PAST MASTERS 224

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  June 2025

Contents

1: The Crowded Hour / J. J. Bell

2: The Foil / Fred M. White

3: The Fugitive / Cicely Fox Smith

4: The Missing Will / Edwin Pugh

5: The Hand at the Window / Lilian Quiller-Couch

6: Bon-Bon / Edgar Allan Poe

7: The Red Star / Fergus Hume

8: The Other Half / Edwin L. Sabin

9: The Cats of Ulthar / H. P. Lovecraft

10: Penitence / Mark Hellinger

11: The Wrath of the God / Arthur H. Adams

12: The Woman in the Cage / Beatrice Grimshaw

13: The Fowl in the Pot / Stanley J. Weyman

14: Take the Case of Dear Old George / Sydney Horler

15: The Duchess and Lady Torrent / A. E. W. Mason

16: The Man Called Smith / Thornton Lonsdale

17: The Third Chair / Edward Dyson

18: The House Party at Smoky Island / Lucy Maud Montgomery

19: The Golden Windmill / Stacy Aumonier

20: The Black Cat / Fred M. White

21: A Deep Water Dude / Capt. A. E. Dingle

22: A Wireless Outfit / J. M. Walsh

23: The Mystery of Craven's Party / C. E. Dowell

24: The Hold-Up / Harold Mercer

______________

1: The Crowded Hour

J. J. Bell

1871-1934

Sunday Times (Perth) 3 Aug 1930

A CLOCK STRUCK SIX.

In the private office the October dusk was gathering, but Richard Farrant, normally impatient of indifferent lighting, as of all inefficiencies, appeared unconscious of it.

He lay back in his chair, his attitude expressive of absorption; not, perhaps, an unusual attitude for a man still young, who, in the course of the past six years has, by sheer energy of brain and body, forced an old fashioned, moribund business into liveness and prosperity.

But, for the first time in those years, Richard was permitting himself, in business hours, to meditate on subjects which had nothing to do with commerce. For an hour his thoughts had been revolving round two things— a girl's beautiful hand, on which, for two years until this morning, he had been daily aware of an engagement ring, and a sheet of notepaper bearing two lines of typescript, now lying on the desk before him.

That there was a connection between the beautiful hand and the typescript, he could not doubt, though just what the connection might be, he could only vaguely imagine. He would have given much then to have known whether the disappearance of the engagement ring was temporary, or final.

There was a tap on the door of his secretary's room, and she came in with a sheaf of letters. Instinctively she put her free hand to the switch and the dusk was not so deep but that one could have seen it was a beautiful hand.

"No, never mind the light," said Richard, sitting up.

"Can you see to sign the letters Mr. Farrant?" she said, a hint of astonishment in her quiet voice.

"The letters can wait. Sit down Miss Belfield. I have something to say to you, or, rather, something to show you, not willingly, but because I don't see how I can do otherwise." He picked up the sheet of notepaper, with the three lines of typescript. "This," he went on, "addressed to myself and marked private, was delivered by messenger a little more than an hour ago. Let me say at once that I regard an anonymous letter— and this is one— no matter what the motive, as beneath contempt. Don't let it disturb you, apart from rousing indignation at the writer, whoever she somehow I imagine a woman— or he may be." He passed the letter across the corner of the table.

Miss Belfield's fair face was pale, there was apprehension in her blue eyes. But, as her glance took in the words, the blood mounted and anger sparkled. No wonder! These were the three lines of typescript:

YOU WILL BE WELL ADVISED, WITHOUT DELAY,

TO DISPENSE WITH THE SERVICES

OF MISS NINA BELFIELD.

"The hound," she murmured and there was a pause.

"I'm sorry," said Richard at last; "but I was bound to let you see it, was I not?"

"Oh, yes." She was pale again white. "Thank you, too, for doing without the lights. I have never in all my life felt so ashamed," she said.

"There can be no reason for shame on your part. Miss Belfield. You may be sure that that letter makes no difference here. Is it necessary for you to regard it seriously?"

"It is seriously intended," she answered adding, "I think I had better tell you that a man typed it."

"I apologise," he said gravely. "Well," rather grimly, "it's easier to

deal with a man in such a case." His glance met hers. "Will you allow me to deal with him?"

She shook her head.

"Well, is there anything I can do "Nothing," she replied, laying the letter on the desk, "except do as he says— dispose, with my services."

"Miss Belfield, what are you saying?"

"The only thing there is to say, Mr Farrant." She bowed her head.

After a moment: "Miss Belfield, you are afraid of this man!"

She was silent.

"Well, I'm not." said Richard. "Won't you tell me who he is, so that I may prevent any repetition of this sort of thing? Have you suffered from him before?"

"No, not in this way. Believe me, it would not do any good to tell you his name. But I will tell you this much. Until last night I was engaged to be married to him."

"The skunk! You are well rid of him. Now listen. Miss Belfield! The thing is absurd on the face of it— the idea of my dispensing with your services, by which, I suppose, he means dismissing you— you who have helped to make this business what it is!"

"But that is nonsense, kind nonsense!" she protested. "I was only sixteen when I came into your office seven years ago; I've been your secretary only three years."

"You've been through the struggle that made the business what it is," he said, warmly. "You have never failed me, or the business. You have never spared yourself. I believe that to-day you could run it yourself. Anyway, I can't do without you. And the business is not going to do with out you!"

"It's awfully good of you to put it that way," she said, with a faint smile. "But"— with a sigh— "I must go. Of course, I shall stay till you have chosen someone to take my place, and I hope you will find someone quickly."

Abruptly she got up and laid before him the sheaf of letters.

"Shall I—?" She looked in the direction of the switch.

"I can see, thanks." Rapidly he scanned the letters, and wrote his name, as managing director. Then he looked up at her. "Do you wish to go?"

The gentleness of his tone almost overcame her. She made a little movement of negation. "But—"

"You are being terrorised in some way," he said. "I'm not going to stand it. Who is this man?"

"Please!" The little word was a poignant appeal.

"Well, well, I shan't bother you now," he said. "The beastly thing has upset you, and you've had a heavy day. But we'll talk about it in the morning."

He handed her the letters, and she her to the first side street, down it a little way, and into a deserted courtyard.

"Now, then! Have you left Farrant's employment? Yes, or no!" He thrust his face close to hers, and she drew back from the fume of liquor.

"I have told Mr. Farrant," she said coldly, "that I shall leave as soon as he has found someone to take my place."

"Not good enough! You should have left to-night. But it doesn't matter. You are not going back after to-night!"

"You must allow me to arrange things as best I can, Fred," she said, passed to the door. There she halted. I'm so sorry," she faltered, broke off, and went out.

In her room lights sprang into being. Richard remained in the dusk. "If it hadn't been for that ring on her finger," he thought "I'd have asked her a year ago."

Nina was the last of the staff to leave. From the outer door she noticed that the private room was in darkness. She had an impulse to go back, she could hardly have told why, but it passed.

The lift was off for the night, and she went down the long flights of stairs slowly, drearily, and out into the street.

She had not taken many steps when she was stopped by a man, young, good looking in a way, but with something unpleasant in his eyes and a certain suggestion of cruelty about his weak mouth.

"Well, Nina," he said mockingly, "have you got the sack?"

"You— you worthless thing," she breathed, and made to pass on.

But he had her by the arm. "I asked you a question, and I want an answer."

"Our acquaintance ended last night," she replied. "I have nothing to say to you."

"We'll see! Let's go to a quieter place."

In his grip, unless she created a scene, she was bound to obey. He led unconsciously uttering the familiar name, "Be satisfied with having insulted me by that anonymous letter, and killed my career. I refuse to leave Mr. Farrant till he has got another secretary."

"Curse your Mr. Farrant! You're in love with the man—"

"Don't you dare—"

"Or you want to be a rich woman. That's why you threw me over!"

"You know you are not speaking the truth. Fred Shore! I threw you over because you had proved yourself to be quite hopeless." She drew a long breath. "I never loved you. I only pitied you. Because I had known you nearly all my life; because you swore to be a real man; because I was foolish enough— conceited enough, if you like— to fancy I could save you from drink and drugs; because your poor mother pleaded with me; because there was no one else— I became engaged, to you." Another long breath

"And because, after suffering you for more than two years, I realised that you were altogether vile and worthless. I refused to humble myself further, and so put an end to it. So now you have it! Let me go!"

His grip tightened. "Carry on!" he growled. "Start calling me names now!"

"I'll call you one— Degenerate!"

"Ah! By—" He checked himself. "Didn't I tell you I had bought a pistol?"

"I'd sooner have the bullet than be engaged to you again— you unspeakable cad!"

"I never told you," he said thickly, "the pistol was for you, did I?"

"What do you mean?"

"Guess!" He laughed aloud, and became suddenly solemn. "What are you shuddering for?"

"You laughed just now like a lunatic."

The words were out before she knew, and his fist rose up to strike.

But again he controlled himself. 'I'm sure of one thing," he said, "that man is not going to get you; you are not going to get him! You are going home now, and to-night, this very night, you are going to write— and post— a letter to Farrant, saying that you are not coming back to his office any more. Also you will tell him that you p-p-partic-u-lar-ly wish never to see him again. Got that?"

