Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Fewer but longer stories, amounting as usual to around 100,000 words. All stories are in the Life+70 public domain. 1: The Case of Dickson's Diamonds / Scott Campbell 2: The Real Adventure / W. M. Rouse 3: The Spider’s Eye / William Le Queux 4: Fan-Tan / Carlton Dawe 5: A Modern Pirate / Culpepper Zandtt (Clarence Herbert New) 6: The Red Room / H. G. Wells 7: The Griffin and the Minor Canon / Frank R. Stockton 8: Lion-Heart / Max Brand 9: One Night of Terror / Arthur Leo Zagat 10: Parasite Planet / Stanley G. Weinbaum 11: The Man Who Killed "X" / Edgar Wallace 12: There Are More Things... / F.

PAST MASTERS 147

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

16 Dec 2023

Contents

1: The Case of Dickson's Diamonds / Scott Campbell

2: The Real Adventure / W. M. Rouse

3: The Spider’s Eye / William Le Queux

4: Fan-Tan / Carlton Dawe

5: A Modern Pirate / Culpepper Zandtt

6: The Red Room / H. G. Wells

7: The Griffin and the Minor Canon / Frank R. Stockton

8: Lion-Heart / Max Brand

9: One Night of Terror / Arthur Leo Zagat

10: Parasite Planet / Stanley G. Weinbaum

11: The Man Who Killed "X" / Edgar Wallace

12: There Are More Things... / F. A. M. Webster

13: The Affair of the San Mona Spring / E. Phillips Oppenheim

14: The Guardian Angel / Arthur Gask

__________________

1: The Case of Dickson's Diamonds

Scott Campbell

(Frederick W. Davis) 1858-1933

The Popular Magazine March 1904

The second in a series of some 48 short detective stories featuring Felix Boyd of New York, which ran between 1904 and 1908

"NO, Jimmie, the burglar of today is not the burglar of a generation or two ago," said Felix Boyd, through a wreath of pipe smoke. "He is not the burly midnight ruffian at mere fancy of whom we shuddered in. our trundle beds, the bearded fellow in rough attire and sinister mask, with a kit of tools under his coat and a brace of Smith & Wesson's in his hip pockets, whose chief attribute was brute force, and who cracked with equal complacency a merchant's safe or the merchant's skull."

Jimmie Coleman laughed, knocking the ashes from his cigar, and nodded approvingly.

This central office man was Boyd's very intimate friend and most ardent admirer, probably the latter because he knew much more of Boyd's remarkable talents than any other man, so was best able to appreciate his extraordinary abilities.

He had dropped into Boyd's office in Pine Street half an hour before, merely to enjoy a morning smoke in genial company.

"You are right, Felix," said he. "Things have changed mightily in that respect since we wore a frock and knickerbockers."

"Instead, Jimmie," added Boyd, in ruminating mood, "we have to-day the much more intelligent and dangerous scamp, who forms and executes his designs with exquisite cunning and sagacity, and who employs every modern mechanical device with which to overcome the constantly improving safeguards he encounters. The transition has been gradual, but is very pronounced, and the detective art has undergone a corresponding change."

"That is true, too, Felix."

"The successful sleuth of to-day, Jimmie, besides possessing the dogged persistency and brute courage of old, must be a man of broad intelligence, a keen observer and subtle analyst, and one capable of discerning remote relations. The detection of obscure bits of evidence, and the art of making correct deductions therefrom, chiefly serve to solve the great criminal mysteries of the present day."

"Time and. again, Felix, you have demonstrated that," nodded Coleman. "Witness that bond robbery of Curry, Gale & Fiske last November. way, I see that that man Wykoff, whom you suspected of having had a hand in that affair, is again operating on the curb."

Boyd smiled oddly and laid away his pipe.

"Wykoff, as I remarked at that time, was not the master knave in that affair," said he. "Take my word for it, Jimmie, there was another Richmond somewhere in the field. That ingenious robbery was not designed by Paul Wykoff, but by some much more capable and farreaching knave."

"Do you still think so?"

"I do, indeed," said Boyd, with noticéable gravity. "It is my impression, Jimmie, that something seriously wrong exists down here below the 'Dead Line.' "

"Why do you think so?"

"Don't ask me why; the grounds for my misgivings are still vague and indefinite. Yet I seriously believe that; somewhere in this wealthy locality, where millions change Lands with each passing business hour, somewhere in the very heart of our great financial maelstrom, there exists a veritable genius for crime.'

"A genius for crime!" cried Coleman. "A man whose obscure personality may be only vaguely discerned behind crafty opetations executed by others, yet directed by him with all the evil ingenuity and consummate foresight of a master of kriavery. I see only vague signs of this at present, Jimmie, now and then cropping out in crimes of new and peculiar originality, all of which point to a masterful and malignant genius hid in the background. As yet I have been unable to get the least definite line upon him; but some day I  shall do so. Some day, Jimmie, one of these peculiar crimes will give me a clew to this master knave, who, I believe, lurks about here like a spider in its web, and conspires with and directs a well-organized gang of—"

"Easy!" put in Coleman, lifting his forefinger. "There are steps in the corridor. Some one is coming this way."

A stranger unceremoniously entered. He was about fifty years of age, stóutly built, and his pale face and dilated eyes" at once indicated exceeding nervousness and excitement.

"I am looking for Mr. Boyd— Mr. Felix Boyd," he said, quickly, with restless glances at each of his hearers. "Do I find him here?"

Boyd reached for his pipe, at the same time signing the stranger to a chair.

"I am Felix Boyd," said he. "Take a seat, sir."

"In a moment, just a moment," nervously rejoined the stranger, hastening to produce a card. "I am Nathan Dickson, of Maiden Lane, dealer in diamonds, and the American agent for some of the largest diamond merchants of London and Amsterdam. My card, Mr. Boyd."

"Thank you," murmured Boyd, with his keen, gray eyes half hidden under their drooping lids. "And what, pray, can I do for you, Mr. Dickson?"

"I come to you from my bankers, who told me that, if I but mentioned their name, you would readily advise me," Dickson quickly explained, mentioning one of the largest banking houses in Wall Street. "I have been a depositor with them for nearly twenty years, Mr. Boyd, and they advised me to consult you, sir, instead of going to the central office, as I at first was inclined."

These references to the bankers served at once to insure Boyd's interest,: for reasons hinted at in an earlier narrative. He laid down his pipe without having lighted it, and again waved his visitor to a chair.

"You do not know me by name, I take it," said Dickson, as he sat down.

"Only since seeing your card," said Boyd. "I observe, however, that you are a married man, and very nearsighted."

"Dear me! How is that? Do I wear my heart on my sleeve?"

"Hardly that," smiled Boyd. "But a spot has been sponged from your vest this morning, presumably by your wife, since you scarce could have visited your tailor thus early; and I notice the handle of a reading glass protruding slightly from your inside pocket."

That one of these deductions did not affect Dickson very pleasantly was apparent in his increased nervousness, and the sudden trembling of his hands on his knees; yet he laughed a little and cried:

"Oh, yes, quite right; you are quite right, Mr. Boyd. I am very nearsighted, very, when viewing objects close at hand. Yet I do not even require glasses for observing things at a distance."

"That is occasionally the case, I understand."

"I am told so. Yet I believe that very few are as sorely afflicted as I. I can read only with a very powerful glass, as you may see."

And he now displayed his reading glass, a thick lens nearly six inches in diameter, having a silver rim and an ebony handle. Boyd merely glanced at it, then turned to Coleman, who had risen.

"Drop in a little later, Jimmie," he said. "I imagine that Mr. Dickson will not long engage me."

"No, Mr. Boyd, not very long," said Dickson, when they were alone. "I received in my mail this morning a letter which gives me great uneasiness, if not serious alarm. I took it to my bankers for advice, scarce knowing what else to do, and they advised me to consult you. I wish you would examine the letter; here it is, and tell me what you think of it, and how seriously I should regard it. I am tempted to place it in the hands of the police for investigation."

Boyd examined the letter with interest, and was immediately struck with its peculiarities.

It neither was written, nor printed in the ordinary way. Instead, each word had been cut singly from some book or newspaper, evidently with a penknife, and then pasted on a blank sheet of paper.

Plainly the work had been very carefully done, yet it had been found so delicate that the completed lines presented considerable irregularity, with the separate words differently spaced and slanted at various angles. The communication thus conveyed was quite brief, and read as follows:

"Nathan Dickson, Maiden Lane: You look out for yourself. Persons I dare not name are about to execute a design against you, the character of which I cannot safely disclose. I am a friend to you, and this is a warning you will not wisely ignore. Heed it. Guard yourself and that most dear to you."

Boyd twice read this curious missive, then looked up at the grave face of his waiting visitor.

"Have you the cover in which this was mailed?" he asked.

"Yes, here it is," bowed Dickson, tendering the envelope.

"Printed with a pen," observed Boyd; "and dropped in one of the street boxes late yesterday afternoon. Evidently the sender designed this method to prevent being traced by his handwriting."

"That is apparent," cried Dickson, nervously. "But what of the letter itself? It has given me a dreadful shock. My nerves are completely unstrung. It is so indefinite, yet in a way so threatening. I don't know whether. my life is in danger, or my property, or what. I am all of a tremble from head to foot."

"Which really is very foolish of you," said Boyd, indifferently. "I do not think your life is in any danger, Mr. Dickson. Are you a man of much property?"

"Bradstreet rates me at a hundred thousand, which is rather more than I possess," replied Dickson, more composedly. "I own a modest summer place near Jamaica Bay, where I dwell for about six months of the year, renting a house in town during the winter."

"At present you are where?"

"I am still living in town. I expect to go down to my shore house with my family about the last of this month."

"You do a large business in diamonds?"

"Quite so. As agent for foreign houses; moreover, I carry a valuable stock."

"In part consigned to you, I presume," observed Boyd, raising his brows. .

"Yes, certainly."

"Do you consider your quarters in Maiden Lane, and the safe or vault in which you store your goods, perfectly secure against burglars?" inquired Boyd.

"Indeed, yes!" exclaimed Dickson. "I never have felt otherwise."

Boyd smiled, and again glanced at the patchwork letter.

"Who among your friends, Mr. Dickson, is a practical joker?" he asked, a bit dryly.

"Really I recall none."

"Yet this letter is, in my opinion, the work of such a person."

"A joke— a practical joke! Sent only to annoy or alarm me!" exclaimed Dickson, with much eagerness. "Do you really think so, Mr. Boyd! Indeed, I shall feel greatly relieved if that is your opinion. Do you really think so, Mr. Boyd?"

Plainly his relief already was great, and Boyd at once proceeded to further assure him.

"I think, Mr. Dickson," said he, decisively, "that any true friend, so anxious to warn you of serious danger, could easily have found a way to intelligently do so without imperiling himself. The greater your danger, sir, the greater probability of such a step on the part of a friend, who surely would have left you in no such uncertainty as this concerning his meaning."

"I had not thought of it in that light," cried Dickson. "Really, Mr. Boyd, I begin to think you are right."

"To go a step farther," added Boyd; "if knaves contemplate any secret design upon you, certainly no such warning as this would have prefaced the execution of their project. Such a step on their part would be absurd."

"Surely."

"That, Mr. Dickson, is my opinion of this piece of indefinite patchwork." "You believe it to be a practical joke?"

"Nothing more serious, sir."

"What would you advise me to do about it?"

"Nothing at all," declared Boyd, promptly. "I should give it no further attention. I am convinced that no friend sent it to you; and such a communication from an enemy surely would be unworthy one's serious consideration. If I were you, Mr. Dickson, I should toss the letter into my waste basket, and not give it another thought."

A noteworthy change had come over the dealer in diamonds. His eyes were brighter, his cheeks flushed with satisfaction, and a smile had dispelled the manifest apprehensions with which he had entered Boyd's office.

He now shook the latter warmly by the hand, effusively uttering his thanks, and declaring that his own opinion of the mysterious letter was entirely changed, and that he now should completely disregard it.

When Mr. Dickson was about arising to go, however, Boyd carelessly observed:

"If you will leave the letter with me until afternoon, Mr. Dickson, I will examine it more closely a little later, in case any obscure features of consequence have escaped me. Should I discover any, I will hasten to inform and advise you."

"Certainly," cried Dickson, "I shall be glad to leave it."

"I have your business card," said Boyd. "In case I should wish to reach you at home, which is not very, probable, you had better leave me your uptown address. Write it on this blank, if you like. Here is a pencil."

Dickson again drew out his lens, holding it in his left hand while he wrote with the other, and bowing his head nearly to the paper on which he inscribed the desired address.

"There it is, Mr. Boyd," said he, arising. "I am always at home evenings. My wife and children are my chief comfort and delight. Call some evening, if you will, when not upon business. A thousand thanks for your opinion and advice. My bankers tell me that you invariably are right in such matters. You cannot imagine how much you have relieved me."

Boyd smiled, and shook his proffered hand, bowing him to the office door, where he bade him good-morning.

When Jimmie Coleman entered a little later, he found Boyd at the window still studying the letter; and the latter at once confided to him the occasion of Dickson's visit.

"And what do you really make of this, Felix?" inquired Coleman, curiously examining the letter.

Boyd laughed softly, with an odd gleam in one corner of his eye.

"Make of it, Jimmie?" said he. "Not very much more than I told Dickson. Still, it presents a few curious features. Notice that each word was cut from some book or paper."

"That's very evident."

"Now place the face of the page against the window pane, so that the light strikes through it. You find that you then can decipher the printing on the reverse side of the page from which the word in the letter was carefully cut."

"So I can, for a fact."

"Under the word 'design,' in the letter, you find 'Fr descant,' in small italics."

"Yes, it is quite plain."

"Under the word 'execute,' in the letter, you find the two words—'to exert.' Plainly, Jimmie, those two words, as well as the italics noted, formed parts of the definitions of the two words 'descant' and 'exertion,' on the reverse page from which the words 'design' and execute' were cut by the sender of this letter."

"Eureka!" cried Coleman. "It's dead open-and-shut, Felix, that the words of this letter were cut from an ordinary dictionary."

"Certainly it is, Jimmie," laughed Boyd; then he added, rather dryly: "Very possibly, Jimmie, I some day shall discover the dictionary from which they were cut."

Yet Mr. Felix Boyd gave the matter very little immediate attention. That afternoon he returned the letter to Dickson at his store in Maiden Lane, stating that he found nothing in it to warrant serious apprehensions, and he left the dealer in diamonds quite assured that his earlier fears were entirely groundless.

Boyd next called upon Dickson's bankers, who stated that the latter was a man of sterling integrity, whose word was as good as his bond, and that his family comprised a wife and seven charming children.

So Boyd let the matter drop, to take its own course, whether up or down, and ten days passed before the crash came. Then, as he was about going out to lunch one day, a policeman came rushing into his Pine Street office, crying excitedly :

"I say, Mr. Boyd! You are wanted down in Maiden Lane at once."

"By whom, Gaffney?' Boyd coolly inquired.

"By Jimmie Coleman, sir! There's the devil to pay in the store of Nathan Dickson, the diamond dealer."

ii

IT WAS but a little after noon, with the sun shining unusually hot from a clear May sky, when Felix Boyd reached Maiden Lane and joined Coleman in front of Dickson's place of business.

The store was a small one, occupying only the ground floor of a narrow brick building, that was wedged in between two much more imposing stone structures, looking much as if it had slipped in between such massive neighbors by some freak or mischance.

The single, broad window was protected with high wooden shutters, and the store door guarded with a stout iron grating, then closed and secured with a padlock. On a card tacked on the shutter of the door was rudely printed

OPEN THURSDAY MORNING

It being Wednesday, the card and the closed store plainly indicated that Dickson had planned to be absent for a day, and had left a notice when he should return.

On the street fronting the store was a crowd of spectators, kept back by several policemen, and Boyd found Coleman and an officer engaged in forcing ` the iron grating guarding the closed door.

"What's the trouble, asked, as he joined him.

The Central office man quickly looked up on hearing Boyd's voice.

"Ah, you're here! Good enough!" he exclaimed. "Recalling that letter, I hastened to send for you. I'm told there has been an explosion in here, a devil of a noise, and that Dickson has gone to his summer home for the day. I happened along just after the explosion was heard, and found Gibson, who occupies the upper floors, trying to get in here."

Boyd glanced at a tall, elderly man, who nodded in corroboration of Coleman's explanation. Boyd quickly asked:

"Did Dickson tell you he should be absent to-day, Mr. Gibson?"

"He did, sir, as he was closing up last night. He said he was going to his summer place to-day, to plan for occupying it a little later."

"Does he employ no clerks here, who could have kept the store open?"

"None, sir. He runs his business alone. I greatly fear that a robbery has been committed here. The explosion occurred about ten minutes ago, and was very severe, fairly shaking the upper floors."

Boyd glanced quickly at the window. An inner curtain, drawn below the tops of the window shutters outside, prevented a view of the interior of the store.

"Have you looked out back, Jimmie?" he demanded, quickly.

"Yes, first thing," cried Coleman. "The way is through that alley, and the back window is closed with an iron shutter on hinges, secured inside the shop. There is a round hole in it through which I looked, but the smoke in the store obscured everything. There has been an explosion in there all right,  but I saw no signs of thieves in the rear area, which lies a bit lower than the street. I tried to force a small cellar door back there, but it wouldn't give a hair, so I returned to tackle this one. Ah, now we're in!"

The iron grating finally had given way, and fell clanging upon the sidewalk. With an iron bar, Coleman then proceeded to force the lock of the door, an operation quickly accomplished, when he threw open the door and entered the shop.

Boyd quickly followed him, first glancing at one of the policeman, and saying, sharply:

"Stand here, Gaffney! Let no one else enter!"

Though the smoke now was partly dispelled, the shop was in semi-obscurity, and Coleman hastened to raise the curtain. Then a flood of light entered over the front shutters, and revealed the devastation within.

The shop was narrow, but quite deep, with a counter at one side, and a small inclosed office in front. Nearly at the rear was a large safe, partly fixed in the side wall, and fronted by an open space near the rear window.

A glance about the place quickly told what had happened. The heavy door of the safe lay on the floor, and a part of the side nearest the rear window was badly shattered, leaving the interior compartments of the safe almost entirely exposed and easy of access. That they had been robbed of the most of their valuable contents was at once apparent.

Furthermore, indicating the violence of the explosion, the counter was thrown awry, and the glass of the rear window was scattered in fragments over the floor, leaving only the secured iron shutter, through the round aperture in which entered a beam of sunlight from the rear area or yard.

On the broad sill of this window lay a large reading glass, similar to that which Dickson carried on his person; but of Dickson himself, or of the knaves guilty of perpetrating this midday burglary, there was not a sign.

"Whew!" whistled Coleman, the instant his gaze fell upon the scene "Here's a mess! A burglary in broad daylight!"

"Burglary, indeed!" exclaimed Boyd. "The crooks have made a clean sweep. This will settle me in Dickson's opinion. That patchwork letter of his had a wicked meaning, after all."

"I should say wicked!" cried Coleman, hurriedly opening the rear shutter, and springing out of the window. "I'll see what I can find out here, Felix."

"Go ahead!" cried Boyd. "I'll examine things in here."

Coleman returned in about five minutes, bearing in his hand a pair of soiled rubbers, with which he scrambled back through the window, remarking, rapidly:

"There are footprints in the soil of the alley, but not at all definite. Yet the crooks must have escaped by that way, and one of them probably wore these rubbers, for I found them under some refuse near the alley exit."

"Very likely," said Boyd, glancing at them. "Burglars frequently wear them  to muffle their steps indoors, Size eight, aren't they?"

A flight of stairs from one corner led to a dimly lighted cellar, to which Boyd quickly conducted his companion. At the foot of the stairs he halted, and pointed to a narrow door, the one Coleman vainly had tried to force from outside. Against it was a heavy piece of joist, one end of which was securely blocked several yards from the door.

"Humph!" ejaculated Coleman. "They went that way, and the timber shows how they secured the door after them. It was so adjusted as to fall into place when the door closed, and thus prevent the immediate entrance of any one anxious to learn the cause of the explosion. The delay gave the crooks a chance to get well away. They have done the job all right, covering their tracks well, and already have a long lead on the police. There's no question about that."

Boyd nodded indifferently, and led the way upstairs.

"You had better rush a message up to Dickson's wife, Jimmie," | said he. "Here is his city address. Have her, or some of his family, telegraph to Dickson, and bring him here as quickly as possible. He should show up by the middle of the afternoon."

"I'll do so at once," nodded Coleman, hastening to the front door, where he not only started a messenger for Dickson's residence, but also dispatched another to headquarters to report the extraordinary burglary.

When he returned he found Felix Boyd on his knees a few feet from the ruined safe, and between it and the rear window. He was intently engaged in studying, with the help of Dickson's large reading glass, the hard pine boards of the bare floor.

"What have you discovered there?" Coleman demanded, with immediate interest.

"Nothing much," muttered Boyd, glancing up. "Only this smutty mark across the floor, Jimmie. It begins here, and ends at the corner of the safe."

"What do you make. of it? What caused it?"

"It was caused by a fine fuse, Jimmie, with which the charge in the safe was exploded. In burning it scorched the floor a little, making this almost imperceptible dark line. At first sight I thought it was a narrow crack only, but this lens belonging to Dickson reveals its true character. Very kind of Dickson to have left a glass so handy."

There was in Boyd's voice an intonation so vaguely odd that it brought a look of perplexity to Coleman's attentive face, He could discern no more than had been pointed out to him, however, and he growled, a little impatiently:

"Well, what of it? What do you mean by that? We know the charge was exploded by some means, and what matters whether a fuse or an electric current was used?"

"It doesn't matter much, Jimmie," returned Boyd, still on his knees. "Yet I thought I would call your attention to the line. Here at this end of it is another feature, too, hardly discernible except with the glass."

"What's that?" inquired Cheran, stooping lower.

"Here are two curved lines, paralle! and scarce a quarter-inch apart," said Boyd, with his finger on the spot from which the fuse apparently had started. "They are very faint, almost like partly obliterated pencil marks. Can you see them, Jimmie? Here, take the glass."

"Yes, I can see them now," muttered Coleman, peering through the powerful lens. "But what of them?"

"Nothing of much consequence, I guess," Boyd slowly answered. "They appear to be faint scorches, like the other. It's odd, though, that both curve so regularly. Maybe they were caused by the flame of the match with which this end of the fuse was lighted. As you say, Jimmie, it doesn't matter much how it was done."

While he spoke, Boyd gazed oddly down at Coleman from the corner. of his eye, but the latter's attention was upon the floor, which he still studied with the glass.

"I don't make anything of it, Felix," he presently declared, arising to his feet. "I have sent to headquarters for assistance. We must lose no more time before getting the police after these scoundrels."

"Quite right," nodded Boyd, taking the reading glass and replacing it on the sill of the back window. "Since I see nothing more that I can do for you here, Jimmie, I believe I will go and lunch. I was about going when you sent for me."

"Very well. I shall wait here until the chief comes down."

"By Jove! I feel very sorry for Dickson," added Boyd, as he turned to go. "He surely will set me down for a blockhead of the first water. Who would have believed that that infernal letter carried between its deucedly crooked and patchwork lines, a hint at so audacious a crime as this? Yes, I feel very sorry for Dickson. I must run down here later in the day and try to square myself with him."

With which observation, to which Coleman made no reply, Mr. Felix Boyd passed out into Maiden Lane and departed.

The news of the extraordinary daylight burglary had spread rapidly, and a great gathering of people thronged the street.

Reporters and artists were hurrying to the scene of the crime, and soon the chief from the central office, accompanied by several of his shrewdest subordinates, put in an appearance.

Long before evening the story of the burglary was known throughout the city, and all the powers of the police were being strenuously applied to tracking the burglars.

Late in the afternoon Mr. Felix Boyd again visited the scene, expecting to find Dickson, and express his regrets over what had occurred. Nor was he disappointed, for Dickson had arrived at his store about three o'clock, well-nigh overwhelmed by the disaster befallen him. Boyd found him moaning and in tears, crushed under a despair much too great for expression, and he hastened to excuse as best he could his own obvious blindness.

"Oh, I don't blame you, Mr. Boyd; I don't blame you," Dickson tearfully reiterated, in response to Boyd's expression of regret.

"I'm ruined, utterly ruined, but I don't blame you, sir. Ne mortal man could have foreseen this from that blind letter. I am a victim of burglars, Mr. Boyd; and I feel sure that I have secret enemies, also, whe are striving to undo me. I'm bankrupt. utterly ruined, but I don't blame you in the least."

"That's very kind of you, Dickson, I am sure," said Felix Boyd, "How great is your loss?"

"I cannot tell yet, not precisely," groaned Dickson. "Two hundred thousand at least, and probably more. Many of the diamonds were consignments only, and I never can make good for them, never! I am utterly ruined, but I don't blame you, sir. You advised me the best you knew."

"I certainly did, Dickson," said Boyd; sorrowfully. "Were you at your shore house when informed of the burglary ?"

"Yes. I went out there alone this morning to arrange for opening the house next week. I received a telegram from my wife, conveying the dreadful news, and I at once returned. God help me, Mr. Boyd, I'm a broken man from this hour. I never shall recover, never! But I don't blame you, sir; I don't blame you in the least."

iii

"ARE YOU booked for anything special to-night, Jimmie?" inquired Felix Boyd of Coleman, in, the afternoon of the second day following the burglary in Maiden Lane.

"Nothing more pressing than Dickson's affair."

"Have the detectives struck any trail worth following?"

"Not as yet. It's an infernally blind case," declared Coleman. "Do you know, Boyd, I begin to believe you are right, in suspecting that some master knave is at work in this locality."

Boyd laughed indifferently, and made no direct reply.

"You can let Dickson's case drop until to-morrow, Jimmie," said he. "I want you to make a night run into the suburbs with me, so meet me at the Thirty-fourth Street ferry at seven o'clock. You'll learn for what a little later. And by the way, Jimmie, you had better come in disguise, and have a gun with you!"

Coleman knew Boyd too well to attempt to hasten any disclosures. He merely signified his assent, and promptly at seven o'clock the two men, both effectively disguised, met at the ferry mentioned.

Still Boyd disclosed nothing. He crossed the river with his companion, boarded a train at the Long Island railway station, and entered into conversation with Coleman until they reached South Woodhaven, some after dark, There they left the train, and Boyd soon was leading the way across the broad strip of country lying along the waters of Jamaica Bay, the salty air from which fanned their flushed faces.

"What the dickens are you after out here?" Coleman finally ventured to demand, with some impatience.

Boyd laughed, and quietly rejoined:

"I am after Dickson's burglars, Jimmie."

"The devil you say!"

"Easy! We are nearing our destination, and must not be seen nor heard. Still, I believe we are well in advance of our quarry, who possibly may not show up at all. Yet I would bet that somebody will put in an appearance, in which case I must know what sort of a trick is to be turned here to-night. Carefully now, and come this way. Yonder is Dickson's place."

They had emerged from a narrow strip of woods, and in the near distance the dark outlines of a commodious wooden dwelling, with a stable somewhat removed, were discernible against the starry sky. The isolated place was shrouded in gloom, and the solitude and silence were broken only by crickets and insects in the long grass, or the occasional cry of some night bird overhead.

Closely followed by Coleman, Boyd skirted a hedge until he arrived at a point back of the stable, to the rear wall of which he cautiously stole and listened. It was as silent as a tomb within, and Boyd next forced open the sliding wooden shutter of a square window, used only for removing refuse.

This gave them easy access to the interior, and Boyd, with a whispered word of caution, led the way in, and closed the shutter. This left them in Egyptian darkness, but Boyd quickly produced an electric pocket lantern, with which he shed a single beam of light across the floor.

"We are here first, Jimmie, and possibly last," he softly remarked. "I don't look for others before the next train comes out, yet we'd best be quiet and cautious. Come this way for a moment, however. There is a contrivance here which I wish to show you. I never saw anything just like it."

"Evidently you've been here before," muttered Coleman, not a little puzzled:

"Only once," replied Boyd. "That was yesterday. Here's the thing I spoke of."

It appeared to be only a barrel,  placed upright on a mound of loose hay, directly under the edge of the overhanging mow just above. Boyd quietly removed the perforated head, however, and flashed a beam of light into the barrel, revealing several startling facts.

There was no lower head in the barrel, which stood squarely on the loose hay, and contained a number of crumpled pages, evidently torn from some book. Precisely in the middle of the barrel, and fixed upright in the loose hay and paper at the bottom, was a partly burned paraffin candle.

"Good God!" muttered Coleman. "Whats the meaning of this? Is it a contrivance for firing the barn?"

"Precisely," whispered Felix Boyd. "Clever, isn't it? Had the candle burned low enough to ignite the hay and loose papers, the whole place would speedily have been in a blaze, entirely destroying this incriminating evidence.  Note the craftiness of it. The barrel hoods the light, precluding observation from outside, and prevents a draught from extinguishing the candle. Very long candles of this kind can easily be obtained, long enough to burn for twelve hours. How easy for an incendiary to fire a stable in this way, and deny having been near it for a day at least."

"Infernally clever!" muttered Coleman.

"The candle is about half burned out. Who can have extinguished it?"

"I did," laughed Boyd. "I happened out here yesterday morning, and found it burning. I have an idea that the would-be incendiary will show up later, to learn why his scheme failed, and to plant a second candle."

"Good heavens, Boyd, whom do you suspect of this?"

"Dickson fears that he has secret enemies, and it may be their work," said Boyd, dryly. "Possibly we shall learn. Have a look at this loose page, Jimmie. What do you make of it?"

"By all the gods, Boyd, it is a leaf from a dictionary!"

"The dictionary from which Dickson's patchwork letter was made," chuckled Boyd. "Quiet, dear fellow! There's no knowing when visitors may arrive. I'll replace this head, and it will be assumed that the candle accidentally expired, possibly being averse to such infamous knavery as arson. That's as we found it. Now to cover, Jimmie, for a long and silent wait."

In the intense gloom of the stable they patiently waited, minute after minute, never speaking, oftentimes scarce breathing, until nearly two hours had passed.

Then their tireless vigil was rewarded, and the supreme cleverness of Mr. Felix Boyd clearly demonstrated. A side door of the stable was quietly opened, and a man bearing a dark lantern cautiously entered.

He listened for several moments, then approached the barrel and examined it. Then he removed the partly burned candle, and got another, fully twenty-four inches long, from a stall near by.

This he adjusted in the barrel, as before, then struck a match and lighted it. As he did so, bending above the open barrel, the two watchers saw that he was a stout fellow, with red hair and beard. Having lighted the candle, he replaced the perforated barrel head, and stole out of the stable by the way he had entered.

Boyd laid a warning hand on Coleman's arm, checking him until the incendiary had closed and locked the door. Then he murmured, softly:

"This way, Jimmie! this way. Carefully— not a sound!"

Moving quickly, yet with the utmost caution, they open a rear window and reached the ground outside. Then Boyd led the way around the stable, hugging the side wall, and gazed toward Dickson's house. The incendiary, barely discernible in the darkness, was then emerging from a shed near the dwelling, around the corner of which he quickly disappeared.

"After him, Jimmie!" whispered Boyd. "Quietly!"

Both started across the open grounds, but had covered hardly a rod when the night air was rent with such a wild shriek for help that their blood fairly curdled. Then came a pistoi shot, instantly followed by another and another.

A muttered oath broke from Boyd, and his face grew hard as flint.

"By God, the game is off!" he fiercely cried, rushing toward the corner of the house, around which the bearded man had disappeared. "This way, Jimmie! Use your gun! Drop any man you lay eyes on!"

His voice rang like a trumpet on the night, and was echoed by startling cries from beyond the dwelling. As Boyd turned the corner of it, three men were fairly flying across the grounds, and already nearing the strip of woods previously mentioned. A fourth man, the one with a red beard, lay prostrate on the earth, shot through the breast and breathing his last.

Boyd followed the three men, firing shot after shot at them as he ran; but the darkness prevented any accuracy, and within half a minute all three had vanished in the woods. Pursuit obviously would have proven only vain, and Boyd dashed back to look after their victim.

He found Coleman raising the stricken man, who was bleeding profusely from a gaping wound in his right breast; and as Boyd kneeled beside him, ghastly enough in the starlight, the dying man drew his final breath, gasping, with a last convulsive effort:

"Wy— wy— wy."

Then he was gone, with the unfinished phrase or word, perhaps, silenced on his dead lips. Coleman dropped him, a dead weight, upon the ground, and drew from his clinched hand several small cloth packages tied with braid which he was convulsively gripping.

"By all the gods, Felix!" he cried, as he felt their contents. "The stolen diamonds!"

Boyd passed his hand across the dead man's face, sweeping away the red beard and wig with the movement.

"Just as I thought, Jimmie!" he said, coolly. "Behold!"

The dead man was Nathan Dickson, the diamond dealer of Maiden Lane!

iv

THE DETAILS of what followed that fateful evening are not essential, and it was not until the next morning that Felix Boyd, seated in his office, disclosed to Coleman the remarkable thread of deductions by which he had accomplished his great work.

"It was a curious case, Jimmie," said he, over his pipe; "and not entirely satisfactory. Yet we recovered the diamonds, and so saved their rightful owners from serious losses."

"I should say so," declared the central office man. "But you beat me, Felix, on my word! I'm blessed if I see how you fathomed it."

"I will tell you how," said Boyd. "From the first I suspected Dickson of some secret game on his own hook, one not involving others. The letter he brought me betrayed him. To begin with, the substance of it lacked the true ring. Then the irregular lines and slanted words indicated that it had been prepared by some one who could not see well; and when I got him to write me his town address, and saw him compelled to hold his reading glass with one hand while he wrote with the other, awkwardly bowing his head nearly to the page, I was convinced that Dickson himself had made up the letter, and had,found such paste work decidedly delicate and difficult. Furthermore, that the spot sponged from his vest that morning, at my mention of which he appeared a little disturbed, was neither more nor less than a spot of paste with which he had daubed himself, and subsequently sponged away."

"By Jove! that was clever! But why didn't you call him down at once?"

"Because I wished to discover his little game," smiled Boyd. "It was no funeral of mine, Jimmie, if Dickson wished to write himself such a letter. It certainly indicated some secret design, as did his visit to me upon such a pretext. But it is an old dodge, Jimmie, that of averting suspicion by appearing to confide in the police or a detective. So I decided that I would let Dickson have what rope he wanted, and so discover to what it led."

"I see now."

"Next came the supposed burglary," continued Boyd: "My investigations in Dickson's store soon convinced me that he alone was the burglar. He held large consignments of diamonds, upon which, if he could invent a plausible robbery, he could subsequently realize."

"Surely! But how did he accomplish it?"

"It was quite plain to me. He employed no help, hence he easily contrived to drill and charge the safe without being observed. Next he planned his day away, and what should occur during his absence, which would free him of subsequent suspicion. Ordinarily, a man could not blow open a safe from which he is miles away. Dickson's chief difficulty lay in firing the fuse at a certain time. Yet he accomplished it in a most original and remarkable way."

"How so?"

"He used his reading glass, Jimmie, which he so placed on the sill of the rear window, that it received the beam of sunlight through the round hole in the iron shutter, and focused the rays at a certain point on the floor. The intense heat at the focal point was sufficient not only to ignite the end of the fuse, but even to. slightly scorch the pine floor. The two curved lines which I showed you gave me my clew to the mystery."

"In what way?"

"The sun, as you know, deviates very slightly in its course each day. The day before the trick was to be turned, Dickson experimented with his lens to determine the precise spot on which the sun's rays would focus at a certain time. In so doing, one of the tiny scorched curves was inscribed on the floor, as the intense focal point followed the motion of the sun. Next day, however, the sun was a little higher in the heavens, and the corresponding curved line came parallel, and just the least bit removed from the other; but near enough to fire the fuse Dickson had left for it in his closed store, Jimmie."

"By Jove, Felix, you're a wonder!"

"Not at all," laughed Boyd. "You saw as much as I did, only you did not see through it."

"Plainly not."

"Dickson had so carefully planned all this," continued Boyd; "that the reading glass would fall over upon the sill with any jar, and the explosion was sufficient for that. Further convincing me that my theory was correct, the aperture in the shutter was unusually low, nearly at the sill, a condition necessary for one wishing to look in, the rear yard being considerably below the window. So I put this and that together, Jimmie, and felt sure of my man.

"And then, Felix?"

"Then I required absolute proofs, Jimmie, since theories do not always impress, juries," responded Boyd. "The fact that Dickson had gone to his shore house after rifling his safe before exploding it, led me to think that he might conceal the diamonds in that locality. So I slipped down there early next morning, and investigated his stable. I did not find the diamonds, but I found the contrivance for firing the stable."

"I see."

"Dickson. evidently intended to give the impression that he had secret foes, who were maliciously persecuting him, and thus arouse public sympathy and that of his foreign consignees. So he planned also, to burn his own stable, in such a way as to evade personal suspicion. The candle was burning when I got there, and was still good for several hours before reaching the loose hay. Of course I extinguished it, and at once decided that, when his scheme failed, Dickson would again attempt it. I was not mistaken, for he came promptly to time."

Coleman smiled and nodded.

"But his violent death, and the three men who murdered him?" he cried, inquiringly. "Who were they?"

"Ah, Jimmie, there is where the shoe pinches," said Boyd, gravely. "It now is obvious enough, yet I had not suspected it. Plainly those two crimes did not originate in Dickson' s brain. I have learned that he has lost heavily on the curb, Jimmie, which doubtless drove him to these felonious designs in the hope of keeping above water. But Dickson's brain never conceived those two masterly schemes."

"You believe—"

"I believe, Jimmie, that some master knave about here suggested them to him, and showed him the way, yet craftily kept himself in the background. Dickson did the work, and probably his advisers were promised a part of the profits. It may have become Dickson's design to keep the whole, however, the work being successfully done. Hence he must have taken the diamonds to his shore place on his first visit, probably concealing them in the shed from which we saw him emerge."

"Surely! Surely!"

"That his advisers distrusted and subsequently watched him, plainly appears in that they must have followed him down there last night. He must have removed the diamonds from the shed, intending to carry them back to town. Instead, he was viciously assailed by the men who had shadowed him, who doubtless meant to end him, as they did, and make off with the entire lot of stones. My shouts alarmed them, and drove them to flight, before they could accomplish their object. That we found Dickson clutching the diamonds in his death-grip confirms this theory."

"Indeed, yes! But what do you think he tried to say atthe finish? We caught one word, Felix, It sounded like why—or wy!"

"It may have meant— why, the beginning of a question," said Boyd. "Or it possibly may have been— Wy, the first syllable of Wykoff!"

"By all the gods, that's so!" cried Coleman. "Meaning that Wykoff was his assassin. If this theory—"

But Mr. Felix Boyd interrupted him with an impressive head-shake.

"There is nothing in theories alone, Jimmie," said he, firmly. "Proofs, not theories, are what we must have. As I have said befofe, curious things are cropping out about here, and there's a master knave in the background. I mean to find him some day. Meantime, Jimmie, I must prevent his getting a line on me before I get a line on him. So you take all the credit of solving this Dickson mystery, Jimmie, dear fellow, and let me remain obscurely in the background— like the master knave! For when we come together and lock horns, Jimmie, as we surely shall, it must be on an equal footing, Jimmie. So, you, dear fellow, take all the credit for recovering Dickson's diamonds."

______________

2: The Real Adventure

W. M. Rouse

William Merriam Rouse, 1884-1937

Chronicle (Adelaide) 14 Jan 1922

Argosy Allstory Weekly, 20 Aug 1921

HAROLD Lansing sat in his comfortable suite in the hotel and gazed sadly at his useless cheque-book. Very nearly hopeless longing was in his pale-blue eyes, and the stamp of unfulfilled desire upon his not unpleasant face, as he  stared from the depths of a cushioned chair at that which could command all things save the one he most wanted. Harold Lansing was twenty-six years old. and he had never had an adventure in his life.

Three months before he had been a fairly well-satisfied clerk with a zest for historical novels and sweet chocolate. By day he toiled, and by night be ewashbuckled through past centuries in his hall bedroom, dreaming of adventures. His dreams might have died into nothingness had not his aunt died and left him with something like a thousand a year on his hands and the gates of the world wide open.  He plunged into an orgy of historical novels, from which he emerged with a Boal-moving desire actually to cross rapiers for the love of a beleaguered damsel.

But the world was cold, and on the night when he so sadly considered his cheque book he would have shut his eyes and held out his gold-mounted fountain pen to anyone who would have furnished him with a ready-to-climb parapet— a romance with adjustable parts. He eiihed, fend nose to his full, slender height of five feet six. There was nothing to do but get another book from the library; he had seen every show with a sword-tnrust or a gunshot in it.

Outside this moodiness left him. He was once more a cavalier. For the love of an imaginary Princess Yvette, who clung to his arm, he thrust at an unreal villain; He cut through a corner of Soho. Small, decaying houses and poorly-lighted streets took on a mediaeval look. Harold could feel the plume nodding from his jaunty hat, and again his stick became a glittering rapier. He was in old Paris, waving a jealous rival's men-at-arms for the pressure of a fair hand that reached to him through a grated window.

The dream vanished as the door of a house immediately in front of him was suddenly flung open and a woman's voice cried out. Jarred back to reality, Harold stopped. At the top of the steps stood a wonderful creature who might have been the Princess Yvette of the Demoiselle de Beaulieu. Her golden hair gleamed. Her robes— Harold could not name those graceful garments a dress— clung to her perfect outlines, undulating as she moved.

'Ze cops! A moi!' she cried; and then flung back into the house a stream of beautiful words which Harold knew must be French. His heart pounded, for he felt that at last Adventure had noticed him. But he suddenly asked himself, what if, within that romantic house, there was a hard-jawed, hard-fisted creature who lad never read an historical novel?

'Help me, monsieur!' In an instant she had reached the sidewalk and was dragging Harold by the arm up the steps. 'Keel him for mel'

They were in a tiny hallway. Harold swayed, but the grasp of the ladys firm white hand was not to be denied. Moreover, she was as big as he was.

From a room at the left came a masculine roar. For a heartbreaking moment lights danced before the eyes of Harold Lansing, his mouth went dry, and then—

He stood in the presence of the only man he had ever seen whom he felt absolutely that he could thrash! A diminutive Frenchman, not more than five feet tall, faced them. His hands were buried in his abundant hair, and deep emotion distorted his features.

'Miserable!'  he thundered.

'Beast!' retorted the lady.

'Have a care, mongsewer, whom you insultl' It was Harold Lansing speaking new, with folded arms and a scowl. 'I am here to protect this lady!'

'Pooh! Pig of a dude!'

'Venter Saint Grease!' shouted Harold, with the firm belief that he was swearing in French. He launched a swift thrust with his cane.

'Oof!' gasped the little man, in umversal language, as he reeled against the wall and placed both hands to has side.

The lady clapped her hands together and laughed.

'Ah! Tres bien!' she cried.

'Madam,' the little man panted, l go! I leave you!'

'No, no!' She was swept from exultation to genuine alarm. 'Remain, Pierre, I beg you!'

'By the sword of— of— of—'

The champion faltered whilo the other Silooked at him expectantly. The next instant he had leapt and gripped Pierre by the hair and wit i necktie. 'Where do you want him put, madam?'

The Frenchman squirmed, but he was held in what his captor believed to be a vice-like grip. The lady's hand went to her mouth in a pretty gesture of dismay.

'Do not muss him up! Gently! For the love of Mike!'

'His life is in your hands, not mine!' And Harold tightened his grasp.

'Up ze stairs,' she commanded, with decision.

He shoved the little man up the stairs, and then Pierre disappeared in the dimness above.

'You must go now, monsieur!' she said.

'But I want to— I meant I'd like to— C-can't I see you again?'

It seemed that there was an invitation in her eyes, although her manner urged him towards the door. She smiled and shrugged the shrug that he had read and dreamed of.

'Me, I am here always!'

Harold Lansing found himself backing out and down the steps. The door closed. He walked upon elastic pavements and through ozone that sent the blood pounding to his head, blurring streets and people.  He reached his hotel in a whirl.

Then a thought sent all the elation out of him. He sank into a chair with a feeling of utter desolation as he remembered that he did not know her name of even the number of the house!

One kind of despair followed another; there was the husband, tangible if small, to be reckoned with. He might even call the police! At the thought of a policeman Harold Lansing shivered.

IT WAS close to noon when he awoke and scrambled out of bed. Half an hour later a tray of food grew cold while Harold dressed for the street, composed a note. When he had finished he read it over slowly, with the honest pride of achievement:—

Mon cher Madam.

For your sake I cannot come for you while he is there. Meet me on the south side of Charing Cross to-night at 8 p.m. sharp, and we will go to a show.

Yours till death,

Harold Lansing.

With his coat-collar turned up and his hat well pulled down. Harold approached the block where she lived— for he remembered that much— and began to patrol the street cautiously. An hour passed, while his hope went down and down. Then the door of a house opened, and she came forth.

Undoubtedly it was she, but the heart of her lover was wrung. She was bare-headed, a long apron covered the clinging garments, and in her hands a broom went deftly, back and forth across the steps.

'Hist!' he whispered, as he came to an abrupt halt in front of the steps. He held out the note. She backed away, with the broom held defensively. Harold swept off his hat.

'It is I!' he exclaimed hoarsely. 'Can you meet me to-night? The billet dux tells where!'

The lady beamed and grew grave all in a moment. She took the note and hesitated. 'For a show! Read the note! Pleasel'

'Oh, ze theatre!' she smiled. 'Yoo bet!'

Harold put on his hat with a flourish and strode off, divided between joy at her promise and fear that monsieur lurking at a castle window, might have seen him.

Back at the hotel, Harold telephoned for a dozen white ties and began to assemble his costume for the evening. When, after a bite of dinner, he arrayed himself, the mirror said that there would be no more carefully groomed young man in any London theatre that evening.

A beautiful vision in a long, shimmering coat and a big, droopy hat was waiting for him at the place of meeting. It was she.

'Even your name remains a mystery to me,' he said, as they walked along.

'My name? It is Celeste Lapointe.'

What a fitting name for an angel was Celeste! But Lapointe! She had been married to that fellow against her will, no doubt, as was the generally known custom of France. He turned upon her a look that was meant to convey unutterable things, but just then the curtain went up and his soul was carried over the footlights into a world where daggers flashed and kingdoms were lost for the pressure of a lady's hand.

It was before the last act that Harold, finding that chocolates were as much to Celeste as the age of chivalry was to him, left his seat.

Half-way towards the door he whirled and turned back. At the entrance was Pierre: and upon his face dwelt a look of vindictiveness that augured ill for anyone who might cross his path.

'We're  followed!' he whispered to his companion. 'We must leave this place at once!'

'We have to make the getaway?' asked Celeste. She gathered up her hat end her oonv posuro quickly, while Harold secured their coats by lavish bribery.

'Come with me, monsieur,' she said, when they got outside, 'and I will make you one beautiful supper. Un malade! Eh— one little glass of wine?'

'Won't he be there?'

'He? Pierre? No, It is Saturday night and he will go to ze theatre. Not until Sunday will I see him.'

This time Harold had opportunity to observe in what manner of dwelling the lady of his heart lived. Two rooms and a tiny kitchen she showed him, after she had exchanged her evening wrap for the checked apron of the morning. The rooms were as neat as housewifery care could make them.

'Do you cook like this all the time?' Harold asked, as she made the supper.

'Yes,' with a smile. 'I cook, I sweep, I sew!'

'Zounds!' he scowled. 'A man who can't appreciate this ought to have his head knocked off!'

Thereupon she again fell silent, and began to crumble a bit of bread. She looked up. Harold realised that she was struggling with some problem of importance.

'You have ze good job, monsieur?'

'I've got a job that works while you sleep!'

It was his cryptic way of saying thas his money drew interest while he took his repose, but the effect upon her was not encouraging. A look of sorrow came into her eyes— her head drooped.

'Ah!' she exclaimed.

'Listen, Celeste! I—'

'Pardon,' came in a sneering bass from the doorway. 'Me, I will have a word with madame.'

Harold leaped to his feet. There stood Pierre the abominable.

'Begone, vile wretch!' shouted Harold.  'Get out or I'll thrash you! You have made this tender, lovely woman's life a thing of scorn! Go!'

'No, no!' She flung pleading hands towards her champion. 'You do not un'erstand.'

'This man must go out of your life for ever!' cried Harold.

Pierre wavered an instant; then turned and fled. The front door slammed behind him. Harold wheeled to find madame sobbing.

'It's all right,' he said, tenderly, with an arm about her shoulders. 'I'll take you out of here to some safe place, and then, when things are all fixed up, we'll get married.'

'I cannot Harold! I cannot marry a— what you call it— a crook!'

'Who's a crook?' he demanded.

'You have confess!' she exclaimed, through her tears. 'You work while people sleep! You run from ze cops! A crook— not for mine!'

'Heavens!' exclaimed Harold, fervently,

'It is soon— but I love you like— anything!'

'Listen!' urged Harold frantically. 'My aunt died, and left me money. I'm not a crook. And I can prove it!'

She raised a tear-stained face.

'I believe you,' she whispered.

This was relief, but Harold's soul was still shadowed. The outraged husband might take it into his head to come back with a policeman.

'We'd better get away from here,' he feuggested. 'Mouseewer might come back with a cop.'

'Pierre?' she smiled radiantly. 'He can do not'ing!'

'But, Pierre—'

'Ze insect Pierre? My husban'? Almost I t'row you down!'

Harold ran shaky fingers through his hair. 'But he acted like a husband, and—'

'Oh! He is my boarder. The one who pays always his rent! But he wants ze fresh towel ever day! Who is he to ask for ze fresh towel every day?'

Suddenly Harold realised that there were no barriers between them. He swept her into his arms. Then it came to him in a flash of illumination, that perhaps he was entering upon she most potent and interesting adventure of them all.

_______________

3: The Spider’s Eye

William Le Queux

1864-1927

Popular Magazine, Dec 1904

William Tufnell Le Queux

WHEN, just before midnight, last Christmas Eve, I descended at Calais Quay from the evergrinding sleeping car in which I had spent the last forty-eight hours from Rome, I stretched my weary limbs and breathed the salt air of the sea with satisfaction, notwithstanding the gale that was blowing.

Before me glared the electric lights of the Dover mail boat, on board which my fellow passengers hurried; but, with the knowledge of an habitual traveler, I knew that we carried the inward China mail, and that fully half an hour must elapse before it was shipped. Therefore I strolled into the empty buffet, ordered half a fowl— the like of which one can get nowhere else in the world but at the Calais-Maritime— and leisurely began my supper.

Save for a small hand bag, I had no luggage, for I was crossing Europe as messenger from the British embassy in Rome, and beneath my clothes, in the well-worn belt, reposed an urgent cipher dispatch addressed to his majesty’s principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. A crisis had arisen in Europe— one of those ever-recurring scares— and I was glad of it, for it gave me an opportunity of coming home for a flying visit, and of spending Christmas with my own people.

Scarcely had I commenced my meal when there entered the great buffet a tall, dark-haired, very handsome young woman in fur toque and heavy traveling cloak, whom I recognized as having been my fellow traveler all the way from the Italian capital. She was alone, and had occupied a compartment at the further end of the wagon-lit, but during the previous day, as we sat vis-à-vis in the restaurant between Turin and Modena, I had entered into conversation with her.

She was Italian, and spoke only that language, therefore she seemed grateful for a chat that passed away those idle hours. I had found her inexpressibly charming— a lady, without a doubt. She wore a wedding ring upon her finger, and I wondered who and where was her husband. When I saw her enter the restaurant I rose, bowed and, with a word of apology, invited her to my table. Perhaps it was a liberty, but cosmopolitan life abroad is conducive to freedom of manner.

Our crossing was a frightful one. Ere we left Calais harbor my friend, Captain Birch, confided to me that had not the morrow been Christmas Day, he would not have attempted it. Yet my companion and myself sat together in the “shelter” on deck, and after three hours of misery arrived at Dover, and entered the hearse-like coaches of the train for Charing Cross.

She interested me. Her natural grace, her modest reserve and her keen sense of humor were alike delightful, while from the purity of her Italian and the slight aspirate of the “cs” I knew that she was Tuscan.

She intended to stay at the Carlton Hotel, wherever that was— for it was her first visit to London— and she was awaiting her husband to join her there. Yes; I might call if I wished. She would be most delighted to see me— tomorrow was Natale, and she would be alone, and dull. I promised to call, and on arriving at Charing Cross saw her two trunks through the customs. The officers, knowing me as a constant traveler, chalked her boxes without opening them.

At five o’clock on Christmas Day, after lunching with the governor down at Horsham, I was shown into her private salon at the Carlton. She had given me the name of Orsi, but I found that she was really the Baroness Orsi, and a well-known figure in Florentine society.

As she rose to greet me I saw that she wore a beautiful gown of gray cloth, the elegance of which spoke mutely of the Rue de la Paix, and with her hat off and her hair well dressed, she presented a figure far more brilliant than in her plain traveling gown.

“Ah! Signor Charlton, I am so pleased you have come!’ she cried, gladly, in Italian, extending her hand. “I have been so lonely all day. How sad your London is! They said that there was so much bustle and traffic, and yet it seems deserted. I am disappointed.”

I explained that, it being Christmas Day, everyone was either at home or away in the country.

We gossiped on until the dressing gong rang, when cf a sudden she said:

“I wonder, Signor Charlton, if you would put aside ceremony and dine with me? It is so very dull for me, for I haven’t even a maid to talk with.”

The prospect of dining tête-à-tête with a pretty woman is never distasteful to a man, yet I recollected that her husband might object to such an unconventionality. The baroness recognized the reason of my hesitation, and hastened to assure me that she was desirous of introducing me to him. Therefore I took a cab round to my rooms in Ryder Street, dressed, and an hour later was eating my Christmas dinner with my pretty companion.

She had changed into a superb gown of black, trimmed with silver sequins, and around her throat wore a rope of splendid pearls. There were no rings upon her fingers save the golden band of matrimony, yet so handsome was she that every head in the room turned to look at her and to whisper in admiration.

Somehow I had entertained a distinct belief that I had either seen her photograph in some illustrated paper, or that I had met her somewhere before. But when at last I raised my glass to her, and wished her “A merry Christmas,” she dropped her great, dark eyes, and, sighing, said:

“No, signore, that cannot be. Mine must, unfortunately, be a very unhappy one.”

I was surprised, but made no remark. We finished our meal, and she rose, and, with her long train of shimmering sequins sweeping the carpet, drew herself up and walked down the room, all heads being turned at her departure.

Upstairs in her private salon she sank into a low chair, her bare elbows on her knees, her pointed chin resting upon her hands, gazing in silence into the fire.

I spoke to her in sympathy, offering what assistance I could, but she made no reply. She was thinking deeply, her gaze fixed upon the embers.

“I was a fool!” she cried, suddenly, turning tome. “A fool! I had no idea they would follow me here.”

“Whom?”

“My enemies! Ah!” she added, in a hoarse voice, “you don’t know— you cannot know my peril. I am a doomed woman. It is not your fault, but mine, for inviting you here. Only, I warn you to have a care of yourself. They are bold and unscrupulous in their vengeance.”

“Doomed!” I cried. “I really don’t understand you. Explain. If you feel yourself in danger, you have only to seek police protection. It is very simple in London.”

She smiled bitterly, saying:

“You cannot, unfortunately, know. If I dared tell you you would pity me—  you would know the awful burden of grief and unhappiness that has to-night crushed my heart— you would recognize the deadly peril in which I hourly exist.”

I strove for a long time to comfort her, standing beside her, my hand laid tenderly upon her arm. She, however, seemed filled with grave apprehensions of the future.

Again and again I tried to learn the meaning of her enigmatical words, but she steadfastly refused to satisfy me. She only said:

“It is as I feared— I am a marked woman.”

Suddenly a rap at the door startled us. She sprang to her feet, while I rose in quick expectancy. It proved to be a waiter, who handed her a card. At sight of it she bit her lip and turned pale as death.

“The gentleman says he must see you at once, madame,” exclaimed the man.

“Very well,” she answered, hoarsely. “Show him up.” And then she stood white and rigid.

“Signor Charlton,” she gasped, as soon as the waiter had closed the door, “I am in peril—deadly peril. You can save me if you will.”

“How?” I asked, anxious to be of service to my distressed companion.

“By— by passing for one brief half hour as my husband. You will, won’t you? To this man I must introduce you as the Baron Giovanni Orsi. Recollect, we were married a year ago; we live in Florence; you are English, with an Italian title; my name was Brunetti before marriage— Velia Brunetti.”

"But—"

“You must,” she urged, “to save me. He will want you to sign a legal document. You will do so, won’t you?”

And scarcely could I reply before the door opened, and there entered a short, thin-faced, elderly man of a rather overdressed type and a Jewish cast of features. No second glance was necessary to discern that he also was Italian.

The greeting in Italian between the pair was of a formal character, but the next instant my companion introduced me as her husband, the baron, while I learned that our visitor was a notary public named Carlini, who had come from Milan.

Taking from his pocket a formidable bundle of papers, he began to arrange them with a business-like air, expressing regret at troubling me at that hour, but he had arrived posthaste from Italy only an hour before.

“The formal transfers of the property are all here,” he added. ‘They await only the signatures of the Signor Barone.”

“Sign them, Giovanni,” urged my pseudo-wife, bringing me pen and ink. “You'll be glad afterward that you’ve got rid of the property.”

It was one thing to assist a pretty woman in distress, but quite another to commit forgery. Our eyes met. I saw  that she was desperate, therefore I took up the pen and scrawled “Giovanni Orsi” half a dozen times on the papers the notary presented, while he countersigned them, and, after some remarks about a sale, of which I was in complete ignorance, he rose, bowed profoundly and left.

