Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: The New Disney live action version of the Brothers Grimm Folk Tale Snow White is in the news, so this issue contains the original 1812 Brothers Grimm story, in a translation dating from 1884. Why not? The other stories are all from newspapers, magazines and old out-of-print anthologies and collections, and are all in the Life + 70 years public domain. 1: Connie / Evelyn Van Buren 2: The Man With Nine Lives / Hugh C. Weir 3: Sycamore: A Ghost Story / Cy. Warman 4: Wraiths / Harriette G. Bingham 5: The Dancer's Mascot / Beatrice Heron-Maxwell 6: The Red Wig / E. S. Sorenson 7: The Langdon Myster

PAST MASTERS 136

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

3 September 2023

Contents

1: Connie / Evelyn Van Buren

2: The Man With Nine Lives / Hugh C. Weir

3: Sycamore: A Ghost Story / Cy. Warman

4: Wraiths / Harriette G. Bingham

5: The Dancer's Mascot / Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

6: The Red Wig / E. S. Sorenson

7: The Langdon Mystery / Leroy Scott

8: A Woman's Vengeance / Edith Nesbit

9: False Pretences / Edwin Pugh

10: The "Gossip" / Gladys Waterer

11: Back Door Invasion / Frederick C. Painton

12: Little Snow-white (Sneewittchen) / The Brothers Grimm

13: Unexpected / Junius B. Smith

14: The Knotted String / Oliver Strange

15: My First Operation / Anonymous

16: How Love Came To Professor Guildea / Robert S. Hichens

17: The Retirement of Signor Lambert / Arthur Conan Doyle

18: The Three Hermits / Leo Tolstoy

19: The Tragedy of the Life Raft / Jacques Futrelle

20: The Lynn Horse-Car Murders / Robert Benchley

_______________________

1: Connie

Evelyn Van Buren
fl 1906-1917

World's News (NSW), 11 Jan 1908

The Scrap Book, Nov 1907

CONNIE, the conductor's wife, and her baby were in the back seat on top of the 'bus. It was a warm, hazy day, and the top of a 'bus that runs from Chelsea to Waterloo Station by way of Piccadilly and the Strand was ideal; particularly, thought Connie, a 'bus of which one's own Dan was conductor.

Connie's eyes were like pansies and her cheeks were as pink as they had been before the baby same. A big black hat drooped with rakish plumes in becoming picturesqueness over her little face, beaming happily over the sleeping babe.

Below, on the walk, stood Dan, the conductor, while fresh horses were put to the 'bus. He was looking up at Connie; she was certainly pretty, and it was a precious little bundle she held.

He turned to an old woman with a basket of apples and bought a big red one. He whistled. Connie looked down. He motioned, and Connie leaned over the baby in her lap, holding out her hands. She caught the apple fairly.

"Good for you, old gal," said the conductor approvingly; and Connie laughed happily.

The driver climbed to his seat. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Danny," he called out to Connie, "goin' fer a ride?"

"Goin' fer a fortnight to stay with mother out Waterloo way," said Connie.

The driver said, "O-ho!" and whistled, and the horses started, while the conductor sprang with skilful ease to the back platform.

Connie munched her apple and viewed the wealth and fashion of London enjoying the glorious day.

The baby awoke. He kicked and sucked his fist, and gave little coos of recognition when his papa mounted to the top for fares.

" 'Ello, sir," responded the conductor, "where you goin', eh?"

And when the baby opened his mouth, and, out of sheer joy showed his toothless gums, Connie murmured ecstatically, "Oh, Dan, ain't he rather sweet?"

And the conductor, to retain his dignity, shouted: "Well, make 'aste then; not standin' 'ere all day, ye know!" to the confusion of lagging would-be passengers.

Connie looked at him proudly and fondly. A girl mounted to the top of the 'bus and walked to the front seat. She had yellow hair and black eyes. She turned her head and flashed a sweeping glance over all the passengers. Connie wondered about her, she was so stylish and independent.

"Fares please," demanded the conductor briskly.

The yellow-haired girl gave him a quick, pert, sidewlse glance and murmured something with a laugh. The conductor laughed too, lightly.

He bent forward and a scrap of paper slipped from the girl's hand to his. When the conductor turned around, he met Connie's pansy eyes squarely. He thought she was tired, she looked so white.

The 'bus stopped, he rushed below, and all the rest of the way he was busy with passengers.

Connie's mother was at Waterloo Station. They had to rush to get the little rural trolley- car that was just going.

It was a cold, white little cheek that Connie submitted for her husband's kiss, and as he swung from the hack of the omnibus, and waved his cap to her in the departing trolley, she sat still and unresponsive.

He was the same gay and youthful Dan who had courted her. He was just as handsome and free from care. Being married, and the baby, not changed him as it had her. Connie looked over at the baby in her mother's lap. He was sweet and pink and plump, and she loved him; but it was caring for him that kept her tired and weak and made her pale. She had no time to "do" her hair, or to sew for herself. So Dan took notice of some one who had— some one not too tired to make eyes at him or to laugh with him. She clenched her little hands as she thought of the yellow-haired girl; and how Dan had laughed, softly and slyly!

Suddenly Connie bent toward her mother and began talking rapidly.

ii

THE PEOPLE who dwelt in Sunflower-lane had nearly all gone to bed. At each of the three doors that led to the rooms above there flickered a dim light; otherwise all was dark. A girl with a white face under a tilted hat turned swiftly out of Fulham-road into the lane and paused before one of the doors, glancing eagerly at the windows above. She rushed on up the stairway and knocked smartly at a door on the first landing.

"Now then, wot's the matter, who's there?" responded a voice within.

"Connie," said the girl. She leaned against the door-frame and waited.

"Connie!" said Dan, peering out.

"You're 'ere, Dan, ain't you?" Connie shoved past him into the room and slipped into a chair by the bed.

"Where's the boy?" said Dan.

"Mar's got 'im," answered Connie.

"Wot's the matter, old gal?" asked Dan.

It almost brought Connie to tears. Dan always said "old gal" when he was either anxious or happy about her.

"Nothin' is the matter," she said presently.

"Can't I come 'ome if I like? If you'd rather be alone—"

"Connie!"

"I left the baby with mar. She's brought up eight of 'er own, and she can look after mine, till I get rested up. I ain't robust like mar."

Dan's face was troubled. "The little chap'll miss you, Connie."

" 'E'll miss you, too," said Connie. "You ain't worrin' about me; and don't care about my gettin' strong and pretty again. I'll do's I am, won't I? There are—" Connie checked herself.

She removed her hat and dropped it upon the floor, running her fingers through her hair and yawning.

"Go back to bed," she said.

When the dawn came softly in at the windows, Connie arose. She gathered up her clothes and, with them, the sleeping Dan's coat, and slipped into the next room.

In one of the pockets she found what the yellow-haired girl had given him. It was a crumpled card with, "Miss Gwendolyn Logan, Holborn Music-hall, High Holborn, W.C.," printed largely upon it.

Connie's little hands were cold and they trembled as she thrust the card back into Dan's coat and returned it to the chair beside the bed.

She dressed herself and fried the fish for his breakfast. She knew that all her love and pride in him had turned to hatred, but it was as no thing compared to her hatred for the girl. She would attend to the girl and then— Dan.

When he came into the little back room for his breakfast, Connie began to sing loudly. She spilled the hot tea on his hand as he held his cup for her, and when he reached across the table to pinch her cheek she screamed at him:

" 'Ow dare you!"

"Connie!" exclaimed Dan, drawing back.

She made a little growling noise at him. She could hardly keep back what she knew.

"Eat your breakfast," she said. "Your lunch is in the basket." She left the table and bustled noisily into the next room.

When Dan went out he did not say "Good-bye" or look up at the windows from the lane. He was smoking his pipe. He hailed a fellow worker and moved away with Jaunty nonchalance.

Connie was behind the curtains watching.

" 'E thinks I don't know," she murmured. "It can't be me, and 'er too, Danny-boy." She leaned back against the wall for a moment, covering her face with her hands; then she began picking up things and making her rooms tidy.

iii

THE STAGE-DOOR of the Holborn Music-hall was down a narrow, dimly lit passage. Connie, who
had found it only after frequent diffident in- quiries, slipped stealthily along with a flutter- ing little heart; but her purpose was unshaken.

"I want to see Miss Gwendolyn Logan," she said to the man who sat on a little stool in the doorway.

The man pondered.

"Ain't come off yet," he said finally. Then he looked at his watch. "Ain't gone on yet," he said.

"Ain't come off, ain't gone on?" reiterated Connie.

"The stige, miss," said the man, " 'er turn's late; you'll, 'ave to wait."

Somebody called and the man rose and hob-bled away.

Connie slipped back into a shadow and sat down. Shrill snatches of song, gusts of laughter and applause, came to her from within. Men and women in tawdry clothes flitted in and out, laughing and jesting loudly. It was very strange to Connie. She thought of her baby and of Dan. She wondered if Dan ever came and waited for— her.

The doorkeeper peered out. "Miss Logan's just off, miss. She'll be comin' at once."

"Thank you," said Connie faintly.

She was terribly scared. She did not know how far she might go when she saw the girl— but they would settle as to whom Dan belonged.

Connie sat twisting her fingers nervously and waiting.

A young man turned from the street into the passage, and stopped under the light at the stage-door. He wore evening dress, with a dent in his hat and very soiled white gloves. He mumbled unintelligibly to the doorkeeper and grinned.

" 'Ello there, Charlie," called a cheery voice within. There were quick steps, a jump, and the yellow-haired girl landed beside him, linking her arm within his.

"Waitin' long?" she gushed. "My word, but I am 'ungry!"

She clung familiarly to the young man's arm and they moved along to the street and on, out of sight.

Connie sat still in the shadow. So, for Miss Gwendolyn Logan there were others besides Dan.

Connie wondered how Dan would like it. She wondered what he would do if he knew. She wished that he might know; and suddenly with a harsh little laugh she sprang up and sped away down the shadowy passage.

Dan was smoking his pipe by the open window when Connie turned into Sunflower-lane. As she looked up and caught the gleam of his shirtsleeves and the sparks from his pipe in the darkness he seemed her own old Dan. She was tempted to rush to him with tidings of the unfaithful one, and her own forgiveness.

But the momentary repentance fled. The spectre of that other woman would remain, forever, between them, and Connie climbed the stairs slowly, with a puckered brow and a smile of cunning.

"Where you been, Connie?" asked Dan.

"Callin' on a lady friend o' mine," Connie answered shortly. She yawned elaborately and began removing her things.

"It's late," said Dan.

"Well, then, go to bed," she replied.

And Dan went to bed and to sleep. His gentle snoring reached Connie, who sat at a table with a spluttering candle in the little back room and wrote.

She bent laboriously over her task. It was a printed letter she was doing. It took a very long time and involved the tearing up of many sheets of paper and many fresh starts.

As the candle burned low, the letter was finished. Connie read it with satisfaction. It was brief and to the point.

Dear Sir,—The woman you love is deceeving you. She is onfaithful to you.

ONE THET KNOWS.

And Connie addressed the anonymous missive to Dan, at Chelsea Omnibus Stables, and slipped out in the darkness to post it.

She crept back with a heavy little heart. She did not relish the game, but she had to see how much Dan cared.

iv

THE NEXT evening he came home pale and visibly troubled. He refused his supper and sat by the window without his pipe, in silent abstraction—"Well, wot's the matter?" demanded Connie harshly.

"Feelin' seedy," answered Dan.

"I'm sorry fer you," Connie sneered. She stood before him in the twilight, pretty and neat, her brown hair "done" and tucked compactly under a net. She had on something new, but Dan sat with averted gaze until she turned and walked away from him; then his eyes followed her shrewdly.

"Connie," he "called, "I could eat a bit o' bread and drippip' if you'd spread it fer me?"

"Could you, now?" Connie mocked. She lit a candle in the little back room and began cutting the bread.

Dan came shuffling along in his slippers. Connie tried not to look up; she could not bear to meet his eyes.

He paused beside the table. She could feel his gaze. Maybe he was going to confess, to ask her pity. She raised her eyes. His face was white and troubled and intent.

Connie stared at him hard. A bright red spot burned upon her cheeks; her breath came in audible little gasps.

She leaned suddenly over the table. Ther was a flash of the bread-knife and Dan caught her wrist.

Connie dropped the knife; she closed her eyes, staggering, dizzy from Dan's grip.

"So," he cried, "me and the little chap's in your way, are we? But you'd be sorry if you'd— done that."

He still held her, straining her to him over the table.

"Carin' fer your baby fagged you out, did it?" be said, "an' you give 'im to some one else so you could get strong and pretty again, eh? Pretty!" be reiterated harshly.

He bent his face to hers.

"Well, you're pretty right enough; none prettier. I'm sorry it 'appened just this way. I meant to wait; to watch you, to catch you— and then— then I
meant to do fer 'im!"

"Dan!" cried Connie faintly, "do fer 'oo; what d'ye mean, Dan?"

"I mean I've a friend," answered Dan in a terribly quiet voice—"one wot knows— knows the woman I love is unfaithful to me. 'E wrote me a letter."

Dan tapped one of his pockets.
"It explains your h'actions to me and the little fellow." Dan's voice trembled uncertainly. He dropped Connie's arm and turned away.

"Dan," she whispered eagerly, "Danny, atop of the 'bus that day— with me and the baby— wot about that yellow-'aired devil you was whisperin' to and laughin' with—'Miss Gwendolyn Logan, wot—"

Dan wheeled around.

"Wot about 'er? Ho," he said, "we all knows 'er. She rides in cabs, by choice. When she ain't a ha'penny she 'ops on a 'bus and some of us trusts 'er— ain't supposed to, but she always pays— some time. She ain't my kind, ain't— wasn't fer my wife to know."

"Dan," cried Connie, "was that it, was that all? Danny, I— I wrote you that letter. I didn't understand; I was jealous. I love you, Dan. Oh, you can kill me if you want to!" and Connie suddenly fell in a little sobbing heap beside the table.

Dan picked her up, holding her in his arms.

"Connie," he said, "you've near broke me 'eart, old gal."

Connie hid a shamed little face upon his shoulder.

"And mine, too," she sobbed, "but Danny dear, you do 'ave temptations in your profession— she 'ad the blackest eyes ever."

Dan looked fondly down at his wife. "Blue suits me," he said.

"To-morrow," Connie whispered "I'll go fer sonny and fetch 'im 'ome."

"Right ho," assented Dan eagerly.

"And Danny," added Connie thoughtfully, "I'm just as pleased I'm not a h'actress."

"Rather," drawled Dan.

__________________

2: The Man With Nine Lives

Hugh C. Weir

1884-1934

In: Miss Madelyn Mack, Detective, 1914

Hugh Cosgro Weir

NOW THAT I SEEK a point of beginning in the curious comradeship between Madelyn Mack and myself, the weird problems of men's knavery that we have confronted together come back to me with almost a shock.

Perhaps the events which crowd into my memory followed each other too swiftly for thoughtful digest at the time of their occurrence. Perhaps only a sober retrospect can supply a properly appreciative angle of view.

Madelyn Mack! What newspaper reader does not know the name? Who, even among the most casual followers of public events, does not recall the young woman who found the missing heiress, Virginia Denton, after a three months' disappearance; who convicted "Archie" Irwin, chief of the "firebug trust"; who located the absconder, Wolcott, after a pursuit from Chicago to Khartoum; who solved the riddle of the double Peterson murder; who—

But why continue the enumeration of Miss Mack's achievements? They are of almost household knowledge, at least that portion which, from one cause or another, have found their way into the newspaper columns. Doubtless those admirers of Miss Mack, whose opinions have been formed through the press chronicles of her exploits, would be startled to know that not one in ten of her cases has ever been recorded outside of her own file cases. And many of them— the most sensational from a newspaper viewpoint— will never be!

It is the woman, herself, however, who has seemed to me always a greater mystery than any of the problems to whose unraveling she has brought her wonderful genius. In spite of the deluge of printer's ink that she has inspired, I question if it has been given to more than a dozen persons to know the true Madelyn Mack.

I do not refer, of course, to her professional career. The salient points of that portion of her life, I presume, are more or less generally known— the college girl confronted suddenly with the necessity of earning her own living; the epidemic of mysterious "shoplifting" cases chronicled in the newspaper she was studying for employment advertisements; her application to the New York department stores, that had been victimized, for a place on their detective staffs, and their curt refusal; her sudden determination to undertake the case as a free-lance, and her remarkable success, which resulted in the conviction of the notorious Madame Bousard, and which secured for Miss Mack her first position as assistant house detective with the famous Niegel dry-goods firm. I sometimes think that this first case, and the realization which it brought her of her peculiar talent, is Madelyn's favorite— that its place in her memory is not even shared by the recovery of Mrs. Niegel's fifty-thousand-dollar pearl necklace, stolen a few months after the employment of the college girl detective at the store, and the reward for which, incidentally, enabled the ambitious Miss Mack to open her own office.

Next followed the Bergner kidnapping case, which gave Madelyn her first big advertising broadside, and which brought the beginning of the steady stream of business that resulted, after three years, in her Fifth Avenue suite in the Maddox Building, where I found her on that— to me— memorable afternoon when a sapient Sunday editor dispatched me for an interview with the woman who had made so conspicuous a success in a man's profession.

I can see Madelyn now, as I saw her then— my first close-range view of her. She had just returned from Omaha that morning, and was planning to leave for Boston on the midnight express. A suitcase and a fat portfolio of papers lay on a chair in a corner. A young woman stenographer was taking a number of letters at an almost incredible rate of dictation. Miss Mack finished the last paragraph as she rose from a flat-top desk to greet me.

I had vaguely imagined a masculine-appearing woman, curt of voice, sharp of feature, perhaps dressed in a severe, tailor-made gown. I saw a young woman of maybe twenty-five, with red and white cheeks, crowned by a softly waved mass of dull gold hair, and a pair of vivacious, grey-blue eyes that at once made one forget every other detail of her appearance. There was a quality in the eyes which for a long time I could not define. Gradually I came to know that it was the spirit of optimism, of joy in herself, and in her life, and in her work, the exhilaration of doing things. And there was something contagious in it. Almost unconsciously you found yourself believing in her and in her sincerity.

Nor was there a suggestion foreign to her sex in my appraisal. She was dressed in a simply embroidered white shirtwaist and white broadcloth skirt. One of Madelyn's few peculiarities is that she always dresses either in complete white or complete black. On her desk was a jar of white chrysanthemums.

"How do I do it?" she repeated, in answer to my question, in a tone that was almost a laugh. "Why— just by hard work, I suppose. Oh, there isn't anything wonderful about it! You can do almost anything, you know, if you make yourself really think you can! I am not at all unusual or abnormal. I work out my problems just as I would work out a problem in mathematics, only instead of figures I deal with human motives. A detective is always given certain known factors, and I keep building them up, or subtracting them, as the case may be, until I know that the answer must be correct.

"There are only two real rules for a successful detective, hard work and common sense— not uncommon sense such as we associate with our old friend Sherlock Holmes, but common, business sense. And, of course, imagination! That may be one reason why I have made what you call a success. A woman, I think, always has a more acute imagination than a man!"

"Do you then prefer women operatives on your staff?" I asked.

She glanced up with something like a twinkle from the jade paper-knife in her hands.

"Shall I let you into a secret? All of my staff, with the exception of my stenographer, are men. But I do most of my work in person. The factor of imagination can't very well be used second, or third, or fourth handed. And then, if I fail, I can only blame Madelyn Mack! Someday"— the gleam in her grey-blue eyes deepened—"someday I hope to reach a point where I can afford to do only consulting work or personal investigation. The business details of an office staff, I am afraid, are a bit too much of routine for me!"

The telephone jingled. She spoke a few crisp sentences into the receiver, and turned. The interview was over.

When I next saw her, three months later, we met across the body of Morris Anthony, the murdered bibliophile. It was a chance discovery of mine which Madelyn was good enough to say suggested to her the solution of the affair, and which brought us together in the final melodramatic climax in the grim mansion on Washington Square, when I presume my hysterical warning saved her from the fangs of Dr. Lester Randolph's hidden cobra. In any event, our acquaintanceship crystallized gradually into a comradeship, which revolutionized two angles of my life.

Not only did it bring to me the stimulus of Madelyn Mack's personality, but it gave me exclusive access to a fund of newspaper "copy" that took me from scant-paid Sunday "features" to a "space" arrangement in the city room, with an income double that which I had been earning. I have always maintained that in our relationship Madelyn gave all, and I contributed nothing. Although she invariably made instant disclaimer, and generally ended by carrying me up to the "Rosary," her chalet on the Hudson, as a cure for what she termed my attack of the "blues," she was never able to convince me that my protest was not justified!

It was at the "Rosary" where Miss Mack found haven from the stress of business. She had copied its design from an ivy-tangled Swiss chalet that had attracted her fancy during a summer vacation ramble through the Alps, and had built it on a jagged bluff of the river at a point near enough to the city to permit of fairly convenient motoring, although, during the first years of our friendship, when she was held close to the commercial grindstone, weeks often passed without her being able to snatch a day there. In the end, it was the gratitude of Chalmers Walker for her remarkable work which cleared his chorus-girl wife from the seemingly unbreakable coil of circumstantial evidence in the murder of Dempster, the theatrical broker, that enabled Madelyn to realize her long-cherished dream of setting up as a consulting expert. Although she still maintained an office in town, it was confined to one room and a small reception hall, and she limited her attendance there to two days of the week. During the remainder of the time, when not engaged directly on a case, she seldom appeared in the city at all. Her flowers and her music— she was passionately devoted to both— appeared to content her effectually.

I charged her with growing old, to which she replied with a shrug. I upbraided her as a cynic, and she smiled inscrutably. But the manner of her life was not changed. In a way I envied her. It was almost like looking down on the world and watching tolerantly its mad scramble for the rainbow's end. The days I snatched at the "Rosary," particularly in the summer, when Madelyn's garden looked like nothing so much as a Turner picture, left me with almost a repulsion for the grind of Park Row. But a workaday newspaper woman cannot indulge the dreams of a genius whom fortune has blessed. Perhaps this was why Madelyn's invitations came with a frequency and a subtleness that could not be resisted. Somehow they always reached me when I was in just the right receptive mood.

It was late on a Thursday afternoon of June, the climax of a racking five days for me under the blistering Broadway sun, that Madelyn's motor caught me at the Bugle office, and Madelyn insisted on bundling me into the tonneau without even a suitcase.

"We'll reach the Rosary in time for a fried chicken supper," she promised. "What you need is four or five days' rest where you can't smell the asphalt."

"You fairy godmother!" I breathed as I snuggled down on the cushions.

Neither of us knew that already the crimson trail of crime was twisting toward us— that within twelve hours we were to be pitch-forked from a quiet weekend's rest into the vortex of tragedy.

ii

WE HAD breakfasted late and leisurely. When at length we had finished, Madelyn had insisted on having her phonograph brought to the rose garden, and we were listening to Sturveysant's matchless rendering of "The Jewel Song"— one of the three records for which Miss Mack had sent the harpist her check for two hundred dollars the day before. I had taken the occasion to read her a lazy lesson on extravagance. The beggar had probably done the work in less than two hours!

As the plaintive notes quivered to a pause, Susan, Madelyn's housekeeper, crossed the garden, and laid a little stack of letters and the morning papers on a rustic table by our bench. Madelyn turned to her correspondence with a shrug.

"From the divine to the prosaic!"

Susan sniffed with the freedom of seven years of service.

"I heard one of them Eyetalian fiddling chaps at Hammerstein's last week who could beat that music with his eyes closed!"

Madelyn stared at her sorrowfully.

"At your age— Hammerstein's!"

Susan tossed her prim rows of curls, glanced contemptuously at the phonograph by way of retaliation, and made a dignified retreat. In the doorway she turned.

"Oh, Miss Madelyn, I am baking one of your old-fashioned strawberry shortcakes for lunch!"

"Really?" Madelyn raised a pair of sparkling eyes. "Susan, you're a dear!"

A contented smile wreathed Susan's face even to the tips of her precise curls. Madelyn's gaze crossed to me.

"What are you chuckling over, Nora?"

"From a psychological standpoint, the pair of you have given me two interesting studies," I laughed. "A single sentence compensates Susan for a week of your glumness!"

Madelyn extended a hand toward her mail.

"And what is the other feature that appeals to your dissecting mind?"

"Fancy a world-known detective rising to the point of enthusiasm at the mention of strawberry shortcake!"

"Why not? Even a detective has to be human once in a while!" Her eyes twinkled. "Another point for my memoirs, Miss Noraker!"

As her gaze fell to the half-opened letter in her hand, my eyes traveled across the garden to the outlines of the chalet, and I breathed a sigh of utter content. Broadway and Park Row seemed very, very far away. In a momentary swerving of my gaze, I saw that a line as clear-cut as a pencil stroke had traced itself across Miss Mack's forehead.

The suggestion of lounging indifference in her attitude had vanished like a wind-blown veil. Her glance met mine suddenly. The twinkle I had last glimpsed in her eyes had disappeared. Silently she pushed a square sheet of close, cramped writing across the table to me.

MY DEAR MADAM: When you read this, it is quite possible that it will be a letter from a dead man. I have been told by no less an authority than my friend, Cosmo Hamilton, that you are a remarkable woman. While I will say at the outset that I have little faith in the analytical powers of the feminine brain, I am prepared to accept Hamilton's judgment. I cannot, of course, discuss the details of my problem in correspondence. As a spur to quick action, I may say, however, that, during the past five months, my life has been attempted no fewer than eight different times, and I am convinced that the ninth attempt, if made, will be successful. The curious part of it lies in the fact that I am absolutely unable to guess the reason for the persistent vendetta. So far as I know, there is no person in the world who should desire my removal. And yet I have been shot at from ambush on four occasions, thugs have rushed me once, a speeding automobile has grazed me twice, and this evening I found a cunning little dose of cyanide of potassium in my favorite cherry pie! All of this, too, in the shadow of a New Jersey skunk farm! It is high time, I fancy, that I secure expert advice. Should the progress of the mysterious vendetta, by any chance, render me unable to receive you personally, my niece, Miss Muriel Jansen, I am sure, will endeavor to act as a substitute. Respectfully Yours,

WENDELL MARSH

THREE FORKS JUNCTION, N. J. JUNE 16

At the bottom of the page a lead pencil had scrawled the single line in the same cramped writing:

"For God's sake, hurry!"

Madelyn retained her curled-up position on the bench, staring across at a bush of deep crimson roses.

"Wendell Marsh?" She shifted her glance to me musingly. "Haven't I seen that name somewhere lately?" (Madelyn pays me the compliment of saying that I have a card-index brain for newspaper history!)

"If you have read the Sunday supplements," I returned drily, with a vivid remembrance of Wendell Marsh as I had last seen him, six months before, when he crossed the gangplank of his steamer, fresh from England, his face browned from the Atlantic winds. It was a face to draw a second glance— almost gaunt, self-willed, with more than a hint of cynicism. (Particularly when his eyes met the waiting press group!) Someone had once likened him to the pictures of Oliver Cromwell.

"Wendell Marsh is one of the greatest newspaper copy-makers that ever dodged an interviewer," I explained. "He hates reporters like an upstate farmer hates an automobile, and yet has a flock of them on his trail constantly. His latest exploit to catch the spotlight was the purchase of the Bainford relics in London. Just before that he published a three-volume history on 'The World's Great Cynics.' Paid for the publication himself."

Then came a silence between us, prolonging itself. I was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to associate Wendell Marsh's half-hysterical letter with my mental picture of the austere millionaire ...

"For God's sake, hurry!"

What wrenching terror had reduced the ultra-reserved Mr. Marsh to an appeal like this? As I look back now I know that my wildest fancy could not have pictured the ghastliness of the truth!

Madelyn straightened abruptly.

"Susan, will you kindly tell Andrew to bring around the car at once? If you will find the New Jersey automobile map, Nora, we'll locate Three Forks Junction."

"You are going down?" I asked mechanically.

She slipped from the bench.

"I am beginning to fear," she said irrelevantly, "that we'll have to defer our strawberry shortcake!"

iii

THE SOUND EYE of Daniel Peddicord, liveryman by avocation, and sheriff of Merino County by election, drooped over his florid left cheek. Mr. Peddicord took himself and his duties to the taxpayers of Merino County seriously.

Having lowered his sound eye with befitting official dubious-ness, while his glass eye stared guilelessly ahead, as though it took absolutely no notice of the procedure, Mr. Peddicord jerked a fat red thumb toward the winding stairway at the rear of the Marsh hall.

"I reckon as how Mr. Marsh is still up there, Miss Mack. You see, I told 'em not to disturb the body until—"

Our stares brought the sentence to an abrupt end. Mr. Peddicord's sound eye underwent a violent agitation.

"You don't mean that you haven't— heard?"

The silence of the great house seemed suddenly oppressive. For the first time I realized the oddity of our having been received by an ill-at-ease policeman instead of by a member of the family. I was abruptly conscious of the incongruity between Mr. Peddicord's awkward figure and the dim, luxurious background.

Madelyn gripped the chief's arm, bringing his sound eye circling around to her face.

"Tell me what has happened!"

Mr. Peddicord drew a huge red handkerchief over his forehead.

"Wendell Marsh was found dead in his library at eight o'clock this morning! He had been dead for hours."

Tick-tock! Tick-tock! Through my daze beat the rhythm of a tall, gaunt clock in the corner. I stared at it dully. Madelyn's hands had caught themselves behind her back, her veins swollen into sharp blue ridges. Mr. Peddicord still gripped his red handkerchief.

"It sure is queer you hadn't heard! I reckoned as how that was what had brought you down. It— it looks like murder!"

In Madelyn's eyes had appeared a greyish glint like cold steel.

"Where is the body?"

"Upstairs in the library. Mr. Marsh had worked—"

"Will you kindly show me the room?"

I do not think we noted at the time the crispness in her tones, certainly not with any resentment. Madelyn had taken command of the situation quite as a matter of course.

"Also, will you have my card sent to the family?"

Mr. Peddicord stuffed his handkerchief back into a rear trousers' pocket. A red corner protruded in jaunty abandon from under his blue coat.

"Why, there ain't no family— at least none but Muriel Jansen." His head cocked itself cautiously up the stairs. "She's his niece, and I reckon now everything here is hers. Her maid says as how she is clear bowled over. Only left her room once since— since it happened. And that was to tell me as how nothing was to be disturbed." Mr. Peddicord drew himself up with the suspicion of a frown. "Just as though an experienced officer wouldn't know that much!"

Madelyn glanced over her shoulder to the end of the hall. A hatchet-faced man in russet livery stood staring at us with wooden eyes.

Mr. Peddicord shrugged.

"That's Peters, the butler. He's the chap what found Mr. Marsh."

I could feel the wooden eyes following us until a turn in the stairs blocked their range.

A red-glowing room— oppressively red. Scarlet-frescoed walls, deep red draperies, cherry-upholstered furniture, Turkish-red rugs, rows on rows of red-bound books. Above, a great, flat glass roof, open to the sky from corner to corner, through which the splash of the sun on the rich colors gave the weird semblance of a crimson pool almost in the room's exact center. Such was Wendell Marsh's library— as eccentrically designed as its master.

It was the wreck of a room that we found. Shattered vases littered the floor— books were ripped savagely apart— curtains were hanging in ribbons— a heavy leather rocker was splintered.

The wreckage might have marked the death-struggle of giants. In the midst of the destruction, Wendell Marsh was twisted on his back. His face was shriveled, his eyes were staring. There was no hint of a wound or even a bruise. In his right hand was gripped an object partially turned from me.

I found myself stepping nearer, as though drawn by a magnet. There is something hypnotic in such horrible scenes! And then I barely checked a cry.

Wendell Marsh's dead fingers held a pipe— a strangely carved red sandstone bowl, and a long, glistening stem.

Sheriff Peddicord noted the direction of my glance.

"Mr. Marsh got that there pipe in London, along with those other relics he brought home. They do say as how it was the first pipe ever smoked by a white man. The Indians of Virginia gave it to a chap named Sir Walter Raleigh. Mr. Marsh had a new stem put to it, and his butler says he smoked it every day. Queer, ain't it, how some folks' tastes do run?"

The sheriff moistened his lips under his scraggly yellow moustache.

"Must have been some fight what done this!" His head included the wrecked room in a vague sweep.

Madelyn strolled over to a pair of the ribboned curtains, and fingered them musingly.

"But that isn't the queerest part." The chief glanced at Madelyn expectantly. "There was no way for any one else to get out— or in!"

Madelyn stooped lower over the curtains. They seemed to fascinate her. "The door?" she hazarded absently. "It was locked?"

"From the inside. Peters and the footman saw the key when they broke in this morning ... Peters swears he heard Mr. Marsh turn it when he left him writing at ten o'clock last night."

"The windows?"

"Fastened as tight as a drum— and, if they wasn't, it's a matter of a good thirty foot to the ground."

"The roof, perhaps?"

"A cat might get through it— if every part wasn't clamped as tight as the windows."

Mr. Peddicord spoke with a distinct inflection of triumph. Madelyn was still staring at the curtains.

"Isn't it rather odd," I ventured, "that the sounds of the struggle, or whatever it was, didn't alarm the house?"

Sheriff Peddicord plainly regarded me as an outsider. He answered my question with obvious shortness.

"You could fire a blunderbuss up here and no one would be the wiser. They say as how Mr. Marsh had the room made soundproof. And, besides, the servants have a building to themselves, all except Miss Jansen's maid, who sleeps in a room next to her at the other end of the house."

My eyes circled back to Wendell Marsh's knotted figure— his shriveled face— horror-frozen eyes— the hand gripped about the fantastic pipe. I think it was the pipe that held my glance. Of all incongruities, a pipe in the hand of a dead man!

Maybe it was something of the same thought that brought Madelyn of a sudden across the room. She stooped, straightened the cold fingers, and rose with the pipe in her hand.

A new stem had obviously been added to it, of a substance which I judged to be jessamine. At its end, teeth-marks had bitten nearly through. The stone bowl was filled with the cold ashes of half-consumed tobacco. Madelyn balanced it musingly.

"Curious, isn't it, Sheriff, that a man engaged in a life-or-death struggle should cling to a heavy pipe?"

"Why— I suppose so. But the question, Miss Mack, is what became of that there other man? It isn't natural as how Mr. Marsh could have fought with himself."

"The other man?" Madelyn repeated mechanically. She was stirring the rim of the dead ashes.

"And how in tarnation was Mr. Marsh killed?"

Madelyn contemplated a dust-covered finger.

"Will you do me a favor, Sheriff?"

"Why, er— of course."

"Kindly find out from the butler if Mr. Marsh had cherry pie for dinner last night!"

The sheriff gulped.

"Che-cherry pie?"

Madelyn glanced up impatiently.

"I believe he was very fond of it."

The sheriff shuffled across to the door uncertainly. Madelyn's eyes flashed to me.

"You might go, too, Nora."

For a moment I was tempted to flat rebellion. But Madelyn affected not to notice the fact. She is always so aggravatingly sure of her own way!— With what I tried to make a mood of aggrieved silence, I followed the sheriff's blue-coated figure. As the door closed, I saw that Madelyn was still balancing Raleigh's pipe.

From the top of the stairs, Sheriff Peddicord glanced across at me suspiciously.

"I say, what I would like to know is what became of that there other man!"

iv

A WISP of a black-gowned figure, peering through a dormer window at the end of the second-floor hall, turned suddenly as we reached the landing. A white, drawn face, suggesting a tired child, stared at us from under a frame of dull-gold hair, drawn low from a careless part. I knew at once it was Muriel Jansen, for the time, at least, mistress of the house of death.

"Has the coroner come yet, Sheriff?"

She spoke with one of the most liquid voices I have ever heard. Had it not been for her bronze hair, I would have fancied her at once of Latin descent. The fact of my presence she seemed scarcely to notice, not with any suggestion of aloofness, but rather as though she had been drained even of the emotion of curiosity.

"Not yet, Miss Jansen. He should be here now."

She stepped closer to the window, and then turned slightly.

"I told Peters to telegraph to New York for Dr. Dench when he summoned you. He was one of Uncle's oldest friends. I— I would like him to be here when— when the coroner makes his examination."

The sheriff bowed awkwardly.

"Miss Mack is upstairs now."

The pale face was staring at us again with raised eyebrows.

"Miss Mack? I don't understand." Her eyes shifted to me.

"She had a letter from Mr. Marsh by this morning's early post," I explained. "I am Miss Noraker. Mr. Marsh wanted her to come down at once. She didn't know, of course— couldn't know— that— that he was— dead!"

"A letter from— Uncle?" A puzzled line gathered in her face.

I nodded.

"A distinctly curious letter. But— Miss Mack would perhaps prefer to give you the details."

The puzzled line deepened. I could feel her eyes searching mine intently.

"I presume Miss Mack will be down soon," I volunteered. "If you wish, however, I will tell her—"

"That will hardly be necessary. But— you are quite sure— a letter?"

"Quite sure," I returned, somewhat impatiently.

And then, without warning, her hands darted to her head, and she swayed forward. I caught her in my arms with a side-view of Sheriff Peddicord staring, open-mouthed.

"Get her maid!" I gasped.

The sheriff roused into belated action. As he took a cumbersome step toward the nearest door, it opened suddenly. A gaunt, middle-aged woman, in a crisp white apron, digested the situation with cold grey eyes. Without a word, she caught Muriel Jansen in her arms.

"She has fainted," I said rather vaguely. "Can I help you?"

The other paused with her burden.

"When I need you, I'll ask you!" she snapped, and banged the door in our faces.

In the wake of Sheriff Peddicord, I descended the stairs. A dozen question-marks were spinning through my brain. Why had Muriel Jansen fainted? Why had the mention of Wendell Marsh's letter left such an atmosphere of bewildered doubt? Why had the dragonlike maid— for such I divined her to be— faced us with such hostility? The undercurrent of hidden secrets in the dim, silent house seemed suddenly intensified.

With a vague wish for fresh air and the sun on the grass, I sought the front veranda, leaving the sheriff in the hall, mopping his face with his red handkerchief.

A carefully tended yard of generous distances stretched an inviting expanse of graded lawn before me. Evidently Wendell Marsh had provided a discreet distance between himself and his neighbors. The advance guard of a morbid crowd was already shuffling about the gate. I knew that it would not be long, too, before the press siege would begin.

I could picture frantic city editors pitchforking their star men New Jerseyward. I smiled at the thought. The Bugle— the slave driver that presided over my own financial destinies— was assured of a generous beat in advance. The next train from New York was not due until late afternoon.

From the staring line about the gate, the figure of a well-set-up young man in blue serge detached itself with swinging step.

"A reporter?" I breathed, incredulous.

With a glance at me, he ascended the steps and paused at the door, awaiting an answer to his bell. My stealthy glances failed to place him among the "stars" of New York newspaperdom. Perhaps he was a local correspondent. With smug expectancy, I awaited his discomfiture when Peters received his card. And then I rubbed my eyes. Peters was stepping back from the door, and the other was following him with every suggestion of assurance.

I was still gasping when a maid, broom in hand, zigzagged toward my end of the veranda. She smiled at me with a pair of friendly black eyes.

"Are you a detective?"

"Why?" I parried.

She drew her broom idly across the floor.

"I— I always thought detectives different from other people."

She sent a rivulet of dust through the railing, with a side-glance still in my direction.

"Oh, you will find them human enough," I laughed, "outside of detective stories!"

She pondered my reply doubtfully.

"I thought it about time Mr. Truxton was appearing!" she ventured suddenly.

"Mr. Truxton?"

"He's the man that just came— Mr. Homer Truxton. Miss Jansen is going to marry him!"

A light broke through my fog.

"Then he is not a reporter?"

"Mr. Truxton? He's a lawyer." The broom continued its dilatory course. "Mr. Marsh didn't like him— so they say!"

I stepped back, smoothing my skirts. I have learned the cardinal rule of Madelyn never to pretend too great an interest in the gossip of a servant.

The maid was mechanically shaking out a rug.

"For my part, I always thought Mr. Truxton far and away the pick of Miss Jansen's two steadies. I never could understand what she could see in Dr. Dench! Why, he's old enough to be her—"

In the doorway, Sheriff Peddicord's bulky figure beckoned.

"Don't you reckon as how it's about time we were going back to Miss Mack?" he whispered.

"Perhaps," I assented rather reluctantly.

From the shadows of the hall, the sheriff's sound eye fixed itself on me belligerently.

"I say, what I would like to know is what became of that there other man!"

As we paused on the second landing the well-set-up figure of Mr. Homer Truxton was bending toward a partially opened door. Beyond his shoulder, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a pale face under a border of rumpled dull-gold hair. Evidently Muriel Jansen had recovered from her faint.

The door closed abruptly, but not before I had seen that her eyes were red with weeping.

Madelyn was sunk into a red-backed chair before a huge flat-top desk in the corner of the library, a stack of Wendell Marsh's red-bound books, from a wheel-cabinet at her side, bulked before her. She finished the page she was reading— a page marked with a broad blue pencil— without a hint that she had heard us enter.

Sheriff Peddicord stared across at her with a disappointment that was almost ludicrous. Evidently Madelyn was falling short of his conception of the approved attitudes for a celebrated detective!

"Are you a student of Elizabethan literature, Sheriff?" she asked suddenly.

The sheriff gurgled weakly.

"If you are, I am quite sure you will be interested in Mr. Marsh's collection. It is the most thorough on the subject that I have ever seen. For instance, here is a volume on the inner court life of Elizabeth— perhaps you would like me to read you this random passage?"

The sheriff drew himself up with more dignity than I thought he possessed.

"We are investigating a crime, Miss Mack!"

Madelyn closed the book with a sigh.

"So we are! May I ask what is your report from the butler?"

"Mr. Marsh did not have cherry pie for dinner last night!" the sheriff snapped.

"You are quite confident?"

And then abruptly the purport of the question flashed to me.

"Why, Mr. Marsh, himself, mentioned the fact in his letter!" I burst out.

Madelyn's eyes turned to me reprovingly.

"You must be mistaken, Nora."

With a lingering glance at the books on the desk, she rose. Sheriff Peddicord moved toward the door, opened it, and faced about with an abrupt clearing of his throat.

"Begging your pardon, Miss Mack, have— have you found any clues in the case?"

Madelyn had paused again at the ribboned curtains.

"Clues? The man who made Mr. Marsh's death possible, Sheriff, was an expert chemist, of Italian origin, living for some time in London— and he died three hundred years ago!"

From the hall we had a fleeting view of Sheriff Peddicord's face, flushed as red as his handkerchief, and then it and the handkerchief disappeared.

I whirled on Madelyn sternly.

"You are carrying your absurd joke, Miss Mack, altogether too—"

I paused, gulping in my turn. It was as though I had stumbled from the shadows into an electric glare.

Madelyn had crossed to the desk, and was gently shifting the dead ashes of Raleigh's pipe into an envelope. A moment she sniffed at its bowl, peering down at the crumpled body at her feet.

"The pipe!" I gasped. "Wendell Marsh was poisoned with the pipe!"

Madelyn sealed the envelope slowly.

"Is that fact just dawning on you, Nora?"

"But the rest of it— what you told the—"

Madelyn thrummed on the bulky volume of Elizabethan history.

"Someday, Nora, if you will remind me, I will give you the material for what you call a Sunday 'feature' on the historic side of murder as a fine art!"

v

IN A curtain-shadowed hook of the side veranda Muriel Jansen was awaiting us, pillowed back against a bronze-draped chair, whose colors almost startlingly matched the gold of her hair. Her resemblance to a tired child was even more pronounced than when I had last seen her.

I found myself glancing furtively for signs of Homer Truxton, but he had disappeared.

Miss Jansen took the initiative in our interview with a nervous abruptness, contrasting oddly with her hesitancy at our last meeting.

"I understand, Miss Mack, that you received a letter from my uncle asking your presence here. May I see it?"

The eagerness of her tones could not be mistaken.

From her wrist-bag Madelyn extended the square envelope of the morning post, with its remarkable message. Twice Muriel Jansen's eyes swept slowly through its contents. Madelyn watched her with a little frown. A sudden tenseness had crept into the air, as though we were all keying ourselves for an unexpected climax. And then, like a thunderclap, it came.

"A curious communication," Madelyn suggested. "I had hoped you might be able to add to it?"

The tired face in the bronze-draped chair stared across the lawn.

"I can. The most curious fact of your communication Miss Mack, is that Wendell Marsh did not write it!"

Never have I admired more keenly Madelyn's remarkable poise. Save for an almost imperceptible indrawing of her breath, she gave no hint of the shock which must have stunned her as it did me. I was staring with mouth agape. But, then, I presume you have discovered by this time that I was not designed for a detective!

Strangely enough, Muriel Jansen gave no trace of wonder in her announcement. Her attitude suggested a sense of detachment from the subject as though suddenly it had lost its interest. And yet, less than an hour ago it had prostrated her in a swoon.

"You mean the letter is a forgery?" asked Madelyn quietly.

"Quite obviously."

"And the attempts on Mr. Marsh's life to which it refers?"

"There have been none. I have been with my uncle continuously for six months. I can speak definitely."

Miss Jansen fumbled in a white crocheted bag.

"Here are several specimens of Mr. Marsh's writing. I think they should be sufficient to convince you of what I say. If you desire others—"

I was gulping like a truant schoolgirl as Madelyn spread on her lap the three notes extended to her. Casual business and personal references they were, none of more than half a dozen lines. Quite enough, however, to complete the sudden chasm at our feet— quite enough to emphasize a bold, aggressive penmanship, almost perpendicular, without the slightest resemblance to the cramped shadowy writing of the morning's astonishing communication.

Madelyn rose from her chair, smoothing her skirts thoughtfully. For a moment she stood at the railing, gazing down upon a trellis of yellow roses, her face turned from us. For the first time in our curious friendship, I was actually conscious of a feeling of pity for her! The blank wall which she faced seemed so abrupt— so final!

Muriel Jansen shifted her position slightly.

"Are you satisfied, Miss Mack?"

"Quite." Madelyn turned, and handed back the three notes. "I presume this means that you do not care for me to continue the case?"

I whirled in dismay. I had never thought of this possibility.

"On the contrary, Miss Mack, it seems to me an additional reason why you should continue!"

I breathed freely again. At least we were not to be dismissed with the abruptness that Miss Jansen's maid had shown! Madelyn bowed rather absently.

"Then if you will give me another interview, perhaps this afternoon—"

Miss Jansen fumbled with the lock of her bag. For the first time her voice lost something of its directness.

"Have— have you any explanation of this astonishing— forgery?"

Madelyn was staring out toward the increasing crowd at the gate. A sudden ripple had swept through it.

"Have you ever heard of a man by the name of Orlando Julio, Miss Jansen?"

My own eyes, following the direction of Madelyn's gaze, were brought back sharply to the veranda. For the second time, Muriel Jansen had crumpled back in a faint.

As I darted toward the servants' bell Madelyn checked me. Striding up the walk were two men with the unmistakable air of physicians. At Madelyn's motioning hand they turned toward us.

The foremost of the two quickened his pace as he caught sight of the figure in the chair. Instinctively I knew that he was Dr. Dench— and it needed no profound analysis to place his companion as the local coroner.

With a deft hand on Miss Jansen's heartbeats, Dr. Dench raised a ruddy, brown-whiskered face inquiringly toward us.

"Shock!" Madelyn explained. "Is it serious?"

The hand on the wavering breast darted toward a medicine case and selected a vial of brownish liquid. The gaze above it continued its scrutiny of Madelyn's slender figure.

Dr. Dench was of the rugged, German type, steel-eyed, confidently sure of movement, with the physique of a splendidly muscled animal. If the servant's tattle was to be credited, Muriel Jansen could not have attracted more opposite extremes in her suitors.

The coroner— a rusty-suited man of middle age, in quite obvious professional awe of his companion— extended a glass of water. Miss Jansen wearily opened her eyes before it reached her lips.

Dr. Dench restrained her sudden effort to rise.

"Drink this, please!" There was nothing but professional command in his voice. If he loved the gray-pallored girl in the chair, his emotions were under superb control.

Madelyn stepped to the background, motioning me quietly.

"I fancy I can leave now safely. I am going back to town."

"Town?" I echoed.

"I should be back the latter part of the afternoon. Would it inconvenience you to wait here?"

"But, why on earth—" I began.

"Will you tell the butler to send around the car? Thanks!"

When Madelyn doesn't choose to answer questions she ignores them. I subsided as gracefully as possible. As her machine whirled under the porte cochere, however, my curiosity again overflowed my restraint.

"At least, who is Orlando Julio?" I demanded.

Madelyn carefully adjusted her veil.

"The man who provided the means for the death of Wendell Marsh!" And she was gone.

I swept another glance at the trio on the side veranda, and with what I tried to convince myself was a philosophical shrug, although I knew perfectly well it was merely a pettish fling, sought a retired corner of the rear drawing room, with my pad and pencil.

After all, I was a newspaper woman, and it needed no elastic imagination to picture the scene in the city room of the Bugle, if I failed to send a proper accounting of myself.

A few minutes later a tread of feet, advancing to the stairs, told me that the coroner and Dr. Dench were ascending for the belated examination of Wendell Marsh's body. Miss Jansen had evidently recovered, or been assigned to the ministrations of her maid. Once Peters, the wooden-faced butler, entered ghostily to inform me that luncheon would be served at one, but effaced himself almost before my glance returned to my writing.

I partook of the meal in the distinguished company of Sheriff Peddicord. Apparently Dr. Dench was still busied in his gruesome task upstairs, and it was not surprising that Miss Jansen preferred her own apartments.

However much the sheriff's professional poise might have been jarred by the events of the morning, his appetite had not been affected. His attention was too absorbed in the effort to do justice to the Marsh hospitality to waste time in table talk.

He finished his last spoonful of strawberry ice cream with a heavy sigh of contentment, removed the napkin, which he had tucked under his collar, and, as though mindful of the family's laundry bills, folded it carefully and wiped his lips with his red handkerchief. It was not until then that our silence was interrupted.

Glancing cautiously about the room, and observing that the butler had been called kitchenward, to my amazement he essayed a confidential wink.

"I say," he ventured enticingly, leaning his elbow on the table, "what I would like to know is what became of that there other man!"

"Are you familiar with the Fourth Dimension, Sheriff?" I returned solemnly. I rose from my chair, and stepped toward him confidentially in my turn. "I believe that a thorough study of that subject would answer your question."

It was three o'clock when I stretched myself in my corner of the drawing-room, and stuffed the last sheets of my copy paper into a special-delivery-stamped envelope.

My story was done. And Madelyn was not there to blue-pencil the Park Row adjectives! I smiled rather gleefully as I patted my hair and leisurely addressed the envelope. The city editor would be satisfied, if Madelyn wasn't!

As I stepped into the hall, Dr. Dench, the coroner, and Sheriff Peddicord were descending the stairs. Evidently the medical examination had been completed. Under other circumstances the three expressions before me would have afforded an interesting study in contrasts— Dr. Dench trimming his nails with professional stoicism, the coroner endeavoring desperately to copy the other's sang-froid, and the sheriff buried in an owllike solemnity.

Dr. Dench restored his knife to his pocket.

"You are Miss Mack's assistant, I understand?"

I bowed.

"Miss Mack has been called away. She should be back, however, shortly."

I could feel the doctor's appraising glance dissecting me with much the deliberateness of a surgical operation. I raised my eyes suddenly, and returned his stare. It was a virile, masterful face— and, I had to admit, coldly handsome!

Dr. Dench snapped open his watch.

"Very well then, Miss, Miss—"

"Noraker!" I supplied crisply.

The blond beard inclined the fraction of an inch.

"We will wait."

"The autopsy?" I ventured. "Has it—"

"The result of the autopsy I will explain to— Miss Mack!"

I bit my lip, felt my face flush as I saw that Sheriff Peddicord was trying to smother a grin, and turned with a rather unsuccessful shrug.

Now, if I had been of a vindictive nature, I would have opened my envelope and inserted a retaliating paragraph that would have returned the snub of Dr. Dench with interest. I flatter myself that I consigned the envelope to the Three Forks post office, in the rear of the Elite Dry Goods Emporium, with its contents unchanged.

As a part recompense, I paused at a corner drugstore and permitted a young man with a gorgeous pink shirt to make me a chocolate ice-cream soda. I was bent over an asthmatic straw when, through the window, I saw Madelyn's car skirt the curb.

I rushed out to the sidewalk, while the young man stared dazedly after me. The chauffeur swerved the machine as I tossed a dime to the Adonis of the fountain.

Madelyn shifted to the end of the seat as I clambered to her side. One glance was quite enough to show that her town mission, whatever it was, had ended in failure. Perhaps it was the consciousness of this fact that brought my eyes next to her blue turquoise locket. It was open. I glared accusingly.

"So you have fallen back on the cola stimulant again, Miss Mack?"

She nodded glumly, and perversely slipped into her mouth another of the dark brown berries, on which I have known her to keep up for forty-eight hours without sleep and almost without food.

For a moment I forgot even my curiosity as to her errand.

"I wish the duty would be raised so high you couldn't get those things into the country!"

She closed her locket, without deigning a response. The more volcanic my outburst, the more glacial Madelyn's coldness— particularly on the cola topic. I shrugged in resignation. I might as well have done so in the first place!

I straightened my hat, drew my handkerchief over my flushed face, and coughed questioningly. Continued silence. I turned in desperation.

"Well?" I surrendered.

"Don't you know enough, Nora Noraker, to hold your tongue?"

My pent-up emotions snapped.

"Look here, Miss Mack, I have been snubbed by Dr. Dench and the coroner, grinned at by Sheriff Peddicord, and I am not going to be crushed by you! What is your report— good, bad, or indifferent?"

Madelyn turned from her stare into the dust-yellow road.

"I have been a fool, Nora— a blind, bigoted, self-important fool!"

I drew a deep breath.

"Which means—"

From her bag Madelyn drew the envelope of dead tobacco ashes from the Marsh library, and tossed it over the side of the car. I sank back against the cushions.

"Then the tobacco after all—"

"Is nothing but tobacco— harmless tobacco!"

"But the pipe— I thought the pipe—"

"That's just it! The pipe, my dear girl, killed Wendell Marsh! But I don't know how! I don't know how!"

"Madelyn," I said severely, "you are a woman, even if you are making your living at a man's profession! What you need is a good cry!"

vi

DR. DENCH, pacing back and forth across the veranda, knocked the ashes from an amber-stemmed meerschaum and advanced to meet us as we alighted. The coroner and Sheriff Peddicord were craning their necks from wicker chairs in the background. It was easy enough to surmise that Dr. Dench had parted from them abruptly in the desire for a quiet smoke to marshal his thoughts.

"Fill your pipe again if you wish," said Madelyn. "I don't mind."

Dr. Dench inclined his head, and dug the mouth of his meerschaum into a fat leather pouch. A spiral of blue smoke soon curled around his face. He was one of that type of men to whom a pipe lends a distinction of studious thoughtfulness.

With a slight gesture he beckoned in the direction of the coroner.

"It is proper, perhaps, that Dr. Williams in his official capacity should be heard first."

Through the smoke of his meerschaum, his eyes were searching Madelyn's face. It struck me that he was rather puzzled as to just how seriously to take her.

The coroner shuffled nervously. At his elbow, Sheriff Peddicord fumbled for his red handkerchief.

"We have made a thorough examination of Mr. Marsh's body, Miss Mack, a most thorough examination—"

"Of course he was not shot, nor stabbed, nor strangled, nor sandbagged?" interrupted Madelyn crisply.

The coroner glanced at Dr. Dench uncertainly. The latter was smoking with inscrutable face.

"Nor poisoned!" finished the coroner with a quick breath.

A blue smoke curl from Dr. Dench's meerschaum vanished against the sun. The coroner jingled a handful of coins in his pocket. The sound jarred on my nerves oddly. Not poisoned! Then Madelyn's theory of the pipe—

My glance swerved in her direction. Another blank wall— the blankest in this riddle of blank walls!

But the bewilderment I had expected in her face I did not find. The black dejection I had noticed in the car had dropped like a whisked-off cloak. The tired lines had been erased as by a sponge. Her eyes shone with that tense glint which I knew came only when she saw a befogged way swept clear before her.

"You mean that you found no trace of poison?" she corrected.

The coroner drew himself up.

"Under the supervision of Dr. Dench, we have made a most complete probe of the various organs— lungs, stomach, heart—"

"And brain, I presume?"

"Brain? Certainly not!"

"And you?" Madelyn turned toward Dr. Dench. "You subscribe to Dr. Williams' opinion?"

Dr. Dench removed his meerschaum.

"From our examination of Mr. Marsh's body, I am prepared to state emphatically that there is no trace of toxic condition of any kind!"

"Am I to infer then that you will return a verdict of— natural death?"

Dr. Dench stirred his pipe-ashes.

"I was always under the impression, Miss Mack, that the verdict in a case of this kind must come from the coroner's jury."

Madelyn pinned back her veil, and removed her gloves.

"There is no objection to my seeing the body again?"

The coroner stared.

"Why, er— the undertaker has it now. I don't see why he should object, if you wish—"

Madelyn stepped to the door. Behind her, Sheriff Peddicord stirred suddenly.

"I say, what I would like to know, gents, is what became of that there other man!"

It was not until six o'clock that I saw Madelyn again, and then I found her in Wendell Marsh's red library. She was seated at its late tenant's huge desk. Before her were a vial of whitish-grey powder, a small rubber inked roller, a half a dozen sheets of paper, covered with what looked like smudges of black ink, and Raleigh's pipe. I stopped short, staring.

She rose with a shrug.