She gave no sign of having heard him.

"I'm not asking for promises," he went on. "I'll be watching— nothing else to do— and shall know if you disobey. I shan't give you another warning, I'll act! Anything to say. Nina?"

She spoke slowly, distinctly. "You have tried me too far. I have neither father nor brothers— you have always taken advantage of that! I shall appeal to the police."

Once more he laughed aloud; once more he became suddenly solemn. "No, you won't, my dear! You'll think of my poor mother, and do nothing."

"Beast!" she muttered. "Have you finished?"

"I think so. Perhaps you would feel more satisfied if I gave you a sight of my automatic pistol. What? No? Well, come along, and I'll see you safely on your bus."

Still holding her arm, though less painfully, he led her from the court-yard and back to the main street. The traffic had dwindled in their absence. The city was now almost emptied for the night.

The bus stopping-place was in front of a public house. They had been silent since leaving the courtyard, but now he spoke.

"You were late in coming from the office. Had everyone else gone when you left?"

"Yes!"

"Farrant, too?"

"N— Yes!" she lied.

He gave no indication of having noticed the hesitation. "Had Farrant been still there," he said, "I might have gone up and had a word with him."

He spoke no more till the right bus drew up.

"Like me to come home with you," he asked, impudently.

"If you wish," she answered, feeling that she wanted to get him away from the neighborhood of the office. He knew Mr. Farrant well enough by sight.

"Thanks; but you aren't cheerful enough to-night. I'll have a drink instead! So long!"

He waited till she was on board, till the bus started. She saw him enter the public-house, and, in her bitterness, wished he might stay in it a long time.

She was very unhappy and vaguely afraid. Such a man ought not to have a pistol. All at once sprang up the question: Had he believed her when she told him that. Mr. Farrant had left the office? A panic seized her; she left the bus at the first stop and hurried back along the pavement.

She hoped Mr. Farrant had left, but she must make sure. If he were there, she must simply tell him the truth, and warn him against Fred Shore, who, she could no longer doubt was, apart from the drink, not responsible for his actions. She would have been still more uneasy had she known that Fred had spent less than a minute in the public-house to swallow a glass of brandy.

Arrived at the office buildings, she went quickly up the stairs, becoming somewhat breathless at the last flight. Nearing the top. she was aware of a light behind the glazed door. So Mr. Farrant was still there She felt relieved; then, suddenly, shy.

She got ready her key and stopped short. The door was not quite shut. Could she have been so careless in leaving the office? No. Impossible. Oh, there was another possible explanation ! Mr. Farrant had gone, and the cleaners were at work. Yes, that must—

A laugh! A sound that all but stopped her heart— Fred Shore's laugh! For a moment she felt sick and faint. Then, with a prayer, she pressed the door inwards. It moved silently. Without a sound she entered.

The main office, with only a single light, was dim, but she saw enough. The private room was on the left, and in front of, and facing its open door stood Fred Shore, a pistol in his hand. He was talking coherently enough, though some of the words were blurred.

"And what you are going to do, Mr. Farrant, before you leave here to-night, before you come out of that room, is to write a letter to Miss Belfield, telling her she is sacked and need not come back to the office, that you prefer not to see her again. You can send her a month's salary, if you like. Anyway, I'll see the letter is posted. Got that?"

Nina, steadying herself against the counter, waited for the reply. When it came she judged by the sound that Mr. Farrant was not at his desk, but standing up in the middle of the room, facing the doorway.

"You are not sober, and I suppose you could go on talking nonsense all evening," he said, "so I had better tell you at once that I have no intention of writing the letter you suggest."

"We'll see about that!" Shore made a movement with the pistol.

"If," said Richard, "you feel that you want to do some really useful work with that weapon, put it to your head, pull the trigger, and blow out what you flatter yourself are brains."

"You won't do yourself any good by trying to be funny," came the retort. 'I'm giving you a chance for your life. Mr. Farrant, that's what I'm doing. Sit down and write that letter. And, I say, don't try to slip nearer; don't try to rush me; for I shall most certainly shoot!"

"I believe you." said Richard. "You are undoubtedly the dirtiest, meanest thing that has ever come my way. You went beyond the pale when you typed that anonymous letter. Pah!"

"You're trying to make me lose my temper, so that I shan't shoot straight; but you're only wasting breath. Go on! Sit down and write to Miss Belfield!"

"I have already written to Miss Belfield."

"You've what?"

"I have written to Miss Belfield asking her to marry me."

"You have, curse you! But you can't have posted it. Where is it? Hand it over. Throw it here. Is that it on your desk?"

"Why not come in and look?"

"I'm not a fool! Let me have it and smartly."

"No!"

There was a pause. It would seem that Shore was striving to control himself, but he could not. Abruptly, out came the loud laugh.

"I've got an idea, Farrant," he cried.

"Really! Where did you steal it?"

Shore may have missed the jibe. He laughed again, and Nina felt cold.

"Great idea!" His voice rose. "I don't want the letter. Nina will be welcome to it after you're dead! See? And now—" He laughed once more and levelled the pistol. "Farrant, you're going to die!"

Nina suppressed a scream. A scream would not save Richard. On the counter was an old-fashioned inkstand, with a big weighty glass bottle. In a flash she had it in her hand, and hurled it.

It caught Shore between the shoulders, and in the same instant the report crashed out. Then Nina screamed— then caught her breath to see Richard step forth and his fist take Shore on the jaw. Shore reeled and went down.

"Nina," cried Richard, running to her, "you surely saved me!"

"Did I?" murmured Nina, glad of his supporting arm.

THE POLICE had taken away the wreck. Nina had not protested. Impossible longer to spare the poor mother.

"And did you hear everything we said?" asked Richard.

"A good deal," she answered.

"Did you hear me say I had written to you?"

"Y-es."

"May I give you the letter now?"

Nina was not so pale as she had been.

"If," she replied, blue eyes veiled, "you think it is— necessary."

A clock struck seven.

___________

2: The Foil

Fred M. White

1859-1935

The Sunday Times (Perth) 23 Oct 1932

A BITTER twist of Gunfort's lips and an almost murderous expression on his thin, saturnine features marked the intensity of his dark mood as he read the letter which he held in his hand. Otherwise, he was a handsome man carrying his profession in every line of him, and that profession the stage. A fine figure, slender, but athletic, and that of one who has cared for himself well and looking nothing like his close on fifty years.

The letter he was reading was short and to the point.

"Dear Gunfort (it ran), Barton tells me that you are at a loose end for a month or so and has given me your address. We are at Barchester for a fortnight's run in Shakespeare, and Melville is laid up in hospital here pending an operation. Can you see your way to take his place? Our leading line is Romeo and Juliet. Will you come and play 'Tybalt' for me— Forrest as 'Mercutio.' Wire me on receipt.— Yours,

Barry Openshaw."

Again the twisted bitterness on Gunfort's lips and the sinister smile on his face. Then a long sigh as if some conflict had come to a successful end. Gunfort rose, and crossing the room took from a locked desk another letter the writing on which seemed to have faded with the passage of years.

"My dearest George (Gunfort read). By the time you get this I shall be beyond all pain and suffering. I am writing this in St. Agatha's Hospital in Melbourne, where I am well cared for and happy— that is so far as one in my condition can be happy. It has been a hard struggle since the man who promised before God to love and cherish me left me penniless and starving all these miles from home. Nobody will ever know how I have suffered and I struggled to starvation point until a good Samaritan sent me here to die. Perhaps I was wrong to keep all this from you, but a sort of pride sustained me. But so it was, and to this day the man who so wronged his wife is still in ignorance of the fact that I have a brother who is also on the stage and playing under the name of 'Gunfort.' My one prayer is that you will never meet."

There was much more in the letter, but Gunfort read no further—he knew every word of it by heart. He locked the sheet up again and went out to send a wire confirming to Barchester. The grim twisted smile was still on his lips.

Barchester prided itself on being more or less of a cultivated centre and especially on its appreciation of the finer points of the drama. They had a saying that what Barchester thought to-day on matters theatrical England thought to-morrow. Therefore, a longish visit from the Barry Openshaw Repertory Company in Shakespeare was an event in the social calendar.

As an old hand in legitimate drama, Gunfort was pretty well known to the rest of the company. Not that he appeared on the stage too often because he was a man with private means and thus in a position to choose his own parts. Despite his talents and that picturesque appearance, he was not popular, being prone to nurse grievances and quick in quarrel.

All the same, he seemed almost to go out of his way to show attention to George Forrest, who played what the profession calls 'opposite' to him, more especially in the favorite Romeo and Juliet, where Forrest's 'Mercutio' was greatly admired.

"Rather strange that we have never played together before," Forrest remarked during one rehearsal of the great love tragedy.

"Oh, I don't know," Gunfort replied. "You see I have never been out of the country in the course of my work, whereas you seem to have played all over the world."

"That's true," Forrest admitted. "Europe and Africa, also America and Australia. Fine country, that."

"So I believe," Gunfort said. "I seem to have some sort of hazy recollection that you married out there. An actress who went out with some English company and stayed there."

