PAST MASTERS 144

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

22 November 2023

Contents

1: Blackmail Moll / Ted Copp

2: Fragile Barriers / Atwater Culpepper

3: Streams of Water in the South / John Buchan

4: The Sphinx Without a Secret / Oscar Wilde

5: Scoured Silk / Marjorie Bowen

6: The Satyr / C. J. Dennis

7: The Scruples of Harold / Alice and Claude Askew

8: The Heir / John Everett

9: The Dust of Creeds Outworn / C. L. Antrobus

10: A Flutter in Wives / Bertram Atkey

11: The Philanthropist / Andrew Soutar

12: The Man Who Didn't See / Tom Gallon

13: The Spectre Hand / James Grant

14: A Gentleman Unknown / H. Bedford-Jones

15: Smoked Out / Frederick Ames Coates

16:  The Black Pointer / Edith Stewart Drewry

17: Justifiable Homicide / Frederick C. Painton

18: Night Final / Frederick C. Painton

_____________________

1: Blackmail Moll

Ted Copp

(Theodore Bayard Fletcher Copp, 1902-1945)

Detective Book Magazine, Fall 1941

THE GAMBLER'S EYES were still, dead, unreadable, as he glanced around Brett's office.

He said: "And so, Mr. Brett, I'd like to buy a partnership in your detective agency for ten grand."

Tay Brett seemed bored. He said something that sounded like "Oh yeah" as he lighted a cigaret. They stared at each other across Brett's desk. The gambler's smile was neat and chiseled under his small, glossy mustache, black like his thinning hair. Nothing lived in his eyes.

Brett smiled politely.

"That's a lot of money." He leaned back, propped his feet against a drawer. Without interest, he suggested, "Here's a proposition: Fifteen grand for a partnership— after all present cases have been settled."

No expression disturbed Frisco Smith's unwavering smile.

"That will be entirely satisfactory."

Brett laughed gratingly, and said without anger: "You lie like hell. You're anxious to keep tabs on one of my clients, which is why you want a partnership. Well, which one is it?"

Frisco Smith studied Brett intently. Then he scribbled his phone number on a card, picked up one of Brett's business cards. He rose to the full six feet-three of his aristocratic slimness.

"I'll call you up tomorrow," he promised. "You might change your mind for— twenty-five thousand."

Brett waited until the lock of the door clicked. Then he replaced his memorandum pad on the desk and studied the few notations curiously. But from the first, "Cartman— tomorrow, eleven," to the last, "West— Warwick," there was no clue.

LIGHT in the long, apartment house corridor was uncertain, depending upon alternate ceiling bulbs. It was after three-thirty a.m. A very tall man knocked softly at a door, rang twice, knocked again. After a moment, a voice inside demanded: "Who is it?" The voice was guttural. The tall man outside whispered something in reply. A chain scraped and rattled, a lock turned, the door swung in- ward.

From inside the apartment, three shots ripped out, fused into a single dry, brittle rasp, muffled by a silencer. The tall man said in a surprised voice, "Well, I'll be a— son—"

He pitched forward. A figure flitted along the corridor, disappeared down the stairs. After a minute, the man on the floor coughed deep in his stomach. He put out his hand— pushed— pushed himself up slowly until his shoulders were clear of the floor. Like a punch-drunk fighter he pulled himself to his knees, to his feet, scratching at the door jamb, the knob. His left hand pressed his open coat against his side. He moved to the automatic elevator unsteadily, his shoulder rubbing the wall for support. He stabbed a button weakly—the "Up" button. The car arrived. He tugged open the door, stumbled in, fell full length, The door closed.

Again the tall man fought to his feet, laboriously. Pushed blindly at the floor button with his right hand. His left never relaxed its pressure against his side. Where his lower left vest pocket had been, were now ragged rips. The cloth of his jacket, his vest, his shirt was jammed into the wound, into his flesh. The blood oozed slowly through the wadded cloth.

The elevator stopped. The tall man jabbed feebly at another button and the car continued downward. This time it stopped at the ground floor. He peered out cautiously— saw no one, heard no voice. The tall man stumbled weakly across the foyer. He leaned against a table for breath. On the table was a Ming vase made in New Jersey. He worked a gun from his right hip pocket, dropped it in the vase.

Reaching the street, he staggered toward the corner. He was bent double now. The bloody smear under his right eye was hidden. His right hand fumbled in his pocket.

His heart was pumping blood between the fingers of his left hand. It was wet and shiny where it splashed on his shoes, wet and shiny where it splattered the sidewalk.

The taxi driver on the corner saw him, but couldn't see his torn face.

"Bellyache?" he asked solicitously.

"Take me—take me—" Suddenly the man thrust out a stiff right arm, a closed fist. He slumped forward, struck the side of the cab, fell to the fender, rolled face down onto the sidewalk....

THE PATROLMAN reporting to the desk sergeant said: "and tell the Louie he was a private dick by the name of—," he consulted the crumpled, blood spotted card he'd taken from the man's right fist, "name of Brett, Taylor Brett. They give him the business all right.   Yeah, dead as hell."

ii

HOWARD CARTMAN, the lawyer, inspired one with confidence. Prospective clients observed his respectable clothes, his respectable offices, his respectable eyes and were filled with immediate trust in his honesty, his ethics. Tay Brett thought he was a heel.

"I hope you can handle this— er— business personally, Mr. Brett," Cartman said suavely. "It is very— well— ticklish."

"Sure," agreed the detective readily, keeping his ideas to himself. "Suppose you tell me what you want done."

"Of course. How stupid of me!" Howard Cartman laughed in respectable embarrassment. "Briefly, here is the situation: Mrs. Lewis J. Humbolt, of Montclair, seeks a divorce from her husband because of her husband's affair with a certain Sonia Patten of New York. Miss Patten, is, I believe, an actress and reputed to be a very— er— charming woman."

"They usually are," Brett observed dryly.

"Mrs. Humbolt comes of a very fine family and one of the wealthiest in New Jersey." Brett observed "What's the family's name?' Brett demanded with an eye for business.

"Sherrell," replied Cartman. "Mrs. Humbolt was Miss Virginia Sherrell before her marriage to Lewis J. Humbolt about a year and a half ago. It's a shame, Mr. Brett—" the lawyer's voice held a nice balance between shock and sorrow—"really a shame. Mrs. Humbolt is a charming woman, simply a charming woman."

"I'm sure of it," Brett agreed. "However—"

The lawyer sighed, then went on: "We know that the Patten woman has letters written to her by Mr. Humbolt which, if we could— er— lay hands on them, would provide Mrs. Humbolt with the evidence necessary for a divorce."

"And that's where I come in, huh?" Brett asked.

Cartman bowed. "Precisely. It shouldn't be difficult. We'll pay well for those letters—if necessary, ten thousand dollars."

"Ten grand?" Brett demanded. The lawyer shuddered genteelly.

"Yes; yes, ten—er—grand."

"What am I supposed to do?" the detective asked.

"Well— ah— convince the Patten woman to sell to us and handle the whole transaction."

Brett asked: "What's the husband  like?"

"Lewis J. Humbolt," began the lawyer, oratorically, frowning at an inkstand, "is a very fascinating man. To women, I mean," he added hastily. "His family is— was one of the most famous in this state and dates back to the Revolution." Brett stirred restlessly. "Humbolt served with the Royal Air Force and then transferred to the American air service when we entered the last War. Unfortunately the Humbolt family isn't what it used to be; in fact they've lost all their money."

"Tch, tch!" Brett tched.

"Such a shame," Cartman agreed. He leaned forward confidentially, "That's why he married Virginia Sherrell."

"Yeah, but why did she marry him?" Brett asked.

"She's very young— twenty-four or thereabouts. She was carried away by Humbolt's war record, his fascination, his—"

"I get it," Brett cut in. "I'm to get in touch with Sonia Patten and get those letters."

"Quite—er—quite."

"How many letters are there?"

"Eleven," Cartman replied.

Brett took a fifty dollar retainer from the lawyer, promised him a fat expense account, and left.

Outside in the street, newsboys were crying extras on the Frisco Smith murder, which was not yet eleven hours old.

"HOW'S the sleuth racket?" Pat Hirsch asked from his regular post beside Swedie's desk as Brett entered his office. Hirsch was grinning.

"Fifty bucks better than lousy," snapped. "What do you think of the Frisco Smith kill?"

"Not interested."

"Then get interested," Hirsch advised. "Centre Street's been calling you."

"Yeah?" Brett replied. Then he stared, sighed, and pointed to Pat's collar.

"I'm sorry, Pat, I can't get her to use indelible lip stick."

As Brett went into his office, there was a snort from Swedie and Hirsch was treading on his heels. The reporter glared.

"Just a pal," he jeered. "Why don't you give yourself up? Listen, Sherlock Holmes, if you were smart, you'd see that smear on my collar's too dark to be a blonde's lip—"

The door burst open and Swedie appeared, her eyes blazing. "So, you cut yourself shaving," she cried at Hirsch. "If you—"

Brett pushed her out and shut the door. He watched the reporter silkily dispose his long body in a tilted chair and laugh. "I know you. It's Don Juan Hirsch himself."

Pat Hirsch grunted. "What the hell," he grumbled philosophically, "What happened in Newark?"

"A guy wants me to make a fix for him with a certain labor mob," Brett replied easily as he rinsed two glasses in a wash basin behind a screen.

"Horsefeathers," Hirsch said. '"Swedie told me you went to see Howard Cartman, the lawyer."

"I wish somebody'd marry that loud speaker and take her off my hands," Brett observed. He handed out glasses and a bottle. "Make yourself useful."

As Brett thumbed a New Jersey phone book, Hirsch poured two extra-generous slugs of rye. He asked casually: "Looking for anything particular?"

"Yes. A chance to make some money."

Brett put down his empty glass as the phone rang. He said: "Hello Captain Moeller," into the mouthpiece, listened, then promised irritably, "O.K. I'll be down around eight, but I'm telling you my nose is clean."

Brett put down the phone, growled, "Centre Street," to Hirsch and went out.

"Listen, baby," he told Swedie, "I pay your salary. You're working for me, not that lanky newshound."

Swedie's sniff of contempt followed him to the stairs. Tay Brett grinned

BRETT'S taxi stopped before a new and magnificent apartment house on Central Park West. He entered and went to an attendant who stood before a switch board.

"Miss Patten in?"

"Yes, sir." Brett handed him a sealed envelope with his business card inside. "Send this up to her."

A moment later he was ushered deferentially to an elevator and let off at the twenty-third floor. An attractive mulatto maid opened the door, showed him into a well furnished living-room.

"Miz Patten'll be heah in a minute," the girl informed him with a flashing tip-hunting smile.

Brett nodded and seated himself comfortably. The girl walked from the room with a swaying, sensuous rhythm to her well proportioned body. Brett grunted: "One of those things, huh."

When Sonia Patten entered, Brett found her a strikingly attractive woman of about twenty-eight. The Sonia part of her name was reflected in wide, high cheek bones which told of her Slavic origins. Her eyes were a smoky blue, set wide apart, nose slightly broad at the nostrils. There was a mole just under the left side of her chin. Medium blonde hair, height about five feet eight, weight around one hundred and twenty-two.

She stood just inside the doorway looking from Brett to his card in her hand. Across the center of the card, in Tay's muscle-bound scrawl, was written: "Must see you at once. Important."

Sonia Patten studied the words but Brett stood silently, doing nothing which might give her a hint as to his errand.

"Mr. Taylor Brett?" she asked consulting the card.

Brett bowed. "I don't quite understand your message."

Her voice was throaty.

Brett smiled.

"What—what do you wish to see me about ?"

"Let's not try to kid each other, Miss Patten," Brett said smoothly, "I'm here to make you a very generous offer— ten thousand dollars."

Her smoky blue eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. But she was a smart girl, she made no reply.

After a moment's silence, Brett rose and wandered round the room. He looked casually through the French doors which opened upon a small stone balcony that ran the length of the apartment.

He strolled to the foyer, glanced through a door on the right into a small kitchen where the languorous maid sat looking at pictures in La Vie Parisienne, Brett returned to the living-room and  looked around.

Behind Sonia were wide, curtained French doors. Brett drifted toward the woman, detoured so he passed her, and, without warning, threw open the doors.

With a bound, Sonia Patten reached him. She seized his arm. Brett allowed himself to be shoved violently aside, but not before he had spotted the brown Homburg hat, Harris tweed coat, and Malacca stick which lay on the chaise longue by the windows.

"How dare you, how dare you!" she demanded, her voice trembling.

Brett shrugged. "Ten grand," he said. "Take it or leave it."

"I should have you arrested or— or have the hall boys throw you out," she raged.

"Ten grand."

"For what? What do you want?" the woman demanded angrily.

"Some hot love letters," Brett replied.

The Patten woman's mouth hardened. Brett sauntered toward the foyer. Sonia followed warily. He looked left along the short hall, past the door to the kitchen, to a door on the left, evidently the one to the bedroom. She watched him closely, breathing hard.

"Ten grand," said Brett softly and stepped off toward the bedroom door. Sonia clutched his arm. He shook her off easily, went on.

"Wait!" she cried. "What letters do you want?"

"Oh, more than one set, huh?" Sonia bit her lip, but plunged on desperately: "What letters do you mean? Did you come here just to bully me or—"

Brett turned no her sharply.

"Listen," he cut in, "I came here to do business, but you want to play the smart girl. I don't like this job or anything connected with it— and that goes for you too, I never did like lady blackmailers!"

She stepped back, one hand up as though to ward him off. Brett kept the bedroom door in sight and repeated: "I don't like blackmailers!"

Nothing happened. Brett raised his voice angrily.

"I'm here to offer you ten thousand dollars for letters written to you by Lewis Humbolt. Know him?"

The Patten woman nodded dully. Brett took her arm and led her back to the living-room.

She asked: "Who hired you?"

Slowly, distinctly, Brett countered, "Suppose I said Mr. Humbolt?"

The smoky blue eyes flickered, stared back at him expressionlessly.

"So Mr. Humbolt sent you?"

Brett laughed easily. "You're too smart for me, Miss Patten. As a matter of fact, I'm acting for Mrs. Humbolt."

"I don't believe you," she replied. "I know Mr. Humbolt wants his letters. Why should Mrs. Humbolt want them?"

"To get a divorce," Brett explained. "She needs evidence. Will you sell?"

"For ten thousand dollars?" the woman scoffed. "I should say not!"

"Ten grand will buy you many a square meal," observed the detective mildly.

"Those letters are worth one hundred thousand dollars! If Mrs. Humbolt wants a divorce so badly, let her pay for it. She's rich."

"Let's be reasonable, Miss—"

"One hundred thousand dollars!' she interrupted. "That's my price to Mrs. Humbolt or Mr. Humbolt or anyone else."

"Say, with a hundred grand you could settle down in France and live like a queen for the rest of your life."

"Possibly that's my intention," she replied.

"You could even afford a husband," Brett said. Sonia didn't answer; he went on: "I'll tell them that's your price, but I don't think they'll meet it."

"She can afford it," the woman said.  "If she can't, her father can."

Brett rose. "I'm glad to have met you," he smiled. "If you ever need a detective, let me know." His eyes admired her. "I'd like to work for you."

BRETT went back to West 45th and climbed the three flights to his office. Swedie was making up her face in preparation for the Subway rush. She caught Brett's amused glance at her lip stick and turned her back on him.

"Where's the boy friend?"

Swedie turned and asked primly, "To whom exactly do you have reference, Mr. Brett?"

"Go home, Mrs Vanderlip, you're wearing me out."

Going down the short corridor past the empty office, Brett went into his own bailiwick and poured out a stiff rye. Next he copied the names and addresses of five of Newark's best lawyers from the phone book. He poured out another rye.

Then he called: "Hey, Swedie!"

She came to his door. "Want a drink?"

"I've asked you upon numerous occasions," she replied haughtily, "not to offer me liquor in any form."  Suddenly she blazed, "and stop calling me 'Swedie'!"

The banging door drowned Brett's chuckle.

JACK AND JILL'S on West 47th was beginning to fill as Tay entered, He ordered supper and prepared to wait. When Jake Goldhess, the lawyer, entered, Brett called him over.

"Sit down, Jake," he invited, "I owe you a meal."

Goldhess considered, scowled, and sat down.

"More than that you owe me," he grunted as he tucked a corner of the napkin into his collar and opened the two bottom buttons of his vest. He appraised Brett's well cut, quiet suit.

"A new suit,' he remarked, "Where'd you get it?"

"Tripler's" Brett recited, "46th and Madison. Don't remember the salesman's name, and I don't know where I was September 21st, 1927."

"Now if you want class, y'understand," Goldhess said, his highly polished nails gleaming against the flaring lapel of his ultra smart coat, "I'll give you my tailor's address."

"I don't want to look like a crap shooter."

"Listen, Brett, one hun'red and seventy-fi' bucks I paid for this suit. It's got lines— it's got class. Pull any more fast ones like that Spencer jewelry deal and you can afford to go—"

"All right, Jake, all right," Brett cut in. "I want to ask you a question."

"Please, Brett, don't ask me questions. I don't like it when you ask me questions, y'understand ?"

Brett grinned and tossed the list of lawyers he'd copied in front of Goldhess.

"This won't hurt your appetite," he promised. "Know anything about the practitioners of jurisprudence in Newark?"

"Certainly," Goldhess responded. "Haven't I got a cousin practicing there?"

"On whom?" Brett grinned, then grew serious. "Listen, Jake, a client of mine wants to hire one of those five guys. Which is best?"

With a heavy sigh, Goldhess scanned the list. After deliberation, he said: "They're all good, y'understand? You got some of the best legal minds in New Jersey on—"

"Hell!" Brett snatched the list from between fat, ring-infested fingers, '"Making a noise again, huh?"

The lawyer smiled grimly. "Do I owe you money?" he demanded. "You want the dope on one of those guys, and I should give it to you free?"

"One of them did a kill," Brett said evenly.

Goldhess' eyes popped, a heavy, red stain suffused his pink jowls. "One of those guys a killer?" he breathed. Brett seemed serious.

A cunning light came into the lawyer's eyes, and he leaned forward confidentially.

"Which one, huh?" Brett was silent.

Goldhess asked, "Hart?" He waited for Brett's reaction. There was none.

"Schneider?" Another pause. "Cartman? Bell? Mulcahy?" Brett's face was impassive, cold.

"Mulcahy?" Goldhess mused.. Then, "He's got dough. Hart's in the sugar too. So's Cartman." He stopped, remembered something. "That's right."

Brett stared at him.

"Yeah? What is?" Brett prodded.

"I just remembered," said Goldhess blandly, "Schneider and Bell got dough also."

"They've all got dough, huh?"

"Sure," replied Goldhess suavely, "they all got dough. Rich guys don't have to be killers."

"Money the only thing a man kills for?"

"What else?"

Brett rose. Goldhess pushed the check toward him.

He said: "Any time you want professional advice, come to my office and pay my fee. And don't forget the check."

"Uh-huh," Brett grinned, you said you'd kill for money."

iv

AT eleven-thirty next morning, Tay Brett was shown into Howard Cartman's office. On Cartman's desk was a paper screaming with headlines on the Frisco Smith murder.

Brett jerked a thumb toward it. "Guess I'm not the only baffled sleuth in the world," he remarked.

"Does that mean... Were you—er —unsuccessful?"

Brett laughed shortly. "She won't sell."

"Won't sell!" echoed Cartman.

"Hell no," said Brett quietly.

Cartman studied Brett's easy smile with bewilderment.

"It seems to me, Mr. Brett," he announced coldly, "that you find this affair amusing rather than serious."

Brett shrugged. "You offered her ten thousand dollars for the letters?"

"Sure."

"But— but—" The lawyer stopped, seemed at a loss how to cope with Brett's indifference.

"If you really want those letters," Brett said, "she'll sell— for one hundred grand!"

"One hundred— why that's absurd! One hundred thousand dollars is a small fortune!"

"Not so small," Brett put in. "If you really want to secure Mrs. Humbolt's divorce, the thing to do is shake her father down for the hundred grand, Old Man Sherrell can afford it."

The lawyer stared dazedly, Brett said, "I'll see Sherrell for you to explain—"

"No, no. That won't do at all," Cartman broke in.

"Why not?"

"Mrs. Humbolt's family were— er— bitterly opposed to her marriage from the start," Cartman explained hurriedly. "Mrs. Humbolt doesn't wish her family to learn of the divorce until it has been granted."

"With the woods lousy with newshounds?" Brett jeered. "She's an optimist!"

"Mrs. Humbolt doesn't wish to approach her father in this matter, That's enough for me; it will have to be enough for you," Cartman stated with heavy finality.

Brett shrugged. "Then we'll have to dope out some other way of handling Sonia."

"How about—" Cartman hesitated— "how about securing the letters by stealth? Could it be done?"

"Sure," agreed Brett. "But not by me."

"Scruples?" the lawyer asked with an unpleasant smile. "Accidents," replied Brett laconically. "Suppose I mooched into Sonia's place, located the letters, and started to lam and the cops came in, accidentally? Wouldn't that be cute?"

"But how could the police know?" Cartman objected.

"That's just it," Brett pointed out. "Of course it would be sheer coincidence. No, that's out."

After a moment's thoughtful silence, Brett suggested, "I'll tell you how it could be done. We'll make Sonia believe Humbolt is crossing her, running around with another woman. Then we'll offer her ten grand for the letters and the revenge of seeing Humbolt kicked out of his nice meal ticket by Mrs. Humbolt's divorce."

"I'm afraid that won't do," complained Cartman,

"What do you mean 'won't do'? It's fool-proof!"

"Granted. But Mrs. Humbolt is— er— a woman of high principles," confessed Cartman. "She would never countenance such a— ah— deception."

Tay Brett grinned. "What a woman," he breathed in devout admiration. "I'd like to meet our client."

A shadow flashed across Cartman's face.

"Does she know I'm on the case?" Brett asked.

"Naturally," Cartman replied coldly. "I should hardly retain you without advising her first."

The telephone buzzed discreetly, and Cartman picked it up. Brett lighted another cigarette. Of the ensuing conversation, Brett was only able to catch one word when Cartman hissed "murder!" in a horrified voice and turned deadly white.

Brett grinned, took out an expense account form, began tabulating his expenditures on the Humbolt-Patten job.

The lawyer's face was still pale as he replaced the receiver and reached for his cheque-book.

"Let me have a statement of your expenses, Brett," he said, his voice indignant. "Our association is— ah— terminated."

Brett handed it to him and remarked easily, "Jake Goldhess is a real pal."

Above the scratching of his pen, Cartman said: "I feel I owe him a great debt."

He rose and handed Brett a cheque.

"Telling Mr. Goldhess what you did may be your idea of humor, Brett, but it's not mine," Cartman snapped. "And since you have attempted to discredit me, have told a brother lawyer that I was— er— a murderer," his voice shook with righteous indignation, "you are no longer wanted on this case."

"That's all right, Cartman," Brett replied amicably as he folded the cheque. "Don't apologize. This isn't a case yet anyway— it's a run-around."

Brett hunted up a phone booth in the lobby of Cartman's building and looked up Mrs. Lewis J. Humbolt's address, He looked at his watch— a quarter past twelve. He went to a little Greek chop house around the corner from the Robert Treat Hotel and had a swell steak. Then he grabbed a taxi.

THE Humbolts' house was not as large as Brett had expected. It was of Colonial architecture and modest in every way, compared to other houses on the street. It stood well back from the road, its spacious lawns shielded from view by a high boxwood hedge, Brett presented his card and was shown into a pleasant room panelled in pine from floor to ceiling. A moment later, Mrs. Humbolt entered.

Virginia Sherrell Humbolt was about twenty-four. She was blonde like Sonia Patten, but smaller, about five feet eight, weighed around a hundred and ten. Her eyes were a clear blue, nose faintly aquiline, features regular, and no distinguishing marks, There was a slightly obstinate angle to her chin which suggested that Cartman had been telling the truth when he said she had married despite parental objections.

Mrs. Humbolt smiled. "Mr. Brett?" she asked. Her voice was warm, colorful, Brett rose, smiled in return, "I am Mrs. Humbolt."

Brett smiled again.

She seated herself, looked puzzled, and asked, "What have I done to deserve the attention of a New York detective? She glanced again at his card. "You are a detective, aren't you?"

"It's been questioned," Brett admitted.

Mrs. Humbolt looked him over carefully, curiously; noticed his dark cordovan shoes, black socks, the well tailored, unobtrusive suit, bottle-green tie, plain white shirt, and brown snap-brim hat.

"I must say I'm disappointed," she confessed. "I thought detectives wore thick-soled shoes, black derbies, and smoked cigars."

Brett laughed easily. "I've got a derby at home. I'll get it if it will convince you I'm the genuine article."

"What do you wish to see me about, Mr. Brett?"

Brett drew a note book from his pocket and consulted a page on which he had tried to dope the probable winners at Pimlico two weeks previously.

"This will sound silly," he warned. "Did you ever employ a maid named Agnes McGillicudahy?"

"Why no. What does she look like?"

"About six feet tall and weighs two hundred and—"

"Good heavens," Mrs. Humbolt interrupted, "I'd be scared to death of a woman that big."

Brett rose and picked up his hat. "I thought it was a stall," he said.

"Did she say she's worked for me?"

"Yes," Tay replied, "and she's hooked my client for eighty thousand dollars worth of jewelry."

"That's awfully exciting!" Mrs. Humbolt exclaimed, her eyes shining. "But how did she ever come to pick me?"

"Probably took your name out of the phone book," Brett answered. "By the way, you might hang onto my card. You can never tell when you'll need a detective."

Mrs. Humbolt looked down at his card. Brett couldn't see her eyes,

"I don't believe I shall ever need a detective," was her low retort. Brett said evenly, "There are always jewel thieves." She looked up and smiled at that.

"Hardly for my jewelry. I haven't enough." "I can give you plenty of good references," Brett said. "Let's see, whom do I know around here." He meditated, then laughed. "I know a lawyer in Newark, but I played a joke on him— he'd say I was a crook. No, you'd better not ask Howard Cartman about—"

"Do you know Howard Cartman?"

"Yes; do you?"

"He's my husband's lawyer."

"Well, well; isn't that interesting." Brett grinned. "Thanks very much for your help. And if you ever need me—"

He pointed to the card in her hand and gave her his best business-getting bow.

v

"WHERE'VE you been all day?" demanded Swedie petulantly as Brett entered the office. There was a smudge of ink on Swedie's forehead, and her blonde hair was not tidy.

Brett dropped his hat on her desk.

"What's the matter? The President been trying to reach me?"

"Worse," she replied. "Anthony Warwick the actor phoned and had hysterics by courtesy of the Bell Telephone Company."

"That's a good gag," Brett admitted. "Where'd you steal it? What's on Warwick's mind?"

"My dear!" exclaimed Swedie in exaggerated imitation of the temperamental Thespian, "it's too terrible! I've simply suffered beyond endurance. I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown, it's—"

"Which in plain English means what?" Brett demanded.

"Bill West has been tailing the wrong man for two weeks."

"What?"

"Bill has been shadowing the wrong man!"

Collapsing into the nearest chair, Brett threw back his head and gave vent to whole hearted laughter. Swedie looked somewhat startled at the boss' unusual display.

At last, Brett pulled himself weakly from his chair and wiped his eyes.

"It's too good to be true," he said. "I'll bet the dope was half crazy."

"He was."

Brett's mouth hardened, "Damn Bill West!"

He turned to go, but Swedie put out her hand falteringly.

"Mr. Brett," she stumbled, stopped.

"Now what?" Brett asked.

Again Swedie started to speak, stopped. Then she held out a newspaper, pointed to a marked paragraph in the middle of a gossip column. Brett read aloud:

"A certain well known keptive is having boy friend trouble again. One of our better gum-shoes visited her yesterday and said nasty things in behalf of his New Jersey client. And they thumb noses!"

"See, he's double crossed you now," Swedie said.

Brett looked up, a tight smile on his mouth. There were tears in the girl's eyes; she kept her face averted and dug at the top of her desk with an envelope opener.

"Go easy on the family antiques," Brett warned softly. He took the opener from her hand, slipped a pencil in its place.

"Pat's double crossed us both," Swedie whispered.

Brett's eyes were thoughtful as he slipped his arm around the girl's shoulders.

"Don't take it so hard, kid," he urged. "It's Pat's job to get news. He knew I was working on something and got sore when I wouldn't let him in."

"All right," Swedie retorted, her voice flying storm signals of an approaching deluge, "but he d-didn't have to put that in the p-paper and then send us a m-m-marked copy."

"That won't hurt us any; it'll help."

"You wouldn't s-say that if he'd played the d-dirty trick he p-played on me," she wailed, becoming incoherent with increasing rapidity. "He p-p-played me a—"

"The lip rouge gag?" Brett demanded.

"—a d-d-dirty trick and I g-g-guess h-he knows—"

"Hey! Hold it!" Brett picked up her open compact and held the mirror so Swedie could see her tear stained face.

"Does that look like America's Sweetheart?" he asked. "Let me tell you a funny story. I ran into Dan English just before I came back here tonight and—"

"W-who's D-D-Dan English?"

"A feature writer on Pat's rag. Dan told me they found Pat sleeping off a jag under the Sunday editor's desk yesterday morning and what do you think?"

Swedie refused the bait and Brett hurried on:

"So they borrowed a lip stick from one of the gals and smeared it on his collar."

"You're just making that up."

"Making it—listen, Swenson, have I ever lied to you?"

"I don't think so," Swedie said hesitatingly. "How did you happen to see D-Dan English?"

"In a bar on 40th Street, Suspicious," Brett answered without hesitation, "He dropped in for a beer."

"Well—" she temporized. "Then Pat wasn't out with another girl?"

Brett cheered.

"But he told that columnist fellow about the case you're working on."

"Oh that!" said Brett lightly. "If Pat knew what we do about that case, he'd go crazy. I'll tell you, but don't you tell him."

Swedie shook her head.

"It's an agency secret,' Brett warned. "I've got a line on a potential murderer."

"What do you mean?"

Brett swallowed a sigh and explained patiently: "I found out that a certain man may kill a certain person if it comes to a showdown."

Swedie's "Oh!" of horror cleared her eyes of its few remaining tears.

Brett went on: "But that isn't important. I found out that another gent is trying to work himself into a blackmail angle that will cost a husband his happy home. That part ties up with Sonia Patten, but don't tell Pat. Don't even give him a hint."

"Oh, I won't, I wouldn't for the world." Suddenly she turned on him. "Why are you telling me this?" she demanded suspiciously. "You've never told me important business secrets before."

Brett looked hurt; he sighed bitterly. "That's what you get for showing a gal you trust her."

"I bet you just told me hoping Pat Hirsch would worm it out of me," Swedie cried with a flash of inspiration.

"Well, he won't!" Brett glowered at her. "You let Pat find out and I'll wring your neck!" He made a gesture with his hands. "Like that. Now beat it. I've got to go down and explain to the D. A. all over again what I explained to the whole damn Homicide Squad."

"ABOUT this Frisco Smith murder, Brett—" the District Attorney began as Brett seated himself in a straight, uncomfortable chair near the glass-topped desk.

"What about it? Brett shot back. "Are you involved?"

"Wha-a-at?

The District Attorney stopped, glowered, ran a hand through his heavy hair. Powers was a big man with a heavy frame. His long hair rose and swept back majestically in a straight, thick pompadour. His features were coarse, large, his. voice booming and oratorical. Powers smiled bleakly, his yellowish eyes dull.

"No, I'm not involved. How about you?"

"Have you checked into my alibi?"

"Oh yes, and it's air tight. But alibis —" Powers smiled deprecatingly, spread his hands.

"My God! Is this going to start all over again?" Brett jerked out irritably. "Moeller worked on me for hours, 'Did I know Smith? What size shoes did I wear? Was my father an Elk?' I haven't time to play Information Please!"

"Just a minute, Brett—"

Brett didn't pause. "If you want to solve the Smith kill, forget my card was found in his hand. And here's a deal: Get me some dope and I'll give you two good tips."

"And if I don't deal?"

"Then go ahead and indict me for the kill. And try and make it stick."

"What information do you want?" Powers asked.

"I want to know all about Sonia Patten and all about Smith."

Powers thought it over. At last he said, "Very well. But naturally I am not responsible for the actions of the police."

Brett brushed that aside.

An hour later, he rose, shook hands with Powers and left. As the door closed behind him, a large man slipped into Powers' office through another door. He smiled. wolfishly.

"Did you get it all, Moeller?" Powers asked.

"Sure," Moeller replied. "And how do we know that he didn't gun Smith to protect the client who had Smith so worried he was trying to buy into Brett's agency?"

"Exactly!" Powers said softly.

vi

AFTER dinner, Brett drifted over to the East 51st Street station and got into a bull session with Big Mac and several other detectives which wound up at his apartment around three-thirty a. m.

At two minutes past nine next morning, his phone rang. It was Swedie.

"There's a Mr. Humbolt down here to see you," she said. "I found him waiting when I arrived."

"Does he look sore?" Brett asked.

Her voice was very positive. "Yes!"

"Tell him I'll be there in—" Brett pushed back his pajama sleeve, consulted his watch—"in four minutes."

Despite his promise, Brett shaved leisurely, dressed without hurry, and cleaned up dead soldiers from the night before. As he was about to go out, the phone rang again. He picked up the receiver, but didn't answer.

A woman's voice said, "Hello, hello?"

It was Swedie.

Brett grinned and put down the hook softly. He went to a restaurant on the corner and ordered breakfast, then went to a phone booth and called the office. Swedie answered.

"This is the New York Telephone Company," Brett said. "Is Mr. Brett in?"

He heard Swedie say to someone beside her: "No, it's not Mr. Brett!"

She said to Tay: "Mr. Brett isn't in yet, but we expect him any moment."

"Thanks, I'll call later."

At exactly twenty minutes to ten, Brett entered the office. A tall, lean man leaped at him.

"Are you Brett?" he demanded.

"Yeah," said Brett insolently, noticing the brown Homburg, Harris tweed coat, and Malacca stick. "Who are you?"

"I've been waiting here for over half an hour," the tall man raged. "You told your secretary—"

Brett said: "Hello" to Swedie and walked into his office. The tall man followed belligerently.

"Who are you anyway?" Brett demanded brusquely.

"Lewis Humbolt," the tall man snapped. "Ever hear of me?"

"Sure," Brett replied disinterestedly. "Your partner threw me off the case."

"The hell with Cartman!" Humbolt exploded. "What do you mean by bothering my wife?"

"I bothered Sonia Patten, too," Brett pointed out. Humbolt calmed down.

"We're talking about my wife," he said.

"And my client," agreed Brett. Humbolt said nothing. Brett went on:

"Your boy friend Cartman told me I was working for Mrs. Humbolt. When he fired me, I went up to see her— naturally."

"Naturally nothing!" Humbolt thundered. "You were dealing with Cartman. he was paying you. He—"

"Imagine my embarrassment," Brett broke in, "when I discovered Mrs. Humbolt had never heard of me, didn't want a sleuth."

"That has nothing to do—"

"It has plenty to do with it!" Brett barked. "I got the run-around from Cartman. He chased me over here to offer Sonia Patten ten grand for your letters. He knew she wouldn't sell. But he figured my mouth would start watering for that ten grand and I'd swipe the letters."

Humbolt was silent.

Brett went on: "Hell, he hired a New York dick because he thought I wouldn't know the New Jersey laws. Mrs. Humbolt doesn't need those letters to get a divorce— not in Jersey. You're the guy that needed the letters. You wanted them in case Sonia got tough and decided to show you up to your rich wife, get you kicked out on your ear from a nice allowance."

Humbolt towered above the detective.

"Damn you, Brett, I ought to throw you out the window for that."

"Well, open it first," said Brett evenly. "Then there's another angle: Maybe Cartman wanted the letters so he could blackmail you himself."

Humbolt sat down suddenly, his eyes narrowed.

"My—!" he said in a surprised voice.

Brett sank into his swivel chair and began to study his fingertips. "Who was paying my fee?" Brett asked.

"Cartman. At least," Humbolt explained, "he was advancing the money, I was to pay him back later."

"That's a cute angle." Brett laughed. "Cartman loans you the money to get the letters. He keeps them. You pay him back. Then Cartman puts on the blackmail squeeze and you start paying all over again. Smart boy, this Cartman."

"What made you suspicious of him?"

"All his excitement about the letters," said Brett. "It didn't make sense. If you fought the divorce, Mrs. Humbolt could try Reno. Those letters weren't to help her get a divorce, but to make sure she didn't get one."

"And where do you come in?' Humbolt asked.

"I don't. I got fired off the job."

"You mean to say you've lost all interest in the case merely because Cartman fired you?" Humbolt demanded in astonishment.

"What did you think I'd do?" Brett countered.

"But I thought detectives—"

"Worked for fun?' Brett finished. "Maybe they do, but not me. I get paid or I don't work."

The two men studied each other in silence.

Humbolt looked like an athlete. Scaling a shade over six feet, he seemed in perfect condition; his rather handsome face was bronzed and he wore a neat, dark mustache over a firm, full mouth. His eyes were dark brown and his hair, a few shades lighter with gray splashes at the temples and over his ears. He appeared to be around forty-two.

"Cartman tells me you were in aviation during the War," Brett observed.

"IT was. Royal Air Force before we got into it."

"Flying is a tough racket, Must take lots of guts."

"The 'guts' part is over-rated," Humbolt said. "The War was the most glorious part of my life, I—" He stopped self-consciously. "You did combat flying?" Brett asked interestedly.

Humbolt nodded. "Get any Heinies?"

"The War Department credited me with four planes," was the laconic reply. "Now about those letters. Do you think we can do business if I can raise the money?"

"You can always do business with me if you can pay for it," Brett assured him. Humbolt thought that over. "I'd like to get those letters and I'd hate to have someone else get them."

"Being a rich gal's husband isn't such a bad job, huh?"

"It isn't," Humbolt admitted frankly. "And it's the only one I know."

With that he left.

Brett followed him as far as the outer office. He asked Swedie: "Seen anything of Pat Hirsch?"

"No," she replied, but didn't look up.

"You're a liar," Brett said conversationally. "He works until twelve or one—when did you see him?"

"After he got through last night," she confessed under her breath.

"Did you tell him what I told you?"

"No! I didn't, Mr. Brett, honestly,  she protested.

Brett smiled.  "I didn't think you would." He moved toward the door.

"Where'll you be?" Swedie asked.

Brett turned. "I'm up against a very difficult psychological problem so I'm going to pull a Vilo Pants. I'm going down to the Grand Central and read time tables."

Swedie stared after him speculatively.

vii

BRETT drank orange juice and coffee at breakfast next morning he studied the gossip column of a pale pink tabloid propped against the cafeteria sugar bowl. He read: "Who is the husband who will lose his rich wife if a certain Newark lawyer's blackmailing plans go through and the husband doesn't pay pa-lenty?"

After tearing out the page and stowing it in his pocket, Brett discarded the tabloid and picked up the other morning papers. He walked slowly to his office. As Brett opened the door Swedie moved quickly.

Brett saw her stuff the same tabloid into her waste basket.

"Anything good in it?" Brett asked, pointing to the crumpled paper. He dropped the others on her desk.

"N-no, not a thing," she informed him.

"I forgot to get it," he said. "Run through these and see if they're any leads. Anything beside the Frisco Smith kill."

At ten o'clock, Brett slipped an unopened pint of rye into his pocket and went out. He walked to a drab house on West 52nd Street with dirty lace curtains almost hiding the fly-specked sign "Rooms," and asked for Mr. P. Leonidas Hirsch.

Mr. Hirsch was still sleeping, but the landlady, after mature deliberation, led Brett upstairs.

"You're a sucker, Pat," said Brett from the doorway.

Pat Hirsch fixed his sleep-heavy eyes on the slight dent in Brett's nose and asked: "Come to beat me up?"

"Maybe I should at that," Brett said. He tossed the gossip column beside the reporter. "Why give that guy dope? You don't work for his paper."

"You know the answer to that one yourself," Hirsch grumbled. "Go away, I want to sleep."

"So you fixed it up with Swedie, huh?"

"Did I fix it up!" Pat chortled. "Till three o'clock two mornings."

The reporter rolled up in the bed-clothes and relaxed, his eyes closed. Brett studied his bony, good humored face, then hunted up a couple of glasses.

At the sound of pouring, Hirsch jerked up and sniffed.

"I fear the Greeks bearing rye," he grinned. "But not enough to say 'no'."

"Pat," Brett began, "you've helped me out on this case. I'm going to give you a chance to earn a couple of quarts."

"What do you mean I've helped you out?" Hirsch asked suspiciously.

Brett flicked ashes partially on the bed clothes, partially on the newspaper clipping. Hirsch swore fervently. "Do you want to play along or must I go down and sell Art Stultz the idea of assigning you to the job?"

"Art would be the greatest managing editor in the newspaper business," Hirsch grouched, "if he didn't listen to you."

"That means you'll play?"

"What else can I do?" The reporter poked the bunched pillows behind him lovingly. "Wait a minute," he stalled. "How about giving me some dope before you shag me out of bed."

"I'll tell you enough for your own good," Brett agreed, "but keep your typewriter under control. Lewis J. Humbolt, whose wife is the daughter of Sherrell, the paint king, has been playing around with Sonia Patten before and after his marriage. Sonia has some hot letters from Humbolt, but she refused ten grand for them, even when I told her they would help Mrs. Humbolt get a divorce."

"Sonia's a wise baby,' Pat observed. "If she isn't jealous of the wife, why should she kill her boy friend's income for a lousy ten grand?"

"You been eating fish?' Brett asked.

"What's Humbolt like?"

"Seems to be quite a gent," responded Brett. "That's what I want you to do—check up on Humbolt, especially his service record."

"War baby, huh?"

"Yeah, shot down four Jerry planes." Brett continued, "And I'm putting Halloway on Howard Cartman, I don't think the morgue will have him."

"Anything else?"

"Yes. I want to know about the Sherrells," said Tay. "One of that gang is going to pay me for protecting Mrs. Humbolt."

"And pay plenty," observed Hirsch dryly.

He scooped a phone from under his bed and called a number. After a few questions, Hirsch held the mouthpiece against his cheek and recited:

"Two daughters, Virginia and Carmen. Carmen's married, lives in K. C. Old Lady Sherrell's society crazy. You know Virginia."

"Enough," admitted Brett. "The old man's lousy with coin. One son, Douglas, a wild sort of bimbo."

"That takes dough," the detective commented. "Where can I reach Douglas?"

Pat spoke into the phone, then informed Brett: "He doesn't work. Has an apartment in town, hangs out at the Princeton Club."

"Swell," Brett said and Pat hung up.

"Want me to scout Sonia?"

"I'm getting a line on her," grumbled Brett, frowning.

As Hirsch dressed unhurriedly, he asked: "What was that 'potential murderer' stuff you gave Swedie?"

"Just a gag," chuckled Brett easily.

They left the house and walked down Broadway toward the Subway station. Hirsch looked at a morning paper, asked: "What's your idea on this Frisco Smith rub-out?"

Brett's eyes narrowed, then he smiled: "I wouldn't know. No one's offered a reward, so why should I get excited?"

"He was no BB," Hirsch mused. "He was a real big shot." They parted at 50th Street.

TWENTY minutes later, the phone in Brett's office rang. Answering it, Brett could hear the tremble of excitement. in Pat Hirsch's voice.

"Just a gag, huh!" Pat jeered. "Did you hear about the accident?"

"Go on," Brett ordered.

"Just got the flash. At nine-thirty this morning, Mr. and Mrs. Lewis J. Humbolt are driving along when the left front tire blows and the car swerves sharp left across the road in front of a kid who's been hitting it up."

"Go on!"

"The right-hand door of Humbolt's car wrenches free and Mrs. Humbolt is slammed out in the middle of the road."

Brett swore softly.

"Killed?" he asked.

"This kid who's tearing toward them is just seventeen, but like lots of kids that age he's got no nerves," Hirsch continued. "He climbs a bank, grazes a tree, and never even breathes down Mrs. Humbolt's neck. All she got out of it was a shock and a flock of bruises.

Brett straightened in his chair, "And Humbolt ?"

"Busted left arm; cut over the right eye."

"What kind of car were they driving? Where is it now?"

There was a rattle of paper, then Hirsch said: "1938 La Salle convertible red and black, red wheels, top down, license number 16—46—2."

"Perfect."

"It was smashed up so badly they left it to be towed to the nearest garage."

"Where were they?" Brett asked.

"They were going to the Essex Fells Country Club, car's about a quarter of a mile from there. Coming from Bloomfield Avenue."

"Call me back in half an hour," Brett ordered and snapped down the receiver. He yelled, "Swedie! Call that mechanic! Get him down here with a car and some tools." His fingers drummed on the desk. "Then call Talky Baldwin. Tell him to come in if he wants to make a fin."

Brett yanked newspapers from his desk, threw them around until he found the right one. He jerked the phone off its stand and asked for Information.

"Information?—  Give me the phone number of Richard Holland, one— six— four West—"

Twenty-five minutes later, the husky New York City patrolman, in plain clothes, strolled in nonchalantly.

Swedie hustled him into Brett's office.

Brett said: "Hello, Dick."

Holland nodded and surveyed the other two men. Longvelt, the mechanic, was a square-faced, blond man of about thirty with a dark coat over his oil-stained overalls. Baldwin was a foppishly dressed little gent of fifty who sported a cane and a ten-cent gardenia on his lapel.

"Go to Jersey," Brett directed without ceremony. "You'll find a red and black La Salle. Here are full directions." He handed Holland a piece of paper, "It may be at the Essex Fells Country Club, maybe back in Montclair. Find it! Talky, here, wants to buy a car just like it. Talky gabs to the garage men while Holland and Longvelt look it over."

"What do you want to know?" Holland asked.

"Why it cracked up. Why the right front door wrenched open," Brett barked. "Then go back to the scene of the accident and use your eyes. Holland, you're boss."

As the three went out, Holloway entered. Brett handed the fat detective a sheet of directions.

"Go out and check over the accident, Tub," Brett instructed him. "Get everything, eye witness accounts, local gossip on the Humbolts, everything."

"Big case, Brett?" Halloway asked, stuffing the directions in a bulbous bill-case.

"Hell, no case at all yet." Halloway smiled discreetly and walked out with a jerky gait.

viii

A SMALL piece of metal and a crudely drawn map lay in the pool of golden light cast upon the desk by the desk lamp. Brett and Dick Holland were humped forward over the map as Pat Hirsch entered. Brett waved him to a seat, spoke to Holland:

"Then you think it was on the level?"

Holland hesitated. "Sure," he said doubtfully.

"The accident?" Pat asked excitedly.

"Rated off his form it was."

"Yeah?" said Brett softly and looked up.

"Absolutely! That Humbolt guy seems jinxed. He had five crack-ups in the War and he's been in— this is his sixth bad automobile smash."

"You see?" Brett said to Holland.

The big man nodded. "Uh-huh, and that makes it different. This Humbolt wouldn't be afraid of another smash; he knows how they work."

He picked up the metal object. Hirsch craned forward.

"The latch of a car door!" he breathed.

He snatched it from Holland and ex amined it. Suddenly he yelled, "It's been sawed off!"

Brett said: "Yes."

"Where'd you get it? Humbolt's car?" Hirsch demanded excitedly.

"No," Brett explained, "Longvelt sawed it off a La Salle in a Jersey City junk yard.

"But— "Longvelt and Holland couldn't decide whether the latch on Humbolt's car had been snapped off or sawed off."

"Brett thinks he can make that latch work better than a sock on the jaw."

The cop's grin was faintly malicious. Pat looked at Holland and nodded.

"Now I remember you. You're the fella that was going to beat Tay up during the Spencer job."

Holland squirmed under Hirsch's derisive grin, cleared his throat. Someone rapped on the hall door and Pat went to answer it as Brett cleared the desk of map and car latch.

The reporter ushered in a good looking, blond man of about twenty-three. He was only slightly shorter than the angular Hirsch, but better built. His eyes were very blue in a tanned face.

He looked around.

"Which of you gentlemen is Brett?" he asked.

"I am," Brett said. He pointed to the chair Pat Hirsch had vacated. "Won't you sit down."

"Thanks." The young man seated himself on the edge of the chair. His hands played with a pair of gloves. He glanced at Pat Hirsch leaning against the wall behind Brett's desk, then at Holland industriously splitting paper matches.

He cleared his throat. He said: "I am Douglas Sherrell."

Brett smiled encouragingly, waved toward Pat and Holland, explained, "My men. You can speak freely."

"Mr. Brett, do you handle divorce cases?"

"I don't like them." Then, "Sure— sometimes."

"I —will you handle one for me?"

"What's it all about?" Brett asked. He offered Sherrell a cigarette. Holland supplied a light.

"This  is rather new to me," young Sherrell explained self-consciously. His pale brown skin showed twin dark splotches over the angle of his jaw.

"Sure," Brett said easily. "Take your time."

Hesitatingly, Sherrell said, "I want you to get evidence for a divorce. It— it's for my sister, Virginia Humbolt." Brett was business-like; he wrote the name down and looked up expectantly.

Reassured, Sherrell went on: "She doesn't know that Mike— that Lewis Humbolt, her husband has been—" he stumbled over the word—"unfaithful to her."

"I see." Brett's tone was matter-of- fact.

"You'll have to get all the evidence," said Sherrell.

"I'll give you the other woman's name and some data, but—you'll have to get all the evidence. The dark splotches flowed back to his jaw. "You'll have to convince my sister. You see— well, she doesn't know."

"I see. Will you give me that data now?"

Young Sherrell drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the detective. He tried to smile, said: "Humbolt has been very discreet, it may be difficult—" Then, "You'll need plenty of proof to convince Sis."

"I'll try to get it," Brett promised.

"How much shall I make the cheque for?"

As Sherrell spread a pocket cheque book on the table, Brett said: "Better make it five hundred dollars."

Taking one of Brett's business cards from his pocket, Sherrell consulted it as he made out the cheque. Brett glanced over, saw: "Must see you at once, Important. T.B." scribbled across it.

TAY BRETT'S eyes narrowed as he recognized the card he had sent in to Sonia Patten. He asked Sherrell to make the cheque out to "Cash," and his fingers drummed the table.

As Sherrell handed Brett the cheque, he said: "I hope you can get at this right away."

"I shall," Brett promised. He flipped the pages of an afternoon paper. "Didn't your sister and her husband have an accident?"

"Yes," replied Sherrell, "their car smashed up, All he got was a broken arm."

"Too bad," observed Brett. "If he'd been smashed up right, it would have saved you money."

Sherrell gave an involuntary shiver.

Brett went on: "I knew you looked familiar; a lot like your sister."

Sherrell's eyes widened. "You know my sister?"

"Yeah. I met her a couple of days ago."

"Is she suspicious of Mike? hire you?"

"I went to see her on another case," Brett explained. "A crooked servant gave her as a reference."

"Oh, I see." Sherrill picked up his hat. He hesitated, seemed uncomfortable ; his hand fumbled in his top-coat pocket. He cleared his throat nervously and said: "Mr. Brett— I wonder if— if you could come up to my apartment, now. My car's outside—"

He didn't finish. Brett watched him levelly.

"What for?"

"Well— you see— I've— I've something to show you."

Brett rose, said: "Wait here," to Hirsch and Holland. He led the way to the outer office, held open the door. He stepped aside to let young Sherrell through.

His next move was sudden. As Sherrell moved through the door, Brett closed in on him fast, gripped his wrists from behind. Sherrell twisted, flung himself round, but couldn't free himself from the paralyzing hold on his wrists. Brett brought up his knee sharply, then again.

Sherrell gasped.

"Want some more?' Brett muttered grimly. Sherrell relaxed. Holding Sherrell's right wrist, Brett's left hand shot up, snapped Sherrell's hat forward, gripped his hair. He pulled the man's head back. Sherrell's breathing was labored.

"Now get tough," whispered Brett. "Get tough."

His hand forced Sherrell's hand from the pocket, shook it, shook the small .32 Mauser automatic from his numbed fingers. Brett swung him around suddenly, dealt him a heavy blow across the face with his open palm, and scooped up the gun.

"Is this what you wanted to show me?"

Brett smiled unpleasantly, juggled the Mauser in his palm.

Sherrell didn't reply, didn't look at the detective. There was an ugly red welt across his right cheek, his left was pale.

"You didn't want to see me," Brett stated, "but Sonia Patten did. Tell her I'll call her if I want to see her."

Deliberately, he tossed the Mauser to Sherrell. Said tersely: "Scram!"

As Brett re-entered the inner office, Dick Holland scrubbed the thick hair back of his ears with the heavy knuckles of his big right fist. "So this is the private dick racket?" he said softly.

"If that guy didn't know his sister had met you," Hirsch pondered, "how come he wandered in here? You should have asked him that, Tay."

"Yeah, I should have,' Brett agreed. He put Sherrell's letter in his pocket.

"Maybe it's in the letter," Hirsch suggested interestedly.

"Maybe it is," Brett replied.

Holland rose. "Hell, I go on soon— I got to beat it."

"Thanks for coming over, Dick," Brett said as the big man went to the door.

"I like it— and the ten-spot too," Holland tossed over his shoulder.

BRETT piled two glasses, a pint bottle, and the map on the desk. He poured two drinks, picked up one, and studied the map, his heavy eyebrows almost touching above the slight dent at the bridge of his nose. Pat Hirsch made no move toward his glass; he remained tilted back in his chair, his long legs propped against an open drawer.

When at last Hirsch spoke, his voice was hard and there was an unpleasant arrangement to his good humored features.

"So the 'potential murderer' thing was just a gag."

Brett paid no attention.

"Just a gag," Pat sneered. you're a heel, Brett."

"I think." He spoke slowly, distinctly, "I think you're a heel. And a very dumb heel at that."

"Uh-huh," Brett said without interest.

"This whole case is a push-over!" The reporter made a contemptuous brushing gesture with his hand. "You knew Humbolt was still crazy about the Patten squaw. You knew that's why she didn't want Mrs. Humbolt to get a divorce...." He barked nastily, "And you knew Humbolt was sole beneficiary of his wife's will."

Brett's eyes flashed up at Hirsch, then down quickly, He didn't reply. ]

"You knew that put Mrs. Humbolt on the spot, yet what did you do?" Pat raged. "You suck around trying to get them all paying you fees, bleed them all white. And," he emphasized each word, "you are the guy who started things rolling. You're the guy who put Mrs. Humbolt on the spot."

"How?" Brett asked quietly. "By not telling Cartman he was a dirty blackmailer the moment he approached you to get those letters," Hirsch said savagely. "You saw what his angle was!"

"As simple as all that." Brett's voice seemed regretful. "Hell! I wish these things were as easy to handle as they are in detective stories."

"What's so tough about it?" Hirsch wanted to know.

"You can't pinch a gent for trying to kill his wife— not without proof,' Brett said. "Besides, Mrs. Humbolt'd laugh at you. You heard what Sherrell said."

Brett's shoulders shrugged helplessly.

Hirsch cursed bitterly and the anger drained from his face leaving it tired and pale. Even his gray eyes seemed pale.

"I didn't figure Humbolt would get tough so soon," Brett offered. "I thought I had at least three days."

"Well, what are you going to do?" the reporter demanded hoarsely.

Brett got up and eased around the office. "What are you going to do?" Hirsch repeated.

"Nothing," Brett said. "Not one damn thing."

"Nothing, huh?" Pat Hirsch pushed himself from his chair, his long bony hands doubled into fists. He said in a flat tone: "Not going to do anything, huh?"

Unexpectedly, Brett preached open the door, took the short corridor in two  bounds, ripped open the door to the hall. He came back grinning sheepishly.

"I read that one in a book," he confessed.

Hirsch watched him warily, his fists still clenched.

Brett picked up the phone and called a Montclair number.

Pat looked perplexed; his hands opened slowly.

"Mr. Humbolt, please," Brett said into the phone. He nodded toward the empty glasses, told Pat, "Barkeep for me."

As Hirsch poured red brown liquid into the glasses, Brett explained into the phone: "Tell him it's the man he saw in New York yesterday morning." Leaning back, Brett accepted a glass from Pat, raised it in short salute and drank. He bent forward quickly, put down the glass.

"Hello, Mr. Humbolt... Brett." His eyes found the reporter's gray ones, remained on them steadfastly.... "Sorry to hear about the accident— Have you heard from that person on Central Park West?— Something very funny's happened. When can I see you?— I'd rather not be seen around your house— Good, about nine?—  Great. And say, you'd better bring a couple of hundred dollars, in cash."  Brett hung up, chuckled. "He didn't go for that last crack,"

"So you're just bleeding them after all," Hirsch sneered.

"Aw, grow up!" Brett barked irritably. He called Susquehanna—7—6160 and asked for Miss Patten; said: "Thanks," and hung up.

"Out," he said, He leaned back again. Pat Hirsch's tone was exasperated: "Do you know what you're doing or are you plugging along waiting and hoping for breaks ?"

Brett swallowed the rest of his drink and said: "Both."

"Then what in hell are you trying to do?"