"Fingerprints," she explained laconically. "This sheet belongs to Miss Jansen; the next to her maid; the third to the butler, Peters; the fourth to Dr. Dench; the fifth to Wendell Marsh, himself. It was my first experiment in taking the 'prints' of a dead man. It was— interesting."

"But what has that to do with a case of this kind?" I demanded.

Madelyn picked up the sixth sheet of smudged paper.

"We have here the fingerprints of Wendell Marsh's murderer!"

I did not even cry my amazement. I suppose the kaleidoscope of the day had dulled my normal emotions. I remember that I readjusted a loose pin in my waist before I spoke.

"The murderer of Wendell Marsh!" I repeated mechanically. "Then he was poisoned?"

Madelyn's eyes opened and closed without answer.

I reached over to the desk, and picked up Mr. Marsh's letter of the morning post at Madelyn's elbow.

"You have found the man who forged this?"

"It was not forged!"

In my daze I dropped the letter to the floor.

"You have discovered then the other man in the death-struggle that wrecked the library?"

"There was no other man!"

Madelyn gathered up her possessions from the desk. From the edge of the row of books she lifted a small, red-bound volume, perhaps four inches in width, and then with a second thought laid it back.

"By the way, Nora, I wish you would come back here at eight o'clock. If this book is still where I am leaving it, please bring it to me! I think that will be all for the present."

"All?" I gasped. "Do you realize that—"

Madelyn moved toward the door.

"I think eight o'clock will be late enough for your errand," she said without turning.

The late June twilight had deepened into a somber darkness when, my watch showing ten minutes past the hour of my instructions, I entered the room on the second floor that had been assigned to Miss Mack and myself. Madelyn at the window was staring into the shadow-blanketed yard.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Your book is no longer in the library!" I said crossly.

Madelyn whirled with a smile.

"Good! And now if you will be so obliging as to tell Peters to ask Miss Jansen to meet me in the rear drawing room, with any of the friends of the family she desires to be present, I think we can clear up our little puzzle."

vii

IT WAS a curious group that the graceful Swiss clock in the bronze drawing room of the Marsh house stared down upon as it ticked its way past the half hour after eight. With a grave, rather insistent bow, Miss Mack had seated the other occupants of the room as they answered her summons. She was the only one of us that remained standing.

Before her were Sheriff Peddicord, Homer Truxton, Dr. Dench, and Muriel Jansen. Madelyn's eyes swept our faces for a moment in silence, and then she crossed the room and closed the door.

"I have called you here," she began, "to explain the mystery of Mr. Marsh's death." Again her glance swept our faces. "In many respects it has provided us with a peculiar, almost an unique problem.

"We find a man, in apparently normal health, dead. The observer argues at once foul play; and yet on his body is no hint of wound or bruise. The medical examination discovers no trace of poison. The autopsy shows no evidence of crime. Apparently we have eliminated all forms of unnatural death.

"I have called you here because the finding of the autopsy is incorrect, or rather incomplete. We are not confronted by natural death— but by a crime. And I may say at the outset that I am not the only person to know this fact. My knowledge is shared by one other in this room."

Sheriff Peddicord rose to his feet and rather ostentatiously stepped to the door and stood with his back against it. Madelyn smiled faintly at the movement.

"I scarcely think there will be an effort at escape, Sheriff," she said quietly.

Muriel Jansen was crumpled back into her chair, staring. Dr. Dench was studying Miss Mack with the professional frown he might have directed at an abnormality on the operating table. It was Truxton who spoke first in the fashion of the impulsive boy.

"If we are not dealing with natural death, how on earth then was Mr. Marsh killed?"

Madelyn whisked aside a light covering from a stand at her side, and raised to view Raleigh's red sandstone pipe. For a moment she balanced it musingly.

"The three-hundred-year-old death tool of Orlando Julio," she explained. "It was this that killed Wendell Marsh!"

She pressed the bowl of the pipe into the palm of her hand. "As an instrument of death, it is almost beyond detection. We examined the ashes, and found nothing but harmless tobacco. The organs of the victim showed no trace of foul play."

She tapped the long stem gravely.

"But the examination of the organs did not include the brain. And it is through the brain that the pipe strikes, killing first the mind in a nightmare of insanity, and then the body. That accounts for the wreckage that we found— the evidences apparently of two men engaged in a desperate struggle. The wreckage was the work of only one man— a maniac in the moment before death. The drug with which we are dealing drives its victim into an insane fury before his body succumbs. I believe such cases are fairly common in India."

"Then Mr. Marsh was poisoned after all?" cried Truxton. He was the only one of Miss Mack's auditors to speak.

"No, not poisoned! You will understand as I proceed. The pipe you will find, contains apparently but one bowl and one channel, and at a superficial glance is filled only with tobacco. In reality, there is a lower chamber concealed beneath the upper bowl, to which extends a second channel. This secret chamber is charged with a certain compound of Indian hemp and dhatura leaves, one of the most powerful brain stimulants known to science— and one of the most dangerous if used above a certain strength. From the lower chamber it would leave no trace, of course, in the ashes above.

"Between the two compartments of the pipe is a slight connecting opening, sufficient to allow the hemp beneath to be ignited gradually by the burning tobacco. When a small quantity of the compound is used, the smoker is stimulated as by no other drug, not even opium. Increase the quantity above the danger point, and mark the result. The victim is not poisoned in the strict sense of the word, but literally smothered to death by the fumes!"

In Miss Mack's voice was the throb of the student before the creation of the master.

"I should like this pipe, Miss Jansen, if you ever care to dispose of it!"

The girl was still staring woodenly.

"It was Orlando Julio, the medieval poisoner," she gasped, "that Uncle described—"

"In his seventeenth chapter of 'The World's Great Cynics,'" finished Madelyn. "I have taken the liberty of reading the chapter in manuscript form. Julio, however, was not the discoverer of the drug. He merely introduced it to the English public. As a matter of fact, it is one of the oldest stimulants of the East. It is easy to assume that it was not as a stimulant that Julio used it, but as a baffling instrument of murder. The mechanism of the pipe was his own invention, of course. The smoker, if not in the secret, would be completely oblivious to his danger. He might even use the pipe in perfect safety— until its lower chamber was loaded!"

Sheriff Peddicord, against the door, mopped his face with his red handkerchief, like a man in a daze. Dr. Dench was still studying Miss Mack with his intent frown. Madelyn swerved her angle abruptly.

"Last night was not the first time the hemp-chamber of Wendell Marsh's pipe had been charged. We can trace the effect of the drug on his brain for several months— hallucinations, imaginative enemies seeking his life, incipient insanity. That explains his astonishing letter to me. Wendell Marsh was not a man of nine lives, but only one. The perils which he described were merely fantastic figments of the drug. For instance, the episode of the poisoned cherry pie. There was no pie at all served at the table yesterday.

"The letter to me was not a forgery, Miss Jansen, although you were sincere enough when you pronounced it such. The complete change in your uncle's handwriting was only another effect of the drug. It was this fact, in the end, which led me to the truth. You did not perceive that the dates of your notes and mine were six months apart! I knew that some terrific mental shock must have occurred in the meantime.

"And then, too, the ravages of a drug-crazed victim were at once suggested by the curtains of the library. They were not simply torn, but fairly chewed to pieces!"

A sudden tension fell over the room. We shifted nervously, rather avoiding one another's eyes. Madelyn laid the pipe back on the stand. She was quite evidently in no hurry to continue. It was Truxton again who put the leading question of the moment.

"If Mr. Marsh was killed as you describe, Miss Mack, who killed him?"

Madelyn glanced across at Dr. Dench.

"Will you kindly let me have the red leather book that you took from Mr. Marsh's desk this evening, Doctor?"

The physician met her glance steadily.

"You think it— necessary?"

"I am afraid I must insist."

For an instant Dr. Dench hesitated. Then, with a shrug, he reached into a coat pocket and extended the red-bound volume, for which Miss Mack had dispatched me on the fruitless errand to the library. As Madelyn opened it we saw that it was not a printed volume, but filled with several hundred pages of close, cramped writing. Dr. Dench's gaze swerved to Muriel Jansen as Miss Mack spoke.

"I have here the diary of Wendell Marsh, which shows us that he had been in the habit of seeking the stimulant of Indian hemp, or 'hasheesh' for some time, possibly as a result of his retired, sedentary life and his close application to his books. Until his purchase of the Bainford relics, however, he had taken the stimulant in the comparatively harmless form of powdered leaves or 'bhang,' as it is termed in the Orient. His acquisition of Julio's drug-pipe, and an accidental discovery of its mechanism, led him to adopt the compound of hemp and dhatura, prepared for smoking— in India called 'charas.' No less an authority than Captain E. N. Windsor, bacteriologist of the Burmese government, states that it is directly responsible for a large percentage of the lunacy of the Orient. Wendell Marsh, however, did not realize his danger, nor how much stronger the latter compound is than the form of the drug to which he had been accustomed.

"Dr. Dench endeavored desperately to warn him of his peril and free him from the bondage of the habit as the diary records, but the victim was too thoroughly enslaved. In fact, the situation had reached a point just before the final climax when it could no longer be concealed. The truth was already being suspected by the older servants. I assume this was why you feared my investigations in the case, Miss Jansen."

Muriel Jansen was staring at Madelyn in a sort of dumb appeal.

"I can understand and admire Dr. Dench's efforts to conceal the fact from the public— first, in his supervision of the inquest, which might have stumbled on the truth, and then in his removal of the betraying diary, which I left purposely exposed in the hope that it might inspire such an action. Had it not been removed, I might have suspected another explanation of the case— in spite of certain evidence to the contrary!"

Dr. Dench's face had gone white.

"God! Miss Mack, do you mean that after all it was not suicide?"

"It was not suicide," said Madelyn quietly. She stepped across toward the opposite door.

"When I stated that my knowledge that we are not dealing with natural death was shared by another person in this room, I might have added that it was shared by still a third person— not in the room!"

With a sudden movement she threw open the door before her. From the adjoining anteroom lurched the figure of Peters, the butler. He stared at us with a face grey with terror, and then crumpled to his knees. Madelyn drew away sharply as he tried to catch her skirts.

"You may arrest the murderer of Wendell Marsh, Sheriff!" she said gravely. "And I think perhaps you had better take him outside."

She faced our bewildered stares as the drawing-room door closed behind Mr. Peddicord and his prisoner. From her stand she again took Raleigh's sandstone pipe, and with it two sheets of paper, smudged with the prints of a human thumb and fingers.

"It was the pipe in the end which led me to the truth, not only as to the method but the identity of the assassin," she explained. "The hand, which placed the fatal charge in the concealed chamber, left its imprint on the surface of the bowl. The fingers, grimed with the dust of the drug, made an impression which I would have at once detected had I not been so occupied with what I might find inside that I forgot what I might find outside! I am very much afraid that I permitted myself the great blunder of the modern detective— lack of thoroughness.

"Comparison with the fingerpints of the various agents in the case, of course, made the next step a mere detail of mathematical comparison. To make my identity sure, I found that my suspect possessed not only the opportunity and the knowledge for the crime, but the motive.

"In his younger days Peters was a chemist's apprentice; a fact which he utilized in his master's behalf in obtaining the drugs which had become so necessary a part of Mr. Marsh's life. Had Wendell Marsh appeared in person for so continuous a supply, his identity would soon have made the fact a matter of common gossip. He relied on his servant for his agent, a detail which he mentions several times in his diary, promising Peters a generous bequest in his will as a reward. I fancy that it was the dream of this bequest, which would have meant a small fortune to a man in his position, that set the butler's brain to work on his treacherous plan of murder."

Miss Mack's dull gold hair covered the shoulders of her white peignoir in a great, thick braid. She was propped in a nest of pillows, with her favorite romance, The Three Musketeers, open at the historic siege of Porthos in the wine cellar. We had elected to spend the night at the Marsh house.

Madelyn glanced up as I appeared in the doorway of our room.

"Allow me to present a problem to your analytical skill, Miss Mack," I said humbly. "Which man does your knowledge of feminine psychology say Muriel Jansen will reward— the gravely protecting physician, or the boyishly admiring Truxton?"

"If she were thirty," retorted Madelyn, yawning, "she would be wise enough to choose Dr. Dench. But, as she is only twenty-two, it will be Truxton."

With a sigh, she turned again to the swashbuckling exploits of the gallant Porthos.

___________________

3: Sycamore: A Ghost Story

Cy Warman

1855-1914

World's News (NSW), 7 May 1904

Cyrus Warman

SOMETHING his host said at dinner— some passing reference to the meteoric rise of J. Spencer Atwood from law to literature— had set that prosperous young author thinking on the not very remote yesterday of his life.

He might have hailed a hansom; indeed, he could well afford a carriage and pair of his own, but this night he preferred to walk home.

In a narrow lane just off the Strand he found himself at the street door of a dingy brick building. Coming out of his reverie, he laughed a noiseless little laugh, and stood for a moment looking up at a window which for years, had been his one opening to the world. How many cigars had he smoked, how many air castles had he builded with one elbow on the ledge of that lonely look-out!

While, as a matter of fact, he had not foreseen this fame which was come to him, he had, in some vague way, felt it, and had experienced no great surprise at its coming.

It was pleasant, after years of absence from the little lane, to stand there in the midnight silence and look up at the window where he had dreamed some of the rosiest dreams of his life.

A year ago he lived there.

Yesterday be lunched with the Lord Chief Justice.

To-day he dined with Gladstone.

To-morrow he would sail for America. He was stealing quietly away, for he hated noise and notoriety. He was going to visit and to rest.

"Good-bye, dear old stepstone, goodbye," he quoted, and turned away.

As he walked slowly to his luxurious apartments, Atwood began to ask himself why he had come back to the old place at midnight and alone. Was it Mr. Gladstone's reference to the old days? Or Mr. Gladstone's old port? Or was he losing himself in his work?

Anyway, he was glad that his stout limbs had carried him back that he might take leave of his bachelor home before his departure for America.

As he walked away with elevated chin his foot struck a stone. He paused and looked down. He had stumbled over the slab that covered Goldsmith's grave.

"What a narrow swath I shall be cutting a hundred years hence!" said Atwood, hurrying on.

SYCAMORE, always attractive, was never more so than now. Touhey, the old gardener, was arranging the rustic seats under the great trees where the robins were rioting, when a carriage swung in at the lower gate and rolled leisurely along the gravelled driveway arched over by drooping bows of ancient forest trees.

Atwood was charmed with the place. He had come to Canada expecting to find only new crude things, and was agreeably surprised.

He saw, too, that the welcome accorded him was genuine. The hostess, Mrs. Deering, was sister to his mother, sweet soul, who had gone from him when he was but a boy.

He admired her sons, sturdy young fellows just merging into manhood and taking their places in the work of the world. He was charmed by his beautiful cousin, Helen, and greatly amused and entertained by his maiden aunt, Phoebe, who seemed ever to be in the act of side-stepping some sudden calamity, or shying at an imaginary menace.

Atwood was not only clever, but handsome as well, and from the day of his arrival the staid old country seat took on holiday airs. Almost immediately telegrams began to pour in from leading publishers, followed by letters inviting the visiting author to contribute to the magazines, while special writers and artists from the big dailies began to break a trail from the big towns to the northern shrine. At the end of a week all roads seemed to lead to Sycamore.

To be sure, Atwood knew his coming would make some noise, but he had not expected it would be as loud as this. The space writer and the kodaker had established a peaceful blockade of Sycamore.

If he showed his head someone took a shot at him. One persistent picture-maker, having stolen into the grounds by night, hid under a big birch and actually photographed the author in the swimming pool, taking a morning plunge.

It was probably this crowning audacity more than anything else that caused Atwood to accept an assignment to do a short story in the vein originated, developed, and made famous by him, for the foremost magazine in America. The price fixed by the publisher was fabulous, and in the event of the author finishing the story in a fortnight there was to be an honorarium which, if it had come to him in the form of a retainer when he was a struggling barrister, would have taken his breath.

His aunt, by this time quite ready for a few days' rest, he took into his confidence. He was to have his meals in his apartments, and be left alone.

It worked beautifully, for Mrs. Deering, being a woman, was an artist in the art of making you understand without saying so in so many words. It was as easy as being out when she was in, or in when she had just been out.

In a few days everyone in the little city knew that Mr. Atwood was indisposed. Nothing serious, however— probably out in a week or two at most.

Jeanette, the parlormaid, always wore a look of distress when a caller asked after the author, but brightened when assuring the visitor that he would be out soon. Sarah, the house-maid, tiptoed past his door. Mary, the cook, would have killed him with delicacies if he had eaten all she sent up. Touhey, the gar-dener, was grieved because of Atwood's illness, but glad of the opportunity to drive the kodakers away.

ONE NIGHT Mrs. Deering was awakened by the low mutterings of distant thunder. She fell asleep again, only to be awakened by the same ominous noise.

She was one of those women who can face any amount of real danger, but who tremble in the awful presence of the incomprehensible. She got up and stood at the window.

Away in the western sky the storm king was shaking his golden chains on a background of dead black. Without, the night was noiseless. Not a leaf was moving.

Mrs. Deering threw a shawl about her shoul-ders and sat down to watch the storm. The leaves began to nod and sway in the rising breeze.

Suddenly the great trees seemed to shudder. A chain of lightning leaped from the black sky and darted, smokelike, among the trees, leaving the darkness deeper than before. Immediately following this ferret-like flash, a snow-white figure emerged from the shadows of the great birch, passed up over the shoulder of the hill, and disappeared down the steep bluff in the direction of the river.

A new, strange terror sat upon the soul of the lone watcher at the window. Shuddering, she rose and stepped into the hall.

The transom was dark over Atwood's door. He had retired, though he had been in the habit of writing long after midnight.

Off in another wing of the big house the boys were sleeping. She stole softly into her sister's room, which faced the west, and to her surprise found Aunt Phoebe sitting at her window.

She, too, was nervous and unusually dis-tressed. The two women camped together that night. In their conversation, the little that passed, each blamed the storm for her nervousness.

Aunt Phoebe was up early the following day, and began to investigate what she called the scandalous conduct of some of the female helps. She went after Jeanette first, but the fiery little French-Canadian parlormaid soon convinced the self-appointed superintending housekeeper that she had not been out in her robe de nuit.

Then Aunt Phoebe stood Sarah up, and Sarah indignantly denied having left her room during the night, and promptly handed in her notice.

It took time, even for Aunt Phoebe, to nerve herself to move on Mary, the cook. In two minutes it was all over, and Mary was packing up.

"I've given notice," said Sarah, as Mary, red and perspiring, stamped up the back stair.

"I've given them a chance to fill me place," said Mary.

Aunt Phoebe, baffled and alarmed, called Mrs. Deering, who, after much diplomacy, succeeded in establishing a truce between her sister and the ser-vants.

"It's all very well for them to deny it," said Aunt Phoebe, when her sister chided her; "but I saw a hussy come up the river path and pass around to the rear of the house Just as you entered my room last night."

Mrs. Deering stared at her sister.

It was Sarah's night out that night, and with the consent of Mrs. Deering Jeanette went with her.

It was midnight when the two girls entered the lower gate and hurried along the driveway.

"There's where the dreadful man hid," said Jeanette, "to photograph Mr. Atwood in the swimming pool. Isn't Mr. At—"

Jeanette stopped short, grasped Sarah's arm, and stared in the direction of the pool. Out of the shadow of the big birch a white figure fared, crossed an open, star-lit space, and disappeared over the shoulder of the hill in the direction of the river.

The girls caught hands and raced for the house.

A few nights after, Louis, the elder of the Deering boys, returned late from a banquet. While he was hunting the keyhole he heard footsteps as of a man running along the driveway.

Turning, he saw a woman running straight for the front door. As she came near she fell forward, and he caught her in his arms.

As he lifted the falling woman he saw a white figure pass under a tulip tree on the brow of the hill and then drop suddenly behind the bluff.

Young Deering, not wishing to alarm the household, drew his find to the front of the verandah and held her face to the starlight and began to look her over.

It was Mary, the cook. He laid her gently down on the door-mat, plucked a bunch of dew-wet leaves from a tulip tree, and fanned her face.

"Please, sur," said Mary, "would you be so kind as to see me to the rear of the bouse?"

"Yes, yes, Mary," said Deering; "you'll be all right now."

As they passed around to the west side of the house Mary kept glancing back toward the big birch from whose dark shadows she could have sworn she had seen a ghost appear.

This thing went on until one by one almost every member of the household had seen the white-robed figure emerge from the shadows down by the swimming-pool, pass over the hill, and fade in the forest that fringed the river's rim.

They set a watch in Mrs. Deering's room, which overlooked the grounds to the south, and the river to the west, but the apparition failed to appear. They watched again on the follow-ing night. Midnight, and nothing came.

Just as they were breaking up the watch Aunt Phoebe, who had been sitting by a west window, called excitedly:

"Look! Look!"

One of the young men sprang to the window. He could see nothing, but Aunt Phoebe declared that she had seen the white thing leap into the shadow just beyond the tulip tree.

The whole household was by this time be-coming so demoralised by the constant dread of some dire calamity that Mrs. Deering determined to take Atwood into her confidence.

The author laughed at first, but, seeing how his aunt was distressed, he promised to make the ghost's acquaintance at the earliest possible moment. That night he joined the watchers, but the ghost refused to walk. Another night was equally dis-appointing.

On the following night Mrs. Deering saw it, and told Atwood so.

"I have a plan," said the author. "You take my room, I'll take yours, and when halfpast eleven strikes I'll put my work aside and watch for your ghost."

For three nights he worked and watched and waited, but had nothing of interest to tell his hostess when the next day dawned.

Mrs. Deering returned to her apartment and Atwood to his.

That very night she saw the sprite. Aunt Phoebe saw it, too, and took to her bed.

The servants had ceased to take their nights out. "Sycamore" was a good imitation of a madhouse. Young Deering wired Chicago for the best detective that could be had.

"Who has seen this thing?" was the detective's first question.

"Everybody about the place but Touhey and the author."

The detective examined the ground, and discovered that the dirt had been spaded up under the big birch. There was fresh dirt on a spade near the lodge, though Touhey said he had not used it for a week.

That night the detective sat with his back to a big tree immediately in front of the gardener's lodge, but Touhey slept like a log until the sun came in at his window.

That day the detective slept. The next night he sat in a dark closet at the end of a dimly-lighted hallway, at the other end of which was the entrance to Atwood's room. Near midnight the light went out, but the door never opened during the night.

Young Deering kept watch in his mother's room. He owned that he had nodded, but was positive he had seen a white object for a brief moment on the brow of the hill.

Atwood announced that his story would be completed and in the mail on the morrow— in time to win the honorarium.

Mrs. Deering, who was almost the only person permitted to see him, heard this with a great sigh of relief, for Atwood's condition was beginning to alarm her. He was not eating, his eyes had a stony stare, the color had left his cheeks. At times he moved and spoke like one half asleep. His voice sounded as if it came from a distance.

'Poor boy," said Mrs. Deering; "It's the ghost that's wearing on him."

For his third night's work the detective planned a blockade of the big birch. Two of the Deering boys and a couple of their friends were to assist him, while the third Deering was to remain with Mrs. Deering and Helen, Aunt Phoebe was out of it altogether, keeping her room day and night.

Promptly at eleven o'clock the watchers took their places under the great trees, completely surrounding the mysterious birch. The detective, having placed his men, took up a post between the pool and the point of the hill over which the ghost was said to have passed upon more than one occasion.

Nobody had ever seen the ghost coming in, but the detective took it for granted that it would enter by the same trail used when de-parting.

They had scarcely stationed themselves when the low-hanging boughs of the big birch parted and the white thing strode out in full view.

The two women at the window gave a low cry, clutching at young Deering, who hushed them. Every man among the trees stood still, awed by the awful apparition. Only the detective kept a grip on his courage.

He stepped out from the shadow of the tulip tree and stood in the ghost's path, The watchers at the window held their breath.

Inspired suddenly by the great courage of their loader, the sentinels, one after the other, left their posts and hurried to his aid. The detective put up his hand as if to hold them back. The little company paused.

The detective stepped to one side, and the white thing passed on, disappearing among the trees. The detective, silhouetted against the star-studded sky, beckoned, and the other men hurried up to the level of the lawn. He put up his hand, and they all stopped short.

At that moment the white object, emerging from the shrubs, crossed an open space and passed out of view at the rear of the building. The detective signalled again, and the others followed him to the front of the house. The watchers within joined them.

Up over the roof of the summer kitchen came the ghost. Helen hid her face and shuddered. Along the eave trough the white-robed object hurried toward the front of the house.

"Hus-s-h," said the detective; "it's Atwood, If you wake him, he'll fall."

At the end of the roof the ghost sat down, took hold of the cornice, lowered himself by one hand, and dropped lightly to the porch roof and stepped in through an open window to Mr. Atwood's room.

The detective signalled, and they followed him into the drawingroom.

IN AN HOUR they were all comparatively calm.

The detective, who had been upstairs, reported Mr, Atwood sleeping like a tired child. A heap of manuscript lay upon his table with the word "Finis" written on the bottom of the last page.

By this time the "family doctor, who had been called by telephone, arrived.

"Let him sleep," said the doctor, when he had heard the story and looked the patient over.

Just as he was about to leave the room the doctor noticed the stack of manuscript, turned it over and read the title of the tale that Atwood had been living for a fortnight— "The Ghost of a Miser."

______________

4: Wraiths

Harriette G. Bingham
fl 1922-23

Argosy Allstory Weekly, 6 Jan 1923

World's News (NSW), 3 March 1923

HECTOR BALE, pleasantly dizzy from too much champagne, leaned against the stone balustrade . in the hall of the Exotic Club at Palm Beach, watching the whirling couples in the ballroom. It was three o'clock, and the Masquerade Ball was at its height, as the shrill voices and strident notes of the music indicated.

His monk's costume suited his personality and accentuated his long, thin body, and his ascetic face— the face of a young man old for his age through dreams and thought, with the tragic eyes of one who has suffered. He gazed at the dancers, happy in their gay abandonment, and wished that he could enjoy himself as they did— but he had always kept aloof, away— why was it?

"Dale, will you do a fellow a favor?"

Surprised, he looked at the man beside him, teetering uncertainly back and forth in his chef's costume. He was only an acquaintance, but Hector acquiesced willingly.

"What can I do?"

"Telephone— my wife— and say I won't be home to-night. Tell her— anything. The operator has gone to bed— and I can't talk to her myself— now, can I?"

Hector felt the blood rushing from his head— his knees were shaking, and his hands felt like two clammy objects not attached to his arms. The old feeling, so familiar, so dreadful— came back with all its intensity— aroused at the mere thought of going into the small quarters of a telephone booth: the horror he had first known when a boy of seven, which had tortured him through the years.

He had fallen in the oat bin of his father's barn while playing hide and seek. It was an enormous box, built to hold a supply of feed for a long time— lined with tin to keep out rats and mice, and as he fell into it his feet had knocked against the top, and it crashed down, leaving him a prisoner, in absolute darkness. He could still feel the slippery slide of the oats as he sank into them— and his terror at the straight blank walls on all sides, stretching up several feet above his head. At first he had not realised the extent of the calamity. As the minutes passed, his terror grew. His mother had often read him "The Mistletoe Bough," and it had made a vivid picture in his mind. The old tattered trunk in the attic, the lovely girl who had hidden there in play, the heap of bones discovered in it years later. Then he had screamed, but it had been of no avail.

The same deadly nausea engulfed him now, as it had on that day, and the cold perspiration almost drove him mad—as it had then, just before unconsciousness mercifully released him from his torture. Hours later they had found him. His family had carried him home to weeks of illness, and since that day he had never been able to go into any small room, and the cramped quarters of a telephone booth had been a constant torment, a reminder of those hours— and now he was being asked to go in one. God! He must Ret away!

"Sorry, unable to do it," Hector managed to say, and started to move.

The man flung his arms around Hector's neck in jovial drunken affection, and insisted.

"Oh, come on. Dale. You don't dance— you have to do something to justify yourself— come on." and he pushed him toward the open door of a little telephone booth behind the stairs.

Hector's eyes were glassy, but he could not struggle— the surprise of the incident and his own reactions were too intense, and before he could break away, he was inside the little box-like cubicle, with the door closed and the words ringing in his ear:—

"Main 029— there's a good fellow."

Main 029! The words beat into his brain. Main— Main! Shaking, Hector stood looking at the fat jovial face laughing at him through the glass door. Main— Main!— and then the walls smothered him— clouds of red swam -before his eyes— he was shut in— just as he had been that fearful day in childhood he escaped.

The man called again, "Main 029! You idiot—hurry!" and then Hector "awakened from the semi-stupor. He shook the door, roaring:—

"Let out— let me out!"

But the man only laughed the harder and threw his weight against it to hold him in. His frenzy grew— louder and louder he shrieked. And then, crazed, his one idea escape. Hector took the telephone and threw it into the glass. Splinters and jagged pieces fell in all directions, and as Hector grasped the red face— with the smile fading on its fat contour— he jerked him toward him. then as suddenly pushed him away. As he did so. the man stumbled and fell on the jagged edge of glass in the booth, cutting his neck just below the chin. A spurt of blood covered Hector's face and hands, and the clean chef's apron was instantly soaked.

The limp body slipped to the floor. Aghast. Hector stepped from the booth toward the stairs, and stood looking with horrified eyes at the crumpled form,  and the pool of blood seeping into the porous sandstone of the floor. He wondered why someone did not come out from the ballroom.

He swayed slightly, his eyes were burning and hard. He tried to make himself touch the man, or even call for help— but he could not move, and his voice would not come. The jazz music, strident notes of sensuousness, beat on his ears, and the air was heavy with the perfumes of the women and the fragrance of orange blossoms from the trees outside.

He raised his head to toss back a lock of hair, which, in his mad scuffle to escape from the man's arms, had swept down over his eyes; he glimpsed the ocean through the open door, gleaming in the moonlight, calm, inscrutable— a cruel contrast to the fevered atmosphere of the ballroom and the raucous notes of the music.

A vision floated out over the water— a vision of himself in his bed as a little boy, with his mother leaning over him— in the dim lamp-lit room, murmuring comforting words in his ears. Oblivious to everything, he allowed his imagination to place him in that bed. and the same sweet thrill swept over him as his mother's fresh young lips touched his face.

"He is dead!" The words, a startled cry from a woman at his side, whom he had not heard approaching, aroused him. The moon glittered on the water and the waves lapped up on the beach, but the words "He is dead!" crazed him. and it seemed to his frenzied mind that the pounding of the ocean was a ceaseless reiteration. "He is dead!" As the other dancers rushed towards the limp form at the bottom of the steps, Hector Dale turned and dashed out over the smooth grass of the golf course.

As he ran through the night, his fear and horror increased with each step. The bunkers seemed like graves heaped up to torture him. Faster and faster he ran, past the little pond where frogs croaked, "He is dead!" in lugubrious tones. Stumbling through the tall grass, panting up the hill, he rushed straight on, until, exhausted, he sank into a motor boat tied to a dock in the quiet waters of the lake.

Out of breath, his shirt wet with perspiration. his hands cold and damp, he lay there trembling with fright. Waves of nausea swept over him, and each wave reminded him of other times in his childhood, when this same horror of being held by either arms or close walls had left him physically ill.

He never went into closets, he avoided crowds, subways, and lately, even theatres, and, although he tried to conceal this weakness from his friends, he had acquired the reputation of being queer. This trait had worried Hector's parents, and his father had sympathised and pampered him in his avoidance of any semblance of being confined.

They had given him a ranch out West, and there he had lived more or lees in peace for the last few years. They supposed it to be an outgrown phase of childhood. But Hector, thoughtful, high strung, often worried over this latent horror in his mind, and as he lay in the boat, he was conscious that he was unable to control himself— that he was running away, not from justice so much, as from the terror of being confined in a prison cell.

A mullet leaped in the air beside the boat, and the flop it made in the water startled him. What was it? He raised himself slowly and looked over the gunwale of the boat, where a tall palm, with its leaves waving in the breeze, seemed to be reaching toward him as if to hold him. Subconsciously. he primed the engine, always watching to see if the branches of the palm were approaching. Then the engine started, and the little boat, with Hector Dale manipulating the wheel, sped out in the moonlight. He decided instantly that Lake Okeechobee must be his destination— the lake deep in the Everglades, where hundreds of criminals lived unmolested.

The white posts marking the channel seemed like sentinels, and as he approached them. Hector ducked his head below the side of the boat waiting for the call of "Stop!" and the pistol shot of command. On and on, until, once in the canal, the narrow banks impelled fresh waves of horror to creep up his back. The oppression of being held overcame him again—the banks were like blank walls—on either side— and he leaned back in the boat, so as to see the stars overhead.

The moon had disappeared below tho horizon, and the limitless number of stars soothed him. It was all so vast, and his crime seemed so paltry compared with the infinity of the night, which comforted him.

Gradually the intense beating of his pulses became natural, and the wind dried the perspiration on his face. He let his arm and hand drag in the water, and dully watched the phosphorescent trail it left behind. His brain was numb; he could not think or feel, but he was temporarily at rest.

Hour after hour the boat continued, until, as dawn touched the silver of the water with its glory, he turned into the Loxahatchee River. Flocks of ducks hurled themselves up into the sky as his boat rounded the bends unexpectedly, and as the sun gradually came up over the low line of palms. Hector distinguished the long, slim form of alligators slithering through the jungle

The effect of the champagne was diminishing, and his mind was almost clear. The river narrowed and the chugging of the boat became more apparent. "He is dead— he is dead" was repeated to him by each revolution of the motor.

God! What had he done? It was not just the horror of his deed that appalled him, but added to it the tragic realisation that the panic which possessed him at the mere thought of being held between four walls could drive him to such lengths. He, Hector Dale, had killed a man— an acquaintance, who, half drunk, had merely asked him to 'phone his wife and pushed him into the booth, as a friendly joke— killed him in a flaming rise of temper in his efforts to get away from the walls around him. and the clouds of red smothering him.

And now he was running away from justice— he who had prided himself on his sense of honor! He was fleeing from danger, a coward, because he could not bear the idea of weeks spent in a cell. How often, as the train had rushed by Sing Sing, he had looked up at the bleak walls and tortured himself with visions of the prisoners in their close, damp quarters, locked in. unable to escape. Shivering, he gripped the boat with one hand. Steering it with the other around sharp, hair-pin bends. The tropical verdure became more luxurious at each turn, and terrapin and snakes were sunning themselves on almost every log.

A queer box floated in the water, and Hector's dull eyes and fevered brain comprehended that it was some fisherman's baitbox. He reached for it, and. dragging over the side, slowly opened it. The water dripped through the air holes and slopped about in the bottom of the boat, and by the time he managed to pry the top loose, the fish were gasping on the bare boards at the bottom. Fascinated, he leaned over, his eyes burning, and then slowly reached in and tossed fish after fish back into the river— free.

One slipped through his fingers and slid under the seat, and as he groped for it the clammy feel of its body reminded him of the man he had killed, and. with horror, he tossed towards the water.  Then he took the box and dashed it on the boat until it broke; he ripped the boards apart, tearing his hands on the nails, and let the pieces float off on the water, bouncing gaily along on the little waves stirred up by his boat. At last the fish and boards were free— and he was on his way.

Hector leaned over to bathe his face with the cool water, but halted as the persistent chug of a motor boat came from behind. He leaped to his feet. So they had followed him. and he was to be caught fleeing from justice, branded as a coward as well as a murderer. He— Hector Dale— coward! No, he must turn and meet the approaching captors. Then, as he grasped the wheel, a limp, swaying mass of lichen, blown by the soft breeze, brought visions of the fate of murderers. Death! It was not the thought of death itself which tortured his mind, but the idea of the top of the coffin being fastened down. Four walls! Captivity!

A woodpecker in a. nearby tree was driving its beak into the bark in march of food, and the sound came to his keen ears, even above the chug of the motor. It did not register in his mind as the tapping of a bird— it was the pounding rasp of nails In the lid of his coffin— and be pushed the lever into high speed. The boat went on and on— one bend after another in quick succession. Each time he rounded one he looked behind in terror, but the boat following: seemed unable to shorten the distance between them. It was always chugging just behind.

On and on— Hector's hands trembled, his knees grew weak, the hot sun burned him, and the continuous chug, chug! maddened him. Would it never end? On and on. A pure white heron fluttered its wings above its mate— screaming in its grief. Hector watched fascinated, for the agonised cries told him that the other bird was caught in some Indian's trap. The purity of the bird's feathers and its grief brought memories of his mother, and the vision of the night before returned— the quiet lamp-lit room and the peace in his mother's eyes as she kissed him.

How often she had talked with him about this weakness of his; how often she had explained that if once, in the heat of these frenzied orgies of his mind, he could control himself, she was sure he would be cured forever. She had pleaded with him to fight it out in cool-headed calmness, to place himself in a position of the kind that terrified him. One evening she had induced him to go into his closet alone and close the door, but— as he stepped towards it— he had lost his power of self-control, and fallen to the floor unconscious. Since then he had often thought of her words, but had never been sufficiently strong to make the test.

Chug, chug— the boat was still behind. Would he never escape? And then the door of the cabin on his boat swung open, and the tiny dark exterior yawned before him. and he staggered to his feet- Now was his opportunity! He could test the truth of his mother's statement. Chug, chug— the captors were still behind— escape seemed hopeless., for he was exhausted, and sooner or later they would get him, but, before he was caught, he must prove to himself that he. Hector Dale, was not a coward— he must go in the cabin and shut the door!

This horror that had influenced his whole life must be conquered before he died. He could not face his mother's eyes in after life, unless he proved to himself that be was not a coward. It was funny that it had never occurred to him before, that what had really driven him away from a normal life to the abnormal existence he led— avoiding crowds, buildings, elevators, closets— had not been a real injury to his nervous system by that experience with the oat bin, as he had thought— but cowardice—mere cowardice.

A queer feeling of exaltation filled him with vitality, and he raised his head and faced the sun, and let the soft, hot breeze sweep across his face. Then he opened the door and stepped inside the black hole of a cabin and closed it behind him. He waited for the familiar waves of nausea and horror to creep over him— waited. But none came.

In his interest he forgot everything, forgot he was being followed to be taken back as a murderer, only waited for the oppression and horror to rise and torture him, but his exaltation did not vary. Idly he touched the walls— pictured to himself that old scene in the oat bin years ago, but still he was not distressed by the nausea. Nothing bothered him or disturbed him, except the fumes of the gasoline escaping from the motor.

He had won! His mother had been right. If he could only have faced that closet years before, what agonies he would have been saved. He swung back the cabin door, and, blinded by the sun, blinked uncomprehendingly at the mangroves where, unpiloted, his little boat had dug its nose and was chugging uselessly.

Well, he must go back and meet his pursuers. The river was very narrow, and it was necessary to reverse the engine several times in order to turn around. The brown glade water whirred up on the mangroves, and Hector wondered if his arms were strong enough for the final twist. The mental strain and lack of food were beginning to have an effect on his physical strength. At last he accomplished it, and, with pale, set face, he aped toward his approaching captors and justice.

He looked deliberately at the lichen hanging from the trees, but now it only resembled lichen. Since those few minutes in the cabin, it was impossible to visualise the forms of hung men in its place.

Around another bend, and still no boat. A woodpecker on the tree held his attention— but the sound it made was only the natural one of a bird seeking food— healthy, normal. He could not arouse the vision of the grim, pale faces driving in the coffin nails.

Two more bends, and still no boat; another curve, and then his weary mind speculated on the fact that the sound of the motor boat was not ahead, but following him again from behind. Hector tore at his shirt, loosening It at the throat. Had he gone insane? He was stifling for air. A loon's wild cry pierced the silence of the jungle from a tree ahead— and behind in the distance came a faint answering cry.

He gasped! Could it be an echo? Trembling. he shouted "Hello," and he waited for the answer. "Hello"— it floated back. Once more he tested his idea. "Good-bye," he shrieked. "Good-bye," came the answer, and with it the assurance that what he had supposed to be another boat was nothing but the echo of his own. The sunlight beat down on him as he sank on the side of the  boat. He could still escape to Lake Okeechobee. But his one desire was to go back to Palm Beach and justice.

Hector looked through the mat of mangroves where the wild orchards flamed their secretive beauty, and realised that his mother had been right, and, having conquered his frenzy once, he had won forever. Even thoughts of the cell that awaited him aroused no sensation of nausea, and wearily he steered the little boat toward Palm Beach.

Hector Dale fastened the boat to the dock which he had left almost twenty hours before, and his exaltation was still supreme. He had no plans, only to give himself over to justice. Bedraggled, in need of a shave, worn with the ordeal he had passed through, he walked down the dock, and did not even notice the man sitting in a wheel chair gazing out at the twinkling lights of West Palm Beach across the lake. He would have passed by if the man's muffled voice calling his name had not stopped him and made him turn.

"Dale," the man said. "Dale, what in hell's the matter with you? You look done up."

Hector moved nearer, and. as he leaned towards the bandaged face that was talking to him, he could not believe that it was a real person— it was the man he had supposed he had killed.

"My God. don't look so terrified, " the voice continued. "I'm not a ghost yet— you almost finished me last night, old man, but not quite—I must say I didn't know you had it in you to fight like that— come on, shake, will you? You're all right!"

________________

5: The Dancer's Mascot

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

1859-1927

World's News (NSW), 8 Dec 1923

THE Brevity music-hall was having a success at last.

Several preceding revues had come down were or less with a run— or without one— and the reason why "Life and Its Livers" had "clicked" was said to be Sylva White's dancing, which captivated the audience on the first night, and had continued to draw ever since.

There are born dancers, and dancers who are made by training, and others.

Sylva's talent was innate, and brought to perfection by careful teaching.

She had the indescribable grace of a flower swaying in the breeze, or a bird skimming through the air; she was as light as thistledown on her feet, and as supple as a nautch girl. And every movement of her beautiful arms, every pose of her lissome figure, was a verse of the living poem she created when she danced.

Night after night the Brevity was packed for her turn, and the management had already given her a contract that meant the top of the tree for her, and a long run for their show.

On a June evening, when a crescent moon was sailing in a starry sky, and romance was in the air, even of a London street, the house, which had been half-empty, filled up just before nine for the "Fireflies"— the five girls of whom Sylva was the lead.

In the orchestra a young violinist with grave, dark eyes, and a handsome, pale face, gazed steadily at the O.P. side, by which the Queen of the Fireflies would enter.

It had happened that Max Delorme met Sylva and played for her to dance before she was engaged on a trial week at the Brevity; and the whole of his emotional artist's heart had yielded to the idyllic talent and the radiant personality of her. More than once he had tried, in those poor days of the little dancing girl, to tell her what she was to him. But Sylva, with all her joie-de-vivre, was not for love or lovers as yet.

She put him off with gay evasion; only now and again vouchsafing a special simile or glance just to keep him from despair.

Irately, since her success, he had looked for this reassurance in vain: and to the pain of hopelessness was added now the corroding flame of jealousy.

It was an ecstasy of agony that he suffered each night while he played first fiddle for her solo.

As the four girls who were her accessories crossed the stage and finished their prelude to her entrance, Max, keenly conscious of every detail, noted the expression on the face of one of them, a brunette called Julia Joy.

There was no mistaking the furious hate that disfigured it as Sylva entered and hovered in the centre before commencing a pas seul, while the storm of applause greeted her, the music purposely dallying under the conductor's baton to give her time and mark her as the star.

Then Sylva, with a little gesture of both hands, as though she would gather the incense of adulation to her heart, glanced at the conductor and broke into her swallow flight.

Max, watching closely, saw her reach the corner where Julia Joy was, saw Julia take a half-step forward from the line, and thereby collide with Sylva just as she made her swift turn to dart up the stage again.

It was very nearly a bad fiasco.

Sylva, all unconscious of the cause, was thrown off her balance, and would have fallen headlong but for her consummate skill and elasticity.

As it was, she only touched the ground with her finger-tips, and was upright and whirling on before the audience fully realised the clever recovery.

But when they did the applause burst out in a tornado of approval, and the slip that might have meant a failure became a fresh triumph.

A man leaning out of a box led the clapping that greeted her concluding pose, and Sylva, glancing directly at him, smiled her recognition. Julia's eyes were malignant as she looked from one to the other, and she was the embodiment of venomous spite when a superb trophy of white flowers was handed over the footlights, followed by bouquets and posies in profusion.

Sylva received the tribute with another upward glance at the box where Carew Blane sat.

Max, heedless of possible reprimand, as he ceased playing, flung a spray of lilies towards her.

She set her foot on it as she bowed in response to repeated calls, and the curtain went down on the picture that she made— branded indelibly on Max Delorme's brain— his flowers crushed and trampled, while a bloom from his rival's offering was raised to her lips, and her face glowed with emotion that was the counterfeit of love, if pot love itself.

When Sylva reached her dressing-room she ran to the table where stood a small Oriental dancing figure, and lifting it, kissed it and put some flowers round it.

"You think it is your mascot," said sneering voice behind her. and Sylva. startled, faced round to find Julia Joy in the doorway.

"I love my little Eastern girl," Sylva said quietly. "I always give her some of my flowers, and to-night she deserves them more than usual."

"Yes— more than you think. It was touch and go with you when you barged up against me."

Julia's voice was fiercely rancorous, and Sylva, wondering and a little dismayed, went and touched her on the shoulder.

"Why, Julie," she said, "was it you? How did it happen, dear? I was doing exactly the same as usual, and I always calculate that corner to a hair's breadth."

Then, seeing the anger in the girl's dark flush, she caught up one of her bouquets. "Don't let us quarrel over it." she added sweetly; "have some of my flowers."

Julia seized the posy and hurled it to the floor.

"I hate you," she stammered furiously. "I stepped forward on purpose. I hoped you would come to grief. I'll never dance with you again. I'm giving in my notice tonight."

And as Sylva stepped back amazed, she ran to the table, snatched the little statuette, and threw it violently down, breaking it to pieces.

As she flung out of the room. Sylva knelt amongst the debris, trying to fit the broken fragments together, with tears shimmering in her eyes. The dresser, entering with a note, stared aghast.

"Why, whatever's happened to your little bit o'luck, miss," she said. "Never mind about them pieces— I'll pick 'em up for you. Read your letter, dear, and dry your eyes."

Sylva obeyed, and. changing her dress, pinned some of Blane's stephanotis in the front of it before she threw a cloak round her and sped along to the stage door.

Outside a grey limousine was waiting, and Blane met her as she emerged.

Max Delorme, waiting too, was about to speak to her, but she took Blane's arm and they got into the car and drove away.

One of her flowers had fallen. Max picked it up and put it reverently into his pocket.

The tragic despair in his soul deepened as he walked away; he was beginning to realise how completely Sylva had passed out of his life. He would have recognised it still more fully if his eyes could have followed his thoughts in pursuit of the car.

Blane, after capturing both Sylva's hands, had lifted them to his neck, and, clasping his arms round her, kissed her fervently.

Then, drawing a jewel-case from his pocket, he showed her the necklace that it held.

"Pearls for my pearl." he said, "as white as her sweet neck." and he kissed her again as he fastened the clasp.

"Oh, Carew! For me, really?" Sylva said. "Why should you give me such a lovely present?"

"Because I love you," he declared passionately, "my white rose of the world. Because I am going to give you everything you want, if you'll let me."

It seemed to be the fulfilment of all her dreams— a rich, adoring husband, the crown of her career!.

They had reached the Supper Club, and were descending the stairs to the large room, when Sylva's foot slipped— the chance of an uneven edge to the carpet— and she fell to the landing below.

She gave a little sharp cry of pain, and Blane was beside her instantly, lifting her up and saying: "Not hurt. I hope?"

"Oh, no!" Sylva smiled. "It jarred my ankle, that's all. I'm quite all right."

Yet the color had left her cheeks and even her lips were pale, as she stood up and essayed to walk.

"I'm afraid I've wrenched it," she said faintly. "It doesn't seem to work properly. Oh, how stupid of me! I'm sure I can limp along to our table."

But every movement was torture, and she turned faint with the pain.

Blane's expression was a curious blend of concern and impatience. He hated being made to look a fool, and the couples hastening to and from the supper room were beginning to notice the little episode.

Two girls whom he knew and who were non-attended, looked back over their shoulders at him and made a gesture of invitation as they hurried on.

"Perhaps there is more damage than you think," he suggested to Sylva. "Wouldn't it be wiser to see a doctor?"

"Yes, I suppose so." She was almost crying. "Do you mind taking me home. Carew?"

"Of course," he answered readily enough. "Lean on me and we'll get along at once."

His car took them to her flat, and he carried her in and directed her maid to telephone for his doctor.

"It's better when I rest," Sylva said, trying to keep up bravely. "Perhaps it's only a sprain, and It he binds it up very tight I could still go to supper with you."

Carew held his peace, except for a muttered remark about bad luck.

He did not care to have his evening spoilt, and the laughing grimaces of the two girls clung to his mind unpleasingly.

When, the doctor had examined the ankle he shook his head. "A compound , fracture! What a pity you didn't stay where you were. I could have prevented that."

He busied himself with splints and bandages while Blane, pacing up and down In the passage, looked at his watch continually and swore softly under his breath.

Presently, when the doctor came out. he asked: "Not a serious injury, I suppose?"

"Very serious for her," the doctor answered. "She won't be able to dance for a long time— perhaps never again."

Blane made a hasty movement of dissatisfaction.

"Well, it's very unfortunate," he said, "but It can't be helped. I have to keep an appointment and am late already. Can I drop you, doctor."

Renée, Sylva's French maid, listening to them, turned to Sylva.

"Oh! pauvre madame, monsieur le docteur say that you may per'aps never dance any more."

Sylva stared at her for a moment in silence, scarcely able to realise the stupendous calamity that had befallen her; then, as the front door slammed after the two men, she fainted.

At the Supper Club, Blane. making his way to the table he had booked, was beckoned by the girls who had signalled to him before.

They had been joined by Lord Theophilus Hafton, known as "Toffy," and they called out as Blane approached, "Make a fourth. We want squaring here."

Blane agreed, and dismissed Sylva and the whole untoward incident from his mind.

A life of deliberate resolute pleasure had dulled his capacity for even ordinary sympathy; and chivalry had always been a dead letter to him.

He disliked bother, and was bored by misfortune; poverty and bad luck were crimes in his eyes, and he had no use for anyone or anything that fell short of success.

Sylva's brief day with him was over.

Meanwhile Delorme in his Soho bedroom, was writing letters, the flower he had picked up outside the stage door, set in a glass of water, beside him.

We used to be good friends, Sylva, before you made your hit. Now you never look my way, and to-night you crushed my lilies beneath your feet. I care for you too deeply to continue playing while you dance. I see that I have lost you for ever, and can be nothing to you now. Yet, I wish you every possible happiness and a brilliant career. I go to America this week, and shall start a new life there.

Yours as ever,

Max Delorme.

P.S.— If you should need a friend— which is not likely— you have only to let me know. I would come to you from the end of the world."

He addressed the note to Sylva at the Brevity Theatre, and it remained there m the rack for many a day to come, being joined later on by , one addressed to Max Delorme, In Sylva's writing.

Evil days had come to her following on the doctor's verdict. Her contract cancelled, her power of making money by her art gone for an indefinite period, and the complete desertion of Carew Blane, had crushed her life as a flower is wilted by a thunderstorm.

She had no near relations, and the crowd of pseudo-friends who had been so keen to be on good terms with the star of the moment had forgotten her before the week was out.

"Poor Sylvia White!" they remarked to each other; "wasn't she broken up in some way? One never sees her now."

A brief epitaph, due more to carelessness than callousness!

Sylva herself had found time to do many kind things during her own days of struggle and work; but in the race for success and pleasure there is little room for memory.

Lonely, and growing poorer every day as her stock of earnings evaporated, she despaired, until a gleam of hope came with the recollection of Max

She wrote a few lines, with confident expectation.

Dear Max

You once said that no matter what happened, you would never change to me. You must have heard of my accident, and that I may never be able to dance again professionally. I am very miserable and lonely. No one has been near me all this time. Won't you come?

Sylva.

Her letter joined the one addressed to her at the Brevity from Max. and both waited there with "No address left," pencilled on them.

It was on the day that she moved tram her flat to a cheap lodging that she passed a poster, headed "Brevity Theatre," showing "Julia Joy in her new dance-scene."

Tears flashed into her eyes, and she drew back in the taxi, while an open car passed slowly by, the man and girl in it absorbed in looking at the poster.

It was Carew Kane and Julia, the brown eyes sparkling, the full, vivid lips smiling, and round her neck the pearls that Sylva, in her hurt pride, had returned long since to Blane. It was the last straw to Sylva's burden of unhappiness.

During the weeks that followed, she slid down hill faster and faster towards the valley of despondency.

Her money at an end, her health broken, she lay, after a bout of rheumatic fever, spent and exhausted.

Only the charity of her landlady stood between her and the workhouse.

Visions came to her of Max— Max In a concert-hall, playing to an enraptured audience, Max besieged by managers— Max signing a contract— Max opening a letter— hers!— Max turning from it to tear up the contract-deed, and tendering bills for two thousand dollars in default.

Finally Max homeward bound on an ocean liner, with his face towards England and her! Delicious fancies, or the telepathic knowledge that is theirs who hover on the great borderland?

Her ragged curtain floating out from the open window over the dingy street below, seemed to someone passing by, in eager search, to be a flag of distress and surrender.

He halted, drew a violin from under his arm, and began to play—the old melody to which Sylva danced on the fatal night.

Her wandering thoughts concentrated themselves, her restless fingers plucking the coverlet were still— she listened intently.

Presently she raised herself, stepped to the floor, and staggered with feeble steps toward the window.

On the narrow mantelpiece, the little Oriental figure, mended and patched, seemed to pause in its dance and watch her with soft, expectant eyes.

Sylva's feet began to move to the well-remembered measure: it was the wraith of her former self that danced towards death. As she felt herself falling, she caught at the curtain, and a cry of anguish was wafted down to the street— "Max! Max!"

The music ceased suddenly, and an instant later swift footsteps reached her door, and Delorme, laying his violin down, had gathered her up into his arms.

Sylva— his Sylva— found again, after close search, but dead!

He stooped and pressed his lips to the colorless face; and as he did so, a ray of life returned to it, and she opened her eyes murmuring his name again.

THE announcement of a new turn at the Brevity Theatre had brought some  of its patrons, who were inclined to drop off, back again.

Max Delorme, the New York violinist, was to contribute a special feature with his wife.

There was a sensation of interest as he played a short solo, and said it was a preliminary to an announcement he wished to make to them. The management had advertised him liberally as the artist who had broken a fifteen-thousand-dollar contract to come over and play for them. He laid his violin down as Sylva entered, and, taking her by the hand, led her to the footlights.

In a few impassioned words, he told them that she was their former favorite Sylva White, whose accident, caused intentionally by a member of her company, had debarred her from re-appearing on the stage until now. She would repeat her former dance, he added, and, he hoped, her former success.

Lovelier than ever, with the old witchery of face and form, the heart of the audience was at her command from the moment he finished his speech, and, withdrawing to the side, resumed his violin to play for her.

Carew Blane leant forward in his box amazed and ashamed. Sylva never glanced at him, even when his plaudits joined the others.

Instead, she smiled divinely at Max, and stretched out her hand for him to take the call at her side.

The house stood up to greet her; some inkling of the truth, which had been current at the time, recurred to the minds of a few of those present, and they gave her a tremendous ovation.

At last, when they allowed her to go, the next turn was indicated, and Julia Joy came on. A storm of booing assailed her; she looked frightened, and faltered: the gallery jeered and the pit cheered ironically. Hardly anyone knew the reason, but it made an amusing variation to the evening.

Julia sent an imploring look up to Blane's box.

But Blane had disappeared!

Again Julia began to dance, and the booing started afresh; while some small object was hurled at her derisively from the gallery.

She stamped her feet, raged at them for a moment, and then, bursting into angry tears, made her exit.

The tumult continuing, Max and Sylva were entreated by the management to reappear.

The moment they did so, the disturbance subsided, and clapping all over the house showed its entire approval.

As Sylva took her encore, the past vanished as an ugly dream that dies at dawn.

Only the triumphant present and the smiling future were in the melody that Max improvised as she took her old place on the Brevity stage.

_______________

6: The Red Wig

E. S. Sorenson

1869-1939

World's News (NSW), 11 April 1925

Edward S. Sorenson

WHEN Harry Brann put up his first residence on Bora Hill, he knew he had built it on an aboriginal bora ground, which gave the place its name, but he did not know that the local blacks resented it as a sacrilege. There were not many white settlers in that part of Queensland then, but there were plenty of blacks, and it was not healthy for an isolated family to incur their animosity.

The Branns had left their children with Grandmother Tweed for schooling, but their rough slab hut was shared by Phyllis Tweed, who was Mrs. Brann's sister, and Bill Wyley, their handy man.

Bill was courting Phyllis. He was young and nuggety, and, but for one embarrassing defect, he would have been good-looking. Through a burning accident in his boyhood, he had no hair on his head or face. His ears were rather big, and the complete desert around them made them more prominent. When camouflaged with a thick, dark wig, his appearance was rather more attractive than otherwise; but when he took the wig off to wash himself, or go to bed, he looked so peculiar that even Harry, who had known him for years, couldn't help smiling. He had always been most careful not to let Phyllis see him with it off. She was a lovable girl, and as he wanted her to love him, he took pains to make the best of himself.

