Brighton!" said the captain. "No mention of money between gentlemen! You are my guest."

I gasped, hearing him refuse money!

"After all, I have attained the latitudes of Circe and her barnyard swarms!" laughed this crazy blond-head, this vagabond adventurer.

"Practically among the swine on this ship— with the exception of their mistress!" snapped Captain Lewell. I realized he was glaring at me. Absorbed, he had not noticed my aimless pottering about as I listened to the conversation, but now I had in some way attracted his attention and I felt like a mouse seeking the safety of its private knothole as I fled toward the door. My exit was conspicuous; I'm afraid, because of the extreme necessity for flight.

"MERCER [I interposed] the goodness of the wine apparently accentuates your eloquence. You are improving! I suggest that if you should drink enough you would become able to articulate with a fluency which might overwhelm multitudes!"

"Wine," said Sam Mercer, "is a wonderful achievement the gods must have invented prior to the birth of mankind. But you have reversed the deduction, my friend; it is the wine, not eloquence, which moves the multitude. Nevertheless, I shall not allow it to move me until I have concluded my contract with you."

I did not argue further; I was already more interested than Sheherazade's king.

FOR the next ten days we slid along like the Ancient Mariner wearing the albatross arotind his neck [said my newly acquired friend] and most of the time of Charles Brighton was spent in the captain's cabin, from which loud roars of appreciative mirth proclaimed the latter's enjoyment of the vagabond's wit. No doubt he was describing the "details" of his adventurous wanderings.

Brighton spent very little time in associating with the men, but during the few hours he did mingle with them he made remarkable progress with the riff-raff gathered from the seven seas, at it was represented on the Belle of Orleans. Because of his sojourns in the cabin they named him "the captain's pet." But the first day following his discovery as a stowaway he licked the muscular brigand we knew as "Big Turk," and the men began to comprehend that he was anything but a pet. Turk had been the bully of the forecastle. The second day he filched a bottle from the captain's own cabinet and shared it with all, including the Turk. After that the Turk announced he would, personally, tear limb from limb any man who chanced to defame his shipmate's name.

I have never, before or since those peaceful days, observed such a harmonious crew as the men sailing the Belle of Orleans, nor known of a man capable of mingling with both officers and seamen, and still retaining his friendliness with all classes, as Charles Brighton. He had the advantage of a brilliant flow of rhetoric which he was able to switch, at a moment's notice, into the polyglot slang of a dozen nations. And a careless, swashbuckling manner which his physique suggested was not entirely a poise.

The men rapidly cemented friendship. Only Old Lew hung aloof, refusing to share his wine and 'continually muttering of a Jonah. But then —Lew was touched.

So passed the next ten days. On the early dawn of the eleventh, one day out from our next destination, where we had intended discharging the remainder of our smuggled guns— the ones not discovered by the authorities— one of the watch cried out: "Breakers off the port bow!"

It's an alarming cry to hear at sea, Mister. It was especially amazing to us at the time, for we thought ourselves to be well out at sea and clear of any coast. The captain tumbled out n his long underwear, swore, and insisted we were all madmen and there was no land for eighty miles except that straight down. But the faint sound of crashing waves coming across the waters hushed him. In the gray dawn of the approaching day we could barely distinguish a dark bulk that could mean only a rising shore, ringed by the inevitable white circles that denoted the presence of ragged breakers. Charts or no charts, latitudes to the contrary, we were very close to land.

When we dropped the anchor it fell into a short seven fathoms before it rested. The captain went back to swear at his charts. Anxiously we waited for more daylight. To me, the air appeared to carry a damp, offensive flavor, and I felt a weird tightening of my heartstrings. Call it what you will, premonition or instinct or the sixth sense so frequently experienced by the man accustomed to a dangerous existence, but the fact is that I guessed something was wrong with that island. It threatened my sub-conscious nerves. Once I thought I saw a giant, fanshaped, white light rising from the center of that dark blotch on the ocean, like a searchlight aimed at Heaven, but when I excitedly pointed, it had already vanished and the crew spoke of their individual disbeliefs concerning "visions."

We had no way of determining our position or choosing a course. We were utterly, hopelessly lost on a strange shore! To move at all might mean colliding with a hidden reef or sinking our prow into a sandbank lying scant inches below the surface of the water. So we awaited light.

DAY came with a leaden sky, behind which the rising sun was totally invisible, and there was a light drizzle of discouraging rain. Fog drifted about us in ghostly layers which appeared to extend clutching fingers at the rail as if their concealing mists hid the corporeal bodies of lost souls seeking a fleshly habitation.

But as the sky brightened we were able to see the island. I can see it now, in spite of the whisky and the wine and the lapse of years, as plainly as I saw it on that accursed morn. It was unforgettable. By pure chance we had anchored directly off a narrow entrance in the surrounding reef through which, with luck, a boat would be able to pass; to the left and right extended an unbroken line of jagged rocks. The island itself, presumably about a mile or less in diameter, was unprepossessing. Heavy foliage, mostly undergrowth, grew almost to the ocean's edge, and there was but a few scant feet of sandy beach. The thickets were jungle-like in their density; even from a distance we could plainly see the interlaced boughs of stunted trees and the twisted tendrils of serpentine vines. Toward the center of this unusually flat island rose a slight elevation encircled by either a heavy clump of trees or what was perhaps much taller brush. The whole place exhibited not the least sign of a presence either animal or human, and the eery dark-green coloring was depressing to one's nerves.

The crew were superstitious, as all seamen are more or less, and several of them exclaimed about the noticeable absence of bird-life. One man said, paradoxically: "That blimey green color gives me the blues!"

I have heard of the different effects of color on the human nervous system; how red excites madness and blue produces despondency. I can't recall what green is supposed to do. But I tell you that solid quarter-mile of dark emerald wall, rising like a silent but sentient oceanic creature above the leaden waters of the fog-wreathed sea, surpassed all the horrors described by Dante or hinted at by Doré. It held the threat of the unknown, of some bizarre evilness, and sometimes that is worse than actuality. If there had been one splash of some brighter tinge, one tiny patch of the rainbow-colored tropical flowers, to lessen the effect of the interminable sameness, perhaps the illusion we experienced would have been dispelled. There was not. Nothing was there except a great green blot, where, by all the findings of traveled seamen and nautical instruments, should have been only water.

I know Captain Lewell is sorry to this day for the orders he gave on that morning ten years ago. Perhaps his men are even sorrier because they obeyed. But you see, as I have already said, Hugh Lewell was a tyrant while at sea and they had a habit of fulfilling his commands.

"Lew," he said, "and— let's see— you, Turk, will go ashore and fill the water tanks. There must be water on an island as green as this. one."

The two chosen did not object, although the utter silence of their shipmates was by the very fact of absolute quietness an unspoken argument against the captain's judgment. Those seamen were brave, tried men; vicious and unlawful in their deeds, perhaps, but nevertheless seasoned with the spice of danger, and so, cautious. 'They sensed danger on the island. Premonition, or whatever you call it, is an actual and acknowledged fact to the roving adventurer.

"Mr. Mate," continued Captain Lewell, "take the key to our arsenal from the second right-hand drawer of my desk and let Lew and Turk have a rifle apiece— revolvers also, if they want them. I doubt if firearms are necessary, for I can detect no signs of savages or wild beasts; however, we will remain on the safe side."

"Begging your pardon, Captain," said Old Lew. "They'll be no need for guns on that shore. Whatever lives on that piece of Hell won't be harmed by common lead!"

"You've been day-dreaming again, Lew," growled the captain. "Imagination getting you— or the fog. Don't be silly! Hop to it before I split your ears!"

"Aye, sir," said Old Lew.

But his face didn't change. I looked away. It's not nice to see a man you knew had nerve suddenly go to pieces before your eyes, and I thought Lew was on the verge of hysteria. He covered it, hiding the evidence of his glazed eyes and trembling hands as well as he could, and I had to admire him. Turk was too stupid to understand emotions.

Supplied with rifles, ammunition and the containers required for the transportation of water, Lew and the Turk rowed off through the fog wreaths; Lew with his mouth a grim, compressed line and Turk patently attempting to fold his beer-fattened features into a carefree expression. Both of those men were scared, but you could have cut the hearts out of either before they would have admitted it.

The island remained as silent, as brooding, as ever; I tried not to look at it but I might as well have attempted to ignore a tiger stalking me through the jungles of Cambodia. I had to watch those two puny figures (they did seem small from the distance as they beached their boat and pressed on toward the line of brush— even the Turk) and I could not help but think that I, and I alone, was responsible for sending their souls into jeopardy, into the midst of the miasmatic evil exuding from that place.

"ONE moment, Mr. Mercer [I interrupted again]. "Do I understand you to say that you sent them? I thought you said Captain Lewell gave them their orders."

"Error of speech, Mister," replied Mercer. "I must be befuddled by the wine. And very good wine it is, too. Shall we have another bottle?"

"Your phraseology seems to have improved on account of it," I told him. "Of course we shall have another bottle. By all means. Perhaps, after I have had a glass or two, I may comprehend your dual personality."

"Is it your wish that I continue?" His tone was arrogant and I could see he was becoming drunk. "Do you care to hear the rest of my tale?"

"Naturally!" I was subdued.

OLD LEW and the Turk never came back [said my companion]. We waited for an hour, for two, for three, and still the green veil never stirred to reveal two men lugging water containers. The sun became faintly visible through dispelling fog. The men were whispering among themselves, and even the mate was tapping nervous fingertips on the rail. I was getting the jitters, myself, but I could not exhibit them, you see.

Brighton was standing very quietly by the rail and intent, I believe, on trying to pierce the fog with his assorted eyes. He offered no remarks to supplement those made by the overwrought sailors. He was, you understand, a gentleman, and although he tried hard to mingle in a friendly fashion with the men, his instincts interfered and he was unable to suppress inbred rules of conduct ordained by ancestors who had not been marauders. He might have been an adventurer but he never could have been a successful thief; it was a trait he could not repress any more than I can help raising this glass of wine.