"I'm trying to get Humbolt's letters."

Hirsch jerked to his feet, cursed— a single, biting word. He went to the door, put his back to it, tried to read Brett's expressionless face. He cursed again and went out.

Brett opened a new pint of rye, poured himself a short slug. He took out Sherrell's letter, and read:

DEAR Mr. Brett:

I was referred to you by Miss Sonia Patten who has great confidence in your ability as a result of—

With a humorless smile, Brett skipped until he came to:

Failing to win Miss Patten's love so broke Lewis Humbolt's spirit that he began, and is still carrying on, an affair with her maid, Effie Short. Brett swore and reread: "Failing to win Miss Patten's love so broke Lewis Humbolt's spirit—"

He swore again, contemptuously, and stared at the passage. Then, without reading any further, he stuffed the letter in his pocket. He opened the window, put the door latch on the sill outside. Closed the window, killed his drink, and left the office. Reaching the street, he hailed a cab, ordered: "East 51st Street Police Station."

At three-twenty-six that night, Brett was sitting on a low, sand-colored, overstuffed chair. He glanced at the alarm clock at his elbow, reset the dial for four o'clock, reached for the phone. It rang as his fingers touched it. Brett said:

"Yes?... Oh, hello, I've been calling you all evening.... Yeah, they told me you and young Sherrell left around six.... I've got to see you, soon, Fine. Thanks for the client."

ix

HUMBOLT'S light coat was draped on his shoulders in a military cape effect. He shrugged out of it; dropped it and his stick on Brett's desk.

He said: "I hope to— this is important."

Brett looked at the splintered left arm resting in a sling. "Maybe you're lucky."

Humbolt looked down, smiled sardonically. "I wouldn't say so," he observed. Then: "Why did you want to see me?"

"You certainly work fast," said Brett quietly.

"Do I?" Humbolt's face and eyes were naked of expression.

"Yeah," Brett grunted. "Listen, Mr. Humbolt, I'm no hog, but our understanding was that I was to get a crack at those letters."

"Was it?" Humbolt was playing cagey, but his eyes were uncertain, watchful. Brett studied him a moment, shrugged.

"Playing tough, huh? Okay, just as long as I know." He laughed without amusement. "And I thought there was only one Cartman in this deal."

Humbolt rose. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Do?" Brett barked angrily. "I'm going to do myself some good. I got the run around from Cartman, now you're giving it to me. And I hate to be double-crossed."

"I double-crossed you?" Humbolt asked.

"You crossed me," Brett said flatly. "Well, I've got to make a living and your family has plenty of skeletons knocking around."

"How did I cross you?"

"Oh, be normal!" Brett burst out. "Stop the innocence stuff— I'm not that dumb." He considered, "Or maybe I am. Anyway, let's call it quits."

But Humbolt was easing himself into his chair. His eyes showed perplexity. "What's this all about?"

"By —" Brett stopped, sighed. He asked patiently: "Didn't it occur to you that I might see Sonia, or hear about that letter?"

"What letter?"

"Is this a game?"

"Not unless you make it one!" Humbolt barked. "What in hell are you talking about? What letter?"

"The letter you wrote Sonia Patten," Brett whipped out. The muscles in his jaw knotted. "The letter in which you told her to put your letters in a safe deposit box. The letter in which you tipped her off that someone was trying to get them, you double-crossing louse!"

He imitated Humbolt with heavy sarcasm. "What letter?"

Humbolt's face was pale, but he managed to control his voice.

"You're a liar, Brett! I didn't write to Sonia Patten. I haven't seen or spoken to her for three days."

"Didn't see that letter— is that it?"

Humbolt stared at him, didn't reply; his face was yellowish. Brett pushed a pad and pencil at him savagely.

"Write what I dictate, if you've got the guts. We'll see who's the liar."

Humbolt took the pencil angrily. Brett fished an envelope  from his  pocket, dictated emotionlessly as Humbolt wrote:

Sonia: Get my letters to a safe deposit box immediately. Your flat is to be searched. Let you know more when I can. MIKE

Humbolt looked up with a start. "There you are, Mister Detective", he jeered. "My friends call me 'Mike,' but Sonia calls me 'Jim,' my second name. That's how I sign my letters to her."

"Jim?" Brett repeated, "But it was signed Mike."

FOR a moment they looked at each other in silence. Brett picked up the pad, studied what Humbolt had written. Then he ripped it to pieces, dropped them in a waste basket. His smile was chagrined.

"I owe you an apology," he confessed. He shook his head doubtfully. "It was a damn good forgery."

"Who sent it?' Humbolt asked.

Brett snorted, "Let's ask Sonia."

"And how did you happen to see it?" Humbolt asked, his narrowed eyes watching the detective. Brett seemed embarrassed.

"Well," he admitted slowly, "Sonia was out last night. I happened to see her go and it seemed like a good time to look around her place, so—" He spread his hands. "That letter was in a waste basket. I didn't want to take it just in case she should look for it again." He hesitated, added modestly, "I did a rather neat job, I didn't want to spoil it."

"You searched Sonia Patten's apartment?" Amazement streamed across Humbolt's face.

"I knew I could sell the letters to Cartman if you and I couldn't do business," Brett said with unassailable logic.

"Did you get them?"

"Hell, no!" Bitterness flooded Brett's voice. "Maybe she knew that letter was a fake, but she didn't take any chances. Either that or she doesn't keep them in the apartment."

"But she does!" Humbolt protested, "I know she does. Who could have sent her that letter?"

"Got two hundred dollars with you?" Brett asked.

"Yes."

Brett held out his hand. "Then suppose I find out."

"What is this— a dodge to make two hundred dollars?"

"If it is, it cost me Cartman's ten grand," Brett replied evenly.

Humbolt looked at him in silence, then handed over two one-hundred-dollar bills. "If you're selling out to the highest bidder," he advised, "don't count too heavily on Cartman; he took an awful beating in the Market."

"So that's what drove him into the blackmailing game," Brett remarked.

"What can I tell Sonia if she asks me why I wrote that letter?" grumbled Humbolt.

"Don't tell her anything, yet," suggested. "Keep away from her."

"That won't be hard to do,' was the enigmatic reply.

With impatient eyes, Tay Brett watched Humbolt through the door, down the short corridor, through Swedie's sanctum. The closing of the outer door sent him rummaging through the waste basket.

He was fitting together torn pieces of Humbolt's letter when Big Mac, the detective, entered, pushing before him a stoop-shouldered, pale man whose owlish eyes were magnified by glasses.

"Here's Mr. Montgomery," said Big Mac with an elaborate wink. He pushed Montgomery into a chair. Without looking up, Brett replied: "Good. Almost ready."

A moment later, Brett signaled Montgomery to take his place.

"How long will it take you?" Brett demanded as Montgomery sat down and examined Humbolt's note.

"I'm good," Montgomery wheezed. "Twenty minutes."

"Hop to it," Brett ordered. "Sign it 'Jim.' "

Big Mac winked at Tay again, leaned his great bulk against the closed door as Brett phoned for a Postal Telegraph messenger.

x

A FEW minutes after ten, and Brett sat in a taxi at the upper end of the block south of Sonia Patten's apartment house. A Postal Telegraph boy entered the apartment. Brett's eyes glinted; he lighted another cigaret.

Not ten minutes later, Sonia Patten came out hurriedly.

Brett barked, "Step on it!"

His taxi rolled up just as Sonia stepped into a cab the doorman called. Brett swung out, wrenched open the door to her cab.

"Running out on our date?" he demanded cheerfully.

The smoky blue of Sonia Patten's eyes was almost hidden by the contraction of her eyelids. She was silent. Brett climbed in beside her.

"You act scared," he declared. "What's wrong ?"

"I have an errand to do," she said.

"Must be damned important," Brett observed, Every line of his face showed suspicion and disbelief.

Sonia smiled. "I have to buy some socks," she explained easily, putting out two perfect legs, devoid of hosiery.

Brett admired them.

"Not on my account," he protested. "You can afford to keep them bare. No kidding— where're you going?"

"Down to the bank for money, to Sak's for some socks, then home again."

Sonia read the doubt in his eyes, laughed throatily. "You detectives are impossible! You'd accuse me of some dark plot if I were merely going to the A & P for a can of beans."

"Uh-huh," agreed Brett non-committally. "Which bank?"

"The Fifth Avenue Bank," she said.

Brett leaned forward, rapped on the glass. The driver turned. "Go down Sixth," Brett directed.

The driver put down his flag and meshed gears.

Brett leaned back comfortably and announced to Sonia: "I think your story is screwy. You wanted to see someone before I came. Who was it?"

"I wouldn't have a mind like yours for a million dollars!" Sonia scoffed.

"Who was it?" Brett insisted. "Your  lawyer? Humbolt?"

Sonia Patten merely smiled; she said: "I told you the truth."

"Then it's the first time," Brett sneered. "I'll just come along and check up."

A wary look dawned in her eyes.

Brett said: "Why are you so anxious to get to the bank?" As she hesitated, Brett's eyes became opaque. He glanced from her face to the front of her dress, on to the bag she clutched firmly, back to her eyes. He grinned unpleasantly. "The truth, huh? Why are you so anxious to get to the bank?"

"You're very melodramatic this morning, Mr. Brett," she laughed. "Suppose we have our talk. Then, if you wish, you can go shopping with me."

"Who were you going to see?" Brett repeated doggedly.

Sonia sighed impatiently. "Don't be a fool!" she snapped. "I've offered to talk to you before I do anything else."

"You're a tough gal," Brett grumbled.

He gave the driver the address of his office. They rode in silence. Brett apparently still puzzled, Sonia trying to stifle a triumphant gleam in her wide eyes.

As they entered the office, Swedie jumped from her desk.

"I've got to go to the bank," she announced and started tucking white-gold hair under a brown hat.

"Go ahead. Everybody's doing it," Brett said and guided Sonia Patten into his private office.

PATTEN seated herself gracefully and crossed one bare leg over the other. In her right hand she still clutched the brown-gold-and-blue, needle-point bag. But she was very generous; her chair scraped forward as Brett seated himself so he could enjoy an unhampered view of the contrast between her dark brown, high-heeled sandals and the golden-brown of her stockingless legs.

She slipped her mink coat backward, cape fashion, and leaned toward him. The lacey edge of a chemise showed in the deep V of her plain, sand-colored dress. Nothing bulged at the front of her dress— nothing angular such as letters.

Brett examined her minutely, frankly. His narrowed eyes flattered.

"I said I'd like to work for you," he reminded her.

She showed even, white, teeth, asked: "You want to see me about Doug Sherrell's letter?"

Brett looked at the watch on the inside of his wrist. "Yes."

He frowned, said: "This Effie Short thing— it sounds screwy."

"You've seen her," indifferently. "Sure. And I'll admit she's a warm looking piece of merchandise."

As he reached for his cigarettes, he went on: "She's probably a big help to you in your racket but—" pausing to light his cigarette, he failed to notice the flush march up her cheeks— "but Humbolt's falling for her is a bad angle. Mrs. Humbolt won't believe it and no jury will believe it, even if young Sherrell did swallow it whole."

Sonia didn't move.

"The dinge is out!" Brett declared. "Haven't you some friend you can frame?"

"Frame!" Sonia cried angrily. Brett grinned.

"Young Sherrell paid me five hundred dollars to be on your side. Please don't pull that innocent stuff?"

Sonia asked sarcastically, "Are you on my side?"

"Why not— for five hundred bucks?" Brett replied. "Here's one you don't know: Someone's asked me to offer you fifteen grand for Humbolt's letters."

"Mrs. Humbolt?" she asked quickly.

The click of the office door halted him. Brett shook his head. Tub Halloway entered, saw Brett was busy, and backed out.

"No, someone else," Brett said.

Sonia glanced over her shoulder, then asked: "Who?"

"I don't know." He looked at her, called, "Halloway!"

The fat man entered, stood just inside the door. Sonia's eyes were on Brett.

"You tailed that guy?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"What did he do?"

"I tailed him to a bar on 44th. He didn't talk to anyone. Then we took the Sixth Avenue 'L.' "

Sonia half turned in her chair to watch Halloway; Brett leaned forward.

"Then what?" he demanded.

"Well," Halloway spoke slowly, "he got off at Bowling Green, walked back to  25 Broadway and went in. He went down in an elevator and ducked out a side door. He beat it up the alley, crossed Broadway and went in 32. He rode up to the eighth-floor and went into a law firm's office."

"What was the name?" Sonia asked. Sonia pointed out Brett He looked at her, 125 Halloway turned sleepy eyes on her, his face stolid. Sonia rapped out impatiently :

"What was the law firm's name?"

Brett's arm, lying lazily along the desk, whipped out, struck the woman's bag, ripped it free before her surprised muscles could react.

Sonia leapt at him, clawing, scratching, cursing. Halloway slipped an arm around her waist and held her back as Brett opened the bag. He took out a cigaret case, tossed it on the desk near her.

"Better smoke it off," Brett advised the raging woman.

As suddenly as it had begun, Sonia Patten subsided. She took a long, fragrant cigaret from the odd shaped case. Halloway held a match to it, obligingly.

Brett turned out the contents of the large bag. Among the clutter of intensely feminine articles was an oblong package wrapped in newspaper. Brett waved it gently.

"Maybe this," he told Halloway, "is what Miss Patten was so anxious to get in the bank."

UNVEILED hatred burned in the woman's eyes as she watched Brett slip off the rubber bands, open the newspaper.

Brett looked down at a bundle of letters, leaned forward to read the post office stamp, said, "Montclair," and looked up with a grin of triumph, "Tub! The letters— Humbolt's letters!"

Brett's surprise seemed genuine and Halloway cried excitedly; "Open them and make sure!"

Brett did so, glanced at the signature and looked puzzled.

"Jim," he said. Crestfallen he opened others, frowned. He shook his head irritably.

"You see?' Sonia Patten sneered, "You've made blithering fools of yourselves."

Brett's face lighted. "Hell," he barked, "Humbolt's second name is Jim—James."

The office door opened, Pat Hirsch entered. He waved a salute.

"Hello, Mr.  Brett," he said formally. "Anything new these days?"

"Miss Patten— Mr. Hirsch of the Bulletin,' Brett introduced. He went on quickly, "Yes, I've got something. As pretty a blackmail plot as you've ever seen."

Sonia stared at him incredulously. Brett continued: "The blackmailer came here to sell me these letters. She threatened my client when I refused her price— one hundred grand. Tub and I took—"

"That's a lie!" Sonia blazed.

"Just a minute," Brett commanded. He called: "Miss Swenson!"

Swedie appeared from the small office, parallel with the corridor, which lay between Brett's and the reception room. She carried a notebook.

"Did you get it all?" Brett demanded.

"Yes, sir. Shall I read from my notes?"

"No. Type them up for the District Attorney." He turned to Pat, chuckled. "I've got the whole works! A verbatim account of what was said, Halloway's testimony, and my own."

Sonia glared at him, swung on Hirsch.

"It's a lie," she cried. "I'm being framed. I'm a prisoner.

"You're no prisoner,' Brett growled. "There's the door to prove it." He replaced the things in her bag as he spoke. "Extortion is a tough rap in this state, Miss Patten. I don't care how beautiful you are, the judge will throw the book at you."

"Extortion!" Sonia cried. "We'll see about that. I'll talk to the District Attorney myself— talk to the newspapers. When I get through with you, they'll crucify you."

Brett held the bag toward her. She yanked it from him.

"That's a great idea," he agreed. "The D. A. will be glad to talk to you about Frisco Smith."

For a split second, Sonia didn't move, then she swept from the room.

As Halloway shepherded her to the hall, Pat Hirsch stared thoughtfully at Brett: "Where in the hell does Frisco Smith come in?"

Brett opened his hand. In it were newspaper clippings on the famous gambler's shooting.

"I took these from her bag," he explained. Pat's eyes bulged as Brett turned to Halloway.

"Get Cartman?"

"Yeah, the minute you came in with the girl."

"Good. Call Humbolt at the Princeton Club. Have him here at the office at the same time."

xi

AT a quarter past twelve, Tay Brett put away Sonia's clippings and stretched. He ran a lean hand through rumpled hair, said: "Seventh inning."

Pat Hirsch looked at him curiously.

"What's it all about?" Without replying, Brett cleared the top of his desk, laid out the letters, and put the automobile door latch on a single sheet of white paper. He covered the exhibits with newspaper. He placed two chairs about two feet from the desk, facing it, facing the windows behind it. Tub Halloway was reading a tabloid, Tay jerked his thumb toward the reception room.

"Keep Swedie company," Brett ordered.

Halloway grinned, lumbered out with short, jerky steps. Brett said to Pat Hirsch: "I'm going to square myself with Mrs. Humbolt."

Hirsch nodded as though he understood completely.

A few minutes later, Swedie showed in Howard Cartman. The lawyer was irritable. "I couldn't make head or tail of your man's message," was his greeting.

Brett smiled with his mouth, waved him to a chair.

"It was decidedly threatening— er —decidedly so."

"Have a cigaret," Brett invited. "We're expecting someone—"

"I never smoke!" Cartman flared. "Will you be good enough to explain what all this—"

"Here!" Brett thrust Halloway's discarded tabloid into the lawyer's hands.

Cartman snorted, threw the paper from him angrily. He glared truculently at the grinning Hirsch, Swedie brought in Lewis Humbolt.

There was a white line under each of Humbolt's eyes. It started between the eye and bridge of the nose, ran down and out toward the hard angle of his jaw, was lost as it neared his cheek bones. The corners of his mouth sagged as though they were very heavy, too heavy for him to support. From time to time he straightened them, but they sagged again.

He nodded to Brett, didn't speak. His eyes gleamed as he took in Cartman.

"Let's have our talk," suggested Brett as Humbolt seated himself. "I'm going to tell you a little story. In January, 1921, two Russians entered this country at Seattle. Their names were Pietr and Sunda Patrenska."

Cartman and Humbolt listened intently, their faces puzzled.

"You can have this, Pat," Brett told the reporter. He went on: "The Russians were brother and sister. They lived in Seattle about a year then moved to San Francisco. Pietr became a shill for a gambler named Smith, old Tarzan Smith. Sunda sang in a joint on the Barbary Coast. When old Tarzan cashed in— from natural causes— Pietr inherited the joint and changed his name to Frisco Smith."

Cartman shifted in his chair.

"About five years ago," Brett continued, "a theatrical man heard Sunda sing and booked her for a part with a road company. By this time she was known as Sunda Patren. She drifted East. When she arrived in New York three years ago, she was known as Sonia Patten."

"Then Frisco Smith, the gambler who was murdered, was Sonia Patten's brother?" Humbolt demanded incredulously.

"Uh-huh."

Cartman asked irritably: "But what has that to do with us?"

"I can prove that either of you killed Frisco Smith."

"What?" Cartman gasped; his face went white. Humbolt's eyes glittered; he didn't speak.

"I don't know whether you did it and I don't give a damn," Brett informed them with utter indifference. "But I can prove either of you did the kill."

"But motive— what motive could I possibly—"

Brett cut short the lawyer's frightened babbling. He lifted the newspaper.

"Here's the motive— Humbolt's letter to Sonia. The cause of all the excitement. With Smith out of the way, Sonia couldn't go running to her brother for help."

The sight of the letters actually there before him seemed to hypnotize Cartman.  Unexpectedly, he rubbed his small hands together and giggled, first to Brett, then Humbolt.

"The letters," he crooned. He smirked at Brett. "You've earned ten thousand dollars, Mr. Brett, ten thousand— er— grands."

"If I sell to you."

"But— but that was our agreement," Cartman whined.

Brett surveyed him coldly: "Sure— and then you fired me."

"It's hot!" Humbolt broke in suddenly, his voice hoarse. He eased his coat around the bandaged arm, laid it across his knees.

Brett turned to him: "Anything to say?"

Humbolt shrugged, but something like hope struggled to his eyes. "I haven't ten thousand dollars," he confessed. "But I could pay it to you over a period of, say, six months."

Pat Hirsch's eyes were glacial as he watched Brett.

The detective pointed to the piece of metal, said: "Here's another thing: The right-hand door latch of a La Salle. It was sawed off."

No one spoke for a minute,.

"Where did you find it?" Humbolt demanded at last, his voice steady.

Brett pushed back his chair, stood directly behind the desk,

"It was a tough assignment, but we got it," he said. He went on: "There are two nice little exhibits. The letters— motive for murder. The latch— evidence of an attempt. And they are not for sale."

Cartman made an unintelligible sound in his throat. And Humbolt's hand appeared from under his coat holding a Colt automatic.

THE gun jutted, dark, menacing. No emotion in his face, and his voice was toneless.

"Steady!" he warned.

He covered the space to the desk in one step, and his bandaged arm reached out to sweep the letters and latch toward him.

Pat Hirsch said, "Hey!" in a surprised voice.

Humbolt swung the gun slightly, shifted his eyes from Brett to Pat. Brett's right fist shot out, caught him on the left side of the jaw, snapped his head toward his right shoulder. Brett struck again. His left hand suddenly twisted the gun back, then out.

Halloway jerked into the room, a gun in his left hand. He swung it up, was about to smash it on Humbolt's head.

"Never mind, Tub!" Brett ordered. He looked at Humbolt.. The man's right hand was on the desk, his head hung forward, he stared down with glazed, sightless eyes.

Brett said: "Damn fool! He couldn't have gotten out of here anyway."

He tossed Humbolt's gun to the agency man who caught it and went out.

"When citizens like you go on the bend," Brett said in a hard voice, "it's bad business. You ball things up, pull dumb stunts. And there are always too many angles."

No one in the room moved or spoke.

"I don't know how smart you are, but if you know anything at all, you know I've got you dead to rights. Dead to rights for gunning Frisco Smith and for trying to murder Mrs. Humbolt."

Brett studied them, then asked: "Or must I show you more?"

Cartman squirmed and Humbolt was about to reply when Brett's finger shot out, pointed at the lawyer. He said contemptuously, "And that goes for you, too, Cartman!"

"But suppose I'm innocent, absolutely innocent," Cartman wailed.

"Then see that nothing happens to her," Brett advised. "I don't like you anyway."

Slowly they rose. Humbolt wiped a fleck of blood from the corner of his mouth.

Halloway's head appeared around the door.

Brett directed: "Give Humbolt his gat and let them out, Tub."

When the closing of the outer door had signaled their departure, Brett leaned back in his chair. He pulled open a drawer, took out three glasses.

"We've earned this," he remarked.

Pat Hirsch put down his drink and reached for the bottle. He said: "You've covered Mrs. Humbolt all right, but you've put yourself on the spot."

"That's what I get paid for," Brett replied carelessly.

With no preliminary knock at the door, a large man lumbered into the room. Police detective was stamped into his hide.

"Listen, Brett," he began without preamble, "Captain Moeller wants to see you. We're still not convinced you didn't do this Frisco Smith rub-out."

__________________

2: Fragile Barriers

Atwater Culpepper

fl 1928-1939

Breezy Romances, June 1936

ON A BENCH in the park a girl sat hunched up. Ross Hathaway dropped down on the other end of the bench and put a conventional distance between himself and the girl. Now and then he stole a side-wise glance at her. For Ross Hathaway, trained in New York newspaper work to take in a mindful of things with one speedy glance, had sensed something of tragedy in her appearance. А furtive fumbling in her coat, a despairing glance in her brown eyes, quick, cautionary glances to see if anybody might be looking.

The girl's shoulders tautened. Her hand had come out of her pocket, made a sudden movement toward her lips.

Ross's own hand flashed out quick as a gunman's draw, and her wrist was imprisoned in steel fingers. She grimaced with the sudden pain, strove vainly to wrench her arm away, and turned a murderous glare on him.

"Let go!" she hissed. "Is it that you wish me to call a gendarme?"

"This isn't any place for anything like that— and that's not the way, either!" His fingers clamped her wrist even harder.

"What do you know about it?" suddenly blazed the girl, in English as good as his. "You needn't hurt me like that" Her fingers relaxed, and a small bottle dropped to the gravel. With a grim smile Ross released her wrist, and brought his heel down upon the vial. It lay crushed in the pathway, slivers of broken glass and white powder.

The girl turned away her face, and choked silently once or twice. Then she lifted her eyes, defiantly.

"It is pretty hard," she observed, "if you can't even afford to die at home. And I— I spent my last two francs for that bottle."

"Darn poor investment," he commented grimly. "You'd have done better to have spent it for some buns and coffee. If you really wanted to make away with yourself, why didn't you stay at home and turn on the gas?"

"Because the landlady told me that I couldn't stay there," she retorted. "Suppose I tell you that she's holding my clothes now for room rent. And jobs!"

"I know," he nodded sympathetically, "if you look about this crowd—"

"Sometimes I wonder why I ever was fool enough to cross the ocean," she commented. "When your down to your last centime, and your pride wouldn't let you go back, even if you had the fare— I ask you, what other way is there left?"

"Listen," he drawled. "That's out, for just now. I'm just going to have lunch. Youre coming along with me."

When the girl had pushed back her plate, he demanded solicitously, "Feel a little better?"

"I ought to. Well, what now? The starving victim of circumstance thanks her benefactor and—"

"Look here," he drawled, "get this. It sounds raw enough. You aren't so keen on the passing out stuff, are you— now?"

She shook her head dubiously.

"I've got an apartment in the Quartier,' he told her. "I'vе been through almost as tough a time as you have. Now what would you say if I offered you the use of that till you got on your feet? Not much of a dump— a walk-up apartment on the fourth floor. Would you— care to camp there?"

Her eyes bored into his. "I ought to slap your face, and tell you that I spurn your vile proffer. Just— just— what do I have to offer you for your proposition? The obvious thing, of course?"

He stared angrily into her set face. "Oh, you would take it that way. Nо, you needn't pull the haughty stuff. You said that you knew how to type. If you want to pound the second-hand Remington I keep there, so that the editor саn read some of my stuff—"

She lifted her hand with a weary gesture of finality. "Oh, what does it matter? There's always a chance to pass out quickly, if things get too bad."

He laid a bill under the edge of her plate. "Take that and pay off your landlady. The offer's open, if you want to take it." He penciled an address on a bit of pasteboard. "I'll be there till seven o'clock this evening. If you don't—" He shrugged his shoulders, picked up the check and walked over to the cashier's desk, leaving the girl sitting at the table. He felt her eyes following his every movement as he paid the check and without a backward look, walked out upon the sidewalk.

ROSS HATHAWAY chuckled as he thought of the afternoon's adventure. Of course he would never see the girl again and yet he was haunted by brown eyes with lurking devils of despair in their depths, of a face that would have been pretty had not hunger and disappointment and disillusion been so deeply set upon it. What was to become of that girl— one of the bits of driftwood on the flood of a great city?

He had left the door unlocked, on the passing chance that she might have taken him at his word. The clock had struck three a.m. when he climbed the dingy staircase and set his key in the lock. He remembered that he had not fastened the door, and stepped inside. He lit the gas jet, and then stared hard! Breathing regularly, one bare arm extending over the coverlet, a tangled dark head lay on the bed. Ross Hathaway's heart began an intermittent and adagio thumping. So she had come, after all! Well, he wouldn't disturb her now— his questions could wait.

LATE the next morning he was awakened by the smell of coffee and bacon and eggs.

"So it is you?" he queried.

"Couldn't a writer think up something more original to ask ? Hurry up, indolent. Breakfast is almost ready. And if you aren't hungry, I am."

They lingered long over the meal, a blue haze of cigarette smoke rising ceilingward.

He came in that afternoon, dragging an awkward burden. With a sigh of relief he stood it up against the wall.

"What's that?" she demanded. He took hold of one corner of his purchase, and spread it out.

"Оh, Lejeune, downstairs, had this spare screen he was willing to sell. Or rather, I lent him fifty francs last month that I never expect to get back otherwise. Look at those golden storks, now. There!" He spread it so that it divided the room into two portions. "Now you can have something that resembles privacy. I've left exactly seven of the eleven hooks in that closet for you. And two of those chiffonier drawers are yours. I'll clear my stuff out of them."

"For my extensive wardrobe?" she retorted. "Really, you don't have to do anything like this."

"Don't mind. In fact, rather like the idea." He crammed shirts, underwear and a stock of dog-eared manuscripts into the drawers he kept for himself.

So began a three weeks' period of frank comradeship that Ross Hathaway could hardly believe possible.

He found from time to time a pile of neatly typed manuscripts, some of the things he had essayed to write in his leisure moments. And he noticed that here and there a subtle omission of a too obvious word or phrase gave the sparkle that had been aiming for, and turned the commonplace tale into something of real distinction. He commented on it with chagrined admiration.

"We'd make a great team, you and I."

"Think so? I couldn't ever write myself, but I generally can see what's lacking in somebody else's work. I didn't know whether you'd be— peeved, when you found I'd made those changes."

"Not so you'd notice it!"

"Listen," she went on. She picked up the rough draft of one of his stories. "Where did you ever learn to draw like that?" She pointed out the series of tiny pen and ink sketches which he had idly scrawled over the manuscript. "Why don't you cultivate that talent, as well as your writing ? Why, you can see the whole picture in those few clear-cut strokes that suggest more than the picture itself shows. It's like— like— Jack Parkers stuff, over in America. He's making thousands— why can't you?'

"My dear girl, those things don't grow out of your imagination. Even Parker has to have a model. And I don't feel like wasting money on one yet."

"You can draw," she persisted. "If I had your talent, I'd use it."

"Well, there might be a chance," he conceded, "instead of that wooden-looking ad for Spun-Silk Hosiery. Now a girl sitting on the edge of her bed, drawing on a pair of them, blinking and sleepy, dreaming of last night's dance-partner, and the ride home from Le Coque d' Argent. Some day I'll do that, when I haven't anything better to do."

She disappeared behind the screen, with its leering golden storks. He lit his pipe and smoked in perturbed reflection. There was something in what she said. He had always possessed that latent talent for sketching, but as far as for getting anywhere with it—

"Come here a minute—"

His eyes bulged with startled amazement. Jean, for so she had bade him call her, sat on the edge of the bed, whose covers were realistically rumpled, just as if she had that moment gotten out of it. She was in the act of drawing a gossamer stocking over her bare toes. She looked up at him with a mischievous twinkle.

"I may not be much of a model," she drawled, "but how's this for an idea? You're going to draw that sketch now. Get some paper and a pencil, and get busy."

The result surprised them both. He worked feverishly, and drew her in half a dozen different poses. He groaned, and called her slave-driver, but his pencil flew over the paper until they were both ready to quit from sheer weariness.

"Now I think I know where these can be placed," she told him confidently. " A friend of mine is spending a month over here. He's connected with one of the big New York publishing houses."

He shook his head dubiously.

"Optimist !"

"But they're good."

"Ought to be, considering my model."

"Eh, merci." She pirouetted about revealing a charming flash of exquisite knees.

He caught her by her shoulders, and looked straight into her eyes. She stiffened, and writhed away.

"Kindly restrain that impulse. Other side of the screen, please. This is strictly business." He wondered how much longer the idyll could last. For, straight as it had been so far, it could not exist forever. So far both had played the game. But Jean, tantalizing and alluring as she grew daily, had begun to mean something more to him than the starved waif whom he had rescued.

Jean was asleep when he came back. She stirred uneasily, her lips faintly parting. As if some sixth sense warned her that he was near, her eyes opened slightly, then dilated.

"Jean!" he panted. "This can't go on!"

She sat up and drew the covers over her shoulders. "I wondered how long it would last," she soliloquized. "You've been an angel, Ross, cheri. Don't spoil it now, please." She smiled up at him. "Really, I think you do deserve a kiss, Ross," she said. "Kiss me, if you want to."

His lips touched hers, but the kiss was disappointing. He went around to his side of the screen and flopped into a chair to think and wonder about how long they were going to keep up this situation, without yielding to that obvious impulse.

THE next day Ross came bounding up the steps two and three at a time. He let himself in, to find а startled Jean looking up at him over a magazine, an alluring Jean in blue kimono and blue satin mules.

"Ross! You frightened me! You never came in so early!"

He held up his hand. "Night off. And Lejeune is throwing a studio party. Put on your things and come along. You might meet some real color, as well as the sham. They might be amusing."

Lejeune's quarters were blue with smoke, bottles were much in evidence, his great punchbowl was brimful. А tall, curly-haired, well set-up young fellow in faultless evening clothes suddenly lurched toward Jean and Ross.

"That's Barry Webster— money, and a flair for night life," Ross whispered in her car. He was startled at the sudden fright that appeared in Jean's eyes.

Webster's heavy eyes popped open. "Jean Cartwright! you here? Thought you were doing the Riviera, or Ріссаdilly!"

It was but a moment before she recovered her poise. "Oh, I've been flitting around," she assured him.

Ross Hathaway sat down heavily in a chair. Jean Cartwright! Jean, only daughter of old Peter Cartwright, head of the biggest publishing firm in New York!

He slipped out unnoticed, and upstairs to his own shabby room. А dupe—a come on— the prize idiot who had been roundly fooled by her little joke.

The door opened softly. А radiant figure stood before him.

"Yes, I am Jean Cartwright. I couldn't really resist—"

"Couldn't resist making а first-prize fool out of me, could you? Heге I thought I was befriending a girl who was starving— and all the time—"

"Ross, don't take it that way. I didn't mean to hoax you. But I did want to find out life. Wanted something else besides museums and art galleries."

"Well, you found it, didn't you?"

"I found somebody who could be good to the girl he thought I was."

"Uh-huh. Well, I suppose this ends it. It had to come to a finish sometime. The girl I thought I had— well— I— I—"

"Well, if you have to know, I began to love the girl I thought you were!" he flamed. "Want me to call a taxi and send you back to your apartment ?"

"At this time of night?" she demanded in her cool throaty voice.

She vanished behind the screen.

Then he heard soft rustling, the fall of a slipper on the rug.

He stared at a sudden apparition. Jean Cartwright, adorned in a shimmering black negligee glided over to him.

"Ross Hathaway, will you marry mе?"

His eyes blazed.

"Marry you? You ask me that? No! I'll be hanged if I will!"

"Not even to save my smirched reputation?"

He gripped her arm till she winced. "If you had said that last night! І tell you, I loved the girl I thought you were! And now you poke fun at me because I was foolish enough to think—"

"Ross," she interrupted softly, "suppose I tell you that I grew to love you, too, in these weeks? Wouldn't you believe me?"

He caught at her fiercely. "If I only could!" he flamed. "But there are twenty million reasons why I can't!"

"There are two reasons why you can," she murmured softly. "I love you— and I think you love me."

She shut off further argument with her lips.

Jean Cartwright rose with a starry gleam in her dark eyes. "Tomorrow morning," she observed, "I'd like to visit the license bureau."

She glided across the floor. It might have been a sudden gust that swept in the open window. Or her own impulsive movement. But the black and gold screen with its leering golden storks, fell clattering against the wall.

________________

3: Streams of Water in the South

John Buchan

1875-1940

In Grey Weather, John Lane, 1899

"As streams of water in the south,

Our bondage, Lord, recall."

—PSALM cxxvi. (Scots Metrical Version).

IT WAS at the ford of the Clachlands Water in a tempestuous August, that I, an idle boy, first learned the hardships of the Lammas droving. The shepherd of the Redswirehead, my very good friend, and his three shaggy dogs, were working for their lives in an angry water. The path behind was thronged with scores of sheep bound for the Gledsmuir market, and beyond it was possible to discern through the mist the few dripping dozen which had made the passage. Between raged yards of brown foam coming down from murky hills, and the air echoed with the yelp of dogs and the perplexed cursing of men.

Before I knew I was helping in the task, with water lipping round my waist and my arms filled with a terrified sheep. It was no light task, for though the water was no more than three feet deep it was swift and strong, and a kicking hogg is a sore burden. But this was the only road; the stream might rise higher at any moment; and somehow or other those bleating flocks had to be transferred to their fellows beyond. There were six men at the labour, six men and myself and all were cross and wearied and heavy with water.

I made my passages side by side with my friend the shepherd, and thereby felt much elated. This was a man who had dwelt all his days in the wilds and was familiar with torrents as with his own doorstep. Now and then a swimming dog would bark feebly as he was washed against us, and flatter his fool's heart that he was aiding the work. And so we wrought on, till by midday I was dead-beat, and could scarce stagger through the surf, while all the men had the same gasping faces. I saw the shepherd look with longing eye up the long green valley, and mutter disconsolately in his beard.

"Is the water rising?" I asked.

"It's no rising," said he, "but I likena the look o' yon big black clud upon Cairncraw. I doubt there's been a shoor up the muirs, and a shoor there means twae mair feet o' water in the Clachlands. God help Sandy Jamieson's lambs, if there is."

"How many are left?" I asked.

"Three, fower,— no abune a score and a half," said he, running his eye over the lessened flocks. "I maun try to tak twae at a time." So for ten minutes he struggled with a double burden, and panted painfully at each return. Then with a sudden swift look up-stream he broke off and stood up. "Get ower the water, every yin o' ye, and leave the sheep," he said, and to my wonder every man of the five obeyed his word.

And then I saw the reason of his command, for with a sudden swift leap forward the Clachlands rose, and flooded up to where I stood an instant before high and dry.

"It's come," said the shepherd in a tone of fate, "and there's fifteen no ower yet, and Lord kens how they'll dae't. They'll hae to gang roond by Gledsmuir Brig, and that's twenty mile o' a differ. 'Deed, it's no like that Sandy Jamieson will get a guid price the morn for sic sair forfochen beasts."

Then with firmly gripped staff he marched stoutly into the tide till it ran hissing below his armpits. "I could dae't alone," he cried, "but no wi' a burden. For, losh, if ye slippit, ye'd be in the Manor Pool afore ye could draw breath."

And so we waited with the great white droves and five angry men beyond, and the path blocked by a surging flood. For half an hour we waited, holding anxious consultation across the stream, when to us thus busied there entered a newcomer, a helper from the ends of the earth.

He was a man of something over middle size, but with a stoop forward that shortened him to something beneath it. His dress was ragged homespun, the cast-off clothes of some sportsman, and in his arms he bore a bundle of sticks and heather-roots which marked his calling. I knew him for a tramp who long had wandered in the place, but I could not account for the whole-voiced shout of greeting which met him as he stalked down the path. He lifted his eyes and looked solemnly and long at the scene. Then something of delight came into his eye, his face relaxed, and flinging down his burden he stripped his coat and came toward us.

"Come on, Yeddie, ye're sair needed," said the shepherd, and I watched with amazement this grizzled, crooked man seize a sheep by the fleece and drag it to the water. Then he was in the midst, stepping warily, now up, now down the channel, but always nearing the farther bank. At last with a final struggle he landed his charge, and turned to journey back. Fifteen times did he cross that water, and at the end his mean figure had wholly changed. For now he was straighter and stronger, his eye flashed, and his voice, as he cried out to the drovers, had in it a tone of command. I marvelled at the transformation; and when at length he had donned once more his ragged coat and shouldered his bundle, I asked the shepherd his name.

"They ca' him Adam Logan," said my friend, his face still bright with excitement, "but maist folk ca' him 'Streams o' Water.'"

"Ay," said I, "and why 'Streams of Water'?"

"Juist for the reason ye see," said he.

Now I knew the shepherd's way, and I held my peace, for it was clear that his mind was revolving other matters, concerned most probably with the high subject of the morrow's prices. But in a little, as we crossed the moor toward his dwelling, his thoughts relaxed and he remembered my question. So he answered me thus:

"Oh, ay; as ye were sayin', he's a queer man Yeddie-aye been; guid kens whaur he cam frae first, for he's been trampin' the countryside since ever I mind, and that's no yesterday. He maun be sixty year, and yet he's as fresh as ever. If onything, he's a thocht dafter in his ongaein's, mair silent-like. But ye'll hae heard tell o' him afore?" I owned ignorance.

"Tut," said he, "ye ken nocht. But Yeddie had aye a queer crakin' for waters. He never gangs on the road. Wi' him it's juist up yae glen and doon anither and aye keepin' by the burn-side. He kens every water i' the warld, every bit sheuch and burnie frae Gallowa' to Berwick. And then he kens the way o' spates the best I ever seen, and I've heard tell o' him fordin' waters when nae ither thing could leeve i' them. He can weyse and wark his road sae cunnin'ly on the stanes that the roughest flood, if it's no juist fair ower his heid, canna upset him. Mony a sheep has he saved to me, and it's mony a guid drove wad never hae won to Gledsmuir market but for Yeddie."

I listened with a boy's interest in any romantic narration. Somehow, the strange figure wrestling in the brown stream took fast hold on my mind, and I asked the shepherd for further tales.

"There's little mair to tell," he said, "for a gangrel life is nane o' the liveliest. But d'ye ken the langnebbit hill that cocks its tap abune the Clachlands heid? Weel, he's got a wee bit o' grund on the tap frae the Yerl, and there he's howkit a grave for himsel'. He's sworn me and twae-three ithers to bury him there, wherever he may dee. It's a queer fancy in the auld dotterel."

So the shepherd talked, and as at evening we stood by his door we saw a figure moving into the gathering shadows. I knew it at once, and did not need my friend's "There gangs 'Streams o' Water'" to recognise it. Something wild and pathetic in the old man's face haunted me like a dream, and as the dusk swallowed him up, he seemed like some old Druid recalled of the gods to his ancient habitation of the moors.

ii

TWO YEARS passed, and April came with her suns and rains and again the waters brimmed full in the valleys. Under the clear, shining sky the lambing went on, and the faint bleat of sheep brooded on the hills. In a land of young heather and green upland meads, of faint odours of moor-burn, and hill-tops falling in clear ridges to the sky-line, the veriest St. Anthony would not abide indoors; so I flung all else to the winds and went a-fishing.

At the first pool on the Callowa, where the great flood sweeps nobly round a ragged shoulder of hill, and spreads into broad deeps beneath a tangle of birches, I began my toils. The turf was still wet with dew and the young leaves gleamed in the glow of morning. Far up the stream rose the grim hills which hem the mosses and tarns of that tableland, whence flow the greater waters of the countryside. An ineffable freshness, as of the morning alike of the day and the seasons, filled the clear hill-air, and the remote peaks gave the needed touch of intangible romance.

But as I fished I came on a man sitting in a green dell, busy at the making of brooms. I knew his face and dress, for who could forget such eclectic raggedness?—and I remembered that day two years before when he first hobbled into my ken. Now, as I saw him there, I was captivated by the nameless mystery of his appearance. There was something startling to one accustomed to the lack-lustre gaze of town-bred folk, in the sight of an eye as keen and wild as a hawk's from sheer solitude and lonely travelling. He was so bent and scarred with weather that he seemed as much a part of that woodland place as the birks themselves, and the noise of his labours did not startle the birds that hopped on the branches.

Little by little I won his acquaintance— by a chance reminiscence, a single tale, the mention of a friend. Then he made me free of his knowledge, and my fishing fared well that day. He dragged me up little streams to sequestered pools, where I had astonishing success; and then back to some great swirl in the Callowa where he had seen monstrous takes. And all the while he delighted me with his talk, of men and things, of weather and place, pitched high in his thin, old voice, and garnished with many tones of lingering sentiment. He spoke in a broad, slow Scots, with so quaint a lilt in his speech that one seemed to be in an elder time among people of a quieter life and a quainter kindliness.

Then by chance I asked him of a burn of which I had heard, and how it might be reached. I shall never forget the tone of his answer as his face grew eager and he poured forth his knowledge.

"Ye'll gang up the Knowe Burn, which comes down into the Cauldshaw. It's a wee tricklin' thing, trowin' in and out o' pools i' the rock, and comin' doun out o' the side o' Caerfraun. Yince a merrymaiden bided there, I've heard folks say, and used to win the sheep frae the Cauldshaw herd, and bile them i' the muckle pool below the fa'. They say that there's a road to the ill Place there, and when the Deil likit he sent up the lowe and garred the water faem and fizzle like an auld kettle. But if ye're gaun to the Colm Burn ye maun haud atower the rig o' the hill frae the Knowe heid, and ye'll come to it wimplin' among green brae faces. It's a bonny bit, rale lonesome, but awfu' bonny, and there's mony braw trout in its siller flow."

Then I remembered all I had heard of the old man's craze, and I humoured him. "It's a fine countryside for burns," I said.

"Ye may say that," said he gladly, "a weel-watered land. But a' this braw south country is the same. I've traivelled frae the Yeavering Hill in the Cheviots to the Caldons in Galloway, and it's a' the same. When I was young, I've seen me gang north to the Hielands and doun to the English lawlands, but now that I'm gettin' auld I maun bide i' the yae place. There's no a burn in the South I dinna ken, and I never cam to the water I couldna ford."

"No?" said I. "I've seen you at the ford o' Clachlands in the Lammas floods."

"Often I've been there," he went on, speaking like one calling up vague memories. "Yince, when Tam Rorison was drooned, honest man. Yince again, when the brigs were ta'en awa', and the Black House o' Clachlands had nae bread for a week. But oh, Clachlands is a bit easy water. But I've seen the muckle Aller come roarin' sae high that it washed awa' a sheepfold that stood weel up on the hill. And I've seen this verra burn, this bonny clear Callowa, lyin' like a loch for miles i' the haugh. But I never heeds a spate, for if a man just kens the way o't it's a canny, hairmless thing. I couldna wish to dee better than just be happit i' the waters o' my ain countryside, when my legs fail and I'm ower auld for the trampin'."

Something in that queer figure in the setting of the hills struck a note of curious pathos. And towards evening as we returned down the glen the note grew keener. A spring sunset of gold and crimson flamed in our backs and turned the clear pools to fire. Far off down the vale the plains and the sea gleamed half in shadow. Somehow in the fragrance and colour and the delectable crooning of the stream, the fantastic and the dim seemed tangible and present, and high sentiment revelled for once in my prosaic heart.

And still more in the breast of my companion. He stopped and sniffed the evening air, as he looked far over hill and dale and then back to the great hills above us. "Yen's Crappel, and Caerdon, and the Laigh Law," he said, lingering with relish over each name, "and the Gled comes doun atween them. I haena been there for a twalmonth, and I maun hae anither glisk o't, for it's a braw place." And then some bitter thought seemed to seize him, and his mouth twitched. "I'm an auld man," he cried, "and I canna see ye a' again. There's burns and mair burns in the high hills that I'll never win to." Then he remembered my presence, and stopped. "Ye maunna mind me," he said huskily, "but the sicht o' a' thae lang blue hills makes me daft, now that I've faun i' the vale o' years. Yince I was young and could get where I wantit, but now I am auld and maun bide i' the same bit. And I'm aye thinkin' o' the waters I've been to, and the green heichs and howes and the linns that I canna win to again. I maun e'en be content wi' the Callowa, which is as guid as the best."

And then I left him, wandering down by the streamside and telling his crazy meditations to himself.

iii

A SPACE of years elapsed ere I met him, for fate had carried me far from the upland valleys. But once again I was afoot on the white moor-roads; and, as I swung along one autumn afternoon up the path which leads from the Glen of Callowa to the Gled, I saw a figure before me which I knew for my friend. When I overtook him, his appearance puzzled and troubled me. Age seemed to have come on him at a bound, and in the tottering figure and the stoop of weakness I had difficulty in recognising the hardy frame of the man as I had known him. Something, too, had come over his face. His brow was clouded, and the tan of weather stood out hard and cruel on a blanched cheek. His eye seemed both wilder and sicklier, and for the first time I saw him with none of the appurtenances of his trade. He greeted me feebly and dully, and showed little wish to speak. He walked with slow, uncertain step, and his breath laboured with a new panting. Every now and then he would look at me sidewise, and in his feverish glance I could detect none of the free kindliness of old. The man was ill in body and mind.

I asked him how he had done since I saw him last.

"It's an ill world now," he said in a slow, querulous voice.

"There's nae need for honest men, and nae leevin'. Folk dinna heed me ava now. They dinna buy my besoms, they winna let me bide a nicht in their byres, and they're no like the kind canty folk in the auld times. And a' the countryside is changin'. Doun by Goldieslaw they're makkin' a dam for takin' water to the toun, and they're thinkin' o' daein' the like wi' the Callowa. Guid help us, can they no let the works o' God alane? Is there no room for them in the dirty lawlands that they maun file the hills wi' their biggins?"

I conceived dimly that the cause of his wrath was a scheme for waterworks at the border of the uplands, but I had less concern for this than his strangely feeble health.

"You are looking ill," I said. "What has come over you?"

"Oh, I canna last for aye," he said mournfully. "My auld body's about dune. I've warkit it ower sair when I had it, and it's gaun to fail on my hands. Sleepin' out o' wat nichts and gangin' lang wantin' meat are no the best ways for a long life"; and he smiled the ghost of a smile.

And then he fell to wild telling of the ruin of the place and the hardness of the people, and I saw that want and bare living had gone far to loosen his wits. I knew the countryside, and I recognised that change was only in his mind. And a great pity seized me for this lonely figure toiling on in the bitterness of regret. I tried to comfort him, but my words were useless, for he took no heed of me; with bent head and faltering step he mumbled his sorrows to himself.

Then of a sudden we came to the crest of the ridge where the road dips from the hill-top to the sheltered valley. Sheer from the heather ran the white streak till it lost itself among the reddening rowans and the yellow birks of the wood. The land was rich in autumn colour, and the shining waters dipped and fell through a pageant of russet and gold. And all around hills huddled in silent spaces, long brown moors crowned with cairns, or steep fortresses of rock and shingle rising to foreheads of steel-like grey. The autumn blue faded in the far sky-line to white, and lent distance to the farther peaks. The hush of the wilderness, which is far different from the hush of death, brooded over the scene, and like faint music came the sound of a distant scytheswing, and the tinkling whisper which is the flow of a hundred streams.

I am an old connoisseur in the beauties of the uplands, but I held my breath at the sight. And when I glanced at my companion, he, too, had raised his head, and stood with wide nostrils and gleaming eye revelling in this glimpse of Arcady. Then he found his voice, and the weakness and craziness seemed for one moment to leave him.

"It's my ain land," he cried, "and I'll never leave it. D'ye see yon broun hill wi' the lang cairn?" and he gripped my arm fiercely and directed my gaze. "Yon's my bit. I howkit it richt on the verra tap, and ilka year I gang there to make it neat and ordlerly. I've trystit wi' fower men in different pairishes that whenever they hear o' my death, they'll cairry me up yonder and bury me there. And then I'll never leave it, but be still and quiet to the warld's end. I'll aye hae the sound o' water in my ear, for there's five burns tak' their rise on that hillside, and on a' airts the glens gang doun to the Gled and the Aller."

Then his spirit failed him, his voice sank, and he was almost the feeble gangrel once more. But not yet, for again his eye swept the ring of hills, and he muttered to himself names which I knew for streams, lingeringly, lovingly, as of old affections. "Aller and Gled and Callowa," he crooned, "braw names, and Clachlands and Cauldshaw and the Lanely Water. And I maunna forget the Stark and the Lin and the bonny streams o' the Creran. And what mair? I canna mind a' the burns, the Howe and the Hollies and the Fawn and the links o' the Manor. What says the Psalmist about them?

'As streams o' water in the South,

Our bondage Lord, recall.'

Ay, but yen's the name for them. 'Streams o' water in the South.'"

And as we went down the slopes to the darkening vale I heard him crooning to himself in a high, quavering voice the single distich; then in a little his weariness took him again, and he plodded on with no thought save for his sorrows.

iv

THE CONCLUSION of this tale belongs not to me, but to the shepherd of the Redswirehead, and I heard it from him in his dwelling, as I stayed the night, belated on the darkening moors. He told me it after supper in a flood of misty Doric, and his voice grew rough at times, and he poked viciously at the dying peat.

In the last back-end I was at Gledfoot wi' sheep, and a weary job I had and little credit. Ye ken the place, a lang dreich shore wi' the wind swirlin' and bitin' to the bane, and the broun Gled water choked wi' Solloway sand. There was nae room in ony inn in the town, so I bude to gang to a bit public on the Harbour Walk, where sailor-folk and fishermen feucht and drank, and nae dacent men frae the hills thocht of gangin'. I was in a gey ill way, for I had sell't my beasts dooms cheap, and I thocht o' the lang miles hame in the wintry weather. So after a bite o' meat I gangs out to get the air and clear my heid, which was a' rammled wi' the auction-ring.

And whae did I find, sittin' on a bench at the door, but the auld man Yeddie. He was waur changed than ever. His lang hair was hingin' over his broo, and his face was thin and white as a ghaist's. His claes fell loose about him, and he sat wi' his hand on his auld stick and his chin on his hand, hearin' nocht and glowerin' afore him. He never saw nor kenned me till I shook him by the shoulders, and cried him by his name.

"Whae are ye?" says he, in a thin voice that gaed to my hert.

"Ye ken me fine, ye auld fule," says I. "I'm Jock Rorison o' the Redswirehead, whaur ye've stoppit often."

"Redswirehead," he says, like a man in a dream. "Redswirehead! That's at the tap o' the Clachlands Burn as ye gang ower to the Dreichil."

"And what are ye daein' here? It's no your countryside ava, and ye're no fit noo for lang trampin'."

"No," says he, in the same weak voice and wi' nae fushion in him, "but they winna hae me up yonder noo. I'm ower auld and useless. Yince a'body was gled to see me, and wad keep me as lang's I wantit, and had aye a gud word at meeting and pairting. Noo it's a' changed, and my wark's dune."

I saw fine that the man was daft, but what answer could I gie to his havers? Folk in the Callowa Glens are as kind as afore, but ill weather and auld age had put queer notions intil his heid. Forbye, he was seeck, seeck unto death, and I saw mair in his een than I likit to think.

"Come in-by and get some meat, man," I said. "Ye're famishin' wi' cauld and hunger."

"I canna eat," he says, and his voice never changed. "It's lang since I had a bite, for I'm no hungry. But I'm awfu' thirsty. I cam here yestreen, and I can get nae water to drink like the water in the hills. I maun be settin' out back the morn, if the Lord spares me."

I mindit fine that the body wad tak nae drink like an honest man, but maun aye draibble wi' burn water, and noo he had got the thing on the brain. I never spak a word, for the maitter was bye ony mortal's aid.

For lang he sat quiet. Then he lifts his heid and looks awa ower the grey sea. A licht for a moment cam intil his een.

"Whatna big water's yon?" he said, wi' his puir mind aye rinnin' on waters.

"That's the Solloway," says I.

"The Solloway," says he; "it's a big water, and it wad be an ill job to ford it."

"Nae man ever fordit it," I said.

"But I never yet cam to the water I couldna ford," says he. "But what's that queer smell i' the air? Something snell and cauld and unfreendly."

"That's the salt, for we're at the sea here, the mighty ocean.

He keepit repeatin' the word ower in his mouth. "The salt, the salt, I've heard tell o' it afore, but I dinna like it. It's terrible cauld and unhamely."

By this time an onding o' rain was coming up' frae the water, and I bade the man come indoors to the fire. He followed me, as biddable as a sheep, draggin' his legs like yin far gone in seeckness. I set him by the fire, and put whisky at his elbow, but he wadna touch it.

"I've nae need o' it," said he. "I'm find and warm"; and he sits staring at the fire, aye comin' ower again and again, "The Solloway, the Solloway. It's a guid name and a muckle water."

But sune I gaed to my bed, being heavy wi' sleep, for I had traivelled for twae days.

The next morn I was up at six and out to see the weather. It was a' changed. The muckle tides lay lang and still as our ain Loch o' the Lee, and far ayont I saw the big blue hills o' England shine bricht and clear. I thankit Providence for the day, for it was better to tak the lang miles back in sic a sun than in a blast o' rain.

But as I lookit I saw some folk comin' up frae the beach carryin' something atween them. My hert gied a loup, and "some puir, drooned sailor-body," says I to mysel', "whae has perished in yesterday's storm." But as they cam nearer I got a glisk which made me run like daft, and lang ere I was up on them I saw it was Yeddie.

He lay drippin' and white, wi' his puir auld hair lyin' back frae his broo and the duds clingin' to his legs. But out o' the face there had gane a' the seeckness and weariness. His een were stelled, as if he had been lookin' forrit to something, and his lips were set like a man on a lang errand. And mair, his stick was grippit sae firm in his hand that nae man could loose it, so they e'en let it be.

Then they tell't me the tale o't, how at the earliest licht they had seen him wanderin' alang the sands, juist as they were putting out their boats to sea. They wondered and watched him, till of a sudden he turned to the water and wadit in, keeping straucht on till he was oot o' sicht. They rowed a' their pith to the place, but they were ower late. Yince they saw his heid appear abune water, still wi' his face to the other side; and then they got his body, for the tide was rinnin' low in the mornin'. I tell't them a' I kenned o' him, and they were sair affected. "Puir cratur," said yin, "he's shurely better now."

So we brocht him up to the house and laid him there till the folk i' the town had heard o' the business. Syne the procurator-fiscal came and certifeed the death and the rest was left tae me. I got a wooden coffin made and put him in it, juist as he was, wi' his staff in his hand and his auld duds about him. I mindit o' my sworn word, for I was yin o' the four that had promised, and I ettled to dae his bidding. It was saxteen mile to the hills, and yin and twenty to the lanely tap whaur he had howkit his grave. But I never heedit it. I'm a strong man, weel-used to the walkin' and my hert was sair for the auld body. Now that he had gotten deliverance from his affliction, it was for me to leave him in the place he wantit. Forbye, he wasna muckle heavier than a bairn.

