Past Masters 141 (v2)
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: This anthology of short stories amounts to, as usual, some 100,000 words, with stories by the great, the lesser known, and the unknown. They are all in the Life+70 years public domain. V2 has active links from title page to story, which for some unknown reason I forgot to do in V1! 1: The Italian's Story / Catherine Crowe 2: The Tapestried Chamber / Sir Walter Scott 3: Taste of the Salt / S. B. H. Hurst 4: The Vain Shadow / Duncan Campbell Scott 5: The Gully of Bluemansdyke / Arthur Conan Doyle 6: Where The Goddess Chance Holds Court / James Francis Dwyer 7: Wizard or Crook / Casper Carson 8:

PAST MASTERS 141

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

8 October 2023

Contents

1: The Italian's Story / Catherine Crowe

2: The Tapestried Chamber / Sir Walter Scott

3: Taste of the Salt / S. B. H. Hurst

4: The Vain Shadow / Duncan Campbell Scott

5: The Gully of Bluemansdyke / Arthur Conan Doyle

6: Where The Goddess Chance Holds Court / James Francis Dwyer

7: Wizard or Crook / Casper Carson

8: His Silent Partner / Albert Alwing

9: The Organ-Grinder's Money-Bag / James McGovan

10: Book of Detective Stories / Anonymous

11: The Night-Doings at "Deadman’s" / Ambrose Bierce

12: The House of the Black Evil / Eric Purves

13: The Tomb / Guy de Maupassant

14: A Flutter in Souls / Ethel Lina White

15: A Retrieved Reformation / O. Henry

16: The Blood Red Rose / Rosa Praed

_______________

1: The Italian's Story

Catherine Crowe

1803-1876

In: Ghosts and Family Legends, T.C. Newby, 1858

"HOW well your friend speaks English!" I remarked one day to an acquaintance when I was abroad, alluding to a gentleman who had just quitted the room. "What is his name?"

"Count Francesco Ferraldi."

"I suppose he has been in England?"

"Oh, yes; he was exiled and taught Italian there. His history is very curious and would interest you, who like wonderful things."

"Can you tell it me?"

"Not correctly, as I never heard it from himself. But I believe he has no objection to tell it— with the exception of the political transactions in which he was concerned, and which caused his being sent out of the Austrian dominions; that part of it, I believe, he thinks it not prudent to allude to. We'll ask him to dinner, if you'll meet him, and perhaps we may persuade him to tell the story."

Accordingly, the meeting took place; we dined en petit comite— and the Count very good-naturedly yielded to our request; "but you must excuse me," he said, "beginning a long way back, for my story commences three hundred years ago—"

OUR FAMILY claims to be of great antiquity, but we were not very wealthy till about the latter half of the tenth century, when Count Jacopo Ferraldi made very considerable additions to the property; not only by getting, but also by saving— he was, in fact, a miser. Before that period the Ferraldis had been warriors, and we could boast of many distinguished deeds of arms recorded in our annals; but Jacopo, although by the death of his brother he ultimately inherited the title and estates, had begun life as a younger son, and being dissatisfied with his portion, had resolved to increase it by commerce.

Florence then was a very different city to what it is now; trade flourished, and its merchants had correspondence and large dealings with all the chief cities of Europe. My ancestor invested his little fortune so judiciously, or so fortunately, that he trebled it in his first venture; and as people grow rapidly rich who gain and don't spend, he soon had wealth to his heart's content. But I am wrong in using that term as applied to him— he was never content with his gains but still worked to add to them, for he grew to love the money for itself, and not for what it might purchase.

At length, his two elder brothers died, and as they left no issue, he succeeded to their inheritance, and dwelt in the palace of his ancestors; but instead of circulating his riches, he hoarded them; and being too miserly to entertain his friends and neighbours, he lived like an anchorite in his splendid halls, exulting in his possessions but never enjoying them. His great pleasure and chief occupation seems to have been counting his money, which he kept hidden in strange out-of-the-way places, or in strong iron chests clamped to the floors and walls. But, notwithstanding these precautions, and that he guarded it like a watch-dog, to his great dismay he one day missed a sum of two thousand pounds which he had concealed in an ingeniously contrived receptacle under the floor of his dining-room, the existence of which was only known to the man who made it; at least, so he believed. Small as was this sum in proportion to what he possessed, the shock was tremendous; he rushed out of his house like a madman with the intention of dragging the criminal to justice, but when he arrived at the man's shop he found him in bed and at the point of death. His friends and the doctor swore that he had not quitted it for a fortnight; in short, according to their showing, he was taken ill on his return from working at the Count's, the very day he finished the job.

If this were true, he could not be the thief, as the money was not deposited there till some days afterwards, and although the Count had his doubts, it was not easy to disprove what everybody swore, more especially as the man died on the following day, and was buried. Baffled and furious, he next fell foul of his two servants— he kept but two, for he only inhabited a small part of the palace. There was not the smallest reason to suspect them, nor to suppose they knew anything of the hidingplace, for every precaution had been used to conceal it; moreover, he had found it locked as he himself had locked it after depositing the money, and he was quite sure the key had never been absent from his own person. Nevertheless, he discharged them and took no others. The thief, whoever he was, had evinced so much ingenuity, that he trembled to think what such skill might compass with opportunity. So he resolved to afford none; and henceforth to have his meals sent in from a neighbouring eating-house, and to have a person once a week to sweep and clean his rooms, whom he could keep an eye on while it was doing. As he had no clue to the perpetrators of the robbery, and the man whom he had most reason to suspect was dead, he took no further steps in the business, but kept it quiet lest he should draw too much attention towards his secret hoards; nevertheless, though externally calm, the loss preyed on his mind and caused him great anguish.

Shortly after this occurrence, he received a letter from a sister of his who had several years before married an Englishman, saying that her husband was dead, and it being advisable that her dear and only son should enter into commerce, that she was going to send him to Florence, feeling assured that her brother would advise him for the best, and enable him to employ the funds he brought with him advantageously.

This was not pleasing intelligence; he did not want to promote anybody's interest but his own, and he felt that the young man would be a spy on his actions, an intruder in his house, and no doubt an expectant and greedy heir, counting the hours till he died; for this sister and her family were his nearest of kin, and would inherit if he left no will to the contrary. However, his arrival could not be prevented; letters travelled slowly in those days, and ere his could reach England his nephew would have quitted it, so he resolved to give him a cold reception and send him back as soon as he could.

In the meantime, the young man had started on his journey, full of hope and confidence, and immediately on his arrival hastened to present himself to this rich uncle who was to show him the path he had himself followed to fortune. It was not for his own sake alone he coveted riches, but his mother and sister were but poorly provided for, and they had collected the whole of their little and risked it upon this venture, hoping, with the aid of their relative, to be amply repaid for the present sacrifice.

A fine open-countenanced lad was Arthur Allen, just twenty years of age; such a face and figure had not beamed on those halls for many a day. Well brought up and well instructed too; he spoke Italian as well as English, his mother having accustomed him to it from infancy.

Though he had heard his uncle was a miser, he had no conception of the extent to which the mania had arisen; and his joyous anticipations were somewhat damped when he found himself so coldly received, and when he looked into those hard, grey eyes and contracted features that had never expanded with a genial smile; so fearing the old man might be apprehensive that he had come as an applicant or for assistance to set him up in trade, he hastened to inform him of the true state of the case, saying that they had got together two thousand pounds.

"Of course, my mother," he said, "would not have entrusted my inexperience with such a sum; but she desired me to place it in your hands, and to act entirely under your direction."

To use the miser's own expression— for we have learnt all these particulars from a memoir left by himself— "When I heard these words the devil entered into me, and I bade the youth bring the money and dine with me on the following day."

I dare say you will think the devil had entered into him long before; however, now he had recognised his presence, but that did not deter him from following his counsel.

Pleased that he had so far thawed his uncle's frigidity, Arthur arrived the next day with his money-bags at the appointed hour, and was received in an inner chamber; their contents were inspected and counted, and then placed in one of the old man's iron chests. Soon afterwards, the tinkle of a bell announced that the waiter from the neighbouring traiteur's had brought the dinner, and the host left the room to see that all was ready. Presently he re-entered, and led his guest to the table. The repast was not sumptuous, but there was a bottle of old Lachryma Christi which he much recommended, and which the youth tasted with great satisfaction. But strange ! He had no sooner swallowed the first glass, than his eyes began to stare —there was a gurgle in his throat—a convulsion passed over his face— and his body stiffened.

"I did not look up," says the old man in his memoir, "for I did not like to see the face of the boy that had sat down so hearty to his dinner, so I kept on eating mine— but I heard the gurgle, and I knew what had happened; and presently, lest the servant should come to fetch the dinner things, I pushed the table aside and opened the receptacle from which my two thousand pounds had been stolen— curses on the thief!— and I laid the body in it, and the wine therewith. I locked it and drove in two strong nails. Then I put back the table— moved away the lad's chair and plate, unlocked the door which was fast, and sat down to finish my dinner. I could not help chuckling as I ate, to think how his had been spoilt.

"I closed up that apartment, as I thought there might be a smell that would raise observation, and I selected one on the opposite side of the gallery for my dining-room. All went well until the following day. I counted my two thousand pounds again and again, and I kept gloating over the recovery of it— for I felt as if it was my own money, and I had a right to seize it where I could. I wrote also to my sister, saying that her son had not arrived; but that when he did I would do my best to forward his views. My heart was light that day— they say that's a bad sign.

"Yes, all was so far well; but the next day we were two of us at dinner! And yet I had invited no guest; and the next— and the next— and so on— always ! As I was about to sit down, he entered and took a chair opposite me, an unbidden guest. I ceased dining at home, but it made no difference; he came, dine where I would. This preyed upon me; I tried not to mind, but I could not help it. Argument was vain. I lost my appetite, and was reduced nearly to death's door. At last, driven to desperation, I consulted Fra Giuseppe. He had been a fast fellow in his time, and it was said had been too impatient for his father's succession, howbeit, the old man died suddenly; Giuseppe spent the money and then took to religion. I thought he was a proper person to consult, so I told him my case. He recommended repentance and restitution. I tried, but I could not repent, for I had got the money; but I thought, perhaps, if I parted with it to another, I might be released; so I looked about for an advantageous purchase, and hearing that Bartolomeo Malfi was in difficulties, I offered him two thousand pounds, money down for his land— I knew it was worth three times the sum. We signed the agreement, and then I went home and opened the door of the room where it was; but lo! he sat there upon the chest where the money was fast locked, and I could not get it. I peeped in two or three times, but he was always there; so I was obliged to expend other moneys in this purchase, which vexed me, albeit the bargain was a good one. Then I consulted friend Giuseppe again, and he said nothing would do but restitution— but that was bad, so I waited; and I said to myself, "I'll eat and care not whether he sit there or no."

But, woe be to him! He chilled the marrow of my bones, and I could not away with him; so I said one day, "What if I go to England with the money?"

And he bowed his head.

The old man accordingly took the money-bags from the chest and started for England. His sister and her daughter were still living in the house they had inhabited during the husband's lifetime; in short, it was their own; and being attached to the place they hoped, if the young man succeeded in his undertakings, to be able to keep it. It was a small house with a garden full of flowers, which the ladies cultivated themselves. The village church was close at hand, and the churchyard adjoined the garden. The poor ladies had become very uneasy at not hearing of Arthur's arrival; and when the old man presented himself and declared he had never seen anything of him, great was their affliction and dismay; for it was clear that some misfortune had happened to the boy, or he had appropriated the money and gone off in some other direction. They scarcely admitted the possibility of the last contingency, although it was the one their little world universally adopted, in spite of his being a very well conducted and affectionate youth; but people said it was too great a temptation for his years, and blamed his mother for entrusting him with so much money. Whichever it was, the blow fell very heavy on them in all ways, for Arthur was their sole stay and support, and they loved him dearly.

Since he had set out on this journey, the old man had been relieved from the company of his terrible guest, and was beginning to recover himself a little, but it occasioned him a severe pang when he remembered that this immunity was to be purchased with the sacrifice of two thousand pounds, and he set himself to think how he could jockey the ghost. But while he was deliberating on this subject, an event happened that alarmed him for the immediate safety of the money.

He had found, on the road, that the great weight of a certain chest he brought with him had excited observation whenever his luggage had to be moved; on his arrival two labouring men had been called in to carry it into the house, and he had overheard some remarks that induced him to think they had drawn a right conclusion with regard to its contents. Subsequently, he saw these two men hovering about the house in a suspicious manner, and he was afraid to leave it or go to sleep at night, lest he should be robbed.

So far we learn from Jacopo Ferraldi himself; but here the memoir stops and tradition says that he was found one morning murdered in his bed and his chest rifled. All the family, that is, the mother and daughter and their one servant, were accused of the murder; and notwithstanding their protestation of innocence were declared guilty and executed.

The memoir I have quoted was found on his dressing table, and he appears to have been writing it when he was surprised by the assassins; for the last words were— "I think I've baulked them, and nobody will understand the—" then comes a large blot and a mark, as if the pen had fallen out of his hand. It seems wonderful that this man, so suspicious and secretive, should thus have entrusted to paper what it was needful he should conceal; but the case is not singular; it has been remarked in similar instances, when some mystery is pressing on a human soul, that there exists an irresistible desire to communicate it, notwithstanding the peril of betrayal; and when no other confidant can be found, the miserable wretch has often had recourse to paper.

The family of Arthur Allen being now extinct, a cousin of Jacopo's, who was a penniless soldier, succeeded to the title and estate, and the memoir, with a full account of what had happened, being forwarded to Italy, inquiries were made about the missing two thousand pounds; but it was not forthcoming; and it was at first supposed that the ladies had some accomplice who had carried it off. Subsequently, however, one of the two men who had borne the money-chest into the house, at the period of the old man's arrival, was detected in endeavouring to dispose of some Italian gold and a diamond ring, which Jacopo was in the habit of wearing. This led to investigation, and he ultimately confessed to the murder committed by himself and his companion, thus exonerating the unfortunate women. He nevertheless declared that they had not rifled the strong box, as they could not open it, and were disturbed by the barking of a dog before they could search for the keys. The box itself they were afraid to carry away, it being a remarkable one and liable to attract notice; and that therefore their only booty was some loose coin and some jewels that were found on the old man's person. But this was not believed, especially as his accomplice could not be found and appeared, on inquiry, to have left that part of the country immediately after the catastrophe.

There the matter rested for nearly two centuries and a half. Nobody sorrowed for Jacopo Ferraldi, and the fate of the Aliens was a matter of indifference to the public, who were glad to see the estate fall into the hands of his successor, who appears to have made a much better use of his riches. The family, in the long period that elapsed, had many vicissitudes; but at the period of my birth my father inhabited the same old palace, and we were in tolerably affluent circumstances. I was born there, and I remember as a child the curiosity I used to feel about the room with the secret receptacle under the floor where Jacopo had buried the body of his guest. It had been found there and had received Christian burial; but the receptacle still remained and the room was shut up, being said to be haunted. I never saw anything extraordinary, but I can bear witness to the frightful groans and moans that issued from it sometimes at night, when, if I could persuade anybody to accompany me, I used to stand in the gallery and listen with wonder and awe. But I never passed the door alone, nor would any of the servants do so after dark. There had been an attempt made to exclude the sounds by walling up the door; but so far from this succeeding they became twenty times worse, and as the wall was a disfigurement as well as a failure, the unquiet spirit was placated by taking it down again.

The old man's memoir is always preserved among the family papers, and his picture still hangs in the gallery. Many strangers who have heard something of this extraordinary story, have asked to see it. The palace is now inhabited by an Austrian nobleman. Whether the ghost continues to annoy the inmates by his lamentations, I do not know.

"I now," said Count Francesco, "come to my personal history."

POLITICAL reasons a few years since obliged me to quit Italy with my family. I had no resources except a little ready money that I had brought with me, and I had resolved to utilise some musical talent which I had cultivated for my amusement. I had not voice enough to sing in public, but I was capable of giving lessons and was considered, when in Italy, a successful amateur. I will not weary you with the sad details of my early residence in England; you can imagine the difficulties that an unfortunate foreigner must encounter before he can establish a connection. Suffice it to say that my small means were wholly exhausted, and very often I, and what was worse, my wife and child, were in want of bread, and indebted to one of my more prosperous countrymen for the very necessaries of life. I was almost in despair, and I do know what rash thing I might have done if I was a single man; but I had my family depending on me, and it was my duty not to sink under my difficulties however great they were.

One night I had been singing at the house of a nobleman, in St. James's Square, and had received some flattering compliments from a young man who appeared to be very fond of Italian music, and to understand it. My getting to this party was a stroke of good luck in the first instance, for I was quite unknown to the host, but Signor A., an acquaintance of mine, who had been engaged for the occasion, was taken ill at the last moment, and had sent me with a note of introduction to apply for his place.

I knew, of course, that I should be well paid for my services, but I would gladly have accepted half the sum I expected if I could have had it that night, for our little treasury was wholly exhausted, and we had not sixpence to purchase a breakfast for the following day. When the great hall door shut upon me, and I found myself on the pavement, with all that luxury and splendour on one side, and I and my desolation on the other, the contrast struck me cruelly, for I too, had been rich, and dwelt in illuminated palaces, and had a train of liveried servants at my command, and sweet music had echoed through my halls. I felt desperate, and drawing my hat over my eyes I began pacing the square, forming wild plans for the relief or escape from my misery. No doubt I looked frantic, for you know we Italians have such a habit of gesticulating, that I believe my thoughts were accompanied by movements that must have excited notice; but I was too much absorbed to observe anything, till I was roused by a voice saying, "Signor Ferraldi, still here this damp chilly night! Are you not afraid for your voice— it is worth taking care of."

"To what purpose," I said savagely, "It will not give me bread!"

If the interruption had not been so sudden, I should not have made such an answer, but I was surprised into it before I knew who had addressed me. When I looked up I saw it was the young man I had met at Lord L.'s, who had complimented me on my singing. I took off my hat and begged his pardon, and was about to move away when he took my arm.

"Excuse me," he said, "let us walk together," and then after a little pause, he added, with an apology, "I think you are an exile."

"I am," I said. "And I think," he continued, "I have surprised you out of a secret that you would not voluntarily have told me. I know well the hardships that beset many of your countrymen— as good gentlemen as we are ourselves— when you are obliged to leave your country; and I beg therefore you will not think me impertinent or intrusive, if I beg you to be frank with me and tell me how you are situated!"

This offer of sympathy was evidently so sincere, and it was so welcome, at such a moment, that I did not hesitate to comply with my new friend's request— I told him everything— adding that in time I hoped to get known, and that then I did not fear being able to make my way; but that meanwhile we were in danger of starving.

During this conversation we were walking round and round the square, where in fact he lived. Before we parted at his door, he had persuaded me to accept of a gift, I call it, for he had then no reason to suppose I should ever be able to repay him, but he called it an advance of ten guineas upon some lessons I was to give him; the first instalment of which was to be paid the following day.

I went home with a comparatively light heart, and the next morning waited upon my friendly pupil, whom I found, as I expected, a very promising scholar. He told me with a charming frankness that he had not much influence in fashionable society, for his family, though rich, was parvenue, but he said he had two sisters, as fond of music as himself, who would be shortly in London, and would be delighted to take lessons, as I had just the voice they liked to sing with them.

This was the first auspicious incident that had occurred to me, nor did the omen fail in its fulfilment. I received great kindness from the family when they came to London. I gave them lessons, sung at their parties, and they took every opportunity of recommending me to their friends.

When the end of the season approached, however, I felt somewhat about the future— there would be no parties to sing at, and my pupils would all be leaving town; but my new friends, whose name, by the way, was Greathead, had a plan for me in their heads, which they strongly recommended me to follow. They said they had a house in the country with a large neighbourhood— in fact near a large watering-place; and if I went there during the summer months, they did not doubt my getting plenty of teaching; adding, "We are much greater people there than we are here, you see; and our recommendation will go a great way."

I followed my friends' advice, and soon after they left London I joined them at Salton, which was the name of their place. As I had left my wife and children in town, with very little money, I was anxious that they should join me as soon as possible; arid therefore the morning after my arrival, I proceeded to look for a lodging at S., and to take measures to make my object ??own to the residents and visitors there. My business done, I sent my family directions for their journey, and then returned to Salton to spend a few days, as I had promised my kind patrons.

The house was modern; in fact, it had been built by Mr. Greathead's grandfather, who was the architect of their fortunes; the grounds were extensive, and the windows looked on a fine lawn, a picturesque ruin, a sparkling rivulet, and a charming flower-garden; there could not be a prettier view than we enjoyed while sitting at breakfast. It was my first experience of the lovely and graceful English homes, and it fully realised all my expectations, both within doors and without. After breakfast Mr. Greathead and his son asked me to accompany them round the grounds, as they were contemplating- some alterations.

"Among other things," said Mr. G., "we want to turn this rivulet; but my wife has a peculiar fancy for that old hedge, which is exactly in the way, and she won't let me root it up."

The hedge alluded to enclosed two sides of the flowergarden, but seemed out of place, I thought.

"Why!" said I, "What is Mrs. Greathead's attachment to the hedge?"

"Why? it's very old; it formerly bordered the churchyard, for that old ruin you see there is all that remains of the parish church; and this flower-garden, I fancy, is all the more brilliant for the rich soil of the burial-ground. But what is remarkable is that the hedge and that side of the garden are full of Italian flowers, and always have been so as long as anybody can remember. Nobody knows how it happens, but they must spring up from some old seeds that have been long in the ground. Look at this cyclamen growing wild in the hedge."

The subject of the alterations was renewed at dinner, and Mrs. Greathead, still objecting to the removal of the hedge, her younger son, whose name was Harry, said, "It is very well for mamma to pretend it is for the sake of the flowers, but I am quite sure that the real reason is that she is afraid of offending the ghost."

"What nonsense, Harry," she said. "You must not believe him, Mr. Ferraldi."

"Well, mamma," said the boy, "you know you will never be convinced that that was not a ghost you saw."

"Never mind what it was," she said; "I won't have the hedge removed." Presently, she added, "I suppose you would laugh at any one believing in a ghost, Mr. Ferraldi."

"Quite the contrary," I answered; "I believe in them myself, and upon very good grounds, for we have a celebrated ghost in our family.'

"Well," she said, "Mr. Greathead and the boys laugh at me; but when I came to live here, upon the death of Mr. Greathead's grandfather— for his father never inhabited the place, having died by an accident before the old gentleman— I never heard a word of the place being haunted; and, perhaps, I should not have believed it if I had. But one evening, when the younger children were gone to bed, and Mr. Greathead and George were sitting with some friends in the dining-room, I and my sister, who was staying with me, strolled into the garden. It was the month of August, and a bright starlight night. We were talking on a very interesting matter, for my sister had that day received an offer from the gentleman she afterwards married. I mention this to show you that we were not thinking of anything supernatural, but, on the contrary, that our minds were quite absorbed with the subject we were discussing. I was looking on the ground, as one often does, when listening intently to what another person is saying; my sister was speaking, when she suddenly stopped, and laid her hand upon my arm, saying, "Who's that?"

"I raised my eyes and saw, not many yards from us, an old man, withered and thin, dressed in a curious antique fashion, with a high-peaked hat on his head. I could not conceive who he could be, or what he could be doing there, for it was close to the flower-garden; so we stood still to observe him. I don't know whether you saw the remains of an old tombstone in a corner of the garden? It is said to be that of a former rector of the parish; the date, 1550, is still legible upon it. The old man walked from one side of the hedge to that stone, and seemed to be counting his steps. He walked like a person pacing the ground, to measure it; then he stopped and appeared to be noting the result of his measurement with a pencil and paper he held in his hand; then he did the same thing the other side of the hedge, pacing up to the old tombstone and back.

"There was a talk, at that time, of removing the hedge, and digging up the old tombstone; and it occurred to me that my husband might have been speaking to somebody about it, and that this man might be concerned in the business, though, still, his dress and appearance puzzled me. It seemed odd, too, that he took no notice of us; and I might have remarked that we heard no footsteps, though we were quite close enough to do so; but these circumstances did not strike me then. However, I was just going to advance, and ask him what he was doing, when I felt my sister's hand release the hold she had of my arm, and she sank to the ground; at the same instant I lost sight of the mysterious old man, who suddenly disappeared.

"My sister had not fainted; but she said her knees bent under her, and she had slipped down, collapsed by terror. I did not feel very comfortable myself, I assure you; but I lifted her up, and we hastened back to the house and told what we had seen. The gentlemen went out, and, of course, saw nothing, and laughed at us; but shortly afterwards, when Harry was born, I had a nurse from the village, and she asked me one day if I had ever happened to see "the old gentleman that walks!" I had ceased to think of the circumstance, and inquired what old gentlemen she meant. And then she told me that, long ago, a foreign gentleman had been murdered here; that is, in the old house that Mr. Greathead's grandfather pulled down when he built this; and that, ever since, the place has been haunted, and that nobody will pass by the hedge and the old tombstone after dark; for that is the spot to which the ghost confines himself.

"But I should think," said I, "that so far from desiring to preserve these objects, you would rather wish them removed, since the ghost would, probably, cease to visit the spot at all."

"Quite the contrary," answered Mr. G. "The people of the neighbourhood say that the former possessor of the place entertained the same idea, and had resolved to move them; but that then the old man became very troublesome, and was even seen in the house; the nurse positively assured me that her mother had told her old Mr. Greathead had also intended to remove them; but that he quite suddenly counter-ordered the directions he had given and, though he did not confess to anything of the sort, the people all believed that he had seen the ghost. Certain it is, that this hedge has always been maintained by the proprietors of the place."

The young me n laughed and quizzed their mother for indulging in such superstitions; but the lady was quite firm in her opposition, alleging that, independently of all considerations connected with the ghost, she liked the hedge on account of the Italian flowers; and she liked the old tombstone on account of its antiquity.

"Consequently some other plan was devised for Mr. Greathead's alterations, which led the course of the rivulet quite clear of the hedge and the tombstone.

"In a few days my family arrived, and I established myself at S. for the summer. The speculation answered very well, and through the recommendations of Mr. and Mrs. Greathead, and their personal kindness to myself and my wife, we passed the time very pleasantly. When the period for our returning to London approached, they invited us to spend a fortnight with them before our departure, and, accordingly, the day we gave up our lodgings, we removed to Salton.

Preparations for turning the rivulet had then commenced; and soon after my arrival, I walked out with Mr. Greathead to see the works. There was a boy, about fourteen, amongst the labourers; and while we were standing close to him, he picked up something and handed it to Mr. G., saying, "Is this yours, sir?" which, on examination, proved to be a gold coin of the sixteenth century— the date on it was 1545. Presently the boy, who was digging, picked up another, and then several more.

"This becomes interesting," said Mr. Greathead, "I think we are coming upon some buried treasure;" and he whispered to me that he had better not leave the spot.

Accordingly, he did stay till it was time to dress for dinner; and, feeling interested, I remained also. In the interval, many more coins were found; and when he went in, he dismissed the workmen, and sent a servant to watch the place— for he saw by their faces that if he had not happened to be present:, he would probably never have heard of the circumstance. A few more turned up the following day, and then the store seemed exhausted. When the villagers heard of this money being discovered, they all looked upon it as the explanation of the old gentleman haunting that particular spot. No doubt he had buried the money, and it remained to be seen whether, now that it was found, his spirit would be at rest.

My two children were with me at Salton on this occasion. They slept in a room on the third floor, and one morning my wife, having told me that the younger of the two seemed unwell, I went upstairs to look at her. It was a cheerful room, with two little white beds in it, and several old prints and samplers, and bits of work such as you see in nurseries, framed and hung against the wall. After I had spoken to the child, and while my wife was talking to the maid, I stood with my hands in my pockets, idly looking at these things. Among them was one that arrested my attention, because at first I could not understand it, nor see why this discoloured parchment, with a few lines and dots on it, should have been framed and glazed. There were some words here and there which I could not decipher; so I lifted the frame off the nail and carried it to the window. Then I saw that the words were Italian, written in a crabbed, old-fashioned hand, and the whole seemed to be a plan, or sketch, rudely drawn, of what I thought at first was a camp— but, on closer examination, I saw was part of a churchyard, with tombstones, from one of which various lines were drawn to various dots, and among these lines were numbers, and here and there a word, as right, left, etc. There were also two lines forming a right angle, which intersected the whole, and after contemplating the thing for some time, it struck me that it was a rude sort of map of the old churchyard and the hedge, which had formed the subject of conversation some days before.

At breakfast I mentioned what I had observed to Mr. and Mrs. Greathead, and they said they believed it was; it had been found when the old house was pulled down, and was kept on account of antiquity.

"Of what period is it?" I asked, "and how happens it to have been made by an Italian?"

"The last question I can't answer," said Mr. Greathead, "but the date is on it, I believe."

"No," said I, "I examined it particularly— there is no date."

"Oh, there is a date and name, I think— but I never examined it myself."

And to settle the question he desired his son Harry to run up and fetch it, adding, "You know, Italian architects and designers of various kinds were not rare in this country a few centuries ago."

Harry brought the frame, and we were confirmed in our conjectures of what it represented, but we could find no date or name.

"And yet I think I've heard there was one," said Mr. Greathead. "Let us take it out of the frame."

This was easily done, and we found the date and the name.

THE COUNT paused, and then added: "I dare say you can guess it?"

"Jacopo Ferraldi?" I said.

"It was," he answered; "and it immediately occurred to me that he had buried the money supposed to have been stolen on the night he was murdered, and that this was the plan to guide him to finding it again. So I told Mr. Greathead the story I have now told you, and mentioned my reasons for supposing that if I was correct in my surmise, more gold would be found.

"With the old man's map as our guide, we immediately set to work— the whole family vigorously joining in the search; and, as I expected, we found that the tombstone in the garden was the point from which all the lines were drawn, and that the dots indicated where the money lay. It was in different heaps, and appeared to have been enclosed in bags, which had rotted away with time. We found the whole sum mentioned in the memoir, and Mr. Greathead, being Lord of the Manor, was generous enough to make it all over to me, as being the lawful heir, which, however, I certainly was not, for it was the spoil of a murderer and thief, and it properly belonged to the Aliens. But that family had become extinct; at least, so we believed, when the two unfortunate ladies were executed, and I accepted the gift with much gratitude and a quiet conscience. It relieved us from our pressing difficulties and enabled me to wait for better times."

"And," said I, "now of the ghost? Was he pleased or otherwise by the denouement?"

"I cannot say," replied the Count; "I have not heard of his being seen since; I believe, however, that the villagers, who understand these things better than we do, say that they should not be surprised if he allowed the hedge and tombstone to be removed now without opposition; but Mr. Greathead, on the contrary, wished to retain them as mementoes of these curious circumstances."

_____________

2: The Tapestried Chamber

Sir Walter Scott

1771-1832

The Keepsake 1829, 1828

In: Great Tales of Terror, Chancellor Press, 1991

Sir Walter Scott

ABOUT the end of the American war, when the officers of Lord Cornwallis's army, which surrendered at Yorktown, and others, who had been made prisoners during the impolitic and ill-fated controversy, were returning to their own country, to relate their adventures, and repose themselves after their fatigues, there was amongst them a general officer, to whom Miss S. gave the name of Browne, but merely, as I understood, to save the inconvenience of introducing a nameless agent in the narrative. He was an officer of merit, as well as a gentleman of high consideration for family and attainments.

Some business had carried General Browne upon a tour through the western counties, when, in the conclusion of a morning stage, he found himself in the vicinity of a small country town, which presented a scene of uncommon beauty, and of a character peculiarly English.

The little town, with its stately old church, whose tower bore testimony to the devotion of ages long past, lay amidst pastures and cornfields of small extent, but bounded and divided with hedgerow timber of great age and size. There were few marks of modern improvement. The environs of the place intimated neither the solitude of decay nor the bustle of novelty; the houses were old, but in good repair; and the beautiful little river murmured freely on its way to the left of the town, neither restrained by a dam nor bordered by a towing-path.

Upon a gentle eminence, nearly a mile to the southward of the town, were seen, amongst many venerable oaks and tangled thickets, the turrets of a castle as old as the walls of York and Lancaster, but which seemed to have received important alterations during the age of Elizabeth and her successor, It had not been a place of great size; but whatever accommodation it formerly afforded was, it must be supposed, still to be obtained within its walls. At least, such was the inference which General Browne drew from observing the smoke arise merrily from several of the ancient wreathed and carved chimney-stalks. The wall of the park ran alongside of the highway for two or three hundred yards; and through the different points by which the eye found glimpses into the woodland scenery, it seemed to be well stocked. Other points of view opened in succession— now a full one of the front of the old castle, and now a side glimpse at its particular towers, the former rich in all the bizarrerie of the Elizabethan school, while the simple and solid strength of other parts of the building seemed to show that they had been raised more for defence than ostentation.

Delighted with the partial glimpses which he obtained of the castle through the woods and glades by which this ancient feudal fortress was surrounded, our military traveller was determined to inquire whether it might not deserve a nearer view, and whether it contained family pictures or other objects of curiosity worthy of a stranger's visit, when, leaving the vicinity of the park, he rolled through a clean and well-paved street, and stopped at the door of a well-frequented inn.

Before ordering horses, to proceed on his journey, General Browne made inquiries concerning the proprietor of the chateau which had so attracted his admiration, and was equally surprised and pleased at hearing in reply a nobleman named, whom we shall call Lord Woodville. How fortunate! Much of Browne's early recollections, both at school and at college, had been connected with young Woodville, whom, by a few questions, he now ascertained to be the same with the owner of this fair domain. He had been raised to the peerage by the decease of his father a few months before, and, as the General learned from the landlord, the term of mourning being ended, was now taking possession of his paternal estate in the jovial season of merry, autumn, accompanied by a select party of friends, to enjoy the sports of a country famous for game.

This was delightful news to our traveller. Frank Woodville had been Richard Browne's fag at Eton, and his chosen intimate at Christ Church; their pleasures and their tasks had been the same; and the honest soldier's heart warmed to find his early friend in possession of so delightful a residence, and of an estate, as the landlord assured him with a nod and a wink, fully adequate to maintain and add to his dignity. Nothing was more natural than that the traveller should suspend a journey, which there was nothing to render hurried, to pay a visit to an old friend under such agreeable circumstances.

The fresh horses, therefore, had only the brief task of conveying the General's travelling carriage to Woodville Castle. A porter admitted them at a modern Gothic lodge, built in that style to correspond with the castle itself, and at the same time rang a bell to give warning of the approach of visitors. Apparently the sound of the bell had suspended the separation of the company, bent on the various amusements of the morning; for, on entering the court of the chateau, several young men were lounging about in their sporting dresses, looking at and criticizing the dogs which the keepers held in readiness to attend their pastime. As General Browne alighted, the young lord came to the gate of the hall, and for an instant gazed, as at a stranger, upon the countenance of his friend, on which war, with its fatigues and its wounds, had made a great alteration. But the uncertainty lasted no longer than till the visitor had spoken, and the hearty greeting which followed was such as can only be exchanged betwixt those who have passed together the merry days of careless boyhood or early youth.

"If I could have formed a wish, my dear Browne," said Lord Woodville, "it would have been to have you here, of all men, upon this occasion, which my friends are good enough to hold as a sort of holiday. Do not think you have been unwatched during the years you have been absent from us. I have traced you through your dangers, your triumphs, your misfortunes, and was delighted to see that, whether in victory or defeat, the name of my old friend was always distinguished with applause."

The General made a suitable reply, and congratulated his friend on his new dignities, and the possession of a place and domain so beautiful.

"Nay, you have seen nothing of it as yet," said Lord Woodville, "and I trust you do not mean to leave us till you are better acquainted with it. It is true, I confess, that my present party is pretty large, and the old house, like other places of the kind, does not possess so much accommodation as the extent of the outward walls appears to promise. But we can give you a comfortable old-fashioned room, and I venture to suppose that your campaigns have taught you to be glad of worse quarters."

The General shrugged his shoulders, and laughed. "I presume," he said, "the worst apartment in your chateau is considerably superior to the old tobacco-cask in which I was fain to take up my night's lodging when I was in the Bush, as the Virginians call it, with the light corps. There I lay, like Diogenes himself, so delighted with my covering from the elements, that I made a vain attempt to have it rolled on to my next quarters; but my commander for the time would give way to no such luxurious provision, and I took farewell of my beloved cask with tears in my eyes."

"Well, then, since you do not fear your quarters," said Lord Woodville, "you will stay with me a week at least. Of guns, dogs, fishing-rods, flies, and means of sport by sea and land, we have enough and to spare— you cannot pitch on an amusement but we will find the means of pursuing it. But if you prefer the gun and pointers, I will go with you myself, and see whether you have mended your shooting since you have been amongst the Indians of the back settlements."

The General gladly accepted his friendly host's proposal in all its points. After a morning of manly exercise, the company met at dinner, where it was the delight of Lord Woodville to conduce to the display of the high properties of his recovered friend, so as to recommend him to his guests, most of whom were persons of distinction. He led General Browne to speak of the scenes he had witnessed; and as every word marked alike the brave officer and the sensible man, who retained possession of his cool judgment under the most imminent dangers, the company looked upon the soldier with general respect, as on one who had proved himself possessed of an uncommon portion of personal courage— that attribute of all others of which everybody desires to be thought possessed.

The day at Woodville Castle ended as usual in such mansions. The hospitality stopped within the limits of good order. Music, in which the young lord was a proficient, succeeded to the circulation of the bottle; cards and billiards, for those who preferred such amusements, were in readiness; but the exercise of the morning required early hours, and not long after eleven o'clock the guests began to retire to their several apartments.

The young lord himself conducted his friend, General Browne, to the chamber destined for him, which answered the description he had given of it, being comfortable, but old-fashioned, The bed was of the massive form used in the end of the seventeenth century, and the curtains of faded silk, heavily trimmed with tarnished gold. But then the sheets, pillows, and blankets looked delightful to the campaigner, when he thought of his "mansion, the cask." There was an air of gloom in the tapestry hangings, which, with their worn-out graces, curtained the walls of the little chamber, and gently undulated as the autumnal breeze found its way through the ancient lattice window, which pattered and whistled as the air gained entrance. The toilet, too, with its mirror, turbaned after the manner of the beginning of the century, with a coiffure of murrey-coloured silk, and its hundred strange-shaped boxes, providing for arrangements which had been obsolete for more than fifty years, had an antique, and in so far a melancholy, aspect. But nothing could blaze more brightly and cheerfully than the two large wax candles; or if aught could rival them, it was the flaming, bickering fagots in the chimney, that sent at once their gleam and their warmth through the snug apartment, which, notwithstanding the general antiquity of its appearance, was not wanting in the least convenience that modern habits rendered either necessary or desirable.

"This is an old-fashioned sleeping apartment, General," said the young lord; "but I hope you find nothing that makes you envy your old tobacco-cask."

"I am not particular respecting my lodgings," replied the General; "yet were I to make any choice, I would prefer this chamber by many degrees to the gayer and more modern rooms of your family mansion. Believe me that, when I unite its modern air of comfort with its venerable antiquity, and recollect that it is your lordship's property, I shall feel in better quarters here than if I were in the best hotel London could afford."

"I trust— I have no doubt— that you will find yourself as comfortable as I wish you, my dear General," said the young nobleman; and once more bidding his guest good-night, he shook him by the hand, and withdrew.

The General once more looked round him, and internally congratulating himself on his return to peaceful life, the comforts of which were endeared by the recollection of the hardships and dangers he had lately sustained, undressed himself, and prepared for a luxurious night's rest.

Here, contrary to the custom of this species of tale, we leave the General in possession of his apartment until the next morning.

The company assembled for breakfast at an early hour, but without the appearance of General Browne, who seemed the guest that Lord Woodville was desirous of honouring above all whom his hospitality had assembled around him. He more than once expressed surprise at the General's absence, and at length sent a servant to make inquiry after him. The man brought back information that General Browne had been walking abroad since an early hour of the morning, in defiance of the weather, which was misty and ungenial.

"The custom of a soldier," said the young nobleman to his friends. "Many of them acquire habitual vigilance, and cannot sleep after the early hour at which their duty usually commands them to be alert."

Yet the explanation which Lord Woodville thus offered to the company seemed hardly satisfactory to his own mind, and it was in a fit of silence and abstraction that he waited the return of the General. It took place near an hour after the breakfast bell had rung. He looked fatigued and feverish. His hair, the powdering and arrangement of which was at this time one of the most important occupations of a man's whole day, and marked his fashion as much as in the present time the tying of a cravat, or the want of one, was dishevelled, uncurled, void of powder, and dank with dew. His clothes were huddled on with a careless negligence, remarkable in a military man, whose real or supposed duties are usually held to include some attention to the toilet; and his looks were haggard and ghastly in a peculiar degree.

"So you have stolen a march upon us this morning, my dear General," said Lord Woodville; "or you have not found your bed so much to your mind as I had hoped and you seemed to expect. How did you rest last night?"

"Oh, excellently well! remarkably well! never better in my life," said General Browne rapidly, and yet with an air of embarrassment which was obvious to his friend. He then hastily swallowed a cup of tea, and neglecting or refusing whatever else was offered, seemed to fall into a fit of abstraction.

"You will take the gun to-day, General?" said his friend and host, but had to repeat the question twice ere he received the abrupt answer, "No, my lord; I am sorry I cannot have the opportunity of spending another day with your lordship; my post horses are ordered, and will be here directly."

All who were present showed surprise, and Lord Woodville immediately replied "Post horses, my good friend! What can you possibly want with them when you promised to stay with me quietly for at least a week?"

"I believe," said the General, obviously much embarrassed, "that I might, in the pleasure of my first meeting with your lordship, have said something about stopping here a few days; but I have since found it altogether impossible."

"That is very extraordinary," answered the young nobleman. "You seemed quite disengaged yesterday, and you cannot have had a summons to-day, for our post has not come up from the town, and therefore you cannot have received any letters."

General Browne, without giving any further explanation, muttered something about indispensable business, and insisted on the absolute necessity of his departure in a manner which silenced all opposition on the part of his host, who saw that his resolution was taken, and forbore all further importunity.

"At least, however," he said, "permit me, my dear Browne, since go you will or must, to show you the view from the terrace, which the mist, that is now rising, will soon display."

He threw open a sash-window, and stepped down upon the terrace as he spoke. The General followed him mechanically, but seemed little to attend to what his host was saying, as, looking across an extended and rich prospect, he pointed out the different objects worthy of observation. Thus they moved on till Lord Woodville had attained his purpose of drawing his guest entirely apart from the rest of the company, when, turning round upon him with an air of great solemnity, he addressed him thus:—

"Richard Browne, my old and very dear friend, we are now alone. Let me conjure you to answer me upon the word of a friend, and the honour of a soldier. How did you in reality rest during last night?"

"Most wretchedly indeed, my lord," answered the General, in the same tone of solemnity— "so miserably, that I would not run the risk of such a second night, not only for all the lands belonging to this castle, but for all the country which I see from this elevated point of view."

"This is most extraordinary," said the young lord, as if speaking to himself; "then there must be something in the reports concerning that apartment." Again turning to the General, he said, "For God's sake, my dear friend, be candid with me, and let me know the disagreeable particulars which have befallen you under a roof, where, with consent of the owner, you should have met nothing save comfort."

The General seemed distressed by this appeal, and paused a moment before he replied. "My dear lord," he at length said, "what happened to me last night is of a nature so peculiar and so unpleasant, that I could hardly bring myself to detail it even to your lordship, were it not that, independent of my wish to gratify any request of yours, I think that sincerity on my part may lead to some explanation about a circumstance equally painful and mysterious. To others, the communication I am about to make, might place me in the light of a weak-minded, superstitious fool, who suffered his own imagination to delude and bewilder him; but you have known me in childhood and youth, and will not suspect me of having adopted in manhood the feelings and frailties from which my early years were free." Here he paused, and his friend replied,—

"Do not doubt my perfect confidence in the truth of your communication, however strange it may be," replied Lord Woodville. "I know your firmness of disposition too well, to suspect you could be made the object of imposition, and am aware that your honour and your friendship will equally deter you from exaggerating whatever you may have witnessed."

"Well, then," said the General, "I will proceed with my story as well as I can, relying upon your candour, and yet distinctly feeling that I would rather face a battery than recall to my mind the odious recollections of last night."

He paused a second time, and then perceiving that Lord Woodville remained silent and in an attitude of attention, he commenced, though not without obvious reluctance, the history of his night's adventures in the Tapestried Chamber.

"I undressed and went to bed so soon as your lordship left me yesterday evening; but the wood in the chimney, which nearly fronted my bed, blazed brightly and cheerfully, and, aided by a hundred exciting recollections of my childhood and youth, which had been recalled by the unexpected pleasure of meeting your lordship, prevented me from falling immediately asleep. I ought, however, to say that these reflections were all of a pleasant and agreeable kind, grounded on a sense of having for a time exchanged the labour, fatigues, and dangers of my profession for the enjoyments of a peaceful life, and the reunion of those friendly and affectionate ties which I had torn asunder at the rude summons of war.

"While such pleasing reflections were stealing over my mind, and gradually lulling me to slumber, I was suddenly aroused by a sound like that of the rustling of a silken gown, and the tapping of a pair of high-heeled shoes, as if a woman were walking in the apartment. Ere I could draw the curtain to see what the matter was, the figure of a little woman passed between the bed and the fire. The back of this form was turned to me, and I could observe, from the shoulders and neck, it was that of an old woman, whose dress was an old-fashioned gown, which I think ladies call a sacque— that is, a sort of robe completely loose in the body, but gathered into broad plaits upon the neck and shoulders, which fall down to the ground, and terminate in a species of train.

"I thought the intrusion singular enough, but never harboured for a moment the idea that what I saw was anything more than the mortal form of some old woman about the establishment, who had a fancy to dress like her grandmother, and who, having perhaps (as your lordship mentioned that you were rather straitened for room) been dislodged from her chamber for my accommodation, had forgotten the circumstance, and returned by twelve to her old haunt. Under this persuasion I moved myself in bed and coughed a little, to make the intruder sensible of my being in possession of the premises. She turned slowly round, but, gracious Heaven! my lord, what a countenance did she display to me! There was no longer any question what she was, or any thought of her being a living being. Upon a face which wore the fixed features of a corpse were imprinted the traces of the vilest and most hideous passions which had animated her while she lived. The body of some atrocious criminal seemed to have been given up from the grave, and the soul restored from the penal fire, in order to form for a space a union with the ancient accomplice of its guilt. I started up in bed, and sat upright, supporting myself on my palms, as I gazed on this horrible spectre. The hag made, as it seemed, a single and swift stride to the bed where I lay, and squatted herself down upon it, in precisely the same attitude which I had assumed in the extremity of horror, advancing her diabolical countenance within half a yard of mine, with a grin which seemed to intimate the malice and the derision of an incarnate fiend."

Here General Browne stopped, and wiped from his brow the cold perspiration with which the recollection of his horrible vision had covered it.

"My lord," he said, "I am no coward, I have been in all the mortal dangers incidental to my profession, and I may truly boast that no man ever knew Richard Browne dishonour the sword he wears; but in these horrible circumstances, under the eyes, and, as it seemed, almost in the grasp of an incarnation of an evil spirit, all firmness forsook me, all manhood melted from me like wax in the furnace, and I felt my hair individually bristle. The current of my life-blood ceased to flow, and I sank back in a swoon, as very a victim to panic terror as ever was a village girl, or a child of ten years old. How long I lay in this condition I cannot pretend to guess.

"But I was roused by the castle clock striking one, so loud that it seemed as if it were in the very room. It was some time before I dared open my eyes, lest they should again encounter the horrible spectacle. When, however, I summoned courage to look up, she was no longer visible. My first idea was to pull my bell, wake the servants, and remove to a garret or a hay-loft, to be ensured against a second visitation. Nay, I will confess the truth that my resolution was altered, not by the shame of exposing myself, but by the fear that, as the bell-cord hung by the chimney, I might, in making my way to it, be again crossed by the fiendish hag, who, I figured to myself, might be still lurking about some corner of the apartment.

"I will not pretend to describe what hot and cold fever-fits tormented me for the rest of the night, through broken sleep, weary vigils, and that dubious state which forms the neutral ground between them. A hundred terrible objects appeared to haunt me; but there was the great difference betwixt the vision which I have described, and those which followed, that I knew the last to be deceptions of my own fancy and over-excited nerves.

"Day at last appeared, and I rose from my bed ill in health and humiliated in mind. I was ashamed of myself as a man and a soldier, and still more so at feeling my own extreme desire to escape from the haunted apartment, which, however, conquered all other considerations; so that, huddling on my clothes with the most careless haste, I made my escape from your lordship's mansion, to seek in the open air some relief to my nervous system, shaken as it was by this horrible rencounter with a visitant, for such I must believe her, from the other world. Your lordship has now heard the cause of my discomposure, and of my sudden desire to leave your hospitable castle. In other places I trust we may often meet, but God protect me from ever spending a second night under that roof!"

Strange as the General's tale was, he spoke with such a deep air of conviction that it cut short all the usual commentaries which are made on such stories. Lord Woodville never once asked him if he was sure he did not dream of the apparition, or suggested any of the possibilities by which it is fashionable to explain supernatural appearances as wild vagaries of the fancy, or deceptions of the optic nerves, On the contrary, he seemed deeply impressed with the truth and reality of what he had heard; and, after a considerable pause regretted, with much appearance of sincerity, that his early friend should in his house have suffered so severely.

"I am the more sorry for your pain, my dear Browne," he continued, "that it is the unhappy, though most unexpected, result of an experiment of my own. You must know that, for my father and grandfather's time, at least, the apartment which was assigned to you last night had been shut on account of reports that it was disturbed by supernatural sights and noises. When I came, a few weeks since, into possession of the estate, I thought the accommodation which the castle afforded for my friends was not extensive enough to permit the inhabitants of the invisible world to retain possession of a comfortable sleeping apartment. I therefore caused the Tapestried Chamber, as we call it, to be opened, and, without destroying its air of antiquity, I had such new articles of furniture placed in it as became the modern times. Yet, as the opinion that the room was haunted very strongly prevailed among the domestics, and was also known in the neighbourhood and to many of my friends, I feared some prejudice might be entertained by the first occupant of the Tapestried Chamber, which might tend to revive the evil report which it had laboured under, and so disappoint my purpose of rendering it a useful part or the house. I must confess, my dear Browne, that your arrival yesterday, agreeable to me for a thousand reasons besides, seemed the most favourable opportunity of removing the unpleasant rumours which attached to the room, since your courage was indubitable, and your mind free of any preoccupation on the subject. I could not, therefore, have chosen a more fitting subject for my experiment."

"Upon my life," said General Browne, somewhat hastily, "I am infinitely obliged to your lordship— very particularly indebted indeed. I am likely to remember for some time the consequences of the experiment, as your lordship is pleased to call it."

"Nay, now you are unjust, my dear friend," said Lord Woodville. "You have only to reflect for a single moment, in order to be convinced that I could not augur the possibility of the pain to which you have been so unhappily exposed. I was yesterday morning a complete sceptic on the subject of supernatural appearances. Nay, I am sure that, had I told you what was said about that room, those very reports would have induced you, by your own choice, to select it for your accommodation. It was my misfortune, perhaps my error, but really cannot be termed my fault, that you have been afflicted so strangely."

"Strangely indeed!" said the General, resuming his good temper; "and I acknowledge that I have no right to be offended with your lordship for treating me like what I used to think myself— a man of some firmness and courage. But I see my post horses are arrived, and I must not detain your lordship from your amusement."

"Nay, my old friend," said Lord Woodville, "since you cannot stay with us another day— which, indeed, I can no longer urge— give me at least half an hour more. You used to love pictures, and I have a gallery of portraits, some of them by Vandyke, representing ancestry to whom this property and castle formerly belonged. I think that several of them will strike you as possessing merit."

General Browne accepted the invitation, though somewhat unwillingly. It was evident he was not to breathe freely or at ease till he left Woodville Castle far behind him. He could not refuse his friend's invitation, however; and the less so, that he was a little ashamed of the peevishness which he had displayed towards his well-meaning entertainer.

The General, therefore, followed Lord Woodville through several rooms into a long gallery hung with pictures, which the latter pointed out to his guest, telling the names, and giving some account of the personages whose portraits presented themselves in progression. General Browne was but little interested in the details which these accounts conveyed to him. They were, indeed, of the kind which are usually found in an old family gallery. Here was a Cavalier who had ruined the estate in the royal cause; there a fine lady who had reinstated it by contracting a match with a wealthy Roundhead. There hung a gallant who had been in danger for corresponding with the exiled Court at Saint Germain's; here one who had taken arms for William at the Revolution; and there a third that had thrown his weight alternately into the scale of Whig and Tory.

While lord Woodville was cramming these words into his guest's ear, "against the stomach of his sense," they gained the middle of the gallery, when he beheld General Browne suddenly start, and assume an attitude of the utmost surprise, not unmixed with fear, as his eyes were suddenly caught and riveted by a portrait of an old lady in a sacque, the fashionable dress of the end of the seventeenth century.

"There she is!" he exclaimed— "there she is, in form and features, though Inferior in demoniac expression to the accursed hag who visited me last night!"

"If that be the case," said the young nobleman, "there can remain no longer any doubt of the horrible reality of your apparition. That is the picture of a wretched ancestress of mine, of whose crimes a black and fearful catalogue is recorded in a family history in my charter-chest. The recital of them would be too horrible; it is enough to say, that in yon fatal apartment incest and unnatural murder were committed. I will restore it to the solitude to which the better judgment of those who preceded me had consigned it; and never shall any one, so long as I can prevent it, be exposed to a repetition of the supernatural horrors which could shake such courage as yours."

Thus the friends, who had met with such glee, parted in a very different mood— Lord Woodville to command the Tapestried Chamber to be unmantled, and the door built up; and General Browne to seek in some less beautiful country, and with some less dignified friend, forgetfulness of the painful night which he had passed in Woodville Castle.

______________

3: Taste of the Salt

S. B. H. Hurst

1876-1937

Adventure, Oct 1916

Samuel Bertram Haworth Hurst

THE man sat at the window of an office in Seattle, watching the sunset. It is not possible to describe a Puget Sound sunset, because God made the Sound and the sunset and men made language; neither can I show you how the mountains seemed to have moved forward until they merged with the calm water.

In that wonderful light people were going home, and this added to the sadness of the man at the window, because he had just lost the only home he had ever known, and the evening was waking the memories of a whispering avenue of years. The very beginning of memory was a craving for home, when he was a ragged little orphan in an unsympathetic city. Later, when an ordinary seaman on a deep-water windjammer, something idealistic had blended with the craving— he did not only want the roof, but also the something else which goes with it.