Knowing him as I did, remembering his story of his family background, makes me raise another....

Some of the crew began to cast evil glances in the direction of the patient Captain Lewell, who still stood immobile upon the bridge. it was not because they thought of blaming him for any misfortune which might have happened to Lew or Turk, but just an example of the inexplicable reasoning stupidity follows when in doubt or stress. They desired to place the blame of any mischance upon the broader shoulders of a superior. The captain detected their mutinous air and promptly asserted his authority. He was a man who could kill with his bare hands, a cruel leader of thieves, but it never has been said of him that he would send even the lowest member of his command where he would hesitate to go himself.

"Lower the second boat," he said. "I'll see what is wrong here. Another issue of weapons, please, Mr. Mate. Do you wish to accompany me, Mercer? You are at full liberty to decline, you know."

He was not drunk, so something must have stirred him to make him so polite.

"Aye, sir," I said. The captain's nerves were tense and I didn't dare to refuse.

Suddenly Charles Brighton was in front of us all, his blond hair waving with the beginning of an off-shore wind. "If you please, Captain, I would like to go also," he said. "I volunteer."

Captain Lewell laughed. When there was trouble at hand he became the searover and forgot the gentlemanly manner. "Charles, you may wander the wide world over but I doubt if you'll find your Circe on an island such as this one."

"Well," said Brighton, "I'll look."

After we had easily surmounted the final wave leading into the opening of the reef we were able to beach gently enough. Brighton sprang carelessly into knee-deep water to pull the boat onto the sand. The boat used by Old Lew and the Turk was alongside and we could see the footprints they had made before entering the brush. Before we entered the labyrinth of the foliage I paused to look back at the Belle of Orleans. I could not help it; perhaps my companions thought I was showing weakness, but the fact is that I felt as if I was deserting a safe anchorage to drift upon a threatening coral reef. And I still remember the distant white blots that were the faces of the crew as they hung over the rail to watch our progress.

Brighton said: "That's queer shrubbery for these parts, isn't it?"

It was. I never saw such strangely shaped trees, with limbs that twisted like writhing snakes, or such oddly formed, three-cornered leaves as those growing on this island. Now that we were closer, things did not appear to be entirely green; there was a red network through some of the leaves, a patter of tiny lurid veins running wild at strange angles. No two of them seemed alike. The influence of the jungle odors which we now encountered must have affected me; for the thought came into my mind that the colors of the brush were continually changing, like some lizards I had seen that were readily able to merge their outlines and coloration with their surroundings. It gave me the creeps, I tell you.

LEW's and the Turk's footprints led us to a break in the green barrier. Brighton plunged ahead on a narrow path, and the captain and I could do nothing else but follow. The trail was narrow, barely a foot and a half in width, hedged by projecting limbs and trailing vines and covered above by the interlaced thickets so that it practically became a tunnel before we had advanced a dozen feet. The ground underfoot was soft and mushy, and the air curiously warm. Only at intervals did we sight the open sky. We saw sunlight now and then and knew the fog was gone.

"Look!" exclaimed Brighton, pointing at a spot some inches before him. "There are some kind of animals here!"

Something had previously crossed the trail, passing from one green wall to the other. It had left imprints on the marshy pathway, small footprints that might have belonged to a member of the cat family or maybe a fawn. On account of the ooze we could not tell definitely just what type of animal the spoor described, but I think all of us were secretly delighted to discover evidence of natural life on the weird island. I wonder still if the others felt like myself. It seemed to me I was traversing a pathway leading into some unknown land of the fourth dimension wherein the omnipotent powers granted to mankind would be unrecognized by whatever invisible shape happened to be the ruler.

I assure you, Mister, I am a very practical member of the homo sapiens, and this illusive sensation I experienced was not the result or after-effects of either drugs or drinks but the atmosphere of that damned island. And when I say "damned island" I am not swearing; that bit of rock and underbrush was damned in the sight of man and God.

The trail twisted and wound a devious pathway through rows of trees and hosts of sprawled vines. We walked through a dim twilight for what seemed an interminable length, considering the size of the island, before we reached a clearing. Perspiration stood out on our foreheads, and drops of sweat trickled into our eyes.

Just before we arrived at the spot where twilight once more became daylight and the tendrils and red-veined leaves reluctantly gave way to open space and fresher air, a small animal, perhaps a foot and a half in height, ran squealing across our path. It dived into the brush on the opposite side of the trail from which it had. emerged and immediately became invisible. It was an ordinary pig of the razor-back type, dirty and covered with slime from its wallowings in the marsh's puddles and wild with fear because of its unusual encounter with strangers.

"I told you there would be life on this island!" exclaimed Brighton, triumphantly. "Somebody even keeps pigs. Or else they are wild ones. Did you see it?"

The question was silly. Of course we had seen it. Keyed up as we were, would we have missed seeing anything?

"Funny," I said, not meaning anything was funny at all. What I meant was that something was strange.

"What's funny?" inquired Brighton.

"That the pig should limp like Old Lew," I told him.

The three of us stared at the tracks left by the hog crossing the path. The left hind foot had been held high as the animal ran; we could see that only at intervals had it so much as scraped the ooze. I found myself remembering the wild stare it had given us.

"Are we crazy?" asked Brighton, thrusting out his double-barreled chin.

"I hope not," I said. "Time will tell."

I THINK all of us sighted the stone walls of the castle at the same instant. For the second time we stood transfixed with amazement. Erected there in the center of that muddy clearing, the Devil alone knows how long ago, on a remote isle which had no nautical authority to exist, the very act of discovering its grim and ancient battlements made one feel as the Connecticut Yankee must have felt when he saw King Arthur's court. My first impression was that the walls were very high, but they could not have been so tall, for then the trees would not conceal them and we could have seen their gray outlines from the deck of the ship.

I admit I retain but a hazy recollection of those stone ramparts. Remember, I was worried about the fate of Old Lew and the Turk, about the identity of the island which had appeared so mysteriously from the sea, and quite confused regarding the strange flora and fauna of the eery place.

As I have told you, the walls were gray with age and erosion. I am no geologist and I could not determine the composition of the rock. Perhaps at one time, in some forgotten era, the blocks of the castle had been black; I detected dark streaks here and there on surfaces less exposed to weather than others. A few withered and yellowed tendrils clung to their rugged sides, but the majority of the vines growing in the vicinity of the building had chosen o creep toward the edge of the brush for possible support. The stones of the castle seemed to repel them. Brush ceased to grow on the ground surrounding the walls, although the dirt floor of the island distributed there appeared to be no different from that upon which we stood. A lowered, medieval drawbridge crossed a narrow moat filled with slimy, greenish water, and the huge gates at the other end of its rusty length were swung wide open. The battlements above us were cracked and beyond hope of repair. We could not detect any signs of human occupancy behind the narrow apertures which extended along the wall.

I took a few steps in the direction of the castle, with a wary eye on the silent menace of that lowered drawbridge corroded with the moisture of centuries. Its chains were so rusted I doubt if it could have been raised. The water in the moat was fetid and obnoxious to the eye as well as the nostrils.

"See here," I said; "something happened to my two men to prevent them from returning or they would have done so by now; we all know that. Whatever occurred was probably connected with this lonely place, for it appears to be the only habitation on the island. Physically, the Turk would be difficult to overcome, and Old Lew is no babe in arms; so whatever ill luck they encountered must have been strong enough to conquer them before they could shout one 'hello' for rescue. I suggest you two remain at the edge of this brush, where one of you can retreat to summon help if anything happens, while I reconnoiter."

"YOUR two men?" I broke into his smooth flow of words again. "Had Captain Lewell placed you in charge?"

"All right, all right!" ejaculated my thirsty companion.

He poured another glass— for himself.

"I'm not Sam Mercer. I have tried to depict the scenes of this story through Mercer's eyes, but his dialect fails me. When I am sober I remember and become ashamed, for once I was Captain Hugh Lewell, in the service of His Royal Majesty, the King of England. I think you have guessed, and now I am drunk enough not to care if you know. Mercer was the third member of our party. I've taken his name in vain. Objectionable ?"

I hastily reassured him.

THEY objected to my plans [said the man whom I had forced to reveal himself as Captain Lewell]. They argued that, while I was beyond a doubt in supreme command while on board the Belle of Orleans, I automatically lost my privileges when I set my feet on shore and therefore could expect no obedience. Therefore they would enter the castle with me. I retorted that I considered this expedition a landing party over which any officer of the deck could assert the rights of leadership, and their attitudes constituted mutiny. Our bickering must have sounded ludicrous to any possible eavesdropper. We ignored the unseen danger which had swallowed Lew and the Turk to chatter at each other like a trio of African monkeys. There was something in the air of that accursed island that made fools out of men. I began to think of knocking Mercer down, although my heart told me he was just trying to be loyal, but somehow or other he appeared particularly annoying there in the dimness of the jungle path. I remember I thought of pushing his face nto the mud of the clearing, and I recall how the oppressive silence boiled in my veins and caused my heart to thump with the mad impulse of murder.

I fear I lost all official dignity. Hatred generated in that unholy air like cholera spreading on a plague ship. I saw hate in Brighton's eyes, and he was the best friend I had in two thousand miles.

When I decided to resume my lost authority by boldly walking into the silent castle doors alone and ignoring the petty argument, I found Mercer striding determinedly on my left and Brighton keeping in step on the right. We were parading, like silly schoolboys, in full range of any death-dealing weapon the invisible dwellers in that grim castle might have chosen to sight against us. Fools— all of us!

It was Mercer who saw her first and grabbed at my arm, almost throwing me off balance with the strength of his surprise.

"Look!" he growled. "In the name of— look!"