It was a long road, a sair road, but I did it, and by seven o'clock I was at the edge o' the muirlands. There was a braw mune, and a the glens and taps stood out as clear as midday. Bit by bit, for I was gey tired, I warstled ower the rigs and up the cleuchs to the Gled-head; syne up the stany Gled-cleuch to the lang grey hill which they ca' the Hurlybackit. By ten I had come to the cairn, and black i' the mune I saw the grave. So there I buried him, and though I'm no a releegious man, I couldna help sayin' ower him the guid words o' the Psalmist—

"As streams of water in the South,

Our bondage, Lord, recall."

So if you go from the Gled to the Aller, and keep far over the north side of the Muckle Muneraw, you will come in time to a stony ridge which ends in a cairn. There you will see the whole hill country of the south, a hundred lochs, a myriad streams, and a forest of hill-tops. There on the very crest lies the old man, in the heart of his own land, at the fountain-head of his many waters. If you listen you will hear a hushed noise as of the swaying in trees or a ripple on the sea. It is the sound of the rising of burns, which, innumerable and unnumbered, flow thence to the silent glens for evermore.

______________

4: The Sphinx Without A Secret

Oscar Wilde

1854-1900

The World, 25 May 1887, as "Lady Alroy"

Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

ONE AFTERNOON I was sitting outside the Café de la Paix, watching the splendour and shabbiness of Parisian life, and wondering over my vermouth at the strange panorama of pride and poverty that was passing before me, when I heard some one call my name. I turned round, and saw Lord Murchison. We had not met since we had been at college together, nearly ten years before, so I was delighted to come across him again, and we shook hands warmly. At Oxford we had been great friends. I had liked him immensely, he was so handsome, so high-spirited, and so honourable. We used to say of him that he would be the best of fellows, if he did not always speak the truth, but I think we really admired him all the more for his frankness. I found him a good deal changed. He looked anxious and puzzled, and seemed to be in doubt about something. I felt it could not be modern scepticism, for Murchison was the stoutest of Tories, and believed in the Pentateuch as firmly as he believed in the House of Peers; so I concluded that it was a woman, and asked him if he was married yet.

"I don't understand women well enough," he answered.

"My dear Gerald," I said, "women are meant to be loved, not to be understood."

"I cannot love where I cannot trust," he replied.

"I believe you have a mystery in your life, Gerald," I exclaimed; "tell me about it."

"Let us go for a drive," he answered, "it is too crowded here. No, not a yellow carriage, any other colour— there, that dark-green one will do"; and in a few moments we were trotting down the boulevard in the direction of the Madeleine.

"Where shall we go to?" I said.

"Oh, anywhere you like!" he answered— "to the restaurant in the Bois; we will dine there, and you shall tell me all about yourself."

"I want to hear about you first," I said. "Tell me your mystery."

He took from his pocket a little silver-clasped morocco case, and handed it to me. I opened it. Inside there was the photograph of a woman. She was tall and slight, and strangely picturesque with her large vague eyes and loosened hair. She looked like a clairvoyante, and was wrapped in rich furs.

"What do you think of that face?" he said; "is it truthful?"

I examined it carefully. It seemed to me the face of some one who had a secret, but whether that secret was good or evil I could not say. Its beauty was a beauty moulded out of many mysteries— the beauty, in fact, which is psychological, not plastic— and the faint smile that just played across the lips was far too subtle to be really sweet.

"Well," he cried impatiently, "what do you say?"

"She is the Gioconda in sables," I answered. "Let me know all about her."

"Not now," he said; "after dinner"; and began to talk of other things.

When the waiter brought us our coffee and cigarettes I reminded Gerald of his promise. He rose from his seat, walked two or three times up and down the room, and, sinking into an armchair, told me the following story:—

"One evening," he said, "I was walking down Bond Street about five o'clock. There was a terrific crush of carriages, and the traffic was almost stopped. Close to the pavement was standing a little yellow brougham, which, for some reason or other, attracted my attention. As I passed by there looked out from it the face I showed you this afternoon. It fascinated me immediately. All that night I kept thinking of it, and all the next day. I wandered up and down that wretched Row, peering into every carriage, and waiting for the yellow brougham; but I could not find ma belle inconnue, and at last I began to think she was merely a dream. About a week afterwards I was dining with Madame de Rastail. Dinner was for eight o'clock; but at half-past eight we were still waiting in the drawing-room. Finally the servant threw open the door, and announced Lady Alroy. It was the woman I had been looking for. She came in very slowly, looking like a moon-beam in grey lace, and, to my intense delight, I was asked to take her in to dinner. After we had sat down I remarked quite innocently, 'I think I caught sight of you in Bond Street some time ago, Lady Alroy.' She grew very pale, and said to me in a low voice, 'Pray do not talk so loud; you may be overheard.' I felt miserable at having made such a bad beginning, and plunged recklessly into the subject of the French plays. She spoke very little, always in the same low musical voice, and seemed as if she was afraid of some one listening. I fell passionately, stupidly in love, and the indefinable atmosphere of mystery that surrounded her excited my most ardent curiosity. When she was going away, which she did very soon after dinner, I asked her if I might call and see her. She hesitated a moment, glanced round to see if any one was near us, and then said, 'Yes; to-morrow at a quarter to five.' I begged Madame de Rastail to tell me about her; but all that I could learn was that she was a widow with a beautiful house in Park Lane, and as some scientific bore began a dissertation on widows, as exemplifying the survival of the matrimonially fittest, I left and went home.

"The next day I arrived at Park Lane punctual to the moment, but was told by the butler that Lady Alroy had just gone out. I went down to the club quite unhappy and very much puzzled, and after long consideration wrote her a letter, asking if I might be allowed to try my chance some other afternoon. I had no answer for several days, but at last I got a little note saying she would be at home on Sunday at four, and with this extraordinary postscript: 'Please do not write to me here again; I will explain when I see you.' On Sunday she received me, and was perfectly charming; but when I was going away she begged of me, if I ever had occasion to write to her again, to address my letter to 'Mrs. Knox, care of Whittaker's Library, Green Street.' 'There are reasons,' she said, 'why I cannot receive letters in my own house.'

"All through the season I saw a great deal of her, and the atmosphere of mystery never left her. Sometimes I thought that she was in the power of some man, but she looked so unapproachable that I could not believe it. It was really very difficult for me to come to any conclusion, for she was like one of those strange crystals that one sees in museums, which are at one moment clear, and at another clouded. At last I determined to ask her to be my wife: I was sick and tired of the incessant secrecy that she imposed on all my visits, and on the few letters I sent her. I wrote to her at the library to ask her if she could see me the following Monday at six. She answered yes, and I was in the seventh heaven of delight. I was infatuated with her: in spite of the mystery, I thought then— in consequence of it, I see now. No; it was the woman herself I loved. The mystery troubled me, maddened me. Why did chance put me in its track?"

"You discovered it, then?" I cried.

"I fear so," he answered. "You can judge for yourself."

"When Monday came round I went to lunch with my uncle, and about four o'clock found myself in the Marylebone Road. My uncle, you know, lives in Regent's Park. I wanted to get to Piccadilly, and took a short cut through a lot of shabby little streets. Suddenly I saw in front of me Lady Alroy, deeply veiled and walking very fast. On coming to the last house in the street, she went up the steps, took out a latch-key, and let herself in. "Here is the mystery," I said to myself; and I hurried on and examined the house. It seemed a sort of place for letting lodgings. On the doorstep lay her handkerchief, which she had dropped. I picked it up and put it in my pocket. Then I began to consider what I should do. I came to the conclusion that I had no right to spy on her, and I drove down to the club. At six I called to see her. She was lying on a sofa, in a tea-gown of silver tissue looped up by some strange moonstones that she always wore. She was looking quite lovely. 'I am so glad to see you,' she said; 'I have not been out all day.' I stared at her in amazement, and pulling the handkerchief out of my pocket, handed it to her. 'You dropped this in Cumnor Street this afternoon, Lady Alroy,' I said very calmly. She looked at me in terror, but made no attempt to take the handkerchief. 'What were you doing there?' I asked. 'What right have you to question me?' she answered. 'The right of a man who loves you,' I replied; 'I came here to ask you to be my wife.' She hid her face in her hands, and burst into floods of tears. 'You must tell me,' I continued. She stood up, and, looking me straight in the face, said, 'Lord Murchison, there is nothing to tell you.'—'You went to meet some one,' I cried; 'this is your mystery.' She grew dreadfully white, and said, 'I went to meet no one.'— 'Can't you tell the truth?' I exclaimed. 'I have told it,' she replied. I was mad, frantic; I don't know what I said, but I said terrible things to her. Finally I rushed out of the house. She wrote me a letter the next day; I sent it back unopened, and started for Norway with Alan Colville. After a month I came back, and the first thing I saw in the Morning Post was the death of Lady Alroy. She had caught a chill at the Opera, and had died in five days of congestion of the lungs. I shut myself up and saw no one. I had loved her so much, I had loved her so madly. Good God! how I had loved that woman!"

"You went to the street, to the house in it?" I said.

"Yes," he answered.

"One day I went to Cumnor Street. I could not help it, I was tortured with doubt. I knocked at the door, and a respectable-looking woman opened it to me. I asked her if she had any rooms to let. 'Well, sir,' she replied, 'the drawing-rooms are supposed to be let; but I have not seen the lady for three months, and as rent is owing on them, you can have them.'— 'Is this the lady?' I said, showing the photograph. 'That's her, sure enough,' she exclaimed; 'and when is she coming back, sir?'— 'The lady is dead,' I replied. 'Oh, sir, I hope not!' said the woman; 'she was my best lodger. She paid me three guineas a week merely to sit in my drawing-rooms now and then.'— 'She met some one here?' I said; but the woman assured me that it was not so, that she always came alone, and saw no one. 'What on earth did she do here?' I cried. 'She simply sat in the drawing-room, sir, reading books, and sometimes had tea,' the woman answered. I did not know what to say, so I gave her a sovereign and went away. Now, what do you think it all meant? You don't believe the woman was telling the truth?"

"I do."

"Then why did Lady Alroy go there?"

"My dear Gerald," I answered, "Lady Alroy was simply a woman with a mania for mystery. She took these rooms for the pleasure of going there with her veil down, and imagining she was a heroine. She had a passion for secrecy, but she herself was merely a Sphinx without a secret."

"Do you really think so?"

"I am sure of it," I replied.

He took out the morocco case, opened it, and looked at the photograph. "I wonder?" he said at last.

____________

5: Scoured Silk

Marjorie Bowen

1885-1952

All-Story Weekly, 8 June 1918

THIS IS a tale that might be told in many ways and from various points of view; it has to be gathered from here and there— a letter, a report, a diary, a casual reference; in its day the thing was more than a passing wonder, and it left a mark of abiding horror on the neighbourhood.

The house in which Mr. Orford lived has finally been destroyed, the mural tablet in St. Paul's, Covent Garden, may be sought for in vain by the curious, but little remains of the old piazza where the quiet scholar passed on his daily walks, the very records of what was once so real have become blurred, almost incoherent in their pleadings with things forgotten; but this thing happened to real people, in a real London, not so long ago that the generation had not spoken with those who remembered some of the actors in this terrible drama.

It is round the person of Humphrey Orford that this tale turns, as, at the time, all the mystery and horror centred; yet until his personality was brought thus tragically into fame, he had not been an object of much interest to many; he had, perhaps, a mild reputation for eccentricity, but this was founded merely on the fact that he refused to partake of the amusements of his neighbours, and showed a dislike for much company.

But this was excused on the ground of his scholarly predilections; he was known to be translating, in a leisurely fashion, as became a gentleman, Ariosto's great romance into English couplets, and to be writing essays on recondite subjects connected with grammar and language, which were not the less esteemed because they had never been published.

His most authentic portrait, taken in 1733 and intended for a frontispiece for the Ariosto when this should come to print, shows a slender man with reddish hair, rather severely clubbed, a brown coat, and a muslin cravat; he looks straight out of the picture, and the face is long, finely shaped, and refined, with eyebrows rather heavier than one would expect from such delicacy of feature.

When this picture was painted Mr. Orford was living near Covent Garden, close to the mansion once occupied by the famous Dr. Radcliffe, a straight-fronted, dark house of obvious gentility, with a little architrave portico over the door and a few steps leading up to it; a house with neat windows and a gloomy air, like every other residence in that street and most other streets of the same status in London.

And if there was nothing remarkable about Mr. Orford's dwelling place or person there was nothing, as far as his neighbours knew, remarkable about his history.

He came from a good Suffolk family, in which county he was believed to have considerable estates (though it was a known fact that he never visited them), and he had no relations, being the only child of an only child, and his parents dead; his father had purchased this town house in the reign of King William, when the neighbourhood was very fashionable, and up to it he had come, twenty years ago— nor had he left it since.

He had brought with him an ailing wife, a house-keeper, and a manservant, and to the few families of his acquaintance near, who waited on him, he explained that he wished to give young Mrs. Orford, who was of a mopish disposition, the diversion of a few months in town.

But soon there was no longer this motive for remaining in London, for the wife, hardly seen by anyone, fell into a short illness and died— just a few weeks after her husband had brought her up from Suffolk. She was buried very simply in St. Paul's, and the mural tablet set up with a draped urn in marble, and just her name and the date, ran thus:

Flora, Wife of

Humphrey Orford, Esq.,

of this Parish,

Died November, 1713,

Aged 27 Years.

Mr. Orford made no effort to leave the house; he remained, people thought, rather stunned by his loss, kept himself close in the house, and for a considerable time wore deep mourning.

But this was twenty years ago, and all had forgotten the shadowy figure of the young wife, whom so few had seen and whom no one had known anything about or been interested in, and all trace of her seemed to have passed out of the quiet, regular, and easy life of Mr. Orford, when an event that gave rise to some gossip caused the one-time existence of Flora Orford to be recalled and discussed among the curious. This event was none other than the sudden betrothal of Mr. Orford and the announcement of his almost immediate marriage.

The bride was one who had been a prattling child when the groom had first come to London: one old lady who was forever at her window watching the little humours of the street recollected and related how she had seen Flora Orford, alighting from the coach that had brought her from the country, turn to this child, who was gazing from the railing of the neighbouring house, and touch her bare curls lovingly and yet with a sad gesture.

And that was about the only time anyone ever did see Flora Orford, she so soon became ailing; and the next the inquisitive old lady saw of her was the slender brown coffin being carried through the dusk towards St. Paul's Church.

But that was twenty years ago, and here was the baby grown up into Miss Elisa Minden, a very personable young woman, soon to be the second Mrs. Humphrey Orford. Of course there was nothing very remarkable about the match; Elisa's father, Dr. Minden, had been Mr. Orford's best friend (as far as he could be said to have a best friend, or indeed any friend at all) for many a long year, both belonged to the same quiet set, both knew all about each other. Mr. Orford was not much above forty-five or so, an elegant, well-looking man, wealthy, with no vices and a calm, equable temper; while Miss Elisa, though pretty and well-mannered, had an insufficient dowry, no mother to fend for her, and the younger sisters to share her slender advantages. So what could anyone say save that the good doctor had done very well for his daughter, and that Mr. Orford had been fortunate enough to secure such a fresh, capable maiden for his wife?

It was said that the scholar intended giving up his bookish ways— that he even spoke of going abroad a while, to Italy, for preference; he was of course, anxious to see Italy, as all his life had been devoted to preparing the translation of an Italian classic.

The quiet betrothal was nearing its decorous conclusion when one day Mr. Orford took Miss Minden for a walk and brought her home round the piazza of Covent Garden, then took her across the cobbled street, past the stalls banked up with the first spring flowers (it was the end of March), under the portico built by the great Inigo Jones, and so into the church.

"I want to show you where my wife Flora lies buried," said Mr. Orford.

And that is really the beginning of the story.

NOW, Miss Minden had been in this church every Sunday of her life and many weekdays, and had been used since a child to see that tablet to Flora Orford; but when she heard these words in the quiet voice of her lover and felt him draw her out of the sunlight into the darkness of the church, she experienced a great distaste that was almost fear.

It seemed to her both a curious and a disagreeable thing for him to do, and she slipped her arm out of his as she replied.

"Oh, please let us go home!" she said. "Father will be waiting for us, and your good Mrs. Boyd vexed if the tea is over-brewed."

"But first I must show this," he insisted, and took her arm again and led her down the church, past his seat, until they stood between his pew end and the marble tablet in the wall which was just a hand's space above their heads.

"That is to her memory," said Mr. Orford. "And you see there is nothing said as to her virtues."

Now, Elisa Minden knew absolutely nothing of her predecessor, and could not tell if these words were spoken in reverence or irony, so she said nothing but looked up rather timidly from under the shade of her Leghorn straw at the tall figure of her lover, who was staring sternly at the square of marble.

"And what have you to say to Flora Orford?" he asked sharply, looking down at her quickly.

"Why, sir, she was a stranger to me," replied Miss Minden. Mr. Orford pressed her arm.

"But to me she was a wife," he said. "She is buried under your feet. Quite close to where you are standing. Why, think of that, Lizzie, if she could stand up and put out her hand she could catch hold of your dress— she is as near as that!"

The words and his manner of saying them filled Miss Minden with shuddering terror, for she was a sensitive and fanciful girl, and it seemed to her a dreadful thing to be thus standing over the bones of the poor creature who had loved the man who was now to be her husband, and horrible to think that the handful of decay so near them had once clung to this man and loved him.

"Do not tremble, my dear girl," said Mr. Orford. "She is dead."

Tears were in Elisa Minden's eyes, and she answered coldly:

"Sir, how can you speak so?"

"She was a wicked woman," he replied, "a very wicked woman."

The girl could not reply as to that; this sudden disclosing of a painful secret abashed her simple mind.

"Need we talk of this?" she asked; then, under her breath— "Need we be married in this church, sir?"

"Of course," he answered shortly, "everything is arranged. Tomorrow week."

Miss Minden did not respond; hitherto she had been fond of the church, now it seemed spoilt for her — tarnished by the thought of Flora Orford.

Her companion seemed to divine what reflection lay behind her silence.

"You need not be afraid," he said rather harshly. "She is dead. Dead."

And he reached out the light cane he wore and tapped on the stone above his wife's grave, and slowly smiled as the sound rang hollow in the vaults beneath.

Then he allowed Elisa to draw him away, and they returned to Mr. Orford's comfortable house, where in the upper parlour Dr. Minden was awaiting them together with his sister and her son, a soldier cousin whom the quick perceptions of youthful friends had believed to be devoted to Elisa Minden. They made a pleasant little party with the red curtains drawn, and the fire burning up between the polished andirons and all the service for tea laid out with scones and Naples cake, and Mrs. Boyd coming to and fro with plates and dishes. And everyone was cheerful and friendly and glad to be indoors together, with a snowstorm coming up and people hurrying home with heads bent before a cutting wind.

But to Elisa's mind had come an unbidden thought:

"I do not like this house— it is where Flora Orford died."

And she wondered in which room, and also why this had never occurred to her before, and glanced rather thoughtfully at the fresh young face of the soldier cousin as he stood by the fire in his scarlet and white, with his glance on the flames.

But it was a cheerful party, and Elisa smiled and jested with the rest as she reserved the dishes at tea.

There is a miniature of her painted about this time, and one may see how she looked with her bright brown hair and bright brown eyes, rosy complexion, pretty nose and mouth, and her best gown of lavender blue tabinet with a lawn tucker and a lawn cap fastened under the chin with frilled lappets, showing now the big Leghorn hat with the velvet strings was put aside.

Mr. Orford also looked well tonight; he did not look his full age in the ruddy candle glow, the grey did not show in his abundant hair nor the lines in his fine face, but the elegance of his figure, the grace of his bearing, the richness of his simple clothes, were displayed to full advantage; Captain Hoare looked stiff and almost clumsy by contrast.

But now and then Elisa Minden's eyes would rest rather wistfully on the fresh face of this young man who had no dead wife in his life. And something was roused in her meek youth and passive innocence, and she wondered why she had so quietly accepted her father's arrangement of a marriage with this elderly scholar, and why Philip Hoare had let her do it. Her thoughts were quite vague and amounted to no more than a confused sense that something was wrong, but she lost her satisfaction in the tea-drinking and the pleasant company, and the warm room with the drawn curtains, and the bright fire, and rose up saying they must be returning, as there was a great store of mending she had promised to help her aunt with; but Mrs. Hoare would not help her out, but protested, laughing, that there was time enough for that, and the good doctor, who was in a fine humour and in no mood to go out into the bleak streets even as far as his own door, declared that now was the time they must be shown over the house.

"Do you know, Humphrey," he said, "you have often promised us this, but never done it, and, all the years that I have known you, I have never seen but this room and the dining-room below; and as to your own particular cabinet—"

"Well," said Mr. Orford, interrupting in a leisurely fashion, "no one has been in there, save Mrs. Boyd now and then, to announce a visitor."

"Oh, you scholars!" smiled the doctor. "A secretive tribe— and a fortunate one; why, in my poor room I have had three girls running to and fro!"

The soldier spoke, not so pleasantly as his uncle.

"What have you so mysterious, sir, in this same cabinet, that it must be so jealously guarded?" he asked.

"Why, nothing mysterious," smiled the scholar; "only my books, and papers, and pictures."

"You will show them to me?" asked Elisa Minden, and her lover gave graceful consent; there was further amiable talk, and then the whole party, guided by Mr. Orford holding a candle, made a tour of the house and looked over the fine rooms.

Mrs. Hoare took occasion to whisper to the bride-to-be that there were many alterations needed before the place was ready for a lady's use, and that it was time these were put in hand— why, the wedding was less than a fortnight off!

And Elisa Minden, who had not had a mother to advise her in these matters, suddenly felt that the house was dreary and old-fashioned, and an impossible place to live in; the very rooms that had so pleased her good father— a set of apartments for a lady— were to her the most hateful in the house, for they, her lover told her, had been furnished and prepared for Flora Orford, twenty years ago.

She was telling herself that when she was married she must at once go away and that the house must be altered before she could return to it, when the party came crowding to the threshold of the library or private cabinet, and Mr. Orford, holding the candle aloft, led them in. Then as this illumination was not sufficient, he went very quickly and lit the two candles on the mantelpiece.

It was a pleasant apartment, lined with books from floor to ceiling, old, valuable, and richly bound books, save only in the space above the chimney piece, which was occupied by a portrait of a lady and the panel behind the desk; this was situated in a strange position, in the farthest corner of the room fronting the wall, so that anyone seated there would be facing the door with the space of the room between; the desk was quite close to the wall, so that there was only just space for the chair at which the writer would sit, and to accommodate this there were no bookshelves behind it, but a smooth panel of wood on which hung a small picture; this was a rough, dark painting, and represented a man hanging on a gallows on a wild heath; it was a subject out of keeping with the luxurious room with its air of ease and learning, and while Mr. Orford was showing his first editions, his Elzevirs and Aldines, Elisa Minden was staring at this ugly little picture.

As she looked she was conscious of such a chill of horror and dismay as nearly caused her to shriek aloud. The room seemed to her to be full of an atmosphere of terror and evil beyond expression. Never had such a thing happened to her before; her visit to the tomb in the afternoon had been as nothing to this. She moved away, barely able to disguise an open panic. As she turned, she half-stumbled against a chair, caught at it, and noticed, hanging over the back, a skirt of peach-coloured silk. Elisa, not being mistress of herself, caught at this garment.

"Why, sir," cried she hysterically, "what is this?"

All turned to look at her; her tone, her obvious fright, were out of proportion to her discovery.

"Why, child," said Mrs. Hoare, "it is a silk petticoat, as all can see."

"A gift for you, my dear," said the cheerful doctor.

"A gift for me?" cried Elisa. "Why, this has been scoured, and turned, and mended, and patched a hundred times!"

And she held up the skirt, which had indeed become like tinder and seemed ready to drop to pieces.

The scholar now spoke.

"It belongs to Mrs. Boyd," he said quietly. "I suppose she had been in here to clean up, and has left some of her mending."

Now, two things about this speech made a strange impression on everyone; first, it was manifestly impossible that the good housekeeper would ever have owned such a garment as this, that was a lady's dress and such as would be worn for a ball; secondly, Mr. Orford had only a short while before declared that Mrs. Boyd only entered his room when he was in it, and then of a necessity and for a few minutes.

All had the same impression, that this was some garment belonging to his dead wife and as such cherished by him; all, that is, but Elisa, who had heard him call Flora Orford a wicked woman.

She put the silk down quickly (there was a needle sticking into it and a spool of cotton lying on the chair beneath) and looked up at the portrait above the mantelpiece.

"Is that Mrs. Orford?" she asked.

He gave her a queer look.

"Yes," he said.

In a strange silence all glanced up at the picture.

It showed a young woman in a white gown, holding a crystal heart that hung round her neck; she had dark hair and a pretty face; as Elisa looked at the pointed fingers holding the pretty toy, she thought of the tablet in St. Paul's Church and Mr. Orford's words— "She is so near to you that if she could stretch out her hand she could touch you," and without any remark about the portrait or the sitter, she advised her aunt that it was time to go home. So the four of them left, and Mr. Orford saw them out, standing framed in the warm light of the corridor and watching them disappear into the grey darkness of the street.

It was a little more than an hour afterwards when Elisa Minden came creeping down the stairway of her home and accosted her cousin, who was just leaving the house.

"Oh, Philip," said she, clasping her hands, "if your errand be not a very important one, I beg you to give me an hour of your time. I have been watching for you to go out, that I might follow and speak to you privately."

The young soldier looked at her keenly as she stood in the light of the hall lamp, and he saw that she was very agitated.

"Of course, Lizzie," he answered kindly, and led her into the little parlour off the hall where there was neither candles or fire, but leisure and quiet to talk.

Elisa, being a housekeeper, found a lamp and lit it, and apologized for the cold, but she would not return upstairs, she said, for Mrs. Hoare and the two girls and the doctor were all quiet in the great parlour, and she had no mind to disturb them.

"You are in trouble," said Captain Hoare quietly.

"Yes," replied she in a frightened way, "I want you to come with me now to Mr. Orford's house— I want to speak to his housekeeper."

"Why, what is this, Lizzie?"

She had no very good explanation; there was only the visit to the church that afternoon, her impression of horror in the cabinet, the discovery of the scoured silk.

"But I must know something of his first wife, Philip," she concluded. "I could never go on with it — if I did not — something has happened today— I hate that house, I almost hate— him."

"Why did you do it, Lizzie?" demanded the young soldier sternly. "This was a nice homecoming for me… a man who might be your father… a solitary… one who frightens you."

Miss Minden stared at her cousin; she did not know why she had done it; the whole thing seemed suddenly impossible.

"Please, you must come with me now," she said.

So overwrought was she that he had no heart to refuse her, and they took their warm cloaks from the hall and went out into the dark streets.

It was snowing now and the ground slippery under foot, and Elisa clung to her cousin's arm. She did not want to see Mr. Orford or his house ever again, and by the time they reached the doorstep she was in a tremble; but she rang the bell boldly.

It was Mrs. Boyd herself who came to the door; she began explaining that the master was shut up in his cabinet, but the soldier cut her short.

"Miss Minden wishes to see you," he said, "and I will wait in the hall till she is ready."

So Elisa followed the housekeeper down to her basement sitting-room; the manservant was out, and the two maids were quickly dismissed to the kitchen.

Mrs. Boyd, a placid soul, near seventy-years, waited for the young lady to explain herself, and Elisa Minden, flushing and paling by turns, and feeling foolish and timid, put forth the object of her coming.

She wanted to hear the story of Flora Orford— there was no one else whom she could ask— and she thought that she had a right to know.

"And I suppose you have, my dear," said Mrs. Boyd, gazing into the fire, "though it is not a pretty story for you to hear— and I never thought I should be telling it to Mr. Orford's second wife!"

"Not his wife yet." said Miss Minden.

"There, there, you had better ask the master yourself," replied Mrs. Boyd placidly; "not but that he would be fierce at your speaking of it, for I do not think a mention of it has passed his lips, and it's twenty years ago and best forgotten, my dear."

"Tell it me and then I will forget," begged Miss Minden.

So then Mrs. Boyd, who was a quiet, harmless soul with no dislike to telling a tale (though no gossip, as events had proved, she having kept her tongue still on this matter for so long), told her story of Humphrey Orford's wife; it was told in very few words.

"She was the daughter of his gamekeeper, my dear, and he married her out of hand, just for her pretty face. But they were not very happy together that I could ever see; she was afraid of him and that made her cringe, and he hated that, and she shamed him with her ignorant ways. And then one day he found her with a lover, saving your presence, mistress, one of her own people, just a common man. And he was just like a creature possessed; he shut up the house and sent away all the servants but me, and brought his lady up to town, to this house here. And what passed between her and him no one will know, but she ever looked like one dying of terror. And then the doctor began to come, Dr. Thursby, it was, that is dead now, and then she died, and no one was able to see her even she was in her coffin, nor to send a flower. 'Tis likely she died of grief, poor, fond wretch. But, of course, she was a wicked woman, and there was nothing to do but pity the master."

And this was the story of Flora Orford.

"And the man?" asked Miss Minden, after a little.

"The man she loved, my dear? Well, Mr. Orford had him arrested as a thief for breaking into his house, he was wild, that fellow, with not the best of characters— well, he would not say why he was in the house, and Mr. Orford, being a Justice of the Peace, had some power, so he was just condemned as a common thief. And there are few to this day know the truth of the tale, for he kept his counsel to the last, and no one knew from him why he had been found in the Squire's house."

"What was his end?" asked Miss Minden in a still voice.

"Well he was hanged," said Mrs. Boyd; "being caught red-handed, what could he hope for?"

"Then that is a picture of him in the cabinet!" cried Elisa, shivering for all the great fire; then she added desperately, "Tell me, did Flora Orford die in that cabinet?"

"Oh, no, my dear, but in a great room at the back of the house that has been shut up ever since."

"But the cabinet is horrible," said Elisa; "perhaps it is her portrait and that picture."

"I have hardly been in there," admitted Mrs. Boyd, "but the master lives there— he has always had his supper there, and he talks to that portrait my dear— 'Flora, Flora' he says, 'how are you tonight?' and then he imitates her voice, answering."

Elisa Minden clapped her hand to her heart.

"Do not tell me these things or I shall think that you are hateful too, to have stayed in this dreadful house and endured them!" Mrs. Boyd was surprised.

"Now, my dear, do not be put out," she protested.

"They were wicked people both of them and got their deserts, and it is an old story best forgotten; and as for the master, he has been just a good creature ever since we have been here, and he will not go talking to any picture when he has a sweet young wife to keep him company."

But Elisa Minden had risen and had her fingers on the handle of the door.

"One thing more," said she breathlessly; "that scoured silk — of a peach colour—"

"Why, has he got that still? Mrs. Orford wore it the night he found her with her sweetheart. I mind I was with her when she bought it— fine silk at forty shillings the yard. If I were you, my dear, I should burn that when I was mistress here."

But Miss Minden had run upstairs to the cold hall.

Her cousin was not there; she heard angry voices overhead and saw the two maidservants affrighted on the stairs; a disturbance was unknown in this household.

While Elisa stood bewildered, a door banged, and Captain Hoare came down red in the face and fuming; he caught his cousin's arm and hurried her out of the house.

In an angry voice he told her of the unwarrantable behaviour of Mr. Orford, who had found him in the hall and called him "intruder" and "spy" without waiting for an explanation; the soldier had followed the scholar up to his cabinet and there had been an angry scene about nothing at all, as Captain Hoare said.

"Oh, Philip," broke out poor Elisa as they hastened through the cold darkness, "I can never, never marry him!"

And she told him the story of Flora Orford. The young man pressed her arm through the heavy cloak.

"And how came such a one to entangle thee?" he asked tenderly. "Nay, thou shalt not marry him."

They spoke no more, but Elisa, happy in the protecting and wholesome presence of her kinsman, sobbed with a sense of relief and gratitude. When they reached home they found they had been missed and there had to be explanations; Elisa said there was something that she had wished to say to Mrs. Boyd, and Philip told of Mr. Orford's rudeness and the quarrel that had followed.

The two elder people were disturbed and considered Elisa's behaviour strange, but her manifest agitation caused them to forbear pressing her for an explanation; nor was it any use addressing themselves to Philip, for he went out to his delayed meeting with companions at a coffee-house.

That night Elisa Minden went to bed feeling more emotion than she had ever done in her life; fear and disgust of the man whom hitherto she had placidly regarded as her future husband, and a yearning for the kindly presence of her childhood's companion united in the resolute words she whispered into her pillow during that bitter night.

"I can never marry him now!"

The next day it snowed heavily, yet a strange elation was in Elisa's heart as she descended to the warm parlour, bright from the fire and light from the glow of the snow without.

She was going to tell her father that she could not carry out her engagement with Mr. Orford, and that she did not want ever to go into his house again.

They were all gathered round the breakfast-table when Captain Hoare came in late (he had been out to get a newsletter) and brought the news that was the most unlooked for they could conceive, and that was soon to startle all London.

Mr. Orford had been found murdered in his cabinet.

These tidings, though broken as carefully as possible, threw the little household into the deepest consternation and agitation; there were shrieks, and cryings, and running to and fro.

Only Miss Minden, though of a ghastly colour, made no especial display of grief; she was thinking of Flora Orford.

When the doctor could get away from his agitated womenfolk, he went with his nephew to the house of Mr. Orford.

The story of the murder was a mystery. The scholar had been found in his chair in front of his desk with one of his own bread-knives sticking through his shoulders; and there was nothing to throw any light as to how or through whom he had met his death.

The story, sifted from the mazed incoherency of Mrs. Boyd, the hysterics of the maids, the commentaries of the constables, and the chatter of the neighbours, ran thus:

At half-past nine the night before, Mrs. Boyd had sent one of the maids up with her master's supper; it was his whim to have it always thus, served on a tray in the cabinet. There had been wine and meat, bread and cheese, fruit and cakes— the usual plates and silver— among these the knife that had killed Mr. Orford.

When the servant left, the scholar had followed her to the door and locked it after her; this was also a common practice of his, a precaution against any possible interruption, for, he said, he did the best part of his work in the evening.

It was found next morning that his bed had not been slept in, and that the library door was still locked; as the alarmed Mrs. Boyd could get no answer to her knocks, the manservant had sent for someone to force the lock, and Humphrey Orford had been found in his chair, leaning forward over his papers with the knife thrust up to the hilt between his shoulders; he must have died instantly, for there was no sign of any struggle, nor any disarrangement of his person or his papers. The first doctor to see him, a passer-by, attracted by the commotion about the house, said he must have been dead some hours— probably since the night before; the candles had all burnt down to the socket, and there were spillings of grease on the desk; the supper tray stood at the other end of the room, most of the food had been eaten, most of the wine drunk, the articles were all there in order excepting only the knife sticking between Mr. Orford's shoulder-blades.

When Captain Hoare had passed the house on his return from buying the newsletter he had seen the crowd and gone in and been able to say that he had been the last person to see the murdered man alive, as he had had his sharp encounter with Mr. Orford about ten o'clock, and he remembered seeing the supper things in the room. The scholar had heard him below, unlocked the door, and called out such impatient resentment of his presence that Philip had come angrily up the stairs and followed him into the cabinet; a few angry words had passed, when Mr. Orford had practically pushed his visitor out, locking the door in his face and bidding him take Miss Minden home.

This threw no light at all on the murder; it only went to prove that at ten o'clock Mr. Orford had been alive in his cabinet.

Now here was the mystery; in the morning the door was still locked, on the inside, the window was, as it had been since early evening, shuttered and fastened across with an iron bar, on the inside, and, the room being on an upper floor, access would have been in any case almost impossible by the window which gave on to the smooth brickwork of the front of the house.

Neither was there any possible place in the room where anyone might be hidden — it was just the square lined with the shallow bookshelves, the two pictures (that sombre little one looking strange now above the bent back of the dead man), the desk, one or two chairs and side tables; there was not so much as a cupboard or bureau— not a hiding-place for a cat.

How, then, had the murderer entered and left the room?

Suicide, of course, was out of the question, owing to the nature of the wound— but murder seemed equally out of the question; Mr. Orford sat so close to the wall that the handle of the knife touched the panel behind him. For anyone to have stood between him and the wall would have been impossible; behind the back of his chair was not space enough to push a walking-stick.

How, then, had the blow been delivered with such deadly precision and force?

Not by anyone standing in front of Mr. Orford, first because he must have seen him and sprung up; and secondly, because, even had he been asleep with his head down, no one, not even a very tall man, could have leaned over the top of the desk and driven in the knife, for experiment was made, and it was found that no arm could possibly reach such a distance.

The only theory that remained was that Mr. Orford had been murdered in some other part of the room and afterwards dragged to his present position.

But this seemed more than unlikely, as it would have meant moving the desk, a heavy piece of furniture that did not look as if it had been touched, and also became there was a paper under the dead man's hand, a pen in his fingers, a splutter of ink where it had fallen, and a sentence unfinished. The thing remained a complete and horrid mystery, one that seized the imagination of men; the thing was the talk of all the coffee-houses and clubs.

The murder seemed absolutely motiveless, the dead man was not known to have an enemy in the world, yet robbery was out of the question, for nothing had been even touched.

The early tragedy was opened out. Mrs. Boyd told all she knew, which was just what she had told Elisa Minden— the affair was twenty years ago, and the gallows bird had no kith or kin left.

Elisa Minden fell into a desperate state of agitation, a swift change from her first stricken calm; she wanted Mr. Orford's house pulled down — the library and all its contents burnt; her own wedding-dress did she burn, in frenzied silence, and none dare stop her; she resisted her father's entreaties that she should go away directly after the inquest; she would stay on the spot, she said, until the mystery was solved.

Nothing would content her but a visit to Mr. Orford's cabinet; she was resolved, she said wildly, to come to the bottom of this mystery and in that room, which she had entered once and which had affected her so terribly, she believed she might find some clue.

The doctor thought it best to allow her to go; he and her cousin escorted her to the house that now no one passed without a shudder and into the chamber that all dreaded to enter.

Good Mrs. Boyd was sobbing behind them; the poor soul was quite mated with this sudden and ghastly ending to her orderly life; she spoke all incoherently, explaining, excusing, and lamenting in a breath; yet through all her trouble she showed plainly and artlessly that she had had no affection for her master, and that it was custom and habit that had been wounded, not love.

Indeed, it seemed that there was no one who did love Humphrey Orford; the lawyers were already busy looking for a next-of-kin; it seemed likely that this property and the estates in Suffolk would go into Chancery.

"You should not go in, my dear, you should not go in," sobbed the old woman, catching at Miss Minden's black gown (she was in mourning for the murdered man) and yet peering with a fearful curiosity into the cabinet.

Elisa looked ill and distraught but also resolute.

"Tell me, Mrs. Boyd," said she, pausing on the threshold, "what became of the scoured silk?"

The startled housekeeper protested that she had never seen it again; and here was another touch of mystery— the old peach-coloured silk skirt that four persons had observed in Mr. Orford's cabinet the night of his murder, had completely disappeared.

"He must have burnt it," said Captain Hoare, and though it seemed unlikely that he could have consumed so many yards of stuff without leaving traces in the grate, still it was the only possible solution.

"I cannot think why he kept it so long," murmured Mrs. Boyd, "for it could have been no other than Mrs. Orford's best gown."

"A ghastly relic," remarked the young soldier grimly.

Elisa Minden went into the middle of the room and stared about her; nothing in the place was changed, nothing disordered; the desk had been moved round to allow of the scholar being carried away, his chair stood back, so that the long panel on which hung the picture of the gallows, was fuller exposed to view.

To Elisa's agitated imagination this portion of the wall sunk in the surrounding bookshelves, long and narrow, looked like the lid of a coffin.

"It is time that picture came down," she said; "it cannot interest anyone any longer."

"Lizzie, dear," suggested her father gently, "had you not better come away?— this is a sad and awful place."

"No," replied she. "I must find out about it— we must know."

And she turned about and stared at the portrait of Flora Orford.

"He hated her, Mrs. Boyd, did he not? And she must have died of fear— think of that! — died of fear, thinking all the while of that poor body on the gallows. He was a wicked man and whoever killed him must have done it to revenge Flora Orford."

"My dear," said the doctor hastily, "all that was twenty years ago, and the man was quite justified in what he did, though I cannot say I should have been so pleased with the match if I had known this story."

"How did we ever like him?" muttered Elisa Minden. "If I had entered this room before I should never have been promised to him— there is something terrible in it."

"And what else can you look for, my dear," snivelled Mrs. Boyd, "in a room where a man has been murdered."

"But it was like this before," replied Miss Minden; "it frightened me."

She looked round at her father and cousin, and her face quite distorted.

"There is something here now," she said, "something in this room."

They hastened towards her, thinking that her over-strained nerves had given way; but she took a step forward.

Shriek after shriek left her lips.

With a quivering finger she pointed before her at the long panel behind the desk.

At first they could not tell at what she pointed; then Captain Hoare saw the cause of her desperate terror.

It was a small portion of faded, peach-coloured silk showing above the ribbed line of the wainscot, protruding from the wall, like a garment of stuff shut in a door.

"She is in there!" cried Miss Minden. "In there!"

A certain frenzy fell on all of them; they were in a confusion, hardly knowing what they said or did. Only Captain Hoare kept some presence of mind and, going up to the panel, discerned a fine crack all round.

"I believe it is a door," he said, "and that explains how the murderer must have struck— from the wall."

He lifted the picture of the hanged man and found a small knob or button, which, as he expected, on being pressed sent the panel back into the wall, disclosing a secret chamber no larger than a cupboard.

And directly inside this hidden room that was dark to the sight and noisome to the nostrils, was the body of a woman, leaning against the inner wall with a white kerchief knotted tightly round her throat, showing how she had died; she wore the scoured silk skirt, the end of which had been shut in the panel, and an old ragged bodice of linen that was like a dirty parchment; her hair was grey and scanty, her face past any likeness to humanity, her body thin and dry.

The room, which was lit only by a window a few inches square looking onto the garden, was furnished with a filthy bed of rags and a stool with a few tattered clothes; a basket of broken bits was on the floor.

Elisa Minden crept closer.

"It is Flora Orford," she said, speaking like one in a dream.

They brought the poor body down into the room, and then it was clear that this faded and terrible creature had a likeness to the pictured girl who smiled from the canvas over the mantelpiece.

And another thing was clear and, for a moment, they did not dare speak to each other.

For twenty years this woman had endured her punishment in the wall chamber in that library that no one but her husband entered; for twenty years he had kept her there, behind the picture of her lover, feeding her on scraps, letting her out only when the household was abed, amusing himself with her torture— she mending the scoured silk she had worn for twenty years, sitting there, cramped in the almost complete dark, a few feet from where he wrote his elegant poetry.

"Of course she was crazy," said Captain Hoare at length, "but why did she never cry out?"

"For a good reason," whispered Dr. Minden, when he had signed to Mrs. Boyd to take his fainting daughter away. "He saw to that— she has got no tongue."

The coffin bearing the nameplate "Flora Orford" was exhumed, and found to contain only lead; it was substituted by another containing the wasted body of a woman who died by her own hand twenty years after the date on the mural tablet to her memory.

Why or how this creature, certainly become idiotic and dominated entirely by the man who kept her prisoner, had suddenly found the resolution and skill to slay her tyrant and afterwards take her own life (a thing she might have done any time before) was a question never solved.

It was supposed that he had formed the hideous scheme to complete his revenge by leaving her in the wall to die of starvation while he left with his new bride for abroad, and that she knew this and had forestalled him; or else that her poor, lunatic brain had been roused by the sound of a woman's voice as she handled the scoured silk which the captive was allowed to creep out and mend when the library door was locked. But over these matters and the details of her twenty years' suffering, it is but decent to be silent.

Lizzie Minden married her cousin, but not at St. Paul's, Covent Garden. Nor did they ever return to the neighbourhood of Humphrey Orford's house.

_________________

6: The Satyr

C. J. Dennis

1876-1938

The Lone Hand, 1 Sep 1911

Reprinted: The Lone Hand, 1 May 1914 as "Sassafrasus".

C. J. Dennis was one of the popular Australian "vernacular" poets of the early 20th century, notably for "Songs of a Sentimental Bloke". He also wrote a number of short stories. This one was wonderfully illustrated with drawings by Norman Lindsay whose work, sadly for this publication, is still copyright.

NOW, there are many things concerning Sassafrasus, the Satyr, which must for ever remain unexplained. But this narrative seeks to explain nothing.

We have gathered that for many years he roamed about those timber-clad mountains which form part of the Great Dividing Range in Victoria, in the vicinity of Mount St. Leonard, and not far back from that little settlement of timber-getters, Toolangi.

Here his father died, and here, for some years after, Sassafrasus wandered lonely and morose, filled with vague dreams of those splendid nymphs of which the elder satyr had so often told him— of dryads and naiads— yet knowing no companionship but that of beasts.

It was toward the end of 1908 that Sassafrasus finally made up his mind to come down from the mountains and voyage to the sea. The spirit of spring was abroad in the forest. Wattle and blackwood waxed rich in gold; from tree to tree bird called to mate; wallaby frisked in the underbush ; the laughter of the kookaburra took on a lighter and more amorous tone, and even the stolid wombat wore a new air of comic jauntiness.

And Sassafrasus, with a strange yearning welling up in him stronger than ever, voyaged down into the unknown to seek his nymphs.

At Frankville, on the Bay, on one hot Saturday in Easter time, when Melbourne had emptied its sweltering thousands into the cooling sea, he found them.

Suddenly he came upon them as he parted the branches of a ti-tree on a high sandhill. For a moment the sight paralysed the lonely satyr. A great trembling took him; his hocks knocked together; his absurd little tail wagged with emotion, and his shaking hands could scarcely hold apart the branches.

"Nymphs!" he whispered, faint with delight. "By all the gods! Nymphs! It is even as my father told me. Nereids and naiads— hundreds and hundreds! Oh, I did well to come hither!"

Almost crazed with joy was Sassafrasus; yet, even as he gazed in rapture, an uneasy doubt crept in. What had his father said about the "beautiful, gleaming white bodies,"... but these? Why, they were all colors! Striped and spotted, patterned and variegated in a hundred bewildering ways. The satyr was troubled; but not for long. What matter the color? They were nymphs! Those dear, adorable beings he had dreamt of in all those lonely years in the mountain.

IT WAS Jack Winter, the artist, who set the rumor going in the first place. A little company of painters had pitched their camp near the beach at Frankville, industriously determined to spend a strenuous three weeks sketching. In pursuit of this laudable object they passed the time between meals, sprawled upon the beach, smoking heavily, and conversing at length on the vast importance of Art and the distressing apathy toward it of a fat-headed public— as is a habit with artists in many climes.

Upon such an artistic conclave one morning burst Jack Winter, marine painter, in a state of extreme agitation.

Seeing that Jack's normal condition was one of intense excitement broken by spells of gloomy introspection, his appearance was ignored.

For a moment he gazed about him doubtfully, then, "I say, you chaps," he demanded suddenly, with a note of pathetic entreaty, "Am I all right? I look all right, don't I?"

"As right as you can expect to be considering your habits," someone assured him. "What's up?"

Winter hesitated.

"I know you chaps won't believe it. I can't believe it myself! But there's nothing wrong with me; I feel all right, and yet.... Look here, I'll take my solemn oath that I've just seen a satyr —a living, breathing, moving, blooming satyr, not a hundred yards from here."

Harry Law gazed at the speaker sorrowfully.

"John, my son," he said, "you'll have to give up cigarettes. You're overdoing it."

''Cigarettes be ——! Look here," said Winter, ''l tell you I saw him, not twenty yards from me, as I was sketching. When he caught sight of me he scooted into the scrub."

"A cripple in a bathing-dress," suggested Tom Charlton.

"Impossible!" declared Jack. "No man could make up to resemble the thing I saw. I tell you it was a satyr, or else I'm... Well, let's see it we can find him, anyhow."

But all his entreaties could not persuade his friends to explore the scrub. They counselled rest and a stiff nip. Jack sat on a camp stool in moody silence, thinking hard. Mechanically his hand sought his pocket, and he be-gan to light a cigarette. Then suddenly he scattered the contents of the packet in the sand, and slowly walked off down the town to consult the local chemist.

His sympathetic friends retrieved the harmful weeds, and lighted one apiece as Monty Green continued his learned diatribe on the banal influence of aboriginal rock drawings on modern Art.

But during the next few days Jack Winter was not the only person in Frankville to suspect hallucinations and become a subject of ridicule amongst his friends. To escape the observation of men became the satyr's chief and constant care. But the lure of the nymphs was upon him. He took risks, and the fleeting glimpses that were caught of him set vague uneasy rumors afloat.

All along the beach on either side of Frankville city campers had spread their tents. Beside the artists' camp, was a select company of bank-clerks, self-styled "The Hyacinths," who lived in a large, floored tent in company with a piano and numerous banjos, and in an atmosphere of perfect suburban culture tinged with just sufficient mild Bohemianism to make things picturesque. Lower down a camp of frankly plebeian factory lads christened themselves "The Boshters," and made merry with a wheezy accordion, many mouth-organs, and much bottled beer. Others camps— roomy tents resplendent with carpets and wicker furniture; little six-by-eights dumped unpretentiously on the sand ; family tents, female camps presided over by young and giddy chaperons ; camps of clerks, and camps of plain unvarnished blokes were scattered over the sandhills and dotted the beach above the tide line.

In such a crowded and restless community the presence of the elusive Sassafrasus started the theory that a brainless practical joke was afoot, a theory that gradually developed into a settled conviction.

"The Hyacinths" suspected "The Boshters" of vulgar horseplay. "The Boshters" blamed the "painter-blokes," and this view, becoming general, earned for the artists much unpopularity; while Jack Winter's story of the satyr, being the only truthful account of the mystery, very naturally gained no credence whatever. The local press took the matter up, and, waxing very wrathful, suggested that it would be a public spirited and laudable act to tar and feather certain "gentlemanly" visitors and ride them on a rail out of the town, and so put an end to these unseemly pranks.

Meanwhile Sassafrasus, torn between a terror of this strange and motley crowd and a vast longing to gaze for ever on his "nymphs," had the most exciting time of his life. He had found a safe retreat far back in the sandhills, and ventured forth only at dusk, or on moonlit nights. But he was seen often, and many times narrowly escaped capture.

And then an Awful Thing happened, and left Frankville gasping.

His Worship the Mayor, Alderman Jos. Crutchett, had been violently assaulted on the public beach in broad moonlight.

With a variety of headlines, the Frankville Banner shrieked on the morning after this horrible occurrence:

The brainless and vulgar pranks of the alleged practical joker or jokers, that have been annoying the residents and visitors at Frankville for some time past culminated last night in an act that, for ferocious audacity and criminal violence, is happily unequalled in the history of this fair town."

Here followed an account of the assault, and a hysterical demand for swift and awful vengeance.

"Luckily," concluded the Banner, "his Worship obtained a good view of his dastardly assailant in the moonlight, and will be able to recognise him again. The miscreant wore long hair and a shaggy beard, both evidently false, and worn for purposes of disguise."

It was Sassafrasus, of course, who, coming upon the Mayor and his pipe suddenly, with retreat cut off, had, wild with terror, butted his Worship in the stomach ("chest" said the Banner), knocked out the mayoral wind, and promptly escaped. Sassafrasus had taken the Mayor to be a devil from Hades breathing fire.

Frankville was rapidly becoming hysterical. Nervous and superstitious visitors began to gather up their tents and depart. Houses were left empty in the height of the season, and the prosperity of the town was threatened. The artists' camp was boycotted, tradesmen refusing to supply goods. The harried law, almost imbecile through the rigor of vain night watches, shadowed the artists everywhere; and Jack Winter, setting his jaw, vowed he would prove his story by capturing the satyr, even if he had to live on seaweed while he matured his plans.

And then another bombshell fell on Frankville, and indignation flared up afresh

"Robbery!" howled the Banner in its next issue, and told how on the previous evening Mr. Reginald Crump, "a respected officer of the Australian Chartered Bank, and a member of 'The Hyacinths' camp, on coming out of the water to dress, had been set upon by a miscreant— butted in the chest, even as had been his Worship, and rendered hors de combat." On coming to, he found that his assailant and his wardrobe had disappeared.

Again it was Sassafrasus. For days past he had been thinking hard. He yearned to approach one of these glorious nymphs and have speech with her; but, being an observant satyr, he determined that it would be wise first to disguise his uncommon person in the garments of some human male. Hence the raid and the sorry discomfiture of Mr. Reginald Crump.

The donning of these unfamiliar clothes was a source of much worry to the satyr. The coat and the sweater he managed after some trouble; but the straw hat was a difficulty. Finally he knocked two holes in the crown to accommodate his horns. The trousers hung not gracefully, for his hocks bulged out behind and destroyed the neat symmetry of the creases cherished by Mr. Crump. The boots he decided to dispense with, for the trousers were quite long enough to conceal his hoofs. Thus arrayed, Sassafrasus set forth upon his quest,

NOW, had not Selina Hopkins and her friend Rosie Meeks been given a week's holiday from the jam factory at Easter, and had not Gregson's Mammoth Circus decided to display its "galaxy of talent" to the folk of Frankville, the rest of this narrative might never have been told.

On the evening of their arrival Selina and her chum lingered in the cooling sea long after the other bathers had departed. The full-moon had risen when Rosie waded out and called to her chum.

"Come orn, Seliner!" she shouted, "I'm gittin' 'ungry."

"In a minit!" called back Selina, revelling in the waves.

"Bill'll be waiting for yeh," said Rosie.

"Tell 'im ter wait. I'm comin' d'rectly."

"I'm orf, anyway," said Rosie, turning toward the dressing shed, all unconscious of the eager, bearded face that peered at her from between the branches of a banksia close by.

Sassafrasus cautiously descended towards the beach. Now was his chance! The shore was deserted, and but one solitary nymph— adorable being! — sported in the moonlit waves. A red and white nymph it was, with stripes of blue. (Selina had spent much trouble selecting that bathing dress). The satyr rested upon a heap of seaweed where he could intercept her as she came from the water.

Selina lingered yet awhile, but at length came out along the beach and was passing him unheeding.

"Nymph!" breathed Sassafrasus.

Selina stopped and looked him over.

" 'Ullo, Whiskers," she said pleasantly. "Who yer callin' names?"

Then, pointing derisively at his trousers, she demanded, "Spare me days! Where did you get them?"

Sassafrasus glanced at the offending garments.

"I— l found them," he faltered.

"Better lose 'em again," advised Selina. "So long. I gotter git me tea."

"Ah, nymph, nymph!" pleaded the satyr, trembling with emotion, "linger awhile. If you only knew how many long and lonely years I have dreamed of this moment!"

"Chuck it," said Selina promptly.

"Who d'yer think yer torkin' to? I dunno you frum a bar er soap."

"Ah, sweet nymph, but I have known you all my life. Listen," and producing his pipes the satyr began to play.

It was a strange, unearthly air that he played, full of a wild yearning and of all the amorous voices of spring. Selina listened in wide-eyed wonder, and at the end stood staring at the strange musician in amazement.

"That's boshter!" she gasped at length. "I never 'eard no one play a mouth-organ like that before. You ain't an Orstralian, are yer?"

"I'm a satyr," said Sassafrasus. "Ah, fair nymph—"

"Satyr?" said Selina. "Never 'eard of 'em. Sorter Dago, I suppose. We got some Dagos at the fact'ry, but they ain't like you. Play us another choon. "

But, before the satyr could begin again, a hoarse voice called from an adjacent sandhill.

"Se-lin-er! Who yer smoodgin' with down there?"

"That's Bill!" said Selina, hurriedly moving off. "See yer tomorrer— p'raps," she threw back over her shoulder carelessly.

"To-morrow, sweet nymph, to-morrow!" cried Sassafrasus, preparing to flee. "To-morrow at moonrise I shall be waiting here." And, as he scurried into the scrub, Bill arrived, and the trouble began.

It is hateful to have to record the perfidy of Selina in all its mercenary coarseness, but for the sake of the story it must be told.

For to Selina and her enraged lover, Bill, as they quarrelled on the beach, came John Winter, artist, moodily sauntering, with eye a-cock for satyrs, and a week-long, unsatisfied craving for cigarettes.

Winter, democratic in his tastes, had foregathered with Bill in "The Boshters" camp.

"In trouble, Bill?" he asked.

"Trouble? 'Strewth!" said Bill. "Would yer call it trouble if you had a meet on with a tart an' you find 'er smoodgin' with a wire-whiskered bloke with a mouth-orgin. A bloomin' Dago—"

" 'E wasn't a Dago," said Selina. " 'E was a satyr. 'E tole me so."

"What!" yelled Winter, jumping with excitement.