The moment he had gone I knew I had acted foolishly. Some remarkable and profound mystery surrounded my handsome companion, but what it was I had not the slightest idea. Why the fact that we had dined together should bring upon me a blood vengeance, or why it was necessary for me to pass as her husband, was an utter enigma.

I walked back to Ryder Street full of strange reflections.

NEXT EVENING, the night of Boxing Day, I returned to the Carlton, and again ate my dinner in her company, for she had urged me, in order to save her, to continue to pass as the baron.

“You shall know everything later on,” she promised. “I know all this must strike you as strange, but it is not half so curious as the circumstances in which I to-night find myself.”

Hers was a superb figure, in a beautiful gown of pale pink chiffon, and when, after dining, she invited me to accompany her to an evening party, I really felt nothing loath.

Upstairs she handed me a piece of paper on which was written, “Mrs. Marston, 118 Pembridge Square W..,” asking me how far distant it was. I explained that it was in Kensington, and we drove thither.

An elderly man-servant conducted us up to the drawing room, and I found myself bowing over the hand of a tall, fair-haired woman, who had a host of well-dressed guests about her.

Our hostess spoke Italian, saying:

“I am really delighted to make your acquaintance, baron. We have heard so much of you.”

And then I found myself tacked on to a rather pretty girl in blue, who afterward gave us some music.

Many of the guests were foreigners of a type that, abroad, I should have avoided, and the baroness seemed well known to them. Yet I recollected that in London foreign life moves in a very queer circle.

Presently I noticed the baroness standing aside speaking earnestly with a thin, consumptive-looking Frenchman, with scraggy, fair beard, who stood listening attentively, until of a sudden he raised his finger, indicative of silence, and with a glance at me turned quickly and left her side.

When I handed her into the hansom to return I found her trembling. She could scarcely speak. Something had occurred; but what it was, I had no idea.

“Misfortune has again followed me!” she gasped, when at last she could sufficiently control herself. “I must fly— to-night! We are both in peril of our lives. Ah! I had never suspected this. It was foolish to expose you to such danger, but I did not anticipate such a result. We must separate. I shall leave London in secret and go to stay where they cannot find me— with a Mrs. Beverley, who was at the convent school with me in Bologna. She lives at Houghton Manor, Grantham. Will you take charge of my luggage and go somewhere with it— say to some good hotel in the north— and there await me? I'll join you as soon as all is safe. We must aid each other. You are in the same deadly peril as myself.”

I hesitated. The mysterious gesture of that consumptive-looking foreigner had aroused my suspicions. Besides, I felt sure that I had overheard her conversing with another woman in very good English, although she had affected to me not to understand it. By posing as her husband I had already placed myself in a position of considerable danger, it seemed; but her request that I should take her luggage, leave London and live openly as the baron increased the mystery. What could be her motive?

That she existed in deadly terror I could not fail to recognize, but in what manner I had imperiled myself, save to incur the just wrath of the baron, I could not discern.

She saw my hesitation, and, laying her hand upon my arm, earnestly said:

“Do me this one favor, Signor Charlton— for your own sake! When you know the truth you will see why this parting is absolutely necessary, and why I should go into hiding without my luggage to escape my enemies. You are marked down, just as I am, but if you take my trunks, and live openly at some hotel as the Baron Orsi, their intentions will be foiled. I shall telegraph to my husband in Liverpool, and he will assume another name while you pose as him.”

“It really seems a very curious arrangement,’ I laughed. “I don’t understand why—"

“Of course you don’t,” she interrupted, quickly. “It is my fault— all my fault— and I am only seeking to save you from the vendetta as well as to protect myself. I am a hunted woman, and I tell you plainly that you, too, may fall the victim of their ingenious plot. Therefore, I ask you most earnestly to adopt my suggestion.”

So persistently did she urge me to escape from London that on arrival at the Carlton I reluctantly resolved to go to the Grand Hotel at Birmingham, and there assume the identity and title of the Baron Giovanni Orsi, of Florence. At four o’clock that morning I left the hotel with her two huge traveling trunks full of the costly costumes which I had assisted her to repack, and her husband’s big, silver-mounted dressing bag, which she lent me for my use.

Only when I breakfasted alone in my private sitting room in Birmingham did I realize what dangerous ground I was treading, The silver fittings of the dressing bag bore the letter “O,” surmounted by a baron’s coronet, and I wondered what I should do; or how I should act, if the real baron actually turned up irate. His wife had assured me that she would arrange matters, but after hearing her speak fluently a language of which she had assumed ignorance, I had somehow begun to distrust her.

Day followed day. I had received a telegram, in Italian, from her, dispatched from Peterborough Station, with the words:

Will write as soon as I am settled. Have patience. V.O.

But although the New Year dawned, yet no letter reached me.

I grew anxious. I was living in expensive style, amid a great retinue of bowing waiters and other hotel servants, but, knowing few people in Birmingham, time hung heavily upon my hands. I dared not write to her, as she had strictly forbidden it, so I could only wait. All her belongings were in my possession, therefore she must certainly communicate with me ere long.

Her silence was more than curious. My leave would shortly be up, and I would have to return to the embassy at Rome; therefore I resolved to run the risk, return to London, and call upon Mrs. Marston, in Pembridge Square.

The instant the cab pulled up before the house I realized the truth. The shutters were closed, and a bill announced that it was to let. I drove to the club, and wrote to my mysterious companion, addressing it care of Mrs. Beverley, Houghton Manor, Grantham ; but five days later it came back to me at Birmingham marked “Unknown.”

My fair companion had misled me, that was evident. I had committed forgery at her instigation. I was annoyed, and, despising myself for having been such a fool, resolved to return to London on the following day.

About ten o’clock that same night, as I entered the hotel, a well-dressed man advanced to greet me, asking if I were the Baron Orsi— to which I was compelled to respond in the affirmative.

“I wish to see you privately,” he said,

“Certainly,” I answered, and I took him up to my sitting room, where, the instant we were inside, we were joined by two other men, who were apparently in waiting, while the man who had first accosted me turned and said in a hard, distinct voice:

“You admit that you are the Baron Giovanni Orsi, of Florence, therefore I arrest you, under an extradition warrant from Brussels, for being an accomplice with your wife in the murder of Henri Roux, banker, of that city.”

“What!” I gasped, utterly dumfounded.

"I am an inspector of police, and I warn you that any statement you make will be used as evidence against you at your trial,” he said. And, turning to one of his subordinates, he added: “Evans, search the rooms thoroughly.”

“Look here, inspector,” I exclaimed, now thoroughly alive to the seriousness of the situation, “I may as well tell you that I am Edwin Charlton, of the British diplomatic service, and have only assumed the baron’s name. I see how I’ve been tricked, and I'll explain the whole circumstances at once.”

This I did, one of the detectives seating himself at the table, and taking down every word of my statement in writing.

“Well, sir,” remarked the inspector, “if all you say is true, the case is a much queerer one than I expected. Weve had some very remarkable information about the baron and his wife from Brussels. You say that her luggage is here. Wed better open it, for we may find some clew to her whereabouts.”

“Certainly,” I said; and took the men at once into a small bedroom where the two trunks stood. I had no keys, but with the aid of a crowbar the lock of the first was wrenched off, and within we found a variety of feminine attire of the finest and most costly description. The second lock gave us more trouble, for the trunk was a heavy, iron-bound one; but it vielded at last, and on opening it the dresses emitted a curious, faint chemical odor. One by one they were removed until the detective who handed them out suddenly came upon a cover of zinc, which he forced open, and then, starting back with a cry of horror, ejaculated:

“Why, good heavens! what’s this?”

We looked, and truly a ghastly sight presented itself to our gaze, for within, doubled up, was the fully-dressed body of a dark-bearded, middle-aged man.

All of us stood aghast at the discovery. I was rooted to the spot.

My charming companion had carried with her from Rome the evidence of some terrible crime. The zinc-lined portion of the trunk had, it seemed, been purposely constructed in order to prevent decomposition.

Our first thought was that it might be the body of the unfortunate banker, who, it appeared, had been, a month before, murdered in his own office in the Boulevard Anspach, in Brussels, and his safe rifled of cash and negotiable securities. But the inspector at once negatived that theory by telling us that the banker was aged sixty-five, and that his body had been found with a knife wound in the back.

Something glittering caught my eye within that grewsome casket, and, bending, I saw that it was a gold signet ring on the dead, white hand. It bore the letter “O,” surmounted by the coronet— the same as was on the silver top of the baron’s dressing case.

The body was that of the baron himself.

Our surprise and dismay may well be imagined. How the police hushed up the matter from the press in order that the ingenious baroness whom they wanted should be unaware of the discovery, and how we compared the photograph of the baron, sent by the Brussels police, with the dead man’s countenance, and found it exact, need not be repeated here.

It is sufficient to say that, resuming my more prosaic patronymic, I returned to London, where I assisted the police in every way possible, and by recognizing the consumptive-looking Frenchman one day in the Strand, I was able to place the detectives on the right track. For weeks they shadowed the hollow-cheeked foreigner, until, by a letter he posted to her, it was discovered that she had taken a situation as governess in Paris in order to conceal her identity.

The Frenchman, who was named Lemaire, was, by a telegram sent by the police in her name, enticed over to Paris, where, on arrival at the Gare du Nord, he found himself arrested as an accomplice.

He declared he knew nothing of the assassination of Roux, but to save himself he admitted that he had been a friend of the baroness— an adventuress of the worst type— in Rome, and had been dining at her flat on the fateful night when the baron expired suddenly— poisoned by his wife’s dastardly hand.

It was proved by information gained by the Brussels police that the Italian woman had married the baron only to obtain a standing in the social world, and after a number of minor robberies, had planned and carried out the robbery and assassination of her friend Roux alone and unaided.

The resolve of her husband— who had found out what she was before marriage, and had discovered her crime— to expose her, caused her to seal his lips by administering poison, and afterward, by calling a notary from Milan, and boldly passing me off as the dead man, and obtaining my signatures, she had ingeniously succeeded in selling his estates in Tuscany, and taking possession of the proceeds.

Her record proved to be of the very blackest. Indeed, I held in my hand her dossier, as supplied to my friend, Monsieur Hamard, chief of the Paris detective force, and I later on accompanied the officers to the house in the Avenue des Champs Elysées, where she was hiding as governess.

On arrival, however, we found that she had been absent all day, and had not returned.

Early the following morning her body was found in the Bois, and beside it an empty bottle that had contained prussic acid.

Lemaire denied that he had warned the woman of her impending arrest. Yet I have reason to believe that one of the gang of international thieves, of which, before her marriage, the fair baroness had been one of the leading members— and who were in the habit of meeting at that corner house in Pembridge Square— had sent her word in secret that Monsieur Hamard was in possession of that incriminating file of papers, the first of which was an impression of her thumb, with her measurements, according to the Bertillon method of identification, and upon which was indorsed the expressive nickname by which she had been known to that gang of thieves and adventurers before her marriage— “The Spider’s Eye.”

_____________________

4: Fan-Tan

Carlton Dawe

1865-1935

In: Yellow and White, 1895

I FIRST met him in the billiard-room of the Hong Kong Hotel, a place not quite so select, perhaps, as the reception-room at Buckingham Palace on a drawing-room day, but a place in which one often dropped across some curiously entertaining personages. In the Far East all roads lead to Hong Kong, and the wanderers, were they so inclined, might dilate strangely on that providence which had hustled them into this out of the way spot. He was a Portuguese, this person of whom I am speaking; at least, so he took particular pains to impress upon me. I, however, strongly suspected that there was a strain of the Chinaman in him, though even to have hinted at this would have been a most deadly insult. You might as well ask an Anglo-Indian if he had drunk too much coffee during his youth, or sat too long in the sun. White folks born in these Eastern lands are mighty sensitive on this head ; for they know that women like rich gifts, for the sake of which they will overlook the colour of the giver. Variety in any guise is charming.

His name was Pinto something or other (some unpronounceable foreign name), and he was a native of Oporto, now settled in Macao. That he had ever seen Oporto I doubted, just as I doubted his pure descent; but it was really no affair of mine, and in the Far East you should not keep staring into a man's eyes because you think they have a suspicious Oriental slant. I found Pinto a very decent sort of fellow; polite to a degree, and fairly well educated. He had come down to Hong Kong on some business connected with a property which he held in Macao, and he was about to return to that salubrious city on the morrow. He asked me if I had ever been there, and to my reply in the negative assured me that I should miss it on no account whatever. It was very picturesque, prettily situated, and full of historical interest. Was it not here that China first came in contact with the West? and here it was that the great Camoens wrote the chief part of his immortal Lusiad, that precious manuscript which he nearly lost when, on his homeward voyage, he was wrecked off the mouth of the Mekong. The grotto where the exiled poet immortalised an ungrateful country stands there yet, and a shabby monument with half-obliterated characters tells in vainglorious language that here the great Lusian lived and thought. But in Macao all is dead. Even the spirits of the old adventurers no longer haunt the land. In Asia, as in Europe, the Portuguee has lost caste, and the ubiquitous Chinaman has set up his fan-tan tables on the remnants of a past greatness.

This was not exactly as Pinto said it, for in his own stupid way he thought the ruined but picturesque-looking city was the flower of the East, and he seemed to believe that the day would come again when the foreign merchants would crowd in their thousands to the Praya Grande. But in the meantime the city lay under a cloud, and an impecunious administration managed to eke out a miserable existence by allowing the Chinese to open gamblinghouses throughout the town.

I had heard a good deal about the fan-tan playing at Macao, and though no novice in such matters, I must confess that Pinto rather stirred my curiosity by the warmth of his descriptions. At any rate, I would have to visit the place sometime or other, and what better opportunity could I expect than the present? My new-found friend expressed himself as being only too willing to place his services at my disposal. He knew every nook and corner of the old town, and what he couldn't show me would hardly be worth the seeing.

In those days there used to be a very fine steamer running between Hong Kong and Macao, and every Saturday morning the brokers of the former city (and in Hong Kong everybody is a broker, more or less) used to turn up in goodly numbers on the Macao boat, ostensibly for a change of air, in reality to have one more shot at the fascinating fan-tan. There were at least a dozen men aboard whom I knew well, so that I did not miss the companionship of Pinto on the voyage up; for that worthy, pleading his dread of the sea, had curled himself up on a comfortable settee in the saloon arid slept the journey through.

Just before arriving at our destination, I went below to rouse him up, informing him that my friends had almost prevailed upon me to accompany them. What I wanted to know was, would he mind very much if I did. He smiled, showing his curious white teeth. Of course, he said, I was at perfect liberty to do as I pleased, and it was only natural that I should like to be with my friends; but, and his little remonstrance was delightful, he had engaged rooms for us in the very cosiest little hotel in Macao, and moreover, had put off some very important business engagements so that he could the better devote himself to me. Yet if I would rather be with my friends of course, he would be extremely sorry, and he didn't mind admitting that he would be just a little bit hurt, but he would hope for better luck next time. And as he very prettily shrugged his shoulders he caressed his black moustache most lovingly. Pinto's hands were not pretty, but he worked them very expressively, showing to full advantage the large ring which he wore on the middle finger of his right hand. A curious ring was this, of the shape of a signet, the stone jade, but exceptional in its clearness and purity. On it was cut a gallows, beam, rope, and noose, as perfectly as any hangman could wish. Pinto told me that he had picked it up in a curio-shop in Bangkok; that he supposed it had a history, but that he knew nothing of it. It was certainly a unique ring, but, so I thought, just a trifle uncanny. Pinto laughed. He evidently had a taste for such gruesome things.

Seeing the disappointment on his face, and knowing that he had been looking forward to showing me about the town, I had neither the heart nor inclination to leave him in the lurch. Nor were my friends so dear to me that I regretted parting with them. Moreover, should we not all go back in the boat first thing on Monday morning?

'I'll stay with you, Pinto,' I said, 'but you have promised to show me everything, you know. If I stay with those fellows I shall see nothing but the inside of the gamblinghouses.'

Pinto was delighted, and when the boat made fast to the landing-stage we walked ashore together, my friends the brokers having gone on before.

It is not my intention to here set down the many sights I saw, but my friend Pinto, once his foot touched his native heath, proved himself the best and most affable of guides. The history of every street, building, and alley-way he repeated for my delectation. He engaged the chairs, he bully-ragged the boys; he even told me what to eat and drink, and then wound up by initiating me into the mysteries of fan-tan.

There are many gambling-houses in Macao, the business of which is carried on as unconcernedly, and just as methodically, as the tailor's shop round the corner. In fact it is a shop a shop where men drink of the poisoned cup; where, according to the outlay, one may purchase madness, despair, death. But the yellow-faced Chinaman grows sleeker, and the impecunious administration pays itself its salary.

You walk into the open door without let or hindrance. There is none of the pretence about it of hypocritical Monte Carlo. No one asks for your card or inquires your name. While you have a dollar (and you can stake five hundred of them at a time), or a cent to lose, you are made welcome. When you are cleaned out, you must go and make room for others. Here they have no more love for men with empty pockets than they have in other parts of the world.

Fan-tan is, perhaps, the simplest of all great gambling games. A square sheet of metal (lead for choice, as being less movable) is placed in the middle of the table. Its sides are numbered from one to four, and it is on these numbers that you stake your money; or you may put your stake on the corners and thus take in two numbers, though then your winnings only equal your stake-money. At the head of the table, with a great heap of yellow cash before him, sits the man who counts, a long thin stick in his hand, with which he drags the little coins towards him. First of all he, or any player present, takes a handful of the cash from the big pile and lays it before the man whose duty it is to count. Every eye, of course, is on him. His long sleeve is rolled up to his elbow, and with the slender stick he begins his duties. As there are only four sides to the metal plate, he drags away four cash at a time till he comes to the end. Then if four are left four wins; if three are left three wins ; and so on with two and one. There are other little niceties in the game, though this is the main feature.

Pinto took me in to have a look, and while he was explaining the game I lost forty dollars, which, of course, only made me more eager to go on. But my friend Pinto grew serious.

'Forty dollars is a lot,' he said. 'Quite enough to pay for learning. You, fortunately, have not the luck of the novice, my friend. Do you know, I congratulate you. You will win in the end. The novice that wins in the beginning is lost. Who ever won anything worth winning at the first pop? Bah! I tell you it is a good sign. There is hope for you. And now I think we had better go back to dinner. Perhaps we shall do better afterwards.'

The hotel to which my friend Pinto had taken me was not a very commodious one, and was, I thought, in a somewhat unpretentious street ; but on such occasions one does not care much for the style of the lodgings. I was not likely to spend many hours in the house.

That night I had another long lesson in the fascinating game, for which I paid the, to me, considerable sum of seventy-five dollars. Then half a dozen of my broker friends came in, bearing painful evidence of having dined too heartily ; and eventually we all rolled off to see the sights, my friend Pinto disappearing in some unaccountable manner.

The next day being Sunday we all engaged chairs and were transported through the malodorous city, and a very bad impression we must have left upon the thoughtful native, for some of our party, to say the least of it, were hardly decorous. But what cared we? We were all free-born Britons, and as such had a splendid contempt for the opinion of the d d foreigner.

I did not see my friend Pinto all that day, as I did not go near my lodgings ; but in the evening, while we were all busily engaged losing our money, he strolled in and watched, with a somewhat superior smile, the various emotions which flitted over the faces of the players. Presently I beheld him edging his way round to me, the same superior smile on his face.

'Well?' he inquired.

'So, so,' was my reply. 'I am not losing. Ah, I've won again. Fifty dollars this time.'

I drew the greasy notes towards me with a flash of triumph.

'Good,' he said approvingly. 'I told you you would win. I hope you'll break the bank.'

I hoped so too. 'But why is it that you don't have a shot?' I asked. 'Have you no little human vices?'

He smiled gloomily. 'My dear sir, I have had my fling. Seventy thousand dollars gone in three years. Pretty good, eh?'

'Or pretty bad.'

'Oh, but I lived, I lived.'

'And what good has your three years of living done you?'

He shrugged his shoulders. 'Nothing. It does not even please my vanity now. But look, you have won again. You are in luck, my friend. How reluctantly that yellow devil parts with the bank-notes. What, are you going to plunge? One hundred dollars! On number three. Well, I hope you'll win, my friend, I hope you'll win.'

We watched the stolid celestial as he slowly counted out the cash, all eagerly straining our necks to see what the number would be. The unemotional Chow manipulated his little stick with the utmost coolness.

'It's four,' cried one of the players.

'It's two,' cried another.

'It's three,' cried a third.

'Thlee,' drawled the croupier lazily, 'number thlee 'ave win.'

I drew in three hundred dollars on that deal. My friend Pinto patted me on the shoulder.

'Very good, very good,' he said approvingly. 'You understand fan-tan now.' And with a strange look in his eyes, which I was too excited to read aright, he left me.

And so for hour after hour I sat there playing, now speculating rashly, and now doling out the wagers in little driblets. One by one my broker friends left the place, begging me to go with them; but the spirit of the game had entered my blood, and I would have sat there till I dropped from sheer fatigue. Moreover, I was winning. How much I could not say, having neither time nor opportunity to count it; but I knew it could have been little short of five thousand dollars. I know the yellow face of the croupier turned positively green as he handed me note after note, while even the stolid face of the man who counted betokened more interest in the fight. Perhaps I might not have felt so easy in my mind had I been less engrossed with the game, for the half-dozen fellows who lounged about the table staking trivial sums were as evil-looking a lot as one in my position would care to see. Once, even, as I suddenly lifted my head, I thought I saw some secret looks pass between them, and, for the moment, I was startled. It was then I recognised the folly of which I had been guilty in letting my friends go off without me. Though not exactly afraid, I knew I was very foolishly tempting providence.

But fortunately at that moment my friend Pinto strolled into the room.

'What,' he cried, evidently surprised at seeing me, 'not gone yet?'

'Does it look like it?'

'Isn't it about time?'

'I think so.'

'And I. It 's late, my friend, and I have to be away early in the morning. Has Fortune favoured the brave?'

'Does she not always favour the brave? I believe I've won five or six thousand dollars.'

Pinto's eyes sparkled.

'S'ch!' he said. 'Not quite so loud, my friend. Six thousand dollars is a lot of money for a stranger to carry through the streets of Macao, late at night'

'I have something else, my dear Pinto. Six ounces of lead,' I answered.

'So, you carry a revolver?' This, curiously.

'One ounce of lead for each thousand dollars.'

Pinto laughed. 'That 's good, my friend, very good. It is always as well to be on the safe side.'

We were at the door now looking out for our chair coolies, but unfortunately those individuals had disappeared. Some twenty yards down the street were the men who had been gambling with me. I watched them slink into the shadows and disappear.

'I didn't like the look of those fellows, Pinto.'

'They were not very amiable-looking souls,' he confessed, 'but of course one must not judge too harshly. Still, I 'm glad I met you. But where can those infernal coolies be? Confound them, they 're never by when they 're wanted. Stay here a minute, my friend. I will go and look them up.'

Before I could remonstrate, or suggest that we should walk, he had darted off down the street, and I saw his figure disappear in the darkness. Feeling that my money was safe, I lit a cigar and waited for a good five minutes ; but to my surprise no Pinto came in sight. I own that I was just a little put out at this, surprise and anger bubbling for expression ; but thinking that he might possibly have wandered far afield in search of chairs too far to hope that he would find me in the same place on his return he had consequently made direct for the hotel, knowing that I was sure to follow. At least, this was the way I read his absence, and having no further wish to prolong my acquaintance with the doorstep of this particular gambling-house, I stepped out into the street ; though not before I had drawn the case from my revolver and placed the weapon ready to my hand.

On I hurried, eyes and ears alert. Instinctively I gave a wide berth to every figure I saw slinking about in the darkness, remembering what my friend Pinto had said of strangers in the streets of Macao; notwithstanding which a full half of the journey was accomplished before anything untoward occurred. Indeed I was beginning to laugh at myself for my unmanly fears, when out of a dark alley to the right of me rang the report of a pistol. My hat was partly lifted off my head. For a moment I thought I was hit, so close to my ear had the villainous bullet hissed. I looked up the alley, the darkness of which was so intense that I could see nothing. To have penetrated such a gloomy labyrinth, though perhaps desirable, would have been foolhardy in the extreme. But to stand there gaping meant another shot presently, and as I had no further wish to be made a target of, I darted into the shadows opposite and pursued my way.

Fifty yards farther on I had to descend a narrow street, which led into the broader one in which my hotel was situated. As I turned sharply round the corner I ran into two men who were coming in the opposite direction. There was a loud oath, almost like a scream, and I had only time to spring back to avoid a furious blow which was aimed at my head. As it was, the heavy cudgel struck the wall beside me a resounding blow.

'What the devil do you mean, you pigs,' I cried angrily, whipping out my revolver; for, however easy-going a fellow may be, he resents having his head cracked in this unseemly fashion.

As I stepped out of the deep shadow the fellows stealthily followed me, without speaking; but a stray moonbeam, resting for a moment on the bright barrel of the pistol, showed them the weapon I had in my hand. They mumbled something in their bastard Portuguese and slunk off into the night. Phew ! This was getting exciting.

Down the narrow street I went, the pistol in my hand, ready for use; and to avoid any ambush I now walked in the middle of the road. This, however, made little difference, as the houses were so high and the street so narrow and winding that all the light from above was entirely excluded. It was not a very agreeable journey, and I heaved a sigh of relief as I emerged into the broader thoroughfare. In a few moments I was safely inside my little hotel.

The landlord, a Portuguee with a black, forbidding cast of countenance, was waiting to let me in; and to my inquiries after Pinto he told me that that worthy had just retired. As I supposed, he had gone far afield without being able to find our chairs, and guessing that I would have left my perch before he could get back, he had come on to the hotel. Such was the story the landlord told me, which, of course, entirely agreed with my own suppositions.

Flushed with the success of my night's work, I ordered a bottle of wine, which the landlord brought to me uncorked, a fact I might have regarded with suspicion had he not helped me to dispose of it over a friendly smoke. No mention was made of my winnings, so that Pinto could have said nothing about my luck. I did not think it necessary to inform the landlord, whose little black eyes were not quick in making friends.

Bidding him a hearty good-night, I went upstairs to my room. The door of the apartment next to mine was wide open, and as I passed I heard the occupant snoring placidly. I admired the careless disregard of intruders which that open door proclaimed, but I doubted if the snorer had six thousand dollars in his possession. At any rate, I was not going to show my confidence in my fellow-man by leaving my door open; and so, as soon as I had deposited my candle on the dressing-table, I turned to lock the door, when, to my intense chagrin, I could not find the key. I searched high and low, the matting on the floor, the dressing-table, the wash-stand, but it was nowhere to be seen. Then I began to wonder if there had ever been a key. What had I done the night before? I puzzled for a moment. Then I remembered suddenly that I had not passed the night there at all. No doubt, keys were not required in such an honest house. I, however, carried the wash-stand over to the door, and so arranged it that any pressure from without would send the jug clattering into the basin.

I then turned to my couch, which, and this struck me as rather peculiar, was thoroughly Eastern in style. A couple of mattresses spread on the floor, with blankets and rugs as clothing. In the day-time this is all rolled up and hidden away. The advantages such a bed possesses in the way of space and cleanliness will be apparent; but the advantage of its present position, which was over against the thin partition which divided me from my friend the snorer, did not meet with my entire approval. I pulled it out into the middle of the room.

Drawing the blind, which I noticed was a very thin white one, and carefully setting out all the money I had won, I sat down and counted it ; and as the great pile of bank-notes, good Hong Kong and Shanghai notes too, lay before me on the floor, I could scarcely realise that they were all mine. I counted five thousand eight hundred and seventy-five dollars, and felt like a millionaire. Then I wrapped them up carefully in my handkerchief and placed the precious bundle in the inside pocket of my coat, which garment I carefully folded up and as carefully placed beneath my pillow, laying my revolver beside it. Then I jumped into bed and blew out the candle.

Of course I did not expect to sleep for an hour or so. What poor devil suddenly coming into six thousand dollars could ? I played the game over and over and over till my six thousand was multiplied by sixty, and I was positively wallowing in a sea of bank-notes. The yellow-faced croupier had grown as green as the jade in Pinto's ring, and was seriously contemplating a sort of honourable hara-kiri from the carven gallows of the said ring, which dangled green and slimy in the sky. The stolid face of the Chow who counted the cash had taken to itself a human look. Even the cash grew into a gleaming hill as high as the Peak at Hong Kong, and a colossus with a pigtail like a ship's cable counted it with a wand as high as the main-mast of a wind-jammer.

I tossed from side to side like one possessed of fever. I closed my eyes with the grim determination to force myself into sleep, but no sooner were they shut than I was back again in the hell, tossing bank-notes about, and crying in my loudest voice, 'John, changee'; and back would come from the unemotional croupier the soft, 'All li, all li.' And thus the maddening game went on. A dozen times I dozed, and as often awoke with a start.

But presently with my waking was blended the curious feeling that something was happening. At first I lay there thinking I was dreaming, that I only fancied I was awake; though I soon took occasion to convince myself of the reality of my wakefulness.

At first I seemed to be sliding softly over a bed of sand, the movement making a low, swishing noise. Where I was going, or why, I did not know ; but I was most surely going somewhere. For a moment or two I lay utterly bewildered. Then I sat up in bed and pulled my hair to see if I really were awake. I felt the rug, the mattresses, the soft matting beneath; my coat, pistol. Everything was in its place. I threw myself back, laughing silently. I had been entertaining Madame Nightmare.

Afraid that there was little hope of sleep that night, I lay back with wide-open eyes fixed on the window, through the thin blind of which came fitful gleams of moo'nlight. And yet tired I must have been, for despite the restlessness of my brain, my eyes would keep shutting and opening spasmodically. I dozed off and on in a very singular manner. My brain throbbed painfully as it bore the tumultuous rush of thought after thought. For a short space I thought I was going mad.

I opened my eyes resolutely, determined not to shut them again, since sleep brought such horrid dreams. But exhausted nature would not be denied. I had not been staring at the window very long before I felt the old drowsy feeling come over me, and I was on the point of nodding when my eye caught the outline of a figure against the side of the window.

Keenly I watched it, thinking, of course, that it was some one who had heard of my good fortune and wished to share it with me. I held my breath, expecting every minute to hear the jug crash into the basin, as the individual, or individuals, tried to open the door. But though I waited patiently, no such sound came. On the contrary, the stillness of death reigned, though the figure continued spreading itself across the window. And now I saw that it stretched from top to bottom, that it was square in shape, and as unlike a human figure as one could well imagine.

I rubbed my eyes to be sure that I was not asleep. No; there was the shadow just as I had seen it, though it grew larger and larger as I watched. I accounted for this singular apparition in many ways, the most feasible of which was that the moon, sinking low in the sky, had begun to cast long shadows about the world, and that she had thrown this one across my window. And yet, as I thought out my position, I knew this could not be; for the moon, being in the opposite direction, would have thrown shadows from, instead of on, the window. What could it mean ? A violent shiver ran from head to foot as the horrible thought that I was mad assailed me ; that what I saw did not really exist; that I had won no money at the fan-tan tables, but that I was in my own room at Hong Kong. I glared about me wildly, and to my horror saw in the dim light, or fancied I saw, that even the walls of the room were closing in upon me ! Now I knew there could be no mistake: I was mad, raving mad. The excitement of the tables, of winning so much when I wanted it so badly, had been more than I could bear. My brain had cracked beneath the unusual strain. I sat up terrified, yet full of a dreadful, deadly sort of reason. But there was no mistake. There, growing larger and larger, was that awful shadow against the window, while the walls were undoubtedly closing in upon me!

This I knew could not be: it was sure proof of my madness. And yet cautiously, like one who knows he will be disappointed, I put out my hand, when to my utter amazement and terror I really felt the wall ! And yet how could this be ? Mad as I was I had a distinct recollection of having dragged the mattress into the middle of the room before turning in. But, and here I grew the more bewildered, could I have done so? This puzzled me considerably, adding a deeper distrust of my senses. Convinced against reason, or what answered as its equivalent, I was in a singular state of alarm. Yet if I had really placed the bed in the middle of the room, how could it have got over here against the wall, and I with it? This was too much for my bewildered senses. It was no use hoping against hope. I was mad, mad.

I lay back staring at the slowly increasing bulk of the shadow, my mind confused, my heart sick within me. Then suddenly a strange, soft, grating sound, not unlike the gnawing of rats, fell on my ear. Intently I listened to the slow crunch, crunch, crunch. I was a moment or two trying to fix the exact spot from whence the sound issued, for it seemed to run along from end to end of the room, just underneath the partition. A rat run, I doubted not unless my mind was playing another prank with me. Nevertheless, I put out my hand, cautiously feeling along the matting, when to my astonishment I found that the partition had been raised some five or six inches from the floor! More than ever was I puzzled with this discovery. But as I lay there, my hand on the matting, I felt a strain on the latter, apparently caused from the other side. The low crunch, crunch, followed. The shadow on the window loomed perceptibly larger: the wall came closer.

It needed but one swift flash of intelligence to lay bare the secret. I was neither mad nor dreaming. The wall was not coming to me: it was I who was being dragged to it !

For a short space I lay quiet thinking what I had better do, and as I did so the low crunch, crunch, of the matting came again. Then I slipped my hand under the pillow, removed my coat, and gripped my revolver, but all gently and without the slightest noise ; for I guessed that the person, or persons, who had formed this novel plan of robbing me, was not without some means of watching my movements. But now that I was wide awake, and prepared for almost any emergency, I experienced a grim satisfaction in imagining the turn events would take.

Lying with my face to the wall, I, fascinated, watched it creep closer and closer, the crunching growing softer and softer till it died away altogether. Then I knew that the serious part of the business was about to commence, for the bed was now close up against the partition, and operations would begin forthwith. I had no doubt whatever that every action of mine had been watched from the moment I entered the room that night, and that the watcher had duly noted where I had put my money. I accordingly kept my eyes fixed on the spot between my pillow and the wall ; and though I saw nothing, I had not been watching more than a minute before I felt something scratch the pillow just under my ear. Had I not been wide awake and expecting such a thing, I might very easily have passed it over as one of those mysterious sounds which are always heard at night ; but knowing what it portended on this occasion, I made up my mind.

With a stealthy movement I lifted my right arm; then a quick clasp, and I had seized the would-be robber by the wrist. A smothered exclamation broke from the other side of the partition, and the owner of the wrist began to tug fiercely; but with my other hand I seized his fingers, and pressing his arm back against the partition vowed I would break it if he did not keep quiet, and gave such earnest of my intention, that for a space he ceased struggling. Then I asked him who he was, but, of course, without eliciting any response. I could hear him muttering and puffing as he lay extended on the floor, and I rather gloried in the pain I was causing him. Then I felt his fingers, but none of them was missing; though on the middle one I discovered a ring. My intention was to get this, but no sooner did I attempt to withdraw it than his fingers closed upon my hand, and he began to struggle furiously. I, however, hit him a sharp rap over the knuckles with the barrel of my revolver, which for the moment completely paralysed them. I then opened his hand with ease and took off the ring. Then with a quick jerk he freed himself from my grasp, and I immediately rolled back off the bed. Nor was I a moment too soon. A hand was dashed through the paper partition, and I heard the stab, stab of a knife as it struck the spot where I had lain a moment before. Then followed a period of unnatural quiet, during which I crept farther away from the bed, where I sat, my coat beneath me, my revolver ready, for I could not imagine in what manner I might next be attacked. But after a good half-hour's waiting nothing more came of it Then, the day beginning to break, I dressed myself and opened the door.

There was no noise in the street; no one was moving about the house. My neighbour's door was locked had been from the outside I did not doubt. I picked up my hat, remembering my journey through the streets. There was a hole through it where the bullet of the would-be assassin had passed. I went to the window and looked out. What I had taken for a shadow was the chimney of the house next door.

I LEFT that morning without waiting for breakfast I thought the amiable landlord watched me rather curiously as I walked into the parlour and asked for the bill.

'The senor has spent a good night, I hope ? '

'Capital.'

'He will not forget to recommend my modest hostelry?'

'Trust me. But where is Pinto?'

'The senor's friend?'

'Yes,' With a curious laugh.

'He left at daybreak,' answered the man.

'He was in a hurry?'

'A great hurry.'

'So I should imagine. Look, he has even forgotten his ring.' And I held up the jade ring which I had torn from the hand of the would-be robber and murderer.

'Indeed,' said the man indifferently.

'He left it in my room last night. You'll tell him I've got it ? '

'If I see him, senor.'

'He 'll know where to find me. Good morning. Oh, by the way,' and here I came back a step, 'you ought always to nail a mat to a greasy floor.'

He tried to look vacant, but succeeded very badly.

'I do not understand,' he muttered.

'You will if you go up to my room.' And so I left him, his scowling eyes following me to the door.

I still have Pinto's jade ring with its curious carving of a gallows; but singular to relate, that estimable Portuguee has neither called nor written for it.

______________

5: A Modern Pirate

Culpepper Zandtt

(Clarence Herbert New, 1862-1933)

Blue Book July 1928

THE rusty, nondescript craft which had been lying for a week over near the Pulau Brani reef in Keppel Harbor was registered in the first edition of Lloyd's as a "deep-sea wrecking-tug" belonging to the Henderson Wrecking Company of San Francisco. Her speed was given as twenty-five knots— which aroused no comment from Lloyd's surveyors at the time she changed owners because they knew all about her previous history that naturally accounted for this. But had anyone else been sufficiently interested in the boat to look her up, that twenty-five knots— for a wrecking-tug— would have instantly appeared as a most unaccountable inconsistency. She didn't look fast— unless one glanced along her water-line from a rowboat in smooth water— because she had a sponson on each side which added fourteen feet to her midship beam, the presumable idea being to give her more stability when lifting partly submerged wreckage with her derricks, there being two pairs of these forward and two aft, also cablesheaves at her bow and stern. The space forward of her boilers, which would have corresponded to the Number Two hold of a cargo-boat, was fitted up as a machine-shop with two good-sized forges and all the equipment necessary for emergency repair work at sea. And she had come into Singapore— as was understood to be her owners' usual procedure— to await the results of an auction-sale of wrecks in the China and Java Seas advertised by the Admiralty Court.

The Lascars who made up her crew had none of them happened to serve on a warship, so were not sufficiently interested to unlash the canvas coverings of two bulky objects below, one on each side, which any navy-man in the world would have recognized as pressure-chambers and tubes for discharging torpedoes under water from either side of the bow, and they had no keys for the lockers against the side plating containing four "Whiteheads" in each locker. The two five-inch rifles with their tripod swivel-mounts, which were greased and securely lashed in the same hold, they knew of course for what they were— but supposed them to be used merely for sinking an occasional derelict at sea.

Twenty years before, the British Admiralty had auctioned off a few "destroyers" of obsolete type to anyone who cared to buy them, either for junk or any other purpose. One of the smaller Central American States purchased two for less than ten percent of what they had cost to build, and had done some very satisfactory bluffing with them against neighboring States until the latter obtained larger ones and turned the tables. After a fourth change in Government, the purchasing State sold one of them to an English speculator in San Francisco for five thousand dollars, and he had fitted up the craft as previously described for a wrecking-tug. This man was both an excellent mechanic and a navigator, but above and beyond all that he was an adventurer— a speculator— who had run up three or four hundred thousand dollars for himself by taking risks that no business man with common sense would have considered for a moment. True, he had lost more than half of what he made, but that never worried him— he confidently expected to win more than he lost in the long run.

His chief idea in buying the ''destroyer" had been to use her as a fast yacht in which he might cover long distances in the minimum of time— and his sense of humor prompted the joke of making the craft look about as unlike a yacht as was nautically possible. To make good on the joke and provide a bona-fide alibi in case he ever wanted one, he did salve a few wrecks on the other side of the Pacific and gave the purely mythical "Henderson Wrecking Company" an honest and indisputable commercial status.

The office of the company consisted of two rooms in a Market Street skyscraper— in charge of a blonde stenographer and a blasé office-boy, each capable of acting intelligently upon cabled instructions from the far corners of the globe. The speculator was socially known in London as the Honorable Mark Sefton, a younger son of a very good family, and was supposed to be making a fair living somehow, in the outports. His dark-bearded companion, who acted as Master of the "wrecking-tug" under the name of Christian Sonneschien, was also known in London some years before as Frank Walburton, formerly of the Coldstream Guards. The Chief Engineer was an American of forty, also heavily bearded and known on board as Hans Schmidt— hailing originally from Salem, Massachusetts, where he had been Tommy Bellows. Aside from these three there were no white men on the craft, the stewards and cooks being Chinese, and the rest Lascars who spoke little or no English.

SEFTON was not supposed to have any connection with the tug— being on board merely as an old friend of Captain Sonneschien's, who had run across him in Rangoon and invited the Londoner to cruise for a few weeks. In another part of the Archipelago, some months before, it had seemed rather a lark to Sefton when he came aboard in a make-up so entirely different that the Chinks and Lascars who saw him then for a month or two failed entirely to recognize him for the same man when he rejoined them at Rangoon.

Just what he might have in mind by these strange actions, and by his insistence upon Walburton and Bellows concealing their real identities— aside from the business of salvage— neither of them had much of an idea, beyond a notion that possibly the Hendersoh Wrecking Company was not a legally authorized corporation and that Sefton might be forestalling future complications in case they found money shipments in some of the wrecks and failed to report it. As far as the two men knew from everything they had seen of the man, he was commercially honest and respectable. Every contract they had entered into for salvage had been scrupulously carried out. In two cases where he had bought wrecks, "sight-unseen," and made money on them, he had divided the profits into shares which gave each of them an eighth, with a bonus for each of the crew, though he was in no way obliged to do this, since they were merely his paid employees. Inwardly, Walburton and Bellows— together with most of the crew— recognized in him that nameless something which is part of the pioneer or adventurer the world over, and warmed to him because they all had a good bit of the same quality.

MARK SEFTON came ashore that morning, a week after they had dropped anchor, in spotless "whites" and solar topee— hailed a motorcar at Jardine's Wharf, and was driven the four miles into the heart of the city where he had tiffin at the Raffles and then took a rickshaw eastward to Rochore Road which, as everyone knows, is headquarters for pet animals or reptiles of every description and can be smelled a mile away if there is a breeze— a center known the world over, where Malays barter what they catch in East Indian jungles to obese Chinese and Germans at prices which make the trade worth while— where agents for the zoos and circuses of the world purchase such commodities for their own collections.

As the wallah set him down by the arcade near one of the corners, a Malay who was slipping silently along through the crowd stopped at one side to look closely at the Englishman—and then followed him. A rather handsome woman, accompanied by one of the Staff and a younger girl, did the same thing— putting up her lorgnette and noticing the shop into which he disappeared. To complete the peculiar freak of chance which probably wouldn't have drawn these four human beings together once in another million times, an American physician—retired from general practice but rendering occasional voluntary service to others which made him one of the most popular men in the Orient— had noticed Sefton as he came up the road in his rickshaw, and stopped in the arcade to study the man when he got out and paid off his wallah.

Doctor Galt was first the physician— then botanist, scientist and student of human nature in turn. The bearing of the Londoner impressed him as that of a man well poised— entirely at ease— sure of himself in any emergency— and unconventional when it came to doing things or taking risks which other men usually avoided. While he was studying the man, he also noticed the Malay standing in the shadow watching the Englishman with eyes as expressionless as those of a snake, but with the suggestion of venom behind them. Presumably, here was a brown man hating a white one for some real or fancied injury with a savage ferocity which merely bided its time. The Doctor trailed along after them, as the woman had done.

It happened that while coming down the Strait from Rangoon, Sefton had been reading Kipling— 'The Jungle Book'— and had taken it into his head that a mongoose would prove an interesting pet. Hence the visit to Rochore Road. He was quite sure of obtaining when he wanted, because the friendly little animal no longer goes by his own name, thanks to the immortal chronicler of the East. You have merely to say: "One Rikki Tikki," in that part of Singapore and you get a mongoose. Sam Wah's big godown, with its cellars and rear buildings, was known to the Londoner from previous visits— and, as corpulent Sam never forgot a face or an enemy, Sefton was greeted as smilingly as if he had been in the day before.

"Hullo, Sefton Sahib! You feelin' belly damn' fine these mo'nin'? Yaes? Mebbeso you likee Numbel One pallot? Topside bi'd— swear goddam allee samee like sailo'-mans! Yaes? Mebbeso Bo'neo Numbel One monk— s-o-o big— nize long tail? Yaes?"

Then, catching sight of the walla who was now standing close behind his customer, he asked: "These you' wallah?"

Sefton glanced carelessly behind him.

"Lord, no, never saw the beggar before! An' no can do parrot or monkey, Sam. Wantee fine Number One Rikki Tikki. You got? Catchee fine healthy one— eh?"

"Oh, yaes! Send boy that side— out back. He come bimeby soon—bling Numbel One Likki Tikki. You likee see beeg Numbel One snake an' clocodile befo' boy come these side weeth Likki Tikki? You come bottom side in cellel. Yaes?"

"Oh, quite so— just to pass the time while I'm waitin'. Cellar must be cooler than this place— an' you always did have a good show down there!"

They went down a flight of fairly broad concrete steps to an immense well-lighted cellar extending under the entire building and out some distance into the rear.

It wasn't so much cooler here than in the shop above, because the reptiles of the tropics are too sensitive to changes in temperature and sicken in places which are too cool— but there was a dampness and a fetid odor which suggested swamps or slimy places. Following them, silently, came the big Malay, and following him, came the now thoroughly interested American medico— one hand back under his white coat, near the butt of an automatic. And at the end of the odd procession were the English ladies with their escort.

SEFTON strolled along the line of cages— glancing at a lively assortment of cobras, coral-snakes, rubber-pythons, East Indian fer-de-lances, pit-vipers, and so to the larger cages in which pythons of all sizes were luxuriously slithering from one massive coil to another. As they went along, the Malay— supposing himself unobserved— stopped a moment before one of the netting-faced cobra-boxes, lifted the cover slightly, and when a few inches of hooded neck slipped through the opening, grasped it just at the base of the hood and pulled out the six-foot snake which immediately coiled the rest of its body around his arm, accustomed by this time to be handled in that way.

Stepping noiselessly up behind Sefton, the man squeezed the cobra's neck to make him ugly, then darted his arm forward to jab the cobra's open jaws against the Englishman's neck at just the moment when Sam Wah unexpectedly turned about to say something—and saw him. The squeal of horror forced from the usually imperturbable Chinese made Sefton instinctively drop to a squatting position and spring sideways. His neck narrowly missed the cobra's fangs—and his legs tripped the Malay, who sprawled over them on the concrete floor, with the snake partly under him. Before the would-be assassin could roll over, he was bitten on the shoulder.

Sefton was on his feet as the Malay fell. He saw the cobra's fangs sink into the brown flesh and suddenly grasped with his left hand the lower folds of the cobra's hood before it could wriggle away. Holding out the squirming, enraged reptile to Sam Wah, Sefton shoved his right hand into his trousers pocket for a jack-knife.

"Here, Sam—take the beast!" he said. "Put him where he belongs! This man was bitten! There won't be more than a couple of minutes to save him!"

The knife was out and a sharp blade opened, as soon as the Chinese had grasped the cobra.

"Now lie perfectly still," Sefton ordered the prostrate man. "I've got to cut in an inch or more to stop that poison from getting into your circulation! Steady, now!"

All this happened in about thirty seconds. Galt's automatic had been out the instant he saw what the Malay intended to do— but it was impossible to get accurate aim. In the scrimmage, he couldn't be sure of not hitting the wrong man, and hadn't seen the Malay bitten— didn't know just what had happened until Sefton started to cut a chunk of flesh out of the Malay's shoulder. Then he was kneeling by them instantly, his pocket case of emergency remedies open, and a small pile of red permanganate crystals poured into the palm of one hand.

"Good workmanlike job, old chap! You've cut below where the poison could have reached in this time! Now we'll just rub these crystals into the open wound as a sterilizer before we attempt to stop the bleeding. I think you severed a ligament that will leave the arm stiff for the rest of his life, but there was no way out of it, and he may live now to be a hundred!"

Galt repeated to the man in Malay his opinion that his proposed victim's prompt action unquestionably had saved his life; but the man, still writhing in pain, somewhat insolently asked:

"And who art thou, O Hakim, who would give another the credit of thy own medicine?"

Sam Wah, after quickly tossing the cobra into its own box, had returned, and replied contemptuously in Malay:

"This be the Tuan Hakim, of the Great Tong— O dog of a fool! And this Tuan Sahib whom thou wouldst have killed hath saved thy worthless life— even as the Tuan Hakim says! For all his medicine would have been as naught if the poison had not been kept from creeping into thy blood!" Then in his usual pidgin-dialect, he added:

"Catchee look-see, these man, Sahib! Mebbeso know him one time?"

Sefton studied the Malay's features closely.

"Well, I'll not say positively— but I fancy he may be the beggar I once caught in Penang, beating a gray-haired old Tamil woman with a bit of jute rope. I grabbed the thing from his hand an' thrashed him with it until he couldn't stand. Humph! Seems he wasn't satisfied to let it go at that! Oh, well— he may have learned something this time. Fix him up in good shape, Doctor— an' then dine with me at the Raffles. An'— er— Sam, if you could send my Rikki Tikki up to the hotel for me about nine, in a comfortable bit of a box, I'll take him down to the boat from there, d'ye see. What?"

By the time the snake episode was under way, the younger woman beat a retreat up the stairs, but the other had waited at the foot of them until certain Sefton was unharmed. The party of three met him at the top when he came up with the Doctor.

"Mark Sefton! Has there ever been a month of your life when you weren't in one scrape or another? Here, when I've not laid eyes on you for five years, had no idea whether you were in New York or Fiji, you turn up in a Singapore cellar with a Malay trying to kill you!"

"Mrs. Harvey— by Jove! Well, I'm dashed!"

"It used to be 'Cecilia' in the old days, Mark."

"Aye— before you married a 'political' an' got into the Cabinet crowd. Ill not soon forget Harvey's face that day at the lawn-party when I called you Cecie..... Has he been transferred to the Indian Governm'nt?"

"Oh, no— I just came out with Bertha Lowndes and the General—Bertha, pardon me, dear. This is an old friend— the Honorable Mark Sefton. Leftenant Ordway, you and Mr. Sefton should be good friends— you both have a weakness for adventure in the far corners and the outports. Dr. Galt, of course, we all know— everybody does."

"Faith, I can easily understand why! I noticed that he had a gun in his hand to shoot either that beggar or the snake, but I was right in line with 'em. Takes nerve —not to fire in a case of that sort, you know! The Doctor an' I are pals—if he'll have me. We're dinin' together this evenin'— but if you, Miss Lowndes an' the Leftenant will tell me where I can find you, I'll be lookin' you up tomorrow. What?"

HAVING got the addresses, out at Tanglin, the party separated— Sefton and Galt putting in the remainder of the afternoon in a motor ride out along the lovely Buona Vista road along the southwest shore of the Island. It was not until they were smoking upon an upper veranda of the Singapore Club, however,—the Doctor having suggested this in preference to the hotel,—that the Londoner said:

"Doctor, one tells many things to a physician which he wouldn't to a more talkative person. Do you mind if I touch upon my earlier acquaintance with Mrs. Harvey, an' then— er— well, possibly ask you a few questions?"

"Not in the least. The lady has interested me ever since she came out here— as a psychological study. She's been under some sort of a nervous strain ever since she reached Singapore, and I can't quite decide whether it's constitutional or from external causes. Was she of a nervous temperament— as a girl?"

"Hmph! Rawther not! Nerves as steady as if she were practicin' for a champion-marksmanship. Topping rider to hounds, good at all sports, perfect health all the time— never recall her bein' ill enough to have in a medico. I say! Ordway's quite evidently on the staff— so she's one of the Governm'nt crowd, out here— an' I recall a General Lowndes connected in a way with the I.S.S. That would be Miss Bertha's father, presumably? Eh?"

"Yes. I don't think the General does anything in the line of going among the brownies in disguise, but he must have done so in his younger days and been very good at it, because he knows the Asiatics as well as any Occidental can know them. Mrs. Harvey, apparently, is welcome in all of the best houses—"

"That's kowtowing because of her husband's political position as much as anything, I dare say. He's by way of bein' quite influential in Whitehall— though frankly, the man's a cold-blooded cad who never cared anything for his wife except for the money she brought to him, and her looks. Shell always have the sort of breeding that he never can learn, an' she's a handsome woman in spite of her nervous manner, which is something recent. Most of her money, I fancy, has been used to further his political career, with or without her consent. Commandeered!"'

"In circumstances of that sort, I suppose a divorce would be difficult if not impossible for her to get— with all his political influence against her?"

"Er— just what put that into your mind, Doctor?"

"Underground gossip here in Government circles. Some of the people who might be in position to know, are hinting that she has left her husband, permanently— that she would admit it if one were impertinent enough to ask such a question. Out here the sympathy appears to be' with her, but it's generally thought that she'd get very little if she went back to live in England. It's supposed that she still has enough of a personal income to live comfortably in modern circumstances— such as one may do out here much more easily than in Europe. But if her husband is vindictive, as I assume that type would be, there may be times when she'll not find even living out here very pleasant. In such a position, if it is true that she has separated from him, she's got to walk a chalkline anywhere in the Straits, Hongkong, Shanghai or India. Anything more than ordinary attention from the men she meets will be magnified, gossiped about, reported to Harvey— and may be made the basis of a rotten divorce-suit by him in which she'd lose and he'd blast her reputation."

"Damn him! For just about tuppence, I'd go back to London an' call him out! If he wouldn't fight, I'd take a dog-whip to him in front of his own club! You've guessed, of course, that we were as good as engaged in the old days. I've always had a wandering foot—was away for a year— Capetown an' then Buenos Aires, makin' a bit of tin, d'ye see. In my absence the whole family forced her into this marriage with Harvey. I was a waster, d'ye see— no good, always knockin' about. He was already in the House. With the money she could bring him, he was certain to be in the Cabinet. She waited ten months; my letters were stolen an' destroyed— supposed I must be dead or had lost all interest in her. Well, the circumst'nces an' the pressure were too strong for her, poor girl! When I turned up in' London again, they were on their wedding-trip. When she heard about my letters, she accused him of complicity in side-trackin' 'em— an' gave him proper what-for. Never loved the bounder, of course. Fancy they've had some deuced unpleasant discussions in the past ten years. An' there it is! I'll have it out with her tomorrow— see where she's really at. There might be a way out—in the States, possibly. At all events, I'm under obligations to you, Galt!  Possibly I may impose upon your good nature an' ask for a suggestion or two— when I've learned a bit more."

NEXT afternoon Sefton went out to General Lowndes' villa at Tanglin and found the Doctor there, chatting with the ladies. After a while he strolled down to a little summer-house at the foot of the lawn with Mrs. Harvey. For several minutes there was silence between them; then she gently ran one finger along the slight edging of gray at his temple.

"Quite becoming to you, Mark, even if it is a bit-early for thirty-five. One imagines that you've seen life in the last ten years— and not of the humdrum sort, either. What?"

"Oh—aye. I've seen life— all over the place. So have you."

"But my adventures have been merely in the line of common domestic tragedy. Yours, one would say, have been a bit more lurid— possibly a bit outside the law at times— eh?"

"M-m-m— no. Rawther close to the edge, perhaps— but really straight in the final show-down. Funked the lawbreakin', I fancy— or perhaps savin' that for a really proper occasion."

"Yes— one doesn't think of you as funking anything, Mark. That beastly cobra yesterday, for example. My word! One doesn't see how you had the nerve to grasp the thing, after that Malay'd been bitten!"

"Couldn't let it go crawlin' about, snappin' at everybody, you know! Close to Sam Wah's feet as it was— might have got him… But Cecie— how is it with you? From what I know of Harvey, he'd not have allowed you to come out here alone unless you managed to give him the slip. Have you left him?"

"Yes— I had stood all I could."

"What are you going to do?"

"Live in the out-ports or America for some years, I suppose. Harvey isn't going to live as long as he thinks— bad heart. General Lowndes and Bertha have asked me to make my home with them indefinitely— they know all about what I've been through. But of course I sha'n't impose upon them too long."

"Will you come to me? Live anywhere you say."

"Not until you've money enough to go back to London with me and fight that brute through the courts for a divorce that will leave me unsmirched and brand him for what he is. Although he hasn't so much money outside of his Government pay, you couldn't start anything of that sort on less than two or three hundred thousand dollars at least. Oh— some day when I'm older and nothing matters any more, I might throw reputation overboard and go anywhere with you. But I'm only thirty-two, Mark— a decent, good-looking woman whose people have been among the best in England for a thousand years. I'll not submit, tamely, to being dragged through scandal and filth by a brute like Pat Harvey— using his Cabinet position to crush a woman of my standing!"

"H-m-m— when I have the money— you'll come to me? What?"

"Yes— my dear. That's a promise! If we don't think it worth while to go back and fight him— well, a million will buy respect and acceptance in other countries, in these modern days. If I decide to be a sinner, I'll not be a defenseless one at whom anybody may throw stones or mud!"

SEFTON and the Doctor remained for dinner, and the party afterward motored out to the "Gap" along the Buona Vista Road, by moonlight. The Londoner didn't poirt out his rusty old wrecking-tug as she lay over near Pulau Brani in plain sight, when they drove along the shore of Keppel Harbor, nor had he told Galt anything about her— merely saying that he had come down from Rangoon with a friend and was stopping aboard until he left port. But when the party returned, dropping him at Jardine's Wharf and the Doctor at the Singapore Club, and he had returned to the tug, he found Walburton and Bellows smoking in their deck-chairs under the awning— the night was too hot for berths. Sending one of the China boys for a brandy-peg, he drew a Canton chair up to theirs and asked if they were sleepy. "Because, if you're not, we'll have a bit of a pow-wow. Eh?"