I saw the object of his startled surprise instantly, for I was on the alert. I cannot understand how he saw her first. She stood, or rather, leaned, against a stone of the giant doorway at the opposite end of the drawbridge. Her hands were empty and hung harmlessly at her sides, and she wore an air of mingled surprise and ingratiating welcome; evidently visitors were few and she was glad to receive us. Yet three grown men became immobile, wooden images when they saw her. For to see a woman, a beautiful woman such as she, costumed as she was— a white woman, mind you— on that remote island seemed incredible.

As if her arrival had summoned it, the sun broke through the fog and began to concentrate its fiery energy upon the already steaming jungle.

She was wearing a long blue gown that in some countries might have been mistaken for a nightdress. It was fastened about her slender waist with some kind of twisted cord, and tasseled loops hung on her left side down to her knee. The cloth descended to her ankles, which were invisible unless she walked. One could see her tiny toes protruding from beneath the immaculate gown, for they were encased in open-work sandals such as I have seen in Biblical pictures. To say her figure was perfect would be an imperfect description. It was superb. The smooth outlines of her slim thighs and the mounting curvatures of her full breasts beneath the clinging cloth were almost as plainly visible as if she had been nude. Not that I mean to emphasize her voluptuousness. I have seen many women, belonging to all races, colors and creeds, who could exhibit the same physical charms. But never in all my wandering over the surface of this globe, not even in the Latin countries, have I discovered a woman with such inner, smoldering fire as this one possessed.

Today I know why. It was her eyes. They burned with a submerged fire that might have been stolen from Vulcan after he pilfered it from Olympus. I can't tell you what color they were; they must have taken on all the tints of the rainbow, for one minute I thought them to be blue and the next I decided they were either gray or green. Another look, and I was prepared to swear her eyes were as yellow as a panther's. You can't describe the color of flame-tips; they keep changing too rapidly. The next best thing is to discover the source and look at the fuel. It was her eyes, not her features, "The impressive silence boiled in his veins." that registered the "here-I-am" invitation, yet the woman, or girl, owned an aura of virginal sweetness, and an observer would have decided she was a maiden who had never known a lover. To sum up my impression of her eyes I will say they suggested slumbering fires and cool, running waters. And that is a paradox, is it not?

HER hair was long, perhaps three or more feet in length, which was not customary at that time. She had arranged it to drape its strands over her shapely shoulders so that, at the first glance, it might appear to be carelessly hung. A thin circlet of some kind of white metal restrained the-locks from dropping into her luminous eyes.

She was a picture of beauty an artist would rave over, I tell you. Perfect. Her cheeks were alabaster, her nose a Grecian perfection, her brow of intellectual height. I have seen throats like hers built on the stone columns of goddesses molded by the best sculptors this world has ever produced. Her lips parted as she watched us, and I saw the white evenness of perfectly formed teeth.

"Greetings," she said in a low voice. "You speak the English?"

Her accent was strange. I had never heard that peculiar intonation before. Brighton answered for us.

"Yes, of course. My name is Charles Brighton. This is Captain Lewell, who is in command of the ship Belle of Orleans which is anchored off-shore. And Samuel Mercer, one of the crew. Please don't be frightened; we are a peaceful lot."

She smiled, and I was aware of a tingling sensation at the nape of my neck.

"I am not frightened," she said, her tongue lingering over the syllables. "You are looking for— something?"

I looked at her and thought of Buddha and the Sphinx and the careful carvings I once saw on a temple wall in Tibet. She impressed me that way —too much like a goddess to be of mortal flesh.

"Two of our crew came ashore in search of fresh water," explained Brighton. "They didn't come back. We found their footprints but we can't find them. Could you tell us if they reached here?"

THE woman smiled. I thought her expression was mocking, but after I glanced at the features of my companions I decided to remain silent. You can't tell a worshipping sailor who has spent many days at sea that a woman who smiles at him is treacherous. It's an impossibility. You can't always guess at a woman's welcome, either. She may be happily receiving you or she may be a succuba; the more of them you meet the less you are certain. What I mean to say is that I was very much in doubt as to the intentions of this strangely attired woman.

"You haven't told us your name or the name of the island," said Brighton, employing a light manner and his most attractive smile. I could see he was enamored.

"The island," said the dream in white, still smiling, "is called Aeaea."

I saw Brighton straighten as if he had received an electric shock.

"Aeaea?" he repeated. "The Isle of the Enchantress? Perhaps then you would be— Circe?"

"Yes. You know of me?"

Charles Brighton stood there with his mouth hanging open.

"Don't be a fool, Brighton," I told him; then to the woman: "Madam, we are looking for water. Perhaps you can direct us to a spring? It may be that we shall find our missing men there."

"The only spring on the place is the one in my central courtyard," she replied. "It is quite a way back. The walls were practically built around it. Will you come in?"

Again I noticed the peculiar, halting manner with which she pronounced her words. One would have thought she had just learned the English language, although she did not exactly lisp her words in the manner of most foreigners or native women. I nudged Brighton with an elbow movement I hoped was unnoticed, but which I fear was not, for the face he turned to mine was a frowning one. You see, he did not possess the sixth sense owned by the wanderers of the seas and he did not feel the premonition of danger which I had become conscious of down to the marrow of my bones. Something was wrong, awfully wrong, on that island, and I knew it as well as I knew my mother's name.

"Don't you be a fool, Captain!" growled my stowaway. "Come on."

Mercer touched my arm, hesitatingly. "Captain," he said, "maybe I'd better go back for the water casks and tell the boys."

I was irritated by my own doubts, and because I comprehended the man's desire to return to the material safety of the ship his request angered me unreasonably. I grew sarcastic.

"Allow Mr. Brighton and myself to remain the fools of this party, Mercer!" I told him. "You can accompany us and imagine yourself a guardian angel."

Poor Sam Mercer never argued with me. His fate is heavy on the balance sheet of my soul....

The woman turned without speaking again, confident that her summons would be obeyed. We had a brief glimpse of an exquisitely shaped back as she floated before us into the shadows of the interior. She actually seemed to float. The lightness of her graceful carriage was uncanny. Brighton breathed deeply, like a spent swimmer, and placed his right foot on the threshold. When he saw Mercer and me by his side he entered. We followed.

The inside of the hallway made one feel as if he had suddenly stepped into another dimension; the gray shadows felt cool and soothing to skin scorched by the hot winds outside, and sunlight seemed to be a distant thing, half forgotten and associated with some experience of long ago— of very long ago. At intervals one could see spreading damp spots where the seepage of water issuing from behind the bare walls had, following natural gravitation, descended to the rocky floor of the twisting corridor. As we proceeded we passed several openings evidently leading into other passages extending at right angles from the one we were traversing. They appeared dark and forbidding, gruesome. Perhaps I owned too much imagination; I was younger then, you see, than I am now.

Brighton touched my forearm once and I saw his features were wrinkled by indecision. "Maybe it's true!" he muttered. "My God, Lewell— maybe it's true!"

"Maybe what's true?" I asked him rather savagely. I was still annoyed enough to provoke an argument at a time when I should have been using my senses.

"The legend of Circe!" he whispered. "The Isle of Aeaea! The— the swine!"

"It's true that we are fools and you are our chief representative," I told him. "Has it been so long since you have looked upon a woman that she seems to be a myth when you see her? As an enchantress? Well, then efface yourself! When I see you again I may be in the company of a Cyclops or a Scylla or a Charybdis. Or possibly I may return with my two missing men!"

"Captain," said Sam Mercer, "Captain, I don't think we'll ever see Old Lew or Turk again. Let's get out of here. Let's go, Captain!"

"Shut up, imbecile!" I commanded.

He said no more, but he continued to whimper deep in his throat. The man was afraid. Therefore I could not show fear myself; to do so would have endangered my rights as a leader. So I laughed aloud. Perhaps the secret doubts in my heart conveyed those discordant notes in my mirthless laughter which echoed and resounded through the narrow passageways, or maybe the maze of interlacing tunnels was accountable for the ghoulish reverberations flung back into our ears; but there was certainly no humor in their sounds, and I drew a deep breath to expel panic from my system. Men will not follow another man who is showing fear.

"Captain Lewell is amused at my poor abode," said the woman, without turning her head. "Please do not judge my home by its entrance. These are old passages built a very long time ago. I have more luxurious quarters which I reserve for my visitors. I will show them to you after we have seen if your men are at my spring. They may have entered the patio without attracting my notice. We will go there first— if you wish."

"Of course, Madam," I answered. "And I was not laughing at you, but at one of my men. Tell me— do you live here alone? Aren't you afraid of wandering sailors landing at your gates? Sometimes they can be— well, rude, to say the least. Don't they ever frighten your"

I could not see her face, only the mass of lustrous hair hanging from the back of her regally held head as she drifted so lightly before us, but it seemed to me that she was smiling. I may have read it in some slight motion of her body; I can't say how I knew it, but I was certain she was amused at my questions.

"No, Captain," she replied, "I never become frightened. I find that the sailors always respect me. And I am glad to meet visitors, for they arrive so rarely. But then, I am not entirely— alone."

As she was speaking, a small pig darted from the depths of one of the adjacent passages and snorted its way through our group. It lurched against my leg, brushing filth across my trouser leg, and I kicked at it. It stopped and raised a belligerent snout at me, baring its teeth. For a minute I thought it was going to attack my shins as an angry dog might have done, for its eyes were eloquent with red rage such as I never before had observed in the optics of a stupid animal of its type.

"Geez!" exclaimed Mercer. "It acts as tough as the Turk! Must be a wild one."

I KEPT my eye on the beast but was aware the woman had turned and was looking at it, too. The next instant it was rambling crazily over the stones behind us toward some distant sty.

"You have queer household pets, Madam," I observed.