"A satyr," repeated Selina. " 'E sed so. 'Is clothes didn't fit 'im an' 'is trousis stuck out be'ind like as if 'is legs was back ter front. Nice cove for a bloke ter be jealous of," she added witheringly. "But 'e could play the mouth-organ."

"Garn," said Bill. "Wot about tomorrer night? I 'eard, me lady."

Selina waxed disdainful.

"The gentleman sed 'e'd be 'ere tomorrer night, if that's wot yer want ter know. An' if some people don't stop gittin' too uppish—"

"Look here," said Winter, grasping the girl's arm in excitement, "do you want to earn twenty pounds? Don't waste a moment. Go and get dressed and come with me."

But Bill demurred.

"Is this all on the square?" he asked. ''l don't understan'."

"It's all right," said Winter. "You may come along, too. I merely want to introduce Miss— er —your friend, to Mr. Gregson at the circus. The twenty pounds is as good as earned."

"Orright, If you say so. But I'd like to stop an' punch that bloke's 'ead," said Bill regretfully.

TO SASSAFRASUS, as he waited in the moonlight on the following night, came Selina, half reluctantly it seemed to him, yet with a delicious coyness that was adorable.

"Oh, nymph, sweet nymph! You have kept the tryst," began the satyr.

"Chuck that," said Selina shortly. "Sit down 'ere an' play us another choon."

Sassafrasus obeyed; but he had scarce begun, when out from the sandhills rushed a score of men, who, surrounding him, cut off all retreat. For a while the satyr fought savagely, and more than one assailant lay on the sands gasping, with his hands about his middle.

"Hold that fool back!" shouted a large, oily man, with silver waistcoat buttons, who directed the attack. And he pointed to where Bill, in the grasp of two circus attendants, roared to them to "let me at him."

At last, Sassafrasus, bound with ropes, lay glaring at them from the shingle.

"Take him round the back way," directed Mr. Gregson, of the buttons. "We don't want the crowd after us. Put him in that empty leopard cage for to-night. You, Peter, see about that signboard. We'll want it in the mornin',"

And next morning, as Gregson's Mammoth Combined Circus and Menagerie moved in procession out of Frankville, Sassafrasus the undeceived— Sassafrasus the misogynist and ardent hater of all nymphs, plain or striped, glared at the crowd from between the bars of a cage that bore above in huge red letters :

THE ONLY LIVING SATYR

ON EARTH!

Of the events that followed there is no very coherent account. But if Selina was the cause of the satyr's capture, she was also at least the indirect means of his eventual escape. For despite the twenty pounds safely stowed in her reticule, the sight of caged, unhappy Sassafrasus had moved that young lady to remorseful tears, which so aroused the jealous anger of Bill that, filling himself to the fighting mark with beer, he pursued the circus into the next town.

No one knows exactly what happened; but it appears that, late at night, Bill, having overpowered an equally unsober circus attendant, forced his way into the satyr's cage. But, before the enraged lover could wreak his vengeance, Sassafrasus sprang past him and disappeared.

He has never been seen or heard of since; and, excepting Mr. Gregson, no one seems to be grieved about it. Jack Winter, his reputation and his cigarettes regained, is quite content. As for Selina, as she often remarks to her friend Rosie Meeks, " 'E mighter bin a satyr or 'e mighter bin a Dago; but wotever 'e was 'e could play the mouth-organ."

_______________

7: The Scruples of Harold

Alice and Claude Askew

1874-1917 & 1865-1917

First published 1911

I HAVE BEEN maid to many ladies, I, Clementine Lafosse, but of all my mistresses none were so charming, so sympathetic as she whom I still serve, Madame— ah, but I will not give her present name yet, for that is part of my story. She was Mrs. Verrall when I entered her service— Maisie, as all her friends called her, and she had friends, parbleu! for to see her was to love her.

It was quite a little romance Madame Verrall's second marriage, and, ah, I love romance. I am not a Frenchwoman for nothing.

I do not think I need describe my mistress to you at length. It will be sufficient to say that she is petite and winsome and dark, that she flutters like a humming-bird, and that she has the merriest laugh that you can imagine.

Madame Maisie— she would not mind even if she knew I called her so— was always one of those to enjoy her life, to enjoy it to the full.

Mme. Verrall was always nice to me, even from the very first, and she soon saw that she could take me into her confidence, that I was not one of those who chatter about my mistress's affairs to the other servants. When I was dressing her hair for dinner she used to tell me all that she had been doing during the day, and, with her, it was not as I have had it with others— my Madame had no guilty secrets, nothing that she need want to hide from the world, and her intrigues and schemes— of which I will tell— were as innocent as herself.

But though she smiled and laughed and enjoyed her life, the world had not always been very kind to her— ah, mais non. When she was but a child of twelve her father had lost all his money and died soon after, of grief, poor man. Her mamma was a proud woman, for the family— the name was Leslie— was an old one, and Mrs. Leslie had been a society lady— grande dame—and so it was hard for her, very hard, to have to go away from London and live in a cottage in a sleepy little country village. There were sisters, too, and brothers, and life was difficult in those days when there were many mouths to be fed and little money to buy food with.

And so it was when she was barely eighteen that the squire of the great Manor House close by saw her and fell in love with her. Imagine it for yourselves. He was an old man of over sixty, and he wanted to marry with this spring-flower just bursting into blossom! Ah, but I call it wicked. But, voila! what would you have? Monsieur Verrall, he was so very rich, and poor Madame Leslie, she had such great need of money.

And so little Maisie, she was sacrificed, and I don't think she knew what it meant for her to be the wife of this old man. She was still so much a child and she did not know love. She was a beautiful bride, they say, and there were many in the church who frowned when they saw her so young and fragrant and smiling, walking down the aisle upon the arm of that old man, whose shoulders were hunched together, and whose hands trembled as if he had the palsy.

He was good to his wife, this old man— I will say that for him— and good to all her family, too. Mme. Leslie, she was able to return to London and to the life that her heart craved for. Mms. Maisie's two sisters made their bow at Court only a little while after the young bride herself— they were handsome girls, too, and they soon made brilliant marriages to young men who loved them and whom they loved. It was all the doing of my young Madame, of course, but I don't think they remembered that.

It was the same thing with Mme. Leslie's two sons. They both obtained good positions, while, had it not been for their little sister, who had given herself in marriage to a man old enough to be her father, they might both of them to-day have been clerks in the City, working hard for a miserable weekly wage.

And now I must tell you something of this old Monsieur Verrall, who was Maisie's husband. He was a great connoisseur of art, and he had collected together at the Manor House a gallery of pictures that was worth thousands— nay, hundreds of thousands of pounds. I do not think I exaggerate. It was his hobby to invest his money in that way, and he was a very, very wealthy man. People came from great distances to see the pictures at Hingley Manor, and as Monsieur Verrall grew older and more feeble his passion for art seemed to increase, and he spent his money more and more lavishly.

Well, imagine it for yourselves, the old man ruined himself in this way— partly, at least, for there were certainly other causes that led to the loss of his large capital. Monsieur Verrall awoke one morning to the fact that he had but little left in all the world except his property of Hingley and his wonderful collection of pictures. It was necessary that these valuable works of art should go to the hammer.

Monsieur Verrall would not submit to the sale. His pictures were as dear to him as children. He broke his heart over them, and one morning he was found lying dead upon the floor of the gallery where his collection hung.

Mme. Maisie was a widow, and she cried for her old husband, who had been so good to her.

The picture gallery was left undisturbed that year, for Mme. Maisie could not reconcile it to her heart to hurt the memory of her dead husband. When all his affairs were cleared up there was enough for her to live upon comfortably, but of course all the world looked upon her as a rich young widow, a very rich young widow, for were not those pictures worth a big fortune? And they could be turned into money at any time. It was as good as having so much gold in the bank.

Well, Mme. Maisie travelled abroad for a few months, then she returned to England, taking Paris on the way, considerably, I venture to say, to the benefit of the milliners. She had reached the stage of grey and white frocks by now, and the subdued colouring of her dove-like robes suited her. I think I said that she was dark, but I did not mention how clear and white was her skin, and her eyes, they were a regular golden brown. Ah, but she was a pretty woman, and when she engaged me— for it was then that I entered her service— I knew at once that I should be fond of her.

Well, I travelled with Madame to England, and it was not long, as I have said, before she took me fully into her confidence.

And now I must tell you how my mistress fell in love— ah, but it was delightful to hear her speak of it, for you must remember that she was still quite a girl and she had never yet known what real love is.

The man was poor, well-born, and, of course, good-looking. But then he had the misfortune to be proud and to object to marrying money.

And that was the trouble, you see, for of course Mme. Maisie was regarded everywhere as so rich a widow, and because of that this stupid Monsieur Harold Foster would not propose to her.

And he loved her all the while. Of that neither my mistress, nor I, nor anyone else, could have any doubt. He adored the very ground that Mme. Maisie trod, but that only made him more obstinate.

Monsieur Foster was a barrister by profession, and he was not doing badly at all. But still his income was a tiny one when compared with the thousands and thousands of pounds locked away in the Picture Gallery at Hingley Manor.

Moreover, the time had come when Mme. Maisie felt that the pictures must be sold and she must realise her fortune. Everyone told her so, and Mme. Leslie, her mamma, was more insistent than the rest. My mistress, now that she was independent, was inclined to be just a trifle extravagant, too. Who shall blame her, when she had London at her feet, and since she was so young and happy in her life?

Well, Mme. Maisie determined that she would have a big gathering at the Manor before the pictures were dispersed, and so a large house-party was invited. It was more or less a family party, for Mme. Leslie was to be there as well as my mistress's two married sisters and her brothers. Then, of course, there was Monsieur Harold Foster, who, since he had not ventured to propose in London, might perhaps pluck up his courage to do so in the country. So, at least, my little Madame hoped. And she confided her hopes to me.

"I'd give it all up for his sake," she whispered, "I would, indeed, Clementine."

It was a merry house-party at the Manor. The month was October, and there was shooting for the men, while the ladies would ride and drive about the country, and in the evenings some would play bridge, while the younger people would have childish games, so that the walls of the old house would echo with laughter such as had not been heard under that roof for years and years.

But Monsieur Harold would not come to the point, although I know— for Mme. Maisie told me so— that her favourite brother had done his best for her, and had even, half-jokingly and half in earnest, dared to speak upon the subject to his friend.

Monsieur Harold, it appeared, had told Madame's brother to "shut up." "You know perfectly well," he said, "that I wouldn't dream of asking a woman with all that money to marry me."

"I should have imagined anybody would want to marry Maisie, even without the fortune of which you are so contemptuous, Harold," George Leslie ventured to protest.

"Ah! without her fortune, yes." Monsieur Harold's voice softened wonderfully. "If she hadn't a penny I'd ask her to marry me to-morrow; but, as it is, George, old man, we won't discuss this again. My mind's made up."

"And so, I expect, is Maisie's," remarked the other dryly. For he knew what a determined little person his sister could be when she had set her mind upon anything.

But that was the position, and a whole fortnight passed without anything happening. Nor would that pig-headed Monsieur Harold budge an inch from the attitude he had taken up.

And of course Mme. Maisie had other admirers. That complicated the situation. There was one especially, a certain Monsieur Donaldson, who also was among the guests at the Manor. He had no prejudices against marrying a woman with a fortune, not he. On the contrary, I'm quite sure that it was the fortune which attracted him even more than the charms of Mme. Maisie herself. I did not like this Monsieur Donaldson.

I ventured to tell her once what I thought of this fine Monsieur Donaldson, but there— she would not listen to a word against him.

No, not even though I ventured to hint to her what I was quite sure of— that Monsieur Donaldson was a flirt. For, at the same time that he had his eyes upon my mistress, he was making himself agreeable to another young lady who was of the party, a tall, fair girl named Clara Brittain— her name was an appropriate one, for she was one of your true English type— ah, mais tout a fait. She played lawn-tennis and hockey and she was altogether the converse of my mistress.

"I'm going to have one more try, Clementine," said my Madame to me one evening, as she sat before her dressing-table, while I was busy with her hair. "I am going to give Mr. Harold just a last chance. If he doesn't avail himself of it, well, I'm afraid there's nothing more to be done."

Confident, I'm sure, of her own power. "I'm going to frighten him into an avowal," she continued. "Mr. Harold is going to save my life."

I raised my hands with a little scream of terror. "Madame would risk her life?"

"I'm not sure about its going quite as far as that, Clementine," she responded; "as long as he thinks he has saved my life it will be quite enough. I'm going to take him out for a drive in my new motor to-morrow— just he and I— and we shall see if I can't manage to run the car into a bank or get into some sort of difficulty that will look far worse than it really is. And then if I faint just exactly at the right moment, when there's nobody else to look after me but just he— well, I really think that Master Harold may find himself compelled to speak."

But, alas! my lady's little plan, so fly mistress— the little plan was never destined to be carried out at all, for as it happened, Mme. Maisie's life was to be really and seriously threatened, and that within but a few hours of the time when she had spoken so jestingly.

I will tell you how it happened. Hingley Manor caught fire that night. It was after we had all gone to bed, and the outbreak was not discovered until it had got firm hold of the old house.

Mme. Maisie had already succeeded in making her escape. I found her upon the lawn, pale, but trying to make the best of things, and wrapped up in a dream of a tea-gown into which she had managed to slip. I remember thinking even then how perfectly sweet she looked.

A little later, when I returned to the spot where I had left my mistress, I found that she was not there. I don't know why I should suddenly have been frightened, but I was— oh, horrible frightened— and I had an intuition that she was in danger.

Of course, Madame may have been in a hundred and one other places, but I felt— I knew— that she had gone back to the house, which was now little more than a furnace. I had no doubt of it whatever, when Mademoiselle Brittain came up to me and asked anxiously if I had seen Mme. Verrall.

"She was running about not five minutes ago," Mlle. Brittain said, "asking everyone if they had seen her little dog Chloe. But no one had."

A shudder ran through me right from head to foot. Chloe was my mistress's pet Spitz, and she adored the little animal. Chloe must have been left behind in the burning house. Mme. Maisie had gone to find Chloe.

And it was at that moment that a window was flung open somewhere upon the first floor at the far end of the building, and I saw my mistress's face and that she had the little dog clasped in her arms. And it was then that somebody rushed past me— a man— though, at the moment, I could not recognize his face, and while we all stood there helplessly he got a ladder up against the side of the house— in spite of the flames and the smoke— and he was soon climbing up it to the window at which my mistress stood.

And it was not till a minute or two after my mistress and her rescuer had reached the ground, and that Mme. Maisie had been given into the charge of her friends, that I realized— ah, mon Dieu, can you imagine my feelings? For the man who had mounted the ladder turned towards me, and for the first time I saw his face.

It was not Monsieur Harold at all— it was Monsieur Donaldson!

For now, I said to myself, the matter can be no longer in doubt. It will be Monsieur Donaldson who will claim my mistress's hand, and it is well, for he is a brave man and deserves his good fortune. Not that Monsieur Harold would have been less brave had fortune brought him to the spot. Of that, ma foi, I am quite certain, for, as it was, poor fellow, he risked his life again and again in his efforts to save the horses.

My mistress, too, as you may guess, she had to keep her bed, and of course I tended her— ah, but it was an anxious time! We had been taken in at the house of a neighbour, and, of course, the rest of the house-party had dispersed to their own homes— all except Monsieur Harold and Monsieur Donaldson, who had found accommodation at the village inn.

It was two or three days later that Monsieur Donaldson himself called to see my mistress, and I— as I conducted him to the little boudoir which had been given over to her use, and where she spent the day lying upon a couch— cheeks— I said to myself that now the time had come, and that Monsieur Donaldson would leave the house that afternoon an engaged man. For I knew she would accept him— there was so much gratitude in her heart.

It was about an hour later that she called me to her, and she was smiling, smiling happily. Monsieur Donaldson was there, too.

"Clementine," she said, and there was that sparkle in her eyes which had been absent from them for so many days. "You may congratulate Mr. Donaldson."

I was about to murmur a few words when my mistress interrupted me.

"Mr. Donaldson is engaged to be married to Miss Brittain," she said. "He has come to tell me so. He got engaged to her upon the very day that the fire broke out at the Manor."

And would you believe it? Monsieur Harold called that same afternoon, after the other had taken his departure, and he, too, remained a long while with my mistress.

I waited impatiently until Mme. Maisie called me to her, and then my heart fell, for she was weeping, and it was a few minutes before I understood that her tears were tears of joy.

For at last— at last, everything had been settled, and Monsieur had declared his love and been accepted. But— would you believe it?— he was pig-headed to the end, and he would not have proposed to my mistress at all— or, at least so he declared— had he not learnt from her own lips that she was no longer the wealthy widow that all the world had taken her for.

I HAVE only to add that I am still with Mme. Maisie. She is Mme. Foster now, and she lives with her husband in London, and they are really very well off indeed.

For, as it turned out, the pictures were not quite all destroyed. Several— and those the most valuable, although damaged somewhat— were saved, and they realized a large sum of money when they eventually came to the hammer.

And sometimes I wonder if my mistress knew the day that Monsieur Foster proposed to her that those pictures might be saved, or whether, indeed, she believed that they were all utterly destroyed, as she had maintained.

I cannot say; Mme. Maisie alone knows.

________________

8: The Heir

John Everett

fl. 1920s

from The Tatler

Observer (Adelaide), 10 Nov 1923

"AND SO," concluded Dennis Harding, cramming clothes into an already overcrowded suitcase, "I cross this afternoon."

"But surely it's not the uncle I've met?" asked his friend, Felix Riviere, increduously. "Not the old gentleman who came over here about a year ago? Why, he must be seventy if he's a day!"

"Sixty-four, to be exact: yes, that's the one. Good Lord, when I think of the time I wasted on him! Used to trot round to his hotel every morning and drag him round to all the sights of Paris or, at least, to as many of them as I could find in the guide book, No wonder be used to say that he was tired, and wanted to rest in the afternoons and evening! Wanted to get me out of the way, I suppose, the old rip!"

"And who is the fortunate lady?"

"I haven't the least idea; that's the funny part of it. He never breathed a word to me about any of it. All I know about the whole thing is what's in his letter. Here, you read it."

He walked over to the table, fumbled among a litter of papers, and extracted an envelope, which he handed to Felix.

My dear Dennis

I have some news for you, which will certainly come as a surprise to you,  and may possibly shock you. I don't know if you realize that for the last few years I have led an extremely lonely life. The estate, of course, keeps me fairly busy, but for a long time I have made up my mind that, should an occasion present itself, I should not hesitate to many again. Well, to make a long story short, while I was over in Paris last year paying you a visit, I met a very charming lady who was staying at the hotel. When I returned to England I thought the matter over very carefully, and, a fortnight ago, I decided to write to her and make her an offer of marriage, which she has just done me the honour of accepting. I do not think you have ever seen her, and I will leave you to form your own judgment on her. I don't think you will be disappointed. We are to be married by special licence as soon as she arrives. I shall be grateful if you will come over as soon as you possibly can. As you know, the estate will pass to you at my death, and as, at my age, I suppose, I cannot expect to he blessed with an heir, the marriage should make very little difference to you. Still, there are one or two matters I want to discuss with you. Let me know, therefore, what, time I may expect you.

—Your affectionate Uncle,

Marcus Harding.

"And now you know as much as I do," remarked Dennis, throwing the letter into the fire. "Dashing young fellow, isn't he?"

'I wonder what the lady's like."

'Oh! fair, fat, and forty, I expect. "I don't suppose the old boy had a chance from the moment she first set eyes on him! Here, for heaven's sake sit on this infernal suitcase."

No one except a professional optimist would select March as the ideal month in which to travel, and this March was particularly obnoxious. By the time the boat-train arrived at Dieppe, Dennis was in a thoroughly bad humour. He was cold, dejected, and hungry, and he saw no prospect of remedying this depressing slate of affairs before he arrived in London. Besides, the whole business annoyed him; be was not a particularly bad-tempered man, but to be dragged from your flat at a moment's notice, and to have to travel many leagues for the purpose of witnessing an old man make a fool of himself, with the added knowledge that you will have to simulate enthusiasm over the whole miserable business, is a pretty severe test of any man's tranquillity.

The channel was at its nastiest, a dreamy vista of grey, foam-flecked water, with a fine rain falling to make matters worse. The prospect of a bad crossing, however, did not trouble him, for he was an excellent sailor. Indeed, he felt a kind of grim satisfaction as he thought of the impending discomfort of his fellow-passengers. In many respects he might have passed for a Frenchman,  for two years in Paris had intensified his naturally rather Gallic appearance, in spite of the watchful care of his English tailor and boot maker. But in his uncompromising hatred of all travelling companions he remained unmistakably English. On this occasion, however, he could not complain. There were but few people— mostly English— on the boat, and of these the majority, after one Jackal the weather, sought the shelter of state-room or saloon. One by one they vanished, until at last Dennis shared the deck with only two other persons. One of these, a melancholy looking man wearing a pallid oilskin that hung round him like a shroud, held out bravely until a particularly vicious roll sent hi in staggering to the side. Recognising the hand of Providence in this, he gave up the unequal contest, and, his face the colour of his coat, reeled below.

Dennis watched him heartlessly.

"We seem to be the sole survivors," said a voice at his side.

It was a singularly attractive voice; he turned in the direction of its owner, and immediately wondered why he had not noticed her before.

"Yes, thank goodness!" said he.

"Poor things! You ought to feel sorry for them." She had the merest hint of a foreign accent, which added considerably to. her charm.

"An Englishman is never unbearable except when he is travelling," he quoted.

"Does that sweeping statement include women as well?"

"They're; if anything, worse," he declared gravely.

She gave a delicious little laugh. "Thank you for the compliment," she said mockingly.

"But you," exclaimed Dennis in surprise, "you're not English surely?"

"And why not, pray?"

"I beg your pardon; I'm afraid that gives me away! But I was certain"— he looked her up and down.  "No Englishwoman ever learned how to wear her clothes like that!"

She acknowledged his compliment with a little smile. "You see," she explained, "I have lived a good deal of my life abroad, and," she added, glancing at him sideways from under her long lashes, "so have you, I think."

"How do you know that?"

"No Englishman ever learned to appreciate clothes— in England."

They talked— of Paris, of London, of the theatre, of a hundred other things. He found her witty, interested, and wholly delightful. He wondered how old she was, and found it difficult to say. Of herself she said little, but she had evidently travelled widely, seen much, and taken in most of it. About 27, he thought, and decided that she would probably remain 27 for years.

The wind had dropped slightly, and the rain softened to a fine mist. Suddenly Dennis became conscious of the blur of Newhaven ahead; he gave an exclamation of surprise.

"Shortest crossing I ever remember," he remarked to his companion.

She consulted a microscopic watch on her wrist. "As a matter of fact, we are nearly half an hour late," she declared gravely, and, murmuring something about a dressing case, she disappeared.

"Deuced attractive woman," thought Dennis to himself as lie walked down the gangway. "I wonder who she is?"

He did not catch sight of her again until the boat-train drew into Victoria; he was rather a long time collecting his belongings, and when he got out of the Pullman there she was on the platform, looking round a little forlornly, he thought, as if she were trying to find somebody. He loitered, out of sheer curiosity, to see who would claim her. Nobody, apparently, was anxious to do so. He hesitated, his sense of chivalry struggling with his prudence. Of course, he told himself, she might resent it, but she did look rather appealing standing there. He decided to risk it, and his temerity was rewarded by the look of relief which came over her face as she recognised him.

"I'm lost!" she explained, with rather a pathetic little smile.

"Were you expecting someone to meet you?"

"Yes, and they haven't turned up. I shall have to go to an hotel for the night. I wonder if you could recommend me one?"

"Haven't you any friends who could put you up for the night?"

"I'm afraid not; I hardly know a soul in London now."

"Well," said Dennis, "I'm stopping at the Cosmopolis; if you care to try it, I think you will find that they make you quite comfortable there."

He paused, and then added, "I suppose you wouldn't care to dine with me there this evening?"

She appeared to hesitate only for a fraction of a second. "That is very charming of you," she said, "I should love to. But—"

"There are no 'buts,' " said Dennis firmly. "Now for a taxi."

"Don't you think we might introduce ourselves?" he remarked a little later, as they sped through the rain.

"No," said the lady thoughtfully, "because you are being so kind to me that I simply couldn't bear it if your name turned out to be Bloggs or Tubbs, or something like that! Besides, it will really be rather thrilling if we don't. No, I insist!"

SEVEN FORTY-FIVE found Dennis, sleek. and- well-groomed, refreshed  outwardly and inwardly by a bath, and a cocktail, waiting in the beautiful lounge of the Cosmopolis. In spite of himself he was vastly intrigued; as a rule he was incurably cynical, and a week ago, had any one of his friends foretold this adventure, he would have withered him. But cynicism has its limitations when one is twenty eight.

At last he saw her coming towards him. If he had been impressed at their first acquaintance on the boat, he was positively overwhelmed now. She wore a gown of black and silver which only one man in the world could have created, and even he would have approved of the way she wore it.

"Well," she smiled at him, and her look added plainly, '"What do you think of me?"

He racked his brain for superlatives. "You are— ravisante!" he exclaimed, and meant it.

The Cosmopolis is justly famed for its cuisine. Even if this were not so, there is Charles (late the property of an American millionaire)— Charles, in his white, jacket,— who, with a few magic whisks of his shaker can persuade even the most jaded of dyspeptics that he is hungry. But in this case Charles's efforts, though appreciated, were rather superfluous; the Channel had forestalled him.

Over his Grand Marnier Dennis became a little paternal.

"And now"' he began; "what are your movements to-morrow?"

Bollinger '06 had not been without its effects on his companion.

"There's no such thing as to-morrow," she remarked dreamily.

"No, but—" he protested, and stopped; she was not listening to him.

"Do you know," said the lady, leaning across the table and looking straight at him, "you've got the most delightfully wicked eyes?"

"TEN O'CLOCK, sir," said the chambermaid next morning, "and the lady in 387 sends you this sir."

Dennis rubbed his eyes, yawned, and tore open the envelope.

I think it will be much better if I disappear (it ran). I do not suppose we shall meet again. I shall not forget you.

It was unsigned. His first impulse was to scramble into his clothes and try to find out what had become of her. He actually got as far as jumping out of bed. It was raining. He paused; in the cold grey light of this melancholy climate would things seem quite the same as they had lost night? He thought not, on the whole, and, being at heart a sentimentalist, he sighed. Moreover, there was the uncle— good lord! he had nearly forgotten all about the old man!

Also it occurred to him, he had had no breakfast. That settled it; he shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette.

He caught the afternoon train to Callen Major, and arrived at hall about half-past six. There was a general air of uneasiness about the house, suggestive of spring-cleaning, with old Marcus Harding, fussy and pompous as a hen, directing operations. He welcomed his nephew heartily— too heartily, like a man who wishes to conceal the fact that he is ill at ease. He talked incessantly, a tone at once apologetic and defiant, is it he wished to justify an action of which he was ashamed. Dennis was devoutly thankful that he was obliged to go and dress for dinner very soon after he had arrived.

He was ready first, but he only had the hall to himself for a minute or so before his uncle joined him.

"She's just coming," announced the old man in breathless tones, "You wait till you see her, my boy! Of course, I expect she's feeling a bit tired to-night. She only came down by the morning train; been busy buying her trousseau!" He laughed nervously.

"Ah! here she is!"

It was his great moment. At the far end of the great hall, at the top of the great staircase, the figure of a woman appeared. She wore a wonderful gown of black and silver, and she moved towards the two men, slowly, superbly. Dennis started as if he had been shot. There was but one woman of his acquaintance who carried herself like that. He stared at her as if he were dreaming.

In a dream he heard his uncle's voice, murmuring formalities; in a dream he found himself bowing mechanically.

"By-the-way," said Marcus, and his voice sounded very far away, "Stella has just come over from Paris, too: I wonder if you came over on the same boat without knowing it? When did you cross, Dennis?"

Dennis looked at the figure opposite him. Not a hint of surprise had she revealed, but at the corners of her mouth lingered a faint reminiscent smile. He pulled himself together.

"I didn't come by boat," he lied. "I flew!"

NEW YEAR'S EVE of the same year found Dennis once more in his Paris flat.  A telegram lay torn on the table beside him.

"So you're no longer an heir," said Felix. "Of course, it's frightfully rotten luck on you, but I do think the old man's a marvel, don't you?"

"I'm not so sure," said Dennis thoughtfully.

____________

9: The Dust of Creeds Outworn

C. L. Antrobus

1846-1919

Temple Bar, July 1905

THE JULY AFTERNOON was warm, and the roar of town came through the open windows of the studio where Jemmy Otway eat and talked with his friends and fellow-artists.

"Listen to it!" said he. "Hear the beast growling; London is one huge vampire."

"Vampires don't growl,"remarked a bullet-headed individual who contrived to get dewiness and wind into his landscapes. "Show us what you have got there; turn it round."

"I am coming to it. Do you fellows know the Cave of Mammon?"

"Certainly not!" rose in chorus from the seven or eight men present."What poor devil of an artist ever gets his nose in there? We stand outside the door and hold out our hats for coppers."

"Well," resumed Otway, "you remember that near Mammon's cave is the Garden of Proserpina, reached

'Through grisly shadows by a beaten path?' "

"I know," said another man, "I recollect the passage. The plants are all black-leaved and narcotic, and Persephone sits on a silver throne under the tree bearing the golden apples of discord, while beyond flows

'The river of Cocytus deep,

In which full many souls do endless wail and weepe.' "

"Right. Here it is." Otway turned the painting round on the easel, and each man leant forward in his chair or got up to look at it.

"I had Keats' line in my head," Otway continued:

" 'One faint eternal eventide of gems.'

As for the general blackness, I have ignored that. Spenser was no colourist there."

His critics nodded and silently gazed at the picture. It was fall of sombre colour, the tones of deep-hued marble with here and there a sparkle of jewels. In that strange garden of the underworld, where fell neither dew nor rain, there was a vague suggestion of the affinity of plant and tree to stone.

"Sleeping poppy and black hellebore,"

and every dark narcotic growing in those borders seemed as though leaf and bloom were passing into translucent jade and white onyx, chrysolite and agate; their glimmer reflected in the sheen of the olive-blaok pavement as in a mirror. The pale light streaming upward from an unseen source shone full upon the unfinished figure of Persephone, sitting white-robbed in her silver ohair under the shadowing tree of discord with its glistening fruit, the sapphires in her girdle and on the hem of her garment shining like points of blue fire. Behind the tree rose columns of serpentine, dimly visible in the gloom; and beyond, yet more dimly seen, rolled the indigo waves of Cocytus.

"It's good!"said the bullet-headed one, and the others granted assent.

"Yes, but what's the use of painting a good thing like that nowadays when nobody buys pictures," queried another.

"A fruiterer might buy it," suggested a third.

Otway thrust his hands into his pockets and regarded his painting with an air half-savage, half-affectionate.

"Look here, you fellows, I am doing it because I like doing it; because I felt impelled to do it, somehow."

"That's bad!" the critic shook his head. "There is too much of the artist in you, Jemmy, and too little of the bagman. The impulse to paint a subject should come, not from the man, but from the man's pocket. Is it empty? Then paint something that will sell."

"Nothing sells," observed the pessimistic one gloomily.

"Then don't paint."

"Never heed 'em, Jemmy," interposed another friend encouragingly. "You go ahead and hope for the fruiterer. The thing is first-rate."

"Oh, Jemmy is a millionaire; has he not two hundred a year or thereabouts? He need not trouble about that day of miracle, the day of payment."

"What's that?" inquired the pessimist."Never heard of it!"

"I mean the day of paying one's debts,"explained the speaker."Never heard of that either!"

"Why don't you finish the figure, Jemmy?" asked a man hitherto silent.

"Can't pay his model,"suggested another. "No model will do," said Otway. "I want hair that is not yellow, or red; but gold— span gold. Celandine colonr, the colour of spring. I once saw such hair on a Cornish head, and I am going down there to look for it."

"Same head?"

"No, that was fifteen years ago; when I was a boy. That hair will be faded or grey now."

"Why expect to find more gold hair? Do they grow it in Cornwall?"

"Well, they seem to. Did not Guenevere come from those parts? Anyway, I am off to-morrow to seek a Proserpina. Also, to look at two or three cottages an elderly cousin has just left to me."

"What! James, yon are crawling into the cave of Mammon. We repudiate yon. What artist owns land and beeves?"

"Precious little land and no beeves. Besides, to own land in these times is proof of poverty. I have some idea of settling down in one of the cottages if I can alter it to my liking."

"Hear him! 'Alter it to his liking!' When our Lares and Penates dwell in top attics!"

"Some of yon might settle there too; in the other cottages. We could form a colony."

"Barbizon?"

"A sort of Barbizon. Why not?"

"We'll think it over."

TWO DAYS LATER Otway packed up his painting and departed west into a different world; a world of great spaces, of much light and clear air; a world of harmonious sound and gracious silence; and also possessing the charm of the wilderness. He was ten miles from the little town in which he was staying, and in that ten mile walk he had passed but two farms and spoken with one man, a shepherd. Here, standing on the edge of the cliff, looking into the sunset, while the Atlantic swung up with ceaseless thunder over the shingle far below, the artist felt the exhilaration of the return to the wilderness.

"And all this to breathe!" he ejaculated, rapturously inhaling the life-giving air. "All this— miles of it! and not a soul but myself within sight! All this instead of gasping for a scanty mouthful of sooty used-up stuff in company with five million other gaspers, packed like gold-fish in a bowl. Truly the ears of Midas have multiplied in these days!"

The west was scarlet-crimson, and a track of flame glittered across the vast plain of purple-blue water and over the grey cliff, touching with red finger the masses of rock and scattered boulders that strewed the promontory on which Otway stood.

He turned his back on the sea, following a narrow track that led obliquely to the left, where the cliff line was broken by a fan-shaped valley running inland from the beach. As he went along he noticed the effect of the ruddy light on the stones, the pools of shadow behind them, their sinister aspect as of watchers crouching on the headland. One great boulder, rather apart from the rest, seemed to owe something of its fashioning to the hands of man, and Otway stopped to observe it more closely.

"Looks like a sacrificial stone," he murmured. "Extraordinarily fantastic, those other rocks. Did they form a circle, I wonder? What ancient cantrips have they witnessed?"

Pulling out a sketch-book, he sat down on a smaller boulder and worked busily for half-an-hour; the crimson slowly fading in the west and the sea wind billowing round him. He was naturally happy and light-hearted, and his spirits were going up with every breath he drew, for is not the air of the Atlantic the true Elixir? Besides, all things were well with him. He had had a satisfactory interview with his cousin's lawyer that morning; had seen his new property, two honses and a couple of cottages, the latter picturesquely situated on the outskirts of the town, overlooking the tidal river.

"If these cottages were thrown into one, and a studio built, they would make a very comfortable house," Otway had remarked, and the lawyer had agreed. A third cottage, and a small farm, he said, were at some distance, about nine or ten miles away, near the shore, a lonely place. Farm and cottage a mile apart; both well let.

"Who lives in the cottage? A shepherd?"

"Oh no, the tenant is a queer old fellow named Paliaret, who is trying to find the Philosopher's Stone, or a new explosive; I don't know which."

"Are they not the same? I can hardly imagine a greater explosive than the Philosopher's Stone."

"Perhaps,"Rosewarne laughed."My wife does not sympathise with old Paliaret. She thinks him a brute. He spent all he had on this invention, whatever it is; and then, about five years ago, married a client of mine, an amiable foolish woman with some money."

"Did the money vanish in the crucible?"

"Most of it, I think. Bat Mrs. Paliaret has a niece living with them, so I suspect the household now depends mainly on this girl's little income. Luckily the money is tied up too securely for Paliaret to get hold of it; my wife, however, is indignant that the girl should lead the life of a hermit for the sake of Paliaret's dream— it's nothing else."

"Ten miles, did you say? I might walk over there to-day and interview my tenants both at farm and cottage. Somebody onght to throw Paliaret over the cliff, and his chemicals after him."

"I could drive you there to-morrow. Perhaps I had better be present if you intend interrupting the alchemist's dream in so summary a manner!" and Rosewarne smiled.

"Possibly he is inventing a new torpedo. May it blow him sky-high! Thank you, I shall be glad to drive over with you tomorrow if I prefer to Bpend this afternoon in a little aimless exploring."

Otway's exploring led him in the direction of his distant property; he was attracted by the probable nearness of the farm to the sea, and thought he might perhaps lodge there for a week or two. In that case it would be easy to make the acquaintance of all his tenants in those solitary places. He missed the path several times, and also lingered by the way, beguiled by the witchery of the coast, so that here was sunset, and the farm apparently as far off as ever. But the twilight would be long and the night fair; he could return to the town by some inland road instead of the cliff paths. Even in these days the artist still remains close enough to Nature to ignore the fret and bondage of time as oreated by man.

Sitting sketching in leisurely fashion the singular rocks of the headland, Otway's thoughts wandered back to the two cottages he had seen that morning. Their situation was good; looking west and high above the river. Certainly he would have them knocked into one and build a studio. All that could be done by the autumn. Then he would ask Rayner and one or two other men down; Rayner was the bullet-headed landscape painter. The more Otway pondered over the idea the better he liked it. What a winter they would havel No fog, no noise, no dingy cheerlessness of lifeless cold; but clear sparkling air, the bright little town, the rushing river, and, not far away, the glorious sea.

He finished his sketch, rose to his feet, and with a last glance at the curious boulder standing apart, walked away to the left, where the cliff suddenly dipped into the narrow coomb. On the edge he paused a moment, looking down into the sheltered grassy glen, where bush and tree grew luxuriantly. Along the bottom a trout stream went singing to the sea, and beyond, on higher ground, where the valley widened landwards, was a white-washed cottage with garden and orchard; and about thirty yards from the cottage, a shed with high peaked roof and skylights.

"I wonder whether all that is mine," thought Jemmy. "Is the shed old Paliaret's laboratory? Or is somebody using it as a studio? I'll go and ask my way to the farm."

He scrambled down an almost precipitous path, where jutting points of granite served as rough steps, and crossing the stream by a plank bridge, knocked at the cottage door. Apparently the inmates were absent, for no one replied to his knock, and there was no sound of movement within. All was silence save for the tinkling of the stream, the rustle of the leaves and the low thunder of the sea. He then tried the shed, equally in vain. Returning to the cottage, he called loudly, and receiving no answer, fell to contemplating the interior, the door being ajar and opening directly into the living-room. The table was laid for three, and Otway remembered that lunch was a long way behind and dinner had not yot arrived.

"Early supper, evidently," he soliloquised. "I have half a mind to help myself to the bread and cheese! People hereabouts must be acoustomed to hungry tourists, and I can leave money on the table. Very likely this place is my property, and surely a landlord cannot burgle?"

He walked into the room, leaving the door wide open. The furniture was old and solid, and a tall bookcase held books not usually owned by a cottager.

"Paliaret's probably, or else they belong to a lodger," commented the artist. Then he laid three shillings conspicuously on the table and attacked the bread and cheese.

Ten minutes later a figure darkened the doorway; Jemmy looked up, and lo! Persephone stood before him, grave, beautiful, with hair of spun gold and "eyen grey as glasse."

"I beg your pardon," he said, getting up and wildly hunting for his card-case. "My name is Otway; I am staying in the town. I could not make anybody hear, so, feeling hungry, I thought of the three bears in the fairy tale, and hoped my unconscious entertainers would be equally charitable. You see my intentions were honest," he pointed meekly to the money lying on the table.

Youth is drawn to youth, there is instinctive comradeship; and Otway was young and friendly, pleasant of voice and good to look upon. The girl listened with an air of severity that gradually softened till a smile flickered in her eyes.

"I am one of the three bears,"she replied demurely."The other two are my aunt and her husband Mr. Paliaret."

"Paliaret!" exclaimed Otway. "Then I am his landlord. I will let him off a quarter's rent in exchange for bread and cheese; how will that do?"

"I have heard of less expensive bread and cheese."

"So have I. But anything for a qniet life! Besides, one must needs conciliate a magician. I am told that Mr. Paliaret raises the devil, or something like it."

"He has not yet succeeded," she said with a smile.

"No ? It is easy enough. There is often considerable difficulty in raising the wind, but anybody can raise tbe devil. I will back a dozen fellows of my acquaintance to do it in less than two minutes. Is that shed the wizard's cell ? I took it for a studio and expected to find a brother artist there."

"You are right about the shed, no one enters it except Mr. Paliaret. He has been afraid that the new landlord would turn him out; but we heard you were an artist, so he built hopes on that."

"I am glad we painters have a reputation for sweet reasonableness. Why should I turn him out? Bosewarne tells me he is a good tenant, and I might not get another. Few people would care to live bo far from a town. It must be frightfully dull for you in winter."

"No,"she replied, "I like it best then. There is the contrast of the stormy world without and the fire within. The days are short, with wonderful sunsets; and you are inclined to read. But in the long monotonous summer one needs more occupation and companionship. Even the farm— the nearest house— is a mile away. I wish this were a little farm, then there would be the amusement of the animals."

"It might be made into a little farm," suggested Otway.

"Mr. Paliaret would object to that, because it would bring people about the place. He fears anyone discovering the secret of his invention."

"Shall I turn him out? I do not care in the least whether the cottage is let or not. If I gave him notice to leave, he would be obliged to move nearer civilisation."

"Please don't! He might go to a worse place."

"He certainly will, if he does not behave better," said Jemmy. "When it comes to raising the devil, and keeping you and your aunt"— Jemmy cared nothing about the aunt, but thought it well to mention her— "in these wilds, really I begin to think it is my bounden duty to uproot the old gentleman. Inventors are notoriously the most unscrupulous of men."

"Give him six months' trial, he may have finished his invention by that time."

"Very well Meanwhile I will keep an eye upon him. You spoke of a farm just now, Miss Paliaret,— oh, I beg your pardon, of coarse your name is not Paliaret."

"It is Dain,— Githa Dain. I think the farm belongs to you."

"I daresay it does. I was going on there when the bread and cheese lured me in here. Do you happen to know whether they would take a lodger? because a room there would suit me better at present than staying in the town."

For Otway was resolved to remain within easy distance of the cottage; he must cultivate these tenants of his. Here was his Proserpina. By-and-by he hoped he might be allowed to make a sketch of her for the silent gold-haired Queen of Shades. Besides, he was interested; he wished to see more of her.

"They had a lodger last summer," she said, answering his question, "an elderly gentleman who oame for the fishing."

"Did he and the warlock go fishing together?" asked Jemmy, thinking that he too would go fishing with Paliaret.

"Oh no, he strongly disapproved of Mr. Paliaret, and I think he was right. They quarrelled about the old gods."

"The old gods!"repeated Otway in astonishment.

"He worships them," she went on with a little nod, "Mr. Paliaret, I mean. Perhaps you know there is an ancient sacrificial altar up on the cliff?"

"The large stone rather apart from the others?"

"That is it. The country people avoid that stone, they say it used to walk about. But Mr. Paliaret pours libations on it, the old libations of honey and milk, you know, and water."

"He must do it for a joke!"

"I think not. He really believes in the heathen gods; he is a heathen himself, and is proud of it. He goes to the stone nearly every night, and I have seen him pour the libations, for sometimes when he is late, aunt asks me to fetch him; she cannot climb that steep path."

"Does he not object to these extraordinary cantrips being observed?"

"He seems indifferent. Perhaps he imagines I do not notice. I only go to the top of the path, and oall him from thence. My calling is quite useless, he seldom comes: but my aunt is satisfied when I tell her I have seen him."

"And if the night is dark?"

"Oh, then I do not go."

"Upon my soul!" ejaculated Otway, laughing, "this is worse than summoning 'Auld Horbie,'— much worse! The wicked old pagan! Now I understand why he is so anxious to stay here, for elsewhere he might have to tramp miles to the scene of his nefarious worship. What does the parson say?"

"I do not suppose he knows."

"And your aunt?"

"Thinks everything that Mr. Paliaret does is right."

Otway laughed again, and his laughter was so joyous, so full of happy irresponsible amusement, that Githa must needs laugh also.

"But is it not dreadful?" she said, checking her mirth.

"Shocking! I shall be tempted to watch him myself! The old gods?— I came into Cornwall to find Proserpina."

"The daffodils are over."

"That remark tells me you read. But my Proserpina is Spenser's."

" 'Sitting in her gloomy garden'?"

"Ah, I see you know Spenser. Few people read him."

"I have so much time for reading, and modern books are rare here."

"All the better! Modern literature is for middle age and for the fireside. For us, the Fields of Enna and the wine-dark sea!"

"And in old age, what?"

"In old age we toddle about the Fields of Enna again; we return to our first loves."

"Your picture, is it here?"

"In the town?— yes. I—"

Jimmy stopped, for there was the sound of footsteps, and Githa turned her head towards the door.

"Here is my aunt," she said. "Please take away that money, Mr. Otway."

"It is evidence of my good intentions," he replied.

"But not needed. Aunt, this is our landlord, Mr, Otway."

Mrs. Paliaret, a thin faded woman with a plaintive voice, welcomed Jemmy graciously, ignoring his apologies.

"My husband will be very pleased to meet you," she spoke in a vague, uncertain manner. "l am afraid he is at present in his laboratory."

"Pray do not disturb him on my account, Mrs. Paliaret. I can call upon him to-morrow or any day which will suit him. I shall be your neighbour for the next few weeks, as I intend staying at the farm for awhile if they will take me in. How do I get there?"

"It is at the end of the valley,"said Githa.

"Thank you. Then I shall hope to see Mr. Paliaret tomorrow."

He said good-bye and went up the valley, congratulating himself on his new acquaintances and thinking of the face of Githa Dain.

"She is Persephone with the shadows of the underworld upon her," he reflected. "Such an existenee as hers would make anybody look grave. Wonder if I can get any sort of a dinner at the farm. Or any sort of vehicle to take me back to Seabridge?"

The following day saw Otway and his impedimenta transferred to the farm, much to Rosewarne's amusement.

"What are you going to do out there?" he had inquired that morning.

"Why, make a sketch of that gold-haired girl if she will permit me, and then use it for my Proserpina. Incidentally I shall cultivate Paliaret, study farm life, and admire the coast scenery. Oh, I shall be busy enough!"

Throw an artist's tools and a few canvases about a room, and instantly it becomes habitable and cheerful. On arrival, Otway scattered his belongings with the usual happy result; setting the Proserpina on an easel in the best light the low sitting-room afforded.

He was looking at it when Paliaret came in; a tall thin awkwardly-built man of perhaps sixty, with an odd furtive glance.

"Eyes not level; that's bad!" thought the artist as he rose to greet his visitor.

The conversation turned at first on the tenancy of the cottage. This being satisfactorily arranged, Paliaret moved his chair a little, the better to see the Proserpina.

"A fine painting," he observed politely. "Interesting also. I perceive the darker powers attract you."

"Not particularly,"said Otway, "but Spenser's idea of the garden struck me as being a good subject."

"You wished to paint 'Shadows of Shadows,' and you have succeeded. But what cast these ancient shadows? A shadow is not self-existent. In short, who were the old gods?"

"A bad lot!"said Otway cheerfully."The old gods seem to be incarnations of the most unpleasant qualities of mankind. Life must have been a pretty see-saw in those days, when you might either be made a god or sacrificed to one, and a toss-up which!"

"That sort of thing was more Phoenician than Greek or Roman, was it not? Though possibly an occasional human sacrifice might be offered."

"Sure to be. All nations gave their gods that kind of treat now and then, only it was habitual with some and merely spasmodic with others. Their frame of mind was that of Caliban upon Setebos, and they wished to appease their malevolent deities."

"Paul of Tarsus considered those deities to be living devils," said Paliaret, gazing at the pietnre with an aspect of brooding thought.

"Well, why not? I am disposed to agree with St. Paul."

"Therefore, it is but natural to propitiate these powers of the air."

"Great Pan is dead," remarked Jemmy lightly.

"He is not dead here," rejoined Paliaret. "We are beyond the Christian pale."

"What? In Cornwall, the land of saints?"

"They did not wholly oust the ancient worship, and when one settles in a country it is perhaps wise to conciliate the owners thereof."

"Not owners, fraudulent bailiffs; and I doubt the wisdom of conciliating them at the risk of the displeasure of the lord of the soil."

"They can give you your earthly wishes," said Paliaret, still darkly brooding. "They have a certain power over the elements."

"I am of the opinion of Sir Thomas Browne, that 'there is surely a piece of divinity in us, something that was before the elements, and owes no homage unto the sun.' So I should expect 'Poor and Baalim' to do homage to me!"

Paliaret hardly seemed to hear.

"Do you recall," he asked, as though following a train of thought, "that Portuguese account of the Malay at the siege of Malacca who, covered with wounds that did not bleed, continued fighting till overpowered by numbers. When a bracelet of bone was taken from his arm he suddenly bled to death."

The artist nodded.

"I know the story, but I don't believe it."

"Are you aware there are men in Ireland who can staunch flowing blood with a touch and muttered charm?"

"Yes, I admit that is a stupefying fact."

"Then if the flow of blood can be stopped by a charm nowadays, why not by a charm four oenturies ago?"

"Well, the Malay story rests on Portuguese report, and our worthy allies have always borne a resemblance to the Cretans. I fancy my attitude is that taken up by most men who have thought about these matters— I am not sure whether I believe them or not; on the whole, not; and in any case I think they are best left alone."

"Does the voice still cry in Kandy?"

"I do not know. Probably our occupation of Ceylon has had a calming effect," and Otway laughed.

Paliaret faced round, speaking with emphasis.

"I am convinced that these powers— call them gods, devils, what you will— did occasionally grant the requests of their worshippers. What those requests were mattered nothing to the gods; they carelessly threw a coin, as it were, to the beggar. The gift is flung with indifference; it is an acknowledgment of homage rendered."

"And the more atrocious the act of homage the more likely are the gods to be pleased?"

"In a way, yes: though I do not accept the word 'atrocious.' You are thinking, I suppose, of the Druidical hecatombs?"

"Not especially; any human sacrifice is atrocious."

"Life has worse things to offer than a cut throat."

"And better."

"Besides,"continued Paliaret, not noticing the interruption, "it all depends upon the purpose. I mean, if any important end would be gained, I think a human sacrifice might be justifiable."

"Ah,"said Otway, "I think I have heard that before. But who is to judge of the importance of the end ? If you reflect on it, you will see that that plea of expediency can be made to justify any and every crime. Also, it is the Pagan view. In the old Pagan world, the feeble and the helpless had no rights."

"My views are modern."

"Possibly. Time brings all fashions back, even Paganism. But apart from other considerations, I should fear the ultimate appeal unto Caesar. Consent? Oh, that could only be obtained by undue influence of one kind or another, and would not affect the main point. For myself, I know that the old gods would wait a very long time before I should agree to be immolated to please any devil of them all for any reason whatever."

Paliaret turned his gaze on the Proserpina.

"To succeed— that is definite, tangible. To see success fluttering like a butterfly before you;— now here, now gone! Nothing, no fancied rights, no obsolete morality, ought to stand in the way of capturing that fugitive knowledge which is needed for success."

"Pure Paganism, and as such, unlawful to Christian men."

"But suppose one is not a Christian man?"

"Why then,"Jemmy grinned," we Christian men will restrain the gods and their too enthusiastic worshippers."

"Soon there will be none of you to restrain us. Even now we are strong enough to compel yon to silence on many points which would have roused yonr grandfathers, not only to fury, but to energetic action."

"No doubt we are a drivelling lot," admitted Otway. "Nevertheless we shall win in the end."

Paliaret laughed, or rather, he uttered a short contemptuous bark; his manner of laughing.

"A consoling conviction! My dear sir, I assure you that so long as one does not call things by their old names, they— no matter what they are— can be done."

"Not if an outer barbarian like myself happens to be within hail—"

"There are not many of you interfering Samaritans,"said Paliaret with another laugh."The rest of the world are priests and Levites, wise men who keep to their own concerns."

"Then you acknowledge that the victim falls among thieves?"

"The motives of those men were low, mere vulgar robbery."

"I see,"rejoined Otway. "A man's motives are everything, his actions nothing. If he attacks me because be wishes to pick my pocket, that is wrong; but if he attacks me because my death might assist him in some discovery, that is right I Oh, do not go yet, Mr. Paliaret," as his visitor rose, "stay and dine with me, and continue our argument. I do not know what the cooking here may be, but there is some good claret, I brought it with me."

"Thank you, not to-day. And I never take wine."

Here Paliaret's eyes fell on the drawing Otway had made of the stones on the headland. He pointed to it.

"I know that spot well. Are you using it in a painting?"

"No, I merely sketched the place because the stones were remarkable."

"They are. The site was probably chosen as a place of worship in old days on account of the spring close by; did you notice it? The water is good and mixes well with honey."

"Yes, it is good," assented Otway; "I was glad to find it when I got up there."

He accompanied Paliaret to the farm gate, and watched him as he disappeared in the winding of the valley.

"Off his head!" was the artist's comment. "Too much knowledge and too little brain, the modern complaint; and he has got it badly. Seems to me he is more than half crazy already."

After dinner Jemmy strolled seaward, walking slowly past the cottage, hoping his tenants might be lingering out of doors in the twilight. But only the cool night wind moved among the tangled roses and the orchard trees; all was silent as on the previous evening.

"The old pagan might have the civility to come out and talk about trout or something," thought Jemmy, unreasonably disappointed that no glimpse of Githa Dain was vouchsafed to him. "Must manage better to-morrow," he reflected. "I will set up my easel under those elms just opposite the cottage, and sit there 'from morn till dewy eve.' No human being could help coming to look at me and my doings."

He climbed the steep path up to the top of the cliff, passing from the dusk of the valley to sea and land yet lit by an orange west; the fading light gleaming dull copper on the purple-blue of the waves, a purple streaked here and there with silver where the currents ran. Around him were the fantastic rooks he had sketched, and, a few yards away, the large boulder that long ago had been an altar of heathen worship; while to the right bubbled from out the stones the spring of which Paliaret had spoken.

Otway looked at it, recalling the dark history of the coast. Over the glittering sea had come ships of Tarshish with sails of linen of Egypt; here on the granite demons had been worshipped with gorgeous ritual and purple of more enduring stain than that of Tyre. Here, centuries later, the devils still held their ground, the sacrificial stone darkening the fair land with superstitious fear, despite the light of Christianity.

"The land is resting," thought Otway, "resting from bloodshed and evil worship. Wind and sun and storm, great spaces of clean air, are all purifying the soil."

Then it came to him that what we call desolation may be a time of cleansing repose for mother earth apart from the turbulent race of men; the dark-stained soil passing into flower of thyme and heather, untrodden save by simple folk akin to bird and bee; the evil stones slowly crumbling, being clothed upon with veiling moss and lichen.

Otway noticed that round the large boulder the short grass was worn as by constant walking; did Bomeone perambulate it? Was the someone Paliaret?

A yellow moon rose as the day died, and thin white mists rose with the moon, flowing along the grass like pale smoke, creeping and coiling among the rocks, rising and shifting about the taller stones, till the eye knew not rock from mist and beheld only gigantic changing phantoms.

"The place is uncanny," said Jemmy to himself, as he descended to the valley again, "downright uncanny. And so is Paliaret!"

Another hot blue day dawned, and by ten o'clock Otway had arrived under the elms opposite the cottage, on the farther side of the stream, his easel and canvases placed alluringly, and he himself, sketch-book in hand, making a drawing of the little house. Half-past ten— eleven, the sun moved away from the elms, surely— ah, there was the gleam of gold hair in the orchard, among the currant bushes and the apple-trees. Jemmy sprang up, crossed the rivulet, and standing outside the fence, offered his assistance.

"Do let me help,"said he imploringly. "I am such a good hand at gathering currants, particularly black ones, as there is Iess temptation to eat those."

Githa Dain laughed softly; her grave reserve melting before the sunshine of Otway's presence. He looked so thoroughly happy, so full of joyous life, he inspired confidence; in short, it was good to have him to talk to.

"But are you not busy?"she asked."I thought I saw you sketching."

"Only for want of something better to do. I was hoping you would take compassion on a distracted artist and enable me to finish my Proserpina. I have a slight sketch of it there," he nodded towards his camp. "The picture is too large to carry about. Mr. Paliaret saw it yesterday, no doubt he told you."

"No, he never mentioned it."

"Not? The unfeeling old warlock! I have half a mind to raise his rent!"Again a laugh sparkled in the grey eyes."I should like to see the picture; so would my aunt, I am sure. You say it is not finished?"

"The Queen of Shadows is herself but a shadow as yet,"he replied."I brought a sketch of the painting here this morning in the hope that I might be permitted to make a drawing of you for the figure of Proserpina. If you would only give me two or three sittings under the elms yonder? They throw a capital shadow just in the right place. Let me show you the sketch."

Otway was across the brook and baok again in about half a minute, returning with a small canvas, at which Githa looked with interest.

"Of course this is roughly done," he said,"but it gives an idea of the thing. I should like you to see the big painting. Will you and your aunt come to tea at the farm this afternoon?"

"Not this afternoon, I am afraid. Aunt is very busy to-day. But if you invite her for to-morrow I am almost sure she will accept."