Forrest shrugged his shoulders, indifferently.

"True enough," he declared. "Pretty little girl but could not act for nuts. Finally went off on her own, and from that day to this I have never set eyes on her."

"Then you don't know whether she is alive or dead?"

"Quite so, Gunfort. But that's years ago, dear boy. Only hope she doesn't bob up serenely one of these days."

Gunfort's thoughts reverted to a certain yellow and faded letter which reposed in a locked drawer at his lodgings. But the friendly smile on his face did not relax as he turned the subject aside and began to talk of other things.

IT WAS TOWARDS the end of the tour and Barchester was looking forward to the second performance of  Romeo and Juliet which was to take place on the Saturday night. The house was packed from floor to roof when the curtain went up and the play began. A famous young actress had been imported for the occasion and Barchester had risen in its might to welcome her. And so for a time the play proceeded in almost breathless silence whilst those on-stage waited for their calls. In the wings, Forrest, looking wonderfully fine in the dashing attire of 'Mercutio,' was passing the time with Gunfort as 'Tybalt' previous to the duel scene and exchanging what appeared to be amusing confidences with him.

"This ought to go big to-night," Forrest was saying in the hearing of a group of scene-shifters. "I never saw an audience more keyed up. A little more fire, I think, Gunfort, old man. A few more minutes of 'business,' what."

Gunfort was playing with his rapier and apparently looking to the button on the point. It was as if he was making sure that everything was on the safe side.

"Righto," he said, casually. "I never much liked these real business rapiers. There'll be a nasty accident with them one of these days, and so I told Openshaw this afternoon. But he wouldn't hear a word of it. When the old man gets worried over one of the big shows, it's better to give him a wide berth."

"Worrying about me or yourself?" Forrest smiled.

"Both," Gunfort smiled. "But not really. Goodness knows what put the matter in my head."

A few minutes later the two were on the stage together with 'Romeo' and the rest of the followers and the scene began. In the theatre the proverbial pin might have been heard to drop as 'Tybalt' flashed out his rapier and the duel began. It was acting— acting of the highest type. A fight to the death with a breathless audience hanging on every thrust and parry. Then a small object seemed to rise from the stage and go flying into the wings. And the fight went on.

A slight stumble by 'Tybalt' and a quick recovery; and then a vicious thrust under 'Mercutio's' guard and the rapiers were knocked up as directed just as the blade was withdrawn and 'Mercutio' fell to the ground.

But not to utter what was in effect his dying speech, for he lay there whilst 'Tybalt' gazed in a sort of dazed horror at the point of his rapier. Almost in a flash the wild roar of applause was hushed as the house sensed that something was wrong. For 'Mercutio' lay there as if dead to the world. A thin stream began to trickle across the stage.

"My God, he's killed!" A voice broke the silence.

Shrieks and groans broke out all over the house. Then someone more long-sighted than usual noted the sinister fact that the button on 'Tybalt's' foil was missing and proclaimed the discovery in a voice harsh with emotion. Openshaw came dashing on to the stage and gave a signal that brought the curtain down with a rush. A babble of voices behind it and more wild bursts amongst the audience. After a pause that seemed to last for ages there was a whisper for a doctor, and immediately three men rose in the stalls and were dragged over the footlights.

Behind the curtain a small group of actors and stage hands gathered about the still form of the man lying there as silent as the grave. There had been no motion since he fell.

The first medical man bent over the body as if to listen for any sign of life. He shook his head gravely.

"Dead, poor fellow," he whispered. "Pierced to the heart, if I am not mistaken. What do you say, Clift?"

He turned to his colleague, and the other stooped only to give the same verdict. Then the gaudy trappings were torn away and the bare chest exposed.

"Beyond a doubt," came the decision. "The heart has been pricked— not deeply, but enough. Just as the real 'Mercutio' would have said a few seconds later. How did it happen?"

For the first time all eyes were turned to Gunfort. He stood there like one in a nightmare dream, a look of frozen horror on his face. His eyes fascinated seemed to be glued on the red point of his rapier. Three times Openshaw spoke to him ere any reply came. And then almost a whisper.

"I didn't know," he gasped. "I seemed to slip. Fell forward. Then the button must have been broken off."

"It was," a stage hand interrupted. "I seen it myself. There it is. Flew, it did, like a bird. Yonder."

Gunfort seemed to be fighting for breath.

"I tried to make it safe," he muttered. "I thought it was safe. That was just before my entrance."

"That's right," the same stage hand went on. "I see Mr. Gunfort adoing of it. Making safe, thinks I."

"Lamentable, most lamentable," the manager, Openshaw, almost wailed. "But clearly an accident. A fortunate thing that the poor chap had nobody depending on him."

"Or on me," Gunfort said. "Not that I matter much at the moment. When you are friendly with a man—"

His voice broke and he turned away like a man who is suddenly stricken with an overwhelming grief. It was Openshaw who first of all seemed to realise that there were things to be done.

"There will be an inquest, of course," he said. "Now I must go and dismiss the audience."

The theatre was cleared at length though what the real tragedy was would be learnt later. A most unfortunate accident, Openshaw explained. But one that prevented the performance from proceeding. And so on and so on.

There was nothing more to be done but to convey the body to the mortuary and notify the police. And then the stricken body of players wended their way home.

NATURALLY ENOUGH, the tragedy created a wide sensation in the town, and when the district coroner opened the inquest proceedings in the Town Hall the rush to find seats was sufficient to fill the building. No relation of the dead man came forward to identify him, as it was generally believed that he was colonial born and had no status in England. Indeed, Openshaw had a sort of impression that Forrest was merely a stage name. As everybody knew, there was nothing uncommon about this, and, for the purpose of the inquest it mattered little.

The first witness called was the stage hand who had noticed the flying of the button off the rapier which Gunfort had used.

"No, sir; I didn't think much of it at the time," he said, in answer to the question. "They both seemed to be clever with the weapons, and the fight was merely a stage one."

"I find in my notes that there was some suggestion of a slip on the part of Mr. Gunfort," the coroner said. "Did you happen to notice anything of the sort?"

"I did that, sir," the witness replied. "And it's my opinion that but for a stumble the accident would never have happened. It were a most realistic fight, and I were watching it closely, never having seen anything to touch it before. Just thrilling, it were. Then Mr. Gunfort he seemed to slip, and it looked as if he would have fallen. But he recovered himself, and, as he did so, lurched forward, and the point of his blade caught Mr. Forrest full in chest."

"That was shortly after the button flew off?"

"That's right, sir. Then Mr. Forrest, he falls forward and drops on the stage all of a heap like. That's all I know."

"Is there anybody connected with the theatre who can give me any information as to whether it was possible some person or persons to handle those two foils? They appear to me to be formidable weapons with the buttons off."

One, Speechly, the baggage man, entered the witness box.

"It was part of my business, sir, to see to all that sort of thing," he testifled. "I always made it a point to see that such things were kept under lock and key. I have seen more than one nasty accident happen in my trade when actors begin to lark about with such things."

"Quite so," the coroner assented. "And in the present case you followed your usual custom, I presume?"

"That I did, sir," the witness went on. "The rapiers were in my possession until the dresser of the two gentlemen came to me for them."

"But during rehearsals, perhaps—"

"Walking sticks, or light canes, sir. No occasion for anything more dangerous than that."

Gunfort came into the witness stand presently, and a deep hush held the listeners spellbound. His face was white and drawn, and he had about him the air of one who felt his position keenly. Just a pallid picture of remorse and suffering. He spoke clearly and quietly though his voice shook as he spoke.

"I am greatly to blame," he began, "though I did my best to guard against any accident. I was particularly careful at the last moment to see that the button on the point of the foil was secure. Moreover, I am more or less an expert with the rapier. In addition, some days ago I suggested to my manager that dummy weapons might be used."

"Quite true," Openshaw interrupted. "You see, sir, I am a confirmed realist with regard to stage effects, and I much preferred the use of real weapons."

"If I had not stumbled," Gunfort continued, "I feel quite sure that the tragedy would never have happened. You see, I could not recover my poise in time, and, had I fallen, the whole thrilling illusion of the duel would have been lost. I lurched forward to regain my balance, at the same time making a thrust and, as the button on my foil was off, my weapon struck the deceased heavily on the left breast. If I could do anything—"

The witness stopped and buried his face in his hands. A wave of emotion swept the room. Above it came the voice of the coroner addressing the jury.

"A most distressing accident, gentlemen," he concluded, "and one that could not be avoided. It seems to me that some at least of our sympathy may go out to the last witness in his distress. I suggest a verdict of 'Death by misadventure.'"

"And that," said the foreman of the jury a few minutes later in a formal voice, "is the verdict of us all."

GUNFORT slowly and dejectedly made his way from the court to his lodgings. He was quite alone. Once under cover he took out the faded letter and burnt it to the last cinder. The thin, bitter smile was on his lips once more.

"Death by misadventure," he murmured. "Yes, the misadventure of meeting me. Little sister, you are avenged at last. That is a story that will die with me."