"As you may have noticed, Captain," she said, resuming her gliding progress, "there is very little wild life on my island. I make the best of what companionship I have— and sometimes the pigs seem almost human."

I heard Brighton draw a deep breath.

"Indeed!" I replied. "Yes, one observes curious resemblances to certain characteristics of man in even the lowest shapes of life. Would you happen to know, Madan, if one of your island pets— limps ?"

"It may have injured a foot among the briars, poor thing!" she said. "Did you see it very far from the castle? [ must look to it. You see, strange as they may seem to you, Captain, as my only companions I hold each and every one of them very— dear."

Wanderer of the earth's highways that I am, I have often visited ruins of many lands, such well-known sites as those upon which have been preserved the historic monuments of Spain, Italy, Greece and many others. I have looked upon Inca ruins and the lost temples of Africa about whose original builders no man can be certain. But when I attempt to describe the interior of the courtyard we three vagabonds entered on that woman's island, words fail me. The best I can do is to refer you to the tumbled obelisks of Stonehenge or the poised images of Easter Island; for while looking at them I felt the same wondering chill enter my heart that I had experienced before the mysterious antiquity of those puzzles handed down by long-lost races to our day and age.

The whole floor of the inner courtyard was strewn with projecting rock formations which might once have been statues, but were now worn so smooth by the hands of Time and changing climates that they had lost all bold outlines a sculptor may have executed upon them. Chunks of shapeless stone, some formed groups oddly suggestive of women gossiping in the market place, or leaned toward ene another as men engaged in desperate struggle. I selected one piece, in particular, which resembled a crucified man with his head thrown backward as he stared in hopeless pleading toward a silent sky. All were so worn that any carven facial contours some ancient artist may once have been proud of had been erased forever, and perhaps my impression of lines defining corded muscles and rounded limbs was a fantasy of the brain alone. Placed as they were, in confused groups here, one lone pillar there, over the entire area of the flagging in the courtyard, they startled a man beholding them unexpectedly. Jason must have felt as we did, when he hurled the dragon's teeth onto the soil that sprouted armed men.

In the very center of this queer mixture of statuary a small fountain bubbled, offsetting the weirdness of the place by its enticing, gurgling, liquid noises. It was quite shallow and its depth extended to only a few inches below the level of the flagging; I imagined it was fed by, some underground spring. The water was pellucid and obviously fresh, and even the blank features of the little, worn, stone girl whose form arose from the center of the pool did not impair my delight. Here, I thought, was a pure and fresh supply for the ship.

"How is it, Madam," I inquired, "that this island should have such a fair wealth in water and still remain unmarked on nautical charts? It's amazing!"

The woman stood on the other side of the fountain. She was, I remember, still exhibiting her enigmatical smile and burning the three of us with her fiery eyes. Her reply was not a direct answer to my query.

She said: "The water is amazing. Do you care to drink of it?"

I think it was just at this time that I realized although we were supposedly standing in an open courtyard I could see none of the sun's burning rays, none of the fiery gleams we had escaped after entering the castle. I looked upward into a gray atmosphere resembling fog, an inchoate wraith, a sentiency that hid the heavens from the puny forms of mankind. Like a blanket, it covered the ceiling of the courtyard as far as I could see, bridging their summits from lip to lip. I knew a storm when I saw one, with or without a barometer, and a typhoon also— and this was neither. I knew I was looking through, or at, a gateway leading into another sphere— a fourth dimension.

That is why I did not really drink. I merely pretended, placing my lips on the surface of the curiously bubbling liquid of the pool, without swallowing any of it. Mercer and Brighton were on each side, kneeling, and I could see their throats contracting and the little surface ripples about their mouths that testified to the extremity of their thirsts. But although my throat was dry and my tongue thick I did not drink. I got back on my feet, touching a hand to my barely moistened lips as if I had quaffed deeply.

SUDDENLY I was aware of a scent permeating the air, a fetid odor apparently rising from the water of the pool; it reminded me of the sulfur springs of Georgia, and the stench of it was offensive to my lungs, nostrils and eyes. I felt them streaming water —my eyes, I mean. An urge came upon me to sink down on the stones and slumber; a heavy lassitude was dwelling on my brain and my body. It could not have been the water, I thought drowsily, for I had hardly touched it. Could we all have been drugged by some clever ruse?

I felt myself swaying as though I was hanging to the plunging bridge of a ship in the midst of a hurricane. I tried to peer through closing eyes for my companions, but I could not see them, and the black mist was billowing down from the unholy roof above. It seemed to me that the tiny, girlish figure in the center of the fountain had altered; in my dimmed sight it had transformed itself into a merry, laughing, mocking nymph of classical beauty. I thought, during this strange interlude in time and sense, that it giggled and grimaced. But I could not concentrate my faculties entirely upon her restoration, for I had become startlingly aware of movement behind me. Dazed, I saw through the swirling mist that the statues on the other side of the pool were moving. The worn images seemed to have recovered whatever original forms they had once enjoyed; they, too, were laughing and gesticulating with queer movements. The whole courtyard was a fantastic scene, such as may have been drawn by imaginative artists depicting lost souls in Hell; for weaving appendages and leering features were flashing so rapidly before my eyes that only momentarily could I distinguish any individual form. And through all the maelstrom, the frenzied dancing, I saw the blazing eyes of the woman who called herself Circe. The fire hitherto slumbering in their depths had become a flaring volcano which penetrated the swirling fog; now I saw only her eyes and nothing of her beautifully shaped body.

I stuck out a hand into the gathering darkness, trying to reach Brighton. He had been beside me—but now he was gone! Through an engulfing blackness I pitched headlong onto the damp flags, never feeling the impact. I lost consciousness while falling. My last thought was that I must be drunk. But there was a small voice in my brain telling me I should not be intoxicated because I had breathed over a bubbling spring. Then came total blackness.

A tiny shaft of light touched my optic nerves and I opened my eyes to see from where it came. My first impression was that the murky clouds roofing the courtyard had entirely departed, before I saw they had but faded into a light, though surging and restless, gray. Next, I turned my head far enough to look toward the eroded images. My head was clearing, and I could see they were not wheeling or dancing in the mad orgy I had imagined, but as motionless as when I had first gazed upon them, weighted immobile by the crushing power of untold centuries.

A voice said: "Captain?" I sat up in spite of the devils hammering at my skull.

"You seem to have fainted because of the terrible heat, Captain," said the woman from some spot behind me. "Perhaps you would be relieved if you drank some water."

"Brighton! Mercer!" I called.

There was no answer except a snuffle I recognized as a grunt from one of her pets.

"They went back to the ship for aid," she said. "They said they would bring a stretcher, so as to move you comfortably."

I turned my head so that I could see her. The effort caused torture to my aching head; my neck, also, was very stiff. I saw her at once, poised as erect and looking as beautiful as ever, quite unlike the monstrous thing I had imagined while in my stupor. Her white robe was billowing about her body, swayed by some wandering draft; her lips were smiling, and I could not help but admire her wealth of curly hair. The crimson of her mouth revealed even, perfect teeth. The fire I thought to find in her eyes was but a sparkling, vivacious, cerulean blueness which enhanced her perfections.

"Why don't you drink, Captain?" she entreated me in a low, persuasive tone. "You will feel better afterward."

I bent over the pool. Something else made a sound, like a snort or a grunt. With a supreme effort I was able to turn my shoulders far enough to see the source of this noise, straining my stiff neck tendons as I did so; I saw two of the bristled swine that were her pets, one at each of her sandaled feet, just duplicates of those I had encountered in the brush and in the corridor. One of them was nuzzling the hem of her gown, affectionately, and as I looked at it, it raised its snout and gazed directly at me.

The men on my ship were, naturally, watching for us. They tell me that I broke through the brush screaming, mad with fear and running as if head-hunters were pursuing me; that I did not emerge from the broken path but came running through the brush, half naked from the jagged briars. My face was terribly scratched. They tell me I did not even stop for the boat, but plunged into the water and began to swim toward the ship, still screaming, whereupon they set out to rescue me; that when they dragged my shuddering body aboard I was delirious, crying in the name of God and the Holy Mother that they leave the island at once. When they asked me about Old Lew, Turk, Mercer and Brighton, I replied that there were no men on the island— only beasts. I raved, they said, for days, lying in bed and drinking whisky. I shouted unintelligible descriptions of ghost islands, enchantress, black fogs, sulfur waters and swine.

They deserted the ship at our next port, every last mother's son of them. They told me I was stark crazy—and I guess they were right. I sold the Belle of Orleans for a song and drifted about on my own, sane once more, but afraid to sleep too deeply on account of the dreams...

"THE is bottle is empty, my friend," announced my companion, interrupting himself.

"So is my pocket," I told him. "And you get no credit at Portuguese Joey's.  But I think you owe me a bit of an explanation. Your tale is, I grant you, interesting. But I can't understand just why you fled from the woman and her curious island in such unseemly haste. You awoke, you said, and saw her standing there, smiling. The fantastic hallucinations had departed from your sun-struck brain, she had sent your men back to the ship for medical, or other, assistance, and she tried to get you to drink water to clear your head. She did everything a lone woman could do to aid you. What else did you imagine to make you go insane, to tear through the brush, passing your men, and swim to the ship? Had you a second attack, another spell of unconsciousness? You know you left four men marooned on that isolated isle, don't you?"

"No! I left no men, I tell you!" swore the now thoroughly drunken man. His fist swept the wine-bottle to the floor as his shoulders sank to the smeared table-top. He relaxed into what was the beginning of a stupor. "I left no men!" he mumbled, less fiercely. "There were no men to leave. No men! I left only the swine!"

"What do you mean?" I insisted.

"Swine ... all swine!" His eyes closed; he had almost forgotten my presence. "The pigs... at her skirts. Remember? Fawning like dogs. And one... looked at me and grunted. A gentleman pig, my friend! It's right eye was blue and its left was brown!"