There was another peculiarity about Bill. He had learnt from his father, an old pioneer on the Clarence River, that the blacks never harmed a man or woman that had red hair, because, in their religion, Ululu, the protectress of women and the wife of Yulutahna, the maker of all things, had red hair. So, when he found he was getting out among uncivilised blacks, Bill obtained a red wig from a friend who was clowning in a travelling circus. It was an exaggerated headpiece, that had caricatured a fiery-topped Irishman. Its conspicuousness, however, made it all the more valuable. It could be seen beyond boomerang or spear range, and Bill reckoned it a better protection than a gun. But he mostly carried it in his shirt, or left it in his box when working near home, as when he had it on he looked like a clown.

There was a scrub at one side of Bora Hill, which Mrs. Brann and Phyllis did not like, as it afforded cover for the blacks to watch the hut, and perhaps attack it. For a long time neither of them would go down to the creek for a bucket of water. That was a job that was left to Bill Wyley. He was wood and water joey, and in that employment he was a quick-change artist.

As soon as he got below the sapling yard, which partially screened him from the hut, he left his dark wig and hat on a stump, and went down to the  scrub with only the flaring red mop on his apex. Several times he encountered blacks, who invariably showed a friendly disposition. He had no doubt that he owed this to the red wig, for, on one occasion, while horse-hunting without it, he had narrowly escaped a spear that was thrown from behind a tree, and Harry Brann had been twice attacked from cover, while riding in the bush alone.

While the boundary fence was being erected, Harry Brann worked with a loaded gun beside him, and his dog on guard; but Bill Wyley. working in the magic wig, dispensed with dogs and firearms. Nor did he bother to look about like his mate did, or keep an eye on the dark figures that sometimes loitered near them, curiously watching operations. He had faith in the red wig as long as there was light for it to be seen, and Harry Brann, though always circumspective, felt safer while Bill was with him in his clownish aspect.

Both desired to make friends with the first Inhabitants, but Harry had learned that they nursed a grudge against him for building on the bora ground, and was sure that vengeance would be theirs if they got a chance. Bill Wyley was just as sure that vengeance would fall on him too if he was caught without the magic wig.

They had reached the back boundary when the first aggressive move was made against the hut. It was mid-afternoon, when the rattle of a chain, under the. lean-to at the back, attracted Mrs. Brann. Looking through the window, she was horrified to see a mob of naked warriors around the fire, their interest centred in a plum pudding she had been cooking in an iron pot for the men when they came home in the evening. Two of the scamps were lifting it out with their spears, which they thrust through the cloth. This impudent action she regarded as" a declaration of hostilities, and rushed back to her sister in a panic.

"Oh, Phyllis, the blacks are here! They're stealing the pudding."

The girl's face paled at the shock. She sprang to the window, and surveyed the alarming scene with rounded eyes. The thieves were, in their war panoply, and the absence of women was considered an ominous sign. They had taken the pudding out of the pot, and were cutting it up on the ground with a boomerang.

"Whatever shall we do?" cried Mrs. Brann, in hopeless distress. "Harry's got the gun away, and Bill's got the wig."

"Wait a minute," said Phyllis. She hurried to the front, and looked out. Her pony was standing behind some bushes, a few yards away, and in a moment she decided to get him.

"Dora," she whispered, as she darted back. "I can get Nutley without being seen. You peg the doors and windows, and I'll gallop out for the men."

"Oh, let me go too!" her sister pleaded. "I'll be murdered if you leave me" here."

"We can't both go." said Phyllis. "One would only hinder the other. Keep quiet, and they won't know you're here."

She snatched a bridle from a nail behind the door as she spoke, and was outside before Mrs. Brann could offer any further objections. In a few seconds the bridle was on Nutley's head, and straddling his bare back, she galloped off. The first clatter of hoofs, aroused the preoccupied thieves, who started up and pointed, with excited whispers, at the speeding messenger. Then some went round the hut, trying doors and windows, whilst Mrs. Brann shivered within and looked about her helplessly for a means of defence.

She went into Bill's room, and lifted the lid of his box, in the desperate hope of finding a small firearm of some sort. To her amazement she saw the red wig lying on top of his clothes. Then she remembered that the men said they would be fencing that day on a small plain, where it would not be possible for an enemy to surprise them. So Bill had been careless enough, in the circumstances, to leave his charm behind.

With breathless haste the woman gathered her hair in a knob, and pulled the red wig over it, turning and twisting many times in front of the glass. before she was satisfied . with the fit. Then, screwing up her courage, she opened the window and thrust her head out.

The astonished raiders gasped and stared. Some looked frightened, some as if they were ashamed or sorry. One, who was eating pudding, nearly choked. He was an elderly villain, and apparently leader of the foray. Recovering from his surprise, he raked the broken lumps of pudding together on the cloths and placed the bundle under the window, like a worshipper laying an offering at the feet of a goddess. As he retreated, he made some gestures that might have been apologies, and the mob went away.

Mrs. Brann was so delighted that she went to the front to wait, in the magic headgear, for the return of Phyllis. She was laughing at her quaint appearance, but soon the laugh vanished. As the sun was going down, the men appeared, but Phyllis was not with them. In fresh alarm, she hurried down the slope.

"Where's Phyllis?" she cried, as she met them.

Both stopped short, and stared at her comical thatch.

"What's up?" asked Harry.

"The blacks were here," she told him, "and Phyllis galloped out to bring you home."

"We haven't seen her," Harry returned, looking blankly at his mate.

"Oh, where can she be? She's lost— she's killed!" his wife wailed, wringing her hands.

"You stop with her, Harry," said Bill, "and I'll go along her tracks." He took the red wig, and, after a hurried change indoors, cut off some bread and meat, and set out with Harry's dog.

Before the daylight faded, he discovered that she had been knocked off the pony in a patch of scrub, and, after vainly trying to catch the pony again, she had continued on foot. Though Nutley was easily caught, in the little home paddock, his behaviour in the open was different. He was a rogue..

Farther on, the searcher recognised that the girl was bushed. He thought of the thirst-tortured travellers who had wandered in circles, and died, and, as he followed the girl's erratic course, four lines kept repeating themselves in his mind:—'

Dead on the sandhill

The sundowner lies,

The crow on the quondong

Has pecked out his eyes.

He was glad when the dog led him in the dark to water. By striking matches along the edge, he saw the impression of the girl's hand, still fresh in the mud. Now satisfied, that she was safe, he sat down, and ate some of the bread and meat he had brought, keeping the bigger share for Phyllis. Then he pushed on again, until the dog stopped beneath two trees that stood close together.

Built across the branches was a bulky stage of logs and sticks, which he recognised as the resting place of a dead aborigine. He thought that the dog had been attracted by the faint stench that came from it, but when he tried to induce the animal to go on, it only dodged aside, and looked up. Bill got annoyed.

"Don't want a bit of dead nigger, do yer?" he rasped at the mutineer. "Get along there."

But the dog refused to proceed. Being dead tired, Bill at last decided to wait till dawn, and returned to the waterhole. There he lay down in the grass, with his coat for a rug, and his wig for a pillow.

In the morning, he was wakened by the growling of his brute companion, and found himself uncomfortably close to a number of excited darkies, who were standing on the opposite side of the water. They were pointing towards the treed cadaver, but, when his barren top rose out of the grass, it became an object of attraction that seemed to stiffen them momentarily, as if they were spellbound. Bill ducked down again, and, when he reappeared in a shock of red hair, their attitude 'f pent astonishment was ludicrous. Their mouths gaped, and their necks stretched, whilst their stupefied gaze wandered from him to the grave trees.

Bill was not feeling too sure of his position. He looked round, and in an instant he laughed. Sitting on the stage, a few feet from the withered corpse, with scared face and tumbled hair, was Phyllis Tweed. At once he understood the blacks' bewilderment. They believed that a dead brother could "jump up whitefellow," but this one seemed to have "come back-lubra."

Bill jumped with joy. The blacks jumped too. and fled. At the same time, Phyllis— who had been frightened aloft by dingoes— slipped down from the tree, and ran to meet the human chameleon. Her relief was so great that she did not protest when he caught her in his arms and kissed her as if she belonged to him. But presently she drew back with bowed head, and little crimson patches dyed her cheeks. Bill held her hands.

"You needn't mind, Phyllis," he said. "I've wanted to kiss you ever so long, an' I want to kiss you always. What about it?"

"I'll tell you when I get home," she answered, her face puckering, as she looked at his clownish top, which Bill had forgotten.

"I'm not going home till I know," he returned. "I've got some bread an' meat for your breakfast, if you'll tell me now."

"I'm awfully hungry," she said, and nestled laughingly under the red wig.

_______________

7: The Langdon Mystery

Leroy Scott

1875-1929

The New McClure’s, Oct 1928

World's News (NSW), 11 Sep 1929

Leroy Scott

IT WAS at nine o'clock exactly that Gen. Thorne, Commissioner of Police, accompanied by young Arnold Booth, mounted the steps of what still was called the Moreland house, a monument to the departed glories of a Fifth Avenue now in the hands of wrecking crews and apartment house builders. He rang the bell of the massive imported doors.

"Keep a stiff backbone, Arnold, and a stiff tongue in what we're about to go through with," prompted the General while they waited.

"I will— but this is an awful role you've cast me for!" exclaimed the younger man.

"I've forced you into this part for your own good— and for Muriel's," was the kindly but dominant response.

"You know, Arnold," he went on, "that I picked your firm of lawyers to represent Muriel solely because you were a member of the firm—and that I insisted upon your handling her case personally, because it largely is your own personal case. The only way, Arnold, to clean up a case is to face the issues squarely in the open, have a showdown, fight to a finish if necessary. Tonight you clean up this case— you fight your fight for your own!"

One of the heavy doors swung open, and before them in the shadowy light, stood a young woman. Gen. Thorne kissed her as a father might have done. Silently she gave Arnold Booth a hand, which, in silence he accepted.

"Are you your own butler to-night Muriel?" inquired Gen. Thorne.

"I gave everybody the night oft," the young woman explained, "since you said over the telephone our conference was to be very confidential."

"And Hugh, is he here?" the General asked anxiously.

"Hugh is waiting with Mother."

"In the library? You arranged the meeting for the library, as I asked?"

"Yes. uncle."

GEN. THORNE was not her uncle. He had been her father's best , friend, and, since her father's death, when she was ten, he had been both guardian and father. He took her shoulders in firm hands, and gazed with intent affection down into the strained and lovely face of the only daughter his bachelorhood had known.

She was no more than twenty-two, but features and figure radiated nothing of that spirited happiness which should have glowed within a bride of less than three years. '

"Try to have courage, Muriel," the General urged in a kindly voice.

She led them back, through a silent hallway into the great library rich with old tapestries, its walls and ceilings of panelled Flemish oak.

Gen. Thorne nodded shortly at a handsome ; young man leaning at his ease against the library desk, and made straight for a wheelchair in which, as on a throne, sat an erect elderly woman who had been a dominant figure in New York society back it those years before society had ceased to exist Before her Gen. Thorne made a courtly bow that bespoke diplomatic as well as military service."

"Good evening, Caroline."

Muriel's mother made him no response in words, but her eyes of preternatural vividness glowed a welcome. She had been the one love of Gen. Thorne's life, and he loved her now almost as he had loved her in those far days when she had refused him, and had accepted Muriel's father! for him, despite years and changes, she somehow still had the quality of regal beauty.

Mrs. Moreland was now a helpless paralytic; worse than helpless, for she could not speak, she could not write, and all other methods of communication with those about her had been closed to her. But sight, hearing, and brain were unimpaired.

Sometimes it had seemed to Gen. Thorne that the most tragic phase of his friend's misfortune was that all her higher faculties were as keen as when she had been at her best, and that the wisdom, the urgency, the power for right of those faculties were now left Without instrument for expression. She wore a loose grey robe, open at the seek, and in her lap lay her hands, limp, helpless, immobile.

"What did Dr. Howard say, Muriel?" Gen. Thorne eagerly asked the daughter. Dr. Howard was yet another great specialist who had been called in, and his examination of Mrs. Moreland had taken place that afternoon.

"HE held out practically no hope. He said that since mother had been this way for two years and had responded to no treatment, he believed she would always be the same."

"Dr. Howard said nothing further?"

"He did say something about the possibility of some tremendous psychic stimulant, some swift, overwhelming emotion, galvanising her nerve centres into spasmodic life. But such life would last only while the stimulant lasted, and she would quickly slip back into her present condition. He said there had been such cases."

Gen. Thorne gazed again at Mrs. Moreland, and slowly shook his head in sympathy.

"Too bad, Caroline— too bad."

There had been no hesitancy in thus speaking frankly before Mrs. Moreland of her illness, because even in her prime here had been a nature that desired to know the worst of any situation, and that was ever ready to face the worst. Those nearest her knew that affliction had not changed this attitude. Therefore, all things vitally touching her and hers were invariably talked over in her presence. This was the simplest and surest method of acquainting her with facts which concerned her.

Gen. Thorne turned to the young man leaning in such pleasant unconcern against the desk. The two young men were second cousins, but Hugh Langdon, with his handsome face, his smart clothes, his ease and charm of manner, was a brilliant cosmopolitan beside whom Arnold Booth, for all his courtroom experience, looked little better than a foil.

"Hugh, draw a chair up to that side of your mother-in-law," directed Gen. Thorne. "Arnold, place your chair at the other side of your aunt. Muriel and I will sit between you. We are going to have this affair out all five of us together."

Hugh moved leisurely to his place. When they were seated in an arc about the silent woman— all but she were in evening dress— it was almost as if court were in session, that helpless silent woman its high judge.

"Now, Arnold, begin," commanded Gen. Thorne.

It was indeed a distasteful, difficult task considering the relations among the five of them, that the kindly martinet of a Gen Thorne had placed upon Arnold Booth.

"Aunt Caroline," began Arnold huskily, placing a hand upon her grey shoulder— she was of more distant kinship, but he had always called her aunt— "I'd rather be doing almost anything in the world than what I'm doing now. But— but I've got to carry on. Aunt Caroline, as far as facts and conclusions are concerned, I speak for both Gen. Thorne and myself; he has been behind me and my firm in everything.

"To start with: Muriel must divorce Hugh."

"DIVORCE me," Hugh drawled with a challenging smile, "so that she can marry you, dear cousin Arnold? Is that your meaning?"

"Exactly!" cut in Gen. Thorne. "Muriel should have married Arnold in the first place!"

"You're forgetting, General, that dear cousin Arnold had the same chance that I had," Hugh responded, with an ease that amounted to a deliberate taunting of the older man. "Muriel chose me."

Gen. Thorne turned to the pale young wife. "Here's where I put a few questions! Muriel," he demanded, "Did you really love Hugh, or were you captivated by Hugh's personality— just as dozens of other women were?"

"At the time I believed I loved him," she faltered. "But— I now believe it was because he made himself so wonderfully fascinating."

"Muriel, did Hugh Langdon ever really love you?" the General pressed her.

Muriel hesitated for a moment. "I am certain now Hugh never did love me. Perhaps it was just my money he cared for. But there was something more than that. Hugh always felt superior to Arnold, always hated him. He never made real love to me until after he knew that Arnold had proposed. I am certain now that, next to my money, Hugh's chief idea in proposing to me and marrying me was to head off Arnold."

"That's the truth, Hugh Langdon!" General Thorne fiercely drove at the young husband, "and every action of yours since the marriage corroborates it!"

"Pardon me, General," Hugh drawled in his ironically pleasant voice,. "I'm living with my wife. I propose to continue living here in this house, and under existing conditions I fail to see how you are going to get a divorce And, pardon me again, General— just why do you and dear Arnold presume to interfere in my domestic and private affairs?"

General Thorne fairly exploded into Hugh's smiling face.

"I interfere because what you call your domestic affairs are my ward's domestic affairs! You fooled all of us for a long time. You behaved while your father was alive, or at least you maintained the appearance of good behaviour; you were afraid of your father, and what he might do to you in his will, it's been only since his death that you've dared come out in the open and show as your true character.

"And inasmuch as I, Muriel's godfather and guardian, let myself be fooled by that false surface of you, Hugh Langdon. I'm responsible for Muriel's mistake, and I'm going to wipe out that mistake and see that Muriel has her fair chance for happiness. That's why I'm interfering!"

"Bravo, General— a speech worthy of the best stage guardian!" cried Hugh, softly clapping his hands.

"Young man," thundered Gen. Thorne "you are going to have mighty little say-so in this settlement beyond saying 'yes.' Arnold, go on with your statement to your aunt; and don't be afraid of speaking facts because they're ugly— she's got to know them."

"Aunt Caroline, here in brief is the case against Hugh. And the case in behalf of Muriel and her happiness." The young lawyer paused a moment to arrange his facts and to flash a glance at Muriel, imploring her forgiveness for the blunt, distasteful duty that had been assigned him.

"Aunt Caroline, Hugh has always been a ladies' man, though only in the last two years has the extent of his gallantry become known. Women could not resist him, it is said. As far as Hugh himself is concerned, he loves to have women make fools of themselves in order to gain his favor.

"From the time of his marriage Hugh has been unfaithful to Muriel with various women. My firm, instigated, and aided by Gen. Thorne, has long had detectives on his trail, and has a dozen times the evidence necessary for a New York decree. He is very fastidious in his amorous adventures; his amours have been almost solely with famous beauties of the stage and women of his own social class. He soon tires of a favorite, but there is quickly another to her place.

"Aunt Caroline, we asked that this present conference be held here in the library because we wished a certain practice of his to be made concretely clear to you as by a chart. This library and the connecting study and lounge room can be shut off from the rest of the house by the main door through which we entered. That door there at your left opens into the little-used side street. So you see that in effect these rooms are a very private apartment with their own private entrance.

"This private apartment Hugh has practically made his own. From time to time various women have had latch-keys to that side door; and these rooms, your home and Muriel's home, have been the stage setting for many scenes of Hugh's love affairs with his successive favorites— as I can prove to you."

"But supposing," put in Hugh Langdon, apparently unperturbed by these charges. "I choose to deny all this?"

"You are going to have no such choice," declared Arnold. "You are going to face divorce proceedings. The divorce will be granted— so much you may consider as definitely settled this very minute. The only choice in this matter that is allowed to you is this: we are willing to grant you the privilege of choosing the woman who is to be named as co-respondent. Our strongest evidence to date involves three particular  women. But these three are women of good families. We prefer not to shame these women or their families.

"By the one choice allowed you, arrange with some other woman to agree to be the co-respondent, and help us cinch the evidence. If this is collusion, it is collusion only to the extent of allowing you to pick as the partner of your guilt the woman who will be least injured by our court action. You do that, Hugh, or we will name all three of these women of most respectable families, and we will be ready to prove you guilty on each charge!"

With his smile of cool, defiant superiority, Hugh tried to beat down his old rival and drive him into confused retreat. But the hard thrust of his mockery merely glanced off the grim determination of the young lawyer,

"There is to be a divorce!" Arnold drove back at him. "Which is it to be? Do we name the three women, or will you fin another co-respondent? Let's haw your answer!"

Hugh was silent for a long moment.

"I do not seem able to help myself," he said finally. "So I yield to your demands— that is, provided Muriel, after a talk with me, still wishes a divorce."

"I have already told you what Muriel wishes!" hotly declared General Thorne.

"Even so, there is nothing far you to lose in my talking things over with my wife. I'm really asking very, very little—just fifteen minutes alone with Muriel. This promise to aid you in the case and to help save Muriel from newspaper sensationalism by not fighting the suit should be worth your very serious consideration."

Both Arnold and General Thorne regarded Hugh Langdon suspiciously. Then Arnold turned to Mabel.

"The answer seems to rest with you."

"I'll talk with Hugh," she agreed after a brief pause.

The telephone on the library desk began to ring. Muriel crossed and answered it. The call was from Gen. Thorne's butler. The General spoke for a few moments, then hung up.

"Captain Devine has just dropped in at my house to see me on an important matter and I must leave," he announced. "It should stimulate your decision, Hugh, to be reminded that Captain Devine has police information upon many details of your romantic affairs. Muriel, I shall be back here shortly after your talk with Hugh is over. If you need me before then, just remember that my house is only three minutes away and give me I ring."

"When I come back, Caroline," he said with quiet assurance, "well settle this matter thoroughly. Quite thoroughly!"

Arnold gave Muriel a strained gaze of love that bad waited long and that still had no rights. Instinctively he did not like the idea of leaving her alone with Hugh—he felt a vague fear—but she had accepted the bargain. So he silently followed Gen. Thorne out of the library.

HUGH, who had followed them, locked the heavy door that shut off the rest of the house. His back against it, he looked coolly across at his wife, and again his mocking smile slowly overspread his face. She met his gaze steadily, determined to keep herself In hand during this scene with the husband who had so often humiliated her.

"So you want a divorce, my dear?" he inquired softly.

"All has just been said that there is to be said." she returned quietly.

"My dear. I have no desire to marry another woman. My present married state suits me exactly; as a wife you are my ideal of all that is charming and beautiful, and I wish to retain such a jewel. Further, my dear, you are a lady of very great fortune— a fortune much greater than mine; and it would pain me greatly to have that fortune amputated by the keen blade of a divorce decree. Furthermore, and lastly, my dear, I never did relish the idea of you and Arnold marrying."

"Your reasons are absurd!" she cried out, for the first time losing the control she had determined upon.

"Possibly, my dear. But I have just stated, very briefly, my reasons for definitely deciding not to give you a divorce."

"Not give me a divorce? You can't help yourself!"

"Do you think I'm a fool?" he demanded. "Do you think I didn't see this thing coming? Do you think I'm not prepared? My dear. I have a stronger case than you have and my lawyer already has the divorce papers drawn up and prepared for filing! I'm going to show you my hand. I've just been told by your representatives that they've been suspicion s of me from the start, and have had detectives watching me. Well, from the first I've been suspicious of you and my detectives have teen watching you. They secured the necessary evidence. The co-respondent I shall name in my papers is one of your very old admirers, at one time a sweetheart— Gerald Macy."

"Gerald Macy!" she cried out. "You know Gerald and I were just good friends, that's all! And Gerald's been dead for over three months!"

"I'm not depending on Gerald Macy's testimony given in court in person. I'm depending on the letters he wrote you. And the letters you wrote to him."

"Letters?" she repeated blankly.

"Love letters. My detectives managed to go through Gerald Macy's effects immediately after his death, and found several of your letters that he had not destroyed. And I, being suspicious, intercepted several of Macy's letters to you."

"Hugh Langdon. there are no such letters

In existence!"

"Here is a sample, my dear, of what you wrote to Gerald Macy. It's one of the mildest, so you won't hurt my case if you tear it up. I have six others. The one will prove to you the authenticity of the other six. Read it."

It began "Dearest Gerald," it referred to a secret meeting of the day before, it breathed a longing impatience until the next such secret meeting could be arranged with discretion.

The letter fluttered from her hands. He caught it before it fell.

"Hugh Langdon—Hugh Langdon—"

"Don't talk till you understand all that you're up against," he interrupted her. "Here's a sample of Gerald Macy's letters to you."

She took the letter he tendered. It looked to be in Gerald Macy's well-remembered handwriting. The note began: "My darling Muriel," and tone and contents were suggestive of passions kin to those of the one she had just mid.

Hugh took the letter from her nerveless hands and then moved so that the desk was a barrier between them.

"They're forgeries. My God!" came at last from her in an appalled whisper. "My God—I didn't think that even you would try to do a thing like tins!"

"Rather a neat idea, isn't it?"

"But they're forgeries!" she cried again. "You wouldn't dare make use of than!"

"You think I wouldn't?" The fury in him blazed up anew.

"And I'll not wait for the trial to smash you! Two days after you file your suit, if you file one, I file my counter-suit. It is all prepared. In my counter-suit, as the specific basis for that counter-suit, I give the full text of those letters."

"The newspapers of the country will handle your story as the most sensational thing they've had in years! And it will not help you a bit to call those letters forgeries; if you do, everyone will say that your denial is the first lie which would come to the mind of any guilty woman. Let all that sink in, and sink in deep! Oh, I've got you smashed before you even start!"

Muriel turned slowly, brokenly to the silent figure in the wheel-chair.

"Oh, mother— mother," she gasped. "Did you ever hear of anything so horrible? Did you think that even Hugh could do a thing so diabolical? What am I to do, mother— what am I to do?"

The only answer was the stare of the grey old eyes, so strangely bright.

"Your mother might have helped you once, my dear, but here you must decide for yourself. Which is it to be; no suit for divorce, or a suit with all the pleasant consequences I have outlined?"

"I can't talk to you— you beast! Oh, you beast! There's nothing worse you can do to me! Nothing!"

"You think not?" In his mounting rage, his words rushed tumbling from him. "You think I'd now be satisfied with the puny half of a plan I've just shown you? I've carried that idea much further, and this larger plan does not have to wait for you to file your suit for my explosion to be touched off."

His fierce intensity was proof to Muriel that he had, indeed, prepared further ingenious horrors.

They stood staring at each other, and for a moment neither spoke. Then through the silence there sounded the cautious grating of a key.

"Don't come in!" he cried sharply.

Hugh crossed swiftly to the door that led to the side street entrance and stepped into the little entry hall. In his haste he left the door slightly ajar, so that the low voices were heard clearly in the library.

"Bess!" Hugh's voice was gentle and lover-like. "I'm so sorry! I tried to get you by 'phone to tell you the coast here wasn't clear to-night."

"You really mean I'm not to come in?"

"No, dear. But I can join you in half an hour—no, I'll make it in just a few minutes."

"Then I'll wait for you out in my car. I'm driving it myself."

"Isn't there danger you may be recognised? Or your car identified?"

She laughed a soft laugh of triumphant cleverness. "It's a second-hand car I bought to-day on trial, and which to-morrow I'm going to turn back as unsatisfactory. Besides, I've switched the license plates. Don't worry— I'm safe enough!"

There were whispered words which did not penetrate the library, then Hugh re-entered and crossed to the desk.

Gripped as she was by horror, the outraged spirit of Muriel could not resist the impulse to strike out at him. "I presume that Bess is one of what Gen Thorne referred to as your ladies with the latchkeys!'

"Yes, she is a lady with a latchkey! And [ love her, too! And now what are you going to do about it?"

"I'm not going to stand for "

"Oh, yes, you will! And you'll stand for much more!" He glowered balefully at her; his anger and hatred seemed to swell, grow more virulent. "Only a minute ago I was telling you that so far I'd shown you only half my plan! m now show you the second half! Keep still a minute!"

He sat down at the desk and began to write. Prom the speed with which he wrote, it was plain that matter and form had had much prior thought.

"Listen with all your ears, Muriel, while I read you this.

To Whom It May Concern:—

For some time I have known, from these letters which have come into my possession, that my wife has long been unfaithful to me. When I charged her with her misconduct, she threatened to kill me if I ever made my discoveries public I am living in constant terror of my life. Because of this mortal fear I am placing the compromising letters and this statement in the hands of my lawyer, and I direct that, if I am ever found dead from violence or suspected poisoning, or if I ever seemingly disappear for a few days, my wife shall be proceeded against upon the charge of having brought about my murder. My discovery of these letters will be her motive.

Hugh Langdon.

He tossed the paper upon the desk beside the forged love letters. From a drawer of the desk he took a revolver, and pushed it toward Muriel.

"Take it and shoot me," he urged her tauntingly, "and prove that my statement is the truth!"

Instinct warned her that there was some further ingenious detail of his plan which made him want her to make the attempt.

"So, you see, I'm going to beat you to everything! I'm going to start to put across that idea this very night. In two minutes I walk out of here and join Bess in her car, and I disappear for several weeks. Those letters, and that statement I take with me, and I let Bess mail them at the first post-box we come to! And that will not only block divorce proceedings on your part—it will keep you my wife for ever; it will be the eternal end of you!"

He said no further word—he left the rest to her imagination.

Already half-broken by his torture, she now broke completely at what she saw. "Hugh— Hugh," she cried out wildly, "I give up— I'm beaten! I don't want a divorce! I won't start a suit— I promise!"

"You're too late. My way is best for me! It's got you stopped in every way for ever!"

Muriel turned again with the instinct of a frightened child to her mother.

"Mother— Mother "

"No use appealing there!" Hugh cut in at her impatiently. "This finishes our conference. Go in to your waiting Arnold. I'm going to be busy— get out!"

HYPNOTISED by terror, mastered by the dominating evil in him, Muriel backed slowly toward the heavy door— unlocked it— passed out— closed it. Her final glimpse of Hugh showed him bending over the desk, back to her, gathering together the scattered letters.

Muriel, with hand braced against the wall for support, staggered down the hallway. In the wide doorway of the drawing-room she paused, clutching at a heavy tapestry, and gazing wildly across at Arnold.

"I've agreed— I've agreed," she choked out, that there's to be no— no divorce."

"No divorce, Muriel!" he cried. "But why?"

"I can't tell you, Arnold. It's all too— too terrible!"

"Then I'll get the truth out of Hugh himself if I have to choke it out!"

She caught his arm, and held him back from the library.

"It's no use going. You see, there was one of his— his women friends— a woman with a key— waiting outside the side entrance in her car— and he was going away immediately with her ."

"How do you know that?"

"He told me so. And I heard them talk through the door— he called her Bess." Briefly, Muriel gave him the substance of this talk.

Suddenly there sounded a dull roar.

"What's that?" cried Muriel, clutching Arnold.

"Sounded like a pistol shot!"

THEY listened for a tense moment, waiting for a repetition of the roar which might help them locate its origin. There was no second roar, but quick upon it there came another sound, this time unmistakable as to its nature and location it came from the side street, and was the choking sound of a car trying to spring into full speed from a standing start.

"The library!" cried Muriel.

In a moment they were through the heavy door of the library, swiftly surveying the scene. At first they saw no one but Mrs foreland, sitting in her wheel-chair as always, her limp, helpless hands in her lap.

"They've gone!" cried Arnold "Together— Hugh and the woman called Bess!"

"Yes," agreed Muriel And then suddenly: "But Arnold, if they went together, then why that pistol shot?"

"Yes, that doesn't explain the shot."

Again Arnold's eyes rapidly surveyed the room, this time with a closer scrutiny. "Look!" he cried, seizing Muriel's arm, and pointing

Her gaze followed his finger On the floor protruding from behind the desk, was a pair of smarty-shod feet. The two moved silently to ward the desk.

"Hugh!" breathed Muriel. "Hugh!"

Hugh lay upon his back, his handsome face fixed in startled fright, blood slowly spreading on the left bosom of his evening shirt. Arnold dropped to his knees, felt the wrist, examined the wound.

"Dead," he said, in a hushed voice, standing up. "His shirt is powder-burnt. He was shot through the heart at a distance of three or four feet. He was already dead when we heard the shot."

"Then— he must have been shot by that woman," Muriel added in a like hushed voice. "Remember, she had a key to the side door "

"Yes, shot by the woman he called, Bess whoever she is," agreed Arnold

He noted the pistol on the desk. "Strange she should leave her revolver behind."

"But it's not her revolver; it's Hugh's."

Briefly, Muriel recounted how Hugh had taken the pistol from a drawer of his desk.

had pushed it toward her, and had tauntingly challenged her to shoot him. While she spoke Arnold carefully picked up the gun in a handkerchief, examined it, and restored it to its place.

"One chamber fired," he said. "Shot by his own gun. Then the act of the woman was not premeditated; it was an act of swift passion. But even if the gun if not here, her finger-prints must be plainly on it. We mustn't touch a thing, Muriel."

He picked up the telephone from the desk, and in a moment was speaking to Police Commissioner Thorne

"General, something bad has just broken here. Come at once, and if Captain Devine is still there, bring him with you."

As he hung up he was aware that Muriel was now staring at the desk, a new fright in her face.

"The letters. Arnold! They're— they're gone!"

"What letters?"

"Terrible letters! No time now to tell you just what was in them. They were forgeries, of course— but perfect forgeries. And that woman has taken those letters with her!"

"Muriel! But she can't have known what was in them, so you are in no danger from them."

"I'm in every danger! Don't you see that she'll read them, and that for self-protection she'll find a way co make them public, in order to point accusation at me!"

"But there are her finger-prints on that pistol."

"But even so, those letters accuse me of intending murder— according to them, I had an overpowering motive We've all got to admit there was a quarrel— and I was here in the house, and had the opportunity!"

"But I can swear that when the shot was fired you were in the drawing-room talking with me."

"Yes, but there will be a charge that we both are lying— that you are committing perjury to save me, and that you have a motive for that perjury! There are those fingerprints, of course— but everything else points at me. It's inevitable!"

In agonised suspense she watched the face of the young lawyer. He snapped out of his concentration with electric sharpness,

"We must be quick— for Gen. Thorne and that clever Capt. Devine will be here in a few moments! Our one best move is to build up the crime—give the police more evidence against that other woman!"

"But that is not going to save me from a murder charge, once she lets loose those letters!"

"I know!" he went on rapidly. "But it will divert immediate suspicion from you— will give us more time than this single moment to make better plans.

"You have a latch key to the side door?"

"Yes."

"That will have to be our one added element. Bring it to me."

She sped away. When she returned he was wearing gloves which in the meantime he had secured from his overcoat in the front hall. He took the latch key from her, swiftly rubbed it in his gloved fingers, and crossed and inserted it into the outer side of the street door. Then he closed the wall safe which had held the now missing letters and quickly removed his gloves.

He had been none too soon. Just then the bell of the front door rang out.

"That'll be Gen. Thorne and Capt. Devine!" he breathed. "I'll answer the door. You go over and stand beside your mother."

He hurried out. In a moment he returned, ushering in Gen. Thorne and Capt Devine. On the way from the door Arnold had given the two men the bare facts of Hugh Langdon's mysterious death.

"Caroline— Muriel!" groaned Gen. Thorne. And then, "Capt. Devine, this is your case."

The detective promptly picked up the telephone, got Police Headquarters and his own Homicide Bureau, gave a few necessary orders, then moved a respectful pace toward the trio, for Arnold had now joined Muriel beside her mother's chair.

"You must excuse me if I start by asking a few questions." he began. "Which of you was the last to see Mr. Langdon alive?

"I— I was," quavered Muriel.

"I know Mrs. Moreland's condition," said Capt. Devine. "There is nothing to be gained from such a witness. You, Mrs Langdon— will you please tell me what happened just before you last saw your husband and whatever else you may know about the tragedy?"

"Pardon me, Capt. Devine," put in the young lawyer. "You can see that Mrs. Langdon is in no condition to speak. I know much of this affair at first hand, and all that Mrs. Langdon knows she has told me. I can present all the known facts much better than she can. You may question her later, when she will be in a condition to be of more service to you."

"Very well, Mr. Booth. Tell the story in your own way."

"To begin with, as Gen. Thorne can testify, there was a meeting in this room of all four of us, together with Gen. Thorne, beginning about an hour ago. I may mention as an important detail that as this was intended as a very confidential conference, all the servants had been given an evening off to avoid any possible overhearing of family affairs. Things were not right between Mr. and Mrs. Langdon, and a divorce for her was being demanded. Before consenting to this divorce Hugh Langdon demanded an interview alone with his wife. This was granted, and Gen. Thorne and I left the library, he to go to his home to join you, and I to wait the issue of the interview in the drawing room.

"As to what then happened in the library I can only give you what was told me by Mrs. Langdon. Alone with her, Mr. Langdon bluntly and cynically told her he wanted no divorce. He was satisfied with his life as it was and did not want to lose her fortune. He made terrible threats of retaliation if she pursued her intention of securing a divorce. Furthermore, he said if she wanted him out of the way why didn't she kill him; and he drew a revolver from a drawer, pushed it toward her across the table, and challenged her to shoot him on the spot."

"Is the revolver now on the desk the one he offered Mrs. Langdon?"

"It is, as you can easily verify.'

"CONTINUE, Mr. Booth."

"During this scene there was an interruption. Some one in the side-entry slipped a key into the door. It was a woman. Langdon was quick to order her not to come in. He stepped out in the entry hall for a minute, leaving the door open, and Mrs. Langdon could hear most of what was said. Hugh Langdon told the woman he had some business to finish and couldn't be with her for a few minutes. She said she'd wait for him in her car, which evidently was standing at the kerb."

"Another woman! Have you any clue to this woman's identity?"

"Only that he called her Bess."

"What next, Mr. Booth?"

"Hugh Langdon came back into the library and continued with his threats. They became more violent. Mrs. Langdon became so frightened at them "

"One moment. What was the exact nature of those threats?"

"In general they were threats of what was going to happen to her if she did not change her purpose of suing for divorce. Their exact nature you can learn much better from Mrs. Langdon in the morning Their effect was to frighten Mrs. Langdon so that she agreed to drop the idea of a divorce. Her husband then told her to notify me of her decision. She left the library and came to the drawing room, where I had been waiting, and told me of her change of purpose. I was stupefied. We talked of this for several moments. Then we were both startled by a single shot. Then out in the side street a car leaped into life and raced away."

"Do you know of any way that car can be traced or identified?"

"No. Mrs. Langdon heard the woman tell Mr. Langdon that the car was not her own, and that it carried false license plates.

Capt. Devine slowly nodded and turned his back upon the trio at the wheelchair. He knelt beside the body, and, without disturbing it, he now scrutinised its every detail. Then he rose and studied the desk next, his handkerchief in hand, he picked up by its barrel the pistol and examined the weapon through a powerful lens.

"What do you make of it. Captain?" quickly asked Gen. Thorne.

"I've been half expecting some such denouement here, General," the famous detective slowly pronounced. "It's really all very simple— and human. It's a case where our first examination will coincide with the completed evidence; it's a story of a woman with a key.

"There may have been a brief quarrel, or there may not have been. The one certain fact is that in a fit of passion she seized his revolver and at point-blank range shot him through the heart. Then she became frantic with fear and ran away in her car. For the police it's just another case of find the woman."

"You're quite sure it was a woman, Captain?"

"Quite sure. And it's going to be one of the easiest mysteries the police have ever had to solve. We have the guilty woman's fingerprints there on the gun. We know all the women who are and who have been Langdon's favorites. All we've got to do is to get the finger-prints of these favorites and compare them with the finger-prints on the gun.

"IN forty-eight hours or less well have her— the woman with the latch key."

At the last Gen. Thorne was gazing across at Mrs. Moreland. "If she could only speak," he said in a slow, awed voice, "the mystery would be solved this very moment! Just think of it, Captain! She heard everything— saw everything— knows who the woman is— yet can tell us nothing!"

"l want to see if there is any further evidence in the side-entry or in the street where the woman waited," Capt. Devine said after a moment. "Coming with me, General?"

Together the two men passed out the side door, and Arnold and Muriel were left alone, the stricken woman between them.

"You did your best for me, Arnold," gasped Muriel in a rapid whisper of frenzied fear. "But you've saved me for only a few hours! You held back those incriminating letters—  but they're coming into the case just the same!"

"Yes— those letters!" he groaned.

"I tell you that woman, to save herself, will turn those letters loose upon the public to-morrow," Muriel continued in her frantic whisper. "Those fingerprints may make the police believe two women were involved in the murder— but I'll be the only one they'll ever catch, and the public will believe all Hugh's terrible charges."

Like a tortured child turning instinctively to her first protector, she bent down.

"Mother!" she sobbed wildly. "Oh, mother, mother! At least you know I am innocent! For you saw who did it Oh, if you could only tell what you saw!"

Suddenly she came stiffly upright, terrified with an amazement almost beyond her startled comprehension.

"Look, Arnold!" she whispered hoarsely.

"Look— look!"

His eyes followed her pointing finger. It was directed down through the wide loose neck of the grey robe of her mother to a packet of papers.

"Those papers— what are they?" he breathed.

"The letters... The letters Hugh was going to use against me!"

FOR a moment they stared at each other in blankest bewilderment at this seeming miracle. Then suddenly Muriel again gripped his arm.

"Don't you begin to understand it all?" she breathed excitedly. "Don't you begin to understand? Remember what Dr. Howard said— that some overwhelming emotional stimulant might galvanise mother into a moment of swift action?"

"Yes— yes, I begin to see! The greatest stimulant that could possibly stir a mother were those letters, his threats against you!"

"Yes. And the stimulant reached its climax after I had left the room and while Hugh was bending over the desk collecting those letters to put them to immediate use. He was probably so engrossed that he never even saw her!"

"Then the finger-prints on that gun—"

Capt. Devine and Gen. Thorne were stepping in from the side entrance. Capt. Devine held up a latch key.

"We found this key on the outside of this side door," he explained. "There are no finger-prints on it. The woman called Bess very evidently was wearing gloves when she sat outside in her car; while she waited she was nervously fumbling with this key, and that erased any finger-prints there may have been upon it, and she was also wearing gloves when she slipped the key into the lock. That there are no finger-prints on the key does not matter; the finger-prints on that revolver are enough to find her with."

Whatever strain or agitation may have been evidenced by Arnold and Muriel was not noticed; it was natural to the situation Muriel forced speech from her lips.

"Please, Capt. Devine, since you no longer need us, may I remove my mother to her room and put her to bed? And may Mr Booth help me out?"

"By all means let them go, Captain," urged Gen. Thorne, eyes on the grey figure he had so long worshipped.

"Certainly you may go," the detective said to Muriel and Arnold. "We'll not be needing you further to-night."

Capt. Devine watched the pair push the wheeled chair out of the library, its grey-robed immobile occupant sitting with hands loosely in her lap.

"Think of it, General— she saw and heard it all! How very simple for me if she could only speak!" he murmured.

ALL this happened five years ago. Capt. Devine, now Inspector Devine, is still trying to find the woman with the key— the beautiful, gay, reckless, and temperish young woman of family and fashion whose finger-prints will match the finger-prints on Hugh Langdon's pistol— which matching will automatically solve the sensational Langdon mystery.

And up in the old Moreland house, which still stands amid Fifth Avenue's debris, the two young sons of Arnold and Muriel Booth play about the wheeled chair of their silent, grey-robed grandmother and pat and try to engage in childish play those hands that rest upon her lap, limp and forever helpless.

_________________

8: A Woman's Vengeance

Edith Nesbit

1858-1924

From her collection: Something Wrong, 1893

World's News (Sydney), 14 Aug 1926

Edith Nesbit

IT was a council of war. The little attic under the lean-to roof was in the wildest confusion from end to end. A clean little attic, graced with white dimity and well-scrubbed boards, and in its every-day dress, it was a tidy little attic, too. But now all Nellie's wardrobe had been dragged from the drawers, bandboxes, and brown paper parcels that held it in ordinary times, and was spread out on bed and chairs and dressing-table before the critical eyes of her friend.

Louisa had looked at each piece with interest. She had examined the "best dress" of faded blue-grey, with its short waist and villainously-cut skirt. She had looked at the old hats, whose flowers had settled themselves into sodden masses under the weight of rain and dust; and now the two girls were sitting on the floor, looking through that inexhaustible treasure-chest, the corner drawer.

There were ribbons and bits of lace, the imitation ivory prayer-book given to Nellie at her confirmation, the embroidered muslin handkerchief, with "N" in the corner, which enfolded that prayer-book when its owner took it to church.

Nellie showed her treasures, from the little shell boxes that her aunt had brought her from Brighton to the crockery dogs that she herself had bought '"'towards housekeeping" last fair-day, and when they had looked through everything, Nellie's glance despairingly turned again to the grey dress.

"It's no use," she said, "I've shown you every rag I have, and you must see I couldn't go to Sandhurst flower show that sight. I must have a new gown."

"So must I," said Louisa.

She was tall, handsome, and red-haired. She affected dark blue, and the almost unrecognisable form which the latest fashions took by the time they reached Sandhurst.

"Of course, I ought to be keeping my money laid up for the winter," Nellie went on, rumpling her hair desperately with her little "red" hands; "but I can't bring myself to scare the crows on Flower Show day, not if I have to wear my old winter jacket another two years."

"And quite right," said Louisa, warmly; "and I, for one, don't blame you. What's that?" she said, suddenly, diving into the drawer and bringing up a photograph, which had slipped from the folds of a blue silk handkerchief.

"Why, it's Albert Munn," she went on, evading Nellie's sudden snatch,, and holding the photograph at arm's length with one hand and her friend at arm's length with the other.

"I wish you would leave my things alone," said Nellie. "What I wants you to see I shows you."

"Well, there, there, don't get you monkey up!" retorted the other. "No young man's worth that, my dear; but I see now why you want to be so smart on Flower Show day."

"Nothing of the kind," said Nellie, hotly, and she got up and began to fold her things and put them back in their places. As she did so Louisa shot an evil glance at her out of her red dish-brown eyes, and closed her teeth so sharply that they made a little click as they met, and her lips became one thin, red line.

"Well, don't be cross," she said, after a minute or two; "I'm sure I didn't mean to offend you. I beg your pardon if I've said anything to give offence. Let's talk of your new dress. I don't know what I'm going to get myself, yet; but I'm going to see my cousin at Hastings."

"What, her that dress-makes?" said Nellie.

"Yes, and I shall get her to give me an idea or two; and, besides, I can look through all the fashions— she has 'em all in books. They do say," she went on after a pause, "that fashions is going to take a wonderful turn. It would be nice if you and me were to be the first in Sandhurst to have the new ones, eh, Nellie?"

"That would it." Surprised gratitude was in Nellie's tone. "Oh, Louisa, I wish I could go with you to Hastings!"

"I'm afraid that's no ways possible," said Louisa, quickly, "seeing I must go to-morrow, and I know it's your baking day. But I tell you what, Nellie, I'll look at the fashions, and, if you like to let me have your money, I'll make the best bargain I can for you, and you shall be dressed in the best fashion, like the county folks themselves; arid we two will take the shine out of the Collins' girls at the Mill, anyhow."

Nellie flung her arms round her friend and kissed her heartily.

"Well, you are a good 'un," she said, "and I'm sorry I spoke disagreeable just now."

"You'll be sorrier yet afore you've done," said Louisa, to herself, as she went down the narrow stair.

LOUISA went up the village, between the rows of white-faced, thatch-roofed houses, with the beginnings of a crime in her heart. She, also, had a photograph of Albert Munn. It also bore on its back the inscription, "From your affectionate friend, Albert," and Albert was by far the best match in the village. To begin with, he was the son of a well-to-do grocer; secondly, he was in London, apprenticed to a lithographer; and, thirdly he was much the handsomest of all the youths who smoked their pipes on the green of a holiday time.

Her sense of her own wickedness was heavy on Louisa, when she woke the next morning, but she did not falter in her purpose.

She took the train to Hastings, and had a long consultation with her cousin, in the stuffy little room, littered with snippings of silk, and velvet, and cloth, and furnished with piles of "Young Ladies' Journals" and fashion magazines. Among these she found what she sought, a model for her own dress. It was in last week's number, a very wide skirt, and immense sleeves, hunched up at the shoulders. Her own waist was not as small as the model's, but a new pair of stays would, she trusted, do much.

Then, among the fashions of twelve years before, she sought the model for Nellie's gown! She found it— a simple dress, of the kind that used to be called a "housemaid's skirt," with a full-falling frill of lace round the neck, and soft clinging sleeves.

Armed with these prints, she sought the principal draper's, and bought for herself the most magnificent plaid stuff and shot velvet that its resources could produce. For Nellie she bought a Madras muslin, of a pale, dull clay color.

"If that isn't-the dowdiest thing in Hastings, or all Sussex, for that matter, you may call me a fool," she said to her cousin, when she got back, and her cousin applauded with all the enthusiasm born of the affection of kinship and the spite of sex.

The next day, she took the muslin to Nellie, with the fashion plate, from which she had carefully cut the date, and, exhibiting the two with affectionate. pride, said:—

"I told you the fashion was going to change. Now, we shall be the same as the folks up at the hall, and Collins' girls will have to hide their heads, I know."

Nellie was not very much in love with the Madras muslin, but she was far too grateful and-gentle to say to Louisa what she said to her heart—that she would have liked a nice mauve or pink; something bright for the Flower Show.

However, all her money was gone, for the muslin, in reaching Louisa's ideal of the dowdy, had reached the limits of Nellie's savings, and there was not even a couple of shilling's left to buy cherry-colored ribbons with.

"Don't you let anyone see it afore Flower Show day," urged Louisa. "My cousin is making my dress, so I can come and help you to sew yours, if you like."

And she did.

The Flower Show morning dawned with all the fresh sparkle of July's best.

"I shall see you in the tent," Louisa had said. "What with Maggie and Lottie coming home for the day, and the Munns coming to dinner with us, there will be more than I can manage in the morning, without coming round to you. But my cousin has sent a hat to go with your dress. I'll send it along, if you will accept it as a present."

The horrible iniquity of her conduct somewhat dashed Louisa's enjoyment of her umbrella skirt and ponderous velvet sleeves. She hardly dared to think what would happen when Nellie found out how she had been tricked. She herself, she knew, would be ready to tear the eyes out of any girl who could so betray the claims of friendship as to send her to a social function arrayed in a bygone fashion.

But Nellie was quite happy when she put on the soft pale gown and large "granny" bonnet— also in the fashion of twelve years ago— unearthed by Louisa's cousin from the faded stock of a failing draper in a back street in Hastings. She could not help seeing how pretty she looked in them; prettiest, she thought to herself with many blushes and much confusion, in the privacy of her little bedroom, prettier than she had ever looked before.

The frame of the bonnet was like an aureole round her delicate little face, and the clay color of the muslin showed up the dainty tints of her cheeks, and lips, and eyes. She had trimmed the bonnet with some old yellow-drab ribbon that had belonged to her mother, and fastened some pale pink monthly roses in the cheap brooch in her neck. Her gloves were a delightful six-button pair, that Albert Munn had sent her the Christmas before.

She went down to the tent, where the Flower Show was in full swing, a little late, because she had had to. see to father's dinner, and to set the table for the tea. to which some dozen of their friends were invited. A farmer's daughter has not so much time to spend on dress as some of her richer sisters; but. when handsome .eyes and a black moustache are included in the day's programme, you may be sure that she thinks as much of her dress as your duchess or your fashion-article writer.

When Nellie entered the tent, Louisa concluded that she would perceive at a glance, as she herself would have done, the terribly false position in which she was placed by her old-fashioned costume. But Nellie did not perceive it. She did not even notice Louisa's heavy grandeur, because directly she appeared in the doorway, Albert Munn came forward, with a light in his eyes she had never seen there before, tucked her hand under his arm, and led her off to look at the roses!

He had been talking to Louisa up to that moment, and had been content in talking to her; but when Nellie, in her old-fashioned dress, showed against the blue sky in the opening of the tent, he saw at once a picture, a goddess, someone who had stepped out of one of the oleographs up at the office— a girl to whom billets doux, and trysts, and kisses, and true love should all come as part of the day's work, just as her costume did in oleograph-land. The straight folds of the gown, its graceful outlines and delicate coloring, appealed to him at once and convincingly.

When they came back from the roses, Nellie's face was pinker than the ones she wore. As they came near Louisa, they stopped.

"Miss Louisa," said Albert, "you must wish us joy! I had no idea you were such a match-maker! Nellie tells me this beautiful gown was your idea. If it hadn't been for you, I might have gone another, six months without seeing that Nellie is the prettiest person in the world, and the dearest! How can we ever thank you enough?"

________________

9: False Pretences.

Edwin Pugh

1874-1930

World's News (NSW), 31 May 1919

Edwin William Pugh

English author of over 30 novels and short story collections

THERE was a girl named Amy, who, every morning, used to meet a young man named Robert. She would steal a brief, shy glance at him and wonder about him, and so pass on. But he seemed not to notice her.

They were utter strangers in the sense that they had never exchanged a word in their lives; and yet they were not strangers in that they were so familiar to one another. He was always going eastward, to the City; and she westward to a Court dressmaker's establishment in Upper Burlington Street.

Their place of meeting was the unsavory Euston Road, that part of it which is largely given over to stonemasons' yards and metal works.

The young man was so obviously poor that even her idealism could not transform his neat shabbiness into purple and fine linen, or trans-late him into anything more noble than a clerk.

And she...? I have said that he seemed not to notice her. But even if he had had the illusive eyes of a lover he could not have invested her with any charm above that of a rather pathetic air of virginal innocence and a certain delicacy of feature that needed to be warmed up, cheered up, and fed up, be-fore it could develop into prettiness.

Now Amy worked, nine or ten hours a day, in the society of four other girls, all older and more worldly-wise than herself.

These other girls had each her own private and particular sweetheart, or sweethearts adorable young men of a colossal magnificence, bold in speech and action, and of a fashionable exterior, who took them to theatres and music halls and the cinema, bought them flowers and chocolates and perfumes-this, of course, was before the war— and even gave them trinkets and bangles. These gifts were always duly exhibited in the workroom and exclaimed upon and coveted and sampled by each girl in turn to a running accompaniment of shrill remarks and rapturous, admiring outcries.

Often the fat, indulgent Madame would burst in upon them during one of these transports, demanding to know what the noise was about, and declaring that this sort of thing would never do, only to end by herself joining in the ecstatic chorus.

"But you, my dear." she had said to Amy on more than one occasion, "you have never anything to show for your beautiful eyes."

And Amy would blush and falter shame facedly: "No, Madame."

"Ah, well!" Madame would cry, "your time will come. As yet you are so very young. You can wait."

But Amy began to feel at last that, though she was so very young, she could not wait much longer for some satisfaction, however paltry, of the dull, incessant craving at her heart.

The one girl with whom Amy was at all in timate was the brilliant little brunette, Flora. Flora was plump and brisk and alert— a little crude and harsh on the surface, but full of ripe, juicy sweetness within, like a winter apple.

She confided in Amy more than in any of the others. All her love vicissitudes, all her hopes and fears and regrets, all her woes and all her blisses she poured out of the fulness of her nature into Amy's sympathetic ear.

And presently Amy began to feel that she was somewhat lacking in the obligations of friendship, because she herself had no similar sweet secrets to offer in exchange. She could not have defined the feeling, but it was as if she behaved unfairly in not reciprocating Flora's trust. And yet, as she frequently asked herself: How could she possibly talk about what had never happened to her personally?

Nevertheless, these foolish, uneasy qualms continued to torment her; and one day she fell to a strange temptation through her desire to allay them.

"What would you say if I told you that I have a sweetheart, too?" she asked Flora.

"Just tell me and see," was the prompt reply.

"It isn't exactly an engagement, you understand." Amy explained, with a tense, pale face. "It's only an understanding, as yet." Flora nodded intelligently.

"He's rather poor. In fact, he is only a clerk," Amy went on. "And I don't think he could afford to marry me for— oh, ever so long. Still—"

"How romantic!" cried Flora. "Now, in all my affairs—that's the worst of them!—there is never a hitch of any kind. But go on. What's his name? What's he like?"

And Amy, now rendered desperate, began to invent details. As she proceeded, however, she became more glib, and suddenly it struck her that this was no imaginary person she de-scribed, but the unknown young man whom she met every morning in the Euston Road. She drew a faithful picture of him, adding a few artistic touches, of course, but sticking pretty closely to the original, all the same. So that the picture, when it was completed, had such an air of verisimilitude as to convince the most unbelieving.

"Oh, you wicked, sly little thing!" exclaimed Flora, when Amy had told and embellished her great fib. "But you quiet ones are always the worst!"

And somehow Amy's whole being responded with a delicious thrill to that undeserved tribute to her consummate artfulness.

"You must introduce me to him. I insist," said Flora in her masterful way.

And Amy's heart stood suddenly still. "Oh, I couldn't," she murmured. "I couldn't, really!"

"But why not?"

"He— he's rather shy."

"I won't eat him," laughed Flora, "Look here, if you refuse to introduce me— or, at any rate, let me see him— I shall think you've been plumbing me up, that's all."

And again she laughed. But Amy trembled. "But I see what it is," said Flora shrewdly. "You're afraid I shall steal him away from you."

"Well, you are such a flirt, you know," said Amy, accepting this way of escape.

Still, she remained very frightened at what she had done, and of what she had committed herself to in the future.

Now it is strange but true that inexperienced liars are always the most anxious to insist on their falsehoods, and usually the most expert in bolstering them up by means of fictitious evidences. And so it was with Amy. Having made the first fatal plunge, instead of trying to get back to shore again she floundered into deeper and yet deeper waters of deception every day. Soon her accounts of the unknown stranger had become so ravishingly circum stantial that Flora's curiosity was no longer to be thwarted.

"I simply must see him," she declared.

"You shall," said Amy desperately.

"When? Where?"

"Meet me to-morrow morning at a quarter to nine outside Trinity Church, in the Euston Road, and I will point him out to you— on one condition."

"Yes?"

"That you will do nothing to attract his attention. He would never forgive me if he found out that I had made a puppet-show of him."

"Very well. But I must try. No, I mustn't. Never mind."

Thus it came about on the morrow that these two girls might have been seen peeping round the corner of Osnaburgh Street, through a driving reek of thin, cold rain, at the stream of bedraggled foot-passengers hurrying by.

Punctually to the moment came Robert, in his worn black coat and shiny silk hat, struggling manfully in the wind under an old um-brella, and was duly passed under review, and went his way.

"So that's him, eh?" said Flora, in a disap-pointed tone. "He does look shy, I must say."

Then suddenly Amy was conscious of a devouring self-disgust. Not a word did she vouchsafe in answer to her friend's implied disparagement, but strode along, with flaming cheeks, and all that day withdrew into herself, and all the ensuing, night lay weeping in an agony of shame.

You see, she took things too literally to get any real fun out of sin. Thereafter she spoke of her fictitious love-affair only when Flora cross-questioned her.

At last, so nauseous did that stale old lie become, she resolved to invent a new one in order to recover her peace of mind. She told Flora, in so many words, that her lover had for no reason at all jilted her. She hoped that this announcement would kill her friend's interest in him. To her dismay it had a contrary effect.

"You poor little thing!" cried the big-hearted Flora. "That accounts for your being so mopy, then, lately?"