"What's on your mind, old chap?"

"Well— a question of ethics, I fancy. As I've told you before, I rigged up this ridiculous camouflage on the old boat as a bit of a joke, in the beginning. It suited my sense of humor to have her look as though a steady ten in fairly smooth water would fetch groans from every plate of her, an' then have the old tub beat some fifteen-knot liner into port by two or three days. I was a good enough engineer an' mechanic to make those sponsons really useful, of eourse— bracing an' bolting 'em in such a way that it's practically impossible to make the boat turn turtle while they're on her sides. An' we've done quite a bit of honest salvage business with her— good credit at all the banks, good for anything we wish to buy in any port. At the start I can't recall havin' anything unlawful in view concernin' her, though at the back of my mind I fancy there's always been a feelin' that we might some day run into rawther int'restin' adventures with the boat. Well— we've been together a good bit, now— know each other pretty well. I've been wonderin' tonight, how far we'd all go, outside of the law, if there was a chance of puttin' us all on Easy Street for life if we pulled it off?"

"Hmph! I fancy every chap has some such thought in his mind at times, Sefton. Me— for example. I served in the Coldstreams several years, as you know— resigned from the service when I came into a small legacy which, by scrimpin' an' a bally lot of self-denial, I've managed to increase by half. Always kept the honor of the old regiment in mind— never cheated at cards or bandied a woman's name about in clubs or mess— tried to live straight an' decent, you know. And on every side of me I've. seen beastly crooks gettin' all the good things of life— big estates, beautiful women, yachts, horses— all the things a chap wants like the devil even when he's too old to get all the good out of 'em. Aye— I've been wonderin' of late how far I'd go, outside the law, to be safely where those bounders are—to know that I'd enough to waste as much as I pleased an' still have enough left to last my life out. How about you, Tommy?"

"About in the same boat, old chap! If I'm doing no better than this for myself at fifty— well, I'd about as soon be in jail!"

Sefton nodded.

"Suppose we ran out through Sunda to one of the Cocos Group—some cove where nobody'd see us? Take the sponsons an' derricks off her— all masts but one pole at the bow for antenna an' signal-flags— put back the old four funnels, now in the hold. Fill the rivet-holes in her sides an' give her a fresh coat of paint. Then hang around the Malacca entrance— fifty miles west of Sabang. Stick around there until one of the big Messageries boats comes along with a gold shipment to the Saigon banks. Two months from now they'll be havin' out their semi-annual gold an' note reserve for the banks in Saigon, Hue an' Hanoi. Of course the P.&O. with bullion an' specie to the Hongkong an' Shanghai would be a bigger haul—five or six millions in one shipm'nt. But those P.&O. masters are a resourceful lot, they never get rattled— an' they sometimes turn the tables in an affair of this sort when you least expect it. I'd tackle 'em if there was nothing else—pull it off, too, I fancy— but it's more risky. The French are more likely to get stampeded— fight like the devil at close quarters, but a torpedo gets their morale, d'ye see. They'd put their gold an' notes aboard of us rather than risk bein' torpedoed— particularly if they're carryin' mails an' have a full passenger-list."

"AN'— afterward— when we've got the gold aboard? Where do we go then?" asked Bellows.

"Back to wherever we took the sponsons off her. Put 'em on again with the derricks an' cable-sheaves at bow an' stern. Paint her with red oxide an' then acid to make it peel an' rust in spots. We'd figure out something to conceal the gold in— some ord'n'ry stuff that nobody'd bother about stealin' in the mass. Put Frank's share ashore in one port, in some bonded warehouse— Tommy's share at some other port, mine in a third one. We're known to be carryin' on salvage an' wreckin' operations. If the Henderson Wrecking Comp'ny fetches into port any little quantity of rather valuable stuff,— rubber or any sort of machinery,— it would be merely supposed that we had stumbled upon some wreck an' found the stuff on her— clearly our property, no interest to anybody else— no suspicions aroused, no questions asked. Delivered to us at any time upon presentation of our warehouse receipts..... Very likely we'll work out a simpler an' better scheme if we go into any such game."

"Suppose the gold is in bullion?"

"Make gold-dust of it while we're refitting. We could deposit sacks of it in any bank, and it would be supposed that we had a secret gold-mine somewhere which we naturally are keeping quiet in order to prevent a rush to stake claims all around us."

"Suppose they suspect the gold to have been that from the Messageries boat?"

"Let 'em suspect an' be damned to 'em! Thing is to prove it—which they can't. Knowing that, they probably wouldn't even try."

"H-m-m— I never saw gold-dust made from bullion-slugs— but if you say it can be done, I wont argue with you—"

"We've got a couple of big forges below, haven't we—an' big ladles for lead? All the tools we need for meltin' the gold. Then we build a wooden pan eight feet square on the deck-plates, an' fill it with sand. Pour a thin trickle of the molten gold into it from as high as we can get before it cools. It will be in semi-globular form when it hits the sand— which spreads an' breaks it into little uneven nuggets an' grains. May take a bit of practice, but it's a perfectly simple proposition. Afterward we pan an' cradle that sand just as we would the dirt of any mining claim—"

"I'll say! You spoke of refitting at one of the Cocos group? How the deuce are you going to find a place down there which none of the inhabitants will spot? There are several hundred people in that group!"

"I remembered that just after mentioning it. Neither Cocos nor Christmas would do at all. But I know most of those reefs up in the China Sea— Spratly Island, near the Ladd Reef would do. It's fifteen hundred feet long by nine hundred wide, and eight feet high, on the west end of a much larger coral-bank—no barrier-reef or lagoon, but good anchorage under lee of the northeast side. Nothing but turtles an' birds there."

"How the deuce would you refit in an open road like that?"

"Bein' a wreckin'-tug at present, we've all the materials right aboard of us— upward of a hundred casks an' chains. for pontoons, with plenty of plankin' to deck 'em over. Put a big pontoon under each sponson, cut it loose, lash it to the pontoon an' warp it up onto the shelving coral in a sheltered spot, anchoring it there. Leave sponsons an' other gear on those pontoons until we come back. I'd rather have a larger, wooded island as a rendezvous— but you'll find very few in the Archipelago which are uninhabited or where some lot of brown or white humans mightn't happen along an' either see us at work or find our sponsons while we're away. Up there at Spratly, on the contr'ry, every master within a hundred miles of the spot is doin' his best to keep away from those reefs— not to go look at 'em. Except for an occasional Navy boat, surveyin', there'll not be a chance of anyone happening along for a look-see. And I know that none of the English, French or Dutch boats are working in those waters just now."

GALT saw Miss Lowndes again at the end of the week, while Mrs. Harvey was up at Government House. As they were on the veranda by themselves with nobody to overhear them, they happened to drift into a discussion of the early loveaffair between her friend and Mark Sefton— Miss Lowndes giving the Doctor a few side-lights upon the home life of the Harveys which her friend had told her at one time or another.

"In the States, Doctor, there wouldn't be all this fuss and scandal which British law gives Pat Harvey the chance to rake up.  She'd simply leave him, get a lawyer to look after her interests, live out in Reno a few months—and then quietly marry Mark as she always wanted to do. There are times when Cecilia is almost desperate. If she had money enough, she'd go back to London and fight that bounder to a finish! She even told Mark the other day that she'd go with him now, if he had a million...  Oh! I shouldn't have told you that! Please forget it, wont you? One speaks so unreservedly to you medicos about everything! You'll not remember or mention that— will you?"

"Of course not! But it's exactly what I'd think of doing in her place— though a bit of latent caution might prevent my actually doing it."

There was little chance of Galt's mentioning that remark of Mrs. Harvey's— but forgetting it was more difficult. He couldn't help putting himself in Sefton's place, after what the man had told him, and trying to decide what his reaction would be to a suggestion of that sort. Knowing Sefton's adventurous type perhaps better than the Londoner himself did, the conclusion was obvious that he would go out and get that million— somewhere. Galt had understood, vaguely, that Sefton was staying aboard some craft out in the Roads or in Keppel Harbor with a friend who was master of her— but hadn't the slightest idea what craft. Calling his efficient China boy, Ling Foh, he described Sefton and told him to get this information— which Ling had no trouble at all in doing, through his countrymen alongshore. Then the Doctor ran out with him in a small power-launch and took a leisurely cruise as far as the naval station, examining various steamers at anchor as they went along.

The appearance of the wrecking-tug inrigued him. Running the launch obliquely across her bow, he glanced along her narrow lines, aft, making a mental allowance for how she might look without the clumsy sponsons, derricks and sheaves. When they went back, he turned up the latest edition of Lloyd's Register— getting the full and varied history of the craft.

Here, then, was a very serviceable tool which Sefton might use in carving out his million provided he hit upon some direct and simple way and was not too scrupulous. It was only a piecing-together in the Doctor's mind, you understand, of the man's unusual type— a certain object to be accomplished, the incentive, and quite possibly the means.

A MONTH later, when the wrecking-tug had been reported from two diiferent ports on her legitimate business, the local news-sheets mentioned the chartering of a deep-sea cruising-yacht in Hongkong, for six months, by the Honorable Mark Sefton of London, and of his clearing under cruising papers for a pleasure trip through the eastern Archipelago. The wrecking-tug had left Hongkong the day before— after putting aboard the yacht, during a pitch-dark night, enough Lascars and Chinks to run her. Being an oil-motor craft, this didn't require as highly skilled engineers as would have been necessary under steam— and no stokers. Also— except for shooting the sun, most Lascars are good dead-reckoning navigators. So, with the assistance of six brownies, Sefton was quite able to take the one hundred and eightyfoot craft anywhere among the Islands as long as a typhoon didn't hit him.

A week after the yacht left Hongkong, the big French liner Phédre—built at Toulon the previous year— was within a hundred miles of Cape St. Jacques when a wisp of black smoke off her starboard quarter was noticed from the bridge.

While they watched the little patch of smoke on the horizon, it grew perceptibly larger. In half an hour a very fast craft with four short funnels was rapidly approaching them, apparently upon the same course,— making for the mouth of the Saigon River— presumably, a French destroyer from the naval station, though her lines seemed to be more of the English type. Then when not over a mile astern, the radio officer— who had been expecting that she might report her number as she passed— was stupefied by receiving a message ordering the Phédre's master to stop his engines and break out the gold shipment in his treasure-room.

Dumont's first reaction to this was to shove over the engine-room telegraph to "Full-speed Ahead." But in five minutes  the destroyer was alongside, not more than a thousand feet from the liner, and had fired a shot across her bow. Still, Dumont thought he'd take a chance— but screams of terror from the passengers who were lined up along the rails of all three decks made him rush to the starboard end of the bridge and look down— at the unmistakable wake of a Whitehead torpedo, just below the surface. Frantically reversing his engines, he succeeded in slowing down the momentum of his boat sufficiently to let the torpedo cross his bow less than sixty feet ahead of it. (The destroyer's commander had figured upon exactly this reaction and aimed his torpedo accordingly.)

While Dumont was still watching the torpedo streak away in the distance, his radio-officer brought him another peremptory message in perfect French:

You are carrying mails and passengers. Put every box of that gold and banknote shipment aboard of us at once, with your own boats— or we will open up the whole side of your ship and send her to the bottom before any of you can get off.

NOW, it is easy to sit in a swivel-chair at home and say what Captain Dumont could or should have done. It is admitted he might have chanced a few shots from a six-inch gun before surrendering— but there is something coldly final and compelling about the wake of a torpedo when you see it approaching the water-line of your boat at race-horse speed and know that the impact will blow out the side-plating over an area thirty or forty feet in diameter, letting in all of the sea that the hull will contain. Dumont dropped his boats into the water with a promptness which indicated his state of mind.

The gold was all in bullion slugs. The boxes of bank-notes contained bills of all denominations, no ten of them consecutively numbered. As each box was passed up to the deck of the destroyer, it was opened by two Lascars— no white man being seen on the craft— to make sure there was no attempt at trickery. Then the radio officer brought Dumont a message of thanks for his courtesy under duress and congratulations upon his common sense—with a final warning not to call for assistance before the destroyer was hull-down if he didn't wish it to return and sink him.

When the pirate's smoke was merely a blur upon the horizon in the south-west, the radio wail for assistance went out from the Phédre. In a few moments the big stations at Singapore and Hongkong, together with a half-dozen liners up and down the China Sea, were excitedly asking for details. This was something which concerned every craft afloat. Cruisers came racing out from the naval stations, converging toward the chartposition where the pirate was last seen, but none of them approached the coral-banks because navigation among them was fully as dangerous for the pirate as for other craft, and it seemed inconceivable that he would risk his bottom where any rise in the wind would put him on jagged coral.

Meanwhile— the destroyer had changed her course due east as soon as no other craft was in sight, and just before dark anchored alongside of the chartered yacht under lee of tiny Spratly Island. All through the night, while half of the Lascars were towing the pontoons with the sponsons and other gear out to hundred-fathom soundings and sinking them, the molten gold was being dropped into sand in the big pan, taking many curious and beautiful shapes— then put aboard of the yacht in unmarked boxes of various sizes and shapes. When all of the notes and gold were safely stowed in the yacht's hold with such tools and equipment as could be kept without risk of being traced to the wrecking-tug, she also was towed out to hundred-fathom depth. A contrivance was rigged to explode dynamite against her bottom, and her sea-cocks were opened. When they had watched her go down until she rested on bottom, the yacht hove up her anchor and proceeded down through the Straits to Sourabaya—where a dozen of the Lascars were given most generous shares of the loot in French notes of small and medium denominations,

Walburton and Tommy Bellows— now appearing with clean-shaved faces and in smart yachting whites— visited old friends ashore for two or three days. Then the yacht pulled out for Macassar, where she merely stopped for mail and then went on up the Borneo coast to the mouth of the Sesajap River, up which she slipped after dark and hid in a little creek before she could be seen next day. Here, she remained for three weeks— then stole out again and went down to Singapore— where invitations were given to General Lowndes, his daughter, Mrs. Harvey and Lieutenant Ordway of the Staff, to cruise for a fortnight or more. Doctor Galt happened to have gone up the Peninsula for a week.

SINCE leaving Hongkong, the yacht had been reported from Sourabaya, Macassar, Sandakan, Singapore— widely separated places in or about the Archipelago— giving the inference that she also must have been reported from various other places during the month if one cared about turning up the news-files to look for mention of her. In Singapore, she was apparently accounted for every day of the time since she was chartered in Hongkong— and Sefton as well— Bellows and Walburton being old friends who were known to have come aboard from one of the C.P.R. boats just before the Cythera sailed, so that there was naturally no record of them in the Hongkong hotels. Of course there was no possible resemblance between her and the pirate destroyer either in length, beam, speed, engines or rig— not a person on board the Phédre would have even suggested it. Had any I.S.S. man, disguised as a Malay, fancied he recognized one of the wrecking tug's former crew, the man would have said that part of her bottom-plates, rusted through, had dropped out somewhere N. E. of the Natunas as they were coming across from Saigon. Sonneschien and the engineer thought they might manage to keep her afloat, but had sent off the crew in the boats, paying them to date in French notes which he had obtained at the last port. They had rowed to Kuching in Sarawak— entering the river at night and naturally going to the native city, so that they hadn't been seen by the authorities. All were convinced that Sonneschien and the engineer had gone down with the tug.

DURING the fortnight's cruise, all three of the yachtsmen hinted, jokingly, that they had struck something in one of the Dutch islands which looked pretty good to them. They had been in to have a look-see during the first part of the trip— acting upon a somewhat rambling story told Sefton by a Dyak whose life he had once saved.

Sefton admitted to the General and Ordway that he hoped to make a paying strike when a favorable opportunity permitted them to go in again— but told them frankly that if any word of this leaked out ashore, it would probably dish him and his friends out of the whole proposition. In a little over a fortnight, the yacht returned to Singapore— with the guests in possession of a most convincing story to account for Sefton and his friends having gold dust or nuggets in their possession, if they ever did, though the story was treated as strict confidence until a month or two later.

Of course all Asia was thoroughly aroused over the daring piracy of the French liner. At first, Dumont had been severely censured by the press—but interviews with his officers and passengers soon completely exonerated him, and he was complimented upon his sense in not taking the foolish chance of being sent to the bottom with all on board. The search for the pirate destroyer continued for a month— but no trace of her was ever found— no craft answering that description had been seen by anybody. No casual gossip overheard in the bazaars by disguised I.S.S. men was regarded by any hint that this man or such a man might have been one of the crew aboard that destroyer— the native bankers who changed the Lascars' notes for them were a close-mouthed lot who minded their own business and possibly didn't even suspect that they might have been from the Phédre. Sefton had given each of his two friends a quarter share— then, from his own half, had given each man of the crew what amounted to enough for life-independence in Asia, though the entire amount was but a small percentage of his own share— and he had little thought of their betraying him because they believed it a hanging matter for every one of them if implicated. Much safer to know nothing about such an occurrence!

After another month of cruising, the Cythera sneaked up the Sesajap again, one night, and lay hidden for three weeks more— during which time, Sefton tried out a more successful experiment with the gold. At a height of ten feet above the sand-pan, he stretched a galvanized-iron screen attached to wires from a dynamo which heated it to incandescence, so that the molten gold dropped through without sticking to it— the sand now having sulphur mixed with it and covered with three inches of water. The result was very close to placer gold, with nuggets formed from several holes enlarged in the mesh. Then they ran out of the river and went up to Shanghai.

There, lying in the Woosung, Walburton and Tommy Bellows had their heavy boxes taken ashore in broad daylight by big Yunnan coolies and stowed in the vaults of a Chinese bank on the Bund, directly opposite. If the coolies or anyone on the street had a suspicion as to what the small heavy boxes contained, they gave no evidence of it. The two adventurers got their deposit-receipts from the suave Chinese manager and knew that their boxes would be forthcoming with the lead seals unbroken when they again presented them. The bankers were purchasers of gold in any form and had many ways of disposing of it. In Hongkong, Sefton had his own boxes taken ashore and stored in the vaults of another Chinese bank— reserving only two, which he took down to Sam Wah in Singapore and sold for a very large sum. These transactions being concluded, he took Dr. Galt, the Lowndes party and Ordway, for another fortnight's cruise and then turned over the Cythera to her owners' agents.

GALT'S China boy, Ling Foh, had been instructed to keep tab on Sefton whenever he was ashore— and soon reported the sale of two heavy boxes to Sam Wah for a bank-draft in six figures. Galt knew that Sam, in addition to being one of the principal animal-dealers, had at least a couple of hundred thousand invested in one of the Chinese banks— probably nearer double that. As a supposed member of the Great Tong with fairly high rank, he could have compelled the fat Chinese to give him any information he wished about Sefton— that is, anything Sam Wah really knew. But he had sense enough to use such authority very sparingly, which was one reason for the unbounded respect and even fear in which he was held by Chinese and Malays alike. So instead of giving orders— he merely suggested that he was making a few chemical experiments in which he needed a little pure gold— preferably, dust or nuggets. He knew that Sam's bank dealt in precious metals for the native jewelers and goldsmiths. Could he accommodate him with something of the sort? Sam most assuredly could— and did— selling him some of the nuggets and dust which had most recently come his way.

Galt took his purchase to the private office of a much more intimate Chinese friend— an influential banker of red-button rank— and in a few minutes, into the private assaying laboratory of that cultivated gentleman. A few days later, he asked Sefton to accompany him to the same laboratory and watch a certain experiment he was desirous of making.

The little warning bell in Sefton's mind vibrated faintly. For a moment, he debated, inwardly, upon the chances of expressing his gold back to the Indo-China banks, anonymously— but there were his companions and crew to consider. In running down some possible clew, the secret service men would probably wind up with Tommy Bellows and Walburton. No— he had committed an irrevocable act— must play the game through— and his nerve was altogether too good to let him even hesitate. When they were in the banker's office, the Doctor introduced Li Sung Wang as one of his earliest friends in the East— educated at Cornell University.

"Among other things, Sefton, our friend here specialized as a mineralogist and financial expert, having in view the succeeding to his father's and uncles' business out here— which he did some years ago. I brought him, the other day, a few specimens of 'gold nuggets and dust which vary in form and general appearance from any I ever saw before— they were also strange to him, until he happened to think of an experiment he had once tried in the college laboratory. We were interested enough to go fifty-fifty upon two hundred dollars worth of bullion and try the experiment over again— would have done it yesterday, but I happened to think that you might like to see it also. Eh? Very good! We'll put the slugs in this electric furnace—it should be melted in about eight minutes, I think." It actually took nine, by the clock.

"Now— I get up on this stepladder. Li passes up a ladleful of the stuff..... Watch out that it doesn't drip on you! I tip the ladle until this tiny trickle of molten gold falls into that box of coarse sand on the floor, in two inches of water. There! Now we turn off the furnace and pan out the gold with this aluminum frying-pan— the water having cooled it. H-m-m— see this nugget? Looks something like a piece of fan-coral— eh? That was the big blob that fell when I tipped the ladle too far. See these little globules of bright gold— from the tiny drops of molten metal? Now I'll spread out three exhibits upon squares of white paper. First the dust and nuggets I recently bought for experimental work. Second, placer-dust nuggets, as they are brought in and sold to the banks. Third— the experiment we have just made. Look at 'em closely and see if you notice any perceptible differences?"

Sefton examined the gold coolly.

"Why— yes, I do! Of course your artificial stuff is much brighter and more perfectly globular than the placer-lot—though I can't see much difference in the 'fancoral' nuggets in any of the three— they all look pretty much alike to me. This lot that you bought is perceptibly darker than your experimental lot— so are the placerdust an' nuggets— the natural corrosion of earth-acids, I fancy. Possibly yours is a shade more globular. But— d'ye see— they once told me at Ballarat, in Victoria, that river-sand will often roll gold-dust over an' over with the water action until it's almost as round as shot.

"I say, Doctor! This stuff you bought looks almost exactly like some we recently panned in the interior of Borneo. I sold some of it to Sam Wah. We fancied we had an almost inexhaustible mine, but it proved to be a sort of pocket— scarcely a trace of gold beyond a hundred-foot radius from that river sand-bar. We dug an' panned all over the place but couldn't get 'color' anywhere. You see, I got the tip from an old Dyak when he was dying— chap who'd been under some obligations to me. Now, our mineralogist friend here, Li Sung Wang, would possibly know how such pockets in the coarse gravel under sand are formed an' what sort of abrasive action there might be as the gold is deposited. I'm not an expert, d'ye see— I can only tell you the sort of place we found it in. Naturally, ll not say what part of Borneo because we may decide to have another look-see, some time."

THIS calm statement was rather staggering to the Doctor— he thought he had Sefton with enough circumstantial evidence to give him thirty years' penal servitude, if he cared about doing it, though he was by no means sure that he did care to. And now— even Li Sung Wang couldn't be positive that the Doctor's purchase wasn't natural placer-gold after all; it certainly had the partly corroded appearance.

Sefton had been inwardly congratulating himself upon the forethought which had led him to scatter sulphur in that box of sand and water.

After some further discussion with Li, Doctor Galt carried Sefton off to dinner at the club. Afterward, on the upper veranda, he said:

"I could make out a pretty good case of circumstantial evidence against you if I wanted to do it, old chap. You'd been told to go out and get a million before you could have what you wanted— certainly, a very decided object. You're the adventurous type who would get that money any way you had to— but get it, one way or another. And you've got it! Your wrecking-tug was originally a twenty-five-knot destroyer, and those sponsons could be knocked off with a few hours' work. You had a native crew who'll be afraid of hanging if they blab, and were doubtless wellpaid. And your 'dust' was presumably made from melted bullion-slugs. Fairly strong case— isn't it?"

"Dare say men have done penal servitude for weaker ones—but watch me knock it to bits: I chartered the Cythera in Hongkong six days before the pirate was looting the Phédre. Walburton an' Bellows joined me that night from a Canadian Pacific boat that had just come in. We cleared the yacht for Sourabaya next day, reachin' there on the nineteenth— which is pretty good travelin' for even an eighteen-knot craft, especially as we were buckin' a heavy sea part of the way. Must have been in the Java Sea when that pirate was at work up near Saigon. We took friends to Bali for a three-day cruise, then went to Macassar, Sulu, Sandakan, Manila, down to Singapore. Reported all over the place. The Lowndes party an' Ordway knew about this gold-mine of ours before we actually sneaked up that Borneo river an' got the gold. You see? Nothing to your case as far as we're concerned. Try it out if you like— I'd be int'rested to see what the Courts could do without the slightest grain of proof. Don't know just why you should want my neck or my liberty, old chap, but go as far as you like!"

NEXT afternoon Sefton went out to General Lowndes' villa. He thought that Bertha's manner was rather curious when she joined him. Cecilia's manner, when she appeared, also indicated something unusual.

"l'm waiting for you, Cecie— at last. We have the million."

"Oh, Mark! I'll come to you, dear— in a month— regardless of appearances. God knows I'd nothing but disgust left for him. We'll not need your million after all! This cable came an hour ago. He dropped dead at a Cabinet meeting this morning. I can marry the man I love— and respect."

A thoughtful, rather weary smile crinkled the corners of Sefton's mouth.

"Dead— eh? Well— one wishes that worn-out heart of his had lain down on its job some months ago!" he remarked dryly.

________________

6: The Red Room

H. G. Wells

1866-1946

The Idler, March 1896

Herbert George Wells

"I CAN assure you," said I, "that it will take a very tangible ghost to frighten me." And I stood up before the fire with my glass in my hand.

"It is your own choosing," said the man with the withered arm, and glanced at me askance.

"Eight-and-twenty years," said I, "I have lived, and never a ghost have I seen as yet."

The old woman sat staring hard into the fire, her pale eyes wide open. "Ay," she broke in; "and eight-and-twenty years you have lived and never seen the likes of this house, I reckon. There's a many things to see, when one's still but eight-and-twenty." She swayed her head slowly from side to side. "A many things to see and sorrow for."

I half suspected the old people were trying to enhance the spiritual terrors of their house by their droning insistence. I put down my empty glass on the table and looked about the room, and caught a glimpse of myself, abbreviated and broadened to an impossible sturdiness, in the queer old mirror at the end of the room. "Well," I said, "if I see anything to-night, I shall be so much the wiser. For I come to the business with an open mind."

"It's your own choosing," said the man with the withered arm once more.

I heard the faint sound of a stick and a shambling step on the flags in the passage outside. The door creaked on its hinges as a second old man entered, more bent, more wrinkled, more aged even than the first. He supported himself by the help of a crutch, his eyes were covered by a shade, and his lower lip, half averted, hung pale and pink from his decaying yellow teeth. He made straight for an armchair on the opposite side of the table, sat down clumsily, and began to cough. The man with the withered hand gave the newcomer a short glance of positive dislike; the old woman took no notice of his arrival, but remained with her eyes fixed steadily on the fire.

"I said— it's your own choosing," said the man with the withered hand, when the coughing had ceased for a while.

"It's my own choosing," I answered.

The man with the shade became aware of my presence for the first time, and threw his head back for a moment, and sidewise, to see me. I caught a momentary glimpse of his eyes, small and bright and inflamed. Then he began to cough and splutter again.

"Why don't you drink?" said the man with the withered arm, pushing the beer toward him. The man with the shade poured out a glassful with a shaking hand, that splashed half as much again on the deal table. A monstrous shadow of him crouched upon the wall, and mocked his action as he poured and drank. I must confess I had scarcely expected these grotesque custodians. There is, to my mind, something inhuman in senility, something crouching and atavistic; the human qualities seem to drop from old people insensibly day by day. The three of them made me feel uncomfortable with their gaunt silences, their bent carriage, their evident unfriendliness to me and to one another. And that night, perhaps, I was in the mood for uncomfortable impressions. I resolved to get away from their vague fore-shadowings of the evil things upstairs.

"If," said I, "you will show me to this haunted room of yours, I will make myself comfortable there."

The old man with the cough jerked his head back so suddenly that it startled me, and shot another glance of his red eyes at me from out of the darkness under the shade, but no one answered me. I waited a minute, glancing from one to the other. The old woman stared like a dead body, glaring into the fire with lack-lustre eyes.

"If," I said, a little louder, "if you will show me to this haunted room of yours, I will relieve you from the task of entertaining me."

"There's a candle on the slab outside the door," said the man with the withered hand, looking at my feet as he addressed me. "But if you go to the Red Room to-night—"

"This night of all nights!" said the old woman, softly.

"—You go alone."

"Very well," I answered, shortly, "and which way do I go?"

"You go along the passage for a bit," said he, nodding his head on his shoulder at the door, "until you come to a spiral staircase; and on the second landing is a door covered with green baize. Go through that, and down the long corridor to the end, and the Red Room is on your left up the steps."

"Have I got that right?" I said, and repeated his directions.

He corrected me in one particular.

"And you are really going?" said the man with the shade, looking at me again for the third time with that queer, unnatural tilting of the face.

"This night of all nights!" whispered the old woman.

"It is what I came for," I said, and moved toward the door. As I did so, the old man with the shade rose and staggered round the table, so as to be closer to the others and to the fire. At the door I turned and looked at them, and saw they were all close together, dark against the firelight, staring at me over their shoulders, with an intent expression on their ancient faces.

"Good-night," I said, setting the door open. "It's your own choosing," said the man with the withered arm.

I left the door wide open until the candle was well alight, and then I shut them in, and walked down the chilly, echoing passage.

I must confess that the oddness of these three old pensioners in whose charge her ladyship had left the castle, and the deep-toned, old-fashioned furniture of the housekeeper's room, in which they foregathered, had affected me curiously in spite of my effort to keep myself at a matter-of-fact phase. They seemed to belong to another age, an older age, an age when things spiritual were indeed to be feared, when common sense was uncommon, an age when omens and witches were credible, and ghosts beyond denying. Their very existence, thought I, is spectral; the cut of their clothing, fashions born in dead brains; the ornaments and conveniences in the room about them even are ghostly— the thoughts of vanished men, which still haunt rather than participate in the world of to-day. And the passage I was in, long and shadowy, with a film of moisture glistening on the wall, was as gaunt and cold as a thing that is dead and rigid. But with an effort I sent such thoughts to the right-about. The long, drafty subterranean passage was chilly and dusty, and my candle flared and made the shadows cower and quiver. The echoes rang up and down the spiral staircase, and a shadow came sweeping up after me, and another fled before me into the darkness overhead. I came to the wide landing and stopped there for a moment listening to a rustling that I fancied I heard creeping behind me, and then, satisfied of the absolute silence, pushed open the unwilling baize-covered door and stood in the silent corridor.

The effect was scarcely what I expected, for the moonlight, coming in by the great window on the grand staircase, picked out everything in vivid black shadow or reticulated silvery illumination. Everything seemed in its proper position; the house might have been deserted on the yesterday instead of twelve months ago. There were candles in the sockets of the sconces, and whatever dust had gathered on the carpets or upon the polished flooring was distributed so evenly as to be invisible in my candlelight. A waiting stillness was over everything. I was about to advance, and stopped abruptly. A bronze group stood upon the landing hidden from me by a corner of the wall; but its shadow fell with marvelous distinctness upon the white paneling, and gave me the impression of some one crouching to waylay me. The thing jumped upon my attention suddenly. I stood rigid for half a moment, perhaps. Then, with my hand in the pocket that held the revolver, I advanced, only to discover a Ganymede and Eagle, glistening in the moonlight. That incident for a time restored my nerve, and a dim porcelain Chinaman on a buhl table, whose head rocked as I passed, scarcely startled me.

The door of the Red Room and the steps up to it were in a shadowy corner. I moved my candle from side to side in order to see clearly the nature of the recess in which I stood, before opening the door. Here it was, thought I, that my predecessor was found, and the memory of that story gave me a sudden twinge of apprehension. I glanced over my shoulder at the black Ganymede in the moonlight, and opened the door of the Red Room rather hastily, with my face half turned to the pallid silence of the corridor.

I entered, closed the door behind me at once, turned the key I found in the lock within, and stood with the candle held aloft surveying the scene of my vigil, the great Red Room of Lorraine Castle, in which the young Duke had died; or rather in which he had begun his dying, for he had opened the door and fallen headlong down the steps I had just ascended. That had been the end of his vigil, of his gallant attempt to conquer the ghostly tradition of the place, and never, I thought, had apoplexy better served the ends of superstition. There were other and older stories that clung to the room, back to the half-incredible beginning of it all, the tale of a timid wife and the tragic end that came to her husband's jest of frightening her. And looking round that huge shadowy room with its black window bays, its recesses and alcoves, its dusty brown-red hangings and dark gigantic furniture, one could well understand the legends that had sprouted in its black corners, its germinating darknesses. My candle was a little tongue of light in the vastness of the chamber; its rays failed to pierce to the opposite end of the room, and left an ocean of dull red mystery and suggestion, sentinel shadows and watching darknesses beyond its island of light. And the stillness of desolation brooded over it all.

I must confess some impalpable quality of that ancient room disturbed me. I tried to fight the feeling down. I resolved to make a systematic examination of the place, and so, by leaving nothing to the imagination, dispel the fanciful suggestions of the obscurity before they obtained a hold upon me. After satisfying myself of the fastening of the door, I began to walk round the room, peering round each article of furniture, tucking up the valances of the bed and opening its curtains wide. In one place there was a distinct echo to my footsteps, the noises I made seemed so little that they enhanced rather than broke the silence of the place. I pulled up the blinds and examined the fastenings of the several windows. Attracted by the fall of a particle of dust, I leaned forward and looked up the blackness of the wide chimney. Then, trying to preserve my scientific attitude of mind, I walked round and began tapping the oak paneling for any secret opening, but I desisted before reaching the alcove. I saw my face in a mirror— white.

There were two big mirrors in the room, each with a pair of sconces bearing candles, and on the mantelshelf, too, were candles in china candle-sticks. All these I lit one after the other. The fire was laid— an unexpected consideration from the old housekeeper— and I lit it, to keep down any disposition to shiver, and when it was burning well I stood round with my back to it and regarded the room again. I had pulled up a chintz-covered armchair and a table to form a kind of barricade before me. On this lay my revolver, ready to hand. My precise examination had done me a little good, but I still found the remoter darkness of the place and its perfect stillness too stimulating for the imagination. The echoing of the stir and crackling of the fire was no sort of comfort to me. The shadow in the alcove at the end of the room began to display that undefinable quality of a presence, that odd suggestion of a lurking living thing that comes so easily in silence and solitude. And to reassure myself, I walked with a candle into it and satisfied myself that there was nothing tangible there. I stood that candle upon the floor of the alcove and left it in that position.

By this time I was in a state of considerable nervous tension, although to my reason there was no adequate cause for my condition. My mind, however, was perfectly clear. I postulated quite unreservedly that nothing supernatural could happen, and to pass the time I began stringing some rhymes together, Ingoldsby fashion, concerning the original legend of the place. A few I spoke aloud, but the echoes were not pleasant* For the same reason I also abandoned, after a time, a conversation with myself upon the impossibility of ghosts and haunting. My mind reverted to the three old and distorted people downstairs, and I tried to keep it upon that topic.

The sombre reds and grays of the room troubled me; even with its seven candles the place was merely dim. The light in the alcove flaring in a draft, and the fire flickering, kept the shadows and penumbra perpetually shifting and stirring in a noiseless flighty dance. Casting about for a remedy, I recalled the wax candles I had seen in the corridor, and, with a slight effort, carrying a candle and leaving the door open, I walked out into the moonlight, and presently returned with as many as ten. These I put in the various knick-knacks of china with which the room was sparsely adorned, and lit and placed them where the shadows had lain deepest, some on the floor, some in the window recesses, arranging and rearranging them until at last my seventeen candles were so placed that not an inch of the room but had the direct light of at least one of them. It occurred to me that when the ghost came I could warn him not to trip over them. The room was now quite brightly illuminated. There was something very cheering and reassuring in these little silent streaming flames, and to notice their steady diminution of length offered me an occupation and gave me a reassuring sense of the passage of time.

Even with that, however, the brooding expectation of the vigil weighed heavily enough upon me. I stood watching the minute hand of my watch creep towards midnight.

Then something happened in the alcove. I did not see the candle go out, I simply turned and saw that the darkness was there, as one might start and see the unexpected presence of a stranger. The black shadow had sprung back to its place. "By Jove," said I aloud, recovering from my surprise, "that draft's a strong one;" and taking the matchbox from the table, I walked across the room in a leisurely manner to relight the corner again. My first match would not strike, and as I succeeded with the second, something seemed to blink on the wall before me. I turned my head involuntarily and saw that the two candles on the little table by the fireplace were extinguished. I rose at once to my feet.

"Odd," I said. "Did I do that myself in a flash of absent-mindedness?"

I walked back, relit one, and as I did so I saw the candle in the right sconce of one of the mirrors wink and go right out, and almost immediately its companion followed it. The flames vanished as if the wick had been suddenly nipped between a finger and thumb, leaving the wick neither glowing nor smoking, but black. While I stood gaping the candle at the foot of the bed went out, and the shadows seemed to take another step toward me.

"This won't do!" said I, and first one and then another candle on the mantelshelf followed.

"What's up?" I cried, with a queer high note getting into my voice somehow. At that the candle on the corner of the wardrobe went out, and the one I had relit in the alcove followed.

"Steady on!" I said, "those candles are wanted," speaking with a half-hysterical facetiousness, and scratching away at a match the while, "for the mantel candlesticks." My hands trembled so much that twice I missed the rough paper of the matchbox. As the mantel emerged from darkness again, two candles in the remoter end of the room were eclipsed. But with the same match I also relit the larger mirror candles, and those on the floor near the doorway, so that for the moment I seemed to gain on the extinctions. But then in a noiseless volley there vanished four lights at once in different corners of the room, and I struck another match in quivering haste, and stood hesitating whither to take it.

As I stood undecided, an invisible hand seemed to sweep out the two candles on the table. With a cry of terror I dashed at the alcove, then into the corner and then into the window, relighting three as two more vanished by the fireplace, and then, perceiving a better way, I dropped matches on the iron-bound deedbox in the corner, and caught up the bedroom candlestick. With this I avoided the delay of striking matches, but for all that the steady process of extinction went on, and the shadows I feared and fought against returned, and crept in upon me, first a step gained on this side of me, then on that. I was now almost frantic with the horror of the coming darkness, and my self-possession deserted me. I leaped panting from candle to candle in a vain struggle against that remorseless advance.

I bruised myself in the thigh against the table, I sent a chair headlong, I stumbled and fell and whisked the cloth from the table in my fall. My candle rolled away from me and I snatched another as I rose. Abruptly this was blown out as I swung it off the table by the wind of my sudden movement, and immediately the two remaining candles followed. But there was light still in the room, a red light, that streamed across the ceiling and staved off the shadows from me. The fire! Of course I could still thrust my candle between the bars and relight it.

I turned to where the flames were still dancing between the glowing coals and splashing red reflections upon the furniture; made two steps toward the grate, and incontinently the flames dwindled and vanished, the glow vanished, the reflections rushed together and disappeared, and as I thrust the candle between the bars darkness closed upon me like the shutting of an eye, wrapped about me in a stifling embrace, sealed my vision, and crushed the last vestiges of self-possession from my brain. And it was not only palpable darkness, but intolerable terror. The candle fell from my hands. I flung out my arms in a vain effort to thrust that ponderous blackness away from me, and lifting up my voice, screamed with all my might, once, twice, thrice. Then I think I must have staggered to my feet. I know I thought suddenly of the moonlit corridor, and with my head bowed and my arms over my face, made a stumbling run for the door.

But I had forgotten the exact position of the door, and I struck myself heavily against the corner of the bed. I staggered back, turned, and was either struck or struck myself against some other bulky furnishing. I have a vague memory of battering myself thus to and fro in the darkness, of a heavy blow at last upon my forehead, of a horrible sensation of falling that lasted an age, of my last frantic effort to keep my footing, and then I remember no more.

I opened my eyes in daylight. My head was roughly bandaged, and the man with the withered hand was watching my face. I looked about me trying to remember what had happened, and for a space I could not recollect. I rolled my eyes into the corner and saw the old woman, no longer abstracted, no longer terrible, pouring out some drops of medicine from a little blue phial into a glass. "Where am I?" I said. "I seem to remember you, and yet I can not remember who you are."

They told me then, and I heard of the haunted Red Room as one who hears a tale. "We found you at dawn," said he, "and there was blood on your forehead and lips."

I wondered that I had ever disliked him. The three of them in the daylight seemed commonplace old folk enough. The man with the green shade had his head bent as one who sleeps.

It was very slowly I recovered the memory of my experience. "You believe now," said the old man with the withered hand, "that the room is haunted?" He spoke no longer as one who greets an intruder, but as one who condoles with a friend.

"Yes," said I, "the room is haunted."

"And you have seen it. And we who have been here all our lives have never set eyes upon it. Because we have never dared. Tell us, is it truly the old earl who—"

"No," said I, "it is not."

"I told you so," said the old lady, with the glass in her hand. "It is his poor young countess who was frightened—"

"It is not," I said. "There is neither ghost of earl nor ghost of countess in that room; there is no ghost there at all, but worse, far worse, something impalpable—"

"Well?" they said.

"The worst of all the things that haunt poor mortal men," said I; "and that is, in all its nakedness— 'Fear!' Fear that will not have light nor sound, that will not bear with reason, that deafens and darkens and overwhelms. It followed me through the corridor, it fought against me in the room—"

I stopped abruptly. There was an interval of silence. My hand went up to my bandages. "The candles went out one after another, and I fled—"

Then the man with the shade lifted his face sideways to see me and spoke.

"That is it," said he. "I knew that was it. A Power of Darkness. To put such a curse upon a home! It lurks there always. You can feel it even in the daytime, even of a bright summer's day, in the hangings, in the curtains, keeping behind you however you face about. In the dusk it creeps in the corridor and follows you, so that you dare not turn. It is even as you say. Fear itself is in that room. Black Fear.... And there it will be... so long as this house of sin endures."

_________________

7: The Griffin and the Minor Canon

Frank R. Stockton

1834-1902

St. Nicholas, Oct 1885

In collection: The Bee-man of Orn, New York, 1887

American author of fantasy, and science fiction, whose day job was on Scribner's Magazine; he wrote many short stories and some novels.

OVER the great door of an old, old church which stood in a quiet town of a far-away land there was carved in stone the figure of a large griffin. The old-time sculptor had done his work with great care, but the image he had made was not a pleasant one to look at. It had a large head, with enormous open mouth and savage teeth; from its back arose great wings, armed with sharp hooks and prongs; it had stout legs in front, with projecting claws ; but there were no legs behind,—the body running out into a long and powerful tail, finished off at the end with a barbed point. This tail was coiled up under him, the end sticking up just back of his wings.

The sculptor, or the people who had ordered this stone figure, had evidently been very much pleased with it, for little copies of it, also in stone, had been placed here and there along the sides of the church, not very far from the ground, so that people could easily look at them, and ponder on their curious forms. There were a great many other sculptures on the outside of this church,— saints, martyrs, grotesque heads of men, beasts, and birds, as well as those of other creatures which cannot be named, because nobody knows exactly what they were; but none were so curious and interesting as the great griffin over the door, and the little griffins on the sides of the church.

A long, long distance from the town, in the midst of dreadful wilds scarcely known to man, there dwelt the Griffin whose image had been put up over the church-door. In some way or other, the old-time sculptor had seen him, and afterward, to the best of his memory, had copied his figure in stone. The Griffin had never known this, until, hundreds of years afterward, he heard from a bird, from a wild animal, or in some manner which it is not now easy to find out, that there was a likeness of him on the old church in the distant town. Now, this Griffin had no idea how he looked. He had never seen a mirror, and the streams where he lived were so turbulent and violent that a quiet piece of water, which would reflect the image of any thing looking into it, could not be found. Being, as far as could be ascertained, the very last of his race, he had never seen another griffin. Therefore it was, that, when he heard of this stone image of himself, he became very anxious to know what he looked like, and at last he determined to go to the old church, and see for himself what manner of being he was. So he started off from the dreadful wilds, and flew on and on until he came to the countries inhabited by men, where his appearance in the air created great consternation; but he alighted nowhere, keeping up a steady flight until he reached the suburbs of the town which had his image on its church. Here, late in the afternoon, he alighted in a green meadow by the side of a brook, and stretched himself on the grass to rest. His great wings were tired, for he had not made such a long flight in a century, or more.

The news of his coming spread quickly over the town, and the people, frightened nearly out of their wits by the arrival of so extraordinary a visitor, fled into their houses, and shut themselves up. The Griffin called loudly for some one to come to him, but the more he called, the more afraid the people were to show themselves. At length he saw two laborers hurrying to their homes through the fields, and in a terrible voice he commanded them to stop. Not daring to disobey, the men stood, trembling.

"What is the matter with you all?" cried the Griffin. "Is there not a man in your town who is brave enough to speak to me? "

"I think," said one of the laborers, his voice shaking so that his words could hardly be understood, "that— perhaps— the Minor Canon— would come."

"Go, call him, then!" said the Griffin; "I want to see him."

The Minor Canon, who filled a subordinate position in the old church, had just finished the afternoon services, and was coming out of a side door, with three aged women who had formed the week-day congregation. He was a young man of a kind disposition, and very anxious to do good to the people of the town. Apart from his duties in the church, where he conducted services every week-day, he visited the sick and the poor, counselled and assisted persons who were in trouble, and taught a school composed entirely of the bad children in the town with whom nobody else would have any thing to do. Whenever the people wanted something difficult done for them, they always went to the Minor Canon. Thus it was that the laborer thought of the young priest when he found that some one must come and speak to the Griffin.

The Minor Canon had not heard of the strange event, which was known to the whole town except himself and the three old women, and when he was informed of it, and was told that the Griffin had asked to see him, he was greatly amazed, and frightened.

"Me!" he exclaimed. "He has never heard, of me! What should he want with me?"

"Oh! you must go instantly!" cried the two men. "He is very angry now because he has been kept waiting so long; and nobody knows what may happen if you don't hurry to him."

The poor Minor Canon would rather have had his hand cut off than go out to meet an angry griffin; but he felt that it was his duty to go, for it would be a woful thing if injury should come to the people of the town because he was not brave enough to obey the summons of the Griffin. So, pale and frightened, he started off.

"Well," said the Griffin, as soon as the young man came near, "I am glad to see that there is some one who has the courage to come to me."

The Minor Canon did not feel very courageous, but he bowed his head.

"Is this the town," said the Griffin, "where there is a church with a likeness of myself over one of the doors?"

The Minor Canon looked at the frightful creature before him and saw that it was, without doubt, exactly like the stone image on the church.

"Yes," he said, "you are right."

"Well, then," said the Griffin, "will you take me to it? I wish very much to see it."

The Minor Canon instantly thought that if the Griffin entered the town without the people knowing what he came for, some of them would probably be frightened to death, and so he sought to gain time to prepare their minds.

"It is growing dark, now," he said, very much afraid, as he spoke, that his words might enrage the Griffin, "and objects on the front of the church can not be seen clearly. It will be better to wait until moruing, if you wish to get a good view of the stone image of yourself."

"That will suit me very well," said the Griffin. "I see you are a man of good sense. I am tired, and I will take a nap here on this soft grass, while I cool my tail in the little stream that runs near me. The end of my tail gets red-hot when I am angry or excited, and it is quite warm now. So you may go, but be sure and come early to-morrow morning, and show me the way to the church."

The Minor Canon was glad enough to take his leave, and hurried into the town. In front of the church he found a great many people assembled to hear his report of his interview with the Griffin. When they found that he had not come to spread ruin and devastation, but simply to see his stony likeness on the church, they showed neither relief nor gratification, but began to upbraid the Minor Canon for consenting to conduct the creature into the town.

"What could I do?" cried the young man. "If I should not bring him he would come himself and, perhaps, end by setting fire to the town with his red-hot tail."

Still the people were not satisfied, and a great many plans were proposed to prevent the Griffin from coming into the town. Some elderly persons urged that the young men should go out and kill him; but the young men scoffed at such a ridiculous idea. Then some one said that it would be a good thing to destroy the stone image so that the Griffin would have no excuse for entering the town; and this proposal was received with such favor that many of the people ran for hammers, chisels, and crowbars, with which to tear down and break up the stone griffin. But the Minor Canon resisted this plan with all the strength of his mind and body. He assured the people that this action would enrage the Griffin beyond measure, for it would be impossible to conceal from him that his image had been destroyed during the night. But the people were so determined to break up the stone griffin that the Minor Canon saw that there was nothing for him to do but to stay there and protect it. All night he walked up and down in front of the church-door, keeping away the men who brought ladders, by which they might mount to the great stone griffin, and knock it to pieces with their hammers and crowbars. After many hours the people were obliged to give up their attempts, and went home to sleep; but the Minor Canon remained at his post till early morning, and then he hurried away to the field where he had left the Griffin.

The monster had just awakened, and rising to his fore-legs and shaking himself, he said that he was ready to go into the town. The Minor Canon, therefore, walked back, the Griffin flying slowly through the air, at a short distance above the head of his guide. Not a person was to be seen in the streets, and they proceeded directly to the front of the church, where the Minor Canon pointed out the stone griffin.

The real Griffin settled down in the little square before the church and gazed earnestly at his sculptured likeness. For a long time he looked at it. First he put his head on one side, and then he put it on the other; then he shut his right eye and gazed with his left, after which he shut his left eye and gazed with his right. Then he moved a little to one side and looked at the image, then he moved the other way. After a while he said to the Minor Canon, who had been standing by all this time:

"It is, it must be, an excellent likeness! That breadth between the eyes, that expansive forehead, those massive jaws ! I feel that it must resemble me. If there is any fault to find with it, it is that the neck seems a little stiff. But that is nothing. It is an admirable likeness,— admirable!"

The Griffin sat looking at his image all the morning and all the afternoon. The Minor Canon had been afraid to go away and leave him, and had hoped all through the day that he would soon be satisfied with his inspection and fly away home. But by evening the poor young man was utterly exhausted, and felt that he must eat and sleep. He frankly admitted this fact to the Griffin, and asked him if he would not like something to eat. He said this because he felt obliged in politeness to do so, but as soon as he had spoken the words, he was seized with dread lest the monster should demand half a dozen babies, or some tempting repast of that kind.

"Oh, no," said the Griffin, "I never eat between the equinoxes. At the vernal and at the autumnal equinox I take a good meal, and that lasts me for half a year. I am extremely regular in my habits, and do not think it healthful to eat at odd times. But if you need food, go and get it, and I will return to the soft grass where I slept last night and take another nap."

The next day the Griffin came again to the little square before the church, and remained there until evening, steadfastly regarding the stone griffin over the door. The Minor Canon came once or twice to look at him, and the Griffin seemed very glad to see him; but the young clergyman could not stay as he had done before, for he had many duties to perform. Nobody weut to the church, but the people came to the Minor Canon's house, and anxiously asked him how long the Griffin was going to stay.

"I do not know," he answered, "but I think he will soon be satisfied with regarding his stone likeness, and then he will go away."

But the Griffin did not go away. Morning after morning he came to the church, but after a time he did not stay there all day. He seemed to have taken a great fancy to the Minor Canon, and followed him about as he pursued his various avocations. He would wait for him at the side door of the church, for the Minor Canon held services every day, morning and evening, though nobody came now.

"If any one should come," he said to himself, "I must be found at my post."

When the young man came out, the Griffin would accompany him in his visits to the sick and the poor, and would often look into the windows of the school-house where the Minor Canon was teaching his unruly scholars. All the other schools were closed, but the parents of the Minor Canon's scholars forced them to go to school, because they were so bad they could not endure them all day at home,— griffin or no griffin. But it must be said they generally behaved very well when that great monster sat up on his tail and looked in at the school-room window.

When it was perceived that the Griffin showed no sign of going away, all the people who were able to do so left the town. The canons and the higher officers of the church had fled away during the first day of the Griffin's visit, leaving behind only the Minor Canon and some of the men who opened the doors and swept the church. All the citizens who could afford it shut up their houses and travelled to distant parts, and only the working people and the poor were left behind. After some days these ventured to go about and attend to their business, for if they did not work they would starve. They were getting a little used to seeing the Griffin, and having been told that he did not eat between equinoxes, they did not feel so much afraid of him as before.

Day by day the Griffin became more and more attached to the Minor Canon. He kept near him a great part of the time, and often spent the night in front of the little house where the young clergyman lived alone. This strange companionship was often burdensome to the Minor Canon; but, on the other hand, he could not deny that he derived a great deal of benefit and instruction from it. The Griffin had lived for hundreds of years, and had seen much; and he told the Minor Canon many wonderful things.

"It is like reading an old book," said the young clergyman to himself; "but how many books I would have had to read before I would have found out what the Griffin has told me about the earth, the air, the water, about minerals, and metals, and growing things, and all the wonders of the world!"

Thus the summer went on, and drew toward its close. And now the people of the town began to be very much troubled again.

"It will not be long," they said, "before the autumnal equinox is here, and then that monster will want to eat. He will be dreadfully hungry, for he has taken so much exercise since his last meal. He will devour our children. Without doubt, he will eat them all. What is to be done?"

To this question no one could give an answer, but all agreed that the Griffin must not be allowed to remain until the approaching equinox. After talking over the matter a great deal, a crowd of the people went to the Minor Canon, at a time when the Griffin was not with him.

"It is all your fault," they said, "that that monster is among us. You brought him here, and you ought to see that he goes away. It is only on your account that he stays here at all, for, although he visits his image every day, he is with you the greater part of the time. If you were not here, he would not stay. It is your duty to go away and then he will follow you, and we shall be free from the dreadful danger which hangs over us."

"Go away!" cried the Minor Canon, greatly grieved at being spoken to in such a way. "Where shall I go? If I go to some other town, shall I not take this trouble there? Have I a right to do that?"

"No," said the people, "you must not go to any other town. There is no town far enough away. You must go to the dreadful wilds where the Griffin lives; and then he will follow you and stay there."

They did not say whether or not they expected the Minor Canon to stay there also, and he did not ask them any thing about it. He bowed his head, and went into his house, to think. The more he thought, the more clear it became to his mind that it was his duty to go away, and thus free the town from the presence of the Griffin.

That evening he packed a leathern bag full of bread and meat, and early the next morning he set out on his journey to the dreadful wilds. It was a long, weary, and doleful journey, especially after he had gone beyond the habitations of men, but the Minor Canon kept on bravely, and never faltered. The way was longer than he had expected, and his provisions soon grew so scanty that he was obliged to eat but a little every day, but he kept up his courage, and pressed on, and, after many days of toilsome travel, he reached the dreadful wilds.

When the Griffin found that the Minor Canon had left the town he seemed sorry, but showed no disposition to go and look for him. After a few days had passed, he became much annoyed, and asked some of the people where the Minor Canon had gone. But, although the citizens had been so anxious that the young clergyman should go to the dreadful wilds, thinking that the Griffin would immediately follow him, they were now afraid to mention the Minor Canon's destination, for the monster seemed angry already, and, if he should suspect their trick he would, doubtless, become very much enraged. So every one said he did not know, and the Griffin wandered about disconsolate. One morning he looked into the Minor Canon's school-house, which was always empty now, and thought that it was a shame that every thing should suffer on account of the young man's absence.

"It does not matter so much about the church," he said, "for nobody went there; but it is a pity about the school. I think I will teach it myself until he returns."

It was the hour for opening the school, and the Griffin went inside and pulled the rope which rang the school-bell. Some of the children who heard the bell ran in to see what was the matter, supposing it to be a joke of one of their companions; but when they saw the Griffin they stood astonished, and scared.

"Go tell the other scholars," said the monster, "that school is about to open, and that if they are not all here in ten minutes, I shall come after them."

In seven minutes every scholar was in place.

Never was seen such an orderly school. Not a boy or girl moved, or uttered a whisper. The Griffin climbed into the master's seat, his wide wings spread on each side of him, because he could not lean back in his chair while they stuck out behind, and his great tail coiled around, in front of the desk, the barbed end sticking up, ready to tap any boy or girl who might misbehave. The Griffin now addressed the scholars, telling them that he intended to teach them while their master was away. In speaking he endeavored to imitate, as far as possible, the mild and gentle tones of the Minor Canon, but it must be admitted that in this he was not very successful. He had paid a good deal of attention to the studies of the school, and he determined not to attempt to teach them any thing new, but to review them in what they had been studying; so he called up the various classes, and questioned them upon their previous lessons. The children racked their brains to remember what they had learned. They were so afraid of the Griffin's displeasure that they recited as they had never recited before. One of the boys, far down in his class, answered so well that the Griffin was astonished.

"I should think you would be at the head," said he. "I am sure you have never been in the habit of reciting so well. Why is this?"

"Because I did not choose to take the trouble," said the boy, trembling in his boots. He felt obliged to speak the truth, for all the children thought that the great eyes of the Griffin could see right through them, and that he would know when they told a falsehood.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said the Griffin. "Go down to the very tail of the class, and if you are not at the head in two days, I shall know the reason why."

The next afternoon this boy was number one. It was astonishing how much these children now learned of what they had been studying. It was as if they had been educated over again. The Griffin used no severity toward them, but there was a look about him which made them unwilling to go to bed until they were sure they knew their lessons for the next day.

The Griffin now thought that he ought to visit the sick and the poor; and he began to go about the town for this purpose. The effect upon the sick was miraculous. All, except those who were very ill indeed, jumped from their beds when they heard he was coming, and declared themselves quite well. To those who could not get up, he gave herbs and roots, which none of them had ever before thought of as medicines, but which the Griffin had seen used in various parts of the world ; and most of them recovered. But, for all that, they afterward said that no matter what happened to them, they hoped that they should never again have such a doctor coming to their bed-sides, feeling their pulses and looking at their tongues.