And when he was twenty and a second mate this idealism had crystallized. He was a very strong man: a "bucco" mate, beloved of skippers, disliked by sailors; yet the craving for his own cave, his own fire, and his own woman tortured him so that he left the sea, being paid off in Seattle. It was the golden period of real estate and he made money. Then he met the sort of girl he had dreamed about and married her.

Now, the winning of the prize we seek affects us all differently. Some of us strut and stick our chests out. Some of us blush and hang our heads— each has his way of denying the god of the chances.

When tortured by his loneliness, this man had chanced to buy a bundle of old books, among which was a copy of The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, in the reading of which he had found a certain relief. You may say that any man who strives to follow the Emperor is a nuisance, and you may be right, occasionally. But you know, of course, that people who try to be philosophical when times are hard are very much so when times are the reverse, because philosophy is the sheet anchor that keeps a man from destruction when circumstance is doing all it can to blow him on a dead lee shore, and it is not cast off when the weather clears up. This is the law, and it is a good law.

So, whilst he was very happy in his dream-finding, the man began to plan little systems of life which he hoped would solidify the foundations of his home. But it began to bank up to windward when he found that his wife did not like children. She would exclaim in assumed delight when she saw a pretty child belonging to another woman. Indeed, on such occasions she would act as if she had never seen a child before. By this you may know them.

The man tried to find an excuse for her. He bought her many pretty things, but, because he felt the coming of bad weather, he sought, as he had taught himself to do, comfort from the Roman stoic. Then the silly set she mixed with jarred the directness of his sailor's soul, and soon she began to nag him for more money in order that she might gratify her taste for such intellectual pursuits as bridge, dancing and "movements" which ranted about "progressiveness" but which looked remarkably like the spasms of a colony of snails imagining they were race horses.

She also gave musicals to her "set." The set, by the way, consisted of about two dozen exceedingly selfish women and six milk-fed men. The man would have enjoyed the musical performances— they were given by a good orchestra which he paid— had it not been for the antics of the audience. As soon as the music started every one of the meatless men felt that it was his duty to let his neighbors know all that he thought he knew about the piece, the composer, etc., and every one of them tried to do his duty.

The women's method of attracting attention was to wait till some one was looking and then fall into a sort of rapturous soul-trance. They did this to show how spiritual they were. Then all hands would start a sibilant conversation.

To any one who loves music as the man did, any noise is sacrilege, so he was not to be blamed for likening his guests to a swarm of loudly hissing snakes, who had managed to crawl into heaven. But it was rather undiplomatic of him to tell his wife this.

Across two thousand years the Emperor spoke again, and the man decided to grin and bear it. Yet he could see no decency in waste, and he thought that if he did not go after business so hard there would be more chance for others. This he also explained to his wife, and he tried to show her how much happier they would be if they lived simply and for each other. He mentioned that the man or woman who needs but little does not have the bother of taking care of a lot of things, which lack allows more time for thinking. His wife was somewhat unkind about his opinions, especially about one which he put on paper and afterward showed to me. It read:

List of all the dothes required by a sensible man living in Seattle: One suit, dark gray best, does not show dust. Two shirts. Four collars, twelve handkerchiefs. Four pairs of socks. Two mediumweight union-suits. One pair of shoes. One tie. One hat. One rain-coat. Suit-case, tooth and hair brush, razor, suspenders.

As he elucidated, one can only wear just so many clothes at one time, and when you can get your suit pressed and cleaned while you wait, and the laundry will return the wash the day you send it out, why be bothered with a roomful of gear? I agreed with him entirely. Besides, his ideas suited my pocket. Then he spoke truth when he said—

"And a man looks like the devil in a dress suit."

His wife threatened to sue for divorce, and the man, made almost abject by the horrible thought of losing his long-hoped-for home, promised to make no further attempts to assert his opinions. This was pathetic, but they had lived together for a number of years by this time, and the two-fisted second mate who would have likely hit a sailor for presuming to think for himself had joined the dead gods whom we secretly worship.

Then, the deluge. Oh, man born of woman, remember that she knows you much better than you ever know yourself, and never be servile when you should spank. Besides, she will find more love in one brute she tries to tame than in a dozen who need no taming.

So, she did sue him for a divorce, and the man, dazed like a fighter from a heavy blow, made no defense, but in dumb and foolish fashion turned all his property over to her, except fifty-three dollars and forty cents, which remained in his pockets after paying his debts.

She was, therefore, a fairly rich woman, who would easily find consolation. And— he sat at the office window after every one had gone home, watching God's picture on the sky of Puget Sound, with the wakened memories hovering like birds of prey among the shadows that were closing over his life.

THE colors faded and the mountains loomed against a faint ribbon of lingering light. How desperately lonely he was. And this was the end. The end of it all, since a home was the only excuse for existence. He was a beaten man, with the foot of fate on his throat and all the thumbs turned down. Well, he would die as decently as possible.

He turned away from the darkening window. The noises in the passages told of the coming of the office cleaners. He had never stayed so late before. He had loved his home too dearly.

Yes, he would "go away." He would make his last voyage— into the dark, half hoping and half dreading that he would reach a port where he had never been. He would go away. So, and he must say goodby. He couldn't go without saying good-by to her. The male of mankind is a foolishly sentimental animal.

As he grasped the telephone his heart throbbed like that of a lover about to meet his love. Perhaps she might be as sorry as he was. He called the number of his house, and the woman who had been his wife answered.

"I wanted to say good-by, because—" he began stammeringly.

There was an exclamation, and the noise of the receiver being snapped on the hook.

He tried to smile.

It would be strange not to see the familiar office again. He would go and buy a revolver. It would be strange not to see the place again. He looked around yearningly. Then he locked the door and walked downstairs.

He reached Second Avenue and the spirit of the city came over him. Nearly all the world's cities had he seen, but Seattle was the fairest of them all. His lips trembled.

"Perhaps because I have known my only home here," he murmured, "but how I do love the old town. I'll walk around a bit and say good-by before I buy that gun— for you'll listen when I say good-by, won't you, Seattle? God bless you, if there is a God— Seattle, Seattle, you grow more beautiful every year. And you haven't betrayed my regard for you. Your hands held out opportunity when first I came to you, and now you are asking me to try again. God bless you for the chance you offer me. Maybe I'm a quitter— but I'm not man enough to take it."

Then he walked slowly up the avenue to Union Street and turned east. He passed the buildings that had risen on the old university tract— a hilly meadow when he had first known it— and went on till he came to the steps which continue the street up a slope of trees. At the top of the steps he turned and looked toward the Sound. Then he wished greatly that he had not forgotten how to cry.

Came reaction, nerving him. He would shoot himself, but not because life had beaten him, but because he had power to beat that life. He took off his hat to the city, outlined by her many lights.

"Good-by, old town," he said, "you never yet betrayed a man who put his trust in you— they trusted you and you made them wealthy and happy. Would to God that women were like you."

Then he walked down the steps again, to find a store where revolvers were sold; but when he reached Second Avenue he found all the stores closed, and this chafed him somewhat until he remembered an old store down on the water-front which always kept open late, and where one can buy everything from a needle to an anchor.

So the man went down Spring Street, crossed First Avenue, Western Avenue, the railroad tracks, and came to the line of docks. But this happened to be the one night when the keeper of the curious old shop had decided to go home early.

"Don't care to monkey with drugs," thought the man, "but it seems I must."

He hesitated, wondering which drugstore. Then he sneered at himself for bothering about so small a matter.

"I'll walk along the water-front to Wall Street," he muttered, "then I'll turn and get up to First Avenue, where I'll hit the first drug-store I come to and buy something to poison a dog."

Now Seattle's water-front is haunted by many strange characters: flotsam and jetsam of all the seas, waste of all the lands, and— others. And as the man walked north— passing shadowy places and well-lighted places, quiet docks and busy docks, and all the bringings of the ships— many of these people drifted by him. But he was too full of his own life-wreck to notice others, until he sensed the continued presence of a man at his side.

Rather annoyed, he walked faster and tried to forget the stranger, but the other persisted in keeping up with him. So he turned and spoke gratingly.

"Who in hell are you," he asked, "and why are you following me?"

The stranger filled a worn briar pipe. He appeared to be rather embarrassed.

"Well?" grated the man.

"I'm a mender of broken hearts," said the stranger, and his voice was soothing.

"A mender of broken hearts," repeated the man mechanically. "What a curious business. What do you mend them with?"

The stranger lit his pipe. His shyness left him. His attitude changed from that of an intruder to that of a welcomed guest.

"With threads of pain," he said.

The man sighed. Then, wondering why he did so, he asked— "Where do you get the threads?"

"From the tangled skein that falls from the tired hand of Experience," replied the stranger gently.

"Experience?" asked the man.

"Exactly— we all have so many threads that we never put to any use, which fall from the hand of our experience and lie almost forgotten. Yet these threads, which we gathered with pain, are just what we need when we are troubled. To nearly everyman comes a great sorrow, when he feels that life is not worth living any longer. His heart is broken. But if he would only seek among the threads of his experience, he would find the one with which to mend it.

"That is why we have experience— because they dwell more on the wound than on the mending, because they are so often too tired, too sad and even too indifferent to look for the right thread in that tangled skein— because the easiest end to their sorrow appears to lie in a revolver bullet— that, and those, are the reasons for my strange trade."

"I see," murmured the man. "You find the right thread for them when they can not find it for themselves. It's a pretty idea, but you can not find mine."

"You need my services," said the stranger gently.

"What— what do you know about me?" stammered the man.

The stranger did not answer. They had reached Wall Street. The dock and the warehouse were very quiet. The topgallant-masts of a sailing ship showed over the roof.

"Shall we take a look at the ship?" asked the stranger.

"She's a bark," said the man testily.

"I am not good at telling the rigs of them," said the stranger.

"Sorry I was rude," apologized the man.

"You were not rude, merely technical," said the stranger.

They turned on to the wharf and walked between the cars on the railroad spur and the warehouse until they came to the bark. She was of about a thousand tons, and she was loaded and ready for sea.

"I suppose you invented your queer trade?" asked the man suddenly.

"Why, no," answered the stranger. "We are not very well known, because we do not advertise, but we are quite an old profession."

"Who started it?" asked the man, interested. "A discoverer, who made the discovery, many years ago, that sorrow is the tenderness of the teaching, and that unsought pain properly borne is the music bearing men to heaven."

"So, it isn't a new religion that you are teaching to the poor devils on the waterfront?"

"Oh, no," said the stranger, "it is a very old truth."

The moon had risen and the water was making music against the piling. The man felt the thrill of that subtle something which only the sailor knows— which gets into his blood when he is young and arouses the yearnings of his ancestors who lived on the rocks and craved the high tides.

"It's nice here, isn't it?" he said rather banally.

"And the thread which was magic years ago is the one you need," said the stranger softly. "It lies at your feet. Why not pick it up?"

"Go back to sea?" asked the man.

"That is what I mean," said the stranger.

"What good would that do me?" sneered the man, "when I couldn't forget?"

The stranger said nothing. The captain of the vessel put his head out of the companion, looked at the sky and came up on the deck.

"Nice night," he said genially.

"Very," said the man. Then, to the stranger: "You're a well-meaning sort of prophet, but you're an awful bad guesser. But I will go on board and smell tar for a few minutes, before— before I attend to some rather important business. Coming?"

The stranger shook his head and held out his hand.

"The stitches will hurt," he said, "and the mending will take some time; but the understanding of the healing will come to you suddenly, and in your gratitude will I have my reward."

He turned and went up the wharf, leaving the man strangely impressed.

"Some sort of religious maniac," he muttered, trying to get rid of the impression. "Can I come on board?" he said to the captain.

"Certainly," said the captain.

THE man grasped one of the mizzen shrouds and swung himself on to the poop. He introduced himself to the captain, then he drew in a full breath which was strangely satisfying. He looked aloft and followed the familiar leads of the ropes. The atmosphere of the past enveloped him.

He walked to the rail and stared forward. He sniffed appreciatively. Then he listened with a curious sense of pleasure to the whistles of the steamers moving in the harbor— he had heard them every day during his years ashore but they sounded different now— and he found a certain fascination in the lights.

The captain came and stood by his side.

"You followed the sea?" said the captain. "Yes— I quit to live ashore."

"You showed your sense. It's all work and no money worth speaking about."

"And everybody swearing its his last voyage, and then— going back to it in a week or two," said the man.

The captain laughed. "Sure," he said. "There never was a proper sailor yet who didn't wish he was ashore when he was at sea, and then pine to be back to sea again when he got ashore— and that's because a man's crazy to go to sea in the first place."

This time the man laughed, and surprised himself by doing it.

"Why is it that way?" he said.

The captain shrugged his shoulders.

"Why is any sort of craziness?" he said.

"—— the devil!" muttered the man. "Another Saturday night and no beer. Turn in, turn out and turn to. At outs with the rest of the afterguard and scrapping with the men. Wet, cold, and poor grub. Poor pay, bad whisky and worse women— that's a sailor's life till he gets too old to be of any use. God— what happens to him then?"

The captain grinned in the moonlight.

"That's right talk," he said, "but you're young yet. You ain't thirty-five. I hope you're broke, though, because I want a second mate, and I can tell you have your ticket."

"My profits last year," droned the man, "were over twenty thousand dollars."

"Lord," said the captain, "and a second mate's pay out of here is five pound a month."

"Which," answered the man, "is less than twenty-five dollars. It looked like good wages once."

"Funny, isn't it," said the captain. "Let's go below and have a toothful."

The man hesitated. He looked ashore at the deserted wharf, then he looked up aloft. Then he followed the captain into the cabin.

"Scotch or rye?" asked the captain. "

Rye," said the man absently. "Pleasant passage," he drank.

"Fair wind up-channel," said the captain. "Which reminds me that I've got to get a second mate from some place to make the insurance all right."

"Where are you bound?" asked the man.

"Falmouth, for orders."

The man noted the familiar objects of the orderly main cabin.

"Looks like home," he thought. Then he shivered as the significance of the last word came to him. Was it worth while? Fate had knocked him down, hard. Was there anything worth getting up again for? How had that queer chap who talked about mending broken hearts happened to follow him along the water-front? The sea did seem to be calling him back. Was it, or was it suggestion? The night, the ship and the strange man he had met? But was a broken heart worth mending? Was it not better to end the pain with a bullet or some drug? Had life left him anything worth living for?

Why the devil had he listened to the queer stranger, filling him with absurd ideas? Yet, he might try it— just to see what happened. He could get the gun and quit, if he grew tired of the trying. Might as well. There would be a certain interest in the experiment, and deep in his consciousness was something that warned him very solemnly against suicide. But he would shoot himself if he felt like it. That privilege was his. His heart was beating rather rapidly.

"You can sign me on in the morning, if you like," he told the captain.

"Wh—aa—t?" stammered the captain.

The man spoke indifferently. "It's a fool notion," he said. "But I need a holiday, and I want to take it at sea. If I go as a passenger on some steamer, I'll get talking business with somebody, and I want to forget all about business. Besides, a steamer isn't the same— to get the real sea you've got to sail. You know what I mean. You'll find that I'll be about the best second mate you ever had. I'll get my old ticket out of the safe-deposit vault. Of course—" he remembered the fifty-three, forty in his pocket— "of course I don't need any advance; but, being a business man, I'll draw that five pounds a month when you pay off. Do you want me?"

"You bet I want you!" said the astonished captain. "We'll get along fine, I know. You've a way about you that mighty few mates have, and you're husky."

"Oh, I'm husky enough," said the man wearily.

He had another drink with the captain— delighted that the sailing of his ship was not going to be delayed for lack of a man with a second mate's certificate— then he walked slowly up the lonely wharf. All the awful hunger of a human soul for another soul to love it drenched him, made agonizing by the fact of his being hated by the love he craved. And the touch of the streets of the city he was leaving added to this pain, so that he hesitated at the door of a drug-store. Then he passed on.

"No," he muttered, "I won't disappoint the captain. I'll get a revolver tomorrow."

Then he sought relief in "meditating" on the clothes needed by a sensible man on a voyage as second mate of a small barque from Seattle to the United Kingdom; a relief which, however, was not enhanced when, the morning following, he went through his papers in the safe-deposit vault.

There were certain foolishly-held-sacred letters there. But he found his old ticket. How his mind went back to the day he had trembled in the examination room in Liverpool, when he was so nervous that he had told the examiner that he always stowed casks athwartships! How the kindly old man had smiled when he had hastily reversed the stowing of those casks! Yes, and the ticket was all he would take with him.

He struck a match and burned the letters. They made a tiny pile of ashes on the concrete floor. Some business papers he left in the box, careless of their end. The key he kept, because he had decided to tell no one of his going away.

He met the captain at the consul's. H. B. M's. representative knew him rather well, and told him to quit kidding when he explained that he was there to "sign on."

"I'm not kidding," he replied. "I'm going— oh, I'm taking a voyage for my health."

"Your health!" exclaimed the astonished official. "Then why don't you go as a passenger?"

The man drew his friend aside and made a desperate effort to be jovial. "It's my heart," he said. "I was pushed into this by a new sort of doctor— met him last night. Think he did something to me like hypnotism. Suppose he figures that the gentle exercise of being second mate will be better for me than loafing as a passenger, because it combines everything from fists to language. It's a new treatment. The doc told me he specialized in hearts. Hope he knows his business. But keep it quiet, won't you?"

"Of course I'll say nothing about it if you don't want me to," answered the consul. "But—er, I know an awfully good alienist. Wouldn't you like to meet him?"

"Later on perhaps," said the man absently. "Later on, perhaps, but not just now."

Then he signed the ship's articles, told the captain that he would sleep on board that night, shook hands with the perplexed consul and went about the pleasing task of putting his theory of "the clothes needed," etc. into a canvas bag such as is affected by sailors the world over, passing the rest of the day south of Yesler Way, and feeling like a blind soul trying to steer a course across the dark sea of eternity, with the star of hope missing.

In the evening he shouldered his purchases aboard into the crude second mate's cabin with its wooden bunk, its remarkably unsanitary washstand and its chest of drawers. The night had set in wet, and he lit the tiny lamp and surveyed the habitation of the past— the bare deck, the painted bulkhead, the barrenness after the comforts of his one home.

He threw his "donkey's breakfast" into the bunk and wearily spread his blankets. He did not sleep very well, and going on deck at six in the morning was an effort. He drank in the beauty of the city, glowing in the sunlight after its rain-bath. He would have to attend to the buying of that revolver.

So he went ashore that evening and bought it, and found a peculiar amusement in the buying when the clerk asked if he should charge it.

A TUG came alongside at daybreak. They cast off from the wharf. The men worked with a gladness. They were homeward bound. Seattle was only an incident to them. A joyful alacrity stirred them. They pulled and hauled as if they wanted to, and they "sang out" on the ropes with the abandon of a school of boys given an unexpected holiday.

But the second mate felt the throb of the opposite pole of emotion. In him was a hideous sense of loss mingled with the anger of a man who discovers he has been cheated. He had played as it had seemed best for him to play, but Fate had sat in the dealer's chair and most expertly worked a cold deck on him. Yes, he knew this, and he could do nothing but get up and quit the game, for Fate uses the weapon called indifference so cleverly that every beaten man is afraid to meet her eye.

Homeward bound, and he was leaving the home he had made and the city he had learned to love more than most men love the village they are born in. He was superintending the hauling in of the after lines when the full force of his loss struck him. Then, he looked and saw that the wharf was thirty feet away that a rapidly widening division of water separated him from all he held dear, from where his lifedream had become real. Over him came such a craving to go back that he nearly jumped overboard. The craving was almost as imperative as that of the drug user for his drug.

They towed down the Sound, and slowly Seattle went away from him as when a friend dies we can watch the something leave the face. And, with the sunset of the open sea before them, they cast off from the tug and set sail. They hoisted both topsails at the same time— taking the halyards to the capstans— and each watch tried to outdo the other with the beautiful chorus of:

Rolling home, rolling home across the sea.

Rolling home to dear old England,

Rolling home dear land to thee.

All of which the man enjoyed about as vividly as one might enjoy hearing the nails driven into one's own coffin.

It was a lovely night. A full moon, a four-knot breeze, every sail drawing and nothing for the man to do but walk the deck and think during his watch on deck. But his thinking was only a form of consciousness in an agony of emotions. The mender of broken hearts was a fool, and he himself a greater fool for listening to him, and a greater fool than that for following his suggestion.

He missed the evening papers and the food and comfort he had become accustomed to. How beautiful Lake Washington would be on a night like this. The quiet whisper of the wind in the sails was irritating, and the gurgle of the passing water was positively disgusting. He shuddered, and his fists clenched in the memory of a dreadful dream which had now become real.

When he was really happy on his honeymoon, he had dreamed that he had been torn away from his wife, and that he was back at sea. He had wakened in terror from that dream. Now he could not wake. And he would land in a distant port with very little money. How was he ever going to get back to Seattle? He would never get back. He was only a wandering sailor: port to port, drink to drink, and to the end of God knows where.

Then, there was a worse thing. The tough second mate of the past was dead. He had lost his nerve, and he gave orders in a tone that brought no rapid obedience, and he was in mortal fear that one of his men might start a fight. And in this way the days passed, until he began to be positively afraid of his watch. He dreaded to give an order. He was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. And in his cabin was the revolver, inviting him to forget.

SO, GROWING more tired and sick every day and haunted by the mockery of his life-wreck, he lived. They had good weather. The northeast trades took them almost to the Line. South of the equator the doldrums bothered them but little. The southeast trades were good. They crossed into the forties with the royals set.

They began running around Cape Horn with moderate breezes. Then they ran into a gale and shortened her down to two lower topsails and the foresail. It was the second mate's watch below during the forenoon. During that watch below he did not sleep, but sat in his bunk with his revolver in his hand. He had suffered overmuch. He had had enough. This was the finish. The culmination of the strain had been reached. He would end it.

He lay back and closed his eyes. The wind was on the starboard quarter and she was running nicely before it at about ten knots. A very ordinary gale. He felt the surge of her as she lifted to the seas. The thrill-music of the wind murmured laughingly. He put the revolver to his head. Then he laid it down. Marcus Aurelius had taught him that there were times when suicide was a virtue, but it would not be decent to make a mess for some one else to clean up. He would do it in his watch on deck, in such a way that his body would fall overboard. The mender of broken hearts was a poor surgeon.

One bell was struck and the boy came to call him. Eight bells and he went on deck. After a while the mate came to relieve him for dinner. He said he was not hungry, and remained on deck. The watch was "standing by." The captain went below. The man was in charge of the ship.

He walked aft and looked into the binnacle. She was all right. It was just an ordinary blow, a fine fair wind. He had brought his gun on deck with him. He stood aft by the wheel-box with his hand in his pocket and the gun in his hand. He would step over the rail and fall astern when the bullet entered his brain. Yes, it was no use suffering any longer. For a few minutes he stood watching the following seas and the screaming birds about the frothing wake. Then he looked up and forgot the revolver. He had never seen such a bank of cloud. It had risen about half way from the horizon and was moving toward the ship with sinister swiftness. Its parts whirled among themselves and looked like patches of hardened grease. The man turned and walked forward, thinking. The ship had high bulwarks, and she was not taking much water aboard. Again he studied that horrible sky. He felt very nervous. She was making good weather of it, but there was certainly a nasty sea, and a little more wind would make it very nasty. In the wave valleys were the familiar white streaks.

The ship was climbing the cold, gray Cape Horn hills and gliding down them, but she was not doing it any too swiftly. He looked at the advancing cloud. A child would know it for more wind, with snow and hail. If one of the sails blew away, the vessel's speed would be so lessened that she would fail to keep ahead of the sea. In other words, she would be "pooped" by the overtaking waves, and that would likely mean disaster.

The man hesitated. Then a rush of anger stirred his soul. Years before he wouldn't have cared— he would have done the right thing and done it at once. Years before! Then he saw himself as he was: the plaything of a woman's whim, the thing she had thrown aside— broken by the throwing— a pitiful, whining womanworshiper, a poor, sniveling cur, without a backbone. And men's lives and a valuable ship and cargo had been entrusted to that thing's care.

That sinister sky of greasiness, that swirling squall was almost upon them. There was but one thing to do. In a little while the wind and sea would be too much for her. They would have to heave to. It was a job for all hands, under the captain's orders. Shouting to the man at the wheel to mind his steering, the second mate ran down the companion to the captain's cabin.

"There's a lot more wind coming, sir," he said.

"I'll be on deck in a minute, mister," replied the captain.

As the second mate went on deck again, the first of the hail bit at his face. He walked aft to the wheel. Although it was but afternoon, it had grown almost dark. The captain came up hurriedly. He got one look at the sky before the hail blotted everything.

"Call all hands," he shouted. "And, mister, take your watch forrard and get the gear of the foresail all ready for hauling up. We're going to heave to."

Then the wind hit her, screaming viciously like some maddened animal of a gigantic mythology. It took the bark in its teeth and shook her, as she ran for her life with the great gray seas running with her, curling over the rails and thundering on the deck.

The driven hail swept past, howling weirdly as it cleared. The ship yawed wildly, in spite of all the man at the wheel could do. The second mate struggled forward with his watch. The captain's voice was flung along the gale like a wee, lost thing.

"Another hand to the wheel." The second mate motioned to one of his men to obey the order. He pointed up the fore rigging and bawled a whisper into another man's ear—to get on the fore yard and cut the stops on the gear.

The man fought his way into the shrouds, and his progress up the rigging was a sort of crawl on his stomach, the wind pinning him against the ratlines. The rest of the watch gathered at the clew-garnet. The mate's watch came on deck and manned buntlines and leachlines.

The mate took charge and the second mate slid away to leeward to slack off the sheet, whilst the mate slacked the weather sheet, doubtless feeling grateful to his favorite deity because there was no chain-foretack to unhook. The men's voices swelled into a wind-disintegrated chorus as they pulled.

The sail acted like a huge sheet of armor plate, pale with fright and quite frantic. So violently did it pull that a whole watch on one buntline were at times unable to take in any slack. And in the wind were screamed fantastic messages, commands, jeers and coarse witticisms from the ghosts of the many sailors Cape Horn has caused to die.

As the weight of the foresail was taken off her, her speed decreased, so that the following seas began to come aboard in tons. There was no thought of furling the sail at that time. The thing to do was to wait for a smooth, if any smooth came, than brace up the yards quickly and bring her to the wind.

The mate took his wratch to the fore braces and the second mate took his to the main. The crew, since they were to leeward, were in comparative safety, but the positions of the two officers were dangerous— slacking away weather-braces in that hurricane-stricken sea being no job for a nervous man; and of the two the second mate had by far the worst of it, for the reason that he had to work where the heavy seas that the poop succeeded in defying vented their anger on the main deck.

For a few minutes they waited, hanging on to anything they could.

The captain stood at the break of the poop, watching the seas. Suddenly he raised his hand. The mates did not need to pass the order to their men. They began slacking away and the men pulled with avidity.

The yards were carried forward by the wind. They were braced up very rapidly. The captain motioned to the men at the wheel. Then he pointed forward. The mate's watch, being the smarter, had belayed their braces. Now they scrambled into the fore rigging and started aloft for the fore yard. But the second mate's watch was caught. And the sea that came on board filled her fore and aft.

The "singing out" of his men coming to windward like fainting echoes had ceased. He had shouted "belay" and was hitching the upper topsail brace on to the pin, automatically, with his mind maundering on his broken dream, when he felt it coming.

He looked up and saw a great precipice of water curling twenty feet over the rail.

The noises of the wind and the hardstriving vessel seemed to still. The Ego of him stood out from the stream of his consciousness and knew the awful loneliness of an unloved soul that seeks annihilation. He was lost in the blackness of a callous universe. The cringe of self-pity fettered the feet that had been given him to climb with. The marvelous law of personal responsibility seemed too hard. Indeed, it appeared to be cruel. It always does to the quitter.

Well, he might as well let the sea carry him overboard and end it all that way. Then the sea crushed him to the deck.

He felt the ship stagger under him. He was dashed against the combings of the after hatch. He gasped, and his mouth filled with water. Then it all came back— the old, forgotten taste of the salt. The fight-stirring tang of it.

Bruised and angry, he struggled to get on his feet. The end of one of the braces was washed past his hand. He grasped it and tried to pull himself to windward. He opened his eyes and tried to see through the dark green water that covered him.

The taste of the salt persisted, stirring him greatly. The taste that had given the world its adventurers, the man-making smack of it.

About him crowded an unseen throng, whose blood ran warmly in his veins: Vikings, buccaneers, gentlemen wanderers, explorers, navigators—Hawkins's men, Drake's men, Nelson's men— men about whose mothering had blown the sea-breezes of a certain little group of islands in the North Sea— the taste of the salt of their homeland that had given them a taste for the salt of all the world— these crowded around him and gave him thunderous welcome back to manhood.

He gritted his teeth and clawed along the brace to the rail. The woman-craving weakness fell away from him as a dream falls from waking senses. He had steeped his soul in that dream and learned the foulness of it.

A flash of rage shook him as he realized how pitiful are the lurings and the follies of women which had meant all to him. But such things meant nothing to him any more. His back stiffened to the inspiration of the daring of clean, strong, self-reliant living, and the pride of the self-control of it.

He got his head above water, and laughed joyously in the wind's face at the thought of it. He could meet his future as the men who had made his country had met it. And in the glory of his re-finding he crushed the false beat of a woman's heart, and the false smile of her lips beneath his heel forever. And, he could look Fate in the face and laugh at her dirty work. He was no longer a beaten man, and her indifference was amusing.

He mouthed the taste of the salt and breathed deeply. Then he softly cursed the mender of broken hearts, as one lovingly curses one's best friend.

"The old son-of-a-gun," he muttered. "He was right— the old thread of experience that I had let fall— the old sea days when I learned to be a man— painful, it seemed, did the learning of it— that thread fixed me all right. The mending hurt, as he said it would, but it mended his old skin!"

So he paid the fee of gratitude.

The water cleared. The man shook himself like a vibrant dog. In the voice that had made men jump in past years. He shouted at his men as he splashed down to leeward where they were hanging on.

"What the —— are you things? You look like a hospital on a holiday. Do you want the other watch to do all the work. Get forrard! Get!"

They obeyed him as sheep obey. As they passed the galley, the cook stuck his head out of the lee door. The man stopped and grinned at the cook, a respect-compeling grin. Taste of the salt was calling for its sweetening.

"Why," thought the man, "it's nearly fifteen years since I quit the good old stuff." He leaned in at the galley door.

"Cook!" he shouted.

"Yes, sir," said the cook very respectfully.

"Give me a chew of tobacco."

______________

4: The Vain Shadow

Duncan Campbell Scott

1862-1947

From "The Witching of Elspie, A Book of Stories", 1923

Duncan Campbell Scott, Canadian civil servant, poet, and short story writer.

[Being an excerpt from the manuscript journal of Archibald Muir, clerk of the Honourable the Hudson's Bay Company at Nepigon house in the year of Our Lord 1815.]

Monday, January Ninth, 1815.

NOW that Murchison has gone daft or near it, nothing remains for me but to shut myself up within myself and resort to what resources I have in my own heart to eke out the days. The longing for a homely life and ordinary sweet converse with one's fellows must be put away and I must, to keep my own brain sweet and sound, take an interest in the dead world about me.

The day has been a wild one. Last night I heard the wind begin in the trees; at first I thought it was Donald who has a constant way of moving about at night, speering out at the door, pacing to and fro in the darkness and behaving generally in a manner calculated to set any well ordered body thinking that he was tormented by an evil spirit or an evil conscience which I opine is much the same thing. But it was not Murchison; he was asleep as quiet as if he was dead and I heard the wind give another stir back on the hill. The snow must have fallen from that on, and now all the marks and evidences of the landscape are gone, being concealed in the mass of the storm which blows everywhere.

There has been nothing to be done all day. If I had been so minded I could have added the columns of my ledger for the fiftieth time but every slight mark in the paper being now as familiar as every figure on the page I forebore. If Donald had been so minded I could have read another number of the Glasgow Herald but if I even looked upon the desk in which he keeps it he began to growl and shift himself in his seat or to glare up from the bunk where he was lying. Yesterday he called me "a puir feckless fule" but if I was "fule" enough to invent such a diabolical manner of reading the good papers full of news which come out to us in the packets I would "steik" my mouth, as he would say, about "fules." Here he has the good Glasgow Herald, mark you, a Christian paper if ever there was one, and will not read it for to enjoy it as a Christian should by reading it day and night till all the copies are done and then reading it over and over to his heart's content. But, "No," he says; "twice every week, on the Monday and the Friday, we will have our paper and so will pass the winter and have none of your daft performances," says he.

Last Friday I read the news of April Eighth in the year of our Lord 1814 and I am compelled to await the pleasure of my master to read the news of April Eleventh. He will not let me have a look at the paper and sits glowering into the fire or uprising like a man who has resolved to save his country and then dropping back into his chair as if he had no more life than a baby. Oh! if I had the great arrangements of the Honourable Hudson's Bay Company I would make an alteration in the Nepigon House Post.

Donald was always a nervous sort of a body and no more to be depended on than the wind, up and down with his temper and his tongue,— but what started him off to-day? What devil is riding him now? I was eating my brose this morning and I was watching him open the paper thinking to myself, maybe about noon you'll be finished with that. Well he kept on reading without thinking at all of his bowl and it was getting cold. He had his face close up to the window for the light was little, by reason of the storm, and his eye was jumping about on the paper, but very quickly he seemed all turned to stone and stared like an ox hit with a poll axe. Then he gave a sort of groan and let his hand fall down and the paper rustled against his knees. His face turned all wan and pinched together, and a more dreeful figure I never saw, but he was all up again in a minute. I saw he expected to meet my eye, but I was looking into my bowl. "Hoot!" he said, "young donkey, you'd be letting yon brose get as cold as a puddock and not askin' Alec to put them by the fire."

With that he sat down but never a mouthful did he eat. I went over as if to take up the paper.

"Haud," says he, "dinna touch it!"

"Um!" says I, maybe in a mocking tone.

"None o' your snash," says he, as sharp as a trap. I thought better to let it go at that so I put a log on the fire and bye and bye up he gets, whips out his keys, unlocks his private box and just fairly puts the paper away.

So in default of anything else to do I must abuse him for his un-Christian goings-on in this my diary. I wish I had here a woman or two I know who are glib with the tongue and we would roast his character for him so that the material ears would burn on his head. From the first he had a grudge against me and for a year his conduct has been getting more intolerable and I have to bear with him and not be half so impudent as his action calls for. Now he has begun to provoke me by withholding the paper.

January Tenth.

Reading what I last wrote puts me out of conceit of myself for being so impatient with a poor body who maybe has more cause to be provoked with me than I have to be put about by him. It is almost a fearsome thing, when you consider it, to be here so many miles away from home in a land burdened with snow and deep cold, just the three of us, Donald, myself and the boy. And for the past few months as I look back I realize we have not had a pleasant time of it. Donald has been that freakish there has been no living with him and I have a temper of my own and sometimes there is nothing left for the boy Alec to do but to go out with the dogs. We should be for- bearing and I pray God to make me lenient of Donald Murchison's faults.

I was sitting writing with just enough light from the fire to see by when Donald came in stirring about in an uneasy way.

"Muir," he says. I thought he was going to speak in the temper he had been in all day, so I went on writing. "Archie, boy," he says in his winning way which when he puts on I would go the round of the world for him.

"What is it?" answered I, looking up.

"Have ye any breath in your body at all?"

"I have."

"Then why don't you blow it into the pipes?"

I was glad enough to do that so I took them out of my box and I played my best and many of the things I knew he liked but when I struck into "Braw, braw, lads" (which is his prime favorite for some reason unknown to me who always think it a scritchy bit of a tune) he held up his hand, not vicious at ail, but as not wanting me to go on, so I put them by. Then as he was in such a good humour I slipped away and got the boy Alec, and between us, while he sat looking into the fire and pulling at his beard, we made something savory and got it upon the table without burning or slopping. I was glad to see him eat with gusto and as I looked upon him as we had our faces over the table I began to observe how he was all fallen away and shrunken to half his natural size.

It is strange that when a person has anything upon the mind he will not eat but will go about as if the trouble was meat and drink to him. So it is with Murchison. He has always seemed to me a lonely body, never getting any letters from home, or speaking about his folk, a man without comfortable recollections, and that is a poor way to be in this land where nothing happens but storms and the endeavour of the fur trade. I had a sort of pang for Donald as I saw him looking so wasted and I vowed to be more patient with him. He did not speak much and mostly to the boy, but after supper as I put on fresh wood he began to get restless and in a moment or two to glance at me and at his box. Then he went over and unlocked it and threw the newspaper back over his shoulder at me. "There," he said, "tak' it," half crossly like a child in a pout. I thanked him courteously and read it over by the fire-light. He sat and watched me for some reason or other as if he were ready to pounce on me, but I bore him out and in not more than an hour he went off to bed, when I finished my paper in peace.

This morning he was up early, dancing about for his breakfast and seemed as if he wanted to talk to me without caring to broach the subject.

"Weel," he said at length when we had the porridge and were eating them, "Mr. Muir, did ye enjoy your readin'?"

"I did," said I.

"It's a bonny journal, yon Herald; ye said ye were never in Glasga?"

"No," I answered for the hundredth time.

"Puir body. I ken it weel, though I had'na been there for close twenty-five year."

"There must be changes in the town."

"Aye, more's the pity. Now did you happen to observe in yesterday's paper the trial for a murder?"

We commonly talked the news over as if it was fresh of the day before though it was nearly a year old.

"I did; the man called Farquharson?"

"Aye! it set me to groping back in my mind and I seem to win back the affair."

"I did not see when they arrested him."

"I did," he remarked. "It was a good many months back; they would have been collecting the evidence against him."

"This fellow was sheer daft to go back to Glasgow; of course some one was sure to recognize him."

"Twenty or so years is a long stretch."

"True, but then you see a murder stirs up hate and the friends of the murdered man never rest and they were of consequence in the town I should judge."

"They were that," said he.

"Well, he's properly hanged by this time," I said, thoughtlessly.

"Bah!" he cried, "canna ye steik your mouth. How can you tell aught about that. If there's onything I abhor, it's a lad o' your size with a loose lip."

Friday, January Thirteenth.

This afternoon after the storm I went off to dig out some traps I had set on Jack Fish Island. In one I found a silver fox. The sight of it made Donald smile when I brought it in. It is dancing cold after the storm.

About an hour after I brought in the fox he threw me over the paper.

"There's naething in it about the trial," he said. "What trial?"

"Farquharson's." I could see he was angry again with me for having forgotten and I could see also that he was for some reason or other interested in the trial more than ordinary. He growled in his beard a good deal and would not eat anything and how he can keep the strength in him is more than I can understand.

January Fourteenth.

Yesterday Donald decided in great a fuss and hurry that he would go to Negodina and away we went with the dogs. It was a beautiful morning, the snow all sparkling in the sun and no wind to disturb the lightest of the crystals. I was enjoying the exhilarating motion on my snowshoes and the sound of my voice in the clear air calling to the dogs. We had barely gone five miles when Donald tumbled over in the snow and could not get up.

"This is what comes of eating no breakfast," I said, "and trying to walk a matter of twenty-five miles on a glass of grog."

He looked at me pitifully out of the weariness of his eyes and said nothing.

That is the thing I do not understand about the man, if I get the first word at him he will not so much as answer me back, but if he begins to rate me he will bluster me down if it takes all day.

When I got him back to the Post he was cold and with some hot broth I got the warmth into him, stretch- ing him on the bench before the fire with his rabbit-skin robe well over him. Now I began to remember, what with petulance I had overlooked, that for a long time he had not eaten enough to keep life in a bird and been drinking his allowance. Now sympathy opened my eyes and I saw he had no flesh and no strength.

Toward evening he said in his best winning voice, "Read us the paper, laddie."

So I read yesterday's paper through and several times I thought he had gone to sleep but when I had finished he said with a weary sigh, "There's no word about the trial."

"Not a word," I answered.

A few moments later he fell asleep and as I am writing he still sleeps.

The Sabbath, January Fifteenth .

Donald is not much better to-day. Last night I heard him astir and rising myself I saw him with a candle groping over old papers in the box, but did not disturb him and warn him back to bed, as I should have done, for fear of his displeasure.

Wednesday, January Eighteenth.

There has been nothing worthy to write about until to-day. Donald lay all day yesterday and spoke seldom, and that crossly when he did speak and cuffed at Alec with his blanket which is a thing I never saw him do before. He would do everything for himself and would read the paper and Mr. James Boswell's "Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides," but flung the book away, calling the writer "a doited body! a clavering idiot!"

But to-day he is up and about as blithe as a bird and nothing that will account for it but some notes about this trial, but why the probability of a guilty man being not hanged through lack of evidence should make anybody joyful is to me inexplicable. But he goes about whistling, "Braw, braw, lads," and snapping his fingers and once when he was working at the parchment in the window he broke out with a laugh and a quoting out of the journal " Insufficiency of evidence." But the laugh sounded hollow.

"You think they won't hang this Farquharson?"

"Na! man; they'd be clean daft to hang the body on any evidence they can find," and he chuckled over the words.

"You seem glad," I remarked.

"Aye!" he said dryly.

"They may hang him yet," I said.

"You are supposing he's the right man."

"He has been identified."

"Aye!" said he, chuckling again.

What sense is there in this, says I to myself. He clearly wants Farquharson to get free. But, to tell truth, I am of that mind also, for the poor body denies so hotly that he is Farquharson. But at the same time he will not say who he is in truth or where he came from and he has against his word all these rich and powerful personages who swear that he is Farquharson and so unless he can open his mouth and find him some friends it will go hardly with him.

In the evening we brewed punch and we had too much of it and, God forgive me, I do not remember what happened, but this morning Alec's ear that was above his blanket was bitten by the frost as the fire had gone out.

January Twenty-fourth.

I have been so busy with Donald that I have had no time to write in this Journal, and now there is nothing to write about saving him and his vagaries about this trial which is like a maggot in his brain. From the news that we read regularly it would appear that the evidence is much against Farquharson, though it provokes me to think that he is long ago cold in his grave or alive and free somewhere while we are bothering our brains about him here for no good reason so far as I can see. When I was a bairn at home when my poor mother used to read aloud to us we would cry out if she read on with her eye and remained silent in the enthralling parts of the story. But dearly would I love to read on now. A flip or two of these old papers and I would end all this suspense, but Donald will not hear to it.

There is no keeping his mind from off the topic and unless I can divert him he will be mad with it. Last night he came to me about midnight and shook me awake. He held the light in his hand and his face was resolute. I saw he was dressed for the road and had his dog-whip in his hand.

"Muir," he said, "I leave you in charge of the Post. I'm awa'."

"Where to?" I asked, half asleep.

"To Glasga." It made my bones crumble to hear him. "Glasgow, man! Do you know we're in the Nepigon a thousand and a thousand and a thousand miles from Glasgow and as good as a year's travel."

"I'm going," he said. "Be you good to Alec."

I saw he was fixed, so to gain time I humoured him. "If you are going," I said, "I have a bit of a parcel I'd like you to take to my mother."

"Aye," said he, "that I will do gladly, wrap it up and be quick about it."

I took the light from him and went to my box. As I stooped over it I said, "Are you going to attend Farquharson's trial?"

"I am."

"You forget that what we were reading is a matter of a year old."

It was cruel hard to say it. He pondered it; then he let the whip drop, threw up both his hands and reeled down on my bed. After a while he let me take off his capot and moccasins. Then he began to cry like a little boy.

"You're good to me, Archie, lad; you're good to me."

"Man!" I said, "you're all unnerved."

"I got to thinking o'er much, and I thought if either Mary or me could reach there we might save him."

"You had best talk to me about it," I said, "and not kill yourself with thinking. You don't eat your food, Donald, man, and there's nothing so destroying as this furious thinking on an empty stomach."

"I think you're right; you're a sensible laddie. It maybe would be a good plan."

I built up the fire and after a little while I had the satisfaction of seeing him drop off into a sound and peaceful sleep.

Wednesday, January Twenty-fifth.

I am so careful now in watching Donald and nursing him and humouring him that I have not time each day to write in this diary. I have tried to act upon the suggestion I made the other night and have him talk to me about what is in his mind regarding this Farquharson trial with but small success. I deliberately tried him with a question the other morning when he seemed reasonable and coherent.

"You spoke of a Mary the other night?"

"Tut!" he replied, "ye impudent young rascal, what is that to you that I spoke of?"

I was moved to answer him back sharply but I for- bore for that time. The last journal that we read about the trial said that the evidence was all in and he was that restless and captious nothing would suit him. We had a quarrel this morning over the small matter of a clean shirt I wanted to put upon him. But he would have none of my help and ordered me away as if he had been a prince and I a scullion.

"I'll have none of your paltering and officious interference," he says, "do ye think I can no put on my own shirt. Tak' yersel off!"

But so weak was he that he had sore work with it and had in the end to ask Alec to do the throat buttons for him. The only food he will take now is a little broth made from the breasts of the geese we had put down last fall. I make it savory and heat it myself and keep Alec's finger out of the pot so that nothing is burnt or ill-flavoured.

To-day when he was supping something he said: "They think they have the right man and are keeping her out of the way."

"Who?"

"Miss Mary Fraser."

"Oh!" said I, "she wouldn't be a good witness if he were the right man, eh?"

"Never!" he says.

"Well, that's odd that a woman would not see justice done."

"They're bound to hang him," he said grimly, "and they couldn't if she were about. If it was Farquharson there, before her, she'd say it was no him and give him a chance for his life or I never knew her."

Friday, January Twenty-seventh.

Hugh Farquharson is found guilty and is to be hanged on the Thirtieth of June, eighteen and Fourteen.

January Thirtieth.

I have had a mighty trial with Donald and have been through deep waters with him, but now I think he will be gradually getting better if I can keep his mind off the hanging matter. After I read out the last news to him he became like stone, oblivious, as it seemed to me, of his surroundings. Seeing him so quiet I went about my work with an easy mind, and on Thursday evening I said I will play him a little on the pipes. But the drones had hardly taken the breath when he was upon me and he abused me so soundly and so well that my tongue could make no answer. There was somewhat droll about it and tragical at the same time. There was not much flame to the fire and very little light in the room and out of the gloom of the corner where his bunk is I could see him flourish his blanket as his voice descended upon me.

It is strange that a thing he esteems so greatly as the pipes should have set him out of humour. I recollect many evenings during the summer that I would play walking up and down the green in front of the door. When the echo from the chanters would come clamouring back from the hill on the island he would say to me, his face all beaming with satisfaction, "Do ye hear that, Archie boy? It sounds like a lot o' tykes yowling over there." To what a pass he has brought himself when he cannot abide the sound of the pipes and them in the same room with him!

Wednesday, February First.

A wild storm yesterday. I visited the traps at Jack Fish Island. Ogema-gah-bow came in from Negodina and says the rabbits are scarce. I gave him a bag of flour and a small keg of rum. Donald is quiet but no better.

February Fourth.

To-day has been one of misfortune. The boy; Alec, began this morning by burning the porridge and they were vile. Then one of the windows blew in with the storm and the fire got out of the hearth. Then when the fish was ready for supper the boy stumbled with it and fell along the floor. Donald was moved to laughter and roared like a bull-moose. It was droll, the figure of Alec sprawling, trying to save himself and the supper at the same time. His felt cap that he persists in wearing in the house sprang off his head and went into the fire where it was finely singed. It was good to hear Donald laugh after so many days of silence. But it had an untoward effect upon him for in a few minutes his flesh was ringing with sweat and cold at that. The man was crazy that he would not allow me to help him out of his shirt.

I have some decent pleasure now in reading the Herald, although Donald's eye is fearsome at times and glares as if he expected to see the real execution in it. If he would but let me go forward a few months and see how the matter was ended!

The Sabbath, February Fifth.

The fit of laughter that Donald had yesterday at supper time seemed to have cleared the air, and to-day he is quite sunny with that uncommon winning way he has which when he adopts it makes him the best companion in the world, even for me who am maybe half as old. After dinner I had him propped up on the bench before the fire, his wool bonnet on his head, his rabbit-skin robe across his knees when he began to talk with never a provocation from me which I will write down to the best of my recollection, using his very words when I can recall them.

THAT Mary Fraser was a bonnie lass; ye mind I used to live in Glasga; a bonnie, bonnie lass. I was a young thing then in her father's counting house, a matter of twenty or twenty-two, and she was maybe eighteen or twenty, maybe, they gar their ages weel, the lassies. I had a great comrade in those days, he was over the self-same desk, Hugh Farquharson by name. Aye! Ye start; I knew the lad weel. He was a sort of cousin to Mary Fraser, ye ken; his mother and her father were second cousins, close enough in Scotland. Weel, he was a rantin' bit of a boy. Ye remind me of him some, ye have the same up-anddown capricious temper and a good deal of the same sort of nonsense about ye. That maybe makes me tolerate ye. Weel, old Hugh Fraser used to ask him up to the house occasionally to have a bit and sup and sometimes Miss Mary used to run in to vex her father at the office and so they met at whiles. There was anither lad who lived at the big house who was not as much relation as was Hugh. Old Fraser was good to his relatives and the only chick and child was Miss Mary. Weel, this fellow's name was Purvis. Aye ! ye start: I'm telling ye how it happened. A mean, hang-dog, pale-eyed puppy he was; but there he was in the house, mind ye, and he was older than us boys, looking back I weel realize we were nothing but boys. What old Fraser could see in this disjasket, speldering nobody I could never make out but nevertheless he was as much bound to match him with Miss Mary as the idiot was himself.

I didn't much wonder at Hugh falling in love with Miss Mary she was that cantie with her bonnie red hair and her blue eyen and her arms and waist as round as a ring. And perhaps ye could na blame her for loving the lad but I was never the judge of beauty in a man. He was as strong as steel and as straight as a rush, that I will say. Weel, he told me about it for we were on open terms.

"Tak' care what ye do," said I, "and just keep your eye on Mr. Purvis."

"Why?" said he.

"Because he's just the very deevil!"

"Pooh!" answered he, "I could crush him with my thumb."

"Ye could that," said I, "but he has a deal of low cunning in that head of his and you run counter to his plans for he wants Miss Mary for himself."

I thought Plugh would choke when I said that. Weel, for a whole winter they went on with their love nonsense and nobody observed them. For to be sure they hadn't over much of a chance for it. At kirk it was a mere feasting of the eye; and otherwhiles a bit of a note exchanged or a lock of hair as like as not; or a word that meant more than it sounded when some dull body's back was turned. Hugh got a sailor in port to tattoo on his breast over his heart a true lover's knot with the initials above and below: M. F. that was Mary Fraser, and H. F. that was Hugh Farquharson and like as not he told her of his foolishness.

I don't know that there was any end to the secret lover's nonsense they carried on and when it came spring they used to meet in the evening. There was a little old garden door in the wall fairly smothered up in ivy and when Miss Mary could slip away from her women folk she would come out and talk to Hugh under a thorn tree where he had piled a heap of stones for a seat and I have no manner of doubt but that the burn looked fine to them as they sat by it in the starlight.

One night as I was reading in my room Hugh came on tip-toe into me, his face ghostly white.

"I've killed him!" he whispered.

"Purvis?" I asked under my breath.

"Yes," said he.

Then he put his mouth up to my ear and whispered me the story. It appears they were cuddled up there in the moonlight in Hughie's plaidie when Purvis came through the gate and found them. Instead of talking to Hugh like a man, he began to abuse Miss Mary and in the midst of his gab he called her a vile name. It was hardly out of his mouth when Hugh was upon him. Miss Mary frightened half to death ran into the garden as Hugh told her.

"I've killed him," he said, "and I was very quick with him."

"Well!" said I, "let us go and see."

Even then I had made up my mind what to do and I took a bit of rope with me. We scurried along in the moonlight and when we found him he was dead,— stone dead.

"What maun I do now?" asked Hugh, shocked out of his senses.

"You'll do just as I tell you."

So we tied him up with stones and sunk him in a deep pool of the burn.

"Now," I said, "the Quebec (she was one of Fraser's ships) weighs anchor to- morrow morning. You go aboard to-night, get McTavish (he was second mate and a chum of ours) to hide you until you are three days out and good-bye to this part of the world."

It was the only thing for him to do. Old Fraser would have hunted him if he but laid a finger on that booby Purvis, for he was a fine hater, and here he had killed him outright, ye see, in the middle of his temper without ever being able to tell afterward how he had done it. After a while I slipped away myself for it was sort of uncomfortable after the affair got about and I had a power of questions asked me some of which I did not care to answer.

Monday, February Sixth.

It was too long a story for Donald to tell and he has been weaker since and looks woefully bad. When he was listening to the paper to-day which I was reading to him he said, suddenly interrupting me:

"I told ye that story that ye might tell Mary Fraser if anything happens to me that I would have gone to Glasga and saved the man if I could have done it."

"If the man is Farquharson how then could you have saved him?" asked I impudently.

"You will tell her that, Archie, like a dear lad?"

"I will," I replied.

"And tell her too that I know that if she could have got there and saved him she would have done that. Ye ken she might be away travelling in foreign parts or they might keep the word of the trial away from her as they do sometimes from women folk."

"Yes, I'll tell her that."

"That's considerate of you, ye ken I knew them both well. Ye seem to understand that it is the woefullest of all the fates to have your mind in one spot o' earth and your dull dead body in anither, not to be able to reach folk when they need ye sore, and to feel your soul destroy your body like the wick burns up the candle."

Saturday, February Eleventh.

Yesterday when I took up the new paper to read to Donald I had a surprise: it was dated June Twenty-fourth, and the last one I had read was dated May Ninth. He saw there was something wrong so he said, "What is it, Archie man?"

I had to tell him and search high or low I could make nothing of it, six weeks of the papers were missing.

"Guid God!" he cried, "do ye ken what this means. Six weeks gone out of life and all for the sake of some doited clerk body who doesn't know what is life in these outland parts."

I could not get him quieted and in truth I was well put about myself. But search was useless, a whole package of the paper had gone astray.

"Just think of it!" he kept murmuring to himself, "six weeks of those bonnie Glasga Heralds."

"Well, we can go on with the others and try not to remember it."

"I'm no so sure o' that." Then he said in a low, musing voice, "If we did that they'd be hanging him next week."

The loss of all those papers is a wretched business when you come to consider it. It is not as if you could turn your money in your pocket and have them again. To-day I heard Donald talking to Alec; he thought I was out feeding the dogs. It was pitiful to hear his apologetic tones with the boy whom he had been sharp with a moment before.

"Ye maun na mind me, lad, I'm just a bit gyte. Ye ken I've lost six weeks o' my life in those Heralds that may be in the bottom of the deep but which are missent mostlike by some idiot clerk in the office. Man, but it's waeful. Ye see Archie Muir and me were expecting something in the journal about six weeks from now and I canna let him read on and there's no way of leading up to it. What'll happen to me before that Guid kens. Mind ye never make mistakes in your work, laddie, they're sometimes worse than real wickedness."