"Yes," sobbed Amy, shedding bitter tears of mortification at this unexpected failure of her purpose. "But don't ever speak to me about him again, dear."

Flora promised she would not. And she kept her promise faithfully, according to her simple lights. But these lights failed to reveal to her any reason why she should not go straightaway and tell the sad tale of Amy's betrayal to an interested third party— this third party being no less important a personage than Amy's own and only brother, Alfred.

Now Alfred was rather a fiery youth. He had also an overwhelming sense of his responsibility as head of the family. Moreover, there having been some tender love-passages between himself and Flora in the dim and distant past, before they quarrelled, he was naturally anxious to pose before his old sweetheart as a man of the highest possible mettle. So he thrashed his leg with his cane as Flora un-folded her story to him, and gritted his teeth and knitted his brows, in the most approved style of heroes he had seen on the stage.

"His name?" he said. "The scoundrel's name?"

"I have forgotten it," said Flora. "Amy did tell me, I think, but—"

"Don't you know him, then?"

"Only by sight. Not to speak to."

Alfred pondered heavily, "Where is this rotten outsider to be found?" he inquired presently.

"Oh. I can tell you that." replied Flora eager-ly. "In the Euston Road, near Trinity Church, at a quarter to nine every morning."

"Is that so?" said Alfred. "But how should I know him?"

"You would never speak to him about it?"

"Wouldn't I, though!" said Alfred, with a lamentable lapse into commonplace. "I tell you what— you must be there, too, to point him out to me."

"But you'd be sure to run into Amy."

"So much the better," said Alfred sternly. "I can then confront the villain with the victim of his perfidy."

Flora giggled— and then looked very grave....

Now this Robert, about whom all the trouble was— thanks to Amy's fibs— was really a very nice boy; imaginative, unpractical, clever in a useless way, and therefore vain, ambitious, and deeply, secretly emotional.

I have said that he seemed not to notice Amy. Well, it was only a seeming. In reality he was interested in her only too strongly and too warmly for his peace of mind. In short, he had fallen in love with Amy at first sight.

But he had at the same time that generous temperament which needs must mingle a little pity with its love and admiration. He pitied the frail, little, large-eyed Amy, trudging so pluckily to work each day, while he admired her for that very pluck, and loved her all the more for her weakness.

He lived for that brief glimpse of her every morning. The shy, sidelong glance she shot at him as she passed was like an electric current, thrilling him to the core of his being. He also was living a sort of double life; one dim grey life of actuality, and another of roseate, passionate dreams. And his most constant dream of all was of a time when he and she should walk side by side, hand in hand, through rose-strewn paths of bliss....

As he was rather earlier than usual the next morning, he slackened his pace outside Trinity Church, so that he might not be too soon to meet his dear unknown.

He had paused to look into a bookshop win-dow, with a sigh for the unobtainable riches it displayed, when he felt a sharp rap upon his shoulder, and, turning, confronted a scowling young man. A few yards behind this grim apparition lurked a dazzling brunette, whose face Robert somehow associated with his thoughts of Amy.

"A word with you, sir," said the scowling young man, who was, of course, Alfred.

"Certainly," said Robert. "But I don't think I know you, do I?"

He smiled genially as he spoke, and yet Al-fred felt perceptibly less valiant.

"You will very soon know who I am, though," said. "My name is Parker— Alfred Parker."

But Robert, was not in the least alarmed. "Even so," he said, "I don't know you."

"You know my sister, sir! Don't try to palter with the facts. It is useless for you to deny your guilt."

"Believe me," said Robert still smiling serenely, "you are making some curious mistake."

Alfred, beginning to look pale and limp, turned an appealing face to the young woman behind him. "This is the fellow, isn't it?" he asked.

"Of course it is," she answered. "I'd know him anywhere, the cad!"

"You hear?" cried Alfred.

"I hear, certainly," was the quiet rejoinder; "But I cannot say I understand, as yet."

"Oh, I'll soon explain," said the other. "You have made love to my sister, won her heart, and then thrown her aside like a worn-out glove. She trusted you, sir. She mistook you for a gentleman. And you have ruined her young life."

"I assure you," protested Robert that I haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about."

"Flora!" thundered Alfred— his voice did really resemble thunder, a very long way off— "Flora, did not Amy confide in you?"

"That she did," said Flora, thrusting between them. "And I'll repeat every word she said to me, and then we'll see who's falsely accusing. Alfie, you leave this to me, like a good boy."

Not a word of interruption did either of the young men utter while Flora retold poor Amy's story.

When she had finished, a strange light shone in Robert's eyes. A dull flush overspread his face. He looked startled, nonplussed, and yet not at all vexed or unhappy. For he understood. An infinite compassion, born of a swift intuition and a perfect sympathy, suf-fused him. He understood! While he pitied the sinner, he condoned her fault, and even loved her the more.

"Now, sir," demanded Alfred, "what have you to say for yourself?"

Robert, at a loss, began to stammer out that he—he was very sorry—when Flora, with a sharp, stifled cry, suddenly darted from their side, to return, an instant later, with Amy— Amy, looking like death, her face a very mask of fear.

"My dear!" cried Robert, seizing her two hands in his. "Forgive me. It was all a mistake. Forgive me!"

She stared up at him in helpless amazement. "Forgive me," he said yet again. "I love you so."

And, though the usual hurrying stream of traffic was now at its flood, he folded her in his arms and kissed her.

After that, what could the sublimely ridiculous Alfred do but take Robert's proffered hand, like a man of the world? As for the two young people chiefly concerned— well, you may safely trust a woman— given a man who loves her— to set herself right with him.

________________

10: The "Gossip."

Gladys Waterer
fl  1911-1923

World's News (NSW), 15 March 1924

THEY were all talking noisy, chattering talk. Mavis was in the highest spirits— she was delighted to have met these friends of hers. Gerald Grant heard her voice above the others, although he was in capable, at the moment, of realising what she was saying. He was thankful that they did not seem to expect him to join in the conversation. He could not think of any thing but that full-page picture in the current number of the Gossip lying open across his knee. One of the girls had given it to him with a laugh.

"If Mavis looks like that next month, on the auspicious day, don't let the photo get into the papers, Mr. Grant," she had advised. "Did ever anyone see such a thing? The girl looks positively haunted."

She did. She was sitting on a high-backed chair, staring straight out of the picture, and that word alone described the expression on her face— haunted. The letterpress beneath stated that it was a charming studio portrait of Miss Clare Meredith, photographed in one of her trousseau gowns (which had been made by Madame Madelon) whose marriage to the Hon. Brian Trevor was to take place on the 24th instant. Admirers of Miss Meredith would learn with regret that it was her intention to quit the stage on her marriage. The engagement and the date of the wedding had been announced together, owing to the bridegroom's appointment to the Embassy, which necessitated his immediate departure to take up his duties.

Clare was going to be married! How beautiful she was! How unhappy she looked! Gerald felt stifled— the over-heated atmosphere of the fashionable tea-rooms seemed to be choking him. He heard Mavis addressing him.

"Jerry, darling, if you have done staring at someone else's bride, will you pay a little attention to your own that is to be?"

With an effort he wrenched his mind back to the immediate moment. One of the other girls pulled the Gossip from him, and spread it on the table.

"This is the sort of bodice I mean, old thing," she said to Mavis, putting a cloud of cigarette smoke ceilingwards. and pointing with the end of her cigarette holder to the severe lines of the dress Clare wore. "Why don't you try Madelon? She is clever."

Mavis was interested.

"It's not bad," she said critically. "Who's the girl? Why, she is going to marry Brian Trevor! He is a dear; I once danced with him."

"She looks as if she is thinking, with regrets, of someone else," laughed the other girl.

Mavis raised the paper.

"I don't know how these people do it!" she exclaimed. "From chorus to Embassy, and a man like Brian Trevor into the bargain. And she is the most ordinary, rather common, little person, with probably not a sou in the world. She might pay him the compliment of looking a little more cheerful."

"Mr. Grant is bored to tears," said another member of the party.

Gerald denied the imputation..

"He is a good-tempered, long-suffering old thing," said Mavis. "But if we are going to walk home, it's about time we started."

They all grated back their chairs, and began pulling on their expensive wraps. Gerald was thankful for movement of any kind. They went down the stairs into the shop below, a noisy, arrogant crowd, in their price less furs exhaling the sweetness of perfume at two guineas a bottle. In the street they parted, and he and Mavis turned on to the promenade. It was a blustery afternoon, and the pale March twilight was falling sadly over the sea and the lawns. Ahead of them, where lay Mavis's large substantial home, the heavy respectability of Hove frowned, white and severe, at the tossing waves.

"Beastly day!"' said Mavis irritably, as the wind caught at her hat. "I wish I had ordered the car to fetch us."

They walked a few paces in silence."

"Is anything wrong, Gerald?" she asked. "You're precious glum— have been ever since tea. I couldn't help Dolly and Phips and Co. joining us."

"I was delighted." murmured Gerald.

She slipped her arm through his. She was a large young woman, with a stride that more than equalled his own. and her arm gripped his rather than rested on it.

"Now then, old dear," she remarked. "What's up? Tell me."

He looked at her, pacing at his side. She was a trifle taller than himself, broadly built, with massive, not unhandsome features, a high color, and honest eyes. Well-cut clothes, a skilled maid, the most expensive of paraphernalia had done their work, and given her style, redeeming her in the way they undoubtedly can, from absolute plainness. For real attraction she had in abundance that most efficacious of all its substitutes— money. She was a step in Gerald Grant's career. She was his employer's daughter. The day he married her, she became his senior partner's daughter. He had not won her without rivals, for the appeal of her particular charm was universal. He had fought for her in fair conflict, and valued his victory. Neither of them was given to romance. She was a good pal. He had reckoned himself lucky, and had been so reckoned by others, until this afternoon.

"Are you getting the jumps about next month?" she inquired. "I think I am. a little bit. No? Nothing? Then, for goodness sake, cheer up!"

Nothing! What lies we utter! What deceptions we practise! Yet how could he tell her that the matter was a girl with wistful eyes and a haunted expression, who, in less than forty-eight hours would be an other man's bride. The twenty-fourth. And it was the late afternoon of the twenty second.

Mavis was regarding him. a little puzzled frown on her forehead. In his turn he asked her if anything were wrong. She laughed.

"I was wondering why I preferred you to any of the others," she said, with apparent frankness: only apparent, however. Women are cleverer than men in hiding their real thoughts.

A SENSIBLE youth is not a thrilling page upon which to look back. That night, long after the household was asleep. Gerald Grant fumed about his room, unable to rest. He had procured a copy of the current number of the Gossip, which lay open on the table at the photo of Miss Clare Meredith. That was the page at which he had been forced to look back.

They had been so sensible, or rather he had— for both of them. She had loved him well enough to risk anything for his sake, well enough to view marriage with him as a hopeful, instead of a hopeless proposition. He had known better— for both of them. He had seen men handicapped, pulled down, never getting anywhere, because they were not free, because they had hung a wife and family upon their backs; he had seen women aged and worn out with the struggle; and he shuddered at the prospect. That was drudgery, not life; love would perish in such a setting, and success would pass by on the other side of the way; and then would come regret.

Clare had listened to his commonsense, her wonderful eyes inscrutable. How the memory of her eyes— of all her dainty, elusive fascination— of the magic days of that distant summer— of the thrill the touch of her lips had brought him— how all of it still had the power to stir him! And he had thought it all forgotten— buried beneath the monument of his common sense.

"I think if you have love. and courage, you can get through," she had said— the idealist feminine conception of wedded bliss. Oh, yes— he had known much better. Subsequent events had proved him right. He could never have been in the position he held to day had he yielded to the foolish promptings of his youth, and crippled himself by an early marriage. It is a hard fact that bachelorhood is an asset to a man, and one that only very sensible young men can retain.

A long-drawn-out engagement, binding both through the best years of their life— that was not fair to the girl. So many things might happen in ten years or so. Besides, that, too, was hampering.  He had railed at Fate, cursed their penniless state, and parted from her. Of course, they were to go on being friends. But she went abroad on a theatrical tour, and was away for years, and she did not write to him. And so the page of his youth had been turned over, and he had never thought to look back at it. Mavis had come along, and placed her shapely but heavy foot upon it.

Now Clare was going to be married, and the expression his commonsense had brought into her face was still there.

"She is thinking, with regrets, of someone else."

He leant over the paper, Dolly's idle words burning into his brain. The beautiful tragic eyes met his.

He sat down, his head in his hand, staring at his sensible youth. She, too, had reaped the benefit of his self-control— she had achieved a position far above anything he could have given her. From chorus to Embassy. From Miss to a future My Lady. It was more wonderful than his own success. His wisdom was doubly justified.

But was what they had both attained worth what they had both lost? it seemed to him the sweet, sad face said "No." He knew in his own heart throbbed "No." He went down into the depths.

Then the idea came to him, struggling with his despair, that perhaps it was not yet too late, he still had one day in which to act. Wild hopes and possibilities filled his mind. She was miserable; so was he; he wanted her; for one day yet, she was free. It seemed to him that nothing counted but their love for and need of one another. For a moment only did he consider the consequences of what he was about to do. There was no time to waste on consideration— he put it behind him. In a few rapid strokes of his pen he shattered the position he had built up so laboriously, by writing a note to Mavis ending their engagement. To go on with it now that he had discovered the true state of his feelings seemed to him dishonorable— impossible.

There, perhaps, he was right.

A SPRING DAY, full of promise, followed the night of bluster and storm. Even in London the sky was blue, the sun shone, there was the freshness as of new beginnings in the air. It stirred Gerald to a wilder impatience, while it gave him confidence, and hope, it could not be too late. He was in .London at last, he was near Clare, and it was the morning of the 23rd.

He found Madame Madelon, without serious difficulty, and procured Clare's address. He jumped into the first taxi he saw as he came into the street again, and he was borne away.

It was not too late.

The flat was high up, somewhere off the furthest end of the Edgeware Road. As he stood before its small front door, it occurred to Gerald for the first time that Clare might not be alone. But he had already rung the bell. It could not be helped. When a man was carving destiny with rough, sudden blows, details could not be heeded, he had to see her without delay.

She opened the door to him herself. She stood a moment, staring at him before recognition dawned.

"Clare!" he said, huskily.

"Good heavens!" she murmured. "It's—it's Gerald!" She leant against the door, still holding the catch, and, though her face was in the shadow, he saw the warm flush spread over it.

"I want to speak to you," he said, eagerly. "Let me come in. Are you alone?"

She had recovered from the first shock of seeing him. She moved back that he might enter, closing the door behind her. Then she led the way into a little sitting room. Here the sun streamed through the open windows full on her, and he saw that she was more beautiful than when they parted. In her neat tailor-made costume of dark brown, which enhanced the fairness of her coloring and the red-gold of her hair, she gave him an impression of gracious power that was new to her. The room was littered with a variety of things in disorder. She swept some parcels off a chair for him.

"Dreadful muddle," she said. "I'm packing. How strange to see you after so many years." Her tones were conventionally polite, her manner was quiet, but she could not keep her lips quite still.

"Don't treat me like a stranger," he cried, passionately. "Clare, have you forgotten?"

"No," she said, in a low voice, as if she could not trust herself to speak. Instinctively she drew further from him. "But we cannot go back to the past. It is too late."

"It is not too late," he urged. "That is why I am here. Between to-day and tomorrow there is time for anything. I saw your photo. I know that you are unhappy. I am utterly miserable. Forgive me, Clare! I love you— you are the only woman I have ever loved. I was fool enough to think I could live without you. I have found out that I can't. Forgive me— and come back to me."

She shrank away from his outstretched hands towards the open window. Standing there against the dull pink of the curtains, she shook her head

"That is impossible," she said.

"But you can't do this barbarous thing," he cried. "You can't marry another man when we have always cared for one another. I have come to take you away from it all. We can manage somehow— we will. I'll take all the consequences. I love you, I tell you, with all my soul. I won't give you up again. You love me— you are mine by all the laws of love. I have thrown everything up, to claim you."

"I don't love you," she said.

Very quietly the words fell upon his passionate emotion. He caught his breath. She did not move. His hungry eyes devoured her beauty, her grace— her dainty charm maddened him as it had never done. He caught her in his arms.

"That's not true," he said. "You loved me once— I'll make. you love again."

His lips sought hers in a desperate caress. Pressed back against the pink curtains she was powerless. But she turned her head, and he only touched her soft, cool cheek. The folly of his youth, so long restrained, goaded by memories of the past when his kisses had been returned with warmth equal in his own, made him take advantage of his strength. Stiff and rigid she stood within the clasp of his arms— stiff and rigid were her lips when, by force, he attained them. His frenzy froze. In sudden shame, he released her.

"Forgive me;" he said, hopelessly;.

She did not move from where she stood.

"Now— I hate you," she said.

"Clare— my love—"

Scornfully she interrupted him.

"Once I loved you utterly—and you didn't want me. I went on loving you for years. Now. it is past. I have learnt to forget.  I am glad, now, that in those old days you were so sensible, because, had you not been, the real happiness that has come to me now could never have been mine."

"You— are— happy!" he repeated, dully.

"Absolutely," said Clare, with old emphasis.

The spring breeze, sweeping, sweet and fresh into the room, bellowed the window curtains, and brought to him the scent of the hyacinths blooming in the pink bowl upon the window-sill; then it fluttered the leaves of the current number of the Gossip which lay upon the table. He caught this up.

"I ask you," he said. "Is that the face of a happy woman?"

"It is a bad photo of me," she answered. "But an excellent one of Madelon's creation. Madelon is a friend of my hard and penniless days, so I permitted it to pass as an advertisement for her. My expression must be an effect of light, but it makes me look interesting, if not radiant."

Upon the silence that followed there fell the sound of a latchkey being inserted in the front door. The next moment a man's voice called cheerily, "Darling!"

The expression of strain left Clare's face, and one of unspeakable relief took its placer— and Gerald knew that she had been afraid of him. She answered, eagerly, confidently, this new-comer. A tall, distinguished-looking man came into the room.

"Finished your packing he began, and then he saw Gerald, and stopped.

"This is an old acquaintance." said flare. "Gerald Grant. I have told you about him. Gerald—my husband."

"Your— I thought— to-morrow—" stammered Gerald.

"That was the original date," she explained. ''but Brian suddenly received orders that he must leave England to-morrow, so we had to rush things.

"We were married the day before yesterday, and leave town to-night. It was too late, when we knew, to stop the wrong date going into that paper, and one or two of the others, because the current numbers were already out. So I am afraid the Gossip his been thoroughly misleading you. It's a way gossips have."

A few minutes later Brian Trevor saw Gerald to the door. The latter stumbled down the long flights of stairs that led to the outside world. In the sanctuary of the little flat he had left, the woman he loved clung with sudden emotion to the man she had married. Because he was wise and kind, and cared for her deeply, he kissed her with tenderness. She raised her eyes to his. and what he saw in them made him tighten the clasp of his arms about her. And it her heart she thanked God for Gerald's sensible youth. which had made her happiness possible.

Gerald wandered into Edgeware Road, alone.

_______________

11: Back Door Invasion

Frederick C. Painton

1896?-1945

Short Stories 25 Sep 1940

Frederick C Painton

LOU AND I had some discussion as to just how to present this amazing revelation. After much thought I have chosen, once again, to tell it from the viewpoint of the chief German leader, and for this reason: in no other form could you, as the reader, gain such a complete picture of German activities against the United States— and the cold-blooded planning for the future.

This has meant telescoping, rearranging, dramatizing and making use of fiction devices. But nonetheless, I say to you, on what reputation as a writer I possess, that the essential facts in this narrative are not imagined. Names are changed, countries disguised, a narrative woven, but the incidents themselves happened— and may happen again before this sees print. So swiftly do the Nazis move.

This story will, I hope, explain to you why the back door to invasion of America is now frantically being barricaded by the Army and Navy chiefs in Washington; and explains the diplomatic war being waged by the State Department to oppose Nazism in South America.

As usual, to keep the narrative at an interesting pace, I am appending additional details of Gestapo methods in foot-notes. And once again I leave to your judgment the verdict of tne story's inherent accuracy.

1: Fever Spot In San Rico

FROM: Otto Brant, Hotel Bolivar, Boca Vista, Republic of San Rico.

To: Korvettenkapitan Jan Von Lieter, sekretariat fur Sud Amerika, Geheime-Staats-Polizei.*

_________

* Geheime-Staats-Polizei (German State Police) has been shortened to Gestapo. Until recently the Nachrientendienst, or foreign espionage, under command of Colonel Nicolai, was a separate branch of intelligence. But the desire for power of Heinrich Himmler has grouped all espionage and "Fifth-Column" activity under the one head, so that all branches are now loosely called Gestapo.

Subject: Report of special Nid* at Boca Vista.

June 12 (8:20 P.M.)

Exzellenz: I break off the general account of our activities here to explain in detail the crisis that has arisen.

American secret agents have become active again, and I have been forced to take drastic measures. As you will see, our fever spot** must be erupted quickly.

_________

* Nid. A unit or cell of Nazi activity within a foreign state. The German-American Bund is denoted a Nid in Nazi parlance.

** Fever Spot. Nazi slang for any place or nation where secret boring is likely to burst out into internal revolt or war in from twelve to twenty-four months' time.

The situation until yesterday was this: The President of San Rico, Phillipo Y Bara, though friendly to the United States, had practically agreed to permit the establishment of an air line between Boca Vista and Callao, Peru. I had, as you know, incorporated the air line as a San Rican business, and appealed to his national pride. He had no way of knowing that German funds and planes were to be used. He did not know the commercial airdrome would be a German air base for eventual air attack on the Panama Canal. He did know that the commercial planes could be quickly converted to bombers but I told him this was necessary for the defense of San Rico.

This morning I was summoned to the presidential palace. This was not unusual; as a supposed refugee from the Spanish Loyalist Army, I had, under the name of Juan Matista, become colonel-instructor of artillery in the San Rican army. I had cultivated the president, tried to gain his utter confidence.

But as I entered his presence I saw something was amiss. Ordinarily, he is a chubby, fat, laughing man; jealous of his power but susceptible to flattery. Now he scowled and looked furious.

"Are you certain your name is Juan Matista?" he said coldly.

It was not difficult to act the astonishment I felt. Who had been talking to him?

"But you know I am, Your Excellency," I said, bewildered.

He ignored this. "Is it true," he went on, "that German capital promotes this air line you wish? That German planes will be used? German equipment on the airdrome ?"

He had been talked to.

"True, Your Excellency," I nodded.

"But only because of most favorable terms. Not a centimo of money do we put up. They take coffee and cotton in trade.* The Yanquis ask four million pesos in cash— and you have said the treasury is low."

__________

* The chief hold Germany has on Latin-American countries is her need for their products and their tremendous surpluses. The United States does not want wheat, cotton, beef, raising its own. Hence, Germany by swapping manufactured products for foodstuffs by trade agreements, economically penetrates Latin American states as she tries to gain political control as well.

His anger faded. He got up from his desk. Suddenly he was no longer subtle.

"I have reason to believe you are a German agent," he suddenly shot at me.

How could he have learned this? And when?

"Your Excellency," I cried, "this is monstrous. A man who has shed his blood for democracy and freedom to be so accused— who has told you such lies?"

"Are they lies?" he muttered.

"Senor President," I said, "you have a complete record of my life. Cable to General Franco— and learn what price he has placed on my head. I led the Tarronga Wing of the Loyalist Air Force. It is only natural I wish to fly again. I have taken out citizenship papers in San Rico. You have no more loyal citizen than I. Refuse permission to establish the air line if you will—but do not malign my honor. You are too great a gentleman for that."

He smiled, moved by the compliment:

"It is, perhaps, that they are wrong," he finally said. "But with German activity on this continent so persistent, one must not take risks."

"Who has told you this?" I asked.

He shook his head. "That does not matter. Only I say this, amigo. For the time being, we will say no more about the air line. After this affair in Europe has righted itself— then we shall see."

He smiled and held out his hand. "My Coronel, if I have suspected you falsely, believe me I shall be the first to make amends."

I shook his hand. "If you remain my friend, nothing else matters," I told him.

ON THE way out I encountered General Miguel Callimayo and signaled him I wished to see him immediately. Instant action is imperative. With matters in Europe as they are, and your memorandum to me from the General Staff* control of San Rico is vital to our whole South American project.

__________

* Officials in Washington are well aware that for the past five years one whole section of the great German General Staff has devoted its attention entirely to planning military operations against the United States—by invasion from the South.

General Callimayo came to the Plaza Obregon and we sat down in the Nationale for coffee. He is a thin, dark, restless man, eaten with ambition for power. He is our man because I promised he shall be the next president.

"What has happened to El Presidente?" I asked.

"The cursed Americanos," he rejoined. "Last night, in his bedroom, he received an 'American agent. His name is Paul Bolton. He is presumably a tourist staying at the Hotel Bolivar. The Americanos intend to keep in power a regime friendly to them."

He paused, looked at me with slitted eyes. "You got rid of five other American agents. Waste no time in getting rid of this one. He knows much. And there may be three more with him."

I frowned. This was annoying and dangerous.

"Who?" I asked.

"A man and his wife named Louis J. Rourke, and an American air pilot named Michael Malone but called Red."

(Exzellenz: I have sent a radio via the Italian submarine Foggia for information concerning these three).*

____________

* The file of names and information about persons all over the world kept in the Tiergarten Gestapo files is unbelievably enormous. It is said to fill a state building of nearly 150 rooms. These files include the names of German emigrants living abroad, "Ausland-Deutschen," who number millions, thousands of friends and supporters such as members of the American Silver Shirts; and enemies, particularly leaders who may need "attention" later. I have no doubt but that my own name, with all available information, appears in the extensive files of "P."

I frowned thoughtfully. Knowing that San Rico is only 760 air miles from the Panama Canal, it was obvious that the Americans were coming alive to their peril.

"I will attend to Senor Bolton," I said.

General Callimayo scowled. "You waste time," he declared vigorously. "You know El Presidente is entirely influenced by los Americanos. Yet you delay the revolution that is to make me president. Why?"

Callimayo is a valuable adherent but I could not explain to him that our bohrmaschine*  must have time to function thoroughly before the sturmtruppen are brought in, and the final climax arranged.

____

* Bohrmaschine. Nazi Fifth-Column activity is divided into two parts; first, the boring or inward perforating by bribing, cajoling, corrupting and creating discontent; then the sturmtruppen (storm troops) come in and either lead or aid a revolt or join with parachute troops or air infantry in seizing strategic points and demoralizing resistance. Numbered in thousands, they have army organization and staff work.

AS USUAL I smoothed him down.

"An abrupt change of administration here," I said, "without making it appear to spring from the discontent of the peons and mestizos, would bring American naval intervention, and point suspicion at outside influences, We must make this appear a real upheaval of the people."

I smiled at him. "You are young, you are popular with the army. Have patience, amigo, it will not be long."

Presently I left him to give my attention to this Paul Bolton. I had a look at him in the Bolivar bar. He was drinking a sherry with this Mr. and Mrs. Louis J. Rourke, and with them was a huge, red-haired man who, I presume, is this Red Malone.

I shall say nothing about these last three until I have your radio. But Bolton is a tall, gray-haired man of forty or so— wears pince-nez glasses and looks mild and a typical tourist. However, General Callimayo's spies in the palace cannot be mistaken. So tonight we shall examine Señor Bolton thoroughly. Heil Hitler!

JUNE 12 (11:40 P.M.)

from Von Lieter to Oberst-Leutnant* Brant, via the Imperial Italian Submarine Foggia (Code 3) :

RE ROURKE LOUIS J ROURKE IS MOST DANGEROUS AGENT OF AMERICAN FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION AND HIS WIFE IS FORMER MEMBER OF SAME SHEILA McLARIN PERIOD THEY WERE MARRIED IN NEW YORK JUNE 9 AND THIS MAY BE LEGITIMATE HOLIDAY PERIOD BUT THIS MAN CAUGHT AND HAD EXECUTED NICOLAS WORTH AND ERICH VON SCHLIEFFEN TWO OF OUR BEST MEN IN UNITED STATES PERIOD IS DANGEROUS CLEVER AND RUTHLESS AND IF THIS IS MOVE AGAINST US THEN SUGGEST YOU ACT INSTANTLY PERIOD MICHAEL MALOND IS FORMER TEST PILOT FOR BARING BOMBERS AND CAPTAIN IN U S ARMY AIR RESERVE AND IS PRESUMED TO FLY EXPLORATION TRIP INTERIOR SAN RICO. TAKE NO RISKS AND STRIKE FIRST.

HEIL HITLER!

___________

* An oberst-leutnant is equivalent to a lieutenant colonel; such titles are vested in Fifth-Column workers and espionage to insure obedience to all orders.

2: Man Must Die

JUNE 13 (11:58 P.M.).

Exzellenz: I have news of the greatest import, which may change all our plans. Let me explain from the beginning. Following receipt of your radio message

I formed a little plan that would not only attend to Senor Bolton but enable me to find out just what has brought Louis Rourke and his wife to San Rico, I summoned Fritz Stauer, leader of the forty bohrmaschine men who came here as Spanish Loyalist refugees, and told him what was to be done. He agreed.

So early tonight as Bolton entered the rear entrance to the police, Fritz and two men and I waited in the shadow of the palms across the street. This second visit to El Presidente had convinced me that Bolton carried messages to Y Bara and would, possibly, carry information back. If we could examine this it would help formulate a timetable of our further movements.

Bolton came out at the expiration of a half-hour. I signaled Stauer.

The man apparently intended to walk to the Plaza. He did not go far. Fritz and one of his men pounced upon him. Bolton fought with exceptional bravery and skill, and it was finally I who struck him across the skull with the muzzle of my Luger pistol. We had a car waiting on the Calle Ascuncion.

"Put him in the back, Fritz," I said, "and feed him some brandy. He must be well enough to talk freely."

"He's in good shape, Herr Hauptmann," Fritz told me. "Where do we take him?"

"To the banana plantation on the road to Las Vegas," I said.

We drove there in less than a half-hour. Aside from two drunken banana cowboys, we saw no one. The place was lonely and secluded, ideal for our purpose.

By now Bolton had regained consciousness. We removed him from the car and took him to an abandoned hut on the edge of the jungle.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. There was no fear in his eyes.

"You talked with El Presidente tonight— just now," I said. 'What did you say to him? What message did he give you for America?"

Oh, Bolton was cool. He laughed in my face.

"I'll tell you nothing," he said. "I am a tourist in San Rico and, by God, you'll hear from this night's work."

Fritz Stauer is a hot-headed fanatic, which is why it was necessary for me to relieve him here in command. He will never know the difference between being hard and ruthless and cool, and being hard and hot with rage. He smashed Bolton across the face.

"You dirty Yankee dog," he growled. "You'll speak and quickly—or by Heaven, I'll make you crawl."

Bolton laughed at those tactics— just as I knew he would.

"Wait, Fritz," I said. "This can be attended to. But first search him. There may be a written message."

FRITZ searched him. Stripped Bolton of his clothes until he stood naked in the cool dampness of the night. Even examined his body. But the man's white skin was without a blemish except for a bad jagged scar on the right forearm.

The clothing yielded nothing.

"Whatever message he is carrying," Fritz growled, "it's verbal."

I smiled. As a leader in the Schutzstaffel* and later in the Gestapo school, one of the chief courses of training was how to make unwilling men talk. It was increasingly apparent that this man possessed vital information of new American activities against us. Matters with us were now so close to a climax that we had to know his secrets.

__________

* Schutzstaffel, sometimes called S. S. troops. The original Hitler Brown Shirts who wear black uniforms, and formed the foundation of the reign of terror in Germany and occupied territories. These men were taught how to beat and torture and not leave a mark on the victim

It serves no purpose, Exzellenz, to tell you, of all persons, what we did next. You are as familiar with our methods of persuasion as I. It was interesting to me in an abstract way because I have made a study of different nationalities and their ability to withstand this kind of treatment. I have seen a Spaniard take everything but a kick in the groin, the least painful.*

__________

* Usually matches passed over soles and heels of bare feet, But can also be done by wrenching off nails and burning exposed flesh with matches. Excruciating pain. Men who perform this sort of thing for the Nazis seem to suspend all human emotions; they are, as many have testified, fanatics. Heinrich Himmler, head of the Gestapo, has said, "I want young men, hardened by adversity, to further harden them and make them ruthless."

Bolton was tough, and he was stubborn. Time after time when he had paused, he would gasp through clenched teeth, "Nothing— I'll tell nothing."

There is, however, as you should know, Exzellenz, a limit to a man's endurance, no matter how brave. Bolton had fainted three times from shock and agony. Now, as one of Fritz's men went to work on the soles of his feett he suddenly sobbed and cracked.*

________

*I have heard a young Nazi storm trooper declare in justification of cruelty, "a few must suffer that many may be spared. German domination and world peace must be born in pain; but of the millions to benefit only a fraction of a percent really suffer.'

Usually matches passed over soles and heels of bare feet, But can also be done by wrenching off nails and burning exposed flesh with matches. Excruciating pain. Men who perform this sort of thing for the Nazis seem to suspend all human emotions; they are, as many have testified, fanatics. Heinrich Himmler, head of the Gestapo, has said, "I want young men, hardened by adversity, to further harden them and make them ruthless."

"I'll talk," he panted, "only for God's sake no more— please— I can't stand it."

I nodded to Fritz to stop.

"Talk, then," I said. "And if you lie— it will all be worse."

Bit by bit he gave up his information, and it was this: The State Department of the United States suspected that we wished to establish an air base in San Rico. They suspected that the so-called Spanish Loyalist refugees were, in truth, German bohrmaschine men, They were urging El Presidente Y Bara to order the deportation of the alleged refugees. (Exzellenz: The Americans learn too much; our counter-espionage organization at home should wipe out their agents. He finally gasped out, too, the most important point: the United States wants to establish a small base here for a south Caribbean air patrol.*

_________

*A statement recently made in the Congress by the House Military Affairs Committee, acting jointly with the Naval Affairs members, looks to the establishment of American air bases in Nova Scotia and some Caribbean island, perhaps Jamaica or Trinidad; and on the mainland in Brazil. These last are vital to guard the Panama Canal approaches.

"And what did El Presidente say?" I demanded.

"He is weighing the request."

"Did he seem favorably inclined?"

"He wants to be friendly."

Exzellenz: I realized instantly that El Presidente Y Bara must be ousted. An American air base here would be fatal to our plans. And, knowing Americans, they would hesitate to enforce their desire against a hostile administration — like General Callimayo's, for example.

I decided, then, my next moves, but now wished to learn something of Rourke, his wife and Malone.

"Do they work under cover on your missions?" I asked.

He shook his head vigorously.

"I know nothing of them," he panted. "They merely came on the same plane."

I remembered your statement of what Rourke had done to Worth and Von Schlieffen. "You are lying," I said. "Tell it all or, bei Gott, the matches again."

"I swear I do not know them," he cried.

Fritz had been standing silently, watching. "Hes lying," he muttered savagely. "I saw it in his eyes." He sprang forward. "Speak, you schwein," and he swung a blow to Bolton's face.

Ordinarily, perhaps, the blow would only have inflicted pain, But Bolton was weak. He staggered back, saw the small fire we had built, tried to avoid it. He crashed against the hut and fell. His skull struck the stone corner foundation with a sickening sound. He sprawled his length.

"You fool!" I said to Fritz. "What have you done?"

I sprang forward, knelt by Bolton. Blood was seeping from a jagged hole where the corner of the stone had smashed his skull. His heart beat but only feebly. He was, if I knew anything, dying.

"How did I know his skull was made of paste?" muttered Fritz.

I shrugged. One cannot cry over a broken egg. There was still a way to find out Rourke's connection— if any— with this American plot.

"Get him into the car," I said. "Take him to the rear door of the Bolivar and get him up to his room. If you are questioned, he is drunk. Spill some brandy on him, Hurry! We must be rid of him before he turns stiff."

HASTILY we got the body into the back seat of the car and drove by side streets through Boca Vista to the Bolivar Hotel. At least five of our bohrmaschine men worked here as bus-boys, cooks, waiters and bell-boys. I was not worried particularly about the discovery of Bolton— or the consequences.

As it happened, by using the freight elevator we got him to his room unseen, and put him on the bed. I made certain the microphone of the dictaphone was well hidden behind a picture.

"Into the next room," I said to Fritz. "The rest of you go to the headquarters. We shall be along shortly."

Fritz and I went into the next room, which I had engaged earlier that day when the dictaphone had been placed in Bolton's room. I took down the telephone receiver and called Rourke's room.

A low, not unpleasant voice said, "Hello?"

I disguised my voice.

"Come to me— at once— Bolton—" I whispered. "Oh, God, come at once."

I hung up the receiver, put on the dictaphone earphones and waited.

3: The Plan is Formed

JUNE 14 (7 P.M.).

Exzellenz:

I continue with the report of the Bolton incident.

As we waited Fritz whispered, "What do you expect to get from this?"

"The truth about Rourke," I replied. "If he is an American agent he will reveal it now. Then we shall know what to do." I grinned. "He is not in the United States now. And I can do as I please in this country."

Fritz smiled, for it was true, and he knew it.

I heard the door in the next room open wider— I had left it on the latch— and then Rourke's voice said, "Hello, Bolton, what was it you Sheila— get back— don't look."

The woman's voice said, horrified, "Oh, Lou— oh, dear God— look at him,"

"Don't," said Rourke's voice. "The poor devil— what could have happened to him?"

His wife Sheila said, "Probably set upon and robbed. Lou, weve got to get a doctor quick."

"How did he ever get back here?" Rourke said musingly. 'He couldn't have walked."

I listened in great satisfaction. Rourke, then, had no connection with Bolton and his plans. Else he would have known what occurred,

I knew that I had nothing to fear from Rourke's activities and settled to hear the rest.

Then to my amazement I heard Bolton's voice. I would have sworn he was dead by now, yet this croak could have come from no one else.

"You— Rourke— quick— I'm going— listen to me!"

"Quiet, old man," Rourke said, "I'll call a doctor."

"Never mind— that— no good now— going fast. Listen— scar on my left arm— cut it open—quick!"

Fritz cursed softly under his breath. I was filled with fury. One of my lessons in the Nachrichten school had taught of gold or aluminum capsules shoved into cicatrices. Why had we not thought to slit open that ugly scar of his? But it was too late now.

Bolton was gasping— the death rattle already in his throat.

"Listen— inside capsule is message from —El Presidente— get it— to Washington. I don't know you— only you are— American —this for your country—pledge your word— dying man— do this—"

Rourke said, "Sure, I'll get this stuff off. Now, be quiet, fellah, and I'll get a doctor."

"Doctor can't keep me— from where— I'm going— going— ah-h-h!"

The punctured sound of a dying man's last breath is unmistakable. I hung on yet a few seconds more, heard Rourke say, "The poor, poor guy, I wonder who did this to him?"

There was a moment's silence. I heard something moved scrapingly. Then footsteps entered, a deep voice said, "Hello, Lou, what goes on?"

"Take a look for yourself, Red," said Rourke. "Somebody murdered the guy to get this gold capsule. It had papers."

"You mean he was a spy or something?" asked the voice I knew was that of Red Malone, the test pilot.

"Maybe," said Rourke. "I don't know, But he was acting for the United States."

Red's voice was queerly pitched. "The U.S.A., huh?"

"Listen, Red," came Rourke's voice, "I don't know what was up. But Bolton— if that was his real name— gave me this capsule—said it had to reach Washington."

"I get you," said Red. "You want me to fly it there?"

"Maybe only to Miami, Red. Bolton could have used the local post office and the Pan-American Airways. He didn't, so he had a reason."

"Gimme," said Red. "She starts for Miami— now— tonight. I'll be there by noon."

Their voices retreated, left the room. I took off the headphones and sat in thought.

"That capsule, Fritz," I said, "is a summary of the situation here for the American State Department."

"I and my men can attend to this Malone," Fritz growled.

I SHOOK my head. "El Presidente is bound to hear what has happened to Bolton. If Malone also is attacked, he will perhaps make inconvenient moves."

"We must have the capsule," said Fritz. "Not only to know what America is planning but to stop them from getting the truth until it is too late to matter."

"Perfectly true," I smiled, "but there is a better way—with no suspicion of us. So that when we deny knowledge of Bolton's face, El Presidente will believe us."

I rose, glanced at my watch. It would take Malone an hour or so to take on petrol and supplies. That was time enough,

"Come," I said, "we'll see El Capitan Burgoya."

Fritz grinned comprehension of the scheme. "Excellent," he said.

We went out into the night, and climbed into the car.

"The military airport," I said to Fritz. "Young Vincente Burgoya is officer of the day."

During the ride out I made my decision to strike immediately. So, Exzellenz, I  am radioing you, via the Foggia, to ship in haste five thousand Mauser rifles and a half-million rounds of ammunition. We shall need also three trench mortars and perhaps a dozen of the knock-down .77 calibre mountain guns. Ten thousand rounds for these will be ample. One hundred machine guns and five hundred thousand rounds will complete the armament need. The light Spandau for either tripod or shoulder action will be ideal. Send by submarine and we will transship them.

I suggest also that fifty picked sturm-truppen be shipped at once, for these will be the key men in the attack. It will be technically a palace revolution—control of that gives us the country. We have done sufficient spade work that a good putsch now can succeed.

Callimayo won't betray his hatred of the United States until we are well intrenched.

Ship also at once three Dornier heavy bombers and thirty-six of the special bombs. Put them on pontoons in case we must fly them in by night. The regular crews for them can be sent by submarine with the munitions. This also goes to you by radio.

We arrived at the airport. San Rico's air force is not big; seven chaser planes and two medium bombers bought second-hand from the United States. But the chasers are American Curtiss Falcons and in excellent condition.

I had one of these in mind when I found Vincente Burgoya in the guardroom. He is only a capitan, but is thoroughly a Nazi with ambitions to be air marshal of San Rico. He adores Air Marshal Goering.

So he listened intently while I explained the danger to our great plan. He is young, dark, nervously alive, an excellent pilot.

"If this information from El Presidente arrives in the United States," I concluded, "they may send battleships—keep the tyrant Y Bara in power indefinitely."

He followed me, his black eyes snapping in sudden fury.

"You wish this plane not to reach Miami," he said.

"If it does," I lied, "then we abandon everything here— your extra pay that keeps Dolores so beautiful must stop— I return to the Reich."

He nodded silently, left the room. I heard his voice bark to the night sergeant. "Live ammunition, one tracer in five for Number SR six. I go up at once for night practice."

I smiled at Fritz. When Vincente Burgoya returned I described the plane of Malone. "It is at the South American Airways port. We shall have men there to inform you when it takes off."

He looked at me earnestly. "The plane of Malone will suffer engine trouble and fall into the jungle. We will look for it— but fail to find it," he said.

"But mark the spot," I said. "We must have that little capsule."

He nodded. We shook hands and he muttered, "Heil Callimayo," and we went out.

I was well content. The Falcon was faster, with four machine guns against a slower twin-motored plane, unarmed.

On the way back I decided to call a staff meeting to plan our little coup d'etat. Of that and the result of Vincente Burgoya's night flight I shall write later. Heil Hitler!

From Von Lieter to Oberst-Leutnant Brant.

(Code 3) via Italian U-Boat Foggia (June 14),

VERY CONFIDENTIAL.

DESTROY AFTER READING

Re radio. Machinery shipped and new salesmen recruited and are leaving. You will be notified further concerning both.

This communication has to do with developments here and their immediate concern with you and your project.

The outlook for peace in Europe on our terms is favorable; and one fact is certain— we shall emerge with continental hegemony and immediate need to have raw materials, especially beef, cotton, wheat and coffee. The crops have been poor and the danger of famine exists— not for us alone, but for all of Europe.

The South American countries, particularly Argentina, Brazil, Chile and Uruguay, possess these export materials in great quantities. But we are told by American agents that in its effort to oppose National Socialism the United States is calling a conference to be held in Havana some time next month* in which South American be bonded together to follow American and Central American representatives will leadership in opposition to us.

This cannot be tolerated.

________

* Inter-American conference called for Havana Cuba, Saturday, July 20. Opening address delivered by Secretary of State Hull. See current newspapers for Nazi reaction and threats to South and Central American countries following American lead.

The United States is not prepared to undertake military operations. Our secret ally, the Japanese, can, as the Italians did against England in the Mediterranean, conduct themselves so as to prevent the American fleet from leaving the Pacific. They have no fleet in the Atlantic, none that can oppose the combined German and Italian fleets.

They have no trained army to oppose a landing.

These facts, however, will be hidden by the Americans from the representatives of the South and Central American republics.

It is necessary that we make a demonstration to show how helpless the United States is to oppose us. This and proper propaganda will throw these South American countries into our hands, especially as we are willing to undersell American exporters * and guarantee delivery of our machinery in the bi-lateral trading.

______

* American exporters declare Nazi machinery salesmen underselling them fifty per cent (i. e., of fering to sell cement for less than American cost of freighting) and posting a forfeit for non-deliver by Setpember 15, 1940.

You will therefore delay no longer in carrying out your operation against the Panama Canal.

Men, machinery and planes will reach you within twelve days. You will, during the interval, make your preparations so as not to delay operations longer than forty-eight hours after arrival of equipment. The United States will not declare war, as our propaganda is opposing such action, and the authorities know it will be three years before they can adequately undertake police work in the western hemisphere. We incur no liability in this action. The United States will not make war. Report daily progress this date onward. Heil Hitler!

June 15, (11:20 P.M.)

Exzellenz: I have just had a most frightful experience. In explaining it, I can also explain the new difficulties blocking the carrying out of the orders relayed in your radio of June 14.

I have narrowly escaped death and disaster threatens,

4: Counter-Punch

IT WAS early this evening that I received a telephone call from Vincente Burgoya. I had been in conference-with General Callimayo and arrangements had been made to enlist certain members of my Nid in the army to prevent resistance to our putsch.

"Hello, El Capitan," I said, "you are back—good news, I trust?"

Vincente said, "I am at the Black Cat, Señor Coronel. It is necessary that I see you at once."

This was strange— unusual.

"You have, then, attended to the matter of last night?" I frowned.

"Si, si,' he responded hurriedly. "It is about that I call. Come, I am waiting."

Fritz was with me. I turned to him and said, "Vincente is at the Black Cat Café. A strange place for him. It is probably all right. But have me trailed, and be ready for any eventuality,"

"Zu Befehl," he nodded.

With that I took myself to the outskirts of Boca Vista where this imitation American night club caters to tourists. As I entered, the dingy room was empty. But a waiter said, "You are Señor Coronel Matista ?"

I said that I was. He beckoned. "El Capitan Burgoya is inside. He does not wish it to be known that he is seeing you."

I frowned. More and more queer. But I followed him into a rear room, smelling vilely of cooking peppers. Vincente was seated on a chair. He sprang up as I entered and I saw that all had not gone well with him. His uniform was in shreds; his eye was blackened ; and he had several bruises on his face.

"Well, Vincente," I said, "what in the world has happened? Did you, too, crack up?"

His eyes were wild with fear; he tried to speak and his tongue seemed paralyzed. He licked his lips.

"El Coronel," he muttered, "I was forced—"

"Never mind telling him, Burgoya," said a new voice. "Well tell him what there is to know."

I whirled; my hand leaped to my gun holster.

"No," said this Señor Lou Rourke, "keep your mitts away from that gun, and raise them up. It would be a real pleasure to put the slug on you."

As he spoke, behind him appeared— of all persons— this tall, red-haired man known as Red Malone.

"That's a job I'm bidding for, Lou," he said grimly.

I took a few seconds to clear my mind, grasp the situation.

"What does this mean?" I asked,

Rourke regarded me closely, his eyes staring at my close-cropped hair and going down all six feet of me to my feet. His eyes, Exzellenz, are a cold, deep-set gray. They remind you of twin machine guns set in the cowling of a Stuka dive bomber. He is not unusually large, yet somehow you get the impression of bigness and strength. He had the faculty of chilling me, making me tense, aware that I faced a deadly enemy.

"I wanted a good look at you," he said quietly. "I wanted to see what a Nazi termite looks like— also a torturer and a murderer."

I forced a smile. "This is ridiculous. I am Colonel Matista, late of the Spanish Loyalist—"

"Achtung!" he roared.

__________

* German military command, "Attention!"

Ah, EXZELLENZ, the trick is old; I myself have used it in uncovering a guise. Had the treachery of Vincente not upset me, perhaps I might have been ready for it. But our discipline of the party— it had me then. I stiffened, my hands went to the seams of my breeches before I had time to think. Then I sensed the trick and relaxed.

Rourke was smiling grimly.

"All right, Squarehead," he said. "You've betrayed yourself."

I WAS wild with fury. I swung on Vincente. "You shall pay for this," I said. "Treachery receives ample payment at our hands."

"No, no," he cried. "I could not help it. I swear by Dios—"

"Cut it, Burgoya," said Red Malone. He had a deep voice and killer eyes. He looked at me now and I saw no mercy.

"We massaged him until he agreed to call you." He paused. Then, "He tried to shoot me down. Got in three bursts, too, and if he hadn't been a lousy shot I wouldn't be here. But he missed— and I didn't."

Curiosity overcame me. "Your plane, then, was armed?"

"He— he out-maneuvered me," muttered Vincente, shuddering. "He came up behind— his one propeller sawed off my tail assembly. He wing-slapped me down. It— I nearly was killed. He is a flying diavolo!"

"A little persuasion made him mention you," said Malone.

"He spoke of the little package of Bolton's that you wanted," said Rourke, "I want to tell you about it— and some other things."

Again I was surprised. Cautiously I said, "How interesting!"

Rourke smiled coldly. "It was a stupid move, bringing poor Bolton back to his room. The dirt and leaves told he had been brutally tortured elsewhere."

I kept silence,

"Realizing that," he went on in his chill, deadly way, "I wondered at the motive. I saw that he himself could never have telephoned me. Someone else did. Why? I didn't know, then, but I suspected to hear what I would say.

"So I found your dictaphone behind the picture."

I cursed inwardly. So! That was the scraping sound I had heard.

"When poor Bolton told about the capsule," said Rourke, "I saw the motive— knew somebody wanted it bad. So Red and I set a little trap. We pretended he was to take it, to draw a new attempt."

He fell silent momentarily. Then, "The capsule, Matista, or whatever your name is, went to Washington via Pan-American Airlines."

Exzellenz, it was a crushing blow. Not that I had failed, but that I had been outwitted by this stupid American. I summoned my wits, pulled myself together.

"This is all very interesting," I said, "but since it does not concern me I think I shall go."

Rourke was on me in an instant. His fingers closed on my shoulder; and there are black and blue marks there to prove the strength of his grip.

"You dished out plenty to poor Bolton," he said. "I wonder if you can take it as well,"

"What do you mean?" I cried.

"Listen," the mask was off his face now which was pale with anger, "I came down here on a honeymoon to get away from chasing such rats as you. I never knew poor Bolton was a secret agent until you called me to that room."

He took a big breath, let it go.

"But he showed me enough to know what you swine are up to— and I'm telling you now I'm taking a hand in this game— I'm playing my cards to the finish. And the first job is to find out what you know."

He gave a sudden twist and the fulcrum forced me to my knees. An instant later he had my gun.

"Red," he said, "this guy is the big shot of the Nazi set-up here. Can we make him talk?"

"It will be a delightful job," said Malone. He advanced on me, his big bony hands spread wide. "Even if we have to kill him a piece at a time."

A second before I had known chagrin that my own action had brought Rourke into this game. Now I knew a real fear. Not of speaking; they could have torn my tongue out. But at the instant of crisis my experience, my months of preparation were priceless. I was needed.

In desperation I sprang back. I seized a chair. I yelled, "Fritz, zu mich!"

Rourke pounced on me. He used no weapon save his fists. He said, "Let me massage him first, Red."

His hands flew through my guard. They carried crushing impact. I knocked him sideways with a blow of the chair. He came back, swung to my stomach and bent me forward to bring a blow up to my jaw that seemed to tear my head off. I closed with him and struggled to choke him to death.

What else would have happened I cannot say, because suddenly the room was filled with men. I saw Fritz's round, scarred face. I saw his blue gun barrel, heard the smash of its explosion. A terrible joy went through me. I redoubled my efforts.

"Take them alive— all of them, Fritz," I yelled.

But that did not happen. Rourke had out his gun in one snaky movement of his hand. I expected the shot at me but it went to the light bulb instead. There was utter blackness, and a room filled with struggling, cursing men. The intense darkness prevented any further use of guns, It was struggle with hands and feet.

How long it lasted I cannot say. But finally I got the door open to the adjacent room. Yellow light flooded in.

I took one look and my heart sank. Rourke was not there; neither was Malone. And they had taken Vincente with them. Some of Fritz's men had been struggling with each other and looked ashamed now.

So, at the moment, Exzellenz, the situation is this: We are rid of Bolton, but Rourke stands in his place. So does this Malone. I am taking active and immediate measures to dispose of them— permanently. But I am afraid El Presidente has had his suspicions fully aroused. He will plan to block us. We must strike quickly— finally— at El Presidente without waiting for the revolution.

June 24 (8:30 P.M.)* via radio.

Exzellenz: I am writing this from the calabozo, the jail of Boca Vista where I have been imprisoned by request of the American consul on the charge of murdering Paul Bolton.

Two of the jailers are men of ours, so I may leave any moment I desire. But I am remaining because it is good cover for my next move. El Presidente has struck. The information gained by Paul Bolton found its way to Washington successfully. American pressure has forced El Presidente Y Bara to suspend the constitutional privilege of political asylum. Attempts— so far haphazard—are being made to round up members of our Nid. Heil Hitler!

_______

*Brant's reports continued daily but I have jumped the uninteresting ones to keep narrative
unity.

From Von Lieter to Oberst-Leutnant Brant, via Foggia,

June 25.

URGENT AND CONFIDENTIAL DESTROY. CONFIRMED INFORMATION HERE TODAY UNITED STATES HAS DISPATCHED CRUISER PORTSMOUTH OF ATLANTIC SCOUTING SQUADRON TO PAY GOOD-WILL VISIT TO SAN RICO PERIOD EXPECTED BOCA VISTA JULY 5 PERIOD LOSE NO TIME PERIOD CRUISER'S ARRIVAL WILL PREVENT SUBSEQUENT ACTION PERIOD MOVE IMMEDIATELY HEIL HITLER!

June 26, (8:10 P.M.) via radio Foggia.

Exzellenz: Your radio news is of immense importance. I am wasting not a moment and new president will be installed in forty-eight hours. Heil Hitler!

5: Men For Sacrifice

June 27, (9:20 P.M.)

Exzellenz:

Amplifying my radio report of my new plan, I continue as follows:

Immediately after the escape of Lou Rourke, agents of the police came to the Hotel Bolivar, and placed me under arrest, charged with murder. There was— and is—no evidence against me save for Rourke's charge, and the move only shows inherent American stupidity.

As I have said, I could immediately have escaped through the jailer members of our Nid. But with the arrival of the U-68 with our guns and ammunition aboard only two days away, I decided to remain in jail, as an alibi.

Here is what I have done.

Last night, under the leadership of Fritz, the American consulate was broken into, Fritz himself, who understands such things, managed the safe. Two harmless official documents of such a nature as not to be missed, were taken. Also some of the official American State Department paper. The task was perfectly accomplished and no traces of the entrance left.

Herman Ley entered Lou Rourke's suite in the Hotel Bolivar and secured a sample of Rourke's handwriting. Fortunately for my plan, we have in our Nid, Anton Velder who is a graduate of the Gestapo school in Berlin in special documents.* It was he who carefully wrote the letters and documents which will guarantee their authenticity to anything except scientific inquiry.

__________

*The Gestapo trains in forging documents such as passports and birth certificates.

I made arrangements to see General Callimayo on the outskirts of Boca Vista, and through the night jailer left the calabozo unseen. If anything untoward occurs the jailer will swear I never left my cell.

Callimayo was waiting and in no gentle mood.

"The affair has been intolerably bungled, Señor," he growled, "El Presidente is in a devilish mood— and surveillance has been tightened dangerously."

I laughed. "What if I should tell you that the revolution to make you president is fewer than twenty-four hours away?"

He gave me a quick glance. There is Indian in Callimayo; and in that flash of white eyeball you can see it. Indian and insatiable, driving ambition for power. (Note: After he is president he will go along with us for a while. But he may turn dangerous later and need permanent attention.)

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Tell me," I countered, "is it true that the Americans asked for a commercial air base that could become a south Caribbean naval air patrol base—and were finally refused?"

Callimayo nodded.

"We— in the Council— worked on El Presidente to oppose it," he rejoined. "We told him it was just another trick of the Yanquis to penetrate— that there would then be Marines landed— and he would be less than a figurehead. We would all be slaves of the Colossus of the north."

"Splendid!" I muttered. "And he knows that the battle cruiser Portsmouth of the Scouting Squadron has sailed to pay a friendly visit here?"

Callimayo's black eyebrows went up in supreme astonishment. "Good God, no," he half-yelled. "That is the finish of all our plans."

"Gently, amigo," I grinned. "It will take the cruiser nine days to reach here. That will be much too late—much."

Callimayo then sensed the pressure of time upon us. "What have you in mind? Speak, in the name of Dios."

"See El Presidente tonight— now— if possible," I said. "Tell him of the approaching arrival of the Portsmouth. Tell him you have wind that the dirty Yanqui pigs intend to raise some trouble and Marines will be landed to establish order. And in return for the Marines getting out, the air base permit will have to be issued."

"Si, si, that I comprehend," he said, "but what goes with it?"

"You will know all presently," I said.