As for the poor, they seemed to have utterly disappeared. All those who had depended upon charity for their daily bread were now at work in some way or other; many of them offering to do odd jobs for their neighbors just for the sake of their meals,— a thing which before had been seldom heard of in the town. The Griffin could find no one who needed his assistance.

The summer had now passed, and the autumnal equinox was rapidly approaching. The citizens were in a state of great alarm and anxiety. The Griffin showed no signs of going away, but seemed to have settled himself permanently among them. In a short time, the day for his semi-annual meal would arrive, and then what would happen? The monster would certainly be very hungry, and would devour all their children.

Now they greatly regretted and lamented that they had sent away the Minor Canon; he was the only one on whom they could have depended in this trouble, for he could talk freely with the Griffin, and so find out what could be done. But it would not do to be inactive. Some step must be taken immediately. A meeting of the citizens was called, and two old men were appointed to go and talk to the Griffin. They were instructed to offer to prepare a splendid dinner for him on equinox day,— one which would entirely satisfy his hunger. They would offer him the fattest mutton, the most tender beef, fish, and game of various sorts, and any thing of the kind that he might fancy. If none of these suited, they were to mention that there was an orphan asylum in the next town.

"Anything would be better," said the citizens, " than to have our dear children devoured." The old men went to the Griffin, but their propositions were not received with favor.

"From what I have seen of the people of this town," said the monster, "I do not think I could relish any thing which was prepared by them. They appear to be all cowards, and, therefore, mean and selfish. As for eating one of them, old or young, I could not think of it for a moment. In fact, there was only one creature in the whole place for whom I could have had any appetite, and that is the Minor Canon, who has gone away. He was brave, and good, and honest, and I think I should have relished him."

"Ah!" said one of the old men very politely, "in that case I wish we had not sent him to the dreadful wilds!"

"What!" cried the Griffin. "What do you mean? Explain instantly what you are talking about!"

The old man, terribly frightened at what he had said, was obliged to tell how the Minor Canon had been sent away by the people, in the hope that the Griffin might be induced to follow him.

When the monster heard this, he became furiously angry. He dashed away from the old men and, spreading his wings, flew backward and forward over the town. He was so much excited that his tail became red-hot, and glowed like a meteor against the evening sky. When at last he settled down in the little field where he usually rested, and thrust his tail into the brook, the steam arose like a cloud, and the water of the stream ran hot through the town. The citizens were greatly frightened, and bitterly blamed the old man for telling about the Minor Canon.

"It is plain," they said, "that the Griffin intended at last to go and look for him, and we should have been saved. Now who can tell what misery you have brought upon us."

The Griffin did not remain long in the little field. As soon as his tail was cool he flew to the town-hall and rang the bell. The citizens knew that they were expected to come there, and although they were afraid to go, they were still more afraid to stay away; and they crowded into the hall. The Griffin was on the platform at one end, flapping his wings and walking up and down, and the end of his tail was still so warm that it slightly scorched the boards as he dragged it after him. When everybody who was able to come was there, the Griffin stood still and addressed the meeting.

"I have had a contemptible opinion of you," he said, "ever since I discovered what cowards you arc, but I had no idea that you were so ungrateful, selfish, and cruel, as I now find you to be. Here was your Minor Canon, who labored day and night for your good, and thought of nothing else but how he might benefit you and make you happy; and as soon as you imagine yourselves threatened with a danger,— for well I know you are dreadfully afraid of me,— you send him off, caring not whether he returns or perishes, hoping thereby to save yourselves. Now, I had conceived a great liking for that young man, and had intended, in a day or two, to go and look him up. But I have changed my mind about him. I shall go and find him, but I shall send him back here to live among you, and I intend that he shall enjoy the reward of his labor and his sacrifices. Go, some of you, to the officers of the church, who so cowardly ran away when I first came here, and tell them never to return to this town under penalty of death. And if, when your Minor Canon comes back to you, you do not bow yourselves before him, put him in the highest place among you, and serve and honor him all his life, beware of my terrible vengeance! There were only two good things in this town: the Minor Canon and the stone image of myself over your church-door. One of these you have sent away, and the other I shall carry away myself."

With these words he dismissed the meeting, and it was time, for the end of his tail had become so hot that there was danger of its setting fire to the building.

The next morning, the Griffin came to the church, and tearing the stone image of himself from its fastenings over the great door, he grasped it with his powerful fore-legs and flew up into the air. Then, after hovering over the town for a moment, he gave his tail an angry shake and took up his flight to the dreadful wilds. When he reached this desolate region, he set the stone Griffin upon a ledge of a rock which rose in front of the dismal cave he called his home. There the image occupied a position somewhat similar to that it had had over the church-door; and the Griffin, panting with the exertion of carrying such an enormous load to so great a distance, lay down upon the ground, and regarded it with much satisfaction.

When he felt somewhat rested he went to look for the Minor Canon. He found the young man, weak and half starved, lying under the shadow of a rock. After picking him up and carrying him to his cave, the Griffin flew away to a distant marsh, where he procured some roots and herbs which he well knew were strengthening and beneficial to man, though he had never tasted them himself.

After eating these the Minor Canon was greatly revived, and sat up and listened while the Griffin told him what had happened in the town.

"Do you know," said the monster, when he had finished, "that I have had, and still have, a great liking for you?"

"I am very glad to hear it," said the Minor Canon, with his usual politeness.

"I am not at all sure that you would be," said the Griffin, "if you thoroughly understood the state of the case, but we will not consider that now. If some things were different, other things would be otherwise. I have been so enraged by discovering the manner in which you have been treated that I have determined that you shall at last enjoy the rewards and honors to which you are entitled. Lie down and have a good sleep, and then I will take you back to the town." As he heard these words, a look of trouble came over the young man's face.

"You need not give yourself any anxiety," said the Griffin, "about my return to the town. I shall not remain there. Now that I have that admirable likeness of myself in front of my cave, where I can sit at my leisure, and gaze upon its noble features and magnificent proportions, I have no wish to see that abode of cowardly and selfish people."

The Minor Canon, relieved from his fears, lay back, and dropped into a doze; and when he was sound asleep the Griffin took him up, and carried him back to the town. He arrived just before day-break, and putting the young man gently on the grass in the little field where he himself used to rest, the monster, without having been seen by any of the people, flew back to his home.

When the Minor Canon made his appearance in the morning among the citizens, the enthusiasm and cordiality with which he was received were truly wonderful. He was taken to a house which had been occupied by one of the banished high officers of the place, and every one was anxious to do all that could be done for his health and comfort. The people crowded into the church when he held services, so that the three old women who used to be his week-day congregation could not get to the best seats, which they had always been in the habit of taking; and the parents of the bad children determined to reform them at home, in order that he might be spared the trouble of keeping up his former school. The Minor Canon was appointed to the highest office of the old church, and before he died, he became a bishop. During the first years after his return from the dreadful wilds, the people of the town looked up to him as a man to whom they were bound to do honor and reverence; but they often, also, looked up to the sky to see if there were any signs of the Griffin coming back. However, in the course of time, they learned to honor and reverence their former Minor Canon without the fear of being punished if they did not do so.

But they need never have been afraid of the Griffin. The autumnal equinox day came round, and the monster ate nothing. If he could not have the Minor Canon, he did not care for anything. So, lying down, with his eyes fixed upon the great stone griffin, he gradually declined, and died. It was a good thing for some of the people of the town that they did not know this.

If you should ever visit the old town, you would still see the little griffins on the sides of the church; but the great stone griffin that was over the door is gone.

__________________

8: Lion-Heart

Max Brand

Frederick Faust, 1892-1944

The Mail (Adelaide), 25 Mar 1950

IT was a big day when Rudy Zandor consented to dine with me at Chasen's because those were the years when he was astonishing Hollywood with a series of super productions. He was another Sampson whose strength lay not in his long hair but in his perfect self-confidence.

The country he loved, the flag followed, the God he worshiped was Rudy Zandor. So I put in the whole day working on my plot and reached the restaurant rather full of hope.

Zandor was hardly an hour later, which seemed a good sign, and then he came in with a yes-man named Gregg and Jimmy Jones, whose real name is Jonascsky, Zandor raised quite a buzz with his entrance because he always dressed for public appearances. This time he wore corduroy trousers, a riding coat buttoned high around the throat, and four days' whiskers. His friends were in dinner jackets for contrast.

Rudy was almost at my table when another murmur started. All eyes left him, and in came Raymond Vincent Etherton in his black coat and white stock like an eighteenth century ghost. It was rather hard on Zandor to have his entrance messed up like that, for he was completely forgotten as the old man went by, looking straight ahead and failing to see the people who spoke to him. He went to his usual corner, waited for his coffee and cognac, and contemplated the dignity of space.

When Dave Chasen in person brought the brandy, Etherton became gently and kindly aware of him, for he was really abstracted, not merely high-hat. Thirty years before, when he consented to be King Arthur for D.W. Griffith, he must have been a glorious man.

Some of the glory hung about him as Henri Quatre in Ivry or as Richard the Lion-Hearted in The Talisman. He never was cast except as a king and he moved through his parts without the slightest acting, merely lending his presence, as it were. The whisper had it that there was a dash of real royalty in his blood but no one even in Hollywood dared to suggest the bar-sinister to Etherton.

Even Hollywood was surprised by the appearance of such a man on the screen. He was more a rare legend than a fact. That was why Chasen's buzzed so this evening.

Zandor, in eclipse, looked pretty sour.

"That man," he said, pointing at Etherton. "Who is he?"

Jimmy Jones winked at me. It was the yes-man who gave the answer. A celebrity in Hollywood can't help accumulating them as the northside of a tree gathers moss.

"That's Raymond Vincent Etherton," said Gregg.

"I want him. He has a hungry look. I want him to play Shylock," said Zandor.

"The 'Merchant of Venice' after the big western?" I asked.

"Before," said Zandor. "I'm not doing the western."

My hopes went crash; and at the same moment I heard Gregg ordering caviar.

Jimmy said: "You can't buy an Etherton, Rudy. He doesn't need money, but he acts now and then to raise the level of the screen and show the world what royalty should be."

Zandor waved his hand at Jones. "You bother me," he said. "Go away."

Jimmy Jones went away.

"Now get Etherton. Offer him seventy-five thousand," directed Zandor.

His Number Two boy went over to Etherton and I felt a little sick about Zandor and about myself for being with him.

Etherton was sipping his brandy when the yes-man leaned over his table and started talking. The old fellow showed no sign that he heard a syllable. Presently he laid a bill on the table, stood up, and walked through the Number Two boy as though the fellow were a thin mist. He passed out of Chasen's and Gregg came back to Zandor, astonished.

"Nothing could stop him— not even your name, Rudy," he said.

"Why didn't you raise the bid?" asked Zandor, furious. "I don't care what sort of blood he has in him; nobody walks out on me. Why didn't you offer him one hundred thousand?"

"But I didn't have the authority," said the yes-man.

Zandor looked him over from his chin to the sleek of his hair and turned his shoulder; it was plain that there was one parasite less in his life.

It was a rotten dinner. I tried to be bright for a while but gave it up after Zandor had snarled a few times. The great man was preoccupied. In the middle of his chicken cacciatore he jumped up and left the tableware jingling.

"Show me where this Etherton lives," he commanded.

I paid the bill and took him to Etherton's house— small, sedate, withdrawn from the vulgar world behind a formal Italian garden. The California moon, for we have a special variety out here, was laying cool silver over everything and the fountain statue left a perfect shadow on the pool.

The door of the house was open. I don't know why this shocked me so much. It was like seeing the great Etherton with his mouth agape. Zandor leaned on the bell. It made a thin chime of music far inside and we had no other answer. Zandor went in.

"You'd better not do that," I protested. "The old man won't stand intrusions."

"Look!" said Zandor. "I knew it... hungry!"

I followed him a step and saw him pointing to the living room; there was enough slanting moonshine to show that it was empty. The waxed floor shone like water, but there was not a stick of furniture. Zandor strode through the open door beyond and into the kitchen. There was a rusted gas stove. Something scurried away on a shelf and I saw a bit of nibbled cheese rind and cracker crumbs. But Zandor was moving on through a naked dining room and into a bed chamber that was furnished with box springs on the floor, a pier glass, and a big, gilded chair in front of the mirror. In the chair sat Etherton wrapped in a black cloak with his white head thrown back and his right hand at his breast, supported by something.

He looked at us with deeply veiled eyes of contempt and seemed about to make a gesture of silent dismissal. It needed another glance to see that all his gesturing had ended, for what supported his hand was the hilt of the little medieval dagger he had driven through his heart.

I looked away from him to the three big photographs which hung on the walls and showed me Etherton as the Lion-Hearted in heavy chain mail, as Henri Quatre with the famous white plume in his helmet, as King Arthur bearded like a saint.

Understanding grew in me. Those rare appearances of Etherton on the screen had not been a casual amusement but the nerve center of his whole life. His parts never had been large but they had made him a king, and with a child's pitiful sincerity he had enclosed himself within a dream. Rather than step outside it, he had starved. I could imagine with what care he dressed himself this evening, borrowed the last possible dollar from a pawnbroker and went out for the final time to see if Hollywood once more would give him a shadowy throne. Instead, it preferred to see in him the wicked moneylender, so he came home and erased himself from the page.

Zandor was triumphant.

"You see? You see?" he roared at me. "I was right. I did spot the hunger in him. He's been on a throne for thirty years but when he got the Shylock offer, he knew that I'd seen the starvation in his face. The seventy- five thousand scared him. He was tempted and he almost fell. The hundred thousand would have bought him, lock, stock and barrel. But that fool of a Gregg didn't know how to bargain."

I got out into the garden. It was a warm June night, but I was shivering. Zandor followed me. The bigness of his voice made the fountain pool tremble.

"He wanted to be a king or nothing, you see?" roared Zandor. "So he came home and ended his reign. You get it? It's big stuff. It's new. It's a picture. And it's mine."

_________________________

9: One Night of Terror

Arthur Leo Zagat

1895-1949

Dime Mystery Magazine June 1934

1. The Watching Dread

IN the darkness Norma Lloyd could not see the little bridge over Wayne Creek, but she knew from the hollow rumble of boards under the roadster that they were on it. From beneath, the brawling of the thaw-swollen stream was greedy, ominous, and the hills circumscribing Hidden Valley, black against a black sky, seemed near, too near. They were like the inexorably moving walls of some monstrous Inquisition pressing inward, imperceptibly inward, till their victim must be crushed between. The girl shuddered and shrugged closer to her companion. The rasp of his rough tweed sleeve against her cheek, the sharp redolence of tobacco, gave her a grateful feeling of security. She felt the swell of his biceps as he tooled the car around an unseen, familiar curve, and an aura of masculine protection enveloped her. The car slowed.

"I'm afraid the storm will catch us if we walk, honey," Ted Stone's warm, deep voice sounded. "Maybe we'd better drive right up to the house." His face was only a paler oval in the gloom, but Norma visioned every broad-sculptured line of it. The corners of his mouth would be quirking in the tender half smile that was for her alone. "I'll switch on the headlights and take the upper road."

"No." Her tone was sharp. "No, Ted. They'll know then that I was out with you and—"

"What of it? The Sabins haven't any right to dictate to you. They're nothing but servants..."

"Ted!" she cried indignantly. "I won't have you call them servants. They are real friends. You know very well that Prudence is the only mother I've ever known, and that Silas is devoted to me."

"And why not? You mean a swell home and good wages to him. He—"

"Theodore Stone!" She pulled away from him. "Stop it. Stop it at once! Just because you don't like Silas you needn't keep on hinting—"

The jerk of the car as violent brakes went on, and jarred Norma to a halt. Lightning flickered behind the distant head of the valley and against its illumination Oak Mountain was a towering, jagged pyramid of ebony. Even in the stress of the lovers' quarrel the sense of dread, of impending evil, closed in again on Norma. But she would not admit it to Ted, or to herself. Her tumbling speech was only momentarily interrupted; yet despite herself its tone was subdued when she continued, "I've never felt they were servants, nor have they. I wouldn't hurt them for worlds. Anyhow, we must think of Jeefers."

"That's right!" Ted ejaculated. "I forgot that you were supposed to have driven down to the village with him."

"Yes. And he's waiting on the road now so that we can come back together. If Silas found out I was really with you, Jeefers would be the sufferer. He is irritatingly slow and clumsy about his work, with that short arm and twisted foot, and the old man would be only too glad of an excuse to fire him."

"That settles it, kid. Guess we'll have to take the short cut. But I'm hanged if I like it." There was a slight edge of worry to the young lawyer's robust tone.

"You're usually rather fond of that walk along the creek." A hint of Norma's usual merry teasing sounded in the lilt of her voice, "Why the sudden aversion?"

"Come on! We'll have to hurry." Stone was out of the car, was lifting the girl out. Their lips met, and she clung to him for a moment. Then they were off the road, were following a path so accustomed that the aid of the torch Ted carried was unneeded. "It isn't that," he responded to Norma's remark. "I meant this hole and corner business, this skulking. Fine business for the assistant prosecutor of Calkin County to have to meet his sweetheart behind trees."

Bushes rustled as the couple pushed through them, angry waters boiled to their right and far-off thunder rolled. But Ted heard only the part mocking, part affectionate sound of the other's rebuke: "Oh Teddy boy, when will you learn patience? It's only for a month more. Then I'll be twenty, dad's will will let us get married, and— Ohhh!" Norma's sudden scream was accompanied by a splash.

"What the..." Stone's flash beam sprayed out. It showed the girl sprawled on the muddy creek bank, within inches of the tumbling, angry stream. Ted bent, lifted her to her feet. "Are you hurt, dear?"

"I— I don't think so. Part of the bank has given way. See..." She pointed. A trough was visible where earth had slid into the foaming waters. Then she gasped, "Look Ted. What's that? What is it?"

The man followed the line of her shaking finger; saw that which his light revealed. "Good Lord!"

At the edge of the disk of luminance something was gray against the black-brown of the mud, like gray rootlets curling. It was a hand, a skeleton hand, the flesh-stripped phalanges clawed as if it were scrabbling at the ground. Just that grisly hand showed; the rest, horribly, was covered by blackness.

The threat of the Stygian night was imminent, personal. A rumbling thunder growl filled the valley and the sky was vivid with a fluttering, eerie light. Norma clutched Ted's arm, her fingers dug into his muscles. For a long minute the two stared at that which lay across their path. Then the torch moved in Stone's cold fingers and the light patch slid along the mire, slid along a bony arm, illumined a skull from which vertebrae sprouted like some noisome trailer vine. Ribs branched, arching down into the ooze, and mud ran fluidly away from the long leg bones at which watery fingers plucked.

"Good Lord," Stone said again, slowly.

The girl's voice was thin, edged with hysteria. "Ted," she mouthed. "Ted. Do you see? Do you see?"

"That the back of the skull is crushed in. Yes. The man was murdered."

"That too." She was forcing speech out through a squeezed throat. "But the... the arms. The left foot..."

Her quick eye had caught something he had missed. Ted peered closer and cold rippled up his back. One outstretched arm was longer than the other; the left ankle was oddly deformed. If he were alive, upright, the man's one foot would be twisted sidewise. Just so was Jeefer's foot twisted, just so were his arms mismated, the handyman who was waiting for Norma on the road near here. Who should be waiting here...

"It's Jeefers, Ted. It's Jeefers."

"No," he almost groaned. "You saw him alive two hours ago. Even if something had happened to him in that time he couldn't have become— like that— in so short a time."

Something, a plump, pallid worm, crawled out of an eye socket.

"But there couldn't be two men with arms like that, with a foot twisted just like that. There couldn't..."

Blue light exploded and deafening thunder peal rolled away, reverberating along the valley. A wall of wind swept down, howling in a siren blast; great raindrops lashed at them. Ted whirled to the girl, grabbed her arm. "Come on Norma, we've got to run for it."

The wide meadow they had to cross, drenched and with running, slipping steps, was a lake into which a torrent pelted, the road beyond, a river. Through the driving rain the house was invisible till they stumbled on its very steps. Stone half carried Norma onto the porch. They could breathe something other than water here, but it was poor shelter. "Get inside," he gasped. "And I'll try to make it back to my car by the road."

"You'll have to stay here, Ted." The girl dabbed ineffectually at the water streaming from her hair, her forehead. "You can't get anywhere in this."

"But Sabin..."

"Never mind Silas. This is different. I wouldn't send a dog out in this weather, much less you. You must stay."

An opening door was outlined in a yellow light; a black figure was silhouetted within its aperture. An old man's voice quavered, "Who is it? Who's there?"

"I, Silas. I'm drenched."

"Come in. Come in then. Who's that with you?"

"Mr. Stone. Hurry, Ted. Prudence will give me fits if we get her nice hall all wet. The rain is blowing in."

There seemed nothing else to do. Stone followed Norma in, helped Sabin get the door shut against the drive of the wind. The latch caught, the old man slipped a bolt into its socket, and turned to the dripping couple. He was tall, powerfully built; but his clothes hung loosely from his gaunt frame, and there was a half inch space between his collar and the seamed, leathery skin of his age-shrunk neck. His cheeks were hollow, and between them his great nose stuck out like a promontory on a rocky coast. Tobacco stain edged the white of his uneven mustache. His eyes—Norma saw only kindliness in their faded blue while her fiancé insisted they were sly and scheming—now peered near-sightedly at the girl. "You're all wet," he said.

"Silas," the girl ejaculated. "Jeefers—"

Sabin jerked his nasal pointer to the curtained archway behind which was the parlor. Gruff voices rasped from within. The old man's bloodless lips moved, forming silent words. "Look out!"

There was sudden tensity in the entrance hall, and Norma realized that Silas' hands, gnarled but almost transparent, were trembling slightly. Thought slid through her brain, lightning-fast. He didn't want the men inside to hear about Jeefers, he knew something but didn't dare to talk. Who were the visitors, anyway? The Lloyd farm was ten miles from its nearest neighbor, and visitors rare.

Why was Silas so terribly frightened?

Ted broke the taut silence. "You'd better go upstairs and get into dry clothes, Norma." He had noticed something too, and he was trying to get her away.

The girl kept her voice even. She must find out what was going on. "Right you are! Silas, will you please ask Prudence to come up and help me?"

Sabin's eyes were bleak. He made a little ineffectual gesture. "Prue's inside. She's busy." His troubled glance strayed to the parlor door. He was trying to convey a message, but Norma couldn't understand him. The voices inside had stopped; there was a listening silence. Norma made a decision. She moved quickly, too quickly for Sabin or Ted to stop her. Her hand was on the curtain and she thrust it aside.

The cluttered, ancient room was lit only by dancing flames in the fireplace. Two strangers were seated either side the hearth, firelight concentrated on them like a theatrical spotlight. One was slender, short. His swarthy, sharp face was ferret-like; his mouth a thin, cruel slash.

The other overflowed his big chair, bulged through its interstices. His hands were blobs of unshaped dough at the ends of columnar arms folded across a billowing, mountainous abdomen. His tremendous head, absolutely hairless, presented a face that was an expanse of blankness dotted by a tiny red mouth and pig like eyes almost overwhelmed by waves of yellow-pink flesh. The girl thought of the grave worm that had oozed from an empty eye socket and shuddered. This man was like that creature of rottenness, magnified...

A piping, thin voice startled her. "Good evening, young lady," it said. The fat man's lips had moved, but it took an instant to realize that so huge a body could emit so tenuous a sound. "Pardon me for not rising, my— mass— must be my excuse." There was a faintly foreign flavor to his precise utterance, the merest hint of alien blood. "Get up, Juan, where are your manners?" His minute eyes did not move from her as he shrilled the command, but the other jerked from his seat like an automaton. Something glittered under his unkempt black hair. The last touch of unreality was added to the scene as Norma saw it was a gold earring.

"Good evening?" For the life of her Norma could not have said more than the two words, but she contrived the interrogative inflection. Windows rattled as the gale battered against the panes, and the downpour was a steady drumming. The girl wished herself out in the tempest rather than here in the warmth and dryness with these men. There was something inimical about them, something deadly.

She was being answered... "We were driving past and the storm swept down on us. Your man was good enough to permit us to take shelter here." The way he was looking at her made Norma conscious that her drenched frock was clinging revealingly to her figure. She tried to pull it away with numb fingers. "Permit me to introduce myself. I am John Smith." He lied, of course, and wanted her to know it.

"I am Norma Lloyd." She felt Ted's presence behind her.

"And this is Mr. Stone." The fire flared, its light invading a hitherto shadowy corner behind Juan, and she saw Prudence there, bolt upright on the edge of a chair. There was a misery of fear in the woman's face as she twisted at her apron hem. It was evident that she wanted to get away, but dared not. Was this the explanation for Silas' strange actions outside? Was his wife a hostage for his discretion?

"I am glad we could offer you protection from the rain. But why are you sitting in the dark?" Norma's hand went to a wall switch at her side, clicked it on. Garish illumination flooded the room, but it did not dissipate the dread that lay there like a pall.

Ted came past her. His eyes were somber, his smile palpably forced. "You were on your way to visit someone in the village, Mr. Smith?" he asked suavely.

Juan scowled, but Smith's countenance was a bland, expressionless mask. "No," he wheezed. "No. We were just passing through."

This, too, could not be true. There was no highway through Hidden Valley's twenty mile length. There was only the one entrance, through the notch between Oak Mountain and North Hill. The "village" was a general store and post office, a feed store and a blacksmith shop. Unless they had mistaken their way the man's answer was a lie. And "John Smith" did not look like one who would lose his way.

Ted reached the fire, turned his back to its heat. "I see," he said slowly. "I see." His gaze was fixed steadily on Smith's face. "In other words, it is none of our business what you are doing here." His jaw firmed and his brown eyes were challenging. Juan grunted. Norma saw his hand dart to his belt, caught the flash of metal, a knife, and her throat tightened. But Smith flashed a warning glance at the man, and his hand dropped away. Then the obese stranger looked at Stone. "Exactly," he said blandly. "Exactly." He seemed coldly amused.

Silence, tense and breathless, followed his words. Ted did not move from his position before the fire. He seemed to be waiting...

"Norma! Go upstairs and change." Ted's eyes were demanding. "You'll catch your death of cold."

She didn't want to go. Something was going to happen, and she wanted to be there to help. But she could think of no reasonable excuse. "Please go, Norma," Ted said firmly. She turned and went out into the hall, her small fists clenched.

2. The Walking Dead

THE stairwell, rising from the entrance hall, was boxed in. But there was a switch at the bottom that turned on a light upstairs. Norma clicked it and started up. The house, solidly built as it was, trembled a little under the repeated blows of the storm, and she could hear the long, eerie whooo of the wind. The creek must be over its banks, she thought, and shivered as she recalled the skeleton lying down there in the meadow...

She stopped, halfway up the stairs, and bit her lip. Was that a furtive footstep she had heard above? She listened. But the sound did not come again. She must have imagined it. There was nothing up there. Nobody. She was cold and nervous. A rubdown, fresh clothing, would calm her. She started up again, reached the stair head.

And then, without sound, the lights went out! She was in darkness, enveloping, ominous. She turned. There was only firelight glow below through the curtains she had left open. The storm...

A sound whirled her around. Something leaped at her from the darkness, something she glimpsed just as a hand went over her mouth and an arm clamped around her waist! Hot breath was in her face, a low growl in her ears. Her firm little hands snatched at the rough fingers on her lips, tore them away. She screamed, "Ted!"

Then the fingers clamped down again. Now they were forcing her head back, were bending her whole body back over the clamping arm. Sweat stench was acrid in her nostrils, her spine was cracking.

Footsteps thudded up the stairs, Ted roared, "Norma! What...?" Norma felt herself flung, headlong, away from her snarling attacker. She crashed against a wall, slumped to the floor, half-stunned and momentarily paralyzed by the impact. But against the dim glimmer she saw Ted hurtling up the stairs, saw a silhouetted arm, something clutched in its hand, rise and fall; heard the sickening crunch of its weapon against Ted's head. He collapsed, soundlessly. A gargantuan shape bent over him. The arm rose again for a finishing blow.

And from somewhere, then, Norma gained strength to catapult from the floor, to hurl herself on that dark form. The man staggered under the unexpected attack, twisted, snarling. But the girl was swarming over him, a furious whirlwind, biting, scratching, and kicking. She was primitive woman battling for her mate; she was a tigress protecting her young. A hard fist thudded against her, somewhere, but she felt no pain. Her nails ploughed through soft flesh; there was the warm, salty taste of blood on her tongue.

Somehow, she realized, she had snatched the club from his hand. Now she half raised it to strike. Dodging, the man gathered himself, threw her off, wrenched away, and was gone. Norma heard his footsteps thudding away down the dark hall. Perhaps the very fierceness and unexpectedness of her attack had beaten him— and yet it seemed more that he had of his own volition decided to postpone this— that he had perhaps another task to perform, from which he would return to this— later. These thoughts Norma did not think, yet dimly they registered on her brain as she crawled to the dark, unmoving mound that was Ted. Her hand found his head, felt sticky, viscous liquid thick on his temple. Light! If only she had light. She whimpered in her tight throat. Was he...?

From below affrighting sound vibrated up to the girl, burbling horrible sound. It was a scream, a wailing, agonized scream. It cut short, and there was dreadful silence. Then someone moaned down there.

There was a slight movement in the flaccid body under her hands. Ted groaned. Then he was quiet again, and the only sound from him was the soft whisper of shallow breathing. He was alive, alive but badly hurt. His torso was on the landing but his legs trailed down the steps. He was terribly wounded and needed help. If she left him like this and he came to, moved, he would tumble down the steep stairs. That might kill him. Norma tugged at him, trying to pull him up to the hall floor. But he was too heavy; she could not budge him.

Norma's thoughts were reeling light and darkness. Fear, terror tore at her. Up here, somewhere in the dark, was the man who had done this. Below were those other men, and something dreadful had happened there. She dared not leave Ted. She must get help to move him, hot water to bathe his wound. He would die if she didn't do something. If only there was someone to help her.

"Silas," she called, finding her voice at last. "Silas!"

Silas did not answer. No one answered. The wind howled outside, and muffled thunder rumbled, but within the house there was only the terribly faint sound of Ted's breathing and a low moaning from the parlor. "Silas!"

Yes! There was another sound. Up here, somewhere back in the shadows, there was a stealthy, hissing scrape...A rat? Old boards warping? Or was the mysterious attacker creeping back to finish his kill? Norma crouched, tried to pierce the darkness with her eyes. She could see nothing. The sound did not come again.

Her fingers groped for and found Ted's wound. It was a gash, a terribly deep gash above his left temple, where his hair began. Blood welled from it rapidly. She could feel his pulse against the bone, and it was weak, dreadfully weak. Downstairs, in the kitchen, there were first aid supplies. She must get them. She must get them or Ted would die. If she ran, if she went quickly, she could get back before anything more happened to him.

Norma got to her feet. The moaning had stopped. She threw one more terrified glance into the gloom of the upper hallway, and then she was running down the stairs...

She gained the entrance foyer, was through the archway. The men were gone! No! One lay on the floor just beyond the hearthstone; the little one with earrings. He lay face down in a dark pool that reflected ruby light, and the back of his head was bashed in. Norma wondered why he wasn't a skeleton like Jeefers, whose skull had also been crushed. She hurried past him. She must get back to Ted. She couldn't stop.

Prudence was in the same chair, but she was bound to it now and there was a gag in her mouth. Her frightened eyes begged Norma to release her. But Norma rushed on to the door in the side wall that led to the dining room. Beyond was the kitchen and the things she must get for Ted. Prudence was tied up but she wasn't hurt. Time enough to take care of her later when Ted was safe. Ted, dear Ted, who lay up there at the head of the stairs, so terribly hurt. She must get back to him, she could stop for nothing.

She didn't see the dining room or the short, narrow passage into the kitchen as she ran through them. She saw only the small closet over the kitchen sink where bandages, iodine and cotton were. She snatched them out, whirled and was running back. Passageway, dining room, parlor with its corpse and its bound woman, were a blur. She was dashing up the stairs. "Ted," she whimpered. "I'm coming."

"Ted!" Norma reeled against the wall at the stairhead. He wasn't there! She sank to her knees and felt along the floor. Here. He had been right here. But he wasn't here any longer. "Ted," she moaned, and stared with fearful eyes into the blackness of the upstairs corridor. The prowler had come back, had carried him away. He was somewhere back there, somewhere in the darkness.

In the darkness! She must find him; she must have light to find him. And there was no light. But there were candles in a chest up in the attic. She had put them there herself, and matches, the last time the little powerhouse in the village had failed and the lights had gone out.

It wasn't courage that brought Norma Lloyd to her feet, that took her through the blackness of that hall where the prowler lurked, that set her climbing the ladder to the attic. She was an automaton, a machine moving without conscious will, a robot impelled by some power outside herself. This peaceful world of hers was suddenly mad; this quiet house where she had been born was suddenly a place of terror, of sudden unexplained attacks, of grisly murder. And terror had driven thought from her, had driven fear from her. She was beyond all that. She was beyond everything save anxiety, heartrending anxiety for the fate of her wounded, vanished lover.

The musty, dust smell of the attic was in her nostrils. Rain drummed on the slanted roof over her, thunder resounded, appallingly loud in this confined space. It was pitch-black but she needed no light to find the chest she sought. Rough wood rasped her hand. The lid came up, screeching protest. The shriek of the rusted hinges hid another sound, a stealthy footfall Norma did not hear...She felt for the candles, and their cool roundness greeted her fingers in a nest of soft cloth. There were matches here too.

Norma struck one against the chest. A tiny triangle of flame flared up, flickered. A candlewick caught and the darkness retreated. But only a little way. It still lurked where piled boxes and trunks offered it refuge. She puffed out the match.

And she went suddenly rigid. For someone was here in the attic! She felt eyes on her, heard the hiss of taut breathing. Her scalp tightened and she stared at the candle flame.

The sly scrape of a stealthy step prickled her nape. She forced her gaze up from the wavering spark. An impalpable violet flame danced against a formless heap of rubbish in a far corner, where the roof-pitch joined the floor. Her light scarcely reached the black pile, but it was changing shape. Something was coming out from behind the mound, an ungainly shape. It was clear now, was moving slowly forward. It was a man...

He crouched as he moved, and his head was thrust forward from burly, gorilla like shoulders. He advanced implacably toward the girl and, gripped in a nightmare paralysis, she could not move, could not scream. His face came into the candle glow.

It was chalk-white, that face, save where dark pits marked the eye-sockets. Black ooze dripped from its matted hair, zigzagged across one bleached, hollow cheek, slid past one corner of a thick lipped mouth twisted in agony. Norma stared at the face and horror engulfed her. A soundless scream tore her throat.

The face that was coming slowly, implacably toward her was the face of Jeefers! And Jeefers' stripped bones were out there where the storm howled, pressed into brown-black ooze.

He came on, the man who was dead, A the man who should be dead but was not. He advanced inexorably toward her. Closer, closer, in an infinitely slow, an infinitely threatening progress that held her spellbound. Hot wax dripped on her fingers that held the candle, and still she was rigid. Only the irises of her eyes moved, widening. She could see his eyes now, fathomless dark pools of malevolence.

Abruptly, now, those eyes seemed to burst into flame. Power of movement returned, Norma's hand jerked to thrust the candle into them.

There was a thud behind her and fingers clutched her wrist— from behind! Jeefers leaped straight at her. She dodged, twisting to the new menace— wrenched away sprawling. The candle dropped, was gone— darkness swept in— and a muffled jar told her that Jeefers and the other had met.

Norma was on her knees in the dark, and over her, unseen, they were fighting. She heard the impact of blows; she heard animal snarlings, deep-throated growls. She heard the rip of torn cloth, the confused pounding of quick-moving, shifting feet. A choked squeal came from one clamped, tortured throat. Trembling, she crawled away, crawled toward the trapdoor where stairs began that led down, away from this horror. Behind her a fist smacked against flesh. She reached the exit.

Then she was fleeing; down the ladder, through a long dark hall, down interminable stairs. Wind and rain battered against the outer door, but she plunged to it, ripped it open. The storm roared in, tore at her. She plunged out into it, out of the house of terror, away from its menace. Her feet splashed ankle-deep into water where a lawn should be, ten thousand devils of the tempest howled about her, pounded at her. But she was in the open. She was out of the house. They could not find her here.

Churning mud sucked at her stumbling feet. She fought the gale, reckless, uncaring. Where was she going? Where was there to go? Anywhere but back. Lightning tore open the black vault of the sky, filled the valley bowl with blue glare. Just ahead something sprawled in the water, the motionless body of a man.

The lightning glare was quickly gone, but Norma was on her knees now; she was lifting a limp head out of the flood. The instant's illumination had shown her Ted's gray face looking sightlessly up from the storm-made morass. She hunched in the mire, drew Ted's head on her wet lap and forgot that the tempest was overwhelming her with its downpour.

The girl's fingers fluttered over clammy cold skin. She moaned. She swayed forward, and her lips found his icy ones. Breath brushed her mouth. Not hers. His! Faintly, almost imperceptibly, he was breathing!

With this realization warmth surged back into Norma's chilled veins. She tugged at Ted's heavy form, struggled to lift it, to drag it back to the house she had just fled in terror! For Ted she would go back— for warmth was there, a fire. Restoratives were there. What else was there did not matter now. Ted Stone must have warmth, stimulants, or the dim spark of his life would flicker out. Nowhere else was there help for him.

But she could not move him. She was too weak. Despair, flooded her. Was Ted to die because she was a woman, because she had no strength? Was he to die here in the storm with shelter, warmth, only fifty feet away? She dug heels deep into the mud, tugged mightily. But the mud held its grip. She sobbed.

A nimbus of light was around her. A tall black shape was at her side. "What is it, Norma? What are you doing?" Silas Sabin spoke quietly. His lantern moved and its luminance revealed Ted's sodden form. "Oh, I see. Is he hurt badly?"

"Help me, Silas," Norma sobbed. "Help me get him inside." It was natural, somehow, that the old man should be there at her need. She did not question where he had been till now.

"Sure. Sure thing." Silas didn't like Ted, but he was going to help him now. Of course. Silas had always been kind, good. He had always fixed her dolls when they were broken. "Here, hold these and I'll carry him in."

He thrust the lantern into her hand. Something else gleamed in his other hand, something cold, metallic. Norma looked down at it and saw that it was a revolver. The realization that Silas was armed gave her comfort, seemed for an instant to cool her fevered brain through which scattered thoughts ran with the swift play of lightning. Yet—would it do any good to shoot a ghost?

Together they got Ted up to Silas' shoulder. It was easy enough for the two of them. With the old man leading the way with his burden, they started back toward the house where terror lurked.

3. Two Who Were Doomed

INSIDE the only light was still from the fire. It danced redly around Juan's corpse on the floor, danced away as if frightened by his stiff figure. But Norma wasn't frightened, she told herself. There was no time for that. She had to help Silas take care of Ted. Prudence was frightened where she was tied to a chair.

Her eyes showed that. Funny that Silas hadn't untied her. She must do it herself—as soon as Ted was all right again.

Sabin put his burden down now. Ted's right arm hung limply down and water dripped from his fingers, made a pool on the floor. "I'll take his clothes off," the old man grunted. "You get hot water and a clean towel. There's some whisky in the kitchen too, in the medicine chest."

Norma started off. "There ain't nobody out there," Silas called reassuringly, "an' you can leave the doors open. I can see you all the way." She saw that there was dried blood on his face, and a blue bruise.

Norma had kept the lantern. Its light glinted yellow from the china closet in the dining room. She shoved a shoulder against the swinging door into the kitchen passage, fumbled for the foot catch that would hold it open. She couldn't find it at first, half-turned as her foot felt around. And then she saw that the parlor door was already closed!

Silas had said not to close it; she must have done so from habit. She ran back, got it open. Silas was bending over Ted. His arm was up; the gun in it was held by the barrel, and the heavy butt was sweeping down at Ted's head. The old man was slugging Ted with his gun!

Norma screamed. Her arm jerked, the lantern arced through the air. Its heavy base struck Sabin's shoulder and he staggered. The girl fairly flew across the room. Silas jerked toward her, and his clubbed gun rose to meet her. She clawed at his face, but he dodged. He struck at her and missed. Norma sprang again.

Silas jabbed straight out and the gun butt caught her in the chest. She reeled backward, trying not to fall. The revolver was reversed in Sabin's hand now, its muzzle snouted at her. She struck the wall and saw death grimacing at her from the old man's eyes.

"I wouldn't do that, Sabin, if I were you." The thin voice was like a knife-edge. Silas twisted to the archway; Norma, clutching at the wall, looked too. John Smith bulked just within the curtains. The snout of an automatic was almost lost in one huge hand, but it held a rock steady aim pointblank at Silas' head. The man's little mouth was pursed, like one reproving an unruly child. His tiny eyes were glittering beads. "I think it would be quite unwise."

Norma slid to the floor, half fainting, and looked at the lantern lying on its side. The flame had flicked out when she threw it and the chimney was dark. It was still hot and was scorching the carpet. Prudence would scold her for that...

Silas was staring at the fat man. He was quivering with anger, was hoarse with it. "Point that gun away from me," he husked. "Let me finish the job."

Smith's gigantic, obscene head moved slowly from side to side. "That isn't the way to do it."

"But what can I do? She knows now. She won't keep quiet."

Yes, Norma knew. She knew the kind old man she had trusted was a murderer. She knew he had been going to kill Ted, to shoot her. But why? Why?

"If you weren't an old fool she'd never have known. Nobody would ever have known. We could have kept on indefinitely. But you had to hog the game. You wanted it all for yourself. Now you've started something and you don't know how to finish. If you keep on you'll smash the whole thing."

Sabin's gun hand dropped to his side. The anger faded from his leathery face, despair replaced it. "It's smashed now."

"No. If you're ready to give up and do as I say I can straighten it out. You can continue and we'll go right on. What do you say?"

Norma listened, but could make nothing of this strange conversation. She knew dimly that it affected her. But her world had collapsed about her, physically and mentally she was utterly exhausted. She sat on the floor, her back against the wall, and stared straight ahead. Purely by accident she was looking at Ted. The gaping wound on his temple, raw and ugly, had stopped bleeding. The rain had washed it clean. A little color was seeping back into his cheeks.

Sabin was speaking, slowly, ponderingly. "Maybe you can straighten it out. If you want to. But— Juan?"

Smith shrugged. It was as if a mountain had heaved. "Juan doesn't bother me. He was getting troublesome and I'm glad to be rid of him. Why do you think I went out to the washroom, ostensibly, and left him alone? Do you think I didn't suspect you were planning something? I gave you your chance, and you took it. You confirmed my suspicions and put yourself in my power. How would you like to burn in the chair?"

Silas licked white, dry lips. The revolver thudded from his nerveless fingers. "You— you did that! You let me kill your partner."

"I hope you believe me. It's important for you. Because your only way out of the mess you are in is to do as I tell you. I can get along without you but I like the set-up here. I'm willing to go to some trouble to keep it as it is. That is your break. But I'll do it only if I can trust you. And I only trust a man when he is afraid of me and knows I am smarter than he is."

"I believe you. God knows I'm afraid of you." It didn't need the old man's statement to make that clear... His eyes, his whole cringing attitude, showed it. "I'll do anything you say."

For the first time the vast pink expanse of the man's face showed some expression. It was the merest ripple of fat-drowned muscles, but Norma knew it was gloating triumph. "All right," he squeaked. "The first thing is to tie up the girl. You did a good job on your wife; do as good a one on her."

So it was Silas who had bound Prudence! Why, Norma wondered dully.

His hands were almost gentle as he lifted the girl, put her in a chair and tied her with binder twine he dug out of his pocket. Too stupefied with fear and horror to resist, she let him lash her ankles to the chair's legs, her wrists to its arms. He was almost gentle, but the firelight was reflected in his bleared old eyes, and what Norma saw in them made her shudder. She remembered watching him butcher a calf once, long ago, and that same look had been in his eyes. She had run to her room and hidden under the bed. His kindness in the long years since had made her forget that, but she recalled it now.

Oh God! It was old Silas who was tying her up with that look in his eyes! Old Silas who had been a father to her ever since her own dad died!

She could still see Ted. The fire threw shadows over him and the way they danced made it seem that he was moving. Or had he moved, just a little? His face was no longer pale, which was certain. The man in the doorway saw that too, the man-mountain who stood there with the gun, still pointing. He spoke thinly: "Better make sure of the other one, Sabin."

Silas crossed to Ted, reaching into his pocket for more twine. Norma came alive. "Don't," she tried to yell. "Don't touch him!" But she could make only inarticulate noises under the gag Sabin had shoved into her mouth.

Her eyes shrieked mute protest as the old man worked grimly over the wounded, unconscious youth. He jerked him about with vicious enjoyment, grinning horribly. Norma threw herself forward, but the heavy chair held her. She slumped, staring at the gaunt old man, at the bulking, adipose Machiavelli who was watching heavily, without expression.

That one was the worst. His very lack of emotion made him inhuman, terrifying. An almost palpable aura of evil seemed to flow about him, dark and hideous. It reached Norma and flowed around her, clammily cold despite the warmth of the fire. It was like the emanation from an opened tomb.

"Very good, my dear Sabin. I do not think either of those will give you any more trouble."

"Trouble! What's the good of all this? Tyin' 'em up ain't helpin' any. This guy's supposed to be in court in the morning and he won't be there. Someone will be along looking for him by noon."

"They'll find him. I've been out. The creek's washed away the bridge down the road. His car is right there. In the morning it will be in the stream, and he will be inside. When he drove away from here last night it was dark and his headlights could not pierce the rain. He knew the road and drove fast anyway. He didn't see that the bridge was gone before it was too late."

Unholy joy lit Sabin's face. "That's the ticket," he chuckled. "And Norma was with him. That will take care of both of them. You're smart."

Horror rocked the girl as she shrank in the chair. They were going to kill Ted! They were going to kill Ted coldly, dispassionately, and leave his fine young body in the broiling, muddy waters. Smith's sourceless voice was mocking. "I'm smart and you'd better let me do the thinking. What good is it going to do you if the girl is dead?" Silas' expression changed, his jaw dropped. "If it is known that she is dead?"

"But...What then...? She..."

"We'll attend to her. But not—"

The fat man's tiny, glittering eyes flicked suddenly to Prudence. She was bent forward as far as her lashings would permit, listening avidly. There was rage in her face, and determination. Smith looked at Sabin thoughtfully. Then he seemed to come to a decision. "Come here," he said. "I'll tell you about it outside."

The curtain dropped behind them. The fire threw lurid light and black, flickering shadows across the corpse on the floor. Ted's eyelids fluttered open. He groaned and tried to move. His startled eyes found her and realization flared into them, helpless horror.

From the entry a sibilant hissing came, a horrible chuckle.

There was a long vertical line in the wall alongside the mantle that had not been there before. It widened, slowly. Norma heard the soft grate of a sliding panel. She saw a hand on the edge of the moving panel, a blood-smeared hand. The aperture grew. A resinous knot caught in a blazing log, jetted long flame into the room. A crouched dark figure was coming out of the wall, its face chalk-white, a thin stream of dried blood streaking down from matted hair, touching one corner of thick lips that were tight-pressed and grim. The other hand came into view and there was a knife in it, a knife that gleamed in the firelight.

The phantom glided out from the niche where it had appeared, the niche Norma did not know existed though she had been born in this house. Its progress made no sound on the soft carpeting, but her horror-struck eyes saw that the left foot was turned outward; unnaturally, dreadfully. She forced herself to look at its arms. Yes, the one in which the knife was clutched was shorter than the other. Her last hope, her last hold on reason, died within her. The figure did not have Jeefers' face by a chance resemblance. It was Jeefers. It was the handyman who was dead, whose skeleton lay on the creek bank!

It was at her side. The sunken eyes were alive with strange, crawling fires. The knife rose, poised above her. She closed her own eyes and waited for the death stroke. Better this, perhaps, than the fate those other two were scheming. A small voice within her brain piped a childish prayer. "Our Father who art in Heaven..."

Norma felt a tug at her right wrist, her left. She jerked a hand, and it was loose, free. Her eyes flashed open. Jeefers was kneeling, was slashing away the twine binding her ankles— His gory face turned up to her and a horrible grin seemed painted across it. He heaved erect, and jerked his head toward the secret door. Norma stared at him wide-eyed, uncomprehending. Again he motioned to the dark aperture, commandingly.

The girl twisted to her sweetheart, gaunt-faced on the sofa. She pointed to him, and the being of whose reality she was still uncertain nodded. It crossed the floor in that awful silent glide and slung Ted to its shoulder. It gestured once more to the dark, rectangular hole in the wall. Norma forced her prickling legs to move, got to it, passed within. She glimpsed stone steps diving steeply into darkness. As she started down there was a grating sound behind her and there was no more light.

A dank, musty smell was in her nostrils, mixed with a pungent odor and a heavy, sickeningly sweet aroma. There was no following sound. It seemed that she was descending into a tomb, a tomb where a dead man had found the semblance of life; a man, dead-alive, who was luring her to his sepulcher for some foul purpose. Panic swept upon her like an obscene, giant bat from the blackness and the strength went from her limbs. She stopped, groped for support against the rough stone wall of the passage.

From somewhere she got strength to continue. The stairs ended, gave place to a level floor. Her heels clicked as she moved forward, not knowing what else to do, and somehow the sound told her she was in a confined space. She brushed against something unyielding, felt for it, found metal under her hands, a geared wheel. It was as dark as the inside of a tar barrel here, silent as the grave. Then there was the rasp of cloth against cloth, and the soft thud of a lowered body; Ted's. She tried to say something, was reminded of the gag in her mouth. She lifted her hands to loosen it.

And on the instant she felt rough fingers grasp them; pull them swiftly, resistlessly, behind her back!

She struggled, yet almost before it dawned on her what was happening she was bound again, hand and foot, was lifted and laid on the unyielding cement floor. Some harsh cloth was pushed under her head to serve as a pillow. Then the unseen hands left her.

Here, with her ears close to the ground, she could distinguish the soft, sibilant hiss of the phantom's catlike tread. It moved away in what she thought must be the direction of the stairs. Then trampling on the wood floor above obscured the sound, footsteps that were carpet muffled yet quite distinct. She could make out two sets, one much heavier than the other. These must be Smith and Silas coming back into the parlor. The sounds stopped suddenly, and she pictured vividly the consternation on the faces of the unholy pair as they found their victims gone.

What would happen now? Prudence Sabin was still in the room up there. She had seen where they had gone, would she tell? Apparently she was not involved in her husband's nefarious actions, had objected to them. Otherwise she would not have been bound. Would she keep the secret?

A piercing vibration answered her question, a scream so high-pitched that it penetrated to the enclave where Norma lay. A scream, and then came the babbling, thin sound of an old woman's voice; a frightened old woman's voice. Norma shuddered. Prudence had not wanted to tell, but they had made her.

Suddenly the girl heard the panel grate open. A dim oblong of red light appeared directly above her, the reflection of firelight on a low ceiling. A crouched black shadow was visible in that oblong; another shadow cut its side.

Then a black arm rose out of the confused mass, an arm at the end of which the shadow of a knife showed. Norma saw that for only an instant, as it swept back into the mass.

A gun cracked sharply. Blackness slid back across the ceiling. A burbling, agonized scream sounded, and Norma heard the heavy thud of a falling body. Then there was silence again, heavy, ominous silence.

Which had gone home, knife or bullet, which had evoked that scream? The girl strained her ears, listening. Then she smiled, bitterly. Whoever won, apparently, it would make no difference to her or to Ted. All hands were against them, all the ruthless, cruel hands in this storm-isolated house of terror.

4. The Torture Chamber

HEAVY footsteps went slowly across the ceiling. Smith, at least, was still alive. But he was retreating. For the sound of his steps died away. A door slammed. Then, from a distance, there was a rasping whir of an automobile starter, a series of pops, the screech of brakes, and the diminishing sound of a departing motor.

Someone was breathing, stertorously, at the stair-head. A striking match ripped the stillness and its tiny light almost blinded her. A candle took the flame.

Jeefers swayed, up there against rough board panels, as he held the candle, and his grisly countenance was more fearsome than before for the black gash of a bullet that had seared across his pain-tightened brow. He started down, step by careful step, and the light descended with him, descended into a small, stonewalled room. Its feeble rays illuminated a curious machine, all wheels and gears, the nature of which Norma could not determine. It showed a wooden closet against one wall, fastened by a huge padlock. It reached the floor finally, and showed Ted, still bound and gagged, limp and white on gray stone.

The handyman made his agonized way to Norma's side. He stood above her swaying. Then, slowly, gropingly, he set the candle down on a projecting edge of the machine. He fumbled inside his torn jacket, produced a flat flask, put it to his lips, and drank from it. His gaunt form shuddered. Then he turned, and, moving a little more certainly, passed around behind the machine, reappeared dragging a decrepit, stained wooden chair.

He set it down, lifted Norma to it. He groped in a pocket, brought out a roll of the same binder twine that Sabin had used. He passed a length of it about the girl's waist and fastened it so that she was bound to the chair. Then he picked at the knot around her wrists, untied it.

Norma was placed so that the machine was at her left. At almost the height of her shoulders there was a level metal plate of some sort. There was another about six inches above this, suspended from a long, threaded rod that passed through a heavy cast-iron bracket, and above the bracket a horizontal wheel was attached to the top of the worm.

Grisly horror shuddered through the girl as Jeefers' harsh fingers clamped about her left arm and pulled it across the lower plate. He held it there and his other hand manipulated the wheel. It revolved, and the upper plate came slowly down till Norma's arm was caught between the two, caught so firmly that tug as she might she could not extricate it. But the slow turning of the wheel stopped there, stopped just short of crushing.

The man leered at her. Then he glided away, somewhere behind her. Ted was behind her too, and she could only stare wide-eyed at a bare stone wall and see pictures of horror crawl across it. Jeefers was back. There was a long sheet of foolscap in his hand, and a pen. The candlelight caught a drop of ink on the nib, and it gleamed greenly. Jeefers put the pen in her right hand; instinctively her fingers closed about it. He held the paper where she could reach it. Then he spoke for the first time.

"Sign it," he husked, and his tone was the hoarse, rumbling voice of a nightmare. "Sign it, or I'll turn the wheel."

Norma focused her eyes on the document. Scrawled writing in fresh green ink danced across the white paper. But she could make out a date, three days before. Words, incredible words: "To Train Jeefers...my house and lands at Lloyd Corners in the County of... bounded by... to have and to hold..." It was a deed! A deed to the house and farm dad had left her. Her house and farm!

Suddenly she was clear minded. The horrible night began to take on meaning. There was something in the house, unknown to her, that was valuable. They had been battling over it, Sabin, and Jeefers, and Smith. They had been fighting among themselves, but the venom of their combat had involved her.

Her brain raced. Smith could only control the house through Silas. But Silas' domination here was almost at an end; in a month she would be married to Ted, and it was certain that Stone's first act would be to get rid of the old man. From the beginning they had disliked one another. That was why Sabin had wanted to kill Ted.

But Smith's plans had been more devious. If Norma disappeared, vanished without trace, the property would be held in the courts. Someone would have to take care of it, and who more logical than Sabin? For seven years, until she could be declared legally dead, his control would be undisputed. Her skin crawled as she realized what it must have been that the fat man had been whispering to Sabin out in the entry.

What was it that these man-wolves ravened to hold? It must be in this room, this hidden room.

Jeefers, working alone, had won. Would win if she signed this deed. But she could upset the document. Duress voided any signature. Ted had taught her enough law for that. Jeefers must know it too. Of course he did—and if she signed the deed he would not dare leave her and Ted alive!

All this flashed through her mind in a fraction of time. "Sign it," Jeefers husked again. "Sign or I'll twist."

Norma shook her head. If she signed she would be signing her death warrant, and Ted's. Eventually, perhaps, she would be forced to do it. She was a woman and could not resist torture. But she would fight. Maybe something would happen. Something must happen. God wouldn't let Ted die. Nor her. She would fight as long as she could and pray for delivery. She shook her head, unspeaking.

Fury contorted Jeefers' tortured countenance, and his mouth twisted, horribly. He got his gnarled hands on the wheel and turned it, slowly. More slowly still the upper plate of the press moved down. Its edge bit into Norma's skin, and crushing agony screamed in the bones of her forearm. Her finger-tips, beyond the press, were swollen with dammed blood.

"Will you sign?" the man grunted, and his face blurred before Norma's burning eyes. She shook her head, and his hands sought the wheel again.

A throaty bellow exploded behind her. A figure, gaunt and horrible, leaped past her and a fist crashed against Jeefers' thick lipped mouth. The room whirled dizzily around Norma, nausea retched her, and oblivion engulfed her.

"NORMA! Norma dear."

Her arm hurt. It hurt terribly. And her head. But warm lips were pressed against her own. A familiar, dear voice cried in her ears, "Norma!" She answered the kiss and her eyes opened. Ted's face wavered in front of her. Blood dripped from the reopened wound in his temple. A bruise was darkening on his cheek, and his lips were pulped, flecked with red. But his frantic eyes devoured her. She reached her good arm out and pulled him close to her. For a moment all the horrors of the horrible night were lost in a long kiss.

He drew away. "Norma, dear. Are you all right?"

She smiled wanly. "I— I'm all right, dear; just my arm. But what, what happened?" Her glance strayed past him. She saw Jeefers' body, contorted, prone and motionless on the floor. A dark pool gathered slowly near his head.