The Sabbath, February Twelfth.

Donald called me about four o'clock this morning.

"Archie, man, I'm a bit cold! will you give me a drink?"

I had Alec up in a twinkling, and in a moment we had some hot grog. He sipped a little of it. His hands were very cold.

"Go," he says, "Archie, lad, to my box, you'll find a little packet in the corner of the top."

He shut it up in his hands. Then he sank back and sighed. It came over me how I had often been angry and fought him. Poor Alec did not understand and cowered up trembling against me.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Death," I answered.

"Do people die so easily?" he asked.

"Sometimes," I answered.

"I thought it was sleep," he whispered.

"So it is," I said.

Monday, February Thirteenth.

I have made everything right for poor Donald. We have cleared the snow from the house where we winter the canoes and have opened the door. It is the best place we have for him. On Wednesday morning we will put his body into his own canoe out of which I have cut the bars, and we will put him there at rest until I can dig a decent grave for him in the springtime.

I have blamed myself much to-day for not noticing that he was so low. I have been thinking that he might have wished to say something at the last, and I would have liked to have asked him to forgive me if I had been unmannerly and hard to live with. But it is all over now and he lies there on the bier that we have made him out of the only two planks we have in the Post, with his hands clasped over the little package he had me bring him from his box. The boy will not believe he is dead. Twice he has come to me with the word, "I'm certain I saw him move, Mr. Muir."

Tuesday, February Fourteenth.

It is late at night now. I got wrought upon by waiting and thinking what I should do now I have charge of the Post. I remembered that I had promised to write to Miss Mary Fraser. Then I thought I would know if they hanged that poor body Farquharson; so I glanced at the Heralds.

I found what I looked for but not what I expected. They had not hanged him for he was not Farquharson. Miss Mary Fraser, who seems to have been kept away as I read it, proved that beyond peradventure. He had not the marks over his heart of which she had been told. The poor fool was heartened to tell who he really was and that he was a deserter from the army lately in Spain, which fact had closed his mouth. His uncommon and unfortunate resemblance to Farquharson had nearly cost him his life.

"Oh! " I thought as I looked down upon Donald, lying there so still and solemn, "Oh! if you could only have known."

Then I remembered that I would write it all to Mary Fraser. Upon that a thought came into my head that made my voice tremble as I said to Alec, "Hold the light, boy."

"What may be the matter, Sir?" He held the light high over the quiet form on the bier. I turned back the coat and the shirt. Over his heart were the initials M. F. with H. F. above and below a true-lover's knot.

"Is that all?" said Alec; his voice wavered.

"Aye, that is all."

_______________

5: The Gully of Bluemansdyke

Arthur Conan Doyle

1859-1930

London Society, Christmas Annual 1881

Uncredited in the magazine; but reprinted in a Conan Doyle short story collection in 1889. An early Conan Doyle story, about bushrangers in Australia, where he never visited.  It predates his creation of Sherlock Holmes by some 6 years. I labororiously transcribed this from the London Society magazine page image, only to discover later that it was available already in Roy Glashan's Library (www.freeread.com.au) which has an amazing library of Conan Doyle's non-Sherlock stories including all the very early ones which are seldom reprinted, like this one.

BROADHURST'S store was closed, but the little back room looked very comfortable that night. The fire cast a ruddy glow on ceiling and walls, reflecting itself cheerily on the polished flasks and shot-guns which adorned them. Yet a gloom rested on the two men who sat at either side of the hearth, which neither the fire nor the black bottle upon the table could alleviate.

'Twelve o'clock,' said old Tom, the storeman, glancing up at the wooden timepiece which had come out with him in '42. 'It's a queer thing, George, they haven't come.'

'It's a dirty night,' said his companion, reaching out his arm for a plug of tobacco. 'The Wawirra's in flood, maybe, or maybe their horses is broke down, or they've put it off, perhaps. Great Lord, how it thunders! Pass us over a coal, Tom.'

He spoke in a tone which was meant to appear easy, but with a painful thrill in it which was not lost upon his mate. He glanced uneasily at him from under his grizzled eyebrows.

'You think it's all right, George?' he said, after a pause.

'Think what's all right?'

'Why, that the lads are safe.'

'Safe! Of course they're safe. What the devil is to harm them?'

O, nothing; nothing, to be sure,' said old Tom. 'You see, George, since the old woman died, Maurice has been all to me; and it makes me kinder anxious. It's a week since they started from the mine, and you'd ha' thought they'd be here now. But it's nothing unusual, I s'pose; nothing at all. Just my darned folly.'

'What's to harm them?' repeated George Hutton again, arguing to convince himself rather than his comrade. 'It's straight road from the diggin's to Rathurst, and then through the hills past Bluemansdyke, and over the Wawirra by the ford, and so down to Trafalgar by the bush track. There's nothin' deadly in all that, is there? My son Allan's as dear to me as Maurice can be to you, mate,' he continued; 'but they know the ford well, and there's no other bad place. They'll be here tomorrow night, certain.'

'Please God they may!' said Broadhurst; and the two men lapsed into silence for some time, moodily staring into the glow of the fire, and pulling at their short clays.

It was indeed, as Hutton had said, a dirty night. The wind was howling down through the gorges of the western mountains, and whirling and eddying among the streets of Trafalgar; whistling through the chinks in the rough wood cabins, and tearing away the frail shingles which formed the roofs. The streets were deserted save for one or two stragglers from the drinking shanties, who wrapped their cloaks around them and staggered home through the wind and rain towards their own cabins. The silence was broken by Broadhurst, who was evidently still ill at ease.

'I say, George,' he said, 'what's become of Josiah Mapleton?'

'Went to the diggin's.'

'Ay, but he sent word he was coming back.'

'But he never came.'

'An' what's become of Jos Humphrey?' he resumed, after a pause.

'He went diggin', too.'

'Well, did he come back?'

'Drop it, Broadhurst; drop it, I say,' said Hutton, springing to his feet and pacing up and down the narrow room. 'You 're trying to make a coward of me ! You know the men must have gone up country prospectin' or farmin' maybe. What is it to us where they went? You don't think I have a register of every man in the colony, as Inspector Burton has of the lags.'

'Sit down, George, and listen,' said old Tom. 'There's something queer about that road; something I don't understand and don't like. Maybe you remember how Maloney, the one-eyed scoundrel, made his money in the early mining days. He'd a half-way drinking shanty on the main road up on a kind of bluff, where the Lena comes down from the hills. You've heard, George, how they found a sort of wooden slide from his little back room down to the river; an' how it came out that man after man had had his drink doctored, and been shot down that into eternity, like a bale of goods. No one will ever know how many were done away with there. They were all supposed to be farmin' and prospectin' and the like, till their bodies were picked out of the rapids. It's no use mincing matters, George; we'll have the troopers along to the diggin's if those lads don't turn up by to-morrow night.'

'As you like, Tom,' said Hutton. 'By the way, talking o f Maloney— It's a strange thing,' said Broadhurst, 'that Jack Haldane swears he saw a man as like Maloney with ten years added to him as could be. It was in the bush on Monday morning. Chance, I suppose; but you'd hardly think there could be two pair of shoulders in the world carrying such villanous mugs on the top of them.'

'Jack Haldane's a fool,' growled Hutton, throwing open the door and peering anxiously out into the darkness, while the wind played with his long grizzled beard, and sent a train o f glow ing sparks from his pipe down the street.

'A terrible night!' he said, as he turned back towards the fire.

Yes, a wild tempestuous night; a night for birds of darkness and for beasts of prey. A strange night for seven men to lie out in the gully at Bluemansdyke, with revolvers in their hands and the devil in their hearts.

THE SUN was rising after the storm. A thick heavy steam reeked up from the saturated ground, and hung like a pall over the flourishing little town of Trafalgar. A bluish mist lay in wreaths over the wide track of bushland around, out of which the western mountains loomed like great islands in a sea of vapour.

Something was wrong in the town. The most casual glance would have detected that. There was a shouting and a hurrying of feet. Doors were slammed and rude windows thrown open. A trooper of police came clattering down with his carbine unslung. It was past the time for Joe Buchan's saw-mill to commence work, but the great wheel was motionless, for the hands had not appeared.

There was a surging pushing crowd in the main street before old Tom Broadhurst's house, and a mighty clattering o f tongues.

'What was it?' demanded the newcomers, panting and breathless. 'Broadhurst has shot his mate.' 'He has cut his own throat.' 'He has struck gold in the clay floor of his kitchen.' 'No, it was his son Maurice who had come home rich.'

'Who had not come back at all.'

'Whose horse had come back without him.'

At last the truth had come out; and there was the old sorrel horse in question whinnying and rubbing his neck against the familiar door of the stable, as if entreating entrance; while two haggard gray-haired men held him by either bridle and gazed blankly at his reeking sides.

'God help me,' said old Tom Broadhurst, 'it is as I feared!'

'Cheer up, mate,' said Hutton, drawing his rough straw hat down over his brow. 'There's hope yet.'

A sympathetic and encouraging murmur ran through the crowd. 'Horse ran away, likely.'

'Or been stolen.'

'Or he's swum the Wawirra an' been washed off,' suggested one Job's comforter.

'He ain't got no marks of bruising ,' said another, more hopeful.

'Rider fallen off drunk, maybe,' said a bluff old sheep-farmer. 'I kin remember,' he continued, 'comin g into town 'bout this hour myself, with my head in my holster, an' thinking I was a six-chambered revolver— mighty drunk I was.'

'Maurice had a good seat, he'd never be washed off.'

'Not he.'

'The horse has a weal on it's off fore-quarter,' remarked another, more observant than the rest. 'A blow from a whip maybe.'

'It would be a darned hard one.'

'Where's Chicago Bill?' said someone; 'he'll know.'

Thus invoked, a strange gaunt figure stepped out in front of the crowd. He was an extremely tall and powerful man, with the red shirt and high boots o f a miner. The shirt was thrown open, showing the sinewy throat and massive chest. His face was seamed and scarred with many a conflict, both with Nature and his brother man; yet beneath his ruffianly exterior there lay something of the quiet dignity of the gentleman. This man was a veteran gold-hunter; a real old Californian 'forty-niner, who had left the fields in disgust when private enterprise began to dwindle before the formation of huge incorporated companies with their ponderous machinery. But the red clay with the little shining points had become to him as the very breath of his nostrils, and he had come half-way round the world to seek it once again.

'Here's Chicago Bill,' he said; 'what is it?'

Bill was naturally regarded as an oracle, in virtue of his prowess and varied experience. Every eye was turned on him as Braxton, the young Irish trooper of constabulary, said, 'What do you make of the horse, Bill?'

The Yankee was in no hurry to comm it himself. He surveyed the animal for some time with his shrewd little gray eye. He bent and examined the girths; then be felt the mane carefully. He stooped once more and examined the hoofs and then the quarters. His eye rested on the blue weal already mentioned. This seemed to put him on a scent, for he gave a long low whistle, and proceeded at once to examine the hair on either side of the saddle. He saw something conclusive apparently, for, with a sidelong glance under his shaggy eyebrows at the two old men beside him, he tam ed and fell back among the crowd.

'Well, what d'ye think?' cried a dozen voices.

'A job for you,' said Bill, looking up at the young Irish trooper.

'Why, what is it? What's become of young Broadhurst?'

'He's done what better men has done afore. He has sunk a shaft for gold and panned out a coffin.'

'Speak out, man! what have you seen?' cried a husky voice.

'I've seen the graze of a bushranger's bullet on the horse's quarter, an' I've seen a drop of the rider's blood on the edge of the saddle— Here, hold the old man up, boys; don' t let him drop. Give him a swig o f brandy an' lead him inside. Say,' he continued, in a whisper, gripping the trooper by the wrist, 'mind, I'm in it. You an' I play this band together. I'm dead on sich varmin. We'll do as they do in Nevada, strike while the iron is hot. Get any men you can together. I s'pose you're game to come yourself?'

'Yes, I'll come,' said young Braxton, with a quiet smile.

The American looked at him approvingly. He had learned in his wanderings that an Irishman who grows quieter when deeply stirred is a very dangerous specimen of the genus homo.

'Good lad!' he muttered ; and the two went down the street together towards the station house, followed by half a dozen of the more resolute of the crowd.

ONE WORD before we proceed with our story, or our chronicle rather, as every word of it is based upon fact. The colonial trooper of fifteen or twenty years ago was a very different man from his representative o f to-day. N ot that I would imply any slur upon the courage of the latter; but for reckless dare-devilry and knight-errantry the old constabulary has never been equalled.

The reason is a simple one. Men of gentle blood, younger sons and wild rakes who had outrun the constable, were sent off to Australia with some wild idea of making their fortunes. On arriving they found Melbourne by no means the El Dorado they expected; they were unfit for any employment, their money was soon dissipated, and they unerringly gravitated into the mounted police. Thus a sort of colonial 'Maison Rouge' became formed, where the lowest private had as much pride of birth and education as his officers. They were men who might have swayed the fate of empires, yet who squandered away their lives in many a lone wild fight with native and bushranger, where nothing but a mouldering blue-ragged skeleton was left to tell the tale.

IT WAS a glorious sunset The whole western sky was a blaze of flame, throwing a purple tint upon the mountains, and gilding the sombre edges of the great forest which spreads between Trafalgar and the river Wawirra. It stretched out, a primeval unbroken wilderness, save at the one point where a rough track had been formed by the miners and their numerous camp-followers. This wound amid the great trunks in a zigzag direction, occasionally making a long detour to avoid some marshy hollow or especially dense clump of vegetation. Often it could be hardly discerned from the ground around save by the scattered hoof-marks and an occasional rut.

About fifteen miles from Trafalgar there stands a little knoll, well sheltered and overlooking the road. On this knoll a man was lying as the sun went down that Friday evening. He appeared to shun observation, for he had chosen that part in which the foliage was thickest; yet he seemed decidedly at his ease, as he lolled upon his back with his pipe between his teeth, and a broad hat down over his face. It was a face that it was well to cover in the presence of so peacefnl a scene— a face pitted with the scars of an immaterial smallpox. The forehead was broad and low; one eye had apparently been gouged out, leaving a ghastly cavity; the other was deep-set, cunning, and vindictive. The mouth was hard and cruel; a rough beard covered the chin. It was the cut of face which, seen in a lonely street, would instinctively make one shift the grasp of one's stick from the knob end to the ferrule— the face of a bold and unscrupulous man.

Some unpleasing thought seemed to occur to him, for he rose with a curse and knocked the ashes out o f his pipe.

'A darned fine thing,' he muttered, 'that I should have to lie out like this! It was Barrett's fault the job wasn't a clean one, an' now he picks me out to get the swamp-fever. If he'd shot the horse as I did the man, we wouldn't need a watch on this side of the Wawirra. He always was a poor white-livered cuss.

'Well,' he continued, picking up a gun which lay in the grass behind him, 'there's no use my waiting longer; they wouldn't start during the night. Maybe the horse never got home, maybe they gave them up as drowned; anyhow it's another man's turn to-morrow, so I'll just give them five minutes and then make tracks.'

He sat down on the stump of a tree as he spoke and hummed the verse of a song. A sudden thought seemed to strike him, for he plunged his hand into his pocket, and after some searching extracted a pack o f playing cards wrapped in a piece of dirty brown paper. He gazed earnestly at their greasy faces for some time. Then he took a pin from his sleeve and pricked a small hole in the corner of each ace and knave. He chuckled as he shuffled them up, and replaced them in his pocket.

'I'll have my share o f the swag,' he growled. 'They're sharp, but they'll not spot that when the liquor is in them. By the Lord, here they are!'

He had sprung to his feet and was bending to the ground, holding his breath as he listened. To the unpractised ear all was as still as before— the hum of a passing insect, the chirp of a bird, the rustle of the leaves; but the bushranger rose with the air o f a man who has satisfied himself.

'Good-bye to Bluemansdyke,' said he; 'I reckon it will be too hot to hold us for a time. That thundering idiot! he's spoilt as nice a lay as ever was, an' risked our necks into the bargain. I'll see their number an' who they are, though,' he continued; and, choosing a point where a rough thicket formed an effectual screen, he coiled himself up, and lay like some venomous snake, occasionally raising his head and peering between the tranks at the reddish streak which marked the Trafalgar-road.

There could be no question now as to the approach of a body of horsemen. By the time our friend was fairly ensconced in his hiding-place the sound of voices and the clatter of hoofs was distinctly audible, and in another moment a troop of mounted men came sweeping round the curve of the road. They were eleven all told, armed to the teeth, and evidently well on the alert. Two rode in front with rifles unslung, leisurely scanning every bush which might shelter an enemy. The main body kept about fifty yards behind them, while a solitary horseman brought up the rear. The ranger scanned them narrowly as they passed. He seemed to recognise most of them. Some were his natural enemies the troopers; the majority were miners who had volunteered to get rid of an evil which affected their Interests so closely. T hey were a fine bronzed set o f men, with a deliberate air about them , as if they had com e for a purpose and m eant to attain it. A s the last rider passed before his hiding-place the solitary watcher started and grow led a curse in his beard. ' I know his darned face,5 he sa id ; * it's Bill H anker, the man who g o t the drop on L o n g N at Sm eaton in Silver C ity in '5 3 ; what the thunder brought him here 1 I must be o ff by the back track, though, an' let the boys know .' S o saying he picked up his gun, and with a scow l after the distant party he crouched down, and passed rapidly and silently out o f sight into the very thickest part o f the bush. The expedition had.started from T rafalgar on the afternoon o f the same day that M aurice B roadhurst's horse, foa m -fleck ed and frightened, had galloped up to the old stable-door. Burton, the inspector o f constabulary, an energ etic and able man as all w h o knew him can testify, was in com mand. H e had detached B raxton, the young Irishm an, and T h om p son, another trooper, as a vanguard. H e him self rode with the main body, gray-w h isk ered and lean, but as straight in the back as when he find I built a shanty in '39 in what is now Burke-street, M elbourne. W ith him w ere M cG illivray, F oley, and A nson o f the Trafalgar force, H artley the sheepfarm er, M urdock and Sum m erville, w ho had made their pile at the mines, and D an M urphy, who was cleaned out when the clay o f the * Orient' turned to gravel, and had been yearning for a solid square figh t ever since. Chicago B ill form ed the rear-guard, and the whole party presented an appearance which, though far from m ilitary, was decidedly warlike. They cam ped out that n igh t seventeen m iles from Trafalgar, and next day pushed on as far as where the Stirling - road runs across. T he third m orning brought them to the northern bank o f the W aw irra, which they forded. Here a council o f war was held, for they were entering what they regarded as enem y's country. The bush track, though wild, was occasionally traversed both by shepherds and sportsmen. It w ould hardly be the hom e o f a gan g o f desperate bushrangers. B ut beyond the W aw irra the great rugged range o f the Tapu mountains towered up to the clouds, and across a w ild spur o f these the m ining track passed up to Bluem ansdyke. It was here they decided at the council that the scene o f the late drama lay. The question now was what means were to be taken to attack the m u rderers; for that m urder had been done no man doubted.

All were of one mind as to what the main line of action should be. To go for them straight, shoot as many as possible on sight, and hang the balance in Trafalgar: that was plain sailing. But how to get at them was the subject of much debate. The troopers were for pushing on at once, and trusting to Fortune to put the rangers in their way. The miners proposed rather to gain some neighbouring peak, from which a good view of the country could be obtained, and some idea gained of their whereabouts. Chicago Bill took rather a gloomy view of things.

'Nary one will we see,' said he; 'they've dusted out of the district 'fore this. They'd know the horse would go home, and likely as not they've had a watch on the road to warn them. I guess, boys, we'd best move on an' do our best.' There was some discussion, but Chicago's opinion carried the day, and the expedition pushed on in a body.

After passing the second upland station the scenery becomes more and more grand and rugged. Great peaks two and three thousand feet high rose sheer up at each side of the narrow track. The heavy wind and rain o f the storm had brought down much debris, and the road was almost impassable in places. They were frequently compelled to dismount and to lead the horses.

'We haven't far now, boys,' said the inspector cheerily, as they struggled on ; and he pointed to a great dark cleft which yawned in front o f them between two almost perpendicular cliffs. 'They are there,' he said, 'or nowhere.'

A little higher the road became better and their progress was more rapid. A halt was called, guns were unslung, and their pistols loosened in their belts, for the great gully of Bluemansdyke— the wildest part o f the whole Tápu range— was gaping before them. But not a thing was to be seen; all was as still as the grave. The horses were picketed in a quiet little ravine, and the whole party crept on on foot. The Southern sun glared down hot and clear on the yellow bracken and banks of fern which lined the narrow winding track. Still, not a sign of life. Then came a clear low whistle from the two advanced troopers, announcing that something had been discovered, and the main body hurried up.

It was a spot for deeds of blood. On one side of the road there lowered a black gnarled precipice, on the other was the sullen mouth o f the rugged gully. The road took a sharp turn at this spot. Just at the angle several large boulders were scattered, lining and overlooking the track. It was at this angle that a little bed of mud and trampled red clay betokened a recent struggle. There could be no question that they were at the scene of the murder of the two young miners. The outline of a horse could still be seen in the soft ground, and the prints of its hoofs as it kicked out in its death-agony were plainly marked. Behind one of the rocks were the tracks of several feet, and some pistol-wadding was found in a tuft of ferns. The whole tragedy lay unclosed before them. Two men, careless in the pride of their youth and their strength, had swept round that fatal curve. Then a crash, a groan, a brutal laugh, the galloping of a frightened horse, and all was over.

What was to be done now? The rocks around were explored, but nothing fresh discovered. Some six days had elapsed, and the birds were apparently flown. The party separated and hunted about among the boulders. Then the American, who could follow a trail like a bloodhound, found tracks leading towards a rugged pile of rocks on the north side of the gully. In a crevice here the remains of three horses were found. Close to them the rim of an old straw hat projected through the loose loam. Hartley, the sheep farmer, sprang over to pick it up ; he started back in the act of stooping, and said in an awestruck whisper to his friend Murphy, 'There's a head under it, Dan!'

A few strokes o f a spade disclosed a face familiar to most o f the group— that of a poor travelling photographer well known in the colony by the sobriquet of 'Stooping Johnny,' who had disappeared some time before. It was now in an advanced stage of putrefaction. Close to him another body was discovered, and another beside that. In all thirteen victims of these English Thugs were lying under the shadow of the great north wall of the Bluemansdyke gully. It was there, standing in silent awe round the remains of these poor fellows, hurried into eternity and buried like dogs, that the search-party registered a vow to sacrifice all interests and comforts for the space of one month to the single consideration of revenge. The inspector uncovered his grizzled head as he solemnly swore it, and his comrades followed his example. The bodies were then with a brief prayer consigned to a deeper grave, a rough cairn was erected over them, and the eleven men set forth upon their mission of stern justice.

THREE WEEKS had passed— three weeks and two days. The sun was sinking over the great waste of bushland, unexplored and unknown, which stretches away from the eastern slope of the Tápu mountains. Save some eccentric sportsman or bold prospector, no colonist had ever ventured into that desolate land; yet on this autumn evening two men were standing in a little glade in the very heart of it. They were engaged tying up their horses and apparently making preparations for camping out for the night. Though haggard, unkempt, and worn, one still might recognise two of our former acquaintances— the young Irish trooper, and the American Chicago Bill.

This was the last effort of the avenging party. They had traversed the mountain gorges, they had explored every gully and ravine, and now they had split into several small bands, and, having named a trysting-place, they were scouring the country in the hope of hitting upon some trace of the murderers.

Foley and Anson had remained among the hills, Murdoch and Dan Murphy were exploring towards Bathurst, Summerville and the inspector had ascended along the Wawirra, while the others in three parties were wandering through the eastern bushland.

Both the trooper and the miner seemed dejected and weary. The one had set out with visions of glory, and hopes of a short cut to the coveted stripes which would put him above his fellows; the other had obeyed a rough wild sense of justice; and each was alike disappointed. The horses were picketed, and the men threw themselves heavily upon the ground. There was no need to light a fire; a few dampers and some rusty bacon were their whole provisions. Braxton produced them, and handed his share to his comrade. They ate their rough meal without a word.

Braxton was the first to break the silence.

'We're playing our last card,' he said.

'And a darned poor one at that,' replied his comrade. 'Why, mate,' he continued, 'if we did knock up agin these all-fired varmin, ye don't suppose you and I would go for them? I guess I'd up an' shove for Trafalgar first.'

Braxton smiled. Chicago's reckless courage was too well known in the colony for any words of his to throw a doubt upon it Miners still tell how, during the first great rush in '52, a blustering ruffian, relying upon some similar remark of the pioneer's, had tried to establish a reputation by an unprovoked assault upon him; and the narrators then glide imperceptibly into an account of Bill's handsome conduct towards the widow— how he had given her his week's clean-up to start her in a drinking shanty. Braxton thought of this as he smiled at Chicago's remarks, and glanced at the massive limbs and weather-beaten face.

'We'd best see where we are before it grows darker,' he said; and rising he stacked his gtm against the trunk of a blue gum tree, and, seizing some of the creepers which hung down from it, began rapidly and silently to ascend it.

'His soul's too big for his body,' growled the American, as he watched the dark lithe figure standing out against the pale-blue evening sky. 'What d'ye see, Jack?' he shouted; for the trooper had reached the topmost branch by this time, and was taking a survey of the country. 'Bush, bush; nothing but bush,' said the voice among the leaves.

'W ait a bit, though, there's a kind of hill about three miles off away to the nor'-east. I see it above the trees right over there. Not much good to us, though,' he continued, after a pause, 'for it seems a barren stony sort of place.'

Chicago paced about at the bottom of the tree. 'He seems an almighty long time prospectin' it,' he muttered, after ten minutes had elapsed. 'Ah, here he is!' and the trooper came swinging down and landed panting just in front of him.

'Why, what's come over him? What is the matter, Jack?'

Something was the matter. That was very evident. There was a light in Braxton's blue eyes, and a flush on the pale cheek. 'Bill,' he said, putting his hand on his comrade's shoulder, 'it's about time you made tracks for the settlements.'

'What d'ye mean?' said Chicago.

'Why, I mean that the murderers are within a league of us, and that I intend going for them. There, don't be huffed, old man,' he added; 'of course I knew you were only joking. But they are there, Bill; I saw smoke on the top of that hill, and it wasn't good honest smoke, mind you; it was dry-wood smoke, and meant to be hid I thought it was mist at first; but no, it was smoke. I'll swear it. It could only be them ; who else would camp on the summit of a desolate hill? We've got them, Bill; we have them as sure as Fate.'

'Or they've got us,' growled the American. 'But here, lad, here's my glass; run up and have a look at them.'

'It's too dark now,' said Braxton; 'we'll camp out to-night. No fear of them stirring. They're lying by there until the whole thing blows over, depend upon it; so we'll make sure of them in the morning.'

The miner looked plaintively up at the tree, and then down at his fourteen stone of solid muscle.

'I guess I must take your word for it,' he grumbled; 'but you are bushman enough to tell smoke from mist, and a dry-wood fire from an open one. We can't do anything to-night till we feel our way, so 1 allow we'd best water the horses an' have a good night's rest.'

Braxton seemed to be of the same mind; so after a few minutes' preparation the two men wrapped themselves in their cloaks, and lay, two little dark spots, on the great green carpet of the primeval bush.

With the first gray light of dawn, Chicago sat up and roused his comrade. A heavy mist hung over the bushland. They could hardly see the loom of the trees across the little glade. Their clothes glistened with the little shining beads of moisture. They brushed each other down, and squatted in bush fashion over their rough breakfast. The haze seemed to be lifting a little now; they could see fifty yards in every direction. The miner paced up and down in silence, ruminating over a plug of 'Barrett's twist.'

Braxton sat on a fallen tree sponging and oiling bis revolver. Suddenly a single beam of sunshine played over the great blue gum. It widened and spread, and then in a moment the mist melted away, and the yellow leaves glowed like flakes of copper in the glare of the morning sun. Braxton cheerily snapped the lock of the pistol, loaded it, and replaced it in his belt. Chicago began to whistle, and stopped in the middle of his walk.

'Now, young un,' he said, 'here's the glass.'

Braxton slung it round his neck, and ascended the tree as he had done the night before. It was child's play to the trooper— a splendid climber, as I can testify; for I saw him two years later swarming up the topmost backstay of the Hector frigate in a gale of wind for a bet of a bottle of wine. He soon reached the summit, and shuffling along a naked branch two hundred feet from the ground, he gained a point where no leaves could obstruct his view. Here he sat straddle-legged; and, unslinging the glass, he proceeded to examine the hill, bush by bush and stone by stone.

An hour passed without his moving. Another had almost elapsed before he descended. His face was grave and thoughtful.

'Are they there?' was the eager query.

'Yes; they are there.'

'How many?'

'I've only seen five ; but there may be more. Wait till I think it out, Bill.'

The miner gazed at him with all the reverence matter has towards mind. Thinking things out was not his strong point.

'Blamed if I can help you,' he said apologetically. 'It kinder don't come nat'ral to me to be plottin' and plannin'. Want o' eddication, likely. My father was allowed to be the hardest-headed man in the States. Judge Jeffers let on as how the old man wanted to hand in his checks; so he down an' put his head on the line when the first engine as ran from Vermont was comin' up. They fined him a hundred dollars for upsettin' that 'ere locomotive, an' the old man got the cussedest headache as ever was.'

Braxton hardly seemed to hear this family anecdote; he was deep in thought.

'Look here, old man,' said he, 'sit down by me on the trunk and listen to what I say. Remember that you are here as a volunteer, Bill— you've no call to come; now, I am here in the course of duty. Your name is known through the settlement; you were a marked man when I was in the nursery. Now, Bill, it's a big thing I am going to ask you. If you and I go in and take these men, it will be another feather in your cap, and in yours only. What do men know of Jack Braxton, the private of police? He'd hardly be mentioned in the matter. Now, I want to make my name this day. We'll have to secure these men by a surprise after dusk, and it will be as easy for one resolute man to do it as for tw o ; perhaps easier, for there is less chance of detection. But, I want you to stay with the horses, and let me go alone.'

Chicago sprang to his feet with a snarl of indignation, and paced up and down in front of the fallen trees. Then he seemed to master himself, for he sat down again.

'They'd chaw you up, lad,' he said, putting his hand on Braxton's Bhoulder. 'It wouldn't wash.'

'Not they,' said the trooper. 'I'd take your pistol as well as my own, and I'd need a deal of chawing.'

'My character would be ruined,' said Bill.

'It's beyond the reach of calumny. You can afford to give me one fair chance.'

Bill buried his face in his hands, and thought a little. 'Well, lad,' he said, looking up, 'I'll look after the horses.'

Braxton wrung him by the hand. 'There are few men would have done it, Bill; you are a friend worth having. Now, we'll spend our day as best we can, old man, and lie close till evening; for I won't start till an hour after dusk; so we have plenty of time on our hands.'

The day passed slowly. The trooper lay among the mosses below the great blue gum in earnest thought.  Once or twice he imagined he heard the subterranean chuckle and slap of the thigh which usually denoted amusement on the part of the miner; but on glancing up at that individual, the expression of his face was so solemn, not to say funereal, that it was evidently an illusion. They partook of their scanty dinner and supper cheerfully and with hearty appetites. The former listlessness had given place to briskness and activity now that their object was in view. Chicago blossomed out into many strange experiences and racy reminiscences of Western life. The hours passed rapidly and cheerily. The trooper produced a venerable pack of cards from his holster and proposed euchre; but their gregariousness, and the general difficulty of distinguishing the king of clubs from the ace of hearts, exercised a depressing influence upon the players.

Gradually the sun went down on the great wilderness. The shadow fell on the little glade, while the distant hill was still tipped with gold; then that too became purplish, a star twinkled over the Tápu range, and night crept over the scene.

'Good-bye, old man,' said Braxton. 'I won't take my carbine; it would only be in the way. I can't thank you enough for letting me have this chance. If they wipe me out, Bill, you'll not Iose sight of them, I know; and you'll Bay I died like a man. I 've got no friends and no message, and nothing in the world but this pack of cards. Keep them, Bill; they were a fine pack in '51. If you see a smoke on the hill in the morning you'll know all's well, and you'll bring up the horses at once. If you don't, you'll ride to Fallen Pine, where we were to meet,— ride day and night, Bill,— tell Inspector Burton that you know where the rangers are, that Private Braxton is dead, and that be said he was to bring up his men, else he'd come back from the grave and lead them up himself. Do that, Bill. Goodbye.'

A great quiet rested over the heart of that desolate woodland. The croak of a frog, the gurgle of a little streamlet half hidden in the long grass— no other sound. Then a wakeful jay gave a shrill chatter, another joined, and another; a bluefinch screamed; a wombat rushed past to gain its burrow. Something had disturbed them; yet all was apparently as peaceful as before. Had you been by the jay's nest, however, and peered downwards, you would have seen something gliding like a serpent through the brushwood, and caught a glimpse, perhaps, of a pale resolute face, and the glint of a pocket-compass pointing north by east.

IT WAS a long and a weary night for Trooper Braxton. Any moment he might come on an outpost of the rangers, so every step had to be taken slowly and with care. But he was an experienced woodman, and hardly a twig snapped as he crawled along. A morass barred his progress, and he was compelled to make a long detour. Then he found himself in thick brushwood, and once more had to go out of his way. It was very dark here in the depth of the forest. There was a heavy smell, and a dense steam laden with miasma rose from the ground. In the dim light he saw strange creeping things around him. A bushmaster writhed across the path in front of him, a cold dank lizard crawled over his hand as he crouched down, but the trooper thought only of the human reptiles in front, and made steadily for his goal. Once he seemed to be pursued by some animal; he heard a creaking behind him, but it ceased when he stopped and listened, so he continued his way. It was when he reached the base of the hill which he had seen from the distance that the real difficulty of his undertaking began. It was almost conical in shape, and very steep. The sides were covered with loose stones and an occasional large boulder. One false step here would send a shower of these tell-tale fragments clattering down the hill.

The trooper stripped off his high leather boots and turned up his trousers; then he began cautiously to climb, cowering down behind every boulder. There was a little patch of light far away on the horizon, a very little gray patch, but it caused the figure of a man who was moving upon the crest of the hill to loom out dim and large. He was a sentry apparently, for he carried a gun under his arm. The top of the hill was formed by a little plateau about a hundred yards in circumference. Along the edge of this the man was pacing, occasionally stopping to peer down into the great dusky sea beneath him. From this raised edge the plateau curved down from every side, so as to form a crater-like depression. In the centre of this hollow stood a large white tent. Several horses were picketed around it, and the ground was littered with bundles of dried grass and harness. You could see these details now from the edge of the plateau, for the gray patch in the east had become white, and was getting longer and wider. You could see the sentry's face, too, as he paced round and round. A handsome weak-minded face, with more of the fool than the devil impressed on it. He seemed cheerful, for the birds were beginning to sing, and their thousand voices rose from the bush below. He forgot the forged note, I think, and the dreary voyage, and the wild escape, and the dark gully away beyond the Tápu range, for his eye glistened, and he hummed a quaint little Yorkshire country air. He was back again in the West Riding village, and the rough boulder in front shaped itself into the hill behind which Nelly lived before he broke her heart, and he saw the ivied church that crowned it He would have seen something else had he looked again, something which was not in his picture: a white passionless face which glared at him over the boulder, as he turned upon his heel, still singing, and unconscious that the bloodhounds of justice were close at his heels.

The trooper's time for action had come. He had reached the last boulder; nothing lay between the plateau and himself but a few loose stones. He could hear the song of the sentry dying away in the distance ; he drew his regulation sword, and with his Adams in his left he rose and sprang like a tiger over the ridge and down into the hollow. The sentry was startled from his dream of the past by a clatter and a rattling of stones. He sprang round and cocked his gun. No wonder that he gasped, and that a change passed over his bronzed face, A painter would need a dash of ultramarine in his flesh-tints to represent it now. No wonder, I say, for that dark active figure with the bare feet and the brass buttons meant disgrace and the gallows to him. He saw him spring across to the tent; he saw the gleam of a sword, and heard a crash as the tent-pole was severed, and the canvas came down with a run upon the heads of the sleepers. And then above oaths and shouts he heard a mellow Irish voice,

'I've twelve shots in my hands. I have ye, every mother's son. Up with your arms! up, I say, before there is blood upon my soul. One move, and ye stand before the throne.'

Braxton had stooped and parted the dodrway of the fallen tent, and was now standing over six ruffians who occupied it. They lay as they had waken, but with their hands above their heads, for there was no resisting that quiet voice, backed up by the two black muzzles. They imagined they were surrounded and hopelessly outmatched. Not one of them dreamed that the whole attacking force stood before them.

It was the sentry who first began to realise the true state o f the case. There was no sound or sign of any reinforcement. He looked to see that the cap was pressed well down on the nipple, and crept towards the tent. He was a good shot, as many a keeper on Braidagarth and the Yorkshire fells could testify. He raised his gun to his shoulder.

Braxton heard the click, but dared not remove his eye or his weapon from his six prisoners. The sentry looked along the sights. He knew his life depended upon that shot. There was more of the devil than the fool in his face now. He paused a moment to make sure of his aim, and then came a crash and the thud of a falling body. Braxton was still standing over the prisoners, but the sentry's gun was uufired, and he himself was writhing on the ground with a bullet through his lungs.

'Ye see,' said Chicago, as he rose from behind a rock with his gun still smoking in his hand, 'it seemed a powerful mean thing to leave you, Jack; so I thought as I'd kinder drop around promiscus, and wade in if needed, which I was, as you can't deny. No, ye don't,' he added, as the sentry stretched out his hand to grasp his fallen gun; 'leave the wepin alone, young man; it ain't in your way as it lies there.'

'I'm a dead man!' groaned the ranger.

'Then lie quiet like a respectable corpse,' said the miner, 'an' don't go a-squirmin' towards yer gun. That's ornary uneddicated conduct.'

'Come here, Bill,' cried Braxton, 'and bring the ropes those horses are picketed with. Now,' he continued, as the American, having abstracted the sentry's gun, appeared with an armful of ropes, 'you tie these fellows up, and I'll kill any man who moves.'

'A pleasant division of labour, eh, old Blatherskite,' said Chicago, playfully tapping the one-eyed villain Maloney on the head. 'Come on; the ugliest first!'

So saying, he began upon him and fastened him securely. One after another the rangers were tied up; all except the wounded man, who was too helpless to need securing. Then Chicago went down and brought up the horses, while Braxton remained on guard; and by midday the cavalcade was in full march through the forest en route for Fallen Pine, the rendezvous of the search-party. The wounded man was tied on to a horse in front, the other rangers followed on foot for safety, while the trooper and Chicago brought up the rear.

There was a sad assemblage at Fallen Pine. One by one they had dropped in, tanned with the sun, torn by briers, weakened by the poisonous miasma of the marsh lands, all with the same tale of privation and failure. Summerville and the inspector had fallen in with blacks above the upper ford, and had barely escaped with their lives. Troopers Foiey and Anson were well, though somewhat gaunt from privation. Hartley had lost his horse from the bite of a bushmaster. Murdoch and Murphy had scoured the bush as far as Rathurst, but without success. All were dejected and weary. They only waited the arrival of two of their number to set out on their return to Trafalgar.

It was midday, and the sun was beating down with a pitiless glare on the little clearing. The men were lying about on the shady side of the trunks, some smoking, some with their hats over their faces, and half asleep. The horses were tethered here and there, looking as listless as their masters. Only the inspector's old charger seemed superior to the weather— a shrewd blasé old horse, that had seen the world, and was nearly as deeply versed in woodcraft as his master. As Chicago said, 'Short of climbin' a tree, there weren't nothin' that horse couldn't do; an' it would make a darned good try at that if it was pushed.'

Old ' Sawback' seemed ill at ease this afternoon. Twice he had pricked up his ears, and once he had raised his head as if to neigh, but paused before committing himself. The inspector looked at him curiously and put his meerschaum back into its case. Meerschaums were always a weakness of poor Jim Burton's.

'Demme it, sir,' I have heard him say, a gentleman is known by his pipe. When he comes down in the world his pipe has most vitality.'

He put the case inside his uniform and went over to the horse. The ears were still twitching.

'He hears something,' said the inspector. 'By Jove, so do I! Here, boys, jump up ; there's a body of men coming.'

Every man sprang to his horse's head.

'I hear hoofs, and I hear the tramp of men on foot. They must be a large party. They're beading straight for us. Get under cover, boys, and have your guns loose.'

The men wheeled right and left, and in a very few moments the glade was deserted. Only the brown barrel of a gun here and there among the long grass and the ferns showed where they were crouching.

'Steady, boys,' said Burton; 'if they are enemies, don't fire till I give the word. Then one by one aim low, and let the smoke clear. Rangers, by Jove!' he added, as a horseman broke into the clearing some way down, with his head hanging down over his horse's neck.

'More,' he growled, as several men emerged from ,the bush at the same point. 'By the living powers, they are taken! I see the ropes. Hurrah!'

And next moment Braxton and Chicago were mobbed by nine shouting dancing men, who pulled them aud tugged at them, and slapped them on the back, and dragged them about in such a way, that Maloney whispered with a scowl, 'If we'd had the grit to do as much, we'd have been free men this day!'

AND NOW our story is nearly done. We have chronicled a fact which we think is worthy o f a wider circulation than the colonial drinking-bar and the sheep-farmer's fireside, for Trooper Braxton and his capture of the Bluemansdyke murderers have long been household words among oar brothers in the England of the Southern seas. We need not detail that joyful ride to Trafalgar, nor the welcome, nor the attempt at lynching; nor how Maloney, the arch criminal, turned Queen's evidence, and so writhed away from the gallows. All that may be read in the colonial press, more graphically than I can tell it.

My friend Jack Braxton is an officer now, as his father was before him, and still in the Trafalgar force. Bill I saw last in '61, when he came over to London in charge of the bark of the Wellingtonia for the International Exhibition. He is laying on flesh, I fear, since he took to sheep-farming; for he was barely brought up by seventeen stone, and his fighting weight used to be fourteen ; but he looks well and hearty. Maloney was lynched in Placerville—  at least, so I heard. I had a letter last mail from the old inspector; he has left the police, and has a farm at Bathurst. I think, stout-hearted as he is, he must give a little bit of a shudder when he rides down to Trafalgar for the Thursday market, and comes round that sharp turn of the road where the boulders lie, and the furze looks so yellow against the red clay.

________________

6: Where The Goddess Chance Holds Court

James Francis Dwyer

1874-1952

The Popular Magazine, 7 Jan 1923

Roy Glashan's Library (freereads.com.au) 2 Oct 2023

James Francis Dwyer

The first story about Dwyer's "Texas Wasp" character, in a series  which ran from 1923 to 1925. One of the later stories can be found in Past Masters 135.

THE CALAIS-MÉDITERRANÉE EXPRESS rolled into Monte Carlo station at eleven-fifty on a morning in February, not one minute behind time. The Calais-Méditerranée is a train de luxe and by its aid one can get from Piccadilly to the Casino at Monte Carlo under twenty-eight hours.

From its big carriages there alighted rich old men and women fleeing from the cold breezes of the north; saucy, well-gowned young women; fat and vulgar lady gamblers carrying pet dogs and funny hand bags; also a big sprinkling of smartly dressed undesirables with sharp eyes and keen features.

At the steps of one of the big brown sleeping cars a little discussion arose. A quiet, red-checked English maid, her arms filled with the wraps of her elderly mistress, was rudely hustled by a fat and oily gentleman of color who was followed by six attendants as dark as their master.

The colored man's boorishness brought a protest. It came from a tall, athletic man in the early thirties, who possessed that curious indescribable manner that comes, as the poet said, "from manly strength and courage high."

"Pardon, George," he murmured, addressing the colored person, "you are walking on the heels of this young lady. You must be more careful."

"George!" screamed the boor. "What do you mean by calling me George?"

The slightest flicker of cold contempt appeared in the gray eyes of the tall man. "It is just my name for all colored folk," he said softly. "But that is not the point in dispute. Let me advise you to apologize immediately when you tread on the heels of a white lady. Immediately! Do you understand?"

The oily colored man took a deep breath that suggested an inward fear of imminent suffocation, then he delivered himself in a voice sharpened by the file of indignation. "How dare you speak like that to me, sah?" he screamed. "I am the Maharaja of Behan-Gudsa!"

The proverbial iced cucumber would be considered a warm commodity if compared to the cold manner of the tall man. "To me you are just an unmannerly negro," he said slowly. Then, as the colored man grew apoplectic with temper, he added: "Roll your words once round before you let them out. When I first started to roam I used to write the words Houston, Texas, after my name on the hotel registers."

The six attendants of the maharaja gathered round their shocked and speechless ruler, jabbering violently in Hindustani. It looked as if they might make a joint attack on the Texan but as they jabbered there came a diversion. A youth of eighteen or thereabouts, a supple, Panlike youngster, tore up the platform, hurled himself through the circle of excited Orientals and seized the grip of the tall man.

"I knew I'd see you again!" cried the youth. "Don't you remember tellin' me that you were comin' to this dump? I've watched this train for five days. I said to myself 'this will be his boat' 'cause this rattler stacks up with the Lake Shore and the Panhandle Express. It's the nobbiest packet that ever made a face at a signal box. Don't you— say, what's up with the bunch of ragheads?"

THE TALL man smiled and the smile made him strangely handsome. It blotted out the fine lines bitten by the mordant of Old Man Care. It flung the fighting look from the gray eyes and enthroned the sprite of mirth in its place. A slight scar on the right jaw that had a sinister look when the mouth was tight closed was for the moment not noticeable.

"Nothing, Jimmy," he answered. "They're a little excited because they're visiting a gambling joint and they don't know exactly where to put their feet."

The youth surveyed the maharaja and his six attendants as a bright terrier might survey seven sleek rats. "D'ye want me to biff a couple of 'em?" he asked eagerly.

"Oh, Lord, no!" cried the tall man. "Come away."

The two pushed the Orientals aside and walked down the platform, the tall man, immediately forgetful of the colored crowd, questioning his companion.

"Now what in thunder brought you here?" he asked.

The youngster was voluble. "A guy wrote me the day after you tossed me the fifty francs at Marseilles," he began, "and he— say, boss, I'm never goin' to forget you for that fifty francs an'—"

"Shut up and tell what brought you here," ordered the other.

"Well, this guy wrote and said that he had heard about me from a sport who saw me box at the Prado Arena in Marseilles, an' he said in his letter, he says, if you're the real Just-So Kid that fought the Red Apache in Paris take the first train to this place and you can have a fight that will make 'em howl for you all over France."

"And has the scrap come off?" inquired the tall man.

"Not yet, not yet," murmured the youth. "Friday is the night, boss. At nine in the evenin' o' that blessed day I'm goin' to tear the champeenship o' the Alpes-Maritimes from a feller who looks slower than a dollar bill fallin' from a ten-story winder when you're waitin' for it on the sidewalk. He knows as much about fightin' as a one-legged jack rabbit an' when—"

"Jimmy," interrupted the tall man, "I'm going up in the elevator to the terrace. Be a good boy and give my bag to the porter from the Hôtel de Paris. Yes, I'll be at the fight. I'll see you before then."

"Sure you will!" cried the Just-So Kid. "This is a small burg an' Barnum's dwarf couldn't hide in it. Say, d'ye know I thought that this joint from the advertisin' it got was as big as Cincinnaty or N'Awlyns, but it's smaller 'n Helena, Arkansaw. Were you ever—"

The elevator heaved itself upward before the Just-So Kid could put his question, but he showed no displeasure as he turned and trotted out of the station. "Some prince, he is," he murmured. "Chucks coin around like a darky tossin' hen-feed. Guess I'll tote his grip up to the hotel meself. Porters is careless insects an' I guess I'd have starved to death if he hadn't tossed me fifty francs at Marseilles."

The tall man of the Calais-Méditerranée Express stepped from the elevator to the Casino terrace overlooking the sea. His gray eyes feasted on the glorious view— probably the most wonderful view in the world. To the right the Rock of Monaco with the palace of the prince; to the left the picturesque coast-line sweeping down to the Italian border.

"Wow, it's great to be back here!" he murmured. "I've seen cattle ranches bigger than the whole of this principality, yet this place is the romantic heart of the world."

He walked swiftly along the terrace, returned the salute of one of the picturesque guards who was clever enough to see something more than usually distinguished in the look of the stranger, crossed the Place du Casino and sprang lightly up the steps of the Hôtel de Paris. He gave to an observer the belief that he was a very happy and carefree man.

There are men who can walk into a hotel as if they were conferring an honor on the hostelry. The tall man was one of these. The war has killed much of the old-time respect that the European hotel keeper had for the visiting American, but all the prewar servility came back with a bounce as the tall man swung through the door. The head concierge bowed so low that he had secretly to disengage his well-groomed whiskers from the lowest button of his vest; an assistant manager with a black beard chopped off abruptly, a la Ptolemy, fell upon a pen and thrust it into an inkwell in a manner that suggested the unfortunate implement was being punished for an indiscretion. Monsieur Ptolemy pushed forward the police registration slip and asked whimperingly if the distinguished-looking visitor would fill it in.

The tall man nodded, then smiled at the Just-So Kid who suspicious of all hotel people had resolutely resisted all attempts to take the grip from him. "Thought I'd cling to it till you came," he explained. "These Frenchies have treacle flips they tell me."

The Texan, in a bold, dashing hand filled in the form tendered by the hotel manager. After the italicized words he wrote the required description of himself thusly:

Name: Blane.

Christian names: Robert Henry.

Citizen of United States of America.

Date of birth: April 22, 1891.

Identification papers: United States passport.

"And what can I give you, Monsieur Blane?" inquired the fawning manager. "Do you wish a suite?"

"There was, if I remember rightly," said Robert Henry Blane, "an interesting adornment on the outside walls of your hotel. The names of the big capitals of the world were carved in the stone. London, Paris, Moscow, New—"

"They are still there," interrupted the manager. "Yes, monsieur, they are there now."

"Then I would like the room directly over New York," said Mr. Blane. Turning to the Just-So Kid he remarked: "I want that room, Jimmy, because I always think that directly over New York lies heaven."

The assistant manager rushed to his diagram. Mentally he consigned all foreigners and crazy Americans in particular to a more sunny clime than the Riviera. Why should this stranger want the room directly over the words "New York?" Why not another just....

"It has just been made empty!" he cried, interrupting his own unuttered thoughts.

"Then it will be made full," mimicked the man from Texas. "Bring the grip along, Jimmy. I want you to do an errand for me. It's an important errand that I wouldn't trust to every one, so I'm glad that you waited."

"You can trust me with your life," said the Just-So Kid. "I'd lay down in this scrap on Friday night if you told me to. If you hadn't tossed me that fifty at Marseilles I'd be teachin' angels how to stop a left uppercut by now. You saved—"

"Jimmy." interrupted the tall man, "the dollar is high in France but if these people hear you thanking me for fifty francs I wouldn't be surprised to see it drop with a bang. Be patriotic. Talk as if we were all millionaires. Now if you win that fight...."

"If I win it!" snorted the Just-So Kid. "Say, boss, that feller has as much hope of beatin' me as a zoo turtle has o' beatin' a Kentucky thoroughbred once round Lexington."

Monsieur Robert Henry Blane smiled. He was beginning to like the Just-So Kid.

Mr. Blane and the little pugilist were ushered into the splendid apartment that overlooked the famous Terrace and the Avenue de Monte Carlo and after the servile attendant had taken himself elsewhere the Texan turned to the Just-So Kid.

"Jimmy," he said quietly, "I want you to take a message to a friend. I trust you, so I can tell you right now that I do not want you to go up the street bawling out anything that I tell you."

"When I was a kid," said the pugilist, "they called me 'The Tomb' 'cause I was so silent."

Monsieur Blane investigated a wallet and took from it a slip of paper on which were mystical signs and numbers. With a pencil he decoded the cryptogram, then addressed the youth.

"My friend lives in a little cottage on the Crête des Mules, Jimmy. It's a cottage with green shutters on the south side of the road before you get to the cemetery. And you must walk there. Do you understand? He is a bit of a hermit and he hates carriages and taxicabs."

"I'll walk," said the prize fighter. "What'll I tell him?"

"Tell him," said Mr. Blane, speaking very slowly, "that 'The Texan Wasp' is at the Hôtel de Paris. That's all."

"I'm on my way," said the Just-So Kid. "Bonjour, as these geeks say."

AFTER the departure of the youth Monsieur Robert Henry Blane, alias The Texan Wasp, drew a chair to the window, lit a thin, flat cigar made of specially grown Algerian tobacco and sat for a few minutes contemplating the view.

"A great old dump," he murmured. "We have nothing like it in the States. Palm Beach buzzes a little but this place is an all-the-year-round circus. Jimmy is surprised to find that there's only ten thousand people here, but then they're the right sort, as the shark said when he picked the champion fat man out of the bunch of bathers."

Monsieur Blane after finishing his cigar bathed and descended to the wonderful dining room. He celebrated his arrival at Monte Carlo by lunching luxuriously. He amazed the pompous maître d'hôtel who had made it a life business of patronizing Americans by the knowledge he displayed. He chose after much thought a lobster which he ordered to be served with sauce tartare; a chicken of Bresse— for which Savarin longed during his years of exile— baby peas that had been brought up from the plain of Lombardy that very morning, and a bottle of Bellet, the wine grown at the back of Nice and which has no reputation outside the district. "The devil knew of it without me telling him," said the maître d'hôtel to the head chef. "Be careful what you do. He knows things. He is an American because his passport is American, but I bet he knows many places besides Monte Carlo. I attempted to advise him but he looked at me like a viper looking at a frog and I stopped. Sometimes you meet one of those Americans of his type and they are bad. Yes, they are bad."

The chef did his best and Mr. Blane feeling in good spirits after the meal decided to visit the Casino and pay his respects to the Goddess Chance. Men turned and looked at him as he walked the short distance from the steps of the Hôtel de Paris to the doors of the Casino. A very striking figure was The Texan Wasp. Simpering young women flung bold glances up into his sun-tanned face. He, so it seemed from the glances of those who passed him, represented the queer quality that we call romance. He was tall and strong and handsome, and to strength, good looks and a frank air of deviltry life had added a subtle compound that went out from him. He had seen things, he had met life, he knew queer ports and strange men.

He hummed softly the lines of one of Adam Lindsay Gordon's poems:

"No game was ever yet worth a rap for a rational man to play,

Into which no danger, no mishap, could possibly find a way."

Quite close to the steps of the Casino a wide-eyed, full-lipped woman, showing the faded relics of a beauty that must have been true Arlesian, approached him with a basket of little rosebuds.