"Then that is settled. And about the sittings? Is my Proserpina to remain a shadow? Will you not give me a sitting now ? Look at the comfortable chair placed for yon nnder the elms." She looked and smiled. "I am so sorry, but I cannot sit to you to-day. To-morrow morning perhaps."

"Thank you. If you were an artist in search of a Proserpina you would understand my feelings of gratitude and relief. The morning is the best time, because the shadows fall right then. And in the afternoon you and Mrs. Paliaret will come and see me at the farm. By the way, must I ask Paliaret, too?"

"I think it would be better, though he will probably refuse. He prefers to see people alone when he sees them at all. How did you like him?"

" 'For that olde man of pleasing wordes had store,' "

quoted Otway sagely.

"Oh, yes, he is like Archimage! I never thought of that! Yes,

' "He to his studie goes; and there amiddes

His magic bookes and antes of sundrie kindes,

He seekes out mighty charmes.' "

"And calls upon 'The prince of darkness and dead night,' " added Jemmy.

"Well, Archimage came to a bad end through his enchantments, let Paliaret take heed! Wizards never seem to get much enjoyment out of life, do they? They spend all their time hanging over crucibles when they might be picking currants in a sunny garden. Has he been offering those wicked libations lately?"

"I think not, but he will to-night, for he has ordered honey and milk to be ready this evening."

"Disgraceful! I must really stroll on to the headland at the witching hour and behold these pagan rites. What is his time?"

"Usually between eleven and twelve. I must go now, Mr. Otway."

"But the currants are not yet picked— off their stalks, I mean."

"Oh, that will be done indoors. Good-bye!"

"It is much better done out of doors!" he called after her, but Githa laughingly shook her head and disappeared; and Otway returned to his camp, well pleased with his morning.

Late in the afternoon Rosewarne drove over to the farm.

"My wife is spending the evening with a friend," said he; "so I thought I would come over and see how you were getting on."

"First-rate!"replied the artist. "I am enjoying myself amazingly. You will stay to dinner, of course?"

"Thanks, yes. What about Paliaret? Have you seen him?"

"He called upon us yesterday and I was much entertained by his conversation; but I am of opinion that his torpedo, or his elixir, or whatever it is, has unhinged his mind, and he is on the verge of becoming dangerous."

"Hardly that,"said Rosewarne placidly."People have queer whims nowadays, and he was always eccentric. You look very comfortable here," glancing round Otway's sitting-room.

"Am I not ? And the light is not bad for painting. Observe how from this window I command the valley for a considerable distance; from the other, I have an excellent view of the pigsties. I keep that window shut. But I have made some capital studies of pigs. I will show them to you after dinner."

"Have you made that drawing of Githa Dain for your picture?" asked the lawyer as they sat down to table.

"Not yet; I hope to begin to-morrow. By the way, her name is uncommon. How did she come by it?"

"She was born and baptized at Stoke, and the church there was founded by Githa, the mother of Harold."

"Ah, I see. I wonder the name is not more used. My Proserpina had a marvellous effect on Paliaret yesterday. At the sight of it he sprang upon his hobby and set off at a tearing gallop, smashing fences in the most outrageous fashion. Seriously, Rosewarne, that girl ought not to be there."

"Her money is safe. Paliaret cannot get hold of i t ; he and the aunt can only spend the interest."

"Her money— poohl I am thinking of graver matters than money. He will be going off his head presently; what could two women in a lonely cottage do with a maniac?"

"He is not that yet,"said Rosewame."I think you are mistaken."

"Have you noticed his eyes?"

"Not particularly."

"One eye is higher than the other, which is not a good start in life for anybody. We artists observe such things, and when a man like that talks about the efficacy of human sacrifices and the wisdom of worshipping the old gods, one begins to reflect as to what may possibly happen. He reminds me mnch too strongly of a fairy-dootor I once saw in Ireland."

"Did the fairy-doctor do anything remarkable?"

"Merely advocated the roasting of a supposed changeling. The law objected and called it manslaughter."

"Hard on the fairy-doctor! But I do not imagine Paliaret is likely to roast anybody."

"Farmer Mallam here is positive he sacrificed a black lamb up on the headland last spring."

The lawyer burst out laughing. "No— no, I don't believe that."

"I think it quite possible. He bought the lamb and it disappeared. Now, as Mallam puts it, 'what became o' thicky lamb?' "

"They ate it."

"Not so. Mallam's daughter is maid there, and she never saw any lamb, alive or dead."

"Why did not Mallam go and look on the headland for traces of the sacrifice?"

"That was what I asked when I heard the tale, but it seems that the stone up there has a past; its reputation is such that decent folk avoid its neighbourhood."

"What could Paliaret do with the remains? He could not burn them, as the flame would be seen; and lights are not allowed there lest they should cause wrecks."

"With no onlookers, it is easy enough to dig a hole and bury anything."

"True. Besides, there is the sea. Still, even if he did offer up the lamb to his ancient gods, I am not disposed to attach any great importance to it. Dozens of men have queer orazes; Paliaret is only one among many."

Jemmy shook his head.

"He is one by himself, and his craze too queer to be safe. I wish you could have heard him yesterday! The mildest medieval bishop would have promptly burnt him."

"No doubt,"assented Rosewame laughing, and the conversation drifted away from Paliaret.

"The night was clear and the moon at the full.

"I am later than I intended to be,"remarked the lawyer as he clambered into his dog cart. "Never mind, I shall be home at midnight or thereabouts."

"I think I will take a stroll on the headland and see whether Paliaret is worshipping the triple Hecate," said Otway; "it is about the right time for his antics."

"Well, don't throw him over the cliff as an offering to the sea-deities."

"No, I will not I will do more wisely. If his antics are in any way picturesque, I will make a sketch of him by moonlight and sell it as an ancient Phoenician."

"Do, and show it to me. Good night!" and Rosewarne drove away.

Late though it was, there were lights in the cottage as Jemmy walked seaward.

"The old man is evidently out cultivating his gods," he thought. "I had better not show myself too soon."

And he climbed the cliff path cautiously, lest the sound of his footsteps should betray his presence. For the wonderful night was very still, the hiss and rustle of the waves far below on the shingle seeming to deepen the hush. Overhead was the hyacinth-blue of the sky; in front, the dim sapphire of the sea, changing in the moonlight to veiled turquoise; and between sea and sky the dusky land and wide ocean of cool pure air.

"A harmony of blues!" murmured the artist, "blues too subtle to be painted. Yet, one might perhaps put even these colours of gloom upon canvas. What a night! 'On such a night Stood Dido on the wild sea banks.' .... Now I wonder whether I shall find Paliaret on the wild sea banks."

Keeping behind the scattered masses of rock, Otway slipped from shadow to shadow, till he was within thirty yards of the open space where stood the great boulder. Yes, there was Paliaret, standing with uplifted hands before the stone.

"I believe the idolatrous idiot is positively chanting to the moon!" muttered Jemmy, peering round the rock that screened him. "Oh, he's clean crazy! Hullo I here's somebody coming."

For his ear had caught the tinkle of a dislodged pebble falling down the cliff path. Had Githa been sent to call Paliaret home? A moment more and she came into sight, pausing at the top of the path, her white gown shining and her gold hair pale in the moonrays. Her appearance added to the unreality of the scene, she might have been a spirit answering the summons of a necromancer, so weird— so phantasmal seemed everything; the soft blue darkness, the rooks, Paliaret gesticulating by the great stone, the moonlight full upon him as upon the white figure of the girl. Otway drew out his sketch-book, and began sketching rapidly.

"Here!"shouted Paliaret, perceiving Githa, "take this away!" He held out a glittering object that Otway recognised as a silver cup he had seen in the cottage.

The girl crossed the grassy space between the edge of the cliff and the great boulder; and the artist, thinking he would walk home with her, advanced from out the rock-shadow that had screened him. His presence, however, seemed unnoticed by either Paliaret or Githa. She reached the stone, took the cnp from Paliaret's hand, and then....

"BUT TELL ME exactly what happened," said Rosewarne the next day.

"How do I know what happened!" replied Otway. "When you are in the thick of anything you never know what happens— you are much too busy! It was a regular nightmare! I was walking quietly up to them when Gith— I mean Miss Dain— suddenly screamed, and I cleared the space between us in about half a second. Paliaret had seized her by the arm, and was striking at her with a big knife— it was horrid to see it flashing in the moonlight! She warded off the first blow with the cup; I heard the jar of the blade on the silver. It glanced off and cut her arm badly, but before he could stab again I was there. I caught his wrist with one hand, and pulled the girl away with the other, throwing her behind me. Then I had a pretty tough tussle with Paliaret! He was a raving maniac, and came at me like a wild cat, screaming curses on me because I vros ruining him, robbing the gods of their due, and a lot more of the same kind of thing. It was as much as I could do to hold him, upon my sonl it was! I could not have believed that a man of his age could have given me so much trouble. But, of course, age does tell. In less than a minute I felt him weaken, and then I got in one that stunned him. Very unpleasant to hit an old man like that, but what could I do? He dropped, and I tied his hands with my handkerchief. Miss Dain was quite calm and self-possessed, though her arm was badly cut and she looked ready to faint. Leaving Paliaret lying by the stone, I took her back to the cottage. We arranged on the way that I should tell Mrs. Paliaret the old man had had a fit of delirium, and that I should fetoh him and mount guard over him till the morning."

"How did the aunt take it?" inquired Rosewarne, listening with deepest interest.

"Insisted on going with me; and when we got on the headland Paliaret had vanished as completely as though he had been carried away by the devils he worshipped. That gave me a scare. I thought he had slipped his bonds and was making for the cottage. So I persuaded Mrs. Paliaret to return home, saying I would go and look for him among the rooks. She was much annoyed with both of us, her niece and myself, I mean; evidently thinking we were somehow responsible for Paliaret's going off his head."

"Best that she should take it that way."

"Oh yes, I did not care; only I thought it tolerably cool as regards her niece. Well, I saw her into the cottage, and then I went away ostensibly to seek for Paliaret, but in reality I sat down behind a bush within a few yards of the door; I dare not go farther off. I felt convinced that if he returned, his wife would at once open the door, and then what might happen? It was better that a madman should be roaming the country than murdering somebody in his own house. So there I sat till daylight, when the maid and the milkman arrived together, and I heard that the farmer was organising a search party to look for me, as I had not appeared all night. The end of it all was that we found Paliaret on the beach— dead, of course— having evidently fallen from the cliff. He must have pitched or rolled over on purpose, for, as you know, the edge is nearly two hundred yards from the stone, and not a slope either till you get close to the verge. I am sorry for the poor crazy chap, but wherever he is now it must be better than a lunatic asylum, where he must have gone if he had remained in this world. You see I was right about his view of sacrifices."

"Yes," said Rosewame, "I was wrong there. You think he had resolved to sacrifice the girl that night?"

"Oh no, for how could he be sure she would come? I imagine the idea had been hovering in his mind some time, and the opportunity presenting itself, his half-crazy brain gave way entirely, and he attacked her. Had I not been there— well, I do not like to think about it."

"Your accidental presence was most providential."

"I t was undoubtedly providential," observed Otway gravely, "therefore not an accident."

"Again you are right,"assented the lawyer.

THREE WEEKS later Otway was sitting in the Rosewarnes' drawing-room, talking to Githa Dain.

"So Mrs. Paliaret has gone to live in Gloucester?" he remarked.

"Yes, she has friends there, and will be happier away from the sad memories here. I am afraid you will have the cottage on your hands."

"That does not matter. Besides, my friend Bayner writes that he and another man wish to hire a cottage for the winter. I daresay they will take it. Bat yourself ? Hay one ask if you have any plans?"

"I shall stay here with the Rosewarnes for a time, and then look for a little house in the town. I must live somewhere, and I should like to be near Mrs. Rosewarne and my other friends in Seabridge."

"You have seen the house I am making out of the two cottages above the river, how would that suit you?"

"Excellently, it is charming. But I understood that you intended to live there."

"So I did, so I do, if you do not object. I thought perhaps you would be so good as to marry me, then I could live there too. Think of it," he urged, seeing the colour deepen in her cheek.

"We could go abroad till the house is finished; the change would do you good, and we could be back by October, ready for a glorious winter among our friends; and run up to town in the spring just to see the Proserpina hung on the line— which of course it will be."

"I have never given you the sittings I promised," she said.

"No, which is another reason for marrying me; you could give me the sittings quite at your leisure. If you did not care to live here, I would live anywhere you wished. An artist is not tied to a neighbourhood."

"It must be very pleasant to be an artist."

"It is very pleasant to be an artist's wife, I assure you," declared Jemmy audaciously. "We make such good husbands. Only try me and see!"

This appeal proved irresistible, Githa laughed outright.

"I will think about it,"she said.

THERE WAS a gathering of Otway's friends in his old studio in town, and Bayner, standing in the midst, waved an open letter.

"Jemmy is going to marry his Proserpina,"he announced,"and next week I trot down there to be best man. Morton is going too."

"Why Morton?" inquired one.

"Because," said Morton, "Rayner and I have taken a cottage in the wilderness belonging to Jemmy. You can all come if you like, we'll put you up. You can sleep in rows on the kitchen floor."

"Fares!" uttered the pessimist gloomily."Excursion time is over, and railway companies have no bowels of compassion. They might take the lot of us cheap, like a school treat or a ton of foreign fruit, but not they!"

"Pooh!" said Rajner, "we can dub together and go down in a cattle-truck if necessary."

"Not allowed!"

"I know that. I spoke figuratively. You can come easily enough. Living is cheap; lots of grass to browse on."

"And thistles?"

"And thistles, certainly."

"Well," observed the pessimist, "eating them down there is better thui sitting on them here. I vote we go!"

So the brotherhood mustered in force at Otway's wedding.

________________

10: A Flutter in Wives

Bertram Atkey

1880-1952

Blue Book, Jan 1928

AMONG the more engaging customs of that afflicted man, Captain Lester Cormorant, late of the Bolivian Light Horse, was one which showed him— totally without morals gooďor bad though he was, Heaven help him (as he would say)— not wholly impervious to those impulses which do so much to make the good husband. He was accustomed to spend at least two evenings a week at home, amidst the extremely comfortable circumstances of domesticity, in the control and arrangement of which his wife— that placid lady to whom he had proposed in the dark— was so skilled that a superficial observer might easily have rated the Cormorant ménage at five thousand a year instead of the three thousand which was the true sum of Mrs. Cormorant's income.

It was on such an evening that the adventurer— somewhat battered, but with his six feet four inches of height, his colossal Wellingtonian nose, and his great drooping red mustache, still distinguished looking— and his adoring partner discussed the case of their friend, Sopley-Smyth.

"I see that poor Sopley-Smyth has filed his petition at last," said the Captain, over a glass of port.

"Yes, Lester," replied Mrs. Cormorant quietly. "It was bound to come."

The Captain sighed.

"It is a very tragic thing for a man's wife to run away from him— if she has a couple of thousand a year," he said. "I feel for poor Sopley-Smyth. I am sorry for the man."

"You would not like me to leave you, would you, Lester?" said Mrs. Cormorant playfully— even coquettishly.

The Captain looked very serious.

"Louise, my heart, don't say such things, even in jest! It hurts me— non-moral though the gods have seen fit to make me. I find life sufficiently arid as it is,"— he poured himself another glass of port wherewith, no doubt, to render it less arid— "but were you to leave me, taking your three thousand a year with you, I feel I should never be the same man again. No— never, my heart. You see— ever since that fortunate hour when, struggling in vain against my incurable moral infirmity, I stole your motorcar, with you in it, I have leaned upon you and— Heaven forgive me!— upon your income. Have I not, my dear child?"

"Yes," said the. dear child truthfully, "you have, Lester."

"For every word of love I have desired, darling, to whom have I looked?"

"To me, Lester."

"Yes. And for every tenner— every fiver— nay, every modest half-quid— to whom have I looked, Lord help me?"

"To me, Lester."

"Yes, my own. And have you ever failed næ? You have not. But Sopley-Smyth's wife failed him— with the result that he is now bankrupt. She, poor soul, has not the noble nature which you possess. She never really loved him."

"Never loved him?"

"No, my pearl. He told me so himself. Why, last summer she refused him the paliry sum of fifteen pounds for the worthy and patriotic purpose of running down to Epsom to see that noble horse, Lemon, make its gallant but unsuccessful effort to win the Derby."

"How dreadful, Lester!"

"Yes, you are right, Louise— it was dreadful! Let me give you a little more of this port. It is a better wine than the last."

"Yes, Lester. I took your advice and gave more money for it," explained Louise.

CAPTAIN CORMORANT leaned across and patted the pretty hand of his wife.

"That's my good girl," he said. "Now, Mrs. Sopley-Smyth would never have done that. Poor George did once venture to complain of the sherry. What do you think she did, Louise? Remember, that in some respects Sopley-Smyth was a fine fellow— not, like myself, a man foredoomed to drag his way through life suffering from a total lack of morals, good or bad."

"What did she do, Lester?"

"She put him on cooking sherry for a month!"

"How cruel!" said his adoring lady.

"Cruel and mean— yes, mean! You would never put me on cooking port, would you, Louise?"

"Indeed I wouldn't."

She poured him a little more port to prove it, and fondly chose him another cigar.

"Do you think he married her for her money, Lester?" inquired the lady, after a peaceful pause.

The Captain blew a fragrant cloud. "I fear so, my heart, I fear so," he replied.

Mrs. Cormorant shook her head sadly.

"Yes— it was a mistake. It always is a mistake," agreed her husband.

"You didn't marry me for my money, did you, darling?"

"As it happened, no. Fortunately, when I proposed— in the dark— I did not know you were well-to-do. I loved you, Louise. I think it was your voice that attracted me first of all, then the mystery of you, as you sat half-invisible inside your car— and the moonlight— the romance of it all."

"Ah!" sighed Louise.

"Had I known of your money, no doubt I should have married you for it— being what I am, Heaven help me! But I did not know. Ours, my dear, was an ideal union— a success. Usually a marriage where one party thereto is rich and the other poor is a dismal failure— such as poor Sopley-Smyth's. Almost invariably avarice intervenes!"

Captain Cormorant took a long sip of wine and repeated the last phrase, not without a certain fruity pride: "Avarice intervenes almost invariably."

"You wouldn't let me become avaricious, dear, would you?"

"Never!" said Captain Cormorant reassuringly. "I have seen it break up too many homes ever to permit it to raise its venomous head upon our hearth, darling Louise. It was the only thing I invariably used to advise my clients to guard against, when I was,a matrimonial agent."

"Were you a matrimonial agent once, Lester?" inquired Mrs. Cormorant, who was much too well aware of her husband's picturesque and picaresque past to be surprised at this new facet thereof.

The Captain nodded.

"During a period of financial stringency which overtook me through no fault of my own," he replied, "while once residing within the confines of that great republic the United States of America, dearest, I worked up quite an attractively remunerative business as a matrimonial agent. Indeed, I might still be prospering at it had I not been compelled to leave the town somewhat abruptly on account of a misunderstanding with the captain of the local police who had been landed— through me, though entirely by reason of his unbounded avarice— in a position of some considerable difficulty."

The Captain stared into the fire, pulling fiercely at his mustache, his great Roman nose jutting out like a rock.

"He was a most avaricious man— a man who had never shown mercy to a dollar in his life, the hard-hearted hound!" he added. "They used to say he never carried a wallet or a purse."

"But where did he keep his banknotes, Lester?"

"In his soul! That was a joke, of course, dearest— it was what the bootblack said to Mark Twain."

"What happened to make him turn on you so savagely?"

"I will tell you, my jewel," said the captain. "It is an interesting story."

He smiled reminiscently, settled his cozily slippered feet on a soft hassock by the fender, and launched leisurely into the following narrative:

TO a lady so sagacious as yourself, heart of mine (he began) it will be obvious that a man who, like myself, is condemned by the gods to go through life unequipped with morals of any description, must have his ups and downs. As you know, there was a period in my career when my family felt itself called upon to make a determined and united effort to get me out of the country, and keep me out. At the time I felt hurt about it, but looking back at it from the peaceful haven which you have created for me, dear Louise, I feel that it was for the best. I had been forging my good old father's name to checks rather extensively, Lord help me! And he realized that we had come to the parting of the ways. Even that noble woman, my mother, who, with the sole exception of yourself, was the only woman who ever really understood the curse under which I am fated to drag out my existence, was compelled to acknowledge that the time had come when the family must choose between themselves and me. They chose for themselves.

I landed in America scantily equipped with funds, and, being younger and less experienced at that time, it was not long before my sole worldly wealth consisted of an empty suitcase, the clothes I was wearing, and a manicure set presented to me as a farewell present by my elder sister, who had been given a better one.

I will not conceal from you the fact that I went through a very bad time; so bad that I think only a strictly non-moral man could have survived it. But at length a time came when I found myself fairly established, thanks to my own efforts, as a matrimonial agent in one of the larger towns.

There are those— with you, Louise, at their head, I am glad to say— who consider me at least a gentleman. In my time I have been accused of many peccadilloes, ranging from barratry to arson, but I think I may claim ever to have remembered that I am a gentleman— in manners. Now, manner is essential to a matrimonial agent; without manner no man can succeed in the profession. I succeeded. By the : simple device of advertising in one-half of the newspapers that I desired to find a husband for a broad-minded, generousnatured blonde heiress, loving, pleasant, and fond of music,— and in the remaining newspapers that I was seeking a wife for a retired millionaire, young, handsome, dark, fond of home life, and of a surprisingly affectionate nature,— I filled eight large ledgers with applicants, all of whom enclosed the stipulated dollar for a photograph, with the sole exception of a gentleman from Missouri, who explained that he would gladly forward his dollar after he had been afforded an opportunity of satisfying himself visually that the lady actually existed. I had, in short, to show him an available heiress before he detached himself from the dollar for her portrait.

I then paired my applicants off as neatly as possible. I am afraid there were disappointments— particularly among those who could not control their avarice. And there were slight misunderstandings, of course. What sort of misunderstandings, you ask me, my heart? Well, for instance, as when I brought a full-blooded Chippehaha Indian squaw, of mature age, said to be a princess, and to possess a store of precious stones— which turned out to be a collection. of Birmingham beads, old glass eyes, and a graduated set of blood alleys— into contact with a high-spirited gentleman from Carolina, one Major Bellew, whose great fortune was locked up in land, the key of the lock being in possession of the mortgagee. I still have the mark of the major's bullet in my arm, but. the nails of the Indian princess, I am glad to say, left no permanent scars, deeply though she dug them. But that type of occasional misfire is to be looked for in the matrimonial agency profession— and is one of the reasons why among the privileges which an agent must be content to forgo may be reckoned the privilege of life insurance. No really careful company will entertain a proposal from one of these agents on his own life.

ONE day, while sitting in my office thinking over the problem of reconciling a literary lady of Boston to the terms of the contract into which, rather precipitately, she had entered by mail with an extremely self-made gentleman from Seattle, the captain of the local police entered the office.

"You're pulled, Montmorency," he said briefly. I was at the time calling myself Montmorency de Fleury, and he meant that I was arrested.

"Why?" I demanded.

"Well, think it out, Mont," he said. "Put yourself in my place for a moment. Here I am, me, Sim M'Gryde, police captain in this town, and a bachelor. And here you are, with a continual stream of heiresses flowing through this office. But, have you ever had the heart to invite me to chip im and collar one of the heftiest ones for myself? Have you? I'm asking you, Mont. Have,you acted white to me? Did you ever' think whether I was starved for a little love up at home? No, Mont, you never did. You never cared about me setting back there, lonely and poor, in that cold police office. I noticed it and it hurt me, Mont; but I am a proud man, and I set quiet and suffered. Have I ever lifted a finger against you? Have I ever allowed a cop to set' his hoof inside this here Court of Hymen of yourn, Mont? I haven't, and you know it. What about that buck nigger from New Orleans that you offered as a 'brunette gentleman, very cheerful, fond of music, interested in melon-growing and chicken-raising, ample means,' to that prim New England school madam from Gloucester, Massachusetts? I tell you no lie, Mont, when I say that that dame came into my office like a harpoon. She wanted yow pulled then. But did I pull you? No, sir! I said to myself, 'There's old Mont down there settin' down watching 'em file past, with a special eye open for me. First thing I know will be a hurry call from him offering a sweet little dame with, perhaps, half a million good United States dollars to lonely old M'Gryde.' Well, you didn't. And so you're arrested— for fraud! We'd better be getting along to the office."

I thought swiftly, Louise. It is necessary for a matrimonial agent to be a swift thinker. I confess that it seemed to me that M'Gryde's complaint was not without justification. He had been neglected— foolishly. In his place I should have felt much as he did— hurt and resentful. I should have pulled him and had him run out of the town.

I saw it in that light, and I said so.

"Captain," I said, "everything you say is true. I apologize. In the rush of business I have been guilty of a grave faux pas—"

"White conversation," he said. "That goes— it's good enough, and it's enough. Now let's get down to business. How are the heiresses lining up? Have you got plenty? Is there a selection? How are you off for blondes? Do they run large? I like 'em large. Photos, now— let's have a look at their tintypes. Where's the gallery, Mont? Show me round."

It was clear to me that M'Gryde was not at all acquainted with the difficulties of the matrimonial business. Large blonde heiresses do not grow on bushes by the wayside, Louise, and I had nothing whatever resembling one on my books at the time. I was, of course, advertising a pair, but they were quite— er— fictional.

REFLECTED for a moment, then decided upon a course of action.

"If you think, Captain, that I am the sort of man who would be satisfied to plant any ordinary blonde item on my books upon you, you misjudge me," I said. "I am going to provide you with something sensational in the way of a wife. She will take some finding— but she's going to be found! All I say is, 'Give me time.' "

He seemed a little disappointed.

"But haven't you got nothing likely in stock, Mont? I want to get married right now— I'm in the mood. And there's a little note of mine falling due next week that's got to be arranged for. How about that amiable heiress with a copper mine, fond of music, auburn-haired, and of a bright, merry, cheerful disposition, that you're advertising? I got no kick against a dame of that kind."

I explained gently that she was not available— that she was, as it were, a shopwindow model— a fixture— that there was no such person.  That she was, in short, advertising.

M'Gryde was immensely intrigued.

"Huh! I get you," he said. "And every poor fool who would like to hear more of this merry, amiable redhead sends along a dollar for her photo. Say, Mont, it's time I pulled you! But we'll decide what to do about those dollars later. Have you got anything in the heiress way to offer? A small brunette would do, failing a large blonde— but she must have the requisite mazuma."

By "mazuma" he meant money, Louise.

I ran through my ledger. There was nothing available with more than a thousand dollars, and the Captain was rather cold about these. He said so.

"I am not sure that I like this business of yours, Mont," he said. "It's paltry, and it's piking. You'll have to dig up something better than a thousand-dollar heiress for mine —and it calls for quick action. I'll give you a week to find her—  the future Mrs. M'Gryde," he said, "and if she aint here sharp on schedule time, you are due for a year or two in the cooler!" He then left.

I do not disguise from you, dear Louise, that for the next hour I sat in my office a prey to deep dejection. I was well aware that I was face to face with;a problem so complex and difficult that it would have put a less non-moral man out of business, and almost immediately thereafter out of the town. Quite the last person an eligible blonde American heiress needs assistance from is a matrimonial agent. She is competent to find her own husband, and the lads over there are amply competent to find her— yes, indeed!

Yet here I was, practically bound to produce an extremely wealthy one for the police captain within a week, if I desired to keep on the comfortable side of the local jail.

My thoughts were slowly beginning to flow towards a consideration of that portion of the railway time-table which dealt with departures from the town, when a very remarkable coincidence occurred.

A lady entered the office, and was promptly shown in by my clerk.

She was, I perceived at a glance, a large blonde, and although past the first flush (and, indeed, the second flush) of youth, she was what one might quite reasonably term a well-preserved and comparatively handsome woman. She was dressed well, in expensive though not exuberant clothes, and her manner was extraordinarily selfpossessed. An interview with a matrimonial agent is an uncommonly good test of self-possession, Louise.

She settled herself comfortably in the chair which I placed for her at my desk, and for a few seconds surveyed me in silence.

I saw anew that she had once been an extremely beautiful woman, though the considerable remnants of her once dazzling loveliness were marred slightly by a certain austerity or severity— I may even say, hardness— of the eyes and mouth, and a small, peculiarly-shaped scar on her left cheekbone. It was almost a perfect crescent. I became aware of a feeling that she was wealthier than the usual run of my lady clients. Upon the whole, she made an excellent impression upon me— excellent. She would make— in spite of that faintly chilling severity, that hint of fierceness—an admirable wife for a high-spirited man.

HER impression of me must have been favorable, for her peculiar, rather mysterious and vaguely alluring almondshaped eyes brightened a little as she looked at me. She smiled faintly.

"You are Mr. de Fleury?" she inquired.

"Entirely at your service, mademoiselle," I said, with a certain courtliness. I felt that a degree of courtliness would not be wholly out of place— and, of course, dear Louise, a matrimonial agent would never dream of using any mode of address but "mademoiselle" to a lady client at first glance— even though she were obviously most excessively married.

"I am Eleanora Colone," she said, in a carelessly impressive way. She placed a gold net handbag of obvious worth on my desk, and looked at me attentively. I had never heard of her in my life, but I confess that I felt that I should have done so. That she was a stranger to the town, I knew, of course.

"No doubt you will think it singular that I should avail myself of the service of a matrimonial agent in the matter of selecting another husband— for I am a widow, as probably you are very well aware— and I desire it to be clearly understood that, whatever my reasons, I do not propose to reveal or discuss them," she said.

I murmured an appreciation of what I believe I spoke of as "a very natural inclination" and she nodded.

"I desire to marry again," she said imperiously, "and, because of the reasons to which I have alluded, I am not disposed to be too critical. I prefer a man of tall, distinguished appearance, with good manners, and some knowledge of the usages of polite society. He need not be strictly handsome, and I do not wish a man who is popular, and who possesses shoals of friends. Money is of no consequence whatever. He may be poor, but that will be of no importance— though, as a guarantee of his integrity and honesty of purpose, I shall require that he insures his life to an extent compatible with his position as my husband. And he must be prepared to change his name, should he possess one which grates on my ear or jars my sense of harmony. That, I think, is all."

She paused, and surveyed me keenly.

"Are you married?" she asked calmly.

I reflected swiftly. It was quite clear that I could, with. perfect propriety, regard the inquiry as a proposal— but, for some indefinable reason, I hesitated. Was it some strange, sweet presentiment of you, dear Louise, that rose to the surface of my mind? I have often wondered. But my hesitation saved me.

It was not complimentary, I fear— certainly it was not very courtly— and a momentary expression of intense anger, so fierce, so hard and even terrible, flashed across her face, that, mentally shaking hands with myself, I made haste to answer. I rose and bowed with that courtly, old-world grace which, as you have often been so kind as to say, Louise, is one of my more attractive attributes.

"Alas, dear lady, I grieve to say that my personal matrimonial affairs are in a state of such intricate and incredibly involved complication that he would be a bold man who could say offhand whether I am married, half-married, divorced, semidivorced, a widower, or single. A curious position of affairs, you will say, for a matrimonial agent, and indeed you will be right. But you are no doubt familiar with the classic phrase of the great clown Garabimaldi (I fear I came a cropper over the name), 'I can make other people laugh, but I cannot laugh myself!' So, madame, it is with me. I can dispense matrimony from this office with a lavish hand— I can even control (to a limited extent, and for a limited time) the marriages and matrimonial affairs of others— but my own matrimonial affair I cannot control, for she is uncontrollable."

I bowed even lower.

"Madame," I said, not without a careful, rather touching tremor of the voice, "your proposal falls upon the wounded spirit of a man who dares not in business hours wear his heart upon his' sleeve; like the gentle dew from above, your generous pity and compassion bathes in the Lethean waters of Love, as in an anodyne— nay, a very nepenthe—"

"Ves, yes, I understand," she said briskly. "You may forget it, Mr. Fleury. It was the merest passing inquiry, and the matter is devoid of the slightest importance. Let us proceed with business. What available clients have you?"

I TOOK my heart off my sleeve, put it in my pocket, so to speak, Louise, and we proceeded to business.

I ventured to inquire as to the lady's means. She responded with a list of investments— mining stock, mostly, which convinced me that even if they were all untamable "wildcats" the mere paper on which her share certificates were printed was worth a considerable sum to any paper-maker for re-pulping— and in my mind's eye I married her at once to Captain M'Gryde.

You see, in some respects, he answered rather uncannily well to specifications. True, he was not tall. Indeed he was one of the squat, oblate ones. Nor was he distinguished—except for the astonishing liberality of his feet. But, on the other hand, I have seldom met a man who struggled along with less popularity—his nickname, which was "Blight" M'Gryde, conveys that to you—and he had shoals of the kind of friends who would cheerfully lead him over the cliff if he were blind, but none of the other kind.

He was poor, and always would be in any place where he could spend money on himself. And I did not doubt that he would willingly insure his life. If the policy lapsed because a rich wife failed to keep it paid up, Captain M'Gryde was not the kind of man to worry himself into chronic insomnia on that account.

Yes, I saw it with a thrill. They were made for each other— and both for me! I proceeded to describe the police captain.

Mrs. Colone was immensely interested. She 'even went so far as to say that if her unalterable decision that her husband should be insured for at least a hundred thousand dollars pressed too hardly upon the Captain's resources, she would be prepared occasionally to pay his premiums for him—if he were otherwise tractable.

I arranged, then, as to the extent of my own personal rake-off— er— fees, you understand, Louise, and, leaving her for a moment, went to fetch the Captain. I did not use the telephone, though there was one on my desk. I told Mrs. Colone— and she agreed— that to my mind the introduction of machinery into such delicate matters was apt to render the negotiations sordid, if not positively base. Besides, there was the question of my rake-off, small though it would be (if any at all) from M'Gryde. Of this I did not speak.

Hastily driving from his presence a minor malefactor who had been explaining an infringement of the by-laws relating to the peddling of monkey-nuts, and thrusting the explanation into his pocket without troubling to count it, M'Gryde came with me to my office.

I need not say that by the time I had recited half the list of the lady's investments and her other charms, he was willing to swallow all her very reasonable stipulations whole, and even to ask for more to show his good faith.

The thing went with a swing from the start. M'Gryde, perhaps more accustomed to a certain severity of look than was I,— though, as a matrimonial agent, I, too, did not lack experience of the glassy gaze, nay, the crystalline stare of some of my less happy endings— appeared to notice nothing but a gentle and tender beauty upon the countenance of the gracious Eleanora, and, neither being inclined to display a niggling fastidiousness, the preliminaries were speedily settled.

Both parties scrupulously carried out their obligations— I achieved a very sweet little rake-off on the first premium of the large life-insurance policy— and a few days later the marriage took place, very quietly, at the request of the bride.

Owing to a sudden rather important arrest, M'Gryde was not able to leave the town at once for his honeymoon trip.

IN the evening following the marriage I worked late at my office thinking out the particulars of a new and rather promising type of heiress I had been building up in my mind for some time past, and writing a new and brilliant advertisement offering her. I remember to this day the glowing though hopelessly unmoral thrill of joy sent coursing through my mind by the reflection that she would stand at least a two-dollar photograph fee.

I completed my work and, locking up the office, strolled down to the newspaper office with the advertisement.

The last edition was published just as I arrived— and I admit to you, Louise, that my vertebre changed gear and froze in the reverse when my eyes fell on the "star" story of that last edition. I wont harrow your gentle heart, Louise, with the details. Let it suffice to say that the rag had devoted half its entire space to a detailed account, not of the police captain's wedding— but of his bride.

I had guessed her to be distinguished— and she was— notorious, in fact.

She was the famous Belle Tone— the only woman on earth who had been twice tried for her life on the capital charge of murdering her husband— the motive in each case being the heavy life-insurance of the husband.

The first trial— on account of the first husband— had taken place in Scotland, The verdict had been "not proven." The second trial had been in Paris, and four juries had disagreed. Her first husband had been a Scotch inspector of police, her second husband had been a lieutenant of the French police. Both had been insured for a sum equivalent to about one hundred thousand dollars, and both had died very suddenly.

The deciding factor which had saved her was the allegation that shortly prior to the fate of both husbands, a mysterious person, a man of "pronounced Oriental appearance," had inquired the way to the house of the lady; but this person had never been discovered.

The newspaper reporter claimed to have recognized her by the scar on her cheek.

You can well believe, Louise, that I devoured the extraordinary news. Suddenly, as I stood at the door reading avidly, the paper was snatched from my hand and I looked up with a start.

It was M'Gryde, from the police office almost opposite, and it was evident that he had read the news.

He glared at me, blue-black with either passion or fear, I never quite knew which. He opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say was never spoken. For at that moment a passer-by stopped.

"Pardon me," he said, in a curious lisping voice. "I should be grateful if one of you gentlemen could direct me to the house of Mrs. M'Gryde."

M'Gryde gasped, staring. Then without a word he turned and dashed, cometlike, across the street toward his office.

Not till he disappeared inside did I look at the passer-by.

"Go right along, and ask again," I said; and simultaneously I left him and went out of the matrimonial agency business for good.

There was an eastbound train just pulling out, when a second and a half later I reached the railway-station.

I connected with that train, thus beginning my non-stop run to New York, en route for England. Why, do you ask, Louise?

Well, heart of mine, the person who had wished to be told the way to Mrs. M'Gryde's was a person of most extraordinari!y pronounced Oriental appearance, and his arrival conveyed to me what the cry of the banshee is said to convey to those who hear it.

M'Gryde, dearest? I have never seen him since; but, long after, I learned that he, too, tried for the train which bore me away.

He missed it by half a second, but a second later he was aboard a fast freight which was heading westwards, and which he did not leave until he was on the other side of the Rocky Mountains! He, too, was a man of quick decisions.

THE CAPTAIN glanced at the clock, finished his port, and rose.

"Ah, Lester, what a romantic career you have had!" sighed Louise, gazing up at him admiringly.

"Yes, my heart, very romantic, and crowned at the end of it with that priceless boon, a perfect wife, with a disposition of pure gold. That is the bright, particular star which illumines the profound gloom which, owing to my affliction, would otherwise enshroud the sunset, so to speak, of my life!"

He sighed.

"Ah, well, I suppose the boys will take it as unkind if I do not look in on them ati the club for a half-hour. Go to bed, dear heart, and rest. I would not rob you of one instant's necessary slumber."

He kissed her affectionately, then drew out a little loose silver and looked at it with an air of chagrined discovery.

"By Jove, Louise, I am short— very, short! Heaven forgive me, but have you a fiver handy, darling?"

Mrs. Cormorant almost ran to her desk,

"Nobody shall ever say that I am like that Mrs. Sopley-Smyth," she declared.

"Not in my hearing!" said the Captain fiercely, putting the fiver in his pocket. He kissed her again, lighted her candle, and gallantly escorting her to the foot of the stairs, bade her a tender "au revoir."

"A good little soul!" he mused as he let himself out. "She must always be kept happy. Probably the only person in the world who believes in me, God bless her! Yes, she has faith in her husband— poor wretch that I am," he continued, smiling cheerfully, as he felt for his cigar-case. "And that is the great essential to all wifely happiness, devil a doubt of it: Faith in one's husband— and plenty of ready money to back faith up! Yes, indeed!" And, striking a match, the Captain sauntered comfortably clubward.

______________

11: The Philanthropist

Andrew Soutar

1879-1941

Blue Book, Feb 1915

Andrew Soutar

THE ancient in the white smock was sitting on the bench outside the inn; his legs were crossed; the elbow of his right arm rested in the palm ofhis left hand; the fingers of the right hand were balancing the bowl of an empty pipe. There was no tobacco in the pipe; nevertheless, the ancient's lips continued almost despairingly to open and shut. All the while his watery eyes stared disconsolately in the direction of the churchyard on the other side of the road— divided from it by rusted iron railings. There was a green mound near the railings, and I fancied— only fancied— that at last, I understood the sorrow that rested on the village of Merling-in-the-Dip. Nodding at the green mound, I said to the ancient:

"This village seems to be a vale of tears."

He removed the pipe-stem from his lips and blew out an imaginary cloud of smoke.

"Aye," he said, and sighed.

"I have been in the village two days," I told him, "without seeing a single person smile."

"We ain"t got no call to smile," he answered.

"Some one— some one is dead?"

"Aye." Another and a deeper sigh. "Noah Cobbleston."

"Recently ?"

"Fifteen year agone!"

"Great grief," I said, reverently, "is not for a day. He was a philanthropist?"

The ancient stooped with difficulty and picked up a flint.

"That's what he called hisself," he said, "but he was as hard as that 'ere stone. This village was as "appy as the birds in the air afore he come to it, an" it's never smiled sin" he went out of it— an' never will ag'in."

And by degrees, I obtained from the ancient the story or romance, which you will, of Mr. Noah Cobbleston, shoemaker by profession. I cannot set forth the story in the dialect of the ancient, nor hope to convey an adequate impression of his grief-lined face as he talked.

NOAH COBBLESTON was fifty-two, and a bachelor. The only person in the village who believed in him and paid tribute to his learnedness (he was an omnivorous reader) was his housekeeper, a half-witted body who was grateful for a shelter in her declining years. Noah"s shop had no window, or rather, no glass front, so that loiterers on the pavement were able to hold converse with him as he sat at work on a dilapidated shoe. Being the only shoemaker in the village, he secured all the trade— for what it was worth— and year in, year out he sat there with his last between his knees, and on his right the candle-flame at which he warmed the wax-ends for sewing purposes.

Noah was friendless in the village because of his irrepressible contempt for what he termed the woeful illiteracy of the rustics; he looked down upon them, heaped contumely upon their heads, and wondered aloud, a thousand times a day, why he allowed himself to dwell among them. Not to be a creditor of Noah was to run the risk of studied insult while passing the shop. The creditors— and there were many— were mollified by soft words of flattery. There was Leachey, the butcher:

"How do we stand now, Noah?" he would inquire across the counter when it was sought still further to add to the debt. That "how do we stand" meant "When are you going to settle up?" but Noah, with the artfulness of the heckled politician, would divert the trend of conversation.

"Leachey," he would say, shaking his silver head, "I owe it to my own intelligence to shake the dust of this village of the untaught from my feet, but if there is one person that I shall regret leaving it is Mr. Ezra Leachey, whose capacity for assimilating the great truths of life is the one bright spot in this otherwise forsaken community."

"That's all right," retorted Leachey, on one occasion, "but I have my bills to meet, and if my customers don"t choose to settle up, I shall be pushed out into the cold by my creditors. You see how things are, Noah?"

"Ezra," said Noah, solemnly, "you read the Book. What is said therein: 'He shall temper the wind to the shorn lamb!' "

"And that may be all right, too," said Mr. Leachey, "although I never heeard of a lamb being sheared."

"Some day— some day," said Noah, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, "I shall come into my own, and then— and then, Leachey!"

"You be always 'coming' into your own," Leachey grumbled; "the trouble is that you never seem to 'get' there.... No, you can't have that shin-bone; it's for the rector. He pays."

"Ah!" Noah sighed, removing his eyes from the desired morsel. "I have a brother in the Western States who would sicken of a fever if his chef were to descend to shin-bones. But let that pass, Mr. Leachey."

"And if I were you, Noah," said Mr. Leachey, in a friendly way, "I shouldn't talk so much about them rich relatives of yourn. The tradesmen in Merling-in-the-Dip mayn't be so learned as Mr. Noah Cobbleston, but you can't get eternal credit with that old story. They've been bitten so many times, that they can 'smell' a 'dog' a fortnight off."

"Sir," said Noah, fondling a small joint on the counter, "it is an insult to your own remarkable intelligence to give these villagers credit for so much perspicacity.... Will you be good enough to weigh that joint, and remove the bone?"

Mr. Leachey did as he was requested, but he weighed the bone along with the meat. "No," he said, still in that friendly tone, "you'll have to think out another yarn; were getting tired of the old one."

AS NOAH went back to his own shop, his brows were knitted; the unshaven chin moved to the workings of his mind. He called aloud for the housekeeper, and placed the latest purchase in her hands.

"Arabena," he said, softly and ingratiatingly, "I commit it to your care, knowing that you will serve it to my liking— slightly under-done, the batter crisp and acceptable to a sensitive palate. Go you to Mr. Grabble, tender him an expression of my deep regard, and my deep-rooted belief that his eldest boy is destined to make his mark in the world. Observe, also, that as a green-grocer who knows his business, Mr. Grabble commands my admiration. ... I should order a sack of potatoes, but don't allow him to bring your order down to less than four pounds."

"He was very ungracious yesterday," said Arabena, doubtfully. "Indeed, he was rude."

Noah waved his hand in dismissal.

"One cannot expect to make a silk purse out of a swine's ear, Arabena," he observed; then he went to his last, and resumed the stitching of a broken toe-cap. As he bowed his silver-haired head over his work he recalled the words of the butcher: "You'll have to think out another yarn."

During the afternoon of that day, Mr. Cobbleston found time to ruffle the coats of half-a-dozen villagers, and in one case he went so far as to threaten personal violence. Being blessed with considerable stature, he was able to lend impressiveness to his threat. At twilight, he was still sitting at the last— kept there by the knowledge that one shilling and sixpence would be the reward of mending the broken toe-cap. From out of the gloom of the street there came, suddenly, a well-aimed stone. Mr. Noah Cobbleston was struck on the temple, and fell forward across his last with a deep groan. Arabena found him there, and within half an hour the village was acquainted with the news that Mr. Cobbleston had been the victim of a dastardly outrage, and was lying unconscious in his room above the shop.

For a week, the village was plunged in grief— in the case of the tradesmen it was torment. Grocer, butcher, tailor, and baker kept watch on the window of that room in which the old man was fighting the greatest battle a man or woman is ever called on to fight. Gradually, human solicitude was beaten down in the breasts of the watchers; by the end of the week they had made their calculations of how much the 'property' would fetch. They were waiting for the blinds to fall; then they would rush forward and mark their claims.

BUT Noah recovered. Arabena startled the watchers by running out of the house, screaming as she ran. In her hand was a check, drawn by "Noah Cobbleston, Esq.," in favor of Arabena Gethercol. And the amount— "One thousand pounds!"

Leachey, the butcher, snatched the check from the housekeeper's hand, and read it aloud to the other tradesmen gathered around him. For a moment they stared, incredulously, almost fearfully, at each other. Then, Leachey smiled grimly. He grasped Arabena by the arm.

"It won't work, my good 'ooman," he said, shaking the check in her face. "Now out with the whole story."

"I told him it wouldn't," she sobbed, "but his poor mind's given way. He's settin' there, calling hisself a miserable old millionaire, and prayin' the good Lord to forgive him all his past iniquities."

Leachey released his grasp of her shoulder.

"Has the doctor seen him?" he inquired, sternly.

"Came this morning, he did," said Arabena, "but Mr. Cobbleston was asleep, and I wouldn't have him wakened. About half an hour after the doctor went—"

"Mr. Grabble," Leachey broke in, "with your permission, we'll go into your shop and question this female further. It's only fair to her— being a 'ooman—that we should warn her of the danger of being a party to a felony— as he would say."

They adjourned to the back parlor of Mr. Grabble's shop, their numbers being added to by several customers, The door of the parlor was shut and locked, and Arabena was advised to make a clean breast of things.

"When he woke up," she said tearfully, "he called me to the side of the bed. 'How does my bank balance stand, woman?' he asked, his eyes half-shut. I told him there was about fifteen pounds to the good—"

A draught of relief swept round the little parlor; not one of the creditors had been so hopeful.

" 'Fifteen pounds,' he cried out, gripping me by the skirts like this."—She demonstrated the action—" 'Fifteen million, you mean,' he said, and— and when I looked into his poor eyes, I could see how things were. One of my brothers was took the same way. 'Fifteen millions,' says he, 'and all this while— all these years, Arabena, I've been a miserable, grasping old miser, ungrateful to my friends, rude to the dear people of Merling-in-the-Dip. I've quarreled with them, held them up to ridicule, and they"ve always turned the other cheek to the smiter!"

"Oh! Yes," said Mr. Leachey, and although he smiled as he said it, there was a nasty bite in his voice. He winked knowingly at Mr. Grabble.

Arabena wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron.

" 'I've had a horrible dream, Arabena,' he said to me after a minute."

"He"s going to have another," came from Mr. Leachey.

" 'A horrible dream,' he said. 'I thought I was dead, and when I went up for Judgment I was asked: "What have you done with all your money, Noah Cobbleston—' "

"That's what we'd all like to know," observed Mr. Leachey in a low voice.

"He gripped my hand— like that," went on Arabena, "and said in an awful voice: 'I couldn't answer, woman; I knew that I'd aLlowed my money to lie in the bank; I'd refused to pay my just debts; I was a sinner without a single virtue.' "

"And when he found that he wasn"t dead— what then?" Mr. Grabble had taken up the examination.

"He said, 'I've another chance, Arabena; I'm going to make amends for the past. You,'—how his poor eyes filled with tears as he looked at me,— 'you have been a faithful servant. I'm going to reward you, first.' And he asked for a pen and some ink, and then he gave me that check."

" 'Tisn't worth the paper it"s written on," said Mr. Leachey, brutally.

Arabena might not have heard, for she carefully folded the check and placed it in the sack-like purse which hung from her girdle.

"Wouldn't give you twopence for it," said Mr. Grabble.

"It was the way in which he gave it me," said Arabena, thoughtfully. "I was the first his poor mind turned to. There's something in that."

"Is he up?" inquired Mr. Grabble.

"Bless you!" she exclaimed. "He seems as right as ninepence until he opens his mouth. Then, he talks of the mansions he's been buying and what he shall do with them before he dies. And he goes on about the chef and the way his man has brushed his clothes. Lord! It breaks me heart to hear him raving on."

"Yes," said Mr. Leachey, drily, as he backed to the door. "I'll see him tomorrow. This is my slaughtering day, and sorry I am that it's only a cow and a couple of sheep I'm killing."

IN THE evening, and when the street lamps were lighted, Mr. Noah Cobbleston dressed himself in clothes that had lain at the bottom of a brass-cornered trunk for twenty years and more. Then, carrying a light cane under his arm, he went out on a pilgrimage of penitence, as he said. The first person he called on was Mr. Leachey, who was too occupied with the needs of three or four customers to give his caller more than an impatient nod. Mr. Cobbleston, with great deliberateness, took a check from an old leather wallet and gravely handed it to the butcher.

"Not a word of thanks," he said imperiously, waving his hand in the air as to silence any outburst of gratitude that might be premeditated. "Not a word. You have been a friend— a true friend. That is but a slight token of my regard."

"That" was a check for five hundred pounds, drawn in favor of the butcher.

Mr. Leachey reached for a bone, but Noah was out of the shop before the missile could be used. Then, on to Mr. Grabble. With similar ceremony, he handed the grocer a check for two hundred pounds, at the same time informing him that he would be pleased to contribute a little matter of a thousand towards the scheme for a recreation ground— a scheme in which Mr. Grabble was interested. Spatchett, the baker, was given a check for three hundred; Pilcher, the tailor, had to be content with a hundred.

And fortified with the feeling that he had undergone a little whitewashing, Mr. Cobbleston went homeward. That night, he read a volume of poems to Arabena, and sketched out in fancy the tour of the world which he intended to make. He took himself .to bed about midnight and slept soundly till morning.

At nine o'clock the next morning, there was a little gathering in the back parlor of Mr. Grabble"s shop.

"We'll go along and give the millionaire the fright of his life. If it hadn't been for me,"— he glanced at Mr. Grabble as though he would extract some expression of gratitude at any cost— "a pretty pack of fools you would have looked. Where's the constable?"

The tailor had seen to that part of the business, and as the procession moved up the street, the constable brought up the rear.

Mr. Noah Cobbleston had flung off some of his newly-acquired importance, for he was back at his last when the creditors entered the shop. He glanced up at them as they formed in a semicircle around his bench.

"I give you good morning, gentlemen," he said, pleasantly. "There seems to be quite an influx of orders to-day."

"How's your memory, now?" inquired Mr. Leachey, motioning to the constable to come nearer.

"Splendid, and I thank you," said the old man, heating a wax end in the tiny candle-flame at his side.

"Wonderful what a night's rest will do for a body. Eh?"

Mr. Leachey had taken his check from his pocket and was giving it a glance— a final glance.

"Wonderful," Mr. Cobbleston concurred.

"How many thousands have you got rid of in your sleep?" asked the butcher. "You were pretty free with your money last evening, you"ll remember."

Mr. Cobbleston laid down the shoe on which he had been working, and wiped his hands on his leather apron.

"My dear Mr. Leachey," he said, slowly, "if you have come here to insist on thanking me for the little present I made you, I shall feel that philanthropy is impossible in these days."

LEACHEY burst into laughter, which was cut short by the appearance of Arabena. Vigorously, she pushed her way between the butcher and the old cobbler, and like a tigress prepared to defend her young she clenched her hands and shook them threateningly in Leachey's face.

"You sha'n't make fun of him," she cried. "No, not while there's a breath in my body. Out you go, the crowd of you. Aren't you ashamed of yourselves to torment a man who"s newly out of a sick bed?" She snatched up a bradawl. "Out you go," she commanded, "or some of you'll need a doctor."

Mr. Cobbleston was as much astonished as the creditors. He raised his hand, deprecatingly.

"Arabena, woman," he said chidingly. "What ails you?"

She broke into sobs.

"They've come to make game of you," she gurgled, "and I won't stand here and see them do it."

"You're a faithful housekeeper," said Mr. Cobbleston, gently, "and I cannot at the moment adequately express my appreciation of your loyalty. But, I think you have misjudged the intentions of these gentlemen."

"Has she?" Mr. Leachey gave a signal to the other creditors. "If you ask me, Mr. Noah Cobbleston, she"s hit the mark. The game— your little game's up. Here's your check. Watch it." Deliberately, he held the slip of paper over the candle-flame. "Bring up your waxends," he said to the others, and they gathered around the flame. In a few seconds, there was a little pile of burnt paper at the base of the candle.

"A little firework display for your benefit, Mr. Cobbleston," said Leachey. "You see, we ain't such fools as you think we are. Didn'"t I tell you that we'd been bitten so many times that—"

And there he stopped. Mr. Cobbleston's attitude was the reverse of what he had anticipated. He had clasped his hands over his last. His head was bowed until the stubble on the firm old chin was lost sight of. And tears were racing down his wrinkled cheeks.

Mr. Grabble said:

"You shall have another chance, Cobbleston. You've worked this trick as far as it'll go, but as there's fifteen pound in the bank to your credit, we're ready to give you the opportunity of squaring your debts."

Slowly, Mr. Cobbleston moved his head until his eyes rested on the heap of ashes near the candle.

"That's gratitude," he said with a sob that shook his whole frame. "Arabena!"

She dropped on her knees beside the bench.

"I have mine— dearie," she told him, shooting a malicious glance at those about her. "I wouldn"t part with it for all the world."

A smile came into his eyes. He placed his grimy hand on her head and tenderly stroked her hair.

"I think," he said, with a deep sigh, "I think I was out of my mind last night. But this morning— this morning it all came right... You can read, Arabena, can't you? Then, read that letter to my friends, here. It came this morning— only this morning."

He drew a letter from under the leathern apron, and Arabena read aloud:

Ledbury Chambers,

City.

Re Angus Cobbleston, Deceased.

Dear Sir:

We beg to inform you that under the will of your late brother, Angus Cobbleston, rancher, of Calgary, you benefit to the amount of fourteen thousand pounds. The amount was paid into your account, to-day, and we shall esteem it a great favor if you will kindly appoint a day on which our representative may call on you to advise on the matter of investment, etc.

We are, dear sir, Yours faithfully,

Cox and Wren

(Solicitors).

A heavy silence rested on the assembly for a few minutes. Then, "Came only this morning, it did," said Noah. He touched the heap of ashes at the base of the candle-flame. "Arabena, dear," he said, soothingly, "bring along your brush— there's a good woman."

THE ancient in the white smock rose to his feet as he came to the end of the story; the flint was still in his hand.

"When he died," he said, bitterly, "Noah left every penny he possessed to that scheming woman, and the last words she said to me were: "Leachey, you should never look a gift horse in the mouth." "

He hurled the flint at the rusted railings on the other side of the road; then  shambled away.

_________________

12: The Man Who Didn't See

Tom Gallon

1866-1914

Young's Magazine, Dec 1912

"I WONDER if you'll have the courage?" Calloway asked the question, with a half ironical laugh on his lips, of the photograph he held close before him; and it was with something of a disdainful shrug of the shoulders that he put the photograph back on the mantelpiece, and stood looking at it. She was certainly very beautiful, this woman whose eyes seemed to laugh out of the picture a little mockingly at him; and she was wholly desirable. Calloway wondered how the experiment that had been planned to begin that night would work out.

"I'm never sure of myself," he muttered, as though still speaking to the portrait. "How am I to know that I shan't get tired of you, or you get tired of me; how am I to know that we can go on indefinitely? The beginning is all right— or all wrong, as the case may be; I wonder what the ending will be? But I suppose, if we come to that, life is all at the hazard of the spinning of a coin— isn't it?"