"I wasn't as unconscious as I seemed. I came to while Sabin and the fellow who called himself Smith were talking. Silas hadn't been very careful how he tied me; he probably thought I was out of the picture, and they didn't notice that I was working at the cords while I lay there. I had them almost off my wrists when Jeefers appeared, but passed out again when he threw me over his shoulder, and woke up just as he started his performance with the press. I had to move carefully so that he wouldn't notice me, and it took me a little time to get free."

"Is— is he—"

"Dead. Yes. He was pretty badly hurt anyway, and when I jumped him he was no match for me, though I'm no prize package myself right now. He got in one or two good slugs, but then I tripped him and he hit his head against the side of the machine. That finished him."

"Thank God. Oh, thank God! But Ted, what is the machine. What is it all about?"

"It's a hand printing press, like the one artists use for etchings, only larger. There's a copper plate in it, a beautifully executed engraving of Uncle Sam's best ten dollar bill."

"Then— then they were counterfeiters!"

"Yes. This was an ideal spot for them to work, isolated, easily guarded. All traffic has to come over Oak Mountain and the pass can be watched from here in time to clean up any traces. Sabin must have built this hidden room and staircase after your father died, must have been making a good thing of it for years. No wonder he objected to my hanging around.

"I see it all now. Smith was the one who started Silas on it, must have been the distributor. Then a lot of things came at once. Jeefers must have found out about it, and maybe he started blackmailing Silas. I was engaged to you; Silas would lose his place here in a month. And some kind of dispute sprang up between him and Smith's gang. The storm drove us all in here and he started out to kill us all, so he would be left with everything in his hands. The others fought back..."

Everything clicked in place. The lurker on the second floor, the one who had seized her from behind in the attic had been Silas. Silas was not in sight when she started up the stairs. Jeefers, previously attacked, and left up there for dead, had come to in time to fight Sabin and save her. Then he had conceived his own scheme for seizing the house and the outfit for making bad money. The storm had given them all the opportunity...

"That's about the size of it. But let's get out of here."

The candle gave them sufficient light to climb the stairs. Ted found the catch that released the panel giving access to the parlor. When it opened yellow light told them the current was on again. They stepped out...and stopped short at what they saw...

"How do you do?" a thin piping voice sliced across the silence. "I couldn't discover how to open that thing, so I've been waiting for someone to come up."

Smith was seated, comfortably, in the fireside chair where Norma had first seen him. His hands rested on his trunk like knee, and the little automatic snouted at them threateningly.

Norma froze. "What do you want here?" Ted snapped. "We heard you—"

"Go away. Yes, I did that to fool whichever of you might be still alive when the proceedings down there finished. I coasted back, and waited."

"What do you want?"

"Two things. First, the plates down there that Juan etched. They are the most perfect that have ever been made and in the circumstances cannot be replaced. The second is your silence. This little toy will take care of the latter and clear the way to the first. You can have two minutes to say your farewells..."

The huge, lascivious bulk of him was a mountain of evil as it overflowed the chair. There was no emotion on the blank hugeness of his face, neither triumph nor mercy. His tiny eyes flicked over Norma and seemed to strip the clothes from her. "Too bad the little lady must die."

Norma whimpered; white-faced and half fainting, unable longer to hold herself together, she slid to the floor. As she lay there in a crumpled heap, her hand touched the slumped, bloody body of Silas that lay there. Her fingers closed about the handle of Jeefers' knife that was plunged in his breast. The feel of it seemed to bring back in a rush her fast-fading consciousness. In the knife lay salvation— for herself and for Ted. Seemingly in one motion, she pulled it out and hurled it straight at Smith!

The distance was short, and desperation lent strength and direction to her arm. The knife point hit first, hit the counterfeiter's throat and ploughed in. The automatic spat but its aim was wild. Ted left his feet in a flying lunge, and his fist crashed into the fat, obscene face. But his effort was unneeded. Blood burbled from the fat man's lips, and he was a limp mound of jelly-like protoplasm in the chair. The gang that had invaded Hidden Valley was wiped out at last.

Outside, with a last rumble of thunder the storm ended. Ted pulled the shades up. A clear washed sun peeped over the edge of Oak Mountain, and somewhere the crow of a rooster greeted him.

Norma looked up from Prudence, whose cold hands she had been chafing. Her brow was puckered. "But, Ted. Whose skeleton was it that we stumbled over on the creek bank?"

The young man turned to her. "Nothing mysterious about that, dear. I thought of it while we were running for the house, but I couldn't have made myself heard above the howling of the wind, and afterwards, Lord knows, I had no chance to tell you. I was looking over some old records at the county office not long ago, and there was one report that rather interested me. It told of the search for a man who disappeared twenty years ago, somewhere here in Hidden Valley. He was crippled, deformed— and his name was Elmer Jeefers. He must have been Train Jeefers' father."

_______________

10: Parasite Planet

Stanley G. Weinbaum

1902-1935

Astounding Stories, Feb 1935

Stanley Grauman Weinbaum

LUCKILY for "Ham" Hammond it was mid-winter when the mudspout came. Mid-winter, that is, in the Venusian sense, which is nothing at all like the conception of the season generally entertained on Earth, except possibly, by dwellers in the hotter regions of the Amazon basin, or the Congo.

They, perhaps, might form a vague mental picture of winter on Venus by visualizing their hottest summer days, multiplying the heat, discomfort and unpleasant denizens of the jungle by ten or twelve.

On Venus, as is now well known, the seasons occur alternately in opposite hemispheres, as on the Earth, but with a very important difference. Here, when North America and Europe swelter in summer, it is winter in Australia and Cape Colony and Argentina. It is the northern and southern hemispheres which alternate their seasons.

But on Venus, very strangely, it is the eastern and western hemispheres, because the seasons of Venus depend, not on inclination to the plane of the ecliptic, but on libration. Venus does not rotate, but keeps the same face always toward the Sun, just as the Moon does toward the earth. One face is forever daylight, and the other forever night, and only along the twilight zone, a strip five hundred miles wide, is human habitation possible, a thin ring of territory circling the planet.

Toward the sunlit side it verges into the blasting heat of a desert where only a few Venusian creatures live, and on the night edge the strip ends abruptly in the colossal ice barrier produced by the condensation of the upper winds that sweep endlessly from the rising air of the hot hemisphere to cool and sink and rush back again from the cold one.

The chilling of warm air always produces rain, and at the edge of the darkness the rain freezes to form these great ramparts. What lies beyond, what fantastic forms of life may live in the starless darkness of the frozen face, or whether that region is as dead as the airless Moon—those are mysteries.

But the slow libration, a ponderous wabbling of the planet from side to side, does produce the effect of seasons. On the lands of the twilight zone, first in one hemisphere and then the other, the cloud-hidden Sun seems to rise gradually for fifteen days, then sink for the same period. It never ascends far, and only near the ice barrier does it seem to touch the horizon; for the libration is only seven degrees, but it is sufficient to produce noticeable fifteen-day seasons.

But such seasons! In the winter the temperature drops sometimes to a humid but bearable ninety, but, two weeks later, a hundred and forty is a cool day near the torrid edge of the zone. And always, winter and summer, the intermittent rains drip sullenly down to be absorbed by the spongy soil and given back again as sticky, unpleasant, unhealthy steam.

And that, the vast amount of moisture on Venus, was the greatest surprise of the first human visitors; the clouds had been seen, of course, but the spectroscope denied the presence of water, naturally, since it was analyzing light reflected from the upper cloud surfaces, fifty miles above the planet's face.

That abundance of water has strange consequences. There are no seas or oceans on Venus, if we expect the probability of vast, silent, and eternally frozen oceans on the sunless side. On the hot hemisphere evaporation is too rapid, and the rivers that flow out of the ice mountains simply diminish and finally vanish, dried up.

A further consequence is the curiously unstable nature of the land of the twilight zone. Enormous subterranean rivers course invisibly through it, some boiling, some cold as the ice from which they flow. These are the cause of the mud eruptions that make human habitation in the Hotlands such a gamble; a perfectly solid and apparently safe area of soil may be changed suddenly into a boiling sea of mud in which buildings sink and vanish, together, frequently, with their occupants.

There is no way of predicting these catastrophes; only on the rare outcroppings of bed rock is a structure safe, and so all permanent human settlements cluster about the mountains.

HAM Hammond was a trader. He was one of those adventurous individuals who always appear on the frontiers and fringes of habitable regions. Most of these fall into two classes; they are either reckless daredevils pursuing danger, or outcasts, criminal or otherwise, pursuing either solitude or forgetfulness.

Ham Hammond was neither. He was pursuing no such abstractions, but the good, solid lure of wealth. He was, in fact, trading with the natives for the spore-pods of the Venusian plant xixtchil, from which terrestrial chemists would extract trihydroxyl-tertiary-tolunitrile-beta-anthraquinone, the xixt-line or triple-T-B-A that was so effective in rejuvenation treatments.

Ham was young and sometimes wondered why rich old men— and women— would pay such tremendous prices for a few more years of virility, especially as the treatments didn't actually increase the span of life, but just produced a sort of temporary and synthetic youth.

Gray hair darkened, wrinkles filled out, bald heads grew fuzzy, and then, in a few years, the rejuvenated person was just as dead as he would have been, anyway. But as long as triple-T-B-A commanded a price about equal to its weight in radium, why, Ham was willing to take the gamble to obtain it.

He had never really expected the mudspout. Of course it was an ever-present danger, but when, staring idly through the window of his shack over the writhing and steaming Venusian plain, he had seen the sudden boiling pools erupting all around, it had come as a shocking surprise.

For a moment he was paralyzed; then he sprang into immediate and frantic action. He pulled on his enveloping suit of rubberlike transkin; he strapped the great bowls of mudshoes to his feet; he tied the precious bag of spore-pods to his shoulders, packed some food, and then burst into the open.

The ground was still semisolid, but even as he watched, the black soil boiled out around the metal walls of the shack, the cube tilted a trifle, and then sank deliberately from sight, and the mud sucked and gurgled as it closed gently above the spot.

Ham caught himself. One couldn't stand still in the midst of a mudspout, even with bowl-like mudshoes as support. Once let the viscous stuff flow over the rim and the luckless victim was trapped; he couldn't raise his foot against the suction, and first slowly, then more quickly, he'd follow the shack.

So Ham started off over the boiling swamp, walking with the peculiar sliding motion he had learned by much practice, never raising the mudshoes above the surface, but sliding them along, careful that no mud topped the curving rim.

It was a tiresome motion, but absolutely necessary. He slid along as if on snowshoes, bearing west because that was the direction of the dark side, and if he had to walk to safety, he might as well do it in coolness. The area of swamp was unusually large; he covered at least a mile before he attained a slight rise in the ground, and the mudshoes clumped on solid, or nearly solid, soil.

He was bathed in perspiration, and his transkin suit was hot as a boiler room, but one grows accustomed to that on Venus. He'd have given half his supply of xixtchil pods for the opportunity to open the mask of the suit, to draw a breath of even the steamy and humid Venusian air, but that was impossible; impossible, at least, if he had any inclination to continue living.

One breath of unfiltered air anywhere near the warm edge of the twilight zone was quick and very painful death; Ham would have drawn in uncounted millions of the spores of those fierce Venusian molds, and they'd have sprouted in furry and nauseating masses in his nostrils, his mouth, his lungs, and eventually in his ears and eyes.

Breathing them wasn't even a necessary requirement; once he'd come upon a trader's body with the molds springing from his flesh. The poor fellow had somehow torn a rip in his transkin suit, and that was enough.

The situation made eating and drinking in the open a problem on Venus; one had to wait until a rain had precipitated the spores, when it was safe for half an hour or so. Even then the water must have been recently boiled and the food just removed from its can; otherwise, as had happened to Ham more than once, the food was apt to turn abruptly into a fuzzy mass of molds that grew about as fast as the minute hand moved on a clock. A disgusting sight! A disgusting planet!

That last reflection was induced by Ham's view of the quagmire that had engulfed his shack. The heavier vegetation had gone with it, but already avid and greedy life was emerging, wriggling mud grass and the bulbous fungi called "walking balls." And all around a million little slimy creatures slithered across the mud, eating each other rapaciously, being torn to bits, and each fragment re-forming to a complete creature.

A thousand different species, but all the same in one respect; each of them was all appetite. In common with most Venusian beings, they had a multiplicity of both legs and mouths; in fact some of them were little more than blobs of skin split into dozens of hungry mouths, and crawling on a hundred spidery legs.

All life on Venus is more or less parasitic. Even the plants that draw their nourishment directly from soil and air have also the ability to absorb and digest— and, often enough, to trap— animal food. So fierce is the competition on that humid strip of land between the fire and the ice that one who has never seen it must fail even to imagine it.

The animal kingdom wars incessantly on itself and the plant world; the vegetable kingdom retaliates, and frequently outdoes the other in the production of monstrous predatory horrors that one would even hesitate to call plant life. A terrible world!

In the few moments that Ham had paused to look back, ropy creepers had already entangled his legs; transkin was impervious, of course, but he had to cut the things away with his knife, and the black, nauseating juices that flowed out of them smeared on his suit and began instantly to grow furry as the molds sprouted. He shuddered.

"Hell of a place!" Ham growled, stooping to remove his mudshoes, which he slung carefully over his back.

He slogged away through the writhing vegetation, automatically dodging the awkward thrusts of the Jack Ketch trees as they cast their nooses hopefully toward his arms and head.

Now and again he passed one that dangled some trapped creature, usually unrecognizable because the molds had enveloped it in a fuzzy shroud, while the tree itself was placidly absorbing victim and molds alike.

"Horrible place!" Ham muttered, kicking a writhing mass of nameless little vermin from his path.

He mused; his shack had been situated rather nearer the hot edge of the twilight zone; it was a trifle over two hundred and fifty miles to the shadow line, though of course that varied with the libration. But one couldn't approach the line too closely, anyway, because of the fierce, almost inconceivable, storms that raged where the hot upper winds encountered the icy blasts of the night side, giving rise to the birth throes of the ice barrier.

So a hundred and fifty miles due west would be sufficient to bring coolness, to enter a region too temperate for the molds, where he could walk in comparative comfort. And then, not more than fifty miles north, lay the American settlement Erotia, named, obviously, after that troublesome mythical son of Venus, Cupid.

Intervening, of course, were the ranges of the Mountains of Eternity, not those mighty twenty-mile-high peaks whose summits are occasionally glimpsed by Earthly telescopes, and that forever sunder British Venus from the American possessions, but, even at the point he planned to cross, very respectable mountains indeed. He was on the British side now; not that any one cared. Traders came and went as they pleased.

Well, that meant about two hundred miles. No reason why he couldn't make it; he was armed with both automatic and flame-pistol, and water was no problem, if carefully boiled. Under pressure of necessity, one could even eat Venusian life— but it required hunger and thorough cooking and a sturdy stomach.

It wasn't the taste so much as the appearance, or so he'd been told. He grimaced; beyond doubt he'd be driven to find out for himself, since his canned food couldn't possibly last out the trip. Nothing to worry about, Ham kept telling himself. In fact, plenty to be glad about; the xixtchil pods in his pack represented as much wealth as he could have accumulated by ten years of toil back on Earth.

No danger— and yet, men had vanished on Venus, dozens of them. The molds had claimed them, or some fierce unearthly monster, or perhaps one of the many unknown living horrors, both plant and animal.

Ham trudged along, keeping always to the clearings about the Jack Ketch trees, since these vegetable omnivores kept other life beyond the reach of their greedy nooses. Elsewhere progress was impossible, for the Venusian jungle presented such a terrific tangle of writhing and struggling forms that one could move only by cutting the way, step by step, with infinite labor.

Even then there was the danger of Heaven only knew what fanged and venomous creatures whose teeth might pierce the protective membrane of transkin, and a crack in that meant death. Even the unpleasant Jack Ketch trees were preferable company, he reflected, as he slapped their questing lariats aside.

Six hours after Ham had started his involuntary journey, it rained. He seized the opportunity, found a place where a recent mudspout had cleared the heavier vegetation away, and prepared to eat. First, however, he scooped up some scummy water, filtered it through the screen attached for that purpose to his canteen, and set about sterilizing it.

Fire was difficult to manage, since dry fuel is rare indeed in the Hotlands of Venus, but Ham tossed a thermide tablet into the liquid, and the chemicals boiled the water instantly, escaping themselves as gases. If the water retained a slight ammoniacal taste— well, that was the least of his discomforts, he mused, as he covered it and set it by to cool.

He uncapped a can of beans, watched a moment to see that no stray molds had remained in the air to infect the food, then opened the visor of his suit and swallowed hastily. Thereafter he drank the blood-warm water and poured carefully what remained into the water pouch within his transkin, where he could suck it through a tube to his mouth without the deadly exposure to the molds.

Ten minutes after he had completed the meal, while he rested and longed for the impossible luxury of a cigarette, the fuzzy coat sprang suddenly to life on the remnants of food in the can.

ii

AN HOUR later, weary and thoroughly soaked in perspiration, Ham found a Friendly tree, so named by the explorer Burlingame because it is one of the few organisms on Venus sluggish enough to permit one to rest in its branches. So Ham climbed it, found the most comfortable position available, and slept as best he could.

It was five hours by his wrist watch before he awoke, and the tendrils and little sucking cups of the Friendly tree were fastened all over his transkin. He tore them away very carefully, climbed down, and trudged westward.

It was after the second rain that he met the doughpot, as the creature is called in British and American Venus. In the French strip, it's the pot à colle, the "paste pot"; in the Dutch— well, the Dutch are not prudish, and they call the horror just what they think it warrants.

Actually, the doughpot is a nauseous creature. It's a mass of white, doughlike protoplasm, ranging in size from a single cell to perhaps twenty tons of mushy filth. It has no fixed form; in fact, it's merely a mass of de Proust cells— in effect, a disembodied, crawling, hungry cancer.

It has no organization and no intelligence, nor even any instinct save hunger. It moves in whatever direction food touches its surfaces; when it touches two edible substances, it quietly divides, with the larger portion invariably attacking the greater supply.

It's invulnerable to bullets; nothing less than the terrific blast of a flame pistol will kill it, and then only if the blast destroys every individual cell. It travels over the ground absorbing everything, leaving bare black soil where the ubiquitous molds spring up at once— a noisome, nightmarish creature.

Ham sprang aside as the doughpot erupted suddenly from the jungle to his right. It couldn't absorb the transkin, of course, but to be caught in that pasty mess meant quick suffocation. He glared at it disgustedly and was sorely tempted to blast it with his flame-pistol as it slithered past at running speed. He would have, too, but the experienced Venusian frontiersman is very careful with the flame-pistol.

It has to be charged with a diamond, a cheap black one, of course, but still an item to consider. The crystal, when fired, gives up all its energy in one terrific blast that roars out like a lightning stroke for a hundred yards, incinerating everything in its path.

The thing rolled by with a sucking and gulping sound. Behind it opened the passage it had cleared; creepers, snake vines, Jack Ketch trees—everything had been swept away down to the humid earth itself, where already the molds were springing up on the slime of the doughpot's trail.

The alley led nearly in the direction Ham wanted to travel; he seized the opportunity and strode briskly along, with a wary eye, nevertheless, on the ominous walls of jungle. In ten hours or so the opening would be filled once more with unpleasant life, but for the present it offered a much quicker progress than dodging from one clearing to the next.

It was five miles up the trail, which was already beginning to sprout inconveniently, that he met the native galloping along on his four short legs, his pincerlike hands shearing a path for him. Ham stopped for a palaver.

"Murra," he said.

The language of the natives of the equatorial regions of the Hotlands is a queer one. It has, perhaps, two hundred words, but when a trader has learned those two hundred, his knowledge of the tongue is but little greater than the man who knows none at all.

The words are generalized, and each sound has anywhere from a dozen to a hundred meanings. Murra, for instance, is a word of greeting; it may mean something much like "hello," or "good morning." It also may convey a challenge— "on guard!" It means besides, "Let's be friends," and also, strangely, "Let's fight this out."

It has, moreover, certain noun senses; it means peace, it means war, it means courage, and, again, fear. A subtle language; it is only very recently that studies of inflection have begun to reveal its nature to human philologists. Yet, after all, perhaps English, with its "to," "too," and "two," its "one," "won," "wan," "went," "win" "when," and a dozen other similarities, might seem just as strange to Venusian ears, untrained in vowel distinctions.

Moreover, humans can't read the expressions of the broad, flat, three-eyed Venusian faces, which in the nature of things must convey a world of information among the natives themselves.

But this one accepted the intended sense. "Murra," he responded, pausing. "Usk?" That was, among other things, "Who are you?" or "Where did you come from?" or "Where are you bound?"

Ham chose the latter sense. He pointed off into the dim west; then raised his hand in an arc to indicate the mountains. "Erotia," he said. That had but one meaning, at least.

The native considered this in silence. At last he grunted and volunteered some information. He swept his cutting claw in a gesture west along the trail. "Curky," he said, and then, "Murra." The last was farewell; Ham pressed against the wriggling jungle wall to permit him to pass.

Curky meant, together with twenty other senses, trader. It was the word usually applied to humans, and Ham felt a pleasant anticipation in the prospect of human company. It had been six months since he had heard a human voice other than that on the tiny radio now sunk with his shack.

TRUE ENOUGH, five miles along the doughpot's trail Ham emerged suddenly in an area where there had been a recent mudspout The vegetation was only waist-high, and across the quarter-mile clearing he saw a structure, a trading hut. But far more pretentious than his own iron-walled cubicle; this one boasted three rooms, an unheard-of luxury in the Hotlands, where every ounce had to be laboriously transported by rocket from one of the settlements. That was expensive, almost prohibitive. Traders took a real gamble, and Ham knew he was lucky to have come out so profitably.

He strode over the still spongy ground. The windows were shaded against the eternal daylight, and the door— the door was locked. This was a violation of the frontier code. One always left doors unlocked; it might mean the salvation of some strayed trader, and not even the most dishonorable would steal from a hut left open for his safety.

Nor would the natives; no creature is as honest as a Venusian native, who never lies and never steals, though he might, after due warning, kill a trader for his trade goods. But only after a fair warning.

Ham stood puzzled. At last he kicked and tramped a clear space before the door, sat down against it, and fell to snapping away the numerous and loathsome little creatures that swarmed over his transkin. He waited.

It wasn't half an hour before he saw the trader plowing through the clearing— a short, slim fellow; the transkin shaded his face, but Ham could make out large, shadowed eyes. He stood up.

"Hello!" he said jovially. "Thought I'd drop in for a visit. My name's Hamilton Hammond— you guess the nickname!"

The newcomer stopped short, then spoke in a curiously soft and husky voice, with a decidedly English accent. "My guess would be 'Boiled Pork,' I fancy." The tones were cold, unfriendly. "Suppose you step aside and let me in. Good day!"

Ham felt anger and amazement. "The devil!" he snapped. "You're a hospitable sort, aren't you?"

"No. Not at all." The other paused at the door. "You're an American. What are you doing on British soil? Have you a passport?"

"Since when do you need a passport in the Hotlands?"

"Trading, aren't you?" the slim man said sharply. "In other words, poaching. You've got no right here. Get on."

Ham's jaw set stubbornly behind his mask. "Rights or none," he said, "I'm entitled to the consideration of the frontier code. I want a breath of air and a chance to wipe my face, and also a chance to eat. If you open that door I'm coming in after you."

An automatic flashed into view. "Do, and you'll feed the molds."

Ham, like all Venusian traders, was of necessity bold, resourceful, and what is called in the States "hard-boiled." He didn't flinch, but said in apparent yielding:

"All right; but listen, all I want is a chance to eat."

"Wait for a rain," said the other coolly and half turned to unlock the door.

As his eyes shifted, Ham kicked at the revolver; it went spinning against the wall and dropped into the weeds. His opponent snatched for the flame-pistol that still dangled on his hip; Ham caught his wrist in a mighty clutch.

Instantly the other ceased to struggle, while Ham felt a momentary surprise at the skinny feel of the wrist through its transkin covering.

"Look here!" he growled. "I want a chance to eat, and I'm going to get it. Unlock that door!"

He had both wrists now; the fellow seemed curiously delicate. After a moment he nodded, and Ham released one hand. The door opened, and he followed the other in.

AGAIN, unheard-of magnificence. Solid chairs, a sturdy table, even books, carefully preserved, no doubt, by lycopodium against the ravenous molds that sometimes entered Hotland shacks in spite of screen filters and automatic spray. An automatic spray was going now to destroy any spores that might have entered with the opening door.

Ham sat down, keeping an eye on the other, whose flame-pistol he had permitted to remain in its holster. He was confident of his ability to outdraw the slim individual, and, besides, who'd risk firing a flame-pistol indoors? It would simply blow out one wall of the building.

So he set about opening his mask, removing food from his pack, wiping his steaming face, while his companion—or opponent—looked on silently. Ham watched the canned meat for a moment; no molds appeared, and he ate.

"Why the devil," he rasped, "don't you open your visor?" At the other's silence, he continued: "Afraid I'll see your face, eh? Well, I'm not interested; I'm no cop."

No reply.

He tried again. "What's your name?"

The cool voice sounded: "Burlingame. Pat Burlingame."

Ham laughed. "Patrick Burlingame is dead, my friend. I knew him." No answer. "And if you don't want to tell your name, at least you needn't insult the memory of a brave man and a great explorer."

"Thank you." The voice was sardonic. "He was my father."

"Another lie. He had no son. He had only a—" Ham paused abruptly; a feeling of consternation swept over him. "Open your visor!" he yelled.

He saw the lips of the other, dim through the transkin, twitch into a sarcastic smile.

"Why not?" said the soft voice, and the mask dropped.

Ham gulped; behind the covering were the delicately modeled features of a girl, with cool gray eyes in a face lovely despite the glistening perspiration on cheeks and forehead.

The man gulped again. After all, he was a gentleman despite his profession as one of the fierce, adventurous traders of Venus. He was university-educated— an engineer— and only the lure of quick wealth had brought him to the Hotlands.

"I— I'm sorry," he stammered.

"You brave American poachers!" she sneered. "Are all of you so valiant as to force yourselves on women?"

"But— how could I know? What are you doing in a place like this?"

"There's no reason for me to answer your questions, but"— she gestured toward the room beyond— "I'm classifying Hotland flora and fauna. I'm Patricia Burlingame, biologist."

He perceived now the jar-inclosed specimens of a laboratory in the next chamber. "But a girl alone in the Hotlands! It's—it's reckless!"

"I didn't expect to meet any American poachers," she retorted.

He flushed. "You needn't worry about me. I'm going." He raised his hands to his visor.

Instantly Patricia snatched an automatic from the table drawer. "You're going, indeed, Mr. Hamilton Hammond," she said coolly. "But you're leaving your xixtchil with me. It's crown property; you've stolen it from British territory, and I'm confiscating it."

He stared. "Look here!" he blazed suddenly. "I've risked all I have for that xixtchil. If I lose it I'm ruined— busted. I'm not giving it up!"

"But you are."

He dropped his mask and sat down. "Miss Burlingame," he said, "I don't think you've nerve enough to shoot me, but that's what you'll have to do to get it. Otherwise I'll sit here until you drop of exhaustion."

Her gray eyes bored silently into his blue ones. The gun held steadily on his heart, but spat no bullet. It was a deadlock.

At last the girl said, "You win, poacher." She slapped the gun into her empty holster. "Get out, then."

"Gladly!" he snapped.

He rose, fingered his visor, then dropped it again at a sudden startled scream from the girl. He whirled, suspecting a trick, but she was staring out of the window with wide, apprehensive eyes.

HAM saw the writhing of vegetation and then a vast whitish mass. A doughpot— a monstrous one, bearing steadily toward their shelter. He heard the gentle clunk of impact, and then the window was blotted out by the pasty mess, as the creature, not quite large enough to engulf the building, split into two masses that flowed around and remerged on the other side.

Another cry from Patricia. "Your mask, fool!" she rasped. "Close it!"

"Mask? Why?" Nevertheless, he obeyed automatically.

"Why? That's why! The digestive acids— look!"

She pointed at the walls; indeed, thousands of tiny pinholes of light were appearing. The digestive acids of the monstrosity, powerful enough to attack whatever food chance brought, had corroded the metal; it was porous; the shack was ruined. He gasped as fuzzy molds shot instantly from the remains of his meal, and a red-and-green fur sprouted from the wood of chairs and table.

The two faced each other.

Ham chuckled. "Well," he said, "you're homeless, too. Mine went down in a mudspout."

"Yours would!" Patricia retorted acidly. "You Yankees couldn't think of finding shallow soil, I suppose. Bed rock is just six feet below here, and my place is on pilons."

"Well, you're a cool devil! Anyway, your place might as well be sunk. What are you going to do?"

"Do? Don't concern yourself. I'm quite able to manage."

"How?"

"It's no affair of yours, but I have a rocket call each month."

"You must be a millionaire, then," he commented.

"The Royal Society," she said coldly, "is financing this expedition. The rocket is due—"

She paused; Ham thought she paled a little behind her mask.

"Due when?"

"Why— it just came two days ago. I'd forgotten."

"I see. And you think you'll just stick around for a month waiting for it. Is that it?"

Patricia stared at him defiantly.

"Do you know," he resumed, "what you'd be in a month? It's ten days to summer and look at your shack." He gestured at the walls, where brown and rusty patches were forming; at his motion a piece the size of a saucer tumbled in with a crackle. "In two days this thing will be a caved-in ruin. What'll you do during fifteen days of summer? What'll you do without shelter when the temperature reaches a hundred and fifty— a hundred and sixty? I'll tell you— you'll die."

She said nothing.

"You'll be a fuzzy mass of molds before the rocket returns," Ham said. "And then a pile of clean bones that will go down with the first mudspout."

"Be still!" she blazed.

"Silence won't help. Now I'll tell you what you can do. You can take your pack and your mudshoes and walk along with me. We can make the Cool Country before summer— if you can walk as well as you talk."

"Go with a Yankee poacher? I fancy not!"

"And then," he continued imperturbably, "we can cross comfortably to Erotia, a good American town."

Patricia reached for her emergency pack, slung it over her shoulders. She retrieved a thick bundle of notes, written in aniline ink on transkin, brushed off a few vagrant molds, and slipped it into the pack. She picked up a pair of diminutive mudshoes and turned deliberately to the door.

"So you're coming?" he chuckled.

"I'm going," she retorted coldly, "to the good British town of Venoble. Alone!"

"Venoble!" he gasped. "That's two hundred miles south! And across the Greater Eternities, too!"

iii

PATRICIA walked silently out of the door and turned west toward the Cool Country. Ham hesitated a moment, then followed. He couldn't permit the girl to attempt that journey alone; since she ignored his presence, he simply trailed a few steps behind her, plodding grimly and angrily along.

For three hours or more they trudged through the endless daylight, dodging the thrusts of the Jack Ketch trees, but mostly following the still fairly open trail of the first doughpot.

Ham was amazed at the agile and lithe grace of the girl, who slipped along the way with the sure skill of a native. Then a memory came to him; she was a native, in a sense. He recalled now that Patrick Burlingame's daughter was the first human child born on Venus, in the colony of Venoble, founded by her father.

Ham remembered the newspaper articles when she had been sent to Earth to be educated, a child of eight; he had been thirteen then. He was twenty-seven now, which made Patricia Burlingame twenty-two.

Not a word passed between them until at last the girl swung about in exasperation.

"Go away," she blazed.

Ham halted. "I'm not bothering you."

"But I don't want a bodyguard. I'm a better Hotlander than you!"

He didn't argue the point. He kept silent, and after a moment she flashed:

"I hate you, Yankee! Lord, how I hate you!" She turned and trudged on.

An hour later the mudspout caught them. Without warning, watery muck boiled up around their feet, and the vegetation swayed wildly. Hastily, they strapped on their mudshoes, while the heavier plants sank with sullen gurgles around them. Again Ham marveled at the girl's skill; Patricia slipped away across the unstable surface with a speed he could not match, and he shuffled far behind.

Suddenly he saw her stop. That was dangerous in a mudspout; only an emergency could explain it. He hurried; a hundred feet away he perceived the reason. A strap had broken on her right shoe, and she stood helpless, balancing on her left foot, while the remaining bowl was sinking slowly. Even now black mud slopped over the edge.

She eyed him as he approached. He shuffled to her side; as she saw his intention, she spoke.

"You can't," she said.

Ham bent cautiously, slipping his arms about her knees and shoulders. Her mudshoe was already embedded, but he heaved mightily, driving the rims of his own dangerously close to the surface. With a great sucking gulp, she came free and lay very still in his arms, so as not to unbalance him as he slid again into careful motion over the treacherous surface. She was not heavy, but it was a hairbreadth chance, and the mud slipped and gurgled at the very edge of his shoe-bowls. Even though Venus has slightly less surface gravitation than Earth, a week or so gets one accustomed to it, and the twenty per cent advantage in weight seems to disappear.

A hundred yards brought firm footing. He sat her down and unstrapped his mudshoes.

"Thank you," she said coolly. "That was brave."

"You're welcome," he returned dryly. "I suppose this will end any idea of your traveling alone. Without both mudshoes, the next spout will be the last for you. Do we walk together now?"

Her voice chilled. "I can make a substitute shoe from tree skin."

"Not even a native could walk on tree skin."

"Then," she said, "I'll simply wait a day or two for the mud to dry and dig up my lost one."

He laughed and gestured at the acres of mud. "Dig where?" he countered. "You'll be here till summer if you try that."

She yielded. "You win again, Yankee. But only to the Cool Country; then you'll go north and I south."

THEY trudged on. Patricia was as tireless as Ham himself and vastly more adept in Hotland lore. Though they spoke but little, he never ceased to wonder at the skill she had in picking the quickest route, and she seemed to sense the thrusts of the Jack Ketch trees without looking. But it was when they halted at last, after a rain had given opportunity for a hasty meal, that he had real cause to thank her.

"Sleep?" he suggested, and as she nodded: "There's a Friendly tree."

He moved toward it, the girl behind.

Suddenly she seized his arm. "It's a Pharisee!" she cried, jerking him back.

None too soon! The fake Friendly tree had lashed down with a terrible stroke that missed his face by inches. It was no Friendly tree at all, but an imitator, luring prey within reach by its apparent harmlessness, then striking with knife-sharp spikes.

Ham gasped. "What is it? I never saw one of those before."

"A Pharisee! It just looks like a Friendly tree."

She took her automatic and sent a bullet into the black, pulsing trunk. A dark stream gushed, and the ubiquitous molds sprang into life about the hole. The tree was doomed.

"Thanks," said Ham awkwardly. "I guess you saved my life."

"We're quits now." She gazed levelly at him. "Understand? We're even."

Later they found a true Friendly tree and slept. Awakening, they trudged on again, and slept again, and so on for three nightless days. No more mudspouts burst about them, but all the other horrors of the Hotlands were well in evidence. Doughpots crossed their path, snake vines hissed and struck, the Jack Ketch trees flung sinister nooses, and a million little crawling things writhed underfoot or dropped upon their suits.

Once they encountered a uniped, that queer, kangaroolike creature that leaps, crashing through the jungle on a single mighty leg, and trusts to its ten-foot beak to spear its prey.

When Ham missed his first shot, the girl brought it down in mid-leap to thresh into the avid clutches of the Jack Ketch trees and the merciless molds.

On another occasion, Patricia had both feet caught in a Jack Ketch noose that lay for some unknown cause on the ground. As she stepped within it, the tree jerked her suddenly, to dangle head down a dozen feet in the air, and she hung helplessly until Ham managed to cut her free. Beyond doubt, either would have died alone on any of several occasions; together they pulled through.

Yet neither relaxed the cool, unfriendly attitude that had become habitual. Ham never addressed the girl unless necessary, and she in the rare instances when they spoke, called him always by no other name than Yankee poacher. In spite of this, the man found himself sometimes remembering the piquant loveliness of her features, her brown hair and level gray eyes, as he had glimpsed them in the brief moments when rain made it safe to open their visors.

At last one day a wind stirred out of the west, bringing with it a breath of coolness that was like the air of heaven to them. It was the underwind, the wind that blew from the frozen half of the planet, that breathed cold from beyond the ice barrier. When Ham experimentally shaved the skin from a writhing weed, the molds sprang out more slowly and with an encouraging sparseness; they were approaching the Cool Country.

They found a Friendly tree with lightened hearts; another day's trek might bring them to the uplands where one could walk unhooded, in safety from the molds, since these could not sprout in a temperature much below eighty.

Ham woke first. For a while he gazed silently across at the girl, smiling at the way the branches of the tree had encircled her like affectionate arms. They were merely hungry, of course, but it looked like tenderness. His smile turned a little sad as he realized that the Cool Country meant parting, unless he could discourage that insane determination of hers to cross the Greater Eternities.

He sighed, and reached for his pack slung on a branch between them, and suddenly a bellow of rage and astonishment broke from him.

His xixtchil pods! The transkin pouch was slit; they were gone.

Patricia woke startled at his cry. Then, behind her mask, he sensed an ironic, mocking smile.

"My xixtchil!" he roared. "Where is it?"

She pointed down. There among the lesser growths was a little mound of molds.

"There," she said coolly. "Down there, poacher."

"You—" He choked with rage.

"Yes. I slit the pouch while you slept. You'll smuggle no stolen wealth from British territory."

Ham was white, speechless. "You damned devil!" he bellowed at last. "That's every cent I had!"

"But stolen," she reminded him pleasantly, swinging her dainty feet.

Rage actually made him tremble. He glared at her; the light struck through the translucent transkin, outlining her body and slim rounded legs in shadow. "I ought to kill you!" he muttered tensely.

His hand twitched, and the girl laughed softly. With a groan of desperation, he slung his pack over his shoulders and dropped to the ground.

"I hope— I hope you die in the mountains," he said grimly, and stalked away toward the west.

A hundred yards distant he heard her voice.

"Yankee! Wait a moment!"

He neither paused nor glanced back, but strode on.

HALF AN HOUR later, glancing back from the crest of a rise, Ham perceived that she was following him. He turned and hurried on. The way was upward now, and his strength began to outweigh her speed and skill.

When next he glimpsed her, she was a plodding speck far behind, moving, he imagined, with a weary doggedness. He frowned back at her; it had occurred to him that a mudspout would find her completely helpless, lacking the vitally important mudshoes.

Then he realized that they were beyond the region of mudspouts, here in the foothills of the Mountains of Eternity, and anyway, he decided grimly, he didn't care.

For a while Ham paralleled a river, doubtless an unnamed tributary of the Phlegethon. So far there had been no necessity to cross watercourses, since naturally all streams on Venus flow from the ice barrier across the twilight zone to the hot side, and therefore had coincided with their own direction.

But now, once he attained the table-lands and turned north, he would encounter rivers. They had to be crossed either on logs or, if opportunity offered and the stream was narrow, through the branches of Friendly trees. To set foot in the water was death; fierce fanged creatures haunted the streams.

He had one near catastrophe at the rim of the table-land. It was while he edged through a Jack Ketch clearing; suddenly there was a heave of white corruption, and tree and jungle wall disappeared in the mass of a gigantic doughpot.

He was cornered between the monster and an impenetrable tangle of vegetation, so he did the only thing left to do. He snatched his flame-pistol and sent a terrific, roaring blast into the horror, a blast that incinerated tons of pasty filth and left a few small fragments crawling and feeding on the debris.

The blast also, as it usually does, shattered the barrel of the weapon. He sighed as he set about the forty-minute job of replacing it— no true Hotlander ever delays that— for the blast had cost fifteen good American dollars, ten for the cheap diamond that he had exploded, and five for the barrel. Nothing at all when he had had his xixtchil, but a real item now. He sighed again as he discovered that the remaining barrel was his last; he had been forced to economize on everything when he set out.

Ham came at last to the table-land. The fierce and predatory vegetation of the Hotlands grew scarce; he began to encounter true plants, with no power of movement, and the underwind blew cool in his face.

He was in a sort of high valley; to his right were the gray peaks of the Lesser Eternities, beyond which lay Erotia, and to his left, like a mighty, glittering rampart, lay the vast slopes of the Greater Range, whose peaks were lost in the clouds fifteen miles above.

He looked at the opening of the rugged Madman's Pass where it separated two colossal peaks; the pass itself was twenty-five thousand feet in height, but the mountains out-topped it by fifty thousand more. One man had crossed that jagged crack on foot— Patrick Burlingame— and that was the way his daughter meant to follow.

Ahead, visible as a curtain of shadow, lay the night edge of the twilight zone, and Ham could see the incessant lightings that flashed forever in this region of endless storms. It was here that the ice barrier crossed the ranges of the Mountains of Eternity, and the cold underwind, thrust up by the mighty range, met the warm upper winds in a struggle that was one continuous storm, such a storm as only Venus could provide. The river Phlegethon had its source somewhere back in there.

Ham surveyed the wildly magnificent panorama. To-morrow, or rather, after resting, he would turn north. Patricia would turn south, and, beyond doubt, would die somewhere on Madman's Pass. For a moment he had a queerly painful sensation, then he frowned bitterly.

Let her die, if she was fool enough to attempt the pass alone just because she was too proud to take a rocket from an American settlement. She deserved it. He didn't care; he was still assuring himself of that as he prepared to sleep, not in a Friendly tree, but in one of the far more friendly specimens of true vegetation and in the luxury of an open visor.

The sound of his name awakened him. He gazed across the table-land to see Patricia just topping the divide, and he felt a moment's wonder at how she had managed to trail him, a difficult feat indeed in a country where the living vegetation writhes instantly back across one's path. Then he recalled the blast of his flame-pistol; the flash and sound would carry for miles, and she must have heard or seen it.

Ham saw her glancing anxiously around.

"Ham!" she shouted again— not Yankee or poacher, but "Ham!"

He kept a sullen silence; again she called. He could see her bronzed and piquant features now; she had dropped her transkin hood. She called again; with a despondent little shrug, she turned south along the divide, and he watched her go in grim silence. When the forest hid her from view, he descended and turned slowly north.

Very slowly; his steps lagged; it was as if he tugged against some invisible elastic bond. He kept seeing her anxious face and hearing in memory the despondent call. She was going to her death, he believed, and, after all, despite what she had done to him, he didn't want that. She was too full of life, too confident, too young, and above all, too lovely to die.

True, she was an arrogant, vicious, self-centered devil, cool as crystal, and as unfriendly but— she had gray eyes and brown hair, and she was courageous. And at last, with a groan of exasperation, he halted his lagging steps, turned, and rushed with almost eager speed into the south.

TRAILING the girl was easy here for one trained in the Hotlands. The vegetation was slow to mend itself, here in the Cool Country, and now and again he found imprints of her feet, or broken twigs to make her path. He found the place where she had crossed the river through tree branches, and he found a place where she had pause to eat.

But he saw that she was gaining on him; her skill and speed outmatched his, and the trail grew steadily older. At last he stopped to rest; the table-land was beginning to curve upward toward the vast Mountains of Eternity, and on rising ground he knew he could overtake her. So he slept for a while in the luxurious comfort of no transkin at all, just the shorts and shirt that one wore beneath. That was safe here; the eternal underwind, blowing always toward the Hotlands, kept drifting mold spores away, and any brought in on the fur of animals died quickly at the first cool breeze. Nor would the true plants of the Cool Country attack his flesh.

He slept five hours. The next "day" of traveling brought another change in the country. The life of the foothills was sparse compared to the table-lands; the vegetation was no longer a jungle, but a forest, an unearthly forest, true, of tree-like growths whose boles rose five hundred feet and then spread, not into foliage, but flowery appendages. Only an occasional Jack Ketch tree reminded him of the Hotlands.

Farther on, the forest diminished. Great rock outcroppings appeared, and vast red cliffs with no growths of any kind. Now and then he encountered swarms of the planet's only aerial creatures, the gray, mothlike dusters, large as hawks, but so fragile that a blow shattered them. They darted about, alighting at times to seize small squirming things, and tinkling in their curiously bell-like voices. And apparently almost above him, though really thirty miles distant, loomed the Mountains of Eternity, their peaks lost in the clouds that swirled fifteen miles overhead.

Here again it grew difficult to trail, since Patricia scrambled often over bare rock. But little by little the signs grew fresher; once again his greater strength began to tell. And then he glimpsed her, at the base of a colossal escarpment split by a narrow, tree-filled canyon.

She was peering first at the mighty precipice, then at the cleft, obviously wondering whether it offered a means of scaling the barrier, or whether it was necessary to circle the obstacle. Like himself, she had discarded her transkin and wore the usual shirt and shorts of the Cool Country, which, after all, is not very cool by terrestrial standards. She looked, he thought, like some lovely forest nymph of the ancient slopes of Pelion.

He hurried as she moved into the canyon. "Pat!" he shouted; it was the first time he had spoken her given name. A hundred feet within the passage he overtook her.

"You!" she gasped. She looked tired; she had been hurrying for hours, but a light of eagerness flashed in her eyes. "I thought you had— I tried to find you."

Ham's face held no responsive light. "Listen here, Pat Burlingame," he said coldly. "You don't deserve any consideration, but I can't see you walking into death. You're a stubborn devil, but you're a woman. I'm taking you to Erotia."

The eagerness vanished. "Indeed, poacher? My father crossed here. I can, too."

"Your father crossed in midsummer, didn't he? And midsummer's today. You can't make Madman's Pass in less than five days, a hundred and twenty hours, and by then it will be nearly winter, and this longitude will be close to the storm line. You're a fool."

She flushed. "The pass is high enough to be in the upper winds. It will be warm."

"Warm! Yes— warm with lightning." He paused; the faint rumble of thunder rolled through the canyon. "Listen to that. In five days that will be right over us." He gestured up at the utterly barren slopes. "Not even Venusian life can get a foothold up there— or do you think you've got brass enough to be a lightning rod? Maybe you're right."

Anger flamed. "Rather the lightning than you!" Patricia snapped, and then as suddenly softened. "I tried to call you back," she said irrelevantly.

"To laugh at me," he retorted bitterly.

"No. To tell you I was sorry, and that—"

"I don't want your apology."

"But I wanted to tell you that—"

"Never mind," he said curtly. "I'm not interested in your repentance. The harm's done." He frowned coldly down on her.

Patricia said meekly: "But I—"

A crashing and gurgling interrupted her, and she screamed as a gigantic doughpot burst into view, a colossus that filled the canyon from wall to wall to a six-foot height as it surged toward them. The horrors were rarer in the Cool Country, but larger, since the abundance of food in the Hotlands kept subdividing them. But this one was a giant, a behemoth, tons and tons of nauseous, ill-smelling corruption heaving up the narrow way. They were cut off.

Ham snatched his flame-pistol, but the girl seized his arm,

"No, no!" she cried. "Too close! It will spatter!"

iv

PATRICIA was right. Unprotected by transkin, the touch of a fragment of that monstrosity was deadly, and, beyond that, the flash of a flame-pistol would shower bits of it upon them. He grasped her wrist and they fled up the canyon, striving for vantage-way enough to risk a shot. And a dozen feet behind surged the doughpot, traveling blindly in the only direction it could— the way of food.

They gained. Then, abruptly, the canyon, which had been angling southwest, turned sharply south. The light of the eternally eastward Sun was hidden; they were in a pit of perpetual shadow, and the ground was bare and lifeless rock. And as it reached that point, the doughpot halted; lacking any organization, any will, it could not move when no food gave it direction. It was such a monster as only the life-swarming climate of Venus could harbor; it lived only by endless eating.

The two paused in the shadow.

"Now what?" muttered Ham.

A fair shot at the mass was impossible because of the angle; a blast would destroy only the portion it could reach.

Patricia leaped upward, catching a snaky shrub on the wall, so placed that it received a faint ray of light. She tossed it against the pulsing mass; the whole doughpot lunged forward a foot or two.

"Lure it in," she suggested.

They tried. It was impossible; vegetation was too sparse.

"What will happen to the thing?" asked Ham.

"I saw one stranded on the desert edge of the Hotlands," replied the girl. "It quivered around for a long time, and then the cells attacked each other. It ate itself." She shuddered. "It was— horrible!"

"How long?"

"Oh, forty or fifty hours."

"I won't wait that long," growled Ham. He fumbled in his pack, pulling out his transkin.

"What will you do?"

"Put this on and try to blast that mass out of here at close range." He fingered his flame-pistol. "This is my last barrel," he said gloomily, then more hopefully: "But we have yours."

"The chamber of mine cracked last time I used it, ten or twelve hours ago. But I have plenty of barrels."

"Good enough!" said Ham.

He crept cautiously toward the horrible, pulsating wall of white. He thrust his arm so as to cover the greatest angle, pulled the trigger, and the roar and blazing fire of the blast bellowed echoing through the canyon. Bits of the monster spattered around him, and the thickness of the remainder, lessened by the incineration of tons of filth, was now only three feet.

"The barrel held!" he called triumphantly. It saved much time in recharging.

Five minutes later the weapon crashed again. When the mass of the monstrosity stopped heaving, only a foot and a half of depth remained, but the barrel had been blown to atoms.

"We'll have to use yours," he said.

Patricia produced one, he took it, and then stared at it in dismay. The barrels of her Enfield-made weapon were far too small for his American pistol stock!

He groaned. "Of all the idiots!" he burst out.

"Idiots!" she flared. "Because you Yankees use trench mortars for your barrels?"

"I meant myself. I should have guessed this." He shrugged. "Well, we have our choice now of waiting here for the doughpot to eat himself, or trying to find some other way out of this trap. And my hunch is that this canyon's blind."

It was probable, Patricia admitted. The narrow cleft was the product of some vast, ancient upheaval that had split the mountain in halves. Since it was not the result of water erosion, it was likely enough that the cleft ended abruptly in an unscalable precipice, but it was possible, too, that somewhere those sheer walls might be surmountable.

"We've time to waste, anyway," she concluded. "We might as well try it. Besides—" She wrinkled her dainty nose distastefully at the doughpot's odor.

STILL in his transkin, Ham followed her through the shadowy half dusk. The passage narrowed, then veered west again, but now so high and sheer were the walls that the Sun, slightly south of east, cast no light into it. It was a place of shades like the region of the storm line that divides the twilight zone from the dark hemisphere, not true night, nor yet honest day, but a dim middle state.

Ahead of him Patricia's bronzed limbs showed pale instead of tan, and when she spoke her voice went echoing queerly between the opposing cliffs. A weird place, this chasm, a dusky, unpleasant place.

"I don't like this," said Ham. "The pass is cutting closer and closer to the dark. Do you realize no one knows what's in the dark parts of the Mountains of Eternity?"

Patricia laughed; the sound was ghostly. "What danger could there be? Anyway, we still have our automatics."

"There's no way up here," Ham grumbled. "Let's turn back."

Patricia faced him. "Frightened, Yankee?" Her voice dropped. "The natives say these mountains are haunted," she went on mockingly. "My father told me he saw queer things in Madman's Pass. Do you know that if there is life on the night side, here is the one place it would impinge on the twilight zone? Here in the Mountains of Eternity?"

She was taunting him; she laughed again. And suddenly her laughter was repeated in a hideous cacophony that hooted out from the sides of the cliffs above them in a horrid medley.

She paled; it was Patricia who was frightened now. They stared apprehensively up at the rock walls where strange shadows flickered and shifted.

"What— what was h?" she whispered. And then: "Ham! Did you see that?"

Ham had seen it. A wild shape had flung itself across the strip of sky, leaping from cliff to cliff far above them. And again came a peal of hooting that sounded like laughter, while shadowy forms moved, flylike, on the sheer walls.

"Let's go back!" she gasped. "Quickly!"

As she turned, a small black object fell and broke with a sullen pop before them. Ham stared at it. A pod, a spore-sac, of some unknown variety. A lazy, dusky cloud drifted over it, and suddenly both of them were choking violently. Ham felt his head spinning in dizziness, and Patricia reeled against him.

"It's— narcotic!" she gasped. "Back!"

But a dozen more plopped around them. The dusty spores whirled in dark eddies, and breathing was a torment. They were being drugged and suffocated at the same time.

Ham had a sudden inspiration. "Mask!" he choked, and pulled his transkin over his face.

The filter that kept out the molds of the Hotlands cleaned the air of these spores as well; his head cleared. But the girl's covering was somewhere in her pack; she was fumbling for it. Abruptly she sat down, swaying.

"My pack," she murmured. "Take it out with you. Your— your—" She broke into a fit of coughing.

He dragged her under a shallow overhang and ripped her transkin from the pack. "Put it on!" he snapped.

A figure flitted silently far up on the wall of rock. Ham watched its progress, then aimed his automatic and fired. There was a shrill, rasping scream, answered by a chorus of dissonant ululations, and something as large as a man whirled down to crash not ten feet from him.

The thing was hideous. Ham stared appalled at a creature not unlike a native, three-eyed, two-handed, four-legged, but the hands, though two-fingered like the Hotlanders', were not pincerlike, but white and clawed.

And the face! Not the broad, expressionless face of the others, but a slanting, malevolent, dusky visage with each eye double the size of the natives'. It wasn't dead; it glared hatred and seized a stone, flinging it at him with weak viciousness. Then it died.

Ham didn't know what it was, of course. Actually it was a triops noctivivans— the "three-eyed dweller in the dark," the strange, semi-intelligent being that is as yet the only known creature of the night side, and a member of that fierce remnant still occasionally found in the sunless parts of the Mountains of Eternity. It is perhaps the most vicious creature in the known planets, absolutely unapproachable, and delighting in slaughter.

At the crash of the shot, the shower of pods had ceased, and a chorus of laughing hoots ensued. Ham seized the respite to pull the girl's transkin over her face; she had collapsed with it only half on.

Then a sharp crack sounded, and a stone rebounded to strike his arm. Others pattered around him, whining past, swift as bullets. Black figures flickered in great leaps against the sky, and their fierce laughter sounded mockingly. He fired at one in mid air; the cry of pain rasped again, but the creature did not fall.

Stones pelted him. They were all small ones, pebble-sized, but they were flung so fiercely that they hummed in passage, and they tore his flesh through his transkin. He turned Patricia on her face, but she moaned faintly as a missile struck her back. He shielded her with his own body.

THE POSITION was intolerable. He must risk a dash back, even though the doughpot blocked the opening. Perhaps, he thought, armored in transkin he could wade through the creature. He knew that was an insane idea; the gluey mass would roll him into itself to suffocate—but it had to be faced. He gathered the girl in his arms and rushed suddenly down the canyon.

Hoots and shrieks and a chorus of mocking laughter echoed around him. Stones, struck him everywhere. One glanced from his head, sending him stumbling and staggering against the cliff. But he ran doggedly on; he knew now what drove him. It was the girl he carried; he had to save Patricia Burlingame.

Ham reached the bend. Far up on the west wall glowed cloudy sunlight, and his weird pursuers flung themselves to the dark side. They couldn't stand daylight, and that gave him some assistance; by creeping very close to the eastern wall he was partially shielded.

Ahead was the other bend, blocked by the doughpot. As he neared it, he turned suddenly sick. Three of the creatures were grouped against the mass of white, eating— actually eating!— the corruption. They whirled, hooting, as he came; he shot two of them, and as the third leaped for the wall, he dropped that one as well, and it fell with a dull gulping sound into the doughpot.

Again he sickened; the doughpot drew away from it, leaving the thing lying in a hollow like the hole of a giant doughnut. Not even that monstrosity would eat these creatures.*

___________

*It was not known then that while the night-side life of Venus can eat and digest that of the day side, the reverse is not true. No day-side creature can absorb the dark life because of the presence of various metabolic alcohols, all poisonous.

But the thing's leap had drawn Ham's attention to a twelve-inch ledge. It might be— yes, it was possible that he could traverse that rugged trail and so circle the doughpot. Nearly hopeless, no doubt, to attempt it under the volley of stones, but he must. There was no alternative.

He shifted the girl to free his right arm. He slipped a second clip in his automatic and then fired at random into the flitting shadows above. For a moment the hail of pebbles ceased, and with a convulsive, painful struggle, Ham dragged himself and Patricia to the ledge.

Stones cracked about him once more. Step by step he edged along the way, poised just over the doomed doughpot. Death below and death above! And little by little he rounded the bend; above him both walls glowed in sunlight, and they were safe.

At least, he was safe. The girl might be already dead, he thought frantically, as he slipped and slid through the slime of the doughpot's passage. Out on the daylit slope he tore the mask from her face and gazed on white, marble-cold features.

IT WAS not death, however, but only drugged torpor. An hour later she was conscious, though weak and very badly frightened. Yet almost her first question was for her pack.

"It's here," Ham said. "What's so precious about that pack? Your notes?"

"My notes? Oh, no!" A faint flush covered her features. "It's— I kept trying to tell you— it's your xixtchil."

"What?"

"Yes. I— of course I didn't throw it to the molds. It's yours by rights, Ham. Lots of British traders go into the American Hotlands. I just slit the pouch and hid it here in my pack. The molds on the ground were only some twigs I threw there to— to make it look real."

"But— but— why?"

The flush deepened, "I wanted to punish you," Patricia whispered, "for being so— so cold and distant."

"I?" Ham was amazed. "It was you!"

"Perhaps it was, at first. You forced your way into my house, you know. But— after you carried me across the mudspout, Ham— it was different."

Ham gulped. Suddenly he pulled her into his arms. "I'm not going to quarrel about whose fault it was," he said. "But we'll settle one thing immediately. We're going to Erotia, and that's where we'll be married, in a good American church if they've put one up yet, or by a good American justice if they haven't. There's no more talk of Madman's Pass and crossing the Mountains of Eternity. Is that clear?"

She glanced at the vast, looming peaks and shuddered. "Quite clear!" she replied meekly.