"Buy a flower, monsieur?" she murmured.

The Texan Wasp smiled and shook his head.

"Only buy three flowers, monsieur," she whispered. "Three only, monsieur."

The Wasp without showing any excitement halted and went slowly about the work of selecting a bud. "Who sent you?" he asked, after a little interval. He put the question in French.

"I am the wife of Pierre," she answered in the same tongue. "The youth brought your message and my husband sent me to warn you."

"Of what?"

"Of danger! Great danger!"

Monsieur Robert Henry Blane compared two buds with an intentness that would make an observer believe that his happiness lay upon the decision. "And where is the thorn?" he asked softly.

"Here," answered the woman. "Here in the town. It is Number Thirty-seven."

The Texan Wasp, with the manner of a prince, took a rosebud, handed the woman a new and unsoiled five-franc note and passed up the steps into the Casino. The information, seemingly important in the eyes of the giver, made no change in his manner.

He turned to the left, presented his passport and demanded a ticket of admission. They are careful nowadays at Monte Carlo. Years ago a visiting card would admit one to the Shrine of the Spinning Ball but now a passport must be shown before the admission ticket is issued.

The Wasp checked his cane, for the visitor is not allowed to carry a cane into the sacred chamber; the attendant at the door punched the ticket and waved him forward into the throne room of the Goddess Chance. In the mind of The Wasp the words of the flower seller were running round and round the section which scientists call "the central conscious area:" "It is Number Thirty-seven."

Robert Henry Blane was no piker. His was not the manner of a piker. He bought one thousand francs' worth of chips and found himself a seat at the second table to the right.

He staked a hundred-franc chip and lost. He staked five more and failed to pick the numbered receptacle into which the whirling ivory ball would drop. He staked a seventh time on thirteen, which number also held the stack of a player who was betting the limit. The Wasp had not noticed the player but he had noted the fact that some one at the end of the table was playing high.

The pile of chips on thirteen was raked in as the voice of the spinner announced that eighteen was the winner and as the croupier gathered in the spoil Monsieur Robert Henry Blane was made suddenly aware of the identity of the plunger whose stack of chips shared with his own the unlucky thirteen. A queer, explosive yell came from the end of the table and The Wasp on looking up found the round beady eyes of the Maharaja of Behan-Gudsa fixed upon him. A fat be-ringed hand was thrust out as the colored ruler screamed his sorrows to the world.

"He has cursed my luck!" he screamed. "The American pig! I will not play if he remains. He must be put out. I was winning till he came to this table! He has cursed my good luck!"

Those sleek, crafty officials of the Casino who detest disturbances were at the side of the colored man in an instant. A scene of any kind is the last thing desired in the Shrine of the Spinning Ball. They endeavored to soothe the maharaja but the conceited native potentate refused to be soothed. He continued to scream out threats regarding Robert Henry Blane and the only person around the table who seemed utterly indifferent to the threats was Monsieur Blane himself. He sat with a look of boredom upon his handsome face, staking with careless indifference, seemingly deaf to the ravings of the other.

A person of authority came, a fat, pompous person with white pudgy hands, the fingers of which were so round and fat that they looked as if they were newly inflated. He delivered an ultimatum to the Oriental and it had its effect. The maharaja thrust back his chair and waddled out, followed by his attendants.

The Texan Wasp glanced indolently at the man with the fat white hands, then his eyes strayed to a person immediately behind him, a man that The Wasp knew he had never seen before but who was— and this information came to him with uncanny force from some subconscious depth— a factor in his future life.

The gray eyes of the Texan, trained to work at lightning speed, licked up the outstanding characteristics of the other's face and reported them to the nimble brain. They told of cold, merciless eyes that looked like brown-tinted and hard-frozen hailstones. They reported a mouth that was a lipless line with downturned corners. They reported a nose bred of battles, a short, big-nostriled nose that suggested an ability to analyze the air it breathed; a chin that had thrust peace to the winds.

The Wasp, watching the table, staked and thought. He reasoned softly with himself, combating the instinctive dislike of the person who had been attracted to the table by the yells of the Oriental. His manner was cool as he thought over the matters gathered up in the one quick glance.

"It is he," whispered instinct. "Of course it is he!"

"Why?" questioned the logical section of Mr. Blane's brain.

"He looks the thing!" answered instinct. "Didn't the wife of Pierre say that he was here? Well, look at the silly faces of the mob in this room and compare those faces with his. It's he! It's No. 37!"

The gray eyes of The Wasp glanced at the seat vacated by the maharaja. The seat was occupied by the man with the merciless eyes. For a single instant those eyes of the other "hooked" the wandering glance of The Wasp and new details were carried to the brain of the Texan. "He's a little interested in you," they recorded. "He has taken a seat so that he can watch you. He's playing the lowest stake."

The Wasp, emotionless as a machine, played on. He staked as if his whole mind was on the play but as he staked he felt that the gaze of the other was playing over him like an invisible flame. He didn't glance again in the direction of the cold-eyed one but he felt the other's glances upon his face, his hands, his chest. It was a test of endurance under fire. Annoyance and hate, the foolish resenters of suspicion, were promptly throttled by Mr. Robert Henry Blane and with an equanimity that was remarkable he slowly gambled his dwindling pile of chips.

It took an hour of slow play, then he pushed back his chair and without a glance at the other strolled slowly from the room. Curiously he felt that the eyes of the other were licking at his back as he walked away.

The Texan Wasp dined at his hotel and went up to his room when he had finished. He switched off the lights of the splendid chandelier and sat at the window. He watched the Avenue de Monte Carlo, watched it intently. Trams ran from a point directly beneath him at hourly intervals for Beaulieu, Villefranche and Nice. At the moments of their departure there was momentary activity in the avenue but during the intervals it was nearly deserted. An occasional Casino guard came up from the terrace, peered around, then drifted down a path into the shrubbery.

A man walked up from the direction of Monaco and halted on the opposite side of the avenue. He stared up at the darkened window of the room directly over the words "New York" carved on the outer wall. The Wasp became alert. The man on the other side of the avenue lighted a cigar.

The man in the shadows opposite pulled three times fiercely at his cigar so that the red top glowed viciously with each pull. He hid it for an interval within his palm then pulled once. Again it was hidden then sucked at viciously for twelve consecutive times.

The Texan Wasp counted not with figures but with the letters of the alphabet. The first three pulls represented "c," the following pull was "a," the twelve distinct illuminations of the cigar point denoted the letter "l."

The signaling went on. There came another "l," then "i" and "t," then in swift succession "o," and "f," the latter repeated twice.

"Call it off," murmured The Wasp repeating the message. For a moment he remained inactive, then he lit a cigarette and moved it slowly so that it made an interrogation point to the man on the other side of the avenue.

The answer came back swiftly, spelled out by the glowing tip of the cigar. "Me for Paris. Thirty-seven is here."

Far off, in the direction of the Italian border, there came through the still night the whistle of a Paris-bound express leaving the station at Cap Martin-Roquebrune. The man on the avenue heard. He sprang down the steps leading to the terrace and went at headlong speed toward the elevator. There was no doubt about his desire to put his threat into immediate execution.

THE TEXAN Wasp sat for fully ten minutes after the disappearance of the man that he had chosen as his lieutenant, then he hurriedly seized a light overcoat and an English traveling cap and descended to the street. He walked swiftly to the Palais des Beaux-Arts and sprang into a taxicab.

"To the Riviera Palace Hôtel!" he ordered. "Get a move on! Hurry!"

The cab swung up toward Beausoleil, climbing swiftly. There was a scared sickle moon swinging through a trailing mist.

A hundred yards before they reached the hotel The Wasp tossed his cap from the window of the cab, then immediately signaled the chauffeur. "I dropped my cap," he explained. "Turn back."

The taxi rolled back down the slope, The Wasp scrutinizing the road up which they had come. It was a road that gave little shelter to pursuers and the Texan evidently was satisfied that no follower was upon his trail. He leaped out and recovered the cap, then addressed the chauffeur. "Don't bother to turn round. I'll walk the rest of the way. Here's your fare."

The taxi plunged forward toward the many-lamped town between the hill and the sea and The Wasp after watching its tail light disappear turned to the east and struck up the hill in the direction of the cottage that he had described to the Just-So Kid immediately after his arrival.

The cottage was in darkness. Monsieur Robert Henry Blane knocked softly, then after an interval he made a noise with his finger nails that resembled the scratching of a small dog seeking admittance.

A light appeared within, a wan, yellow light, the door was cautiously opened and a pair of blinking eyes peered out at the visitor.

"It's Blane, Pierre," snapped the caller. "Open up, can't you?"

"I didn't know you," mumbled the other as The Wasp pushed himself into the room. Then with a quick change in his voice the occupant cried: "Why did you come here? What do you want? I sent my wife to warn you!"

The Texan Wasp from his great height looked down at the undersized man in the nightshirt. A pathetic figure was the cottage dweller. A fear-ridden wretch showing by his actions that terror had roweled him over many years.

"Now, now, Pierre, don't get scared about nothing," said The Wasp. "Let's talk."

The nightshirted one, candle in hand, led the way into a back room that was filled with the unholy odor of chemicals. He pointed to a rush-bottomed chair, placed the candle in the broken neck of a bottle, then turned upon Robert Henry Blane.

"You know he is here?" he stammered. "You know and yet you stay?"

"Why shouldn't I stay?" asked the smiling visitor. "I saw him this afternoon and I think he looks a nice, gentle—"

"Gentle!" screamed the other. "He is as gentle as a Gaboon viper! He is a devil! A swine! Gentle? He is the spawn of the devil himself!"

"But he looks so quiet!" teased the Texan.

"Ah, he looks it!" cried the Frenchman. "He is! Yes, he is quiet! He follows like a bloodhound! I know! I know!" He glanced nervously at the door and lowered his voice. "He followed me that time from Paris to Dijon! On my heels! I fled to Toulouse and I watched the railway station night and day from a peephole that I had bored in the shutter of the hotel room— I stayed at the Hôtel Chaubard, in front of the station. He got there two days after me! Yes! By the bones of the blessed St. Amélie he came out of the station with his head in the air sniffing like a dog! Aye, like a hound on the trail of a rabbit!

"I scurried to Marseilles and from Marseilles to Draguignan! I rented a little cabin in the woods at Draguignan. 'Here,' I said to myself, 'that bloodhound will never find you!' Ah, what happened? I took a walk one morning and he stepped from behind a bush! 'Pierre,' he said, 'I think you had better take a trip to Paris with me. The Côte d'Azur is not the place for a weak man in the hot summertime.'"

"It was a bit of bad luck for you," said The Wasp, "but that sea trip to New Caledonia was possibly the making of you. I think you told me that you were in bad health just then and all doctors recommend a little sea trip—"

"A little sea trip?" screamed the man in the nightshirt. "Why— why that hell is twelve thousand miles away! Twelve thousand miles! Think of being that far from Paris! I did not think it possible to get that far from Paris! And that bloodhound sent me there for life!"

The Wasp regarded the little man with the cold eye of a psychologist contemplating the effect of fear. Monsieur Robert Henry Blane was interested and a little amused. So far as he was concerned terror was an unknown sensation.

The little man stepped closer to his visitor and laid a bony hand on his shoulder. "Go away and forget that you have ever seen me!" he said earnestly. "Please! Please go! I would have carried out my part of the contract if the devil had not arrived. I have everything ready as I said I would. But now— no, no! I tell you that I will not! When I think of him I can see the nickel mines, the cowardly warders, the rotten food, everything! Listen! I can see the black fins of the sharks that followed the raft on which Mathieu and I drifted to Australia! Black fins like plow shares! They followed us for days across the hot seas to the Barrier Reef! Go away! Go away!"

The Texan Wasp rose. The little man seized his coat with bony fingers and half dragged him to the outer door. All the horror of the French penal settlement had been unloosed afresh within his mind and he wished to get rid of the tempter. "Go, go!" he cried. "Yes, yes, I know that you are clever and that you are not afraid of man or devil, but I am afraid! He is a wizard and he can read what is in your mind when you are a hundred miles away. How did he know that I was going to Toulouse and from there to Draguignan? How? How? Answer me! I tell you that he knows you are here now!"

The Wasp laughed softly. "Don't get so scared, Pierre," he said softly. "It's all right. Don't worry. If you would just give me what I want—"

"I'll give you nothing!" gasped the other. "Nothing! I am through with the business! Through with it!"

He opened the outer door and half thrust his visitor on to the roadway. The hysteria of fear gave his thin hands strength.

THE TEXAN Wasp walked down the hill toward the town. He thought over the terror produced in the minds of two of his friends by the arrival of No. 37 at Monte Carlo. The man who had signaled him from the avenue was a person of nerve, yet he had left abruptly; the little man in the cottage was a stuttering idiot with fear.

"Some terrorist, that chap," murmured The Wasp. "It's a good job that he has no knowledge of my face. He seemed to be interested though. Perhaps it suggested possibilities of wickedness to him."

Monsieur Robert Henry Blane thought over this idea as he tramped along. He told himself that evidently there was a criminal face, and admitting that there was it was quite evident that the warpings and lines that go to make up the criminal physiognomy must start somewhere.

"There may be a master wrinkle from which all the others branch out," murmured The Wasp a little delighted with the thought he had brought forward. "A sort of a key wrinkle. If a clever physiognomist located this he would—"

Monsieur Blane broke off abruptly and with one quick spring took refuge behind a clump of bushes. Some one was coming up the deserted road.

The halting footsteps of the approaching person stirred the suspicion of the Texan. They were tentative, undecided.

The Wasp crouched. He held his breath and waited. It was impossible to see a person at a distance greater than five paces. The scared moon was smothered in white mist.

The pedestrian came closer. The Wasp lowered his head so that the upper part of the unknown would show against the sky. With unblinking eyes he watched. There flashed through his mind the words of the terrified Pierre who had asserted that a certain person could read what was in the mind of another even if that other were a thousand miles away.

The man on the road halted. He turned, head tilted as if sniffing the air. The Wasp bent lower. A semiluminous patch of sky directly behind the man on the road helped him. He recognized him! The pedestrian was No. 37.

The Wasp, crouching behind the bushes, thought that there really was something canine in the actions of the man-hunter. For fully a minute he stood, evidently undecided, then he flung himself swiftly forward like a dog to whose nostrils had come a whiff of the prey.

The Wasp waited. The other breasted the hill. For a hundred yards he went forward swiftly, then the keen ears of Monsieur Blane discovered that he had turned and was descending rapidly.

The Texan thrust his hand into a specially constructed pocket in the left breast of his vest. His muscular fingers touched the butt of a tiny Browning. Questions were clamoring for answers within his brain. What had brought the extraordinary person up the hill? Was he interested in the movements of Monsieur Robert Henry Blane? If so, why?

The extraordinary hunter of criminals whose working alias was known from the "Old Port" of Marseilles to the filthy dens of Limehouse and from the "Thieves' Quarter" of Naples to the water front of Libau went by with his head bowed as if in deep thought. The echo of his shuffling feet on the pounded limestone of the roadway came back to the Texan for some minutes, then silence settled down again upon the slope.

The Wasp rose and looked down at the twinkling lights of the City of Chance. He was a little puzzled. He scaled a fence on the seaward side of the road, struck down the hill till he reached the Boulevard du Midi, then at a languid pace he headed for the grounds of the Casino. He had, with infinite care, dusted his shoes and trousers, leaving not the slightest trace of the limestone dust.

He entered the grounds from the east side and walked slowly around the Casino till he reached the terrace. There he found himself a seat immediately in front of the little bridge that crosses the railway track, the bridge over which the pigeon shooters go to the little elevator that takes them down to the shooting ground beside the sea.

The Wasp considered pigeon shooters as he sat upon the seat. He wondered what were the thoughts of the conceited fools who went across the little bridge. Then, suddenly, the little bridge became of importance! It became part of a network that was forming in his mind. It became very important. It was just a small bridge over the track of the Paris, Lyon et Méditerranée but....

The Just-So Kid interrupted the musings of The Texan Wasp. The Just-So Kid strolled across from the band stand and saluted with proper deference.

"Hello, Jimmy," said The Wasp. "Tomorrow is the night of nights, eh? I hope you're feeling fit?"

"Fit?" growled the little pugilist. "Why I'm so fit that I can't keep my feet on the gravel. I just want to fly. A feller from the old U. S. saw me go a few rounds yesterday an' he went dippy on me. He's some boy plunger. Bet a French punter ten thousand francs to three thousand that I would put this yap away before the fourth round."

"Who's the plunger?" asked The Wasp.

"Chap from Boston," answered the little pugilist. "He's makin' the arms of those croupier geeks ache rakin' in his money. They're thinkin' o' buildin' bigger tables so as he'll have plenty o' space to stack his chips. His name is Allerton—"

"His name is what?" snapped The Wasp.

"Allerton," answered the Just-So Kid. "George Allerton."

"What is he like?"

"A tall, white-faced chap of about twenty-four. Looks as if the strongest thing he ever matched himself against was a cocktail but he certainly does keep those boys with the coin-rakes busy. He's in there now buckin' the old wheel like as if he was the Rainbow Division hoppin' a dugout. He's—"

"I'll see you again, Jimmy," interrupted The Wasp. "I want to look him over."

THE TEXAN Wasp found the plunger. It was an easy matter. At two tables in the big room the huddled group of onlookers told that high play was in progress. Monsieur Robert Henry Blane strode to the first and found that the person bucking the ivory ball was his old friend the Maharaja of Behan-Gudsa. He stepped across to the other table and found that the crowd had gathered to see the futile efforts of Mr. George Allerton of Boston to break the bank.

Mr. Allerton had no system. He played wildly and luck had completely deserted him. So much so that The Wasp, studying the faces of the onlookers saw upon them that queer look of terrifying prescience that we sometimes see upon the faces of those who watch, as through a veil, the approach of tragedy. Even the croupiers, those cold-eyed accomplices of the relentless zero, watched the plunger as if they too were startled at the rather sickening manner in which the boot of fate was applied to his fortune.

Again and again Allerton staked and lost. The ivory ball ate up his pile with remarkable gluttony. It chattered a challenge to him as it whizzed around the bowl, seeking, with devilish cunning, a number that the young man had not backed.

"Come on!" chattered the Ivory Ball. "I am easy money! Every one thinks they can beat me, but do they?

"I pay the rates and keep the prince!

I make the boldest plungers wince!

I whirl and spin

In the house of sin,

And the devil looks on with an affable grin

In our shrine at Monte Carlo!"

The Texan Wasp, standing immediately behind the player whose reckless plunging had attracted a crowd, lifted his eyes and looked across the green table. Standing in the second row of the spectators, a seemingly uninterested watcher of Allerton's play, was No. 37.

A spirit of challenge rose in the breast of The Texan Wasp. There came a little flame of resentment against the man-hunter. Monsieur Robert Henry Blane, to whom fear was an unknown quantity, recalled the words of the terrified chemist. "When I think of him," the chemist had said, "I can see the nickel mines, the cowardly warders, the rotten food, everything!"

The Wasp leaned forward and touched the shoulder of the young plunger. The white face of the youth swung round upon him with a suddenness that was proof of disorganized nerves.

The Wasp spoke. "Don't you think you've had enough for one sitting?" he asked quietly.

"What's my business got to do with you?" snapped the plunger.

"Oh, nothing," answered the smiling Mr. Blane. "I just thought that your luck was out and I know how it is when that happens. One gets pigheaded and fights that infernal ball."

The young man regarded the face of The Wasp with eyes that showed evident puzzlement. He looked as if he was trying to pin down some fleeting memory.

"Seems as if I knew you," he stammered. "I don't know where but— but— what's your name anyhow?"

"What does my name matter?" murmured Mr. Blane. "No, you don't know me."

"Seems as if I did."

"No, no."

"Well, what are you buttin' in for?"

"Because you're an American and you're up against a run of bad luck."

The Wasp glanced swiftly across the table as he spoke. No. 37 had thrust himself forward, wedging his body in between two sitting players in an effort to hear the conversation that was taking place between the distinguished-looking Blane and the youthful plunger. And Mr. Blane smiled as he noted the efforts of the person who was taking the rather unusual interest in his actions. It was not the soft, whimsical smile that appeared on his face at the railway station when the Just-So Kid had offered to punch the Orientals; it was a hard smile that seemed to accentuate the whiteness of the scar on the right jaw.

The white-faced plunger was still staring at the face of The Wasp. Suddenly he spoke. "I don't want your advice in any old matter of mine!" he cried. "Mind your own business! Some one sent you, didn't they? Some one sent you!"

"No one sent me," said The Wasp quietly.

"That's a lie!" screamed the other. "Some one sent you to talk stuff to me! Well, clear out! I can manage this little merry-go-round without any advice from you."

Monsieur Robert Henry Blane, showing an utter indifference to the crowd packed around the table, moved slowly away. He passed out of the main room into the vestibule, languidly examined one of the charming landscapes by Jundt, then passed out into the grounds. Mr. Blane was puzzled. He was puzzled about the interest which No. 37 was showing in him. He was perfectly certain that the distinguished and extraordinarily successful detective had never seen him before, yet it was quite evident that Mr. Blane's presence at Monte Carlo interested him.

"Perhaps there is something in that master-crime-wrinkle idea of mine," murmured The Wasp. "Possibly it can be detected in infants in the cradle. It's a great idea. The kids that had it could be specially treated, sort of brought up on special food and all that."

Another matter puzzled The Wasp as he walked slowly round the beautiful grounds. Young Allerton had accused him of being the emissary of some one. He had screamed his belief again and again. Monsieur Robert Henry Blane wondered who young Allerton suspected of having such a great interest in his welfare.

"The darn young fool," growled Mr. Blane. "He'll lose every cent he's got in bucking that marble."

He looked at his watch. It was eleven-ten. The ivory ball and its antagonists had another fifty minutes in which to battle before the tired croupiers called it a day.

The Texan Wasp looked for a vacant seat on the Place du Casino. They were all occupied but he finally found a bench with only one occupant in the rather shadowy part of the Place farthest away from the glare of the electric lights that illuminated the gambling place and the Cafe de Paris. He took the unoccupied end of the bench, merely glancing at the female figure who sat motionless on the seat.

Robert Henry Blane, one time of Houston, Texas, made a quiet review of his position. It did not altogether thrill him. He had arrived at Monte Carlo on a very well-defined mission but matters had taken a strange turn. A confederate that he always had looked upon as a person of great nerve and daring had bolted hurriedly; another very necessary accomplice whose knowledge of chemicals was superior to that of any other man in Europe apparently had become a fear-ridden lunatic. The fleeing confederate might have been dispensed with but the chemist was necessary. Furthermore the author of all the trouble, the man-hunter with eyes like frozen hailstones, was taking more than a proper interest in Monsieur Blane himself.

The Wasp, momentarily forgetful of the other occupant of the bench, leaned back and softly whistled a little tune of his college days. It soothed him and as he whistled he wondered lazily why it had floated into his mind. Possibly the talk with young Allerton had stirred memories of other days. The young man's efforts to remember the name of Mr. Blane had naturally made Blane himself think of the days when he had come in contact with the other.

His musings were suddenly interrupted by the other occupant of the bench. To the ears of The Texan Wasp there floated a halting, whispered query. The voice thrilled him.

"Pardon," murmured the lady in the shadow, "you— you— oh, it is the tune that you are whistling! It is— it is something that I knew in the long ago. It is— it is 'When Betty Goes to Boston,' isn't it?"

By a great effort Robert Henry Blane controlled himself. "It is," he said quietly.

There was a soft silence for more than a minute. The music of the Hungarian band at the Cafe de Paris ceased; a breeze, thuriferous and intoxicating, came up from the age-old Sea of Romance and stirred the palms. It was a wonder night.

The voice of honey came again to the ears of The Wasp. "I thought it was. I knew some one who— who whistled it in— in Boston. It is strange that I should hear it in Monte Carlo. I was so— so startled that I spoke to you. Forgive me."

Robert Henry Blane called upon his self-possession. The sang-froid that had made the inquisitiveness of No. 37 an easy thing to withstand bolted in the presence of the voice. He blessed the shadows thrown by the palms.

"Your voice too," murmured the girl on the bench, "it— it sounds so much like the voice of the young man who used to whistle the tune. So much like it that I thought— I thought...." She paused and Mr. Blane steadied himself and took up the challenge.

"Yes?" he questioned.

"That I— I thought it was he!" whiskered the girl. The words were rushed out softly. To The Wasp they seemed like a little prayer.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"But you— but you might be the same person," persisted the sweet voice. "You might be! His name— his first name was Bob."

Robert Henry Blane had recovered his impassivity. His voice was cold and even as he answered. "My name is not Bob," he said. "If you are in trouble and I could help, won't you forget that it is not Bob and tell me if I can do anything?"

Again came the soft silence. A clock far up the hillside struck the half hour. The Texan Wasp told himself that the black-coated flayers that work for the Goddess Chance had thirty minutes more in which to skin young Allerton.

The girl spoke quietly. "Thank you very much," she said. "It is very kind of you to say that. I— I am in trouble, but— -but it is nothing that you could help me with. If you were— if you were the person I thought you were I would tell you, but now I cannot."

The Texan Wasp, eyes directly to the front, put a question. "Is it some friend that has got caught in the gambling cobweb?" he asked.

"Yes," came the soft answer.

"There is a young American playing heavily," said Mr. Blane. "Is he the person?"

"He has lost much," she answered, evading the direct question as if she thought an answer not necessary. "And— and it is not— not his money."

"Is it much?" asked The Wasp.

"Oh, yes! It is an awful lot."

"Could I ask how much? It is impertinent of me but— but I am an American although I am not— not the Bob you knew."

"It is ninety thousand francs," whispered the girl and her horror at the size of the losses thrust itself in a queer way into her words. "That is," she went on, "if he loses what he has with him to-night. He is my brother, you know."

The Texan Wasp considered the words "you know" for a moment, then he spoke. "I can't tell you how awfully sorry I am," he said softly. "It is dreadful for you."

There was a long interval of silence, then the girl rose. Monsieur Robert Henry Blane, bareheaded, sprang to his feet. The two faced each other, standing some six feet apart. The man, for the first time, looked directly at the girl. She was slight and supple and the queer light that filtered through the trees fell upon a face that was very beautiful.

"Good night," she said softly. "I thank you for your sympathy. Perhaps I was— I was wrong to speak to you, but I thought — I thought that you were the man I knew. And— and I wanted to tell him something."

Robert Henry Blane bowed. The girl turned away, then as if prompted by a sudden afterthought she swung around and spoke hurriedly. "I wanted to tell him that I always believed in him," she said quickly. "You see— you see something happened. He— he was blamed for something some one else did and— and he went away. But I— I always believed in him."

She floated away across the Place and up the Avenue de la Costa leading to the Hermitage Hôtel. A clock boomed twelve. The worship of the Goddess of Chance was over for the day.

THE TEXAN Wasp did not sleep that night. He walked the floor of his room at the Hôtel de Paris and memory dragged out of the past a thousand tormenting scenes that ran like hot films before his eyes. He tried to thrust the pictures back into the cell where they had been safely imprisoned till the girl had spoken to him but they defied the old verbal brooms of "I-don't-care" and "It-can't-be-helped" with which the man tried to sweep them into the abyss of forgetfulness.

Many of the scenes brought him untold agony. There was a memory picture of a night when he sat with a girl on the stoop of an old house in Beacon Street, Boston; another of a spring day on Lake Kezar in Maine when eyes that held the sweetness of the world were turned sympathetically upon a broad-shouldered college boy who babbled of the things he would do when he went out into the world.

"You might be the governor of the State of Massachusetts or— or of Texas," the girl had murmured.

"I— I might," growled the egotistic young giant. It was dreadful stuff to remember.

Dawn found Robert Henry Blane sitting at the window watching the Sea of Romance turn into a mesh of silver under the rays of the rising sun. On the Avenue du Monte Carlo the Just-So Kid breezed along in a morning walk. The little pugilist lifted a hand in salute to the figure at the window but The Wasp did not see. Those phantoms of "The Man You Might Have Been" were grilling him without a moment's rest.

It was midday when The Texan Wasp left his room. Although he had spent the night without sleep he was alert and keen-eyed. Possibly a bright observer would have detected upon his face a knowledge of what he intended to do and was determined to do.

There was there that "look of shaping plans" of which the Little Corsican spoke.

Mr. Blane met the Just-So Kid immediately in front of the hotel, a very happy Just-So Kid on account of the nearness of the fight.

"To-night's the clambake," cried the little pugilist. "I'm goin' to hop at him like a hobo hoppin' at a pie. Gee, do you get longin's for pie? I wake up o' nights an' think about the pies my mother used to make. To-night I'm goin' to think that geek is a section o' deep dish an' that I'm the same hungry kid as used to work in the mill."

The Texan Wasp smiled. "I hope you will win, Jimmy," he said.

"I'll win if the Casino doesn't fall down an' kill me," growled the Just-So Kid. "An' there doesn't seem to be any chance o' this joint fallin' down. There's too many fools handin' the croupier guys coin to keep it in repair. They tell me that they skinned that Boston plunger who put some coin on me. Well, roun' about nine-thirty to-night he'll collect three thousand francs on my win so he'll have that much to make a new start with."

A taxicab driver looked at The Texan Wasp as if he— the driver— considered The Wasp a person whom Fate had willed to be the perpetual prey of chauffeurs and Mr. Blane accepted the challenge.

"Riviera Palace," he ordered, then to the Just-so Kid he remarked: "I'll be at the ringside to-night, Jimmy. I know you'll win. Think of the U. S. and the pies your mother used to make. Château Thierry was won in the kitchens of New England."

PIERRE Chabanier, the little chemist, was startled when he saw the face of The Texan Wasp. He tried to close the door on the big American but The Wasp was powerful. He thrust the door open and the chemist a little terrified of the gray eyes backed away from him.

"Pierre," said the visitor, "I am not going to ask you for anything; I'm going to take it. There's a taxicab waiting down the road. Get your things together and the chauffeur will drive you and your wife to Monaco where you can catch the four-thirty-three express for Paris. Here's a thousand francs. Now tell me all about the valuable things in your collection and then get. Don't talk about anything else! I won't listen to you."

The chemist protested violently. He would explain nothing and he would not leave. He chattered like a monkey; The Wasp looking at him with cold eyes.

Suddenly the big Texan spoke. "You've got to go," he said. "I am using your cottage for an appointment this evening."

"An appointment? Who with?"

"Our friend."

"What friend?"

The Texan Wasp smiled. "The gentleman that sent you on the long sea voyage. I sent him a message—"

"You are mad!" screamed the chemist. "You— you— you—"

He turned and made a rush for the door but Monsieur Robert Henry Blane sprang upon him and held him tight.

"Not for a moment, Pierre," he said softly. "I want you to explain a few things to me, then you can beat it. It's better for you to go away. Now come in here and tell me all about this stuff in the back room. Stop protesting or I'll break your neck. You fell down on your contract and you're squealing like a trapped rabbit. Shut up! Explain this stuff and you can go. I'm supplying the funds, you idiot! And No. 37 knows you are here. Yes he does. I found him nosing along the road the other evening."

The lower jaw of the chemist sagged. His little yellow eyes were the thrones of fear. A queer moisture appeared upon his face and he would have fallen if The Wasp had not held him upright.

"Now," said Monsieur Blane, "talk fast. No technical stuff. Just tell me quickly how to do what you agreed to do and funked on. No harm will come to you. Your wife and you will be the other side of Marseilles when I start operations."

The terrified chemist stammered explanations, and The Wasp asked simple questions. "How long before it works? And the radius? I see. No danger of killing any one? Good. It's simple. I'll just need these two things, eh? Now get. The chauffeur has his instructions. I'll see you some day in Paris."

Madame Chabanier had hurriedly gathered together their small effects while the chemist and The Wasp were speaking and now with an old valise in her hand she rushed to the side of her husband. "Come," she cried, "let us go! He fears nothing, but he is mad! They are all mad, these Americans!"

The chemist emitted a queer whimpering cry, gripped his wife's arm, stumbled through the doorway and went at a jog-trot down the road to where the taxicab was waiting. A very terrified man was Pierre Chabanier. Fear brought the smell of New Caledonia to his nostrils.

Monsieur Blane alone in the cottage calmly gathered up the articles whose value and use he had discussed with the chemist, stowed them neatly about his person and slipped out the rear door. He crept along a stone wall that went down the hill toward the town, and turned into a little by-lane where he luckily found a carriage in which he drove to his hotel.

THE TEXAN Wasp spent the afternoon in his room. He locked the doors and drew the heavy curtains together. Once in the long ago an inquisitive person had used a trench periscope from the window of a room directly beneath the apartment occupied by Monsieur Blane and he had never forgotten the lesson he learned on that occasion.

He examined the articles that he had brought from the cottage of the chemist, examined them unhurriedly but with a fierce intensity that spoke highly of their value. They were strange little devices, the result of long investigation on the part of a man who was easily the leader in his own particular line. There was a small nickel flask with shoulder straps that would permit of it being worn around the neck of the person needing it. From it came a thin tube with a small, flesh-colored mask that would fit tightly over the nose. It weighed altogether less than half a pound and The Wasp, fingering it, wondered over the ingenuity of the chemist who had made it.

There was also a small brass cylinder upon which was fitted a heavy screw cap. Very heavy was the cylinder if judged by its size. It was but six inches in length and about three inches in circumference, yet it weighed over three pounds. "It's nearly solid," murmured Monsieur Blane. "Whatever is inside it must be powerful indeed."

Five score times during the afternoon did the strong fingers of The Wasp grip the heavy screw cap of the brass cylinder. The thing fascinated him. It had all the strange mystery of the vessel which the fisherman in the "Arabian Nights" fished up in his net from the sea. Monsieur Blane walked around it as it lay upon the table. He stroked it gently. He spoke to it softly.

It came four o'clock. The Wasp with much thought prepared a telegram, then he consulted the time-table of the Paris, Lyon, et Méditerranée. A train for Marseilles and Paris would pass Monte Carlo at six-twenty. He rang for a bell hop and dispatched the telegram. "Our cold-eyed friend should be delighted with my invitation to a talkfest," he soliloquized. "Another little walk up the hill to Pierre's cottage will take the conceit out of him."

He overhauled his valise; a wonderfully fitted up valise that had been specially made for him. Mr. Blane examined it with regret. He liked nice things. He went over every article it contained, tearing off names and the addresses of the makers. These he burned.

At five-thirty he descended to the office. He asked for his account and paid it in new hundred-franc bills.

"Will I get your luggage clown, sir?" asked the assistant manager.

"Not yet," answered The Wasp. "I am going to have a final flirtation with the Goddess Chance. That is why I am paying you now."

The assistant manager grinned. He knew the results of many flirtations between his guests and the goddess of the Casino.

Monsieur Robert Henry Blane walked quietly across the Place du Casino. The big electric arcs illuminated the gardens and the front of the Casino so that all the fairy beauty of the Shrine of Chance was evident. The seats were filled with loungers; a constant stream passed through the big doors: picturesque guards strolled up and down. A warm wind from Africa played writh the exotic trees that the kind Société Anonyme des Bains de Mer which controls the Casino had gathered from the ends of the earth to make the place delightful to those simple devotees who come to challenge the wheel.

The Texan Wasp entered the Casino and passed into the gaming room where feverish gamblers sat with hunched shoulders and battled gamely with the torture wheel.

The Texan Wasp walked from table to table. Now and then he glanced at his watch. He had a schedule that had to be followed carefully. A queer schedule. He tried to keep his mind fixed upon it but at times there slipped into the fabric of definite plans the thought of a girl with a voice of honeyed sweetness who had asked about a song. The words of the song itself slipped up out of the past and filled the ears of Monsieur Blane, making him momentarily deaf to the monotonous announcements of the spinner. A queer little song:

For every boy is filled with joy,

And every heart's a lost one;

And Boylston Street is paradise

When Betty goes to Boston.

"Why— why," murmured The Wasp, "I— I wrote that song. I had forgotten. That's curious."

At the second table The Wasp found the Maharaja of Behan-Gudsa. A very excited maharaja at the moment. He was winning heavily and a brace of attendants were busy gathering up the piles of chips which came to their master.

Monsieur Blane looked for Allerton but the young American was absent. The rakes of the croupiers evidently had dragged the last franc from his pockets. But there was no lack of antagonists for the ivory ball. They fought for places at the green-covered tables.

The Texan Wasp made the round of the tables and again consulted his watch. There were five minutes to spare between the hour and the moment that the schedule went into operation. He decided that he would sit down on one of the big leather lounges built close to the walls of the gaming room and on which plungers can total up their losses or winnings in quiet comfort. Very soft and beautiful are the lounges. They soothe the loser and thrill the winner.

A minute passed. Monsieur Robert Henry Blane fingered the little brass cylinder in his coat pocket.

Two minutes passed. Three.

Monsieur Blane, perfectly calm, slipped his right hand beneath his vest and felt the nickel flask. Again he looked at his watch. It was within a minute of the moment when the schedule went into effect. Curiously, although his mind was fixed upon the task in front of him, the ridiculous little tune would persist. He rose from his seat with the words "And Boylston Street is paradise" ringing softly in his ears.

The Texan Wasp took a step forward, turned with lightning suddenness and dropped back into his seat. The watchful gray eyes had made a discovery. The Maharaja of Behan-Gudsa had left the table and, accompanied by his two attendants, was waddling toward an angle of the lounge quite close to where The Wasp was sitting!

The angle of the lounge hid Monsieur Blane when he dropped back on the cushions. He heard the contented grunt of the fat potentate as the maharaja dropped upon the broad cushions. He heard the sharp orders in Hindustani addressed to the two secretaries.

Around the angle there came to the ears of The Wasp a thrilling murmur. The maharaja was counting his winnings! The two attendants had cashed the chips and the colored ruler was enjoying the luxury of tallying his thousand-franc bills.

Monsieur Blane slid softly along the seat. The floor was thinned. Sensational play was in progress at the nearest table and the loungers moved upon the spot.

From around the corner of the lounge came the fat throaty whisper of the counting maharaja.

"Sixty thousand; sixty-five; seventy!"

Closer, still closer to the angle slid The Wasp. Thrilling were the words that came to his ears. He hurriedly calculated the distance between himself and the maharaja.

The colored potentate had made a great killing. "Eighty thousand," he grunted. "Eighty-five; ninety; a hundred thousand!"

Monsieur Blane had a desire to whistle. The maharaja had beat the ivory ball out of a hundred thousand francs!

The strong fingers of The Texan Wasp's right hand slipped into the pocket that carried the brass cylinder. They unscrewed the top and, at the same moment Monsieur Blane, leaning forward to avoid observation, slipped over his own nose the small rubber mask connected with the nickel flask strapped beneath his vest.

A cry went up from the nearest table. A bigger plunger than the maharaja had cornered the attention of the onlookers. The strollers converged upon the point. The Wasp blessed the unknown whose play was the magnet for the unoccupied.

"Hundred and four thousand," chanted the maharaja. "Hundred and seven, eight, nine." The Wasp thrust the open mouth of the brass cylinder toward the angle of the lounge. There was excitement at the nearest table. The new plunger had cornered the attention of all. None noticed the actions of Monsieur Blane.

Suddenly the voice of the maharaja weakened. It became a sleepy whisper. It died away into a murmur that was barely discernible. He had counted to one hundred and eleven thousand francs.

The Wasp screwed the top upon the brass cylinder and slipped the rubber mask from his nose. Cautiously he thrust his head around the angle of the lounge. The Maharaja of Behan-Gudsa and his two attendants were fast asleep!

The right hand of Monsieur Blane was thrust forward and an enormous wallet that was slipping softly from the fat knees of the sleeping ruler was transferred swiftly into the pocket of the Texan.

MONSIEUR Robert Henry Blane rose. The door of the gambling room was thirty feet away. He lounged carelessly toward it. He had thrown his schedule to the wind because the unexpected had occurred. Now he had to substitute a new plan.

Monsieur Blane glanced at the table where the new plunger was proving a lode-stone for the watchers, then he turned his gaze ahead. Coming toward him from the entrance to the gaming room was No. 37.

The mind of the Texan was an alert piece of mechanism. It acted with a suddenness that surprised the cold-eyed man-hunter. He, the man-hunter, bargained on The Wasp making straight for the door; The Wasp had different views. He swung to the left; hurled himself through a small waiting room and sprang through the window, clutching the leaden spout as he disappeared!

No. 37 showed a speed that was remarkable. As The Wasp touched the earth of the terrace on the seaward side of the Casino he glanced upward. The feet of the man-hunter were swinging in the air above his head.

The alarm had been sounded. Into the quiet of the evening there went up the yells of officials, the screams of women; somewhere in the distance a gong clanged loudly. The Shrine of the Goddess Chance had been violated!

The brain of The Texan Wasp concentrated on the situation. It was a cool, logical brain and it reasoned coldly in spite of the commotion. "The bridge!" it cried. "The bridge! If the express is swinging through you have a chance!"

From somewhere close came the long, drawn-out whistle of a speeding express. It cut through the yells and screams as if it wished to call the attention of Monsieur Blane to its nearness. He hurled himself across the terrace. "Quick!" screamed the alert brain. "The bridge! The bridge! Faster! Faster!"

The terrace was in commotion. Figures, strangely cubistic in the light, converged upon the path of The Texan Wasp. A shot answered the scream of the locomotive and a leaden hornet buzzed by the head of the flying Texan. The gong clanged louder.

It was a matter of forty yards to the bridge— the little bridge over which the pigeon shooters go to shoot the birds that, unloosed in the face of the big sea, turn back on the guns that butcher them. The arc lights lit a pillow of smoke that surged up out of the cutting. Again came the scream of the locomotive. The Texan Wasp hurled himself toward the bridge.

Curiously in those last few yards his mind registered a little happening. A man had run toward him but had made no attempt to stop him. He had stood as if astonished by the flight of Monsieur Blane and his action produced a strange climax. As The Wasp hurled himself over the rail of the bridge he looked back. The man who had run toward him and stopped had got himself directly in the path of the nearest pursuer. They collided as the fugitive dropped upon the rolling, lurching wagon of the thundering express!

The wagon tore itself from beneath Monsieur Blane as he fell upon it. Like a bobcat on a galloping deer he clawed for something to grip. He was swept backward nearly the full length of the car, hurled side-wise till his legs protruded over the edge, then just when hope seemed lost his strong hands gripped the cap of a lamp and limpet-like he drove off into the night in the direction of Monaco.

ON THE afternoon following the escape of The Texan Wasp, Miss Betty Allerton, sitting alone in her room at the Hôtel Hermitage, received a visitor. A rather strange visitor. He was a supple young man of about eighteen and he appeared before her with a much bandaged head. He had refused to state his business to the hotel attendants and when he walked into the sitting room of the girl she looked at him in amazement.

"I'm afraid I don't know you," murmured the girl. "What is it that you wish to see me about?"

The young man waved a threatening cap at the sleek black-coated attendant who had shown him in. "Beat it, bo," he said quietly. "The tale isn't for you."

The servant disappeared and the young man spoke. "I guess you don't know me," he began. "Your brother might, but you don't. I'm an American scrapper called the Just-So Kid an' someone—"

Miss Betty Allerton gave a little gasp of astonishment. The Just-So Kid paused and looked at her inquiringly.

"I bet your brother went an' told you that I throwed him down last night," he continued after a slight pause. "I didn't throw him down but I don't blame him for thinkin' I did. You see it was like this. Someone— someone I know an' who's been a good friend to me— was in a hurry to catch a train an' someone else didn't want him to catch it. Sabe? Well, quite accidentally I stood in the track of the chap that didn't want my friend to catch the train. Unnerstan'?

"That feller was runnin' faster than a bootleggin' airplane. He hit me like a heavyweight rhinoceros an' when I come to my full senses the people was comin' away from that fight because I wasn't there. Guess you've read about it in the papers? 'Bout the hurry o' my friend, I mean? They wired to the next station to tell him some-thin' but he had stepped off in between. Anyhow that's why I wasn't at the fight. After I came out o' the trance the geek who ran into me had the cold nerve to ask me if I stepped in front o' him on purpose. What d'ye think of that for iced front?"

Miss Betty Allerton did not answer. Her wonderful eyes were fixed upon the prize fighter.

"It wasn't to tell you all that stuff that I came here," went on the Just-So Kid. "This friend o' mine sent me to-day a package an' told me to give it to you. He said I was to give it to you with my own hands 'cause he thinks the same as me that a lot o' these hotel geeks have treacle flips. Well, here it is."

He stepped forward and handed the girl a large square envelope. She took it with trembling fingers and with the eyes of the Just-So Kid upon her she tore it open. Her big eyes were ashine with emotion as she shook the envelope. From it there fell a shower of thousand-franc bills, the large, beautifully printed bills of the Banque de France! They fell into her lap, fivescore of them, and she forgot the little pugilist as she sat staring at them. She was murmuring softly— the youth thought it was a prayer.

The Just-So Kid backed quietly toward the door. He opened it softly, stepped into the passage, closed the door with the same care and tiptoed gently away.

Halfway to the stairs he had an encounter. A white-faced young man going in the opposite direction stopped with a little snarl and with uplifted finger began to stammer violently regarding cowardice and the general fate of traitors.

The Just-So Kid thrust out a strong right hand and gripped the long white finger raised in admonition. He bent it backward till its owner howled with pain.

"Lissen a me, bo," hissed the pugilist. "I didn't throw you down but I'm not goin' to tell you what stopped me. But I'll tell you this! If I catch you goin' into that Casino to tire the arms o' these croupier geeks I'm goin' to give you what I didn' hand out to the champeen o' the Alpes-Maritimes. Do you get me? I've got my order from a prince who passed me some coin when I was thinkin' o' becomin' a boxin' instructor to the angels, so watch your step, sonny. Watch your step!"

The Just-So Kid thrust Mr. Allerton from him and walked proudly down the stairs. He was covered with bruises and he had lost the opportunity to win a title but he was very happy.

________________

7: Wizard or Crook

Casper Carson
fl 1905-1916

The Argosy Dec 1912

1. The Gall of Him.

THE commissioner of police frowned at the intrusion of a messenger with a card into the privacy of his inner office.

He was grappling at the moment with one of the most difficult problems of his career, and the last thing he wanted was to be disturbed.

Called to the head of the police department in response to the universal demand for a practical policeman, Commissioner McConnell unquestionably filled the bill.

He had served in his day as the ordinary "pavement bull," had been promoted to roundsman and sergeant, and then transferred to the detective bureau, making good, as the phrase goes, in each successive capacity.

With the offer and acceptance of a post in the government secret service, he added such new laurels to his record that eventually he was able to establish a very successful private detective agency.

And now, at last, he was back on the force again—back on the force, with all his knowledge gained from the inside of its strength and weakness, yet with the wider perspective and freedom from cabals and entangling alliances of a virtual outsider.

Great things were expected of McConnell, and rightly so; for, after all is said and done, the chief business of a police force is catching criminals, and there was no gainsaying the fact that McConnell was a great detective.

True, he didn't at all suggest the rather fantastic creations of the fiction writers for such a role. With his rather rotund body, bullet head, and heavy, curled mustache, he came nearer perhaps to the figure of the blundering professional "cop " whom these chroniclers so delight to picture.

His chase of a crook was usually free from weird or eccentric features, and he would about as soon think of flying as to get down on his stomach and wriggle around with a magnifyingglass in search of clues; but he got there, just the same.

The Le Clair diamond robbery, the Conover counterfeiting case, the Daingerfield public lands conspiracy are matters which attest his skill and ability at following up an involved and baffling trail.

But here, at the very outset of his new undertaking, and with the myriad eyes of the public upon him, he found himself confronted with a job which seemed to defy solution.

Look as it which way he would, he had to confess himself fairly stumped. There was apparently no clue or start-ing-point from which to begin an investigation. Yet, knowing that to every puzzle there must be a satisfactory answer of some kind, he had shut himself away from all interruption, and with head between his hands, and all his faculties concentrated on the rather meager details supplied him, was vainly striving to discern some light. It may be imagined, therefore, how welcome was the entrance of the messenger with the card at such a juncture.

"Some politician, I suppose," he growled, "come to beg off for one of that bunch of captains I transferred yesterday? Why the dickens can't those fellows—"

Then, as he reached out for the bit of pasteboard, and his eye fell on the engraved name with its penciled line of explanation underneath, the storm broke.

" ' Mr. E. Bolingbroke Ramsdell!' " he exploded with thunderous disgust. " ' In reference to obtaining a position on the force!' "

The hapless messenger cringed before the blast of outraged wrath he saw coming; but, of a sudden, McConnell's humor changed. In spite of himself, his lips began to twitch, a twinkle crept into his blue eye, and then he burst into a roar of laughter. It was really too absurd that his weighty deliberations should be called upon to yield to the demands of a mere job-seeker—a job-seeker named Bolingbroke Ramsdell, at that.

All at once his face grew serious, and he turned a keen, searching glance upon the waiting subordinate.

"Charlie," he said dryly, "you've been with the department here about five years, more or less, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"And in that time how many greenhorns with an ambition to join the force have asked to see the commissioner?"

"Probably a thousand, sir; maybe more."

"Exactly. And what answer do you usually make to them?"

"Why," with the glib readiness of a well-learned lesson, "I always tell 'em to make a written application in due form, and then go to the civil service commission for examination."

"Ever bring in any of their cards to the commissioner before?"

"No, sir," confessed the man hesitatingly, "I don't believe I ever did, except maybe once or twice, when a district leader, or somebody like that, came along with 'em."

The commissioner sat silent for a moment or two.

"Er— Charlie," he inquired at length, "just how much did this guy slip you?" The messenger straightened up, and met the probing gaze bent on him almost with an expression of relief.

"Not a cent, commissioner," he disavowed earnestly. "I knew you'd be thinking that; but it isn't so, sir. On my honor, it isn't."

McConnell was frankly puzzled. Shrewd judge of men that he was, he knew instinctively that the messenger was telling the truth. "Is the fellow a friend of yours, then?" he hazarded.

"Never saw him before in my life, sir."

McConnell's patience, never his strongest virtue, gave completely away at this. "Look here, my man," he snapped; "if you think this is a place for horseplay or kidding matches, you've got another guess coming. I want you to understand that—"

"Oh, no, commissioner!" broke in the subordinate tremblingly. "Oh, no, sir! I'd be the last person in the world to try anything like that."

"What the deuce do you mean, then, by bringing me a thing like this "— contemptuously flipping the card with his forefinger—"when I expressly told you that I was not to be disturbed except for imperative business?"

The culprit stood silent, looking down at the floor, and uneasily shuffling his feet. "Answer me."

"I—I couldn't help it, sir."

"Couldn't help it?"

"No, sir. I knew I had no business to bring that card in to you; but— but—" He flushed guiltily, and seemed to become more confused than ever. "Well, sir, that young fellow somehow has a way of getting what he wants."

"H-m. He has, has he?" Again McConnell's eyes narrowed to a glance of suspicious scrutiny. "I guess," he decided, "that I'll take a look at him for myself. Tell him to come in."

Then, as the messenger turned away, a sudden realization came to the commissioner which twisted his lips into a wry sort of a smile.

"Has a way of getting what he wants, eh?" he muttered. "Well, by Jove, it begins to look like it when I give up my valuable time to a chap with an errand like his!"

2. Some Revelations.

McCONNELL had pictured to himself, from Charlie's description, a forceful, swaggering sort of type— something of a cross between the bouncer of a Bowery saloon and the persuasive-tongued advance man of a "ten, twent' and thirt' " repertoire company; but, to his surprise, the visitor who edged deprecatingly into his presence was meek, mild, and unimposing as buttermilk.

"He looks like a cartoonist's idea of a kid from Boston," thought the commissioner, turning away to hide a grin; and, indeed, the swift characterization was far from inexact, in view of its subject's round, moon face adorned by a pair of enormous, heavy-lensed spectacles, and the attenuated frame manifestly too small for his bulging head.

McConnell promptly repented the rash impulse which had led him into granting an interview. His manner showed plainly that he intended to make the incident brief as decency would permit.

"Your name's Ramsdell, eh?" he grunted, refreshing his memory by a glance at the card he still held between his fingers.

"Yes, sir." The caller spoke in a thin, high-pitched voice.

"E. Bolingbroke Ramsdell."

It was beyond human nature to resist such a chance for a rise.

"Some class to that, isn't there?" McConnell commented in mock admiration. "What's the ' E ' for?"

"Elizur," confessed Ramsdell. "Eliza?" "No, no. Elizur, with an ' ur.' I merely use the initial, however, because so many people fall into the same error as you; and Eliza is a feminine name, you know."

He made the explanation quite placidly, and evidently without the slightest suspicion that he was being rigged; so the commissioner, feeling a trifle flat, returned a bit hastily to the task of getting rid of him.

"You want a position on the force, eh?" he said bruskly. "Well, I'm sorry; but I don't believe I can help you. You will have to make application through the regular channels, and—"

"Yes, yes, I know all that," interrupted the applicant. "But, you see, Mr. Commissioner, I am not after a position on the uniformed force."

"No?" rejoined McConnell, with a slightly ironic inflection. He was about to inquire if it was a job as inspector or deputy commissioner that the other had in mind; but Ramsdell was already proceeding.

"No," he repeated. "I am inclined to consider the detective bureau the proper field for my talents."

"Oh," groaned McConnell to himself, "one of those ginks with the Sherlock Holmes bug in his nut! What he ought to do is send a quarter off to some fake detective agency and get a nice little tin star to amuse himself with."

Aloud, however, he remarked, rising as though to terminate the interview, that he saw very little chance of accomplishing any such desires.

"You see," he explained curtly, "under the law, all appointments to the detective bureau come in the nature of promotions from the regular rank and file."

"Still," persisted the other, declining to take any notice of his evident dismissal, "you do sometimes make use of outside assistance, don't you?"

"Very infrequently. And I certainly know of no matters on hand at present which call for such a step."

The young man thrust his spectacled face slightly forward.

"Not even the Poe case?" he queried. McConnell sat down rather abruptly.

"What the—what do you know about the Poe case?" he ejaculated sharply.

"Simply that Darius Poe, the old book-collector, has had stolen from him the famous Wickliffe Bible, for which he paid a record price of seventy-five thousand dollars at the J. V. Emory auction sale last week, as detailed so extensively in the papers at the time.

"The book was kept for safety," he went on, "together with a number of Mr. Poe's most highly cherished treasures, in a massive safe in the library he has had built back of his residence on Madison Avenue. There are no indications of a burglarious entry to the building, nor does the safe show any signs of having been tampered with. Moreover, the keys to the library never left Mr. Poe's person from the time he locked the door at ten o'clock last night until he opened up again at nine o'clock this morning; yet, when he went to the safe, he found the Bible —the chief prize of his collection— gone. Instead, there lay in the safe an impudent letter informing him that unless he deposited twenty-five thousand dollars in the safe for the return of the book the valuable volume would be destroyed. "Those," the caller concluded equably, "are, I believe, the main facts in the rather interesting affair."