____________

3: The Fugitive

Cicely Fox Smith

1882-1954

Sunday Times (Perth) 24 May 1931

"THERE!" said Belinda triumphantly, stepping back to survey her handiwork with her head critically on one side. "There! And if you ask me, I think it looks jolly nice!"

Strictly speaking, of course, this was a figure of speech, since there wasn't a soul in sight who might conceivably have been expected to dispute the statement— except, possibly, the robin who sat on the mossy wall of the orchard, with a beady black eye cocked like Belinda's blue one on the effect of her preparations. If there had been anyone, that someone might quite probably have added a rider to Belinda's remark, to the effect that Belinda looked jolly nice, too; for with her fresh country complexion that knew not rouge of lipstick, her shingled head that glistened like spun gold, and her young supple figure in its faded frock of green linen, she was as pleasant a sight as one could wish to find in an old orchard on a June morning.

Toll Bar Cottage stood all by itself by the side of the old road to Windover. It had been really a toll house in the days before the new road was made, and coaches and chaises and horsemen with curly-brimmed hats, and farmers with buxom daughters riding pillion behind them had all stopped to pay their pence as they rattled and rumbled and jogged and cantered by. Those days had long been past, but a memory of them still lingered in the shape of a ghostly highwayman, who, so the story went, had courted the toll-keeper's daughter, and been betrayed by her to his doom, and who lurked o' nights in the shadows of the long copse a little further along the road. And there was still a certain amount of traffic which favored the older route, especially at holiday seasons, and on such occasions as the present, namely, the day of the annual gymkhana at Windford Park.

Hence Belinda Arkwright's brilliant scheme for supplementing the scanty family income by catering for the inner man of the chance passer-by. Hence an array of small tables set forth invitingly in the shade of the orchard trees, and a placard with the legend "Teas" affixed to a conspicuous trunk. Hence, lastly, the presence of Belinda herself in the orchard when the rest of the family— including the elderly and rather vague aunt who had kept house for the young Arkwrights since their parents' death five years before had packed into the ramshackle pony trap and gone off to the gymkhana.

Belinda's plan had not been carried into effect without opposition. Molly, who was sixteen, pretty, and inclined to give herself airs, said it was infra dig.

Dick said the trippers would pinch the spoons.

And Aunt Emily vaguely observed that she was sure it was very nice, dear, but she really did not think those dreadful people should be allowed in the drawing-room.

"Dig be bothered!" said Belinda stoutly. "The teaspoons are going to be the penny kind. The people are only going to be in the orchard. And I want a decent frock."

And in the end she got her own way. It was still early in the afternoon when she sat down in the orchard to rest before the anticipated inrush of hungry customers began. The day was warm, and Belinda was hot and tired; for she had been hard at work since early morning; making cakes and scones for the great venture. The breezed sighed softly, the birds twittered in the branches. She had almost slipped into a doze when a new sound startled her once more into wakefulness. A grinding, a rattling, a puffing— a mingled whiff of smoke and oil and tar, obtruding itself among the pleasant scents of the counary afternoon! The steam roller! A horrid thought dawned upon Belinda's mind, and with a heart throbbing with apprehension she hurried along the road in the direction of the approaching intruder.

It was too true. A large roller— a procession of men and carts, from one of which a resounding roar indicated that a load of road metal had just been well and truly deposited in the middle of the highway— and, last but not least, a board bearing the fate-ful words— "Road stopped— steam roller at work."

Belinda's eyes filled with tears of wrath and disappointment. Was there no other day in all the year they could have chosen? Alas for her cherished hopes! Alas for the tempting array of cakes and scones set forth upon the pantry shelf!

"We shall be eating stale buns for a fortnight," said Belinda to herself, valiantly choking down her feelings as she went slowly back into the house, where Gladys, the uncouth village damsel who was the only help the Arkwright finances could afford, was rather sulkily arraying herself in cap and apron.

"You might as well go,. Gladys," said Belinda. "I shan't want you, after all. The road's up, so I don't suppose we shall get anybody for tea to-day."

Nothing loth, Gladys hardly waited to tear off the emblems of servitude; and Belinda, feeling thoroughly blighted and lonely, returned to the orchard with a book to while away the solitary afternoon as best she could.

The hours crawled slowly by. The steam roller, indifferent as any juggernaut car to the plans it was flattening beneath its wheels, puffed monotonously to and fro. The shadows were lengthening when at last it packed up and went home, and Belinda, with a heavy heart, set about clearing away her wasted preparations. And just then a footstep sounded on the empty road, and someone paused by the gate.

"Say!" said a friendly voice. "Am I dreaming? Or do I see the word tea?"

The speaker was a tall young man, hatless, in dusty tweeds; and he looked at Belinda as he spoke with the frank-est, friendliest grey eyes she had ever seen. Friendly, however, without being in the least what Aunt Emily would have called "familiar"; so that Belinda, who had been just going to say in her most impersonal, and businesslike manner: "Certainly. Plain tea, one and six. Or with fresh eggs two shillings," replied instead: "Rather. You're the first customer," and dimpled into a smile. And Belinda's smile, it may be observed in passing, was quite one of the nicest things in smiles that could be imagined.

The stranger glanced carefully up, and down the road, then he opened the gate and came in.

"Gosh!" he exclaimed with a sigh, collapsing into one of the rickety bas-ket chairs disinterred from the cottage lumber-room for the occasion. "Gosh! This is great! Couldn't believe my eyes when I saw your sign. This has been some afternoon, believe me!"

He paused to contemplate a three cornered tear in the knee of his trousers.

"Been in bit of a smash-up, as you can see," he continued, "Beast of a car came bursting out of a side road at about sixty per, and my bike— borrowed incidentally— skidded as I was getting out of the way and made a pretty tidy mess of itself. And if you know the escape I've had— but let's talk about something else—"

And— just how it came about it would be impossible to say, as it always is in such cases— it wasn't long before Belinda found herself chattering away with this friendly stranger as if she had known him for years. He insisted on coming into the kitchen and helping to carry out the things. He made the tea, and burned his fingers on the kettle. And Belinda remembered when he reminded her that she hadn't had any tea herself, so they both sat down together like old friends.

The stranger had just passed his cup to be filled for the third time when Belinda paused with the teapot poised, and said: "Wait a minute! There's someone at the door."

A curious expression— was it fear— crossed the stranger's face, and he pushed his chair a little further into the shadow of the wall.

"I-I say," he said suddenly, "if-if it's anyone— er— looking for me—"

Belinda paused astonished.

"You-you won't give me away, will you?"

"N-no," she said. "But— why—?"

"Never mind why," he went on. "I can tell you some other— time. Promise!"

"All right," said Belinda, and passed on to the house, to find the creeper-clad porch of the cottage filled by the bulky, blue-clad form of P.C. Huckins, the stolid and— be it owned— not over brilliant constable who officially re-presented law and order in the vicinity of Toll Bar Cottage.

"Sorry to trouble you, miss," he be-gan, moistening his pencil and turn-ing over the leaves of his notebook with an air of importance. "But I suppose you don't 'appen by any chance to 'ave seen anythink of a party?"

"A party," repeated Belinda idiotically. "What sort of a party?"

"A party wot's wanted." replied the officer impressively. "Wait a minit— 'ere's 'is description. Escaped from custody while bein' conveyed from Windover Junction to the County Gaol. Wearin' tweed suit, no 'at. Gentlemanly manner, slight American accent. Prob'ly walks with a limp owin' to slight injury sustained through leapin' from movin' train. Last seen crossin' the fields in the direction of the Old Windover Turnpike."

Now, of course, the obvious thing for Belinda to say would have been something like this:

"Yes, I have seen such a party; in fact he is in the orchard at this very moment having his tea; and if you come along quietly and don't make too much noise with your very large, flat feet you will be able to catch him sitting."

But somehow she said nothing of the kind. And what she did say in a queer mechanical sort of voice that didn't sound like her own at all, was this:

"No; I haven't seen anyone like that; in fact, I haven't seen anybody at all."

Why was she telling fibs like this, she wondered? She didn't know. Perhaps it was partly that eternal something in woman which had led her to shelter the hunted since time began. But there was something rather more personal than that in Belinda's case. She simply couldn't believe that the young man with the honest eyes and the friendly voice and smile had done anything really bad. Perhaps he hadn't done anything at all. One heard of innocent people being arrested, sent to prison— yes, even hanged, for things they hadn't done

Belinda was naturally a truthful girl. In fact, as her younger brothers frequently said, when she told a cram it stuck out half a mile. And at this moment she was painfully conscious of sounding the most perfectly guilty idiot alive and crimsoning right up to the roots of her hair

Luckily, however, P.C. Huckins didn't seem to notice anything unusual. He rattled his pencil on his teeth, and surveyed the cottage and its surroundings with a look on his rather expressionless countenance, which might equally well have signified disappointment and relief at the non-success of his quest.

"Reckon I'd better 'ave a look round them old buildin's while I'm 'ere," he said, "case 'e's stowed 'imself away anywheres. 'T wouldn't be very nice for a young female if a wiolent party like that was somewheres on the pre-mises."

"Oh, thank you very much, Huckins," explained Belinda hastily, "but I'm sure there's no need for you to worry. I should have seen—"

But once P.C. Huckins had got an idea into his rather thick head there was no moving it.