______________

11: The Man Who Killed "X"

Edgar Wallace

1875-1932

Weekly Tale Teller, 18 April-23 May 1914

1: The Man Who Killed "X"

I KNEW a lady once named Denver May— a fine, handsome doll of a woman with china-blue eyes, peach-like cheeks, and hair of gold, which was just getting a little bit old and had taken on a brown lacquer through which the gold shone.

I met her once professionally, I have spoken to her in a friendly way more than once, and the last time I spoke to her a dear friend of hers named Leggatt waited for me in the dark corridor of my hotel at 3 a.m. on a winter morning and tried to knife me with a long Italian stiletto which proved to be a veritable Fraggecci.

He did not intend comforting my dying moments with the knowledge that he it was who had done this thing, for he wore over his face a portion of a lady's silk stocking, in which, with a practised hand, he had cut two eye-holes. I have often wondered whether that stocking was May's, but the speculation is a fairly idle one.

Anyway, Leggatt misjudged the distance, and I gave him two— one to start him falling, and the other, en route, to keep him fallen. I believe I also kicked him a little when he was down, for I am a sportsman, and had no desire to die in a temperance hotel, to which the exigencies of my profession had brought me.

The last time I saw Denver May she was smiling sweetly at a wise old man in a red silk wrap and a white wig. He wasn't smiling. His lined mouth was drooped, and two deep furrows ran down either side of his face. He looked at her over his big glasses and said with almost pathetic sadness:

"As to the woman, she is a dangerous enemy to society. What is known of her?"

I stepped up to the witness-stand and said:

"She is a blackmailer, and because of her many men have committed suicide."

That is all I said, and May smiled at me from the big yellow dock as though I had paid her the most exquisite compliment.

The old man in the white wig shook his head helplessly.

"A danger to society," he repeated. "You, May Clement Schaffer, will be kept in penal servitude for fifteen years."

She went down from the dock with that little smile, but outside in the high, marbled vestibule, Leggatt sat crouched on a seat crying like a child.

I felt very sorry for Leggatt in a way. I realised how lonely he must be without the woman whose fortune he had shared— he on one side of the prison gate and she on the other.

In justice to myself, let it be said that I did my best to put them both on the right side— which is the inside.

But in the case of Leggatt there had been some picturesque and scientific perjury at the preliminary magisterial inquiry, and he had not gone for trial.

And here was Leggatt blubbering like a child. How sad! Did I laugh? I did.

He looked at me with his lamps at danger.

"I'll fix you for this, Tyndall!" he gasped. "You dog— laugh at me!"

Yes, he was sobbing his heart out, just as old Alderman Gollington, of Manchester, had sobbed when the pair of them stripped him of his last dollar on the threat of exposing a sin nearly half a century old; so he had gone sobbing, that old man, to the home they had wrecked, and hanged himself in the wine-cellar.

Mrs. Laurie-Franze, of Philadelphia, had wept with even greater passion when Denver May and her colleague had confronted her with the bundle of letters which meant separation from the husband she loved and the two little children she adored. She had pawned her jewels to satisfy May; she had robbed her husband and placed herself still further in their hands. She came to the end of her possibilities, and May with the cherub face, wanted more, Leggatt backing her up.

To-day Mrs. Laurie-Franze thinks she is a snake-charmer; she gives the attendants little trouble, except now and again, when she is very terrible indeed, and it takes six nurses to get her to the padded ward.

Laugh? I would laugh to see Leggatt in hell!

"I'll fix you," he said again between sniffles.

"I shall be doing a little fixing myself," I said. "Look out for me."

Did he try? I think he did. But a good blackmailer is a specialist. Exponents of laryngotomy are, as a rule, indifferent chiropodists, and criminals, who terrorise by threats are most indifferent assassins. So I found.

He handed me all the lethal equipment he could find. He brought to his assistance a man named Badger— James Badger, commonly called "Talking Jimmy."

What do you do with a beautiful box of chocolates that comes on your birthday addressed in a female hand, a beautiful box of chocolates with crystallised violets a-top?

I took mine to the tiny laboratory at the top of my home, and fed some mice with scraps of the sweet stuff.

And those mice died; they died very quickly. My doctor friends tell me that it is not in the public interest that I should tell you the poison, because it is one which is not very well known except to opticians. It is nothing so common as atropine.

I tied up the rest of the sweets, type-wrote an address, and mailed the box to Leggatt with a card inscribed:

Loving wishes from little Arthur.

but I fancy he did not eat them. That may have been "Talking Jimmy's" idea, for, in addition to being a glib spinner of tales, this James was a murderer, as I know.

And suppose you receive a parcel with a label of a well-known publisher, would you think they were books? I guess you would. But do books say "tick-tick-tick," even when they aren't paid for? I dropped my "books" into a pail of water and sent for the explosive expert from the War Office.

There was no evidence against Leggatt— not a smell of evidence against "Talking Jimmy," the one member of the confederation I had not met.

I sent for Big Bill Brady, and he came sort of sideways, ready to bolt.

"Bill," I said, "I pulled you out of bad trouble last fall, not because I love you or was affected by the tears of the lady who calls herself Mrs. Bill, but just because I was out shark-fishing and hadn't the time to waste on pike."

Bill asked Providence to destroy his eyesight and admitted the truth of my words.

"Now I want you to hop along and find Leggatt—he's the posher—and when you find him I want you to do him up proper."

"Mr. Tyndall," said Bill earnestly, "he's an American and uses fire-weapons; he's got pals that use fire-weapons. I'll do my best for you, but unless I get him— so to speak— tata-tatey, there will be no performance."

There was no performance—not the right kind of performance. The gentlemen employed their "fire-weapons" to such an effect that Bill has been drawing an allowance from me ever since on the score of being "temporarily incapacitated."

This was the position on June 17th when I read an announcement in the Times:

Deaths.

Leggatt. After a short illness at Monte Carlo. George William Leggatt, of Chicago and London.

Upon a distant shore he fell,

Away from home and kin;

We'll never see another lad

So good a friend as him.

The last words from his lips did fall

Upon that summer's day,

And this is what his faint voice said:

"Good-bye, my Denver May!"

American papers, please copy.

The invitation to the Editors of the Poet's Corner of American journalism was affecting. It affected me. A month later I discovered that the distressing news had affected one of whose existence I had been in ignorance.

A man made an appointment with me at my office, and I had the bad luck to keep it.

I always prefer making an appointment with a man, because I know just how to miss it and have plenty of time to invent an oh-cruel-fate lie to explain my absence. I said I'd see this lad at one and a-half, and at one and a-half I was keeping an appointment with a devilled sole, a teeny-weeny bottle of Mumm, and another lady at Boriani's in the Haymarket.

I went back to the office at four o' the clock, and there, sitting glum and stolid before the stove, burning my precious current was the appointee.

I looked at him sternly, then at my watch. I didn't know which to blame most.

"I thought I said half-past one," I remarked.

He looked bewildered.

"I know you did," he stammered. "It's now four o'clock— I was here at half-past one."

"Were you?" I asked incredulously. "Then where the devil was I?"

I waited for his answer, but he offered no solution to the mystery.

He was a tall, thin man when he unwound himself, clean-shaven, with a white scar on his left cheek. He had plastered hair and grey eyes, and under each eye was a puffy little sack.

The impression ho gave me was of supreme and hopeless patience. Here was a man who would sit and jaw to me by the hour about what Maisie said and what he said, and what Maisie's friend Dora said and what he said, and what Harry remarked to him and of the saucy answer he handed back to Harry.

I put my hat down on the table, rang the bell, and my secretary came in.

I was busily writing— "When I ring twice come in and say you've had a 'phone from Buckingham Palace requiring my immediate attendance."

I scribbled the finish and handed it to the girl.

"Order these at once," I said with a we-understand-each-other frown, and she left us.

Then I turned upon the man with the eyes.

"Now," I said, "deliver your address."

I leant back in my padded chair and waited for the worst.

I found myself wondering in the short pause whether it was money or wife which had sent him to me.

"Mr. Tyndall," he said in a measured, monotonous voice, "you have the reputation of being a great detective, though somewhat inconsequent. You are known as an expert criminal investigator, a man of considerable courage, immense resource and extraordinary agility of mind."

I inclined my head. He evidently knew me fairly well. I began to take an interest in this cadaverous man.

"I am warned that you are lazy," he continued, "that you have no apparent gifts of concentration— though this latter report I am not prepared to accept— and that you are not inclined to undertake work save at a figure beyond the reach of the average purse, unless it is beyond the ordinary range of criminal research."

"Some of what you say is true," I replied. "First I should like to hear what work you wish me to perform."

He looked round, my office hesitatingly, as if seeking inspiration.

"I hardly know how to begin," he said. "I have told my story to the police at Scotland Yard, and the only result which has so far accrued is that they have had me examined by three police surgeons with a view to ascertaining the state of my mind, and they have decided, with evident reluctance, I must confess, that there is nothing in my mental condition which justifies detention."

He paused and cleared his throat.

"I am a retired banker," he began, "my age is fifty-four, the general condition of my health is good, I am a Wesleyan, and comfortably off; in fact, I am, by most standards, a rich man."

"An excellent start," I said, "though reminiscent of the 'Arabian Nights.' "

"Three months ago," he went on, "I decided, after hearing a lecture at the Royal Society by an eminent philosopher on 'Life Values,' that, successful as I regarded myself, rich, healthy, and possessing the best collection of stamps which any American philatelist in England possesses, I had missed the big things, and, so far from having any cause for pride in my achievements, I had better reason for the bitterest shame.

"For consider— my life was lonely, useless, barren. No child called me father, I could not point to one single action of mine which had made the world a brighter and more beautiful place; there existed no finer monument to my industry than a swollen bank balance and a number of decayed postage stamps.

"It came as a revelation me; it became an obsession— this sense of valueless existence. Two months ago I decided to end my life."

I met his eye; there was no indication of madness. He spoke in a level, almost colourless, voice. The skin was healthy, his pupils of normal size. The hands resting on two bony knees were placid, the thumbs easily held, and neither rigid nor restless. The feet were placed nervously (the right foot rested a little on its outer side, the left foot was square on the ground).

His breathing was regular and deep; there was none of that shallowness and irregularity peculiar to the religious maniac, nor the heavy nasal exhalations which distinguish the homicide. His jaw was too small and too well-shaped for an epileptic. Altogether a normal man.

"I decided to end my life," he went on; "a life which at that particular time I saw only too clearly was futile and unproductive.

"You may be horrified— or rather you would be horrified if you possessed the normal mind and the normal outlook at such a decision. There are a hundred-and-one arguments which you could adduce to demonstrate the absurdity of such an action, but each one of these I could answer to my own satisfaction, and, after all, it is my view which 'counts.' "

I agreed.

"Having decided so much," the man (whose name, by the way, was Charles Delahay) went on, "there was only the question in my mind as to the method by which I should make my exit from a life of which I was heartily ashamed. From any violent means I shrank. Neither the shock of drowning nor the greater and system-racking violence of hydrocyanic acid nor the possible mischances of shooting appealed to me.

"Eventually, after giving the matter a great deal of thought, I hit upon what in my opinion was a method of fulfilling all humanitarian requirements.

"My scheme was to fill a tin can with chloroform and hang it over my bed, to make a tiny puncture in the bottom of the can, and, covering my head with a large, lint-covered cage, retire to rest, allowing the steady downpour from the vessel above to do its deadly work while I slept."

I smiled.

Chloroform so dropped and with so large a surface would volatilise harmlessly, and occasion no greater distress than a disordered palate.

"When I had almost completed my arrangements," Delahay continued; "when, indeed, the very drug was purchased and the tin can suitably perforated, I read a book."

He paused, inviting comment, but I offered none.

It was not the kind of story I had expected, and I was annoyed to find myself getting interested, for I have an extreme distaste for anything which suggests work.

All the time he spoke it was in a monotonous, low, even voice. It did not vary, rise, nor fall, however tragic was the burthen of his narrative.

"I read a book," he continued. "It was called— no, I forget the title, and the author I cannot for the moment recall; I rather think that it was a first novel. The idea of the story may be simply told. It dealt with a committee of men who were self-appointed judges and executioners. They set themselves the task of ridding the world of men who, by their misdeeds, had earned the extreme penalty— and by their clever evasions of the law had succeeded in going immune. It was a bright idea; more, it was a fine idea. In a flash I saw my destiny. To die by my own hand would only mean one other useless thing added to the tale of many acts of uselessness committed in my life. I saw my duty plainly. It was the removal of a man who would be better out of the world than in it.

"In this way I could accomplish both my objects. I would not only secure dissolution for myself, but I would secure it by as painless a method as the combined efforts of science could suggest and the experience of a decade could justify.

"Only one question remained for me to decide. Who was the sinner who deserved death who had so far escaped the punishment of the law?"

This was interesting. I leant forward and looked him straight in the eve.

"I see," I said softly, "you want me to suggest the man. I can give you as complete a list as any man in London. There's the chef at the Falgar who puts garlic in all the dishes. There's the new funny man at the Hippoleum— the forty-ninth rag-time inventor and exponent we have had in London since the season started. Then there's the man who writes long novels that begin in 1860 and finish in heaven— you know the man I mean, William Something or other; he'd be an excellent chap to start on."

Mr. Delahay smiled.

It was the first smile I had seen during the interview.

"No," he said quietly, "I do not think I am likely to practise on any of those gentlemen. Seriously, Mr. Tyndall, I want you to think of all the really bad men in London, that is why I came."

I frowned.

"Before dinner or after?" I asked.

"Seriously."

I regarded Mr. Delahay with something like indignation.

"Getting right down to the hard, bed-rock fact and cutting out all that pertains to the Lunacy Act of 1876," I said steadily, "do you seriously suggest that I, a respectable, honest and notorious detective, a member of several clubs, a holder of innumerable free passes into high-class theatres, one who is on nodding terms with princes and on fairly respectful terms with bank managers, do you think," I repeated, speaking with emphasis, "that I should suggest to you subjects for future coroners' inquisitions? I have listened," I went on, "with exemplary and touching patience, and my restraint has helped me to bear with you, but—"

He raised his hand and full-pointed my eloquence. There was a glint of humour in his eye.

"Do not be perturbed, Mr. Tyndall," he said. "I shall not ask you to find subjects for my vengeance— that has been found. I have committed the murder already."

To say that these words shocked me to the very foundation, is but to express in the mildest terms something of the thrill which they produced.

"Let me finish," he said. "For weeks, as I have hinted to you, the question of my victim was one which obsessed me night and day. I had no thought but the ever-present and absorbing problem— who should it be?

"From that moment a new interest came into my life. It made me a brighter, more cheerful man. I rose every morning with the exhilarating sense that the day held an interest for me. I went to bed and slept soundly on the comforting reflection that tomorrow would have its fullness.

"My acquaintance with the underworld was a small one, but by a diligent study of newspaper files I was able to acquire a working knowledge of criminality, and, indeed, I managed to compile, for my private use, a directory of bad men. It is, perhaps, unique. By submitting each man to a test of my own I reduced my list of eligibles to two— one was a man named Leggatt and the other a gentleman of whom you may have heard— James Badger?"

I nodded.

"Talking Jimmy," I said, "a confidence man, a friend of Leggatt's, a murderer and a liar."

Mr. Delahay nodded his head.

"So I gathered from a perusal of American files," he said. "Well, to resume, I reduced my list to these two men; which should it be? I might have killed both, but I foresaw difficulties. I decided on Leggatt."

I nodded.

"I heard he was in Monte Carlo. I made preparations for the journey, closed up my house, and crossed to France."

He lowered his voice impressively.

"The day before I arrived in Monte Carlo Leggatt died as a result of an attack of bronchitis."

"Bronchitis— how did he contract it?" I asked.

Mr. Delahay smiled again.

"That I inquired, curiously enough. It was the result of sleeping out of doors in a biting wind. He was dead. I saw the body, and felt that I had been robbed of my prey. I sought for James Badger. He was in America. I returned to London dispirited, and resumed my old life, but waited for the opportunity to carry my plan into execution on Badger, whose portrait, by the way, I have never seen."

"Nor have I," I answered, "but so far as I can remember his description he is a big florid man inclined to stoutness."

"Now I come to the extraordinary part of my story," said Mr. Delahay after a pause. "Three nights after my return I went to bed as usual at ten o'clock. I read for ten minutes in bed, turned off the light, and fell into a dreamless sleep. I woke at six with a strange feeling of tiredness and restriction. I sat up on the bed and found that I was fully dressed, even to my boots, which were stained with mud; for the night before had been a wet one. Nor was this the only remarkable circumstance."

He paused and turned his solemn eves upon me.

"By the side of my bed, on a chair," he said slowly, "was my revolver. I picked it up. There were six shells in the chambers— three of those shells had been recently discharged. I looked at my hands. They were clean, but on the cuff of my shirt were half a dozen spots of blood."

He paused again, and there was no sound in the office but the sound of our breathing. Mine, I noted, was easy and regular; that of Mr. Delahay was sharp and shrill.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked at last.

"Find the man I killed," he whispered, "and hand me over to justice."

"But perhaps you didn't kill anybody?"

He shook his head.

"Perhaps," I insisted hopelessly— "perhaps you only committed suicide?"

He turned impatiently.

"I tell you I killed a man— a fortnight ago— that night I walked in my sleep. And not only did I kill him, Mr. Tyndall, but with diabolical ingenuity I must have hidden him somewhere. I know this!" He brought his fist, into violent contact with his palm. "I know it, because every second night I go to the place where I have hidden the body and bring back a handful of earth!"

He fumbled in his pocket and brought out an envelope. He shook the contents on to my blotting pad. It was London mould— unmistakable.

"I have been to the police," he went on, speaking rapidly. "They think I am mad. Mr. Tyndall, you've got to get evidence to convict me—here!"

He took from his breast-pocket a number of bank-notes and counted out three hundred pounds.

"This is a preliminary fee," he said.

I took the money mechanically. I always take money mechanically. I am a human machine, and the cogs and levers of the rejecting-money apparatus were left out when I was constructed.

"I want you to watch my house tonight," he said. '"To-night I shall walk—follow me wherever I go. I shall lead you to the spot where my unknown victim is hidden."

"One moment," I said.

I rose from my seat and crossed the room. I unlocked a cupboard and took out a small black card, and Mr. Delahay watched me.

I took a pen, dipped the holder in the inkwell, and allowed two beady drops to fall on the card's dull surface.

"Hold this," I said. "I think I know a way of finding your dead man."

He took the card dubiously.

"Look at the ink. What do you see?" I asked.

"Ink," he replied.

I suppose I looked disappointed.

"Can't you see a strange riverside house, or a bleak cottage on a moor?" I asked.

He shook his head, and I took the card from him with one hand and passed him a sheet of notepaper with the other.

"Now what do you see?" I asked.

"A piece of white paper," he said, gazing at the notepaper steadily.

He wasn't psychic, and I relieved him of the sheet with a sigh and sat at my desk. Just then the secretary entered with the information that my presence was required at Buckingham Palace, and Mr. Delahay rose.

"You know my address," he said. "It was on the letter I wrote to you asking for this appointment. I may expect you to be on duty at, say, eleven?"

I nodded, and thus we parted.

I watched him down the stairs— a grave, deliberately-moving man. No passer-by would think for a moment that behind that sober expression lay a secret such as he possessed.

Five minutes later a taxi dropped me at Scotland Yard. I carried with me to the finger-print department the white paper which Mr. Delahay in the innocence of his heart had handled after I had blackened his fingers with the charcoal slip— the slip of card on which I had dropped ink for his amusement.

Augustus, cheeriest of record-keepers, cheered me with a nod.

Without a word I handed him the digit-stained paper.

"Augustus," said I, "here are certain whorls and lines and marks that pertain to your devilish craft. Whose finger-print is this?"

He took the finger-print and examined it carefully; then he went to a certain drawer, and, taking out a card, compared it. I thought he was a little excited.

"I thought it looked rather like the finger-print we found last night, but it doesn't," he said.

"Where?"

"On the cash box of the Eurasian Stibillini. He was murdered last night in Wind Street."

I whistled. It was vulgar, but I whistled.

"Don't whistle," pleaded Inspector Augustus Samson. "It's unprofessional. And, besides, they've got the murderer."

"What is his name?" I asked quickly.

"Delahay," said Augustus. "They arrested him last night."

"Last night!" I said in a dream. "Why, I've just left him."

Augustus regarded me queerly.

"Have a sleep," he said, and patted me on the shoulder with offensive patronage.

2: The Voice In The Night

LIES I do not mind, always providing that they are intelligent lies. When a man comes to me and says, "Sir, I have murdered a man or a gentleman, I do not know which, and I desire that you shall discover the gentleman I have murdered and bring me to justice," I am justified in believing that he is telling me an unnecessary lie, but a clever one. When I find that a man has given me a name which rightly is not his, I know he has told me a stupid lie.

Now this is a fact: that one Stibillini died on a certain night, and that one Delahay was arrested and charged with the crime.

I have heard men employ lightly the word "hate"; I have employed it so myself. But now I know what hate means. Two men and a woman were involved. A man and a woman loved one another, and the third hated the first and loved the second.

This is how matters stood between the Eurasian, Alexander Stibillini, the English person, Charles Gibbon Delahay, and Miss Millicent Galleon, before a voice in the night, a voice of hate, and of a man half demented with rage, brought Police-Constable Halliwell, of the "Q" Division, to play eavesdropper.

Alexander Stibillini was a wealthy young man; he had something like six millions to his credit in the Bombay branch of the Bank of Calcutta— they were six million rupees, but even in that currency the sum of his fortune was considerable. He was a handsome young man of the ivory and black type, and his finger-nails were marked with a half-moon of purple red. You seldom saw his finger-nails, because he wore gloves, beautiful gloves, by Dennison, of Bond Street, who charged him ten rupees a pair, two of which represented the fair value of the gloves, and the other eight the fair value of Dennison's label.

You might not see the Orientalism expressed in his nails nor in the furnishing of his house, for he had, with rare discretion, placed the contract in the hands of the most artistic of contractors, and had not added so much as a gilt French clock to the scheme of decoration; nor might you detect the strain from his conversation, for he was Oxford all through, and there was no evidence of the chee-chee enunciation whatever, except when he was very excited, and he was wise enough never to get excited.

You might, however, go back to the dark strain if you searched with malignant diligence the parish register of the Doolali English Church— St. James', I think it is.

Here, written in clerkly hand, is the record of a marriage contracted between James Xavier Stibillini (bachelor) and Ra Fatima Bawallah. I do not know how the lady obtained her name, but Stibillini was undoubtedly Corporal Stibbings, of the 42nd Regiment, who had started business as a bookmaker in Calcutta, and adopted the romantic patronymic either from some false sense of shame at so questionable a calling or as a concession to the vanity and a bait to the known bastard patriotism of the chee-chee folk.

That was in '63, and far away, and all the movements of Alexander Stibillini's ancestors were restricted by heavy and expensive mausoleums carried out by a Calcutta mason.

Alexander apparently never spoke of his forebears in terms of pride.

Nor did he speak of them in terms of opprobrium. In fact, he never spoke of them at all. He vaguely referred to his "guv'nor" or his "dear old guv'nor," but in such a way that you would never suspect, unless you were one of those interfering devils who searched parish registers, that that "guv'nor" had any reason for concealing his finger-nails.

Mostly he spoke of Jesus College, Oxford, and the awfully good chaps he had met there, such as Lord Grimball, the young Earl of Dymart, the Marquis of Telfort, and other members of an effete and decadent aristocracy. He talked of these very frequently.

He also referred to "black people" and to "natives." He spoke of these with contempt. Yet the real white people never asked Alexander Stibillini to dinner; even the poorest subaltern, up to his neck in debt, would have blushed pinky red if he had been discovered in the act of hobnobbing with this handsome young millionaire.

For by the white man's code Alexander was black— as black as the ace of spades or the nine of clubs. And according to the stupid and insular views held not only by the Raj, but by every variety of white folk sojourning in India, this B.A. of Oxford was liable at any moment to go off the handle and be as black as the sootiest of his progenitors.

There were, of course, white people who came to his dinner; white men, suave, pleasant; men who were one degree removed in the social scale from Alexander himself. They were the "buts" of Anglo-Indian society; the "Very well-to-do, but—" and the "Yes, quite good family, but—" and the "Pleasant, but—"

They filled his board and told him he was a good chap, and borrowed his money with great verve and joviality; but they were no keys for the opening of society's door, or possibly society had hastily changed its lock, and Alexander conquered nothing but a growing and a natural antipathy to expenditure which produced no results.

Then there came to Bombay a new kind of governor— a governor who was dogmatic and freaky, and after the inevitable exchange of courtesies, in the course of which his excellency referred to Bombay as the mother province of India, to the Bombay aristocracy as the salt of the earth, and to the Bombay Press as the most intelligent of all Presses, he sat down to qualify himself as the best-hated man in India.

For although in the first flush of enthusiasm the local gentry, through accredited representatives, had acclaimed him as a very desirable governor with all the latest improvements, and the Press, speaking under stress of great emotion, had asked what Bombay had done to deserve so perfect a creature, there came, first a cold politeness into the leading articles, then a chilly hauteur, and lastly a bitter and unmistakable hostility.

The reason being that his excellency was obsessed with the illusion that Black and White were One Great Brotherhood. He took up Alexander Stibillini and introduced him to people who chafed under the introduction. He did worse. He tried to force the Apollo Bund Yacht Club to accept the nomination of a black man; a real native person, whose antecedents were written in the line of the East.

Whereupon Bombay, official and unofficial, rose in its wrath, discarded all the governor's protégés, cursed the governor grievously, and told him to go to the devil.

But Alexander had profited in the interim. He had been received, he had been dined, and he had met Millicent Galleon and fallen desperately in love with her; had proposed, been rejected, had wept at her feet (that was the native in him), had threatened to kill her sooner than abandon her to another (that was not the white man showing, either), and had been kicked violently from the front door of the girl's house by Charles Gibbon Delahay, a young and handsome planter from Ceylon, who had speculated wisely and well in rubber and tea, was fairly wealthy, and, moreover, the accepted suitor of Millicent Galleon.

This incident had occurred at a dance given by Colonel Galleon, of the 99th Punjab Scouts, to which Alexander had been invited, and he had left the house via the conservatory door— hurriedly.

He stood in the moonlit garden (this scene was described to me), the big palms throwing black shadows around him, and he swore by Shiva, Jah, the God of the Hebrews, by the Prophet, and by other divinities who need not be mentioned, that he would be revenged upon Charles Gibbon Delahay.

"I tell you, Mr. Delahay, you pig. I will kill you— I will ruin you!" he screamed, and, sad to relate, his voice was wholly chee-chee, staccato, shrill and unpleasant.

"I AM IN love with a gracious lady," said Stibillini. He sat with Michael de Pezena and Augustus Saumarez in his elegant study, and he was nearer white in countenance than ever he had been before. "I know the ways of women, Augustus— they are weak— and one good blow at this swine of a man—"

"You are deplorably deficient in philosophy," said Michael. "Even gracious ladies fight considerably for oppressed lovers, and are apt to be wild cat-like in tenacity of purpose."

"We shall see," said Stibillini.

He came to London soon after the girl, and by that same token soon after the young man. He took a furnished house in Wind Street, Mayfair.

It was a little house, of an old-fashioned Georgian type, with a deep cavern of an area and two steps flanked by wrought-iron torch snuffers. The windows— there were two— of the ground floor front room were, save for the narrow area, flush with the street.

On the morning of the 24th of August, P.C. Halliwell, of the "Q" Division, was walking through Wind Street. The time was 1 a.m., and the street was deserted and silent. The lighting of Wind Street was very poor, considering the aristocratic character of the neighbourhood, but the officer thought he saw somebody standing in the doorway of No. 77 (Stibillini's house). As if confirming this, immediately afterwards he heard a door slam, but whether it was the door of No. 77 or not he could not swear. He did not regard the circumstance as unusual. He went on, as was his practice, trying each door, and throwing the light of his lantern over the fastenings of the windows of the houses, till at last he came abreast of No. 77.

Here he paused, and with reason.

The blinds of the front room were drawn down, and the room itself was illuminated. Though the night was cold, both windows were open a little, and he had no difficulty in discovering that there were two men in the room, and that they were engaged in a violent quarrel. One of the voices he recognised as Stibillini's.

He had seen Stibillini on more occasions than one, and the millionaire had spoken to him.

Instinctively the officer halted at the window and listened. The Eurasian's voice was shrill and excited.

"I will not stand your threats any longer," he said.

After a little pause the other spoke.

It was a deep, low voice, not unmusical.

"You must give up all thought of Miss Galleon," he said.

"You are mad," cried Stibillini; "you are mad with jealousy! I respect and admire the lady too much to pursue her with attentions which are unwelcome. Why do you persecute me, Mr. Delahay?"

Another little pause.

"I will not only persecute you, you Eurasian dog, but I will kill you with this revolver if you do not swear that you will give up all thoughts of her...."

The listening "cop" was young and keen. He had never been engaged in a case of any importance, and he was anxious for advancement. To this end he spent much of his spare time in the schools, and not the least of his accomplishments was a knowledge of shorthand.

Delahay's voice ended abruptly, and there was a longer pause.

The constable whipped his notebook out, and, taking advantage of the silence, transcribed all that he had heard. He wondered as he wrote what the men were doing in that interval of silence. Then the voice of Delahay was heard again.

"...thoughts of her," it repeated in the same low, passionate tone. "You will sign this paper undertaking to return to India within a week or I will kill you."

"I shall do nothing of the sort."

"You will, by God!" said the voice.

"I will not. Put your revolver down. I am not afraid."

The policeman closed his book with a snap, and, stepping to the door of No. 77, knocked.

The door was opened almost immediately by Stibillini.

A dim light burnt in the hall, and by its rays the constable saw what he thought to be marks of an earlier struggle upon the Eurasian's person. His collar was unfastened, his dress-shirt crumpled, his hair awry.

"Anything wrong, sir?" asked the P.-C.

Stibillini laughed nervously, almost hysterically. He was terribly agitated, and the hand extended towards the policeman was shaking.

"Nothing—nothing, policeman," he said. He dropped a sovereign in the constable's hand. "Merely a little argument between two—two friends."

The policeman stood hesitating on the doorstop.

"You're sure everything is all right, sir?" he asked. "I've overheard certain threats—"

"It is all right. Good night, constable," interrupted Stibillini abruptly.

As the officer turned the door was closed.

P.C. Halliwell waited for some time before the window, but he heard no more. He surmised that the men had gone to another room.

At 4.10 the constable reported the circumstances to the inspector, and was snubbed for his pains.

"Don't take too much notice of what you see and hear in Mayfair between 1 and 2 a.m.," said his superior, "or you'll make yourself unpopular, constable."

Half an hour later Halliwell was making his slow way through Half-Moon Street when he heard a police whistle blown, and running in the direction he overtook another constable, and was overtaken in turn by a fire-engine.

In Wind Street a little crowd stood surveying No. 77 with helpless interest, for No. 77, from basement to roof, was a mass of flames.

Later the firemen discovered the body of Alexander Stibillini dead, with a bullet wound through his head, and at 11 o'clock in the forenoon Charles Gibbon Delahay was arrested at his hotel in Piccadilly.

This much of the story I have told you because it is easy telling. I have clipped paragraphs from newspapers and pasted them together, except the description of Stibillini, which I acquired and elaborated from his whilom friends.

I had left Scotland Yard something confused. If my client Delahay was under arrest for the murder, how did he come to see me? And if he saw me after his arrest, how is it he did not know that Stibillini was his victim?

I went into the club to get some food and was hailed by Cummings. I didn't want to see Cummings; in fact, I think it is a mistake to allow solicitors to be members of literary clubs.

"I want you, Tyndall," he said, and remembering that he was a solicitor, his emotion was almost human.

"I am shooting in Scotland!" I snarled, but he was horribly serious, and it was about the Stibillini murder. I came back from Scotland instantly.

Down in the smoking-room he told me the story.

"Young Delahay is my client, and his father was a dear friend of mine," he said, speaking a little tremulously.

"Young Delahay!" I repeated. "How old is he?"

"Twenty-four," said Cummings.

That settled my Mr. Delahay.

"And it's horribly black against him," he went on, after he had outlined the case. "He can't account for his movements on the night. He admits he loathed Stibillini, and there is the policeman's evidence."

"Did he ever go to No. 77, Wind Street?"

"Never!" said Cummings vehemently. "He has sworn that he was never in the place in his life."

I interviewed the young man in his cell at Bow Street. A nice, clean-looking citizen, lean, and tanned by the Indian sun. He struck me as being as honest as the usual run of men. Outside I saw the gracious lady, and she was white and tense.

"It isn't true— it isn't true!" she wailed, clinging to Cummings' arm. "Gibby couldn't have done it!"

The solicitor comforted her with the conventional phrases of his craft, and whilst he was thus engaged I slipped back to the cells. The inspector in charge was a decent man, and gave me an opportunity of a private talk with Delahay, to which I was in no sense entitled.

"Tell me exactly what happened last night?" I asked.

Delahay ran his fingers through his hair.

"It sounds horribly improbable," he said slowly, "and you can believe it or not, as you wish. At 11 o'clock I received a note handed in by a special messenger, whom I did not see. The porter saw it was a rough-looking man in a new suit of clothes. He just left the letter and departed. The porter can confirm that."

I nodded.

"That may be used as evidence against you. The prosecution will say that it came from Stibillini, asking you to No. 77, and the policeman's evidence will support this. You say you haven't the letter?"

"I destroyed it," confessed the young man. "It was an extraordinary note. It was signed by a man I knew in India rather well, and was to the effect that he was in pretty bad trouble. I was under some obligation to him, and he asked me to keep his letter a secret. Yes, that is it— he asked me to destroy the note."

"I see," I said. "And you went?"

"Yes, I left the hotel at 11.30. He had given an address in South London. I took a street car to Brixton, and after a few inquiries I came to the road he addressed his letter from. To my surprise the house was empty. I had previously destroyed the letter, but I had taken a careful note of the address. It was No. 45, Beckenhall Road. The hour was late. I could not knock up people to discover whether I had mistaken the number, and I decided that it was a stupid hoax. It was nearly 2 before I reached the hotel."

"Again by street car?"

"Yes; there's an all-night service."

"Did you keep the tram-car ticket?"

Delahay shook his head with a rueful little smile.

"I seem to have kept nothing that would establish my innocence," he said.

"Did you know your friend's writing?"

"No, not very well. He never had occasion to write. It wasn't he; anyway, Cummings has cabled to India. Reynolds—that was the chap's name—is still in Meerut."

It was very interesting.

I left Bow Street and made my way to the hotel where he had been staying.

Yes, the hall-porter remembered a man.

"I noticed him because he wore a pretty evident suit of new clothing," said the urbane guardian.

"And had a new valise outside the door?" I suggested.

The hall-porter raised his eyebrows in astonishment.

"Yes, sir," he said. "I noticed that he had a new handbag or something of the sort."

"And was pretty anxious to get away— looked as if he were pressed for time?"

"That's right, sir," he said eagerly; "pulling out his watch all the time."

It was sufficient.

I went to the burnt-out scene of the tragedy, stopping on my way to buy a fair-sized magnet and dispatch two wires.

The police-sergeant in charge was inclined to be officious, but I showed him my Scotland Yard permit.

I devoted my attention to an examination of the room in which the fire had occurred.

"What is this?" I asked, turning over a heat-twisted entanglement of springs.

"That's a clock," said the sergeant. "Isn't it rum what a mess fire makes of things?"

There were rummer things, but I did not urge them.

I began to probe amongst the charred chaos on the floor, using my magnet as a probe. I attracted many objects, but by-and-by I found what I was looking for— two tiny nails, headless and blackened. A diligent search of an hour's duration revealed three more.

I returned to my flat at 5 o'clock to find a telegram waiting for me. It was from the captain of the Allermy liner, City of Bangor, and was handed in at Queenstown.

THE MAN YOU REQUIRE HAS LEFT THE SHIP, AND IS PROCEEDING TO LONDON.

Simple, wasn't it?

I do not give the full sworn statement of George Henry Smith because it is full of legal verbiage, but I tell you this— that a man in a brand-new suit of clothes with a brand-new valise who calls at a hotel at 11 o'clock and is fidgety over the time has a train to catch. There's an 11.30 emigrant train pulls out of Euston on Thursdays, and on the night of the murder somebody was very anxious to get that man out of England.

Here is a portion of George Henry Smith's statement:

"I am an out-of-work plasterer. On October 4th, ten days before I sailed for Canada, I was penniless and destitute. I was sleeping on a seat on the Thames Embankment when I noticed a gentleman walking slowly along. He was speaking to the men. To everyone, he gave something, a copper or a shilling or so. By-and-by he came to me.

"'What are you doing here?' he asked, and I replied that I was out of work.

"The moment I spoke he seemed to brighten.

"'You've the voice I want,' he said, and gave me a sovereign. He told me to get a new suit of clothes and come to his house in Wind Street. He was particular about the time. I went next night at 12.30. He was waiting to open the door to me. He told me he had sent his servants away. Then he told me what he wanted me for. It appears that he was going in for some theatricals. He was having a quarrel with a gentleman in the play, and he asked me to play the part of the gentleman. I'm not much of a scholar, but what there was to learn wasn't much.

"For two nights he coached me— how I'd got to raise my voice here and drop it there, and on the third night he made me speak my part into a phonograph. I spoke it about ten times before he was satisfied. On the thirteenth he told me he'd arranged my passage to Canada—a place I wanted to go to. I was to call at Wind Street at 10.30, and he'd give me a letter to deliver and fifty pounds.

"I got the letter and the money, but he made me wait till the very last minute."

So much for George Henry Smith.

I knew it was a phonograph long before I had seen the ruins of it in the burnt house or discovered the "needles" with my magnet, for did not the excellent P.C. Halliwell in his notes tell us how there was a pause in the conversation, and how the voice of the stranger had begun all over again?

The Eurasian, who would hate the cold, had left his windows open for the policeman to hear. Moreover, he it was who had watched the constable from the shadow of the door, and when he was within distance had entered the house to set the phonograph in motion.

Stibillini shot himself because he was consumed with love and hatred, and by his suicide he hoped to encompass the death of the man who had found the happiness denied to him.

That was the native in him.

"WHAT on earth made you say your name was Delahay?"

My client faced me in my office, and I am bound to confess that he was exceedingly apologetic.

"I saw the name in a newspaper," he said persistently. "I didn't want to give my own name."

"What is your own name?" I asked wearily.

"Coss," he said eagerly; "Felix Ferdinand Coss."

He looked wistfully at me and took an envelope from his pocket and poured the contents on his palm.

"Somewhere in London," he said bitterly, "lies a man I have killed; here is the very dust from his grave. Who is that man?"

"It wasn't Stibillini, that I'll swear," I said, preparing to leave the office. "I rather fancy the man whose death you will be responsible for is—"

"Yes?"

I looked at him for a long time.

"Yourself," said I.

"What do you mean?" he asked, and his face went yellow.

"Wait and see," said I.

I have an idea that the phrase is not original.

3:  One, William Smith

MY Mr. Coss—heaven knows that I do not believe it is his real name—visited me this morning in his quiet, noiseless, hoping-for-the-best fashion, and asked for information.

He came to my office and knocked, and thinking he was a small bottle of burgundy and a chump chop which I had invited to lunch from a near-by restaurant, I said, "Come in."

"I'm afraid I'm a nuisance," said Mr. Coss.

He was very deferential for a self-confessed murderer who shot people in his sleep and hadn't sufficient acumen to make a note on his shirt cuff as to the identity of his victim.

"I'm afraid I'm a nuisance," he repeated, and sat down.

I said nothing. I do not think that he was very much afraid.

"You have no news?" he asked.

"I have no news," I answered. "I can only imagine that you dreamt the whole thing."

He shook his head.

"I do not pay £300 to detectives to investigate dreams," he said. "I have told you that I am absolutely certain that in my sleep I visit the spot where the man is buried."

"You have told me that so often that I sometimes believe it," I replied.

He was monstrously earnest as he leant over toward me.

"Why do you not shadow me?" he asked seriously. "Watch my house and follow me when I go out?"

I permitted myself the pleasure of smiling.

"Friend," said I, "you have been watched every time you have left your house. Whether you were awake or asleep when you went to the new musical comedy at the Jollity last night, I do not know— for myself I confess, that I was asleep before it was half-way through."

Surprise for Mr. Coss; surprise slightly tinctured with chagrin.

"I was awake, of course," he said. "But I returned—"

"You returned to your house at 11.38," I said, speaking from, memory. "You put on the hall light and went to your sitting-room on the first floor; at 1.25 you emerged from your house—"

"Did I?" he asked in surprise.

"You did," said I.

"But," protested Mr. Coss, "I was in bed and asleep at that time."

I looked at him.

"Did you undress in the dark?" I asked.

He frowned.

"No," he said. "Why do you ask?"

"Because from the moment you went in at 11.38 to the moment you came out at 1.25 your bedroom light was unlit."

I thought he sniffed, but I may have been mistaken. Yet there was triumph in his eyes.

"My bedroom is at the back of the house," he said gently, "and could not be visible from the road."

I nodded.

"I was watching the back of the house," said I with great amiability.

He hunched his shoulders, as a man does who is in no mood for trivialities.

"Where did I go?" he demanded.

Yes, he demanded the information with assurance, for he had paid a fee of £300, and expected to get some of it back in small talk.

"You went along the road for three hundred yards or so," I said; "once you looked round and saw nothing but a weary and belated hawker pushing a barrow and singing a merry stave or two. At the corner of Highcloud Road you stopped and looked back, as though seeking somebody, then you turned and walked slowly back to the house. You said 'Good-night' to a policeman whom you met half-way back, and re-entered your house at ten minutes before two. Am I right, sir?"

Evidently yes, for he looked down his nose.

"Which were you?" he asked, with a faint suspicion of a sneer. "The hawker or the policeman?"

I returned blandly, "I was the wheelbarrow."

He got up on his feet, a little of the dogged look which I had often noted upon his features.

"All I know," he said emphatically, "is this: somewhere and somehow I have killed a man— I am not a lunatic— I am not a criminal, as you know."

I bowed.

"You have taken my finger-prints," he went on, "without associating me with either class; whatever your suspicions may be as to my bona fides, you know that my money is genuine, and even an eccentric man does not give away £300 to demonstrate the fact that he is suffering from hallucinations."

I agreed cordially, and the timely arrival of Chump Chop, Esq., accompanied by that red-faced waiter from the "George" (I'm sure that that man drinks), was a pretty opportunity for putting my client out.

"Leave everything to me," I said. "I promise you that you shall hang within six weeks."

What a promise— and what a prophecy!

That afternoon I went over the circumstances and put them in order.

1. Arrival of Coss, who calls himself Delahay, who says he has murdered a man whilst he (Coss) was walking in his sleep.

2. He has, he tells me, adopted the name of Delahay on the spur of the moment, having seen the name in a newspaper. It happens that a Delahay has been arrested that day on a charge of murder. Neither Delahay nor Coss is guilty of the crime, as I might have known, and the name was probably given to stimulate my interest in the case.

3. Coss says he walks in his sleep, and periodically visits the scene of the crime, yet so far he has been no nearer the supposed scene, than one thousand yards from his house.

I WENT up to the Yard in the afternoon to see the Chief, and he was admirably hospitable.

"It is an interesting case," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "but I'm afraid we cannot hang your client unless he produces the body— by the way, do we know him?"

I shook my head.

"You haven't that pleasure," I said, "unless he has met you in his sleep and given you dream finger-prints."

The Chief tapped the blotting-pad absently.

"Very queer," he said. "I wonder if he has killed somebody— or is the whole thing a fake?"

I could offer no view, and rose to go.

"By the way," he said suddenly, "do you know Denver May and her pal Leggatt?"

"I know the lady very well," I replied. "May is doing fifteen years for blackmail, and Leggatt went to Monte Carlo, wrote some damned bad poetry, and died— American papers, please copy."

"Oh, yes, he died," the Chief observed. "I remember seeing the absurd obituary in the Times. But May is out."

"Out?"

"She is out," said the Chief grimly. "A Cabinet Minister's wife went prison-visiting and saw May gilding the angels in the chapel at Aylesbury, spoke to her, and May did her piece— the victim-of-another-or-too-young-to-know-right-from-wrong. Terribly sympathetic woman, Lady Sybil— anyway, May is out, being wept over at this moment by the Society for Putting the Police in their Place."

Excellent man, the Chief, with a sense of mordant humour— or a mordant sense of humour— whichever way you like to have it.

So May was about and Leggatt was dead.

Query: Would it be better that Leggatt was about and May was dead? I asked myself this on my way to the Lambs' Club, and was still asking the question when Charlie Pieds said savagely, "Two no-trumps, and for the love of Mike wake up that damn split!"

Me being the "split."

And I thought how antiquated these journalists are! Here was Charles, a wide man, an associate of criminals, Cabinet Ministers, and aviators, who should know that "split" was as obsolete a term to apply to a detective as is the word "tec," or "nark," either. Now, May knows that a detective is a "busy," or a "busy fellow," and that a policeman is a "flattie."

May— who hates me with a black and deadly hatred— May whom I sent with her baby face to fifteen years of hell— out—!

"I called for a spade," said Charles wearily, "and you gave me the ace of diamonds! Really, even for a policeman, you're dense!"

Leggatt hated me, too. How he sobbed in the big marble hall of the Old Bailey when May was sentenced! He would have given his soul for her— Leggatt was dead!

Dear me!

I left the Lambs' Club a ruined man. Once I had a reputation as a player of auction bridge, but now, as I descended the stairs, the very club waiters seemed to be whispering to one another, "There goes the man that led away from an ace-queen suit."

The Embankment was dark and cool, and free from sauntering pedestrians. It was distracting, too, by reason of the advertisements that blazed on the Surrey shore.

I found myself walking towards Blackfriars Bridge, with matters ordered in my mind.

Coss must be dismissed— if necessary I must hand back so much of his three hundred pounds as was left. I hated to do it— oh, heavens, how I hate to give money back to people! But there was no help for it.

I am not avaricious, nor am I a spendthrift forever needing financial assistance, but I know what I can do with money, and how much good, solid, back-aching work the possession of money can help one avoid.

I reached Cleopatra's Needle, and so did the man who had been watching the Lambs' Club and had followed me along the Embankment. On each side of the Obelisk there are steps leading down to the water, and after a moment's hesitation I turned into the recess and took a couple of steps down the granite stairway. Below I could hear the lapping of the black waters as they rose and chug-chugged against the lowermost step.

Then, at a moment which I deemed expedient, I turned and flashed an electric pocket-lamp upon the man who crouched behind me ready for a spring.

"Hello!" said I. "Who are you?"

His face was all lop-sided with fear and anxiety. He was paralysed with fright at my discovery.

"Who are you?" I asked again, and tapped with the muzzle of my revolver against his waistcoat button a till it rested in the region of his stomach.

"I'm— I'm nobody, sir," his teeth chattered through his shaking lips. "I— I just happened to see you go in— here— thought you were going to suicide,"

"Liar and thief," said I, without heat. "You came to do me in."

"If I drop dead this minute—" began Mr. Nobody.

"You will if you don't keep your hands away from your pocket," I said.

I caught him by the arm and pushed him on to the pavement.

I did not know him; I had never met him before in all my life. He was an under-developed man of twenty-eight, poorly dressed, his shoes were dropping from his feet, a dirty blue scarf about his neck.

Here are my notes:

Age, 28.

Height, 5.5.

Build, irregular—slight.

Eyes, blue—small (incipient cataract in right eye).

Nose, No. 15.

Teeth, bad.

Mouth, No. 17.

Hands, artisan— criminal.

Name, William Smith.

"I give you my word, sir," he protested as a taxi whirled us to my office, "if I never git orf this seat—"

"Oh, shut it!" said I.

In my office I looked him over.

"Ever been in prison?" I asked.

"If the Lord was to—" he began.

What a horribly monotonous devil he was.

Yes, he had been in prison; "three carpets and a stretch," he admitted, "with a bashing thrown in," he added on persuasion.

He had had the supreme distinction of having been tried for murder.

"But," said he, trembling with pride, "they couldn't prove I struck the fatal blow, to wit, Mary Ann Slowser, the deceased."

You observe he was versed in the terminology of the law, though somewhat hazed in its proper application.

I found him a whisky and soda, started my electric stove for his comfort— it was a coldish kind of night— and sat down to get my facts.

"Now, I tell you, Bill," said I, before we got started, "for Bill I suppose your name is?"

He nodded vigorously.

"If I was struck blind this minute, governor," he said conventionally, "my name is Bill."

"That you will be blind I do not doubt," I said, "for you have, unless I am mistaken, an ominous thickening of the right iris— you don't see well?"

"No, sir," he said, with all the absurd pride in infirmity which characterises the lower order, "I don't."

"Tell me first who sent you out to cosh me, William?"

Bill was considerably agitated.

"Mr.— I don't know your name— if—"

I stopped him.

"We will take it for granted," I said, "that in the event of your lying, you express the hope that you will be dead, blind, stiff, dumb, pink, blue, paralysed, and immortally damned, but do not waste time in oaths, for I am a busy man, a Wesleyan Methodist and a policeman. Who sent you?"

"Nobody," said Bill.

"Who sent you?"

"Nobody," said Bill.

"Come over here."

He got up and walked to where I stood.

"Who sent you?"

"Nobody," said Bill.

I feigned to hit him with my left. He was considerably astonished, and lay on his back on the floor for quite a time, addressing remarks to his gods.

"Get up," said I.

"Not me," said Bill.

"Get up," said I persuasively, "or I'll kick you to death."

I don't suppose I should have kicked him to death because I should have known where to stop. Anyway, Bill got up.

"Who sent you?"

"A party," said Bill, touching his ear with his hand and examining his hand disapprovingly at intervals.

"What sort of party, you paltry fellow?" I asked.

Bill saw it was business meant and nothing else.

"Lock me up," he suggested, and was on the point of weeping— "lock me up— send for a policeman, an' I'll give you in charge."

"Who was the party? Man or woman?" I asked— do you marvel at my patience?

"Man!"

I laid my hand with some difficulty upon his shoulder. He didn't want my hand there, and backed into a corner.

"Listen, Bill," said I, kindliness itself, "tell me the yarn and I'll give you a sovereign; keep it to yourself and I'll throw you out of the window. And if you start yelling I'll kill you. You are a burglar, Bill, and a murderer, Bill, and everybody will say, 'Serve you right.'"

He wasn't all fool.

"I'll split," he said after a while. "You're a bit too thick, you are, Mr. Tynedale— you ain't allowed to do this by lore, you know."

"Blow the lore," said I.

He had been approached by a man who knew his antecedents and had been promised £150 "in golden pounds" if he "did up" a certain, obnoxious person, to wit, me. Fifty pounds in cash down, remainder to be left at a certain public-house in Lambeth, with the mysterious words, "Bill's rent money." Employer unknown to Bill, about the same-sized man as himself, but stouter, spoke with a foreign accent which Bill thought was French, but since Bill regards all languages as French that aren't English, and France as the only country which may be truly described as "foreign" (Germany only being a political catch-word), this opinion was of doubtful value.

Employer met employed by appointment on Hungerford Foot-bridge, and handed Bill a type-written list of my appointments for the next two days. I took the somewhat grimy list and examined it.

Tvpewritten on a slip of common typewriting paper, with a "monarch" visible. Finger-marks— Bill's, obviously. Name of public house where employer would arrive with the words "Bills rent money," the "Little Roebuck Arms," in South Esher Street. All these facts were duly noted on my pad.

"You understand. Mr. Tynedale," said Bill, and I stopped him right there.

"Who told you my name?" I asked.

"The party," said Bill.

"Did he call me Tynedale?"

Bill nodded.

"Of course that mightn't be your name," he said, "but no offence is meant— you see, sir, I wasn't goin' to do you in reely. My idea or plan, so to speak, was to put you to sleep comfortable, and then leave you— do you understand me rightly?"

I understood him very rightly.

I went to a drawer in my bureau and took out a sovereign and handed it over, and Bill thanked me kindly.

"I bear no malice," he said at parting.

"But I do," I replied, "so you'd better get out whilst you're alive."

Bill got out.

Who would employ a "Bill" to do me up?

Denver May might— so might Leggatt if he were not sleeping the sleep under a Christian symbol in Monte Carlo— others there were who would be glad to see me out of the way.

I went to bed that night, and for the first time for many years I locked the bedroom door. It was curious that I should have done so. And I took the key out and examined it. Excellent! There were oil marks on the ward. I went to the outer door of the flat and examined the key of that. Oil marks also. "God bless the unknown benefactor who had performed this little act of kindness," said I as I closed the door again. I rang for my valet, and he came in his pyjamas, blinking sleepily.

"Did a man call to-day to see about the locks?" I asked.

"He called this evening, sir," said servitor. "He brought a letter from the estate office— I watched him very carefully, sir— have you lost anything?"

"Nothing," said I.

The lock of his room had not been touched.

"I'm afraid you'll have bad news to-night," said I.

He was startled.

"Indeed, sir!" said he.

"You will hear that your brother has had a bad accident," I said.

"I have no brother," he said with a smile. "I have only a sister and an uncle."

"Your sister will be dangerously ill— does she live in London?"

He shook his head.

"Then I'm afraid," said I, "that it is your uncle or nothing."

I had hardly spoken the words when the telephone bell rang insistently. Henry went to the study to answer it, and came back with a face on which concern, wonder and suspicion ran neck and neck.

"My uncle's house has been burnt, sir," he said. "Did you hear anything about it?"

I shook my head.

"They want you to come at once, I suppose?" I suggested. "Your aunt is burnt and your uncle is delirious?"

He nodded.

"Did you hear, sir?"

"Hop it, Henry," I said irritably.

He dressed himself in a hurry and left. Turning out the lights I watched the street. There was a convenient taxi which he hailed— nay, it almost hailed him. I watched it disappear round the corner, and I knew that Henry would not come back that night, however much he might want to.

I waited a while in my bedroom, pulled down the blinds, and busied myself with my wardrobe.

"They," whoever "they" might be, had got Henry away; they had fixed my lock and the lock of the front door so that they could come in just when they wanted; it only remained for me to give them a welcome.

I waited for an hour, sitting in my felt boots behind the door of the valet's room, which commanded a view of the hall door and my own bedroom door, but there was no sound. But I am a patient man, and an hour or so is nothing to the hunter after big game.

Three o'clock struck and nothing doing. Four o'clock boomed, and still no sign. Five o'clock and light. There was nothing to hope for in the way of excitement. I came out from my place of concealment, the hammer of my revolver up, for others might easily play the game of waiting with equal patience.

The hall was clear. I opened the front door, the corridor was clear. I heard a step upon the stairs and stood ready.

It was Henry, my valet, dishevelled and weary; full of woe, a gramophone record of the Book of Lamentations.

"Out to Sevenoaks this here taxi drove me, sir," he said bitterly, "full lick through the Old Kent Road— Lewisham— me trying to open the doors— sort of locked they were— and the windows. When I got there he unlocks the door, I gets out, he bangs the door, hops on his seat and drives away!"

"Make me some coffee," I said, "and don't gas so much, dear Henry."

I was distressed to hear the native Bermondsey of him sounding through the enamel of the Belgravian servants' hall.

He clanked about in the kitchen, damning everybody and everything, forgetful of his incendiarised uncle and his poor burnt aunt.

I wrote a note to the Chief, asking for an interview.

I opened the window of the study for a little fresh air— they would scarcely shoot in broad daylight, even if they could. Happily, there was no fear of this, for the wall opposite is a blank one, being the end wall of the new Elysium Hotel.

I looked out on the birth of day and sniffed the sweet fresh air. Looking along the wall of the flats my line of vision was obstructed by the service lift which fed my kitchen and the kitchens of all the misters and missuses of our block.

What could be easier, thought I, than for the malicious minded to effect an entrance by that same service lift? There was a little balcony to the kitchen from whence Henry was wont to take in supplies and hurl down abuse upon the suppliers. A man could gain the window of my bedroom easily enough, up the lift, on to the balcony, and along the parapet. Fortunately the lift squeaked and clanked most appallingly. They might grease the runners—

By the Lord High Advocate, somebody had greased the runners!

I could see it from where I stood. The two posts of the lift literally ran with fat, and I do not doubt that the hoisting apparatus had been similarly treated.

I brought my head back into the room, and found Henry waiting with a steaming cup of coffee.

Why had they not made the attempt?

Perhaps they had. Perhaps they had entered the room and found it empty and had departed without attempting to search the flat. There would be no difficulty. I slept with my window open.

I put down the cup and went to my bedroom. The blinds were down, and I switched on the light. I can pull a gun as quick as any man— and I did.

Lying on my bed was a man— none other than my friend William Smith, the giver of the information.

I put up my revolver, there was no need to fire.

William Smith was already dead— had been dead some hours, shot through the heart, I gathered.

A dirty trick to play on me.

"OF COURSE," said the Chief, "they counted on your suspicions being aroused, and knew that you would be out of the room. They probably knew exactly where you were—clever devils."

Clever indeed! I know they were clever because I felt such an ass.

4: A Tilt With May

POOR William Smith! With your records of "stretches" and "laggings," of "carpets" and "bashings," with your infernally glib oaths, into the dark you have gone with a bullet through the left ventricle of your heart, slain by some person or persons unknown— a fact testified by twelve owl-like representatives of your fellow-countrymen.

Poor William Smith! You had relatives, too, a rusty-black sister, red-nosed with weeping, a tatterdemalion brother, holder of horses' heads when horses abounded, now a watcher of motor-lorries what time the lorry driver drinks his pint of ale.

All attested to William's qualities as a brother and a man.

"All," I say, for there was also an aunt. God knows that there is none of us so poor in relatives that we do not possess an aunt.