"No." The police commissioner smashed his fist down on his desk, his eyes narrowing to pin-points. "There is one fact yet which has got to be explained to me. How did you get wise to all this?"

"Ah!" The moon face with the big spectacles beamed bafflingly at him. "You will have to excuse me from answering that question, Mr. Commissioner."

"But," expostulated McConnell angrily, "there were only two people who knew of that letter you mention— myself and old man Poe. And he promised me faithfully that he would not speak of it to a living soul. If he's going to double-cross me by blabbing stuff right and left, how does he ever expect me to run down his moldy old book for him?"

"I assure you on my honor," piped Ramsdell, "that I did not get my intelligence from Mr. Poe. No more than I got my information in regard to the abduction of Miss Ethel Vorhees from the Vorhees family."

If this sedately uttered remark had been a dynamite bomb it couldn't have created much greater consternation. McConnell sprang to his feet, his eyes almost goggling out on his cheeks. "Your information in regard to— what?" he thundered. "In regard to the abduction of Miss Ethel Vorhees," rejoined Ramsdell demurely; "since I suppose that is what her disappearance must be considered."

No wonder that the commissioner was thunderstruck. The disappearance in question—that of a Riverside Drive heiress from her home some three weeks before—was one of the most carefully guarded secrets at headquarters; for the young lady's family, although spending money like water in the endeavor to trace up her whereabouts, were using every effort to avoid publicity. Even among the police only McConnell himself and one or two of his most trusted lieutenants were in possession of the actual details; yet this amazing stranger referred to the affair as casually as though it were a matter of common newspaper knowledge.

"So, you know about that, too?" stammered the now thoroughly discomfited official.

E. Bolingbroke Ramsdell merely nodded in a bored sort of way, as though there were nothing especially remarkable in the fact. "Maybe, then "—a shrewd gleam ' flashed into McConnell's heavy-lidded eyes—"you can tell where the girl is?"

"Maybe I could find out," rejoined the other significantly, "if—I was attached to the detective bureau."

"How?" Ramsdell wagged his head. "That is my secret, commissioner. But," he added, "I think I can deliver the goods. In fact, I am very well satisfied that I can clear up the mystery not only in regard to Miss Vorhees, but also with respect to the Poe Bible.

"You know," removing his glasses and showing a pair of pale, expressionless eyes, "Charlie, the messenger, told you I had a way of getting what I wanted."

"Humph!" sniffed McConnell. "I suppose there's no use asking how you persuaded that rascal to bring in your card, eh?"

"Well, I don't know." The other considered. "It must be in confidence, though. Promise me that you won't give Charlie the worst of it on my account."

"All right, then," as the commissioner gave somewhat eager assent.

"It was simple enough. I happened to learn that Charlie was guilty of some technical violations of the rules, and gave him the choice between bringing in my card and having them reported."

"But how did you learn of these infractions of Charlie's? The men generally manage to keep those things pretty dark."

"Ah," said Ramsdell, with an apologetic smile, "believe me, I know quite a little about the inside workings of the police department. Just how I know, though, is another of my little secrets."

4. The Bargain.

McCONNELL, taken by surprise with the series of unexpected jolts given him by his visitor, had rather lost control of himself for the moment, but now he rapidly caught his faculties together. With a decided increase of respect in his manner toward the other, he passed over a box of long, black cigars to Ramsdell and selected one for himself.

"I think, Mr. Ramsdell," he said thoughtfully between puffs, "that maybe you and I can do some business. Just what is the nature of the proposition you want to make to me?"

"A sort of mutual benefit association, Mr. Commissioner," responded Ramsdell with a diffident smile. "You —as I understand it—are out to make a record for yourself in your new position, while I frankly confess that I am after nothing but money. There are big rewards offered constantly for the clearing up of crimes and mysteries, and, without being officially attached to the department, I want all such cases turned over to me, and the rewards paid into my hands on their satisfactory solution. In other words, you can take the glory and I will take the coin. Doesn't that strike you as a fair deal, in view of the fact that I guarantee you success in every instance?"

"You guarantee success?" McConnell's tone was skeptical as a result of his long years of detective experience.

"I guarantee it positively; and that, moreover, within two weeks from the time each case is taken up."

McConnell was fain to question the grounds for such absolute self-confidence, but, realizing that he would simply be told this was another "little secret," held his peace. In the face of the disclosures made to him concerning the Poe and Vorhees matters, he was hardly in a position to scoff at any of Ramsdell's statements, no matter how staggering they might appear.

"Still," he submitted cautiously, "you must yourself agree, young man, that it's a rather dangerous proceeding to make an outsider free of all the inside information held by the police department. Before we close any bargain I guess I'll have to know a little more about you."

"Sure," assented Ramsdell cheerfully; "although I'm afraid there isn't much to tell. I am twenty-six years old, and was born at Tenallytown, Maryland. After leaving school I taught for a year in the Deaf-Mute Institute at Washington, and then, coming on to New York, took a degree in the natural sciences at Columbia, and since completing that have been doing post-graduate work along the same line with the idea of becoming an instructor. In the mean time I support myself by tutoring backward students."

"So, that's your biography, eh?" McConnell smiled in spite of himself. "Hardly what one would call preparation for being a detective, is it? But excuse me a minute; there is an order I have forgotten to send out," punching a button on his desk for the messenger, as he hurriedly scribbled a line or two on a sheet, of paper and slipped it into an envelope.

Then, with this despatched, the commissioner turned again to the business of questioning Ramsdell and drawing the latter out in regard to every point of his career.

A half or three-quarters of an hour later an answer was delivered to the "order " McConnell had sent out; for that, as may have been surmised, was merely a request to have Ramsdell looked up. The commissioner glanced through it; then, with a slight frown, crumpled the slip up in his hands and tossed it into the waste-basket. It corroborated in every particular the statements the young man had made in regard to himself.

"Found what I told you just about straight, didn't you?" commented Ramsdell dryly.

McConnell flushed a little. Really, it was almost uncanny the way this fellow called the turn on him.

"Whatever I've found," he responded a bit tartly, "it's nothing that proves you in any way fitted to be a detective."

"Would you judge a horse by performance or pedigree?" returned the other quietly. "Come, come, commissioner, I think I've shown you enough to warrant you in giving me a chance. Let me have a try at this Poe Bible business, anyhow, and see if I don't make good."

The commissioner hesitated, then not altogether graciously yielded assent.

"Two of the most experienced men from the bureau, Brady and Schmitz, are up there now, looking over the ground," he said. "I'll phone up and tell them to let you into the library and give you every facility in getting at the facts."

And, true to his word, he did so as soon as his new assistant was started on his way. But he also sent a supplementary message of which he had not spoken to Ramsdell.

"Keep your eye on that duck," he warned  the detectives, "and try to find out if possible what he is up to. Don't let his looks deceive you. He is, unless I'm greatly mistaken, the most dangerous crook I've ever run up against."

4. Going Over the Ground.

THE LIBRARY of Darius Poe, the millionaire book-lover and collector, was a massive structure erected in the rear of his square, old-fashioned house on one of the fashionable avenues.

Built of huge blocks of granite, it presented almost the appearance of a fortress, for it was entirely without windows—the lighting and ventilation being managed by a system of skylights and vent-holes in the roof— while the only visible entrance was guarded by heavily barred and bolted doors of solid bronze.

True, there was another smaller door for Poe's private use, and connecting through a passageway with the residence, but that did not need to be taken into account, for the old gentleman always kept the keys to it in his own possession, even sleeping with them strung on a cord around his neck. Obsessed, too, with the fear that some one might break in and steal some of his gathered treasures, the owner had fitted the place with every sort of burglar alarm.

"By Jove!" murmured E. Bolingbroke Ramsdell, as Detectives Brady and Schmitz showed him these various features according to their instructions from the commissioner, "it doesn't look as though there were any way to break in here, short of a blast of dynamite!"

"Pshaw! This is nothing," returned Brady and Schmitz with one voice. "Wait till you get inside."

They did not speak without reason. Inside, where the long rows of rare and valuable books stood in shelves, and where, spread out in glass cases, were manuscripts and parchment palimpsests, many of them worth a king's ransom, stood a ponderous steel safe, walled up with granite, bedded in concrete, and protected by a powerful electric current.

"If anybody who didn't know the combination had laid a hand on that contraption, he'd have been dead before he knew what hit him," explained Brady.

"Yet the Bible was taken from inside it."

"Exactly. And that, too, without any drilling or blowing, and what's more, without the slightest sign to show how the thief got into the building. The doors were locked and bolted, the skylights fastened down, the alarms all in good working order, not a crack or grating open through which so much as a mouse could have wriggled."

"Perhaps old Mr. Poe may have turned the trick himself?" suggested Ramsdell.

"One of them sleep-walking stunts you mean, eh?" queried Brady. "No; we investigated that lead and made nothing of it. His valet, who sleeps in the same room on account of the old chap's having heart disease, and who is accustomed to waking at his slightest move, says he didn't make a stir from the time he turned in.

"Besides, there is the letter," Brady added. "Sure, a man would never have written anything like that and left it for himself."

"True, there is the letter," assented Ramsdell, as though he had just recalled its existence. "A rather unusual feature that, don't you think, Mr. Brady?"

"Unusual! I call it the most colossal piece of nerve I ever ran across. Why, just think of it! This guy tells the old man that in order to get his book back, he's got to put the $25,000, of all places in the world, right in this very safe that's just been robbed. Looks like he didn't take much stock in all the bolts, and bars, and burglar alarms that's around here, doesn't it? According to that, the fellow feels free to walk in and out of here whenever he pleases, and he isn't bothering about any steps that may be taken to stop him.

"That's what got old Poe so up in the air, you understand," he went on. "He'd give up the $25,000 in a minute to get the book back, if that would end the matter; but he can't help seeing that he's at this chap's mercy, and can be bled again and again, so long as there's anything in here worth stealing. In short, his only hope is to get Mr. Thief behind the bars.

"And," Brady concluded with a significant shrug of the shoulders, "there isn't exactly what you might call a healthy chance of that."

"Why not?" questioned Ramsdell with his blandest, most vacuous expression. "Surely, two such experienced men as you, have hit upon some sort of working theory?"

They shook their heads.

"Nothing to it," growled Schmitz: "Every way you turn, you run up against a blank wall."

"Well," said the Columbia student modestly, "I, of course, am only an amateur, but one or two things seem reasonably plain to me. The person who stole the Wickliffe Bible knew the ins and outs of the place as well as Poe himself, and furthermore did not jimmy or force his way in after any cracksman fashion. He came through the door either with the old man's keys or some duplicate of them. Therefore, the scope of inquiry must be limited to a very few persons."

He paused for comment or objection, but as neither of the detectives made any reply, decided that he must have hit upon their own line of reasoning.

"We have already eliminated old man Poe from consideration," he went on.

"How, then, about the valet?" But Brady promptly negatived this suggestion.

"Clean bill of health," he returned. "Been with Poe for twenty years and shown himself absolutely trustworthy in every respect. Besides, it was a case of dog eat dog. If the old man couldn't stir without the valet hearing him, neither could the valet stir without the old man being hep. Both of them slept like cats, with one eye open."

"What about other members of the household?" probed Ramsdell.

"There is only a cook and extra maid—Poe has no family or relatives, you see—and there is absolutely no ground for suspicion against either of them.

"Neither "—he anticipated the next inquiry—"were there any friends or associates who might have betrayed the old fellow's confidence. He comes about as near being a recluse as any one you ever heard of."

"In short, then," observed Ramsdell quietly, "the possibilities sift down practically to the librarian, eh?"

Both Brady and Schmitz gave a start of surprise.

"Who said anything about a librarian?" they demanded.

"Nobody, which is a little strange in view of the commissioner's instructions that I should be given all the facts. It leads me to believe that the librarian is the one you have picked for ' it.' "

The two detectives flushed guiltily under the accusing stare of the other's spectacles, but said nothing.

"Who is the girl, anyhow?"

Brady shot a quick, suspicious glance at him. "How do you know the librarian is a girl at all?"

The amateur stepped over to a small desk beside the card-catalogue case and picked up a little vase holding a carnation, a popular novel, and a wisp of cambric handkerchief.

"Does that look like a man?" he asked derisively. "Now," he continued, "what's the evidence against her?"

"Nothing," muttered Brady sulkily. "She's got a perfect alibi."

Ramsdell smiled a shade cynically.

"Come across with what you've got," he said. "Remember. McConnell promised I should have the entire dope sheet."

"Really, there is nothing against her," insisted Brady. "As I tell you, she can account for every minute of her time last night."

"Why do you suspect her, then?"

"Well," disclosed Brady reluctantly, "on the general principle that her alibi is just a shade too good. Then, too, her references are a bit open to question."

"Her references?"

"Yes. You see, old man Poe took her on without looking them up, and now it is impossible to do so."

"Why?"

"Because she gave as her last employer, Miss Ethel Vorhees of Riverside Drive, and Miss Vorhees has—" He halted in confusion, realizing that he was on the edge of revealing a department secret.

"Miss Vorhees has disappeared," Ramsdell finished the sentence for him. "Ah, I begin to understand. But surely Miss Vorhees's family can settle the point?"

"That's just the rub. They say they never before heard of this li-, brarian—she gives the name of Sylvia Felix—and deny that Miss Vorhees ever had a private secretary; yet they have to admit that the recommendation was either signed by Miss Vorhees, or else is a wonderfully clever forgery."

"What does the girl say about it?"

"Oh, she claims that the work she did for Miss Vorhees was of a private character— just what she refuses to tell— and was done at her boarding-house. It is only fair to say, too, that her landlady speaks of her having almost daily visits from a young lady closely answering Miss Vorhees's description."

"So?" Ramsdell reflectively stroked his chin. "And how about the previous record of this— Miss Felix?"

"Good, so far as we can trace it. She came from some little town down in Maryland about six months ago, with a letter to Miss Vorhees from a mutual friend in Baltimore, and she claims her only employment since her arrival in New York has been with Miss Vorhees and here."

"Not exactly the training for so bold a job as this," smiled Ramsdell. "Still one can never tell. And now, if you don't mind, I think I should like to go over the place once more alone. There may be a point or two I failed to pick up on my first inspection."

"Go as far as you like," assented Brady carelessly, and, apparently leaving him free to his own devices, drew Schmitz aside for an earnest colloquy. Both detectives, however, mindful of their chief's warning, took careful note of the stranger's every movement.

"Bet you what you dare," muttered Brady under his breath, "that 'foureyes ' yonder is the crook all right. This play of his is only a stall to give him the chance to pick up some clue he has overlooked or forgotten."

"Watch him!" Schmitz grabbed his companion by the arm. "What's he up to there? He acts like a pointer dog flushing a bunch of quail."

The simile was not a bad one. Ramsdell, pausing abruptly in his tour of the library, stood like a statue, his head thrust forward, staring as if fascinated toward the opposite wall. Then suddenly he turned, and dashed at full speed down the length of the room, and out at the entrance toward the street.

"After him!" yelled Brady. "Don't let him get away. He's got what he came after!"

At the corner of the avenue they overhauled the fellow and brought him down in a struggling heap.

"Let me up, you fools!" he panted. "Don't you see I've got to send in an alarm for that fire?"

"What fire?" demanded Brady.

"Why, in that house down the street, No. 86, opposite the library."

5. The Freak of a Madman.

INVOLUNTARILY Brady and Schmitz turned to look in the direction indicated, and with a jerk Ramsdell broke loose from them and, springing to the fire-alarm box, sent in the signal. Hardly had he done so, though, before the'two brawny detectives had him once more firmly gripped on either side.

"You can't hand us any such steer as that, young fellow," mocked Brady. "I give you credit for trying to work a pretty smooth scheme, all right; but it don't go this time."

"What do you mean?" protested Ramsdell, struggling vigorously. "I'm trying to work no scheme. Come on down to 86, you boneheads, and let us see what we can do to put out the blaze."

Brady and Schmitz only laughed and took a tighter hold on his collar.

"Blaze?" they jeered. "You'll have to show us. Why, there isn't even a sniff of smoke in the air. No, no, son; you thought maybe that you could stir up a rumpus here and slip away in the excitement, but we're too old to fall for a game of that sort. What you'll do is march down to headquarters and offer a few explanations."

"You'd arrest me, eh? On what sort of a charge, I'd like to know?"

"What it'll be later I'm not prepared to say," grinned Brady. "But just now all we need is your sending in a false alarm."

"A false alarm!" cried Ramsdell hotly. "Oh, you idiot! You'll see how much of a false alarm it is unless you do something mighty quick. I tell you I saw the blaze starting with my own eyes. That's what made me sprint out of the library so fast."

Brady could only stare at him.

"Are you crazy?" he demanded. "Or what kind of a play are you trying to pull off? Saw something from the library, eh? With not a window in the place, and a granite wall three feet thick between you and the street? Why, you gook, if this spiel is on the level, the place for you is in the funnyhouse!"

While they were arguing, the clang of approaching fire-engines had been sounding in all directions, for an alarm from such an important neighborhood drew all the apparatus in that section of the city; and now the first of the companies to arrive dashed up to the scene and halted.

"Where is it?" sharply questioned a helmeted captain, while his men, springing from their places on the truck, began hurriedly unpacking ladders and coupling up the hose.

"Down at No. 86!" shrilled back Ramsdell before the detectives could interpose. "It's a fire on the third floor!"

"Shut up, you!" Brady clapped a silencing hand over his mouth. Then he turned to the fireman. "Don't bother to unreel your hose there, cap," he directed, throwing back the lapel of his coat to show his badge. "It's only a fluke this guy sent in before we could stop him. Whether he's a bug or not I can't quite say yet; but we're going to find out pretty shortly."

To the battalion chief who came whirling up a minute later he repeated the same statement; and the latter promptly got busy in despatching the different engines back to their quarters. Just at this instant, though, the prisoner, managing to break loose from his captors, threw out an arm to point excitedly down the street.

"Look!" he cried. "Was I right about the fire or not?"

Following involuntarily with their gaze the direction of his outflung hand, the little group about him started back with varying expressions of surprise and consternation. From the eaves of No. 86, an oldfashioned brown-stone boarding-house down the cross street opposite the granite library, shone a dull red glow, and even as they looked thin clouds of smoke began curling up all along the cornice.

"By Jove! it's a fire, all right," exclaimed the battalion chief; "and, what's more, it bids fair to be a nasty one!

"You big boob!" He turned fiercely on Brady. "What did you mean by telling me there was nothing doing?"

It was not a moment, however, as he fully realized, to waste breath or time in recrimination. There was work to be done, and done in a hurry, too; for already the red glow had increased to a menacing glare; and before the battalion chief could recall the apparatus he had started away, flames were shooting from the upper windows.

The scene, shortly before so quiet, was quickly transformed into one of feverish activity. Above the staccato roar of the engines could be heard the hoarse bawling of orders as the fire captains, trumpets to lips, led on their men to the assault. Across the street stretched lengths of hose like great, writhing serpents, and the hiss of the water as it met the blaze was intermingled with the din of the axes chopping a way to better points of vantage. The police reserves came up on a run to stretch their lines and hold' back the curious crowds.

Driven out by the advancing flames, the boarders at No. 86, and at the adjoining houses along the block, came hurrying down the steps, clutching to their breasts or dragging behind them clumsy bundles of such of their belongings as in their haste and panic they had elected to save.

Ramsdell, meantime, forgotten by everybody in the confusion, stood close to the battalion chief, watching the progress of the conflagration. So engrossed was he with the spectacle, indeed, that, removing his peculiar, heavy-lensed glasses in order to polish them, he quite neglected .to restore them to his nose, but continued to rub them absently, while he squinted at the fire with his colorless, nearsighted eyes.

He was brought abruptly out of his preoccupation, however, by a none too gentle push on the shoulder as an alert figure in business clothes and a slouch hat, who had come racing up in a big red car, forced his way through the crowd to the side of the battalion chief. It was the famous head of the department— probably the greatest firefighter in history. One experienced glance he cast at the burning building, then issued terse directions to his subordinate.

"Let No. 86 go," he said. "There's no chance of saving it, and everybody's out by this time, I suppose; so center all your work on Nos. 84 and 88."

The battalion chief was just about to turn to give the requisite orders when E. Bolingbroke Ramsdell, who had readjusted his glasses, sprang forward.

"No! No!" he interposed frenziedly. "You mustn't stop on 86 yet! There's a woman still inside who has got to be saved!"

"A woman?" Both the fire officials turned on him peremptorily. "Where is she?"

"In an inside room on the top floor. She is hemmed in both back and front by the flames, and there is no way for her to get to the roof!"

"I don't believe it!" blurted out the battalion chief. "The landlady herself told me that all her boarders were out of the house and accounted for."

"But she is wrong, I tell you!" insisted Ramsdell passionately. "Great Jehoshaphat! Can't I see the poor girl for myself, and the awful plight she is in?"

"See her?" The battalion chief's gaze searched the impenetrable wall of flame and smoke which swept the front of the top story. "Nutty," he muttered to his superior in a rapid aside. Then, raising his trumpet, he began bellowing out directions calling back his men from the doomed No. 86. Under his arm, quick as a flash, darted Ramsdell, and, evading a dozen hands stretched out to stop him, dashed up the stoop and into the open doorway of No. 84.

The next the watchers below saw of him he was on the roof of the building, an ax in his hand, snatched on his way up from an unsuspecting fireman, his unimpressive form outlined against the red light. He did not hesitate a second, but, hurling himself across the roof, vaulted -the coping, and was lost to view in the murk of smoke and fire above No. 86.

Though he was invisible, the watchers could plainly hear the blows of his ax as he chopped away at the burning roof.

"A lunatic, eh?" snapped the department head, clapping his hand down on the shoulder of the battalion chief. "Well, even so, we can't let him commit suicide. What are you about there, man? Get those two lines on 88 and the three on 84, playing across so as to make a water-curtain. Then send a couple of fellows in to grab him and drag him back.

"For Heaven's sake, don't be all day about it, though," he carped. "First thing we know that roof will go down on us, and then it will be good-by to any hope of saving the fellow."

Then, nervously chewing the stump of cigar between his teeth, he watched impatiently while the maneuver he had counseled was effected. It seemed to him as though he had never seen men slower at obeying an order; but at last the streams were playing, and a water-curtain formed before which the greedy flames hung back.

"Quick now!" he urged. "Get your men in there while they have a chance!"

The two picked as rescuers plunged into the narrow oasis of safety formed by the thin walls of water in the midst of that raging Hades. Some one megaphoned down from the adjoining roof that they had descended into the hole chopped by the crazy man.

Then for a space followed a period of tense waiting. Cra-ack! An ominous sound broke upon the ears of the officers in the street, the significance of which was only too well known to both of them. The roof was about to give way. The battalion chief's face went white, and he cursed softly under his breath.

"Two of the best men in my command!" he railed bitterly. "And sacrificed for the sake of a dope like that!"

"No, no! They are not sacrificed!" cried his superior, for he had caught the meaning of an excited movement among the men on the surrounding roofs. "They are not sacrificed! They—"

He paused, his heart leaping into his throat as a louder, more menacing crack sounded, followed by a thunderous roar. Into the seething furnace below went the entire roof of No. 86, carrying with it a great section of the front wall, and up from the havoc soared a pillar of sparks and flame visible for miles.

For a moment the intense glare blinded the eyes of those looking on; then, as the first fierce light died down under the onslaught of a flood of water, the crowd on the opposite sidewalk raised a tumultuous cheer. Through the drifting clouds of smoke the firemen on the roof of No. 84 could be seen,  carrying back from the heat and supporting to the scuttle the figures of the exhausted comrades.

The battalion chief and his companion hurried anxiously forward to the stoop to meet the little party. Could it be possible that all had been saved— the crazy man and his two rescuers as well?

They had not long to wait for the assurance. Out of the doorway emerged first, drenched and singed— but with his eye-glasses gleaming triumphantly—E. Bolingbroke Ramsdell; second, the two "smoke-eaters " who had gone so heroically to his assistance; and then— the incredulous officials were hardly able to believe their own eyes— the figure of a young woman.

The battalion chief staggered under the force of a tremendous thump on the back.

"Who's loony now?" The head of the department shouted in the exuberance of his relief and amazement. "Who's loony now?"

6. Wizard or Crook?

THE FOLLOWING morning Ramsdell, a trifle shy in the matter of eyebrows, and with various points of his anatomy more or less bandaged, rode down from his modest lodgings on Morningside Heights in a big red automobile. It was the police commissioner's own private car which had been sent up to convey him to headquarters, and when he arrived at the great gray building he found no difficulty this time in securing an audience with its presiding genius. Indeed, McConnell was eagerly awaiting him, and lost no time in pressing on him the box of big, black cigars.

The student, however, despite the flattering cordiality of his reception, was just as diffident and deprecatory as ever. He seemed in nowise changed by the rather startling series of events through which he had passed the evening before. McConnell studied him with a puzzled expression as he sat there awkwardly on one corner of his chair, his round, moonlike face as bland as a baby's, his eyes concealed behind the heavy convex glasses. Finally the commissioner broke into a laugh.

"I pass," he said. "It's up to you, Ramsdell, to explain whether you are a wizard or a crook. The facts in the case will bear out either theory."

"I don't know what you mean," said Ramsdell a trifle uneasily.

"All right, then; let's run over the points. The fire at No. 86 last night broke out, as we have now learned, in an inside room on the third floor, catching from the too close proximity of a gas-jet to a piece of flimsy drapery. It spread thence to the story above, and out toward the front of the house,-'but at the time it began, and for some time afterward, it could not possibly have been discerned from the street.

"Yet you, over in the library where there was no possible outlook, discovered the blaze before even the people in the house were aware of it, and rushed madly out to give the alarm.

"Not only that," continued McConnell, "but later you made the surprising discovery that a woman was still in the burning house, and succeeded in effecting her rescue, although everybody else was willing to swear that no living soul remained in the building. Certainly none of the other spectators of the fire dreamed it for an instant."

"Yes," assented Ramsdell quietly, "those are undoubtedly the facts. Now, what are your deductions?"

"Well "—the commissioner paused to light a fresh cigar—"most people would call it magic, and give you credit for all sorts of occult powers. I think that's about the way the fire department— from top to bottom— has got you sized up. But over here on Centre Street we're pretty much from Missouri. We've seen so many wonderworkers come and go, and most of them, we remember, ended up with a little trip to Sing Sing."

"You think, then, that what I did last night was a set-up job?"

"I don't say so. I merely suggest that it might have been. Your discovery of the fire, for instance, could easily have been managed, if it had been prearranged that at a certain definite time some one was to slip into that inside room at the boarding-house, and shove the gas-jet into the drapery."

"True," assented Ramsdell with a touch of sarcasm; "and I suppose you think it could have been equally prearranged that the young lady was to remain quietly in that Gehenna, so that I could spring another coup by rescuing her?"

"That might have been an oversight," retorted McConnell. "Perhaps you delayed a trifle longer than you intended?"

"And the motive for all this?" "Ah, the motive!" McConnell frowned. "There, you've got me. Still any one who has had extensive dealings with criminals knows that an adequate motive is often the hardest thing to find."

The student considered the proposition thoughtfully, as though it were an abstract question, in no way affecting him; then he slowly shook his head.

"Too far-fetched a theory, commissioner," he announced. "It would argue that the young woman and I must have been confederates."

"And why not?" questioned McConnell.

"You were at least old acquaintances."

"Old acquaintances?" The quick surprise of Ramsdell's protest was an admirable piece of acting if feigned. "Why, I never saw the girl before in all my life."

"You did not recognize her then last night?"

"Certainly not."

"Nor learn her name?"

"Up in the fire was hardly a place to wait for introductions," observed Ramsdell dryly; "and afterward they hustled me off to the hospital so quick that I had no opportunity of seeing her."

"Yet one would have expected you to know each other, since she is an old fellow towns-woman of yours." "

"An old fellow towswoman?"

"Yes; from Tenallytown, Maryland. She is Sylvia Felix, Mr. Poe's librarian."

"So?"

The information did not appear especially to interest him. "We have both probably changed a good deal since I saw her last. I have not been to Tenallytown in several years."

The commissioner fell silent for a space, meditatively puffing at his cigar. "Don't you think it a little strange," he queried at length, "that you should not have taken the trouble even to inquire the name of the girl whose life you had saved, or ask any questions in regard to her?"

"Oh, I don't know," rejoined Ramsdell carelessly. "I could see that she hadn't sustained any damage to speak of, so what was the use of asking about her? Some fellows would have followed up the affair, I suppose; but then I'm not what would be called a lady's man.

"I think, Mr. Commissioner," he concluded, "you'll have a hard time trying to trace up any connection between me and that young woman, or any other young woman."

"You absolutely repudiate the suggestion then," queried McConnell with his teasing smile, "that your remarkable performance of last night was the clever trickery of a crook?"

Ramsdell merely looked his contempt.

"The theory hasn't a leg to stand on," he said. "You set up as a wizard, eh?"

"No, I am simply an unofficial attache of the police department."

"And what explanation has the unofficial attache of the police department to offer for the mystery?"

"None."

"That is another of his little secrets, I suppose?"

Ramsdell nodded. "And now, Mr. Commissioner," he said, rising, "if you've nothing further to ask me, I guess I'd better be getting down to business. Do you still want me to work on the Poe case?"

"Why not? You haven't cleared it up yet, have you?"

"No; but if Brady's theory is correct, and Miss Felix stole the Wickliffe Bible, it would be a waste of time to search further for the book. It must have been destroyed with the rest of her belongings in last night's fire."

"What do you think?"

"Well, with all due respect to Brady, I believe I had better continue my investigations."

McConnell did not seem dissatisfied with the decision.

"It's your problem," he said. "Handle it any way you choose."

After the other had gone, though, he sat for a long while pondering with his chin in his hand.

"Wizard or crook?" he mused. "I'll take my oath he's a crook; but what the game is, or what he's up to, I'm blessed if I can make out."

7. On a New Tack.

RAMSDELL had scoffed at Brady's theory that Miss Felix was the thief of the Wickliffe Bible. He had betrayed not the slightest interest in her during his talk with the commissioner. Yet, strangely enough, the one idea in his head when he left the police department was to see and obtain speech with her.

Realizing that he would almost inevitably be shadowed on leaving the commissioner's office, he circled around half a dozen blocks or so, hopped on and off surface cars, Subway, and Elevated trains, and dived in and out of office buildings, until after about half an hour of this sort of thing he was satisfied that he had shaken off any possible pursuit.

Then he directed his steps toward the block where the fire had occurred the night before. No. 86 was, of course, a mere heap of smoldering ruins, and he had no idea to what new address the young woman had betaken herself, having feared to ask the commissioner, lest he should betray his intentions. But, since the street along here was a row of boarding-houses, he had a pretty shrewd suspicion that she had not moved far from her former location. Even that, however, most people would not have considered much of a clue. He could not very well go along from door to door, ringing bells, and inquiring for the object of his search without soon having police headquarters acquainted with his actions. Besides, such a task bade fair to be endless.

Ramsdell appeared not a whit perturbed, though, at the difficulties in his path. Slowly he strolled down the side of the block opposite the burned No. 86, past the long, granite stretch of the library, and back again, peering at the numbers across the way. Finally, with every air of confidence, he crossed the street to No. 92, mounted the stoop, and rang the bell.

Then, when the maid appeared in response, he boldly presented his card, and asked to see Miss Felix. The result showed that he had made no mistake. The maid, although she gazed at him in haughty rebuff, did not deny the presence of the young lady in the house.

"Are you another of them reporters?" she inquired loftily. "Well, Miss Felix is lying down, and said she wasn't to be disturbed for nobody."

Deftly Ramsdell interposed his foot so as to prevent the door being shut in his face.

"I think Miss Felix will possibly make an exception of me," he said pleasantly. "Tell her it is not a newspaperman, but the gentleman who was able to be of service to her at last night's fire."

Instantly the girl's manner changed. The papers that morning had made a good deal of Ramsdell's feat, and her opportunities had been few for beholding a real hero, and speaking to him face to face.

"Oh, sir!" She flung wide the door with trembling eagerness. "Excuse me, sir. I'm sure Miss Felix will see you. Walk right into the parlor, sir, and I'll run up and tell her you are here."

The prediction proved to be correct, for almost immediately the heroine of the previous night's adventure came fluttering down the stairs.

"Mr. Ramsdell?" she questioned, a trifle uncertainly, for like most boarding-house parlors the room was dark.

Then, as he bowed, she came quickly forward, and clasped him by the hand.

"I don't know how I can ever thank you, Mr. Ramsdell, for—"

"Don't try," he interrupted. "In fact, I'd much rather you wouldn't; for to tell the truth, I have gained this interview with you under somewhat false pretenses."

She stiffened perceptibly.

"You mean that you are not—"

"No, no!" He waved his hand as if to dispel her doubts. "I am the man who was fortunately able to be of some assistance in your predicament."

"Of course you are," she hastened to interpose. "Forgive me if I wavered for a moment in my recognition; but there was so much confusion last night, and so many people crowding about, that surely I am not to be blamed. Besides, you must admit that you spoke rather peculiarly just now. What did you mean by saying that you were here under false pretenses, Mr. Ramsdell?"

"Well, you would naturally regard this as a social visit, wouldn't you—a friendly call to inquire after your health and exchange the usual amenities over our recent experience? It doesn't happen, however, to be anything of the kind. I am here as an emissary of the police."

"An emissary of the police!" Unless he was greatly mistaken a quick light of apprehension flashed into the girl's eye, and she had to bite her lips to restrain a sudden gasp of dismay.

"Yes," he said; "I am working on the Poe Bible case."

Her relief was apparent. "Oh!" she murmured. "That? Why, I have already told the detectives all I know, Mr. Ramsdell; but if it will help you in any way I shall be glad to go over the points again."

"Thank you," he rejoined. "That is just exactly what I do want. It is always more satisfactory to get one's evidence at first hand."

Accordingly, she obligingly rehearsed for his benefit the details he had already gathered from Brady relative to her employment by old Poe, together with such knowledge as she possessed concerning the purchase of the Wickliffe Bible, and its subsequent disappearance.

"Now, let's get this absolutely straight," he said, when she had finished. "You say, that on the night of the theft, you remained at the library with Mr. Poe until he closed up the place and took his departure?"

"Yes; he asked me to stay and finish up the cataloguing of a new lot of books which had just come in."

"You are sure that he put the Bible in the safe before he left?"

"Absolutely so; and also that he securely locked the safe. In fact, I am ready at any time to make oath regarding those two things."

"Then you went out of the library together, eh, and he locked the door behind you?"

Again she nodded afcquiescence.

"And that is all you know, except that when you arrived the next morning you found the old man beside the open safe, bemoaning his loss of the Bible?"

"That is positively all, Mr. Ramsdell. I am sorry, for your sake, that it is not more—that is, if you hope to gain anything by the clearing up of this mystery."

"Oh, spare yourself any regrets on my account," he smiled; "I have got all that I expected."

"Then you are satisfied with the little I was able to tell you about the affair?"

"Oh, no." He shook his head. "Far from it."

She looked at him in puzzled fashion, as though not quite certain how to take his strange remark.

"How could you expect me to be satisfied "—he paused—"when I am received as a perfect stranger by my own cousin, Sylvia Felix, of Tenallytown?"

She reeled back and caught at the arm of a chair for support, her cheek grown white, her eyes wide with consternation.

"Your cousin?" she gasped.

8. With Masks Off.

FOR A MOMENT there was silence in the room. Then the girl lifted a face become suddenly drawn and haggard.

"You know," she faltered, "who lam?"

"I can guess," he answered. "True,. you are wearing a wig, and you have done something— I don't know just what—to your eyebrows; but any man who had once seen your photograph ought to have been able to place you. Even Brady and Schmitz, slow as they are, ought to have—"

But she evidently was not listening. "Oh, you are cruel, you are dastardly," she broke out, "to have tracked me down thus, and tricked me by playing on my sense of gratitude. No wonder that you said you came here under false pretenses. "But you have not got me yet!" she exclaimed fiercely. "I will never go back, I tell you! There is surely an asylum somewhere for such an unhappy girl as I!"

As she spoke she sprang toward the door, and in another moment would have been out of the house and flying down the street. But quick as she was, Ramsdell was quicker. When she reached the door, he was there ahead of her, with his back to it, in full control of the situation.

"Hold on, now," he counseled in his thin, schoolmaster voice. "Don't do anything rash. Before we go any farther, suppose you run up-stairs and ask Cousin Sylvia just what sort of a fellow I am. She will tell you whether or not I am the cad and cur you so evidently believe me."

The girl flashed him a quick look of startled surprise.

"Your Cousin Sylvia? She is not here," she attempted to deny.

"Come, come," he scoffed; "no fibbing. You and I both know that at this minute she is sitting up in your second-floor hall-bedroom."

She hesitated a second or two longer; then overcome by feminine curiosity, admitted that he was right.

"But how did you ever guess it?" she demanded. "Are you Mephistopheles himself, that you know everything? Why, Sylvia only came to town a half-hour ago in response to an urgent telephone call from me, and she was so disguised that I, myself, wouldn't have recognized her if I had not been expecting her."

Ramsdell, however, parried her eager questions.

"It doesn't matter so much how I know that she is here," he said, "as that I do know it. And since the most important thing now is to look out for your interests, I suggest that instead of wasting time in talk, you run up and bring her down, so that we can all three discuss the situation intelligently.

"You may not know it, my dear young lady," he added, speaking more gravely, "but you are in rather serious danger."

"In serious danger?" The color which had partially returned to her cheek fled once more. "You mean that some one besides yourself knows of my whereabouts?"

"No, that is not it. I did not intend to tell you when I came here, but I have decided now it is better that you should be warned. The truth is that you are apt to be arrested at almost any time."

"Apt to be arrested?" She stared at him. "For what, pray?"

"On a charge of stealing old man Poe's $75,000 Bible."

"But that is absurd." she protested. "Why, there's not a grain of evidence against me."

"That don't make any difference. The theory of the detectives is that you are the one person open to suspicion, and they may take a chance on arresting you in the hope of forcing a confession. In fact, I have an idea they would have done so before this, if I hadn't happened along and confused them by crossing the trail. Now, they are uncertain whether the real culprit is you or I; but the danger still remains from the fact that McConnell has got an idea in his head we may be confederates, and he might order the arrest of both of us."

"But I can't be arrested," cried the girl desperately. ... "It would spoil everything."

"Of course it would," he assented; "and it is just to avoid such a catastrophe that I want to discuss things now with you and Cousin Sylvia. So run up and get her, and let us waste no more time in getting down to business."

Accepting him now with implicit confidence, she hurried off, and a few moments later returned accompanied by a funny figure of a little old lady shrouded in a cavernous bonnet and a shawl; but who, on putting back her long crape veil, revealed the rather youthful features of Cousin Sylvia.

"Why, 'Broke ' Ramsdell!" she exclaimed as she caught sight of her relative. "The idea of you setting up as a detective!"

Then she fluttered across the room to bestow on him an affectionate kiss.

"You see," said Ramsdell, with a glance over her shoulder toward the other girl. "That is what I meant when I said you didn't accord me the sort of a welcome I was accustomed to expect from Cousin Sylvia."

And he didn't even have the grace to blush, although the red dyed the girl's face from brow to chin.

Verily, Ramsdell was progressing fast for one who had so shortly before disavowed to McConnell that he was a lady's man.

9. "Why Girls Leave Home."

AT NO TIME in all his twenty-six years of life could E. Bolingbroke Ramsdell have been described as a very susceptible person; yet it is certain that now as he saw that embarrassed blush dye the face of the fair charmer across the room, he was seized with a sudden peculiar palpitation of the heart, while an unfamiliar tremor coursed through his veins like an electric flash. Comparing her looks, too, with those of his not uncomely Cousin Sylvia, he was struck with contempt for the subterfuge which had endeavored to pass off one for the other.

As well expect a goddess to fill the role of mere mortality. Any one with half an eye ought to have recognized that this divine creature was not a product of Tenallytown, Maryland. However, being by nature of a rather practical turn, he did not permit these mental rhapsodies to interfere with the actual business in hand. Hurriedly placing three chairs in convenient juxtaposition, and motioning the ladies to be seated, he began.

"Now," Miss Vorhees—" he started, only to be silenced by an imperative "S-h! S-h!" from his companions. "For Heaven's sake, don't use that name!" cried the owner of it nervously. "In a place like this, where the servants, not to speak of the other boarders, are eavesdropping constantly, one cannot be too careful."

"Oh, there isn't the slightest danger," he assured them, glancing around meditatively. "The maid who let me in is cleaning up a room on the top floor. Another maid is tidying up the dining-room. The cook and laundress are gossiping with the furnace man at the area door. The landlady is busy at her linen closet, and all the boarders who are not out of the house, are safe in their rooms."

The calm conviction of his statement impressed the two women in spite of themselves.

"How can you possibly know all that?" they demanded skeptically.

"Second sight," he informed them coolly. "It is an art in which I have made quite a little progress; and if we had time, I should ask you to see if my assertions were not absolutely correct. As it is, however, you will have to take my word for the situation; for time presses.

"So now, Miss Vorhees," reverting to his original inquiry—"let me have the facts, please, relative to your departure from home. The police merely know that you disappeared some three or four weeks ago without apparent cause, and have consequently been working on the theory of an abduction."

This was surely a straight enough question, but the girl was so diffident and reserved in her replies that it required several more interrogatories and a good deal of prompting from Miss Felix before the facts finally came to light. Boiled down, however, and freed from all extraneous matter, the story appeared to be in its essential elements the old one of two parents trying to force their child into an uncongenial marriage.

There, was a young architect and builder named Glenn McKeon it seemed whom the father and mother had set their hearts upon as a son-in-law. The daughter had resolutely protested against the match, and had sought in every way to flout and discourage the young man; but McKeon was a persistent suitor, and despite her struggles, she saw herself being steadily forced under the stress of parental influence toward the altar.

Then in her desperation the idea had struck her that she might achieve independence by writing a novel. That was the secret of her association with Sylvia Felix, for, casting about to obtain a good typist and secretary, some one had recommended the Tenallytown girl, and their purely business relations at the start soon ripened into those of confidence and friendship.

For months the millionaire's daughter labored over her literary task, going secretly every day to Cousin Sylvia's humble lodgings to revise, and amend, and polish, what she had already written, until at last the novel was finished.

But, alas, the success on which its author had so glowingly bargained, failed to come. No publisher could be found even to consider it; their readers without a dissenting voice proclaimed it hopeless. There seemed nothing left for Ethel but to yield to her parents' desires and accept McKeon.

At this juncture, though, it happened that Miss Felix had the choice of two positions open to her, one -as secretary to a gouty old widower up at New Rochelle, and the other as librarian to Darius Poe. Considerations of salary prompting her to take up with the out-of-town offer, the bright suggestion came that her friend might find surcease from her pressing difficulties, and possibly work out a solution to them by accepting in her place the job with the old book-lover.

No other cause existed for Ethel's leaving home, both girls averred, save McKeon alone. Except on this one point, her father and mother were indulgent to her every, whim, and she was devotedly attached to them. Indeed, she confessed, that it had almost broken her heart not to be able to send them some message to relieve their anxiety.

Yet she had feared to do so, lest it might lead in some way to her being taken back and forced to marry McKeon; and that was something, she tearfully protested, that she would not, could not, and should not do.

"McKeon? McKeon?" muttered Ramsdell thoughtfully, when the diffuse recital was finally ended. "Where have I heard that fellow's name, or seen some of his work?"

"You wouldn't have to look very far for the latter," broke in Miss Vorhees. "All you have to do is turn to the window behind you, for he built that ugly old library across the street."

"What?" Ramsdell sprang to his feet in excitement. "Are you sure? I was planning to go down to the building department this very afternoon to find out who had been responsible for it.

"What's more, Miss Vorhees"— a flush of elation spread over his usually expressionless face— "you needn't bother your head another moment over those troubles of yours. You are going to be safe back home inside of a couple of days, and it won't be to marry McKeon, either—not by a jugful. Take it from me, he will never annoy you again."

"What do you mean? How do you know?" demanded the two girls in chorus; and Sylvia added:

"Why Broke, are you crazy? What possible connection can there be between McKeon's having built the Poe library and his courtship of Ethel?"

He was about to answer, but halted abruptly, and with a quizzical smile, laid a warning finger to his lips.

"Hush!" he whispered. "The landlady is creeping up to listen at the keyhole; so it's no use to try talking any longer. To-morrow I will call, though, and report developments. In the meantime, watch me give Mrs. Polly Pry the surprise of her life."

As he finished speaking, he caught up his hat and made a sudden dash for the parlor door, flinging it open and bolting through it toward the front entrance so fast that the fat landlady, who had just taken up a convenient position outside, had no time to retreat, but was caught in flagrante delicto. Never stopping to listen to her stammering excuses, Ramsdell passed on out at the door; but the incident had evidently distracted him from his usual keen vigilance, for he quite failed to notice a figure lurking on the next stoop who glanced up quickly at his exit.

If he overlooked this one feature of the situation, however, there were not many things which escaped the observation of his spectacled vision. As he was descending the boardinghouse stoop, a big blue touring car went whizzing past driven by a young man with a handsome, rather reckless face.

Ramsdell cast a careless glance toward it; then halted abruptly and stood staring after the automobile, almost statuelike in his absorption. Only a second did this inactivity last, though. The next instant he was down the steps, and racing at top speed toward a taxicab standing on the corner.

"Follow that automobile!" he panted to the chauffeur as he flung himself inside. "Don't let it get away at any hazard. See, it is turning the next corner now. You will have to make speed, or you will lose it sure!"

But the chase was destined never to be taken. A long arm was thrust into the cab just then, and, seizing Ramsdell by the collar, jerked him out to the sidewalk.

"Oh, no, you don't!" It was the voice of Detective Brady pitched to a key of triumph. "No getaway like that for yours, young fellow. You'll come down with me, and have a talk with the commissioner. He told me to shadow you; but, Lord, I never thought I'd have the luck to run you into a hole first dash out of the box."

"And what sort of a hole do you think you have run me into, Brady?" inquired Ramsdell politely. It was a peculiarity of his that anger always, induced in him a courtesy almost Chesterfieldian in its character.

"What sort of a hole?" sneered Brady. "Why, haven't I got the goods now to prove what the old man's been hinting at right along—that you and this Felix girl were in on the game together?"

Ramsdell laid his hand to his heart and bowed like a dancing master.

"Brady," he said, "I pay you my respects. You will pardon the inelegancy of my language, but you are the nearest approach to a hunk of cheese of any human being I know."

Then, in spite of himself, he began to laugh at the very absurdity of the situation.

"Why, you big slob," he cried, "do you know what was in that automobile you prevented me from overtaking? No, of course you don't, and you never could guess; so I shall have to tell you. It was Darius Poe's seventyfive-thousand-dollar Bible!"

10:  The Crowning Tragedy.

OF COURSE the mere satisfaction of expressing his sentiments was all that Ramsdell got out of vituperating the detective. He had to go down to headquarters with Brady just the same, and on his arrival there he was put through one of McConnell's most grilling examinations.

The upshot of the whole matter was that he was accorded two more days of grace in which to make good. If he didn't turn in some information by that time which pointed to a solution of the Bible case, both he and the supposititious Miss Felix were to be arrested.

"But you haven't got anything against either of us," protested Ramsdell.

"Oh, yes, I have," grimly replied McConnell, that shrewd reader of men. "I can see that you're very anxious not to have this girl pinched, and it isn't altogether chivalry that's prompting you in the matter. There's something in the background there that you don't want to come out; so I have a very strong suspicion that if I get her down here and put her over the hurdles I shall have all I need against both of you.

"Nevertheless," he went on, "just to be a good sport, and because you've shown yourself such a nervy cuss, I am going to give you a chance to prove yourself on the level. Mind you, I don't think you are for a single minute, and I'm not going to loosen up the clamps too far; but it'll be a chance just the same. "You shall have two days to clear up this case you were so eager to take on; but naturally I intend to have you watched all the time, and if you try to make a sneak you will be nabbed at once. Then, when the two days are up, if you can't bring forward the guilty party, or give me a straight line on him, it's behind the bars for both you and the dame. Now, go to it."

Ramsdell nodded blithely and went out.

"Two days!" he thought to himself. Why, all he needed was two hours. He already had all the threads for a solution of the mystery in his hands. The only thing required was to draw them in. And first, with Ethel Vorhees's difficulties more in mind than his own, he decided to look up Mr. Glenn McKeon.

The architect, he learned without much trouble, had an office on Twenty-Third Street, and bachelor-apartments in a Broadway hotel; but to his chagrin he discovered, on inquiry, that McKeon was not to be found at either place; and at the hotel the pleasing information was added that the young man had left town and expected to be gone for a week or ten days.

This seemed to put a pretty effectual check on the promise Ramsdell had made to Ethel, that she should return home within forty-eight hours; and he began to wonder if all his plans were to meet the same adverse fate. Certainly it shortly appeared as though such would be the case. With infinite pains he tracked up the touring-car which had escaped him through Brady's interference; for he had been quick-witted enough to memorize its number as it whirled away from him.

Finally he located it in a garage on Columbus Avenue, and wheedling the proprietor of the place into giving him a job, worked like a nailer for two solid hours cleaning the mud-spattered and dust-begrimed cars which came in. At last, though, he got the chance to investigate the big touring-car, and, under pretense of cleaning it, ransacked it thoroughly from carbureter to cushions.

But it was only to make a water-haul. The Bible, if it had ever been there, was certainly not so any longer.

So it was with every move he attempted. His most promising prospects came to naught; his best clues led him nowhere. Hard luck persistently dogged his footsteps and failure grinned threateningly ahead.

Still he gave no hint to Ethel of how ticklish their situation had become. He made excuse to see her several times in those two fateful days; but to her he spoke only in glittering generalities, and painted their situation in roseate colors.

And so at last the brief forty-eight hours allowed him rolled around, with nothing accomplished. On the same principle that a good meal is always given to a condemned man just before his execution, he had spent the closing evening of his scant shrift with Ethel; and now, with the time fully up, set forth about eleven o'clock to report himself to McConnell, determined to ask no mercy for himself, but to use every persuasive plea in his power on behalf of the girl.

As he came dowrn the steps of the boarding-house, however, and turned gloomily toward the corner to take a car for headquarters, he halted suddenly with that peculiar stiffening of the body which Brady had likened to the pointing of a dog.

Another moment and he was hurrying to the nearest telephone-booth, where he demanded "1300 Spring" with such feverish intensity that the girls at Central were sure nothing less than a wholesale riot or murder was in progress.

In communication with police headquarters at last, he gave no one any peace until he gained the ear of the commissioner. To such good purpose did he talk, however, that a few moments later McConnell's automobile came dashing up, loaded down with a bunch of burly detectives.

"Now, what is it you say," demanded the commissioner, leaping out over the wheel before the machine came fully to a stop—"that you have the thief cornered in the library right now?"

Ramsdell nodded exultantly.

"He's come back to make another haul in the effort to force the old man to a settlement," he said. "Right now he's at the safe, picking out the books he thinks will best serve his purpose."

McConnell gave an impatient toss of the head. "Look here," he growled, "this is going a bit too far. You may know that the fellow is in there all right, and what his object is; but when you try to tell me what he is doing at any particular moment you are nothing more nor less than a liar."

"All right," laughed Ramsdell indifferently; "have it your own way. Have it any old way, so long as you catch this scamp for me; only don't waste any more time in argument.

"I guess the best way to do," he counseled, "is for you to send about four of your men around to the front, and tell them to wake up Poe and make him take them into the library. Then you and the others will stand here."

"Oh, we stand here, do we?" questioned McConnell suspiciously. "What for, please?"

"Why, to catch him when he comes out." McConnell cast his eye along the grim, impregnable front of the building.

"To catch him when he comes out!" he repeated with disdain. "And where do you stand, young man?"

"Right here with you."

"All right, then, I'll do as you say. But I tell you to your face that I have no confidence in you, and that I think this is a stall; and I warn you that if I see the least indication of funny business on your part I'll jerk you down to headquarters so fast that it'll make your head swim."

Ramsdell made no answer. In fact, there was nothing to say. Results, not words, were what he must pin his faith to now; and for the results he could only wait and hope.

So the little group stood there on the sidewalk, McConnell grumbling under his breath, the detectives yawning and supercilious, Ramsdell tense and taut as a coil of wire spring. The slow minutes passed so monotonously that the commissioner at last started to broach the sneering query if this was an all-night job; but just then the student gave a low hiss for silence, and, motioning energetically with his hand, waved fhe drawn-up forces to right and left.

Dramatically he pointed with his finger as McConnell and his men beheld what seemed to them a veritable miracle; for slowly and noiselessly one of the great granite foundation blocks of the building began to revolve as on a pivot. Farther and farther it moved, wider and wider opened the aperture, until at last the crouching figure of a man sprang through, and, straightening up, revealed the handsome, reckless face of the fellow Ramsdell had seen in the touring-car.

McConnell recognized him also, and recoiled with a start.

"By all the powers," he exclaimed incredulously, "if it isn't Glenn McKeon!"

The trapped criminal noted this momentary stupefaction on the part of the commissioner, and took advantage of it. With a snarl of defiance he turned and sprang like a startled deer into full run, desperation lending him wings.

But Ramsdell was not going to let him escape so easily as that, after all the suffering and annoyance he had caused Ethel. Like a contest between a rabbit and a greyhound was the chase, but the shorter pair of legs won; and before the corner was reached Ramsdell had the satisfaction of clutching his lengthy opponent about the waist and bringing him to a halt.

McKeon turned and struck out viciously, but before more than one blow landed McConnell and his cohorts had come up, and the battle was over. That one blow had been enough, though.

"Did he hurt you?" asked McConnell, observing how rueful looked the hero of the occasion.

"No; his lick only grazed my temple. But" — Ramsdell pointed sadly to the shattered fragments of glass on the sidewalk— "he broke my spectacles."

"Broke your spectacles? Why, you speak as though it was a tragedy. You can get another pair, can't you?"

Ramsdell shook his head more lugubriously than ever.

"Not like this pair," he said.

11. His Little Secret.

SELDOM had there been a more important arrest in the city, or one arousing more comment and sensation, than that of Glenn McKeon; for the most dangerous criminal is always the one of education and intelligence who prostitutes his talents and ability to base and sordid ends.