"Reckon I'll just 'ave a look round," he repeated obstinately. "You never can't tell with there, 'ere parties."

He was thought not a brilliant officer, but he was at least conscientious. He did the job thoroughly. He inspected the empty stable and the coachhouse. He even looked in the henhouse for a potential party lurking among the broody hens. He crawled into the unoccupied pigsty. And by the time he reached the woodshed Belinda was geting desperate. When he had finished with the woodshed he would be sure to want to look in the summerhouse. And from the summerhouse he would have a complete and comprehensive view of the orchard and of Belinda's guest.

A desperate idea flashed into her mind, as the constable opened the woodshed door and peered cautiously into its dark recesses.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, emitting a well simulated shriek which made P.C. Huckins give an involuntary start backwards. "Oh! I'm sure there's someone there! I saw him move. There; behind the pea-sticks."

P.C. Huckins advanced boldly announcing in a voice whose loudness was probably as much designed to encourage himself as to alarm the intended prisoner. " 'Ere, you! I arrest you in the King's name. And I warn you as hanythink as you may say—"

Quick as thought, Belinda shut and bolted the door; then, fleet as a flying nymph, she sped over , the long grass towards the spot where the fugitive was still sitting.

"Quick!" she gasped. "They're here now— looking for you. I've locked the door."

"Are they, by Jove?" he exclaimed, leaping to his feet with an expression of the liveliest concern. "I say, you are a sport!"

"I-I'm not," said Belinda, "I mean, I oughtn't to, really. But-oh, I mustn't stay. Go. will you? Go!"

And with that she turned and fled, only glancing back once to see his long legs disappearing over the wall as she turned the corner.

P.C. Huckins was by this time bawling loudly and hammering on the door.

"It's stuck," shouted Belinda, "it's the lock. It slips. Have you— have you got him?"

"No," said the constable, emerging, hot and ruffled, as the door yielded to Belinda's well-acted efforts at release. "Must 'a been a rat. My word, that door give me a proper turn! Well, I reckon I'll be gettin' along. 'Ee don't seem to be 'idln' around 'ere anywheres. Thank you, miss, I don't mind if I do."

And in the pleasing anticipation of a bottle of beer "he even forgot to com-plete his tour of the premises by inspecting the summerhouse...

Well, reflected Belinda, so that was that! She had told a lot of perfectly awful whoppers, and helped a desper-ate criminal to escape; for had she not P.C. Huckins' word for it that he was a "wiolent party?" She supposed she was an accessory before the fact, or something, and would get into no end of a row if it all came out A nice end to her pleasant little tea party! It is perhaps hardly surprising that Belinda at this point sat down and indulged in a really satisfying cry.

The hours crawled by very slowly, and at last showers of multi-colored sparks in the summer evening sky indicated that the crowning event of the gymkhana— the display of fireworks was now in progress.

The others would be home soon, and with a guilty start Belinda remem-bered that the remains of the tea for two were still in the orchard to bear silent witness to her crime.

By this time it was almost too dark to see anything. Moths were flitting silently to and fro among the trees, and a hunting owl flew by with a swish and a cry that nearly made Belinda drop the tray. And then a sound from the summerhouse made her pause.

A sound that was neither owl nor mouse— and owls and mice don't smoke cigarettes, either. He had come back, then. Trembling with excitement, Belinda approached the door, and said in a cautious whisper

"Are you— is anybody there?"

Somebody was there. Somebody who started up from the corner where he had been crouching, with a savage snarl, and seized her by the throat, and clapped a rough hand over her mouth before she had time for more than one startled cry.

"Holler, would you?" said a hoarse voice. "You do, and you'll never holler again!"

Wild thoughts chased one another through Belinda's brain. "This man is going to kill me." she thought, "there is no one to hear for miles. The others are watching the fireworks. They don't know I am here, in the summer-house, being murdered."

That one cry she had managed to get out before the merciless hand closed over her lips had seemed to her like a cry uttered in a nightmare, no louder than the squeak of a bat.

But someone had heard it nevertheless, and came storming over the orchard wall, game leg and all, and crossed the orchard in two strides, and sent Belinda's assailant sprawling senseless with a blow on the point of the jaw, and the next moment had her in his arms, and kept on saying over and over in the friendliest voice in the world:

"Green Girl, Green girl, are you all right?"

"Yes," said Belinda: "yes, I'm all right. But where did you come from? How did you know—"

"I hear in the village about that thug that made his getaway this morning, and I thought about you here all alone. So I came straight back, thinking I'd hang around till I knew your folks were home. Green Girl, if I hadn't—"

"And— oh dear, oh dear, I do believe I'm the very greenest girl in the whole world," sobbed Belinda, between laughter and tears. "You see, you asked me not to give you away, so then... I thought it was you Huckins wanted."

"You thought that?"

"I know I'm an idiot. And now of course, you'll be offended. But I didn't think— you'd done anything very bad—"

"You thought that— and you helped me to get away. Offended? Say, Green Girl, you— you're a white man. And you were right. It wasn't anything very bad I was hiding for.

"It was a girl I was running away from. A girl with a face that's been in the flour bag and a mouth painted on like a clown's. And they put me down to wheel her in a wheelbarrow at this fool gymkhana thing my aunt's having. And, I tell you, I was plumb scared. You see, it's this way. A man doesn't come all the way from British Columbia for his aunt to choose his girl for him. He wants to find her for himself— in an orchard— in a green frock— like I did—"

_____________

4: The Missing Will

Edwin Pugh

1874-1930

Sunday Times (Perth) 13 Dec 1931

I ROSE quickly to my feet crossed the tiny hall to the the outer door and flung it open. Who could this late caller be? I wondered.

There, on the threshold stood Netta. I had long since given up all hope of ever seeing her again. We had loved and quarrelled— a mere tiff— and parted, all in the course of less than a year. I had been thinking of her when the bell rang. When, in my solitude, did I not think of her? When, in my sleep, did I not dream of her? Why, then, had I let her go when a word would have reunited us? It was because I chanced to discover that he was a rich heiress, and I at that time, was not the fairly well-to-do man that I soon afterwards became, but miser-ably poor.

She shrank back at sight of me. "Oh. I— but I ought not to have come!" she breathed.

"What is the matter?" I exclaimed.

"Oh, but I ought not—"

I put out my hand, and drew her towards me. She was trembling violently. I closed the door, led her across hall into the room I call my study.

Not until then did I see her plainly, the old staircase being but dimly light-ed from below. She was hatless, dishevelled. Her face was white as milk, her large dark eyes dilated, her lips quivering, her whole expression eloquent of dire distress. I guided her gently to an armchair into which she sank limply and huddled down and bowed her head and hid her face in her hands.

"Surely, Netta," I ventured at last, "since you are obviously in some terrible trouble or other, I am the first person you should come to, if it is advice or assistance you need."

She let fall her hands in her lap, raised her head. Our eyes met.

"Yes," she answered more steadily, "of course it was you I thought of at once— have been thinking of for days past. And yet what right—" Her voice broke.

"That's quite all right," I stammered. "Now, look here, you keep perfectly still for a bit while I go and get you a glass of wine. You'll be better able to talk your trouble over with me then."

Some minutes later she had so far recovered her composure as to tell her story. She began by asking me if I knew that her uncle, Professor Forrest, was dead. I nodded. Professor Forrest had been a distinguished man. News of his death had been published in all the papers four days ago. It had rather shocked me. I had not only admired the great man's works; I had also a personal regard for him.

"But you do not know— I did not know until a day or two ago— that he was not my uncle, but merely an old friend of the family. He adopted me, I am told, when my mother's death followed so closely on my father's, twenty years ago. I was hardly two then. Ever since that day he had been all to me that my own father could have been."

A dry sob choked her. I took ad vantage of the pause to tell her that I did know Professor Forrest was not her uncle. "You knew?" she gasped out.

"It happened like this," I explained. "One evening he asked me to witness his will—  of course I was only too delighted to do him even that slight service, but I pointed out that it was better to have two witnesses. One of the servants would do, I said. He suggested Lucy Chambers. Why do you start like that?"

"Nothing— nothing," she said, impatiently. "Go on. Go on."

Her voice, her face, her whole manner, were keen and eager now. I wondered why that casual mention of her maid's name should have so excited her.

However, I thought it best to ignore this outburst, and resumed:

" 'Lucy,' by all means,' I said, 'so long as she is not a beneficiary under your will.' Then, as he looked a trifle puzzled, I added: I mean that it, by any chance, you should be leaving her a little legacy, her witnessing your will would render that legacy invalid. Not one penny of it could be paid to her.

" He had not known that. 'Mr. Norton," he said, abruptly, 'I have a good mind to confide in you. I am leaving a small sum of money to Lucy Chambers as a token of gratitude to her for long and loyal service.' Again he paused. Then, quite suddenly, he blurted out that you were in no way related to him. That is why I am so anxious to take my will,' he said. "I have been for years in a precarious state of health. If I should die and leave no will Netta would get nothing. My entire fortune— and I am a fairly wealthy man would go to a very undesirable cousin of mine, a Mr. Alexander Yarde.' "

"Ah!" Netta breathed. "You know him?"