Aunt last saw deceased alive at eight o'clock on the fatal evening. Deceased had a sovereign which, it was necessary that he should explain to impeccable aunt, was honestly come by. They had two half-quarterns of whisky, and Elf said, "I must be getting on."

Alas! poor William Smith! His name was Elf, moreover— such are the mysteries revealed in death— his name was not even "Smith," but "Migger."

I gave my evidence, and, acting on instructions, I lied. For though I admitted that I knew "Migger," alias Smith, that I had met him and had given him a sovereign (the change was in his pocket when found), I did not state the peculiar circumstances under which we had met.

Nor did I disclose the fact that tucked in the dead man's waistcoat, as he lay upon my bed, was a typewritten note which ran:

Look out, Tyndall. The same for yours as soon as convenient.

The verdict was, as I have suggested, one of murder against some person or persons unknown.

With its insatiable passion for riders, the jury had added the evident fact that the carrying of firearms by unauthorised persons should be stopped.

I stood in the dingy court with a loaded Browning in each hip pocket, and heartily subscribed to those sentiments.

With me was my client, Mr. Coss, somewhat disappointed, as you may guess, for having heard (as he told me) that I had at last discovered the relic of a murder he had hastened joyfully in the hope that I had at last associated him with a crime.

We walked back to the West together.

"Where could I see you to-night?" he asked.

I quizzed him.

"You always ask me that question?" I said.

He looked at me steadily.

"Isn't it natural?" he asked.

"Very natural, and very proper," said I, "only when the late William Smith, or Elf Migger, as the case may be, attempted to assassinate me on the Thames Embankment, and when I had persuaded him to give me a little information as to the cause of his sudden uncharity, and the name or names of his employers, he handed me a typewritten slip, giving a full list of all my engagements, and exactly where I should be at certain hours."

"But," Mr. Coss broke in, hastily for him, "I am not the only person who knows your plans."

"You were the only person who knew I was going to the National Gallery at 1 p.m.; to a matinée of 'Peter Pan' at 3 p.m.; to the Lambs' Club at 5.30 p.m.," said I, "because I never had the slightest intention of going to any of those places, except the club, and only gave them to you because I did not wish to be found."

"H'm," said Mr. Coss. It seemed the only thing to say under the circumstances.

We went up to my office—I invited him up.

"Some time ago," said I, "you came to me with the information that you had decided, weary of life, to end it."

He nodded.

"You told me that you were induced, through the reading of a book, to change your plans, to choose the worst man in the world and kill him, taking your chance with the law!"

"I did."

"That you could not decide as to whom you would slay, though you sought diligently for the name of enemies of society, and that at last you hit upon two men, both of whom were associates of Denver May."

"That is so," he said. Then, quickly, "Who is Denver May?"

"These two men," said I, ignoring the question, "were friends of that arch-blackmailer, or blackmailess. One was a man named Leggatt and the other a gentleman named Talking Jimmy!"

He nodded again.

"Jimmy, neither you nor I have seen," I went on. "He has made one or two artistic attempts to put me amongst the glorious memories of the past, but I have not consciously seen him." He nodded. "But Leggatt went to Monte Carlo and died of pneumonia?"

"That is so," he agreed. "I found his grave, and felt hurt that I had been thwarted of my prey."

"I sympathise with you," said I, "whilst I deprecate the melodramatic language you employ. Leggatt, then is dead. Talking Jimmy is in—"

I paused.

"America," said Mr. Coss promptly.

"Talking Jimmy, the confidence man and spinner of wonderful tales, is in America; Denver May is living at 182, Panton Street as Madame Fournier—"

He looked at me sharply.

"I thought Denver May was in gaol," he said, "doing fifteen years."

"My friend," said I patiently, "a certain big-wig saw May gilding the angels in a Catholic chapel at Aylesbury and was moved to tears; she described the scene to her husband, and he was moved to tears: there may have been a cabinet council where everybody wept together, but certain it is that angel-gilding May is free."

"H'm," said Mr. Coss again. Then, "Well, what is the end of all this?"

"We were nearing the end," said I, "when the man whom I shall call Bill Smith, because the name somehow fitted him, was killed because certain people thought he had betrayed them. We were very near the end indeed."

He did not move in his chair; not a movement of hand or eye betrayed his emotion— if he felt emotion. When he spoke it was in that peculiarly monotonous tone which I knew so well.

"This brings us no nearer to the discovery of my victim, at any rate," he said. "I have paid you £300 as an earnest of my bona fides. I have asked you to track me down, to unravel the mystery of my assassination. The man I killed when I walked in my sleep— and buried. Here!"

He directed his hand into his pocket and produced a familiar envelope; shook out the too familiar dust.

"Last night," he said impressively, "when you were engaged elsewhere, I walked to the grave of my victim— here is a bundle of earth—"

What could I say?

"From this night onward your place will be watched," said I briskly, and his face brightened; "wherever you go, I will follow; to-night we clear up the mystery of the dream-murder. Allons!"

THAT afternoon I called on Madame Fournier at 182, Panton Street. Madame occupied a suite on the second floor, and I was admitted by a trim little waiting-maid with a sad face.

"My girl," said I, in my heartiest, man-of-forty manner, "I wish to see your mistress."

The sad girl shook her white-capped head.

"She is lying down, sir," she said.

"Nevertheless, I will see her," said I. "What is your name?"

"Mary, sir," said the girl.

"Mary what?"

"Mary McCarthy," said the girl, big-eyed and innocent.

I grinned mirthfully.

"I like to keep track of your names," I said, "because the last time we met your hair was dark and your name was Golding, Henrietta Golding, and you were undergoing nine months for passing counterfeit coin."

"Damn!" said the little lady. "Come in, Mr. Tyndall—you make my neck ache."

Madame Fournier was not lying down; she was sitting up, and writing vigorously. She wore a dressing-jacket of old lace and a boudoir cap which was at once ravishing and expensive.

"Come in, Tyndall," she said with a smile, and put down her cigarette. "Won't you have a drink?"

"Tea," said I, "and only one lump of arsenic, if you please."

She smiled again.

"You amuse me," she said, "as if I didn't know that the whole of this house, back and front, wasn't watched by a young army of busy fellows. I'll bet there's somebody on the roof."

"You've won," said I.

She rang the bell, and the waiting-maid came in.

"Two cups of tea," she said, "and no cyanide for Mr. Tyndall— he's dieting."

"Well, May," said I, "and how did Aylesbury agree with you?"

She looked pretty straight at me with those china blue eyes of hers, and let out a long whiff of smoke before she answered.

"Fine," she said at last, but with no enthusiasm, "but somewhat dull."

I saw the red go up to her cheekbones, and guessed the black rage in her heart.

"Do you know what it means?" she asked, "prison for a woman like me with a certain sense of refinement, a love for pretty things, and a craving for ease?"

"I can guess," said I. "It is rather lamentable, is it not, that in this fine body of yours lives a cruel and as remorseless a spirit as it has been my lot to encounter— that side by side with this delicacy runs a ruthlessness and a cunning beyond understanding?"

She nodded sulkily, then burst into a peal of laughter.

It did one good to hear May laugh, so sweet and soft it was; to see the two straight rows of white teeth, the red lips, the splendid curve of her throat as she flung her head back.

She had blackmailed men till in a frenzy they had hanged themselves; she had driven one woman into a lunatic asylum; and here she was, the gilder of angels, the mover to tears, a free woman and laughing.

"You are so funny," she said, wiping her eyes with a ha'porth of silvery cobweb (so it seemed), "especially when you get on to the psychological track— now, what do you want?"

She was business-like and alert. She sat up in the high-backed chair at her desk and pulled greedily at her cigarette.

What I had to say could wait, for the maid brought in the tea and favoured me with a smile.

"You know Henrietta, obviously," said May. "Stay and have tea with us, dear," she said.

"Thanks— no," said the maid decidedly. "Tyndall gives me the creeps."

"He gives us all the creeps," said May ruefully, but I am not easily flattered.

"What is it you want?" asked May when the girl was gone.

"I want Leggatt," I said.

"Leggatt is dead," she answered.

"Yet you are not in mourning."

She shrugged her pretty shoulders.

"One has no time for mourning," she said.

"You are not even in mourning for William Smith?" I suggested, and she looked blank. I did not trouble to explain.

"May," said I, after a little pause. "I have come to plead for a man— yes, for a man," her start of surprise was not affected. "Years ago when you first started on your downward career, a man saw you and fell in love with you. A good man, too, who was attached to the police in Denver City."

"Who was he?" she asked with a natural interest.

"You never met him— he worshipped at a distance," I said. "He couldn't believe that you were bad, and when he found out it broke his heart. Oh, you heart-breaker!"

I shook my finger waggishly, but May was serious-minded.

"When you came to Europe he was here; it was his duty, as he conceived it, to thwart you in your various exploits. It was part of his duty to go into the box at the Old Bailey and say the words which sent you to penal servitude— yet in his heart of hearts he loved you."

She looked at me, rose slowly from her chair and came over to me.

"You?" she whispered.

I said nothing.

"You!" she whispered again, half to herself. "My God!"

So we stood, looking at each other, staring into one another's souls, seeking what comfort we could find. Denver May and John Tyndall, detective.

"You— you!"

She put up her hands and covered her face. The diamond that sparkled on the third finger of her left hand was the last gift of old Snow Taggett, whom she hounded to a miserable death.

"Go away, will you?" she said suddenly.

Her face was white— even her lips had lost their colour.

I went to the door and opened it.

"One moment," she said. "When I was released from Aylesbury somebody sent me three hundred pounds in notes— was it you?"

"Guilty," said I, and closed the door softly behind me.

Ah, well! Allow me this diversion. I know a Cabinet Minister who chews tobacco, and a judge of the Appeal Court who plays baccarat. Grant me something of romance and a memory fragrant as violets. For who cares in what muck-soil a flower grows. God help us all!

I went down to Scotland Yard to see the Chief, but he was out. Superintendent Boscombe was in, and saw me at once.

"I think you'll have to take May again," I said. "She's been writing to old Lord Veralash— I saw an envelope addressed to him on her desk this afternoon, and a half-finished letter heavily underlined."

"That's bad," said Boscombe. "I suppose there's no use in watching pillar boxes for that sort of correspondence?"

I shook my head.

"G.P.O. or nothing," said I, knowing my May. "I suppose you keep one of your young gentlemen permanently employed keeping tag of her movements?"

"I keep two," said the superintendent. "How many do you think I ought to have?"

"Two hundred," said I.

Now for Talking Jimmy.

For Jimmy is in London— that I'll take as many oaths to as the late William Smith would have taken. Jimmy the Talker, the plausible, the splendidly gab-gifted.

Ah, ha! Jimmy, watch me!

And Leggatt, the dead man of Monte Carlo. Decently interred vide my Mr. Coss, the wept and the sung, though the song were the veriest doggerel of an obituary inserted by a respectable journal at so much a line.

What of this Leggatt? If he is in hell— for where else could he be, the blackmailing, murderous dog— if he walks on the hot side of the Styx, then I am a grievously mistaken man.

My Mr. Coss returned to his suburban house at 9.30 on the night I saw May.

He came in a taxi-cabriolet, and argued with the driver as to the fallibility of the taximeter. Paid under protest. Cab dismissed. (No. 98,711, L.C. 14,713.) Coss goes to his door, looking neither right nor left. Enters, closes door. Light in the hall three seconds later. Light in sitting-room twenty seconds later. (He was, of course, scanning the letters which he had found in the letter-box.) Light out in dining-room at 9.53. Light on in back bedroom 9.55, Light out in back bedroom 10.27.

So far so good.

Mr. Coss, inscrutable and innocent murderer, we may suppose is tucked away between linen sheets in his striped pyjamas.

Three hours are supposed to elapse.

At one-thirty as the clock was striking the front door opens and Mr. Coss comes out, closing the door behind him.

An alert detective, watching him from the opposite side of the road, noted most of these happenings.

Looking neither to the right nor to the left, Mr. Coss strode quickly in the direction of Kensington.

The detective followed at his heels. With unerring instinct, as it seemed, the first man made his way toward Notting Hill.

He turned into Ladbroke Grove— at this end a broad sedate thoroughfare of large houses. His pursuer thought for a moment that the "sleeper" had taken Notting Dale for his objective, but in this he was mistaken, for he suddenly stopped in his stride, turned and passed through the gate of an empty house.

It was an old house, the detective could see this even by so scanty a light as a street lamp afforded. The garden was rank with weeds, the stucco broken from the damp walls, showing the naked brick beneath.

From the gate the detective watched Mr. Coss as he slowly mounted the six limestone steps which led up to the doorway. From his waistcoat pocket the elder man took a key, slipped it into the lock and turned it. The front door swung open and the man passed through.

The watching detective followed noiselessly. The door had been left ajar, but the watcher made no attempt to follow. Instead he returned to the garden gate, whistling a little tune thoughtfully.

It was a quarter of an hour before the door opened again and Mr. Coss came out. It is a remarkable fact that he did not attempt to shut the door behind him.

A splendid opportunity this for the watcher, if he desired a leisurely examination.

But did he? No.

Coss stepped briskly down the path and came to where the detective stood at the gate. The light from a street lamp nearly shone upon the detective's face, and Mr. Coss, the sleepwalker, the sub-conscious dreamer, became suddenly very much awake.

"Why— why!" he stammered, "I thought you were Tyndall!"

The tall man who had shadowed him shook his head.

"No, Jimmy," he said regretfully. "I am only a commonplace, detective chief-inspector."

"My name is Coss," said the other loudly.

"Your name is Badger— commonly known as 'Talking Jimmy.' Goin' quietly?"

Jimmy said nothing, but reached quickly for his gun. Then somebody hit him with a slug on the head, and that shook him up a little.

Whilst he was wondering in a dazed way whether it would be etiquette for him to lie down and nurse himself, the door of the house was flung open violently and a man came running out, pursued, it would seem, by half the metropolitan police force.

He took the steps in one leap. Then from nowhere in particular a man appeared and tackled him. A big man, who gripped the fugitive Leggatt by the throat and shook him considerably.

"It's all right, Tyndall," gasped Leggatt. "I'll go quietly!"

Like a fool I thought I had him beat, and released my hold. As I did so a fountain of fire zipped up at me, and a bullet perforated the brim of my hat. He shot twice at the police before he leapt the wall and disappeared.

I INTERVIEWED Jimmy in the cells.

"Mr. Tyndall, I am anxious to know for future guidance," he said intelligently, "in what way I erred. I gave you the best story I have ever invented in order to bait you to Leggatt. You had never seen me in your life. Will you, as a brother brush, offer a struggling artist a few hints on construction?"

I smiled; the appreciation of this maker of fiction was very flattering.

"With pleasure," I replied, "and I will group the main observations under headings.

"1. Leggatt dies at Monte Carlo in June. No man goes to Monte Carlo in June unless he is mad. The hotels are closed, the streets are like a furnace.

"2. He dies of bronchitis 'from sleeping out in a cold wind.' Cold winds in June!

"I am charging you with conspiracy, Jimmy," I went on. "I may even charge you with the murder of one William Smith."

"State's evidence for mine," said Jimmy promptly. "Produce your stenographer, and I'll give you the synopsis of a thrilling serial."

And this he did, to Leggatt's embarrassment. He did not mention Denver May, for which I was a little grateful, but he said a lot about Leggatt. Leggatt, who had died in Monte Carlo to allay my suspicions, who had come to life again— well, I guessed his plan by the big grave he had dug in the kitchen of the empty house.

A clever plan wasn't it?

As for Leggatt he is free for the moment, but I am coming along.

Continental papers, please copy.

5:  An Adventure On The Côte d'Azure

THERE was a man named Talking Jimmy, who, in conjunction with one Leggatt, shot and killed a poor devil of a convict named William Smith.

They shot him and they brought him in a cab to my flat—they and their confederates— and, having wilfully aroused my suspicions and lured away my servant— I assisted in the luring— they brought the body of William Smith on the service lift to my flat. There they laid him on my bed, and there I discovered him.

That Jimmy did the shooting, we know, because poor William Smith was killed by shots from revolvers of two different calibres, and it is also known that he was killed at King's Wharf, Lambeth, whither he had gone to meet his employers.

There was a man, I say, named Talking Jimmy, and you will observe that I italicise the word "was" because Jimmy is no longer with us, having died at Pentonville Gaol.

He died talking.

I saw him two days before his execution, and he sat at one end of a long table and I sat at the other, and he talked most of the time.

"And to think," he said, "that I paid you three hundred pounds or a trifle over fifteen hundred dollars to hang me!"

He laughed, and I think he was genuinely amused.

On one matter he sought information. Would he be hanged in his own clothing or in the sorry convict garb he wore?

I assured him that he would wear the clothes he wore at the trial, and he seemed relieved.

I stood for a long time in the governor's room wondering whether it was my duty to give him away and let the Law take its course, for I guessed that he was going to die as his sometime friends Lew Sillet and Ferdie Ross and Big Jack Cutler had died in the Tombs Prison, and as I knew the whole of that gang had died or were prepared to die.

In the end I left him to go out in his own way.

They brought his clothes at six o'clock the next morning, and he dressed himself, talking to the warders. He knelt by his bed, and they let him remain there for a quarter of an hour, and all the time he was talking to himself and they thought he was praying. He may have been, but it was not like Jimmy. Then he suddenly fell backward on the cell floor, and before they could get a doctor, the hangman with his oiled straps had been cheated. Jimmy was dead.

Cyanide of potassium was the poison— cyanide moulded into the shape of a coat button and coloured to match.

Jimmy had wrenched the dope from his coat without difficulty, and that was the end of him.

I read the story in an evening paper. In a way it spoilt a prophecy of mine, but, after all, what is a prophecy more or less?

Leggatt had gone— out of England, I had every reason to believe. Denver May, whom I saw on the day of Jimmy's passing, offered me no clue to his whereabouts. She was milder in manner than I ever remember her.

"Jimmy's gone," was all the reply she vouchsafed. "You know where he is— let Leggatt go."

I shook my head. I spend my life shaking my head to absurd suggestions.

"Would I let you go, May, if I had the chance of taking you?" I asked.

She smiled faintly. "I do not think so," she said. "But then you will never have the chance of taking me, so why discuss what you would do?"

I confess my heart beat a little faster at her words, and she laughed at me with her eyes.

"You're quite red in the face, Mr. Tyndall," she said mockingly. "Surely the prospect of missing the humble addition to your bag doesn't worry you?"

She knew that that was not it.

"I'm out of the business for good," she said quietly. "I've sent away Henrietta, and I'm earning my living by writing— not the old kind of writing," she added with an attempt at facetiousness. "And I only ask one favour from you."

"What is that?" I asked cautiously. And she laughed again.

"What a man!" she cried, appealing to the ceiling. "You should say it is granted before you ask it."

I smiled, but did not comply with the suggestion.

"I don't want you ever to remind me of the past," she said, and laid her hand upon my shoulder as she looked me straight in the eye. "I ask you that. I do not seriously ask you to spare Leggatt. He must take his chance. But you must not expect me to betray him. He loves me, and people do not betray those whom they love unless they are police officers."

I think she saw I was hurt, for she gripped my arm with both her hands and looked up into my face.

"I didn't mean that," she said impulsively. "It was a rotten thing to say. I shouldn't like you if you didn't do your duty. Ah, dearie—" She bit her lip and stepped back, rosy with confusion.

"Some day God shall judge us both," said I, and I took her— this blackmailer— took her in my arms and held her tight for the space of a minute.

I did not kiss her. I just released her and went away, and I never saw her again for seven months.

Leggatt was on the Continent, and Leggatt wanted catching. Everybody wanted to catch him, and everybody tried to catch him except me. I am not a lazy man, but I do not like being bothered, and nothing bothers me so much as work.

Leggatt by profession is a train robber and bank smasher, and when the French Government sent me some interesting particulars concerning repeated robberies of bullion on various trains and invited me across, I was not feeling well.

My symptoms were weariness whenever I approached anything bearing the faintest resemblance to duty, boredom in the presence of a client, however highly placed, and the only relief I found was auction bridge taken steadily from 3 p.m. to 3 a.m., with intervals for food.

So that when I heard that the Government of France had invited Bolsover to come to Europe to take up the case I said "Vive la République!" and would have given the Chicago detective a clear field but for the fact that M. Levine pointedly referred to my contract with the Government and demanded as politely as possible what the devil I thought I was drawing fifteen hundred francs a month for?

Curiously enough I never realised till long after the visit of Bolsover, until I knew "dead" Leggatt was alive, that he was the gentleman who was lifting bullion and filling in his spare time with visits to England.

Bolsover had been on his track for months before I went after him.

Everybody knows and respects Bolsover. Everybody else knows Tyndall. Tyndall, moreover, is a modest and lazy man and inconsequent. Everybody— the same "everybody" who knows and respects Bolsover— complains bitterly about the inconsequence of Tyndall.

Detective! Bah!

Now Bolsover is another kind of man. He is the man who tracked down the Denver Dynamitards. He is the man who unveiled the corruption of the San Dominico police department. He is the most brilliant detective in the United States of America. Examine his photograph. You can never hope to examine him, for if he meets you professionally he will be disguised. He is always disguised— sometimes as a Tough, sometimes as a Bluff. If you see a cable car behaving in an eccentric manner on the street, examine it closely. It is probably Bolsover. If you hear the pulsating drone of a monoplane in the dark hours of the night and a despairing shriek, have no fear for the safety of pretty Nina Valleacci, carried by force from her palatial home in Versailles by the emissaries of the B—k H—d, for somewhere in the whirling Gnome engine, hidden by chance in one of the flat sausage-like cylinders, is a lithe form with flashing eyes and .48-Colt automatic. It is Bolsover! And so forth and so on.

Bolsover in private life is an unpretentious man— at least, he would be if he were ever in private life. He wears a low collar, a low Derby hat, and a pair of low shoes. 'Lo, 'Lo! Bolsover, are you there?

His face is calm, immobile, impassive. His lips are tightly pressed on a cigar, and his hand is lightly pressed on his bank roll. He speaks in monosyllables, such as "Yes!"— "No!"— "Ha!"— "Gee!"— "Hell!"

This is the impression I have about Bolsover, and I have gained it rather from an erratic perusal of admiring journals than from any knowledge of the man.

It was in the summer, at a time when the patience of the French Government was all but exhausted, that Bolsover in the flesh was pointed out to me. It was at Ascot, and I was explaining to a Scotland Yard man why I hate work, when he said with a sudden start:

"Hello! there's Bolsover!"

I looked round for the horse. I had no idea it was running.

Bolsover had dressed for Ascot because he had learnt in his sleuth-like way that Ascot was a dressy function. Ordinary people wore frock or morning coats, glossy silk hats, and trousers of a dark grey stripe super-impressed upon a much darker grey. The daring ones wore spats of snowy whiteness, the gay ones wore carnations in their buttonholes. Bolsover wore a check suit which conveyed the illusion you were looking through a grating. He had a white straw hat with the red ribbon of his college. He had a home-made tie that said: "I'm a-coming!" very loudly. His yellow boots contrasted prettily with the verdant splendours of the lawn.

One of the stewards came to me and asked me if I could get Bolsover away to some quiet arbour, where naught broke the shaded silence but the drip, drip, drip of the soda water syphon.

"Why me?" I asked indignantly. "I've done nothing."

"He's frightening the horses," said the steward urgently. "And, moreover, the American ambassador has spoken to the Prince about it. If you want to avert an international incident and earn a Bath or a Garter or a pair of ball-bearing braces, now is your opp. Go where glory waits you."

Glory was waiting for me at the far end of the paddock. He was looking at the horses and the horses were looking at him. Bolsover was calm, but the high-spirited thoroughbreds were sweating, except one that is owned by a bookmaker, and he seemed to be laughing.

"Yes," admitted the detective, "I am Bolsover. I have come on business. I can say no more. My mouth is closed by the etiquette of my profession. I can give you a page— allowing for the pictures— but I cannot tell you why I am here, except that I am anxious to meet my brother sleuth, Tyndall."

He had the eyes of a faithful hound, and these he fixed on me.

"They say this Tyndall cuts some ice? Say, he's the gay insouciant? Now I want to meet him. But you want my story. Take this."

He cleared his throat.

"I was born in Hertford in 1868. My father was a blacksmith. My mother was a granddaughter of Elmina Potterfew, the nightingale of Wabash. At an early age I displayed a singular aptitude for criminal research, and I well remember—"

"Cut it out, dear lad," I said. "I am not on a space job. I'm on the pay-roll."

In a few words I explained the position, leading him to the road outside. He was an alert enough person, knew his Leggatt well, and was prepared to take advice. He would have given me a list of his successes, but I took him by the hand.

"Mr. Bolsover," I said, "we part here. Which is your cab, by the way?"

He indicated a yellow taxi, and I led him toward it.

Opening the door, I assisted him to enter.

"Farewell," he said sombrely, "we shall meet again."

"I'm afraid we shall," I replied.

In the excess of his emotion he could only utter one of his famous monosyllables. I watched the yellow cab out of sight and went back to the paddock.

RECALLING the events of that Ascot, I am somewhat muddled in my mind as to what really happened. I have so often told the story of how I shook hands with Bolsover that I am beginning to believe it myself. I distinctly remember, however, that every time he started in to tell me something about himself I handed him a galley proof of my own biography.

Bolsover's indecent curiosity had brought him to England— to London— to Ascot. He wanted to see his rival. He wanted to know the worst. I picture a disgruntled Bolsover disguised as a free lunch bar lying in wait for his English competitor. Had he disguised himself as a bridge-marker at the Lambs' Club, he would have in all human probability run down his prey between two and four any fine morning.

I did not see Bolsover again for a few months. He was a fantastic memory. My whole impression was of a strangely unreal person clad like a three-card merchant, wandering awkwardly on the exclusive lawn, elbowing American duchesses and royal personages with the careless insolence of a Pullman porter.

He was in France when I went after Leggatt in December, but with great ingenuity I avoided him. He sought one who called himself Pierre Lacroix, a notorious connoisseur in bullion, a lifter of gold in bulk, an anæsthetist of no small quality, shooter of obdurate bullion guards, and an impersonator of railway officials.

Up and down France, from Lille to Narbonne, from Bordeaux to the Haute Savoie— it was a chase of the Everlasting Elsewhere. My search was less energetic.

I searched the best hotels in Paris and stayed a week in each. I searched the Bal Tabarin. I searched Montmartre from 1 a.m. to 4 a.m. I searched the restaurants from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m. I searched the theatres, but never once did I glimpse the heavy face of Mr. Leggatt, alias Pierre Lacroix. And the bullion cars were rifled at irregular intervals.

I had been down to Chamonix for the winter sports, and had got rather badly knocked about through the overturning of a bob-sleigh on the Long Run. The unfortunate "skipper" had misjudged the pace coming round the hairpin corner, and instead of allowing that the sleigh was going at the rate of sixty miles an hour, he had judged it to be moving at about 1964.3 miles an hour, and, shutting his eyes, switched over the helm, and muttering "Save the women and children" had left the rest to Providence.

Yet let us not judge the steerman harshly, nor echo nor endorse nor yet condone the savage strictures of his three companions on the sleigh. These coarse men knew nothing of the temperamental structure of this highly-strung man.

It is a fact in his favour that prior to starting on the run he had received a telegram delivered by a devil of a chasseur, who had climbed the mountain-side to deliver it. But of this his companions were not aware.

They called him fool, dolt, chump, jay, ass, pin-head, pie-brain, lobster. They cried, "Oh!" "Ah!" and "Shame!"

They denounced, execrated, stigmatised, vituperated, abused, scolded, rated, railed, jawed, thundered at the silent form hidden in the snow. But I lay wan and still and motionless.

But I was not dead. I was waiting for the ambulance men to come along to protect me.

The new skip of the "bob" was a London doctor, and he spoke to me the following morning.

"You must give up bob-sleighing for seven years," he said. "In seven years a man renews himself, and at the end of that time you ought to have a new set of brains."

So I left Chamonix and went down— so I told everyone— to Monte Carlo, where a wanderer doesn't have to do a lot of thinking.

Ramdan— that was the doctor's name— came to see me off at the station, and so did the other members of the crew, some of whom could walk quite nicely with the aid of crutches.

"Where are you going next year?" he asked in a friendly way. "St. Moritz or Engelberg or Davos?"

"I haven't made up my mind yet," I said. "Probably to Davos."

"Let us know when you've decided," he said, "and we'll go somewhere else."

"Don't you want me?" I asked reproachfully.

"Not alive," he said. "Not unless you're on a dog-lead."

My electric train gabyed down the mountain out of hearing. I didn't hear what else he said because I put my fingers in my ears, and he didn't hear what I said because I didn't say anything until I was safely out of hearing. Then I called him a heartless hound, and other harsh words. He was a big man and played forward for Guy's, and I was intensely and passionately desirous that he should not play forward with this guy.

I worked a leisurely way across country till I struck the main Lyons-Mediterranean route, and, deliberately missing one train, I induced the chef de gare to an unimportant station to "flag" the Côte d'Azure. It is a train whereon millionaires and men of genius travel, an edition de luxe of the Empire express. Any lesser train was, I felt, unworthy of my quality.

The long thin conductor of the wagon-lit snarled respectfully, but let me go to bed in an empty compartment. He was a talkative man, I found, and informed me that the compartment had been specially reserved at Lyons. For whom do you imagine?

For the great Tyndall!

For the chiefest of detectives; for the thug-catcher, the bullionist, the sleuth!

He had missed the train at Lyons, said the conductor with a smile. My faith! but the reputation of Tyndall was world-wide! He had probably been searching a little game of baccarat.

"And it was important, you perceive, m'sieur," said the conductor, "that the detective should have come, because here on this—" he stopped suddenly.

"You are carrying bullion," I finished. "It is deplorable. It is monstrous."

He made me cosy, and I settled down for the night with the disquieting sense that I had not been a success as a winter sportsman. Thinking matters over, I decided that any sport which one had to do oneself was a bore. Golf was a bore, bridge was a bore, ski-ing was a painful bore. Yes, the only game worth while was the race-track, where all one had to do was to pay away money at intervals.

Thus ruminating, my mind went back to Ascot, and by easy stages to Bolsover. Shutting my eyes, I could see his somewhat shapeless face, his mottled complexion, his heavy black fringe-like moustache, clipped straightly at each end. I could hear his indescribable—

I must have been dozing, but that had wakened me.

"That" was a stinging "pang!" close to my ear, and was unmistakably a pistol shot.

I switched on the light and was out of my bunk in one motion. I thrust my feet into slippers, pulled on my dressing-gown, and from under my pillow took a small-calibre Browning.

Then I jumped out of my compartment into the narrow gangway.

It was deserted, but the door of the adjoining sleeping apartment was open, and I stepped in, and after a moment's hesitation felt for the switch.

I found it, and pulled down the tiny lever.

Lying half-dressed on the bunk was a man, his shirt splattered with blood, one dangling hand hanging limply over the side of the bed. I looked at his face.

It was Bolsover.

He was breathing. Moreover, he was not seriously injured. The bullet had clipped a piece from his left shoulder, skimmed the head between the parietal and temporal bones, and splintered the rosewood panelling beneath the window. He had been shot by a man who had been kneeling on the floor. (Open valise on the floor, contents disarranged). Bolsover had reached for the switch and the man had fired upward.

I rang the bell which called the attendant, and so stood, one foot and half my body in the gangway, till the wagon-lit porter came hurrying along buttoning his coat.

He took in the situation in a glance, and swore with reliable appropriateness.

"I will signal the train to stop at the next station," he said in French. "This is very unfortunate— very unfortunate."

"Do you know him?" I asked.

He looked at me pityingly.

"Knew him!" he exclaimed. "My faith! Knew M'sieur Bolsover!" He laid his hand on the prostrate man's heart. "I know him," he corrected himself, like the pedant he was. "He is engaged in tracking down the men who stole the bullion from the Lyons-Mediterranean last month. Ah, the brave fellow!" The tears came into his eyes.

"Can you not search the train for a doctor?" I urged.

He shook his head. "There is a doctor of music in the next car," he said, "and of the German— dense. No, m'sieur, we can do no more than watch our friend. Hélas! cut off in the prime of manhood."

I looked up at the conductor, black-moustached, big-faced, heavy-jawed, yet withal so tender a man in this, his moment.

"If the grand Tyndall was here!" he said mournfully. "You see, m'sieur, it is thus. The train carries two million francs. It is in a safe— impenetrable— in the next compartment."

He indicated another door which led through a diminutive wash-place into another berth. I opened the door. The adjoining sleeper was in darkness. I turned on the light. There stood the safe.

The seats had been removed to make way for it, the ordinary door leading into the corridor masked with sheet steel. The safe rested on two large lumber balks, probably to distribute the strain on the floor of the compartment.

The safe was untouched.

I returned to Bolsover, followed by the sentimental conductor. The wounded man was breathing heavily. I turned to the conductor.

"You are not the same conductor we had last night," I said.

"Hélas! no," he said sorrowfully. "That good man was taken ill at Lyons, m'sieur!"

Well he might display such agitation, for I had stuck the business end of a Browning pistol in that section of his anatomy which hovers everlastingly between diaphragm and pancreas.

"Elevate the digits, Leggatt," I said with linguistic freedom. "We will now search for the real conductor whom you have doped."

Into the empyrean aimlessly went his rude large hands.

"This is monstrous, m'sieur," he said. "I am known to the Government— to M'sieur Bolsover— to M'sieur Tyndall."

"True," I said, "for I am Tyndall."

And the remarkable thing is, that I am! But you would never have recognised me with the beard I grew at Chamonix.

NO, I hadn't seen Bolsover for months, but I had written and wired to him every day, and he had written to me. A nice man, Bolsover, though somewhat talkative. I have asked him not to wire me again when I am winter-sporting. A telegram handed to a man just at the moment when he is starting on a five-kilometre trip down the most dangerous bobsleigh run in France is apt to upset him. Especially when it runs:

PICK UP COTE D'AZURE LEAVING LYONS TUESDAY, CARRYING TWO MILLION BULLION. PIERRE LACROIX WILL BE ON TRAIN DISGUISED AS CONDUCTOR. I AM IN CHARGE OF BULLION.— BOLSOVER.

"Well, you've got me proper," said Mr. Leggatt. (We were taking him to Lyons by the Rapide.) "But for those damned whiskers and eyeglasses I should have known you and shot you. I've been waiting for you. What about May?" he asked suddenly.

I did not attempt to enlighten him and he continued:

"She's going straight, she says," he grinned. "Gee! what women will do when they're in love!"

He looked knowingly at me, but I wasn't to be drawn.

"I suppose you know she's crazy about you?"

"Leggatt," I said softly, "if you talk to me any more about May I shall cut away the top button of your coat."

His face went livid, and his manacled hands went up unobtrusively to the button.

"Leave me that!" he whispered.

I nodded, and we didn't talk about May any more.

6:  The Way Of Denver May

SWIRL and splash of water under your keel, whirl of wheel under your sleeping berth, hum of bonneted engine and icy-cold wind in your face—all to one end, to "get there."

I have got there often enough, and tasted the fruit spread for me by fate. Fruit bitter, of disappointment; fruit sweet, of achievement; fruit wooden, labelled nearly.

There's death for a man at some journeys' endings, cold cell and Dartmoor for others, freedom from terror, haven for weariness, and a quick-formed queue for panic for yet others.

That's all in a man's life who does police work; hard, heartbreaking, but good fun.

Leggatt on his way to Devil's Island sends me a letter asking for my intervention on his behalf and offering as some inducement new and interesting details concerning Denver May— crime unrecorded and unpunished. "Which you can easily prove. I think you might regard this as state evidence," says he; "and that it should count in my favour."

Yes, he opens his mouth wide enough; leaves May to the mercy of the police and the cold world. And May, you must remember, was his best friend. He had wept for her when she was sentenced— tears are ready and cheap to some eyes. I feel, for my own part, that I could not weep and live.

May is in the country, has a little house in Tellborough, a small cathedral town, and without making herself a nuisance with her good works, is doing no mischief save to caterpillars and snails which invade her garden. When she came out of Aylesbury an anonymous friend, who was an admirer of her talents, sent her three hundred pounds. As soon as she learnt who had sent the money she returned it with a little note to the effect that she was "provided for."

In other words May lived upon her nefarious gains.

FILLINGTON, a young and ambitious detective-inspector, newly promoted and eager for further promotion, came to me one day and was remarkably familiar, going so far on the path to my disregard as to call me "Tyndall" without the prefix which custom and respect dictate.

A tall young man with small brown eyes and a black little moustache, somewhat ruddy of face too, which added nothing to his charms.

"You know a woman called Denver May," he said, in the pseudo cross-examination style which is so popular with young police officers.

"I do."

"She is a blackmailer," he explained unnecessarily; "and she is a convict on licence."

"Her sentence was remitted," I corrected.

"Well," said the excellent Fillington, "I have discovered that she is living in a little country town—"

"In Tellborough, Kent," I put in; "where she is called Madame Fournier—yes."

He was disappointed. "Oh, you know that, do you? Well, I tell you what I've done, Tyndall. I've written to the vicar of Tellborough putting him in possession of all the facts regarding this woman."

"But why?" I asked. "Surely it is enough that the local police know?"

He smiled. "The fact is," he confessed, "I went down to Tellborough on my own to see her. I thought she might be able to give me a wrinkle or two about some people I want to get hold of very badly, so I hopped along. And will you believe me,"— his head swayed from side to side with emphasis— "she treated me as though I was dirt! Showed me out, in fact."

I nodded slowly.

"I see," I said; "and so you were considerably snubbed—"

"She made me feel such a fool," explained Fillington.

"You were made to feel so foolish that in the end you thought you would give May away— is that it?"

He deprecated the suggestion. He had acted in the public interest, and now he had come for approval.

Ah, well, my young Inspector Fillington, you must go through with your trouble. It was not in the public interest that you should have accepted large sums of money from a street bookmaker of Canning Town, though bookmakers' money is as good as anybody else's. A prying super-detective employed by Government may look upon your transaction with a lenient or a severe eye, taking all circumstances into consideration.

I did not omit the name of young Inspector Fillington from my "confidential," and he was broken in a month, was out of the police force in a year, and will write pamphlets concerning his grievances which nobody will read.

NOBODY DOUBTS that our worthy vicar of Tellborough was shocked. He raised his white hands to the level of his gleaming glasses and said, "This is very terrible, my dear," but "my dear" was flustered, though in a harder and a colder and a more practical way. If the vicar's wife knew, Tellborough knew, from Gibley Abbey to the slums by the brickfield.

Somebody wrote "blackmailer" on May's door; a lout threw a brick through a window. There was talk of further violence, but May came out on to the lawn one summer's evening, all Tellborough looking on, and did some trick shooting with her Smith-Wesson— and the deputation never called.

Her grocer and butcher refused to serve her, her baker followed suit. They had conscientious scruples, they told admiring friends. May got her goods from the stores in London— they had no scruples of any kind whatsoever.

People called on her. Young George Wilberfort came at ten o'clock one night with his coat collar turned up. May opened the door; her servants had yielded to conscience and departed, and new servants (French, and consequently without shame) were already en-route.

"What do you want?" asked May.

"A whisky-and-soda, my dear," said George, with desperate gaiety; "and a bit of a chat."

"I'm all alone in the house," said May.

"So much the better," said Lothario junior.

May hit him across the mouth with the flat of her hand and closed the door on him.

A young man, hurt in his vanity and struck by a woman, can make a bad enemy. George was the son of a landed proprietor and a gentleman by Act of Parliament. He joined the band of the conscientious, saying nothing to anybody about his evening adventure. The branch of the Wilberforts is an easy one to trace. Three generations ago it broke stones by the roadside on the male side, washed linen publicly on the female side. So it lacked the bit of breed that makes lying and all wrong-doing hateful.

The chief sent for me one day and handed me a warrant.

"You can go down to Tellborough," he said, "and take into custody an old friend of yours."

"May?"

"May it is," said the chief. "She's back at the old game."

I took the bundle of letters he gave me.

"What's the matter with you, Tyndall?" he asked quietly; "your hand is shaking and your face is as bleak as a Sunday in town?"

"Dyspepsia," I said. It seemed the least romantic thing to say.

There were seven letters; they were all addressed to George Wilberfort, Esq. Two were sent to The Hall, Tellborough, and the remainder to his flat in Piccadilly.

They were all typewritten and subscribed "May." Moreover, the envelopes bore the mark of Tellborough post office.

The letters demanded money— two hundred, three hundred, and five hundred pounds— on the threat of exposure.

"Typewritten?" I protested, "bit flimsy, isn't it?"

"Good enough," said the chief. "Go down and investigate, and when you think it is expedient, make the arrest."

I went out of Scotland Yard a criminal.

A taxi carried me to Cockspur Street to the Wagon Lit. I booked one single ticket to Yokohama via the Trans-Siberian Railway. Then I went back to my flat. My man was on his holiday; there was nothing to do but to write him a note enclosing him twenty-five pounds in lieu of notice. There were no letters to destroy. Certain records were in the safe at my office. I enclosed the key with a brief note to the chief and left that on my table also.

Then I took a revolver from the drawer of my desk, dropped in three cartridges, and slipped the weapon into my pocket.

From thence to my bank. I am one of those improvident people who dabble not in securities. My cash is always available cash, and there was nine thousand six hundred pounds to my credit.

I drew it all, with the exception of a hundred to meet floating cheques, and with some ninety odd notes for a hundred pounds in the inside pocket of my coat I caught the earliest available train for Tellborough.

May was in the garden when I arrived, and her French maid was a little dubious as to whether she should admit me. Eventually May came upon the scene. All my life I shall remember her as she looked that morning. She wore a blue dress— the blue of her eyes. It was cut in the fashion of the moment, all looped drapery, which in spite of its apparent vagueness, gave her figure gracious and definite shape. You saw a V of white breast, the whiter because of a creamy froth edging to the triangular cut. Her face was more aesthetic than ever I have seen it. She was paler and thinner of face, almost ethereal.

"Do I?" she said lightly, when I told her she was looking ill. "My dear Mr. Tyndall, isn't the very sight of you calculated to bring pallor to the guilty cheek?"

"How guilty are you. May?" I asked.

"As guilty as hell," said May, with a gesture of weariness. "But I thought we were never going to discuss these matters?"

"We were never going to talk of the past," said I. "But it's the present."

"The present!" She frowned at me in wonder.

"The present," I repeated.

She sank down into a chair and folded her hands on her lap.

"Exactly what do you mean?" she asked.

I told her, read portions of the letters and showed her my warrant.

She was like death now.

"So I shall have to go back to that horrible place," she said, speaking her thoughts aloud. "After all— all I have done." She smiled pathetically. "I suppose there is no use in my saying that I didn't write those letters; that I have never written a blackmailing letter in my life, that I never approached a single individual save one, to warn him, that was Lord Liverton."

I said nothing; it was too incredible.

"Leggatt is my husband," she said quietly. "I have been the veriest figurehead in the whole business, a willing figurehead, because one takes on the moral aspect of those in ascendancy. As to these letters, I did not write them. Perhaps you will believe that."

And she told me all about Master George Wilberfort and his gallantry.

I listened, and was silent long after she had finished. I never doubted that May was the prime mover and Leggatt— he died en-route to Cayenne, by the way— and dead Talking Jimmy were her willing instruments. One always credits a bad woman with superlative powers of evil, as one endows a good woman with virtues most impossible. Disillusionment in either case is painful. I spoke at last.

"May," I said, "Fate is all against you, and here am I, a police officer, sent to do duty."

"You must do it," she said, and once again the wistful smile trembled on her face, balanced with tears. "I suppose you don't want to handcuff me?"

She faced me, her hands behind her, her head thrown back.

"What is your name?" she asked suddenly.

I smiled.

"You know my name, May."

"But your Christian name?"

"John Tyndall," said I.

The little smile again.

"Is there anybody in the wide world," she asked, "bold enough to call you Jack?"

I nodded.

"Once there was," I said; she must have known that I meant my mother.

She inclined her head.

"Well, I'm going to call you Jack," she said. "That is the privilege of a criminal— to take outrageous liberties with the names of their captors. You shall be Jack to me," she said in a voice tremulous with tears.

"Sit down." I laid my hand on her shoulder and pushed her into a chair. I produced my wad of notes, and laid on the top the fat little bundle of railway coupons which would carry her to Japan.

"Put those in your bag," said I. "Collect your personal belongings and catch the next train to London."

She stared in bewilderment.

"It's all right," I smiled. "I'll take you as far as Calais and leave you."

She picked up the railway tickets and fingered them absently. Then she counted the notes very carefully and methodically.

"What will happen to you?" she asked quietly,

"People will be very annoyed," I said with a laugh.

"Show me your ticket to Calais," she demanded imperiously, and I produced it.

"A single ticket?"

Her eyes met mine in a questioning look.

"Yes— I can get another there," I said hastily.

"A single ticket— I see."

She nodded, picked up the notes from her lap and handed them back to me.

"I counted them to see the monetary value of your love," she said. "I gather that it is exactly all you have in the world."

I couldn't deny it.

"And a single ticket," she went on.

"And a revolver in your hip pocket to use the moment my train is out of sight because— because," she faltered on her speech, "because you have failed to do your duty."

She rose from the chair and resumed her old attitude.

"That is it," she said slowly. "I knew a man like you—he was my father. He went to his death as you would, for a woman unworthy to lace his shoes—as you would. No— no— no— no! Jack Tyndall!"

She shook her head, laughing now, laughing with sobs between.

Then she came forward with two quick steps and put her hands on my shoulder, and they slid and slid till they were round my neck—tighter and tighter her head pressed to my breast, and there she lay sobbing till I thought she would never stop.

My God, it was wonderful!

ONLY ONE chance for it.

Solemn promises from May to do nothing till I gave her permission, hurried journey back to town, cyclonic burst into Chief's office, and he, poor man, somewhat perturbed by the vision of an empty-handed detective for empty-handed I was, as I explained.

"I am perfectly satisfied that these three letters to Wilberfort are fakes," and I gave him a description of the young gentleman's rebuff.

"Very possible," he said. "Very, very possible; but the warrant was issued on sworn information and must be executed."

"Except," said I promptly, "when, as provided by paragraph 8 of the Act of 1848, objection is taken to the information."

"Go along and see the magistrate who issued it," said the Chief. "Get him to grant a stay, and don't come slinging your Acts of Parliament at my head, I beg you."

There was no difficulty about the stay: to make sure I called on Lord Charles in Downing Street. The Premier had secured May's release, and it was up to him to prove he wasn't an ass. I told him so.

"Quite right," he said. "A very sweet woman," he said at parting. "I can never believe that a girl with a face like that could be utterly bad."

After all, is Charles such an ass as people think?

That night when Mr. George Wilberfort went forth in his hired electric brougham to the Jollity Theatre I called on him. His servant let me in, and informed me that he would go and fetch his master if necessary. I told him it was not necessary— not at all. Far from it. I would wait until his master returned. What dog am I that I should drag him from his proper pleasures? I would wait in the ornate smoking-room, divan'd and orientalised with the orientalism which is neither Turkish, Moorish, Chinese, nor Byzantine, but in the main— Earl's Court.

Shaded lamps from a fake mosaic ceiling; thick Turkey rugs from Axminster under foot; the luxury and lack of ventilation peculiar to the planning young blood with a sneaking desire for the harem, and possessed of sufficient money to get the home together.

I sent the man out with a spoof message to Scotland Yard.

He went importantly, and brought back, in his face, something of the mysteriousness of his brief environment.

"Inspector Boscombe says 'All right,'" said the man furtively, as if the walls themselves had ears.

All right it was indeed.

I sat for three hours in the little smoking room, consuming cigarettes till the atmosphere was blue.

At the end of the time enter Mr. George Wilberfort, a flushed island of joy, entirely surrounded by chorus girls.

"Hel-lo!" said he, and paused, conscious of the fact that his guests demanded humour. "And who the devil are you?"

"My name is Tyndall," said I, "and I shall, perhaps, take you into custody on a charge of conspiracy and perjury."

One girl laughed because she thought the joke was on Wilberfort— she laughed, and stopped short in her laugh because she saw George Wilberfort's face.

"Go into the drawing-room," said I to the girls. "You'll find supper laid— Mr. Wilberfort may be with you in ten minutes."

They went— on tip-toe.

"What will my father say?" croaked the boy. "Good God! What will all the chaps say?"

"What made you do it?" I asked.

"How did you find out?" he countered. "You're Tyndall the detective, aren't you? How long have you been here?"

"All the evening," I said gravely. He jerked his head up and down despairingly.

"Of course, then you've found 'em." he said. "I was a fool— what an ass I've been— keeping the rough drafts of the letters in my flat! I typed 'em at the governor's office, and a devilish hard job it was, too, one finger at a time, and not knowing where any of the letters were. I got a chap to post 'em for me— did he give me away?"

I shook my head.

"It was a rotten thing to do," he said apologetically; "but you see she made me very wild. I'm an awfully proud chap, really, and she got me on the raw— as a man of the world you'll understand."

He appealed to me, then dropped his face in his hands, sitting on the edge of his downiest divan.

"Still, I can't understand how you could have found the drafts," he said suddenly. "Did you force the lock or anything?"

"Look and see," I said, and I followed him to his bedroom.

He had a big oak bureau that did tricks: it was such a bureau as is supplied by ingenious cabinet makers to the young aristocracy, and was the best of its kind I have ever seen or examined. It had electric cigar lighters and patent cigarette cases concealed in unexpected positions. It could be a desk or a clothes press, and was generally both.

Wilberfort drew out a drawer, touched a spring, and lo! one of the sides was hollow. And there was the evidence of his guilt in eight quarto sheets.

"You didn't take 'em away, then?" he asked in some surprise.

"No," said I.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because," I answered, as I folded the papers and put them in my pocket, "I couldn't find them."

No, though I ransacked the whole of the flat.

I left him with a word of comfort, and carried away a written statement signed by him to the effect that it was all a joke played upon him by a friend.

There would be no prosecution, I knew— I left him to the comfort of the chorus girls.

Whirr and thud of bonneted engine for me— trains move too smoothly, if faster, for a man carrying good news.

May saw me at three o'clock in the morning, and she saw all that I had to tell her in my face.

We sat talking through the night, till the sun came up and tipped the high trees with bronze-gold, till the birds began their shrill and jerky chatter; till the nodding flowers lifted their heads to the first slant gleams of gold that the sentinel trees let pass.

"I shall use your ticket," said May at last. "I can leave England the day after to-morrow."

"For Yokohama?"

"I shall buy a little house in a suburb of Tokio," she said. "And perhaps in a few years' time you will be coming to Japan and will call and see me— I shall be an old woman in a few years," she smiled.

"Look for a man with long white whiskers," said I. "That will be me— in a few years' time."

I left her before the town of Tellborough was sufficiently wide-awake to be scandalised.

I did not see May off, but she wired me from Moscow some days later, and I went to see the Chief.

"Leave of absence, Mr. Tyndall," said he. "Wherever are you going? Not to Japan?"

"To Japan," said I.

"To Japan," said he. "Why, you told me the other day that you weren't going to Japan for years."

"It seems years," I replied, "since I said that."

___________________

12: There Are More Things...

F. A. M. Webster

1886-1949

Telegraph (Brisbane) 19 Jan 1939

Frederick Annesley Michael Webster

"THE trouble with you, young fellow," growled Colonel Ormond, "is that you talk too much."

The men in the club smoking room sniggered. Young Beverley Parker had started by giving us his views upon pacifism, and had then proceeded to blaspheme Shakespeare by informing us that, in this 20th century, there is little, if anything, in Heaven or earth that is un-wotted of in man's philosophy. The sudden, briefly continued roaring of a lion in the Zoological Gardens on the other side of Regent's Park had dammed the spate of his torrent of words.

The same sound had served to arouse the Colonel from private cogitations in his favourite fire-side corner. Beverley Parker flushed crimson at the direct reproof, but the Colonel grinned amiably.

"Do any of you fellows remember Bungo Hilton?" he queried, and there was a murmur of assent. Most of us, in fact, remembered the big, quiet fellow. At such rare occasions as he was in England, he used to divide his time between studying the fauna in the Zoological Gardens and poring over maps of the most God-forgotten corners of the earth in the club library.

"For an explorer of his experience," Colonel Ormond continued, "Bungo Hilton had me beat six days put of seven. He wasn't quite so cock-sure about all the things in Heaven and earth as our friend Parker seems to be, but he did believe that every phenomenon, no matter how strange it might seem, was capable of a perfectly logical explanation, if only one, could hit upon it. Needless to say, he did not take any stock of the so-called supernatural. And yet, I rather fancy, he knows better nowadays."

"WHAT'S the yarn, Colonel-sahib?" queried a captain of Indian cavalry, as Ormond fell silent and sat thoughtfully stuffing his pipe.

"H'm. Wish to the devil I could give you the explanation," growled the Colonel, "story itself's not difficult to tell."

"Go on! Fire ahead, Colonel-sahib," we chorused.

"H'm; it was in rules that I ran across Bungo about five years ago," he answered, settling himself more comfortably in his chair. "We lunched together at Simpsons after taking our aperitifs, for he was full up with some fantastic yarn he'd got hold of and was mad keen to get hold of a man to go out with him to Central Africa. And that, Parker, my lad," he broke off, "is a land where you'll certainly find considerably more than is dreamed of in your present philosophy, if ever you have the guts to get yourself out of England.

"That's neither here nor there, however," he went on. "As I was saying, Bungo Hilton wanted a partner for a Central African expedition he was planning, and, as I'm fond of a bit of big-game hunting, I said I'd go along. Once I'd promised, he didn't give me a ghost of a chance to change my mind, and a month later we found ourselves in Nairobi.

"According to the yarn Bungo told me, he had got hold of information which would enable him to locate the fabulous Elephant's Grave Yard, which every African explorer and big-game hunter for the last half-dozen generations has been seeking. You know the legend, I suppose, and how it is believed that elephants are granted a prescience of death and make for a certain, secret place, which has become the ivory treasure house of the world, on account of the endless number of elephants that have gone there to die?

"According to Bungo, there was supposed to be a corner of the Lado enclave into which no white man had as yet penetrated; and, apart from the grave-yard business, the inhabitants were rumoured to be a pretty queer race.

"Anyway, we made our way lip to Gondokoro and, from there, struck east towards the Abyssinian border. What sort of a country was it, you want to know? Well, it was a hell of a country, whichever way you looked at it. What Bungo used to greet as "Miles and miles of ruddy Africa," every morning when he woke up.

"We wore having breakfast outside our safari tent when one of these fellows put in an appearance. The Watu Wageni they called themselves, as we discovered later.

"Bungo's Boy, Hamesi Ali, spotted the fellow first, and it was his exclamation, half-fear, half-wonder, and his outstretched hand that directed our attention to a sandy hummock perhaps a hundred yards sway. Standing on top of the mound was one of the queerest objects I have ever clapped eyes on. He couldn't have been much under seven feet in height, was as thin as a rail and stood there on one leg with the sole of his right foot pressed inwards against the knee of his left leg, for all the world like a blessed, ruminating stork. His complexion was no darker than that of the average dago and his features were thin and aquiline. As we stood up to get a better look at him, he shook his spear at us, in greeting or menace— we couldn't tell which— and then vanished behind the crest of the rise.

" 'Looks as if there's something in those rumours I've heard,' jibed Bungo, who knew that I had felt pretty sceptical about the whole business up to that moment. 'We seem to have struck an outpost of the lost-tribe; why shouldn't we find the Elephants' Grave Yard into the bargain?'

" 'Why not,' I agreed grudgingly.

"We marched steadily north by east throughout a day of appalling heat, when the burning warmth of the sand seemed to strike clean through the soles of your boots and the refracted rays of the sun were flung back in your face like a blast from the mouth of the pit of Tophet. Towards evening we came in sight of a cluster of grass huts built round the base of a conical hill, which was surmounted by a single tree of incredible height. Everything in that strange country seemed to be long or tall and extremely attenuated.

"No one took the slightest notice of our approach, and the reason was soon apparent, for everyone was staring at an incredibly old man perched up in the topmost branches of that very tall tree. We halted our safari, wondering what the devil we ought to do next, and then we heard what that ancient oracle was saying; With one hand , clinging to the slender trunk of the tree; and the other shading his eyes he peered out north and south and east and, west; flinging down the while instructions as to where dead elephants might be found, up to five days march distant. As his messages floated down to them, little bands of armed warriors set out in the directions he indicated.

"I may add, right away, that all those parties returned within a fortnight, heavily laden with tusks cut from the dead elephants they had found, in accordance with the directions of their witch-doctor. It's no good asking me how the old devil did it because I simply can't tell you. He must have been best part of a hundred years old and was hard of hearing; but according to local report, he climbed that very tall tree every day of his life, and he was never wrong in his prognostications of where dead elephants were to be found.

"The ivory was carefully sorted as it came in, the best tusks being set aside for what was known as the Dead Man's Acre. This was a large plot of ground in which the witch-doctor-rulers of the Wageni had been buried from time immemorial. It was fenced all round with three rows of the finest elephant tusks in all the world set crisscross. Good heavens, there must be enough first-grade ivory set round that bally boneyard to pretty nearly pay off our National Debt. Long before the ivory retrieving parties returned, of course, the old witch-doctor descended from his tree and made us welcome.

"We'd struck a mighty valuable store of ivory, that was certain; but it was equally clear that we had not yet found the actual Elephant's Grave Yard. The exasperating part of the business was that the witch doctor undoubtedly knew the situation of the place we wore seeking, but about that matter, and everything appertaining to the beliefs and customs of his people, lie remained obstinately reticent. All we could ascertain, and that was mainly assumption, was that he was the hereditary guardian of the Elephant's Grave Yard and took as his tribute the pick of the tusks of such dying beasts as failed to reach their destination.