Captain Hugh Lewell began to snore.

_______________

Cumulative Index to

Past Masters Anthologies 101 to 130

And new original "Pulpmeister" Collections since 7 Oct 2022

27 June 2023

__________

Anthony Abbot (1893-1952)

—About the Perfect Crime of Mr. Digberry  111

Achmed Abdullah (1881-1945)

—Fear  109

—Lucifer  125

—Once it Happened 122

—Pell Street Blues  114

J. Y. Akerman (1806-1873)

—The Miniature 128

W. L. Alden (1837-1908)

—A Sleeping Car Tragedy  109

—The Development of Furlani  124

Grant Allen (1848-1899)

—Fra Benedetto's Medal 102

Frederick Irving Anderson (1877-1947)

—The Hunter's Moon 108

—The Peppercorn Entail  119

Anonymous

—The Butler's Revenge  127

—By the Queen's Orders  123

—Crocodile Tales  113

—Detective Death  109

—The Garage Crime  103

—The Ghost of Ranqueralles  127

—Lost: A Millionaire 106

—The Phantom of Castle Ballyran 102

—Rogue's Room 86,  109

—The Stolen Ship 105

—Vanderdecken's Message Home  125

—The Young Earl  113

Arthur Armstrong, (fl 1930s)

—Her Ladyship's Necklace  117

Harry Ashe (fl. 1930s)

—Zero-Zero  122

William Waldorf Astor (1848-1919)

—Balkameh  110

Bertram Atkey  (1880-1952)

—The Call of the Wildwater 111

—The Case of the Drugged Golfers 111

—The Deadly House 118

—Ghosts at Stoneylands 111

—Ragan in Ruins  112

—The Statue Stealers 111

—The Un-Punctual Painting  127

—Wolfmaster  111

—The Woman With The Wolves  112

J. L. Aton (fl. 1920s)

—Creatures of the Ray  121

Stacy Aumonier (1877-1928)

—The Old Lady with the Two Umbrellas 114

_______

J. F. B. (fl. 1867-1917)

—Throne of Chaos

Reginald Bacchus (fl 1890s-1900s)

—The Doctor's Luck  112

George Vaux Bacon (fl. 1910s)

—The Last Reel  126

John Baer (fl. 1920s)

—More Than He Could Chew  122

Clifford Ball (1908-1947)

—The Swine of Aeaea  130

John Kendrick Bangs (1862-1922)

—The Water Ghost of Harrowby Hall 103

Sabine Baring‑Gould (1834-1924)

—Aunt Joanna  121

Charles Beadle (1881-1944)

—The Double Scoop  39

H Bedford-Jones (1887-1949)

—An American Comedy  120

—The Dance of Life 101

—George, Tête Bêche 130

—The Messenger 130

—North of Singapore  120

—The Temple of the Ten 107

—The Trail of Jeopardy 118

—Viking Loot  119

E. B. Bell (fl 1927)

—The Stolen Rubies  117

J. J. Bell (1871-1934)

—Billy   123

—The Curtain  123

T. Bell (fl 1912-1922)

—Curious Cubes   126

Stephen Vincent Benét (1898-1943)

—We'll Never be Rich!  123

Robert Benchley (1889-1945)

—How to Get Things Done 103

James A. Beverly  (fl 1910s)

— At the Crack o' Doom 105

Earl Derr Biggers (1884-1933)

—Henry and the Restless Sex 106

Ottwell Binns (1872-1935)

— The Derelict  (as by "Ben Bolt")  117

George A Birmingham (1865-1950)

—The Mermaid  128

Eugene Shade Bisbee (1864-1933)

—The Compass of Fortune 101

—A Hundred Thousand Dollar Trance 101

Robert Blatchford (1851-1943)

—The Studio  123

Tip Bliss (1890-1944)

—The Risen Dead  119

Capel Boake (Doris Boake Kerr, 1889-1944)

—The Bookshop 130

—The Secret Garden  130

Frederick Booth (1882-1948)

—Nothing But Dust  126

Marjorie Bowen (1886-1952)

—Cambric Tea 111

—The Chinese Apple  123

—Florence Flannery  112

—Marwood's Ghost Story  126

Bill Bowyang (1884-1947)

—Easy Going  123

M. E. Braddon (1835-1915)

—How I Heard My Own Will Read  125

Max Brand (1892-1944)

—Bulldog 129

—Spy!   101

—Whistle Thrice 129

—Wine on the Desert 110

Broughton Brandenburg (fl 1900-1933)

—The Mystery of the Steel Disk 105

F. Raymond Brewster (fl. 1910s-20s)

—The Wire That Wasn't Cut  119

Roy Bridges (1885-1952)

—The Desk  113

—The Oak  113

—The Voyager  113

Thomas Charles Bridges (1868-1944)

—The Seringapatam Medal 106

—The Slatter Case 106

Willis Brindley (fl 1920s)

—The Strike at Too Dry 102

Rhoda Broughton (1840-1920)

—The Man With the Nose  109

John Buchan (1875-1940)

—The Grove of Ashtaroth 110

Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1803-1873)

—The House and the Brain  108

Walter Noble Burns  (1872-1932)

—The Man the Law Forgot  110

Lt. Morley Burroughs  (fl mid-1930s)

—Broken Images  127

Ellis Parker Butler  (1869-1937)

—Brother Bill  108

_____________

William Caine (1873-1925)

—Mr. Aroun's Jewel 122

Hayden Carruth (1862-1932)

—Uncle Bentley and the Roosters  107

Willa Cather (1873-1947)

—The Bohemian Girl  108

—Paul's Case  103

Robert W. Chambers (1865-1933)

—The Case of Mrs Helmer 107

—A Matter of Interest  106

F. E. Chase (fl 1900)

—The White Brick 127

G.K. Chesterton  (1874-1936)

—The Mask of Midas   113

Peter Cheyney  (1896-1951)

—La Belle Dame Sans Souci  103

Eugene A. Clancy (1882-1952)

—Flies on the Ceiling 111

John Clemons (fl 1935-1941)

—Fresh Paint  125

Frederick Ames Coates (fl 1919-1936)

—Strictly Private  112

Irvin S. Cobb  (1876-1944)

—Ace, Deuce, Ten Spot, Joker   114

—Darkness   118

Sylvanus Cobb, Jun. (1823-1887)

—My Mad Engineer 105

Thomas Cobb  (1854-1932)

—The Witness 106

Captain R. F. Coffin (1826-1888)

—A Female Crusoe  125

Frank Condon (1882-1940)

—Made To Order   127

Frank Conly (fl. 1912-1924)

—On the Plymouth Express 121

Richard Connell (1893-1949)

—$100   121

—The Unfamiliar  123

Marie Corelli  (1855-1924)

—The Lady with the Carnations  127

Francis Marion Crawford (1854-1909)

—The Dead Smile 122

Nym Crinkle  (1835-1903)

—The End of All  53

Bithia Mary Croker (1849-1920)

—The Red Bungalow  114

—"To Let."  122

Arthur Morris Crosby (fl 1930s)

—The Little Affair of the Eiffel Tower 101

Oliver F. Crothers (fl 1932-4)

—Facsimile  118

George William Curtis (1824-1892)

—Titbottom's Spectacles  123

____________

Donald Dale (fl. 1937-1941)

—Kiss of the Flame Blossom  127

Eric A. Darling (fl. 1915-1921)

—The Undoing of Le Croix  119

Sam P Davis   (1850-1918)

—Bigler's Barometer

Carlton Dawe  (1865-1935)

—Why Mrs. Wetherton Went Home  101

L. de Chavanne (1861-?)

—The Artists Story  109

Paul De Kock (1793-1871)

—The Guilty Secret  124

Richard Dehan (1863-1932)

—A Dish Of Macaroni  119

—In The Fourth Dimension 110

—Lady Clanbevan's Baby  112

—The Last Expedition 123

—The Man Who Lost Himself  104

—The Motor-Burglar 103

—Ponsonby and the Pantheress 106

—The Revolt of Rustleton  107

E. M. Delafield (1890-1943)

—Time Works Wonders  112

C. J. Dennis (1876-1938)

—Dennis Starpool's Windfall  127

—The Mother  101

—While Jerry was Away 102

Gerald de Vries (fl 1928-32)

—Black Cats  126

Charles Dickens (1812-1870)

—To Be Taken with a Grain of Salt  121

Captain Dingle  (1879-1947)

—Roll and Go!  109

Dick Donovan (J E Muddock, 1843-1934)

—The Barnfield Murder Case 105

—Some Experiments With a Head  107

Laurence Donovan (1885-1948)

—Death Dances on Dimes 118

—Mind Over Murder 127

—Murder's So Sorry 129

—Never Hire a Killer 112

—Pistol-Packin' Gran'ma  113

Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930)

—Bones  128

—My Friend the Murderer  114

—The Parasite 119

—The Striped Chest  117

—That Little Square Box  126

J Allan Dunn  (1872-1941)

—Black Cat  119

—The Flying Skull 102

—The High Rigger 122

—On the Account 100

—Wild Justice  128

James Francis Dwyer (1874-1952)

—The Bandaged Foot  112

—The Blush of Venus 111

—The Citizen 114

—The Kafir's Skull 111

—The Little Green Devils  111

—A Midnight Burlesque  112

—The Murdered Ships  112

—The Wild Girl  124

_______

Ross Ellis (fl 1914-1932)

—The Hawk and the White Elephant 126

John Regnault Ellyson (?—1922)

—The Revolving Head 129

George Allan England (1877-1936)

—The Head of Iskander  124

—The Man With the Glass Heart  118

—Verdict: "Suicide"  118

Cyril Etheridge (fl 1907)

—The Death of Kalu's Hand 102

H. Havelock Ettrick (fl 1899-1902)

—The Red and Black Death  101

Gwyn Evans (1898-1938)