"Yes, yes. But go on! Go on!"

"That is practically all. We just sent for Nichols to act as second witness, and the will was duly signed in our presence."

"But," Netta cried, "we can't find the will any where. He had it on the morning of the day he died. When Lucy Chambers— she was in constant attendance on him— took up his breakfast as usual she was surprised to find him sitting at the little bureau in his bedroom, reading some document. It dropped from his hand as he rose at her entrance. She picked it up for him, and as she stooped could hardly help noticing the word 'WILL' in large letters sat the top of the page. There was only one page; but, of course, you know all that."

"Yes; it was just a single sheet in his own neat hand."

"Did he read it for you?"

"No, he asked me to read it for myself,and tell him if it was in proper legal form. It was. Well?"

"All the next day, until the evening I searched for the will, but could find it nowhere. And he had no solicitor.

"That same evening, Mr. Alexander Yarde appeared on the scene. That undesirable cousin, you know. As soon as he was told, as of course he had to be that we could not find the will, he at once claimed everything as next-of-kin. It was then I discovered that I was no relation to dear uncle. 'Naturally,' he said, in his arrogant, cocksure way, 'my cousin, when he knew he was dying, realised the injustice he was doing me and destroyed the will.' "

"That," I broke in, "I am sure he did not. To have done that would have been to leave you penniless—his own words."

"I am sure of that, too," she assented: "partly for the reason you men-tion but also because Lucy Chambers"— she hesitated— "because Lucy told me next day that she knew the will was still in the house somewhere."

"But she doesn't know where?"

I am not sure. Sometimes I think she does. A most extraordinary change has taken place in Lucy since uncle died. (You see I still call him uncle.) She is just one bundle of nerves. She seems to be half out of her senses and dreadfully frightened of something or somebody. That horrible cousin has been getting at her. I think bullying her, perhaps. I have asked her over and over again, to tell me what is on her mind. And she won't. 'I daren't I daren't,' she says. 'It was so wicked of me!' " .

"That's our clue!" said I "We must find out what it is that Lucy knows and is afraid to confess. But go on with your story."

"It amounts to just this. From the moment Mr. Yarde set his foot in the house he has never stirred from it. He has had a bed made up in the room adjoining poor uncle's bedroom. There he sleeps. And all day he prowls the place on tiptoe— spying on me mostly— though he has his suspicions of Lucy too.".

"That is not all!" I interjected. "What else?"

She shuddered. "How can I tell you! It was bad enough when he--that de-testable cousin-harassed and hectored me. But his behavior during the last two days has been infinitely worse. He sought me out yesterday afternoon, smiling in a most horrible way. He wanted to put a little proposition before me, he said. How would I like to be his housekeeper? You are a girl of spirit,' he said, 'I like you. Why shouldn't we be friends? You could then stay on here as long as ever you liked and be treated as the mistress of the house." Again she shuddered. "He tried to catch hold of me. I tore myself away from him and ran out of the room. I locked myself in my bed-room, and there I stayed. About 10 o'clock I heard a stealthy footstep out-side my door. Then a soft knock, and then a sort of loud whisper. It was that horrible, creature, of course. I don't remember exactly what he said, but I do know that he wanted me to let him in. And when I called out, "Go away! Go away! or I will rouse the house,' he just made a nasty, sly, chuckling noise, and said, 'All right; if you won't be friends—'. And then he stole away, and not until this evening did he make any further attempt, to molest me. It was getting dark. The servants were all at supper in the kitchen. When he waylaid me on the stairs. He seized me in his arms. I think I hit him in the face. Anyhow, I escaped from him, and, just as I was, rushed out into the street. At first I did not know what to do. I just wandered about. But all the time I was thinking of you, and at last— well, here I am."

"And here you stay," said I, "for one night at least. I'll go and fetch Mrs. Malcolm, the lodgekeeper's wife, and get her to put you up and look after you."

ii

I SPENT a sleepless night and leaving my chambers about ten o'clock, called in at the lodgekeeper's. Netta had slept badly, too, Mrs. Malcolm informed me. Towards seven, however, she had at last fallen into a deep slumber from which she had not yet awakened. I bade Mrs. Malcolm on no account to rouse her, then went my way to the big old house on Putney Hill.

I gave the maid my card and asked her to take it at once to Mr. Yarde and tell him that I came on an urgent matter of business. I was left standing in the hall some minutes whilst she went upstairs. Then a man appeared at the head of the stairs whom I instinctively guessed to be the detestable cousin. He came slowly down toward me. I saw at once that he was ill at ease, anxious, a little scared, I thought.

"Mr. Norton?" His voice was high pitched, his tone querulous.

"Yes."

"I'm afraid I haven't the honor of knowing you, sir."

"I am here as the legal representative of Miss Netta Morland."

He blenched, and I added quickly: "I am also incidentally, Miss Morland's fiance."

Then I saw that sudden blank stare, followed by a swift contraction of the pupils of the eye which betokens fear.

"I am not aware—" he was spluttering out, when I interrrupted him.

"There are important matters I wish to discuss with you," I broke in. "I would rather discuss them in private."

He assumed a sorry air of jauntiness. "By all means," he said. "Come this way."

He led me along the passage to the baize-covered double-doors of what I knew to be the late Professor's study. I followed him into the room. We sat down on opposite sides of a big writing table.

"Now, what is it you want?" he demanded curtly.

"I want that will," was my response. "It's here— in this house. And I'm going to have it."

"I say!" he cried. "Aren't you getting a bit above yourself ?"

"Not at all. And I think you will see that when I define your position. I will say as little as possible about your behavior towards my future wife. Indeed, I cannot trust myself to say more than this-that you have committed a technical assault against her."

"What on earth do you mean?" he gasped out.

"You know very well what I mean, and that what I say is true. However, in the first place you have not the least right to take up your residence here. You are, in strictly legal phrase, a trespasser."

This was going a good deal beyond my brief, but I had summed up my man by now, and knew just how to deal with him.

"If I liked," I continued, presuming on his ignorance of the law, "I could instruct my own solicitor to take out a summons for trespass against you this very day. Until you can prove that that will has been destroyed— and that will cost you a lot both in time and money, or until sufficient time has elapsed for a High Court Judge to decide that the will may be deemed to be lost beyond recovery, you cannot get an order to take out letters of administration to this estate, and so are not entitled to a penny of it. For the time being, by right of usage, Miss Marland is mistress of this house. You are merely a usurper. You— "

"No!" he shouted, banging his fist on the table. "There is one thing that even you, with all your smartness, have overlooked. I am, after all, next-of-kin. It has fallen to me to make all necessary arrangements for the late Professor's funeral, and so given me a prescriptive right to follow him to the grave."

It was my turn to be taken aback.

"Do you mean—" I faltered.

"I mean," he replied, "that the funeral takes place in an hour's time. The body still lies in its coffin in his bedroom. Now, sir," and he flourished his fist, "I hope you have decency enough to admit that your conduct here this morning in this house of death is, to say the least of it, unseemly."

"I am truly sorry," I murmured. I was, indeed, shocked. I felt somehow discomfited, contrite. "In the circumstances," I went on, "I will say no more at present. But there is one favor I would like to ask. It is that I may go up and take a look at the face of my old friend."

"Yes, you may do that, I suppose," he conceded grudgingly. "Only— please get out of my sight at once. I can't stand any more this."

"I am sorry," I murmured again, and left the room and went upstairs.

The door of the bedroom was slightly ajar. I pushed it open, noiselessly. As the door swung back I saw the coffin standing on two trestles, the lid propped against it, and, kneeling, her head bent, her eyes closed, her hands held together in prayer, was the maid, Lucy Chambers. And, even as I stood hesitating on the threshold, she lifted her head and looked at me. Her hands dropped to her sides. She rose to her feet. She cast one swift glance about the room, and then came towards the door. Without a word or sound she raised her right hand as if to wave me aside. I stood back. She passed me, her face averted from mine, cast one last backward glance, and then was gone.

iii

WHEN I returned to the Iodgekeeper's I found awaiting me, not only Netta and Mrs. Malcolm but Lucy Chambers also. It appeared afterwards that she had followed her young mistress in her overnight wanderings, and so traced her, first to my chambers, then to this house. She had only just arrived. She lay back, spent and listless, in a low-seated, high-backed chair. For a while we exchanged only a few whispers. Gradually, under the two women's tender ministrations, Lucy revived. At sight of me she uttered a piteous cry.

"Don't be afraid," I adjured her. "Everything is quite all right. Wait."

I thrust my hand into an inner pocket and produced a neatly-folded sheet of bluish paper.

"The will!" shrieked Lucy, tottering to her feet, "Oh, thank God— thank God!"

"Yes," I answered her, quietly, soothingly. "The will. And no one outside this room will ever know the part you played in its concealment."

"I meant no harm."