"Meanwhile, have you two men— any men— who have such a hatred for El Presidente that they would risk almost certain death to assassinate him?"

His dark Indian face cleared. He even chuckled. "I have two soldiers from my own province under sentence of death. I could permit them to escape."

"Do so," I said. "Send them to Fritz— you know the place."

He nodded. "Do we then rise? If so, I shall have to warn my leaders."

"Twenty-four hours later," I said, "while there is still confusion. Because under cover of the disorder following his death, we shall land the arms. They are arriving in forty-eight hours off Point Conception. Your faction here will arise— and those inland. I will take all my men and the best of the others to Point Conception, arm and march on the capital."

"Por Dios!' he grinned delightedly. "Nothing could be better planned. But when the American cruiser arrives, what do we do?"

"You do not know the Yanquis," I smiled. "You will be mobilized. You will not permit a landing. If they try to make one you will declare a state of war. You will send off dispatches to American newspapers, hundreds of them. Protesting this illegal, brutal conquest of a small, helpless country. You will say you will defend San Rico independence and liberty to the last man."

He looked at me almost with awe. Callimayo is not a bad soldier, but he is no strategist.

"And what will that do, Senor Coronel?"

"The American public will make such a protest that the politicians in Washington will disclaim any attempt at conquest, force the Portsmouth to withdraw, and perhaps publicly reprimand the captain for overstepping his authority."

Callimayo thought this over. Finally he took a big breath, let it go.

"By the mother of the good God," he muttered, "can they be such fools as that."

"We have spent years studying America. We know," I said.

His big white teeth clicked. "The two men shall come to your secret headquarters tonight," he said.

"Remember," I warned, "they must die. They must not live to reveal the scheme behind their actions."

"They will not tell anything," he said. He clicked his heels, touched my hand. "When I sit in the palace," he said, "you will find me grateful, El Coronel."

I RETURNED to the calabozo, most of my project complete. Tomorrow is the Festival of San Miguel. It is El Presidente's custom to ride to the great plaza in his carriage and make a speech. We shall see what comes of that. Heil Hitler!

June 28 (4:00 P.M.)

Exzellenz: I report as an eyewitness of what took place today in the Plaza de la Libertad. It being a festival day and I being liberal with pesos, all the calabozo staff save my own— men were well drunk. So I darkened my skin, donned old mestizo clothing, and stood at the curb opposite the big statue of San Miguel when El Presidente came along in his open barouche.

Oh, Exzellenz, I tell you it was a fine sight. Six horses decorated with the national colors, postilions in gay colors, and out-riders and footmen behind, The carriage was old-fashioned save in one respect:

El Presidente had had the precaution to install bullet-proof glass around the four sides, Thick, heavily-leaded glass that distorted his own image within.

And, it might be added, offered no protection against desperate men who could mount the front seat and shoot down inside the glass.

I was not in command of the operation, but I had given explicit, detailed orders to Fritz, and he knew I was a witness to see them carried out. So at three minutes to twelve, as the horses carocoled under the stern reins of the driver, I leaned forward expectantly. In another instant El Presidente would rise, bow to the roaring cheers.

Soldiers lined the curbing to keep back the festival-makers. But I saw a movement in one sector, not forty feet removed from where the horses now poised. I saw General Callimayo draw up on his white horse, tense, his eyes flicking around expectantly.

A soldier, evidently one of our men or bribed, moved, and two mestizos, their arms filled with flowers* slid out to scatter them apparently near El Presidente's barouche or give them to him.

________

* To those who think, perhaps, this is a figment of my imagination, I refer to two attempts on the life of, first, Indalecio Prieto, Minister of Defense of the Loyalist Spanish Republic, in which hand grenades were used. Second, the attempt with machine-gun fire on General Walter, able and popular commander in the Spanish Loyalist Army. Both attempts made in the heart of Madrid, Loyalist stronghold. This I learned in reading reports dealing with the blowing up of bridges over the Ebro, the intrigue to get removed the able commander of the Spanish 45th Division, General Kleber, and reports of location of Loyalist air fields and artillery emplacements.

I grinned. The supreme moment had come.

The two poor devils about to die ran with their flowers toward the barouche, yelling, "Viva el Presidente! Viva!"

6:  Gun To Gun

EL PRESIDENTE had started to rise. His fat foolish face, dim and distorted by the bullet-proof glass, was wreathed in smiles. He beckoned toward the mestizos. The roar of the crowd was thunderous, deafening.

As they came forward, these two, they suddenly came to life. No longer grovelling, they sprang with a sudden ferocity that betrayed trained soldiers, and acid hatred. The two postilions never knew what was toward. The next instant they were tumbled to the street. From beneath the flowers came two American Thompson sub-machine guns (our Luger with detachable butt is a superior weapon, but I had my reasons for choosing this one).

"Down with the tyrant!" they yelied, "death to the murderer!"

With that they opened fire. The rat-tat-tat of the gunfire rose above the acclamation of the crowd. And as the spitting explosions cut like a scythe of death, the onlookers' voices choked in their throats. The roars died to a terrible silence through which the gunfire cut with vivid sound.

I had seen El Presidente fall back, blood spouting from a dozen bullet-holes. He was done for, and I knew it. And my eyes traversed to General Callimayo. He had done a clever trick. At the instant of gun-fire he had pricked his horse with his spurs and jerked cruelly on the reins. The horse reared, seemed for an instant unmanageable. An instant that permitted the sub-machine guns to fire thirty rounds into a helpless body.*

__________

* Readers who recall the assassination of King Alexander of Jugo-Slavia a few years ago in Marseilles will notice a distinct similarity in the methods used, the failure of the guards due to rearing horses to strike the assassin down in time. The same scheme was used Shanghai, also in Bucharest. Like all schemes that work more often than they fail, it has been used repeatedly, as has the incident that follows.

But he, too, had seen El Presidente fall to the bottom of the barouche. Now he regained control of his animal and spurred to the side of the carriage. The two mestizos, following orders, had hurled their weapons onto the prostrate body of the dead man. They turned to spring into the crowd to disappear.

They had been told that in the confusion they were safe. They even smiled— one of them did— at General Callimayo as he came toward them. They were of his province. He had evidently promised help, and they looked for it now.

General Callimayo dragged his gun from his holster, As they started to jump down he opened fire. The distance was less than five feet. He could not miss. I saw the first bullet split the leading mestizo's head open. But two more bullets sent him kicking across the pavement to lie in the gutter. The second mestizo screamed, "Non, mia general!"

A bullet struck him in the mouth and lifted the top of his skull. The other two hit him in the throat. He fell, dead before he struck the ground.

General Callimayo turned, yelled hoarsely, "I have killed the dirty assassins of our beloved president. Return to your homes and mourn. Soldiers have orders to maintain order. Return to your homes."

In the deathly silence I had to grin, turned and walked back to the jail. Ramon, the jailer, admitted me to the cell.

"All goes well, Coronel?" he whispered.

"Si," I said. "Soon you will be chief warden, and the new regime will make San Rico a heaven on earth."

"And you will stay here— now— in the calabozo?" he asked unbelievingly.

"Only until the final phase of the scheme has been played," I said.

I was; in fact, waiting for Callimayo to rush forth and give to the San Rico Tribuna and the other newspapers, the documents which would prove this assassination to have been organized and accomplished by the Americans.

But within an hour Fritz Stauer himself came to the calabozo. I frowned in mounting anger.

"You dumpkopf!" I muttered. "Why do you risk everything by coming to me here?"

He was agitated, pale beneath his tan.

"Herr Oberst—" his voice stuttered, "El Presidente—he is not dead."

"You fool," I rasped, "what do you mean? I myself saw him fall, riddled."

He licked his lips. "It was not El Presidente. I saw him on the balcony of the palace not five minutes ago, showing himself to the people, quieting them."

I WAS stunned. What had happened? What had gone amiss? This could not be possible, yet Fritz was not one given to hallucinations. But whatever had happened, the situation was critical. There was not an instant to be lost.

"Get out of here," I whispered. "I'll meet you near the palace. Wait for me."

I raised my voice and yelled for Ramon.

June 28 (9:00 P.M.)

Exzellenz: I continue with the remarkable situation that exists in San Rico.

If El Presidente's suspicions fall elsewhere than where I wish them, then our whole plan is utterly ruined. It was vital for me to see him at once. I had Ramon summon the chief jailer* and after informing him I had vital information as to the attempted assassination of the president, asked to be taken to the palace at once.

__________

*In the documents examined, when not referred to as a calabozo, the Spanish for jail, the word was spelled gaol, the English spelling. I have changed it here to the American form for reasons of clarity

He consented and under strong guard I arrived there within two hours after the attack.

Exzellenz, it was true. In some manner, which I intend to find out, El Presidente had not been killed. And the moment I was ushered into his presence I knew I was in bad odor.

He said immediately, "If I had not known you were in prison, I should suspect you. Perhaps as it is, these newcomers from Spain are behind it."

"Your Excellency,' I cried, "I swear before the good God, you are wrong. In fact, it was my men who suspected a conspiracy against your life, and sent warning to the palace. Surely you got it?"

"I was warned," he said dryly. "And the warning saved my life and cost me the services of the best valet I ever had."

It took every atom of will-power to keep my face impassive at that. So! It had been that fat, goose-faced valet, Fernando, who had taken the bullets. Thinking back I could see how this could happen. Fernando was fat, almost of a size with the president. And the clouded bullet-proof glass would hide his features sufficiently to fool all but the closest observer. But how had El Presidente been warned? No one knew of this plan but my closest followers.

Aware now that El Presidente's little eyes were watching me keenly, I forced a smile.

"Thank God for that," I said. "But you have no evidence against us, and if my comrades from Spain spoke truly in word they sent me, they had come upon evidence that the swinish Yanquis were behind this attempted assassination."

Y Bara gestured to his desk. I saw a neatly clipped dossier.

"This evidence was given me by General Callimayo," he said. "It is said to have been stolen from the American, Rourke. It purports to be messages exchanged with Washington, urging my er— forcible removal because I refuse to permit the establishment of an air base. It would seem that my death would cause revolt and Marines and sailors from the arriving Portsmouth would land to keep order— and stay landed."

I hid a smile. All was not yet lost.

"Your Excellency, that is exactly what I heard. After I was falsely accused of killing this gringo, Bolton, I had some of my friends watch Rourke. They have told me this story— and here are documents to verify it."

HE COULD not know they had been carefully forged by Anton Velder. If I could convince him, and tie up Rourke's movements for the next few hours, what happened afterwards did not matter.

Exzellenz, you should have heard my impassioned pleading. I could have moved a saint in her niche. I swore the evidence was true, told him to examine the paper, look .at the signature, to wonder why Rourke continued on here through the hot weather. I could see his face slowly change.

"Enough," he said finally. "Perhaps you are right. North America fears southern invasion and might take unusual steps to prevent it. In any case I shall order Rourke's arrest."

I lidded my eyes to hide my triumph. "Spoken like the patriot you are," I said, "and if Your Excellency wills, I shall go along with the squad to make certain that Rourke is safely lodged in the calabozo."

He looked at me curiously. "Why do you hate him that much?"

"He falsely accuses me of murder," I said, "and represents big business in America. We Communists hate him and all his kind."

He shrugged. "Go with Lieutenant Tiapa. For the moment we shall er— forget your arrest in the Bolton affair."

"And I shall resume my rank as colonel-instructor of artillery?"

He nodded. "If what you have told me about American conspiracy proves to be true, you shall have nothing to fear from me, mi Coronel!"

Ten minutes later I left with Lieutenant Tiapa and two men to make the arrest at the Bolivar Hotel. I had my reasons for going, Exzellenz— also my gun.

Just why Lieutenant Tiapa was chosen for this mission I do not know. Twice we had indirectly approached him for membership in our Nid. He had refused, even angrily. Yet he was known to be politically opposed to El Presidente. However, it was nothing then to concern myself about. We entered the hotel, went to Rourke's suite,

To my surprise he was there alone. Neither his wife nor Malone was in the room when he opened the door. Lieutenant Tiapa bowed formally.

"I have the disagreeable duty, Señor, of placing you under close arrest," he said.

The slim little fool! That is no way to talk. I had made my preparations; now I drew my gun and drew it slowly and with ostentation so that Rourke could watch me with those cold gray eyes of his.

"Traitors to the nation, Lieutenant, always accidentally get shot as they are trying to escape," I said.

With that I leveled the gun at Rourke, and my finger tightened on the trigger.

7: I Make Another Move

I WAS trying to give Rourke a chance to draw his gun, make the attempt, so the killing would have no smell. But he made no move at all. He merely stared at me, his gray eyes, thinned, his mouth half-smiling.

Just as I pulled the trigger, the stupid Lieutenant Tiapa knocked up the muzzle. The bullet tore into the ceiling.

"This man, Señor Coronel," he yelled hotly, "is to be brought in alive. I am in command here."

His two men moved in to prevent me shooting again. Tiapa himself tried to take away my gun. All attention was on me.

Not until then did Rourke move. It was a small movement, scarcely seen, so swift it was. Yet into his hand jumped a huge blue gun that covered us all.

"Everybody stand still,' he said in that quiet chilled tone. "I'm going out— and I don't want anybody to stop me."

Tiapa's face grew red, then pale. I had no chance to level my gun. The two native soldiers merely gaped.

Rourke looked at me, and again his lips became half-smiling. "You. and I have been doing a lot of long distance sparring, Matista, or whatever your kraut name is. I think we'll start a little in-fighting and see how you can take some body punches from now on."

He backed alertly to the door. "Anybody who comes out there in the next sixty seconds gets lead poisoning," he said softly.

He backed out the door.

I turned to Lieutenant Tiapa. The officer's color had returned. He even looked blithe. He made no move to try and recapture his prisoner.

"Listen here," I cried, "are you going to let him escape?"

"One does not chase a dangerous man with a gun— until he has no gun," he said coldly.

I am no fool, Exzellenz, and I was puzzled. In this secret game we play each man defends his own life— unless someone else is going to do it for him, Rourke had not tried to defend himself. Tiapa had saved him by knocking up the muzzle. Why?

And why was not Tiapa pursuing? In Boca Vista, filled with soldiers, Rourke could not escape. Had, then, Rourke bought up Tiapa?

I glared at him angrily.

"I go to the palace to report your strange actions. You may face trial for treason for this."

He did not reply and I tore out of the room.

But before leaving for the palace I stopped in my suite, chiefly to see if there was new word from you.

The instant I entered I knew something Was wrong.

Someone had been in this room— and searched it.

I had carefully spilled the floor-colored powder in front of the desk with the secret drawers. Turning on the light and standing to one side, I could see footprints.

Had they found my secret files? Hastily I pressed the button. The drawers opened. A quick search showed all papers there. They were in code—dictionary code*— and I was relieved. No one could solve the code who did not know the dictionary used— and this was an archaic, one.

________

* The dictionary code is the simplest and best for quick communication. Each party has a dictionary—  in this case the International— and the words are indicated by page, column ard number of words from the top. Thus: 1373-1-3 means page 1373, column 1, 3rd word, "opaline,"

Yet if the code hadn't been broken, how did El Presidente know of the plot to take his life?

Exzellenz, I was puzzled, worried— even fearful. I felt as if a net were closing in. I must struggle fast, hard, to avoid it.

I closed the secret drawers and hastened to the palace. forewarned, I could, in protesting Rourke's escape, learn just how much El Presidente knew. It could not be much; else why was I still at liberty— and alive?

As I walked across the palace grounds Fritz slid out of the shadows and stopped me. He was pale and worried.

"Listen," he said hoarsely, "that Amerikaner schwein, Lou Rourke, just went in the private entrance to the president's suite."

Der Teufel! I stood for the instant paralyzed. All was clear in an instant.

With Rourke's aid El Presidente was plotting to learn the extent of our scheme, the men concerned— and round us up en masse.

That was why he had been permitted to escape. That was why I was free. They knew little, but suspected much.

I finally summoned my wits. Every minute now became a precious jewel. But the arms, the airplanes were at hand— even at this instant— and I must strike in a few hours.

I did not fear El Presidente's bungling movements. But Rourke— he was as dangerous as a tiger. Then came the idea to render him helpless.

"Fritz," I said, "get all the men— the Nid, the members together. Save for a few at the hiding place, take all to Point Conception. We arm tonight and tomorrow. And then we march on Boca Vista. Get word to Callimayo."

He nodded. "And you, Herr Oberst?"

I smiled grimly. "I will take Sebastian and attend to this swine, Rourke."

He asked no more but left. I went directly to the Hotel Bolivar.

June 28 (11:52 P.M.)

Exzellenz: To continue; it is well we moved carefully to the Bolivar. Soldiers marched; extra police patrolled. The city was tense and quiet. At the hotel, Sebastian and I met Francisco, in charge of that group. He looked aghast. "The police just arrested Conrado."

"He will have freedom in twenty-four hours," I said. "Take us up to Rourke's room. Stand by to see we are not interrupted."

He sensed the moment had come. We entered the elevator and ascended. A cruise ship had docked that day and we had to be careful of turmoil.

I rapped at Rourke's door.

His wife's voice answered.

I smiled grimly. "An urgent message, Señora," I replied. "From your caballero."

The door unlocked, and as it opened a fraction I flung my weight against it. She started to scream, but my hand clapped over her mouth. I drove her back and Sebastian seized her from behind. I drew my gun, struck her with it.

"Now, Señora, quickly," I said. "Where does your husband keep his papers?"

Her eyes blazed at me. I removed my hand. "Scream and I shall shoot you. Answer properly and you will not be harmed."

"I do not know where Lou's papers are," she said contemptuously, "and if I did I would not tell you."

"No?" I smiled. "Let the papers go, then. Tell me what this Señor Rourke's plans are."

She smiled defiantly. "Ask him, Oberst-leutnant Brant," she said.

Exzellenz! She knew my name. It meant Rourke had solved the dictionary code, knew most of my plans. The need for haste was like a nightmare haunting me. But it also meant he had told her much— and she should tell me. Bei Gott, she should.

"Very well, Frau Rourke," I said thinly, "I can make you talk— and I can stop him."

With a sudden swing I drove my fist crashing against her jaw. She sank senseless and limp in Sebastian's arms.

"Take her outside, put her in the car," I ordered. "She goes with us— and she will talk tater."

"She'll be a lovely plaything," grinned Sebastian and carried her out.

Quickly now I took pen and paper and wrote the note. It read: "Herr Rourke: Your wife is in my hands. She is well now; whether she remains that way depends entirely on you. A cablegram from you in Miami could aid her release. Stay here and move against me and you will be a widower on your honeymoon."

I grinned savagely, left it where he could see it and hastened out. Sebastian had her in the car. We already had your radio that the submarine with the guns was off Point Conception, so we headed for that destination instantly.

June 29 (1:10 A.M.)

Exzellenz: My best men, three hundred of them, are here at Point Conception. The U-68 is less than two hundred meters off shore. Many of the precious rifles are unloaded— the task proceeds at feverish haste.

We had no lighters, unfortunately, and only two small dories, but these, with the submarine's boat, have sufficed. This is a protected point from the prevailing north-east winds, and beyond the dunes of the shore is thick jungle that makes an ideal hiding place. Here the men are cleaning the rifles of cosmoline, mounting the heavier arms, distributing ammunition and making ready for our advance.

I have not questioned the Rourke woman yet— no time. I want to be ready to march no later than noon.

June 29 (10:15 A.M.)

Exzellenz: We did more than man's work this night. Shortly after dawn every last cartridge was on the beach, and much of it was already concealed in the jungle.

The U-boat skipper, Korvetten Kapitan Uriech, came ashore following the last load, to watch us prepare to march. He was a young man who told me he already had eighty thousand tons to his credit and hoped for more.

We shook hands cordially. "Have you men to handle those little 77's?" he asked. "They are marvellously accurate— if well laid."

"I have the gunners," I replied, and told him of the approaching arrival of the American cruiser Portsmouth, and the imbroglio in the capital. He looked momentarily wistful.

"What a target the Portsmouth would make," he murmured. "But then, we are not ready for that." He paused. Then, "I came to tell you that the raider Munschen with the three Dornier bombers will be off Santos Bay below here by four this afternoon. The pilots and crews are aboard."

"Kolossal!" I cried, overjoyed. "Just on time. We shall use them shortly, perhaps day after tomorrow."

"Three hundred barrels of highest octane gasoline," he said. "Will you fly on the adventure to Panama?"

"Yes," I said. "I would not miss it."

"Nor I," he muttered wistfully. "You fellows have all the luck. Fighting— bombing." He looked at my revolutionary troops enviously.

"Your turn will come," I grinned.

We shook hands again. "You shall hear from me— through the front pages of the newspapers," I said. "Within sixty hours."

"It is not a long flight,' he murmured, "and the bombs being sent ashore are tested liquid air and trinitrotoluol. I will be off shore here to protect the Munschen," he added.

"If you need help, signal." He saluted, said, "Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler!" I returned his salute.

Waving, he seated himself in the stern sheets and was rowed out to his U-boat. So staunch, so much the victor of the seas she looked, her conning tower clear. He waved once again before entering the hatch. Then, presently, the U-boat began to move.

I was still watching when behind me an excited voice cried, "Herr Oberst-leutnant, look— I have news— much—and a prisoner!"

I whirled, my gun leaping into my hand.

Coming toward me was Anton Velder. He had his gun in the back of Lou Rourke, Rourke had his hands up— and he was walking toward me.

8: Mysterious Blow

AH, EXZELLENZ, to hate is human and no man, not even we of the Gestapo School* can always act like a machine. I raced toward them, my eyes glowing.

__________

*The Gestapo espionage school was begun early in 1934, its young. students carefully selected. The embryo spy is trained in foreign languages, idioms and slang; taught the weakness and vices of the country he will be assigned to; the use of disguise, codes, ciphers, secret inks, cameras, how to break codes, and wily means to gain ends.

Velder seemed still amazed at his luck.

"Herr Oberst," he cried, "this one— this Rourke— he came to me. He surrendered himself, but only on condition that I take him to you— and you are to release his wife."

Rourke had stopped and was staring with his cold gray eyes.

"She's had nothing to do with this from the beginning," he said curtly, "and she has nothing to do with it now. Let her go."

I studied him. He wore a white linen suit, a reddish shirt, and in his pale cream-colored necktie was a huge turquoise tie-pin, the stone as big or bigger than my thumbnail. Typically vulgar American dress.

I burst out laughing, half with joy, half with amusement.

"You appear dressed for the sacrifice," I said. "What is that tiepin piece of jewelry—the headstone for your grave?"

He fingered the large turquoise, big as a peso.

"Do you intend to steal it," he asked quietly, as your people did in Europe?"

How that swine could stir my fury! I clinched my teeth.

"We are not thieves," I said. "You may keep your jewel— to wear in the grave."

"Then let my wife go— and the rest comes later," he said.

It occurred to me then, how had he found our secret hiding place to surrender to Anton?

"Then," I suddenly said, "you did break the dictionary code— you know all of my plans?"

"Yes, enough to know you'll fail."

I smiled. "Possibly. But the revolution is now begun and my first official act is to condemn you to death for treason to the new regime."

"Let Sheila go— the rest is between us two."

"Where is Malone?" I asked.

"What business is it of yours?" he countered coldly, "He was in this only as a favor to me— and because he got sore at your attempt to murder him."

"You mean he is not an American secret agent?"

Rourke shook his head. "Neither am I. You roped us in— but never mind that— I'm here. Are you going to let my wife go?"

"You take a high-handed manner for a prisoner," I said angrily.

His lips curled. "You left a message. You said if I didn't make a move against you she was free. I did better than leave the country— I came to you. Do you keep your word or don't you?"

Somehow I sensed something strange about this. Every man loves life; Rourke knew he could expect no mercy from me. Yet he had surrendered. Why?

He perhaps felt my perplexity. "I happen to love my wife," he said quietly, "and rather than have harm come to her— I swap places."

I laughed. "I do not kill senselessly. She is safe enough— safer here than in Boca Vista. When affairs arrange themselves, she will return to the United States."

He stared around. Men were still taking case after case of cartridges to the ammunition dump in the jungle.

"Let her go," he insisted again.

I shrugged impatiently. "Bind him, Velder, and put him under that palm. Put a guard over him, and if he makes one false move, shoot him, Later, some of the men can tise him for target practice with their new rifles."

Well satisfied, I returned to supervise the disposal of the munitions. I had with me here on this Point all of my own Germans, and the bigger number of the Nid converts we had made. Three hundred in all. A small number as such things go in Europe, Exzellenz, but splendid for here. Three hundred determined, well-armed men, equipped with heavy ordnance to knock down adobe walls, can perform miracles.

And they would not have to do quite that. Once we started our march on Boca Vista, General Callimayo would rise. I dispatched a messenger to him to say that I would attack the south wall of Boca Vista at dawn.

After that I took my gun crews and began to give them a hasty drilling to familiarize them with these mountain pieces.

JUNE 29 (11:49 P.M.)

Exzellenz: Already you have received my radio digest through the U-68. I now amplify the catastrophe and explain in detail my desperate decision for the next move.

Exzellenz, how this has happened is still a mystery to me.

It was late afternoon, just before four o'clock and I was drilling loaders and layers on the mountain 77s. We were preparing to march in an hour. I heard the airplane motor. A moment later Fritz came running.

"An airplane headed this way," he cried excitedly. "It's too high up to see the insignia— but it's probably a government reconnaissance ship."

I swore softly. Of course! Rourke had left warning, and El Presidente had dispatched all his airplanes to make reconnaissance to locate our troops. This one had flown this way. But all the munitions save those with the men were in the jungle.

"Get the men under cover at once," I ordered. "No movement of any kind. If any one tries to signal, shoot him."

I myself ran to the edge of the jungle
and with my Zeiss glasses studied the plane. It was flying at about twelve thousand feet. I could not see the insignia. It was still quite a way off. I glanced around the open land leading from the beach to the jungle. Nothing was in sight, Our boats were hidden. The country looked as desolate as when I had first chosen it. The U-68 had submerged or gone over the horizon. There was no clue to our presence.

I heard the motor shut off, then the moaning sound as the plane spiraled downward. Now I could see the San Rico cocarde on the underside of the flashing wings. No one of my men moved. The jungle hid the munitions as securely as a steel safe.

At two hundred feet, at three-quarters throttle, the plane hedge-hopped over the jungle headed for Point Conception. I saw heads leaning out, sunlight on goggles. I grinned. They could see nothing.

The plane made a circle of Point Conception, coming down as close as a hundred feet. But the men under the palms were securely out of sight. I knew that Velder would shoot Rourke if the man made an outcry or a signal.

Twice now the plane went back and forth, once as low as fifty feet.

Then it abruptly zoomed and with open throttle headed back toward Boca Vista. I waited until the din of its motor was no longer heard. Then I sped across the clearing to where Rourke lay under the palm.

Velder saw the expression on my face.

"Rourke made no move at all, Herr Oberst," he cried. "I swear it."

I ignored this and bent over Rourke. With one blow I struck his cheek so hard the blood ran where a ring of mine cut the flesh. His eyes flashed bright fire but he did not flinch.

"Now, Schwein," I said softly, "you will start talking—at the beginning. What moves has El Presidente made for defense? How many soldiers? How disposed? Speak! Sehr schnell!'

He stared up at me calmly. "Nuts to you, Brant. You'd double-cross your own mother. You didn't let my wife go. I'll tell you nothing."

"You dumbkopf!" I said. "I don't make war on women, She is safer here, I tell you, than in Boca Vista. I attack there at dawn."

"Still," he said, "I want her to go. Give her that car and a half hour start. Then I'll talk."

I shrugged. "If you want her killed in the Sack it is your affair." I called,

"Fritz!" When he came I said, "Turn Frau Rourke loose. Give her my car. No one is to molest or pursue her."

"Zu befehl!" he said.

"Now, Rourke," I growled, "talk."

"When I see her well away," he replied grimly.

I would not let her come to him, so presently she departed. Rourke waited a half hour.

"Now, Rourke," I said thickly, "speak!"

"El Presidente knows that every one of your so-called Spanish Loyalists is a German agent," he said quietly. "He knows that you have corrupted certain officers in the army, and other government officials. He does not know who all these are. But he has arrested hundreds and will get the Test.

I was boiling with rage. With difficulty I contained myself.

"He acts too late," I snarled.

"No," said Rourke. "He is right on time."

As he spoke I heard the far-off heterodyne of many airplane motors. Softly now, but growing louder by the instants

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"He listened to an idea of mine," said Rourke. "I have a theory that if given enough rope you arrogant kraut agents hang yourselves. I told him the best thing was to let you gather all your spies and disloyal San Ricans in one place. Along with your German agents. Then destroy them in one batch."

He grinned at me, "They're coming to do just that now."

The airplane motor drone had become a roar. I stepped out from under the palm tree. I saw seven planes, the total San Rican air force, flying in a wedge-shaped formation. My men leaped to cover.

The planes came down to a thousand feet, headed directly for Point Conception. How had they known where to come? There had not been a clue to our presence when the reconnaissance plane went over. Yet they had returned.

My gun leaped into my hand, and on the pressure of my finger hung Rourke's life. He stared back calmly into the muzzle.

"Go ahead," he said. "A guy can only die once. And it's worth it to stop your plan of crippling the United States. And the Portsmouth will be here before you can strike again."

I still did not understand what seven planes could do. But I fought down my fury. For two reasons: Rourke had said he could only die once. In that he was mistaken; I could make him die a hundred deaths— and wanted to. Furthermore, I needed more information later and intended to get it.

Now, however, as I stood poised between two minds, a sullen roar came out of the jungles. A cloud of smoke rose. I heard the half-human howls of airplanes diving in power dives.

I looked out again.

The flight of planes had re-formed into single file. They were diving like striking eagles on the jungle edge. They were dropping incendiary small bombs,

The need for secrecy had vanished. The necessity of protecting our arms for revolution was vital. There was no time for Rourke now. I yelled for Fritz, for Kahler, for Messich.

"Small arms into the open," I yelled. "Fire at them. Wheel out a batter of the 77's. Give those gunners some exercises on real targets. Shoot down those planes."*

Our revolution had begun, but not in the way I had planned it.

_________

* Readers who may think this incident incredible, or a figment of imagination, are requested to read the details of the Nazi abortive revolt in Brazil in 1939. Starting in Minnaes Gueres where Nazi penetration is intense, there were pitched battles between Nazi and Brazilian troops, an attempt to seize the capital at Rio de Janeiro, and only the prompt and merciless action of the Brazilian Air Force in bombing Nazi concentrations, munitions dumps and communications prevented a successful coup d'etat. Recent government actions against Nazis in Uruguay, Chile and Argentina are also recommended reading. The destruction of secret munitions dumps destroyed sufficient rifles, cartridges, mortars, light artillery to equip an army of ten thousand.

9: Desperate Risk

EXZELLENZ, it was a perfectly sprung trap— aided by nature. The north- west wind fanned the flames in the jungle. The bombs had been illy dropped, perhaps, but the sun-baked jungle ignited, became an orange-colored inferno that blazed a hundred feet high and swept across the munitions dump, actually cutting off our retreat on two sides.

And as we were firing at the airplanes— we brought down two—Fritz came rushing up to me. He was handling the group on the right.

"Soldiers," he croaked, "on the road; they're deploying and advancing."

I understood the situation at a glance. The fire held us on two sides of the triangle made by Point Conception. The arrival of San Rican soldiery on the third side effectually cut off retreat save by the sea.

I hastily climbed the trunk of a palm tree. The smoke and heat was intense. But nightfall was less than an hour away. We might still have a chance of fighting our way out, if we could hold these troops.

Exzellenz, probably every motor vehicle in Boca Vista had been commandeered, busses and otherwise. They lined the road toward Corumbi, still spilling out soldiers who were forming on the side of the road and advancing at the double-quick to deploy into a skirmish line. I made a hasty estimate of six hundred— with possibly more behind, hidden in the clouds of smoke.

Rourke! He had done this; no man in San Rico was capable of planning such a perfect strategic trap. My fury reached an intolerable blackness. He would pay. Bei Gott, he would!

"Fritz," I said thickly, "form the men. They know it is a firing squad if they are captured. Forget the planes. Pivot the 77's. There is only one way off this point and we've got to shoot our way through."

He nodded, his eyes queerly twisted as if he already saw the squad with the eight black pellets.*

__________

* Espionage slang for being shot against the wall for espionage.

I myself raced to turn the light field guns. Fritz was rallying the men. Of the courage of our own Nid I had no doubt; of the mixed blood adherents there was cause to worry. But Fritz stormed at them, mocked at them.

I finished swivelling the guns as the first hail of bullets swept over our position.

"You have two ways of dying," I forced a laugh as I yelled. "Against a wall like a dog, or glorious like a man in battle. And there is hope— caballeros— on the road is transportation to Boca Vista. Many cars. All we have to do is take them. Hoch!"

We had no cover at all except a few crooked palms and holes in the sand. But neither did the advancing troops, and the smoke favored us as much as them.

I laid the guns myself, using shrapnel, and cut the fuses myself. It was point-blank range at seven hundred yards or less. And, by God, we cut a swath in them.

"If we can't break through," I yelled to Fritz, "we'll hold them until nightfall, and swim around the point and escape into the jungle."

Behind us the wall of flame in the jungle made a heat that seared the skin. It was touch and go. We either shot our way through now, or retreated to the sand dunes to escape the blistering heat. For, Exzellenz, there is no fire like a jungle fire. It looks a polished green, that jungle; there seems nothing in sight to burn; yet beneath, soaked in hot sun, are the dead plants of yesterday. They burn not with a yellow flame, but a torrent of orange-red that roars like a monster, explodes like powder. Once when the wind blew the smoke to the left I had a glimpse of the flames, and they were nearly two hundred feet high.

By now, of course, the munitions dump, what we had not moved, had been set off. Cartridges were popping, high explosive shells thudded and made pyrotechnics.

But we had outfitted each of our men with bandoleers holding two hundred rounds. An additional three hundred rounds per man had been dragged out for our expedition to Boca Vista. So that was all right. We were short on shells for the guns. The caisson held a hundred rounds each, and we had a spare fifty for three of the guns. I had my best gunners and myself handling them. Twice the San Ricans formed for the charge, and twice we broke them with beautifully aimed salvos. We finally forced them to the cover of the cabbage palms. They started creeping forward, and I had our men, under careful direction, begin sniping.

Matters looked better, particularly as the fire could not reach across the sand. We had even advanced three patrols of thirty men each to enfilade the enemy's position with cross-fire.

But I had forgotten those accursed planes.

The flames had kept them away; and I am certain that they had not the wit of themselves to figure out their move. Yet now, risking sparks, they came diving through the smoke. As if ordered by signal. I turned rifle fire on them. But a rifle, as you should know, Exzellenz, is nothing to stop a diving plane making three hundred an hour. l

They carried small fragmentation bombs besides the incendiaries with which they had fired the jungle. We in the battery position now got the benefit of these. They were bold, those flyers. They came down to fifty meters before releasing, and risked zooming toward the thundering fire.

We lost three men, one Tiesel, my best gunner, on that first dive. The men were scattered enough to keep casualties down save at the guns. The third dive achieved a direct hit on my number one gun. It was no longer fit for use.

Under cover of these dive operations the soldiery began rising in skirmish rushes to flank our position. Our men were bewildered, made panic-stricken by the dive-bombing.

I had no recourse but to retreat to the dunes along the shore.

As I gave the order I remembered Rourke, forgotten in these mad moments of battle. Gun in hand, face blackened, I raced to where he had been hidden under the palm tree. Those planes, I suddenly realized, had been signaled. That first reconnaissance plane had been signaled by Rourke? But how?

"He'll tell me, bei Gott," I snarled, "and then—"

I saw Velder, bound, gagged, his face all bloody. Rourke was not there! Harshly I untied Velder.

"Where is he?" I demanded. "Bei Gott, tell me. You have failed—let Rourke escape." I kicked him. brutally.

He winced with pain. "Oberst," he gasped, "I could not help it. I swear. A big man— with red hair— he called Malone— surprised me—"

"Surprised you!" I roared. "Where did he come from?"

Anton shook his head. "From off there," he pointed toward the beach. And as he did so I saw a plane just taking off. I understood then. Red Malone was flying one of those San Rican planes. He had risked the dangerous attempt to land on the beach below the point His act was protected from view by the high dunes. He had crawled here and, under cover of smoke and confusion, had rescued Rourke. There they went— Rourke had escaped me again!.

While I digested this bitter realization Anton said, "Rourke left a message. Here it is."

Out of his shirt he pulled a piece of torn paper. In perfect German was written on it:

"Brant: Your men are trapped hopelessly and so are you. In case you want to know how, I will tell you. The big so-called turquoise in my tiepin was an infrared reflector. The batteries were in a thin leather belt next my skin. When the reconnaissance plane flew over I gave him the location of the munitions dump, the number of your men, and the order to return immediately with planes and soldiers and attack. Do not blame your men for this. Infra-red like ultra-violet rays, as you know, are at the end of the spectrum, invisible to the human eye, and only seen through a special filter. The pilot carried the filter, because this had all been prepared to bag your men and the traitors in one group, so as not to leave a nucleus for a new attempt.

"This explained, here is my proposition. Surrender your men and they will receive long prison sentences. Surrender yourself, and tell me just what the German plans are for Latin America and you will get exactly ten years in Boca Vista prison. Refuse, and you will end where you should end— with your back against a wall, blindfolded before a firing squad."

In savage rage I tore the missive to pieces. Many moves hitherto puzzling were only too clear now. Rourke had struck in the only way that would completely paralyze our efforts. Had I been captured, Fritz could have carried on; or if he and I, there were others. But now, trapped between fire and gun— we were all doomed.

Yet I will not have it so. Night is falling and still they cannot force the San Rican soldiers to the final bayonet charge. I have made my plans. I shall still succeed in the major plan for which I was sent here twenty months ago. This I swear to you by der Fuhrer himself. Heil Hitler!

ABOARD U-boat 68, off San Rican Coast

June 30. Exzellenz: I make a brief report to complete the last details of our fight on Point Conception, and then get on to my final plan which I begin within an hour.

I was forced to desert my comrades and the Nid. Under cover of nightfall, knowing the U-68 was to return as escort for the Munschen, Fritz and I risked sharks and swam out to the rendezvous near Santos Bay. We were pursued by bullets for some distance, for the night was ablaze with the fire. But we escaped, and at nine o'clock, when the U-68 emerged off Santos Bay, we climbed aboard. Korvetten-kapitain Uriech was horrified at the news.

We were standing on the conning tower deck and, as he looked ashore, his face was furious.

"Had I only known," he muttered, "that gun could have handled them nicely." He gestured to the three-inch mounted on the submarine's forward deck.

I SHOOK my head. "Those planes would make your position untenable at dawn," I told him. "Besides, revolution in San Rico is no longer feasible. But the major point of the program is."

He looked at me. "Come below," he suggested, "I have excellent schnapps."

In his tiny cabin over a glass I told him, "My orders were to establish an air base that would threaten the Panama Canal. Later orders amended this to raid the Canal locks as a demonstration of our power to frighten the Latin American countries and reveal American helplessness to defend them when we move militarily as well as economically into South America."

Uriech and his kind are gamblers with death. And he knew what I meant.

"You intend anyway to take those bombers on the journey to the Canal Zone and bomb the locks," he muttered.

"I intend to do that— tonight— if you will give me men to aid."

He jumped to his feet. "Durch Gott! It is an exploit of daring and cleverness. They think they have defeated you— and at the last moment you play the real trump."

"Exactly!" I said. "That Inter-American conference must not fall under the sway of the United States, and none of these fools will believe anything short of force."

His jaws clicked in decision. "You can have the men— all of them." He paused. "And yet, with heavy pontoons, how can you manage the long distance on your patrol capacity with a. big bomb load?"

I had calculated that. "After we are in the air,' I said, "one of the men in each plane will go down and rid us of the pontoons."

"But how will you land?"

"Back here in eighteen hours off Santos— in the water— and swim for it," I said. "You will stand by to pick us up—you or the Munschen."

He figured rapidly— your submarine commander weighs every chance. "It can be done!" he cried. "Come with me!"

10: Wings Under The Moon

ABOARD Dornier Bomber 14, somewhere north of San Rico,

July 1  (12:36 A.M.)

Exzellenz: I am writing this in the lonely forward gunner's seat of this bomber as we lead the flight north to bomb the Panama Canal. God willing, these notes will be sent to you from the U-68 eighteen hours from now. If not, then the newspaper will tell you what we have done and how we have died. Every man aboard is a German; we have sworn the pledge to prepare the way for the great stride north. We will explode the bombs on the locks and Culebra Cut* even if we have to come so low as to be destroyed by their explosion.

__________

* Even in ordinary conditions the Panama Canal is sometimes rendered temporarily impassable by slides in the Culebra Cut, midway through the Canal. Locks might be temporarily or hastily repaired. Landslides at Culebra caused by bomb hits or even terrific concussions might block it for weeks or months, as the earth must dredged out, a new firm embankment made.

There is little to add to my last report. The weather favored us, the sea was calm with a slight ground swell. The planes were assembled, checked on the Munschen's deck, then lowered by booms to the lee of the vessel, and here loaded with petrol, the Mercedes motors tested, and the bomb racks filled.

The U-68 stood guard, guns shotted, to protect us in this operation. But the single San Rican plane flying against the moon stood well off beyond range. If they spotted our lights— necessary in view of the detailed work— it does not matter. There is no San Rican pilot who can down one of our bombers, with machine guns fore and aft and slots in the bottom of the fuselage to repel attack from below.

I am sitting in a clear glass ball. The two Spandau guns on tourelle are ready to swivel. Above the yellow moon hangs like a polished platter against the velvet of the night.

And so, in view of complete victory awaiting this night, I project to the future briefly, Exzellenz. My usefulness in San Rico and neighboring republics is ended by this misadventure. Yet all my training is for Spanish-speaking countries, so I suggest that I be sent on a complete tour of the Caribbean islands.

THE General Staff plan, as I understand from what little you have said, envisages a complete base on the South American mainland. From this point we jump-off along the Windward Islands, seizing them one by one, establishing secure bases and advancing finally to Cuba.*

__________

* Information in Washington leads to the opinion that the Great German General Staff's plan of military operations against the United States begins with the gaining of colonies on the East American coast at its closest proximity to the so-called Brazilian bulge— i. e., Sierra Leone, Senegal— and islands between this point and Brazil. The German South American air service to Pernambuco these past three years have carefully gathered data in this direction. After this mainland base, a movement north through the Caribbean islands to an invasion jump-off base is logical.

A complete mapping of possible airdromes, defense points and a testing of the public would seem invaluable, particularly after this night's exploit, and I am not known among those islands. Or I might prove useful in Mexico * or Buenos Aires. However, that is—

__________

* Recent newspaper headlines have pointed to the unusual influx of German "tourists" in Mexico City since the outbreak of the spring blitzkrieg.

I break off, Exzellenz! We are attacked!

I saw a shadow against the moon. Spitting exhaust stack flames against the night. San Ricans, of course, warned by their reconnaissance—led, perhaps, by that pilot Malone.

There are ten of them. Der Teufel! Today they had only seven planes, and two were shot down. Now they have ten! This I do not understand. I cannot take time to wonder. Against the moon above they are wedge-shaped, and peeling off * to dive.

__________

* Peeling off. Aviation expression meaning outside plane falls off on one wing and rolls into a nose-power dive, followed by the next plane in the V-line.

Even with the removal of pontoons we are too heavily loaded to maneuver. We shall hold formation and fight them off. Their old Browning guns are .30 calibre, and they do not know chaser methods well enough to down us.

Here they come, one after the other sliding down a thousand meters of sky on our rear bomber. I have no chance of a shot; I can only sit and watch.

I can see Fritz's guns (he is rear gunner on the top protection plane) begin to sparkle. The tracers are shooting like fire-flies across the night. He has not scored a hit but the accuracy of the tracer stream will keep those San Ricans off.

But it does not! Exzellenz, they come one after the other. They open fire. And, bei Gott, they are not using machine guns. These are small cannon—one-pounders— firing an explosion contact shell.* They dive straight on the bomber's tail, go under, and leave the range open to the chaser plane pursuing. I see their stubby wings, Exzellenz. What is this? These are not old Falcon chaser planes. They are new type—with liquid-cooled motors.

______

* The fact that a modern airplane, partly armored, can be pierced by hundreds of bullets and fly has emphasized the truth that unless pilot or motor is hit, the plane is still a weapon. Consequently, one-pounder small cannon are now mounted in the latest type pursuit ships, along with .50 calibre machine guns.

Whose airplanes are they?

Ah, Gott mit uns, now ! The rear bomber is aflame and falling. An explosive shell must have struck the gasoline supply.

The second bomber is attacked. My pilot— Mueller who arrived on the Munschen— is maneuvering rapidly to give us a chance with our weapons. But, durch Gott, the methodical way of destroying us is maddening. We had expected no such plane resistance as this. We need Messerschmidts to protect us—and there are none.

I am firing rapidly at a target as dark and as faint as a diving bat. My tracer fire spears across the night. The attacking flight has split, three ships to the second bomber, three to us. This may help.

The sky is lighted by the burning bomber falling. Fritz and the crew have no parachutes— and below must be only jungle or savannahs. God rest them!

Here come the chasers! We are being squeezed, two from in front, one behind. And—God. help us—the other bomber is down—with Anton and all the rest, and the remaining three chasers are zooming at us from below. All our guns blaze now. J am firing straight at the oncoming target. The bright flash from the front betokens the one-pounders, it is so much bigger than the machine gun flash.

A shell has torn in and exploded in the fuselage. The radio operator is dead— half cut in two. The pilot yells at me, "Otto, we cannot stand them off. And we cannot otit-run them. I intend to go down and land."

Another shell tears into the stern. It struck the rear gunner. He is holding his bowels— dead.

WE ARE diving now. In loosing the pontoons I had planned on alighting on water. Land only below, and nothing to land with. But Mueller is a clever pilot. He may pancake her on her stomach. We are diving fast and they are diving after us. I cannot get in a shot, can only sit here, surrounded by glass, and see the tracers flash past.

Another shell has hit the central fuselage. If one hits the bomb racks we are finished.

Mueller is wounded by a fragment. The same shell burst the glass around me. I ride against the cold of the night, my face bloody. We have dropped two thousand meters in less than a minute. They are circling and diving around us like porpoises. Our speed of fall, however, makes their aim not too good. Only two more shells struck us. One went through the left wing. Another struck the tail assembly, but Mueller yells to say the controls are still sensitive.

The earth below my watering eyes is dark where the jungle is. But here, east of the mountains, are savannahs, and these are whiter under the moon glow. It is there we must land, somehow.

Mueller has just yelled, "Ostroleich is dead— run back and release all the bomb toggles. We cannot land with a load."

We are less than two thousand meters up as I leave my station and craw! through the wrecked fuselage. Wind whistles around me. But I reach the toggles, and one by one pull them. What bitter savage thoughts! They were to have blown the locks of Panama into gravel— made it impassable for months. And as I look below I see their flashing flames thunder in empty land.

But the point is to escape now. Our time will come again. And the bombs no longer menace our landing.

We are so low that the chaser planes are grouped behind us, firing like mad now, not with one-pound shells (they apparently carry only a limited supply) but with .50 calibre machine guns on wing and nose.

We are riddled. I am wounded in the arm. Mueller has two holes in his legs. But the earth is only sixty meters or so below, and we are levelling out to try a landing. To the right is jungle of some sort. Into it— if we survive this landing— we can flee and hide.

One thing I am certain of. We are far beyond San Rico. And since political offenses are not extraditable, we are safe from the vengeance of El Presidente.

Mueller has levelled off, even has the nose quite high. The motors are undamaged and he can maneuver on them. He yells to hang onto something and brace myself in case we turn turtle.

I am watching the land now and not the chaser planes. It is coming up, a smooth silver torrent under the moon. Mueller has tripped his magnesium flares and this spreads light for him to land by.

Centimeters only separate us from the earth's crust. It is a savannah with high stalky grass. For wheels it would be a simple landing, smooth and an effortless run. For us— we shall see.

Now, tail down, motors off, nose very high, the tail assembly strikes first. A slight bump. Then a heavier one. Then a violent smashing bump that dips the nose. But Mueller fights his control wheel. We are flat now, skidding like a sled without steel runners. The bottom is tearing away under the smash of the earth. I am braced, hands and legs clutching, wedged near the bomb toggles, not to be thrown.

Violently the huge two-ton bomber rocks. More and more the nose tilts. Mueller has cut his motors.

"She's going over," he yells.

And scarcely had he screamed the words than the nose strikes some slight hummock, wedges there. The wings crumple, the tail rises like a stick going end over end. The tail comes over and hits the ground a tremendous blow.

I am half-stunned. But I am alive. And the plane has at last stopped on her back.

Mueller arouses me from my semi-senseless condition. 'Petrol on the hot engines," he screams. "She's going to burn. Can you get loose?"

I have really only to wedge through the great holes in the fuselage. I stagger out, trip and fall down. Behind me with a whoof of sound the hot petrol ignites, many kilograms of it. It blazes like the sun at dawn.

I stagger away; anything to be rid of the heat. Mueller is beside me now. He is weak from loss of blood, hangs to me.

"The woods," he whispers. "They'll be down— they want us, Otto—they want us badly."

We can scarcely see anything in the tall grass. But we know it will burn from the gasoline, so we go on.

We do not get far.

Within perhaps a half-kilometer of the blackness of the jungle, figures rise before us. A flashlight beam dazzles our eyes.

A voice— what a voice— the voice of Lou Rourke, says, "This is the end of the line, Brant. Throw up your hands."

11: The Devil Must Pay

EAST cell block, Boca Vista Prison,

Republic of San Rico,

July 3, 4:00 P.M.

Exzellenz: This is probably the last report I shall ever write. I am to be shot at dawn.

You may wonder how this strange eventuality came about, even as I have, and if this bribed jailer will mail the letter, then you will learn the perfidy, the brutal attack by the United States on German airplanes.

Let me return briefly to that instant when, blinded by wounds and smoke, and exhausted, I came face to face with Lou Rourke in the savannah of Parania. You were doubtless startled, even as was I. How had he got here?

I tried to raise my hands, nearly fell. Mueller took one look, croaked, "Heil Hitler!" and fell forward senseless.

To resist was madness. Rourke had with him three men dressed in pilots' uniforms, and they were all armed, even as was he.

"Tie him up," ordered Rourke in a cold voice. Then to me, as a man fastened my wrists, "We've got a transport plane over there, Brant. We're flying you back to San Rico,"

This roused me to the new peril. I could expect no mercy from El Presidente.

"But you can't do that," I cried. "This is Republic of Parania territory. I claim my rights as a German citizen. There is no extradition for political activity."

"We aren't extraditing you, Brant," said Rourke, "we're taking you."

"But— but that's illegal," I yelled.

He seemed to crack then. His face grew dark. He stepped forward until his deep gray eyes blazed into mine,

"Since when, you dirty rat," he growled, "have you ever considered laws or the legality of anything? Was it legal to bring your German spy machine into San Rico and try to bribe, corrupt, lie and cajole poor ignorant people into attacking a legitimate government? Was it legal to bring in arms to create a revolution? Was it legal to torture and finally murder a fine guy like Paul Bolton?"

His teeth ground in suppressed fury.

"That's what eats me about you swine," he snarled. "You violate all the laws, then appeal to them to save your own hides. You use our laws to carry on your own filthy enterprises."

He seemed to catch himself. "What the hell, I sound like a preacher! Well, you're going back—because that's the way it's got to be. I can't convict you of the murder of Paul Bolton, but the dawn when you face the firing squad I'm going to look up and say, "Bolton, if you can see anything, take a look at this."

SOMEHOW they dragged me to the transport plane. A flare still burned. And near it I saw a stubby-winged plane. Tail down, its wings cocked up, I could see the insignia. Red, white and blue circles with a star superimposed. The insignia of the United States Air Service.

"Why," I croaked, "that was an act of war. These are American military planes. They attacked and shot down German planes."

Rourke was staring at me.

"Why, Brant, your wounds have made you delirious. You've got things confused. It was you making an act of war against the United States by trying to blow up the Panama Canal locks. You got the facts twisted."

"Cannot I see that insignia?" I yelled, tried to wrest loose.

"That's, the San Rican insignia," he grinned. "These are all San Rican pilots, aren't you?" He turned to the silent, helmeted men. They smiled.

"Sure," said one.

"The right answer, you sap, is si, si," said another. "I spent a leave in Cuba once and I know."

"This— this— oh, I shall tell the world of this brutal act," I yelled

"You won't," said Rourke, suddenly grim. "You so-called hard guys have always taken the initiative, struck when you wanted to strike. You did pretty well against Norway, Holland, Belgium and France. But we don't wait— get it?"

He gestured to the man holding me. "Stuff him inside."

Inside the plane, I wondered where these modern chasers had come from. Not Panama. Their range is not enough. I overheard that the aircraft carrier Bonneville was assigned to accompany the Portsmouth on the good-will tour. She would be just off the Paranian coast. And Rourke, with Malone flying a borrowed transport plane, apparently had flown to a rendezvous with planes from the carrier over Parania and guided them to us. It was simple, I suppose, knowing where we started from and what our objective was.

He told me later himself, "The one thing that always licks you krauts is arrogance and over-confidence. You figured there wasn't anything to stop your bombers, once they got in the air. You set a straight course and flew it— just as I knew you would, If you had allowed that maybe I might figure what you would do, you could have taken a roundabout course and reached your objective. That's why you'll always fail just when victory is in sight. You can win all the battles but the last one."*

So, Exzellenz, you have the reason why I am writing this last missive. The United States made an act of war against us. Proclaim it to the world; strike them down— and my life will not have been taken in vain. Heil Hitler!

__________

* Rourke is paraphrasing the saying about the English, "They lose all the battles but the last one."

NEWSPAPER DISPATCH FROM BOCA  VISTA, REPUBLIC OF SAN RICO:

July 2.

Led by President Y Bara himself, government forces today successfully quelled a Fifth Column revolt, aimed at establishing a new Fascist government. Scores were arrested, and at least two hundred are believed to have been killed in the fighting that lasted most of the afternoon. With soldiers and airplanes the government forces attacked the rebels at Point Conception and those not killed were captured,

Among those to be tried by court-martial is General Miguel Callimayo who, it is believed, was to be raised to power if the revolt had succeeded.

NEWSPAPER DISPATCH FROM BOCA VISTA, REPUBLIC OF SAN RICO:

July 4.

Otto Brant, German secret agent, known here as Colonel Juan Matista, was executed at dawn today by a firing squad for his share in the recent abortive Fifth Column revolt. This day, celebrated in the United States to commemorate independence and democracy, also saw the execution following a drum-head court-marshal of General Miguel Callimayo, known to have been one of the ring-leaders. Other executions are expected to follow the present trials.

BOCA VISTA, REPUBLIC OF SAN RICO:

July 5.

The American cruiser Portsmouth, and the aircraft carrier Bonneville of the Atlantic Scouting Squadron, arrived here to-day on a good-will visit to Latin American ports. The vessels will remain for several days.

EXCERPT FROM REPORT OF LOUIS J. ROURKE, SPECIAL AGENT FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION, WASHINGTON, D. C.:

Far be it from me to take my nose out of my own affairs, but as you know, I was pitch-forked into this San Rican mess, and if Bolton hadn't been killed, I would have had a swell time on a honeymoon. Instead, I was so busy that Sheila says she will get a divorce— no fun being married to a shadow husband.

Anyway, the point of this report is to indicate that all this bushwah-we hear about invasion of America in the north is silly. But invasion of the south is very possible, no matter what happens in this European mess. I don't mean Hitler wants war with the United States. But he wants South American markets; he wants a liberal colonizing scheme there for his excess population. And if we try to block him he will use force. He will bring the war to us down there. The country down there is lousy with Nazi agents, stirring up Fifth Column business.

San Rico was only a sample.

It strikes me that weve been busy as hell locking the front door of invasion, and left the back door wide open for the krauts to walk through. I'm going back to my regular job. But I'm sending under separate cover all the files I picked up from Brant's hide-out— and you look through them and you'll see just how this Nazi system works in every Latin American country at this minute.

With that off my chest I am hereby announcing my intention of taking a new two weeks vacation and honeymoon, and this time we're going into the Maine woods where nobody can reach us unless he can swim.

Lou Rourke.

_______________________

12: Little Snow-white

(Sneewittchen)

The Brothers Grimm

Children's and Household Tales, 1812

(Margret Hunt translation, 1884)

Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm

ONCE UPON A TIME in the middle of winter, when the flakes of snow were falling like feathers from the sky, a queen sat at a window sewing, and the frame of the window was made of black ebony. And whilst she was sewing and looking out of the window at the snow, she pricked her finger with the needle, and three drops of blood fell upon the snow. And the red looked pretty upon the white snow, and she thought to herself, "Would that I had a child as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as the wood of the window-frame."

Soon after that she had a little daughter, who was as white as snow, and as red as blood, and her hair was as black as ebony; and she was therefore called Little Snow-white. And when the child was born, the Queen died.

After a year had passed the King took to himself another wife. She was a beautiful woman, but proud and haughty, and she could not bear that anyone else should surpass her in beauty. She had a wonderful looking-glass, and when she stood in front of it and looked at herself in it, and said—

"Looking-glass, Looking-glass, on the wall,

Who in this land is the fairest of all?"

the looking-glass answered—

"Thou, O Queen, art the fairest of all!"

Then she was satisfied, for she knew that the looking-glass spoke the truth.