—"The Man Who Was—"  127

_____________

Harcourt Farmer (fl  1919-1922)

—When Brasset Forgot  110

B. L. Farjeon (1838-1903)

—Little Liz  114

Jeffery Farnol (1878-1952)

—Bagged   117

—Black Coffee  121

—Cat Luck 111

—Footprints 130

—Not Much to Look At  111

Ernest Favenc (1845-1908)

—Bill Somers  128

—The Drought Demons 107

—Fraulein von Heslau 108

—The Justice of Captain Dampier  108

—The Lady Ermetta; or, The Sleeping Secret  110

—The Living Dead  109

—My Only Murder 103

—Never Save a Man from the Sea 108

—The New Super of Oakley Downs 128

—On the Back of an Envelope  128

—The Other Mrs Brewer  128

—Spirit-Led 103

—A Tale of the Western Desert 107

—The Story of a Long Watch  112

—The Strange Occurrence on Huckey's Creek 129

—The Swagman's Dream 107

—The Wastrel  109

—Those Dissipated Cows 114

John Ferguson (1871-1952)

—The White Line 111

Mulloy Finnegan (fl 1910s)

—Sage-Brush Sally's Mother  123

F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940)

—Dice, Brassknuckles & Guitar  114

—Three Hours Between Planes 65

Mrs. May Agnes Fleming  (1840-1880)

—How The Lone Star Went Down  68

J. S. Fletcher (1863-1935)

—Green Ink  127

—The New Sun  121

—The Revolver 105

—A Shot in the Night 105

—The Tiger Lily 108

Homer Eon Flint (1892-1924)

—The Man in the Moon 114

John Taintor Foote (1881-1950)

—Actress Grows Old  117

Hulbert Footner  (1879-1944)

—Four o'Clock in the Morning 102

Athol Forbes (1866-1917)

— A Parish Scandal  125

Sewell Ford  (1868-1946)

—Seed To The Sower  110

Mary Helena Fortune (1833-1911)

—The Red Room 103

Gilbert Frankau (1884-1952)

—Mustard-Pot—  Mountebank  111

—Patricia Jackson's Pearl Necklace  112

—Pug-Face's Daughter 111

—The Way of Silence  117

—Who Killed Castelvetri?  121

Algernon Free (fl 20's-30s)

—A Doubting Mama  124

_______________

John Galsworthy (1867-1933)

—The Two Looks  113

John Galt (1779-1839)

—The Black Ferry   121

Ltnt Edgar Gardiner (fl 1920s-1930s)

—Eyes of the Dead  108

Arthur Gask (1869-1951)

—Ghosts 122

—A Voice From The Dead  128

Mary Gaunt (1861-1942)

—Peter Addie and the Ju-Ju  128

J. U. Giesy (1877-1947)

—The Rose-Colored Rug 112

R. Murray Gilchrist (1868-1917)

—The Return 107

Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1860-1935)

—The Giant Wistaria  114

Guy Gilpatric (1896-1950)

—The Flaming Chariot 106

Laird Goldsborough (1902-1950)

—The Great Buddha of Kwang Ki  117

Joseph Gollomb (1881-1950)

—A Case Without a Clew  110

Jack Gray (fl 1930s)

—The Nudist Gym Death Riddle  110

Evelyn Everett Green (1856-1932)

—The First Class Passenger  129

Zane Grey (1872-1939)

—Tigre  107

C. Ranger Gull  (1875-1923) and Reginald Bacchus (1874-1945)

See also Guy Thorne

—Le Maitres de l'Affiche  108

—The Ordeal By Fire 101

__________________

James Norman Hall (1887-1951)

—Sing a Song of Sixpence 110

Arthur P. Hankins (1880-1932)

—The Infallible Eye  128

Mark Harper (1874-1952)

—Six Heads on a String 111

Kennett Harris  (1863-1929)

—A Hairbreadth 'Scape for Euphemia 129

Nathaniel Hawthorne  (1804-1864)

—Dr. Heidegger's Experiment 105

Joseph Heighton (fl. 1907-1915)

—The Missing Boatswain  122

Sam Hellman (1885-1950)

—Films and Flapjacks  125

Ernest G. Henham (1870-1946)

—The Third Ovanoff  119

Henry Augustus Hering (1864-1945)

—The Crew of the Flying Dutchman  1125

—Dead Man's Hand  125

Roy W. Hinds (1887-1930)

—Mirrors  112

William Hope Hodgson (1877-1918)

—Bullion!  88

Lee Holt (1865-1933)

—The Necklace of Rubies  125

Anthony Hope (1863-1933)

—Count Antonio and the Wizard's Drug 105

—The House Opposite 105

—The Philosopher in the Apple-Orchard 105

E. W. Hornung (1866-1921)

—The Magic Cigar 104

Robert E. Howard (1906-1936)

—The Shadow of the Vulture 106

William Dean Howells (1837-1920)

—Braybridge's Offer 109

Helen Hysell  (fl. 1920s)

—The Dimpled Dumb-Bell  126

______________

Washington Irving (1783-1859)

—Rip Van Winkle 102

________________

M. R. James (1862-1936)

—Rats  109

Val Jameson (fl 1900-1920s)

—Dixon's Theories 106

—The Waif of the Bush  128

Herbert Jamieson (fl 1904-1910)

—Fooled!  123

George B. Jenkins, Jr. (1890-1929)

—The Poppa-Guy and the Flapper  125

"J. F. B."

—Thone of Chaos  109

__________

Richard Ashe King (1839-1932)

—Disinherited  103

—Trapped 103

Otis Adelbert Kline (1891-1946)

—Servant of Satan  117

George L. Knapp (1872-1950)

—McKeevers Dinosaur  125

Eric Knight (1897-1943)

—A Bit of a Do  124

Leavitt Ashley Knight (fl  1910s)

—The Millennium Engine 122

Meyer Krulfeld (fl  1937-1942)

—The Thing From Antares  109

_____________

Wm. E. Lanham (fl. 1890s)

—The Strange Case of Thomas Blakewitch  125

Patrick Lawrence (fl 1936)

—Death Marks the Spot  124

Henry Lawson (1867-1922)

—The Mystery of Dave Regan 101

—On The Tucker Track  101

Arthur Leeds (fl. 1915-1926)

—The Man Who Shunned the Light  109

Sheridan Le Fanu (1814-1873)

—Dickon the Devil 129

—Schalken the Painter  107

William Le Queux (1864-1927)

—The Mysterious Treasure of Mme Humbert  129

C. Lart (fl 1903)

—Jean Achard  123

H. Field Leslie (fl 1920s-early 30s)

—The Night the Devil Walked 107

Lottie Lesh (fl 1930)

—The Circle of Illusion 108

Henry Leverage (Carl Henry, 1879-1931)

—Imagination 105

—Two Aces 103

—Two Voices  118

—The Voice in the Fog 110

Scott Littleton (fl. 1930s)

—Snatch  124

Sumner Locke (1881-1917)

—Paper Ladies  113

Jack London (1876-1916)

—The Pearls of Parlay 102

Edwin Truett Long (1904-1945)

—Once An Outlaw—  113

—Radium Nemesis  125  ( as by Carey Moran)

—Rain in Dahomey  113

Dorothy Margarette Selby Lowndes, 1871-1950 (as by Dolf Wyllarde)

—The Hunting of Chilton Sahib  113

Marie Belloc Lowndes (1868-1947)

—The Haunted Flat  107

_________________

Arthur Machen  (1863-1947)

—The Ceremony  117

Fred MacIsaac (1886-1940)

—The Ghost City  101

William  Maginn (1793-1842)

—The Man in the Bell  121

William J. Makin (1894-1944)

—The Rhino Charges  119

Lucas Malet (Mary St. Leger Harrison 1852-1931)

—The Birth of a Masterpiece 103

Katherine Mansfield (1888-1923)

—Poison 122

Don Marquis (1878-1937)

—The Other Room   214

Richard Marsh (1857-1915)

—The Haunted Chair  117

—My Aunt's Excursion 129

—On the Film  123

—The Pipe 110

Archibald Marshall (1866-1934)

—The Anonymous Letter 118

Herman Howard Matteson (1876-1951)

—The Shadow Jumper  108

—The Whispering Shell 109

—With Much Gusto 109

Harold Mercer (1882-1952)

—Circumstantial Evidence  121

—Keeping Killick Killed 111

—The Man With Hair Like Mine 129

—The Servicetown Mystery 111

—The Tragerigal Bobgetts 129

—The Work of Brother Petherick 129

L. McQuaid (fl 1890s)

—The Midnight Express  128

Alice Duerr Miller (1874-1942)

—Birth of a Hero  121

Bertram Mitford (1837-1916)

—The Forty-Seven Rônin  121

Cleveland Moffett (1863-1926)

—On the Turn of a Coin  101

Dick Moreland (fl 1934-41)

—Tramp  117

William Morris (1834-1896)

—Lindenborg Pool 130

Captain Frederick Moore (1881-1947)

—Wyatt's Pearl Business  130

J. E. Muddock (1843-1934)

—The Blue Star  127

Alick Munro (fl 1900s)

—The Terror of the Pond 121

________

Jan Neruda (1834-1891)

—Vampire  123

Edith Nesbit  (1886–1924)

—The Dragon Tamers 129

—In the Dark 129

—Hurst of Hurstcote 129

Clarence Herbert New (1862-1933)

—The Greater Plot  127

C. C. Newkirk (1870-1938)

—The Scientific Circle  130

Douglas Newton (1884-1951)

—Contrary to the Evidence  117

Hume Nisbet (1849-1921)

—The Haunted Station 126

—Norah and the Fairies 118

Charles G. Norris (1881-1945)

—The Beach  103

________________

Harvey O'Higgins (1876-1929)

—The Case of the Forged Letter  127

—James Illinois Bell 129

—The Man with the Blue Nose 124

Owen Oliver  (1863-1933)