"And you have done none," I assured her, and proceeded to explain. "It was known from the outset that Lucy not only knew that the will was still in existence but where it was. But, for some reason, she could not or dared not get at it. Where, then had she put it? To solve that question, I must revert to the morning of the day on which the Professor died, when Lucy discovered him reading his will. She saw him put it back in the drawer of the bureau. She noticed something else; he forgot to lock the drawer, and Lucy's curiosity got the better of her. She waited her opportunity, and re-opening the drawer took out the will. She had almost finished reading it when the Professor reappeared, and she had just time to hide the will away. She hid it instantly, on a panic stricken impulse, yet she could not have hidden it more effectually if she had had plenty of time to think the matter out. That night the Professor died. And while he lay dead in that room where the will was, her superstitious fears forbade her to try to retrieve it from its hiding-place. Am I not right so far. Lucy?"

She nodded. "I thought I would wait till he— he was buried, and then get the will and pretend I had found it somewhere else."

"But— but—" Netta interposed, clutching at my arm, and at that sweet contact I thrilled to the core of my being— "but— how did you discover all this?"

"Just a little reasoning," said I, with maybe a faint touch of self-complacency. "You yourself, Netta, told me that Lucy knew more than she would tell about the will. Well, as she was entitled to a legacy of five hundred pounds under the will I should have been pretty sure, in any event, that she wouldn't be fool enough to destroy it, even if she hadn't realised that by destroying it she would be rendering you penniless too."

"But," cried Netta, "I fail to see how you found out where the will was."

"Well, I have told you how, as Lucy ran out of the room, she took one backward glance. There was a plain significance in that glance which I could not mistake. It did not include the whole of the room. It was directed solely on one object— the big, sprawling wardrobe. And not exactly the whole wardrobe either, but just above it. The moment she had gone I put a chair against the wardrobe, mounted the chair, and thus was able to look down into the usual slightly depressed space at the top. No conceivable ingenuity could have devised a better hiding-place than that. And there, of course, where Lucy in her panic had tossed it wildly out of reach, was the will."

___________

5: The Hand at the Window

Lilian Quiller-Couch

1866-1941

Sunday Times (Perth) 27 July 1930

"YOU will prosecute at once, Sir Cyril?" Mr. Derwent faced his cilent across the writing table. Sir Cyril Maitland rose and walked to the window.

"No," he said at last, with a nonchalant smile, "not yet. You say he is running Maitland Hall as an hotel?"

"Yes. I understand be detests society, prefers his Colonial ways, always had a wish to ran an hotel, and now 'darned well means to do it.' A saturnine fellow who came with him is his manager, and did most of the talking."

"Well," said Sir Cyril, "I think I'll take a run down to the home of my ancestors and see how he does it. It will be amusing."

"Under another name?"

"Yes, for the time."

NEXT DAY Sir Cyril drove through the avenue of beeches and looked long upon the stately house in which his father had been born. Colonial born himself, life had not been all hardship, but for his father it must often have been very hard and sad. Self-exiled from home, parents, brothers, by reason of his impetuous marriage to a girl-actress, and resentful of criticism; then, later, bereft of wife and home at one blow, and left with only his motherless boy for company, the sadness had bitten-in. Sir Cyril had loved his father, had treasured the few chance references to England, parents, brothers; and now all were dead; and this was the home his father had loved.

A sinister-looking man came forward as he left the car. "This is the Maitland Hotel?" asked Sir Cyril.

"Yes sir."

"You are—?"

"The manager. The proprietor is Sir Cyril Maitland."

"Indeed!" raising his brows,

"Yes," said, the manager, with a tight-lipped smile. "In these days—"

"In these days—?" queried Sir Cyril.

"Well sir, a man feels free to follow his liking. Sir Cyril is a Colonial, and has no fancy for trying to play the English squire on a beggarly rent roll."

"Then you may be able," said Sir Cyril, ignoring the confidence, "to let me have a large room with a good view. My luggage is in the car."

"We have good air, good fishing, good golf—"

"A good rest is what I am out for," said Sir Cyril quietly. "I've been travelling."

"Certainly, certainly. "While you sign the visitors' book I will give orders for the room."

"He looks a crafty brute," thought Sir Cyril. Then he turned to the visitors' book. "Mr. Charles Masters," was the name he wrote, and there was a gleam of half-sleepy interest in his eyes. "I've yet to see the gentleman who annexed my pocket-book— and my name," he thought grimly.

Several days passed before "Charles Masters" saw the proprietor, and when he did he was distinctly sur-prised. Instead of the rough, over-bearing man he had expected, he saw a dissipated-looking, unhealthy young man with seemingly, a shy, furtive manner, as If anxious to avoid intercourse with anyone.

"If he weren't too young, I should diagnose shell-shock," thought "Charles." Someone had addressed the young man as Sir Cyril so there was no doubt about it.

"How on earth did he get my note-case?" pondered "Charles." "And why did he conclude I was dead?"

But no solution appeared to this puzzle. Meanwhile he was amused by "watching the game."

But before long the "game" began to seem less amusing though no less interesting to "Charles." Beneath the fraud which he knew, he felt something sinister. The "manager" was so arbitrary in spite of his general suavity; the "proprietor" so uneasy and surly. "Charles'' smoked his pipe, wandered alone about the grounds, and thought over the strange situation.

And then a small incident attracted his attention. Having no wish for the continuous company of other guests, he had formed the habit of taking his after-dinner coffee in a small secluded garden at the more deserted side of the house, and chancing to glance up one evening from his book his eye was caught by a high wide-open window, along the sill of which lay a beautiful, inert hand. The sight scarcely entered his consciousness at first, and he returned to his book. But when he glanced up over the house again, there, motionless still, was the hand. At length he did not look away. There seemed something uncanny about the stillness, and he watched. He watched till the light became dim.

"I'm a fool."he said at length to himself, "it is probably some kind of a glove-stretcher, and he rose to go indoors, but, when he looked back, the hand had vanished.

The incident was forgotten by the next morning, and when "Charles" sat over his coffee the following evening, his face was graver than usual over other matters. "I must take steps soon, I suppose," he thought. "First a fight, and then— this— a lonely house. If only—"

His memory, went back to one momentous day— the day on which his note-book had been stolen. But that was the day, also, on which he had seen the face which had haunted him since, so appealing, so beautiful. It was at that rascally race meeting, at a wicked little place named Shadder. He had been passing through, and stopped from careless curiosity. Then he had caught sight of a girl's face. She had been unconscious of his gaze as she sat alone on a high dog-cart. Then, later, she had endeavored to climb down, had slipped, and he had quickly stepped forward and saved her from a fall. He felt her warm hand, received a shy, gracious acknowledgment— and that was all. She had walked away, he had continued his journey, and the next thing he knew he was waking from unconsciousness in a hospital. He sighed, now as he remembered; then rousing himself and glancing up over the old hall, he was almost startled to see again the beautiful hand and arm lying over the sill.

"Hullo. Is this some trick?" he thought, "or a sign? Well, at any rate, it's no business of mine." But his eyes kept wandering back to it, till feeling annoyed, he rose hurriedly and went indoors.

But the next evening he went back to the deserted garden. In the still evening it was very peaceful, but he felt an odd restlessness as he glanced up at the open window. There again was the hand.

"She must be hidden behind the curtain," he thought, "perhaps waiting to see some guest attracted." And determinedly he opened his book and seemingly became absorbed in it. But from beneath the shelter of his fingers he watched the hand unceasingly. And at last, to his astonishment he saw a piece of paper fluttering slowly down. His eyes followed it, and when he looked up again the hand was gone.

Unhurriedly "Charles" walked to the paper, picked it up, and returned to his chair. Then he spread it out and examined it with mild curiosity, It was blank. Not a line of pen or pencil on either side.

For some minutes he smoked and meditated, half-puzzled, half-annoyed. Then, without thought, he laid the paper on his knee. At first his eyes, though fixed on it, were unseeing, his brain concerned with the motive for these odd doings, but suddenly he realised that here and there the paper was dotted with minute holes, and lifting it, he scrutinised it more closely. Then, stirred by a growing curiosity, he held it to the light of the sunset. And then, clearly there stood put before his eyes the electrifying word "Help," pricked on the paper by a pin.

Just for a moment a sense of the unreal held "Charles," then he dropped the paper. "Some flirtatious maid having her joke," he thought scornfully, and he continued to smoke in silence. But before he left the garden, with a half-contemptuous smile, he took the paper, and after a moment's pause wrote "How?" Then picking up a stone from the path, he wrapped it in the paper.

"My Colonial training should be equal to this," he thought and with a dexterous swing of his arm he sent the missive straight in at the open window.

ON THE FOLLOWING evening a half-amused interest took "Charles" to the little garden again. The other hotel guests were faithful to the terraces and the showier grounds, and as usual the place was deserted. Glancing up casually he saw at once that the beautiful, motionless hand was again at the window, and again he went and surreptitiously watched it, and again it was as still at death. At last, however, came the slightest movement and again a fragment of paper fluttered to the ground.

As before "Charles" strolled across and picked it up, and the hand disappeared. This time he knew what to look for, and placing the paper on his book he traced with his pencil the dotted lines. Then clearly stared back at him the message: "I am prisoner. Exercise, lower leads, eleven. Forgive. Help."