He looked at his watch, to compare it with the little silver clock on the mantelshelf, and frowned a little impatiently ; he looked at the photograph again and shook his head at it, as though blaming the woman for her unpunctuality. And just as he did that the bell rang.

It rang hesitatingly, as though the look after you— and I'm going to be very good to you. You love me— don't you?"

For answer she bent her head, and kissed the hand she held; then looked up at him with a smile that was half tearful. "VYes—I know you'll be good to me—and I haven't had the best of lives so far. Tve deserved something better— something I've hungered for and hoped for. Instead of that I've had neglect and misunderstanding— oh— what's the good of talking about it?"

"No good at all," said Calloway. "Al that part of your life is done with. Jack never understood you— and I flatter myself I do. Take your hat and cloak off, and make yourself comfortable. We don't need to start yet a bit; the car won't be here for nearly an hour. We shall travel all night; but you won't mind that, will you?"

"It'll be lovely," she murmured. "Don't tell me anything more; I want to forget that I've got to trouble about anything ever again. I'm going to leave everything to you for just as long as I live— or until you get tired of me, and throw me over."

"I wouldn't talk like that if I were you," said the man seriously. "I want you to feel as though you were beginning life afresh— and I want you to forget that there has ever been any other life."

She shook her head. "It will take a long time for me to do that," she said slowly. "You see, Steve—I'm leaving quite a lot behind." `

"Oh, you mean—the child?"

She stopped him with a passionate gesture. "Don't talk about that," she said. "You know that I should have come to you ever so long ago—when you first asked me— if it hadn't been for the child. You don't realize that I shall never see her again; they'll keep her away from me. Jack's people will take her, I expect ; for his sake they're pretty certain to be good to her. For God's sake let's talk about something else— anything else you like." She looked quickly round the room, "These were Jack's rooms— weren't they?" she asked quickly.

"Yes— before he married you," Calloway said. "I took them over— lock, stock and barrel—furniture and all, They suited me, and I didn't want the bother of buying things for myself."

"Isn't it funny? I remember Jack giving a tea party here— soon after I first knew him. There were a lot of other girls, and some men; and I think I knew then that he was— fond of me. And now to-night, nearly seven years later, I'm sitting in the same room— with you. And we're running away together— from Jack."

"You seem to lose sight of the fact that Jack ran away from you. You haven't seen him for something like twelve months."

"Yes—I wonder why?" She spoke in a dull voice, without looking at the man. "We were so happy— Jack and I; and then quite suddenly he seemed to change, and all the old lightness and brightness went out of our lives. And then he went away, and I've just had a letter or two— letters that mean nothing at all— and giving no address."

"I suppose there's another woman," suggested Calloway. "When you come to think of it, there always is another woman. But, now since you belong to me, we'll have no more talk of Jack, or of anything that concerns him. I forbid it—"

She looked round at him, and laughed. "Don't begin by being a tyrant— please," she said. "And there's no harm in talking about things that have happened, even if they've been sad things. I've had to hug them to myself so long— to brood over them, and cry over them; I'm rather in a mood to cry over them to-night. But I won't begin by showing you that side of me; I'll try and show you the sunshiny side— the side that is grateful to you for what you're going to do for me. It will be nice to begin afresh; and I'll forget that Jack ever existed, or that he ever tried to break my heart by going away from me. I'll remember only— What's that?"

The bell in the outer hall had rung suddenly; and then, while they waited, looking at each other, had rung again.  Calloway got slowly to his feet, and stood frowning. He made a movement toward the door, and then turned to the woman again.

"Look here, Olive," he whispered; "I think you'd better go into the other room there. I don't know who it can possibly be at this hour, but Ill get rid of them as quickly as I can. Oh— all right; I'm coming," he added viciously, as the bell rang again. "You'll be quite safe in there, and I'll guarantee to turn 'em out in less than five minutes, whoever it is."

He closed the door of that inner room into which she had gone, and then crossed the sitting-room, and went into the hall, and opened the outer door. A man stood there looking in at him— a tall man in a tweed suit, with a tanned face. Calloway stood rigid as he looked at the man, and his face went suddenly gray. "Hullo!" he said lamely.

"Oh— it's you, Steve— is it?" said the man curiously. "I thought it might be your man. If you're all alone, I'll come in."

"Yes— I'm all alone," answered the other in a strained voice. "I didn't expect to see you, Jack. You can come in."

"Thanks." The man walked past him, just lightly touching the wall as he went, and turned into the sitting room. Only then did Calloway realize, with a gasp, that the woman's hat and cloak lay where she had tossed them on a couch; and here was the husband standing in the room, and looking at them. Calloway closed the outer door, and went into the room, braced for anything that might happen. John Stannard was standing by the table, with one hand resting lightly on it, and with his face toward the door. His eyes— surely the bluest eyes in all the world, as Calloway had so often thought, were looking straight at him, and he was smiling.

"Give me your hand, Steve," he said, in his big voice. "Touch mine; I haven't touched the hand: of a friend for Heaven knows how long." Then, as the other man grasped his hand, he gripped it, and, still holding to it, went on in a voice that was almost tender. "Ah— I know the old grip. By Jove!— it's good to touch hands with you again, Steve— and in the old place. I wish to God I could see you!"

"What do you mean?" asked the other, in a startled voice.

"You didn't know that— did you?" asked Stannard quietly. "They look all right— these eyes of mine, I mean; that's the pity of it. It's all dark, and I can't see a thing. I never shall see anything again as long as I live. When I venture out men swear at me, because I blunder against them; I suppose they think I'm drunk. I never go very far— just round the houses, as you might say; I haven't got used to it all yet. Here I'm on familiar ground; I know these old rooms as I know my own pocket. It is good to be with you again; I'm just going to sit down, and yarn away until I bore you to death. Here's the table"— he began to move quickly round it— "and here's the arm chair; and now I'm at an anchorage. Give me a drink, old man, and speak to me. What's come over you; I haven't heard your voice yet."

Calloway had stood staring stupidly at the man now seated in the chair. It had all happened so suddenly, and the fact that the man was blind was so incredible when one looked into his face. The blue eyes were wide open, and were smiling; enly something of the buoyant expression that had been on the face in years gone by had vanished from it, leaving the upper part, at least, with a curious stillness upon it. Calloway, with a jerk, pulled himself together, and essayed to speak naturally. In a dull fashion he. wondered what Olive Stannard would do, and if she had realized that her husband was in this room. She must have done that, because John Stannard's voice was naturally a heavy one.

"I— I'm sorry, Jack; you took me by surprise. I didn't realize that you couldn't see; I can't realize it now. Are you sure?"

The other man laughed bitterly. "Oh— yes— I'm sure enough," he answered. "It took me quite a long time to realize it myself, and to understand the horror that had fallen upon me— the sort of death sentence I had received. But I know all about it now, thank you; I shall know all about it till the end of my life"

The door of that inner room had opened very slightly. It was behind the arm chair in which Stannard was seated, and Calloway knew that the woman was listening. With a hand that shook he moved across the room, and mixed a drink for Stannard and for himself; at the sound of the hissing of the soda water syphon the blind man turned his head quickly in Calloway's direction.

"That sounds quite cheerful," he said. "You've no idea how I hesitated before I came here to-night; how miserable I was at the thought of coming up here, and facing you-in my present maimed state. And then I said to myself that I was a fool. 'Steve will understand,' I said to myself. 'Steve's my pal— and he'll understand all I've gone through, and all I've suffered.' I've been down into the depths, Steve—and only to-night have I climbed to the surface again. I've been mad— but now I'm sane. It's been a long, tough fight, but I've got my old grip on things, and with God's help I'm not going to let go again."

"Here's your drink," said Calloway, putting it into his hand. "What's been happening to you?"

The other man took a deep draught, and then felt for the table carefully, and set down the glass. "There was a time when I shouldn't have cared to talk about it," he said— "but now I don't mind, I'm used to things. I'm living in a new world, and I'm beginning to light up the dark places of it for myself, and to find them not so terrible as I once thought. I'm beginning to find that life— just the sheer joy of healthy living— is something fine, after all. There was a time, Steve, when I had made up my mind that I would kill myself. Did you speak?"

"No— only an exclamation," said Calloway. But the exclamation— a mere frightened gasp— had come from the other room.

"You see, I had been a bit worried about my eyes; used to get curious pains in them— and a sudden dimness every now and then. So at last I thought that it was time something was done for them, and I went to an absolute top dog of an oculist, and I let him run over me. He talked for a long time, asking me questions about myseif, and looking mighty grave; but of course that's their job. And then, after a time, he said he supposed I was a plucky sort of fellow, and could face the inevitable."

He leaned forward in his chair, with his palms pressed together between his knees; he went on talking in a quieter tone, much as one would speak of some old sorrow that has been a little bit covered up and partly forgotten in the years.

"He told me that my sight would gradually get worse, and that there was no remedy. Some long crack-jawed name he gave it; I've forgotten. And then I should get quite blind; in other words, I should be a useless burden to every one for the rest of my life. Of course, I was rich, and it didn't matter so much to me (that's what he said) as it might to anyone that had a living to earn. Of course he didn't understand the life I'd led— out of doors whenever possible, with golf and hunting and all the rest of it; he simply didn't understand."

"What made you go away?" asked Calloway, merely for the sake of saying something.

"Well—I'd brooded over it a lot— and most of all I'd thought about Olive. It seemed so bitterly unfair to her— to be tied for life to a man that wanted a dog and a piece of string. I know I got awfully grumpy in those first days— and fretful, and all the rest of it. I couldn't sleep at night; I tried all sorts of things. I had an idea once that I would take a double or a treble dose of some stuff I had to cure insomnia; and so make it look like an accident, and never let anyone know the real truth. And then at last the real solution seemed to come into my mind, and, however blunderingly, I've acted on it."

Stannard ran his hand along the edge of the table until his fingers touched the glass; then he picked it up. He seemed in no hurry to go on talking; it was a wonderful thing for him to be with this man who was his friend, and gradually to relieve himself of some of the burden that had lain so long on his mind, and had been brooded over in silence.

"I made up my mind that I would just drop out of things, and be forgotten. I couldn't tell Olive, because the dear woman would have stuck to me, and made the best of things; and I wasn't going to put up with that. It hurt me horribly to go away and leave her— and then there was the child. If you knew, old man, how I've hungered for that kiddy— how I've eaten my heart out, thinking about her, and feeling her small arms about my neck What was that?"

Stannard sat up, looking startled; there had come the sound of a dry, strangled sob from the woman in the inner room. Calloway broke in hurriedly.

"Nothing— nothing at all," he said impatiently. "Your ears are playing tricks with you; I just coughed— that was all. Go on with what you were saying."

The other man sank back into his chair again. "Yes— one does fancy that one hears. strange sounds," he said, in a tone of relief. "Well— I was talking about my going away. I went away, as you know— and I stopped away. I wrote httle callous notes to Olive— brutal things that hurt me as much as they must have hurt her; but I was doing it all for the best. I thought that in time she might forget about me; God forgive me, I even thought that she might come to love some other man, who would be good to her and good to the child. Honestly, I tried to think that."

"And what are you going to do now?" asked Calloway; and somehow it seemed as though he did not speak, the words himself, but as though some inner spirit was beginning to guide him as to what he should say.

"I'm just going to clear out again," answered the other. "I've just come to the surface to-night, and it has cheered me to find my old friend— cheered me more than I can tell you. Presently I'm going to drift away again."

"I don't think I should do that if I were you," said Calloway slowly. "I think I'd go back again— to her, I mean.'

Stannard sat quite still; he seemed to be listening intently. "I can't do that," he said at last. "It would mean the undoing of everything I've striven to do. No— I'll leave things where they are. She's got plenty of money, and she doesn't want me. I made up my mind a long time ago exactly what I ought to do, and I've done it."

Calloway was watching that partly opened door leading to the inner room; he wondered what the woman was thinking. The other man sat quite still, with his blind eyes turned in the direction of his friend, and waiting for that friend to speak,

"I think you're wrong," said Calloway at last. "If I know anything, I know she loves you, and longs for you, and wonders about you. Beside, there's something else. What about 'this other man of whom you spoke just now?"

"What other man?" asked Stannard sharply.

"You said just now that you almost hoped that she might come to love someone else who would look after her, and be good to her and to the child. How do you know that such a thing hasn't already happened ?"

Stannard gripped the arms of the chair, and jerked himself suddenly to his feet. "What are you talking about?" he demanded roughly.

"I thought it possible that that might touch you on the raw," went on Calloway, with a little laugh. "Suppose I told you that such a man had come into her life, and was trying to make her go away with him? Only, of course, you would have to understand that the man wanted her— and not the child. There would be no room in his life, or in hers, for the matter of that, in the future, for little Prudence."

"What are you talking about? Why don't you speak plainly? Who is this man?"

"Don't get upset; I have only been putting a case to you— something that might happen. It isn't true yet— but one never knows, when a woman believes that she is slighted or neglected or misunderstood."

"Does she think that?" asked the blind man after a pause.

"What else is she to think? You've left her completely in the dark."

"I did it all for the best," said Stannard. "And do you really think that I might go back to her— and that she'd understand ?"

"I think so," answered Calloway slowly. And even as he spoke, a sudden thought came into his mind that checked his tongue and held him there, silent and perplexed. Suppose Stannard, on the impulse of a moment, went straight back at this hour, and found her gone— perhaps even had some message delivered to him concerning her flight. Was it possibie to get the woman out of that room, and out of the flat, without Stannard knowing any thing about it?

"By jove! you tempt me, Steve ; you tempt me sorely," said the blind man. "To go back to her—to hear from her own lips that she was glad to see me, and that there never had been any. one else to whom she had turned in her loneliness. That would be wonderful— wouldn't it? I'd like to do it."

"Well— why don't you?"

Stannard turned his head quickly. "How silently you move about," he said. "I'd no idea that you were behind me. What are you doing?" For Calloway had moved to the door of that inner room, with the vague intention of beckoning the woman out, and getting her away.

"I'm not doing anything," he said, moving back again toward the table. "I was just moving round the room; you know my restless way. Well— have you made up your mind?"

"Yes— I've made up my mind; I'm going back," said Stannard. "After all, I'm young yet, and strong; and I've got rather clever during these past months in finding my way about; it's just as though I had another sense. I could move about this room without knocking things over; I could find anything in it— that is, if you've left the furniture where it used to be."

"Nothing has been changed," said Calloway.

"That reminds me," said Stannard abruptly. "You've got something of mine here, and I want it. I've been puzzling my head for a long time to know what had become of it; and I remembered suddenly. You know that cabinet that stood in the corner of that other room, the little Dutch thing?"

"Yes— it stands there still; what about it?" Calloway was watching him intently.

"There's a little sort of secret drawer in it; and in that drawer is an old cigarette case that was given me by poor Burton. You remember Burton— chap who died out in India. When I was clearing out the cabinet, at the time you took over my things, I forgot all about that drawer ; and I remember that poor Burton's cigarette case is in it still. Now you shall see what a poor blind devil can do with his hands, even when he's working in the dark. I'll go in there, without any guidance from you, and I'll find the secret drawer and the case. Just you watch."

On an impulse Calloway would have stopped him; would have made some excuse to hold him back. But the next moment he realized that perhaps -here was the chance. He forced a laugh, and said quickly: "Go on then; let's see what you can do. I won't even guide you round the room.'

The blind man laughed happily, and turned about, and touched the edge of the table. He moved from that straight across to the door of that inner room; looked back over his shoulder toward his friend— or seemed to look, so clear and steady were his eyes—and called out to him.

"That's not a bad beginning— is it? Now time me."

"Right," said Calloway, watching the door as the man, with his hands spread out to touch each side of the doorway, disappeared into the room.

She came out quickly, almost brushing the man as he entered, and crouching low to get under his outstretched arm. Calloway, with his watch in his hand, pointed quickly to her hat and coat; she caught them up, and whispered in a mere breath of sound as she tiptoed past him toward the outer door:

"Oh— God bless you! I'm going home— to wait for him. Send him to me—  send him to me!"

He opened the door swiftly, and let her out, and closed it noiselessly after her just as Stannard came quickly back into the room, holding aloft the cigarette case.

"There you are!" cried the blind man.

"Twelve and a half seconds!" exclaimed Calloway. "Not bad."

"Not at all bad," said the other. "By the way, Steve, it's funny how one gets impressions when one moves about in a black world as I do. I could have sworn that there was someone in that room— just for a moment; I thought there was someone breathing just close to me— someone that brushed past me. Funny— wasn't it?"

"Look here, old chap— it's pretty evident that you want someone to look after you," said Calloway seriously. "Finish your drink— and have another to steady your nerves. And after that I'm going to put you in a cab, and send you home to Olive. Here's your glass."

___________________

13: The Spectre Hand

James Grant

1822-1887

London Society, Christmas Annual 1871

James Grant

DO the dead ever revisit this earth? On this subject even the ponderous and unsentimental Dr. Johnson was of opinion that to maintain they did not, was to oppose the concurrent and unvarying testimony of all ages and nations, as there was no people so barbarous, and none so civilized, but among whom apparitions of the dead were related and believed in.

'That which is doubted by single cavillers,' he adds, 'can very little weaken the general evidence, and some who deny it with their tongues confess it by their fears.'

In the August of last year I found myself with three friends, when on a northern tour, at the Hotel de Scandinavie, in the long and handsome Carl Johan Gade of Christiania. A single day, or little more, had sufficed us to 'do' all the lions of the little Norwegian capital— the royal palace, a stately white building, guarded by slouching Norski riflemen in long coats, with wide-awakes and green plumes; the great brick edifice wherein the Storthing is held, and where the red lion appears on everything, from the king's throne to the hall-porter's coal-skuttle; the castle of Aggerhuis and its petty armoury, with a single suit of mail, and the long muskets of the Scots who fell at Rhomsdhal; after which there is nothing more to be seen; and when the little Tivoli gardens close at ten, all Christiania goes to sleep till dawn next morning.

English carriages being perfectly useless in Norway, we had ordered four of the native carrioles for our departure, as we were resolved to start for the wild mountainous district named the Dovrefeld, when a delay in the arrival of certain letters compelled me to remain two days behind my companions, who promised to await me at Rodnaes, near the head of the magnificent Ransfiord; and this partial separation, with the subsequent circumstance of having to travel alone through districts that were totally strange to me, with but a very slight knowledge of the language, were the means of bringing to my knowledge the story I am about to relate.

The table d'hôte is over by two o'clock in the fashionable hotels of Christiania, so about four in the afternoon I quitted the city, the streets and architecture of which resemble portions of Tottenham Court Road, with stray bits of old Chester. In my carriole, a comfortable kind of gig, were my portmanteau and gun-case; these, with my whole person, and indeed the body of the vehicle itself, being covered by one of those huge tarpaulin cloaks furnished by the carriole company in the Store Standgade.

Though the rain was beginning to fall with a force and density peculiarly Norse when I left behind me the red-tiled city with all its green coppered spires, I could not but be struck by the bold beauty of the scenery, as the strong little horse at a rasping pace tore the light carriole along the rough mountain road, which was bordered by natural forests of dark and solemn-looking pines, interspersed with graceful silver birches, the greenness of the foliage contrasting powerfully with the blue of the narrow fiords that opened on every hand, and with the colours in which the toy-like country houses were painted, their timber walls being always snowy white, and their shingle roofs a flaming red. Even some of the village spires wore the same sanguinary hue, presenting thus a singular feature in the landscape.

The rain increased to an unpleasant degree; the afternoon seemed to darken into evening, and the evening into night sooner than usual, while dense masses of vapour came rolling down the steep sides of the wooded hills, over which the sombre firs spread everywhere and up every vista that opened, like a sea of cones; and as the houses became fewer and further apart, and not a single wanderer was abroad, and I had but the pocket-map of my 'John Murray' to guide me, I soon became convinced that instead of pursuing the route to Bodnaes I was somewhere on the banks of the Tyrifiord, at least three Norwegian miles (i.e. twenty-one English) in the opposite direction, my little horse worn out, the rain still falling in a continual torrent, night already at hand, and mountain scenery of the most tremendous character everywhere around me.

I was in an almost circular valley (encompassed by a chain of hills), which opened before me, after leaving a deep chasm that the road enters, near a place which I afterwards learned bears the name of Krogkleven. Owing to the steepness of the road, and some decay in the harness of my hired carriole, the traces parted, and then I found myself, with the now useless horse and vehicle, far from any house, homestead, or village where I could have the damage repaired or procure shelter, the rain still pouring like a sheet of water, the thick, shaggy, and impenetrable woods of Norwegian pine towering all about me, their shadows rendered all the darker by the unusual gloom of the night.

To remain quietly in the carriole was unsuitable to a temperament so impatient as mine; I drew it aside from the road, spread the tarpaulin over my small stock of baggage and the gun-case, haltered the pony to it, and set forth on foot, stiff, sore, and weary, in search of succour; and, though armed only with a Norwegian tolknife, having no fear of thieves or of molestation. Following the road on foot in the face of the blinding rain, a Scotch plaid and oilskin my sole protection now, I perceived ere long a side gate and little avenue, which indicated my vicinity to some place of abode.

After proceeding about three hundred yards or so, the wood became more open, a light appeared before me, and I found it to proceed from a window on the ground floor of a little two-storeyed mansion, built entirely of wood. The sash, which was divided in the middle, was unbolted, and stood partially and most invitingly open; and knowing how hospitable the Norwegians are, without troubling myself to look for the entrance door, I stepped over the low sill into the room (which was tenantless) and looked about for a bell-pull, forgetting that in that country, where there are no mantelpieces, it is generally to be found behind the door.

The floor was of course, bare, and painted brown; a high German stove, like a black iron pillar, stood in one corner on a stone block; the door, which evidently communicated with some other apartment, was constructed to open in the middle, with one of the quaint lever handles peculiar to the country. The furniture was all of plain Norwegian pine, highly varnished; a reindeer skin spread on the floor, and another over an easy chair, were the only luxuries; and on the table lay the Illustret Tidende, the Aftonblat, and other papers of that morning with a meerschaum and pouch of tobacco, all serving to show that some one had recently quitted the room.

I had just taken in all these details by a glance, when there entered a tall thin man of gentlemanly appearance, clad in a rough tweed suit, with a scarlet shirt, open at the throat, a simple but degage style of costume, which he seemed to wear with a natural grace, for it is not every man who can dress thus and still retain an air of distinction. Pausing, he looked at me with some surprise and inquiringly, as I began my apologies and explanation in German.

'Taler de Dansk-Norsk,' said he, curtly.

'I cannot speak either with fluency, but—'

'You are welcome, however, and I shall assist you in the prosecution of your journey. Meantime, here is cognac. I am an old soldier, and know the comforts of a full canteen, and of the Indian weed too, in a wet bivouac. There is a pipe at your service.'

I thanked him, and while he gave directions to his servants to go after the carriole and horse, proceeded to observe him more closely, for something in his voice and eye interested me deeply. There was much of broken-hearted melancholy— something that indicated a hidden sorrow— in his features, which were handsome, and very slightly aquiline. His face was pale and careworn; his hair and moustache, though plentiful, were perfectly whiteblanched, yet he did not seem over forty years of age. His eyes were blue, but without softness, being strangely keen and sad in expression, and times there were when a startled look, that savoured of fright, or pain, or insanity, or of all mingled, came suddenly into them. This unpleasant expression tended greatly to neutralize the symmetry of a face that otherwise was evidently a fine one. Suddenly a light seemed to spread over it, as I threw off some of my sodden mufflings, and he exclaimed—

'You speak Danskija, and English too, I know! Have you quite forgotten me, Herr Kaptain?' he added, grasping my hand with kindly energy. 'Don't you remember Carl Holberg of the Danish Guards?'

The voice was the same as that of the once happy, lively, and jolly young Danish officer, whose gaiety of temper and exuberance of spirit made him seem a species of madcap, who was wont to give champagne suppers at the Klampenborg Gardens to great ladies of the court and to ballet girls of the Hof Theatre with equal liberality; to whom many a fair Danish girl had lost her heart, and who, it was said, had once the effrontery to commence a flirtation with one of the royal princesses when he was on guard at the Amalienborg Palace. But how was I to reconcile this change, the appearance of many years of premature age, that had come upon him?

'I remember you perfectly, Carl,' said I, while we shook hands; 'yet it is so long since we met; moreover— excuse me— but I knew not whether you were in the land of the living.'

The strange expression, which I cannot define, came over his face as he said, with a low, sad tone— 'Times there are when I know not whether I am of the living or the dead. It is twenty years since our happy days— twenty years since I was wounded at the battle of Idstedt— and it seems as if 'twere twenty ages.'

'Old friend, I am indeed glad to meet you again.'

'Yes, old you may call me with truth,' said he, with a sad, weary smile, as he passed his hand tremulously over his whitened locks, which I could remember being a rich auburn. All reserve was at an end now, and we speedily recalled a score and more of past scenes of merriment and pleasure, enjoyed together— prior to the campaign of Holstein— in Copenhagen, that most delightful and gay of all the northern cities; and, under the influence of memory, his now withered face seemed to brighten, and some of its former expression stole back again.

'Is this your fishing or shooting quarters, Carl?' I asked.

'Neither. It is my permanent abode.'

'In this place, so rural— so solitary? Ah! you have become a Benedick— taken to love in a cottage, and so forth— yet I don't see any signs of—'

'Hush! for godsake! You know not who hears us,' he exclaimed, as terror came over his face; and he withdrew his hand from the table on which it was resting, with a nervous suddenness of action that was unaccountable, or as if hot iron had touched it.

'Why?— Can we not talk of such things?' asked I.

'Scarcely here— or anywhere to me,' he said, incoherently. Then, fortifying himself with a stiff glass of cognac and foaming seltzer, he added: 'you know that my engagement with my cousin Marie Louise Viborg was broken off— beautiful though she was, perhaps is still, for even twenty years could not destroy her loveliness of feature and brilliance of expression— but you never knew why.'

'I thought you behaved ill to her— were mad, in fact.'

A spasm came over his face. Again he twitched his hand away as if a wasp had stung, or some thin g unseen had touched it, as he said—

'She was very proud, imperious and jealous.

'She resented, of course, your openly wearing the opal ring which was thrown to you from the palace window by the princess ——'

'The ring— the ring! Oh, do not speak of that!' said he, in a hollow tone. 'Mad?— Yes, I was mad— and yet I am not, though I have undergone, and even now am undergoing, that which would break the heart of a Holger Danske! But you shall hear, if I can tell it with coherence and without interruption, the reason why I fled from society, and the world— and for all these twenty miserable years have buried myself in this mountain solitude, where the forest overhangs the fiord, and where no woman's face shall ever smile on mine! In short, after some reflection and many involuntary sighs— and being urged, when the determination to unbosom him self wavered— Carl Holberg related to me a little narrative so singular and wild, that but for the sad gravity— or intense solemnity of his manner— and the air of perfect conviction that his manner bore with it, I should have deemed him utterly— mad!

'MARIE LOUISE and I were to be married, as you remember, to cure me of all my frolics and expensive habits— the very day was fixed; you were to be the groomsman, and had selected a suite of jewels for the bride in the Kongens Nytorre; but the war that broke out in Schleswig-Holstein drew my battalion of the guards to the field, whither I went without much regret so far as my fiancée was concerned; for, sooth to say, both of us were somewhat weary of our engagement, and were unsuited to each other: so we had not been without piques, coldnesses, and even quarrels, till keeping up appearances partook of boredom.

'I was with General Krogh when that decisive battle was fought at Idstedt between our troops and the Germanising Holsteiners under General Willisen. My battalion of the guards was detached from the right wing with orders to advance from Salbro on the Holstein rear, while the centre was to be attacked, pierced, and the batteries beyond it carried at the point of the bayonet, all of which was brilliantly done. But prior to that I was sent, with directions to extend my company in skirmishing order, among some thickets that covered a knoll which is crowned by a ruined edifice, part of an old monastery with a secluded burial-ground.

'Just prior to our opening fire the funeral of a lady of rank, apparently, passed us, and I drew my men aside to make way for the open catafalque, on which lay the coffin covered with white flowers and silver coronets, while behind it were her female attendants, clad in black cloaks in the usual fashion, and carrying wreaths of white flowers and immortelles to lay upon the grave. Desiring these mourners to make all speed lest they might find themselves under a fire of cannon and musketry, my company opened, at six hundred yards, on the Holsteiners, who were coming on with great spirit. We skirmished with them for more than an hour, in the long clear twilight of the July evening, and gradually, but with considerable loss, were driving them through the thicket and over the knoll on which the ruins stand, when a half-spent bullet whistled through an opening in the mouldering wall and struck me on the back part of the head, just below my bearskin cap. A thousand stars seemed to flash around me, then darkness succeeded. I staggered and fell, believing myself mortally wounded; a pious invocation trembled on my lips, the roar of the red and distant battle passed away, and I became completely insensible.

'How long I lay thus I know not, but when I imagined myself coming back to life and to the world I was in a handsome, but rather old-fashioned apartment, hung, one portion of it with tapestry and the other with rich drapery. A subdued light that came, I could not discover from where, filled it. On a buffet lay my sword and my brown bearskin cap of the Danish Guards. I had been borne from the field evidently, but when and to where? I was extended on a soft fauteuil or couch, and my uniform coat was open. Some one was kindly supporting my head— a woman dressed in white, like a bride; young and so lovely, that to attempt any description of her seems futile!

'She was like the fancy portraits one occasionally sees of beautiful girls, for she was divine, perfectly so, as some enthusiast's dream, or painter's happiest conception. A long respiration, induced by admiration, delight, and the pain of my wound escaped me. She was so exquisitely fair, delicate and pale, middle-sized and slight, yet charmingly round, with hands that were perfect, and marvellous golden hair that curled in rippling masses about her forehead and shoulders, and from amid which her piquante little face peeped forth as from a silken nest. Never have I forgotten that face, nor shall I be permitted to do so, while life lasts at least,' he added, with a strange contortion of feature, expressive of terror rather than ardour; 'it is ever before my eyes, sleeping or waking, photographed in my heart and on my brain! I strode to rise, but she stilled, or stayed me, by a caressing gesture, as a mother would her child, while softly her bright beaming eyes smiled into mine, with more of tenderness, perhaps, than love; while in her whole air there was much of dignity and self reliance.

' "Where am I?" was my first question.

' "With me," she answered naively; "is it not enough?"

' "I kissed her hand, and said—

' "The bullet, I remember, struck me down in a place of burial on the Salbro Road— strange!"

' "Why strange?"

' "As I am fond of rambling among graves when in my thoughtful moods."

' "Among graves— why?" she asked.

' "They look so peaceful and quiet."

'Was she laughing at my unwonted gravity, that so strange a light seemed to glitter in her eyes, on her teeth, and over all her lovely face? I kissed her hands again, and she left them in mine. Adoration began to fill my heart and eyes, and be faintly murmured on my lips; for the great beauty of the girl bewildered and intoxicated me; and, perhaps, I was emboldened by past success in more than one love affair. She sought to withdraw her hand, saying—

' "Look not thus; I know how lightly you hold the love of one elsewhere."

' "O f my cousin Marie Louise ? Oh! what of that! I never, never loved till now!" and, drawing a ring from her finger, I slipped my beautiful opal in its place.

' "And you love me?" she whispered.

' "Yes; a thousand times, yes!"

' "But you are a soldier— wounded, too. Ah! if you should die before we meet again!"

' "Or, if you should die ere then?" said I, laughingly.

' "Die— I am already dead to the world— in loving you; but, living or dead, our souls are as one, and—"

' "Neither heaven nor the powers beneath shall separate us now!" I exclaimed, as something of melodrama began to mingle with the genuineness of the sudden passion with which she had inspired me. She was so impulsive, so full of brightness and ardour, as compared to the cold, proud, and calm Marie Louise. I boldly encircled her with my arms; then her glorious eyes seemed to fill with the subtle light of love, while there was a strange magnetic thrill in her touch, and, more than all, in her kiss.

' "Carl, Carl!" she sighed.

' "What! You know my name?— And yours?"

' "Thyra. But ask no more."

'There are but three words to express the emotion that possessed me— bewilderment, intoxication, madness. I showered kisses on her beautiful eyes, on her soft tresses, on her lips that met mine half way; but this excess of joy, together with the pain of my wound, began to overpower me; a sleep, a growing and drowsy torpor, against which I struggled in vain, stole over me. I remember clasping her firm little hand in mine, as if to save myself from sinking into oblivion, and then no more— no more!

'On again coming back to consciousness, I was alone. The sun was rising, but had not yet risen. The scenery, the thickets through which we had skirmished, rose dark as the deepest indigo against the amber-tinted eastern sky; and the last light of the waning moon yet silvered the pools and marshes around the borders of the Langso Lake, where now eight thousand men, the slain of yesterday's battle, were lying stark and stiff. Moist with dew and blood, I propped myself on one elbow and looked around me, with such wonder that a sickness came over my heart.

'I was again in the cemetery where the bullet had struck me down; a little grey owl was whooping and blinking in a recess of the crumbling wall. Was the drapery of the chamber but the ivy that rustled thereon?— for where the lighted buffet stood there was an old square tomb, whereon lay my sword and bearskin cap!

'The last rays of the waning moonlight stole through the ruins on a new-made grave— the fancied fauteuil on which I lay— strewn with the flowers of yesterday, and at its head stood a temporary cross, hung with white garlands and wreaths of immortelles. Another ring was on my finger now; but where was she, the donor? Oh, what opium-dream, or what insanity was this?

'For a time I remained utterly bewildered by the vividness of my recent dream, for such I believed it to be. But if a dream, how came this strange ring, with a square emerald stone, upon my finger? And where was mine? Perplexed by these thoughts, and filled with wonder and regret that the beauty I had seen had no reality, I picked my way over the ghostly debris of the battle-field, faint, feverish, and thirsty, till at the end of a long avenue of lindens I found shelter in a stately brick mansion, which I learned belonged to the Count of Idstedt, a noble, on whose hospitality— as he favoured the Holsteiners— I meant to intrude as little as possible.

'He received me, however, courteously and kindly. I found him in deep mourning: and on discovering, by chance, that I was the officer who had halted the line of skirmishers when the funeral cortege passed on the previous day, he thanked me with earnestness, adding, with a deep sigh, that it was the burial of his only daughter.

' "Half my life seems to have gone with her— my lost darling! She was so sweet, Herr Kaptain— so gentle, and so surpassingly beautiful— my poor Thyra!"

' " Who did you say?" I exclaimed, in a voice that sounded strange and unnatural, while half starting from the sofa on which I had cast myself, sick at heart and faint from loss of blood.

' "Thyra, my daughter, Herr Kaptain," replied the Count, too full of sorrow to remark my excitement, for this had been the quaint old Danish name uttered in my dream. "See, what a child I have lost!" he added, as he drew back a curtain which covered a full-length portrait, and, to my growing horror and astonishment, I beheld, arrayed in white even as I had seen her in my vision, the fair girl with the masses of golden hair, the beautiful eyes, and the piquante smile lighting up her features even on the canvas, and I was rooted to the spot.

' "This ring, Herr Count?" I gasped.

'He let the curtain fall from his hand, and now a terrible emotion seized him, as he almost tore the jewel from my finger.

' "My daughter's ring!" he exclaimed. "It was buried with her yesterday— her grave has been violated— violated by your infamous troops."

'As he spoke, a mist seemed to come over my sight; a giddiness made my senses reel, then a hand— the soft little hand of last night, with my opal ring on its third finger— came stealing into mine, unseen! More, than that, a kiss from tremulous lips I could not see, was pressed on mine, as I sank backward and fainted! The remainder of my story must be briefly told.

'M y soldiering was over; my nervous system was too much shattered for further military service. On my homeward way to join and be wedded to Marie Louise— a union with whom was intensely repugnant to me now— I pondered deeply over the strange subversion of the laws of nature presented by my adventure; or the madness, it might be, that had come upon me.

'On the day I presented myself to my intended bride, and approached to salute her, I felt a hand— the same hand— laid softly on mine. Starting, and trembling, I looked around me; but saw nothing. The grasp was firm. I passed my other hand over it, and felt the slender fingers and the shapely wrist; yet still I saw nothing, and Marie Louise gazed at my motions, my pallor, doubt and terror, with calm, but cool indignation.

'I was about to speak— to explain— to say I know not what, when a kiss from lips I could not see sealed mine, and with a cry like a scream I broke away from my friends and fled.

'All deemed me mad, and spoke with commiseration of my wounded head; and when I went abroad in the streets men eyed me with curiosity, as one over whom some evil destiny hung— as one to whom something terrible had happened, and gloomy thoughts were wasting me to a shadow. My narrative may seem incredible; but this attendant, unseen yet palpable, is ever by my side, and if under any impulse, such even as sudden pleasure in meeting you, I for a moment forget it, the soft and gentle touch of a female hand reminds me of the past, and haunts me, for a guardian demon— if I may use such a term— rules my destiny: one lovely, perhaps, as an angel.

'Life has no pleasures, but only terrors for me now. Sorrow, doubt, horror and perpetual dread, have sapped the roots of existence; for a wild and clamorous fear of what the next moment may bring forth is ever in my heart, and when the touch comes my soul seems to die within me.

'You know what haunts me now— God help me! God help me! You do not understand all this, you would say. Still less do I; but in all the idle or extravagant stories I have read of ghosts— stories once my sport and ridicule, as the result of vulgar superstition or ignorance— the so-called supernatural visitor was visible to the eye, or heard by the ear; but the ghost, the fiend, the invisible Thing that is ever by the side of Carl Holberg, is only sensible to the touch— it is the unseen but tangible substance of an apparition!'

He had got thus far when he gasped, grew livid, and, passing his right hand over the left, about an inch above it, with trembling fingers, he said—

'It is here— here now— even with you present, I feel her hand on mine; the clasp is tight and tender, and she will never leave me, but with life!'

And then this once gay, strong, and gallant fellow, now the wreck of himself in body and in spirit, sank forward with his head between his knees, sobbing and faint.

Four months afterwards, when with my friends, I was shooting bears at Hammerfest, I read in the Norwegian Aftenposten that Carl Holberg had shot himself in bed, on Christmas Eve.

______________

14: A Gentleman Unknown

H. Bedford-Jones

1887-1949

Top-Notch Magazine, Sep 1934

ON THE SIXTH day of February, 1816, a man of about thirty years walked into the liquor store of Mr, Henry Beer in Port Royal, Jamaica. This man was singularly handsome; that is to say, his features displayed such a quiet self-command, such an extraordinary depth of character, as to mark him out from others. His military carriage revealed the soldier. His rich but sober apparel hinted at wealth. His lower jaw was heavy. His eyes were large but very alert. There was one peculiar thing about his walk which no one observed, but which was of the greatest importance— his feet did not toe out. His footsteps in the dust made a perfectly straight line.

He walked up to Mr. Beer and spoke in a low voice: "I am Captain Louis Rion. Is there a gentleman here who has asked for me?"

Except for a number of slaves at work trundling rum barrels, the store was empty. Mr. Beer, who was a thickset, surly sort of man, bowed obsequiously.

"Yes, indeed, sir. Will it please your honor to follow me? He is in the back room, sir."

Captain Rion followed him to the back room.

This was one of the very few buildings in Port Royal which had not been destroyed by the great fire of the previous July. The back room was large; so large that it was impossible for eavesdroppers to catch the words of any one sitting at the center table, speaking softly.

A man sat there, who rose and bowed profoundly at the approach of Rion. He was a burly, pock-marked fellow, with a certain blunt frankness in his face; from his garb, a shipman. In his ears dangled gold rings. Yet he wore a blazing diamond ring on his left hand.

"Captain Rion, your servant!" he exclaimed. "I am John Williams, master of the bark—"

"I had your letter," broke in Captain Rion, seating himself. His air was cold. "I should have turned your letter and you over to the authorities, no doubt."

"Aye, to see me swing on Gallows Hill," said Williams grimly.

"Exactly!" Rion surveyed him critically. "I am at a loss to understand why you approach me, why you have the audacity to ask me to meet you on such an errand."

"You are a gentleman, sir," said Williams, looking him in the eye. "You took part in the capture of Guadeloupe by the British forces last summer. The Martiniere family entertained you, therefore you have an interest in saving the two young ladies of this family who are now in the hands of the Monte Cristi pirates. I can show you how to save them."

"If it is a matter of ransom—"

"It is not. Le Bossue never ransoms those he has taken."

Captain Rion remained silent. Le Bossue, whose name had been Anglicized into the "Bos'n" in general parlance, had organized at Monte Cristi. on the Haitian coast, a nest of pirates whose ferocity outdid the excesses of the buccaneers.

"The two Martiniere daughters are at Monte Cristi, unharmed," said Williams. "If you will come there, you may take them away freely."

Captain Rion smiled slightly. "Why do you thus try to entrap a mere captain in the British army? At Kingston you could find wealthy men, officers of high birth—"

"It is not a trap, sir," Williams interposed with a certain dignity. "I have been asked to give you every assurance of this fact."

"Your word of honor, perhaps?"

Williams ignored the ironic words. "My master has sent you a private message."

"I have nothing to do with the Bos'n,' Captain Rion said coldly. "Your effrontery in seeking me is only equaled by your amazing credulity in thinking I would have anything to do with you. You have no earthly reason to suppose that—"

"But there is a reason, sir," Williams broke in.

"What is it?"

"I do not know. My master said that you would understand when you saw his message."

Captain Rion regarded the frank, bluff features with a penetrating look.

"Besides," went on Williams, "my master is not the Bos'n as you suppose. Le Bossue obeys: another person in Monte Cristi, a person who is the real organizer, the real head, of that. place. No one except Le Bossue and one or two others knows this fact."

"Who is this mysterious person?" asked Captain Rion with quiet scorn.

"His name?" Williams made an expressive gesture. "What do names matter? He is known as Monsieur Ombre. He is a man of about sixty and has enormous influence everywhere. It is said that King Henry Christophe, who rules half Haiti, does exactly as Monsieur Ombre says."

"Pshaw! That Negro potentate, with his buffoonery of nobility and imitation pomp—"

"Who destroyed the finest armies of Napoleon."

Captain Rion compressed his lips. "Come! Enough of this. Why were you sent to me?"

"Because Monsieur Ombre wishes to see you, sir. For this reason he ordered the raid on Guadeloupe that carried off the Martiniere daughters."

"In order to see me?"

"Precisely! He instructed me to tell you all this. He knew that you were here in Jamaica, on leave. He believes that in order to save these two young women, you will come to him. For certain reasons, he is unable to come to you. He said that when I gave you the message, you would understand. I have been at great pains to preserve the message from the heat of the sun."

Captain Rion frowned. "Upon my word, sir, I incline to think you mad! What is this curious message?"

FROM beneath the table, Williams took a wooden box. He opened this box with a small key and shoved it across the table. The box was a foot long, six inches in width and depth.

"There, sir. Here is a knife, if you have none."

Captain Rion took out a parcel carefully wrapped in silks and paper. He cut the silk cords and removed repeated wrappings, then a thick layer of cotton. At last he brought to sight the heart of the package— apparently nothing but a small doll.

For a moment Captain Rion stared at it. Then his face changed. He became pale as death, and lifted the thing, staring closely at it.

The figure was that of a boy, who wore the liberty cap of revolution days, and held in his hand a crucifix, apparently of silver. Every item of the figure was made of wax. Small as it was, its face was lifelike in the extreme. It was not hard to find a distinct resemblance to that of the man who stared at it.

"He told me to say," spoke up Williams, aware of the impression the image had made, "that the crucifix should be of crystal, but he failed to imitate it exactly."

At these words, a light perspiration started on the forehead of Captain Rion. However, his features showed no emotion, beyond a pronounced pallor, as he laid down the figure.

"Whom is this supposed to represent?" he demanded negligently.

"I know nothing about it." Williams evidently spoke the truth. "He said that either you would know, or you would not know; and that, if you knew you—"

Captain Rion seemed not to hear the words. He put the image on the floor and crushed it relentlessly, without emotion, very carefully.. He crushed it under his heel until not an item of the original figure was recognizable.

"And that, if you knew," repeated Williams, "you would do just this."

Captain Rion lifted his head, then smiled slightly. "I believe your story," he said in a quiet, composed voice. "Unfortunately, although I am on leave for some months, until my return to England, I am not entirely master of my own movements." His face became thoughtful, reflective. "How am I to reach Haiti?"

"My bark sails early in the morning, with the tide," said Williams. "I will have a boat waiting at the landing near the mole from midnight until dawn. If you can evade those who watch over you, the rest is simple."

Captain Rion regarded him fixedly. "How do you know that I must evade any one?"

"Monsieur Ombre said that this might be the case."

"He is apparently a man who foresees everything."

"That is true. He even sent me to Trinidad to obtain a man who would serve you."

"To Trinidad?"

"Yes. Fifty Iroquois Indians, who served with the British forces during the late war in America, were landed in Trinidad last August as colonists. They had chosen that island as their future home. One of them is now aboard my bark. He is named Scott, in English; but I have forgotten his French name."

Again Captain Rion had become pale. "Could it be Le Morpion?"

"Upon my word, sir, I think that is it! An elderly, silent fellow."

For a moment Captain Rion sat very still, Then, suddenly, he came to his feet.

"Sir, your servant," he said politely. "Two hours past midnight, I shall come to your boat. I advise you strongly not to let the authorities know of your connection with Monte Cristi. That is, unless you desire closer acquaintance with Gallows Hill."

Williams grinned. "Your advice, sir, is appreciated, but entirely needless."

ii

MONTE CRISTI, on the dividing line between black Haiti to the west and brown Santo Domingo to the east, belonged to neither. No flag flew above Fort San Francisco. This remarkable fortress, perched on a hill-shoulder directly above the bay, commanded the shallow waters so thoroughly, and its cannon were of such size, that not even English frigates were at all tempted to try to dislodge the pirates from their lair.

The town itself lay a little back from the marshy flats of the shore. It was of astonishing size, having some thousands of inhabitants of all races, yellow, black, and white. Within the mole were grouped huge warehouses, batteries commanded the landing, and the dozen schooners and brigs, whose obvious armament had caused all this prosperity, were augmented by visiting craft whose owners were untroubled by scruples, but very anxious for bargains.

Slave barracoons lined the causeways to the town; many a cargo of black ivory bound for Havana had found a destination here. Up to the central plaza the buildings were a huddle of every conceivable kind. What had once been a stone church was now the palace of Le Bossue, cannon on the parapet, scarlet-clad blacks on guard.

Everywhere flowed humanity in uncontrolled masses. Sanitation was simple; corpses were cleared each morning from the streets and given to the sharks in the bay, but lesser evils were unregarded. There were no morals, no laws, no restraints, in Monte Cristi. On the higher ground behind the town was a great white building embedded in green gardens, also guarded by the scarlet-clad sentinels of Le Bossue.

Le Bossue himself, seated in the cool depths of his palace with his two chief captains, was such a figure as could only have been produced by the times. Until the preceding autumn, the West Indies had been ravaged by the worst of human passions let loose. Every nation had fought against every other nation; blacks and whites had destroyed each other with appalling savagery; every standard of civilization had crashed to nothing. The fall of Napoleon had now restored peace, but its effects would be slow in reaching Monte Cristi and its population of utter depravity— a population at which the buccaneers of old-time would have stood aghast. The majority of these men had fallen from good estate and were hence the more vicious.

Le Bossue, who seemed proud. of the title, was not exactly hunch-backed. True, a hump there was, and men touched it for luck if they dared, following the old superstition; but with this any deformity ended. The head was sunk slightly between the shoulders. Otherwise, Le Bossue had the strength of any other half dozen men, and ferocity to boot.

He did not look it. His olive features were handsome; he was smooth-shaven ; his jet eyes and hair glowed with vitality. The long black hair was curled and perfumed. An oval, that face, never smiling except in cruelty; when Le Bossue smiled, he killed. His garments were of the richest, adorned with the finest lace, the bravest jewels:

Such was the man. Closer scrutiny would detect in that smooth oval face the marks of excesses, of animal passions, of a nature as unrestrained as that of a wild pig. But there was a surface veneer. And, withal, a certain craft. Not shrewdness, by a good deal— craft.

"You do not know the man, then?" asked Le Bossue, fingering his glass of wine.

"No," answered Captain Lenoir, his chief aid, a bristling Frenchman with huge mustachios, a good seaman, a man of high repute. "The orders are strict not to interfere with Williams. He took the man straight to the house of Monsieur Ombre."

A shadowy smile touched the lips of Le Bossue. "You fear that man, Lenoir. But you, Harris— supposing I ordered you to break into his house and kill him?"

Harris fingered his mustache and grinned. He feared nothing, especially God, and looked the part with his sandy hair, his colorless but freckled skin, his bold jutting features, his pale eyes. A Yankee, they said, who had turned traitor in the late American war.

"Then, Bos'n," he replied with easy familiarity, "I should obey your orders. After first picking my men well."

Le Bossue laughed at this. There were few men in Monte Cristi who did not dread the "Shadow" like the very devil— or worse.

"It would be folly to kill him," said Lenoir seriously. "It is he who assures us the protection of King Christophe. Or rather, keeps Christophe from bothering us."

Harris, however, watched Le Bossue narrowly. He had not missed the shadowy smile a moment previously.

"As you very well know," Le Bossue said, "few of our men would move against Monsieur Ombre. They regard him with more fear than they do me or you. Christophe fears him. Every one in the whole island fears him. I fear him myself. But all this is coming to an end."

At this, the two pricked up their ears; Lenoir, in a startled manner, Harris, with an undisguised interest.

LE BOSSUE summoned a slave from the other end of the room. A graceful Spanish girl from a Cuban ship, she replenished the wine in silence; her eyes were dead. Le- Bossue had many like her, who stayed a while and then went on to the town and so vanished,

Lenoir stole a glance at Harris, who fingered his mustache after his accustomed habit. Each of them understood. Le Bossue had been sulky ever since those two French girls from the Guadeloupe raid had been taken straight to the white building up above.

"He has a brain, that Shadow," muttered Lenoir.

"True!" Le Bossue sipped at his wine delicately. "But when the body is dead, there is no longer a brain. The man is dying. Within a day or two or three, he will be dead."

"Ah!" ejaculated Harris and licked his lips. His pale, deadly eyes narrowed and glittered.

Le Bossue, who understood him perfectly, gave him a lingering glance. "No; you are wrong. None of his wealth, none of the vast sums he has taken, are in that house, my good Harris. They are all out in bills of exchange, with bankers abroad. We shall not profit by his money. But— you both know why he is feared."

They nodded. No money, no slaves; the old man kept no slaves.

"That is why I summoned you here, you two. There are five guards always at the white house; five, no more. When the time comes, they must be killed— quickly and silently. No talk later on. You, Harris, will pick a dozen men on whom you can rely."

Harris nodded quietly.

"Scatter the ships, send them out to cruise with all the men available," went on Le Bossue. "Let them depart tonight. Leave only my own brig in the harbor. You, Lenoir, will assume charge of the fort and batteries and of this palace. Harris and I will act together."

Lenoir emptied his glass to conceal his relief.

"So much precaution," commented Harris cynically, "against an old man guarded only by five blacks!"

"And by the devil," added Le Bossue. "Yet, when he is dead, we need not fear the devil. Then, indeed, they will all be mine to use."

"Can you use them?" Harris asked, with a curious glance.

Le Bossue reluctantly shook his head. "Not as he does. They will not talk for me. However, I can use them. When the time comes, I shall do so; and it will come very soon."

"How do you know?" demanded Lenoir.

Le Bossue's eyes narrowed. "The cook of Monsieur l'Ombre is in my pay, is working for me. She dare do nothing against him, but she watches. Yesterday she sent word that he was close to death, but recovered. She will let me know instantly a fatal attack comes. Now to business."

He called for more wine, which the girl brought. Le Bossue moved his arm, struck her across the body, ordered her out of the room. Then he looked at his companions,

"Harris, you and I will go to his house. I will take charge there. You are to get rid of the five blacks, and then put your men on guard about the grounds. Not a soul there is to remain alive."

"Not even the two French girls?" queried Harris with a leer.

"I will take care of them. They do not concern you."

Harris nodded and twisted his reddish mustache. "Still," he observed, "I should like to put a bullet into that General Washington!"

"Then I will put ten bullets into you," Le Bossue said, with so intent a look that for a moment Harris lost countenance. "The corridors are not to be disturbed, not one of those figures is to be touched. Understand? Good! Now, back to the point, my friends. Who is the man just arrived? Why has Monsieur Ombre been expecting him for weeks past?"

"Bah! He seems like an ordinary man," grunted Lenoir. "Williams must know; but not a soul aboard his ship seems to have any information."

"There is a second man, who remained aboard the bark," put in Captain Harris. "A servant of some kind, who speaks French and English. A queer brown man, they say; those of the crew are afraid of him. He is called Le Morpion, but has an English name also."

"Odd!" mused Le Bossue and lifted his glass. "Your health! Now I can tell you what you both have missed. I watched that man walking up to Monsieur l'Ombre's house with Williams. I had my spyglass. I noticed something and sent a man to observe the tracks in the sand. Well, he does not walk like other men, that one. His feet move in a straight line. His tracks, therefore, are in a direct line in the sand. Why should this be, unless the devil is in him? I cannot explain it."

"Perhaps," Lenoir suggested quite seriously, "he is really the devil."

Harris erupted a startled oath, then broke into a sudden roar of laughter. "Egad, I have the reason!" he exclaimed. "We used to walk that way as boys, back in— well, never mind where. Back in New England. Indian-fashion, we called it; the Red Indians walk that way. If one can do it in the woods, he does not go in a circle, but straight. This man is an Indian."

"No; for he is white," said Le Bossue.

"Bah! A Canadian, then; no matter. An Indian, eh? That is queer." Harris broke off and glanced up.

Le Bossue turned.

Two men came into the room, carrying a box between them. One of the scarlet-clad guards advanced and in his Creole jargon explained that a package had come from Monsieur Ombre. The three men at the table exchanged a glance.

"One of his cursed jokes," muttered Le Bossue uneasily. "Open it, Harris."

He sent the others from the room.

Harris went to the box, which had a hinged lid, and opened it. He brought out a large object carefully wrapped in cloth. When this was removed, a human head was exposed.

It was the life-sized head of Harris himself, so exquisitely modeled in wax as to seem— no, not alive. The eyes were closed. The pallor of death was on that face, and between the eyes was the blue mark of a bullet.

Captain Harris cursed. He broke into a perfect storm of profanity, heightened by the grin of Lenoir and the bitter comments of Le Bossue. Blasphemy sat on his lips; his fury rose into an overwhelming tide of passion. Suddenly he darted upon the wax head, drew a long pistol from his belt, and under a storm of blows from the butt the wax and its understructure of fabric collapsed in an indistinguishable mass.

But Le Bossue's jet eyes regarded him thoughtfully and with a touch of fear.

iii

THE MAN who called himself Monsieur l'Ombre was an old man. But not a gentle old man. Captain Rion regarded him with interest and avid curiosity. For once, he beheld a man whom he could not comprehend.

Williams had talked a good deal, his tongue evidently being quite free. Captain Rion had kept his eyes open all the way from the mole up to the town, and through it, on to this hillside building. He had learned a great deal, except what he most wanted to know.

The building had seemed large, yet the rooms in which he found himself were small. All the doors stood open for air. He could see all the rooms— the black woman at work in the kitchen, the two bedrooms, the library walled with books, the reception room in which he stood with Williams and his scarlet clad guard. Then the old man, leaning on a stick, who approached, sent the guard away, then sent Williams away after him.

The old man bowed; then the two stood looking at each other, silent for a moment.

A strange man, this! Wasted by illness, the unmistakable pallor of death in his shrunken face. One could fancy what that face, framed in a powdered wig, must have been; proud and masterful, relentless, implacable. Even now it conveyed a strange sneering strength as though the wasted body gripped the soul despite itself and would not let go.

"You are Captain Rion?" The voice was deep and hard. "I am Monsieur Charles Piloton, the banker. This is the first time I have spoken my name in twenty years, monsieur. Or, should I say, your highness?"

Captain Rion bowed slightly. His face was quite inscrutable. "I fear, monsieur, that you labor under a misapprehension," he said quietly. "My sole title is that of captain in the armies of his majesty. I am a Canadian."

"From the village of Beauharnois, I believe?"

"Exactly! said Captain Rion, regarding his host steadily.

The old man smiled, and indicated a chair. "Will you have the goodness to be seated? I am very close to the end; it is difficult for me to stand any length of time. And I have much to do."

Captain Rion hesitated. Then, seeing that the other would not first sit down, he took a chair. Piloton, as he named himself, flung out a word in patois, and the door of the kitchen was instantly closed.

"I believe," said Captain Rion, "that I was brought here in order to see—"

"The Martiniere sisters. They are in the garden. Our business is more important." The old man, who was dressed all in black, relaxed in his chair, put his stick across his knees. His piercing eyes dwelt upon his visitor. "Yes; I see there is no mistake. My agents have informed me correctly. Even after twenty years But you do not remember me?"