It was discovered on investigation that McKeon in the practise of his profession had arranged in many of the buildings constructed by him secret entrances similar to the one in the Poe library, the existence of which was known only to himself. The object was undoubtedly to permit him to enter and loot at will the establishments occupying these structures; and through his arrest many hitherto seemingly inexplicable burglaries were brought to light, and one or two innocent men released from prison.

"It's certainly been a big card for me," confessed McConnell one day about a month later when Ramsdell happened to be calling on him, "although I never have felt exactly right, about taking the credit which rightly belonged to you."

"I got the cash," laughed Ramsdell, "which was all I wanted. You're perfectly welcome, commissioner, to all the credit that's going."

"And you absolutely refuse to do any more work for the department?" urged McConnell. "I'll make it well worth your while."

But Ramsdell only shook his head. "Couldn't think of it, commissioner. I only went into the thing to get money for scientific research, you know; and I am having all the research I want now since I have taken my new position with the Vorhees Optical Company."

He hesitated a second, and then indulged in a rare burst of confidence.

"Besides, commissioner," he went on, "I might as well tell you that I would no longer be worth my salt to you. My spectacles are broken."

"Your spectacles? What had your spectacles to do with your success as a detective?"

"Everything. You accused me jokingly of working magic once or twice, commissioner; but you were nearer the truth than you imagined. It was magic that I was working, scientific magic; for to those spectacles even the most solid substances were as transparent as glass. I could see into the interiors of buildings, down into the earth, right through a stone wall.

"You see," he elucidated, "by a peculiar property of the glass they refracted light far beyond the ordinary range of human vision, and so—"

But McConnell was not interested just then in the scientific explanation. "Great Heavens, man," he ejaculated, "you've got a wonderful thing in your hands there! Go right ahead and make some more of those spectacles."

"I can't."

"Can't?"

"No. The result was purely an accident which occurred in the course of another experiment. I don't know how it was obtained myself, and, as only enough of the glass was secured sufficient to make two small lenses, that single pair of spectacles was all that was ever made—perhaps all that ever will be made."

"And just to think," mused McConnell regretfully. "They were never used on but one case."

"No; on two," corrected Ramsdell. "They were also of big service in the Vorhees matter."

"Ah! So you were back of that girl's returning home, eh? I always suspected there was more to be told than the family gave out. Did you get a reward out of it?"

"No, I'm waiting for that. You see, commissioner. I'm hoping that some day I shall marry Miss Ethel."

After his visitor had gone the commissioner sat thinking.

"Well," he said, "that guy is certainly taking no prizes in a beauty show, and he isn't much bigger than a minute, and he's got a voice like a girl; but at that I'm betting he wins out. He sure has a way of getting what he wants."

_____________

8: His Silent Partner

Albert Alwing
fl 1918-1937

Detective Story Magazine,  9 April 1921

This writer, otherwise unknown, seems to have written exclusively for Detective Story Magazine, producing some 25 stories in that period.

FOR the twentieth time that morning— or was it, perhaps, the fortieth?— Brandon's eyes peered out between the steel, bars of the paying-teller's cage and caught the outlines of a man's figure on the sidewalk. He was an ordinarylooking man, short, black-mustached, rather sharp-featured, and he wore a brown derby and a suit of inconspicuous gray, and there was no apparent reason for Brandon's interest in him.

A check was pushed across the marble slab by a frail little woman outside his cage, and Brandon came out of his abstraction and cast an expert glance at the little slip of paper. It called for only nine dollars, a sum as paltry and insignificant as the tense-faced and poorly garbed woman at the window looked, but Brandon instinctively felt that to her it meant a great deal.  Twice he counted the bills he handed her, as bank employees always do, and then he counted them a third time, for he felt that to-day he could not rely on the sense of figures that usually guarded him against mistakes.

The woman walked away, and again Brandon's eyes peered between the steel bars to the man on the sidewalk. Just now he was standing outside the door, which was level with the street, and it seemed to Brandon that his alert eyes and keen jaw. were leveled directly at his cage. He imagined he saw some thing taunting in the man's face, something menacing and inexorable. And then, as he had done many times before that morning, Brandon told himself that private detectives look just like that.

The reflection made him wince. He glanced uneasily about his cage, for of a sudden he felt as if some one had stepped up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder, but all he saw was neatly arranged piles of bank notes. All at once he discovered that he had acquired an intense loathing for them. The orderly tiers of clean, crisp bills seemed to convey a sly reminder that the world in general and his wife in particular must soon know that he was a thief.

"Thief!" Brandon repeated the word half aloud, as he had done many times in the past few weeks. The sound of it gave him a curious sense of self-torture.

Another depositor stepped up to the cage and presented a check.

Brandon glanced at the amount and the signature. As he riffled the crackling and crinkling bills between his fingers, he felt as though a voice were whispering the word "Thief!" in his ear.

Nervously he glanced toward the sidewalk to see if the black-mustached man was still there. He was not in sight just then, but Brandon caught a look of perplexity in the face of the man who had presented the check.

Then he knew he had been on the point of making another blunder. He had made several in the past few weeks, though fortunately all of them had been adjusted easily. He glanced again at the check. It called for seventy-five dollars, but Brandon had been in the act of counting out nine hundred and eighty dollars and forty cents.

Nine hundred and eighty dollars and forty cents! Those figures had hounded him for weeks. At times it seemed as if it were the only group of figures his mind could grasp. Quickly he corrected his mistake, and again his eyes peered between the steel bars.

The man shifted his position and was not looking at the bank now, but stood facing the street. Brandon perceived a sinister hint even in the angle of the figure as it leaned slightly over the umbrella. Perhaps the detective, for such he seemed beyond a shadow of doubt, was only waiting a more favorable opportunity for placing him under arrest. Or had he decided to delay until the luncheon hour?

There was no one at his window now, and he glanced at the clock on the wall. It was eleven-twenty, and in forty minutes he would step out of the bank, as he had done every day for the past fifteen years, to get his lunch. But this time he probably would not be permitted to reach the little lunch room in the next block. The black-mustached man—

Again he recoiled slightly, with a vague feeling that some one had touched his shoulder. But he was alone in the cage. The other clerks. were busy and were not even looking in his direction.

He gazed stolidly at the piles of bank notes. He wished now that he had told his wife sooner. It would have been better than that she should learn from the police about the difference of nine hundred and eighty dollars and forty cents between his cash and the amount on the books.

Of course they had discovered that the accounts had been systematically falsified, little by little, for several months— ever since his wife was seized with that long illness.

Brandon had done it so deftly that he had not thought that even the sharp eyes of Wilkins, the bookkeeper, would catch the false entries he had made at night when he returned to the bank on the pretext of having unfinished work to attend to. But evidently his crime had been discovered. The presence of the black-mustached man could mean nothing else.

And now he would not even have a chance to explain to his wife, to break the news to her in his own way. Perhaps it was just as well that he had been found out. He felt he could endure no longer the dull pain of guilt that was stabbing something vital in him, killing him by slow degrees. The sooner the suspense was over, the better it would be for him. But he had meant to tell the pale little woman at home first and get her and the baby out of the city before the blow should fall. But then the baby had been taken sick, too— and when a baby hovers between life and death a man can't tell his wife that he is a thief.

He started violently. For a moment he did not know what had happened. His eyes had been far away, glimpsing a woman with tear-stained face huddling over a sick baby.

And then he had felt a sudden chill, and there had come a moment of awful anguish. The man had stepped inside the tank and was walking carelessly and with a swagger toward Brandon's cage. He was coming forward slowly, and Brandon felt like crying out to him to hurry, to end it quickly. But the man seemed intent upon prolonging his victim's agony.

Brandon's fingers fumbled with the papers before him as if in search of something to strangle. He dared not look up. Presumably the black-mustached man had gone around to the rear and would approach Brandon's cage from behind. Already he fancied he could hear the clink of the steel cuffs. If only something would happen to break the suspense!

Some one slapped him on the back, and he felt as if every drop of blood had fled from his cheeks.

"Brandon, old boy, it's five minutes past twelve. Time you were going to lunch."

It was Wilkins, the bookkeeper. Brandon often had envied him his ability to forget his worries and responsibilities the mement the clock struck the luncheon hour or closing time. He cast a swift, searching glance at Wilkins' face. If the bookkeeper were aware of Brandon's defalcations, he was concealing it very stccessfully.

"That man— who is he?" demanded Brandon, pointing vaguely in the direction where he had last seen the black-mustached one. Wilkins looked, but saw no one.

"You mean the fellow who walked up to the counter a few seconds ago?" he asked.

"A man in gray suit and brown derby and carrying an umbrella? Oh, yes, I happened to notice him, but he looked quite harmless. I don't think he is going to blow us up. Lots of people come in here and write out checks to themselves and tear them up. They want to know how it feels to have money in the bank." Wilkins laughed in his carefree way. Brandon glanced toward the street entrance, and again he caught a glimpse of the black-mustached man, now standing near the curb.

"Guess I'll skip lunch to-day," he told Wilkins. "I feel a— oh, just a bit out of sorts, you know."

He clung to his post; the thought that he must delay the crisis as long as possible now stood out clear among his jumble of fears. The other seized him by the shoulder and turned him about.

"Look here, man," and Wilkins' voice was deep and sympathetic. "I know all about your troubles at home— wife and baby sick, and alt that. But you must brace up, or—  Say, why don't you ask the old man for a month's vacation ?"

Brandon shook his head with an air of hopelessness. "The old man isn't a bad sort," Wilkins wentyon. "He barks something fierce at times, but his heart is in the right place. Tell him your troubles, and he will do the decent thing."

Brandon's eyes narrowed. There was something about Wilkins' tones and the expression in his face that he did not quite understand. Was it possible, after all, that the bookkeeper knew? If so, why didn't he come right out with it?

He wished Wilkins wouldn't look at him that way. They had worked together for many years, but he could not endure that searéhing glance much longer.

While Wilkins continued to gaze at him, his aching eyes glimpsed only a row of figures— $980.40. He strove desperately to meet Wilkins' gaze without faltering, but after a breathless moment that left him shivering, shaking, and beaten, he was forced to lower his eyes.

Wilkins seized his arm.

"Good heavens, man, what is the matter?"

Brandon could not answer. He staggered dizzily from the cage. He must face the man on the street now, for each moment of delay meant a moment or torture. He-walked through the bank, unaware of friendly and sympathetic glances, and stepped out on the sidewalk.

But the black-mustached man was no longer in sight. Perhaps he was waiting around the corner, ready to click the handcuffs around his quarry's wrists. To his surprise, Brandon was permitted to pass the corner unmolested.

Across the street was the lunch room he had been in the habit of frequenting, but he felt his remaining minutes of liberty must be spent to better advantage. He must go home and tell his wife that he was a thief before she heard the news from other lips.

He told Wilkins he had an errand uptown, to get away from the book-keeper, and soon he was on a car homeward bound. He felt a sense of vague relief when he had satisfied himself that no one was following.

Of course, he was to be arrested at his home and in the presence of his wife. That was a way those detectives had of emphasizing the sting. But perhaps he would have time to explain first.

She met him at the door, a pale and palpitant creature, with traces of tears at the fringes of her eyelids. She flung her arms around his neck and caressed him, but there was husk in-her throat, and she laughed and sobbed in a jumble of passions released.

"Oh, John, John!" she murmured. "I knew you would come home. And I'm so happy! John, the doctor has been here, and he said the crisis is over and Helen will get well."

She nestled her head against his neck, and there were more sobs and more hysterical laughter. Gradually her excitement subsided, and she led him into a little bedroom. A child was sleeping there, her face white and worn, but the expression was peaceful and the breathing regular.

"She is going to get well, John," whispered the woman gently. "And we are going to be so happy—aren't we, John?"

Suddenly, as she looked into his face, she shrank back with a gasp of alarm.

"What has happened, John? You don't look well. Anything wrong at the bank ?"

"Of course not," he assured her, forcing a laugh. "You have worried too much, you poor boy! Come, you must have a little rest and then something good to eat."

She led him into their little sitting room, arranged the pillows on the couch, and urged him to lie down.

"There's nothing wrong with me, dear," he protested gently. He stepped to the window and cast a long glance up and down the street. As yet the blackmustached man had not appeared. But he might come any moment, and in the meantime Brandon must hurry and tell his wife. He drew her to the couch, and they sat down. Her eyes sparkled happily through tears.

"Dear," he began, taking her hand in his. Then he fumbled for words that would not come.

"Yes? Did you have something to tell me? A surprise, maybe? Oh, I think I can guess. Next Tuesday is our wedding anniversary, and you've—"

"No, it isn't that," he interrupted quickly, feeling a sharp twinge as he looked into her eyes, bright with tenderness and gladness. Something clutched wildly at his throat as he reflected that the happiness he saw in her face, though freshly wrested from agony and tears, must be destroyed.

"I am a thief!" he wanted to say, feeling that the ugly truth should be stated in the fewest possible words. Then he glanced into the street again, and he began caressing her hair.

"Yes," hoarsely, "there's something I must tell you, dear." He wished the fierce pounding of his blood would cease so that he might think clearly. "Something—"  But again he failed to muster the courage needed to shatter her fresh happiness.

"Maybe you would rather not tell me now," suggested his wife. "To-morrow will do just as well. And we are going to have many happy days after this."

He felt as if each word dealt a blow.

"Yes, of course—many happy days— after this," he mumbled mechanically.

And then he knew he could not tell her —not while she was so happy. "Oh, yes—to-morrow will do," he managed to say. "It wasn't anything of very great importance, anyhow. Just something I heard this morning." His wife gave him a quick glance, then stepped lightly from the room, but she had barely left when he leaped up from the couch.

"I must tell her!" he told himself with a groan. "I must— before he comes!"

He sat down, trembling, and stared wildly at the wall. "I must— but I can't— not while she is so happy."

He searched his mind for an alternative. Flight? It was out of the question. Telling his wife that he had been given a six months' vacation? It wouldn't do, for he had no money.

Then a fresh idea came to him. Perhaps Wilkins had been right; perhaps the black-mustached man was not a detective at all, but just a crack-brained crank. Maybe the shortage had not yet been discovered. Perhaps his imagination, goaded by fears and anxieties, had pictured dangers where there were none.

He clutched wildly at the hope that he had not yet been found out.

His eyes ached, and he felt a throbbing pain in his head. His only clear thought was that if nothing happened during the afternoon he might conclude that his theft had not been discovered.

The reflection soothed him only for a time. He could not hope to make the shortage good for at least six months, for he was deeply in debt, and his friends already had helped him as much as they could. In the meantime the false entries would remain on the books, where they might betray him any day, and his cash would still be short exactly nine hundred -and eighty dollars and forty cents. Further, he knew he would be unable to endure six months of nerve-racking suspense. He must do something— anything!—

He said little while he and his wife sat at their lancheon, and a little later he kissed her and started for the bank.

An idea, one that had terrified him at first consideration, was slowly taking form in his mind. It was only a sense of utter despair and a realization that something must be done that enabled him to consider it seriously.

During his protracted luncheon hour he had decided that anything was preferable to the agony of having to tell his wife that he was a thief.

As he reached the bank he glanced nervously up and down the sidewalk, but the black-mustached man was nowhere in sight. Probably Wilkins had been right, but Brandon meant to take warning from the scare he had received. The imaginary danger that had kept him in a state of fear all morning might return in real form at any time unless he acted quickly.

Brandon, as he entered his cage, resolved to act that very night.

He went through the afternoon in a curious half daze, but somehow he managed to make no mistakes. He gave monosyllabic answers to questions put to him, and he was aware that his fellow workers and the customers regarded him with concern. No doubt they thought he was brooding over his troubles at home. They little suspected what a tumult was going on in his mind, nor could they guess what strange emotions were surging within him.

"Thief! Thief!" he kept saying to himself, and each time a hard, calculating smile twitched at the corners of his lips. His guilt had seared deep into his consciousness, but now he told himself that he might as well be brazen about it. Being already a thief in a small way, there was no reason why he should not go a step farther, especially if by doing so he could banish the fears that of late had tormented him.

Toward closing time Wilkins entered his cage and placed a hand on his arm in a friendly manner.

"I've been thinking about you," he began. "I know you're knee-deep in trouble. Why won't you let me persuade you to go to the old man and tell him all about it? Maybe he will help you."

Brandon pretended to consider the suggestion, but he laughed covertly as soon as Wilkins had stepped out. The idea of confiding in Fielding, the bank president, impressed him as grimly amusing. Fielding, with his strict conceptions of right and wrong, would promptly hand him over to the police if Brandon were to tell the truth. Wilkins' well-meant suggestion was sheer absurdity. Just as if a man of Fielding's type would: show any leniency toward a thief!

Closing time came, and Brandon, as was his habit, gathered his remaining cash and stacked it inside the safe. It was near the end of the month, and as usual the bank had accumulated a large cash balance against the heavy pay-roll drafts that would be made in a few days.

Before he closed the safe Brandon gazed appraisingly at the tall tiers of bank notes. Burglars, he well knew, had mysterious ways of obtaining inside information about the places they intended to rob. It was conceivable that some safe breaker had learned that at this particular time the safe contained an unusually large amount of cash.

Furthermore, the bank in which Brandon worked had so far been fortunate in escaping the attentions of burglars, and its precautions and safety appliances were correspondingly neglected. If in the morning it should be discovered that the safe had been tampered with and that a large amount of cash had disappeared, the natural presumption would be that robbers had visited the bank during the night.

As he traveled homeward Brandon carefully worked out the details of his plan.

He would return to the bank late in the evening, as he often had done in the past. First he would cover up the falsified entries on the books, and already he had figured out a way of doing it safely and effectively. Then he would open the safe and take out a few thousand dollars, just enough to leave the impression that the burglers had been frightened while at work and fled before their task was finished.

He knew the combination, and he was aware that some burglars have the knack of opening safes by listening to the falling of the tumblers. For the sake of realism he, would scratch the fastenings of one of the windows in the rear, scatter a few papers about, and upset one or two articles of furniture. Now and then he felt scruples, but he silenced them by telling himself stoutly that he was already a thief, and that his guilt would not be aggravated greatly by the deed he was about to commit. Besides, he was willing to go to any extremes rather than have his wife suffer the shock of learning that her husband was a criminal.

He managed to keep up a steady flow of conversation at dinner, and he answered his wife's questions with more animation than he had shown for a long time.

"I left a little work unfinished at the office," he told her when they got up from the table. His eyes traced a crack in the floor as he spoke. "Guess I'll run down and attend to it."

She protested that he was too tired, and that the work could wait, but he promised he would not stay long, and finally she consented. They parted with a kiss, and he observed that not in many weeks had he seen her so happy.

Reaching the bank, he admitted himself with the key he always carried. Softly, with the furtiveness of a professional housebreaker, he stepped to the safe and opened it. From one of the upper shelves he took down several books, selected one of them, and carried it to one of the desks. He switched on a light over his head, found the pages containing the false entries, and bent over his task.

In a few minutes now all traces of his crime would be obliterated in so far as his former doctoring of the books was concerned. The rest would not take long, and inside an hour he would be home with his wife, and a great weight would be lifted from his mind.

Yet, despite the comforting reflection, he felt a nervousness for which he could not account. His hand shook so violently that he had to wait until the tremors ceased. Then he gripped his pen again, and with great care made the required alterations. When he had finished he gazed critically at his work and knew that it was well done. Finally he closed the book.

Then fear gripped him, and at first he could not understand why. His shaking hand upset an ink bottle, splashing the black fluid over the desk. His knees swayed, and he felt a great weakness stealing over his body. He clutched at the desk for support. Then he listened, and as he listened his face grew whiter and a chill cramped his hands.

He heard soft, cat-like footsteps that became more distinct with every moment. He reached out his hand— it required a tremendous effort to make that hand obey his will— and switched off the light. Once more he strained his ears. The footsteps were coming from the rear, from the president's room.

He had an impulse to run, but a cold numbness had gripped his limbs. Narrow streaks of light flitted over the walls and the floor, indicating that the intruders were carrying an electric torch. He crouched behind the desk. Now he heard whispers, and in the fluttering light that occasionally swept the room he distinguished dimly the outlines of two men. He wondered if and unreasoning way he felt they were not. They were not approaching him, but were stealing toward the safe. He felt calmer for an instant, and then his thoughts whirled dizzily.

"Safe blowers," he mumbled, and then he stood very still, a thousand jumbled ideas shooting through his mind. He felt a wild impulse to laugh. Chance had come to his aid in an unexpected way. His whole plan was based on the possibility that burglars might enter the bank, and now that very thing had happened. The shortage would be covered up effectively, and he would not even have to turn a finger. The only difference was that an amount larger than Brandon had meant to take would be missing from the safe when it was opened in the morning.

He felt a little calmer for an instant, and then his thoughts took a new turn. He scarcely understood his own mental and emotional processes, but suddenly he forgot that he was a thief and remembered only that he was a trusted employee of the bank he had served for fifteen years. He had always given it the best that was in him, and had guarded its interests in every possible way.

He steeled his nerves for action. There would be at least something that the little woman at home could be proud of. His hand fumbled along the wall. The intruders had now reached the safe, and he heard their mutters of amazement at finding the door open. Evidently they suspected a trap, for they seemed to hesitate.

He found the button he had been fumbling for, and pressed it. It would bring the police in a few minutes. But in the meantime he must act, for already the burglars seemed to have recovered from their surprise, and Brandon could see the electric torch exploring the interior from a drawer.

He tiptoed to his desk and snatched a revolver from a drawer, then crawled toward the twinkling light. The men were on their knees in front of the safe, hastily transferring bundles of bank notes to a suit case. Brandon approached stealthily, rejoicing in a sense of coolness. His nerves had not been so steady in a week.

He crept closer and closer until he could plainly distinguish the two men in front of the safe. With his finger on the trigger, he sprang upon them, flinging himself upon the man at the left. But he had not been quick enough, for in an instant the other one sprang to his feet.

The revolver was beaten from Brandon's hand, and then came a sharp crack and a spurt of fire. He felt a sting in the shoulder, the objects about him took on a hundred dazzling hues that flared and zigzagged before his eyes, and then all became darkness.

But before that moment of oblivion he had glimpsed, in a sharp flash of light, the face of— the black-mustached man.

When he opened his eyes he was sitting in an armchair in the president's private office. Facing him, on the other side of the table, sat Fielding, his usually hard face relaxed into a smile. A physician was examining Brandon' s shoulder.

"Not much more than a scratch," he observed. "All it needs is a dressing."

Fielding asked him to wait for a few minutes, and the physician left the office. Then the president rose and gripped Brandon's hand. "I want to thank you for the big service you have done us to-night," he said. "The safe contained an unusually large amount of cash."

Dimly Brandon was beginning to remember what had happened.

"The men were caught," continued the president. "They had an electric motor and bit in their possession to drill the safe with, but it seems they found an-easier way to open it."

His forehead creased into a frown of perplexity, but his face brightened again. "Both of them were dangerous characters and have police records. One of them, I understand, has been loafing about the  bank lately."

"Oh, yes, I noticed—" Brandon checked himself in time. "I didn't have a good look at them, but I thought they looked like desperadoes."

The president sat silent, regarding Brandon with a strange expression. Something that Brandon had never seen there before twinkled in his eyes.

"Brandon," he said, seating himself again, "people think I am a hard man. I guess they are right. But I understand certain things. Once I was a poor man myself, and on one occasion But I won't bore you with the story now. I'll only tell you that I have had certain truths drilled into me."

Brandon sat speechless while he listened to the strange speech.

"I heard about your wife and child being sick," Fielding went on. "I wanted to do something to help you."

"Then he doesn't know yet," was Brandon's thought.

"I let the opportunity slip by," continued the president. "I did nothing to help you until it was.too late. At least, many people would say it was too late. I think differently. Brandon, I want to give you a little reward for what you have done to-night, and I also wish you would consider it a belated help in your difficulty."

Brandon was a little dazed. He fumbled vainly for words. He wished Fielding had not spoken so kindly; it only served to inflict a stronger sense of his guilt.

"Here is a little check for you," added Fielding after a tense silence, during which he looked strangely at the paying teller. "It isn't a great sum, as you will see, but I have also made arrangements for your promotion."

Brandon, mumbling incoherent thanks, put the check in his pocket. Just at present he was too bewildered to look at it.

"I guess that will be all, Brandon." The president rose and extended his hand. "I only want you to understand in the future that you have a real friend in me."

Brandon remembered, as he dazedly stepped out of the office, that his account was still short nine hundred and eighty dollars and forty cents. Exposure still threatened him. He had temporarily forgotten that he was a thief, but now the realization once more stared him in the face. Disgrace, arrest, and conviction were inevitable unless—

Suddenly he remembered the check. He stopped and took it from his pocket, and for a long time he stared in amazement at the amount written on it:

Nine hundred and eighty dollars and forty cents.

Finally he looked up, a glimmer of vague understanding in his eyes.

"Fielding knew!" he mumbled.

_______________

9: The Organ-Grinder's Money-Bag

James McGovan

William Crawford Honeyman, 1845–1919

In: Traced and Tracked, 1884

Although the stories published and widely accepted as though by a retired Edinburgh police officer, the author was a musician and writer. Half a dozen volumes of these "McGovan" detective short stories appeared.

WHEN THE organ-grinder appeared in a distracted state at the Office, his face was quite familiar to me through seeing him on the streets and at race-courses and other gatherings with his organ. He was a big-bodied, swarthy man, with a full black beard, and, of course, till that moment I had taken him for an Italian. To hear the Irish brogue come pouring in a torrent out of his mouth, therefore, was a little startling. His very grief, and earnestness, and evident unconsciousness of anything ludicrous added comicality to the discovery, and it was with the greatest difficulty that I restrained a smile while he incoherently made known his loss.

'The savings of tin years tuck from me in a lump,' he groaned, with a shower of lamentations; 'and however the thafe did it, or found out where my money was, or that I had any to stale, I can't for the life of me tell; for even my friend Tom Joson here thought I hadn't a penny, and didn't know where it was kept.'

The friend thus alluded to bobbed to me, and I recognised him also as a street musician. He was a lame man, and used a crutch and stick to move about, and his instrument was a tin whistle. Sometimes, I think, he used two of these whistles tied together, and he affected to be much more lame and helpless than he really was. His favourite 'pitch' was to squat cross-legged at the edge of the pavement on the Mound with his crutch and stick ostentatiously displayed before him, and a tin mug placed on the kerb ready for contributions, and there he droned out his tunes, generally of a plaintive character, for hours together, with wonderful taste and skill. He got drunk at times, and became troublesome, and had to go to jail to cool down.

That was the man who now bobbed to me, and shook his head dolefully over his friend's misfortune.

'I came here to show him the way, and introduce him to the great detective,' Joson volunteered, with a sympathetic snifter and cringe.

'Yes, having been here so often yourself, you were quite qualified for that task,' I dryly returned, whereat the lame man cringed and bobbed again, and affected to take the observation as a very good joke, though his mental remarks, I feel sure, were quite unfit for publication.

'You say you have lost a bag of money,' I continued to the organ-grinder, after taking down his name as Peter McCarthy. 'How did it happen, and how much money did the bag contain?'

''Twasn't lost— 'twas stole from me,' cried the organ-grinder, with a fresh burst of expletives on the head of the robber; 'and there was two hundred and seven golden sovereigns in the bag—two hundred and seven, sur. 'Twas a heap of money, and it was so pleasant to feel the gold running through your fingers. But I'm afeared I'll never touch it again. And I worked hard for it, sur; if I'd coined every sovereign of it out of me own blood it couldn't have been got slower. Tin years! och, if I lose it, I may creep into me grave.'

'You were foolish to carry such a large sum about with you,' I could not help observing.

'I didn't carry it about with me— it had got too heavy for that,' quickly returned the organ-grinder. 'Faith, I only wish I'd never given up carrying it, and I'd have had it now. No; I had it stowed away in a hole of the chimney of my house, where no living being could get at it.'

'And yet it was taken—how do you explain that?'

'I can't explain it. I only know that it's gone,' he answered with a mysterious look, much as if he thought some greedy ghosts had been at work removing his hidden pile. 'My house is a garret in the Grassmarket. I'll take you to it, and show you the place whenever you like. The landlord is a hawker called Jimmy Poulson. He has the other two rooms; but he can't get into my place at any time, as I've a lock on the dure, which I had put on myself, which no one can pick.'

At the mention of Jimmy Poulson's name, Tom Joson, the lame man, jerked his head to me significantly.

'I've always till now thought Jimmy an honest man,' continued the organ-grinder, 'and even if he had got into my house while I was out, how could he have known I had money, or got it out without leaving marks?'

'Ay, how?' groaned the lame man in sympathy.

'You see, sur,' pursued the other, 'I never had a fire on in my room, for the agreement was I was to get the use of Jimmy's kitchen and fire for a shilling a week extra, so I had a board made to fit the fire-place, and I had that always fixed in while I was out. I'll tell ye how I fixed it so as nobody could move it without me knowing. I always pasted a paper over the edges, and the paper had generally a picture on it. If any one had tuck it down when I was out the paper picture must have shown the cracks and tears. Last night when I got home there wasn't a scratch or tear in the paper— this morning the same; but when I took out the board with my own hands I found that the hole in the chimney was empty, and my bag of gold stole away.'

'Stole away!' echoed the lame man, like an obedient chorus, with a doleful shake of the head.

'Then I wondered how it was I hadn't seen Jimmy for three days, for I'd never known him to be away so long before,' continued the organ-grinder. 'You see, we have both keys to fit the outer door, and when Jimmy's away I just look after things for him. He's a bachelor, and so am I, and likely to keep so if I don't get back my money. Oh, what will my poor darlin', Honora, say when she hears of me being robbed!' he moaned, flying off at a tangent again. 'She's waited for me for ten years, and the money was to fulfil a vow I made as a penance to me sowl, for I wance struck my mother, and knocked her senseless, and I vowed before God that if He'd restore her I'd save, and slave, and scrape, and stint myself, and never marry my own devoted girl till I'd bought the little bit of land and the house for the owld paiple to end their days in peace; and another year would have done it. Surely the blessed Lord above us, that heard my vow and helped me to keep it, won't let me be sent broken-hearted to the grave with this cruel loss?'

'You ought to have put the money in the bank,' I said severely. 'The interest alone during these years would have amounted to something handsome, and allowed you to fulfil your purpose by this time.'

'I couldn't trust a bank,' he said, with the national prejudice in every word and tone. 'When the bank broke I'd have blamed myself for my simplicity and foolishness, but now I blame nobody but the black-hearted thafe. If it's Jimmy Poulson that's done it, he'll never prosper in this world; for it's not me alone he's wronged, but the owld paiple, that are less able to bear it, and my sweet colleen, that would lay down her life for me.'

'Oh, but Mr McGovan will soon run him down,' observed the lame man, hopefully.

I was not so sure of that, for, supposing the thief to be Poulson, that worthy had already got three days' start. As yet, however, I was by no means certain that there had been any thief in the case. When I had got from the organ-grinder a description of the land of houses in which he lived, I found that it was one well known to me as one of the ricketiest buildings in the quarter, and I quickly formed a theory, from his description of the place and circumstances, that seemed to offer the only feasible explanation. He had thrust the bag of money into a hole inside the chimney; that hole might have been deeper than he thought; might have led into another chimney; and so, in thrusting in the treasure, it was possible he might have sent it tumbling down, like a gift from heaven, into some wretched abode beneath. I said little of this idea at the moment, but anxiety to test the matter induced me to go with the queer pair to the organ-grinder's garret. It was a poor place, and very small. There was a bed at one side, and a window jutting out on the slates. This window was fastened with two thick screw nails on the inside, and had not been opened for years. I tried with all my strength to open it, but it did not yield in the slightest. The place was very tidy and clean, considering that no woman ever got within the door. I turned to the fire-place, beside which stood a square board very much papered over on one side, but showing clean white wood and two cross spars on the other. This fitted the fire-place exactly. Directed by the organ-grinder I reached up inside the fire-place and soon touched a recess in the wall of the chimney. It was a mistake to call it a hole; it was a mere ledge in the wall on which a bag of money might have rested easily, but in which it could scarcely be said to be hidden. There was no soot in the chimney, and my fingers were not even soiled by the inspection. My theory, of course, was completely knocked on the head, but I immediately formed another.

Looking up the chimney I could see daylight at quite a short distance above. The vent was nearly straight till near the fire-place, where it widened considerably. The organ-grinder was positive that the strange door of his safe and its fastenings had been quite untampered with before he himself opened it. He declared that if it had been he should have detected the fact at a glance. The money therefore had not come out at that door; neither had it gone through the wall or down any other chimney; there remained therefore but one way for its abstraction, that was— up the chimney. The lame man Joson, who assisted me officiously during the examination, was anxious when I had concluded to learn what theory I had formed in regard to the robbery, but I did not enlighten him; and though the second theory, like the first, proved to be not quite correct, it was perhaps as well that I said nothing of it at the time. No such caution is necessary here, however, and I may state the theory. I had often seen ragamuffins fishing down the street gratings or inaccessible areas for odds and ends dropped by passers by, their fishing-tackle generally consisting of a long bit of twine and a piece of wood or stone, the under side of which was coated with tar or some such sticky substance. Sometimes, instead of a tarred stone, there was a well-sharpened table fork, which was simply lowered and let 'dab' into the article to be hoisted.

If the article happened to lie in any corner 'off the plumb,' some difficulty was generally experienced in the fishing, though even then captures were sometimes made by setting the fork or sticky stone in motion, pendulum wise, and at the proper moment letting it fall on the article. Now, applying this knowledge to the organ-grinder's money-bag, it seemed to me quite likely that it had been fished out in the same fashion, though I was doubtful if a fork or even a sticky stone could have laid hold of a money-bag of green flannel, especially when that bag was weighted with 207 sovereigns. But even supposing the 'fishing' theory correct, boys do not generally wander along roofs fishing down chimneys for possible hoards.

To fish down that chimney implied a knowledge that the gold was there, and that knowledge, the organ-grinder insisted, had been till that day confined strictly to his own breast. Even his own relations in the west of Ireland, he declared, knew nothing of his hiding-place or the amount of his savings. In saying so he possibly spoke what he believed to be the truth. It is possible to betray many a secret without ever using the tongue or opening the lips, and certainly without ever knowing or dreaming that we have revealed what we are striving to conceal. I therefore made no comment on these strong statements, but sought by a series of indirect questions to discover whom he consorted with most, and, above all, who was favoured so far as to be admitted into this house of his, as he chose to dignify the garret.

Only two persons, so far as I could learn, were thus favoured, and these were the landlord, Jimmy Poulson, and the lame man, Tom Joson. The organ-grinder did not make a confidant of either of these men, but if one of them had a higher place in his esteem than the other, that one was Joson. I suspect the organ-grinder was inclined to be miserly, and liked Joson, because the lame man treated him to drink without ever asking him to return the compliment.

The street whistle-player, unlike his dear friend, was a married man, and never got into difficulties with the police except by getting drunk and quarrelling with his wife. He had therefore got into a habit of shunning public-houses when he wanted a comfortable spree— as he knew only too well that there he would be unerringly hunted out by his wife— and going instead to the organ-grinder's garret, where, after the labours of the day, they could enjoy in peace what was denied to Joson elsewhere. Much of this I drew out of the organ-grinder after getting rid of Joson, by sending him out for some writing-paper and ink. When I had drawn from him all I wished, I began to speculate as to whether it was not possible that both Poulson and Joson had participated in the robbery. If I had had any choice in the matter, I should rather have blamed the lame man than the hawker. Poulson was a hard-working man, and had never been through our hands, while the lame man was a bit of an imposition, had often been in jail, though not for stealing, and was exceedingly cunning besides. But there was the condemning fact— Poulson had run off and disappeared, while the lame man not only remained, but had been the adviser and guide of the organ-grinder in seeking the aid of the police. Still I could not see what interest the lame man could have had in so constantly seeking the society of the organ-grinder. What object could he have in view? Had he suspected that the man kept a hoard somewhere about the room, and determined to find out where that hide was?

These were some of the thoughts which troubled me, but I put them past for after consideration, while I made arrangements with the organ-grinder to try a curious experiment, first binding him to absolute secrecy, even from his 'friend, Tom Joson.' The lost money-bag had been made out of a piece of the green cloth which had covered McCarthy's organ when he was overtaken by rain. He had made the bag himself, and said he would know it again among a thousand. I asked him if he could make one a little like it in size, to which he promptly answered that he could, and out of the same stuff. I then left him, and returned late at night, and long after it was dark. We weighted the new money-bag with a quantity of coppers which the organ-grinder had taken in the streets, and then placed it on the ledge in the chimney. I then mounted to the roof and easily found the right chimney top, as I had made McCarthy light a candle and place it within the fire-place. I then lowered the 'fishing tackle' I had prepared for my experiment. This was a leaden sinker at the end of a string, to which was attached an arrangement of hooks, which could not have failed to catch the money-bag if I could only have brought them near it. But there was the difficulty. I fished and fought away for half an hour, but I could never get swing enough on that sinker to bring the hooks near the bag, though I knew exactly where the bag lay, which was more than the thief could have known. As the fire-place widened considerably from the chimney proper, I could not see the bag for which I was fishing, and in the end I gave up the attempt, almost convinced that the robbery had not been effected by any such means. I had gone there after dark to make my queer experiment with a view to keeping the thing as quiet as possible, and also because I thought it likely that the real attempt had been made under like conditions. While doing so I was, without knowing it, within a few feet of what would have given me the real clue to the mystery— I might almost have touched it with my hand— and yet I saw nothing, and left the roof rather more puzzled than when I ascended. Had I gone in daylight all that might have been different.

I had now done with experiments, and set myself to something practical by hunting for the absconding hawker. The finding of his whereabouts was no difficult matter. He was well known, and though out of the city, he had to pursue his calling to get a living, and so a few messages across the adjoining counties soon revealed the fact that Poulson, after an eccentric tour, was returning to Edinburgh for a fresh stock. I was surprised at the news. I had fully expected that a man with 207 stolen sovereigns in his possession would not only cease working for a while, but give the scene of his exploit a wide berth for some time to come. At length I heard that he was in the city, and went to his house to look for him. As I had expected, he was not there, and had not been near the place. There was another place known to him, as I had discovered through Tom Joson, the lame man, in which any one who had means could hide for any length of time. I had been in that den before, and went there direct.

It was a quiet place, down near the bottom of the North Back Canongate. The house was entered by an outside stair in a dark court, where there were excellent corners for concealment.

I took up my position there as soon as it was dark, and had not been long there before I saw a man enter the court, take in all the bearings of the place much as I had done myself, and then select a corner quite as good as my own. In this he ensconced himself so coolly that in sheer wonder I crossed the court and grabbed him by the shoulder. Then in the dim light I recognised a sheriff-officer well known to me.

'Hullo! are you watching for some one too?' I exclaimed.

'Yes, and a bonnie chase I've had,' he growled in a whisper. 'It's a hawker called Poulson—'

'Ah, indeed! and what do you want him for?'

'Oh, just an affiliation case— decree for ten pounds and expenses, and the usual aliment. I've been all over Fife after him, and he knows it. Fourpence a mile will never pay me for all the trouble I've had. I know he's in here, but I'll wait till he comes out. I wouldn't go into that den for a hundred pounds. They'd jump on me and stave in my ribs, or break my leg as soon as look at me.'

'Then, if you're sure he's in here, let's go in together,' I answered; 'I'll warrant they won't jump on me, or break my leg either. I want Poulson, too; what are we to do with him when we get him, eh?— halve him?'

'Oh, you can keep him if we get him,' he returned, with a gruesome shrug of the shoulders. 'He'll be as safe with you as any one.'

We ascended the stair and knocked, and after some delay were admitted. Poulson, they said, was not there, and of course we did not see him. After locking the outer door on the inside and pocketing the key, I went over the three rooms. In the windows of two apartments adjoining each other there were fixed boxes, with lids, which appeared to be used as seats.

I lifted the lid of one. There was nothing inside, and the space revealed was only about three feet long by a foot and a half deep. I got into the next room after a little, and saw the exact counterpart of this box seat in the window of that. It also was empty, but in length was rather shorter than the other. Something about one of the ends attracted my attention, and I put my hand to it. The whole end moved a little. I touched a small nail in the centre and pulled it. The end slid easily towards me, and, looking through, I saw that the two window seats were one compartment with a movable division. In the long end— that is the end I had searched first— Poulson was lying on his side, and he looked considerably astonished when I hauled him out by the leg.

But when we got him out of the house, and he learned that he was wanted by me more than the sheriff-officer, his surprise increased. He could not understand it at all. When we got him to the Central, and the charge was made known, he broke out into the most indignant protestations of innocence. He had never heard of the robbery of the organ-grinder's money-bag, and had not dreamt of the man possessing such a sum.

'If I had thought it,' he added, 'I would have asked him to lend me enough to get over this difficulty.'

He was locked up, and every search made for the stolen sovereigns, but without success; and after a few days' detention he was handed over to the sheriff-officer. As he pledged himself to pay all his debts, he was released under certain conditions.

This fact having been made known to me, I had him strictly watched, as I had the idea that the money would be drawn from that pile of sovereigns taken from the organ-grinder. No such call, however, was made upon that store. Poulson proceeded to 'realise' upon his furniture and effects, and with that and the little money he had for buying a new stock, he managed to clear himself of the disagreeable surveillance of the sheriff-officer. He was still being watched closely by McSweeny, and as he soon became conscious of the fact, he became very unhappy. His recent misfortunes had somewhat broken his spirit, and he began to drink and loaf about instead of bestirring himself to retrieve his position. There was not the slightest indication that he had the organ-grinder's sovereigns hidden anywhere; and in his straits he was dependent chiefly upon the organ-grinder and the lame man, Tom Joson. One day when he had reached his last coin and was groaning over the fact that he was the object of such attention from the police, it was proposed to him by the lame man that he should get rid of the espionage by a sudden flight.

'I'll lend you enough to pay your passage to London,' said the generous Joson confidentially; 'and to tell you a secret, I'm thinking of going there myself if I can manage to give the wife the slip.'

The offer was jumped at by the hawker, the more so as Joson told him he would give him a trifle to start with when he should reach the metropolis. One afternoon, accordingly, they met at an appointed place, and walked towards Granton together. As a touching proof of his confidence, the lame man entrusted Poulson with a bundle of his to carry. The bundle was not very large, but it was heavy. When they reached Trinity, the lame man said he could walk no further, and took a penny ride by rail for the rest of the way, the agreement being that they were to meet on board the steamer. McSweeny, who had got word of the movement from the organ-grinder, was already at the ticket office at Granton Pier. The lame man went on board unchecked. Half an hour later Poulson appeared, carrying the bundle given him by the lame man, and was promptly stopped by McSweeny. The weight of the bundle gave my chum great hope, and for once he was not disappointed. When the bundle was opened at the station-house, there was found within a bag of coarse green cloth, containing 203 sovereigns. Then the hawker confessed that he had got the bundle from the lame man to carry, but was well laughed at for his pains. By that time the London steamer had sailed, and it appeared probable that the lame man had gone with it, for he was nowhere to be found. McSweeny was very proud of his capture, but while he was thus engaged I had been busy in another quarter. A slater had gone up on to the roof of the house upon which I had made my fishing experiment, and found there a long iron rod, bent at the end and fitted with a sharp hook. The moment I got word of this discovery I made the circuit of the district to find the nearest blacksmith, and from him I learned that the rod had been made to order by him for 'a lame man who played the whistle on the streets.'

Back to the organ-grinder I went, and tried the patent rod down his chimney with perfect success. I hooked up the dummy bag at the very first attempt. At the same time I drew from the organ-grinder a confession that 'in drink' he was very loquacious and communicative. I had now no doubt but he had in some such unguarded moment allowed the lame man to draw from him part of his secret, the man's native cunning and ingenuity filling up the blanks.

I now wished very much to see Joson, and with that end in view took the night mail for London. I was in the city long before the steamer arrived, and waiting for it at the wharf when it slowly crept up the river. No tender relative could have looked out for a dear friend with more anxious solicitude than I did for the face of the cripple whistle-player, and, as luck had it, his was almost the first face I saw.

He was looking over the taffrail, and evidently viewing the lively scene with great interest, for he saw no one— not even me— till my hand was laid upon his arm with the words—

'Well, Joson, I'm glad to see you. I hope you've had a good passage?'

The kind inquiry was never answered. Joson appeared to collapse at the very sight of my face, and submitted to be led away without a murmur. Poulson would have had some difficulty in proving his innocence, had not the lame man made a clean breast of it, and pleaded guilty with a view to shortening his own sentence.

For a long time there was one whistler less in the streets, and the organ-grinder's motto ever after was, 'Save me from my friends!'

_____________

10: Book of Detective Stories

From the Diary of a New York Detective

Anonymous

Nov. 1894

A little out of the usual. This is the entire contents of an issue of "Multum in Parvo Library", the smallest magazine in the world. Just 16 tiny pages, four stories, totalling 4,000 words.

1: Betrayed by a Dog.

ANIMALS, especially dogs, have played an  important part in the affairs of men. There  is now in Chicago a dog that has become the companion and assistant of a policeman, and  really does help his friend to detect and ferret out thieves and other evil doers. I was once concerned in a case in which a dog played a most important part, and led finally, through no fault of his own, however, to the detection of his master.

The store of John Camden had been broken into and the safe blown open and robbed of a large sum of money. The cash had been received that day too late to be deposited in the bank. Next morning it was gone, and no trace of the thief was to be found. At least, Mr. Camden and his clerks and the police officials found no trace of him. Not so with me. I was sent to look up the affair. I found the office in a state of confusion. The door of  the safe had been blown off and the contents lay scattered over the floor. I asked Mr. Camden if he had disturbed anything. He said he had not, except to satisfy himself that his money was gone.

Near by was a cat, dead, her throat cut evidently by a hatchet that lay close at hand. This seemed to me to bé the basis of a clue. Why had the cat been killed? It is not necessary to kill cats in order to prevent them from telling tales. Lexamined the unfortunate feline more carefully. In addition to the ugly eut on the throat there were other and more significant marks upon.the back. A saucer, evidently having recently contained milk, stood near by. Also an overturned can from which pussy’s supply of milk had evidently been obtained. The contents of this had been consumed. Mr. Camden informed me that this can had been filled with milk only the previous evening. Among the papers scattered upon the floor was one that attracted my attention. It was a portion of a note written in French. I was aware that Mr. Camden did not write or speak French. I questioned him about it. He could give me no information.

He had never seen it before.

"Did any one know you had a large sum of  money in the safe?" I asked.

“Yes, a number of people knew of the fact. I had been expecting to receive the money for the past two weeks.”

“Who are those who knew you had it?”

“My wife, brother, the man I sold the property to (that is how I came to have such a large sum at one time) and the real estate dealers through whom I sold it.”

“Any one else?”

“Oh, yes, a friend, my danghter’s music  teacher. He it was who found me a purchaser for the property.”’

"He is a Frenchman, is he not, and is invariably accompanied by his pretty little dog?"

“Why, yes; do you know him?”

“No— never saw him. He knew you had a large sum of money in the safe?”

“Yes; he saw me deposit it there.”

‘‘When did he give your daughter her last music lesson?"

"Last evening, but he complained of being il and went away earlier than usual.”

"Did he have his dog with him?”

“Yes; he claims the dog is his only friend.”

"Have you a specimen of his handwriting at hand?"

“Yes: I have several acknowledgments of  money received.”’

He produced them. I compared the writing with that of the note I had found near the safe. They were, as far as I could determine, identically the work of the same person.

Satisfied that I was on the right track, I caused a watch to be put upon the music teacher with the result that he was arrested as he was about to leave the city. He made a full confession.

“How did you guess it was a Frenchman who robbed my safe, and that he was accompanied by a pretty little dog?" inquired Mr.

“I found the cat had been killed by a dog, and his master afterward cut her throat with the hatchet to ward off suspicion from the dog; the dog drank the milk which had been provided for the cat. I found a note written in French and evidently dropped by the thief near the safe, and his dog was a pretty little animal because his master’s patrons, like yourself, would not tolerate the presence of any other kind, and you told me the dog always accompanied his master."

_____________

2: The Key to the Mystery.

THE MOST puzzling case upon which I ever worked was that of the murder of John Long. The facts are briefly these: Mr. Long, a wealthy, retired merchant, living at the home of his nephew, failed to answer the dinner-bell one day. He was a man who always prided himself upon his punctuality, and his failure to appear at dinner at the usual hour caused no little surprise. A messenger was sent to his room to call him. No response came to repeated knocks upon his chamber door. The door was locked. Fearful that something had happened to him, Mr. Brant— the old gentleman’s nephew— set about breaking down the door. This was no easy task, as the door.was made of oak and fastened by a ponderous lock and large brass hinges, After considerable effort the door yielded to their to blows and fell in. A horrible sight met the gaze of the anxious family. Mr. Long lay across the bed, cold and still in death, with his throat cut from ear to ear.

Had the old man been murdered? If so, how had the murdererentered the room? The old man was known always to keep his door locked. Besides, there did not appear to be anything missing. If it was a case of suicide, what had become of the implement with which the deed had been done? It was nowhere to be found. ‘the old man always seemed in the best of spirits, and had every thing to live for.

If not suicide, then it was, of course, murder. Who, then, was the murderer?

It was my good fortune to be assigned to work up the case.  Isay good fortune because I like a difficult job, the more difficult the better, and this was one of the most difficult of all I had ever undertaken.

I examined the premises, and questioned the family and the servants in order to learn all I could about the murdered man, his habits, his financial affairs, etc. In particular I examined the room in which the foul murder had been committed. One of the windows was partially opened. This suggested the theory that the murderer might hive gained access to the room by means of the window, but it was impossible for him to have done this in broad daylight, and the window was over 20 feet from the ground.

One of those who seemed most eager to believe that Mr. Long had committed suicide was Thomas Brant, a scapegrace nephew of the old man.

“If he committed suicide,” said I, “where is the implement with which he did the deed ?”

Perhaps he used his razor and then threw it out of the window," suggested Thomas.

“Impossible. The jugular vein was cut and death must have been almost instantaneous.”

Nevertheless, I examined the grass under the window (which opened over the orchard) and found the old man’s razor. There was, however, no blood upon it.

The most peculiar thing in the room was the lock on the door and the key belonging to it. It was a large lock, much larger than those made at the present time, and the key was a large, heavy, brass one weighing several pounds. I was informed that this lock had done duty in the door of the store in which Mr. Long started in business, and when the building was demolished, Mr. Long preserved the lock and key (which, by the way, he had designed himself), Furthermore, as soon as he entered his room it was his custom to lock his door, remove the key from the lock and hang it upon a nail on the wall. Here it had been found on the day of the murder. There was believed to be but one such key in existence. I believed otherwise, and made a tour of all the lock-smith’s shops in the city in order to verify my suspicions. At last a search was rewarded. I found one who admitted, although at first unwilling to do so that he had made a key similar to the one carried, He had made it for a young man who answered to the description:of Thomas Brant. This much gained, the next step was to connect Brant with the murder of his uncle.

This was soon done. Brant was sent to prison for life; as it was not proved that he had  entered his uncle’s room for the purpose of murder, but simply of robbery.

__________

3: The Missing Finger.

RED JOE was an industrious young man. He worked early and late at his profession. While others slept he toiled upward in the night; in fact, night was his favorite time for toiling. He didn’t exactly make hay while the sun shone bezause he didn’t do any work while the sun was shining on his side of the earth. He was willing to put his hand to almost anything that did not belong to him, and which he could dispose of without fear of detection. Red Joe was a burglar, and a most successful one. Thet is to say, he succeeded so well at the burglary business that he spent the greater part of his time behind prison walls. He was concerned, either alone, or in company with others of his ilk, in some of the most important “breaks’’ that the police have any record of. Whenever a big burglary was committed, the police invariably tried to connect Red Joe with it, providing that gentleman didn’t happen to be “otherwise engaged’’ at the time. This was the case in the burglary of which I have to tell. The facts are as follows:

The home of Mr. Reed, the rich banker, had been broken into! and a quantity of silver plate, valued at $5,000, stolen. It had occurred during the absence of the family. The affair was reported to the police, and a large reward offered for the detection and conviction of the guilty parties. The police at once set about unearthing and following up clues. But all their labor was in vain. The burglar had carefully covered up his tracks, and left no clue as to his identity. Nobody had seen him enter or leave the house. There was no one in the house at the time of the robbery. The farvily had gone off for the night, and the butler who had been left in charge took advantage of their absence to visit some of his friends. During his absence—which he averred did not extend over two hours—the burglar had come, seen and conquered. He entered a poor man and went away comparatively rich. At first the butler was suspected and arrested, but he established a satisfactory alibi and was soon released from custody.

The police did all in their power to bring the guilty ones to justice, but failed. The affair was then placed in my hands. The solution of the mystery seemed hopeless. The thief had left no clue as to his identity, and none of the booty had been disposed of at any of the pawn-shops in the city or surrounding cities. I did not despair, however. I went to the scene of the robbery and made a most thorough examination of the premises. I found nothing. I was about to give up when I came upon something that promised to bea clue. I inquired from the master of the house whether there had been any repairs made in the house recently. There had. The whole interior of the house had been repainted and repapered just previous to the robbery. In fact the finishing touches had been given the very day the burglary had been committed. Good. Then getting the address of the painter and other workmen, I went to them and made certain inquiries which were answered to my satisfaction. Then I reported at headquarters. Two days later, Red Joe was arrested and charged with the robbery. His premises were searched and most of the stolen plate recovered.

The clue I had discovered was this. On the door, frame near the safe, was the imprint of fingers in the then fresh varnish. The imprint of only the thumb and three fingers appeared. One finger was missing—the one next to the little finger.

This was a peculiarity of Red Joe’s right hand. This discovery might mean a good deal for me, possibly nothing. You know the result.

Joe was watched, and his suspicious actions furnished sufficient grounds for the issuing of a warrant for his arrest. He is now 'doing time."

___________

4: A Grave Robbery.

ONE OF the most peculiar cases with which I have ever had to deal was that of a grave robbery. The grave—or rather the vault, in which the remains of Mr. L——, a wealthy Russian (I do not give his name for reasons which will presently appear), had been deposited was found disturbed two days after the burial. Examination proved that the lid of the casket had been removed with the apparent intention of robbery. But, strange to’ say, no robbery had been committed. The gold rings on the fingers of the dead man had not been touched, and these were the only valuables the body contained. Why had the grave been opened? Nobody could cffer an explanation. least of all I who had been detailed at the desire of the family of the dead man to siit this strange affair to the bottom, and discover, if possible, who had dared to desecrate the grave of their relative. Nothing had been taken from the body as far as thy family of the dead man knew; yet the thief or thieves had plenty of time in which to rob the body if they 80 desired. They had not been frightened off. They had carefully covered up the grave and gone away evidently unmolested.