But Snow-white was growing up, and grew more and more beautiful; and when she was seven years old she was as beautiful as the day, and more beautiful than the Queen herself. And once when the Queen asked her looking-glass—

"Looking-glass, Looking-glass, on the wall,

Who in this land is the fairest of all?"

it answered—

"Thou art fairer than all who are here, Lady Queen."

But more beautiful still is Snow-white, as I ween."

Then the Queen was shocked, and turned yellow and green with envy. From that hour, whenever she looked at Snow-white, her heart heaved in her breast, she hated the girl so much.

And envy and pride grew higher and higher in her heart like a weed, so that she had no peace day or night. She called a huntsman, and said, "Take the child away into the forest; I will no longer have her in my sight. Kill her, and bring me back her heart as a token." The huntsman obeyed, and took her away; but when he had drawn his knife, and was about to pierce Snow-white's innocent heart, she began to weep, and said, "Ah dear huntsman, leave me my life! I will run away into the wild forest, and never come home again."

And as she was so beautiful the huntsman had pity on her and said, "Run away, then, you poor child." "The wild beasts will soon have devoured you," thought he, and yet it seemed as if a stone had been rolled from his heart since it was no longer needful for him to kill her. And as a young boar just then came running by he stabbed it, and cut out its heart and took it to the Queen as proof that the child was dead. The cook had to salt this, and the wicked Queen ate it, and thought she had eaten the heart of Snow-white.

But now the poor child was all alone in the great forest, and so terrified that she looked at every leaf of every tree, and did not know what to do. Then she began to run, and ran over sharp stones and through thorns, and the wild beasts ran past her, but did her no harm.

She ran as long as her feet would go until it was almost evening; then she saw a little cottage and went into it to rest herself. Everything in the cottage was small, but neater and cleaner than can be told. There was a table on which was a white cover, and seven little plates, and on each plate a little spoon; moreover, there were seven little knives and forks, and seven little mugs. Against the wall stood seven little beds side by side, and covered with snow-white counterpanes.

Little Snow-white was so hungry and thirsty that she ate some vegetables and bread from each plate and drank a drop of wine out of each mug, for she did not wish to take all from one only. Then, as she was so tired, she laid herself down on one of the little beds, but none of them suited her; one was too long, another too short, but at last she found that the seventh one was right, and so she remained in it, said a prayer and went to sleep.

When it was quite dark the owners of the cottage came back; they were seven dwarfs who dug and delved in the mountains for ore. They lit their seven candles, and as it was now light within the cottage they saw that someone had been there, for everything was not in the same order in which they had left it.

The first said, "Who has been sitting on my chair?"

The second, "Who has been eating off my plate?"

The third, "Who has been taking some of my bread?"

The fourth, "Who has been eating my vegetables?"

The fifth, "Who has been using my fork?"

The sixth, "Who has been cutting with my knife?"

The seventh, "Who has been drinking out of my mug?"

Then the first looked round and saw that there was a little hole on his bed, and he said, "Who has been getting into my bed?" The others came up and each called out, "Somebody has been lying in my bed too." But the seventh when he looked at his bed saw little Snow-white, who was lying asleep therein. And he called the others, who came running up, and they cried out with astonishment, and brought their seven little candles and let the light fall on little Snow-white. "Oh, heavens! oh, heavens!" cried they, "what a lovely child!" and they were so glad that they did not wake her up, but let her sleep on in the bed. And the seventh dwarf slept with his companions, one hour with each, and so got through the night.

When it was morning little Snow-white awoke, and was frightened when she saw the seven dwarfs. But they were friendly and asked her what her name was. "My name is Snow-white," she answered. "How have you come to our house?" said the dwarfs. Then she told them that her step-mother had wished to have her killed, but that the huntsman had spared her life, and that she had run for the whole day, until at last she had found their dwelling. The dwarfs said, "If you will take care of our house, cook, make the beds, wash, sew, and knit, and if you will keep everything neat and clean, you can stay with us and you shall want for nothing." "Yes," said Snow-white, "with all my heart," and she stayed with them. She kept the house in order for them; in the mornings they went to the mountains and looked for copper and gold, in the evenings they came back, and then their supper had to be ready. The girl was alone the whole day, so the good dwarfs warned her and said, "Beware of your step-mother, she will soon know that you are here; be sure to let no one come in."

But the Queen, believing that she had eaten Snow-white's heart, could not but think that she was again the first and most beautiful of all; and she went to her looking-glass and said—

"Looking-glass, Looking-glass, on the wall,

Who in this land is the fairest of all?"

and the glass answered—

"Oh, Queen, thou art fairest of all I see,

But over the hills, where the seven dwarfs dwell,

Snow-white is still alive and well,

And none is so fair as she."

Then she was astounded, for she knew that the looking-glass never spoke falsely, and she knew that the huntsman had betrayed her, and that little Snow-white was still alive.

And so she thought and thought again how she might kill her, for so long as she was not the fairest in the whole land, envy let her have no rest. And when she had at last thought of something to do, she painted her face, and dressed herself like an old peddler-woman, and no one could have known her. In this disguise she went over the seven mountains to the seven dwarfs, and knocked at the door and cried, "Pretty things to sell, very cheap, very cheap." Little Snow-white looked out of the window and called out, "Good-day my good woman, what have you to sell?" "Good things, pretty things," she answered; "stay-laces of all colours," and she pulled out one which was woven of bright-coloured silk. "I may let the worthy old woman in," thought Snow-white, and she unbolted the door and bought the pretty laces. "Child," said the old woman, "what a fright you look; come, I will lace you properly for once." Snow-white had no suspicion, but stood before her, and let herself be laced with the new laces. But the old woman laced so quickly and so tightly that Snow-white lost her breath and fell down as if dead. "Now I am the most beautiful," said the Queen to herself, and ran away.

Not long afterwards, in the evening, the seven dwarfs came home, but how shocked they were when they saw their dear little Snow-white lying on the ground, and that she neither stirred nor moved, and seemed to be dead. They lifted her up, and, as they saw that she was laced too tightly, they cut the laces; then she began to breathe a little, and after a while came to life again. When the dwarfs heard what had happened they said, "The old peddler-woman was no one else than the wicked Queen; take care and let no one come in when we are not with you."

But the wicked woman when she had reached home went in front of the glass and asked—

"Looking-glass, Looking-glass, on the wall,

Who in this land is the fairest of all?"

and it answered as before—

"Oh, Queen, thou art fairest of all I see,

But over the hills, where the seven dwarfs dwell,

Snow-white is still alive and well,

And none is so fair as she."

When she heard that, all her blood rushed to her heart with fear, for she saw plainly that little Snow-white was again alive. "But now," she said, "I will think of something that shall put an end to you," and by the help of witchcraft, which she understood, she made a poisonous comb. Then she disguised herself and took the shape of another old woman. So she went over the seven mountains to the seven dwarfs, knocked at the door, and cried, "Good things to sell, cheap, cheap!" Little Snow-white looked out and said, "Go away; I cannot let any one come in." "I suppose you can look," said the old woman, and pulled the poisonous comb out and held it up. It pleased the girl so well that she let herself be beguiled, and opened the door. When they had made a bargain the old woman said, "Now I will comb you properly for once." Poor little Snow-white had no suspicion, and let the old woman do as she pleased, but hardly had she put the comb in her hair than the poison in it took effect, and the girl fell down senseless. "You paragon of beauty," said the wicked woman, "you are done for now," and she went away.

But fortunately it was almost evening, when the seven dwarfs came home. When they saw Snow-white lying as if dead upon the ground they at once suspected the step-mother, and they looked and found the poisoned comb. Scarcely had they taken it out when Snow-white came to herself, and told them what had happened. Then they warned her once more to be upon her guard and to open the door to no one.

The Queen, at home, went in front of the glass and said—

"Looking-glass, Looking-glass, on the wall,

Who in this land is the fairest of all?"

then it answered as before—

"Oh, Queen, thou art fairest of all I see,

But over the hills, where the seven dwarfs dwell,

Snow-white is still alive and well,

And none is so fair as she."

When she heard the glass speak thus she trembled and shook with rage. "Snow-white shall die," she cried, "even if it costs me my life!"

Thereupon she went into a quite secret, lonely room, where no one ever came, and there she made a very poisonous apple. Outside it looked pretty, white with a red cheek, so that everyone who saw it longed for it; but whoever ate a piece of it must surely die.

When the apple was ready she painted her face, and dressed herself up as a country-woman, and so she went over the seven mountains to the seven dwarfs. She knocked at the door. Snow-white put her head out of the window and said, "I cannot let any one in; the seven dwarfs have forbidden me." "It is all the same to me," answered the woman, "I shall soon get rid of my apples. There, I will give you one."

"No," said Snow-white, "I dare not take anything." "Are you afraid of poison?" said the old woman; "look, I will cut the apple in two pieces; you eat the red cheek, and I will eat the white." The apple was so cunningly made that only the red cheek was poisoned. Snow-white longed for the fine apple, and when she saw that the woman ate part of it she could resist no longer, and stretched out her hand and took the poisonous half. But hardly had she a bit of it in her mouth than she fell down dead. Then the Queen looked at her with a dreadful look, and laughed aloud and said, "White as snow, red as blood, black as ebony-wood! this time the dwarfs cannot wake you up again."

And when she asked of the Looking-glass at home—

"Looking-glass, Looking-glass, on the wall,

Who in this land is the fairest of all?"

it answered at last—

"Oh, Queen, in this land thou art fairest of all."

Then her envious heart had rest, so far as an envious heart can have rest.

The dwarfs, when they came home in the evening, found Snow-white lying upon the ground; she breathed no longer and was dead. They lifted her up, looked to see whether they could find anything poisonous, unlaced her, combed her hair, washed her with water and wine, but it was all of no use; the poor child was dead, and remained dead. They laid her upon a bier, and all seven of them sat round it and wept for her, and wept three days long.

Then they were going to bury her, but she still looked as if she were living, and still had her pretty red cheeks. They said, "We could not bury her in the dark ground," and they had a transparent coffin of glass made, so that she could be seen from all sides, and they laid her in it, and wrote her name upon it in golden letters, and that she was a king's daughter. Then they put the coffin out upon the mountain, and one of them always stayed by it and watched it. And birds came too, and wept for Snow-white; first an owl, then a raven, and last a dove.

And now Snow-white lay a long, long time in the coffin, and she did not change, but looked as if she were asleep; for she was as white as snow, as red as blood, and her hair was as black as ebony.

It happened, however, that a king's son came into the forest, and went to the dwarfs' house to spend the night. He saw the coffin on the mountain, and the beautiful Snow-white within it, and read what was written upon it in golden letters. Then he said to the dwarfs, "Let me have the coffin, I will give you whatever you want for it." But the dwarfs answered, "We will not part with it for all the gold in the world." Then he said, "Let me have it as a gift, for I cannot live without seeing Snow-white. I will honour and prize her as my dearest possession." As he spoke in this way the good dwarfs took pity upon him, and gave him the coffin.

And now the King's son had it carried away by his servants on their shoulders. And it happened that they stumbled over a tree-stump, and with the shock the poisonous piece of apple which Snow-white had bitten off came out of her throat. And before long she opened her eyes, lifted up the lid of the coffin, sat up, and was once more alive. "Oh, heavens, where am I?" she cried. The King's son, full of joy, said, "You are with me," and told her what had happened, and said, "I love you more than everything in the world; come with me to my father's palace, you shall be my wife."

And Snow-white was willing, and went with him, and their wedding was held with great show and splendour. But Snow-white's wicked step-mother was also bidden to the feast. When she had arrayed herself in beautiful clothes she went before the Looking-glass, and said—

"Looking-glass, Looking-glass, on the wall,

Who in this land is the fairest of all?"

the glass answered—

"Oh, Queen, of all here the fairest art thou,

But the young Queen is fairer by far as I trow."

Then the wicked woman uttered a curse, and was so wretched, so utterly wretched, that she knew not what to do. At first she would not go to the wedding at all, but she had no peace, and must go to see the young Queen. And when she went in she knew Snow-white; and she stood still with rage and fear, and could not stir. But iron slippers had already been put upon the fire, and they were brought in with tongs, and set before her. Then she was forced to put on the red-hot shoes, and dance until she dropped down dead.

________________

13: Unexpected

Junius B. Smith

1883-1945

The Thrill Book, 1 Sep 1919

ROBERT BARBEE, attorney at law and representative to the State legislature from one of the up-State counties, perched his feet on the top of his flat-top desk and cast out puffs-of smoke from a strong and ill-smelling cigar. The legislature had just adjourned, and Bob was well satisfied with his record as a member.

He had crowded through much legislation, some of it good, some bad, perhaps— the future workings of it would undoubtedly show— and among that which he himself considered the "goodest of the good," to use his own way of putting it, was a law for the compensation of those persons wrongfully confined in the State prison, as afterward appeared.

The inception of this law in Bob's brain was directly due to a case he had had at bar, wherein a man, duly convicted by a jury of his peers, of the crime of murder, with recommendation for mercy, had been sentenced to life imprisonment, had served twenty-odd years, and was then released when another, on his deathbed, confessed to the crime and completely exonerated the convict whom circumstantial evidence had placed behind prison bars. Bob had got him loose— which was an easy matter, after the other's confession.

But the man who had served the prime of his life in jail, came out broken in body and spirit, penniless, a wreck, fit only for the poorhouse, where he eventually gravitated some weeks before his death.

At the time Barbee had thought what it would have meant to the wrongfully convicted man, had he been paid compensation for each day of wrongful confinement.

And the matter had buzzed in his head for several years.

At last, sent to the legislature, he drew a bill and got it enacted, covering just such cases. Briefly the law read that for each day any man was wrongfully confined by a sentence of any court in the State he should receive the sum of fifty dollars, the accrued total of which should be paid to him by the State upon the establishment of his innocence and his release.

The law was a good one and much of it was made in the papers, which explained it at great length.

And then nobody thought any more about it— nobody, that is, save Bartolio Kammenti, and his friend Stefe Gatsuras, who were nowhere near as foreign-looking as their names.

Kammenti was a crook. He would perhaps have denied that allegation, for he had not as yet let his crooked inclinations wander into the bypaths which leadeth unto ruin. Yet behind his scheming brain lay the dormant germ of a peculiar crookedness. He would not have taken your watch, nor have stolen funds intrusted to his care. He would not have committed murder, nor many other crimes. He made a distinction between injuring an individual and dipping into the public funds.

Nor was he a petty crook. All his life he had been waiting for an opportunity to do something really worth while.

He laid aside the newspaper account of the "Convicts' Compensation Law," as it had already been popularly dubbed, and sighed with firm conviction. Plainly he was turning something in his brain.

An hour later he gained admittance to the home of Stefe Gatsuras.

Stefe wasn't a crook himself. He didn't have nerve enough to be a crook. He was greedy, overly fond of the material things money would buy, a man who discounted his bills' because he hated to see the other fellow get the money, penurious in the extreme, yet vainglorious and paradoxically extravagant when it concerned himself.

He was known as a "tightwad." Likewise he was known as a friend of Bartolio's. Just why they ever hooked up together no one knew. Nor did any one know why that friendship apparently parted— though a lot of people thought they did.

Kammenti laid the paper he had been reading, in front of the other's eyes. "See that article?" he said.

Gatsuras nodded. "I was just reading it before you came in. Sounds like easy money, making fifty bones a day for doing nothing."

"Nothing is right,' Kammenti laughed. "All you got to do is bust rock, march in lockstep, be kind to the warden, and any other little trifles you may think of. But say, bo— it's easy money after it's earned."

There was a peculiar inflection in his voice that made the other look up quickly. "What mean you?' he asked, scanning Kammenti's features closely.

Silence came down between them for an instant, while Kammenti returned the gaze, seeming to study his man once for all at the last. And then he spoke:

"Would you like to make some money Stefe ?"'

"Would I? Say, does a duck swim? Is the earth round? Does a baby nurse? What's the idea?"

Kammenti's gaze lowered to the paper on the table.

Again silence came down between them, broken after a time by Stefe. "I get what you mean— but I don't. I'm not incarcerated for a crime I didn't commit— and  besides—"

"You said something about money," the other reminded.

"Lord, yes— for the other fellow. I— I— well, what do you mean, anyway? Out with it. You've got something on your mind. Let's hear it."

"It were easy to commit a crime and afterward be guiltless of it re

"You mean you want me to knock some one on the head, with the hope that afterward I'll be able to prove I didn't do it?"

"No, you chump— I thought you had some brains."

Gatsuras sank lower in his chair, with a shrug. "Very well," he answered. "Let's hear what you propose— seeing you're the brains of this organization."

"Thanks for the compliment. I'm not asking you to be on the inside looking out. I'm willing to do the lock-step and stand the gaff, just so you'll help me put it over. There won't be a single element of danger in what I propose to do. I'm tired of working for two hundred a month, when I can lift that much in little more than half a week. And then it's taken care of for you. You get it in a bunch, where it'll do some good. You can live on the interest after you get out."

"I can— I thought you said I could be on the outside looking in."

"Oh piffle. Maybe I made a mistake coming here— only I thought you'd jump at the chance since there's— say — twenty thousand in it for you, if you help me."

At the mention of money, the eyes of the other glittered with an avaricious light. "And— I don't have— to be the goat?"

"No."

"Well— let's hear what you've got to say."

Kammenti took a cigar from his pocket and bit off one end. "You see I've doped out how we can beat that law. It's quite simple. I'll steal five hundred from you—"

"The hell you will."

"Easy, easy," warned Bartolio, hand lifted. "Just wait till I explain. I'll steal five hundred from you, according to your say so. I'll go out and spend it— only it'll be my own money I'll be spending. But before I do all that, I'll go around pulling a poor mouth and trying to borrow from all my friends. I'll play I'm plumb busted.

"Then all of a sudden I'll go down the line, painting the town a deep vermillion— and I'll spend— just exactly— five— hundred— dollars. Do you get me, Stefe? I'll blow in five hundred little iron men— or rather its equivalent in bills. Then I'll subside with the info to a bunch of hangers-on that I've gone dry.

"See how it'll all check out when you set the law's machinery on my track, saying you had drawn from the bank five hundred in bills, had brought it home, intending to use it as first payment on some real estate you intend buying, had laid it on the table, pending the arrival of the seller of this land, and that when your back was turned, I horned in on the pile.

"You don't discover it's gone until after I'm gone. Then you're tearing your hair and raving like a madman when this prospective seller arrives. But before he arrives, you've ditched that five hundred where in four or five years from now you can 'discover' it and be filled with horror and remorse at what you have done. That lets you out on any charge of perjury that might otherwise be brought up against you.

"You see, absent-mindedly you slipped that packet of bills into an envelope with some other papers— and when you tell this to the authorities, in four or five years from now, I'll be turned loose, you'll get your rake-off, and— well, what do you think of the scheme?"

Gatsuras nodded as in agreement. "Some scheme," he averred. "I take no risk. You have all the inconvenience. I get twenty thousand for helping you put it over, and you want to stay in there five years—"

"Depends on what the sentence is," Kammenti cut in. "I'm not fond of staying there too long. I'll know about what my copper'll be and we can both figure it out to spring the innocence stuff a month or two before I'd be normally turned loose.

"I'll demand a new trial, as provided under this law, and in support of my petition will file an affidavit from you to the effect that you have made a mistake and falsely accused me. Then all I'll have to do will be to prove my innocence, as the State before had to prove me guilty, and— gadzooks! What is simpler? You get your cut. I live in luxury the remainder of my life, and everything is lovely and the goose hangs high."

"Listens good. Sounds simple. Is there any way you could fail? Have you overlooked anything ?"

"Not a thing— and besides, you should worry. You're not the one doing time."

"Well, that being the case— you're on. But tell me of your plan in detail. I don't want to make a slip myself."

AND SO it fell out that one crook had made two crooks, and some weeks later Bartolio Kammenti was duly convicted, despite his desperate fighting, of stealing five hundred dollars in bills from his friend Stefe Gatsuras,

Time passed. It was irksome to Kammenti— yet he contented himself each night with the mental assurance that another fifty dollars, less Stefe's bit, were added to his fast-accumulating pile.

And then, when little more than three years had elapsed, he decided he'd had enough of prison life. It wasn't worth fifty dollars a day to be a convict. It was getting on his nerves. His face showed prison pallor. His bearing lost that assurance it had held prior to his loss of freedom, ambition was gone, and what, in the beginning, had been a money-making lark, developed into a nightmare.

His mental attitude was not helped by the fact that a guard, to whom he had taken a personal dislike, goaded him by harsh treatment into an infraction of the rules that resulted in solitary confinement for some days. Here he had plenty of chance to meditate, and in the darkness of his cell, he decided it was time to get out.

So at the first chance, he wrote a letter to Robert Barbee, attorney at law, asking that he come to the prison and see him. It would be such a joke— even though only he and Stefe could laugh— to have Barbee, the father of this law, unconsciously assist in morally perverting its intent.

He smiled as he thought of the joke Was the joke on Barbee— or the State? Perhaps on both. He had earned a snug sum. It would be constantly accumulating, pending the trial of his petition for rehabilitation. It was not as much as he had intended to earn by serving. But it was enough. Again he smiled. C'est drôle! as the French would say— it is droll.

Barbee came. Kammenti swore with much vehemence that he was innocent. He averred with ail the impassioned appeal that lay in his name that he could prove his innocence— that Barbee, of all men, would dig up the evidence that would free him. He had not stolen the money— and therefore some explanation must be forthcoming— or Gatsuras were a crook. But why should Gatsuras be a crook, he argued. He had not profited by sending a man to prison.

"Yet you had a fair trial and were convicted," Barbee pointed out.

"Yet am I innocent," Kammenti swore. "See I will prove it to you. May I have your pen and a piece of paper?"

The other wonderingly complied.

Then Kammenti drew an order on a bank in another State, paying to Robert  Barbee an even thousand dollars. "It practically closes my account," he said in explanation, "so it is all you will get unless you prove me innocent— when I will pay you another thousand."

The lawyer went away. He saw every person who had been interested in  the trial— or endeavored to. He worked for a solid week, striving to discover some additional evidence that would enable him to entertain for his client a petition for a new trial. Without such new evidence, a new trial could not be given, and it were useless to make application.

Then he returned to see his client. "Kammenti, I have petitioned the district court for a new trial, but unless I can file some supporting affidavits at least five days prior to the hearing on the petition, as provided in the law, your petition will be denied and no new trial given. I have raked this town with a fine-toothed comb, and I haven't been able to dig up anything new. Can you make any further suggestions that might give me a new start? So I can run down something to help your case?"

As he spoke, and the import of his words percolated through the other's brain, the convicted man turned paler than his natural prison color. He seemed to be dazed. Had something happened to upset their plans?

He had arranged with Gatsuras that when he was ready to get out, he would hire a lawyer, have him file a petition with the court, and among others incidentally call upon Stefe— which would be the signal for Stefe to get busy. Or maybe Stefe would get busy. Gatsuras had promised, however, that he would arrange to discover the hidden money within a few days after the lawyer visited him.

And he would have a very good reason for discovering it at that time. With a lawyer coming, insisting that Kammenti was claiming innocence, Stefe, in the eyes of others, might be pardoned for doubting to the extent of making a search of his premises, to allay the aroused suspicion that something might have happened to that money besides having it stolen.

Yet that had been more than a week now. Surely Stefe wouldn't wait that long before making the discovery and notifying Barbee. He could picture how they had planned Stefe should make that discovery. A few friends would call, as they were in the habit of doing quite regularly, the subject of Kammenti's conviction would be brought about in a natural manner— perhaps by the relation of the lawyer's visit; Stefe would talk about it, show them just where he had laid the money, describe in detail all about the case.

And then he would suddenly stand aghast—he had practiced simulating it until he had it down to a seemingly natural degree— they would ask him what was the matter— he would suddenly remember he had laid some papers down there beside the money— or was it on the money— and had picked them up later and put them in a telescoping envelope and had filed them away where he kept papers of no great value. Maybe— he would scarce dare to voice the newly aroused suspicion— maybe he had picked up the money along with the papers, not noticing. He would look. He had not looked at those papers since.

And then, accompanied by those who were present, he would go to this old box and search the papers stored therein and would find the money— would find it had never been stolen— that he had sent his friend to prison for a crime he did not commit.

Kammenti pictured it all in his mind's eye. He had coached Stefe, had rehearsed him for many days, until he felt Stefe would do the thing just right.

And now— perhaps Stefe hadn't yet had time to make the find. Perhaps, even, the lawyer hadn't seen him, though he had promised to do so, as well as to see every one else who knew anything about the case.

And then Bartolio Kammenti quite reeled and sank back to a seat at the words the lawyer next spoke, for they condemned him to serve out his term and without pay. What the lawyer said was:

"I called on Stefe Gatsuras— he died two months ago."

_____________

14: The Knotted String

Oliver Strange
fl. 1890s-1930s

World's News (NSW), 30 April 1904

I MAY SAY at once that I do not expect this story to be believed, since even those who witnessed the corroboration of part of it gave my imagination the credit for the remainder.

The whole matter began with the following letter, which reached me early one afternoon:—

My Dear D .

I have stumbled— how, you must not ask me— upon something which savors so strongly of mystery that I hasten to submit it to your journalistic palate. The address is 5 Marcot-street, wherever that may be, the hour 6 to-night, and the enclosed an 'open sesame,' though to what I have no idea. At least, there should be 'copy' in it.

Yours truly, H.

The enclosure was a piece of ordinary string, knotted in a fantastic fashion, and at first I was inclined to suspect a hoax. But H— was an intimate friend, and a good fellow, who knew that I could ill afford to waste time upon an unprofitable errand. Moreover, I was already indebted to him for several excellent subjects, for, being blessed with an independent income, he scorned newspaper work and wrote only for the monthlies.

I was not long in making up my mind, for, in fact, I had been in London for two months with little remuner-ative work, and my exchequer was too low for me to scout any possible chance of replenishing it. A glance at the directory showed me that Marcot-street was to be found in the East End, and I calculated that I had just time to reach it by the hour named.

It proved to be a narrow, dirty street, shut in by big, gloomy warehouses, not more than half of which seemed to be in use. No. 5 in particular appeared so obviously deserted that I began again to fear that it was a practical joke after all. The dust-grimed, broken windows, the door guiltless alike of paint and name, seemed to mock me as a fool for my pains. Could this be the right place, after all?" Instinctively I felt in my breast pocket for the letter, but remembered that

I had left it at home. The string, however, was there, and I drew it out and looked at it again. And then a strange thing happened, for the door of No. 5 opened noiselessly, and a voice whispered: "Enter quickly!"

Too surprised even to hesitate, I stepped through, and the shooting of a heavy bolt warned me that retreat would be difficult. I found myself in a long passage, whence wooden stairs communicated with both upper and lower por tions of the building. It was but poorly lighted by a small aperture high over the door.

"The sign," whispered the doorkeeper, with an accent which stamped him as a foreigner. Divining that this must mean my hempen talis-man, I handed it to him.

"You are from Leeds, of course?" he queried.

"Yes," I replied, for, in fact, I was born in the town named, though, how this fellow could be aware of it passed my comprehension. He nodded once more, and with a wave of his hand towards the end of the passage, added: "You know the way."

This placed me in a difficulty, but, feeling that hesitation would be fatal, I nodded, and stepped along the passage, wondering whether I had better go up or down. But luck was with me, for just as I reached the point where the decision would have to be made a loud, harsh voice, speaking in angry accents, sounded from the silent depths of the building.

Once on the steps leading to the basement, I was out of sight of the janitor, and I proceeded cautiously, being minded to see something of the company before joining it. The place itself was favorable to this, for the stairs led to another passage, stone paved and quite dark, save at one spot where a great rift of light came from an open door.

It was a mere cellar, large in extent and poorly lighted by three lamps swinging from the ceiling joists. The furniture consisted of rude forms placed round the sides, and a table at the far end. Standing behind this table was a man who appeared to preside, and, so far as I could ascertain, there were ten others seated on the benches.

The president was a man of about 30, with a clean-shaven, sharply-defined face, of the type that belongs to men born to lead their fellows. The eyes and forehead were those of a thinker, while the firm mouth and square jaw betrayed action.

"To-night," he said, "we strike the blow which will practically obliterate the reigning family. For 12 months we have been preparing; and now the time is come. Our friends are all in readiness, and immediately the news of the 'outrage,' as the newspapers will call it," he smiled sardonically, "becomes known, armed bodies of them will forcibly arrest the members of the Government and chief officials of the city, thus paralysing opposition, since there will be no one to give orders. The same arrangements have been made for each of the towns you re-present, and I have detailed instructions here for each of you to supplement those I have already given you."

He stepped from the table, and began distributing what appeared to be sealed envelopes, and I watched him in a dazed kind of stupor. Then I remembered that on this very evening there was to be a grand reception in honor of a certain Royal visitor to our shores, at which most of our own Royal family would be present. What horrible conspiracy had I stumbled upon, and what should I do? Hitherto I had not considered the danger of my own position, but now a torrent of fear swept over me, and I prepared to rise and escape. At the same instant powerful hands gripped my shoulders and forced me down again, while a voice cried: "We are betrayed!"

It was the janitor, who had stolen upon me unawares, and his cry brought the others. I was seized and dragged into the light, where my captor related how he had come down and found me crouching at the door. The president had again seated himself, and, held by two of the. others, I stood before him, while the doorkeeper told all he knew concerning my presence.

"Where is the sign?" he asked.

My pockets had already been searched, bring-ing little to light save a notebook, pencil, and the knotted string. The president examined the latter closely, and then, with a keen, but, as I fancied, not unkindly look", asked: "Who are you and why have you come here?"

Instinctively I felt that the truth would not help me, and yet I knew not what excuse to offer. I was still hesitating when a savage voice broke in:—

"What is the use of these questions? The fellow has been spying upon us for the last half hour, and his tongue must be silenced. I de-mand that it be put to the vote."

The speaker was a burly man of perhaps 40, with thick, coarse features, the natural ferocity of which was increased by a shock of black hair which encroached far on his forehead. His words seemed to meet with the approval of all save the president, who remarked:—

"You forget that he has the sign; we do not wish to kill our friends."

"Let him explain how he got it and why he skulked at the door instead of joining us," was the sneering retort. "I demand the vote, Mr. President."

I glance round at the ring of faces, all fierce, some with anger, others with fear, and felt that the vote would be an idle formality. And so it proved, for all voted for my death save the president. He, with a gesture of contempt, declined to say anything. My sentence pronounced, it only remained to carry it out, but here a diffi-culty confronted them. How was I to die? It was one thing to act as judges and condemn, but, fanatics as they were, they recoiled from the office of executioner. Even in my danger I could not help thinking of this singularity. These men were plotting to plunge Eng-land into a seethe of blood-shed, yet they paused at the killing of one unarmed man. The president watched them with cold disdain, and then said slowly:—

"As none of you seem disposed to carry out your sentence, I demand that the prisoner be locked in one of the vaults, where he will be helpless to interfere until it is too late."

The expression of relief on several of the faces round me brought hope into my breast again, but the man who had insisted on my death sprang to his feet with an oath. "The man shall die!" he cried, and with the words hurled himself upon me.

The attack was so suddenly made that I was unable to resist, and in a second my assailant had clutched me round the body, and with a terrific hug endeavored to throw me to the floor. Pinioned as I was, I knew that once down all would be ended for me in this world, and I devoted all my energies to the keeping of my feet. Time and again I was whirled off them as we staggered about the open space, but the tricks I had learned in wrestling days at school stood me in good stead, and, with all his superior weight, my opponent could not throw me.

The struggle was short-lived, for a moment later my enemy suddenly slipped his arms upward and clutched my throat in a grip of iron. Now indeed I was powerless, for with every movement the grip tightened. Since the struggle commenced there had been no sound from the spectators, and as I cast a rapid glance at the faces I could see no pity, only a bloodthirsty fascination. We were now standing perfectly still, and soon, under the ever-closing fingers at my throat the outlines of the room became blurred, and I could see only the bloated face of my murderer, glaring with eyes which almost seemed to shout his determination and desire to kill me. Nearer and nearer the face came, until the gasps of hot breath scorched my cheek, and a mole on the point of the chin widened until it blotted out the hideous features, and I could see nothing, but this huge brown spot. I knew I was dying, and in a fierce gust of rage I swung my right fist and struck at this brown blotch. It vanished, and darkness came.

WHEN I recovered consciousness it was still dark, and I was lying on a stone floor. My throat throbbed painfully, though the murderous fingers had vanished. Struggling to my feet, I struck a match, and looked round. I was in a small, brick-lined vault, the only exit to which appeared to be the door, which was securely fastened. Evidently my last desperate blow had saved my life, and the president's suggestion had been acted upon. I must escape, but how?

The door resisted every attempt, and my shouts only produced their own mocking echoes. I flung myself on the floor and tore at it in a fit of madness, as I thought I should be left there to starve, and the villains would accomplish their dreadful purpose. But, instead of stonework, my fingers encountered the iron bars of a grating, which yielded as I pulled. Trembling, I struck another match, and saw a black opening in the floor, similar to the manhole of a sewer, from the bottom of which came the sound of running water.

Uninviting as it looked, I was too desperate to hesitate, and, lowering myself as far as I could, I let go. The stream into which I fell proved to be both deep and rapid, and I soon found that I had but to keep my head out of water and let it carry me. Once, raising my head higher, I brushed it against the roof of the tunnel, and realised that unless I reached the outlet soon the stream would rise and drown me. Just as the thought came a gleam of light showed ahead, and a few seconds later I was dashed violently against an iron gateway, nearly cover-ed by the water. It gave way, and with a sigh of thankfulness I recognised that I was now swimming in London's great waterway, the Thames.

THE REST of the story is soon told. I was picked up by a police boat and conveyed post haste to Scotland Yard, where my tale aroused more doubt than anything. However, investigation was made, and although the affair was kept secret, I know that an infernal machine was found in the Royal banqueting-room, timed to explode an hour after it was discovered. Beyond this nothing transpired, and I believe no arrests were made. For myself, I was bound to secrecy for a period of time —which has now elapsed— and honored with a small but sufficiently welcome Government position.

__________________

15: My First Operation

Anonymous

World's News (NSW), 21 Dec 1901

The Australian author is given as "Het Thule", which seems to be an ad hoc pseudonym.

PROFESSOR X. was the clinical instructor in surgery at the — School of Medicine, Vienna. He was at once the boldest and most successful surgeon the school ever possessed.

It was my first term, and I was as hardy as football, swimming, rowing, and riding could make me. The first day we met in the theatre the Professor singled me out from a score of new men.

"You are English I perceive by your splendid physique."

"No, Australian."

"Ah! It is all the same. You have a robust health." When he had satisfied himself he slapped me on the chest, and exclaimed "You have the heart what you call as sound as a bell." After this he was ever observing me with eyes which seemed to have a hungry look in them.

One winter's afternoon I was on my way to my lodgings. I had just turned the corner of —strasse, when a hand was laid on my shoulder. I turned my head. It was the professor.

"I have a case this evening which would interest you. If you would assist me in it I shall be glad," he said. "I endeavor a new experiment, which, if successful, will place my name at the head of surgery."

Here was a chance not to be lost. "When do you propose to operate?" I asked. "At once if you will accompany me. I live there," he said, pointing to a three-storied house which stood at a considerable distance back from the street, and which was surrounded by a dreary-looking garden.

A drizzling rain was falling, and our feet crunched and splashed with monotonous sound over the wet and slippery pathway. Reaching the house we ascended a flight of moss-grown steps, which looked as if they had been in a state of disuse for years. The front door opened to the Professor's summons in the same mysterious way that the gates had closed. No one was to be perceived in the gloomy hall, which smelt of damp and must. I laid my hat and stick— which latter was a sword— upon the hall table. After helping me off with my overcoat, the Professor led the way upstairs.

I noticed that the staircase was bare of carpet, and as I followed my companion up a creeping fear seized upon my heart, which, try as I would, I could not succeed in shaking off. At length we reached the top storey, and turned in at a door through which appeared a glimmer of light.

I perceived, on entering the room, that the glimmer was emitted from a charcoal brazier which stood in a spacious, old-fashioned fire-place. The Professor turned his eyes upon me. Though his back was towards the fireplace his eyes seemed to gleam with a pale phosphorescent light, and suddenly I experienced a sense of vertigo; my brain seemed to swim round and round, and I fell to the ground in a helpless swoon.

During this state I must have been divested of part of my clothing, and when I recovered consciousness I was upon a table and securely bound. Suddenly I became aware of someone speaking.

"The idea is not altogether new. Plastic operations have often been performed by transplanting the soft tissues from one person to another."

I opened my eyes; and though I was bound very tightly I could still move my head. The room was arranged as an operating theatre. On my left was a table upon which were a number of shallow porcelain pans containing sponges, ban-dages, and the usual accompaniments of surgical instruments and appliances.

"There wss the celebrated case of Fuch's, the eminent eye specialist," the Professor went on. "He who transplanted the cornea from the eye of one person to that of another. But in the annals of surgery there has been nothing to equal that which I attempt to-night."

"The cardiac centre! that which if pricked with the finest needle, has been hitherto supposed to cease its action for ever. Not one has dared to even think of transplanting that!"

Professor X. now came forward. Following him with my gaze, I saw, with horror, on my right, a long glass tank partly filled with water and containing a human body. The ghastly pallor proclaimed it a corpse! Just then the Professor took out of the tank a clinical thermometer.

"98.4, the normal temperature of the human body. This person suffers from mitral stenosis. I have determined to make him the subject of my grand experiment."

"You will notice that I commence as in the case of a post-mortem. An incision through the cartilaginous portion of the second, third, fourth, and fifth ribs on either side of the sternum. A transverse cut through the tissues and sternum between the fifth and sixth. Here we deviate from the usual post-mortem practice, and make a subcutaneous division of the sternum between the first and third ribs. Throw up the flap thus, and expose the lungs. These we push on either side. Now a slit in the medium line of the pericardium; deflect, and we have the great centre of life— the heart— exposed to view. The operation I propose to perform is the substitution of the healthy heart of this subject" (here he gave a careless wave of his hand towards me) "in the place of the diseased one."

My God! did ever anyone hear of such a diabolical proposition to take the living heart out of one person and place it in the breast of another?

I was paralysed by the horror of my situation, and some secret power seemed to hold me fast as bonds of steel. My senses gave way under the terrible strain, and I again became unconscious. I was at length aroused by the Professor saying:— "And, lastly, having severed the aorta at the junction of the ascending transverse portion, I lift out the heart. So"—suiting the action to the words. I saw it. I could not keep my eyes closed, though the horror of it filled me with dread pictures of my own coming fate.

The Professor calmly continued:— "Now it remains only to perform the same series of operations upon this subject," turning to me.

I perceived another person in the room, an old man. He was loathsome to look at, and reminded me of the stories I had read of ghouls and vampires. He seemed to gloat over the horrible work as if hungry for my blood. The two came towards me. The Professor paid no more heed to my desperate efforts to break away than if I had been some poor animal trussed for vivisection. But the old man glared at me with a cold and fiendish light in his staring eyes.

"I shall proceed as before, except that, as I do not intend to replace this subject's heart with another organ, I shall not have need for those appliances. I have here an arrangement for the transfusion and automatic pulsation of the blood. In this case, after having secured the organ in situ, I shall supply the loss occasioned by hemorrhage, from a healthy calf, until such time as union of the different vessels takes place, and the recovery of the subject. I shall also keep up artificial respiration automatically with air having a slight excess of oxygen."

As the Professor bent over me he took from one of the porcelain dishes a scalpel, and traced the lines of incision upon my naked breast. Was I to die like this? I was not afraid of death, but, merciful Heaven! what a frightful death!

Drawing a full breath, I determined on making one last effort to escape them. Suddenly contracting my limbs, I shot them out again with desperate force. Something gave way, and I lay for just one instant amid a heap of debris composed of heterogeneous mixture of instruments, broken pans, and fragments of wood. The next moment I flung myself upon the Professor. He fell to the floor like a nine-pin. Then, seizing a heavy chair, I hurled it with all my remaining strength at the cold-blooded vampire who attempted to bar my way. I rushed through the open door, closed it, but found there was no key. I was in the room which I had first entered. Out of this I darted down the ricketty stairs. I could hear them in pursuit now, but down I flew. Reaching the front door, I found it locked!

There was no help for it, so back I turned to seek a new avenue of escape. The enraged Professor confronted me at the foot of the staircase. He held an ugly knife in his hand, and had a murderous gleam in his eyes. I remembered my sword cane, and had just time to reach it before he was upon me. Now I had the advantage for an instant or two. But I could hear the old man descending to the professor's aid. With all my skill I could not keep the latter at arm's length. His rage blinded him to the danger, and he rushed in upon me under my guard, and now he held the advantage until I could free myself. Suddenly there was a noise outside, and a clattering. I cried loudly for help. Meanwhile I managed to keep the fiend at bay. A moment later the door was burst open, and a posse of the street guard rushed in. It did not need a long explanation in sight of the maniac, who was now joined by the old man, to see how matters stood.

It seemed that in the melee a lamp had been overturned, and had set fire to the upper portion of the building. The guard, fortunately, pass-ing at the moment, had noticed it. The Professor was secured, and shortly afterwards confined in a madhouse. The servant, in his attempt to escape, rushed up into the burning rooms, and fell a victim to the all-devouring flames.

___________________

16: How Love Came To Professor Guildea

Robert S. Hichens

1864-1950

Pearson’s Magazine, Oct 1897

Robert Smythe Hichens

DULL PEOPLE often wondered how it came about that Father Murchison and Professor Frederic Guildea were intimate friends. The one was all faith, the other all scepticism. The nature of the Father was based on love. He viewed the world with an almost childlike tenderness above his long, black cassock; and his mild, yet perfectly fearless, blue eyes seemed always to be watching the goodness that exists in humanity, and rejoicing at what they saw. The Professor, on the other hand, had a hard face like a hatchet, tipped with an aggressive black goatee beard. His eyes were quick, piercing and irreverent. The lines about his small, thin-lipped mouth were almost cruel. His voice was harsh and dry, sometimes, when he grew energetic, almost soprano. It fired off words with a sharp and clipping utterance. His habitual manner was one of distrust and investigation. It was impossible to suppose that, in his busy life, he found any time for love, either of humanity in general or of an individual.

Yet his days were spent in scientific investigations which conferred immense benefits upon the world.

Both men were celibates. Father Murchison was a member of an Anglican order which forbade him to marry. Professor Guildea had a poor opinion of most things, but especially of women. He had formerly held a post as lecturer at Birmingham. But when his fame as a discoverer grew, he removed to London. There, at a lecture he gave in the East End, he first met Father Murchison. They spoke a few words. Perhaps the bright intelligence of the priest appealed to the man of science, who was inclined, as a rule, to regard the clergy with some contempt. Perhaps the transparent sincerity of this devotee, full of common sense, attracted him. As he was leaving the hall he abruptly asked the Father to call on him at his house in Hyde Park Place. And the Father, who seldom went into the West End, except to preach, accepted the invitation.

"When will you come?" said Guildea.

He was folding up the blue paper on which his notes were written in a tiny, clear hand. The leaves rustled drily in accompaniment to his sharp, dry voice.

"On Sunday week I am preaching in the evening at St. Saviour's, not far off," said the Father.

"I don't go to church."

"No," said the Father, without any accent of surprise or condemnation.

"Come to supper afterwards?"

"Thank you, I will."

"What time will you come?"

The Father smiled.

"As soon as I have finished my sermon. The service is at six-thirty."

"About eight then, I suppose. Don't make the sermon too long. My number in Hyde Park Place is 100. Good-night to you."

He snapped an elastic band round his papers and strode off without shaking hands.

On the appointed Sunday, Father Murchison preached to a densely crowded congregation at St. Saviour's. The subject of his sermon was sympathy, and the comparative uselessness of man in the world unless he can learn to love his neighbour as himself. The sermon was rather long, and when the preacher, in his flowing, black cloak, and his hard, round hat, with a straight brim over which hung the ends of a black cord, made his way towards the Professor's house, the hands of the illuminated clock disc at the Marble Arch pointed to twenty minutes past eight.

The Father hurried on, pushing his way through the crowd of standing soldiers, chattering women and giggling street boys in their Sunday best. It was a warm April night, and, when he reached number 100, Hyde Park Place, he found the Professor bareheaded on his doorstep, gazing out towards the Park railings, and enjoying the soft, moist air, in front of his lighted passage.

"Ha, a long sermon!" he exclaimed. "Come in."

"I fear it was," said the Father, obeying the invitation. "I am that dangerous thing— an extempore preacher."

"More attractive to speak without notes, if you can do it. Hang your hat and coat— oh, cloak— here. We'll have supper at once. This is the dining room."

He opened a door on the right and they entered a long, narrow room, with a gold paper and a black ceiling, from which hung an electric lamp with a gold-coloured shade. In the room stood a small oval table with covers laid for two. The Professor rang the bell. Then he said:

"People seem to talk better at an oval table than at a square one."

"Really. Is that so?"

"Well, I've had precisely the same party twice, once at a square table, once at an oval table. The first dinner was a dull failure, the second a brilliant success. Sit down, won't you?"

"How d'you account for the difference?" said the Father, sitting down, and pulling the tail of his cassock well under him.

"H'm. I know how you'd account for it."

"Indeed. How then?"

"At an oval table, since there are no corners, the chain of human sympathy— the electric current, is much more complete. Eh! Let me give you some soup."

"Thank you."

The Father took it, and, as he did so, turned his beaming blue eyes on his host. Then he smiled.

"What!" he said, in his pleasant, light tenor voice. "You do go to church sometimes, then?"

"Tonight is the first time for ages. And, mind you, I was tremendously bored."

The Father still smiled, and his blue eyes gently twinkled.

"Dear, dear!" he said, "what a pity!"

"But not by the sermon," Guildea added. "I don't pay a compliment. I state a fact. The sermon didn't bore me. If it had, I should have said so, or said nothing."

"And which would you have done?"

The Professor smiled almost genially.

"Don't know," he said. "What wine d'you drink?"

"None, thank you. I'm a teetotaller. In my profession and milieu it is necessary to be one. Yes, I will have some soda water. I think you would have done the first."

"Very likely, and very wrongly. You wouldn't have minded much."

"I don't think I should."

They were intimate already. The Father felt most pleasantly at home under the black ceiling. He drank some soda water and seemed to enjoy it more than the Professor enjoyed his claret.

"You smile at the theory of the chain of human sympathy, I see," said the Father. "Then what is your explanation of the failure of your square party with corners, the success of your oval party without them?"

"Probably on the first occasion the wit of the assembly had a chill on his liver, while on the second he was in perfect health. Yet, you see, I stick to the oval table."

"And that means—"

"Very little. By the way, your omission of any allusion to the notorious part liver plays in love was a serious one tonight."

"Your omission of any desire for close human sympathy in your life is a more serious one."

"How can you be sure I have no such desire?"

"I divine it. Your look, your manner, tell me it is so. You were disagreeing with my sermon all the time I was preaching. Weren't you?"

"Part of the time."

The servant changed the plates. He was a middle-aged, blond, thin man, with a stony white face, pale, prominent eyes, and an accomplished manner of service. When he had left the room the Professor continued.

"Your remarks interested me, but I thought them exaggerated."

"For instance?"

"Let me play the egoist for a moment. I spend most of my time in hard work, very hard work. The results of this work, you will allow, benefit humanity."

"Enormously," assented the Father, thinking of more than one of Guildea's discoveries.

"And the benefit conferred by this work, undertaken merely for its own sake, is just as great as if it were undertaken because I loved my fellow man, and sentimentally desired to see him more comfortable than he is at present. I'm as useful precisely in my present condition of— in my present non-affectional condition— as I should be if I were as full of gush as the sentimentalists who want to get murderers out of prison, or to put a premium on tyranny— like Tolstoy— by preventing the punishment of tyrants."

"One may do great harm with affection; great good without it. Yes, that is true. Even le bon motif is not everything, I know. Still I contend that, given your powers, you would be far more useful in the world with sympathy, affection for your kind, added to them than as you are. I believe even that you would do still more splendid work."

The Professor poured himself another glass of claret.

"You noticed my butler?" he said.

"I did."

"He's a perfect servant. He makes me perfectly comfortable. Yet he has no feeling of liking for me. I treat him civilly. I pay him well. But I never think about him, or concern myself with him as a human being. I know nothing of his character except what I read of it in his last master's letter. There are, you may say, no truly human relations between us. You would affirm that his work would be better done if I had made him personally like me as man— of any class— can like man— of any other class?"

"I should, decidedly."

"I contend that he couldn't do his work better than he does it at present."

"But if any crisis occurred?"

"What?"

"Any crisis, change in your condition. If you needed his help, not only as a man and a butler, but as a man and a brother? He'd fail you then, probably. You would never get from your servant that finest service which can only be prompted by an honest affection."

"You have finished?"

"Quite."

"Let us go upstairs then. Yes, those are good prints. I picked them up in Birmingham when I was living there. This is my workroom."

They came to a double room lined entirely with books, and brilliantly, rather hardly, lit by electricity. The windows at one end looked on to the Park, at the other on to the garden of a neighbouring house. The door by which they entered was concealed from the inner and smaller room by the jutting wall of the outer room, in which stood a huge writing-table loaded with letters, pamphlets and manuscripts. Between the two windows of the inner room was a cage in which a large, grey parrot was clambering, using both beak and claws to assist him in his slow and meditative peregrinations.

"You have a pet," said the Father, surprised.

"I possess a parrot," the Professor answered drily, "I got him for a purpose when I was making a study of the imitative powers of birds, and I have never got rid of him. A cigar?"

"Thank you."

They sat down. Father Murchison glanced at the parrot. It had paused in its journey, and, clinging to the bars of its cage, was regarding them with attentive round eyes that looked deliberately intelligent, but by no means sympathetic. He looked away from it to Guildea, who was smoking, with his head thrown back, his sharp, pointed chin, on which the small black beard bristled, upturned. He was moving his under lip up and down rapidly. This action caused the beard to stir and look peculiarly aggressive. The Father suddenly chuckled softly.

"Why's that?" cried Guildea, letting his chin drop down on his breast and looking at his guest sharply.

"I was thinking it would have to be a crisis indeed that could make you cling to your butler's affection for assistance."

Guildea smiled too.

"You're right. It would. Here he comes."

The man entered with coffee. He offered it gently, and retired like a shadow retreating on a wall.

"Splendid, inhuman fellow," remarked Guildea.

"I prefer the East End lad who does my errands in Bird Street," said the Father. "I know all his worries. He knows some of mine. We are friends. He's more noisy than your man. He even breathes hard when he is especially solicitous, but he would do more for me than put the coals on my fire, or black my square-toed boots."

"Men are differently made. To me the watchful eye of affection would be abominable."

"What about that bird?"

The Father pointed to the parrot. It had got up on its perch and, with one foot uplifted in an impressive, almost benedictory, manner, was gazing steadily at the Professor.

"That's the watchful eye of imitation, with a mind at the back of it, desirous of reproducing the peculiarities of others. No, I thought your sermon tonight very fresh, very clever. But I have no wish for affection. Reasonable liking, of course, one desires"— he tugged sharply at his beard, as if to warn himself against sentimentality— "but anything more would be most irksome, and would push me, I feel sure, towards cruelty. It would also hamper one's work."

"I don't think so."

"The sort of work I do. I shall continue to benefit the world without loving, and it will continue to accept the benefits without loving me. That's all as it should be."

He drank his coffee. Then he added rather aggressively:

"I have neither time nor inclination for sentimentality."

When Guildea let Father Murchison out, he followed the Father on to the doorstep and stood there for a moment. The Father glanced across the damp road into the Park.

"I see you've got a gate just opposite you," he said idly.

"Yes. I often slip across for a stroll to clear my brain. Good-night to you. Come again some day."

"With pleasure. Good-night."

The Priest strode away, leaving Guildea standing on the step.

Father Murchison came many times again to number 100, Hyde Park Place. He had a feeling of liking for most men and women whom he knew, and of tenderness for all, whether he knew them or not, but he grew to have a special sentiment towards Guildea. Strangely enough, it was a sentiment of pity. He pitied this hard-working, eminently successful man of big brain and bold heart, who never seemed depressed, who never wanted assistance, who never complained of the twisted skein of life or faltered in his progress along the way. The Father pitied Guildea, in fact, because Guildea wanted so little. He had told them so, for the intercourse of the two men, from the beginning, had been singularly frank.

One evening, when they were talking together, the Father happened to speak of one of the oddities of life, the fact that those who do not want things often get them, while those who seek them vehemently are disappointed in their search.

"Then I ought to have affection poured upon me," said Guildea smiling rather grimly. "For I hate it."

"Perhaps some day you will."

"I hope not, most sincerely."

Father Murchison said nothing for a moment. He was drawing together the ends of the broad band round his cassock. When he spoke he seemed to be answering someone.

"Yes," he said slowly, "yes, that is my feeling— pity."

"For whom?" said the Professor.

Then, suddenly, he understood. He did not say that he understood, but Father Murchison felt, and saw, that it was quite unnecessary to answer his friend's question. So Guildea, strangely enough, found himself closely acquainted with a man— his opposite in all ways— who pitied him.

The fact that he did not mind this, and scarcely ever thought about it, shows perhaps as clearly as anything could, the peculiar indifference of his nature.

2

ONE AUTUMN evening, a year and a half after Father Murchison and the Professor had first met, the Father called in Hyde Park Place and enquired of the blond and stony butler— his name was Pitting— whether his master was at home.

"Yes, sir," replied Pitting. "Will you please come this way?"

He moved noiselessly up the rather narrow stairs, followed by the Father, tenderly opened the library door, and in his soft, cold voice, announced:

"Father Murchison."

Guildea was sitting in an armchair, before a small fire. His thin, long-fingered hands lay outstretched upon his knees, his head was sunk down on his chest. He appeared to be pondering deeply. Pitting very slightly raised his voice.

"Father Murchison to see you, sir," he repeated.

The Professor jumped up rather suddenly and turned sharply round as the Father came in.

"Oh," he said. "It's you, is it? Glad to see you. Come to the fire."

The Father glanced at him and thought him looking unusually fatigued.

"You don't look well tonight," the Father said.

"No?"

"You must be working too hard. That lecture you are going to give in Paris is bothering you?"

"Not a bit. It's all arranged. I could deliver it to you at this moment verbatim. Well, sit down."

The Father did so, and Guildea sank once more into his chair and stared hard into the fire without another word. He seemed to be thinking profoundly. His friend did not interrupt him, but quietly lit a pipe and began to smoke reflectively. The eyes of Guildea were fixed upon the fire. The Father glanced about the room, at the walls of soberly bound books, at the crowded writing-table, at the windows, before which hung heavy, dark-blue curtains of old brocade, at the cage, which stood between them. A green baize covering was thrown over it. The Father wondered why. He had never seen Napoleon— so the parrot was named— covered up at night before. While he was looking at the baize Guildea suddenly jerked up his head, and, taking his hands from his knees and clasping them, said abruptly:

"D'you think I'm an attractive man?"

Father Murchison jumped. Such a question coming from such a man astounded him.

"Bless me!" he ejaculated. "What makes you ask? Do you mean attractive to the opposite sex?"

"That's what I don't know," said the Professor gloomily, and staring again into the fire. "That's what I don't know."

The Father grew more astonished.

"Don't know!" he exclaimed.

And he laid down his pipe.

"Let's say— d'you think I'm attractive, that there's anything about me which might draw a— a human being, or an animal, irresistibly to me?"

"Whether you desired it or not?"

"Exactly— or— no, let us say definitely— if I did not desire it."

Father Murchison pursed up his rather full, cherubic lips, and little wrinkles appeared about the corners of his blue eyes.

"There might be, of course," he said, after a pause. "Human nature is weak, engagingly weak, Guildea. And you're inclined to flout it. I could understand a certain class of lady— the lion-hunting, the intellectual lady, seeking you. Your reputation, your great name—"

"Yes, yes," Guildea interrupted, rather irritably— "I know all that, I know."

He twisted his long hands together, bending the palms outwards till his thin, pointed fingers cracked. His forehead was wrinkled in a frown.

"I imagine," he said— he stopped and coughed drily, almost shrilly— "I imagine it would be very disagreeable to be liked, to be run after— that is the usual expression, isn't it— by anything one objected to."

And now he half turned in his chair, crossed his legs one over the other, and looked at his guest with an unusual, almost piercing interrogation.

"Anything?" said the Father.

"Well— well, anyone. I imagine nothing could be more unpleasant."

"I don't," he said, "I don't. That's just it. That's the curious part of it, that I—"

He broke off deliberately, got up and stretched.

"I'll have a pipe, too," he said.

He went over to the mantelpiece, got his pipe, filled it and lighted it. As he held the match to the tobacco, bending forward with an enquiring expression, his eyes fell upon the green baize that covered Napoleon's cage. He threw the match into the grate, and puffed at the pipe as he walked forward to the cage. When he reached it he put out his hand, took hold of the baize and began to pull it away. Then suddenly he pushed it back over the cage.

"No," he said, as if to himself, "no."

He returned rather hastily to the fire and threw himself once more into his armchair.

"You're wondering," he said to Father Murchison. "So am I. I don't know at all what to make of it. I'll just tell you the facts and you must tell me what you think of them. The night before last, after a day of hard work— but no harder than usual— I went to the front door to get a breath of fresh air. You know I often do that."

"Yes, I found you on the doorstep when I first came here."

"Just so. I didn't put on hat or coat. I just stood on the step as I was. My mind, I remember, was still full of my work. It was rather a dark night, not very dark. The hour was about eleven, or a quarter past. I was staring at the Park, and presently I found that my eyes were directed towards somebody who was sitting, back to me, on one of the benches. I saw the person— if it was a person— through the railings.