"I do not," said Captain Rion.

"True; you were only nine years old then— or was it ten?"

Captain Rion frowned slightly, as though irritated by so palpable a trap.

"That day— it was just after the ninth Thermidor— when I accompanied Barras to the temple," went on the other. "By the way, you recognized the clothes of the wax boy?"

"How long are we to spar with words?" demanded the visitor coldly.

"Until you understand what I say," was the calm response. "Will it bore you, monsieur, if I speak of myself?"

"If you speak of yourself— no," said Captain Rion rather stiffly.

"Good! I was a banker, yes. Also, I was in love with Marie Grosholtz, and with her was instructed by her uncle, Dr. Curtius, in the curious art of making wax figures. Alas, she married another, and as Madame Tussaud is now in London; and I am dead. It was Barras who killed me and all my family."

To this astonishing statement Captain Rion made no response.

The other went on: "I bribed Barras; therefore he killed me, do you understand?. Or thought that he did. I bribed him; he took bribes from every one, after he killed Robespierre. In fact, Robespierre had discovered his corruption and was on the point of sending him to the guillotine, when he acted first. A sharp one, that Barras! Well, he took my money, and his mistress did the work. You know what work I refer to, monsieur."

"I regret," said Captain Rion, "that I cannot imagine to what you refer."

"To the carrying off of a certain boy, who was a prisoner," said the old man. "Alas, I was a guilty agent! For his uncle wanted him out of the way, and, instead of restoring him to his rightful place, sent him to Canada, where he was adopted under a new name. Then Barras, to shut my mouth, killed me. I got away. I fled. His arm, and that of Louis XVIII, could reach across the world. I never mentioned my real name again until to-day, monsieur."

With polite interest, Captain Rion inclined his head, but made no comment.

"Now," the other continued, "the time has come for me to make restitution, to repair the wrong that I did this unhappy boy. Here, monsieur." He extended a sealed packet, which Captain Rion took with a glance of inquiry.

"That contains bills of exchange; I am a wealthy man, and with this wealth I hope to atone in some small way—"

"Really," and Captain Rion tapped the packet frowningly, "I fear that you are making a very sad mistake, monsieur." Piloton smiled thinly at him. "I am not in the habit of making mistakes. One of my agents reported to me that during the campaign in America you carried the only one of your baptismal gifts still remaining to you— a certain crucifix of crystal. I see you are a trifle ill at ease. Will you take one of those cigars in the box at your elbow? They were made for King Christophe, of the very finest Havana leaf. I think you will enjoy them."

AS CAPTAIN RION smoked, he took one of the cigars, which were indeed superb. The sealed packet he laid on his knee. When the cigar was alight, he tapped the packet again. "In regard to this, Monsieur Piloton—"

"You will honor me by keeping it. Now, look you! I knew very well that nothing could induce you to come here— except the thing. Recognition, together with the opportunity to save those two lovely girls. You are a gentleman, monsieur; indeed, you are the first gentleman of France. And knowing that my days were numbered, I longed with all my heart to see you face to face, to atone in person for the wrong that I once did you—"

As though the interview was distasteful to him, Captain Rion left his chair and crossed the room to a window that overlooked the garden. Then he turned. "My dear sir, will you have the kindness to tell me for whom you mistake me?"

"I do not mistake you, monsieur," said Piloton calmly. "You were the Dauphin of France; you are Louis XVII. Do you deny it, on your word of honor?"

Captain Rion made an impatient gesture. "Monsieur, I cannot imagine what can have inspired you with this delusion!" he said sharply. "I am Captain Louis Rion—"

"Louis Charles, I think?"

"Yes. I am nothing else. I will never be anything else, upon my word of honor."

For a moment Piloton sat in silence. Then he sighed. "I understand; an evasion, a noble evasion! Well, monsieur, you are a man and not a child. I do not inquire into your reasons. Will you, Captain Rion, keep that packet?"

"If it will gratify you, I will keep it," said Captain Rion slowly.

"Thank you. In the morning, Captain Williams returns to escort you and the young ladies to his ship, and wherever you may wish to go. The afternoon is wearing on. First, let me show you the corridors of my house, which will explain many things to you. Then we may meet the young ladies, who know nothing of my secrets. Or would you prefer to meet them now? In that case, I might rest before taking you over my house—"

"Rest, by all means," said Captain Rion, advancing as the old man rose. "May I offer you my arm?"

"Thank you; I am used to the stick. Very well! Go into the garden by that window, and you will find them. Tonight I shall show you the corridors."

Captain Rion bowed, turned to the window, and, opening the long sash, stepped out into the garden.

Once free of the house, he drew a long breath and flung away the cigar. He halted and with his handkerchief mopped the perspiration from his forehead. His pallor was banished by the warmth and sunlight; in a moment he was himself again. But he looked older, as though he had just emerged from an ordeal of the most trying kind.

The gardens were very thick with all manner of subtropical plants. A high wall hemmed them in; by following the paths strewn with broken shell, Captain Rion at length glimpsed a fountain and a shaded bower where two young women were talking. At his advance, they looked up, then, with joyful exclamations, they were greeting him excitedly.

"He said you would come to-day!" cried Lucie, the elder of the two. "Why, Captain Rion, it seems like a dream! To think of saying good-by to you in Guadeloupe, and then

Marie, the younger, broke in with babbling words. Their delight, their shining eyes, their laughter, rejoiced the heart of Captain Rion. Between him and them was a real affection, untempered by any personal feelings; in Guadeloupe, he had known them and their family very closely, having been billeted in the Martiniere mansion. They were unaffected, charming girls, with the frank warmth of Creoles and the culture of old France, and Captain Rion foresaw a very pleasant few weeks ahead, before their next parting.

But he did not foresee the happenings of this night.

iv

DINNER was over. The two young women had retired to their own room to get an early sleep before the dawn and departure. Piloton and his guest sat talking over their wine and cigars.

Suddenly the house trembled. The candles quivered; one fell from its socket. From the black woman in the kitchen burst a cry of alarm. Captain Rion started to his feet, but Piloton only smiled.

"A slight earth tremor, monsieur. They are frequent, but never dangerous. Besides, I constructed the house very carefully to withstand such things. It is all of wood, built so that it will yield. A masonry or coral house is shaken to pieces, but this one is not. Well, may I request you to sit comfortably for a few minutes until I arrange the lights? My man, who once did these things, died last year, and I have not replaced him."

Captain Rion nodded. He was curious about what was to follow.

On a table at one side stood a large wicker holder, in which were many candle-lamps. The cook had just finished lighting them. Piloton, leaning on his stick, caught up the holder in his free hand and shuffled out of the room. Captain Rion, looking after him, suddenly realized the man's feebleness and half started from his chair. Then he sank back. No. Piloton evidently wanted to carry those lights himself and arrange— what?

Piloton was gone for some time. When he returned, he dropped into a chair; his face was very white. He waved aside Captain Rion's questions; the indomitable will of the man forced a laugh to his lips.

"Nothing; a slight attack. It comes and goes. A glass of wine, and then I am—"

Presently he rose and asked Captain Rion to accompany him. He led the way to a massive door at one side of the reception room; it stood open. Down a dozen steps, then along a paved corridor which twisted about and was very cool.

"Monsieur, I scorn to be anything but honest with you," Piloton said, pausing. Ahead, lamps glimmered from hooks, lighting recesses in the wall of the corridor. "As I told you, I learned this art from Dr. Curtius, who invented it. By the gift of ventriloquism, I have in a very obvious manner made myself feared and respected in this land. On my last trip to Cap Haitien, I took the head of Toussaint L'Ouverture to King Christophe; that head spoke to the king. You comprehend? These poor fools take me for the devil in person. Well, come!"

Thus Captain Rion viewed the wax figures of Monsieur l'Ombre, single figures or pairs, set in recesses of the corridor. Some of them horrible to see, others interesting, all of them lifelike in the extreme and clad as in life. The garments were real, and not of wax as in the case of the tiny figure which Williams had delivered.

It was not hard to guess what could be done in this country by a man possessed of these figures and the gift of throwing his voice unseen. Their extremely lifelike aspect was startling. Here were the leaders of the Haitian Revolution, the American Revolution, the French Revolution; in all, a score and more of groups or single figures, the size of life.

Piloton halted before the lone shape of Robespierre, shown sitting at a table in the act of writing. A dry chuckle broke from him as he pointed.

"Monsieur, you must regard this. History tells us that Robespierre was guillotined. That is untrue. He was shot by an assassin sent by Barras; shot in the very act of signing a proclamation calling the people to arms. There on that paper are his very words; he has begun to sign his name; it is the instant when the assassin shot him. The original of that document is in existence, spattered with the blood of Robespierre. Had the assassin delayed but a few min-utes, Robespierre would have lived, Barras would have been arrested, the whole course of history would have been altered. But there remains one more group you have not seen."

He drew his guest on to the next niche, the largest of all. The corridor had doubled back, so that this niche was close to the stairs and the entrance door. Captain Rion looked at the three figures before him. They represented Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, and the Princess de Lamballe, all in court attire. Behind these figures was a heavy red velvet curtain.

After a silent moment, Piloton turned. "Monsieur, would you gratify an old man who is dying? Then, I implore you, let me see you wearing that wig, those clothes!"

"No!" Captain Rion started back. "Good Heaven, no! Why are you so determined to make me seem what I am not?"

"But, monsieur, why do you refuse to appear what you are?"

"Because I have so agreed, have so passed my word—" Captain Rion checked himself abruptly. "Because I have no desire to lay claim to a name and rank which I neither need nor wish."

The other sighed. "Well, monsieur, I understand; let it be forgotten. You see that red velvet curtain? It conceals a wide arch, which is the entrance to my workshop. This portion of the building is cooled by icy mountain water, which I have piped down from Monte Cristi above. Thus, even in the heat of summer, my wax remains— remains—"

SUDDENLY his words failed. Then his voice became only a singular whistling noise. He put out a hand to the wall; the stick fell and clattered on the stone underfoot. Captain Rion, swinging around, was in time to catch the old man as he collapsed.

"It— it is the end," whispered Piloton. ''Send— send—"

His breath died away. Captain Rion lifted the shrunken body, ascended the steps to the reception room, and placed the unconscious man on a divan there. The black woman was in the dining room. He called harshly to her:

"Come here, quickly! He is dying!"

The Negress came into the doorway, understood his words, caught sight of the figure on the couch. She uttered one wild cry, then turned and ran out of the place. With an angry oath, Rion darted into the dining room, caught up a decanter of wine, and returned with it. He poured a few drops between the livid lips.

Piloton swallowed. He was not dead after all.

After a moment, Captain Rion rose. He knew the bedroom occupied by the two Martiniere sisters, hastened to it, knocked sharply at the door. A voice replied, "It is Captain Rion. Get up, dress, come and help me! Our host is dying, I fear. That accursed cook has fled."

She had fled indeed. Farther and faster than Captain Rion knew.

He came back to the couch of the dying man. No other servants, except the guards outside; those black statues were useless. Piloton's heart was fluttering, his eyes were closed. Captain Rion knelt, poured more wine between his lips. No response.

There came a repeated knock at the entrance door. Captain Rion rose, went to it, and opened the foot-square panel in the door. Outside, under the light, was a guard, with an indistinct figure behind him.

"M'soo," said the black soldier in his patois, "a man sent by Captain Williams. Where is Monsieur Ombre?"

"He is busy." Captain Rion caught a grunt from the figure behind and hastily unbarred the door. "Ah, Le Morpion! Is it you?"

"Yes," replied the Iroquois. "I was sent here to take care of you. The ships are all going out. The captain said to tell Monsieur Ombre."

"Go and tell him," said Captain Rion, admitting the old warrior, who wore, as usual, the scarlet coat of a British soldier. The black guard objected to the entry without word from Monsieur Ombre. Captain Rion silenced him, and at length he strode back to his post, with a grumble only half silenced by a gold piece.

All this took time.

When Captain Rion returned to the reception room, he saw the two girls beside the couch. Le Morpion stood at one side, impassive, arms folded, bronze features shielded by his three-cornered hat of a bygone style. This man had known Captain Rion in Canada, as a boy, had been his companion in many a woods trail,

"Oh! He is trying to speak!" murmured Lucie Martiniere. "Let me lift his head—"

"No; let me."

Captain Rion raised the old man's head in his arms. Piloton had opened his eyes and was, indeed, trying to speak, but could not. His fingers feebly pressed the hand of Lucie. Then his eyes closed again. He was still breathing.

Captain Rion placed a pillow under his head, rose, and turned to Le Morpion with a look of inquiry,

The impassive Iroquois spoke in English: "The captain is uneasy. Men have been coming out to the other ships; they are leaving. He has a boat waiting at the mole in case you must come at any time. The breeze is offshore, and he can leave. All the town is like a hive of bees."

Captain Rion shrugged, hesitated, then turned back again to the dying man.

He was well aware that, with Piloton dead, the safest place for all of them would be aboard the bark of Williams. That there was any emergency, he did not imagine. His host had spoken of the scarlet-clad guards, in the course of dinner ; those men were faithful to him, bound by a fear greater than that of death.

FROM the corner of his eye, Captain Rion saw the impassive Iroquois produce brass pistols— Rion's pistols— and, after carefully renewing the priming, lay them on a table. Beneath the scarlet coat, he knew, were the long knife and the little ax which never left the side of the Indian except for use. Presently Le Morpion caught his eye, gestured, and he crossed to the silent shape.

"My spirit tells me," said the Iroquois in French, "that black belts have been sent out. On the way here we met a woman running toward town. My guide left me, and I came on alone. The trail is not good."

A woman, running! Captain Rion recollected the black cook and frowned. He knew the strength of that peculiar sixth sense, that intuition which the Iroquois called his spirit; if Le Morpion scented trouble, perhaps he was right. News of Piloton's death might well cause things to happen. Captain Rion cursed that fleeing cook.

"We cannot leave now," he said and returned to the couch,

Lucie, a cloak about her half-clad figure, was holding up the head of Piloton.

Le Morpion took off his hat and revealed a skull that was shaven except for his graying scalp lock. From under his coat he produced a pouch; then his eyes glittered around the room in search of something. With a perfectly silent step, he moved about, and after a moment was gone into another room.

The eyes of the old man on the couch had opened again. He looked up, saw Captain Rion, and a smile touched his lips. Rion leaned over and took his hand. Piloton weakly carried the fingers of Rion to his mouth, and kissed them.

"You must have medicine here," said Captain Rion. "Can you tell us where it is?"

"No," the old man breathed. "Useless. Send— send—"

For the second time, this phrase he was trying to utter remained unspoken. Abruptly, a convulsion seized him. His features became purple, his eyes closed. His fingers clenched upon those of Captain Rion. Suddenly they relaxed. A shiver seized upon Lucie; she gently let his head down upon the pillow.

"You are right," said Captain Rion sadly. "He has passed. Go quickly, get into your clothes, bring anything you want! We must leave here without a moment's delay."

His sudden change of tone startled the two young women. They rose, staring at him, and then withdrew. Alone, Captain Rion fell to one knee; for a moment his lips moved silently, his eyes were closed. Then he came to his feet again.

"Farewell!" he said to the figure before him. "A prayer is all I can do for you; who knows? Perhaps it is the most that could be desired."

He remembered Le Morpion and glanced around. Stepping into the dining room, he saw the Iroquois standing there before a long mirror, stripped to the waist. With white and red paint from his pouch, which he had dissolved in a wineglass, Le Morpion was just finishing the work of painting his face and breast in a hideous design.

"We must go," Captain Rion said.

Le Morpion closed his pouch, passed its thong over his head. Suddenly he swung around, his eyes blazing. "The candles!" he exclaimed. "Put them out!"

At this instant Captain Rion heard a choked cry from outside. The Iroquois dashed at the candles; the room was plunged into darkness.

Captain Rion, in alarm, extinguished those of the outer room. A faint light came from the open door of the corridor of the wax figures. Somewhere there was a crash of glass; a window had- been broken in. A heavy weight tried the entrance door, but it was bolted.

"Around the house," came a voice, faintly but distinctly, from outside. "In at the windows, Harris!"

Another glass tinkled into fragments. There was a sharp cry, then Lucie Martiniere came running, followed by her sister. Captain Rion caught up the pistols from the table. Too late, too late!

Again came the voice from outside, vibrant, powerful— the voice of Le Bossue, now rising in confident triumph: "Do not hurt the women, you dogs! They are mine!"

Too late, indeed! From somewhere, with another crash of glass, a figure came reeling and gasping through the obscurity. It was one of the scarlet-clad guards, crying out the name of Monsieur l'Ombre. He fell at the doorway of the girls' bedroom, in the light that came from the candles there, and whimpered as he died. The haft of a knife stood out from his back.

Then men came bursting in upon the darkness, with curses and weapons. But Captain Rion and his companions were not there.

v

LIGHTS were blazing again in all the candelabra. Half a dozen men stood in the outer room, staring about half fearfully. The search had revealed none except the dead.

The door of the corridors, into which no one had ventured, stood open an inch or two. By it was Le Bossue, in talk with Captain Harris.

"I don't want the men in there," said Le Bossue.

"Neither do they," and Harris laughed. "They've heard too much about it."

"The women must be there or in the workshop," Le Bossue said with an oath. "Also, the two men. Why did that fellow's servant come up from the ship?"

"Ask him," said Harris ironically, and waved his hand at the door. "Is it possible that you, Le Bossue, hesitate to enter this place where the dead can speak ?"

The hunchback growled an oath. "You prate too much. Go in and drive out the rats."

"Willingly," and Harris coolly primed a pistol.

Le Bossue caught his arm. "Remember! Don't lay a finger on those wax figures!"

Captain Harris merely shrugged, jerked open the door, and passed down the steps. The glow of the lamps arose faintly. The men standing in the reception room, their weapons still red with the blood of the five guards, drew closer together. They were utter ruffians, lowest of the low. They knew no fear, but they were in dread all the same,

Le Bossue lighted one of Piloton's cigars as he waited.

A burst of laughter came from Harris, invisible. His steps, reverberating from the corridors, came clearly through the doorway. Presently his mocking voice rose: "All right, Bos'n! The birds didn't run this way. Not a sign of them."

"Did you go into the workshop?"

"I looked in there, at least. Better go through the closets and the gardens."

Le Bossue whirled on his men furiously. He bade them join the others outside, after another, thorough search of the house, and comb every corner of the gardens with lights. Then he turned to the doorway and descended the steps.

"Harris! Where are you?"

Captain Harris appeared at his side, laughing "Come, Bos'n, let me guide you about— two sous, honest sir, for a good guide!" he whined. "Devil take me if these are anything more than life-sized dolls, after all. As to their talking, there's some trick about it."

"Perhaps," said Le Bossue, but there was a queer look in his eyes.

The two men, hands on pistols, sauntered along the twisting corridor.

"What have you done about Williams and his bark?" asked Captain Harris.

"Nothing. He's nothing to do but throw in with us, now that the Shadow is dead. Are you sure they're not hiding in the workshop? You know where it is?"

"Yes. Nothing but some half-finished figures there and no hiding place. Ah!" Harris came to a halt as they arrived at the large group. He pointed to the Princess de Lamballe. "Her wig has come loose, eh? Here, my good Bos'n. I've a fancy to see how these creatures are made." He stepped into the niche as he spoke and approached the figure of the princess, stretching out his arm toward her.

He was checked by a terrible cry from Le Bossue and whirled about. The figure of Louis XVI had moved slightly— was speaking.

"You scoundrel!"

Le Bossue turned and rushed for the stairs. He caught his foot; fell heavily on his face. But Captain Harris was made of different stuff. True, he turned livid with fear, but an oath came to his lips.

"In that case, king, try if a bullet will help you!" he cried, and lifted his pistol.

Another was discharged, from the edge of the velvet curtain— a pistol that flashed up into sight and roared its message. The curtain was dashed aside. From it leaped the hideous painted figure of Le Morpion, knife in hand.

Captain Harris had fallen backward in the corridor, a small blue mark between his eyes. Over him leaped the Iroquois— over him, and after the tall figure scrambling up the stairs,

Behind, Captain Rion, now in the garb of Louis XVI., caught the queen and the princess in his arms, checked their cries hastily.

"Out of here!" he exclaimed. "Quickly! It is our one chance— be bold!"

In the reception room above, a terrible scene was taking place.

A number of the men were there, poking about the place, when the appearance of Le Bossue transfixed them. Through the doorway burst the hunchback, an incoherent babble on his lips. Then, behind him, came the soundless, painted shape of Le Morpion like a frightful apparition.

LE BOSSUE turned his head and saw the Iroquois. A scream burst from his lips. Then Le Morpion was upon him, the long knife driving down, flashing scarlet, and driving home again. Le Bossue pitched forward on his face, knocking over a candelabrum.

"Sassakway! Sassakway!"

It was the appalling war whoop of the Iroquois, a scream like that of a tortured fiend. And with it, Le Morpion hurled himself at the nearest of the paralyzed men, and his dripping knife went home.

That was enough. With one accord, the others flung down their weapons and took to mad flight. Their voices wailed upon the night as they struggled to get away, to get into the garden, anywhere. Their panic was communicated to the others. News that Le Bossue was dead flashed from mouth to mouth. When they paused to look back, a red glow permeated the house. Flames from the fallen candles had caught the draperies, and instantly fire was licking at the walls, the doors, the ceilings.

When Captain Rion and his three companions emerged into the night, the hoarse screams of men were heard ahead of them, into and through the town. He glanced back at the house, where flames were crackling, then shook his head.

"Why did he want me to wear these garments?" he muttered. "It was that which put it into my head— but why?"

One of the two women stumbled. He caught her up, and laughed suddenly.

"No panic, ladies, no panic! I fancy we'll find a clear road ahead of us. Scout the trail, comrade!"

The whoop of the Iroquois made answer, as the leaping painted figure flitted through the moonlight.

_________________

15: Smoked Out

Frederick Ames Coates

fl 1919-1936

Detective Story Magazine 31 Dec 1921

JIM HOWARD'S wife glanced with a smug, almost defiant air about the cheery room with its comfortable furnishings. This was her home; hers and Jim's— the home they had worked for, saved for, hoped for; the home of which they were so proud. Not in all the town was there a cozier, more modern, or tasty place, for one of its size.

Well out on the edge of town, with plenty of open space about it, they had built it, breaking away from the gregarious instincts of their ancestors, which had given to the downtown section an air of almost city congestion.

And the view from their windows— the green hilltops and the more distant mountains— surely New York itself must envy these.

This half-defensive attitude toward her home, her husband, her quiet life, was not habitual with Edna Howard. She had unconsciously assumed it now, because New York, with all its bigness, its glamour was present in this living room, in the person of Blanche Gwinn.

"My dear!" Blanche had learned to gush, in a half effusive, half bored manner, since she had deserted the clear atmosphere of her native town for the life of the metropolis. "Do you really mean to tell me that you've never, never been to a thé dansant? I thought by this time they would have had them even here! Or a roof garden? But I suppose that's the penalty of spending one's life in a place like this!"

Edna Howard restrained an impulse to be impolite.

"Oh, living here has its advantages!" she replied sweetly. "I'm sure that I don't find it at all dull."

"How fortunate!" cooed Blanche Gwinn. "Contentment— what a wonderful thing it is! I sometimes almost wish that I could be like that— satisfied in some small niche. But, after all, I never could— and I'm glad! To be where the great currents of the world's life are flowing, where the big things in art, in literature, are produced— there's a fascination about it all which I could never willingly forgo! I'm just made that way, I guess. My dear, you'd pop your eyes out of your head if I were to name over some of the friends I had to tea in my studio only last week— names that are known everywhere! And such delightfully informal people, when you get to know them— such a spirit of camaraderie!"

"Your studio?" queried Edna Howard with eyes that were a bit too wide for real innocence. "Why, I didn't know you had a studio, I thought you were in some business position."

The other made an airy gesture. "Of course. If I earn my livelihood at business, my room is no less a studio. One doesn't have to commercialize one's talent, you see, in order to make the most of it. As for my music— somehow it seems too sacred for that! Why, they even have musicians' unions now. You've heard of Hahnemann— Hahnemann, the composer? Of course! Everybody has. He is considered the chief hope of a real, native opera in this country. He's chosen me— me, Edna— on more than one occasion, to give the first rendering of some of his delicious bits, at little private gatherings of friends!

"He's such a funny old dear, too. Helpless as a babe in practical affairs! He eats from choice always at one or another of those dim basement restaurants down in the Village— you know the Village, of course? And when he has a dinner engagement with any of the rest of our crowd we always have to send some one scouting about among them to find him and bring him along!"

Greenwich Village was apparently very familiar ground to Blanche; for, once she got on the topic, her friend had little need or opportunity for words. She listened raptly— there was no denying that Blanche was a wonderfully interesting talker— but all the while she maintained her defensive attitude of mind.

"Why shouldn't Blanche paint her life in glowing colors, even boast about it? For that's what she's really doing," she thought. "I might do the same, and with the same reason— though I won't!"

Some jealousy lurked in the cordiality with which these girlhood friends and schoolmates met, after years of separation. In their teens they had been close friends; both had possessed the same tastes— which is only to say that both had wanted the same things. And each had got something that the other had wanted.

Jim Howard had been attracted by both of them. For that matter, they had been much alike then. But Edna was wholly, proudly glad that it was she whom he had chosen and married. Good old Jim! With his honest, earnest ways, always lightened when with her by the whimsical gayety which he invariably brought home, no matter whether the day's business had gone well or ill! Blanche had wanted Jim, too; Edna knew it, and it had been the first rift in the girls' friendship.

The local music teacher had had no choice between the two girls; they were both, equally, her star pupils. For either of them she would have predicted a brilliant career in music. Edna had wanted to go to New York to study, to take a place in the artistic life of the great city. How much she had wanted it she had keenly realized more than once, since she had settled down here in her native town. But she had married Jim, instead; and she was glad, come what might! Only— when Blanche, full of plans and anticipations, had gone away, it had given Edna a poignant sort of envy; and the feeling was renewed now that Blanche had returned to her home town on a visit.

With a start she banished her thoughts and gave penitent attention. Blanche Gwinn was still talking about Greenwich Village.

"CLINKER" WILKINS, tall and cadaverous of shape, and greasy of garb, sank disgustedly to a reclining position beside his partner on the ground. From a coat pocket he took a folded paper package, which, unwrapped, disclosed two thick slices of homemade bread with an edge of rich, light-colored butter showing between them. He flung it far into the underbrush.

"How's that for a hand-out?"' he demanded. "These hicks here think they're doin' you a blessin' when they pass out half a cent's worth of country fodder! Won't loosen up for so much as a jitney of real change!"

Bill Heide, thick, almost rotund, but without the genial air which sits so well on fat men, looked around lazily. "I was watchin' them robins— goin' South," he said. "Always makes me feel restless, seein' them go."

"Yes; and it's time we went, too. But I ain't goin' to pull out until I got somethin' I can rattle together in my pocket." He looked musingly across country. "Railroad's about a quarter of a mile over that way, and the way freight's due to whistle out in half an hour. Eight miles down is the junction where they's trains goin' in three directions."

"We gotta be careful if we're goin' to pull any of that stuff,' said Bill growlingly.

Clinker Wilkins ignored the interruption. "Got any makin's left? But no, of course you ain't. I'm starved for a drag. How far can we travel, do you s'pose, without smokes?" He lowered his voice. "Listen, Bill. See that house just up there— nice-lookin' place? Kind of lonesome, too. Folks there is pretty well off, I guess, for this kind of a burg. One of the neighbors up the road there told me so.

"Man's away there—has a business down in the village. No servants or anything—only the wife around the place. And there ought to be some good pickings there. Get me?"

THERE WAS a knock at the kitchen door. Edna Howard hastened to the back part of the house to answer it. "A tramp, probably," she thought.

She was right. There were two of them, to be exact—a tall, thin one and a shorter, stout one. The thin one spoke in a whining voice.

"Could you give a little somethin' to eat to a couple of hungry fellas, ma'am? We're out of work, an'—"

"Why, certainly. Just wait right there while I go to the pantry." She turned away, leaving the door open.

Bill Heide nudged his companion eagerly, but the other did not move. He stood as if petrified, sniffing in the air. He turned his face toward the front part of the house, gazing through the open communicating doors.

The woman was in the pantry now. The stout tramp ventured a whisper. "Now's the time, Clinker! Soft as pie! Rush in an' grab her; tie her up; an' then go through the house. What you waitin' for?"

"Don't you notice that—"

He stopped suddenly, assumed again his air of dejected meekness.

"Thank you, ma'am." He received from her hands a paper parcel similar to the one he had thrown away recently, but twice as large. "Thanks very much." The two of them shuffled off, toward the railroad yards.

As soon as they were surely out of hearing, Bill Heide turned angrily to his partner. "What's the matter with you, Clinker? Why the cold feet? It was your plan; an' then you back down, just as I get my hopes raised up!"

"Well, I been so long without a smoke," said Clinker Wilkins, "that I've got a nose like a hound for tobacco. Didn't you smell it—as we stood there at the door? An' then I looked in, clean through to the front room of the house, an' I could see it— a little column of tobacco smoke, risin' up from an ash tray on the table! That's all I could see, but— there's a man in that house! Mighty lucky I noticed it in time. Lucky for us!"

"I SUPPOSE," said Jim Howard at supper, "that you're all full of city ideas now, after Blanche's visit— that you're tired of wasting your life here?"

"You know I'm not!" said Edna, "I never would be. But—"

"I'll warrant she painted the wonderful bohemian life in its most glowing colors. Didn't she? Didn't she rouse even a spark of envy in you?"

"She did— at first!" admitted Edna laughingly. "But as she talked, after a while, it all began to seem so—so fevered, so artificial, unconventional— so different from all my old, perhaps old-fashioned, ideas! I think I am oldfashioned, Jim; I guess that right here is the place where I really belong."

"Blanche rather overdid it, I take it?"

"Yes. Why, Jim, she— she actually— smoked a cigarette!"

_____________

16: The Black Pointer

Edith Stewart Drewry

1841-1925

The Belgravia Annual, Christmas 1892

1. My Unwelcome Visitor

"A GENTLEMAN wishes to see you, Sir."

I looked up with an impatient frown, pen in hand, from the heap of letters, proofs, and manuscript which were strewed over my large office secretaire. I was the editor of a not inconsiderable weekly paper called The Conservative.

"Who is he, Harris?" I said, "I'm busy getting up copy, can't see anyone for quite half-an-hour. What's his name?"

"Fitzroy, Sir," answered the clerk.

"Don't know it at all; he can call again, or wait out in the office. Just whistle up to the composing-room, please, to send down Spider."

Harris did so, and went out almost as the lad summoned appeared, a smart, quick-witted boy of fourteen, nick-named Spider, from his quickness of movement— and tongue.

"Copy ready, Sir?" said Spider alertly.

"This lot, yes." I tossed over a roll of copy, which Spider deftly caught. "Tell Mr. Ringar (the printing overseer) to send you down in half-an-hour for the rest."

Spider, with a hasty, longing look at something in an immense oak chair in a shadowy corner opposite, vanished, but a moment after I heard him say to another boy who he encountered outside: "Snowball, the gov'ner's got 'The Devil' in his office again! Blowed if I don't ask him to let's have him for a game in the dinner-time."

"You'd better," apostrophised I, looking lovingly across at my favourite. "Cheeky young imp!"

This last applied to Spider, of course, not the noble creature alluded to by so polite (!) a sobriquet, and which as a treat to him I sometimes brought with me to the office, if perhaps my young wife were going to be absent from home the whole day.

This favourite was canine as may be guessed— an unusually large and magnificent young pointer dog— not the common liver-brown, but a rich, glossy black all over— a great rarity in the breed; he had not one white spot on him anywhere, and hence his name 'Don Diavolos,' which the young imps up in the composing-room had, on finding out the literal meaning of the name, rendered into the rough vernacular by which His Satanic Majesty is usually designated— the Devil!

Beyond his handsome sable coat and his pluck, my companion's diabolic name had no raison d'être at all, for a gentler, finer-tempered dog I defy anybody to show, indeed, he was almost too ready to make friends with everybody, unless positively active signs of hostility had been shown to himself or us. For our Don to show dislike or offer even to fly at anyone without direct command or decided provocation would indeed have been quite the eighth wonder of the world. The Don was as intelligent as he was affectionate, and knew quite well that when I was busy at my table he must be secondary, and so was wont to retreat to his pet corner, curl himself up on his huge oak chair, and go to sleep, only occasionally coming round to me for a caress and a stretch, then again stowing himself away in the dark corner where no one who came in escaped the keen notice of his bright dark eyes, though unless bidden he never came forward to wag his 'How d'ye do?' I very easily taught this discretion to my canine friend. Don's pedigree was unexceptionable on both sides; he had been given me at a month old by a sporting farmer who bred dogs, and whose son I had got on to the staff of a leading sporting paper. Don's own parents were brown, but the old farmer had told me— when, now, five years ago, he had put the pretty little black ball into my arms— "his paternal grandsire, Mr. Albemarle, was like this chap; as black as the ace of spades. I sold him six years back to an heiress from the north— a Miss Clifford."

WELL, in half an hour down came Spider, and bore off a big supply of that dearest food to the compositor's soul— copy, but the young monkey did not dare to ask for "The Devil!"

I sounded the table gong beside me, and Harris appeared.

"Is Mr. Fitzroy here?"

"Yes, Sir, just come back."

" Show him up then, Harris," said I, putting down my pen and leaning back. "No, Don, be still please."

Down on his paws went the noble black head again, with a deep-drawn sigh, but, as the door closed behind my visitor, I fancied— to my utter surprise— that my ear caught the deep mutter of a low menacing growl from the corner. Don growl! what could it mean? It must have been fancy— a sound from outside, and the stranger evidently did not hear it or see the dog; my fancy, certainly.

"I presume you are Mr. Wilford Albemarle," said my visitor, taking the chair I indicated.

"That is my name," said I, keenly scanning the stranger, but covertly, under cover of the very long thick lashes which nature had kindly bestowed on me. The result of my scrutiny did not please me. The man was about forty— some eight years my senior— a tall, finely-built man, with straight features; goodlooking certainly, but such a down-looking, haggard face, one I was certain a woman would distrust. I did at once; more, I was instantly conscious of a feeling of repellence and antagonism ; there was an odd look too in his eyes— skulking, shall I call it?— that might at any moment become one of fear, and he had a queer restless, even nervous, movement of the right hand as if it were ready to be uplifted to ward off a blow. Perhaps, being a writer, my dramatic imagination was too rampant, for I immediately began weaving a story about him— not a very complimentary one though. His errand was as prosaic and undramatic, however, as his face was the reverse of both.

He answered me. "Mine is Fitzroy, and I called to see you about a house which you advertised to be let."

"Oh," said I, "but that is in my agent's hands, Mr. Fitzroy, so that I cannot treat behind his back."

"Of course not," said he with a half sneer, "but the matter stands thus: we could not agree about terms, and he said it was useless for him to ask you to alter your instructions. I could try myself if I liked— so here I am."

"The terms are very usual ones," said I, "for a house of that value, just entirely refitted too. £200 a year is a most moderate—"

"It is not the rent, Mr. Albemarle, but I don't wish to take a house for more than three years, though I would pay you £20 a year more for that."

Now we masculine creatures are very fond of hugging the belief that all the logic and calm reason, etc. is on our side, and all the impulsiveness on the side of the fair sex, a self-flattering chimera, which, personally, I gave up very early in my life's experience, as I found that men, nearly if not quite as often, thought and acted on impulse, as well as babbled secrets and gossiped, as women. I have mentioned the repellent feeling with which this man had instantly inspired me, and from the moment he unfolded his errand, I impulsively made up my mind that he should never cross threshold of mine as tenant or guest; he should not have the house if he would pay a thousand a year for it on a lease of seven instead of fourteen years. I grew quite cheerful over the easy door he had opened for me to get rid of his offer.

"My dear Sir," I replied, playing with my moustache, "I would not let the house for less than seven years' lease at any rent."

"Not if l offer you a hundred pounds down in hard cash for the accommodation?" said he, leaning forward.

"No."

"May I ask why not?"

What an ugly look flashed over his swarthy face!

"Certainly," said I, with provoking coolness. "I am not hard up for a hundred pounds, and I do not mean to let that house for so short a tenancy for any consideration" ("or" I mentally added, "to you, my friend, upon any terms)."

With a courteous but haughty inclination, I stood up to intimate that the interview was at an end. Fitzroy rose too, pushing back his chair; but as he did so, I saw him suddenly stand still as if petrified, his staring eyes fixed on the opposite corner with such an awful look of fear in them, such a deadly terror in his whole face, that my very blood seemed to curdle at the sight. My eyes instantly, instinctively, followed the direction of his, and beheld the black pointer not lying down, not even sitting, but standing on the chair, his tail straight out, his head and muzzle stretched forwards with lips drawn back from the teeth, his forepaw uplifted, his eyes gleaming like fire in the gloom, fixed with a savage hate on Fitzroy; the dog was pointing as I knew pointers always do before flying at a foe.

Utterly startled at the sight, I still saw the danger, and in the second the dog leaped, I vaulted like a gymnast right over my table and seized his collar, dragging him backwards by main force, just as the sharp grim teeth touched the man's dress.

"For Heaven's sake get out of the room!" said I, for the dog was so powerful, and struggled so fiercely to get loose, that I almost feared his collar might give way.

"Down, Don, lie down, Sir!"

Fitzroy, instead of obeying me, had staggered back into his seat, still with that awful look of horror on his face, shaking from head to foot like one paralysed, and I heard a low mutter, hoarse with strange terror:

"It cannot be— the— same."

I dragged rather than led the pointer to the corner behind my chair, where, fastened to a strong ring in the wall, hung the chain in which I brought him through Fleet Street. To this I now secured him, and bidding him sternly "Lie down," turned, to Mr. Fitzroy with feelings of scorn, as well as wonderment at the unmanly and singular fear he had betrayed; he had risen again and moved to the door, still quivering and livid.

"Why the devil didn't you tell me you had a fierce black pointer in the corner?" he demanded, "and I would never have come inside— never!"

"Really Mr. Fitzroy, I am vexed beyond measure at this occurrence, but how could I possibly guess that you had— well, such an extraordinary fear of dogs. As to my dog, I have never in my life been so utterly astounded. I never knew him shew the least animosity to anyone, much less fly, and I can't make it out at all!'

"You've been quite mistaken in the cursed brute's temper," said he viciously, "that's all. Good morning."

And he went out quickly, without the least attempt to explain his conduct.

"Don, my dear boy," said I, unchaining my friend and caressing him, "you are a good dog, and know an evil man when you see him. But there is something very odd in all this, my Don; he chose an odd expression too, and I'll try and learn who he is— if I can— at luncheon time. Lie down by me, my 'black pointer,' as he designated you, Don."

The Don obeyed, and I tried to work, but my mind was excited, full of that man's awful look. I could not concentrate my attention, and hailed the stroke of one. Then I locked Don in the room, and went out to lunch.

2. My Agent's Infomation

AS LUCK would have it, the moment I entered the luncheonroom at the restaurant, I caught sight of my house-agent himself seated at a table apart. I gave my order and crossed to him at once.

"How do, Gibson; you're the very man I wanted."

"That's lucky, Sir, then," replied Mr. Gibson. "Have you seen Mr. Fitzroy?"

"Yes, and it's about him I wanted to speak to you," said I. "What references did he give— do you know anything about him?"

"Well, Sir, he referred me to his bankers, Messrs. Rayner & Co. and a Major Armstrong. Mr. Rayner said Mr. Fitzroy had banked with them for eight years, and was very well off— a most safe tenant! he had lived abroad principally for the last ten years, they believed, but was now about to marry an American heiress. The Major also spoke highly of him and said, laughing, he thought the lady was lucky. 'I don't know, Sir,' said I, 'I think I shouldn't fall in love with him if I was a lady.' "

"Oho! then Gibson!" I said quickly, "he strikes you, too, as queer-looking! What did the Major say to that?"

" 'O!' said he, 'he's certainly not very cheerful-looking, but then he's had such troubles, years back— told me so himself, his wife ran away with a lover; poor Fitzroy tried every means possible to trace her, dead or alive, for two years, advertised, set detectives— everything; and then had to apply to the law, have her declared dead, and her fortune handed to him as under her will There being no child, this was done,' the Major said. It's very odd, Sir, though," added the agent, "that Mr. Fitzroy is so obstinate against the seven years' lease, when he is so especially taken with the house and anxious to get it."

"Ah ! then he said he liked it so much?" asked I quickly.

"No mistake, Mr. Albemarle," was the reply. "I took him over it myself, you see, and at first he rather pooh-poohed it, 'wasn't quite what he wanted, rooms so large, wasn't that part of Kensington damp?' etc. till we went downstairs, and I showed him that queer little room behind the panel, which no one would dream of being there— 'the dear, little, mysterious, secret room,' Sir, Mrs. Albemarle called it, you know. Well, Mr. F. seemed quite amused at it— said it was a 'capital idea for a smokingroom— what queer nooks and hiding corners our fathers did build in these old houses, but really,' says he, 'I shall not tell my future bride of it, for she is such a timid, nervous creature, she'll fancy there is a ghost there!' When we came up again he said —well, after all, the house would suit him nicely, and he would take it at once, and gave me the reference, and as he was anxious to close the bargain I went on at once."

"But, Gibson, didn't he object then to the terms?"

"Not strongly, sir, that was his cunning— it wasn't till he called yesterday to clench it that the hitch arose in earnest. He would pay more rent or a premium, but he could not bind himself for so long; he was sure you would hear reason. 'Well, Sir,' says I at last, 'go to Mr. Albemarle and if you can change him you'll be cleverer than I am.' So he came."

"Yes," I spoke coolly, but my blood was throbbing excitedly in my veins, "he did, and was most eager to have the house, made all sorts of offers for three years— not seven, which I of course refused to even entertain. Now, look here, Gibson, I don't like that man or anything about him, and I've good reason to think that he will not trouble us again about my house, 'queer little room,' and all, but mind, if he does, you can tell him outright that I don't mean to let Garden Grove to him at any price."

"But, Sir, suppose he accedes to the seven years, and offers—"

"I don't care if he offer a twenty-one years' lease, and a fortune for rent," said I with an emphatic energy that made Gibson look at me. "He shall never be a tenant of mine."

"Very well, Sir."

I went back to the office and my work, but I could not get that man's face, or all I had heard about him, out of my head, and the dog too deepened my intense excitement, for he was as strangely perturbed as I was, and lay, as dogs do when unhappy, all along, his tail straight, his head laid between his extended forepaws, uttering at intervals a little piteous, uneasy whine, and keeping his eyes fixed on my face with such a wistful, strangely human— no! unhuman— look, that my flesh began to creep, and I could almost have shrunk from my own pet dog as if some eerie "gytrash" of north-country legend were taking his form.

"Don't keep looking in that horrible uncanny way, Don," I exclaimed, "you look as if you knew all about it— if you could only speak! but we'll say nothing of this at home, Don, and we must forget it to-morrow."

Easier said than done; there are some things which take such fast and painful hold of the imagination that no efforts of reason or will can dislodge them entirely.

The next morning I told my wife not to sit up for me, as I could not be home till very late, or perhaps even next morning, as I had that evening to go down to Bellfield to attend and report a large Conservative meeting to be held there.

"But why must you go, dear?" asked Anna, "you have reporters."

"Yes, but the only one on our staff to whom I could trust this is ill, so I'll have to take it myself, and make sure it's all right. So good-bye till you see me, darling, take care of yourself and Don."

For you may be sure I did not take the pointer to-day. I caressed him, kissed the dear wife, and went off to Fleet Street, my mind still haunted by the event of yesterday, and even when I was busiest I was conscious that it lay at the back of my thoughts, and when I was in the train in the evening, en route for Bellfield, I gave them full rein. I puzzled and conjectured, and filled in all the gaps by weaving in a dark romance of mystery. I was recalled to the matter-of-fact common-place by the stopping of the train at my destination.

Bellfield was a small bye-station, at which very few trains stopped, the last up being ten o'clock, but about three miles off was a much more important place called Horsebridge, where plenty of trains stopped, both much later, and early in the morning. But at Bellfield the county member had a splendid house, and had erected an immense marquee in the grounds.

It was a very enthusiastic meeting, and lasted much later than I thought till it was fairly over, but whilst the usual votes of thanks and "buttering" were going on after the resolutions had been carried, I noticed on the platform quite a young fellow talking to one of the late speakers, so very good-looking that I could but glance again, and then I heard two old men behind me, who might be farmers perhaps, speaking of the same person— one apparently a native, the other a stranger who spoke.

"Yes, he's handsome— comes from the north— a good-looking family, I've heered say. Years ago, when he was a boy, he'd a distant cousin, an heiress, who was a wonderful pretty girl. Poor thing, she ended sadly though— sadly— sadly."

"Eh— how?" asked the native, whilst I listened amused. I knew I had already lost the ten up train, so there was no hurry. Something more than mere amusement chained my attention shortly.

"Well," the other replied, "she married, I believe— Oh, twelve years ago, and in two years— so I've heered the story— she bolted with some fellow the husband hadn't never even suspected to exist."

"Dear, deary me— girls is awful skeery!" rejoined the native.

"Didn't he find her?"

"No— never turned up again, I believe; so she must ha' died they said!"

"H'm, it's queer, master, 'cause there's an old house a good way from this where some story like that belongs— years ago I've heard the boys gossip over it, as how the husband was like mad with grief an' rage when the lady went off one night, whilst he wor out, and the few servants over to Horsebridge Fair. And they said that the only thing she took off with her was her favourite dog. Ha, ha! odd, wasn't it?"

"Queer fancy— yes. What was their name? Might be the same feller likely enough," said the stranger. "Lord, my memory's bad, master. I don't think I ever heered the name. What wor your lady's? Same as that lad's— her cousin's— I s'pose— eh?"

"Yes," was the reply; "she was a Miss Helen Clifford."

Do you know that dreadful feeling of being startled right through internally, which gives not the slightest outward sign or start, but which a minute or two after makes one feel a nervelessness stealing swiftly over every fibre, and as if iced water were trickling through every blood-vessel from head to foot? I experienced this now, as my mind at once linked in one the two separate stories or episodes of yesterday and to-night. Of course it was absurd, utterly unreasonable of me, as I angrily and uselessly told myself, but when was ever the excited imagination driven from its ground by the dictating logic of Reason? My down-looking visitor had married an heiress, who had left him ten years ago, and this heiress, Helen Clifford, had married somebody and left him— also ten years ago! An odd coincidence at least, if they were different sets of people. Then again, that Fitzroy had shown extraordinary abject fear, not of dogs in general, but of my black pointer; his grandsire—also a black pointer— had been sold to a Miss Clifford, an heiress, and this Helen Clifford, who had left her husband from some house in this very neighbourhood, had taken with her a favourite dog— was that a black pointer, and had it perhaps ever bitten its master? Bah ! what a commonplace, matter-of-fact explanation of all that had taken such hold of me. Even as I muttered that "That must be all, I supposed— what did it matter to any one then?" the memory of the man's awful face, and the look— the unanimal, unhuman look in the dog's eyes— rushed upon me with a vivid horror that made me shiver in the soft Autumn air, as if a blast from the Frozen Ocean had struck me, as I walked through the grounds.

I shook myself and stopped under a tree to eat a few of my biscuits and drink some of the sherry in my pocket-flask. Then I walked on briskly to the lodge gate—the last to leave, it seemed. I must now ask the way to Horsebridge Station, three miles off, which I did of the lodge-keeper, and thus instructed I passed out into the open road once more— alone, but not for long. Merciful Heaven! not alone for long!

3. My Unseen Companion

IT WAS a glorious moonlight night, a full moon, high in the cloudless blue heavens, flooding the whole country beneath in the refulgence of its cold, ghastly light, so weird in its Sphinx-like, immoveable calm, so awesome in its intense silence— pitilessly peaceful, passionless in its chilling purity. Darkness is never to me half so ghost-like as moonlight.

It was so still, far and near over the country— hill and dale and wooding— that it seemed as if all Nature lay sleeping, and even my own footstep on the path beside the road was so light that it made no perceptible sound. It was so beautiful a night that I could have wished I had double the distance to go, for each step, each breath of the sweet pure air, seemed to give new life after my long day's work.

My way, as directed, lay through winding lanes, sometimes quite in the open, sometimes shadowed by groves of trees. I had walked some distance, and had just emerged from one of these copses, when I fancied my ear caught a very, very slight sound in the wooding about twenty paces behind me. It was so slight, that I scarcely even glanced over my shoulder— it was fancy; perhaps a dry twig pattering down, or a dissipated young rabbit scuttling home, but still unconsciously my ear was on the qui vive. The next minute I heard it again, beyond any mistake— not the sound of footsteps, but a quick, light little patpat, pat-pat, as of some animal— a dog; and as I walked I looked back, expecting to see some stray canine ready to make friends with me.

There was nothing!

Nothing but my own shadow, and a broad flood of moonlight, on the white road, that made even a twig or leaf distinctly visible.

I think in that moment my very heart stood still, and my blood ceased to flow. I shall never forget that awful feeling, the dull, ghastly dread that crept into my inmost soul.

I stopped dead; it stopped too. I strode forward, and there it was again behind. I stamped each foot as I went to drown the sound, but through and between— half-a-dozen to each one of my long strides— it came on ceaselessly— that little, quick, eerie pat-pat, pat-pat. I should have heard it, I believe, through the roar of a cataract. Was I to, have this awful companion all the way back to London? I hurried madly on for another half mile where the lane diverged into two, right and left. I was to follow the latter, but as I approached the fork, the little pitter-patter behind suddenly passed me, and went on before me, quite close, leading— I felt with a strange thrill—for me to follow, not the left, but the right-hand lane.

I stood still again for a moment. Up till now I had persistently tried to persuade myself that it must be only a fancy, an awful delusion, born of my vivid and excited imagination, so haunted by the singular events and coincidences of the last twenty-four hours, that it was only natural I should evolve the sound of a dog's footsteps, since one, if not two dogs, held the prominent place in the whole mystery— and that one, my dear Don, between whom and myself there existed such a strong affection and sympathy. Now I suddenly felt a strange, deep conviction that I was to follow— that I must follow— wherever the unseen, unearthly guide should lead me— that it was one with all that had recently so stirred me, and that I was a blind instrument in Higher Hands. With that conviction, the dull, superstitious dread died out, and a great awe fell on me in its place. I walked on quickly once more, following the distinct paw-steps, just ahead, my whole being throbbing with deep, intense excitement, but an excitement entirely different to what it had been before. As I followed I wondered if Don missed his master, and was watching eagerly for his return— in vain; whether he was thinking of me, with me— in the spirit— shall I say? Is that quite impossible? May there not be something in these higher "beasts that perish"— not of immortality, of course, but which whilst only co-existent with life, is yet above, beyond mere animal life? Man we know has body, soul and spirit, but may not an animal be endowed with some partial share of that wondrous, unseen, mysterious, spiritual existence within, which can pass from the material into the realm of the supernatural? What mystery is it which makes the dog susceptible to supernatural terrors, and unquestionably to very strong presentiments, both on his own and his master's behalf?

I was presently roused from theories to fact by the necessity of having to watch my footsteps more carefully, as the lane narrowed into a mere pathway through a thick, deep wood into which no moonlight penetrated, then came a glade—woods again— and at last it debouched into an open lane, leading, I saw at once, to the gates of some large grounds in which stood a house. But what grounds! what a house! utterly desolate, dilapidated, God-forgotten, as seamen forcibly express it.

The palings were broken, the gate, worm-eaten, had literally rotted away alike from hinges and lock, the grass was long and rank; the shrubs and trees, unkempt for years, had straggled boughs and tendrils down to the ground, and shot up again into a thick underwood, as rank as the grass and weeds which overgrew the drive— once gravel— along which my eerie guide still led on right up to the house, a two-storeyed building that perhaps contained about fifteen rooms. Here again the same utter decay reigned; the walls were green with damp fungus, the windows broken, the hall door hanging only by the upper hinge. It looked like a place that had reeked with crime, and been accursed. I shuddered and paused on the mildewed steps. Must I enter? Yes; those pitiless footsteps went pit-pat across the wide, dust-begrimed hall, lighted by the moon's rays, and then suddenly ceased just within an open doorway at the end. I paused too, just without the threshold— and stopped. The moonlight poured in through an oriel window, and I saw that before me lay a large empty room, eaten with decay like the rest of the place, with a large marble mantel-piece, and the remains of what had been gold beading, round the ceiling and skirting. Opposite the hearth, too, there still remained, evidently let into the wall, a large mirror, reaching from the floor more than half way up the wall.

I listened intently—where was my terrible guide? I tried, shivering, to pierce each deeply shadowed corner, but in vain, and for a moment I put my hand across my dazed eyes; then I dropped it.

Great Heaven! was I mad— dreaming? Shall I ever forget the awful scene I witnessed that night, without the power to stir a finger?

There was the mirror, but in a bright, gilded frame, well matching the rich carpet and furniture that I saw now in the elegant room, and seated on the hearth was the pale ghost-like figure of a woman, both young and beautiful, richly robed in the fashion of ten years ago, and wearing a very large gold locket at her throat. I saw her turn her white face towards an opposite corner, and mechanically following that glance I saw, crouched upon an arm-chair, the similitude of a large, black pointer. My blood ran cold; I was paralysed; I strove to call "Don," but no sound came to my lips— was that my grim guide? it had a broad silver collar on too. I looked again towards the pale figure on the hearth— there was another shadowy form behind her now, a tall man's figure, the moonlight streaming full on the ghastly face, and the right hand stealing into his breast. My God ! I knew it— him— that man who yesterday— Why did not she look up and see what was in his devil's face ? Why did not her sleeping dog awake and save her? As one does in a fearful nightmare, I strove in vain to move, to cry aloud to her, though all the time I knew that all this had been enacted ten long years ago. I saw the cold light gleam on a long glittering knife, as the figure, not seeing the dog, bent suddenly over the other figure's shoulder, and struck the weapon downwards to her heart. She flung up her arms as she fell, and the murderer, stepping back with the reeking weapon, turned. In that instant, I beheld again in his ghastly face that awful look of mad fear I had seen yesterday— there on the chair stood that black pointer, pointing at him for one second, the next, it leaped straight at his throat as mine had done. He flung out his hand to ward off the attack— there was a hideous struggle— and then the noble beast fell back at his dead mistress's feet, stabbed, lifeless.

Then the figure of the assassin, still acting out the scene glided to that mirror, touched it heavily, and it slid back, disclosing a black vacuum— a grim charnel house, a grave— for he dragged both corpses into the secret hiding-place, flung in the weapon, and shut back the mirrored panel that concealed it and his fearful secret.

The spell broke! the tension that had held me gave way, and with a wild cry, I fell to the ground in a dead swoon.

4.  On The Trail

"THANK HEAVEN he's coming round at last!"

That was the first sound which penetrated my ear, the sound of a deep, human voice once more, and some kindly hand held brandy to my lips.

"There, that's better, Sir; I thought you were dead almost, for you wouldn't come to— not for a solid half-hour."

The speaker was kneeling, supporting me against him; I was conscious of that now, and that a bright warm light like a huge round eye was glaring on both of us, and by it I saw that my new companion was a police-sergeant— a horse patrol.

"Thank you," I said faintly, " I shall be better directly."

My exhaustion was physical as well as mental, for I had eaten nothing since an hour before the meeting, and after the man had with kindly force made me swallow the wine and biscuits, which, it seems, had fallen out of my pocket, I was able to stand up, my natural vigour returning each moment.

"But how did you come to find me— here?" said I, looking round me with such a shudder, that he noticed it keenly I saw.

"I was passing, Sir, on my round at the end of the lane, when I heard a cry— such an awful cry as I never heard before, I'll swear, right from the wretched, haunted house, as they call it hereabouts. And I found you, Sir, lying like dead, though I saw no marks of either robbers or violence."

"No," I said, steadily, "but the people here may well shun this horrible place. I will tell you more presently, as I go with you to the police station at Horsebridge, but before we leave, there is something to be done. Answer me a question— do you know or remember anything of the people who last inhabited this place?"

"Not much, Sir, I wasn't here ten years ago, and people forget details so much, in time— still, I've heard my fellows talk about it sometimes. I believe it was bought by a gentleman wholived here about six months with his young wife."

"Ah, yes; and she had a pet dog, I hear," said I.

"Yes, she had, Sir, a black pointer, though I never saw one."

"They are very rare, but I have a splendid black pointer myself," I said.

"Indeed, Sir. Well, the story is that one morning, just after the Fair, he came over to our station just wild as wild could be, to give information that while he was out, and all the servants allowed to go to the Fair, his wife had eloped and took the dog; he described her, the gentleman he suspected, and the pointer; and every step was to be taken to trace them. They say he started to London himself, but no one never traced the fugitives. It was fancied they'd been seen on a Dover boat, but it wasn't confirmed, and the husband, I believe, came back, sent all the furniture off to auction, shut up the house and went abroad— never even sold, or let the place."