It was impossible to arrive at a conclusion as to why the grave had been opened. It now lay with me to find out who had done it. It had rained during or previous tothe time of the grave robbery, and the footprints of those concerned .in it—threc different persons it appeared, were plainly discernible in the soft ground. The signs of carriage wheels were also present. This was my only: clue upon which I had to work. I questioned the superintendent, whose office and residence was at the entrance to the cemetery. He had been away on the evening of the robbery, and could give me no information. He was confident no carriage had entered the cemetery after 10 o'clock, at which hour he had returned and locked the cemetery gates. There was only one carriage entrance tothe cemetery. I had an impression at the time that the man was unnecessarily nervous in answering my questions, and seemed relieved when I got through.

A month passed and an event occurred which threw considerable light upon the mystery. The will of the late Mr. L—— had been opened and read. Among the many bequests was the following most peculiar one: "I bequeath to John Johnson, the dentist (with address), a certain gold-capped tooth in my lower jaw, and request that he extract this and preserve it according to the terms of an agreement made between us many years.ago.”

This not only threw light upon, but complicated the mystery. Perhaps the grave had been opened to allow the dentist to claim his strange legacy. Once more the body was disinterred by the friends of the dead man. The gold-capped tooth was missing from the lower jaw.

I next called upon John Johnson, the dentist.

Despite his American name I could see that he was a foreigner— a Russian, I was certain.

I mentioned the occasion of my visit. "Did you open the grave of Mr. L—— and remove a certain gold-capped tooth from the mouth of the dead man?” I asked, point blank.

Mr. Johnson seemed at a loss how to reply. At last, he said "No.”

“Then the cemetery superintendent was wrong. You did not drive in with two companions in a carriage, and this is not your card which I picked up nearthe grave of Mr. L—— ?” said I,showing him one of his business cards which I had surreptitiously obtained. "You might as well confess. You were only getting your rights, after all, but why did you go about it in such an underhanded way?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Are you not acquainted with the contents of Mr. L——’s will, the gold-capped tooth and all?”

“Did he put that in the will?" inquired the dentist in a surprised tone.

“Then you do know something about it?”

“Yes; it is a strange story, and if you will  promise— nay, swear— never to reveal it, I will  tell it to you. Do you swear?”

Something in the manner and bearing of the man told me that he was no thief, and I readily pormised what he asked,and he told me the following strange story.

Mr. Johnson conducted me into an inner room, closed and locked the door and bade me be seated.

"My name,” he began, “is not John Johnson. I am living under an assumed name for reasons of a political nature. I am a Russian by birth, and a Nihilist by thought and training. I deplore the condition of my unhappy country. I have done my part and am still willing to do it, to help bring about her freedom  from the terrible despotism under which she suffers. I am acquainted with the horrors of Siberian prison-mines. I was sentenced to Siberia for life, for complicity in a Nihilistic plot. My brother was sent there soon afterward. Together we planned escape. I succeeded. He fell, shot down by an officer of his Despotic Majesty. I managed to reach England, where I found Font friends. In London I became acquainted wit the late Mr. L . He was also a Nihilist, and a victim of Alexander’s wrath. He, too, was an exile from his country. For either of us to return meant instant capture at the hands of the Czar’s well-trained police— or worse than that, Siberia. I lived in London five years. There I learned the  trade of a dentist. Upon my banishment to Siberia, my property had been confiscated to the government.

"At the end of five years I came to the United States. where I have lived ever since. Mr. L—— came here soon after I did. He was a rich man. Just previous to his arrest, he had managed to convert most of his property into money which ne deposited in a London bank This had been used to effect his escape from Siberia. He had relatives in this country with whom he lived up to the time of hisdeath. Soon after coming to this country, he imparted to me a secret which had been in his keeping for thirty years, it having  been transmitted to him by his father. He was then a man of sixty. One day, ten years ago, he came into my office— this very room— and said he wished to speak with me upon a most important matter, one concerning our beloved country.

“ 'Do you see this tooth,’ he inquired, pointing to a large, gold-capped molar in his lower jaw.

" 'Yes,' I replied.

"‘That tooth,’ he continued, after having made sure that we were alone, ‘that tooth holds, lias held for thirty years, a secret of the utmost importance to you and me, and to all liberty loving Kussians. I tell you this because I know you will guard the secret as you would your life. In the cavity of that tooth, under the gold cap (here he lowered his voice) is a piece of parchment which contains the plans of a secret underground entrance to the Czar’s palace at St. Petersburg, an entrance which, as you will readily underatand, will prove of the utmost importance to our friends when the time is ripe to use it. This plan has been in the possession of our family for hundreds of years, having been drawn originally by an ancestor of mine, one of the designers of the palace. I am the last male member of my family, and now bequeath this secret to you. Upon my death, I desire that you extract the tooth, and preserve or dispose of the plan in whatever way seems best to you. You know its importance. I can rely upon your judgment. The dentist who inserted it in my tooth thirty years ago in Russia, is now dead. You and I alone now hold the secret. Do you accept the trust?'

“ 'I do,’ I answered.

“That was Mr. L——’s story.

“When he died I happened to be out of the city. On my return I hastened to obtain possession of the tooth in the manner that seemed best to me. I was not aware that the matter was mentioned in Mr. L——’s will, which it would appear he had intended to make public before his daeth, but was unable to do so. The plan which I foand in the cavity of the tooth is now in safe hands in Russia, and the world may yet learn whether the well-guarded secret is destined to be utilized.

“I tell you this because I know you are an American, a lover of liberty, and will not divulge the secret I have told you."

Mr. Johnson died many years ago, and now I  give this story to the world, confident that even its perusal by the Russian officials cannot in any way endanger the secret of the gold-capped tooth. "

______________

11: The Night-Doings at “Deadman’s”

A Story that is Untrue

Ambrose Bierce

1842-1914?

London Sketch-Book March 1874

Ambrose Gwinnett Bierce

IT WAS a singularly sharp night, and clear as the heart of a diamond. Clear nights have a trick of being keen. In darkness you may be cold and not know it; when you see, you suffer. This night was bright enough to bite like a serpent. The moon was moving mysteriously along behind the giant pines crowning the South Mountain, striking a cold sparkle from the crusted snow, and bringing out against the black west the ghostly outlines of the Coast Range, beyond which lay the invisible Pacific. The snow had piled itself, in the open spaces along the bottom of the gulch, into long ridges that seemed to heave, and into hills that appeared to toss and scatter spray. The spray was sunlight, twice reflected: dashed once from the moon, once from the snow.

In this snow many of the shanties of the abandoned mining camp were obliterated, (a sailor might have said they had gone down) and at irregular intervals it had overtopped the tall trestles which had once supported a river called a flume; for, of course, "flume" is flumen. Among the advantages of which the mountains cannot deprive the gold-hunter is the privilege of speaking Latin. He says of his dead neighbor, "He has gone up the flume." This is not a bad way to say, "His life has returned to the Fountain of Life."

While putting on its armor against the assaults of the wind, this snow had neglected no coign of vantage. Snow pursued by the wind is not wholly unlike a retreating army. In the open field it ranges itself in ranks and battalions; where it can get a foothold it makes a stand; where it can take cover it does so. You may see whole platoons of snow cowering behind a bit of broken wall. The devious old road, hewn out of the mountain side, was full of it. Squadron upon squadron had struggled to escape by this line, when suddenly pursuit had ceased. A more desolate and dreary spot than Deadman's Gulch in a winter midnight it is impossible to imagine. Yet Mr. Hiram Beeson elected to live there, the sole inhabitant.

Away up the side of the North Mountain his little pine-log shanty projected from its single pane of glass a long, thin beam of light, and looked not altogether unlike a black beetle fastened to the hillside with a bright new pin. Within it sat Mr. Beeson himself, before a roaring fire, staring into its hot heart as if he had never before seen such a thing in all his life. He was not a comely man. He was gray; he was ragged and slovenly in his attire; his face was wan and haggard; his eyes were too bright. As to his age, if one had attempted to guess it, one might have said forty-seven, then corrected himself and said seventy-four. He was really twenty-eight. Emaciated he was; as much, perhaps, as he dared be, with a needy undertaker at Bentley's Flat and a new and enterprising coroner at Sonora. Poverty and zeal are an upper and a nether millstone. It is dangerous to make a third in that kind of sandwich.

As Mr. Beeson sat there, with his ragged elbows on his ragged knees, his lean jaws buried in his lean hands, and with no apparent intention of going to bed, he looked as if the slightest movement would tumble him to pieces. Yet during the last hour he had winked no fewer than three times.

There was a sharp rapping at the door. A rap at that time of night and in that weather might have surprised an ordinary mortal who had dwelt two years in the gulch without seeing a human face, and could not fail to know that the country was impassable; but Mr. Beeson did not so much as pull his eyes out of the coals. And even when the door was pushed open he only shrugged a little more closely into himself, as one does who is expecting something that he would rather not see. You may observe this movement in women when, in a mortuary chapel, the coffin is borne up the aisle behind them.

But when a long old man in a blanket overcoat, his head tied up in a handkerchief and nearly his entire face in a muffler, wearing green goggles and with a complexion of glittering whiteness where it could be seen, strode silently into the room, laying a hard, gloved hand on Mr. Beeson's shoulder, the latter so far forgot himself as to look up with an appearance of no small astonishment; whomever he may have been expecting, he had evidently not counted on meeting anyone like this. Nevertheless, the sight of this unexpected guest produced in Mr. Beeson the following sequence: a feeling of astonishment; a sense of gratification; a sentiment of profound good will. Rising from his seat, he took the knotty hand from his shoulder, and shook it up and down with a fervor quite unaccountable; for in the old man's aspect was nothing to attract, much to repel. However, attraction is too general a property for repulsion to be without it. The most attractive object in the world is the face we instinctively cover with a cloth. When it becomes still more attractive— fascinating— we put seven feet of earth above it.

"Sir," said Mr. Beeson, releasing the old man's hand, which fell passively against his thigh with a quiet clack, "it is an extremely disagreeable night. Pray be seated; I am very glad to see you."

Mr. Beeson spoke with an easy good breeding that one would hardly have expected, considering all things. Indeed, the contrast between his appearance and his manner was sufficiently surprising to be one of the commonest of social phenomena in the mines. The old man advanced a step toward the fire, glowing cavernously in the green goggles. Mr. Beeson resumed:

"You bet your life I am!"

Mr. Beeson's elegance was not too refined; it had made reasonable concessions to local taste. He paused a moment, letting his eyes drop from the muffled head of his guest, down along the row of moldy buttons confining the blanket overcoat, to the greenish cowhide boots powdered with snow, which had begun to melt and run along the floor in little rills. He took an inventory of his guest, and appeared satisfied. Who would not have been? Then he continued:

"The cheer I can offer you is, unfortunately, in keeping with my surroundings; but I shall esteem myself highly favored if it is your pleasure to partake of it, rather than seek better at Bentley's Flat."

With a singular refinement of hospitable humility Mr. Beeson spoke as if a sojourn in his warm cabin on such a night, as compared with walking fourteen miles up to the throat in snow with a cutting crust, would be an intolerable hardship. By way of reply, his guest unbuttoned the blanket overcoat. The host laid fresh fuel on the fire, swept the hearth with the tail of a wolf, and added:

"But I think you'd better skedaddle."

The old man took a seat by the fire, spreading his broad soles to the heat without removing his hat. In the mines the hat is seldom removed except when the boots are. Without further remark Mr. Beeson also seated himself in a chair which had been a barrel, and which, retaining much of its original character, seemed to have been designed with a view to preserving his dust if it should please him to crumble. For a moment there was silence; then, from somewhere among the pines, came the snarling yelp of a coyote; and simultaneously the door rattled in its frame. There was no other connection between the two incidents than that the coyote has an aversion to storms, and the wind was rising; yet there seemed somehow a kind of supernatural conspiracy between the two, and Mr. Beeson shuddered with a vague sense of terror. He recovered himself in a moment and again addressed his guest.

"There are strange doings here. I will tell you everything, and then if you decide to go I shall hope to accompany you over the worst of the way; as far as where Baldy Peterson shot Ben Hike— I dare say you know the place."

The old man nodded emphatically, as intimating not merely that he did, but that he did indeed.

"Two years ago," began Mr. Beeson, "I, with two companions, occupied this house; but when the rush to the Flat occurred we left, along with the rest. In ten hours the Gulch was deserted. That evening, however, I discovered I had left behind me a valuable pistol (that is it) and returned for it, passing the night here alone, as I have passed every night since. I must explain that a few days before we left, our Chinese domestic had the misfortune to die while the ground was frozen so hard that it was impossible to dig a grave in the usual way. So, on the day of our hasty departure, we cut through the floor there, and gave him such burial as we could. But before putting him down I had the extremely bad taste to cut off his pigtail and spike it to that beam above his grave, where you may see it at this moment, or, preferably, when warmth has given you leisure for observation.

"I stated, did I not, that the Chinaman came to his death from natural causes? I had, of course, nothing to do with that, and returned through no irresistible attraction, or morbid fascination, but only because I had forgotten a pistol. This is clear to you, is it not, sir?"

The visitor nodded gravely. He appeared to be a man of few words, if any. Mr. Beeson continued:

"According to the Chinese faith, a man is like a kite: he cannot go to heaven without a tail. Well, to shorten this tedious story— which, however, I thought it my duty to relate— on that night, while I was here alone and thinking of anything but him, that Chinaman came back for his pigtail.

"He did not get it."

At this point Mr. Beeson relapsed into blank silence. Perhaps he was fatigued by the unwonted exercise of speaking; perhaps he had conjured up a memory that demanded his undivided attention. The wind was now fairly abroad, and the pines along the mountainside sang with singular distinctness. The narrator continued:

"You say you do not see much in that, and I must confess I do not myself.

"But he keeps coming!"

There was another long silence, during which both stared into the fire without the movement of a limb. Then Mr. Beeson broke out, almost fiercely, fixing his eyes on what he could see of the impassive face of his auditor:

"Give it him? Sir, in this matter I have no intention of troubling anyone for advice. You will pardon me, I am sure"— here he became singularly persuasive—"but I have ventured to nail that pigtail fast, and have assumed the somewhat onerous obligation of guarding it. So it is quite impossible to act on your considerate suggestion.

"Do you play me for a Modoc?"

Nothing could exceed the sudden ferocity with which he thrust this indignant remonstrance into the ear of his guest. It was as if he had struck him on the side of the head with a steel gauntlet. It was a protest, but it was a challenge. To be mistaken for a coward— to be played for a Modoc: these two expressions are one. Sometimes it is a Chinaman. Do you play me for a Chinaman? is a question frequently addressed to the ear of the suddenly dead.

Mr. Beeson's buffet produced no effect, and after a moment's pause, during which the wind thundered in the chimney like the sound of clods upon a coffin, he resumed:

"But, as you say, it is wearing me out. I feel that the life of the last two years has been a mistake— a mistake that corrects itself; you see how. The grave! No; there is no one to dig it. The ground is frozen, too. But you are very welcome. You may say at Bentley's— but that is not important. It was very tough to cut: they braid silk into their pigtails. Kwaagh."

Mr. Beeson was speaking with his eyes shut, and he wandered. His last word was a snore. A moment later he drew a long breath, opened his eyes with an effort, made a single remark, and fell into a deep sleep. What he said was this:

"They are swiping my dust!"

Then the aged stranger, who had not uttered one word since his arrival, arose from his seat and deliberately laid off his outer clothing, looking as angular in his flannels as the late Signorina Festorazzi, an Irish woman, six feet in height, and weighing fifty-six pounds, who used to exhibit herself in her chemise to the people of San Francisco. He then crept into one of the "bunks," having first placed a revolver in easy reach, according to the custom of the country. This revolver he took from a shelf, and it was the one which Mr. Beeson had mentioned as that for which he had returned to the Gulch two years before.

In a few moments Mr. Beeson awoke, and seeing that his guest had retired he did likewise. But before doing so he approached the long, plaited wisp of pagan hair and gave it a powerful tug, to assure himself that it was fast and firm. The two beds— mere shelves covered with blankets not overclean— faced each other from opposite sides of the room, the little square trapdoor that had given access to the Chinaman's grave being midway between. This, by the way, was crossed by a double row of spike-heads. In his resistance to the supernatural, Mr. Beeson had not disdained the use of material precautions.

The fire was now low, the flames burning bluely and petulantly, with occasional flashes, projecting spectral shadows on the walls— shadows that moved mysteriously about, now dividing, now uniting. The shadow of the pendent queue, however, kept moodily apart, near the roof at the further end of the room, looking like a note of admiration. The song of the pines outside had now risen to the dignity of a triumphal hymn. In the pauses the silence was dreadful.

It was during one of these intervals that the trap in the floor began to lift. Slowly and steadily it rose, and slowly and steadily rose the swaddled head of the old man in the bunk to observe it. Then, with a clap that shook the house to its foundation, it was thrown clean back, where it lay with its unsightly spikes pointing threateningly upward. Mr. Beeson awoke, and without rising, pressed his fingers into his eyes. He shuddered; his teeth chattered. His guest was now reclining on one elbow, watching the proceedings with the goggles that glowed like lamps.

Suddenly a howling gust of wind swooped down the chimney, scattering ashes and smoke in all directions, for a moment obscuring everything. When the firelight again illuminated the room there was seen, sitting gingerly on the edge of a stool by the hearthside, a swarthy little man of prepossessing appearance and dressed with faultless taste, nodding to the old man with a friendly and engaging smile. "From San Francisco, evidently," thought Mr. Beeson, who having somewhat recovered from his fright was groping his way to a solution of the evening's events.

But now another actor appeared upon the scene. Out of the square black hole in the middle of the floor protruded the head of the departed Chinaman, his glassy eyes turned upward in their angular slits and fastened on the dangling queue above with a look of yearning unspeakable. Mr. Beeson groaned, and again spread his hands upon his face. A mild odor of opium pervaded the place. The phantom, clad only in a short blue tunic quilted and silken but covered with grave-mold, rose slowly, as if pushed by a weak spiral spring. Its knees were at the level of the floor, when with a quick upward impulse like the silent leaping of a flame it grasped the queue with both hands, drew up its body and took the tip in its horrible yellow teeth. To this it clung in a seeming frenzy, grimacing ghastly, surging and plunging from side to side in its efforts to disengage its property from the beam, but uttering no sound. It was like a corpse artificially convulsed by means of a galvanic battery. The contrast between its superhuman activity and its silence was no less than hideous!

Mr. Beeson cowered in his bed. The swarthy little gentleman uncrossed his legs, beat an impatient tattoo with the toe of his boot and consulted a heavy gold watch. The old man sat erect and quietly laid hold of the revolver.

Bang!

Like a body cut from the gallows the Chinaman plumped into the black hole below, carrying his tail in his teeth. The trapdoor turned over, shutting down with a snap. The swarthy little gentleman from San Francisco sprang nimbly from his perch, caught something in the air with his hat, as a boy catches a butterfly, and vanished into the chimney as if drawn up by suction.

From away somewhere in the outer darkness floated in through the open door a faint, far cry— a long, sobbing wail, as of a child death-strangled in the desert, or a lost soul borne away by the Adversary. It may have been the coyote.

In the early days of the following spring a party of miners on their way to new diggings passed along the Gulch, and straying through the deserted shanties found in one of them the body of Hiram Beeson, stretched upon a bunk, with a bullet hole through the heart. The ball had evidently been fired from the opposite side of the room, for in one of the oaken beams overhead was a shallow blue dint, where it had struck a knot and been deflected downward to the breast of its victim. Strongly attached to the same beam was what appeared to be an end of a rope of braided horsehair, which had been cut by the bullet in its passage to the knot. Nothing else of interest was noted, excepting a suit of moldy and incongruous clothing, several articles of which were afterward identified by respectable witnesses as those in which certain deceased citizens of Deadman's had been buried years before. But it is not easy to understand how that could be, unless, indeed, the garments had been worn as a disguise by Death himself— which is hardly credible.

__________________

12: The House of the Black Evil

Eric Purves
fl  1929

Pearson's Magazine May 1929

This is probably the only story by this author; nothing else is known of him.

THE PECULIAR behaviour of the postman, at the top of the steps, again called my attention to that dismal and forbidding house. That usually discreet official was actually kneeling on one knee and peering through the letter-slot, his letter-bag a shapeless lump on the doorstep.

I hesitated for a moment at the foot of the steps, but it was none of my business; a letter had probably stuck. Anyway, that postman was a good fellow, with whom I had had many cheerful conversations; if he chose to do unusual things why should I interfere?

I made as if to go on, though reluctantly, for that shuttered, gaunt, ill-favoured house fascinated me always, when the postman, standing up, turned and saw me. At once, in the strangest agitation, he called me by name, urgently and yet, as it were, in a distraction, and not looking at me, but stepping back and surveying the whole house hastily and anxiously.

Let me confess. I obeyed his summons indeed, but in what a confusion of dread, curiosity and amazement! Imagine then, my feelings when, on my joining him on the top step, that postman said nothing, gave no greeting, made no movement save to gaze at me with troubled eyes of fear, and to point at the letter-slot with a hand which shook.

I forced myself to kneel as he had done, to lift the flap and to peer through the slot. There was nothing there, only a black darkness.

Furious at the trick he had played upon me, I rose angrily to my feet to confront the postman. At once, however, observing my evident anger, he spoke.

"No, sir; no, sir," he said, "there is no letter-box; that's the hall you are looking into. And it's black—  black dark. And the letters, sir, they disappear!"

I gazed at him. I had a moment in which I thought he was crazy, a moment in which I thought he was drunk; but no, this man was sane and sober, but terribly afraid. I did not so much as begin to understand him, however. Suddenly, without any apology, he pulled my morning paper from under my arm, thrust it, folded lengthwise, into my hand and said, with a sort of gasp:

"Shove it in, sir, shove it in and watch it!"

This was incomprehensible. Again I knelt. I put the paper to the slot, and as I did so he cried:

"Slowly!"

And I thrust it in slowly.

How shall I describe what happened? There was the door, there the letter-flap in the clear unshadowed light of bright but hazy morning. There was the wide black oblong of the letter-slot cut by the printed white of a folded Times. Now, when you thrust a paper into a hole you can see it go in. There is a part outside and a part, still visible, inside; shadowed maybe, but visible all the same. But as I pushed in that newspaper it disappeared. There was the part outside, then the line of the letter box, then— nothing, blackness!

Amazed, I hastily withdrew the paper; at once it reappeared. For a second I hesitated; then suddenly all my fear dropped from me, and with a little laugh I thrust my fingers into the slot, confident that they would encounter some strip of black cloth put there against the draught. There was nothing.

"No, sir," said the postman; "I've felt again and again; this has been like this for days; there's nothing there. Them letters simply disappears— disappears into blackness. 'Tisn't right, sir; there's something too much like magic about it. And where are the people of the house, sir? Never opened, never unshuttered; but the police men on the beat say they believe there's people in there, and certainly it's a live address, for I've brought a lot of letters here!"

While he spoke I had been thrusting my own hand into the slot. Believe me although there was nothing tangible to explain it, my hand also, like the newspaper was cut off sharply from sight across the line of the door.

The inexplicable is always fearful. All my dread returned, and was increased a hundredfold as I looked up at the postman.

My own house was on the opposite side of the square, and it happened that I had observed the arrival of the effects of the people whom I presumed to be the present occupiers. At all events I had observed this house with some curiosity for several weeks, for whereas before the furniture came it had stood confessedly empty, its unshuttered windows, void of blinds, revealing the empty, barren rooms, since that date, every window had been closely shuttered I had never seen any sign of life; no smoke from chimney, nor waiting milk bottle at any hour. Once before I had seen letters delivered; and now this extraordinary puzzle.

UPON a common impulse, and silently wondering, the postman and I went together down the steps. I was not surprised when, without a word, my companion hitched up his bag and strode rapidly away upon his round. He knew I was a man of leisure; he knew that at once I should begin to probe the matter to the bottom; he knew that, whatever I might find out, I should not leave him uninformed.

While I stood with my back to the house something of my dread left me. I could think more clearly. At once it was obvious that nothing could be cleared up without getting into the house. Accordingly I re-mounted the steps and pulled the bell.

At once, as if I had pulled the handle of a shower bath, the full chilling flood of unreasoning terrors descended upon me. I heard the clang of the distant bell. Sheer terror held me motionless. Nothing whatever happened.

At last, after what seemed an eternity, the cheerful whistle of an errand-boy passing in the road below broke the spell. I did not ring again. Instead, with an abruptly formed resolve, I set off to seek the house agent's office.

It happened that I not only knew who the agent was, but also that he was a good friend of mine. Once more among the busy streets I laughed at my fears, and it was almost shamefacedly that I greeted my friend. He was obviously exceedingly excited and interested by my story.

He told me that he had been much concerned about this house and its occupants. It had been taken, very abruptly and with but the briefest consideration, by a "rather overwhelming lady, a foreigner," who had paid a quarter's rent in advance, arranged about water, gas, electricity and the like, moved in two days later, and (so far as my friend knew, and my own observation only confirmed the impression) had never again been seen, nor any of her household. Steevens (my friend) had been disturbed, very naturally, by this odd circumstance alone.

"Is the woman dead?" he said. "I had begun to think it possible; but even were it so I do not see that we are any nearer to an explanation of your side of the mystery."

AFTER some talk we determined to seek legal advice and, if necessary, to make entry into the house. He promised to ring me up as soon as a decision was reached; he also promised, upon my request, that my friend the postman should, if possible, be allowed to be present were an entry to be made.

There is no need to recapitulate the steps taken by Steevens in the course of the next few hours; enough that I had just lit my pipe after lunch when he rang me up and asked me to come round to his office at once.

I arrived in company with the last few of a not unimposing assembly. In all there were, besides Steevens and myself, Holt, the postman, now in mufti and shyly standing at attention, as it were, in the corner by the door; little Meadows, the ironmonger from his shop below Steevens' office; Crosby, the lawyer who attended to most of Steevens' business; and finally, their big bodies blocking most of the light, a large policeman and an equally large detective, in mufti, whose not unintelligent face was surmounted (designedly?) by the commonest and stupidest of bowler hats.

Steevens quickly made us all acquainted, and briefly recapitulated all the points of the problem as we knew it.

The only new information he had to give me, resulting from his inquiries since our consultation in the morning, was that the lady who had taken the house in the square was a notable, or rather a notorious, occultist— "spiritualist" if you like, but the better sort of spiritualist would have nothing to do with her.

"However," said Steevens, "do not let us waste time in details which can be left till later, but let us go straight to the house." It was in the silence of men who brace themselves to meet the unknown that we tramped down the stairs.

In the street I walked with Crosby. He questioned me, as he had previously questioned Holt, about the letter-box. I had thought that perhaps to his comfortable common-sense the whole thing would appear an absurdity; that probably he was coming with us mainly in the hope of finding cause for indulgence, at our discomfited expense, in that ponderous guffawing laughter of his. Instead I found him anxious and troubled, and, as he listened to my story, I could see his face darken with the shadow of the same fear and dread which was shared by Holt and by me.

As we turned into the Square another silence fell among us. What were we approaching? Three weeks had passed since that house had been entered.

At the foot of the steps we hesitated. Then Steevens and little Meadows, the locksmith, went up first.

Steevens rang the bell with a hand which trembled. We all listened, with intent expressions as of men who strain to hear the first note of an expected passing bell. Twice and three times he rang, but none replied. Then he motioned Meadows to the door (for Steevens had no duplicate key) that he might pick the lock.

A few stragglers in the square were brusquely sent about their business by the constable; but it was a quiet place— few came that way, and we were not likely to be troubled with a crowd. For myself, I confess that had it been in a busier street I should probably have laughed at the fears which now truly held me in so firm a grip that I felt a chill cold about me and a weakness of the knees.

For several leaden-footed minutes Meadows worked at the lock. Then came the definite scrape of the turning mechanism. An instant later Meadows, twisting the handle, gave the gentlest of pushes to the heavy door. It moved sufficiently to show that the bolts had not been shot. Then he moved aside.

AT ONCE, with a rather white face and with obvious reluctance, Steevens put up his hand and thrust the door forward and open.

The result was as simple in its awfulness as it is difficult to describe. There before our amazed, uncomprehending eyes that massive door swung inwards, and as it swung was swallowed up and disappeared in an impenetrable black darkness that filled the vacant doorway exactly as black oil would fill a tank. Where the door had been, that is to say, was now a clear-cut plane of blackness, definite as if it had been cut out of marble, so sharp that the very hinges of the in-swung door were cut in two, half visible, the inner half engulfed; and yet that black wall was simply black. No gleam, no hint of reflected light came from its dead blankness. Nothing like it has ever been seen before.

Black paper, black cloth, black paint, all these clearly define themselves by gleams and reflections. A black hole shades from light into the inner obscurity. Here one can say no more than this— outside was light; inside— the boundary clearly marked as where the door had been— was darkness, abrupt, absolute, inexplicable and terrible.

We stood amazed and awed, gazing at that strange thing.

Then suddenly Holt, the postman, did a brave thing. I do not doubt that he was prompted to it simply because, without explanation, investigation at the least, this thing was too terrible to be borne; but the action all the same was as brave as anything could be.

Stepping forward he crossed that fearsome threshold and was instantly swallowed up. It was as if he had walked right through some impalpable black door. He disappeared completely, though we could still hear him. He took a step or two, then, with a low, shuddering gasp and a scrambling shuffle, he suddenly reappeared, stepping backwards, stumbling at the lintel and collapsing among us all, wet with clammy sweat and shaking violently from head to foot, so as some mighty engine could scarce vibrate more fiercely. In a few moments, however, he was enough recovered to speak to us:

"Oh, I can't tell you! Black, black dark! At once, at once; like being smothered— the hall-mat under your feet and the sounds from outside, and nothing whatever to see but the dark the minute you pass that door."

"Was there any peculiar smell, or smoke, a gas, a feeling, anything?" I asked.

"No, sir, nothing at all. If it had been at night, a dark night, I don't think you'd have noticed anything. It's just plunging in out of the blessed day that is so horrible."

At this the detective spoke up.

"Come, sir, we shall learn nothing this way. Into that house we must go, and into that house I am going."

So saying he stepped in, and disappeared; at once, stirred by his words and determination, we crowded after him, all except Meadows and Holt, who made no move even to approach the door.

The sensation was just as Holt had described it. But already something of the first horror had worn off. As I stepped in I spoke aloud:

"Steevens, where are you?"

"Here," he replied, out of the dark, and took me by the arm.

Once we had overcome the shock of so suddenly and inexplicably leaving the light of day it was no worse than moving round in a strange house in dark of night.

We stepped cautiously forward into the hall, and, guiding each other by voice and hand-grasp, gathered in a little group at the foot of what could be felt to be the stair.

Suddenly there was a little click, and then an exclamation of irritation.

"Torch won't light," said the detective.

I heard some movements, and then the scrape of a match— no light. Another, and another. There was quite a little fusillade of the sputters of striking matches from several of the party; then a quick exclamation from Crosby.

"What is it?" said Steevens.

"Match burnt my fingers," said Crosby. "I held it to make sure it would light properly; the flame burnt me, but I never saw a spot of light."

At once (the sounds revealed) we all tried the experiment. One by one we reported matches burnt down to our fingers; there was no trace of light! Quite suddenly, with a horribleness made inconceivably more horrible in that impenetrable dark, Crosby's nerve gave way.

"Darkness!" he cried, "weeping and gnashing of teeth!" And with a horrible shuffling he took two steps and then fell headlong over something. Moving carefully towards him, feeling with hands and feet, we felt him on the floor, where he lay muttering: "A horror of great darkness! Oh, God! Let there be light!"

WHILE we felt about there, horrorstricken and rapidly approaching poor Crosby's broken condition ourselves, we were startled by a sudden exclamation:

"Where are you, gentlemen? What's happening?"

For a moment none replied. Then Steevens cried:

"Is that you, Holt? Where are you?"

Holt and Meadows both answered:

"Here, outside!" and then there was a sound of footsteps, and (it sounded) in they both came, Holt saying: "We heard a fall. Are you all right?"

The detective's voice was heard explaining; then he said:

"Mr. Crosby, sir, pull yourself together. Will you listen to me? I have an idea of what we ought to do."

Crosby made a gasping effort.

"I'm sorry," he said; "strange affair, nerve went, better now," and he seemed to be picking himself up.

Then Grainer, the detective, said: "Gentlemen, I've been told this house was taken by a spiritualist: This must be some spooky hanky-panky. Don't let us get foolishly alarmed. Let us search the house, which we have come to do, from top to bottom; even if we can see nothing, if we make a careful plan we can search thoroughly enough by feeling. Mr. Steevens, sir, you know the house; what is there on this floor?"

Steevens hesitated an instant. One could almost hear him pulling himself together.

"Er— thank you, Grainer," he said; "that is very sensible. So far as I can remember, there is this hall, a dining-room, a drawing-room and a morning-room opening off it, and a baize door at the back of the stairs which leads to the kitchens."

"Listen, then, everybody!" we heard Grainer reply. "Fall back gradually, all of you, till you reach the walls of the hall." There ensued a minute of shuffling, and a few half-whispered exclamations, as each of us, feeling an increase of nervousness from the added sense of isolation, found his place around the walls.

"Now," said Grainer, "let us each find a door, a window, all the objects we can find in our immediate vicinity."

In this manner we made as thorough a search of the hall as was possible, announcing our discoveries, in response to Grainer's continual questioning.

The constable, who was next to me, reported a window. At the same moment I ran my head with some violence against the still wide-open door, and, explaining, I was directed to shut it, lest some passer-by should think to investigate a doorway apparently hung with a jet-black curtain, as doubtless it would appear from the pavement.

Having done so I heard Grainer cross the floor to the constable, and there came the ring of curtains along the rod, then the clatter of the shutters, and finally, the whirr of a spring blind run up. No light appeared.

"Can you find the catch of the window?" said Grainer.

"Here it is," from the constable; and then the sneck of the latch, and the rattle of the opened window. Still no light; but quite suddenly, from outside, a horrified exclamation in a young man's voice:

"Good Lord! Bob, look at that window. There's a living arm sticking out of the middle of it, cut off short!"

"What an extraordinary thing," came the reply. "But I suppose it's some trick. Hi! You in there, what d'you mean by frightening people with your silly jugglery go away and do it somewhere else. It's enough to frighten anybody out of their wits."

TO MY surprise Grainer made no reply to this save to pull down the window again.

I have, often wondered what those two young fellows— I am guessing at them by their voices— can have thought as they went on across the Square! As for us within that black and silent house, I think that nothing could have so emphasised the terrible strangeness of our situation.

Grainer, who had, with his official manner and solid common-sense, taken charge of the investigation by the tacit consent of us all, allowed us no time, however, to give way to our fears. Under his direction we made a weird, difficult, but thorough search of the whole of the ground floor. As far as was discoverable in that pitch darkness there was nothing unusual there— simply the ordinary furnishings and equipment of an average middle-class home.

WE THEN mounted the stair and searched the upper landing. Steevens informed us that there were no attics; when we had searched this upper floor we should have searched the whole.

How strange it was, the seven of us, crawling gropingly on hands and knees, stretching out timid hands into the terrible dark, suddenly and terrifyingly encountering some all-too-much-expected body, only to discover that it was that of one of our number.

To search through a house wherein one more than half expects to come upon a corpse is a fearsome enough task at any time. To do so in absolute darkness, and with the cause of that added horror still all unexplained, was one of the most terrifying experiences that can be imagined.

Fortunately our suspense was now, by a little, curtailed, for we discovered all the doors on this upper landing locked, with the keys outside, save one— the door of the room which, said Steevens, was usually used by the mistress of the house as her boudoir, and had probably been so used by the present mistress.

Anxiously we felt our way in. What should we find? Had the lady left the house? Would she be found in this room? Had this fearsome darkness come to overwhelm her, horribly, terrifyingly, so that she had fled from it in such a fear as to have left house and town in panic, telling none of her departure?

I am not one who is sensitive to those delicate sensations and impressions which are called psychic. "Atmosphere" has but little effect upon me. Yet so exalted was my nervous condition by the strain of this evil dark that I distinctly felt an added horror, a creeping "scunner" as we entered that room; and it took all my self-restraint to refrain from a yelp of terror when, a moment later, poor Steevens uttered a sort of shuddering groan (rather than a cry) of discovery.

I was feeling along the jamb of the door at the moment, and as Steevens uttered his exclamation my hand closed on the electric switch and pressed it down. No light resulted— by now we were used to this— but I left the switch on, and moved forward with the others towards Steevens.

"Keep back a moment!" he said. "I've found something, somebody— yes, a man— sitting in a chair— here— here." We felt towards him. My hand encountered a shoulder.

"Here?" I said, feeling it motionless and strangely cold beneath the cloth, but:

"No, here," said Steevens' voice a foot or two away, and an instant later his hand came groping towards me, found me, was identified, and guided by me towards the shoulder I had touched.

"It is another," he whispered dreadfully. I will not try to describe the stages, second by awestruck second, of our discovery. It is too tense, too horrible to attempt. Indeed, the shuddering mind halts and refuses to remember that which it first received with so deep a shock.

It is enough to say that we found there, seated in the cold silence of that dreadful dark, colder, yet more silent themselves in the darker dreadfulness of death, six human bodies— three men, three women— seated about a round table as men and women sit who try the spirits in séance.

Their outstretched hands rested on the table, little fingers linked to those of their neighbours'; while at one place we found a figure which we took to be that of the medium, seated on a chair which was deeper and more comfortable than the others, its eyes blindfolded (as if ever blindfold could be imagined darker than the blackness in which we moved), and with its head and trunk crumpled forward as if in the trance usual to the spirit-intermediary.

ONE BY ONE each of us investigated every one of that dreadful circle. Suddenly Grainer, whose voice sounded from beside the medium, startled us by exclaiming:

"Which of you have felt this blindfold chap? Did he seem to you dead-cold?"

Without waiting for reply (though we waited tense as bowstrings, still as marble, horribly expectant), he was heard making rapid motions… Almost one could see him; laying back that figure from its chair on to the floor, feeling for a pulse, gently loosening clothing. There was a cork-noise and a bubble of liquid as Grainer's flask came into requisition, a rhythmic movement…

Suddenly, fearsomely, through the dark I saw, high up and across the room, two huge and horrible mis-shapen eyes, red, enormous, lurid, the eyes of a monster. My hair crept; my skin twitched with terror, ran with a cold and clammy sweat; my throat, strangled with fear, uttered an involuntary choking cry!

"Eyes!" it said, and my hand pointed as though the rest could see.

I heard chattering teeth and my own chattered; my heart pounded and thumped so fiercely that in a moment I seemed to hear no other sound than the dreadful drums of the marching regiment of the eternal spheres.

A cry, croaking, cackling, laughing cry, and Crosby's voice:

"See, see, not eyes! It isn't eyes at all; it's the electric lights"; and even as he said it we knew it to be true, and everything was happening at once. Grainer was grunting with satisfaction, and the light was growing, blessed, blessed light, and we could see each other again, with white, drawn faces; and there is Grainer on the floor, a figure stretched beside him; he is dropping brandy into the mouth with a wonderful calm, matter-of-fact care, and look! the eyes are opening…

And all the while the light grows. The figure sighs with returning life, the eyes open wide, and at once the lights blaze out, the room is bright with light, and the constable is pulling the curtains, opening the window, letting in the day. And there are our horror-struck selves, there on the floor the emaciated figure of a pale young man, and there seated at the table five still bodies, white and cadaverous, with the indubitable stamp of death.

LATE THAT evening we gathered at Crosby's house, the same little company, and a police-surgeon in addition. We were ushered into a large bedroom where Grey, the medium, was lying. The doctor reported him as much stronger and quite able to tell his story. In view of the inquest to be held on the morrow into the deaths of those two men and three women now lying in the grim house in the Square it was urgent that the main threads of the strange affair should be gathered at once.

I will not attempt to give at full length the question and answer, the gasping repetitions of that strange investigation. If this should do something to remove the cloud of horror wherewith, for all of us who sat there listening, it was invested, that is all to the good, for, indeed, the tale itself was weird beyond imagining. I will simply give the outlines of the tale.

IT SEEMS that Grey had been for some years a friend of Madame Seulon (the tenant of the "house of darkness"), and had frequently helped her in her psychic researches. To these her husband had given a disapproval which grew at last into an open breach, so that, leaving him, Madame travelled about into various places, making inquiries into ghost stories, haunted houses, and other mysteries in many places. Her separation from her husband had the worst effect upon her, for now, without restraint, she gave herself up to the blackest art, the most evil mystery.

A short while previously the sudden death of one of her companions, during séance, had caused some scandal, so that in taking and in moving into the house in the Square, Madame had used some secrecy, and, indeed, had determined at first— until she had completed a certain investigation— to engage no servants, to bring in an ample supply of provisions, and to shut herself away from all the world. This done, she then communicated with some of her closest spiritualistic friends and also with Grey.

When these arrived she explained to them the theory she had formed. She had found— indeed, it is well known— that all things strange and evil fear the light. Thirsting for knowledge, longing for power, Madame had often held her séances in darkness absolute; but always as the strange border-land of the spirit world was passed some light appeared. Evilly lurid it might often be, angry red, foul purple; dread elemental things appeared, wrapped in the sulphurous flames of the pit, glaucous eyes would glare, and livid flashes glimmer in the baleful dark.

Now it occurred to Madame that manifestations of the most potent order might be brought forth if, in some whole-willed company such as that which she had gathered the Powers that rule the spirit world should be asked to make a darkness absolute, a darkness not of this world only, but of that Other also.

GREY was frightened. This was necromancy of a very dangerous sort! But he was over-persuaded, and on a certain night nearly a fortnight before this tale was told the séance began.

Now, it must be explained that mediums vary greatly. Some are almost indifferent to all that happens, even though it is through their help. Some have no memory of anything occurring from the moment that first they pass into a state of trance until they are reawakened. Some retain a sort of semi-consciousness all the while.

Grey, it seems, held an intermediate place, being subject to two states of trance, a lighter and a deeper. In the lighter trance, while he retained a memory of what was happening, yet he was quite without volition of his own, and communication with the Spirit World through his mediumship was complete and quite unhampered by his semi-consciousness. In the deeper trance he was completely "absent," as it were in a temporary death, and, on being awakened, had no memory of anything occurring during that degree of trance.

On this occasion the company being assembled as usual at a round table, Grey went almost at once into his lighter "spirit sleep." At once (he says) the" control" with whom Madame was in the habit of holding communication, took possession of him. This was no good spirit, but some vicious and depraved monster, against whom Madame had been warned again and again, but vainly.

At once Madame put her request— that there should be a darkness complete and absolute, "both in this house," said Madame, "and in the Spirit World immediately about us."

THE REQUEST was acceded to, having been received with the most horrible and gleeful laughter both by the control and by that evil company which was with him on the spirit side.

"And at once," said Grey," that strange, dim spirit-light of which I am always conscious, no matter how darkened the room may be, for, indeed, it is a light not of this world, went suddenly out, and the livid eyes of the ghostly company about me disappeared.

"And then— oh! then the most fearsome things at once began," cried Grey; "screamings and angry raging, the sounds of some most violent conflict. Voices there were, evil, fierce voices, horrid with the joy of battle; soft, kindly voices of their adversaries fighting for ourselves and our souls, grown hissing, breathless, and heavy with strife as they struggled bravely for the mastery, baffled and thwarted though they were by the cruel darkness wherein evil ever finds itself at home, while good, robbed of its natural, pure light, fights blindly and fearfully against an unfair odds.

"It seemed as if space itself rocked with the battle.

"Suddenly, trembling, terrified and small, I heard close by me five new voices, weak, strange, out-crying as it were like drowning kittens.

"I recognised them; they were the voices of my companions."

What had happened?

"Some fearful and compelling power had surely reft those shuddering souls out of their bodies and hurled them, trembling, into that Stygian battleground. Already, then, the powers beneficent were losing hold?

"And I? I was alone in all this conflict; neither in this world was I, nor in the Spirit World, but rapt away from both in my state of semi-trance. It would seem that I was safe; but what, oh! what horrible thing had happened to Madame and her companions?"

At this stage, it seems, Grey was so terrified that he did a very unusual thing. By the very potency of his terror he succeeded in overcoming, voluntarily, his trance, and in returning suddenly into his own body seated at that mystical table. Here all was silent (in this world), for he had left behind the clamour of the struggle which was going on about him in the world of spirits. Silent it was and dark.

With a terrified effort the medium spoke to his companions. There was no reply, no word, no breath, no sigh, no movement even.

Weak from the trance, poor Grey could scarcely move, and yet at length he summoned up sufficient force to sit up and to stretch forth a hand shaking with the most appalling fear into the darkness. One by one he sought and found his companions, one by one he felt under his hand the chill of five corpses already cold.

How long his trance had lasted, what had happened in that dreadful room, he knew not. And as he sat there, palsied with terror, suddenly, fierce and loud, and uttered by what agency he knew not, nor would ever know, a mighty voice rang through that room of death, speaking to him in urgent command:

"Sleep!" it cried. "Sleep deeply! These are the Dead! the Dead! Sleep on in darkness, till the Living bid thee wake!"

At this command the medium sank at once into the deepest trance— until the Living bade him wake."

What had happened, what happened then, what horrors passed about that house of dreadful dark, who shall say?

IT IS A TERRIBLE thing to meddle with the Powers of Darkness; it is a terrible thing to defy, with impious rashness, the laws which have been given for our quietude and peace.

The next day, in a dreary and forbidding court-house, the windows loud with the angry tumult of a gale and cold, spattering rain, the inquest was held upon those five dead bodies.

No trace of wound or poison had they, and no sign of any ill sufficient to be the cause of death.

Long and earnest was the inquiry; long and difficult the jury's consultation. Nor is it a wonder that, returning with awed and sombre faces, and having sought permission from the coroner (which, in the amazing circumstances, he gave), they declared it to be their will that the verdict in each case (and here their foreman's voice fell low and shuddering as that of one who speaks of awful doom) should be:

"Slain by the Wrath of God."

________________

13: The Tomb

Guy de Maupassant

1850-1893

Gil Blas, July 29, 1884 (in French)

In: Twenty-Five Ghost Stories, 1904 (in English).

Translator unknown

ON THE seventeenth of July, eighteen hundred and eighty-three, at half-past two o’clock in the morning, the caretaker of Béziers cemetery, who lived in a little house at the end of the burying-ground, was awakened by the yelping of his dog, which was locked in the kitchen.

He immediately went downstairs, and saw that the animal was scenting something under the door and barking furiously, as though some tramp had been prowling about the house. Vincent, the caretaker, took up his gun and went out cautiously.

His dog ran off in the direction of General Bonnet’s Avenue and stopped short in front of Madame Tomoiseau’s monument.

The caretaker, advancing cautiously, soon noticed a dim light in the direction of Malenvers Avenue. He slipped in amongst the tombstones and witnessed a most horrible deed of desecration.

A young man had disinterred the corpse of a young woman, buried the day before, and he was dragging it out of the grave.

A small dark lantern, placed on a pile of earth, lit up this hideous scene.

Vincent, the caretaker, pounced upon the criminal, felled him to the ground, bound his hands and took him to the police station.

He was a young lawyer from the city, rich and well thought of. His name was Courbataille.

He was tried. The public prosecutor recalled the monstrous deeds committed by Sergeant Bertrand and aroused the audience.

The crowd was thrilled with indignation. As soon as the magistrate sat down the cry arose: ‘Put him to death! Put him to death!’ The president had great difficulty in restoring silence.

Then he said, in a serious tone of voice:

‘Accused, what have you to say in your defence?’

Courbataille, who had refused counsel, arose. He was a handsome youth, large, dark, with an open countenance, strong features, and a fearless eye.

The crowd began to hiss.

He was not disconcerted, but commenced speaking with a slightly husky voice, a little low in the beginning, but gradually gaining in strength:

‘Your Honour,

‘Gentlemen of the Jury,

‘I have very little to say. The woman whose tomb I violated was my mistress. I loved her.

‘I loved her, not with a sensual love, not simply from kindness of soul and heart, but with an absolute, perfect love, with mad passion.

‘Listen to what I have to say:

‘When I first met her, I felt a strange sensation on seeing her. It was not astonishment, nor admiration, for it was not what is called love at first sight, but it was a delightful sensation, as though I had been plunged in a tepid bath. Her movements captivated me, her voice enchanted me, it gave me infinite pleasure to watch everything about her. It also seemed to me that I had known her for a long time, that I had seen her before. She seemed to have some of my spirit within her.

‘She seemed to me like an answer to an appeal from my soul, to this vague and continuous appeal which forces us towards Hope throughout the whole course of our lives.

‘When I became a little better acquainted with her, the mere thought of seeing her again filled me with a deep and exquisite agitation; the touch of her hand in mine was such a joy to me that I had never imagined the like before; her smile made my eyes shine with joy, and made me feel like running about, dancing, rolling on the ground.

‘Then she became my mistress.

‘She was more than that to me, she was my life itself. I hoped for nothing more on earth, I wished for nothing more, I longed for nothing more.

‘Well, one evening, as we were taking a rather long walk by the bank of the stream, we were caught by the rain. She felt cold.

‘The next day she had inflammation of the lungs. Eight days later she died.

‘During those dying hours, astonishment and fear prevented me from understanding or thinking.

‘When she was dead, I was so stunned by brutal despair that I was unable to think. I wept.

‘During all the horrible phases of interment my wild, excessive grief was the sorrow of a man beside himself, a sort of sensual physical grief.

‘Then when she was gone, when she was under the ground, my mind suddenly became clear, and I passed through a train of mental suffering so terrible that even the love she had given me was dear at such a price.

‘Then I was seized with an obsession.

‘I shall never see her again.

‘After reflecting on that for a whole day, it maddens you.

‘Think of it! A being is there, one whom you adore, a unique being, for in the whole wide world there is no one who resembles her. This being has given herself to you, with you she creates this mysterious union called love. Her glance seems to you vaster than space, more charming than the world, her bright glance full of tender smiles. This being loves you. When she speaks to you her voice overwhelms you with happiness.

‘And suddenly she disappears! Think of it! She disappears not only from your sight, but from everybody’s. She is dead. Do you understand what that word means? Never, never, never more, nowhere, will this being exist. Those eyes will never see again. Never will this voice, never will any voice like this, among human voices, pronounce one word in the same way that she pronounced it.

‘There will never be another face born like hers. Never, never! The cast of statues is kept; the stamp that reproduces objects with the same outlines and the same colours is preserved. But this body and this face will never be seen again on this earth. And still there will be born thousands of beings, millions, thousands of millions, and even more, and among all these women there will never be found one like her. Can that be possible? It makes one mad to think of it !

‘She lived twenty years, no more, and she has disappeared forever, forever, forever! She thought, she smiled, she loved me. Now there is nothing more. The flies which die in the autumn are of as much importance as we in creation. Nothing more! And I thought how her body, her fresh, warm body, so soft, so white, so beautiful, was rotting away in the depths of a box under the ground. And her soul, her mind, her love—where were they?

‘Never to see her again! Never again! My mind was haunted by the thought of that decomposing body, which I, however, might still recognise!

‘I set out with a shovel, a lantern and a hammer. I climbed over the cemetery wall. I found the hole where her grave was. It had not yet been entirely filled up. I uncovered the coffin, and raised one of the planks. An awful odour, the abominable breath of putrefaction, arose in my face. Oh, her bed, perfumed with iris !

‘However, I opened the coffin and thrust in my lighted lantern, and saw her. Her face was blue, swollen, horrible ! Black liquid had flowed from her mouth.

‘She ! It was she! I was seized with horror. But I put out my arm and caught her hair to pull this monstrous face towards me ! It was at that moment I was arrested.

‘All night I carried with me, as one retains the perfume of a woman after a sexual embrace, the filthy smell of this putrefaction, the odour of my beloved!

‘Do what you like with me.’

A strange silence seemed to hang over the hall. People appeared to be awaiting something more. The Jury withdrew to deliberate. When they returned after a few minutes, the accused did not seem to have any fears, nor even any thoughts. In the traditional formula the Judge informed him that his peers had found him not guilty.

He did not make a movement, but the public applauded.

________________

14: A Flutter in Souls

Ethel Lina White

1876-1944

Pearson's Magazine, August 1908

E-edition: Roy Glashan's Library, (freereads.com.au) Sep 2023

British author Ethel Lina White began as a short story writer for magazines such as Black and White, Pearsons, and so on, as early as 1906, and was still writing short stories as late as 1943. Few of them have since been reprinted.  Her fame was achieved with novels, 17 in all, the best known being made into the hit Alfred Hithcock movie "The Lady Vanishes". There is also a group of forgotten stories which were seemingly written specially for syndication in the USA, which have only recently been brought to light.

Curiously, no collection of her short stories was published until, so far as I can tell, I produced 'The Uninvited Guest and Other Stories'  and 'The Ghost Gavotte and other stories", as free e-books in 2023.

Roy Glashan's Library is steadily tracking down as many as possible of her numerous short stories, and it is likely that in time all of them will be available again.

This story is a very early example, possible the third or fourth of hers ever published.

OUTSIDE the great gales of Ripley Court, the Curer of Souls and the Curer of Bodies shook hands with the grip of a short friendship, yet long sympathy, founded on the tie of Oxford associations and a common object. They— the two energetic microbes, who were doing their best to effervesce the ditch-water of Ripley village to the bubbling zest of soda-water— differed in every respect.

The representative of the Church Militant bore the look of a man who had been beaten in a hard fight by unfair methods. His black coat seemed weighed down with depression, and his hat was even more crushed than is demanded by clerical etiquette.

"You'll have no luck with her, Brady," he said. "I've tackled her repeatedly. She's hard as nails."

"Then she needs hammering, and by my grandmother's parrot, she shall have it. You've been on the wrong lack entirely."

The speaker's face kindled in the glow of the hanging lamp. Tall, and of striking personality, Terence Brady looked more like a Bond Street exquisite than a country doctor. Of mixed parentage, the English mother within him had decreed he should thus array himself in the frock coat of etiquette as he paid his formal call on the lady of Ripley Court; but inside this frigid casing his Irish father was whirling his shillelagh with mad glee in expectation of a fight.

Terence Brady's long legs propelled him up the drive to the time of a double two-step, while his eager thoughts winged on before him; then there was a minute of tiresome delay, while the man with the mission provided the man at the door with his name for the purpose of a formal entry.

Yet his real entry was anything but formal. As the drawing-room door opened, the mistress of the great house looked at Brady with a glance of welcome, for she thought he was afternoon tea. Her face dropped when she saw only a visitor, and her attention was momentarily distracted from the game of diabolo with which she was busily engaged. The spool descended, and, finding no cord to meet it, dashed, like a great white moth, towards a pink-shaded lamp. Contrary to the nature of the flame, it seemed for once to reciprocate this passion, for it shot up to meet it.