—As Told To The Children  110

—Partners  123

Baroness Orczy (1865-1947)

—The Man in the Inverness Cape 114

Roy O'Toole (fl. 1912)

—The Old Man of the Desert  121

"Ouida" (Louise Rame) 1839-1908

—A Lemon Tree 102

John Barton Oxford (Richard Barker Shelton, 1876-1944)

—Short Rations  117

__________

Will A. Page (1877-1928)

—The Fur-Lined Overcoat  125

Barry Pain (1864-1928)

—Celia and the Ghost  123

Frederick C. Painton (1896-1945)

—Murder in Morocco  125

—Narcotic Man  123

—Two Paris Knights  126

William Edward Park (fl 1910s)

—As You Please 122

James Payn (1830-1898)

—Two Delicate Cases 129

Elia W Peattie (1862-1935)

—A Michigan Man  113

G. G. Pendarves (1885-1938)

—The Djinnee of El Sheyb 101

—El Hamel, the Lost One  126

—The Footprint 130

James Clifton Peters (fl. 1929-37)

—The Upas Tree  117

Austin Philips (1875-1947)

—Sailors' Luck 102

Marjorie Pickthall  (1883-1922)

—The Desert Road 107

—Freedom 122

Ernest M Poate (1884-1935)

—Big, Bad Annie  113

—Mirage  101

Muriel A. Pollexfen (1876-1923)

—The Fox's Earth  109

—Mycroft's Luck  124

William H. Pope (fl. 1910s-1930s)

—The Virus of Hell  121

Captain John Powers  (fl 1934)

—Lost Treasures of Eden  126

Rosa Praed (1851-1935)

—The Ghost Monk  118

Ambrose Pratt (1874-1944)

—A King's Word 129

—Scum of the Earth: No Liability 130

Marcel Prévost (1862-1941)

—A Presentiment  119

H. Hesketh-Prichard (1876–1922)

—Tartas The Terrible  124

"Propellor" (fl 1931)

—Retribution  123

Mearle Prout (fl mid-1930s)

—Guarded  121

—The House of the Worm 103

__________

A. T. Quiller-Couch  (1863-1944)

—Old Aeson  109

___________

Beatrice Redpath (1886-1937)

—The Tentacles of Evil  127

Lizzie C. Reid (fl 1900s)

—Confession  123

W. Pett Ridge (1859-1930)

—A Model Crime 113

—Mr. Barling's Income 101

Morgan Robertson (1861-1915)

—The Hairy Devil 119

Arthur Somers Roche (1883-1935)

—Alicia goes a-Burgling   101

—King of Swindlers 119

Anthony M. Rud  (1893-1942)

—Desert Gesture  125

Damon Runyon  (1880-1946)

—Palm Beach Santa Claus  117

_____________

"Saki" (H. H. Munro, 1870-1916)

—The Talking-Out Of Tarrington  112

Charles Wesley Sanders  (c1876-1937?)

—A Girl Who Was Afraid  110

Freeman Sandom (fl mid-1930s)

—Opium  123

"Sapper" (H C McNeile): (1888-1937)

—Thirteen Lead Soldiers 130

—Uncle James's Golf Match 103

Karl Schiller (fl 1914)

—The Hands of Horror  119

Sandy Sharp (fl 1890s)

—A Cunning Escape  124

M. P. Shiel (1865-1947)

—Dickie 106

—Orasio  Calvo  128

Margaret Busbee Shipp (1871-1936)

—The Priestess of the Purple Petunia 106

—The Prethereau Sapphire 108

Helen Simpson (1897-1940)

—Young Magic  101

Violet A. Simpson (fl 1898-1927)

—The Legend of Westry Court  128

Lady Eleanor Smith (1902–1945)

—No Ships Pass 118

Albert Snow  (fl. 1941)

—Devil's Fire   113

Theodore Seixas Solomons (fl. 1920-30s)

—A Good Old Scout  127

E. S. Sorenson (1869-1939)

—A Day on the Road  128

Erle R. Spencer (1897-1937)

—The Rum Runner 127

C. C. Spruce (fl. 1934-5)

—Cave of the Criss-Cross Knives  108

H. de Vere Stacpoole (1863-1951)

—Blight  122

—Passion Fruit  125

Allan Stephens (1875-?)

—A Golden Grave  113

Francis Stevens (1883-1948)

—The Curious Experience of Thomas Dunbar  128

Georges Surdez (1900-1949)

—Surprise Attack  126

______________

John Talland (fl. 1928-36)

—Conscience Money  117

Emile C. Tepperman (1899-1951)

—Sleuth of the Air Waves  108

Albert Payson Terhune (1872-1942)

—Cephas the Paladin 120

—The Sights They Missed 106

—The Twenty-Four-Hour Croesus  107

Kennedy Tester (fl 1937-42)

—Murder in a Mortuary  122

William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863)

—The Devil's Wager 103

Eugene Thomas (fl.  1930s)

—The Adventure of the Voodoo Moon  121

Guy Thorne (C. Ranger Gull, 1876-1923)

—A Desperate Choice  103

—The Ordeal By Fire 101

—The Prize of Marchant  124

—A Regent of Love Rhymes 102

J. F. Tilsley (fl 1910s)

—The Avenger  123

Roger Torrey (1901-1946)

—Mansion of Death 102

J. T. Trowbridge (1827-1916)

—The Man Who Stole a Meeting-House 105

Parry Truscott  (Abbie Hargrave,  1871-1936)

—The Woman Who Sat Still  110

Hartridge D. Tyler (fl 1910-1912)

—A Steam-Room Fracas  112

Katharine Tynan  (1859-1931)

—A Castle In Spain  123

—The Castle Of Dromore  118

_________________

Louis Joseph Vance (1879-1933)

—Night  108

Charles E. Van Loan (1876-1919)

—The Crusader 106

Paul Vernier (fl 1919)

—The Sting of Victory  125

E. Charles Vivian (1882-1947)

—Long Pig   124

______________

Robert A. Wait (fl 1929-35)

—The Invisible Finite  126

W. B. Wallace (fl 1900s)

—The Demon of the Opal  101

George Arthur Walstab (1834-1909)

—The House by the River  112

Waif Wander (1833-1911)

—Christmas Eve Long ago at Braidwood 129
—The Convict's Revenge  127

—Give Every Man a Chance  128

Harold Ward (aka Ward Sterling, 1879-1950)

—"I Am Dead!"  118

Edward Parrish Ware (1883-1949)

—Hell's Back Room  109

—Killer's Can't Fly  109

Henry Brereton Marriott Watson (1863-1921)

—The Devil of the Marsh  117

F A M Webster (1886-1949)

—The Black Patch 118

—The Owl 122

—Rats  119

Stanley G. Weinbaum (1902-1935)

—Pygmalion's Spectacles  124

Hugh C. Weir (1884-1934)

—The Man With Nine Lives  114

Carolyn Wells (1862-1942)

—Christabel's Crystal   117

G.A. Wells (fl 1917-1938)

—The Ghoul and the Corpse 128

Albert Richard Wetjen (1900-1948)

—Checkmate 1219

—The Fortunes of War  114

—Strain 105

—You Can't Explain These Things  114

Edward Lucas White, 1866-1934

—Loki's Sword  122

—The Skewbald Panther  117

Ethel Lina White (1879-1944)

—At Twilight  113

—The Call of the Tiger  118

—The Ghost Gavotte 130

—The Sham Shop  118

—The Uninvited Guest 122

—The Unknown  130

—The Unlocked Window 122

—Waxworks  122

Fred M. White (1859-1935)

—Adventure  109

—Blind Chance 123

—The Western Way  110

—The Wings of Chance  117

Victor L. Whitechurch (1868-1933)

—Launched at Society  124

Henry S. Whitehead (1882-1932)

—The Cunning of the Serpent  119

—No Eye-Witnesses 102

—West India Lights 102

V. Omar Whitehead (fl 1919)

—The Green Hat   127

Raoul Whitfield (1896-1945)

—Kiwi  113

—Mistral 119

—Smoky Skies  110

John Strange Winter (1856-1911)

—Another Johnnie  123

Owen Wister (1860-1938)

—Padre Ignacio  126

H. C. Witwer (1890-1929)

—Lady of Lyons, N. Y.  112

Thomas Wolfe (1900-1938)

—The Sun and the Rain 105

William Almon Wolff (1885-1933)

—Keep Your Eye on the Ball 126

—Time to Unmask  125

_________________

W. Clyde Young (fl 1923-1939)

—Kisses in the Dark  128

__________________

Original Collections Since 7 Oct 2022

CAPEL BOAKE (Doris Boake Kerr)

The House by the River,  and other stories

1: The Chateau

2: The Necessary Third

3: Jenny

4: Finito I'Amore

5: Atavism

6: The House by the River

7: The Bookshop

8: Tiny Feet

9: The Amber Necklace

10: Rose Aylmer

11: The Contract

12: The Secret Garden

13: The Bend of the Road

14: Strawberry Farm

15: Smith's George

16: The Wooden Buddha

17: The Green God

18: A Touch of the Sun

19: James

20: The Room Next Door

21: Quicksilver

22: The Brothers

23: Scarlet Hibiscus

24: The Wooing of Betty

25: The Redemption

26: "Doug."