"If it was a person!" said the Father. "What do you mean by that?"

"Wait a minute. I say that because it was too dark for me to know. I merely saw some blackish object on the bench, rising into view above the level of the back of the seat. I couldn't say it was man, woman or child. But something there was, and I found that I was looking at it."

"Some poor creature without a home, I suppose," said the Father.

"I said that to myself. Still, I was taken with an extraordinary interest about this object, so great an interest that I got my hat and crossed the road to go into the Park. As you know, there's an entrance almost opposite to my house. Well, Murchison, I crossed the road, passed through the gate in the railings, went up to the seat, and found that there was— nothing on it."

"Were you looking at it as you walked?"

"Part of the time. But I removed my eyes from it just as I passed through the gate, because there was a row going on a little way off, and I turned for an instant in that direction. When I saw that the seat was vacant I was seized by a most absurd sensation of disappointment, almost of anger. I stopped and looked about me to see if anything was moving away, but I could see nothing. It was a cold night and misty, and there were few people about. Feeling, as I say, foolishly and unnaturally disappointed, I retraced my steps to this house. When I got here I discovered that during my short absence I had left the hall door open— half open."

"Rather imprudent in London."

"Yes. I had no idea, of course, that I had done so, till I got back. However, I was only away three minutes or so."

"Yes."

"It was not likely that anybody had gone in."

"I suppose not."

"Was it?"

"Why do you ask me that, Guildea?"

"Well, well!"

"Besides, if anybody had gone in, on your return you'd have caught him, surely."

Guildea coughed again. The Father, surprised, could not fail to recognise that he was nervous and that his nervousness was affecting him physically.

"I must have caught cold that night," he said, as if he had read his friend's thought and hastened to contradict it. Then he went on:

"I entered the hall, or passage, rather."

He paused again. His uneasiness was becoming very apparent.

"And you did catch somebody?" said the Father.

Guildea cleared his throat.

"That's just it," he said, "now we come to it. I'm not imaginative, as you know."

"You certainly are not."

"No, but hardly had I stepped into the passage before I felt certain that somebody had got into the house during my absence. I felt convinced of it, and not only that. I also felt convinced that the intruder was the very person I had dimly seen sitting upon the seat in the Park. What d'you say to that?"

"I begin to think you are imaginative."

"H'm! It seemed to me that the person— the occupant of the seat— and I, had simultaneously formed the project of interviewing each other, had simultaneously set out to put that project into execution. I became so certain of this that I walked hastily upstairs into this room, expecting to find the visitor awaiting me. But there was no one. I then came down again and went into the dining-room. No one. I was actually astonished. Isn't that odd?"

"Very," said the Father, quite gravely.

The Professor's chill and gloomy manner, and uncomfortable, constrained appearance kept away the humour that might well have lurked round the steps of such a discourse.

"I went upstairs again," he continued, "sat down and thought the matter over. I resolved to forget it, and took up a book. I might perhaps have been able to read, but suddenly I thought I noticed—"

He stopped abruptly. Father Murchison observed that he was staring towards the green baize that covered the parrot's cage.

"But that's nothing," he said. "Enough that I couldn't read, I resolved to explore the house. You know how small it is, how easily one can go all over it. I went into every room without exception. To the servants, who were having supper, I made some excuse. They were surprised at my advent, no doubt."

"And Pitting?"

"Oh, he got up politely when I came in, stood while I was there, but never said a word. I muttered 'don't disturb yourselves,' or something of the sort, and came out. Murchison, I found nobody new in the house— yet I return to this room entirely convinced that somebody had entered while I was in the Park."

"And gone out again before you came back?"

"No, had stayed, and was still in the house."

"But, my dear Guildea," began the Father, now in great astonishment. "Surely—"

"I know what you want to say— what I should want to say in your place. Now, do wait. I am also convinced that this visitor has not left the house and is at this moment in it."

He spoke with evident sincerity, with extreme gravity. Father Murchison looked him full in the face, and met his quick, keen eyes.

"No," he said, as if in reply to an uttered question: "I'm perfectly sane, I assure you. The whole matter seems almost as incredible to me as it must to you. But, as you know, I never quarrel with facts, however strange. I merely try to examine into them thoroughly. I have already consulted a doctor and been pronounced in perfect bodily health."

He paused, as if expecting the Father to say something.

"Go on, Guildea," he said, "you haven't finished."

"No. I felt that night positive that somebody had entered the house, and remained in it, and my conviction grew. I went to bed as usual, and, contrary to my expectation, slept as well as I generally do. Yet directly I woke up yesterday morning I knew that my household had been increased by one."

"May I interrupt you for one moment? How did you know it?"

"By my mental sensation. I can only say that I was perfectly conscious of a new presence within my house, close to me."

"How very strange," said the Father. "And you feel absolutely certain that you are not overworked? Your brain does not feel tired? Your head is quite clear?"

"Quite. I was never better. When I came down to breakfast that morning I looked sharply into Pitting's face. He was as coldly placid and inexpressive as usual. It was evident to me that his mind was in no way distressed. After breakfast I sat down to work, all the time ceaselessly conscious of the fact of this intruder upon my privacy. Nevertheless, I laboured for several hours, waiting for any developments that might occur to clear away the mysterious obscurity of this event. I lunched. About half-past two I was obliged to go out to attend a lecture. I therefore took my coat and hat, opened my door, and stepped on to the pavement. I was instantly aware that I was no longer intruded upon, and this although I was now in the street, surrounded by people. Consequently, I felt certain that the thing in my house must be thinking of me, perhaps even spying upon me."

"Wait a moment," interrupted the Father. "What was your sensation? Was it one of fear?"

"Oh, dear no. I was entirely puzzled— as I am now— and keenly interested, but not in any way alarmed. I delivered my lecture with my usual ease and returned home in the evening. On entering the house again I was perfectly conscious that the intruder was still there. Last night I dined alone and spent the hours after dinner in reading a scientific work in which I was deeply interested. While I read, however, I never for one moment lost the knowledge that some mind— very attentive to me— was within hail of mine. I will say more than this— the sensation constantly increased, and, by the time I got up to go to bed, I had come to a very strange conclusion."

"What? What was it?"

"That whoever— or whatever— had entered my house during my short absence in the Park was more than interested in me."

"More than interested in you?"

"Was fond, or was becoming fond, of me."

"Oh!" exclaimed the Father. "Now I understand why you asked me just now whether I thought there was anything about you that might draw a human being or an animal irresistibly to you."

"Precisely. Since I came to this conclusion, Murchison, I will confess that my feeling of strong curiosity has become tinged with another feeling."

"Of fear?"

"No, of dislike, or irritation. No— not fear, not fear."

As Guildea repeated unnecessarily this asseveration he looked again towards the parrot's cage.

"What is there to be afraid of in such a matter?" he added. "I am not a child to tremble before bogies."

In saying the last words he raised his voice sharply; then he walked quickly to the cage, and, with an abrupt movement, pulled the baize covering from it. Napoleon was disclosed, apparently dozing upon his perch with his head held slightly on one side. As the light reached him, he moved, ruffled the feathers about his neck, blinked his eyes, and began slowly to sidle to and fro, thrusting his head forward and drawing it back with an air of complacent, though rather unmeaning, energy. Guildea stood by the cage, looking at him closely, and indeed with an attention that was so intense as to be remarkable, almost unnatural.

"How absurd these birds are!" he said at length, coming back to the fire.

"You have no more to tell me?" asked the Father.

"No. I am still aware of the presence of something in my house. I am still conscious of its close attention to me. I am still irritated, seriously annoyed— I confess it— by that attention."

"You say you are aware of the presence of something at this moment?"

"At this moment— yes."

"Do you mean in this room, with us, now?"

"I should say so— at any rate, quite near us."

Again he glanced quickly, almost suspiciously, towards the cage of the parrot. The bird was sitting still on its perch now. Its head was bent down and cocked sideways, and it appeared to be listening attentively to something.

"That bird will have the intonations of my voice more correctly than ever by tomorrow morning," said the Father, watching Guildea closely with his mild blue eyes. "And it has always imitated me very cleverly."

The Professor started slightly.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, no doubt. Well, what do you make of this affair?"

"Nothing at all. It is absolutely inexplicable. I can speak quite frankly to you, I feel sure."

"Of course. That's why I have told you the whole thing."

"I think you must be over-worked, over-strained, without knowing it."

"And that the doctor was mistaken when he said I was all right?"

"Yes."

Guildea knocked his pipe out against the chimney piece.

"It may be so," he said, "I will not be so unreasonable as to deny the possibility, although I feel as well as I ever did in my life. What do you advise then?"

"A week of complete rest away from London, in good air."

"The usual prescription. I'll take it. I'll go tomorrow to Westgate and leave Napoleon to keep house in my absence."

For some reason, which he could not explain to himself, the pleasure which Father Murchison felt in hearing the first part of his friend's final remark was lessened, was almost destroyed, by the last sentence.

He walked towards the City that night, deep in thought, remembering and carefully considering the first interview he had with Guildea in the latter's house a year and a half before.

On the following morning Guildea left London.

3

FATHER MURCHISON was so busy a man that he had little time for brooding over the affairs of others. During Guildea's week at the sea, however, the Father thought about him a great deal, with much wonder and some dismay. The dismay was soon banished, for the mild-eyed priest was quick to discern weakness in himself, quicker still to drive it forth as a most undesirable inmate of the soul. But the wonder remained. It was destined to a crescendo. Guildea had left London on a Thursday. On a Thursday he returned, having previously sent a note to Father Murchison to mention that he was leaving Westgate at a certain time. When his train ran into Victoria Station, at five o'clock in the evening, he was surprised to see the cloaked figure of his friend standing upon the grey platform behind a line of porters.

"What, Murchison!" he said. "You here! Have you seceded from your order that you are taking this holiday?"

They shook hands.

"No," said the Father. "It happened that I had to be in this neighbourhood today, visiting a sick person. So I thought I would meet you."

"And see if I were still a sick person, eh?"

The Professor glanced at him kindly, but with a dry little laugh.

"Are you?" replied the Father gently, looking at him with interest. "No, I think not. You appear very well."

The sea air had, in fact, put some brownish red into Guildea's always thin cheeks. His keen eyes were shining with life and energy, and he walked forward in his loose grey suit and fluttering overcoat with a vigour that was noticeable, carrying easily in his left hand his well-filled Gladstone bag.

The Father felt completely reassured.

"I never saw you look better," he said.

"I never was better. Have you an hour to spare?"

"Two."

"Good. I'll send my bag up by cab, and we'll walk across the Park to my house and have a cup of tea there. What d'you say?"

"I shall enjoy it."

They walked out of the station yard, past the flower girls and newspaper sellers towards Grosvenor Place.

"And you have had a pleasant time?" the Father said.

"Pleasant enough, and lonely. I left my companion behind me in the passage at number 100, you know."

"And you'll not find him there now, I feel sure."

"H'm!" ejaculated Guildea. "What a precious weakling you think me, Murchison.

As he spoke he strode forward more quickly, as if moved to emphasise his sensation of bodily vigour.

"A weakling— no. But anyone who uses his brain as persistently as you do yours must require an occasional holiday."

"And I required one very badly, eh?"

"You required one, I believe."

"Well, I've had it. And now we'll see."

The evening was closing in rapidly. They crossed the road at Hyde Park Corner, and entered the Park, in which were a number of people going home from work; men in corduroy trousers, caked with dried mud, and carrying tin cans slung over their shoulders, and flat panniers, in which lay their tools. Some of the younger ones talked loudly or whistled shrilly as they walked.

"Until the evening," murmured Father Murchison to himself.

"What?" asked Guildea.

"I was only quoting the last words of the text, which seems written upon life, especially upon the life of pleasure: 'Man goeth forth to his work, and to his labour.' "

"Ah, those fellows are not half bad fellows to have in an audience. There were a lot of them at the lecture I gave when I first met you, I remember. One of them tried to heckle me. He had a red beard. Chaps with red beards are always hecklers. I laid him low on that occasion. Well, Murchison, and now we're going to see."

"What?"

"Whether my companion has departed."

"Tell me— do you feel any expectation of— well— of again thinking something is there?"

"How carefully you choose language. No, I merely wonder."

"You have no apprehension?"

"Not a scrap. But I confess to feeling curious."

"Then the sea air hasn't taught you to recognise that the whole thing came from overstrain."

"No," said Guildea, very drily.

He walked on in silence for a minute. Then he added:

"You thought it would?"

"I certainly thought it might."

"Make me realise that I had a sickly, morbid, rotten imagination— eh? Come now, Murchison, why not say frankly that you packed me off to Westgate to get rid of what you considered an acute form of hysteria?"

The Father was quite unmoved by this attack.

"Come now, Guildea," he retorted, "what did you expect me to think? I saw no indication of hysteria in you. I never have. One would suppose you the last man likely to have such a malady. But which is more natural— for me to believe in your hysteria or in the truth of such a story as you told me?"

"You have me there. No, I mustn't complain. Well, there's no hysteria about me now, at any rate."

"And no stranger in your house, I hope."

Father Murchison spoke the last words with earnest gravity, dropping the half-bantering tone— which they had both assumed.

"You take the matter very seriously, I believe," said Guildea, also speaking more gravely.

"How else can I take it? You wouldn't have me laugh at it when you tell it me seriously?"

"No. If we find my visitor still in the house, I may even call upon you to exorcise it. But first I must do one thing."

"And that is?"

"Prove to you, as well as to myself, that it is still there."

"That might be difficult," said the Father, considerably surprised by Guildea's matter-of-fact tone.

"I don't know. If it has remained in my house I think I can find a means. And I shall not be at all surprised if it is still there— despite the Westgate air."

In saying the last words the Professor relapsed into his former tone of dry chaff. The Father could not quite make up his mind whether Guildea was feeling unusually grave or unusually gay. As the two men drew near to Hyde Park Place their conversation died away and they walked forward silently in the gathering darkness.

"Here we are!" said Guildea at last.

He thrust his key into the door, opened it and let Father Murchison into the passage, following him closely, and banging the door.

"Here we are!" he repeated in a louder voice.

The electric light was turned on in anticipation of his arrival. He stood still and looked round.

"We'll have some tea at once," he said. "Ah, Pitting!"

The pale butler, who had heard the door bang, moved gently forward from the top of the stairs that led to the kitchen, greeted his master respectfully, took his coat and Father Murchison's cloak, and hung them on two pegs against the wall.

"All's right, Pitting? All's as usual?" said Guildea.

"Quite so, sir."

"Bring me up some tea to the library."

"Yes, sir."

Pitting retreated. Guildea waited till he had disappeared, then opened the dining-room door, put his head into the room and kept it there for a moment, standing perfectly still. Presently he drew back into the passage, shut the door, and said:

"Let's go upstairs."

Father Murchison looked at him enquiringly, but made no remark. They ascended the stairs and came into the library. Guildea glanced rather sharply round. A fire was burning on the hearth. The blue curtains were drawn. The bright gleam of the strong electric light fell on the long rows of books, on the writing table— very orderly in consequent of Guildea's holiday— and on the uncovered cage of the parrot. Guildea went up to the cage. Napoleon was sitting humped up on his perch with his feathers ruffled. His long toes, which looked as if they were covered with crocodile skin, clung to the bar. His round and blinking eyes were filmy, like old eyes. Guildea stared at the bird very hard, and then clucked with his tongue against his teeth. Napoleon shook himself, lifted one foot, extended his toes, sidled along the perch to the bars nearest to the Professor and thrust his head against them. Guildea scratched it with his forefinger two or three times, still gazing attentively at the parrot; then he returned to the fire just as Pitting entered with the tea-tray.

Father Murchison was already sitting in an armchair on one side of the fire. Guildea took another chair and began to pour out tea, as Pitting left the room, closing the door gently behind him. The Father sipped his tea, found it hot and set the cup down on a little table at his side.

"You're fond of that parrot, aren't you?" he asked his friend.

"Not particularly. It's interesting to study sometimes. The parrot mind and nature are peculiar."

"How long have you had him?"

"About four years. I nearly got rid of him just before I made your acquaintance. I'm very glad now I kept him."

"Are you? Why is that?"

"I shall probably tell you in a day or two."

The Father took his cup again. He did not press Guildea for an immediate explanation, but when they had both finished their tea he said:

"Well, has the sea-air had the desired effect?"

"No," said Guildea.

The Father brushed some crumbs from the front of his cassock and sat up higher in his chair.

"Your visitor is still here?" he asked, and his blue eyes became almost ungentle and piercing as he gazed at his friend.

"Yes," answered Guildea, calmly.

"How do you know it, when did you know it— when you looked into the dining-room just now?"

"No. Not until I came into this room. It welcomed me here."

"Welcomed you! In what way?"

"Simply by being here, by making me feel that it is here, as I might feel that a man was if I came into the room when it was dark."

He spoke quietly, with perfect composure in his usual dry manner.

"Very well," the Father said, "I shall not try to contend against your sensation, or to explain it away. Naturally, I am in amazement."

"So am I. Never has anything in my life surprised me so much. Murchison, of course I cannot expect you to believe more than that I honestly suppose— imagine, if you like— that there is some intruder here, of which kind I am totally unaware. I cannot expect you to believe that there really is anything. If you were in my place, I in yours, I should certainly consider you the victim of some nervous delusion. I could not do otherwise. But— wait. Don't condemn me for a hysteria patient, or as a madman, for two or three days. I feel convinced that— unless I am indeed unwell, a mental invalid, which I don't think is possible— I shall be able very shortly to give you some proof that there is a newcomer in my house."

"You don't tell me what kind of proof?"

"Not yet. Things must go a little farther first. But, perhaps even tomorrow I may be able to explain myself more fully. In the meanwhile, I'll say this, that if, eventually, I can't bring any kind of proof that I'm not dreaming, I'll let you take me to any doctor you like, and I'll resolutely try to adopt your present view— that I'm suffering from an absurd delusion. That is your view, of course?"

Father Murchison was silent for a moment. Then he said, rather doubtfully:

"It ought to be."

"But isn't it?" asked Guildea, surprised.

"Well, you know, your manner is enormously convincing. Still, of course, I doubt. How can I do otherwise? The whole thing must be fancy."

The Father spoke as if he were trying to recoil from a mental position he was being forced to take up.

"It must be fancy," he repeated.

"I'll convince you by more than my manner, or I'll not try to convince you at all," said Guildea.

When they parted that evening, he said:

"I'll write to you in a day or two probably. I think the proof I am going to give you has been accumulating during my absence. But I shall soon know."

Father Murchison was extremely puzzled as he sat on the top of the omnibus going homeward.

4

IN TWO DAYS' time he received a note from Guildea asking him to call, if possible, the same evening. This he was unable to do as he had an engagement to fulfil at some East End gathering. The following day was Sunday. He wrote saying he would come on the Monday, and got a wire shortly afterwards: "Yes, Monday come to dinner seven-thirty Guildea." At half-past seven he stood on the doorstep of number 100.

Pitting let him in.

"Is the Professor quite well, Pitting?" the Father enquired as he took off his cloak.

"I believe so, sir. He has not made any complaint," the butler formally replied. "Will you come upstairs, sir?"

Guildea met them at the door of the library. He was very pale and sombre, and shook hands carelessly with his friend.

"Give us dinner," he said to Pitting.

As the butler retired, Guildea shut the door rather cautiously. Father Murchison had never before seen him look so disturbed.

"You're worried, Guildea," the Father said. "Seriously worried."

"Yes, I am. This business is beginning to tell on me a good deal."

"Your belief in the presence of something here continues then?"

"Oh, dear, yes. There's no sort of doubt about the matter. The night I went across the road into the Park something got into the house, though what the devil it is I can't yet find out. But now, before we go down to dinner, I'll just tell you something about that proof I promised you. You remember?"

"Naturally."

"Can't you imagine what it might be?"

Father Murchison moved his head to express a negative reply.

"Look about the room," said Guildea. "What do you see?"

The Father glanced round the room, slowly and carefully.

"Nothing unusual. You do not mean to tell me there is any appearance of—"

"Oh, no, no, there's no conventional, white-robed, cloud-like figure. Bless my soul, no! I haven't fallen so low as that."

He spoke with considerable irritation.

"Look again."

Father Murchison looked at him, turned in the direction of his fixed eyes and saw the grey parrot clambering in its cage, slowly and persistently.

"What?" he said, quickly. "Will the proof come from there?"

The Professor nodded.

"I believe so," he said. "Now let's go down to dinner. I want some food badly."

They descended to the dining-room. While they ate and Pitting waited upon them, the Professor talked about birds, their habits, their curiosities, their fears and their powers of imitation. He had evidently studied this subject with the thoroughness that was characteristic of him in all that he did.

"Parrots," he said presently, "are extraordinarily observant. It is a pity that their means of reproducing what they see are so limited. If it were not so, I have little doubt that their echo of gesture would be as remarkable as their echo of voice often is."

"But hands are missing."

"Yes. They do many things with their heads, however. I once knew an old woman near Goring on the Thames. She was afflicted with the palsy. She held her head perpetually sideways and it trembled, moving from right to left. Her sailor son brought her home a parrot from one of his voyages. It used to reproduce the old woman's palsied movement of the head exactly. Those grey parrots are always on the watch."

Guildea said the last sentence slowly and deliberately, glancing sharply over his wine at Father Murchison, and, when he had spoken it, a sudden light of comprehension dawned in the Priest's mind. He opened his lips to make a swift remark. Guildea turned his bright eyes towards Pitting, who at the moment was tenderly bearing a cheese meringue from the lift that connected the dining-room with the lower regions. The Father closed his lips again. But presently, when the butler had placed some apples on the table, had meticulously arranged the decanters, brushed away the crumbs and evaporated, he said, quickly:

"I begin to understand. You think Napoleon is aware of the intruder?"

"I know it. He has been watching my visitant ever since the night of that visitant's arrival."

Another flash of light came to the Priest.

"That was why you covered him with green baize one evening?"

"Exactly. An act of cowardice. His behaviour was beginning to grate upon my nerves."

Guildea pursed up his thin lips and drew his brows down, giving to his face a look of sudden pain.

"But now I intend to follow his investigations," he added, straightening his features. "The week I wasted at Westgate was not wasted by him in London, I can assure you. Have an apple."

"No, thank you; no, thank you."

The Father repeated the words without knowing that he did so. Guildea pushed away his glass.

"Let us come upstairs, then."

"No, thank you," reiterated the Father.

"Eh?"

"What am I saying?" exclaimed the Father, getting up. "I was thinking over this extraordinary affair."

"Ah, you're beginning to forget the hysteria theory?"

They walked out into the passage.

"Well, you are so very practical about the whole matter."

"Why not? Here's something very strange and abnormal come into my life. What should I do but investigate it closely and calmly?"

"What, indeed?"

The Father began to feel rather bewildered, under a sort of compulsion which seemed laid upon him to give earnest attention to a matter that ought to strike him— so he felt— as entirely absurd. When they came into the library his eyes immediately turned, with profound curiosity, towards the parrot's cage. A slight smile curled the Professor's lips. He recognised the effect he was producing upon his friend. The Father saw the smile.

"Oh, I'm not won over yet," he said in answer to it.

"I know. Perhaps you may be before the evening is over. Here comes the coffee. After we have drunk it we'll proceed to our experiment. Leave the coffee, Pitting, and don't disturb us again."

"No, sir."

"I won't have it black tonight," said the Father, "plenty of milk, please. I don't want my nerves played upon."

"Suppose we don't take coffee at all?" said Guildea. "If we do, you may trot out the theory that we are not in a perfectly normal condition. I know you, Murchison, devout Priest and devout sceptic."

The Father laughed and pushed away his cup.

"Very well, then. No coffee."

"One cigarette, and then to business."

The grey blue smoke curled up.

"What are we going to do?" said the Father.

He was sitting bolt upright as if ready for action. Indeed there was no suggestion of repose in the attitudes of either of the men.

"Hide ourselves, and watch Napoleon. By the way— that reminds me."

He got up, went to a corner of the room, picked up a piece of green baize and threw it over the cage.

"I'll pull that off when we are hidden."

"And tell me first if you have had any manifestation of this supposed presence in the last few days?"

"Merely an increasingly intense sensation of something here, perpetually watching me, perpetually attending to all my doings."

"Do you feel that it follows you about?"

"Not always. It was in this room when you arrived. It is here now— I feel. But, in going down to dinner, we seemed to get away from it. The conclusion is that it remained here. Don't let us talk about it just now."

They spoke of other things till their cigarettes were finished. Then, as they threw away the smouldering ash, Guildea said:

"Now, Murchison, for the sake of this experiment, I suggest that we should conceal ourselves behind the curtains on either side of the cage, so that the bird's attention may not be drawn towards us and so distracted from that which we want to know more about. I will pull away the green baize when we are hidden. Keep perfectly still, watch the bird's proceedings, and tell me afterwards how you feel about them, how you explain them. Tread softly."

The Father obeyed, and they stole towards the curtains that fell before the two windows. The Father concealed himself behind those on the left of the cage, the Professor behind those on the right. The latter, as soon as they were hidden, stretched out his arm, drew the baize down from the cage, and let it fall on the floor.

The parrot, which had evidently fallen asleep in the warm darkness, moved on its perch as the light shone upon it, ruffled the feathers round its throat, and lifted first one foot and then the other. It turned its head round on its supple, and apparently elastic, neck, and, diving its beak into the down upon its back, made some searching investigations with, as it seemed, a satisfactory result, for it soon lifted its head again, glanced around its cage, and began to address itself to a nut which had been fixed between the bars for its refreshment. With its curved beak it felt and tapped the nut, at first gently, then with severity. Finally it plucked the nut from the bars, seized it with its rough, grey toes, and, holding it down firmly on the perch, cracked it and pecked out its contents, scattering some on the floor of the cage and letting the fractured shell fall into the china bath that was fixed against the bars. This accomplished, the bird paused meditatively, extended one leg backwards, and went through an elaborate process of wing-stretching that made it look as if it were lopsided and deformed. With its head reversed, it again applied itself to a subtle and exhaustive search among the feathers of its wing. This time its investigation seemed interminable, and Father Murchison had time to realise the absurdity of the whole position, and to wonder why he had lent himself to it. Yet he did not find his sense of humour laughing at it. On the contrary, he was smitten by a sudden gust of horror. When he was talking to his friend and watching him, the Professor's manner, generally so calm, even so prosaic, vouched for the truth of his story and the well-adjusted balance of his mind. But when he was hidden this was not so. And Father Murchison, standing behind his curtain, with his eyes upon the unconcerned Napoleon, began to whisper to himself the word— madness, with a quickening sensation of pity and of dread.

The parrot sharply contracted one wing, ruffled the feathers around its throat again, then extended its other leg backwards, and proceeded to the cleaning of its other wing. In the still room the dry sound of the feathers being spread was distinctly audible. Father Murchison saw the blue curtains behind which Guildea stood tremble slightly, as if a breath of wind had come through the window they shrouded. The clock in the far room chimed, and a coal dropped into the grate, making a noise like dead leaves stirring abruptly on hard ground. And again a gust of pity and of dread swept over the Father. It seemed to him that he had behaved very foolishly, if not wrongly, in encouraging what must surely be the strange dementia of his friend. He ought to have declined to lend himself to a proceeding that, ludicrous, even childish in itself, might well be dangerous in the encouragement it gave to a diseased expectation. Napoleon's protruding leg, extended wing and twisted neck, his busy and unconscious devotion to the arrangement of his person, his evident sensation of complete loneliness, most comfortable solitude, brought home with vehemence to the Father the undignified buffoonery of his conduct; the more piteous buffoonery of his friend. He seized the curtains with his hand and was about to thrust them aside and issue forth, when an abrupt movement of the parrot stopped him. The bird, as if sharply attracted by something, paused in its pecking, and, with its head still bent backward and twisted sideways on its neck, seemed to listen intently. Its round eye looked glistening and strained, like the eye of a disturbed pigeon. Contracting its wing, it lifted its head and sat for a moment erect on its perch, shifting its feet mechanically up and down, as if a dawning excitement produced in it an uncontrollable desire of movement. Then it thrust its head forward in the direction of the further room and remained perfectly still. Its attitude so strongly suggested the concentration of its attention on something immediately before it, that Father Murchison instinctively stared about the room, half expecting to see Pitting advance softly, having entered through the hidden door. He did not come, and there was no sound in the chamber. Nevertheless, the parrot was obviously getting excited and increasingly attentive. It bent its head lower and lower, stretching out its neck until, almost falling from the perch, it half extended its wings, raising them slightly from its back, as if about to take flight, and fluttering them rapidly up and down. It continued this fluttering movement for what seemed to the Father an immense time. At length, raising its wings as far as possible, it dropped them slowly and deliberately down to its back, caught hold of the edge of its bath with its beak, hoisted itself on to the floor of the cage, waddled to the bars, thrust its head against them, and stood quite still in the exact attitude it always assumed when its head was being scratched by the Professor. So complete was the suggestion of this delight conveyed by the bird, that Father Murchison felt as if he saw a white finger gently pushed among the soft feathers of its head, and he was seized by a most strong conviction that something, unseen by him but seen and welcomed by Napoleon, stood immediately before the cage.

The parrot presently withdrew its head, as if the coaxing finger had been lifted from it, and its pronounced air of acute physical enjoyment faded into one of marked attention and alert curiosity. Pulling itself up by the bars it climbed again upon its perch, sidled to the left side of the cage, and began apparently to watch something with profound interest. It bowed its head oddly, paused for a moment, then bowed its head again. Father Murchison found himself conceiving— from this elaborate movement of the head— a distinct idea of a personality. The bird's proceedings suggested extreme sentimentality combined with that sort of weak determination which is often the most persistent. Such weak determination is a very common attribute of persons who are partially idiotic. Father Murchison was moved to think of these poor creatures who will often, so strangely and unreasonably, attach themselves with persistence to those who love them least. Like many priests, he had had some experience of them, for the amorous idiot is peculiarly sensitive to the attraction of preachers. This bowing movement of the parrot recalled to his memory a terrible, pale woman who for a time haunted all churches in which he ministered, who was perpetually endeavouring to catch his eye, and who always bent her head with an obsequious and cunningly conscious smile when she did so. The parrot went on bowing, making a short pause between each genuflection, as if it waited for a signal to be given that called into play its imitative faculty.

"Yes, yes, it's imitating an idiot," Father Murchison caught himself saying as he watched.

And he looked again about the room, but saw nothing; except the furniture, the dancing fire, and the serried ranks of the books. Presently the parrot ceased from bowing, and assumed the concentrated and stretched attitude of one listening very keenly. He opened his beak, showing his black tongue, shut it, then opened it again. The Father thought he was going to speak, but he remained silent, although it was obvious that he was trying to bring out something. He bowed again two or three times, paused, and then, again opening his beak, made some remark. The Father could not distinguish any words, but the voice was sickly and disagreeable, a cooing and, at the same time, querulous voice, like a woman's, he thought. And he put his ear nearer to the curtain, listening with almost feverish attention. The bowing was resumed, but this time Napoleon added to it a sidling movement, affectionate and affected, like the movement of a silly and eager thing, nestling up to someone, or giving someone a gentle and furtive nudge. Again the Father thought of that terrible, pale woman who had haunted churches. Several times he had come upon her waiting for him after evening services. Once she had hung her head smiling, and lolled out her tongue and pushed against him sideways in the dark. He remembered how his flesh had shrunk from the poor thing, the sick loathing of her that he could not banish by remembering that her mind was all astray. The parrot paused, listened, opened his beak, and again said something in the same dove-like, amorous voice, full of sickly suggestion and yet hard, even dangerous, in its intonation. A loathsome voice, the Father thought it. But this time, although he heard the voice more distinctly than before, he could not make up his mind whether it was like a woman's voice or a man's— or perhaps a child's. It seemed to be a human voice, and yet oddly sexless. In order to resolve his doubt he withdrew into the darkness of the curtains, ceased to watch Napoleon and simply listened with keen attention, striving to forget that he was listening to a bird, and to imagine that he was overhearing a human being in conversation. After two or three minutes' silence the voice spoke again, and at some length, apparently repeating several times an affectionate series of ejaculations with a cooing emphasis that was unutterably mawkish and offensive. The sickliness of the voice, its falling intonations and its strange indelicacy, combined with a die-away softness and meretricious refinement, made the Father's flesh creep. Yet he could not distinguish any words, nor could he decide on the voice's sex or age. One thing alone he was certain of as he stood still in the darkness— that such a sound could only proceed from something peculiarly loathsome, could only express a personality unendurably abominable to him, if not to everybody. The voice presently failed, in a sort of husky gasp, and there was a prolonged silence. It was broken by the Professor, who suddenly pulled away the curtains that hid the Father and said to him:

"Come out now, and look."

The Father came into the light, blinking, glanced towards the cage, and saw Napoleon poised motionless on one foot with his head under his wing. He appeared to be asleep. The Professor was pale, and his mobile lips were drawn into an expression of extreme disgust.

"Faugh!" he said.

He walked to the windows of the further room, pulled aside the curtains and pushed the glass up, letting in the air. The bare trees were visible in the grey gloom outside. Guildea leaned out for a minute drawing the night air into his lungs. Presently he turned round to the Father, and exclaimed abruptly:

"Pestilent! Isn't it?"

"Yes— most pestilent."

"Ever hear anything like it?"

"Not exactly."

"Nor I. It gives me nausea, Murchison, absolute physical nausea."

He closed the window and walked uneasily about the room.

"What d'you make of it?" he asked, over his shoulder.

"How d'you mean exactly?"

"Is it man's, woman's, or child's voice?"

"I can't tell, I can't make up my mind."

"Nor I."

"Have you heard it often?"

"Yes, since I returned from Westgate. There are never any words that I can distinguish. What a voice!"

He spat into the fire.

"Forgive me," he said, throwing himself down in a chair. "It turns my stomach— literally."

"And mine," said the Father truly.

"The worst of it is," continued Guildea, with a high, nervous accent, "that there's no brain with it, none at all— only the cunning of idiocy."

The Father started at this exact expression of his own conviction by another.

"Why d'you start like that?" said Guildea, with a quick suspicion which showed the unnatural condition of his nerves.

"Well, the very same idea occurred to me."

"What?"

"That I was listening to the voice of something idiotic."

"Ah! That's the devil of it, you know, to a man like me. I could fight against brain— but this!"

He sprang up again, poked the fire violently, then stood on the hearth-rug with his back to it, and his hands thrust into the high pockets of his trousers.

"That's the voice of the thing that's got into my house," he said. "Pleasant, isn't it?"

And now there was really horror in his eyes, and his voice.

"I must get it out," he exclaimed. "I must get it out. But how?"

He tugged at his short black beard with a quivering hand.

"How?" he continued. "For what is it? Where is it?"

"You feel it's here— now?"

"Undoubtedly. But I couldn't tell you in what part of the room."

He stared about, glancing rapidly at everything.

"Then you consider yourself haunted?" said Father Murchison.

He, too, was much moved and disturbed, although he was not conscious of the presence of anything near them in the room.

"I have never believed in any nonsense of that kind, as you know," Guildea answered. "I simply state a fact, which I cannot understand, and which is beginning to be very painful to me. There is something here. But whereas most so-called hauntings have been described to me as inimical, what I am conscious of is that I am admired, loved, desired. This is distinctly horrible to me, Murchison, distinctly horrible."

Father Murchison suddenly remembered the first evening he had spent with Guildea, and the latter's expression almost of disgust, at the idea of receiving warm affection from anyone. In the light of that long ago conversation, the present event seemed supremely strange, and almost like a punishment for an offence committed by the Professor against humanity. But, looking up at his friend's twitching face, the Father resolved not to be caught in the net of his hideous belief.

"There can be nothing here," he said. "It's impossible."

"What does that bird imitate, then?"

"The voice of someone who has been here."

"Within the last week then. For it never spoke like that before, and mind, I noticed that it was watching and striving to imitate something before I went away, since the night that I went into the Park, only since then."

"Somebody with a voice like that must have been here while you were away," Father Murchison repeated, with a gentle obstinacy.

"I'll soon find out."

Guildea pressed the bell. Pitting stole in almost immediately.

"Pitting," said the Professor, speaking in a high, sharp voice, "did anyone come into this room during my absence at the sea?"

"Certainly not, sir, except the maids— and me, sir."

"Not a soul? You are certain?"

"Perfectly certain, sir."

The cold voice of the butler sounded surprised, almost resentful. The Professor flung out his hand towards the cage.

"Has the bird been here the whole time?"

"Yes, sir."

"He was not moved, taken elsewhere, even for a moment?"

Pitting's pale face began to look almost expressive, and his lips were pursed.

"Certainly not, sir."

"Thank you. That will do."

The butler retired, moving with a sort of ostentatious rectitude. When he had reached the door, and was just going out, his master called:

"Wait a minute, Pitting."

The butler paused. Guildea bit his lips, tugged at his beard uneasily two or three times, and then said:

"Have you noticed— er— the parrot talking lately in a— a very peculiar, very disagreeable voice?"

"Yes, sir— a soft voice like, sir."

"Ha! Since when?"

"Since you went away, sir. He's always at it."

"Exactly. Well, and what did you think of it?"

"Beg pardon, sir?"

"What do you think about his talking in this voice?"

"Oh, that it's only his play, sir."

"I see. That's all, Pitting."

The butler disappeared and closed the door noiselessly behind him.

Guildea turned his eyes on his friend.

"There, you see!" he ejaculated.

"It's certainly very odd," said the Father. "Very odd indeed. You are certain you have no maid who talks at all like that?"

"My dear Murchison! Would you keep a servant with such a voice about you for two days?"

"No."

"My housemaid has been with me for five years, my cook for seven. You've heard Pitting speak. The three of them make up my entire household. A parrot never speaks in a voice it has not heard. Where has it heard that voice?"

"But we hear nothing?"

"No. Nor do we see anything. But it does. It feels something too. Didn't you observe it presenting its head to be scratched?"

"Certainly it seemed to be doing so."

"It was doing so."

Father Murchison said nothing. He was full of interesting discomfort that almost amounted to apprehension.

"Are you convinced?" said Guildea, rather irritably.

"No. The whole matter is very strange. But till I hear, see or feel— as you do— the presence of something, I cannot believe."

"You mean that you will not?"

"Perhaps. Well, it is time I went."

Guildea did not try to detain him, but said, as he let him out:

"Do me a favour, come again tomorrow night."

The Father had an engagement. He hesitated, looked into the Professor's face and said:

"I will. At nine I'll be with you. Good-night."

When he was on the pavement he felt relieved. He turned round, saw Guildea stepping into his passage, and shivered.

5

FATHER MURCHISON walked all the way home to Bird Street that night. He required exercise after the strange and disagreeable evening he had spent, an evening upon which he looked back already as a man looks back upon a nightmare. In his ears, as he walked, sounded the gentle and intolerable voice. Even the memory of it caused him physical discomfort. He tried to put it from him, and to consider the whole matter calmly. The Professor had offered his proof that there was some strange presence in his house. Could any reasonable man accept such proof? Father Murchison told himself that no reasonable man could accept it. The parrot's proceedings were, no doubt, extraordinary. The bird had succeeded in producing an extraordinary illusion of an invisible presence in the room. But that there really was such a presence the Father insisted on denying to himself. The devoutly religious, those who believe implicitly in miracles recorded in the Bible, and who regulate their lives by the messages they suppose themselves to receive directly from the Great Ruler of a hidden World, are seldom inclined to accept any notion of supernatural intrusion into the affairs of daily life. They put it from them with anxious determination. They regard it fixedly as hocus-pocus, childish if not wicked.

Father Murchison inclined to the normal view of the devoted churchman. He was determined to incline to it. He could not— so he now told himself— accept the idea that his friend was being supernaturally punished for his lack of humanity, his deficiency in affection, by being obliged to endure the love of some horrible thing, which could not be seen, heard, or handled. Nevertheless, retribution did certainly seem to wait upon Guildea's condition. That which he had unnaturally dreaded and shrunk from in his thought he seemed to now be forced unnaturally to suffer. The Father prayed for his friend that night before the little, humble altar in the barely-furnished, cell-like chamber where he slept.

On the following evening, when he called in Hyde Park Place, the door was opened by the housemaid, and Father Murchison mounted the stairs, wondering what had become of Pitting. He was met at the library door by Guildea and was painfully struck by the alteration in his appearance. His face was ashen in hue, and there were lines beneath his eyes. The eyes themselves looked excited and horribly forlorn. His hair and dress were disordered and his lips twitched continually, as if he were shaken by some acute nervous apprehension.

"What has become of Pitting?" asked the Father, grasping Guildea's hot and feverish hand.

"He has left my service."

"Left your service!" exclaimed the Father in utter amazement.

"Yes, this afternoon."

"May one ask why?"

"I'm going to tell you. It's all part and parcel of this— this most odious business. You remember once discussing the relations men ought to have with their servants?"

"Ah!" cried the Father, with a flash of inspiration. "The crisis has occurred?"

"Exactly," said the Professor, with a bitter smile. "The crisis has occurred. I called upon Pitting to be a man and a brother. He responded by declining the invitation. I upbraided him. He gave me warning. I paid him his wages and told him he could go at once. And he has gone. What are you looking at me like that for?"

"I don't know," said Father Murchison, hastily dropping his eyes, and looking away. "Why," he added. "Napoleon is gone too."

"I sold him today to one of those shops in Shaftesbury Avenue."

"Why?"

"He sickened me with his abominable imitations of— his intercourse with— well, you know what he was at last night. Besides, I have no further need of his proof to tell me I am not dreaming. And, being convinced as I now am, that all I have thought to have happened has actually happened, I care very little about convincing others. Forgive me for saying so, Murchison, but I am now certain that my anxiety to make you believe in the presence of something here really arose from some faint doubt on that subject— within myself. All doubt has now vanished."

"Tell me why."

"I will."

Both men were standing by the fire. They continued to stand while Guildea went on:

"Last night I felt it."

"What?" cried the Father.

"I say that last night, as I was going upstairs to bed, I felt something accompanying me and nestling up against me."

"How horrible!" exclaimed the Father, involuntarily.

Guildea smiled drearily.

"I will not deny the horror of it. I cannot, since I was compelled to call on Pitting for assistance."

"But— tell me— what was it, at least what did it seem to be?"

"It seemed to be a human being. It seemed, I say; and what I mean exactly is that the effect upon me was rather that of human contact than of anything else. But I could see nothing, hear nothing. Only, three times, I felt this gentle, but determined, push against me, as if to coax me and to attract my attention. The first time it happened I was on the landing outside this room, with my foot on the first stair. I will confess to you, Murchison, that I bounded upstairs like one pursued. That is the shameful truth. Just as I was about to enter my bedroom, however, I felt the thing entering with me, and, as I have said, squeezing, with loathsome, sickening tenderness, against my side. Then—"

He paused, turned towards the fire and leaned his head on his arm. The Father was greatly moved by the strange helplessness and despair of the attitude. He laid his hand affectionately on Guildea's shoulder.

"Then?"

Guildea lifted his head. He looked painfully abashed.

"Then, Murchison, I am ashamed to say, I broke down, suddenly, unaccountably, in a way I should have thought wholly impossible to me. I struck out with my hands to thrust the thing away. It pressed more closely to me. The pressure, the contact became unbearable to me. I shouted out for Pitting. I— I believe I must have cried— 'Help.' "

"He came, of course?"

"Yes, with his usual soft, unemotional quiet. His calm— its opposition to my excitement of disgust and horror— must, I suppose, have irritated me. I was not myself, no, no!"

He stopped abruptly. Then—

"But I need hardly tell you that," he added, with most piteous irony.

"And what did you say to Pitting?"

"I said that he should have been quicker. He begged my pardon. His cold voice really maddened me, and I burst out into some foolish, contemptible diatribe, called him a machine, taunted him, then— as I felt that loathsome thing nestling once more to me— begged him to assist me, to stay with me, not to leave me alone— I meant in the company of my tormentor. Whether he was frightened, or whether he was angry at my unjust and violent manner and speech a moment before, I don't know. In any case he answered that he was engaged as a butler, and not to sit up all night with people. I suspect he thought I had taken too much to drink. No doubt that was it. I believe I swore at him as a coward— I! This morning he said he wished to leave my service. I gave him a month's wages, a good character as a butler, and sent him off at once."

"But the night? How did you pass it?"

"I sat up all night."

"Where? In your bedroom?"

"Yes— with the door open— to let it go."

"You felt that it stayed?"

"It never left me for a moment, but it did not touch me again. When it was light I took a bath, lay down for a little while, but did not close my eyes. After breakfast I had the explanation with Pitting and paid him. Then I came up here. My nerves were in a very shattered condition. Well, I sat down, tried to write, to think. But the silence was broken in the most abominable manner."

"How?"

"By the murmur of that appalling voice, that voice of a love-sick idiot, sickly but determined. Ugh!"

He shuddered in every limb. Then he pulled himself together, resumed, with a self-conscious effort, his most determined, most aggressive, manner, and added:

"I couldn't stand that. I had come to the end of my tether; so I sprang up, ordered a cab to be called, seized the cage and drove with it to a bird shop in Shaftesbury Avenue. There I sold the parrot for a trifle. I think, Murchison, that I must have been nearly mad then, for, as I came out of the wretched shop, and stood for an instant on the pavement among the cages of rabbits, guinea-pigs, and puppy dogs, I laughed aloud. I felt as if a load was lifted from my shoulders, as if in selling that voice I had sold the cursed thing that torments me. But when I got back to the house it was here. It's here now. I suppose it will always be here."

He shuffled his feet on the rug in front of the fire.

"What on earth am I to do?" he said. "I'm ashamed of myself, Murchison, but— but I suppose there are things in the world that certain men simply can't endure. Well, I can't endure this, and there's an end of the matter."

He ceased. The Father was silent. In presence of this extraordinary distress he did not know what to say. He recognised the uselessness of trying to comfort Guildea, and he sat with his eyes turned, almost moodily, to the ground. And while he sat there he tried to give himself to the influences within the room, to feel all that was within it. He even, half-unconsciously, tried to force his imagination to play tricks with him. But he remained totally unaware of any third person with them. At length he said:

"Guildea, I cannot pretend to doubt the reality of your misery here. You must go away, and at once. When is your Paris lecture?"

"Next week. In nine days from now."

"Go to Paris tomorrow then; you say you have never had any consciousness that this— this thing pursued you beyond your own front door?"

"Never— hitherto."

"Go tomorrow morning. Stay away till after your lecture. And then let us see if the affair is at an end. Hope, my dear friend, hope."

He had stood up. Now he clasped the Professor's hand.

"See all your friends in Paris. Seek distractions. I would ask you also to seek— other help."

He said the last words with a gentle, earnest gravity and simplicity that touched Guildea, who returned his handclasp almost warmly.

"I'll go," he said. "I'll catch the ten o'clock train, and tonight I'll sleep at an hotel, at the Grosvenor— that's close to the station. It will be more convenient for the train."

As Father Murchison went home that night he kept thinking of that sentence: "It will be more convenient for the train." The weakness in Guildea that had prompted its utterance appalled him.

6

NO LETTER came to Father Murchison from the Professor during the next few days, and this silence reassured him, for it seemed to betoken that all was well. The day of the lecture dawned, and passed. On the following morning, the Father eagerly opened the Times, and scanned its pages to see if there were any report of the great meeting of scientific men which Guildea had addressed. He glanced up and down the columns with anxious eyes, then suddenly his hands stiffened as they held the sheets. He had come upon the following paragraph:

We regret to announce that Professor Frederic Guildea was suddenly seized with severe illness yesterday evening while addressing a scientific meeting in Paris. It was observed that he looked very pale and nervous when he rose to his feet. Nevertheless, he spoke in French fluently for about a quarter of an hour. Then he appeared to become uneasy. He faltered and glanced about like a man apprehensive, or in severe distress. He even stopped once or twice, and seemed unable to go on, to remember what he wished to say. But, pulling himself together with an obvious effort, he continued to address the audience. Suddenly, however, he paused again, edged furtively along the platform, as if pursued by something which he feared, struck out with his hands, uttered a loud, harsh cry and fainted. The sensation in the hall was indescribable. People rose from their seats. Women screamed, and, for a moment, there was a veritable panic. It is feared that the Professor's mind must have temporarily given way owing to overwork. We understand that he will return to England as soon as possible, and we sincerely hope that necessary rest and quiet will soon have the desired effect, and that he will be completely restored to health and enabled to prosecute further the investigations which have already so benefited the world.

THE FATHER dropped the paper, hurried out into Bird Street, sent a wire of enquiry to Paris, and received the same day the following reply: "Returning tomorrow. Please call evening. Guildea." On that evening the Father called in Hyde Park Place, was at once admitted, and found Guildea sitting by the fire in the library, ghastly pale, with a heavy rug over his knees. He looked like a man emaciated by a long and severe illness, and in his wide open eyes there was an expression of fixed horror. The Father started at the sight of him, and could scarcely refrain from crying out. He was beginning to express his sympathy when Guildea stopped him with a trembling gesture.

"I know all that," Guildea said, "I know. This Paris affair—" He faltered and stopped.

"You ought never to have gone," said the Father. "I was wrong. I ought not to have advised your going. You were not fit."

"I was perfectly fit," he answered, with the irritability of sickness. "But I was— I was accompanied by that abominable thing."

He glanced hastily round him, shifted his chair and pulled the rug higher over his knees. The Father wondered why he was thus wrapped up. For the fire was bright and red and the night was not very cold.

"I was accompanied to Paris," he continued, pressing his upper teeth upon his lower lip.

He paused again, obviously striving to control himself. But the effort was vain. There was no resistance in the man. He writhed in his chair and suddenly burst forth in a tone of hopeless lamentation.

"Murchison, this being, thing— whatever it is— no longer leaves me even for a moment. It will not stay here unless I am here, for it loves me, persistently, idiotically. It accompanied me to Paris, stayed with me there, pursued me to the lecture hall, pressed against me, caressed me while I was speaking. It has returned with me here. It is here now,"— he uttered a sharp cry— "now, as I sit here with you. It is nestling up to me, fawning upon me, touching my hands. Man, man, can't you feel that it is here?"

"No," the Father answered truly.

"I try to protect myself from its loathsome contact," Guildea continued, with fierce excitement, clutching the thick rug with both hands. "But nothing is of any avail against it. Nothing. What is it? What can it be? Why should it have come to me that night?"

"Perhaps as a punishment," said the Father, with a quick softness.

"For what?"

"You hated affection. You put human feeling aside with contempt. You had, you desired to have, no love for anyone. Nor did you desire to receive any love from anything. Perhaps this is a punishment."

Guildea stared into his face.

"D'you believe that?" he cried.

"I don't know," said the Father. "But it may be so. Try to endure it, even to welcome it. Possibly then the persecution will cease."

"I know it means me no harm," Guildea exclaimed, "it seeks me out of affection. It was led to me by some amazing attraction which I exercise over it ignorantly. I know that. But to a man of my nature that is the ghastly part of the matter. If it would hate me, I could bear it. If it would attack me, if it would try to do me some dreadful harm, I should become a man again. I should be braced to fight against it. But this gentleness, this abominable solicitude, this brainless worship of an idiot, persistent, sickly, horribly physical, I cannot endure. What does it want of me? What would it demand of me? It nestles to me. It leans against me. I feel its touch, like the touch of a feather, trembling about my heart, as if it sought to number my pulsations, to find out the inmost secrets of my impulses and desires. No privacy is left to me." He sprang up excitedly. "I cannot withdraw," he cried, "I cannot be alone, untouched, unworshipped, unwatched for even one-half second. Murchison, I am dying of this, I am dying."

He sank down again in his chair, staring apprehensively on all sides, with the passion of some blind man, deluded in the belief that by his furious and continued effort he will attain sight. The Father knew well that he sought to pierce the veil of the invisible, and have knowledge of the thing that loved him.

"Guildea," the Father said, with instant earnestness, "try to endure this— do more— try to give this thing what it seeks."

"But it seeks my love."

"Learn to give it your love and it may go, having received what it came for."

"T'sh! You talk like a priest. Suffer your persecutors. Do good to them that despitefully use you. You talk as a priest."

"As a friend I spoke naturally, indeed, right out of my heart. The idea suddenly came to me that all this— truth or seeming, it doesn't matter which— may be some strange form of lesson. I have had lessons— painful ones. I shall have many more. If you could welcome—"

"I can't! I can't!" Guildea cried fiercely. "Hatred! I can give it that— always that, nothing but that— hatred, hatred."

He raised his voice, glared into the emptiness of the room, and repeated, "Hatred!"

As he spoke the waxen pallor of his cheeks increased, until he looked like a corpse with living eyes. The Father feared that he was going to collapse and faint, but suddenly he raised himself upon his chair and said, in a high and keen voice, full of suppressed excitement:

"Murchison, Murchison!"

"Yes. What is it?"

An amazing ecstasy shone in Guildea's eyes.

"It wants to leave me," he cried. "It wants to go! Don't lose a moment! Let it out! The window— the window!"

The Father, wondering, went to the near window, drew aside the curtains and pushed it open. The branches of the trees in the garden creaked drily in the light wind. Guildea leaned forward on the arms of his chair. There was silence for a moment. Then Guildea, speaking in a rapid whisper, said:

"No, no. Open this door— open the hall door. I feel— I feel that it will return the way it came. Make haste— ah, go!"

The Father obeyed— to soothe him, hurried to the door and opened it wide. Then he glanced back to Guildea. He was standing up, bent forward. His eyes were glaring with eager expectation, and, as the Father turned, he made a furious gesture towards the passage with his thin hands.

The Father hastened out and down the stairs. As he descended in the twilight he fancied he heard a slight cry from the room behind him, but he did not pause. He flung the hall door open, standing back against the wall. After waiting a moment— to satisfy Guildea, he was about to close the door again, and had his hand on it, when he was attracted irresistibly to look forth towards the park. The night was lit by a young moon, and, gazing through the railings, his eyes fell upon a bench beyond them.

Upon the bench something was sitting, huddled together very strangely.

The Father remembered instantly Guildea's description of that former night, that night of Advent, and a sensation of horror-stricken curiosity stole through him.

Was there then really something that had indeed come to the Professor? And had it finished its work, fulfilled its desire and gone back to its former existence?

The Father hesitated a moment in the doorway. Then he stepped out resolutely and crossed the road, keeping his eyes fixed upon this black or dark object that leaned so strangely upon the bench. He could not tell yet what it was like, but he fancied it was unlike anything with which his eyes were acquainted. He reached the opposite path, and was about to pass through the gate in the railings, when his arm was brusquely grasped. He started, turned round, and saw a policeman eyeing him suspiciously.

"What are you up to?" said the policeman.

The Father was suddenly aware that he had no hat upon his head, and that his appearance, as he stole forward in his cassock, with his eyes intently fixed upon the bench in the Park, was probably unusual enough to excite suspicion.

"It's all right, policeman," he answered quickly, thrusting some money into the constable's hand.

Then, breaking from him, the Father hurried towards the bench, bitterly vexed at the interruption. When he reached it, nothing was there. Guildea's experience had been almost exactly repeated and, filled with unreasonable disappointment, the Father returned to the house, entered it, shut the door and hastened up the narrow stairway into the library.

On the hearthrug, close to the fire, he found Guildea lying with his head lolled against the armchair from which he had recently risen. There was a shocking expression of terror on his convulsed face. On examining him the Father found that he was dead.

The doctor, who was called in, said that the cause of death was failure of the heart.

When Father Murchison was told this, he murmured:

"Failure of the heart! It was that then!"

He turned to the doctor and said:

"Could it have been prevented?"

The doctor drew on his gloves and answered:

"Possibly, if it had been taken in time. Weakness of the heart requires a great deal of care. The Professor was too much absorbed in his work. He should have lived very differently."

The Father nodded.

"Yes, yes," he said, sadly.

___________

17:  The Retirement of Signor Lambert

Arthur Conan Doyle

1859-1930

Pearson's Magazine, Dec 1898

Arthur Conan Doyle

SIR WILLIAM SPARTER was a man who had raised himself in the course of a quarter of a century from earning four-and-twenty shillings a week as a fitter in Portsmouth Dockyard to being the owner of a yard and a fleet of his own. The little house in Lake Road, Landport, where he, an obscure mechanic, had first conceived the idea of the boilers which are associated with his name, is still pointed out to the curious. But now, at the age of fifty, he owned a mansion in Leinster Gardens, a country house at Taplow and a shooting in Argyleshire, with the best stable, the choicest cellars and the prettiest wife in town.

As untiring and inflexible as one of his own engines, his life had been directed to the one purpose of attaining the very best which the world had to give. Square-headed and round-shouldered, with massive, clean-shaven face and slow, deep-set eyes, he was the very embodiment of persistency and strength. Never once from the beginning of his career had public failure of any sort tarnished its brilliancy.

And yet he had failed in one thing, and that the most important of all. He had never succeeded in gaining the affection of his wife. She was the daughter of a surgeon, and the belle of a northern town when he married her. Even then he was rich and powerful, which made her overlook the twenty years which divided them. But he had come on a long way since then. His great Brazilian contract, his conversion into a company, his baronetcy— all these had been since his marriage. Only in the one thing he had never progressed. He could frighten his wife, he could dominate her, he could make her admire his strength and respect his consistency, he could mold her to his will in every other direction, but, do what he would, he could not make her love him.