The next minute there was a feminine shriek, and the overturned lamp was spreading a pool of liquid flame over the flimsy tablecloth.

As the girl rushed away from the scene, the two men dashed towards it. But the waiting-man was naturally slower than the man who acted, and to Brady's lot fell the burning honours of extinguishing the flaming mass. Thus, dashing, flushed, and eager— in a circle of limelight— Terence Brady made a dramatic entry to the acquaintance of Miss Vivien Primrose.

"Real Irish luck," said Terry inwardly, as in one brief moment he found he had wiped out quite thirty minutes of frigid overtures, and was nearer the object of his quest. It was pleasant to sit in an easy-chair while a remarkably pretty girl alternately thanked him and fussed over him, and Terry, who liked all young things, from children to new potatoes, was especially tolerant to the charm of youth in women.

"I'm sure you have burnt your arm, and I shall never forgive myself if you have. Do turn back your sleeve and see," cried Vivien, as she laid impetuous fingers on his frock coat.

"Not a bit. I haven't so much as scorched myself," answered Terry, stoutly resisting her overtures. "And, in any case, I'd like to keep the scar as a memento of a charming lady. Now, do look. That kettle is boiling over with impatience to make your acquaintance."

As Miss Primrose busied herself with the tea-equipage, the doctors keen blue eyes looked with surprise at this young lady who had been represented to him as an armour-plated virago. The sole heiress to her father's wealth, seen through the golden mist of a fortune her claims to beauty had been exaggerated, but even Terry, who was not prepared to admire her, found her pretty.

"A dimple, too," thought he with delight, as he noted the treacherous pit that has swallowed up the common-sense of so many men. "She can't be such a Tartar with a dimple."

Vivien started the conversation with hunting, but before long, as they exchanged ideas, they found that, so far from following the fox in spirit over the red earth, they were soaring up into the clouds. So many thoughts in common, so many mutual tastes, so many experiences to relate, that they were soon borne along on the full spate of friendship.

But, little by little, Terry turned the talk to the subject of his visit. It was his pet theme— the Cottage Hospital. He deplored the fact that the wives of the righteous county folk allowed this full-grown adult scandal to stand unchallenged in their midst. He observed that when he tried to drive home the facts of the case to these smug gentry, men who had approved of him because he rode straight had resented the fact that he could talk straight as well. They could afford to hunt, but when it came to a question of putting their hands to their pockets, they pleaded poverty. Was it not a shame?

Miss Primrose assented, and then gently tried to switch the conversation on to the number of unpaid hunt subscriptions. But Terence was firm. He insisted ongoing into details of the exact state of dilapidation and discomfort that reigned at the miserable travesty of a hospital, and at his downright words Vivien shuddered. He imagined it was from sympathy, and instantly he saw himself, twenty years later, when he had raked in fame and a fortune, coming to claim her and her stately home, while apparently she remained still the pretty golden-haired girl of twenty-three.

"And what we want," concluded Terence vehemently, "is to pull down this rotten old shell— this plague-spot— and erect a splendid new building. It must, and it shall be done!"

Vivien's eyes sparkled. "Why don't you do it yourself?" she asked.

"I?" Brady roared with laughter. "I do it? Whom do you think I am?"

"The nephew of the Duke of Wesson, to begin with—"

"To end with, a poor devil of a doctor, without a shirt to his back."

Vivien smiled at the extravagant statement of the tall young exquisite, who was intently-regarding her with eyes that were bluer than her own.

"No, Miss Primrose," announced Terry firmly, "I'm not the man to do it. But it's hanging like a load on my back, and I stumble over it at every step I take."

He paused, evidently more impressed by the pathos than the impossibility of this particular feat. "Now, is it fair? It's your responsibility that I am bearing. You are the largest landowner in the district, all your interests are here, you have no ties, you have the means. And clearly you are the obvious person to wipe out this disgrace for ever, and preserve it as a living monument of your generosity, enshrined in all the grateful hearts of the county."

He stopped, panting, and then looked at Vivien in dismay. The soft curves of her mouth had been sucked into a hard red line, and her eyes were glassy. The flow of friendship had been turned off at the main.

"I am very sorry, Dr. Brady," she said coldly, "but I must decline to take up your magnificent project. It is against my principles."

"Principles!"

"Yes." She winced slightly before Terence's accusing eye, for she knew what he meant.

"I know it will seem strange to you," she began, "but I've not been brought up in the English way. If I appear harsh, let me assure you I am not really. My heart is in the right place."

"As a medical man, I should be much more interested if it were not. Pray proceed."

"And I've thought and studied the question, and gone really deeply into it, you know— political economy, and so on. And, indeed, doctor, you do no good in prolonging useless diseased lives. It would really benefit humanity if such cases were allowed to die out, just as you weed a garden, instead of being nursed back to sickly life, and allowed to be perpetuated. I don't suppose you will see my point, but— I feel very strongly— and though I give to other things— indeed I do, very largely— I never subscribe a farthing to any hospital."

Terry's teeth snapped. He looked at the pretty appealing face, with its peach colour rubbed in by perfect health, and the memory of the Rev. Noel Bigg's words came back.

"May I ask if you have ever been ill?" he inquired sternly.

"Never."

"Well, you may have read and thought a great deal, but it is evident you have never lived. Good evening. Miss Primrose. I am sorry I troubled you. And let me, as a friend, wish you the best that can befall you for your ultimate salvation— a thundering long illness."

Vivien staggered at the words. Then she drew herself to her full height, and swished round her superfluous draperies in order to obtain a few meretricious inches.

"Thank you," she said, ringing the bell. "In return for your kind wish, I desire you to forget that— I have ever had the honour of your acquaintance."

"Certainly, madam. It is granted. I look forward to the pleasure of an introduction to Miss Primrose."

Then, with a courtly bow, he left the indignant lady.

THE Rev. Noel Biggs was enjoying a well-earned smoke before the fire in his shabby rooms that evening, when the door burst open to admit Terence's broad form, still gorgeous in his war-paint. He sank down with a groan, and Biggs noticed that his face was white and drawn.

"Well, the first round of the fight is over, old man," remarked the doctor, "and I have had the half-nelson. I was not only kicked out, but in future I am denied even the honour of bowing to Miss Primrose. The history of this evening is completely wiped out, and all I know is— that I have had— a free tea— somewhere."

As he spoke the last words, his head toppled weakly over his chest, and his tall hat rolled forward on to the mat. The curate sprang to his side in sudden alarm. He propped up his friend's head, and then made a violent search for stimulant The contact of the glass against his teeth made the doctor open his eyes, and he drained it before he spoke.

"Sorry to be such an ass. See here! It happened at the very beginning, and I had to sit it out an infernal time, in order to take advantage of a good beginning."

He rolled back his sleeve, and displayed the inflamed surface of an ugly burn.

"Why didn't you mention the fact?" asked Biggs, aghast.

Terence smiled drily. He had poured out his heart to Miss Primrose in their early confidences, and made her a present of his soul, turned inside out, but in the interests of self-respect the line must be drawn somewhere. Irish linen is a valuable asset, in a desperate financial strait, and he— the reckless, handsome, smartly-garbed professional man— with native impudence, had spoken the truth to Miss Primrose in the matter of his wardrobe. He was without a shirt to his back!

A few days later the doctor effectually settled the vexed question of his parentage, as he drove along the flat road, back from a troublesome case. He was in deep depression, although by this time circumstances had permitted him to bridge the gap in his raiment. But not even this fact could dispel his gloom.

"This settles it entirely," he mused. "An Irishman would have got drunk, and then forgotten her. I'm English, through and through."

In spite of his melancholy, his frame stiffened with pride at this thought, but then he groaned aloud at the recollection of a fluffy-haired fairy, who, in spite of her precocious depravity, had destroyed his peace of mind. To his surprise, his groan was echoed, and he awoke to the fact that a bundle of clothes was lying under the hedge.

In an instant Terence had thrown the reins to his small boy, and was kneeling by the prostrate form. As he looked, his eyes nearly bulged out of his head in surprise.

This was Vivien— but not the dainty, waxen beauty, who looked as if she had just stepped out of layers of tissue paper.

She wore a green, weather-beaten skirt, and a white flannel blouse, both of which were mud-spattered and torn. Her hat had gone, and her hair fell in untidy wisps round a scratched face. Her boots were unspeakable, and round her neck was slung a bag. As the doctor stared, the girl opened her eyes, and with a sigh of relief he realised that they, at least, were unchanged.

"Thank goodness for somebody at last," she said. "I suppose I've fainted, for I've hurt my foot or something. We were paper-chasing, and I was a hare, and my papers gone."

Then she suddenly remembered the position, and coloured faintly.

"I am exceedingly sorry to detain you," she said in icy tones. "On your way home will you kindly call at Ripley Court, and ask them to send a carriage to me?"

The doctor hesitated. Then a sudden, reckless flash fired his eye. He shook his head.

"Sorry, but I daren't do it. It would be as much as my place is worth."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"This. Though I have not the honour of Miss Primrose's acquaintance, I have heard that she is an exceedingly autocratic personage, with strong views on the subject of illness and injuries, and I would not dare to enlist her aid for any maimed traveller found on the high road."

Vivien stared, not understanding his drift.

"Don't talk nonsense while I'm in pain. I'm Miss Primrose."

"You are in pain? Then that's the first consideration. Allow me."

In spite of her protests, the wretched boot was soon massacred, and even Vivien could but admit that the doctor's deft touch did much to soothe the ache of her ankle, as he again sacrificed his unlucky wardrobe to the extent of his handkerchief in the cause of bandages.

"That better?" he asked.

"Thank you, yes. I am obliged. Now I wish to go home to Ripley Court."

The doctor instantly felt her pulse.

"Delirium often follows a broken bone," he observed, "but in your case it has come on with unusual rapidity. Were you not a young girl, I should suspect you of being a hard drinker."

"How dare you speak so to me? To me?"

"To you? There, now, that's what I want to find out. Who are you?"

"You know perfectly well. Miss Primrose."

But Terry shook his head with conviction.

"My dear young woman," he said, "consider the absurdity of your assertion. Although I have not the honour of knowing Miss Primrose, your appearance does not justify your claim to be such a very grand lady. But, here goes."

Before she was aware, Vivien was swung into the air and on to the front seat of the dog-cart.

"Where are you taking me?" she gasped.

"To the only place in which I can offer you shelter for the night— the Cottage Hospital."

Although Vivien's face grew vivid with temper, a sudden gleam of respect glinted in her eye. She realised that her foe was engaging in warfare on rather a magnificent scale.

She looked between the horse's ears to the long line of hills.

"Will you tell me what you know of Miss Primrose from hearsay?" she asked.

"Certainly. I know she is young and wealthy. Everyone knows that. And I know— I dare to know— that she possesses beauty and— Dr— innate goodness. But, to diagnose her complaint, she has broken out in a nasty eruption of selfishness and inexperience, and I believe that one good dose of personal experience would put her right again."

"I can corroborate your information on the first point," was the dry answer. "Miss Primrose has immense wealth at her disposal, which is a tremendous weapon in her hand. She could effectually crush anyone who stood in her way by the force of her money and influence, ruin his career, and drum him from the county."

Terry's eyes flashed in reply.

"It all depends on the odd trick," he remarked inconsequently.

In the distance a white blur of buildings peered through the evening haze. Vivien turned once more to the doctor.

"Can you afford to play?" she asked. "You stand to lose much."

"And, by heaven! I stand to gain more. The stake's a woman's soul!"

The excitement that seethed through his veins pulsed down the reins to his horse, and they made a clattering halt before the door of the hospital. As the boy rang the bell, Vivien again spoke.

"Your lead, doctor. You may trust me not to betray myself, and make myself the laughing-stock of the place."

But she shivered with depression as she rested in the dim reception-room. It had never been her lot before to enter such a gloomy place. Then a harassed nurse-matron, in a soiled uniform, came bustling in.

"This is too bad of you, doctor," she said. "I simply can't take in another case. My 'pro' has nearly collapsed, and we're worked off our legs. Besides, we really haven't the accommodation."

"Oh, yes you will, Miss Finlay," urged Terence. "Just to oblige me. This is only a sprain, and I can't communicate with her friends till the morning. It is purely a personal matter."

The matron grunted. Then she led the way to a low-ceilinged room, which was crammed with beds and screens. Several women sat about in shawls, and a child was whimpering.

"We might squeeze her in a corner for to-night," she said.

The formality of enrolling her name was dispensed with in the rush that followed, for Vivien, who had now merged her individuality into "the Sprain," was denied the dignity of a "case." She was merely told to lie down on a lumpy bed in a corner, while her foot was properly bandaged. Vivien submitted with a rigid face, but when Terry finally took up his hat to depart, she cried out in a kind of panic:

"I can't spend the night here with all these people. The air will be poisoned. You must open all the windows."

"A draught would be fatal to some of the cases. Of course there ought to be proper ventilation, but there isn't. Everything that should be right here is wrong. It won't do you any good, but it will do you less harm than the others."

The matron's face flushed with temper.

"It's a perfect scandal!" she cried. "I wish I had some of the wealthy people here— say Miss Primrose— for one night only."

Terence's lips twitched. "You never know your luck," he observed.

Then they left her, and Vivien turned to look, with eyes of loathing, at the ceiling with its scaly growth of peeling plaster above her bed. All around her rose a chorus of groans and complaints, but she lay stiffly staring at the circle of gas-jet with fixed eyes. Later in the evening a cup of tea and some thick bread and-butter were brought for her refreshment by a weary-eyed "pro," but she turned from it with disgust. One thought only possessed her, and she turned it over in her brain until, from constant friction, it glowed to red-hot madness.

"I won't spend the night in this vile hole, I will get out, I will, I will!"

She stared at the ceiling in a mad longing to grip it in her fingers and peel off the roof. She yearned for the strength of a Samson, wherewith to pull down the walls. Then she raised her head and took stock of the window by her side. It was heavily barred.

Below, at right angles, ran a line of buildings, the out-patient room, and the mortuary. Vivien marked the untidy tangle of their thatched roofs with satisfaction. Then, looking round the room stealthily, she searched for her silver match-box, and approached the window. A minute after there was the scrape of a match, and yet another, and two flaming grubs flitted through the air, to alight on the far side of the roofs below. A soft breeze fanned their hot heads, and instantly a tiny scarlet worm began to eat its way through the dark mass of thatch, leaving a fiery trail in its wake.

Meantime, Terry had driven off through the dark lanes, in a fit of mad excitement, his cart swinging from side to side dangerously. Turning a sharp corner by the mill, it was by mere luck that he managed to check himself at the shout of two men. In the glow of his lamps he recognised his friend the curate, but he hardly heeded the hard-visaged man who accompanied him. It was Jasper Bailey, a close-fisted, long-lipped, retired banker, against whose money-bags Terence had run his head when he had tilted at him in his desperate efforts to obtain a subscription. The quarrel that ensued from Terry's importunity had made this man his own especial enemy.

The curate raised his eyebrows at the mare's heaving flanks.

"Are you red-hot from a murder?" he asked. "What's up?"

"The price of bread. Stand clear!" was the wild answer.

"Things bad at the hospital?"

"No, something more important. As for the hospital, I will keep it going in the faces of all the misers in the country, if I have to sell every worthless thing I possess, beginning with my soul."

There was a rattle of wheels, and he was gone.

"Drink!" observed Mr. Bailey sourly. "He will soon come to the end of his tether here."

It was not until the doctor had reached his rooms that his mad fit suddenly dropped from him. Then, with the bitterness and feminine fluency of his Saxon mother, he cursed the influence of his Hibernian father. He saw what he had done in its true light. On the mad chance of trusting to a girl's sense of generosity, he stood to lose everything.

Terence paced up and down his room, longing for daybreak, yet dreading its advent. Unconscious of the time, he pulled aside the heavy curtains in the hope of seeing the sun tipping the east with gold. But, to his surprise, the night was illuminated by a false dawn that reddened the sky. Then as a torch shot up in a cascade of flame, Terence, racing madly for his boots, realised that the hospital was on fire.

When the doctor arrived, panting, on the spot, it was already a scene of mad confusion and activity. The alarm had been given in time, and the majority of the patients had been removed to a huge barn, which was hastily converted to a temporary shelter. With a deep feeling of thankfulness, Terence learnt that the fire had broken out in the wing removed from the main wards.

But, if no lives were lost, it was clear that the hospital itself was doomed. In spite of the efforts of the firemen, the flames leapt over to it, licking it greedily as a preliminary to devouring the plague-spot in deadly earnest.

As a group of farmers watched the spectacle, the doctor suddenly rushed up to them, his face working in the red glare, with the twitchings of a lost soul.

"Are you sure they have removed every patient?" he asked. "One is missing."

"Sure, for certain, sir. Not even the cats left."

"But she's missing. I can't run any risks."

As he spoke, with glorious inconsistency he ran the greatest risk which falls to a man's lot, for he dashed into the blazing shell where charred beams were already beginning to drop. For five lurid seconds he galloped through the Inferno of smoke and flame, his eyes raking every corner of the place. He had scarcely reached the outside air again when, with a sudden crash and a leaping pillar of flame, the roof fell in.

Close on daybreak, when Terence, heavy-eyed, smoke-grimed and baffled, returned to his rooms, leaving behind him the blackened rafters of a skeleton building, a disreputable young female limped up the drive of Ripley Court. She slipped into the side entrance and stole upstairs. The mistress of the house had returned with the milk.

For a week Vivien nursed her indisposition and her scheme of revenge for the annihilation of the doctor. Instead of awakening her conscience, the sufferings of the unhappy patients had served to aggravate her own. But on the eighth day a box arrived, bearing a Bond Street label, and Vivien appeared again, if not to the light of day, at least to the light of night, clad in a creation to dazzle all eyes at the Hunt Ball.

This was the most important social function of the year, and when Vivien and her chaperon arrived at the Assembly Rooms, they found half the county putting the last touches in the cloakroom. It seemed to the girl that the buzz of conversation was unusually animated, and she had barely succeeded in catching a snapshot vision of her face in one of the glasses when a matron bore down on her.

"Do you think he will have the face to turn up to-night?" she asked.

"Who?"

"Dr. Terence Brady, of course!"

"Why not?" asked Vivien quietly.

"What! Haven't you heard? Its all over the place! He has done for himself, and will be turned out of the county."

Vivien staggered. Accustomed to a sense of her own importance, she had scarcely supposed that she was a person of such consequence in celestial regions that the very stars had fought for her, and thus accomplished the doctor's downfall without her personal intervention.

"Tell me all," she cried.

"Well, it's this fire at the hospital. You know how mad he was to get a new building. He increased the fire insurance, and directly after, on the night of the fire, was seen driving away from the place, half drunk, and swearing that he had sold his soul to keep the hospital solvent. Mr. Bailey can testify to this, and even his own friend, the curate, cannot deny it. And to make things blacker, he introduced some unknown woman there that night, as an accomplice, I suppose, to start the fire. Anyway, in the morning she had vanished. Plain enough, isn't it?"

Vivien walked off to the ballroom with her head in a whirl. It was clear that her share in the affair was not so impersonal as she had imagined.

The band was beginning to tune up, and the usual groups of people hung around the door, all intent on the process of booking up. The same topic of conversation was on every tongue— the disgrace of the formerly popular Terence Brady.

"He has been warned not to put in an appearance to-night," remarked Mr. Bailey in his acid voice. "We thought it best to save him that much."

Then a sudden hush fell over the talk, as, standing in the doorway, the grand picture of a man in his hunt evening dress, stood Terence Brady. Vivien, watching his flushed face and blue eyes, thought she had never seen anyone face a situation with a braver carriage.

Taking a card, the doctor approached the nearest woman and asked for the pleasure of a dance. She was but an insipid miss of eighteen, but her refusal was decisive. He promptly turned to the next lady, to meet with the same rebuff. It was plain that before carving him up as a dish for the dogs of disaster, the county was having a trial performance, and to the feminine section had fallen the honour of exercising their dainty penknives in the first "cut."

Brady realised as much in a flash. Then, holding his head high in a spirit of bravado, he went in rotation down the line of ladies, his smile becoming gayer and his bow lower as he acknowledged each fresh snub.

With wonder in her heart Vivien watched him. Twice he had braved fire for her sake, but she knew that this reception, paradoxically enough, constituted, by reason of its very coldness, his hottest ordeal.

The band struck up for a waltz. Terence had completed his tour of the ladies and his ordeal was over. For one moment his nerve failed, as he stood in indecision, partnerless and alone, in the middle of the room.

Then his eyes suddenly flashed. He had faced the music, and he meant in return to get his worth out of the band. Crossing the room to where his friend, Noel Biggs, regarded him with sorrowful eyes, he laid his hands on his shoulders. The next minute the scandalised crowd was aware that he was spinning round in the whirl of a waltz with his clerical partner. In spite of them all he was not to be done out of his last dance!

As the waltz proceeded and the couples revolved in rapid rotation, it became evident that events were moving yet faster, and that each bar of the music was leading up to a crushing finale. A group of men watched the graceless doctor with angry amazement, and then, after a short consultation, Mr. Bailey, in his capacity of M.C., walked up to Terence. He stopped dancing, and, by common consent, half the dancers stopped as well, anxious to assist at a scandal of unusual magnitude.

Bailey tapped Terry on the shoulder.

"I must request you to leave the ball-room," he said. "Exception has been taken to your presence."

"I gathered as much. On what grounds?"

"You would be wiser not to ask, but if you wish to know, owing to your connection with a case of arson."

Terry laughed.

"Keep your eye on the law of libel. Do you suggest I made a bonfire of the hospital and burnt up half my personal effects which happened to be there on loan?"

"No, sir." Mr. Bailey's temper got the better of his prudence, as, by mockery of eye and voice, Terry goaded him beyond his self-control. "But it is believed that you instigated the outrage, and in order to clear yourself, you will have to produce the nameless female you introduced into the building on the night of the fire."

For the first time since that fateful night Terence looked straight into Vivien's eyes.

"That's the trouble," he said ruefully. "I don't know her."

"You brought her there yourself. This is not a time for quibbling!"

"But you see," persisted Terry, "we were never introduced." Then he shot Vivien a sudden glance of audacious confidence. "And if I had been," he added, "I should try to keep a good thing to myself."

There was a long pause, and in the silence Vivien's inflamed sympathy told her that Terence had thrown down his last card.

The game was finished.

She turned to Mr. Bailey.

"A short explanation from me will clear up all this mystery," she remarked. "But, first of all, I must ask you kindly to reverse the ordinary order of etiquette. Will you introduce me to— Dr. Terence Brady?"

_______________

15: A Retrieved Reformation

O. Henry

1862-1910

The Cosmopolitan April 1903

William Sydney Porter

O. Henry specialised in short stories, and this one, about a cracksman named Jimmy Valentine who is trying to go straight, became the basis of a series of successful movies. Its original title in was "A Retrieved Reform", but in all subsequent reprints retitled as above.

IN THE PRISON SHOE-SHOP, Jimmy Valentine was busily at work making shoes. A prison officer came into the shop, and led Jimmy to the prison office. There Jimmy was given an important paper. It said that he was free.

Jimmy took the paper without showing much pleasure or interest. He had been sent to prison to stay for four years. He had been there for ten months. But he had expected to stay only three months. Jimmy Valentine had many friends outside the prison. A man with so many friends does not expect to stay in prison long.

"Valentine," said the chief prison officer, "you'll go out tomorrow morning. This is your chance. Make a man of yourself. You're not a bad fellow at heart. Stop breaking safes open, and live a better life."

"Me?" said Jimmy in surprise. "I never broke open a safe in my life."

"Oh, no," the chief prison officer laughed. "Never. Let's see. How did you happen to get sent to prison for opening that safe in Springfield? Was it because you didn't want to tell where you really were? Perhaps because you were with some lady, and you didn't want to tell her name? Or was it because the judge didn't like you? You men always have a reason like that. You never go to prison because you broke open a safe."

"Me?" Jimmy said. His face still showed surprise. "I was never in Springfield in my life."

"Take him away," said the chief prison officer. "Get him the clothes he needs for going outside. Bring him here again at seven in the morning. And think about what I said, Valentine."

At a quarter past seven on the next morning, Jimmy stood again in the office. He had on some new clothes that did not fit him, and a pair of new shoes that hurt his feet. These are the usual clothes given to a prisoner when he leaves the prison.

Next they gave him money to pay for his trip on a train to the city near the prison. They gave him five dollars more. The five dollars were supposed to help him become a better man.

Then the chief prison officer put out his hand for a handshake. That was the end of Valentine, Prisoner 9762. Mr. James Valentine walked out into the sunshine.

He did not listen to the song of the birds or look at the green trees or smell the flowers. He went straight to a restaurant. There he tasted the first sweet joys of being free. He had a good dinner. After that he went to the train station. He gave some money to a blind man who sat there, asking for money, and then he got on the train.

Three hours later he got off the train in a small town. Here he went to the restaurant of Mike Dolan.

Mike Dolan was alone there. After shaking hands he said, "I'm sorry we couldn't do it sooner, Jimmy my boy. But there was that safe in Springfield, too. It wasn't easy. Feeling all right?"

"Fine," said Jimmy. "Is my room waiting for me?"

He went up and opened the door of a room at the back of the house. Everything was as he had left it. It was here they had found Jimmy, when they took him to prison. There on the floor was a small piece of cloth. It had been torn from the coat of the cop, as Jimmy was fighting to escape.

There was a bed against the wall. Jimmy pulled the bed toward the middle of the room. The wall behind it looked like any wall, but now Jimmy found and opened a small door in it. From this opening he pulled out a dust-covered bag.

He opened this and looked lovingly at the tools for breaking open a safe. No finer tools could be found any place. They were complete; everything needed was here. They had been made of a special material, in the necessary sizes and shapes. Jimmy had planned them himself, and he was very proud of them.

It had cost him over nine hundred dollars to have these tools made at a place where they make such things for men who work at the job of safe-breaking.

In half an hour Jimmy went downstairs and through the restaurant. He was now dressed in good clothes that fitted him well. He carried his dusted and cleaned bag.

"Do you have anything planned?" asked Mike Dolan.

"Me?" asked Jimmy as if surprised. "I don't understand. I work for the New York Famous Bread and Cake Makers Company. And I sell the best bread and cake in the country."

Mike enjoyed these words so much that Jimmy had to take a drink with him. Jimmy had some milk. He never drank anything stronger.

A week after Valentine, 9762, left the prison, a safe was broken open in Richmond, Indiana. No one knew who did it. Eight hundred dollars were taken.

Two weeks after that, a safe in Logansport was opened. It was a new kind of safe; it had been made, they said, so strong that no one could break it open. But someone did, and took fifteen hundred dollars.

Then a safe in Jefferson City was opened. Five thousand dollars were taken. This loss was a big one. Ben Price was a cop who worked on such important matters, and now he began to work on this.

He went to Richmond, Indiana, and to Logansport, to see how the safe-breaking had been done in those places. He was heard to say: "I can see that Jim Valentine has been here. He is in business again. Look at the way he opened this one. Everything easy, everything clean. He is the only man who has the tools to do it. And he is the only man who knows how to use tools like this. Yes, I want Mr. Valentine. Next time he goes to prison, he's going to stay there until his time is finished."

Ben Price knew how Jimmy worked. Jimmy would go from one city to another far away. He always worked alone. He always left quickly when he was finished. He enjoyed being with nice people. For all these reasons, it was not easy to catch Mr. Valentine.

People with safes full of money were glad to hear that Ben Price was at work trying to catch Mr. Valentine.

One afternoon Jimmy Valentine and his bag arrived in a small town named Elmore. Jimmy, looking as young as a college boy, walked down the street toward the hotel.

A young lady walked across the street, passed him at the corner, and entered a door. Over the door was the sign, "The Elmore Bank." Jimmy Valentine looked into her eyes, forgetting at once what he was. He became another man. She looked away, and brighter color came into her face. Young men like Jimmy did not appear often in Elmore.

Jimmy saw a boy near the bank door, and began to ask questions about the town. After a time the young lady came out and went on her way. She seemed not to see Jimmy as she passed him.

"Isn't that young lady Polly Simpson?" asked Jimmy.

"No," said the boy. "She's Annabel Adams. Her father owns this bank."

Jimmy went to the hotel, where he said his name was Ralph D. Spencer. He got a room there. He told the hotel man he had come to Elmore to go into business. How was the shoe business? Was there already a good shoe-shop?

The man thought that Jimmy's clothes and manners were fine. He was happy to talk to him.

Yes, Elmore needed a good shoe-shop. There was no shop that sold just shoes. Shoes were sold in the big shops that sold everything. All business in Elmore was good. He hoped Mr. Spencer would decide to stay in Elmore. It was a pleasant town to live in and the people were friendly.

Mr. Spencer said he would stay in the town a few days and learn something about it. No, he said, he himself would carry his bag up to his room. He didn't want a boy to take it. It was very heavy.

Mr. Ralph Spencer remained in Elmore. He started a shoe-shop. Business was good.

Also he made many friends. And he was successful with the wish of his heart. He met Annabel Adams. He liked her better every day.

At the end of a year everyone in Elmore liked Mr. Ralph Spencer. His shoe-shop was doing very good business. And he and Annabel were going to be married in two weeks. Mr. Adams, the small-town banker, liked Spencer. Annabel was very proud of him. He seemed already to belong to the Adams family.

One day Jimmy sat down in his room to write this letter, which he sent to one of his old friends:

Dear Old Friend:

I want you to meet me at Sullivan's place next week, on the evening of the 10th. I want to give you my tools. I know you'll be glad to have them. You couldn't buy them for a thousand dollars. I finished with the old business—  a year ago. I have a nice shop. I'm living a better life, and I'm going to marry the best girl on earth two weeks from now. It's the only life—  I wouldn't ever again touch another man's money. After I marry, I'm going to go further west, where I'll never see anyone who knew me in my old life. I tell you, she's a wonderful girl. She trusts me.

Your old friend, Jimmy.

On the Monday night after Jimmy sent this letter, Ben Price arrived quietly in Elmore. He moved slowly about the town in his quiet way, and he learned all that he wanted to know. Standing inside a shop, he watched Ralph D. Spencer walk by.

"You're going to marry the banker's daughter, are you, Jimmy?" said Ben to himself. "I don't feel sure about that!"

The next morning Jimmy was at the Adams home. He was going to a nearby city that day to buy new clothes for the wedding. He was also going to buy a gift for Annabel. It would be his first trip out of Elmore. It was more than a year now since he had done any safe-breaking.

Most of the Adams family went to the bank together that morning. There were Mr. Adams, Annabel, Jimmy, and Annabel's married sister with her two little girls, aged five and nine. They passed Jimmy's hotel, and Jimmy ran up to his room and brought along his bag. Then they went to the bank.

All went inside— Jimmy, too, for he was one of the family. Everyone in the bank was glad to see the good-looking, nice young man who was going to marry Annabel. Jimmy put down his bag.

Annabel, laughing, put Jimmy's hat on her head and picked up the bag. "How do I look?" she asked. "Ralph, how heavy this bag is! It feels full of gold."

"It's full of some things I don't need in my shop," Jimmy said. "I'm taking them to the city, to the place where they came from. That saves me the cost of sending them. I'm going to be a married man. I must learn to save money."

The Elmore bank had a new safe. Mr. Adams was very proud of it, and he wanted everyone to see it. It was as large as a small room, and it had a very special door. The door was controlled by a clock. Using the clock, the banker planned the time when the door should open. At other times no one, not even the banker himself, could open it. He explained about it to Mr. Spencer. Mr. Spencer seemed interested but he did not seem to understand very easily. The two children, May and Agatha, enjoyed seeing the shining heavy door, with all its special parts.

While they were busy like this, Ben Price entered the bank and looked around. He told a young man who worked there that he had not come on business; he was waiting for a man.

Suddenly there was a cry from the women. They had not been watching the children. May, the nine-year-old girl, had playfully but firmly closed the door of the safe. And Agatha was inside.

The old banker tried to open the door. He pulled at it for a moment. "The door can't be opened," he cried. "And the clock— I hadn't started it yet."

Agatha's mother cried out again.

"Quiet!" said Mr. Adams, raising a shaking hand. "All be quiet for a moment. Agatha!" he called as loudly as he could. "Listen to me." They could hear, but not clearly, the sound of the child's voice. In the darkness inside the safe, she was wild with fear.

"My baby!" her mother cried. "She will die of fear! Open the door! Break it open! Can't you men do something?"

"There isn't a man nearer than the city who can open that door," said Mr. Adams, in a shaking voice. "My God! Spencer, what shall we do? That child— she can't live long in there. There isn't enough air. And the fear will kill her."

Agatha's mother, wild too now, beat on the door with her hands. Annabel turned to Jimmy, her large eyes full of pain, but with some hope, too. A woman thinks that the man she loves can somehow do anything.

"Can't you do something, Ralph? Try, won't you?"

He looked at her with a strange soft smile on his lips and in his eyes.

"Annabel," he said, "give me that flower you are wearing, will you?"

She could not believe that she had really heard him. But she put the flower in his hand. Jimmy took it and put it where he could not lose it. Then he pulled off his coat. With that act, Ralph D. Spencer passed away and Jimmy Valentine took his place.

"Stand away from the door, all of you," he commanded.

He put his bag on the table, and opened it flat. From that time on, he seemed not to know that anyone else was near. Quickly he laid the shining strange tools on the table. The others watched as if they had lost the power to move.

In a minute Jimmy was at work on the door. In ten minutes— faster than he had ever done it before— he had the door open.

Agatha was taken into her mother's arms.

Jimmy Valentine put on his coat, picked up the flower and walked toward the front door. As he went he thought he heard a voice call, "Ralph!" He did not stop.

At the door a big man stood in his way.

"Hello, Ben!" said Jimmy, still with his strange smile. "You're here at last, are you? Let's go. I don't care, now."

And then Ben Price acted rather strangely.

"I guess you're wrong about this, Mr. Spencer," he said. "I don't believe I know you, do I?"

And Ben Price turned and walked slowly down the street.

________________

16: The Blood Red Rose.

Rosa Praed

(as by Mrs. Campbell Praed)

1851-1935

Evening News (Sydney) 14-15 Aug 1890

Rosa Praed

Australian born English author of numerous novels. The opening lines below could properly be omitted, but were at that time a common disclaimer for a lady writer presenting a story written in the first person by a male character.

THIS is a real experience. I asked Captain Mellon, to whom it happened, to write it out for me. He is an author himself, having published two clever novels. I can't do better than give the story in his own words.

I HAD just landed from a cruise in the South Sea Islands. For two years we had been on the Australian station; but, as most of our time was spent at Fiji, I had but small opportunity of cultivating the society of ladies. I may mention that I was a romantic fellow, fond of poetry and novels, and given to adoring women. I had great theories about love at first sight, and felt certain that I should recognise my twin soul at the first meeting of our eyes. So far, however, I had not yet met that 'one and only.'

My people lived in Yorkshire, and I determined before going there to take a week in London, look up nay few friends who were in town, and see what was going on at the theatres. It was at one of these places of amusement that I met that old chum of mine, Bertie Rushout. We exchanged notes of adventure. Rushout was in the army, and was at home on leave from India. He, like myself, felt somewhat stranded in London. We made several plans for filling up various hours of the following day.

'Look here, Mellon,' said Rushout, as we parted, 'I am going down to Surrey tomorrow evening for a dance. Do you feel inclined to come too? I can easily get you an invitation.'

Of course I was delighted at the chance, and declared that nothing was ever more enjoyable than a country house dance.

'Well, it is a country house,' said Bertie a little dubiously, as though the place were not altogether entitled to that distinction. 'A lot of the neighbors round go to the balls there. He is a doctor, is old Gregson, and he has two pretty daughters. I went to one of his parties last year, and it was awfully jolly, something quite out of the regular run.'

I asked him what was the particular feature of the entertainment which put it outside the 'regular run,' but Rushout was reticent in his explanation.

'Oh, well, you'll see for yourself. Telling too much beforehand discounts the effect. Perhaps it's more free and easy. The people all know each other, you see. So I sha'n't tell you anything. You'll find them charming girls— the Miss Gregsons, I mean. I may as well say at once that Jennie is the one I particularly affect,' and he slided off into a rapturous description of Miss Jennie's attractions. The next morning I got a telegram from Rushout.

'All right. They are delighted. Be at Waterloo new station, four sharp.'

We reached Ashwell a little before five. Ashwell Hall, I learned, was the name of Dr. Gregson's place. An omnibus was waiting and several ladies and gentlemen who had come down by the same train got into it with us. They were evidently guests for the ball. The occasion seemed to them one for half-timorous merriment. They laughed among themselves in a mystifying way, especially when we drew up in front of an imposing set of gates, which were bolted, and had a notice in large letters, 'Ring the bell.'

From the gates stretched a high iron fence bristling with spikes.

'It gives me quite a nervous feeling,' said one of the ladies, vaguely, to a man next her.

'Oh, you'll find it charming,' she answered with equal vagueness. 'Ah! There's Jennie Gregson!' exclaimed she, bending forward and kissing her hand, as a turn in the avenue showed us three ladies gathering primroses from among the mossy holes of the beech trees. Two of the three were young and pretty. One, indeed, was exquisitely beautiful; the third looked like some middle-aged family friend, or outgrown governess, hard of feature, bland and watchful of expression, and having a certain air of authority.

The omnibus stopped, and most of the party got out, which gave me time to make these observations.

'So let us walk with you,' cried the lady who had complained of feeling nervous.

'Well, tea is just ready, and we are going back,' said the least pretty of the girls— at least, that was my impression, though she certainly was very pretty, a dark, piquant young person, with big grey eyes and captivating smile.

There was a general hand-shaking and greeting, and finally Rushout introduced me to Miss Jennie Gregson and Mrs. Knight. Miss Gregson thanked me very winningly for coming to their ball.

'We wanted some dancing men,' she said. Then, as we moved along in file, I fell back, and found myself between Mrs. Knight— whom I took to belong in some capacity to the establishment— and the young lady who was staying in the house, and who yet appeared to be a stranger, for she had stood apart while the others were talking, looking melancholy and uninterested.

My heart gave a prophetic throb when I looked at her.

Was this the twin soul, at last? I had. never seen a woman more lovely, though, after all, that was not saying much. She looked Very young and tender. The rich fur of her mantle did not conceal the delicacy of her proportions. She gave an impression of the highest refinement, from her noble head, 'with its gathered masses of fair hair, to the ^6nS glove that wrinkled on her wrist. Her violet eyes had a sort of mystic light which seemed to suggest all that is most exquisite and immaterial — the summer wind rustling through trees, the flicker of sunbeams, the notes of cathedral music. She had a tender, dreamy smile. Her whole air was abstracted, as though she were occupied with thoughts beyond the ordinary comprehension.

The basket of primroses which she carried had been filled too full, and some of the flowers fell to the ground. I picked them up, and then Mrs. Knight introduced us, saying, 'Captain Mellon, let me present you to Miss Sibyl Torrance.'

I said a few commonplaces— the weather, the charm of early spring in the country, the emptiness of London. She replied almost in monosyllables, till, in relation to a remark of Mrs. Knight's in my last cruise, I asked her if she had travelled much. She gave me a startled, even a wild, look.

'Oh,' she exclaimed eagerly, 'that is what I want to do! Oh, to go away from England, to lose oneself in strange new countries, to get rid of one's own miserable, perplexing fancies. But they won't let me,' she added piteously. 'They keep me penned up here.'

'My dear,' said Mrs. Knight, remonstrantly, 'when we do all we can to make you happy.'

'Oh yes, I know,' she answered impatiently. 'You are as good and kind as you can be, but you are a part of my bad dream.'

'Miss Torrance has had a severe illness,' exclaimed Mrs. Knight. 'But, my dear,' she added, turning to the girl, 'you are so much stronger that I have no doubt you will be able to travel with your people this autumn, as you wish.'

'That is not at all what I wish,' said Miss Torrance. 'I want to be alone, or else among strangers. I want to dream another dream— a happy one— to live another life among flowers and birds and beautiful things. I should be quite— quite well if I could only get away from these dreadful kind eyes, which always watch everything that I do.'

Mrs. Knight laughed as though she were humoring a convalescent child, and I made some foolish complimentary remark about the impossibility of Miss Torrance escaping, attention wherever she might be, to which remark she paid no heed, though her gaze was fixed upon me in a serious way, as though she were wondering how I could be of use to her.

Suddenly she said, 'You must talk to me a great deal, and tell me of all the curious places you have been to, and if you describe them very vividly perhaps I shall be able to imagine that I have seen them too.'

I immediately begged her to give me several dances that evening, representing myself as a stranger whom it would be a charity to notice. She assented with a gracious little bend of the head. Presently we reached the house, and Mrs. Knight called my attention to some heraldic carving over the entrance door. It was a fine old building, part Georgian and part of an earlier date. There were wings extending a long way back, and it had altogether a cheerful air of occupancy. The grounds seemed extensive and were well kept. In every respect it was a much larger and more imposing place than I could have imagined a retired doctor would care to live in. But I concluded that Dr. Gregson had considerable means.

The hall door was open, and the doctor himself stood on the steps welcoming his guests. Rushout introduced me, and he received me with much geniality.

'Come in, come in; tea is ready, and my daughter, Alice, is waiting to pour it out,' he said. He smiled paternally on Miss Torrance, called her 'Sibyl, my dear,' and asked her if she would not prefer to go to her own rooms and rest in preparation for the fatigues of the evening. She shook her head, took off her hat, and laid down her basket of primroses with the air of one quite at home. The hall was picturesque and comfortable with its old oak, its faded Turkey carpet, its huge fire-place, in which a log fire was burning, its litter of papers, and many lounges. Quite a number of people was collected there, and I presumed that the doctor had a large party staying in the house. They did not somehow strike me as the sort of guests one usually meets in a country house, though many were young, and all were well dressed, and with the air of good society. There was something wanting— ease, spontaneity, and the absence of customary country-house topics— striking me the more as I looked on and listened.

The other Miss Gregson was making tea. She was a little older and not quite so pretty as her sister. Rushout seemed absorbed with Miss Jennie, and soon they disappeared to the ball-room, which opened out of the hall, to put finishing touches to a mantelpiece decoration of primroses. On the other side of the hall was a drawing-room with a conservatory. People wandered freely into this room, where a grand piano stood open, littered with music. Dr. Gregson appeared very proud of his flowers, particularly the roses, of which there was a magnificent show— Marechal Neil, LaFrance, and some of a rich crimson, that were excessively large and fine. I liked the doctor. He had a face full of force and intellect, and his sweet manner seemed to impress all those with whom he spoke.

Miss Torrance had gone into the drawing room. I made my way to her, and we fell into talk. Mrs. Knight hovered near, but did not join in the conversation. I began to understand that Sibyl— as I already called her to myself, it was such a beautiful name, I thought— might grow impatient of this lady's constant companionship, estimable person though she might be.

The fascination of Sibyl deepened with every word she uttered. It is true that she did not talk much, but she drew me on to tell of my own experiences, listening with eager, parted lips, and a look of childlike interest. I began to question her about her own pursuits. All that she said, every movement of hers, is burned into my memory. Did she go to London? No: she hated London; had she been staying with Dr. Gregson? Yes— a long time, years; no, she did not mean that, but it seemed a long time. She bad been very ill before she came. The horror or her illness still clung to her. She remembered it vaguely. That was what she meant by her bad dream. It was then that she liked to read books of travel— anything that would take her out of herself.

I suggested that she should try novels or poetry.

'Novels! No. Novels are too— how shall I say it?— too suggestive of horrible things.'

'Not all,' I said.

'No! But then how can one tell? Dr. Gregson sometimes gives mo one that he says will amuse me. I know what that means. It is like going into a garden and having all the scentless and least beautiful flowers gathered for one by somebody else. I like to pick my own flowers— only when I do I generally manage to fall on something deadly. There was a story about a vampire— a girl that sucked people's blood. Oh, don't let us speak of it! It turns me cold with horror.'

I now dimly suspected that there was a tragedy hidden in the life of Sibyl Torrance— a ghastly deed, perhaps, which she had accidentally witnessed— some terrible family secret for the knowledge of which she was paying the penalty.

The truth, strangely enough, did not so much as dawn upon my mind. My yearning sympathy, my romantic admiration, were only tenfold strengthened. It was borne in upon me that I had met my fate. How sweet it would be to turn the mind of this adorable creature from all these darksome memories and imaginings and irradiate it with the sun of a perfect love.

Her fancy seemed in an odd unconscious way to follow in the track of mine. She had risen as if she would have thrown the unwelcome thought from her, I can see her vividly now, so strong is the impression she produced upon me— the frightened look in her face changing to a softer expression, the bright light in her eyes fading to a dreamy lustre, as she said in her sweet tone: 'There's some poetry that always does me good. It soothes and warms me. I am often so cold— so cold. Some of the things that are written about love. Oh, it's inexpressibly beautiful—'

She stopped short. Mrs. Knight was approaching.

'Would you like to hear me sing?' she said abruptly.

'My dear, Mrs. Knight expostulated, 'we dine early, you know.'

'I should like to sing one song,' Miss Torrance said, insistently.

'Then you will give us all great pleasure,' Mrs. Knight rejoined quickly, as though she were afraid of annoying her.

Miss Torrance moved to the piano. Mrs. Knight detained me. 'You will have a treat,' she said. 'Miss Torrance has the most beautiful voice; but it is very seldom that she uses it. She only sings when she is emotionally moved, and the doctor does not like to encourage that, as you may see.'

I followed her glance to the piano. Dr. Gregson was beside Miss Torrance, and was watching her with his keen penetrating eye as he helped her to choose some music.

'Miss Torrance's illness was caused by some trouble or shock?' I ventured.

Mrs. Knight did not immediately answer. She looked at me thoughtfully. It struck me afterwards that she was wondering how much I knew.

'Yes, a great trouble,' she said, at length. 'The worst of it is that she herself Is almost conscious of it at times.'

'One does not easily forget a great trouble,' I said, a little puzzled.

'Oh!' she exclaimed, 'I see. They have not told you. Well, poor girl, the trouble came through no fault of hers.'

I longed to ask more, but just then Miss Torrance began to sing. She had a sweet and wonderfully pure soprano, which one might have fancied to be the voice of an angel, only no angel could have sung so sadly. Her song was unfamiliar to me. Afterwards she told me that she had herself set the words to music. They had a melancholy refrain, which. I remember, perhaps because it chimed with my mood. Love blows as the wind blows ; Love blows into the heart. When she had finished, she did not wait to be thanked, but left the room with the doctor, and just then the clang of a gong reminded us that it was dressing time.

We were a large party at dinner. To my joy I was given Miss Torrance. She  looked as if she had stepped out of a picture by Romney, in a curiously cut dress of rich white brocade, with lace ruffles at her neck and elbows, end her hair rolled back and raised above her noble brow. Everything about her was rare and valuable,. and gave an impression of cultivated taste. I saw that her fan was a work of art; the jewels she wore looked like heirlooms.  We talked of music mostly, but there was not much scope for conversation at the meal, which was a scrambling sort of affair. Very soon afterwards guests began to arrive, but I paid no attention to them.

Every moment I was plunging deeper and deeper into the abyss of love. I had neither eyes nor ears for anyone but Sibyl! — Sibyl! I almost said her name aloud, nor would it have appeared strange to me had I done so. She seemed outside the region of mere conventional intercourse. I found myself telling her of my dearest wishes, my most sacred thoughts. I drew back the talk to poetry— to where we had left it when she went to sing. I spoke of love, first in a timid, hesitating way; then, as she listened unrebuking, and smiled her mystic,-alluring smile, I grew bolder, and told her how, in my lonely dark hours on deck, an ideal woman had kept watch with me, and how I had pictured to myself the heaven upon earth which would be mine could I find and win the love of this beautiful lady of my dreams.

'And you have never found her?' she said, softly. 'This ideal woman exists only in your dreams?'

'Ah, no. I have discovered now that she lives and breathes,' I whispered fervidly, as I put my arm round her. It was in the pause of a waltz. She had risen as she spoke, and had made a movement as though she wished to dance again, and the last words were spoken in her ear, as her form, in contact with mine, pulsated to the music, and a tendril of her hair touched my cheek.

'I have found her to-night,' I said, my passion set loose. 'She has eyes like yours. Her touch thrills me as the touch of no other woman ever has thrilled me. She is my ideal incarnate— in you.'

'I-! lam your ideal!' she said, in a startled, surprised tone. She seemed to draw a little closer to me as we glided on in that enchanted whirl. For several minutes we did not speak. It was enough for me to feel our two beings moving in this divine harmony. The waltz music surged and swayed in intoxicating rhythm. At last it ended with a rush and a crash.

We stopped panting at the door of the now empty drawing-room. The conservatory beyond stretched dim and fairy-like with its festoons of leaf, its palms and points of blossom, and pendent Japanese lanterns. I took her there, and we seated ourselves on a lounge at the further end. Above her a tall rose bush showed brilliant crimson flowers.

She opened her fan and waved it gently to and fro.

'Sibyl,' I said, 'there is a love which takes possession of a man like fate, and masters him in an hour, in a moment, so that he cannot say "Can this thing be?" but "It is, it must be." That is the kind of love I feel for you.'

The motion of her fan ceased, and she bent a little toward me, but without blush or tremor, gazing earnestly into my face.

'I am glad that you love me,' she said simply. 'I too have made an ideal for myself, and he was young and generous and strong.... like you.' She made little dreamy pauses, all the time gazing at me. 'I, too, have thought about love, and I have longed that the prince might come.... the noble, brave prince... and awaken me to light and joy and drive the shadows away.'

'Oh, let me do that!' I cried. 'Let me show you how glorious life can be.'

She drew back shrinkingly. 'But not here.... not in this place. It's a prison.' She lowered her voice mysteriously. 'Don't you see how they watch and guard me? They wouldn't let you take me away.... my own true knight. They would bind you down with cords, and they would not let you have a knife to cut them. They would keep you in a horrible bare room, and force you back if you tried to free yourself. That is what they did to me. They tell me it was a dream; but I know that it was not,'

'My dearest,' I said soothingly, 'I understand about that. You were very ill— you were delirious, perhaps, and they nursed you.'

She shook her head and made a little impatient movement of her body, causing the fan which lay in her lap to drop to the ground. I picked it up, and as I did so noticed the curious handle of inlaid steel, long and pointed like the sheath of a dagger. I made this remark giving it back to her, partly with the idea of turning her mind from the thought of her illness.

She laughed in a strange way.

'I will tell you a secret. No one knows it but myself. Long ago I bought this fan in a curiosity shop. I wanted it to wear with a fancy dress; and then I got very fond of it— when I knew its secret— and had it always by me. But when I was ill it went out of my mind, and I never remembered it till the other day when I sent for this dress to wear to-night, and the fan, which must have been among my things, was sent with it.'

'And the secret ?' I asked.

'You'll never guess it. I don't think I ought to tell it you, for you might betray me, you know; but you are my knight, and I love you, and I will tell you anything that you wish. See! You lift up this little rose of red enamel with the point of your nail— you'd never think it was not cut into the steel— and then you press this tiny button! So— and— now—'

As she fingered the thing a spring acted, and from the bottom of the long inlaid handle there leaped out a thin sharp stiletto— a most murderous instrument, probably a survival of mediaeval days when fair ladies were given by their lords or lovers means to protect themselves against insult.

I begged her to let me examine the weapon. It was horrible to me to see this lovely innocent creature running her delicate white fingers along the edge of the blade, backwards and forwards, as though she enjoyed the sensation.

'It's very sharp,' she said, with the same strange low laugh, 'and nobody knows the secret— nobody but you and I. Do you see the stain on it? You must not tell anyone,' she whispered, 'but it's blood— it is blood!'

'Sibyl, don't let us talk of these dreadful things. Let us talk of bur love— our beautiful love.'

'Yes; our beautiful love,' She repeated, tenderly. 'That is our secret, too. And I am going to give you something to wear, so that you may dream of me tonight, and I'll cut it with my pet dagger— the flower I love best— a blood-red rose.'

And again she laughed. A chill dread came over me— an awful qualm of horror. She stretched up her arm to a blossom growing high, and holding the stem with one hand, cut downward. And now the horror was realised. Even after these years it makes me shudder again.

The blade slipped. In an instant there was a broad slash in the fair round arm, and the red blood spurted forth over her white dress, deluging the rose that had fallen on her lap.

As long as I live I shall never forget the look of maniacal frenzy which, at the sight of that crimson flood, changed the face of an angel to the face of a fiend. She uttered a shrill, awful shriek.

'Blood— more, blood!' she cried, hoarsely.

The knife flashed before me. With a frantic leap she was on me, clinging to me with her wet hands. I felt the sharp thrust of the stiletto. I struggled with her. There was a rush of people toward us. I saw the doctor's grim determined face. I saw him wrestle with and overpower the bloodstained gibbering creature, to whom but a few moments before I had been pouring out my ardent love. I turned sick and clammy with the horror and the pain— and then I remember no more.

When I came to myself, they told me she had given me a nasty flesh wound, which, however, produced no serious consequences. They told me also that Ashwell Hall was a private establishment for insane persons of the higher social grade, whom Dr. Gregson tried to nurse back to reason, providing them with the occupations and amusements natural to their ordinary life, and keeping up, as far as possible, the impression that they were guests in a pleasant country house, where curative treatment for what was described as a nervous malady was a matter of necessity, but of secondary importance.

I learned that Miss Torrance was afflicted with homicidal mania. Though there was no evidence which could have been maintained against her in a court of law, from her ravings and other clues her family entertained no doubt that she had stabbed two children who had been found mysteriously murdered in the woods near her home. They had consigned her to Dr. Gregson's care. She had had no paroxysm for more than a year, and it had been hoped she was on the way to recovery.

End

Table of Contents

- 1: The Italian's Story / Catherine Crowe

- 2: The Tapestried Chamber / Sir Walter Scott

- 3: Taste of the Salt / S. B. H. Hurst

- 4: The Vain Shadow / Duncan Campbell Scott

- 5: The Gully of Bluemansdyke / Arthur Conan Doyle

- 6: Where The Goddess Chance Holds Court / James Francis Dwyer

- 7: Wizard or Crook / Casper Carson

- 8: His Silent Partner / Albert Alwing

- 9: The Organ-Grinder's Money-Bag / James McGovan

- 10: Book of Detective Stories / Anonymous

- 11: The Night-Doings at "Deadman’s" / Ambrose Bierce

- 12: The House of the Black Evil / Eric Purves

- 13: The Tomb / Guy de Maupassant
- 14: A Flutter in Souls / Ethel Lina White
- 15: A Retrieved Reformation / O. Henry
- 16: The Blood Red Rose / Rosa Praed