"No," I answered, sternly, "he dared not part with it. I tell you that his wife never left here; he murdered her and her dog here— on that hearth there— the last night of Horsebridge Fair!"

"Good heavens, Sir! What are you saying!" exclaimed the man, falling back a step.

"A terrible truth, Sergeant, which I will prove. Do you know this man's name?"

"No, sir," he was watching me, I could see, suspiciously. "It's been forgot, I suppose, about here: do you know?"

"Yes, I do; it is Fitzroy, and his poor wife's was Helen Clifford, but up till yesterday morning I knew nothing of even the existence of such people. Now, bring your lantern and truncheon here, to this mirror. It is the door, in fact, of a small secret chamber in the wall, and I call upon you, as a constable, to break open that door, for within lie the murdered woman and dog, and the knife with which they were stabbed ! Strike here, where the spring is," I touched about the spot on the frame, "perhaps it will slide back."

Without a word he obeyed, and struck the old worm-eaten fram e; there was a little shower of wood-dust, making a hole. At the second blow, something cracked, and the aperture was enlarged.

The Sergeant then put his hand in the gap, and slowly forced the panel back— back, and lifting his lantern, threw the light full into the deep recess disclosed. We were strong men, both, but our very flesh seemed to creep as our eyes met in dumb horror for minutes.

"It's too awful, Sir," he whispered hoarsely, "but— I must do my duty."

There before us lay— not a corpse, but a grinning skeleton, with the remains of rich feminine robes still clinging about it, and golden hair falling over it. The gold bracelets on the fleshless arms, the wedding-ring still on the fleshless hand, the large locket still suspended to the bare bone that had once been so rounded a throat— had I not seen it all two hours, or less, back? Partly over the feet of the murdered mistress, where the brutal assassin's hand had flung it, lay the body of the noble dog that had striven to avenge her— that surely had now avenged her in God's own mysterious way; the once glossy black hide hung about the skeleton, the silver collar still on the poor animal's throat.

"You recognize both, sir?" said the officer, instantly catching my expression.

"Yes." It was all I could say just then. He gave me the lantern to hold, and, taking out his note-book wrote down notes of all that had passed; next he searched for the weapon I had mentioned, and discovered it in a corner, a long, fine, sharp clasp-knife, with something, I saw, engraved on a plate. It— the haft and the blade— was deeply stained with dried-up blood.

"Sure enough, Sir," said the man, " as true as my name is John Vane, here's his name, as you said, 'Maurice Fitzroy'. He never dreamed it'd be found in this kind of grave. Mind, sir, you're witness to all we find. I'm going to take possession of this, and these trinkets."

A grim job, I thought, as Vane did so; bracelets, locket, ring, dog-collar. Then we examined them. On the latter we found "H. Clifford."

"It was her dog," I said; "not his."

The locket Mrs. Fitzroy had worn contained on one side an oval photo of herself— oh, so lovely!— on the other, her husband— ten years younger, but the very man I knew. I could have sworn to him anywhere. The name was written to each likeness. The Sergeant carefully put all these articles in his pocket, shutting the knife, of course, and then said, " The sooner now we get back to Horsebridge, the better."

"It's four miles off, Sir," he said, "and as you look quite worn, you must mount my horse and I'll walk."

I was, in truth, so exhausted by all I had gone through, that I was glad to accept the kind offer, and oh! how thankful to leave the scene of the dark crime I had witnessed repeated; how blessed was the new day, the first golden light of the rising sun. On the way I made up my mind that, extraordinary as the actual truth was, it would be unquestionably my best course to tell the Inspector and the Magistrate the whole story from the time Fitzroy came into my office yesterday morning. I should, of course, have to accompany the officer who was sent with the warrant to arrest the murderer, as I must identify him. They might, or might not, believe the strange intervention of the black pointer, but the facts to which it led were undeniable. Fortunately, so Vane informed me, Horsebridge was within the Metropolitan district and therefore the warrant of the Magistrate there would require no further endorsement to be executed in London, where, as far as I knew, Fitzroy was living— my agent knew where, I believed. The thing was to get the warrant, and go up to Town as early as possible.

At three o'clock we reached the police station, and when the Inspector had taken my deposition and heard my story (which neither he nor Vane received with ridicule), it was arranged that I should go to the Railway Hotel for some refreshment and rest, and then the Sergeant was to come for me before eight to get the warrant, and start with me for King's Cross by an early train.

When he came, I was quite myself again, but before leaving I went into the station and telegraphed to my wife to be on the down platform at King's Cross at ten, when I would meet her. I knew I could not possibly go home till evening, as, directly the terrible business was ended, I must go to my work.

I told Vane on our way to the Magistrate, that my own strong suspicion was that Fitzroy was planning exactly the same horrible game over again, and meant to make my house the scene of the second wife's murder, on account of the hidden room that had so taken him.

"Well, Sir, then he won't get the chance, for he'll swing for this. Good Lord! Mr. Albemarle, what a blaze this extraordinary mysterious story will make. It makes me creep to think of that black pointer of yours knowing the murderer; and that other too! It's these that found it out— nothing human."

"It's the hand of God, indeed," I answered.

5: "My Black Pointer."

ACCOMPANIED by Sergeant Vane in plain clothes, I reached King's Cross at ten, and we went round at once to the down platform, my heart beating fast, all the horrors of the past night forgotten in the joyful expectation of seeing my fair young wife again. I had not gone many steps when I saw the pretty form I sought sitting on a seat, and to my utter surprise, holding Don in a chain. " I see Mrs. Albemarle," I said quickly, and my companion, with respectful courtesy, directly dropped back a few paces. Anna was looking the other way, and dear old Don scented or saw me first, and with a bound that tore the chain from her light hold, rushed upon me with a frantic joy that attracted the attention of those near.

"Dear old boy— so!— quiet, Don," I said patting him, and then taking up the chain as Anna hurried up, "Oh, Wilford."

Our hands clasped, how closely we best knew, and then I asked her what had made her bring the dog.

"He would come, Will," said she, in an almost frightened way, "he's been so strange all night, after eleven— Why how you started ! What is it?"

No wonder I should— that was the very time I had first heard the pit-pat of the dog behind me.

"Nothing, dear— go on; what do you mean by 'strange'?"

"Well, for an hour or more, he would keep patting round and round the room so oddly— well, as if he hardly wanted to be heard— until after twelve—"

" And then, Anna?" I felt the cold perspiration on my forehead.

"Then he jumped on your chair and curled up, and I went to bed. Then this morning, the minute I began getting ready to come he kept at my skirts— looking, oh, dreadfully human at me, Wilford— and when I told him, 'No, he must not come,' he actually got before me, and stood in my way, still begging so very strongly that— that I got stupid, dear, and nervous— dogs do have presentiments, don't they?— and so I got his chain and took him in the hansom."

"You were right, dear wife," I said, so gravely that she looked at me. "I have a strange tale to tell you directly. Ah, Heaven!— what is the matter, Don?"

I might well be startled into the exclamation, for the pointer suddenly laid his nose to the ground with a deep growl— the next moment he had leaped the length of the chain with a force that actually swung me round as he strained furiously to dash forwards towards the entrance of the booking office, just as out of it, on to the platform, ticket in hand, came— Maurice Fitzroy!

I shall never forget that moment, or his face, if I lived a hundred years. He stood as yesterday— paralysed; the constable stepped forwards, as I forcibly shortened Don's chain, and touched my hand.

"Yes— it is right," dropped from my lips.

Vane laid his hand at once on the man's shoulder, whilst Anna shrank up to me in alarmed wonder— the more that several people now had paused to gaze at what was passing.

"Mr. Fitzroy, I am a police officer, and you are my prisoner," said Vane quietly.

I never saw human face turn so ashen pale, so lividly bloodless, as this man's, never saw such blank terror in human eyes, as his went from me and the dog, now crouching at my feet, to the constable.

"What extraordinary mistake is this?" he demanded hoarsely. "I am going to visit the lady I am engaged to, and must not miss my train. You have made some mistake. What do you dare to charge me with in this manner?"

There was a door hard by, marked "Office,"— one of the railway official's offices, and Vane said: "Come in here, sir, quietly, unless you want a crowd, and take care what you say, as it will be used in evidence. Come quietly, if you're wise."

We all went in, Vane saying to the one clerk at the desk: "It's all right. Send a porter for a policeman."

Then he turned to his prisoner again.

"Now, sir, you are charged with the murder of your wife ten years ago, near Horsebridge— the last night of the Fair."

Fitzroy actually staggered back, flinging out his hand with the frantic action of terror I knew.

"It is false— false!" he cried out, "A lie, I tell you! She fled that night."

"You have sheltered yourself too long under that base slander," said I sternly, "you murdered both Helen Clifford your wife, and her black pointer, and hid their bodies in the recess behind the mirror, where we found them last night."

"You dare accuse me, curse you," said Fitzroy in a fierce hoarse whisper, "you and that— that black pointer there. Where is your warrant between you all?"

As he said that I saw him look round as if for some exit— so did Vane. I put my trembling wife into a chair, and instinctively eased off the length of Don's chain. Vane said coolly:

"When another constable is here, I'll read the warrant. Any attempt to escape will be worse than useless, for, if you could elude us, that dog would seize you."

As he spoke the clerk, with a constable, and the platform inspector came in, and then the Sergeant produced the warrant.

Whilst he read it over I spoke to Anna in a low tone; she entreated me not to send her home alone as I must go on to Bow Street— she would much rather remain with me— and as she was not one of those women who faint or shriek, I consented.

In a few minutes the two constables with their prisoner drove off in a close cab for Bow Street, and I and my wife with Don followed in a hansom. On the way I told Anna the whole grim story, for in court, of course, only sufficient evidence need be adduced for the committal of the accused man.

I THINK that none of those connected with that cause celebre, when it came on, will ever forget it to their dying day.

Fitzroy made a desperate attempt to prove the story he had circulated all these years, but it was too lame as against the weight of evidence. The motive was very plain, for by Helen's death— childless— he under her will, dated a year after their marriage, became sole and absolute possessor of her fortune, which he had now almost run through, it appeared. Setting aside the supernatural intervention which had so mysteriously led to the unearthing of the crime, the facts so discovered were dead against him, even to his extraordinary terror of my dog— the descendant of the slain pointer. The dog's collar, with Helen's name, the locket containing Helen's and her husband's photos and names, the knife with his name, the false tale he had told, the deliberate way he had cleared the house of servants, the very leaving the house neglected ever since— all made a chain there was no break-in, and the verdict of "Guilty" was received with acclamation.

Justice was done at last, and the Divine Command, "whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed " fulfilled.

THE WRETCHED murderer would not hear the chaplain, and his very last words on the scaffold were a savage threat, which, however, admitted his guilt:

"If I were free for one hour I would use it to kill Wilford Albemarle and his demon dog, as I killed Helen Clifford and the Black Pointer!"

___________________

17: Justifiable Homicide

Frederick C. Painton

1896-1945

Adventure, 15 Nov 1934

IT HAD been tough up on the Vesle River. The Germans held the heights and did not intend to yield an inch. By day they showered Fismes and the swampland with deadly machine-gun fire and the harrying shells of 77’s. By night they flung patrols down the ridges and the fighting was hand to hand and hellish.

The Thirty-first Regiment had eighteen days of it; and they left a bloody trail when they reluctantly broke off and marched back to Etampes for rest and replacements. C company was badly cut up, and Line Sergeant Bill Tuttle was still in command the second day after billets had been reached.

He mustered the seventy-eight survivors that morning for the divisional inspection officer, and the D.I.O. looked them over and made a mental note that Tuttle must be a damned good non-com. These men, he perceived, had dubbined shoes, their uniforms were neatly patched and sewn, their rifles cleaned and a joy to an infantry officer’s heart. Their faces were haggard, but their eyes were clear. Good morale.

All this, the D.I.O. told himself, by a platoon sergeant; and just before he had inspected a company whose C.O. was already slated for Blois because his men were slovenly, disgrunted, with discipline terrible.

“Mm, yes!” muttered the D.I.O. And then, to Big Bill Tuttle, “What outfit before the war, sergeant?”

Big Bill saluted with just the proper hesitation at the tin hat brim. “Twenty-second Infantry, sir.”

“Mm, yes. Saw it on the border. Good work, sergeant.” The D.I.O. turned to go, then as one regular to another he lidded, “Poor Savage talked about recommending you for a commission, sergeant. Too bad he was killed. But the papers are made out and I’ve no doubt you’re new C.O. will give a first endorsement.”

“Thank you, sir.” Big Bill hesitated then asked, “Could the colonel tell Sergeant Tuttle who the new company commander will be?”

“He’ll be in today— should be here now, sergeant— name of Stonehedge. Good luck!”

He did not see, turning away, the sudden quiver that shook Tuttle’s six feet of muscle and bone. He caught himself instantly though, did Tuttle, and turned smartly to face his company.

“No drill today. Take a swim in the Marne if you like. Company-y-y-y disMISSED!”

He went back to the orderly room. A moment before he had seemed big, even huge. You got the impression of broad square shoulders that strained olive drab seams to the limit. Big calfed legs, slim hips. His face was nearly as broad as it was long, a face that jutted out tp a solid chin and above this overhanging brows, Roman nose and a firm thin mouth. The face might have been good-looking once but it was marred by glistening red scars, the seeming survival of bad bums. To those who asked, Big Bill used to mumble something about a July 4th accident.

He did not, however, seem quite so big now. It was as if the D.I.O.’s remark had taken something out of him. Stonehedge!

“Hell!” he muttered shrugging. “It couldn’t be the same. It just couldn’t.”

Yet it was possible. This was a regiment of the National Guard of that State. If— he broke off abruptly, came stiffly to attention.

In the little mairie office stood an officer with the twin silver bars of a captain pinned to his shoulder straps. He was a small man, and only small described him. His face was small and his body was small, little-boned, thin-muscled. With the gold pinch spectacles that he affected he looked almost feminine. He had a tiny mouse-colored mustache, neatly dipped. In a slender white hand he clutched a swagger stick. His trench coat flared properly, his Bedford cord breeches were of the best, and his leather boots shone like mirrors.

Tuttle saw him bending over the opened field desk, picking up first one paper and then another. He did not look up as Big Bill’s heds clicked. But Bill saw the gray eyes move, yet the head stay steady, and no doubt remained to Bill of the identity. That eye trick was his trick.

It was time to say something.

“Acting First Sergeant Tuttle reporting to the company commander,” he' said.

The tiny officer held his position for a space. Then he moved with a slight rustle of sound.

“Yes,” he said in a mild, soft voice. “I’m Captain Stonehedge, assigned to this command. But you er— know me, er— Sergeant Tuttle.”

A quiver shook Big Bill and he fought it down.

“I’m not tryin’ to kid you,” his voice was harsh. “Tuttle’s my name in the army.”

Captain Stonehedge took out a cigar and a cigar clipper of gold and snipped the end. On his wrist he wore a gold watch with a tiny gold shield for the face. He kindled the cigar carefully from a gold briquet and puffed blue smoke.

“Ah, yes, of course,” he said mildly. “Naturally, Tuttle. But er— tell me, how did you effect your escape? It always remained a sort of mystery, you know.”

Big Bill laughed harshly, his eyes narrowed.

“Nothing to it. I’d been watchin’ them take ashes out at ten o’clock for three years. So that morning I left the shoe shop for the toilet and climbed into an ash can. Put the ashes over me. They burned me here.” He gestured to his marked face.

“Clever,” said Stonehedge thoughtfully. “We never suspected.”

Again there was silence. The sound of laughter outside, the clop of hobnailed shoes on the cobbles. Big Bill drew himself up to take the blow.

“And I suppose,” he said thinly, “you’re going to send me back to that hell-hole?”

“Of course,” nodded Captain Stonehedge calmly. “You’re a convicted murderer doing a life sentence. The fact that you escaped four years ago doesn’t change that.”

Terrible memories gibbered at Big Bill and reflected in his eyes.

“You can’t mean it,” his voice shook. “You wouldn’t send me back, knowing I killed that rat with my two hands and that he had it comin’.”

He paused, took a step forward. “God, don’t you know there’s such a thing as justifiable homicide?”

“There is no justifiable homicide,” rejoined Stonehedge. “You killed George Langtry. You made him suffer. The State punishes you.”

Big Bill took another step forward. It was as if he could hardly keep his hands off this tiny man who held such power over him.

“Christ!” he muttered through set teeth. “And they call it justice. Anybody would have killed Langtry who was a man. He did what he did— and boasted about it— and when I kill him the State makes the girl suffer— and me, too.”

He shifted impatiently, tensely. “Doesn’t it mean anything that I’ve gone straight since I came out? That I’m a good soldier? That I never did a wrong thing in the world before or after?”

“Murder,” said Stonehedge, “is murder. A man has to pay. As warden, you’re the only prisoner I ever lost. I’ll be glad to send you back to make the slate clean.”

Big Bill’s hands rose, clinched. His face became a mask of unleashed fury. Stonehedge did not move, did not blench.

“You crummy little screw,” snarled Big Bill. “A cold-blooded rat like you able to send me back to a lifetime of shoemaking, iron bars, slops and stinking chloride. Never to see the world. Never to—”

“Silence!” cut in Stonehedge. His voice did not rise overly, yet it demanded obedience. “This is very unpleasant. But what’s to be done will be done, and all your cursing won’t change it.”

He puffed on the cigar. “I’ve been looking through your service record—  and it is excellent. Since the company has been so badly shot up and drew new officers and many new non-coms I’m not going to hurry about turning you in. I owe it to myself and the company to keep an experienced man.”

He paused. Then:

“Besides, you can’t get away. The M.P.’s and the French Surete make sure of that. You’ll continue as acting first sergeant until the company is in shape.”

Just once Tuttle opened his mouth to refuse. Then, as if an idea had occurred, it clamped shut.

“Very good, sir!” He was again the soldier.

He checked the morning report, the sick report. He referred to two men who had gone A.W.O.L. to Chateau Thierry.

“I suggest confinement to quarters for ten days, sir,” he said dispassionately. “They have good records in the lines. And I suggest a little loosening up on passes. Let the men get a change, sir, it will do them good.”

Stonehedge shook his head. “No loosening up. From what I hear the company will go back to the lines. I want it disciplined and ready. And we’ll stiffen the drill schedule. Recall at five-fifteen instead of four-forty-five. That’s all, Sergeant Tuttle.”

Big Bill about-faced smartly and left the room.

THE next ten days were crowded with intensive drill. The stubble of the wheatfields was trampled into mud. Advancing under barrage conditions, open order, skirmishing, patrols. And then, too, the ceaseless monotony of closeorder drill when the yells of “Squads right into line!” “Left oblique!” rang out.

With only seventy-eight veterans to leaven the replacements the work progressed slowly. The lieutenants were awkward with their platoons. Every one bellyached about the long drill schedule, particularly a little trouble-maker named Hanson. But over it all Big Bill urged them on, and over him Captain Stonehedge’s dry little voice began to make fighting machines out of rookies.

Big Bill never made a wrong move. He was the perfect first sergeant. He knew that one man and one man only could send him back to San Miguel prison. Big Bill intended to do something about it— presently.

Among the rank and file Big Bill was liked and he did more toward whipping the men in shape than Stonehedge. They disfiked the little man, called him a ribbon clerk behind his back. And if a lieutenant was in doubt about a maneuver he came to Tuttle and not to the dry little captain.

The orders to move came. The company wasn’t ready and Tuttle knew it and so did Stonehedge. Not enough training in offensive tactics for open fighting. But they knew how to load and fire Springfields and handle grenades, and that was enough for the high command that wanted this division for attack.

After mess that evening Captain Stonehedge called Tuttle into the orderly room.

“We’re marching at eight,” he said in his precise little voice. “We entrain at Dormans.” For just a perceptible space he paused. Then: “You’ve handled the men well, Tuttle. And the lack of complete training and the raw officers make it necessary for me to keep you as first sergeant. This is a big battle we’re going into. This division will be at the spearpoint. I can’t deprive these men and this company of its only experienced non-com.”

He paused again, puffed delicately at his cigar.

“You can’t escape, as I’ve told you. In fact, this is an opportunity. If you are a casualty— why, nothing further will be said by me. If we both get back—” he emphasized the word sharply— “I shall do my duty.”

Big Bill Tuttle did not lower his eyes.

“Yes, sir,” he said impassively.

“Inspection of equipment in fifteen minutes, then, sergeant,” said Captain Stonehedge.

C Company detrained with the rest of the division at Toul and marched north on the Bernecourt road, hiding by day in the woods to avoid the curious inspection of German aircraft. The men, Tuttle thought, stood the grueling marches well. A few shed their new shoes and extra uniform when possible, and to these Stonehedge gave bitter lectures.

This caused grumbling.

“We’re gonna shake the packs at the jump-off anyway, what the hell’s eating the counter-jumper?”

Stonehedge didn’t like this. Tuttle said to him:

“Grousing men are in good shape. They’ll come through, sir, although that Hanson is a trouble-maker.”

Tuttle marked the man for transfer at the first opportunity. But none came. And south of Bernecourt, after having spouted every day concerning the rights of enlisted men, he reported sick when the company got up shelter halves in the Bois de la Hazelle.

“Get back to your squad,” snarled Tuttle. “You’re not sick, just yellow. If you don’t keep that trap of your shut it won’t be the Jerries who let a slug through you.”

“You’ve no right—” Hanson began, but Tuttle’s look caused him to slink back.

Stonehedge had heard, walking about in his stealthy fashion.

“He’s a trouble-brewer, sergeant,” he said. “But I won’t have the men threatened. Hereafter, refer such cases to me.”

Tuttle’s eyes stared blandly.

“Very good, sir.”

He watched the slight figure move away through the broken trees. Big Bill’s hand lightly touched the .45 Colt automatic holstered to his thigh. Then he went off to see how the field kitchen was doing.

The next afternoon extra ammunition was issued; and marching orders arrived. The division was to move up to the jump-off line along the road from Beaumont to Seicheprey. Captain Stonehedge went up to the front to arrange about relief and did not return until shortly before dusk when he summoned the platoon commanders. Big Bill was also present.

Stonehedge raised the polished gold cover of his own wrist watch and gave the time.

“Set your watches,” he ordered.

When this was done the captain continued in his dry, brittle voice.

“This is the biggest attack of American troops— the first under our own command, I’m told. The barrage begins at H hour minus four hours. That’s one o’clock. We jump off at five o’clock. There will be a rolling barrage, and our first wave will hug it closely. The guide will be right. I’m issuing you each a copy of the battalion combat order. You’ll have to do with only two maps. Maps are important, but there never seems to be enough of them. Any questions?”

No one spoke.

“We move up at eight-thirty,” resumed Stonehedge. “There must be no smoking and no unnecessary noise. It is a surprise attack and if the Germans get suspicious the relief operation will be badly punished by shell-fire.”

He allowed his voice to die away, waiting for comment. Again there was none.

“Our battalion,” he continued, “as you can see, is the right of the regiment, and our objective for the first hour is the Bois de la Sonnard. As the right of the battalion we will have the duty of keeping contact with the Eighty-ninth on our right. The division boundary cuts the woods in half, so we must be carefull of liaison to make sure we don’t overlook any German machine guns and get shot up from behind.”

As he spoke a certain tenseness came into the officers that was not lessened by the slam of heavy siege guns hidden in the far end of the woods.

“One more word: you have been taught, as much as possible, how to flank out machine-gun nests. Use those tactics. They will save lives that a frontal attack would waste. That is all, gentlemen. and good luck.”

After the lieutenants had gone Stonehedge said to Big Bill, “You will stay with me and the runners. You’ve had experience in this sort of thing. In case of a mistake or a hold-up you will be valuable.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bill impassively.

ALL DAY it had been clouding and the night came on blackly, so that by the time the company drew out on the road in its formation the rain began to fall in torrents. In those days of few roads and many outfits, every unit moved on a timetable to forestall traffic jams. So now the sodden beat of thousands of hob-nailed shoes resounded on the metalled road. Water dripped from steel helmets, ran down the necks of slickers, dripped upon the calves of men’s legs. Soaking wet, miserable and soon tired, they kept contact and formation only by clutching at the file ahead. Trucks flung mud on them. Limbered artillery wheeled by, and the night was cut by shouts of “Mootch overl” “For crysake, gangway!”

Men and guns and trucks. And more men, and more guns. There seemed no end to them.

Big Bill strode along, keeping a watchful eye on the file closers. Rain drummed on his tin hat. Underneath his slicker his Colt .45 slapped his flank at eveiy step and each thump called it to Bill’s mind.

At a brief halt until M.P.’s could clear a block ahead he moved along the left of the column. A man was talking, protesting. Big Bill recognized Hanson’s voice.

“They ain’t got any right, I tell yuh,” he moaned. “I’m sick. I’ve had this damned dysentery since Adam wore knee pants. If we wasn’t led by a lot of beasts I’d be sent to a hospital.”

A few murmurs, some of agreement, others of protest, rose. Some one said—

“Aw, pipe down.”

Such talk was dangerous, especially to men going up for a major attack. All were afraid; all thinking of the shell or slug with their name on it. Courage must be screwed to the sticking point by leadership. One man’s panic might affect a company the same as the cry of fire in a theater sends a wave of blind fear through an audience.

Big Bill swore under his breath, and groped among the men for Hanson. Roughly he grabbed the soldier, walking at number four in the third squad.

“Lissen,” he said thinly. “Are you goin’ to keep your mouth shut, or am I goin’ to poke you one?”

To emphasize the command he slammed the gun snout into Hanson’s belly until the man grunted with pain. He whined a promise, but when the march was resumed Big Bill put another sergeant at the tail to watch for stragglers, and himself walked close by Hanson.

This side of Seicheprey the regimental guides began sorting units. Voices grew low, even to whispers, as if the Germans, three thousand yards away, might hear any word. Big Bill, a cynical twist to his mouth, rather expected Stonehedge to show helplessness in the relief. But instead the contrary took place.

Stonehedge jumped nimbly about the communication trenches, squirmed up the reverse slope of the hill and watched each platoon take over. When the battalion commander came to check the dispositions the company was all set.

At one tick past one o’clock a crashing roar rumbled and thundered along the line. The night became bright with the electric sparks of 75’s and 155’s firing as fast as half-naked men could slip a new charge into the breeches. Overhead came the rustling of big caliber shells, shushing along as if silken streamers were tied to the steel.

The Yank barrage had begun.

Lashed almost hub to hub, 75’s smashed the German first and second lines to piles of churned earth.

Four solid hours the drum-fire continued, echoing and reverberating across the desolate, rain-soaked countryside; rumbling in valleys, cutting sharply across the crests. The men nodded to themselves.

“Geez, what a smash! How’d you like to be on the receiving end o’ that?”

At twenty seconds of five o’clock Big Bill Tuttle stood in a firing bay alongside of Captain Stonehedge. The trench was crowded with men who, now that the last few seconds had come, began to fidget and grow gray. Big Bill’s whistle hung by the curved mouthpiece from his lower teeth. Occasionally he lipped it. In his right hand was his automatic pistol.

Stonehedge was watching his wrist dial. In the greenish glow, the second hand was jerking toward H hour. Fifty-eight, fifty-nine— sixty!

The terrific din stopped as if burked by a gigantic hand. But hardly had the reverberation died away before it broke forth anew. A rhythmic, slamming crash as if some one had pulled all the bass stops on an organ. And added to the crash and howling of the big guns was the hysterical roar of machine-guns firing a high angle barrage.

“Time to shove off,” Stonehedge’s voice somehow pierced the din.

His whistle blew. Big Bill’s shrilled, and the sound was taken up by a score of others. By now the rain had ceased and a dirty gray color was across the sky so that some features of the sodden countryside could be seen. By this faint light men could be seen rising from the brown earth like brown ghosts answering the last call. The shell-pocked earth, so deserted a moment ago, now swarmed with men who walked slowly forward as if out for a morning ramble.

Shouts of “Close up!” “Your guide is right!” made thin waves, of the olive drab. Big Bill scrambled up the slope alongside Stonehedge, who pressed closely after the automatic riflemen sauntering forward, their cumbrous chaut-chauts gripped at their right hips.

More shouts to close up, watch the guide, keep the intervals, rose above the uproar.

Before Big Bill had advanced a hundred yards the ground was clearly visible. The mist had holes and swirled and eddied. Just ahead of him the ground sloped downward, then rose away into the pale ground mist. In the middle distance there was a solid wall of flame-shot smoke with flickering jets of red at its base. It stretched away to right and left as far as Bill could see. It paused for a space, then with a gargantuan leap went ahead and rumbled anew, traveling like the Biblical pillar of fire and smoke. The rolling barrage.

The scouts hugged this barrage. Big Bill, watching the alignment, saw that, despite occasional clamor when a man slipped and fell into a water-filled shellhole, the line was knitted together well. Then Bill’s gaze came back to Captain Stonehedge; the company commander walked slowly, deliberately, his hands in his trench coat pocket, his body slightly inclined forward as if he were breasting a strong wind. Bill fingered his gun. Too soon yet, he told himself, the jerries hadn’t showered down yet.

A moment later he noticed with a start that there was hardly any return fire. The thunder of the “departures” was deafening; and he had to watch closely for some minutes before he saw three or four German shells tear themselves apart along the line. He glanced back. One or two men were down. The nearest clutched at his leg, examining something. Just beyond him was an olive drab form whose strangely punctured appearance bespoke death.

On the whole, though, there was no such devastating fire as he had encountered in the bloody marshes of the Vesle.

“Wait’ll we hit their front line,” he muttered.

Presently he was stepping high through torn and snake-like strands of barbed wire, the holding posts of which had been uprooted or twisted by the hurricane of the preliminary barrage.

A MACHINE-GUN riveted sharply, followed instantly by the br-up of the chaut-chauts. Came then the coughing snicker of hand grenades. Big Bill had a fleeting glimpse of a big German in a trench, right arm upraised with a stick grenade in it. Bill’s gun roared and the man was flung back against the rear of the trench as if slammed with a giant fist. He stayed spreadeagled a second, then slipped out of sight. Stonehedge steadied himself on Bill’s arm as they leaped the trench. There were three or four gray figures slumped around an up-ended Spandau machine-gun.

Stonehedge glanced at his dial, and studied the map with the blue and red crayon marks on it.

“Right on time, sergeant.”

Bill thought it strange how the man’s dry, brittle voice carried through the din.

The advance continued at the same steady pace. By the time the fringe of the Bois de la Sonnard was reached, the sun was definitely out; you could see your shadow; and there was no longer any ground mist to hide the advance from the German depth defense.

A staccato clatter riveted ahead; and Bill heard the familiar eggs-frying-inlard sound of machine-gun slugs whipping the air. Holes appeared now in the line; shouts of “Close up!” could not patch them. Screams and yells came thinly through the roar, and howls for stretcher bearers.

“The krauts are out of their holes,” muttered Big Bill. “Now, we’ll hit something.”

Still the line shoved doggedly forward, men falling to be shot again and again. The Germans, wizards with machine-gun defense, laid out a field of fire and rained bullets thirty inehes high to make this segment a depth zone. Men hit in the legs went down and had their bodies drilled before they hit the ground. Big Bill was jerked half-way around and, looking down, saw that his field glasses— a souvenir of the Vesle— had been smashed.

Beside him Captain Stonehedge, his left hand holding the map and his right a Colt, was moving steadily ahead and peering at the woods in near-sighted fashion as if trying to locate the fire. Now, another staccato hammering arose, and still a third, as if pneumatic hammer operators were working frantically to get through before noon. Big Bill knew what it was.

A machine-gun screen in depth to retard the advance. And the advance would have to halt until combat groups could silence the Maxims. He lagged a few steps behind.

Now, he told himself, was as good time as any. He looked right and left. Many men were down, others were diving into shell-holes, taking cover behind trees. Officers and non-coms were trying to urge them to their feet. He returned his gaze to Stonehedge, who was lifting the polished gold cover of his watch to find the time. Already the barrage was beginning to pull away.

No one, Bill perceived, was looking this way. The ex-warden was ten yards ahead, and Bill couldn’t miss. In that stiff counter-fire, with men dropping every second, none would question the fall of the captain. And he would be spaded under ground and no one ever remark he was shot in the back.

Big Bill’s automatic leveled at his hip. In his eyes, his face, his hunched posture came the rigidity of purpose. The slender back was a hell of a big target.

Then the instincts of three years’ soldiering broke through his purpose. Why did the fool study his watch instead of doing something to keep the advance going? The attack was dying on its feet; and once the men had the security of shell-holes it would be merry hell trying to get a new impetus. Big Bill thought then that if the captain went down the tucker would go out of the men and they would lie there like idiots, held up by a machine-gun screen that a little vigor would soon overwhelm. He decided to postpone his own purpose until the company was on the objective.

He hastened to draw alongside Captain Stonehedge. The latter spoke quietly.

“Take the second platoon, sergeant, and clear out the right of those woods. That seems to be the main resistance, I’ll get the company forward on the left.”

Big Bill, cursing himself for a dalli-ance he should not have admitted, hurried along the second platoon whose lieutenant and sergeant were casualties and booted and dragged them to their feet. He heard Stonehedge’s whistle, and then, in the necessity of the present job, lost himself.

THE platoon, seven men short, worked swiftly to the right under his direction. He could hear the clatter of a gun, but the echoes rebounded on themselves, making its location puzzling. Silent figures scurried from tree to tree, then spread out, rifles ready and grenades, too.

Bill tossed a big stone to the right. The fury of the gun assailed his ear almost directly ahead. He gathered the men. They went forward. Two died in the rush, but three grenades did the business, and they took no prisoners. A new clatter rose as the enfilade gun began to hose their position with steel.

Big Bill began to stalk it. A strange bitterness came over him as he stole forward from tree to tree. Men were funny beings, he thought. Here he had just killed four men, two of them just kids from their looks, and if the facts were known he would be highly commended. They gave you medals here if you killed enough men. But home, in a moment of towering rage at injustice and trickery, he had killed a man with his bare hands and the State, the same men who commended him now, would exact his youth, his earning power, his very life in the long run.

He couldn’t understand it.

Fifteen yards ahead there was a German Maxim emplacement. He would storm it, kill men he had never seen, men he had no grudge against. That would be heroism. Killing a rat— that was murder.

The train of thought broke, as, gently parting some brush, he saw the machine-gun nest. There were only two men in there. One was a boy who had blond down on his face that shone yellowly against the exhausted gray of his skin. His eyes were bloodshot, and his body twitched spasmodically. He was a loader and sat on additional boxes of ammunition. He suspected they were being stalked, and he wet his lips and his eyes went shivering around the green depths.

The gunner was perhaps forty, and proud of his appearance, for even now, in his filthy exhaustion and in the realization that he had been left to die at his gun, his dirty hand was stroking the bristles of a mustache that needed trimming. He straddled the gun, his thumbs ready to press the corrugated firing mechanism and loose a rain of cupronickle slugs.

A slight noise came from behind Big Bill. The gunner jerked alert. Bill pulled the ring on the grenade, counted steadily so there would be no comeback, and then loosed his thunderbolt. It hurled truly into the nest, struck the gunner on the back and rolled near the boxes of ammunition.

The youth screamed, “Durch Gott!" and tried to hurl himself clear of the nest. The gun hammered raucously. Then the grenade roared. There was a mist of smoke and flying earth, and a crimson spray at one end. The platoon, lunging forward, found no need for bayonets. Both men were dead, horribly so.

Bill laughed thinly. In the next thirty minutes he combed the woods edge thoroughly to make sure they left nothing behind. Presently Stonehedge was up on the left, the line cohered once more, and the advance resumed. There was little resistance along here. A few machine-guns that were quickly smothered, and then that line of resistance was passed, and they moved on to the next.

Big Bill moved forward behind Stonehedge. Funny how the damned screw insisted on leading the way! And presently he heard the whip-like crack of rifles, and the spasmodic chatter of machine guns. Bill looked around. The men, widely spaced, were getting forward, hugging cover, closing in on the position which was again a delaying resistance. No eyes were on Bill. Once again his trigger finger quivered inside the trigger guard of the Colt.

A shot and the slight figure was down. Bill could toss away the automatic. Against the resisting line ahead a rifle would be better anyway and he could get one from a casualty. Mentally, he aimed the gun from his hip.

But for some unexplained reason within himself he hesitated. “It’s no worse bumpin’ him then those krauts back there,” he raged at himself.

A cry came from the left. Captain Stonehedge looked up from his watch.

“Sergeant Tuttle,” he ordered, “take the third platoon and put it with the second and assume command. Spread out to the right to make sure there are no enfilade guns to take us in flank. And we seem to have lost contact on the right. Throw out a small patrol and see if you can find any of our people.”

Big Bill silently turned and with a crouching run reached the two platoons. Together they were a sizeable group of twenty-eight men. The rest of the battalion was around somewhere. The woods resounded to calls, whistles and the rat-tat of Maxim fire. The corporal ahead of Big Bill was calling his squad illegitimates and urging them ahead. A stray slug in the chest cut short his exhortations and did not make the platoon any more eager to advance.

“Get forward,” cried Bill harshly, “Yuh don’t earn a dollar a day here.”

By the scruff of the neck and by well-directed kicks he got the advance going. He was again a soldier with a mission. Hanson was in this platoon. Big Bill hauled him alongside.

“Stay up here with me,” he grunted. “You’ll stop a slug from hittin’ a better man.”

The corporals or acting non-coms had their men in hand now, and under Bill’s direction the advance made good time. Three small, crescent-shaped trenches with a few Germans were mopped up. There were no prisoners taken. Then the woods began to thin; the trees rose firmly from sod on which there were no bushes or protecting features.

Again Stonehedge’s whistle blew and the advance became the old squad rush and flop system. A squad got up, raced ten or fifteen yards and flopped. Then the next and so on until the line was straight again. Here, Bill saw, was the main German resistance short of the town gleaming whitely far ahead on the crest of a ridge.

The barrage had steam-rolled here but the woods had offered fair protection against it, and Bill knew that the Germans were out of their holes, ready to put up resistance. He dodged fire-lanes, worked his amalgamated platoon around the flank. Presently he saw the bright earth of a new trench, a few hastily hastily strung barbs of wire nailed to the trees.

He got out his clippers, and called to a soldier near him.

“Give Hanson your clippers,” he said.

To the senior corporal he ordered, “Keep up a steady fire on the trench.” He grabbed Hanson and bellied forward. “Come on, rat, and earn a day’s pay.”

Hanson was shaking with fright, but he was more afraid of Bill’s stern face. He came. And they went forward at the rate of a yard a minute while over their head a sizeable body of fire kept the Germans interested. The platoon edged forward behind them, stopping only to volley. Bullets were skipping brightly off the wire. It was a hot spot. Bill’s lips curled cynically. Funny, he usually had to screw himself up to a job like this. Now, it didn’t mean a thing.

Suddenly he kicked Hanson to his feet.

“Cut,” he yelled, and his own clippers began to snip through the strands of wire.

The sings tore the air around him. A stick grenade, the string jerked, fell to one side and roared.

“Up and at ’em,” yelled Big Bill.

An answering shout came from the platoon, which tore its way through the cut wire unmindful of the clothing ripped in the process. Hot blasts of fire came into their faces; men screamed and the grenades went forward to cough with white gouts of smoke. The two machineguns in the end of the trench vomited madly and then went silent. Howls, squeals, animal-like cries began to fill the air as the platoon leaped headlong into the trench and began to wield the bayonet.

A GERMAN non-com, huge and savage, leaped for Bill, the Luger in his hand spouting streaks of flame. Big Bill wondered how the man could miss. Then they met chest to chest. The German’s breath smelled of garlic. His one hand snaked for Bill’s neck. Battle lust gleamed in his eyes, and under his impact they both went to the floor of the trench.

Here they rolled and squirmed and writhed while feet trampled them. Once a German tried a thrust at Bill with a bayonet, but Bill turned his antagonist upward. Once a Yank paused in a wild rush, apparently with the intention of waiting an opportunity to blow the Boche non-com’s brains out. But another German went for him. So the fight waged, a zoo at noontime feeding making no more weird sounds.

The German gouged Bill’s eyes with his thumbs, tried to pistol-whip him with the empty Luger. Bill got his teeth in the thumb and nearly bit it off. He got a leg free, and kneed the German in the crotch with all his strength. The man screamed in agony. He doubled up and Bill grabbed the empty Luger and smashed it with all his strength into the German’s face. The face became a welter of blood and the body slumped. Bill got panting to his feet.

The battle raged as before, but the Yanks had driven the Germans the length of the trench. Already several lumbering gray figures had clambered over the edge and were running at their best speed. Then the mopping up began. The only Germans who survived were the runners whom bullets missed.

Less than five minutes later from the wood’s edge a flare shot skyward, and as Bill began re-forming his depleted platoon an airplane thrummed low overhead. Black crosses glittered on its wings.

“Hah,” muttered Bill, wiping his forehead, “the krauts know they lost this trench, and they know its range. Boy, will they shower down?”

Captain Stonehedge thought so, too, for he said, “Pass the word to pull up to those fields. They will shell this trench heavily.”

Big Bill yelled the order, watching Stonehedge as he did so. The little man had a welt on his face. His clothing was torn by wire and falls, yet, somehow, he did not appear upset or disarm ranged. The decimated company pulled up to the fields where the grain was waist high.

As Bill saw, they were none too soon. Four shells hooted out of the air and tore themselves apart in a beautiful bracket on the trench.

“They may try a counter-attack,” said Stonehedge. “Still, I wonder. Our whole front is advancing. Let’s pull up to that town and await a message from the major.”

As Bill went to the platoon, the captain called—

“Did you find any of our people on the right?”

“No, sir,” said Bill.

They got forward well into the wheat, and Bill could see the town a mile away on the other side of a valley. Occasional puffs of black smoke seeped out of it showing it was being shelled.

Stonehedge said grimly: “I hope the division on our right isn’t too much delayed. We may find ourselves wedged in the German lines.”

Bill was about to reply when the man next to him gave a bubbling sort of cry and pitched forward on his face. He hiccoughed a couple of times like a man who has laughed too much, then his fingernails ceased clawing the earth.

Swiftly Big Bill bent over him, turned him over. The jaw hung agape, the man was dead. But he had no wound in front. Bill cursed and turned the corpse belly down. There was a hole squarely between the shoulder blades.

Something crackled past him. A man farther down the line stood up whirled, screamed and vanished in the wheat.

“They didn’t keep up, sir,” said Bill, referring to the right division. The krauts have pushed machine guns around our right and we’re being shot up from the rear.”

Bill knew it was a serious situation; and realized the Germans would soon take advantage of their chance. And they did. The single battery shelling them shortened its range; and four more batteries at least must have joined in, for dozens of stalks of high explosive shell began to bloom in the field.

Big Bill looked up, saw the circling plane that was directing the fire.

“The bastard,” he muttered. “Shot up from behind and shelled. He knows we have no place to go.”

THEN without warning the plane directing the artillery fire, suddenly dived down. It flatted out at the neck of the valley and came at them in a gentle dive. Over the throbbing roar of its motor came the patter of machine-gun fire. The guns on its cowling grew red-lipped. The slugs began to kick dust-lines through the flattened line of infantry.

On it came, running down the ragged line, hosing the ground with steel. Screams of fury and terror, howls of agony and pain rose in an uproar to greet this strafing. The men cowered down, dug wildly to get underground. The roar of the motor grew louder. The shadow of the plane slipped over Big Bill’s head like a shark’s on white sandy bottom. The plane screamed skyward, banked sharply and came tearing back for another smash.

There was nothing so nerve-racking, Bill found, as being shot at from a plane. Many of the bullets— most of them, in fact— went wild. But some few did take effect, and these, together with the awful feeling of helplessness combined to bring panic to the soldiers There was no hiding from such attack. No trees, no hole in the ground; nothing could stop those bullets from above.

Big Bill yelled to Stonehedge:

“We can’t stay here. Let’s take the town ahead.”

Stonehedge’s voice rang out, “Plenty of cellars in the town ahead. Every one up and attack.” His whistle shrilled.

But there was no response. Momentarily the plane was a mile or so away making a bank to come back. Hanson, his long narrow face ghastly with terror, scrambled to his knees, turned to the rear.

“Our officers are crazy and they’re getting us all killed,” he screamed. “We can’t get ahead, we can’t stay here. Let’s go back.”

He turned and started to run for the protection of the woods. Big Bill gritted a curse and reached for the casualty’s rifle that lay a yard or so away. He knew that in that moment of panic the men were thinking only of safety and would follow any one who gave promise of providing it.

He turned with the rifle. But before he could raise it Stonehedge’s voice rang out:

“Halt!”

Hanson tripped and fell, but leaped up again.

“Killing us for nothing,” he screamed. “If you’re men, come on.”

A shell howled out of the air and burst asunder about fifty yards to the right. Clods of earth smote Hanson down, but he got up and ran again.

A few other men were crawling in pursuit. In a second the whole company would run like mad, and the day’s advance be lost. But before Big Bill could fire, another gun roared near his ear.

Hanson seemed to trip, plunged forward, sliding on his face to come to a twitching stop. He wiggled convulsively a second and then lay still.

Stonehedge yelled:

“If another man follows he’ll get the same dose. Tuttle, take command of your platoon. Forward, C Company, and any man who stops behind I’ll kill.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, but the non-coms were already cursing the survivors. Big Bill strode among his platoon, jerking them upright as if they were men of straw. The men knew that if they remained here the flanking fire or shells would get them. If they fled to the rear they’d be shot. Safety, if any, lay in the town ahead. Thereupon, they took up the advance.

In combat groups they worked across the floor of the valley and took up the ascent of the slope toward the battered village. And now, once again, Big Bill was directly behind Stonehedge. He carried the bayoneted Springfield at his hip. Rifle-fire from the village was taking some toll. He knew that the advance would not go beyond the village, might not go on at all. This was, indeed, he believed it to be, his last chance.

The rifle snout looked into Stonehedge’s back. The captain was staring at his watch, then looking to right and left. A perfect target.

But for some reason which Bill could not define, he was unable to bring himself to fire. Once, twice, he gritted his teeth. He tried to screw his courage to the point. He thought of harmless Germans dead and mangled. He tried to visualize gray walls, and an endless eon without the sun. His finger tightened, but the trigger would not pull.

“No worse him than the Jerries,” he cursed himself, but he knew better. Whether true or false the idea was in his brain that the Germans were enemies of his country. To kill them was a duty he could understand. And in killing Langtry it had been with his hands, with the man resisting.

But to shoot a man cold-bloodedly, deliberately in the back— he could not and he suddenly knew it. No matter what the consequences.

For seconds his rifle stretched out at the target. Several yards were covered in this fashion. Bill’s face was a cold gray mask. Then suddenly he pushed rapidly in front of Stonehedge and led the advance into the village.

Those who saw Bill that day could never understand his reckless idiocy. He led the way into the trench they stormed as if inviting a bullet or a grenade. And the men, heartened by the sight, plunged after him. With renewed impetus and orders from the battalion major, they pushed on beyond the town, with Bill going ahead seeming to seek the death that passed him by.

By nightfall the company, now in liaison with the rest of the battalion on the left and the Eighty-ninth Division on the right, was dug in before the Bois de Bouillonville. Bill led them again the next day, the thirteenth, but the Germans had pulled out in the night, and by the following dusk the St. Mihiel salient was reduced and the company lay in the woods fronting Haumont with nothing but an occasional shell to worry them while they consolidated the position.

AND SO, five days later, the company returned with the rest of the division to Troyon to rest and re-fit. Big Bill, face gray as granite, went into Captain Stonehedge’s quarters. He could stand it no longer. He thrust aside the gas curtain and said:

“Sergeant William Teller, alias William Tuttle, reports to the company commander.”

Stonehedge, dry as a mummy, brittle and frigid, was bending over the field desk. His glance came up bird-like with no movement of the head.

“At ease, sergeant. Sit down,” he said calmly.

Big Bill shook his head.

“I can take my medicine standing up,” he said. “This can’t go on. I—”

“Sit down,” cut in Stonehedge. “That’s an order.”

Big Bill squatted on a packing case that creaked under his weight.

Silence. Big Bill felt himself trembling. Stonehedge picked up a gold mounted fountain pen.

“Sergeant,” he said with a strange human note in his dry voice, “would you have shot Hanson if I had not?”

“Why sure— sir.” Big Bill looked surprised. “You barely beat me to the slug. It was a case of his life or getting us all killed and losing what we had gained.”

Stonehedge looked thoughtful. “Er— of course. Justifiable homicide, perhaps.”

Big Bill gave a start. “You said once here wasn’t any justifiable homicide.”

“Yes,” nodded Stonehedge. “Rather interesting. A man hardly knows what is justifiable homicide until he meets the situation, eh, sergeant?”

Big Bill said nothing. His mind was in a whirl. He watched Captain Stonehedge pick up an official document and scrawl his name at the bottom.

“First endorsement for your commission, Sergeant Tuttle,” he said, accenting the name. “I hope you get it.”

Big Bill visibly staggered. “But— you— how—”

“I’ll send it through today,” went on Stonehedge, ignoring Bill’s perturbation.

He held up another paper, carefully folded, which he began to rip into shreds, letting the pieces sift through his fingers like small snow.

“I had written that and left it with the company records,” he explained.” It won’t be needed— now.”

A wintry smile lifted his small mouth.

“Also, sergeant,” he said, “I admire your self-restraint.”

He lifted his right arm and flipped up the polished gold cover of his wrist watch.

“I was watching your reflection in this,” he murmured softly. “I wondered that last time if you really would not shoot.”

Big Bill gasped.

“An interesting experiment, sergeant,” Stonehedge’s voice seemed to come from a long way off. “I’m afraid I’ll never be sure murder is murder again. That’s all. Inspection at five o’clock. You’re dismissed, Sergeant Tuttle.”

________________

18: Night Final

Frederick C. Painton

Blue Book, June 1936

THE assistant city editor of the Herald-World extended the telephone to Baldy Mcpherson and said:

"Steve Muller's got something about Swell-Head Mordren, Chief."

Macpherson quit debating whether he'd replate Page Four for the night final and said: "Yeah?"

"Mac?" came the voice over the phone. "Steve speaking. Listen, this is a honey: A squad of cops led by Lieutenant Lacey Malloy raided a hide-out at Blank-four-seven Eighth Avenue at two-forty-five and grabbed Swell-head Mordren, two of his gunmen and three blondes— one a sweetheart if I ever saw one. Tony Scarloni, one of the torpedoes, reached for a gun, and Malloy shot him through the shoulder.

"And here's the laugh, Mac. Swell-head was wearing one of his three-hundred-dollar suits, and wouldn't spoil the fit of it by carrying a rod. So the current public enemy sticks up his mitts just like any other lug. I always said— What? Oh, they're charging him with the murder of Dutch Skiltus; if that isn't enough to burn him, they're going to try him for killing— Oh, my God!"

The sudden exclamation in such a tertible change of tone made Baldy's eyes snap wide. Over the wire came four patting sounds, as if a man beat on a rug. Baldy didn't wave for a re-write man. He cried: "Steve? Steve? What—"

"Mac, can you hear this whisper? I'm crouched down in the booth whispering up at the phone. Listen, Mac, Swell-head must have got away from the cops. He just ran in, He's got a tommy-rod and a woman's handbag full of cartridges. What you heard was him cracking down on the proprietor. He's firing through the door now. He's going to shoot it out with the cops. There! I just pulled the light cord. He can't see me when I'm down like this. Listen, Mac, this is a public booth, and the operator will cut me off after five minutes, and I haven't got another nickel. Call the telephone people and have this line kept open. I—

"Geez, Mac, those are bullets you hear. Cops' bullets. They're storming this hole in the wall. I've got to get out.... Stay and cover the story? For crysake, Mac, those cops will kill me as quick as Swell-head.... What'd you say? The telephone booth is bullet-proof? How do you know? Telephone people been putting them around? You're sure? But are you sure this one is? No, I know you wouldn't lie.

"Well, okay. Anyway, if I showed my schnozzle, Swell-head would shoot it off. He's always hated me ever since I wrote that feature piece about him. No, those weren't bullets; those were my teeth doing an individual tap-dance....

"The cops are gathering fast. All I can hear is sirens and bells and whistles ; and bullets rattling in, and Swell-head firing back. It's a madhouse. There must be a hundred cops out there, shooting in from all angles. This is just a hole in the wall with a single door, and only one small window, and it looks as if Swell-head can hold it until he runs out of ammo or a slug gets him....

"Swell-head just turned around. I can see his eyes? Mac, he's so full of cocaine he's singing. Can you tie it? Now he's wiping off his fifty-dollar shoes and straightening that thirty-dollar tie. Now he's barricading himself behind some steel boxes— humidors, I guess they are. He's laughing, but it's a laugh that makes me shiver.

"Wow! The cops just made a rush, and Swell-head fired ten shots. He got somebody too. I heard the scream. Oh, man, there it comes. A tear-gas bomb! I can hardly— It's me, Mac. I can't see a thing—oh, give me a chance to cough and cry, will you? Thank the Lord, Swell-head started the ceiling fan. It's not so bad down here. Swell-head rushed the door and fired twenty shots. Somebody else hurt. Swell-head is laughing like a maniac—

"Oh-oh! I was peeking, and he saw me. Here he comes, Mac! I guess—"

MACPHERSON overheard: "Hi-yuh, Swell-head, you remember me? Steve Fuller? I was just telephoning." A new voice: "Sure, crummy, I know you. You're the guy that wrote that piece that said I was a second-rate rat with a big head, and a yen for women and clothes. Well, I'm shootin' it out, and I might as well let you have it now."

"Don't be a sap, Swell-head. Watch the door, or they'll surprise you."

"And have you jump me from behind? Nix. I'll just—"

"Listen, Swell-head, wait a minute. You're always saying you're a big shot. Now get this: I'm—sure, I'm hooked up with the Herald-World's broadcasting room, WWH, and I'm broadcasting the fight you're putting on here. Get it, Swell-head? You're the only tough boy who ever had his last fight told to fifty million listeners. The world is hearing how you're holding a hundred cops at bay. But it won't hear unless you turn that muzzle the other way."

"Aw, youre ribbing me."

"No, on the level, Swell-head. Just take this receiver if you don't believe me. Everything you're saying is on the air, so cut out the swearing or they'll take away the mike. Look out— there's another tear-gas lemon....

"Mac? Did you hear? He's eating it up. He's gone nuts. Hear that? He's telling Joyce and Laura to listen in and see how a game guy croaks. No, that wasn't any tap-dance; that was Swell-head stopping a new rush by the cops. And did he do it? That machine-gun sits up and says 'Ah' when he pulls the trigger. He got two cops then. Say, Mac, I'm getting sick to my stomach. I can't stand much more of this. They'll never get him this way unless they burn the place down. He's cracking wise. Wow! Those slugs were close. You're sure this booth is bullet-proof? Oka-ay!...

"Listen, Mac: I've got an idea how to get this egg. Can you get a line through to the cops outside? Okay, I'll wait...

"You've got Captain Angus? Swell! Listen, I'll pretend to faint. As I fall over, I'll rap the receiver against the wall. Wait a jiff after the sound, and tell Angus to rush his cops. With a big-headed ape like Mordren, it's fifty to one that he'll try to grandstand into the receiver and that'll keep his mind off the cops. Only, for God's sake, tell the cops to shoot high."

Baldy Macpherson barked to the assistant city editor, then spoke into his own receiver, and for four mortal minutes practically held his breath. Somebody played a snare-drum at the other end of the wire. Macpherson wiped away the sweat. Then a voice said: "Hello, Joyce and Laura? My announcer is out cold. Honey, if these bulls get me, Ill take enough of them to hell to make an escort bigger than a mayor ever had on Broadway, and—"

The snare-drum played again. Macpherson looked at the assistant city editor, who said: "They got him, Chief."

SHORTLY after the presses were rolling for the night final, the assistant city editor handed a telephone to Macpherson. A female voice said: "Bellevue Emergency ward, sir. Just a second—" A new voice said: "Mac, this is Steve. You're a dirty lousy liar. That telephone booth wasn't bullet-proof, and I'll be six weeks in this place getting the lead out of me. And you'll pay my salary, guy! How do you like those apples ?"

______________________

Table of Contents

1: Blackmail Moll / Ted Copp

2: Fragile Barriers / Atwater Culpepper

3: Streams of Water in the South / John Buchan

4: The Sphinx Without a Secret / Oscar Wilde

5: Scoured Silk / Marjorie Bowen

6: The Satyr / C. J. Dennis

7: The Scruples of Harold / Alice and Claude Askew

8: The Heir / John Everett

9: The Dust of Creeds Outworn / C. L. Antrobus

10: A Flutter in Wives / Bertram Atkey

11: The Philanthropist / Andrew Soutar

12: The Man Who Didn't See / Tom Gallon

13: The Spectre Hand / James Grant

14: A Gentleman Unknown / H. Bedford-Jones

15: Smoked Out / Frederick Ames Coates

16:  The Black Pointer

17: Justifiable Homicide / Frederick C. Painton

18: Night Final / Frederick C. Painton