But it was not for want of trying. With the unrelaxing patience which made him great in business, he had striven, year in and year out, to win her affection. But the very qualities which had helped him in his public life had made him unbearable in private. He was tactless, unsympathetic, overbearing, almost brutal sometimes, and utterly unable to think out those small attentions in word and deed which women value far more than the larger material benefits. The hundred-pound check tossed across a breakfast lable is a much smaller thing to a woman than the five-shilling charm which represents some thought and some trouble upon the part of the giver.

Sparter failed to understand this. With his mind full of the affairs of his firm, he had little time for the delicacies of life, and he endeavored to atone by periodical munificence. At the end of five years he found that he had lost rather than gained in the lady's affections. Then, at this unwonted sense of failure, the evil side of the man's nature began to stir, and he became dangerous. But he was more dangerous still when a letter of his wife's came, through the treachery of a servant, into his hands, and he realized that if she was cold to him she had passion enough for another. His firm, his ironclads, his patents, everything was dropped, and he turned his huge energies to the undoing of the man.

He had been cold and silent during dinner that evening, and she had wondered vaguely what had occurred to change him. He had said nothing while they sat together over their coffee in the drawing-room. Once or twice she had glanced at him in surprise, and had found those deep-set gray eyes fixed upon her with an expression that was new to her. Her mind had been full of some one else, but gradually her husband's silence and the inscrutable expression of his face forced themselves upon her attention.

"You don't seem yourself, to-night, William. What is the matter?" she asked. "I hope there has been nothing to trouble you."

He was still silent and leaned back in his arm-chair, watching her beautiful face, which had turned pale with the sense of some impending catastrophe.

"Can I do anything for you, William?"

"Yes, you can write a letter."

"What is the letter?"

"I will tell you presently."

The last murmur died away in the house, and they heard the discreet step of Peterson, the butler, and the snick of the lock as he made all secure for the night. Sir William Sparter sat listening for a while. Then he rose.

"Come into my study," said he.

The room was dark, but he switched on the green-shaded electric lamp which stood upon the writing-table.

"Sit there at the table," said he. He closed the door and seated himself beside her. "I only wanted to tell you, Jacky, that I know about Lambert."

She gasped and shivered, flinching away from him with her hands out as if she feared a blow.

"Yes, I know everything," said he, and his quiet tone carried such conviction with it that she could not question what he said. She made no reply, but sat with her eyes fixed upon his grave, massive face. A clock ticked loudly upon the mantelpiece, but everything else was silent in the house. She had never noticed that ticking before, but now it was like the hammering of a nail into her head. He rose and put a sheet of paper before her. Then he drew one from his own pocket and flattened it out upon the corner of the table.

"I have a rough draft here of the letter which I wish you to copy," said he. "I will read it to you if you like. 'My own dearest Cecil: I will be at No. 29 at half-past six, and I particularly wish you to come before you go down to the opera. Don't fail me, for I have the very strongest reasons for wishing to see you. Ever yours, Jacqueline.' Take up a pen and copy that letter."

"William, you are plotting some revenge. Oh, William, if I have wronged you, I am so sorry—"

"Copy that letter!"

"But what is it that you wish to do? Why should you desire him to come at that hour?"

"Copy that letter!"

"How can you be so harsh, William? You know very well—"

"Copy that letter!"

"I begin to hate you, William. I believe that it is a fiend, not a man, that I have married."

"Copy that letter!"

Gradually the inflexible will and the unfaltering purpose began to prevail over the creature of nerves and moods. Reluctantly, mutinously, she took the pen in her hand.

"You wouldn't harm him, William!"

"Copy that letter!"

"Will you promise to forgive me, if I do?"

"Copy that letter!"

She looked at him with the intention of defying him, but those masterful gray eyes dominated her. She was like a half-hypnotized creature, resentful, and yet obedient.

"There, will that satisfy you?"

He took the note from her hand and placed it in an envelope.

"Now address it to him!"

She wrote "Cecil Lambert, Esq., 138B, Half Moon street, W." in a straggling, agitated hand. Her husband very deliberately blotted it and placed it carefully in his pocket-book.

"I hope that you are satisfied now." said she with weak petulance.

"Quite," said he gravely. "You can go to your room. Mrs. McKay has my orders to sleep with you, and to see that you write no letters."

"Mrs. McKay! Do you expose me to the humiliation of being watched by my own servants?"

"Go to your room!"

"If you imagine that I am going to be under the orders of the housekeeper—"

"Go to your room!"

"Oh. William, who would have thought in the old days that you could ever have treated me like this? If my mother had ever dreamed—"

He took her by the arm, and led her to the door.

"Go to your room!" said he, and she passed out into the darkened hall. He closed the door and returned to the writing table. Out of a drawer he took two things which he had purchased that day, the one a paper and the other a book. The former was a recent number of the Musical Record, and it contained a biography and picture of the famous Signor Lambert, whose wonderful tenor voice had been the delight of the public and the despair of his rivals. The picture was that of a good-natured, self-satisfied creature, young and handsome, with a full eye, a curling mustache and a bull neck. The biography explained that he was only in his twenty-seventh year, that his career had been one continued triumph, that he was devoted to his art, and that his voice was worth to him, at a very moderate computation, some twenty thousand pounds a year. All this Sir William Sparter read very carefully, with his great brows drawn down, and a furrow like a gash between them, as his way was when his attention was concentrated. Then he folded the paper up again, and he opened the book.

It was a curious work for such a man to select for his reading— a technical treatise upon the organs of speech and voice-production. There were numerous colored illustrations, to which he paid particular attention. Most of them were of the internal anatomy of the larynx, with the silvery vocal cords shining from under the pink arytenoid cartilage. Far into the night Sir William Sparter, with those great virile eyebrows still bunched together, pored over these irrelevant pictures, and read and reread the text in which they were explained.

DR. MANIFOLD ORMONDE, the famous throat specialist, of Cavendish square, was surprised next morning when his butler brought the card of Sir William Sparter into his consulting-room. He had met him at dinner at the table of Lord Marvin a few nights before, and it struck him at that time that he had seldom seen a man who looked such a type of rude, physical health. So he thought again, as the square, thick-set figure of the shipbuilder was ushered in to him.

"Glad to see you again. Sir William," said the specialist. "I hope there is nothing wrong with your health."

"Nothing, thank you."

He sat down in the chair which the doctor had indicated, and he ran his eyes slowly and deliberately round the room. Dr. Ormonde watched him with some curiosity, for he had the air of a man who looks for something which he had expected to see.

"No, I didn't come about my health," said he at last. "I came for information."

"Whatever I can give you is entirely at your disposal."

"I have been studying the throat a little of late. I read Mclntyre's book about it. I suppose that is all right."

"An elementary treatise, but accurate as far as it goes."

"I had an idea that you would be likely to have a model or something of that kind."

For answer the doctor unclasped the lid of a yellow, shining box upon his consulting-room table, and turned it back upon the hinge. Within was a complete model of the human vocal organs.

"You are right, you see," said he.

Sir William Sparter stood up, and bent over the model.

"It's a neat little bit of work," said he, looking at it with the critical eyes of an engineer. "This is the glottis, is it not? And here is the epiglottis."

"Precisely. And here are the cords."

"What would happen if you cut them?"

"Cut what?"

"These things— the vocal cords."

"But you could not cut them. They are out of the reach of accident."

"But if such a thing did happen?"

"There is no such case upon record, but, of course, the person would become dumb— for a time, at any rate."

"You have a large practice among singers, have you not?"

"The largest in London."

"I suppose you agree with what this man Mclntyre says, that a fine voice depends partly upon the cords."

"The volume of sound would depend upon the lung capacity, but the clearness of the note would correspond with the complete control which the singer exercised over the cords.

"Any roughness or notching of the cords would ruin the voice?"

"For singing purposes, undoubtedly—but your researches seem to be taking a very curious direction."

"Yes," said Sir William, as he picked up his hat, and laid a fee upon the corner of the table. "They are a little out of the common, are they not?"

WARBURTON street is one of the network of thoroughfares which connects Chelsea with Kensington, and it is chiefly remarkable for the number of studios it contains. Signor Lambert, the famous tenor, owned an apartment here, and his neat little dark-green brougham might have been seen several times a week waiting at the head of the long passage which led down to the chambers in question.

When Sir William Sparter, muffled in his overcoat, and carrying a small black leather bag in his hand, turned the corner, he saw the lamps of the carriage against the curb, and knew that the man whom he had come to see was already in the place of assignation. He passed the empty brougham, and walked up the tile-paved passage with the yellow gas lamp shining at the far end of it.

The door was open, and led into a large empty hall, laid down with coconut matting and stained with many footmarks. The place was a rabbit warren by daylight, but now, when the working hours were over, it was deserted. A housekeeper in the basement was the only permanent resident. Sir William paused, but everything was silent, and everything was dark save for one door which was outlined in thin yellow slashes. He pushed it open and entered. Then he locked it upon the inside and put the key in his pocket.

It was a large room, scantily furnished, and lit by a single oil lamp upon a center-table. On a chair at the farther side of the table a man had been sitting, who had sprung to his feet with an exclamation of joy, which had changed into one of surprise, and culminated in an oath.

"What the devil do you mean by locking that door? Unlock it again, sir, this instant!"

Sir William did not even answer him. He advanced to the table, opened the bag, and began to take out all sorts of things— a green bottle, a dentist's gag, an inhaler, a forceps, a curved bistoury, a curious pair of scissors. Signor Lambert stood staring at him in a paralysis of rage and astonishment.

"You infernal scoundrel— who are you, and what do you want?"

Sir William had emptied his bag, and now he took off his overcoat and laid it over the back of a chair. Then for the first time he turned his eyes upon the singer. He was a taller man than himself, but far slighter and weaker. The engineer, though short, was exceedingly powerful, with muscles which had been toughened by hard physical work. His broad shoulders, arching chest and great gnarled hands gave him the outline of a gorilla. Lambert shrunk away from him, frightened by his sinister figure and by his cold, inexorable eyes.

"Have you come to rob me?" he gasped.

"I have come to speak to you. My name is Sparter."

Lambert tried to retain his grasp upon the self-possession which was rapidly slipping away from him.

"Sparter!" said he. with an attempt at jauntiness. "Sir William Sparter, I presume? I have had the pleasure of meeting Lady Sparter, and I have heard her mention you. May I ask the object of this visit?" He buttoned up his coat with twitching fingers, and tried to look rierce over his collar.

"I've come," said Sparter. jerking some fluid from the green bottle into the inhaler, "to change your voice."

"To change my voice?"

"Precisely."

"You are a madman! What do you mean?"

"Kindly lie back upon the settee."

"You are raving! I see it all. You wish to bully me. You have some motive in this. You imagine that there are relations between Lady Sparter and me. I do assure you that your wife—"

"My wife has nothing to do with the matter either now or hereafter. Her name does not appear at all. My motives are musical— purely musical, you understand. I don't like your voice. It wants treatment. Lie back upon the settee!",

"Sir William, I give you my word of honor—"

"Lie back."

"You're choking me! It's chloroform! Help, help, help! You brute! Let me go! Let me go, I say! Oh, please! Lemme— Lemme— Lem—!" His head had fallen back, and he muttered into the inhaler. Sir William pulled up the table which held the lamp and the instrument.

It was some minutes after the gentleman with the overcoat and the bag had emerged that the coachman outside heard a voice shouting, and shouting very hoarsely and angrily, within the building. Presently came the sounds of unsteady steps, and his master, crimson with rage, stumbled out into the yellow circle thrown by the carriage lamps.

"You, Holden!" he cried, "you leave my service to-night. Did you not hear me calling? Why did you not come?"

The man looked at him in bewilderment, and shuddered at the color of his shirt-front.

"Yes. sir, I heard some one calling," he answered, "but it wasn't you, sir. It was a voice that I had never heard before."

"CONSIDERABLE disappointment was caused at the opera last week," said one of the best-informed musical critics, "by the fact that Signor Cecil Lambert was unable to appear in the various roles which had been announced. On Tuesday night it was only, at the very last instant that the management learned of the grave indisposition which had overtaken him, and had it not been for the presence of Jean Caravatti. who had understudied the part, the piece must have been abandoned. Since then we regret to hear that Signor Lambert's seizure was even more severe than was originally thought, and that it consists of an acute form of laryngitis, spreading to the vocal cords, and involving changes which may permanently affect the quality of his voice. All lovers of music will hope that these reports may prove to be pessimistic, and that we may soon be charmed once more by the finest tenor which we have heard for many a year upon the London operatic stage."

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18: The Three Hermits

An old legend current in the Volga district

Leo Tolstoy

1889

Transl. By Aylmer Maude (28 Mar 1858-25 Aug 1938)

and Louise Maude (1855-1939)

'And in praying use not vain repetitions, as the Gentiles do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking. Be not therefore like unto them: for your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask Him.' Matthew 6:7, 8.

A BISHOP was sailing from Archangel to the Solovétsk Monastery; and on the same vessel were a number of pilgrims on their way to visit the shrines at that place. The voyage was a smooth one. The wind favourable, and the weather fair. The pilgrims lay on deck, eating, or sat in groups talking to one another. The Bishop, too, came on deck, and as he was pacing up and down, he noticed a group of men standing near the prow and listening to a fisherman, who was pointing to the sea and telling them something. The Bishop stopped, and looked in the direction in which the man was pointing. He could see nothing, however, but the sea glistening in the sunshine. He drew nearer to listen, but when the man saw him, he took off his cap and was silent. The rest of the people also took off their caps, and bowed.

'Do not let me disturb you, friends,' said the Bishop. 'I came to hear what this good man was saying.'

'The fisherman was telling us about the hermits,' replied one, a tradesman, rather bolder than the rest.

'What hermits?' asked the Bishop, going to the side of the vessel and seating himself on a box. 'Tell me about them. I should like to hear. What were you pointing at?'

'Why, that little island you can just see over there,' answered the man, pointing to a spot ahead and a little to the right. 'That is the island where the hermits live for the salvation of their souls.'

'Where is the island?' asked the Bishop. 'I see nothing.'

'There, in the distance, if you will please look along my hand. Do you see that little cloud? Below it, and a bit to the left, there is just a faint streak. That is the island.'

The Bishop looked carefully, but his unaccustomed eyes could make out nothing but the water shimmering in the sun.

'I cannot see it,' he said. 'But who are the hermits that live there?'

'They are holy men,' answered the fisherman. 'I had long heard tell of them, but never chanced to see them myself till the year before last.'

And the fisherman related how once, when he was out fishing, he had been stranded at night upon that island, not knowing where he was. In the morning, as he wandered about the island, he came across an earth hut, and met an old man standing near it. Presently two others came out, and after having fed him, and dried his things, they helped him mend his boat.

'And what are they like?' asked the Bishop.

'One is a small man and his back is bent. He wears a priest's cassock and is very old; he must be more than a hundred, I should say. He is so old that the white of his beard is taking a greenish tinge, but he is always smiling, and his face is as bright as an angel's from heaven. The second is taller, but he also is very old. He wears tattered, peasant coat. His beard is broad, and of a yellowish grey colour. He is a strong man. Before I had time to help him, he turned my boat over as if it were only a pail. He too, is kindly and cheerful. The third is tall, and has a beard as white as snow and reaching to his knees. He is stern, with over-hanging eyebrows; and he wears nothing but a mat tied round his waist.'

'And did they speak to you?' asked the Bishop.

'For the most part they did everything in silence, and spoke but little even to one another. One of them would just give a glance, and the others would understand him. I asked the tallest whether they had lived there long. He frowned, and muttered something as if he were angry; but the oldest one took his hand and smiled, and then the tall one was quiet. The oldest one only said: "Have mercy upon us," and smiled.'

While the fisherman was talking, the ship had drawn nearer to the island.

'There, now you can see it plainly, if your Grace will please to look,' said the tradesman, pointing with his hand.

The Bishop looked, and now he really saw a dark streak— which was the island. Having looked at it a while, he left the prow of the vessel, and going to the stern, asked the helmsman:

'What island is that?'

'That one,' replied the man, 'has no name. There are many such in this sea.'

'Is it true that there are hermits who live there for the salvation of their souls?'

'So it is said, your Grace, but I don't know if it's true. Fishermen say they have seen them; but of course they may only be spinning yarns.'

'I should like to land on the island and see these men,' said the Bishop. 'How could I manage it?'

'The ship cannot get close to the island,' replied the helmsman, 'but you might be rowed there in a boat. You had better speak to the captain.'

The captain was sent for and came.

'I should like to see these hermits,' said the Bishop. 'Could I not be rowed ashore?'

The captain tried to dissuade him.

'Of course it could be done,' said he, 'but we should lose much time. And if I might venture to say so to your Grace, the old men are not worth your pains. I have heard say that they are foolish old fellows, who understand nothing, and never speak a word, any more than the fish in the sea.'

'I wish to see them,' said the Bishop, 'and I will pay you for your trouble and loss of time. Please let me have a boat.'

There was no help for it; so the order was given. The sailors trimmed the sails, the steersman put up the helm, and the ship's course was set for the island. A chair was placed at the prow for the Bishop, and he sat there, looking ahead. The passengers all collected at the prow, and gazed at the island. Those who had the sharpest eyes could presently make out the rocks on it, and then a mud hut was seen. At last one man saw the hermits themselves. The captain brought a telescope and, after looking through it, handed it to the Bishop.

'It's right enough. There are three men standing on the shore. There, a little to the right of that big rock.'

The Bishop took the telescope, got it into position, and he saw the three men: a tall one, a shorter one, and one very small and bent, standing on the shore and holding each other by the hand.

The captain turned to the Bishop.

'The vessel can get no nearer in than this, your Grace. If you wish to go ashore, we must ask you to go in the boat, while we anchor here.'

The cable was quickly let out, the anchor cast, and the sails furled. There was a jerk, and the vessel shook. Then a boat having been lowered, the oarsmen jumped in, and the Bishop descended the ladder and took his seat. The men pulled at their oars, and the boat moved rapidly towards the island. When they came within a stone's throw, they saw three old men: a tall one with only a mat tied round his waist: a shorter one in a tattered peasant coat, and a very old one bent with age and wearing an old cassock— all three standing hand in hand.

The oarsmen pulled in to the shore, and held on with the boathook while the Bishop got out.

The old men bowed to him, and he gave them his benediction, at which they bowed still lower. Then the Bishop began to speak to them.

'I have heard,' he said, 'that you, godly men, live here saving your own souls, and praying to our Lord Christ for your fellow men. I, an unworthy servant of Christ, am called, by God's mercy, to keep and teach His flock. I wished to see you, servants of God, and to do what I can to teach you, also.'

The old men looked at each other smiling, but remained silent.

'Tell me,' said the Bishop, 'what you are doing to save your souls, and how you serve God on this island.'

The second hermit sighed, and looked at the oldest, the very ancient one. The latter smiled, and said:

'We do not know how to serve God. We only serve and support ourselves, servant of God.'

'But how do you pray to God?' asked the Bishop.

'We pray in this way,' replied the hermit. 'Three are ye, three are we, have mercy upon us.'

And when the old man said this, all three raised their eyes to heaven, and repeated:

'Three are ye, three are we, have mercy upon us!'

The Bishop smiled.

'You have evidently heard something about the Holy Trinity,' said he. 'But you do not pray aright. You have won my affection, godly men. I see you wish to please the Lord, but you do not know how to serve Him. That is not the way to pray; but listen to me, and I will teach you. I will teach you, not a way of my own, but the way in which God in the Holy Scriptures has commanded all men to pray to Him.'

And the Bishop began explaining to the hermits how God had revealed Himself to men; telling them of God the Father, and God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost.

'God the Son came down on earth,' said he, 'to save men, and this is how He taught us all to pray. Listen, and repeat after me: "Our Father."'

And the first old man repeated after him, 'Our Father,' and the second said, 'Our Father,' and the third said, 'Our Father.'

'Which art in heaven,' continued the Bishop.

The first hermit repeated, 'Which art in heaven,' but the second blundered over the words, and the tall hermit could not say them properly. His hair had grown over his mouth so that he could not speak plainly. The very old hermit, having no teeth, also mumbled indistinctly.

The Bishop repeated the words again, and the old men repeated them after him. The Bishop sat down on a stone, and the old men stood before him, watching his mouth, and repeating the words as he uttered them. And all day long the Bishop laboured, saying a word twenty, thirty, a hundred times over, and the old men repeated it after him. They blundered, and he corrected them, and made them begin again.

The Bishop did not leave off till he had taught them the whole of the Lord's prayer so that they could not only repeat it after him, but could say it by themselves. The middle one was the first to know it, and to repeat the whole of it alone. The Bishop made him say it again and again, and at last the others could say it too.

It was getting dark, and the moon was appearing over the water, before the Bishop rose to return to the vessel. When he took leave of the old men, they all bowed down to the ground before him. He raised them, and kissed each of them, telling them to pray as he had taught them. Then he got into the boat and returned to the ship.

And as he sat in the boat and was rowed to the ship he could hear the three voices of the hermits loudly repeating the Lord's prayer. As the boat drew near the vessel their voices could no longer be heard, but they could still be seen in the moonlight, standing as he had left them on the shore, the shortest in the middle, the tallest on the right, the middle one on the left. As soon as the Bishop had reached the vessel and got on board, the anchor was weighed and the sails unfurled. The wind filled them, and the ship sailed away, and the Bishop took a seat in the stern and watched the island they had left. For a time he could still see the hermits, but presently they disappeared from sight, though the island was still visible. At last it too vanished, and only the sea was to be seen, rippling in the moonlight.

The pilgrims lay down to sleep, and all was quiet on deck. The Bishop did not wish to sleep, but sat alone at the stern, gazing at the sea where the island was no longer visible, and thinking of the good old men. He thought how pleased they had been to learn the Lord's prayer; and he thanked God for having sent him to teach and help such godly men.

So the Bishop sat, thinking, and gazing at the sea where the island had disappeared. And the moonlight flickered before his eyes, sparkling, now here, now there, upon the waves. Suddenly he saw something white and shining, on the bright path which the moon cast across the sea. Was it a seagull, or the little gleaming sail of some small boat? The Bishop fixed his eyes on it, wondering.

'It must be a boat sailing after us,' thought he, 'but it is overtaking us very rapidly. It was far, far away a minute ago, but now it is much nearer. It cannot be a boat, for I can see no sail; but whatever it may be, it is following us, and catching us up.'

And he could not make out what it was. Not a boat, nor a bird, nor a fish! It was too large for a man, and besides a man could not be out there in the midst of the sea. The Bishop rose, and said to the helmsman: 'Look there, what is that, my friend? What is it?' the Bishop repeated, though he could now see plainly what it was— the three hermits running upon the water, all gleaming white, their grey beards shining, and approaching the ship as quickly as though it were not moving.

The steersman looked and let go the helm in terror.

'Oh Lord! The hermits are running after us on the water as though it were dry land!'

The passengers hearing him, jumped up, and crowded to the stern. They saw the hermits coming along hand in hand, and the two outer ones beckoning the ship to stop. All three were gliding along upon the water without moving their feet. Before the ship could be stopped, the hermits had reached it, and raising their heads, all three as with one voice, began to say:

'We have forgotten your teaching, servant of God. As long as we kept repeating it we remembered, but when we stopped saying it for a time, a word dropped out, and now it has all gone to pieces. We can remember nothing of it. Teach us again.'

The Bishop crossed himself, and leaning over the ship's side, said:

'Your own prayer will reach the Lord, men of God. It is not for me to teach you. Pray for us sinners.'

And the Bishop bowed low before the old men; and they turned and went back across the sea. And a light shone until daybreak on the spot where they were lost to sight.

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19: The Tragedy of the Life Raft

Jacques Futrelle

1873-1912

The Popular Magazine,  1 Aug 1912

John Heath Futrelle

'TWAS A SHABBY picture altogether— old Peter Ordway in his office; the man shriveled, bent, cadaverous, aquiline of feature, with skin like parchment, and cunning, avaricious eyes; the room gaunt and curtainless, with smoke-grimed windows, dusty, cheerless walls, and threadbare carpet, worn through here and there to the rough flooring beneath. Peter Ordway sat in a swivel chair in front of an ancient roll-top desk. Opposite, at a typewriter upon a table of early vintage, was his secretary— one Walpole, almost a replica in middle age of his employer, seedy and servile, with lips curled sneeringly as a dog's.

Familiarly in the financial district, Peter Ordway was "The Usurer," a title which was at once a compliment to his merciless business sagacity and an expression of contempt for his methods. He was the money lender of the Street, holding in cash millions which no one dared to estimate. In the last big panic the richest man in America, the great John Morton in person, had spent hours in the shabby office, begging for the loan of the few millions in currency necessary to check the market. Peter Ordway didn't fail to take full advantage of his pressing need. Mr. Morton got the millions on collateral worth five times the sum borrowed, but Peter Ordway fixed the rate of interest, a staggering load.

Now we have the old man at the beginning of a day's work. After glancing through two or three letters which lay open on his desk, he picked up at last a white card, across the face of which was scribbled in pencil three words only:

One million dollars!

Ordinarily it was a phrase to bring a smile to his withered lips, a morsel to roll under his wicked old tongue; but now he stared at it without comprehension. Finally he turned to his secretary, Walpole.

"What is this?" he demanded querulously, in his thin, rasping voice.

"I don't know, sir," was the reply. "I found it in the morning's mail, sir, addressed to you."

Peter Ordway tore the card across, and dropped it into the battered wastebasket beside him, after which he settled down to the ever-congenial occupation of making money.

On the following morning the card appeared again, with only three words, as before:

One million dollars!

Abruptly the aged millionaire wheeled around to face Walpole, who sat regarding him oddly.

"It came the same way, sir," the seedy little secretary explained hastily, "in a blank envelope. I saved the envelope, sir, if you would like to see it."

"Tear it up!" Peter Ordway directed sharply.

Reduced to fragments, the envelope found its way into the wastebasket. For many minutes Peter Ordway sat with dull, lusterless eyes, gazing through the window into the void of a leaden sky. Slowly, as he looked, the sky became a lashing, mist-covered sea, a titanic chaos of water; and upon its troubled bosom rode a life raft to which three persons were clinging. Now the frail craft was lifted up, up to the dizzy height of a giant wave; now it shot down sickeningly into the hissing trough beyond; again, for minutes it seemed altogether lost in the far-plunging spume. Peter Ordway shuddered and closed his eyes.

On the third morning the card, grown suddenly ominous, appeared again:

One million dollars!

Peter Ordway came to his feet with an exclamation that was almost a snarl, turning, twisting the white slip nervously in his talonlike fingers. Astonished, Walpole half arose, his yellow teeth bared defensively, and his eyes fixed upon the millionaire.

"Telephone Blake's Agency," the old man commanded, "and tell them to send a detective here at once."

Came in answer to the summons a suave, smooth-faced, indolent-appearing young man, Fragson by name, who sat down after having regarded with grave suspicion the rickety chair to which he was invited. He waited inquiringly.

"Find the person— man or woman— who sent me that!"

Peter Ordway flung the card and the envelope in which it had come upon a leaf of his desk. Fragson picked them up and scrutinized them leisurely. Obviously the handwriting was that of a man, an uneducated man, he would have said. The postmark on the envelope was Back Bay; the time of mailing seven p.m. on the night before. Both envelope and card were of a texture which might be purchased in a thousand shops.

"'One million dollars!'" Fragson read. "What does it mean?"

"I don't know," the millionaire answered.

"What do you think it means?"

"Nor do I know that, unless— unless it's some crank, or— or blackmailer. I've received three of them— one each morning for three days."

Fragson placed the card inside the envelope with irritating deliberation, and thrust it into his pocket, after which he lifted his eyes quite casually to those of the secretary, Walpole. Walpole, who had been staring at the two men tensely, averted his shifty gaze, and busied himself at his desk.

"Any idea who sent them?" Fragson was addressing Peter Ordway, but his eyes lingered lazily upon Walpole.

"No." The word came emphatically, after an almost imperceptible instant of hesitation.

"Why"— and the detective turned to the millionaire curiously— "why do you think it might be blackmail? Has any one any knowledge of any act of yours that— "

Some swift change crossed the parchmentlike face of the old man. For an instant he was silent; then his avaricious eyes leaped into flame; his fingers closed convulsively on the arms of his chair.

"Blackmail may be attempted without reason," he stormed suddenly. "Those cards must have some meaning. Find the person who sent them."

Fragson arose thoughtfully, and drew on his gloves.

"And then?" he queried.

"That's all!" curtly. "Find him, and let me know who he is."

"Do I understand that you don't want me to go into his motives? You merely want to locate the man?"

"That understanding is correct— yes."

...a lashing, mist-covered sea; a titanic chaos of water, and upon its troubled bosom rode a life raft to which three persons were clinging....

Walpole's crafty eyes followed his millionaire employer's every movement as he entered his office on the morning of the fourth day. There was nervous restlessness in Peter Ordway's manner; the parchment face seemed more withered; the pale lips were tightly shut. For an instant he hesitated, as if vaguely fearing to begin on the morning's mail. But no fourth card had come! Walpole heard and understood the long breath of relief which followed upon realization of this fact.

Just before ten o'clock a telegram was brought in. Peter Ordway opened it:

One million dollars!

Three hours later at his favorite table in the modest restaurant where he always went for luncheon, Peter Ordway picked up his napkin, and a white card fluttered to the floor:

One million dollars!

Shortly after two o'clock a messenger boy entered his office, whistling, and laid an envelope on the desk before him:

One million dollars!

Instinctively he had known what was within.

At eight o'clock that night, in the shabby apartments where he lived with his one servant, he answered an insistent ringing of the telephone bell.

"What do you want?" he demanded abruptly.

"One million dollars!" The words came slowly, distinctly.

"Who are you?"

"One million dollars!" faintly, as an echo.

Again Fragson was summoned, and was ushered into the cheerless room where the old millionaire sat cringing with fear, his face reflecting some deadly terror which seemed to be consuming him. Incoherently he related the events of the day. Fragson listened without comment, and went out.

On the following morning— Sunday— he returned to report. He found his client propped upon a sofa, haggard and worn, with eyes feverishly aglitter.

"Nothing doing," the detective began crisply. "It looked as if we had a clew which would at least give us a description of the man, but—" He shook his head.

"But that telegram— some one filed it?" Peter Ordway questioned huskily. "The message the boy brought—"

"The telegram was inclosed in an envelope with the money necessary to send it, and shoved through the mail slot of a telegraph office in Cambridge," the detective informed him explicitly. "That was Friday night. It was telegraphed to you on Saturday morning. The card brought by the boy was handed in at a messenger agency by some street urchin, paid for, and delivered to you. The telephone call was from an automatic station in Brookline. A thousand persons use it every day."

For the first time in many years, Peter Ordway failed to appear at his office Monday morning. Instead he sent a note to his secretary:

Bring all important mail to my apartment to-night at eight o'clock. On your way uptown buy a good revolver with cartridges to fit.

Twice that day a physician— Doctor Anderson— was hurriedly summoned to Peter Ordway's side. First there had been merely a fainting spell; later in the afternoon came complete collapse. Doctor Anderson diagnosed the case tersely.

"Nerves," he said. "Overwork, and no recreation."

"But, doctor, I have no time for recreation!" the old millionaire whined. "My business—"

"Time!" Doctor Anderson growled indignantly. "You're seventy years old, and you're worth fifty million dollars. The thing you must have if you want to spend any of that money is an ocean trip— a good, long ocean trip— around the world, if you like."

"No, no, no!" It was almost a shriek. Peter Ordway's evil countenance, already pallid, became ashen; abject terror was upon him.... a lashing, mist-covered sea; a titanic chaos of water, and upon its troubled bosom rode a life raft to which three persons were clinging....

"No, no, no!" he mumbled, his talon fingers clutching the physician's hand convulsively. "I'm afraid, afraid!"

The slender thread which held sordid soul to withered body was severed that night by a well-aimed bullet. Promptly at eight o'clock Walpole had arrived, and gone straight to the room where Peter Ordway sat propped up on a sofa. Nearly an hour later the old millionaire's one servant, Mrs. Robinson, answered the doorbell, admitting Mr. Franklin Pingree, a well-known financier. He had barely stepped into the hallway when there came a reverberating crash as of a revolver shot from the room where Peter Ordway and his secretary were.

Together Mr. Pingree and Mrs. Robinson ran to the door. Still propped upon the couch, Peter Ordway sat— dead. A bullet had penetrated his heart. His head was thrown back, his mouth was open, and his right hand dangled at his side. Leaning over the body was his secretary, Walpole. In one hand he held a revolver, still smoking. He didn't turn as they entered, but stood staring down upon the man blankly. Mr. Pingree disarmed him from behind.

Hereto I append a partial transcript of a statement made by Frederick Walpole immediately following his arrest on the charge of murdering his millionaire employer. This statement he repeated in substance at the trial:

I am forty-eight years old. I had been in Mr. Ordway's employ for twenty-two years. My salary was eight dollars a week... I went to his apartments on the night of the murder in answer to a note. (Note produced.) I bought the revolver and gave it to him. He loaded it and thrust it under the covering beside him on the sofa... He dictated four letters and was starting on another. I heard the door open behind me. I thought it was Mrs. Robinson, as I had not heard the front-door bell ring.

Mr. Ordway stopped dictating, and I looked at him. He was staring toward the door. He seemed to be frightened. I looked around. A man had come in. He seemed very old. He had a flowing white beard and long white hair. His face was ruddy, like a seaman's.

"Who are you?" Mr. Ordway asked.

"You know me all right," said the man. "We were together long enough on that craft." (Or "raft," prisoner was not positive.)

"I never saw you before," said Mr. Ordway. "I don't know what you mean."

"I have come for the reward," said the man.

"What reward?" Mr. Ordway asked.

"One million dollars!" said the man.

Nothing else was said. Mr. Ordway drew his revolver and fired. The other man must have fired at the same instant, for Mr. Ordway fell back dead. The man disappeared. I ran to Mr. Ordway and picked up the revolver. He had dropped it. Mr. Pingree and Mrs. Robinson came in...

Reading of Peter Ordway's will disclosed the fact that he had bequeathed unconditionally the sum of one million dollars to his secretary, Walpole, for "loyal services." Despite Walpole's denial of any knowledge of this bequest, he was immediately placed under arrest. At the trial, the facts appeared as I have related them. The district attorney summed up briefly. The motive was obvious— Walpole's desire to get possession of one million dollars in cash. Mr. Pingree and Mrs. Robinson, entering the room directly after the shot had been fired, had met no one coming out, as they would have had there been another man— there was no other egress. Also, they had heard only one shot— and that shot had found Peter Ordway's heart. Also, the bullet which killed Peter Ordway had been positively identified by experts as of the same make and same caliber as those others in the revolver Walpole had bought. The jury was out twenty minutes. The verdict was guilty. Walpole was sentenced to death.

It was not until then that "The Thinking Machine"— otherwise Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen, Ph. D., F. R. S., M. D., LL. D., et cetera, et cetera, logician, analyst, master mind in the sciences— turned his crabbed genius upon the problem.

Five days before the date set for Walpole's execution, Hutchinson Hatch, newspaper reporter, introduced himself into The Thinking Machine's laboratory, bringing with him a small roll of newspapers. Incongruously enough, they were old friends, these two— on one hand, the man of science, absorbed in that profession of which he was already the master, small, almost grotesque in appearance, and living the life of a recluse; on the other, a young man of the world, worldly, enthusiastic, capable, indefatigable.

So it came about The Thinking Machine curled himself in a great chair, and sat for nearly two hours partially submerged in newspaper accounts of the murder and of the trial. The last paper finished, he dropped his enormous head back against his chair, turned his petulant, squinting eyes upward, and sat for minute after minute staring into nothingness.

"Why," he queried, at last, "do you think he is innocent?"

"I don't know that I do think it," Hatch replied. "It is simply that attention has been attracted to Walpole's story again because of a letter the governor received. Here is a copy of it."

The Thinking Machine read it:

You are about to allow the execution of an innocent man. Walpole's story on the witness stand was true. He didn't kill Peter Ordway. I killed him for a good and sufficient reason.

"Of course," the reporter explained, "the letter wasn't signed. However, three handwriting experts say it was written by the same hand that wrote the 'One million dollar' slips. Incidentally the prosecution made no attempt to connect Walpole's handwriting with those slips. They couldn't have done it, and it would have weakened their case."

"And what," inquired the diminutive scientist, "does the governor purpose doing?"

"Nothing," was the reply. "To him it is merely one of a thousand crank letters."

"He knows the opinions of the experts?"

"He does. I told him."

"The governor," remarked The Thinking Machine gratuitously, "is a fool." Then: "It is sometimes interesting to assume the truth of the improbable. Suppose we assume Walpole's story to be true, assuming at the same time that this letter is true— what have we?"

Tiny, cobwebby lines of thought furrowed the domelike brow as Hatch watched; the slender fingers were brought precisely tip to tip; the pale-blue eyes narrowed still more.

"If," Hatch pointed out, "Walpole's attorney had been able to find a bullet mark anywhere in that room, or a single isolated drop of blood, it would have proven that Peter Ordway did fire as Walpole says he did, and—"

"If Walpole's story is true," The Thinking Machine went on serenely, heedless of the interruption, "we must believe that a man— say, Mr. X— entered a private apartment without ringing. Very well. Either the door was unlocked, he entered by a window, or he had a false key. We must believe that two shots were fired simultaneously, sounding as one. We must believe that Mr. X was either wounded or the bullet mark has been overlooked; we must believe Mr. X went out by the one door at the same instant Mr. Pingree and Mrs. Robinson entered. We must believe they either did not see him, or they lied."

"That's what convicted Walpole," Hatch declared. "Of course, it's impossible—"

"Nothing is impossible, Mr. Hatch," stormed The Thinking Machine suddenly. "Don't say that. It annoys me exceedingly."

Hatch shrugged his shoulders, and was silent. Again minute after minute passed, and the scientist sat motionless, staring now at a plan of Peter Ordway's apartment he had found in a newspaper, the while his keen brain dissected the known facts.

"After all," he announced, at last, "there's only one vital question: Why Peter Ordway's deadly fear of water?"

The reporter shook his head blankly. He was never surprised any more at The Thinking Machine's manner of approaching a problem. Never by any chance did he take hold of it as any one else would have.

"Some personal eccentricity, perhaps," Hatch suggested hopefully. "Some people are afraid of cats, others of—"

"Go to Peter Ordway's place," The Thinking Machine interrupted tartly, "and find if it has been necessary to replace a broken windowpane anywhere in the building since Mr. Ordway's death."

"You mean, perhaps, that Mr. X, as you call him, may have escaped—" the newspaper man began.

"Also find out if there was a curtain hanging over or near the door where Mr. X must have gone out."

"Right!"

"We'll assume that the room where Ordway died has been gone over inch by inch in the search for a stray shot," the scientist continued. "Let's go farther. If Ordway fired, it was probably toward the door where Mr. X entered. If Mr. X left the door open behind him, the shot may have gone into the private hall beyond, and may be buried in the door immediately opposite." He indicated on the plan as he talked. "This second door opens into a rear hall. If both doors chanced to be open—"

Hatch came to his feet with blazing eyes. He understood. It was a possibility no one had considered. Ordway's shot, if he had fired one, might have lodged a hundred feet away.

"Then if we find a bullet mark—" he questioned tensely.

"Walpole will not go to the electric chair."

"And if we don't?"

"We will look farther," said The Thinking Machine. "We will look for a wounded man of perhaps sixty years, who is now, or has been, a sailor; who is either clean-shaven or else has a close-cropped beard, probably dyed— a man who may have a false key to the Ordway apartment— the man who wrote this note to the governor."

"You believe, then," Hatch demanded, "that Walpole is innocent?"

"I believe nothing of the sort," snapped the scientist. "He's probably guilty. If we find no bullet mark, I'm merely saying what sort of man we must look for."

"But— but how do you know so much about him— what he looks like?" asked the reporter, in bewilderment.

"How do I know?" repeated the crabbed little scientist. "How do I know that two and two make four, not sometimes, but all the time? By adding the units together. Logic, that's all— logic, logic!"

While Hatch was scrutinizing the shabby walls of the old building where Peter Ordway had lived his miserly life, The Thinking Machine called on Doctor Anderson, who had been Peter Ordway's physician for a score of years. Doctor Anderson couldn't explain the old millionaire's aversion to water, but perhaps if the scientist went farther back in his inquiries there was an old man, John Page, still living who had been Ordway's classmate in school. Doctor Anderson knew of him because he had once treated him at Peter Ordway's request. So The Thinking Machine came to discuss this curious trait of character with John Page. What the scientist learned didn't appear, but whatever it was it sent him to the public library, where he spent several hours pulling over the files of old newspapers.

All his enthusiasm gone, Hatch returned to report.

"Nothing," he said. "No trace of a bullet."

"Any windowpanes changed or broken?"

"Not one."

"There were curtains, of course, over the door through which Mr. X entered Ordway's room." It was not a question.

"There were. They're there yet."

"In that case," and The Thinking Machine raised his squinting eyes to the ceiling, "our sailorman was wounded."

"There is a sailorman, then?" Hatch questioned eagerly.

"I'm sure I don't know," was the astonishing reply. "If there is, he answers generally the description I gave. His name is Ben Holderby. His age is not sixty; it's fifty-eight."

The newspaper man took a long breath of amazement. Surely here was the logical faculty lifted to the nth power! The Thinking Machine was describing, naming, and giving the age of a man whose existence he didn't even venture to assert— a man who never had been in existence so far as the reporter knew! Hatch fanned himself weakly with his hat.

"Odd situation, isn't it?" asked The Thinking Machine. "It only proves that logic is inexorable— that it can only fail when the units fail; and no unit has failed yet. Meantime, I shall leave you to find Holderby. Begin with the sailors' lodging houses, and don't scare him off. I can add nothing to the description except that he is probably using another name."

Followed a feverish two days for Hatch— a hurried, nightmarish effort to find a man who might or might not exist, in order to prevent a legal murder. With half a dozen other clever men from his office, he finally achieved the impossible.

"I've found him!" he announced triumphantly over the telephone to The Thinking Machine. "He's stopping at Werner's, in the North End, under the name of Benjamin Goode. He is clean-shaven, his hair and brows are dyed black, and he is wounded in the left arm."

"Thanks," said The Thinking Machine simply. "Bring Detective Mallory, of the bureau of criminal investigation, and come here to-morrow at noon prepared to spend the day. You might go by and inform the governor, if you like, that Walpole will not be electrocuted Friday."

Detective Mallory came at Hatch's request— came with a mouthful of questions into the laboratory, where The Thinking Machine was at work.

"What's it all about?" he demanded.

"Precisely at five o-clock this afternoon a man will try to murder me," the scientist informed him placidly, without lifting his eyes. "I'd like to have you here to prevent it."

Mallory was much given to outbursts of amazement; he humored himself now:

"Who is the man? What's he going to try to kill you for? Why not arrest him now?"

"His name is Benjamin Holderby," The Thinking Machine answered the questions in order. "He'll try to kill me because I shall accuse him of murder. If he should be arrested now, he wouldn't talk. If I told you whom he murdered, you wouldn't believe it."

Detective Mallory stared without comprehension.

"If he isn't to try to kill you until five o'clock," he asked, "why send for me at noon?"

"Because he may know you, and if he watched and saw you enter he wouldn't come. At half past four you and Mr. Hatch will step into the adjoining room. When Holderby enters, he will face me. Come behind him, but don't lift a finger until he threatens me. If you have to shoot— kill! He'll be dangerous until he's dead."

It was just two minutes of five o'clock when the bell rang, and Martha ushered Benjamin Holderby into the laboratory. He was past middle age, powerful, with deep-bronzed face and the keen eyes of the sea. His hair and brows were dyed— badly dyed; his left arm hung limply. He found The Thinking Machine alone.

"I got your letter, sir," he said respectfully. "If it's a yacht, I'm willing to ship as master; but I'm too old to do much—"

"Sit down, please," the little scientist invited courteously, dropping into a chair as he spoke. "There are one or two questions I should like to ask. First" — the petulant blue eyes were raised toward the ceiling; the slender fingers came together precisely, tip to tip— "first: Why did you kill Peter Ordway?"

Fell an instant's amazed silence. Benjamin Holderby's muscles flexed, the ruddy face was contorted suddenly with hideous anger, the sinewy right hand closed until great knots appeared in the tendons. Possibly The Thinking Machine had never been nearer death than in that moment when the sailorman towered above him— 'twas giant and weakling. The tiger was about to spring. Then, suddenly as it had come, anger passed from Holderby's face; came instead curiosity, bewilderment, perplexity.

The silence was broken by the sinister click of a revolver. Holderby turned his head slowly, to face Detective Mallory, stared at him oddly, then drew his own revolver, and passed it over, butt foremost.

No word had been spoken. Not once had The Thinking Machine lowered his eyes.

"I killed Peter Ordway," Holderby explained distinctly, "for good and sufficient reasons."

"So you wrote the governor," the scientist observed. "Your motive was born thirty-two years ago?"

"Yes." The sailor seemed merely astonished.

"On a raft at sea?"

"Yes."

"There was murder done on that raft?"

"Yes."

"Instigated by Peter Ordway, who offered you—"

"One million dollars— yes."

"So Peter Ordway is the second man you have killed?"

"Yes."

With mouth agape, Hutchinson Hatch listened greedily; he had— they had— saved Walpole! Mallory's mind was a chaos. What sort of tommyrot was this? This man confessing to a murder for which Walpole was to be electrocuted! His line of thought was broken by the petulant voice of The Thinking Machine.

"Sit down, Mr. Holderby," he was saying, "and tell us precisely what happened on that raft."

'Twas a dramatic story Benjamin Holderby told— a tragedy tale of the sea— a tale of starvation and thirst torture and madness, and ceaseless battling for life— of crime and greed and the power of money even in that awful moment when death seemed the portion of all. The tale began with the foundering of the steamship Neptune, Liverpool to Boston, ninety-one passengers and crew, some thirty-two years ago. In mid-ocean she was smashed to bits by a gale, and went down. Of those aboard only nine persons reached shore alive.

Holderby told the story simply:

"God knows how many of us went through that storm; it raged for days. There were ten of us on our raft when the ship settled, and by dusk of the second day there were only six— one woman, and one child, and four men. The waves would simply smash over us, and when we came to daylight again there was some one missing. There was little enough food and water aboard, anyway, so the people dropping off that way was really what saved— what saved two of us at the end. Peter Ordway was one, and I was the other.

"The first five days were bad enough— short rations, little or no water, no sleep, and all that; but what came after was hell! At the end of that fifth day there were only five of us— Ordway and me, the woman and child, and another man. I don't know whether I went to sleep or was just unconscious; anyway, when I came to there were only the three of us left. I asked Ordway where the woman and child was. He said they were washed off while I was asleep.

" 'And a good thing,' he says.

" 'Why?' I says.

" 'Too many mouths to feed,' he says. 'And still too many.' He meant the other man. 'I've been looking at the rations and the water,' he says. 'There's enough to keep three people alive three days, but if there were only two people— me and you, for instance?' he says.

" 'You mean throw him off?' I says.

" 'You're a sailor,' says he. 'If you go, we all go. But we may not be picked up for days. We may starve or die of thirst first. If there were only two of us, we'd have a better chance. I'm worth millions of dollars,' he says. 'If you'll get rid of this other fellow, and we ever come out alive, I'll give you one million dollars!' I didn't say anything. 'If there were only two of us,' says he, 'we would increase our chances of being saved one-third. One million dollars!' says he. 'One million dollars!'

"I expect I was mad with hunger and thirst and sleeplessness and exhaustion. Perhaps he was, too. I know that, regardless of the money he offered, his argument appealed to me. Peter Ordway was a coward; he didn't have the nerve; so an hour later I threw the man overboard, with Peter Ordway looking on.

"Days passed somehow— God knows— and when I came to I had been picked up by a sailing vessel. I was in an asylum for months. When I came out, I asked Ordway for money. He threatened to have me arrested for murder. I pestered him a lot, I guess, for a little later I found myself shanghaied, on the high seas. I didn't come back for thirty years or so. I had almost forgotten the thing until I happened to see Peter Ordway's name in a paper. Then I wrote the slips and mailed them to him. He knew what they meant, and set a detective after me. Then I began hating him all over again, worse than ever. Finally I thought I'd go to his house and make a holdup of it— one million dollars! I don't think I intended to kill him; I thought he'd give me money. I didn't know there was any one with him. I talked to him, and he shot me. I killed him."

Fell a long silence. The Thinking Machine broke it:

"You entered the apartment with a skeleton key?"

"Yes."

"And after the shot was fired, you started out, but dodged behind the curtain at the door when you heard Mr. Pingree and Mrs. Robinson coming in?"

"Yes."

Suddenly Hatch understood why The Thinking Machine had asked him to ascertain if there were curtains at that door. It was quite possible that in the excitement Mr. Pingree and Mrs. Robinson would not have noticed that the man who killed Peter Ordway actually passed them in the doorway.

"I think," said The Thinking Machine, "that that is all. You understand, Mr. Mallory, that this confession is to be presented to the governor immediately, in order to save Walpole's life?" He turned to Holderby. "You don't want an innocent man to die for this crime?"

"Certainly not," was the reply. "That's why I wrote to the governor. Walpole's story was true. I was in court, and heard it." He glanced at Mallory curiously. "Now, if necessary, I'm willing to go to the chair."

"It won't be necessary," The Thinking Machine pointed out. "You didn't go to Peter Ordway's place to kill him— you went there for money you thought he owed you— he fired at you— you shot him. It's hardly self-defense, but it was not premeditated murder."

Detective Mallory whistled. It was the only satisfactory vent for the tangled mental condition which had befallen him. Shortly he went off with Holderby to the governor's office; and an hour later Walpole, deeply astonished, walked out of the death cell— a free man.

Meanwhile Hutchinson Hatch had some questions to ask of The Thinking Machine.

"Logic, logic, Mr. Hatch!" the scientist answered, in that perpetual tone of irritation. "As an experiment, we assumed the truth of Walpole's story. Very well. Peter Ordway was afraid of water. Connect that with the one word 'raft' or 'craft' in Walpole's statement of what the intruder had said. Connect that with his description of that man— 'ruddy, like a seaman.' Add them up, as you would a sum in arithmetic. You begin to get a glimmer of cause and effect, don't you? Peter Ordway was afraid of the water because of some tragedy there in which he had played a part. That was a tentative surmise. Walpole's description of the intruder said white hair and flowing white beard. It is a common failing of men who disguise themselves to go to the other extreme. I went to the other extreme in conjecturing Holderby's appearance— clean-shaven or else close-cropped beard and hair— dyed. Since no bullet mark was found in the building— remember, we are assuming Walpole's statement to be true— the man Ordway shot at carried the bullet away with him. Ergo, a seaman with a pistol wound. Seamen, as a rule, stop at the sailors' lodging houses. That's all."

"But— but you knew Holderby's name— his age!" the reporter stammered.

"I learned them in my effort to account for Ordway's fear of water," was the reply. "An old friend, John Page, whom I found through Doctor Anderson, informed me that he had seen some account in a newspaper thirty-two years before, at the time of the wreck of the Neptune, of Peter Ordway's rescue from a raft at sea. He and one other man were picked up. The old newspaper files in the libraries gave me Holderby's name as the other survivor, together with his age. You found Holderby. I wrote to him that I was about to put a yacht in commission, and he had been recommended to me— that is, Benjamin Goode had been recommended. He came in answer to the advertisement. You saw everything else that happened."

"And the so-called 'one million dollar' slips?"

"Had no bearing on the case until Holderby wrote to the governor," said The Thinking Machine. "In that note he confessed the killing; ergo I began to see that the 'One million dollar' slips probably indicated some enormous reward Ordway had offered Holderby. Walpole's statement, too, covers this point. What happened on the raft at sea? I didn't know. I followed an instinct, and guessed." The distinguished scientist arose. "And now," he said, "begone about your business. I must go to work."

Hatch started out, but turned at the door. "Why," he asked, "were you so anxious to know if any windowpane in the Ordway house had been replaced or was broken?"

"Because," the scientist didn't lift his head, "because a bullet might have smashed one, if it was not to be found in the woodwork. If it smashed one, our unknown Mr. X was not wounded."

Upon his own statement, Benjamin Holderby was sentenced to ten years in prison; at the end of three months he was transferred to an asylum after an examination by alienists.

__________________

20: The Lynn Horse-Car Murders

Robert Benchley

1889-1945

In: Inside Benchley, 1942

Robert Charles Bentley

A spoof "true crime" story by the master of deadpan humour.

EARLY IN the morning of August 7th, 1896, a laborer named George Raccid, while passing the old street-car barns at Fleeming and Main Streets, Lynn, Massachusetts, noticed a crowd of conductors and drivers (horse-cars were all the rage in 1896) standing about a car in the doorway to the barn. Mr. Raccid was too hurried to stop and see what the excitement was, and so it was not until the following Wednesday, when the bi-weekly paper came out, that he learned that a murder had been committed in the car-barn. And at this point, Mr. Raccid drops out of our story.

The murder in question was a particularly odd one. In the first place, it was the victim who did the killing. And in the second, the killing occurred in a horse-car, an odd conveyance at best. And finally, the murderer had sought to conceal his handiwork by cramming his victim into the little stove in the middle of the car, a feat practically impossible without the aid of scissors and a good eye for snipping.

The horse-car in which the murder occurred was one of the older types, even for a horse-car. It was known in the trade as one of the "chummy roadster" models and was operated by one man only. This man drove the horses, stoked the fire, and collected the fares. He also held the flooring of the car together with one foot braced against a "master" plank. On his day off he read quite a lot.

The murder-car and its driver, Swelf Yoffsen

—Courtesy of John Held, Jr., and Life.

The driver of the murder-car was named Swelf Yoffsen, a Swedish murder-car driver. He had come to this country four years before, but, not liking it here, had returned to Sweden. It is not known how he happened to be back in Lynn at this late date.

If we have neglected to state the name of the victim thus far, it is because nobody seemed able to identify him. Some said that he was Charlie Ross, who had disappeared shortly before. Others (the witty ones) said it was Lon Chaney. A vote taken among all those present designated him as the one least likely to succeed.

An interesting feature of this crime was that it was the sixth of a series of similar crimes, all of which had occurred in Swelf Yoffsen's horse-car. In the other five cases, the victims had been found inadequately packed in the stove at the end of the run, but as Yoffsen, on being questioned, had denied all knowledge of how they got there, the matter had been dropped. After the discovery of the sixth murder, however, Yoffsen was held on a technical charge of homicide.

The trial was one of the social events of the Lynn Mi-Careme season. Yoffsen, on the stand, admitted that the victim was a passenger in his car; in fact, that he was the only passenger. He had got on at the end of the line and had tried to induce Yoffsen to keep on going in the same direction, even though the tracks stopped there. He wanted to see a man in Maine, he had said. But Yoffsen, according to his own story, had refused and had turned his horses around and started for Lynn again. The next he saw of him, people were trying to get him out of the stove. It was Yoffsen's theory that the man, in an attempt to get warm, had tried to crowd his way into the stove and had smothered. On being reminded that the affair took place during a very hot week in August, Yoffsen said that no matter how hot it got during the day in Lynn, the nights were always cool.

Attorney Hammis, for the State, traced the movements of Yoffsen on the morning of the murder and said that they checked up with his movements on the occasions of the five other murders. He showed that Yoffsen, on each occasion, had stopped the horse-car at a particularly lonely spot and asked the occupants if they minded making a little detour, as there was a bad stretch of track ahead. He had then driven his horses across a cornfield and up a nearby hill on the top of which, in the midst of a clump of bayberry bushes, stood a deserted house. He pointed out that on four out of the six occasions Yoffsen had driven his horses right into the house and asked the passengers (when there were any, other than his victim) if they would step into the front room for a few minutes, giving them some magazines to read while they waited. According to the testimony of seven of these passengers, after about fifteen minutes Yoffsen had appeared and yelled "All aboard!" in a cheery voice and everyone had piled back into the horse-car and away they had gone, over the cornfield and down the hill to Lynn. It was noted that on each occasion, one of the passengers was missing, and that, oddly enough, this very passenger was always the one to be found in the stove on the way back.

It was the State's contention that Yoffsen killed his victims for their insurance, which is double when the deceased has met his death in a common carrier.

On April 14th, the ninth day of the trial, the jury went out and shortly after asked for a drink of water. After eighteen hours of deliberation they returned with a verdict of guilty, but added that, as it was not sure whether Yoffsen had actually killed his victims in the car or had killed them outside and then stuffed them in the stove, he was not entitled to the double insurance.

When they went to inform Yoffsen of the verdict, he was nowhere to be found.

End

Table of Contents

- 1: Connie / Evelyn Van Buren
- 2: The Man With Nine Lives / Hugh C. Weir
- 3: Sycamore: A Ghost Story / Cy. Warman
- 4: Wraiths / Harriette G. Bingham

- 5: The Dancer's Mascot / Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

- 6: The Red Wig / E. S. Sorenson
- 7: The Langdon Mystery / Leroy Scott
- 8: A Woman's Vengeance / Edith Nesbit
- 9: False Pretences / Edwin Pugh
- 10: The "Gossip" / Gladys Waterer

- 11: Back Door Invasion / Frederick C. Painton

- 12: Little Snow-white (Sneewittchen) / The Brothers Grimm

- 13: Unexpected / Junius B. Smith
- 14: The Knotted String / Oliver Strange
- 15: My First Operation / Anonymous

- 16: How Love Came To Professor Guildea / Robert S. Hichens

- 17: The Retirement of Signor Lambert / Arthur Conan Doyle

- 18: The Three Hermits / Leo Tolstoy

- 19: The Tragedy of the Life Raft / Jacques Futrelle

- 20: The Lynn Horse-Car Murders / Robert Benchley