27: A Matter of Business

28: The Making of a Star

29: Murray's Farm

30: The Sad Case of Miss Brown

________

ERNEST FAVENC

Uncollected Tales Vol 1

1: A Tale of the Western Desert

2: The Swagman's Dream

3: A Hypnotic Experience

4: The Drought Demons

5: The Murder of Tom Bates

6: A Fatal Gamble

7: The Haunted Steamer

8: The Mystery of the Death Stroke

9: An Unwilling Pirate

10: The Mount of Misfortune

11: The Prisoner of War

12: The Mad Hatter

13: Tralooa

14: The Puzzle Chart

15: Fey

16: The Lost Gully

17: A Ghostly Tryst

18: Fraulein von Heslau

19: Bread Cast on the Waters

20: The Dead Malay

21: The Phantom Cab

22: The Luck of Tintinburra

23: The Skeleton's Legacy

24: The Chapel in the Desert

25: The Horror of Leston Downs

26: Fate of Kittycrummie

27: The Land of Wait

28: A Long Road's End

29: The Mistake of a Life

30: Glugson's Bend Sanatorium

31: The Last of Old Rat

32: An Unquiet Corpse

33: The Gonderanups

34: My Only Murder

Uncollected Tales Vol 2

1: A Racial Mixture

2: The Wastrel

3: The Living Dead

4: Fraulein von Heslau

5: Never Save a Man from the Sea

6: The Justice of Captain Dampier

7: The Kaditcha

8: The Black Waterhole

9: The Great Treasure Lobster

10: Kept Secret

11: Body-stealing Extraordinary

12: The Burning Mountain of the Interior

13: The Mystery of the Pocket Book

14: Jim's Latest Experience

15: For Peace and Quiet

16: A Christmas of the Past

17: The Birds of the Air

18: Something to his Advantage

19: Captain Etienne Despard

20: An Outside Incident

21: A Message From The Desert

22: How We Slewed Old Stoney

Uncollected Tales Vol 3

1: Horatio's Confession of Hope

2: The Lady Ermetta

3: The Shadow of a Shadow

4: A Gruesome Shipmate

5: Matthewson's Invisible Pig

6: Four Junction Creek

7: My Socialist

8: The Abduction of Nettletop

9: Jobblestone's Curry

10: A Resurrection

11: Reformation of Miverson's Parrot

12: Record of a Homicide

13: The Island of Scoriae

14: That Fool Jones

15: A Substantial Ghost

16: Accursed Coin

17: A Tale of Vanderlin Island

18: Brewster's Afflicted Dog

19: Jimbras of West Australia

20: Dopper's Legacy

21: The Invisible Horseman

22: At Fever Camp

23: The Secret of the Gorge

24: The Proggleton Cup

25: The Medium

26: Jonson's Flea-bitten Grey

27: The Deaf Cook

28: The Strange Adventure of George Vallance

Uncollected Tales Vol 4

1: Mrs Darke's Dream

2: The  Haunted Milk Bucket

3: An Injured Ghost

4: The Mass-Hassa

5: Of the Trouble Caused by Timothy

6: In the Lap of Delilah

7: A Wrecked Fortune

8: The Peak of Lost Dreams

9: M'Phail's Roan Bull

10: A Year's Reprieve

11: A Plot That Failed

12: The Hill of the White Dead

13: The Story of a Bottle

14: A Romance of Kangaroo Point

15: A Great War Number

16: Johnson's Chow

17: A Mean Piece of Work

18: The Desert Queen

19: Waifs of the Straits

20: My Friend Caliban

21: A Buccaneer's Diary

22: The Grasp of the Dead

23: A Tragedy of Ears

24: Mystery of the Overland Line

25: Half-Castes of Mt Doubletop

26: The Pest Year of 1905

27: The Boy and the Black

Uncollected Tales Vol 5

1: The Unholy Experiment of Martin Shenwick

2: The Ghostly Bullock-Bell

3: The Spell of the Mas-Hantoo

4: The Sacrifice of Norman Grainger

5: On the Island of Shadows

6: Malchook's Doom

7: The Red Lagoon

8: The Last Message

9: M'Whirter's Wraith

10: An Outstanding Debt

11: The Boundary Rider's Story

12: Blood For Blood

13: A Strange Occurrence on Huckey's Creek

14: Doomed

15: A Doomed Man

16: The Ghost's Victory

17: In The Night

18: An Unquiet Spirit

19: The Track of the Dead

20: A Geological Nightmare

21: Jerry Boake's Confession

22: A Desert Mystery

23: Farrar's Mission

24: A Poet's Mistake

25: Spirit-Led

26: The Story of Lafont

27: Darkie

28: Sundered Paths

29: A Visitation

30: The Legend Drameedah Told

31: Brown's Range

Uncollected Tales Vol 6

1: Those Dissipated Cows

2: A Lay of Ravenswood

3: The Gold King

4: Morrison's Buggy

5: The Youvel Mountain Ghosts

6: The Doom of the Desert

7: A Feud in the Far West

8: Not Retributive Justice

9: A Gum-tree in the Desert

10: The Martinet

11: A Missing Vessel

12: The Lively Dick

13: The White Men of New Guinea

14: A Reigning Family of New Guinea

Tales of the Unexplainable

15: Mrs Maunder's Vision

16: The Shadow of a Shadow

17: The Communicative Organ Grinder

18: An Unquiet Corpse

19: Rosita's Curse

20: Professor Dodo's Experiment

210: Gannon's Ghost

22: The Black Waterhole

23: Brewsters Afflicted Dog

24: The Cataleptic

25: The Haunted Milk Bucket

26: The Black Gin's Curse

27: "Back in Ten Minutes"

287: Wicked Benson

29: The Invisible Horseman

30: Jonson's Flea-Bitten Grey

Tales of the Tender Passion

31: Jim's Device

32: She Didn't Do

33: Mad MacGregor's Wooing

34: Jim's Second Experience of It

35: The Downfall of Smailes

36: Jim's Last and Serious Case

Uncollected Tales Vol 7

1: A Very Drunken Ghost

2: The Oldest Inhabitant

3: The Shilling Reef

4: Benson's Bride

5: Natural History of a Thousand Years Ago

6: The Askinville Feud

7: A Tale of the Sixties.

8: A Tale of Carpentaria

9: A Suburban Mystery

10: The Freckleton Fountain.

11: Revenge of Bankson's Ghost

12: The Eight-Mile Tragedy

13: What Puzzled Balladune.

14: Tommy's Ghost

15: Mrs. Stapleton No. 2

16: A Tradition of the MacArthur River

17: The Extra Hand

18: Faithful Unto Death

19: The New Super of Oakley Downs

20: Bill Somers

21: A Bush Idyll

22: The Pituri Curse

23: A Snake Story

24: Clarissa

25: The Cook's Love Story

26: A Yarn of a Pub

27: The Story of a Rock Hole

28: Darkie

29: A Fusion of Intellects

30: Diary of a Sydney Office Boy

31: The First Discoverers of the West Australian Goldfields

32: The Great Cataclysm of 1897

33: Half a Poem

34: A Hypnotised Dog

35: In the Arctic Circle

36: Tommy's Fall

37: The Lost Tribe

38: The Member for Turrawilligar

39: Outlaw Tracking

40: Tomlinson's Transformation

41: The True Story of the Marvellous Fossil Discovery

42: The Two Mayors

43: Ching How's Revenge

____________________

EDWARD LUCAS WHITE

Lukundoo and Other Stories (Version 2, additional story, and afterword)

1:Lukundoo

2: Loki's Sword

3:The Picture Puzzle

4:The Snout

5: Alfandega 49 A

6: The Message on the Slate

7: Amina

8: The Pig-Skin Belt

9: The House of the Nightmare

10: Sorcery Island

Afterword

________________

ETHEL LINA WHITE

The Uninvited Guest and other stories

1: Cheese

2: Waxworks

3: The Scarecrow

4: An Unlocked Window

5: White Cap

6: Falling Downstairs

7: Green Ginger

8: The Holiday

9: The Sham Shop

10: The Call of the Tiger

11: At Twilight

12: The Uninvited Guest

_________________

HENRY S. WHITEHEAD

Thirty Two Uncanny Tales

1: The Door / Nov 1924

2: The Fireplace / Jan 1925

3: The Wonderful Thing / July 1925

4: Across The Gulf / Weird Tales, May 1926.

5: Jumbee / Sep 1926

6: The Projection of Armand Dubois / Oct 1926

7: West India Lights / April 1927

8: The Left Eye / June 1927

9: The Shadows / Weird Tales Nov 1927

10: The Cult of the Skull / Dec 1928

11: The People of Pan / March 1929

12: Black Tancrède / June 1929

13: Sweet Grass / July 1929

14; The Lips / Sep 1929.

15: The Tabernacle / Jan 1930

16: The Shut Room / April 1930

17: Passing of a God / Jan 1931

18: The Tree-Man / Feb-March 1931

19: Black Terror / Oct 1931

20: Cassius / Nov 1931

21: The Moon-Dial / Jan 1932

22: The Trap / March 1932

23: Mrs. Lorriquer / April 1932

24: The Great Circle / June 1932

25: Seven Turns in a Hangman's Rope / 15 July 1932

26: No Eye-Witnesses / Aug 1932

27: The Napier Limousine/ Jan 1933

28: The Chadbourne Episode / Feb 1933

29: Bothon / Aug 1946

30: The Ravel Pavane / 1946

31: Scar-Tissue / 1946

32: "—In Case of Disaster Only" / 1946

______________________

Table of Contents

- 1: The Scientific Circle / C. C. Newkirk
- 2: The Messenger / H. Bedford-Jones
- 3: George, Tête Bêche / H. Bedford-Jones

- 4: Scum of the Earth: No Liability / Ambrose Pratt

- 5:  The Bookshoop /
- 6: The Footprint / G. G. Pendarves
- 7: The Secret Garden / Capel Boake
- 8: The Ghost Gavotte / Ethel Lina White
- 9: The Unknown / Ethel Lina White
- 10: Lindenborg Pool / William Morris
- 11: Footprints / Jeffery Farnol

- 12: Wyatt's Pearl Business / Captain Frederick Moore

- 13: Thirteen Lead Soldiers / Sapper

- 14: The Swine of Aeaea / Clifford Ball

- Cumulative Author Index Past Masters 100-130