"We might have got at the secret in the long run, but luck, that had been with us so far, was due to veer in the other direction.

"It all started with Hamesi Ali falling in love with one of the Wageni women. She was a well-favoured, pleasant sort of wench, this girl, Kalui, who had taken the fancy of Bungo Hilton's servant, but I wish to heaven he had chosen to put the come-hither upon any other girl in the tribe, for then all might have been well. As things turned out, Kalui was the girl the witch doctor had marked down as providing an acceptable sacrifice to the tribal deity.

"Hamesi Ali came to us in a hell of a state of mind, when Kalui told him what was in store for her. In fact, he so far forgot himself as In come blinding into the tent while we were still sleeping and arouse his master by shaking him roughly by the shoulder. Bungo promptly responded by knocking Hamesi clean through the tent opening.

"Perhaps he was sorry for his quick-tempered action when he heard Hamesi's story, for he was genuinely fond of the boy. Anyway, he set to work to get at the rights of the case, and then it was we discovered that the Watu Wageni were lion worshippers. That was funny, too, for although they had any amount of ornaments showing the lion of Egypt in bas-relief, and had flatly refused to allow us to hunt lions, it had never occurred to us that old Simba— the lion— was the object of their particular veneration.

" 'That's all right, Hamesi,' Bungo reassured his servant; 'when's the sacrifice due to lake place?'

" 'I do not know exactly, bwana; but I think when the moon is full.'

" 'That gives us the best part of a week Any idea whether there is a real lion and where he lies up?'

" 'I will find- out bwana, Hamesi answered. Kalui, that evening, gave him all the information he wanted. Next morning she was missing.

"I suppose some devil of penitence for striking Hamesi dictated Bungo's subsequent actions, for nothing would satisfy him but for us to seek the tribal deity in his lair, in the hope that the native girl had not yet been sacrificed. I didn't like the business, but I kept my mouth shut and saw to the mechanism of my rifle. We realised, of course, that we should have to clear out in double quick time, it we did rescue the girl, and that would be the end of our hopes of finding the Elephants Grave Yard, for even the friendliest of savages are apt to turn nasty if you start monkeying with their religion.

"Anyway, Bungo was set on the business, so we slipped out of the village just after dawn and followed Hamesi along a bush track which we had been told was taboo. We found the lair of the tribal lion at the end of an hours hard going. The place was ankle deep in bones, and a good many of them were human; in the mouth of the cave lay the mangled remains of Kalui, a most beastly spectacle that sent Hamesi fighting mad.

"A moment later we saw the lion himself, who had been taking a snooze on top of an ant-heap. None of your stunted desert breed this fellow, but a real, deep-chested, black-maned forest king. He came straight at us without making a sound, and Bungo let him have it smack between the eyes. While the carcase was still twitching, the witch doctor of the Wageni walked out of the cave, and I've never seen such fury on a man's face in all my life.

" 'We may not kill you, because you are our guest,' he said very quietly, with his eyes fixed on Bungo; 'but the Curse of Simba be upon you; I sleeping or waking he shall haunt you I and, in the fullness of your days, a lion shall strike you down. Now go!'

"You can take it from me that we lost no time In clearing out; but although Bungo tried to laugh it off, he was, from that day, a changed man. We left the village, watched by silently hostile, natives, and after, seven days' marching, struck the-Blue Nile. That is just about the worst week I ever remember, for by day I we continuously met desert lions which showed fight, and, by night, our camp was literally ringed in by the savage brutes. To make matters worse Bungo began dreaming about lions when he did get to sleep, and, by day, he brooded over his dreams. That made him morose, but, even so, I should not have believed that a man could have altered so entirely in the space of a few days. Why, damn it, when those pestilential brutes were roaring and growling round the camp at night he swore that they were calling to him and, obviously, had the greatest difficulty in preventing himself from going out to them.

"Even when we got on board a boat to take us down the real Nile things were not a great deal better, for the roaring of a lion, way-off in the desert beside the river, would set Bungo shivering like a startled thoroughbred. At Cairo we decided to put up at the Mena House Hotel, as Bungo wanted to study the Pyramids, which he had not visited previously. Perhaps he thought that a new interest would serve to take his mind off the Curse of Simba, which had been put upon him by the Wageni witch-doctor. The one thing we had not reckoned with was that the Mena House was near enough to the Zoological Gardens in the park of the Ghizeh Palace for us to hear any exceptional noise made by the occupants of the cages.

"God! How those lions did roar, that first night we slept in the hotel across the river from Cairo. It was two o'clock in the morning when the din woke me up, and I went straight along to Bungo's room, with some idea, of seeing him through what I believed would be a bad nerve-storm, brought on by the noise; but Bungo wasn't in his room. The hall-porter said that he had left the hotel and taken the Road of Pyramid towards Cairo ten minutes earlier.

"I took the same road as fast as I could foot it, and every moment the roaring of the lions grew louder. I seemed to know, by instinct, where Bungo was making for; but I never caught a sight of him along the open road, although there was a big, bright moon high overhead.

"When I reached Ghizeh Palace park I didn't need to find anyone to tell me where they kept the lions, the din was awful; and, already, native keepers were hastening towards the cages. I joined, the rush unheeded and then, suddenly, everything went quiet; deathly quiet, if you understand me.

"A moment later we found Bungo Hilton. He lay face downwards between the protection rail and the bars of one of the cages, a terrific blow had crushed his skull like a brittle egg-shell, and, behind the bars lay a great, black-maned lion, purring contentedly as it licked a bloody paw."

The Colonel paused to relight his pipe.

"Give me the answer to that one, Mister Beverley Parker," he invited, "and I'll be willing to listen to your nonsense about there not being more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy."

But Beverley Parker, for once, was unable to answer.

_____________________

13: The Affair of the San Mona Spring

E. Phillips Oppenheim

1866-1946

The Blue Book Magazine, Feb 1915

AT about nine o'clock on a brilliant February morning, the motor-omnibus which had been down to meet the train de luxe from England came into sight, ascending the winding roadway to the Paradise Hotel. About a dozen of us were loitering in front to watch the new arrivals. It had become quite a source of amusement with some of the habitués of the place to watch the confident arrival of newcomers, and to see them pass through the various grades of doubt to despair when they inquired what accommodation could be offered them in this highly popular caravanserai.

On this occasion, the omnibus contained a single passenger only, a passenger, however, of singular and noteworthy appearance. I am forced to admit that when he stepped out of the omnibus and looked around him, we were none of us favourably impressed with the appearance of Mr. Martin— Mr. Edmund H. Martin, as he preferred to call himself. He was large, and abominably dressed in a suit of impossible checks. He wore bright yellow boots with bulgy toes. His tie seemed to have gathered together every colour of the rainbow into its motley mesh. As he stood there gazing around him, I heard a little titter from Mrs. Moggeridge and her daughters, and I caught the supercilious look exchanged between two of our young men who were lounging against the pillars.

The newcomer, it must be confessed, did not conform in any way to recognized standards, yet even in those first few moments I found something about his appearance which attracted me. Notwithstanding his great size— he was six feet three and very broad— his face was innocent of any beard or moustache. He seemed, indeed, to possess the fresh-complexioned visage of a boy. He stood there, an incipient smile struggling for the least encouragement to take formal possession of his good-humoured face, looking around him for someone to whom he could address the remark which it eventually fell to my lot to receive.

'Say, this is a bully place!' he exclaimed, appealing first to me and then to us all generally.

Mrs. Moggeridge and her daughters— very lady-like young persons— turned around and strolled away. The two young men were gazing over the tops of the trees. An old lady who was knitting seemed to find some cause for personal offence in this simple expression of contentment. Unfortunately, an elderly gentleman of kindly deposition who was sitting on a garden seat, and who might have made some response, was stone deaf. It remained for me, therefore, either to welcome this young man or to contribute to the somewhat chilling silence.

'You see it quite at its best,' I remarked. 'With the wind in its favourable quarter, the climate here is almost perfection.'

'Guess I'll see about my room,' the young man went on, unwillingly giving over what I believe he called a 'grip' to an insistent porter.

'Are your rooms engaged?' I asked.

'Not yet,' the newcomer replied. 'I'll soon fix that all right.'

He disappeared with an air of easy confidence. There was a little exchange of smiles. The hotel was not only always impossibly full, but the whole business of getting rooms was immensely complicated from the fact that no one was ever willing to leave. We watched the disappearance of this young man into the office, and I distinctly saw signs of ill-natured but pleasurable anticipation in the faces of several people standing around.

'What an extraordinary person!' Mrs. Moggeridge exclaimed.

'American, of course,' the elder daughter observed. 'He may be very rich,' the younger one added reflectively.

'We don't want that sort of person here,' the dear old lady by my side snapped.

'Did you ever see such a get-up!' one of the young men yawned. 'Bet you they'll send him down to the Îles d'Or.'

Mr. Edmund H. Martin, however, was apparently possessed of some gifts of persuasion. When he finally emerged from the office, it was to superintend the collection of his baggage. He caught my eye and beamed upon me.

'See you later,' he promised amiably. 'I'm going to see if I can get some breakfast.'

The little air of disappointment was almost apparent. The old lady picked up her knitting and went off into the office to complain of anyone having been given a room when a friend of her cousin's, strongly recommended by herself, had been sent to another hotel only the day before. I nodded back to Mr. Edmund Martin as pleasantly as possible.

'See you down at the golf links,' I remarked.

'Sure!' he replied heartily. 'So long, all,' he added, as he moved steadily off in the direction of the restaurant.

I played my usual round of golf with an opponent of long standing. On looking up after successfully holing my putt on the last green, I found the horizon temporarily blotted out. Mr. Edmund H. Martin, looking larger than ever, was applauding my performance.

'Say, that was a dandy putt,' he declared, removing a large cigar from his mouth. 'You come right along in with me and I'll mix you a cocktail.'

Every natural instinct I possessed prompted me to refuse this— to me— somewhat extraordinary invitation. It was not my habit to take anything to drink in the morning except sometimes a little Dubonnet and soda, and I was already conscious of the somewhat supercilious interest aroused in my companion by the familiarity of this extraordinary young man. The refusal, however, seemed to wither away upon my lips.

'Thank you very much,' I replied. 'I shall have to offer my opponent a little refreshment in exchange for his five francs.'

'Why, that's all right,' the young man declared heartily, leading the way towards the pavilion. 'I'll mix for the whole crowd. I'll give you something that will put a little sting into your carcass.'

I am convinced that this young man was possessed of certain mesmeric powers. My opponent, who was in a very bad temper, and who was also a retired colonel, but a soldier, as he was sometimes pleased to explain, followed meekly in my wake. We watched the little bar being turned upside down and we watched the preparation of a concoction which I, for my part, was perfectly certain must inevitably prove highly injurious.

In the end, however, we not only drank the wineglassful of yellow-white liquid which was tendered to us, but I am bound to say that we enjoyed it. My opponent crossed his legs and began to explain his defeat. I myself was conscious of a pleasant sense of good-fellowship. I inquired our new friend's name and introduced him to several of the habitués.

'What about a round with me this afternoon, Colonel?' he suggested insinuatingly.

'I shall be delighted,' I assented promptly, abandoning without hesitation my principle of an hour's sleep after luncheon.

Our new friend mixed cocktails for several of the people to whom I introduced him, and we left him there, looking hungrily around for a new victim.

'Something about that drink,' my companion remarked lazily, as we strolled up to the hotel, 'which seems to have done me good, Green. You really did play a fine game this morning.'

'I was very lucky to beat you,' I declared modestly. 'You were driving much straighter than I was... I never thought that these American drinks were so pleasant. Let us sit down and watch the tennis for a few minutes. Most becoming costume these young ladies wear nowadays.'

We sat there for some time, basking in the sunshine and chatting amiably. I enjoyed my lunch none the less for finding our new friend only a few tables off and receiving a very hearty greeting from him. I found him, according to arrangement, waiting upon the tee at two o'clock.

'What,' I asked him, 'is your handicap?' He grinned.

'Never mind about mine. What's yours?'

'I am twelve,' I replied diffidently; 'but I occasionally play a nine game.'

'I am about the same myself,' he announced. 'We'll start level, anyway.'

He insisted upon my taking the honour, and I drove what I considered to be an excellent ball, within forty yards of the green. My opponent, discarding the driver which the caddy offered him, took a light iron from his bag and hit a ball farther than I have ever seen it propelled by human means before. He carried the green and very nearly disappeared into the hedge beyond. As soon as I had recovered, I announced my intention of returning to the pavilion.

'I am not going to play with a Braid in disguise,' I told him. 'If you can do that sort of thing, you ought to have told me.'

He took me by the arm almost affectionately. Against my will, but without any desire for resistance, I was led along the course.

'Say, Colonel,' he confided, 'I'm a holy terror from the tee. You wait till you see me drive! But it's those rotten little shots I can't manage. And as to putting— well, you wait! I can't seem to keep the ball on the green, even.'

I played a very nice approach within a couple of yards of the pin. My opponent overran the green about sixty yards, cheerfully missed his third, and was nearly back again in the hedge with his fourth. I won the hole and recovered my good humour.

'It would be worth your while,' I remarked, as I watched him drive nearly three hundred yards, 'to give a little time to your short game.'

'I always mean to practise,' he agreed. 'No chance in New York, though.'

We had a very interesting match, which I succeeded in winning. I was then initiated into the mysteries of a Scotch highball, after which I felt it advisable to go and have a nap before dinner. When I descended to the lounge, a little earlier than usual, I discovered Mr. Edmund H. Martin, attired, to my relief, in conventional if somewhat eccentric dinner garb, seated in an easy chair with a cigarette in his mouth, and a small memorandum book, which he was studying in a puzzled fashion, held up in front of him. The moment I appeared he held up two fingers to a waiter, who disappeared as though by magic.

'That's all right, Colonel,' he exclaimed, as I watched the man's hasty exit. 'He's got a couple of the right sort on ice for us. Just sit down for a moment, will you? What is this game all the nice old ladies here want me to play with them?'

I took the memorandum book from his hand. Down the engagement columns, at intervals for the next fortnight, were such entries as— 'Mrs. H.,' 'Mrs. A.,' 'Miss Fuzzy-Wuzzy,' 'Miss Giglamps,' and various other fancy pseudonyms, some of which I readily recognized.

'Had to put down something where I didn't catch the names,' he pointed out. 'What is the game, anyway?'

'Auction bridge, of course,' I told him. 'They are all crazy on it here. Can't you play?'

'Not that I know of,' he replied evasively. 'I never tried.'

'Then what on earth did you accept all these invitations for?'

I had clearly cornered Mr. Edmund H. Martin. He scratched his chin reflectively.

'What was I to do?' he grumbled. 'I like to be friendly with everyone, and I hate to say "No" when a lady comes up and asks me to join in a simple little game of cards.'

'That's all very well,' I objected, 'but you can't play the game. You'll spoil the rubber.'

'Not I,' he assured me cheerfully. 'Between you and me, there's nothing with cards I can't do. Just you watch here.'

He took a pack of cards from his pocket and for several moments I watched him, almost stupefied. Cards came up from his neck, down his trousers legs, they fell in little showers upon the table, apparently from mid-air. He even produced an ace of spades from my shirt-front.

'You see, I'm no mug,' he declared modestly. 'As for this particular game, why, I'll just look into the rules. You haven't got a book about it, have you?'

I sipped the most insinuating contents of one of the glasses which the waiter had just brought us, and afterwards I fetched him my Badsworth and left him studying it. That night I saw him, one of four solemn performers, seated, smileless and eager, at a card-table in a corner of the lounge. He joined me at about ten o'clock. He looked a little older and was glancing about feverishly for a waiter.

'Get through all right?' I inquired.

'I guess so,' he answered. 'I fell a bit behind now and then, but as soon as I tumbled to it that we weren't playing for money, I dealt my partner a hundred aces once or twice, and that made things all right because she kept on having to play the hands. They are talking about it all over the hotel. It seems that no one has had a hundred aces six times in one evening before.'

'Look here,' I begged him earnestly, 'you mustn't be up to any of those tricks here. The people wouldn't understand it. Bridge is a very solemn function, and they wouldn't take it as a joke, anyhow.'

'Joke? It wasn't a joke at all,' he assured me. 'I did it on purpose. If you'd seen my partner's face as she kept on picking 'em up— dear old thing about seventy, she was, with a blue ribbon in her hair— you'd have forgiven me fast enough. She clean forgot a kind of lapse I'd had, playing the hand before. Why, I tell you I made quite a hit. They've asked me to play with them every Tuesday till the hotel closes.'

'But you're only going to stay a fortnight,' I reminded him.

'That's their trouble,' he replied. 'Anyway, I've taken a fancy to the game.'

I induced him without difficulty to partake of a little refreshment with me, and left him, half an hour later, in a deserted corner of the lounge, with a large whisky-and-soda by his side and a freshly lit cigar in his mouth, dealing out four hands, and, after referring to Badsworth, carefully playing the cards.

'There's something in this game,' he declared cheerfully, as he bade me good night. 'I'll have the hang of it all right by to-morrow.'

FOR THE NEXT few days, although spasmodically I saw a great deal of my new friend, I was compelled to deny myself any close association with him owing to the presence of my sister, Lady Chalmont, who had come over from Cannes to stay with me. On the fourth day after her arrival, however, I took her to a little out-of-door restaurant at Carcaran. We were in the middle of a very excellent lunch when a familiar voice from the other side of a clump of rhododendron bushes attracted our attention. My sister listened for a moment.

'It is your delightfully original friend, Mr. Edmund H. Martin, as he calls himself!' she exclaimed. 'Do let us get him to come and join us.'

We both rose and moved towards the narrow path which led through a tangle of rhododendron shrubs to the next table. Then my sister, who was leading, stopped short and turned to me with a frown. A little peal of distinctly feminine laughter reached us from the other side of the shrubs.

'Perhaps you had better first ascertain who Mr. Martin's companions are,' she remarked dryly.

She returned to her seat, whilst I threaded the winding path and came out upon a little luncheon party in the small green enclosure. There were several pails from which protruded the necks of gold-foiled bottles. There was a profusion of food and fruit upon the table, and there was Mr. Edmund H. Martin, red in the face and very jovial in appearance, the central figure of one of the most disreputable companies I have ever set eyes upon. The ladies who sat on either side of him were, to use a mild adjective, cosmopolitan. Of the two men, one looked like a cross between a country bookmaker and a prize-fighter, and the other was a Frenchman whom I knew slightly, a man who notoriously lived by his wits in any place upon the Riviera where he found himself able to induce an hotel proprietor to give him credit.

My new friend, who was wearing a very light grey suit and another amazing tie, was in the act of indulging in a hearty laugh. Suddenly he saw me. The laugh faded away. He sat with his mouth wide open for a moment. Then he waved his hand with a feeble attempt at boisterous cordiality.

'Why, Colonel,' he exclaimed, 'I thought that you'd taken your sister back to Cannes to-day!'

'My sister has decided to remain with me a little longer,' I told him, 'so I brought her over here to lunch. I thought I heard your voice and it occurred to my sister that if you were alone—'

'I'd like to introduce my friend,' Martin interrupted. 'This is Colonel Green— Major Grinley,' he began, indicating the Englishman of pugilistic appearance; 'Monsieur le Comte de Faux,' he went on, motioning towards the Frenchman; 'Mademoiselle— well, these French names fairly bother me,' he wound up confidentially, 'but these two young ladies are friends of the Comte.'

He looked at me wistfully, as though anxious to see how I should accept the situation. I contented myself with a general bow. It was perfectly easy to see that my arrival was disconcerting to the little party.

'Did you say that Lady Chalmont was with you?'

'She is on the other side of the rhododendron bush,' I told him.

The young man sprang to his feet.

'Say, isn't that bully!' he exclaimed, looking almost miserable. 'You'll excuse me, Comte and young ladies? I must just pay my respects to Lady Chalmont.'

'You'll come back?' they all cried in unison.

'Right away,' he assured them heartily. 'Now then, Colonel.'

I led him along the narrow path in silence. My sister really behaved quite charmingly. She had commenced, in fact, to share my unaccountable partiality for the young man, and although she shook her head reproachfully, her tone was still good-humoured.

'Mr. Martin,' she demanded, 'tell us exactly what you are doing here?'

'Just a few friends,' he exclaimed— 'a little luncheon party got together on the spur of the moment.'

'I heard ladies' voices,' my sister insisted. 'Are your guests from the hotel?'

'Not exactly,' Martin admitted. 'The young ladies are friends of the Comte. We fixed this up down at the Casino last night. A very charming man, the Comte de Faux.'

'Where did you get hold of Major Grinley?' I asked dryly.

'An officer in your British Army, sir,' Martin reminded us. 'He is out here just now on a most important affair of business. He is representing, in fact, a syndicate of British financiers.'

I groaned. My sister leaned a little forward.

'Mr. Martin,' she asked kindly, 'how much have they had out of you already?'

The young man looked a little hurt.

'Lady Chalmont, I don't know why you should allude
to my friends—'

'How much?' my sister persisted.

'I was fortunate enough to run across the Comte,' Martin replied stiffly, 'last night when he was in urgent need of five hundred francs, and I have obliged Major Grinley by cashing a cheque for him— a friend's cheque.'

'For a large amount?' I inquired.

'A matter of forty pounds— a mere trifle.'

'It might have been worse,' I remarked laconically.

Our young friend stood before us with his hands in his pockets, looking very much like a guilty schoolboy who has been found out in some peccadillo.

'You don't seem to like my guests, Colonel,' he observed dejectedly.

I shook my head.

'I know both of them by reputation. Would you be annoyed if I told you exactly what I thought of them? In any case, I will risk it so far as to tell you that I think they are both crooks.'

'A French nobleman and a major in your British Army!' he protested.

'Excellent material in adversity,' I assured him.

Martin was looking rather like a spoilt child. My sister laughed outright at him.

'It's no use looking cross, Mr. Martin,' she declared. 'You know very well that my brother is only speaking for your good, and you must admit that you are just a little inclined to make friends easily, aren't you?'

'As a matter of fact,' I inquired, 'where did you meet them?'

'We met in the buffet of the Gare de Lyon and travelled down to Hyères together,' Martin explained. 'Most agreeable journey it was, too.'

'Did you play cards?' my sister asked innocently.

'A little poker game,' he admitted. 'I won a trifle.'

Knowing something of this young man's methods with cards, I turned away to hide a smile. He left us a few minutes afterwards, and we heard the enthusiastic reception accorded him by his little party of guests on his return. I paid the bill in silence and we strolled up to where the car was waiting for us.

'I am afraid that your interesting young American friend has got into rather bad hands,' my sister sighed.

'I am sure of it,' I agreed.

'We'll talk to him to-morrow,' she continued. 'He really is a most extraordinary young person, but I can't help feeling a certain amount of interest in him. He seems very simple to be wandering about the world alone.'

'He has lived in New York for some years,' I remarked dubiously.

'Oh, I am not saying that he is unintelligent,' she declared, 'but he is far too ingenuous and trusting.... Tell the man to drive very slowly, Henry, and take the road back through the peach orchards.'

WE INVITED Martin to lunch with us the next day, and at about half-past twelve he duly arrived, the greater part of his person obscured by a bunch of violets as big as a bucket, which he gallantly offered to my sister. No allusion whatever was made to our meeting of the day before, but about half-way through the meal he leaned over the table a little confidentially.

'Say, Colonel,' he inquired, 'how do I get hold of money down here?'

'It depends upon the amount,' I replied dryly.

'Oh, not very much— say three thousand pounds.'

'You take the bus into the town and ask for the English bank,' I told him. 'You get them to wire to your bankers in London, and by this time to-morrow you would probably be able to draw it.'

'Capital!' he declared. 'We couldn't do much better than that at home.'

'But, Mr. Martin,' my sister asked seriously, 'what do you want three thousand pounds for?'

He beamed upon us both.

'To tell you the truth,' he confided,' I have had a very interesting speculation suggested to me.'

'By the Comte de Faux or Major Grinley?' my sister inquired.

'Say, how did you guess that?' Martin exclaimed. 'You're dead right, anyway. Like to hear about it?'

My sister sighed.

'Immensely!'

'And you. Colonel?'

'Of course!'

He glanced around to be sure that our table was out of the reach of eavesdroppers. His voice became more rounded, even portentous.

'Say,' he began, 'there's one thing I don't want you two people to misunderstand. My friends the Comte and Major Grinley are on the square all right, but they've been badly treated. They showed me the whole correspondence, and they've been white all the way through. If what they are suggesting at the present moment seems to you a bit like sharp practice on the men who've sent them out here, you must remember that, after all, it's every man for himself in this world.'

'It is,' I agreed, 'and every man has to look out for himself.'

'Now the Comte and Major Grinley,' Martin continued,' have been sent out here on behalf of an English syndicate of capitalists to inquire into a wonderful mineral-water spring not many miles away from this spot, and to make terms for securing the same, providing everything was O.K. The purchase price was not to exceed thirty thousand pounds for the spring itself and the woods surrounding it— an estate of some two thousand acres. The Comte and Major Grinley, if they succeeded in bringing the thing off, were to have so much in shares and so much cash; I have seen that in writing. And there's another thing to be remembered. It was the Comte who discovered the spring, as it is only a few miles away from the boundary of his own property.'

'So the Comte has property here?' I interrupted.

'I should say so,' Martin declared. 'Now they've bottled some of the water and sent it to London and had a favourable report. They've interviewed the proprietor— he is little more than a French peasant— and they've managed to work the price down to twenty-five thousand pounds. It's a magnificent property and, believe me, there's a huge fortune in the mineral spring. The Comte and Major Grinley have given no end of time to this matter and spent a great deal of money. Now they've made their report and the men at the head of the syndicate are hesitating. They are grumbling about giving the Comte and Major Grinley any interest in the five thousand pounds they arc saving, and they talk of sending another man out to make a special report. The long and short of it is, there's no money in London. They can't raise the stuff. And here are my two friends committed to the purchase of that estate for twenty-five thousand pounds, and the deposit's got to be paid over this week.'

'A very awkward situation,' I admitted.

Martin nodded. He seemed encouraged by our sympathetic attitude.

'Well,' he proceeded, with an air of growing importance, 'they came to me and they asked my advice as an American man of business, and I guess I let them have it quick. What I said was, if the value is really there, get an offer elsewhere. If the syndicate don't act up to their promises, throw 'em overboard. That's their own look-out. At first I couldn't get either the Comte or Major Grinley to see it. The worst of these aristocrats and army folk is that they've an exaggerated sense of honour, you know. No use at all in business.'

I choked a little and hastily drank some wine. My sister did not even smile. She was hanging upon Martin's words.

'However, I talked 'em over,' he concluded, pulling his waistcoat down with an air of satisfaction, 'and here's the long and short of it. I'm going to buy that spring and estate, and if you two feel in any way interested—why, I'll take you both up there to have a look at it this afternoon.'

'As to the value—' I began.

'Wait till you've looked over the place,' Martin begged me. 'It's not more than half an hour's ride from here. What do you say?'

'I should be delighted to go,' my sister assented.

AN HOUR or so later we arrived at a lonely spot on the top of a range of hills between Toulon and Hyères. We all descended, and our young friend led the way across a stony field, planted with a few unwholesome-looking vines, and past a whitewashed hovel in a wood.

'Is this the place?' I asked dubiously.

'This is the place,' Martin replied. 'The spring is just a little farther in.'

Some efforts had evidently been made to preserve the spring itself from trespassers. There was a barbed-wire fence around it, and a small gate secured by a padlock. A man who had presumably seen us approach issued from the hovel and with many bows produced a key. Martin drew out a phrase-book from his pocket.

'Ont les messieurs, Comte de Faux et Major Grinley visités ici aujourd-hui?' he demanded, speaking a little louder than usual, with the idea, apparently, of making his words more easily apprehended.

'Mais non, monsieur,' the man replied.

'C'est bien!' Martin declared, replacing the phrase-book in his pocket. 'Ouvrez la porte, s'il vous plaît.'

We were conducted into a glade and shown the spot where the water came bubbling up from an undoubted spring. Our guide produced a tin mug. We tasted the water and on the whole approved. It was, without doubt, excellent. Then we wandered a little farther through the wood and out on the other side. The land, so far as one could see, was stony and poorly cultivated, but the view was magnificent. At our feet lay the harbour of Toulon, and beyond, the blue Mediterranean. The peasant and my sister talked fluently, and Martin made unhappy attempts to follow their conversation with the aid of the phrase-book. Finally, we left the place and took our seats once more in the automobile.

'Pretty spot.' Martin remarked tentatively.

'Very,' I agreed.

'And the water seems good?'

'I am not much of a judge of water,' I replied guardedly, 'but I should say that it was good water.'

We drove down towards San Salvadour almost in silence.

'I am going to buy that place,' Martin announced presently.

It would appear that the time had arrived for plain speech. It had become perfectly clear to me, during my very brief acquaintance with this young man, that sooner or later he was foredoomed to become the prey of one or more of those many adventurers whom one meets in all places of the world.

My sister Mary and I had talked this matter over and we had both come to the same conclusion. His simple, trustful nature and complete guilelessness, while it made him, in a sense, an attractive companion, were a very evil equipment for a young man so completely alone in the world. Major Grinley and the Comte de Faux were both acquaintances of mine, but I felt it my duty to speak out.

'Martin,' I said, dropping at that moment and for ever afterwards any more formal habit of speech, 'I feel it my duty to warn you against doing anything of the sort. The very fact that these two men are concerned in the transaction makes me suspicious. They are, to speak frankly, nothing more or less than adventurers. They have selected you as a probable victim. Take my advice and have nothing whatever to do with them.'

The smile faded from our young friend's face. A look of deep dejection took its place.

'Say, you're not serious. Colonel?'

'My brother is not only serious,' Mary intervened, 'but I am bound to say that I entirely agree with him. You must take our advice, Mr. Martin, and have nothing more to do with the matter.'

'You must see for yourself,' I added,' that twenty-five thousand pounds for two thousand acres of wood and stony fields seems a little excessive.'

'It's the spring, Colonel,' Martin explained eagerly. 'It's astonishing the craze there is for water nowadays, even over on our side. People will pay anything for it—the right sort, that is. I tell you, sir, there are millions of dollars in that spring.'

'That may be so,' I replied dryly,' but I do not think that in any transactions with the Comte de Faux and Major Grinley, the millions, or any part of them, will come into your pocket.'

Our young friend relapsed into deep and gloomy silence. We drove back through San Salvadour and Costabelle into Hyères, and at his request dropped him at the bank. My sister returned to the hotel and I myself looked in at the Casino for an hour, as was sometimes my custom during the afternoon.

The first persons I saw when I entered the concert room were the Comte de Faux and Major Grinley, sitting at one of the small tables outside of the American bar and talking earnestly together. Both men recognized me when I entered, and I saw a meaning glance pass between them. Immediately afterwards they rose and approached me.

'Colonel Green, isn't it?' Major Grinley exclaimed, holding out his hand. 'We have not met for some time.'

'Monsieur the Colonel!' the Frenchman echoed, with a low bow.

I shook hands with them cordially enough— there was no particular object in betraying my suspicions. As soon as they perceived my attitude, they were most effusive and insisted upon my taking a whisky-and-soda with them.

'We were wondering,' Major Grinley said, 'what had become of our very interesting young American friend, Mr. Martin.'

'I left him in the town,' I replied. 'We lunched with him to-day and have just been out to see the spring.'

They were both decidedly anxious.

'Yes?' Major Grinley muttered interrogatively.

'A marvellous spring!' the Frenchman declared. 'Such water! Such purity! Such a flavour!'

'If we succeed in this little transaction of ours,' Major Grinley told me confidentially, 'it should mean at least a hundred thousand pounds in your young friend's pocket. Within two years it will be perfectly easy to float a company for ten times what Mr. Martin is giving for it.'

'I am not a financier,' I confessed, 'and I know nothing of the value of property out here, but twenty-five thousand pounds seems to me rather a large sum.'

Major Grinley set himself to efface that impression. He told me of the profits of Perrier water, he spoke of the fabulous fortunes which had been made by the most inoffensive-looking streams. Every now and then the Frenchman came to his aid in a sort of staccato chorus.

'Well, after all,' I concluded, 'it is Mr. Martin's own business. He seems very young to be travelling about the world alone and to have the control of his own money, but I suppose his guardians consider him competent.'

'He is a young man of great wealth, eh?' the Frenchman inquired. 'There is no doubt about his position?'

'I know nothing whatever about the matter,' I replied, a little stiffly. 'For anything I know, in fact, he may be an adventurer.'

I took my leave of the two men a few minutes afterwards, and returned to the hotel. For the next two days my time was fully taken up with golf and picnic engagements, and I saw nothing of my new acquaintance. I noticed that his table was unoccupied, and upon inquiry from the head porter I learnt that he was spending a day or two with the Comte de Faux, who had a villa in the neighbourhood. On the fourth day, he turned up at the hotel with his two friends. We all met in the hall and Martin insisted that I should join them for luncheon. I gathered that the little deal had been concluded with complete satisfaction to both parties. Major Grinley and the Comte de Faux were miracles of good humour and contentment, and Martin was full of the exuberant spirits of youth. Major Grinley, towards the close of luncheon, raised his glass.

'I drink,' he said, 'to the future of the sweet water of the San Mona Spring!'

'You have really bought it, then, Martin?' I asked.

'Mr. Martin,' the Comte de Faux explained, 'has this morning signed an agreement to purchase from us the San Mona Spring Estate for twenty-five thousand pounds. Your young friend, Colonel, is to be much congratulated. I venture to promise you that if in twelve months' time he should care to part with his interest, my friend Grinley here and I could turn the affair into a company with a capital of from a hundred to a hundred and fifty thousand pounds.'

I went on with my luncheon and said nothing. The Comte turned presently to me.

'You do not appreciate, I fear, this good fortune which has come to your young friend,' he remarked.

I shrugged my shoulders.

'I know nothing of land values out here,' I replied. 'To me it seems an awful price to pay for a barren hillside and a tiny spring.'

'It is the tiny spring,' the Comte de Faux declared, 'from which the money comes bubbling up. And then, behold! As the waters become known, hotels will arise like mushrooms, hotels and villas, golf courses, and why not a Casino? Upon whose land, I ask you? Upon the land of this young man! He has acquired it all. Considering his youth, Mr. Martin is a wonderful man of business. He is so keen upon his bargain that he has made us consent to a forfeit of ten thousand francs should we fail to hand over the title deeds to him this week. His only fear is lest he might lose this wonderful chance.'

I bowed.

'Mr. Martin doubtless knows his own business.'

'You bet!' my young friend agreed, solemnly winking at me from behind a vase of carnations. 'Of course, I'm a beginner at these sort of speculations, but the Mona Spring deal is going to be all right. I've lost a bit here and there— want of experience, you know, and all that— but you can bet your bottom dollar that I'm all right this time.'

I took leave of the three a little later on, and they all drove off together to the town in high good humour. I was sorry to part with Martin, for, curiously enough, during the last few days I had quite missed his company. About four o'clock, however, he returned alone. He was in a hired victoria, and, to my surprise, I saw that he was bringing all his luggage. I stepped out to meet him.

'Hullo!' I exclaimed. 'I thought you were going to stay with the Comte for a few days more?'

He overpaid his coachman disgracefully and laid his hand familiarly upon my shoulder.

'There was some talk about it,' he admitted. 'I felt like coming back, though.'

'Any trouble with your friends?' I inquired. 'I thought you all seemed so pleased with one another and your deal to-day.'

'That's just it,' Martin sighed. 'I rather expected to go on feeling pleased myself, but I am not so sure about those other two. We'll talk about it later. Say, is your sister still here?'

'She is out for a picnic to-day,' I told him.

'Then you'll both dine with me to-night?' Martin insisted. 'Not a word! I shall expect you at half-past seven.'

MY SISTER and I were a few minutes late for dinner that evening. When we took our places, we found our table was covered with a perfect canopy of flowers. A magnum of champagne stood by its side in an ice-pail, and Martin welcomed us with a face like the rising sun.

'Just a little celebration,' he explained cheerfully, as we took our places... 'Gee whiz! Look what's coming!'

Down the middle of the room, unescorted by any waiter, approached in great haste Monsieur le Comte de Faux, followed by Major Grinley. They were still in morning clothes, and they had the appearance of having just left their automobile. They came straight to our table and they both forgot to bow to my sister. They stood over Martin, taking up positions one on either side of him.

'If you imagine for a single moment,' Major Grinley began, his voice shaking with passion, 'that we, the Comte and I, are going to be swindled in this manner by a child of your years, let me assure you—'

'It is a public room, this,' the Comte interrupted, striking his hands together. 'Behold! I shall smack you on the face unless some instant and satisfactory explanation be tendered. I ask you, sir, is this a joke?'

Martin had been leaning back in his chair, turning from one to the other. His expression of blank amazement was wonderful.

'Say, I'm not exactly catching on,' he confessed pleasantly. 'Put it in plain words, will you— one at a time, if possible?'

'Behind our backs,' the Comte declared dramatically, 'you sought out the honest peasant, Jean Lecrois, and you have purchased from him the San Mona Spring Estate. You have paid Jean Lecrois two thousand one hundred pounds. I have seen the receipt.'

'Look here,' Martin suggested, 'let's talk this over. You came to me, didn't you, and you offered to sell me the San Mona Spring Estate for twenty-five thousand pounds?'

'You agreed to buy it!' they both exclaimed in unison.

'Let us put the matter down in black and white,' Martin continued smoothly. 'As a matter of fact, you had already the offer of the property from Jean Lecrois for two thousands pounds. You were out here to buy it for a syndicate who would have given five thousand pounds. Instead of concluding the deal and pocketing a very handsome profit, you were apparently led away by the prospect of making a fortune at one coup out of a mug. Now listen, gentlemen. Did you or did you not propose to sell to me for twenty-five thousand pounds an estate you were buying for two thousand, and which you were pledged to hand over to a syndicate for five?'

The Comte closed his eyes and waved his hands in frantic gesticulation.

'That has nothing to do with it,' he almost shrieked. 'The point remains that you intervened and bought the estate for yourself behind our backs.'

Martin grinned broadly.

'It was a shabby trick,' he confessed, winking furtively at me.

Major Grinley plunged into the discussion with a change of tactics.

'Look here,' he suggested, 'let us talk reasonably. We were perhaps foolish to try and make too big a thing of this. We honestly believed the estate to be of vast value. The five thousand pounds offered by the syndicate was a ridiculous price.'

'You would have made three thousand pounds profit,' Martin reminded them.

Once more the Comte's gesticulations were almost feverish.

'What is that?' he demanded. 'Such chances come in one's way but seldom. You have stepped in and bought the estate. Very well, we must accept defeat. You have bought it for two thousand one hundred pounds, so you will not buy it from us for twenty-five thousand pounds now. All that we ask is what you, as a man of honour, cannot fail to grant. Make it over to us at the price you bought it at.'

'So that you may still make your three thousand pounds profit,' Martin remarked. 'That's the idea, is it?'

'It is our affair entirely,' Major Grinley insisted. 'You knew nothing about the estate, nothing about the spring. It was we who took you there.'

Martin was suddenly grave. A change had come over his boyish face. His pink and white complexion seemed less manifest. He was the man of affairs, solemn and impressive.

'Look here,' he said, 'you took me out there to rob me. I wasn't quite the mug you thought me. I knew you, Comte de Faux, when you used to play billiards for a living at a little hotel off Fourth Avenue. As for you, Major Grinley, there's an Army List in the next room.

'You've some record, haven't you? What I think you'd both better understand is this. You set yourselves out to rob me, and you've had the worst of it. I have bought the San Mona Spring Estate and I am going to develop it. So there's an end of that. And now listen to me. You come here blustering, but the boot's on the other leg. You owe me a forfeit of ten thousand francs for not concluding your agreement to sell me the estate. Don't interrupt, please. And let me just remind you that the manager is over there with his eye upon you. He doesn't like brawlers in the dining-room. Take my advice. Go outside into the lounge. Sit down and think it over. If you've anything to say when we come out from dinner, I'll listen to it.'

They went out of the room like dazed men. We saw the lights of their automobile flash by the window a moment later. Martin's features gradually relaxed. Once more he became the ingenuous youth.

'We shan't see them again in a hurry,' he remarked. 'Waiter, open that magnum.'

_____________________

14: The Guardian Angel

Arthur Gask

1869-1951

Chronicle (Adelaide) 4 April 1935

The small un-named hotel is probably that of Waukaringa, which was about 50 miles north of the railway line mentioned. The hotel has been derelict for many years, abandoned apparently in the late 1960s or early 1970s..

ONE burning summer day in South Australia, towards late afternoon, two men were drinking in the bar of a small hotel, situated about 50 miles north of the railway line that runs its long and dreary way between Yunta and Broken Hill.

They looked hard-bitten and well-salted adventurers, if the world had dealt unkindly to them, had nevertheless at all times been prepared to pass on that unkindness to others to the best of their abilities.

One of them was tall, with hawk-like face and eyes, and of an appearance generally not unlike that of a bird of prey, and the other of much shorter stature, with coarse and sallow features, would certainly not have inspired confidence upon a chance encounter in a lonely place.

The hotel stood by itself, and was the last of the ramshackle buildings, comprising the little township that lay isolated in the surrounding wilderness of uninhabited bush.

The men were strangers to the hotel, having arrived barely an hour previously, in a shabby car that now stood blistering outside, and it annoyed the landlord considerably that he could learn nothing about them.

With the confiding nature of one to whom it was at all times a pleasure to impart information, he had, unasked, given them the news of the little township, but to all his scarcely veiled suggestions that they should be communicative in return, they had made no response.

They had just, from time to time, ordered more refreshment, and in the intervals replied curtly, and in monosyllables only, to his advances.

Their reticence was the more annoying because the landlord was sure, from everything about them, that a frank disclosure of their business would have greatly interested him. That they had been prospecting after gold he had no doubt, and that they had been unsuccessful in their quest he was equally as certain.

He had not kept a hotel for ten years in a gold-bearing district for nothing, and all the signs of "no luck" were most unmistakably apparent. They showed no eagerness or hurry to get away, and no indications even, that they themselves knew what they were going to do next. They seemed, he thought, to be men who having failed in one direction, were now just waiting for another to open up.

Resentful at having to do all the talking, their palpable unfriendliness at last stung him into silence, and resigning himself to the inevitable, he imitated their bored attitudes and stared stonily, out of the window. Suddenly then, the brisk 'toot-toot' of a motor horn was heard in the distance, and at once his face brightened.

"Ah!" he exclaimed with animation, "that's Bent Spinks. I'd know his horn anywhere." He shot a malicious glance at the strangers. "He strikes it rich every time."

The tall man at last deigned to ask a question.

"Where?" he asked carelessly.

"Where!" echoed the landlord grin-ning, "why, everywhere! He always makes his pile."

The tall man made no comment, but the landlord, his amiability now in part restored, went on, "Yes. I'll bet he carries a couple of hundred with him every time he comes through here, and it's four journeys he makes a year." He became more explanatory.

"He's a travelling draper and covers six or seven hundred miles each trip. Very smart man, and going to be married soon."

A gaily-colored light delivery van pulled up before the hotel and a dapper little man alighted and entered the bar. He shook hands with the land-lord and ordered a long beer. He noticed the strangers.

"Evening, gentlemen," he said politely, "a hot day." The strangers nodded without replying, the taller of them, however, eyeing him intently.

The draper was of slight physique and of a rather foreign appearance. He had a sallow, oval face and large dark eyes, and he sported a heavy moustache, with the ends spikily waxed. He chatted with the landlord, as he sipped his beer slowly.

"I shall be staying the night, Sam," he said presently. "I've a little job to do on the car."

He took out his watch and clicked his tongue.

"Gee! but tea must be coming on. It's nearly six o'clock."

The shorter of the two strangers thereupon at once looked at his own watch and rising to has feet, picked up his hat. He motioned to his companion and moved towards the door. But the voice of the hawk-faced man broke in quietly.

"We want tea, too, landlord. We shall be sleeping here tonight."

The short man, after a moment's hesitation put down his hat and, with no comment, resumed his seat. In the meal that followed, strangely enough, the little draper, in spite of the good fare provided, had anything but a pleasant time. He had sat down prepared to enjoy everything, and then all at once he began to worry and lose all interest in the food.

It was not that he found himself in stiff or disagreeable company. On the contrary, for the two strangers, the only others there, were chatty, and affable in manner.

They discussed things in general; the weather, the likelihood of rain coming and the varying merits of different motor cars. They appeared in-terested in all he said, and laughed appreciatively when he trotted out some of his old stock jokes. Indeed, altogether their behavior was only what one would have expected of ordinary, good-natured travellers at a casual meeting.

Still the little draper was not happy, for his instinct was telling him that, for some reason, he had become an object of special interest to them, and very soon he was sensing an atmosphere of danger as when, in his commercial ventures, someone was trying to jockey him into a bad deal.

So he was not by any means in an easy frame of mind during the meal, and when later he retired to his room and prepared for bed, thinking every-thing over, he soon became positively afraid.

He had a good sum of money with him, and he was sure the men were crooks. They looked hard-up crooks, too, and the tall one, particularly, he was certain, would stick at nothing, for his eyes were hard and cruel and his mouth was set in a pitiless straight line.

He thought then of his journey on the morrow, and the forty-seven long miles he would have to cover before he struck the next township, and fellow-men again. What then if they held him up and robbed him? He knew the dirt-track would be good, and if appearances counted for anything, he would easily be able to out-distance them in his car. But that would not help him if they got away first and laid in wait for him, say, at Binders Creek, ten miles out.

He would have to slow down to walking pace when crossing the bed of the creek there, and they would be able to get him without any trouble if they were so minded to.

His heart beat violently as, sitting upon the bed, he stared out into the shadows with frightened eyes. That he was not the man to put up a fight he was quite aware. Certainly there was a pistol in one of the side-pockets of the car, but he would never dare to use it, for his, he knew, was not the courage of lethal weapons. His bravery was of the commercial kind, and there, he prided himself, he could hold his own with anyone and chance his profits almost to the razor's edge. But fighting—that was a different matter, and he would never fit the bill.

For a long time he thought everything over and then his pulse began to slow down and his confidence to come back. He saw what he must do! He would be up and away by daylight, and then, whether his suspicions were justified or not, he could escape all chances of being held up. He made sure that his door was securely fastened and then, without undressing, threw himself upon the bed.

But sleep was long in coming, for the moment he had put out his candle all his fears came back, and he tossed and fidgeted until in the end he thought he would be awake all night. But Nature had her way at last, and towards morning he sank into a troubled slumber.

The night waned and the dawn grew dim, but he slept on heavily, until suddenly he was awakened in the crisis of a dreadful dream. It was a dream that froze him to the marrow, for it struck at him in a vital spot. He dreamed that he had sold a woman a line of towelling, three pillow-slips, and a colored counterpane, all of good quality, and she had not paid for them and he did not remember either her name or address. It was a dreadful dream and he awoke shivering, and in a muck sweat.

He rubbed his eyes and then sprang in consternation from the bed, for it was broad daylight, and he heard a car being started up in the yard. He looked at his watch and saw that it was past 8 o'clock.

Darting to the window, he was just in time to catch sight of the two strangers driving off in their shabby car, and he bit savagely at his moustache and his mouth grew very dry.

But daylight has always a reassuring effect upon the human mind. The phantoms of darkness lose their grip, and so often then, laughter and mocking take the place of fears.

And thus it was that morning with Bert Spinks, only a few minutes after the strangers had gone.

His first shock over, he saw he had awakened to quite a pleasant morning. A cool change had set in during the night, and the overburdening heat of the previous day had gone. He heard the landlord's wife bustling in the kitchen, and smelt the agreeable smells of coffee and an appetising grill.

He was a fool, he told himself with a sickly smile. Yes, he was a fool. It was a commonplace and everyday world in which he lived, and highway robberies and hold-ups were only picture stunts. So he took heart again, and, symptomatic of his calmer state, waxed his moustache tips to their usual points of vanishment.

After breakfast he attended to his car, and by 10 o'clock was waving a gay farewell to the landlord, as, with a gold-tipped cigarette between his lips, he drove blithely away.

But unhappily his contented state of mind did not continue for very long, and the moment he was fairly away from the township, he began to become apprehensive again. The track was so very lonely and the bush stretched for so many miles on either side! If those men were really crooks, they must have realised at once how easy it would be for them to put a bullet in him and escape all consequences of their crime, for, with his body buried under the sand, and his car driven deep into the bush, they could be thousands of miles away before it even began to be surmised what had happened to him.

Giving way to his fears, he had soon worked himself again into a state of absolute terror, and a mile off the dreaded Binders Creek, the last vestige of his courage left him, and he turned his car round hastily and headed back to the township.

It was instinct, he told himself. He was certain there was danger. Of course, those men were waiting for him at the creek. They would be just behind the rise on the far bank, and what their intentions were, there could be no doubt.

No, he would wait at the hotel and not take to the track again until he had someone to come with him. He could easily make some excuse to explain his return. He would say he was not feeling well, or that his car was giving trouble. Thank goodness, he was his own master and could do exactly as he liked! Quite confident then, that he was acting rightly, he drove back to the township, but, when arriving before the hotel, he saw the landlord there in conversation with another man, he felt rather sheepish and the reasons he was intending to give for his return no longer seemed quite as adequate as he had been regarding them. The landlord hailed him boisterously.

"Good gracious! Bert. Now what on earth had happened?"

"Oh! nothing much," replied the draper, now thinking all suddenly again that he was a fool. "It's only that I found I'd hardly any water in the radiator."

The landlord shook his head.

"But it's Fate that's brought you back, Bert," he said solemnly. "Fate and old Granny Henson's prayers. Pete here was to have driven the old girl down to Yunta this morning to catch the train to Adelaide, but he can't do it, because now he's got a broken axle. Granny's in a dreadful state, because there's no one else in the township to-day with a car, and it's her great-granddaughter's wedding tomorrow."

He grinned.

"I don't know whether it'll be quite proper, but you'll take her now, of course!"

The little draper drew in a deep breath. "Sure, I'll be delighted," he replied, to a voice, however, that did not sound exactly like his own. "When will she be ready to start?"

"Straightaway," said the man whom the landlord had referred to as Pete. "I'll have her here in less than ten minutes," and off he went, at a run. Bert Spinks made a pretence of filling up his radiator, and then after a stiff rum in the bar, sat down to wait for his passenger.

His feelings were mixed and, strange to say, it was amusement that was now uppermost. He had been obsessed that it was dangerous to take the track alone, and now, behold! a companion had been thrust upon him. An old woman! It was a joke! His heart palpitated unpleasantly and he had another rum.

Very quickly, in fact in less than the ten minutes specified, Granny Henson appeared. She was very old and very deaf, but she was tall, straight-backed and as stiff as a poker. She looked at the draper with a pair of very troubled eyes, and thanked him shakily for offering to take her down, but she made a great demur when she found her seat was going to be an open one, next to the driver.

"But I shall be cold," she croaked. "Can't I go inside?"

"No seats, mam," shouted back the draper, "only goods, inside. But I tell you what I'll do. I'll lend you a nice thick rug out of my stock. No,"— the rum was really very strong— "I'll give you one. A real good Onkaparinga, and you shall keep it, as a present to remember your great granddaughter's wedding day."

The old lady was hoisted up, and well tucked in, and the draper started his engine.

"Go easy, Bert," called out the landlord. "She's well over ninety, remem-ber." He winked his eye. "And no stopping on the way, even if you are not yet a married man."

The little draper winked back delightedly and letting in his clutch, for the second time that day the bonnet of the light delivery van was turned for Yunta, Adelaide, and home.

In after years Bert Spinks often thought that there was much in that ride of the nature of a dream, for, as in dreams, he felt no astonishment at anything that happened. It seemed all quite ordinary and commonplace.

As he drove along, the strong rum warmed within him, and he felt as brave as a lion. Binders Creek held no terrors for him, and he had no ap-prehension at all as to who might be waiting for him there. Indeed, he seemed to be like a man who was play-ing some huge practical joke, and he felt irresponsible and light-hearted as a boy. He shouted small-talk to the old lady and continually tootled up his horn, to amuse her by making the parrots fly up among the trees.

The bank of the creek soon hove in sight and slowing down, the draper tootled loudly half a dozen tunes, as if to make certain that anybody wait ing there should know that he was coming. It pleased him not a little to imagine that he saw two heads bob up quickly on the farther side and then, as quickly bob down again.

He dropped into the bed of the creek very slowly, talking loudly to the old lady all the time. Up the far side he crawled, and then upon the top, he came upon, just as he had been expecting, the two strangers of the previous night.

Their car was parked a little way to one side of the track, and they were both leaning against it. The hawk-faced man was frowning and his companion had got his mouth wide open, as if very surprised. Hawkface was holding his right hand in his trouser pocket.

Still proceeding very slowly, for the track was rough, and of course his passenger must not be shaken, the draper drew level with the strangers, and then with a grand flourish of his arm he gave them the time of day.

But neither of them made any response or took the slightest notice of his courtesy. All their looks were concentrated upon Granny Henson, and they stared and stared, as if for all the world they had never seen an old woman before.

It was all over in a few seconds, and then, for Bert Spinks, it was good-bye for ever to the strangers and their shabby car.

A minute later, and in spite of all protests on the part of Granny Henson, the light delivery van was touching fifty miles an hour.

Everything then proceeded without mishap, and long before noon the old lady was deposited with her friends in Yunta, there to await the departure of the train for Adelaide, whilst the draper, with no delay, and with an open throttle, took the track along the railway line to Peterborough.

There had, however, been one little poignant incident at their parting. The reaction from the two rums having long since set in, the draper had been minded to put the Onkaparinga rug back into stock, for the old lady being so very deaf, he was hoping she had not heard him offer it to her as a gift.

But he at once found that he was quite mistaken there, for whilst Granny Henson allowed him to carry in, with-out demur, all the other items of her belongings, the old fingers clutched tightly to the rug, and would not for one moment let it out of their grasp. He sighed deeply, for the selling price of the article was forty-six and six.

SOME six weeks later Bert Spinks was married to a big, strapping girl of fine proportions, and in due time a noisy little Spinks arrived to make great in-roads upon the draper's stock of baby clothes. From the very first Bert was immensely proud of his tomato-faced off-spring and, the infant being a boy, he secretly resolved to make of him a professional man. With this end in view, then, as time went on, he grudged every penny that was expended unnecessarily, and worried, when in his commercial ventures, he did not consider his profits had been large enough.

In his ruminating moments, too, it was always a grief to him that he had once parted for nothing with a genuine Onkaparinga rug, and that he had given it to an entire stranger whom he had not seen before or since. But it was one day, he excused himself, when the heat had made him foolish and he had mistaken two harmless and inoffensive prospectors for assassins of the worst bushranging type.

This memory rankled in him for a long time, but its bitterness passed, all suddenly, about five years after his meeting with Granny Henson. At a loose end one afternoon in Adelaide, he was passing down a side-street when his eyes fell upon an announcement in huge lettering that a wax-works show was being held in a small hall there.

"All the latest notabilities," he read, "and just added, James Blendiron, the infamous murderer of Blakeside Farm."

He paid the admission sixpence and went in, but the wax-works did not prove very entertaining and soon, be-coming bored, he was just about to leave again, when his attention was attracted to a small group of people who were standing in awed silence before a narrow alcove at the far end of the hall.

Idly curious as to what could be of such interest to them, he strolled over, and reading a notice above the alcove that it contained the exact represen-tation of the Blakeside Farm murderer, "true to life in every particular," he approached close up, to see what the man had been like.

Then he received such a staggering shock that his breath come in quick jerks and his legs almost gave way under him, for, to his amazement and horror, he recognised in James Blendiron, the hawk-faced man of Binder's Creek!

There was no possibility of any mistake, and the eyes glared at him now with the same relentless evil that had so filled him with fear those years ago.

He had read all about Blendiron, as indeed who in the Commonwealth had not? A man of dreadful crimes, who, at last, after long immunity, had fallen into the clutches of the law, and less than two months previously had paid the extreme penalty. The little draper wiped the perspiration from his forehead and like an evildoer himself, crept from the hall.

UPON his next journey through the bush, when he was passing, as per schedule, through the little township where Granny Henson lived, he enquired after her, and learnt, strangely enough, that she had only a few days previously passed away. As she had been the oldest inhabitant in the district, and in her hundred and first year, a public subscription was being raised to provide means for erecting a suitable headstone upon her grave.

To everyone's astonishment, Bert Spinks at once contributed five pounds.

"Now, I wonder," mused the landlord of the hotel when he heard about it. "I wonder"— he shrugged his shoulders and grinned. "But if she had only been about 80 years younger" —he chuckled— "only about 80 years, after that journey down to Yunta together— then I could have understood everything."

End

Table of Contents

- 1: The Case of Dickson's Diamonds / Scott Campbell

- 2: The Real Adventure / W. M. Rouse
- 3: The Spider’s Eye / William Le Queux
- 4: Fan-Tan / Carlton Dawe
- 5: A Modern Pirate / Culpepper Zandtt
- 6: The Red Room / H. G. Wells

- 7: The Griffin and the Minor Canon / Frank R. Stockton

- 8:
- 9: One Night of Terror / Arthur Leo Zagat
- 10: Parasite Planet / Stanley G. Weinbaum
- 11: The Man Who Killed "X" / Edgar Wallace

- 12: There Are More Things... / F. A. M. Webster

- 13: The Affair of the San Mona Spring / E. Phillips Oppenheim

- 14: The Guardian Angel / Arthur Gask