"Well!" he thought, "of all the—" And this is the twentieth century, in a civilised land! And what on earth have I to do with it all! Probably a mental case. And I'm to help it to escape. Letter dropped from window by unknown lady is one sort of joke, perhaps, though, not in my line, but this—!"

"Charles" crumpled the paper, and went for a stroll. He wanted to think. What if it had been any of the other guests in his place? They would ignore it, of course. Of course.

And yet— eleven o'clock found him at the deserted side of the old Hall, looking up at the possibilities of the "lower leads."

"To a man with a steady head it should be possible," he decided, as he sought for possible footholds, "If I can shin up, and stretch across to that ledge. I could be near enough for speech."

A soft "S-s-s-sh." interrupted his thoughts, and looking up he saw the outline of a face looking down. With a scramble and a swing he reached the top of the coping, and asked coolly: "What can I do for you, madam."

"Oh, you can first forgive me," she said, in low, trembling tones, and in an instant "Charles" coldness vanished. Quickly taking an electric torch from his pocket, he lifted it to her face.

"You—" The exclamation escaped him; his heart beat tumultuously. What astounding thing was this?

"You don't know me," she said, in a whisper that was almost a cry. "But I am desperate. I had to appeal to someone. I am kept a prisoner."

"Whyever?"

"Because— because— I know a guilty secret, and I will not promise to keep silent. Can you— will you— help me to escape?"

"Of course!" There was no hesitation in "Charles' " mind now. Gone were his suspicions of the joking chambermaid, of the mental case. His eyes looked upon the face he had longed to see again, and saw it frightened, troubled, desperate. "To-night— to-morrow— whenever you will."

"Oh, bless you for that!"

"Are you a guest? Have you somewhere to go—?"

"I am the sister of the proprietor."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed "Charles," "but— ".

"He is weak, and in great fear himself, and— and—"

"He is Sir Cyril Maitland, isn't he?" he asked deliberately.

She hesitated. "The proprietor— my brother— oh, I can't explain. He is not really free either, but I— I am in peril."

"Are you of age?" he asked quietly "Yes."

"Then I will help you down openly."

"Oh, no, no! It must be secretly. It would be dreadful for my brother. Oh, I couldn't—"

Seeing her terror, he said soothingly: "It shall be as you wish. Do you fear your brother?"

"I fear for him, and I fear—"

"I think I begin to guess," said "Charles." "Well, to-morrow, I understand, everyone, including your brother and the manager, is going to Bardon Races. Your chance is rosy."

"Races!" she groaned softly.

"And yet," he said quietly, "It was at a race meeting I saw you first, and I can't regret it."

"Saw me!" Her astonishment almost made her exclaim aloud.

"At a hideous, raw place called Shadder. You stumbled and I caught you. You thanked me, and— I have never forgotten you."

"But how wonderful!" she whispered breathlessly. "How amazing! But it was an awful day. too."

"For me also, for my pocket was picked, and later I was smashed in car collision. It laid me low for months."

"So it was you ,who helped me then!"

"You rewarded me with thanks."

"And you will help me now?"

"I shall again be rewarded by the honor."

"Oh!" she whispered, again. "It is wonderful! There is such danger be-fore me, and yet I feel happy. Ss-sh!" she broke, off. "My exercise time is up. My guard is coming." She drew back, and noiselessly "Charles" slid to the ground.

"I seem to be in for an adventure," he thought, as he strolled back, to the house.

"And what a jolly old tangle!" But the pulses of the nonchalant Sir Cyril Maitland were throbbing, and a new lightness had come to his heart.

"He is a devilish-looking fellow!" thought "Charles," next morning, as he sat at breakfast and watched the manager snapping bad-temperedly at the servants. "I shall be thankful for his absence."

The majority of the guests were driving to Bardon, and were arranging about luncheon baskets. Now and then Charles caught a glimpse of the proprietor, too, looking furtive and sullen as ever, and seeming to take but little pleasure in the "sport" before him. With assumed indifference "Charles" carefully noted each start. He had spent half the night in laying his plans, and he would not risk failure by impatience.

"Whatever happens I have the whip hand," he consoled himself, "but I'd rather bring it off as she wishes."

After lunch the hotel was silent and deserted. The servants were feeding and gossiping at the other end of the house, and "Charles" began to carry out his plans. ''This may work," he mused, as he secured a small, heavy packet and made his way to the sun-steeped garden, wrapped in a five-pound note was a short, heavy clasp-knife for weight, a pencil, and a message: "Bribe if possible, and be on leads at six prepared for journey. The coast is clear."

With practised deftness he swung this in at the open window, then strolled to the garage to prepare his car, and to his room to prepare his own luggage, ''Charles" was in the adventure sure enough.

Apparently the beginning of his path was to be easy, for the packet had done its work. The servants detested the manager, serving him by fear and for high wages, and whatever arguments or promises the terrified young "prisoner" had made, the result was that by six o'clock she was crouching on the leads wrapped in a traveling coat. She was trembling but she smiled bravely at him.

"Good," he said softly. "Don't be frightened. I shall throw up this rope; tie it with several knots round that single chimney, then gently lower yourself over the edge. It is a short drop. We shall not strain it for many moments. Almost at once you will be in my hold. My car is waiting. Can you do this?"

"I will do anything," she panted, and she held her hands to catch the rope. ' Then followed the breathless pause, while she forced her shaking fingers to tie the knots, and he waited. And then he saw her hurried-ly climbing over the edge. Then, holding the rope, she shut her eyes and slid.

"Oh. It is too heavenly to be free." she panted, as she stood in his clasp, safe on the ground. "But quickly, quickly. If I am caught now they will never forgive it, and next time—"

"No, no," he assured her, "you are safe with me."

But even as he spoke the sound of a returning car fell upon their ears and they stopped in dismay. The girl's face became ashen. "Charles" caught her by the arm. "It is all right; no one knows you!"

But "Charles" had reckoned too optimistically, for as they hurried to the waiting car they suddenly found themselves face to face with "Sir Cyril."

Blank amazement was his first expression, but furious anger quickly followed.

"What do you mean by this?" he stormed, seizing her violently by the arm.

Charles with a far stronger grip silently loosed the brutal hold.

"This lady is going for a drive with me," he said.

"Indeed, she is not," he declared.

"Indeed, she is."

"Sir, do you realise that I am her brother? Do you know that I am Sir Cyril Maitland?"

"Charles" paused, then looking him full in the face be said quietly: "I know you are not."

The effect of these words was ghastly. The girl uttered a terrified cry. But the man's face was horrified, and he fell back clutching at the wall for support. "You— you traitress," he gasped, springing at the girl.

"What have you told him?"

"Nothing," she declared.

"Liar!" He hurled the word at her.

"There was no need to tell me," said "Charles."

"Oh, God," cried the other. "I can't face it—!"

"Look here," said Charles. "I have no time to lose. Your best course is to help me. I begin to guess many things, but just tell me, it will be better for you, why you did this."

"I owed him money, the brute."

"Your manager?"

"Yes. Then I found a pocket book."

"You found it?"

"Yes, and letters telling of an inheritance."

"But wasn't the owner, perhaps, alive?"

"No, he was dead, lying in a shanty. He had been shot— everything stolen but the pocket-book on a shelf, and—"

"The pick-pocket himself, I suppose. Well?"

"Devlin came up—"

"The manager here?"

"Yes; I owed him money. He snatched the pocket-book, read the letters, said I'd killed the man, and he forced me—" The poor, weak-willed fellow broke under the strain at this point, and cried piteously,

"I see," said Charles, "so you took another man's heritage?"

"The letters proved," protested the shaking man, "that he was the last of his line. He had lived all his life in the Colonies."

"We will hear the details later," said "Charles." "Meanwhile your sister has put herself in my care, and I am taking her away at once-"

"You will do no such thing." The words, full of cold fury, fell upon their ears and they turned to see the murderous-looking face of Devlin.

"I am about to do it," said "Charles" coolly.

"Sir Cyril Maitland forbids it,"

"He does not."

"Mr. Masters, my power in this hotel is greater than you think. What I say goes. This lady will return to her room."

"She will not."

"She will and I shall ask Sir Cyril here, to back up my authority."

"You are talking to Sir Cyril."

"What do you mean? I order you to leave the place."

"You cannot—"

"Why cannot I?"

"Because the place is mine. I am Sir Cyril Maitland, and you are an unhung knave. This lady goes with me, and you shall hear from my lawyer."

Sir Cyril led the half fainting girl to his car and lifted her in. Then, without a backward glance at the two men, standing as if stricken to statues of Cowardice and Demoniacal Fury, he took his place at the wheel and drove her away from the scene to freedom.

"Please tell me your name," said Sir Cyril after a few miles had been covered and the girl beside him had regained some calm.

"Mary Darton," she replied.

He drew the car in beside the hedge and turned to her.

"Then Mary," he said with sudden deep earnestness, "I am taking you now to the safe care of my lawyer and his wife. But I want to say that I have carried your face in my memory and yourself in my heart ever since that day at Shadder. Tell me— can you tell me— if I may hope, even a little, to have you for my wife?"

Mary Darton looked back at him. the slow color rose, beautiful, to her brow.

"You may," she said slowly, with sudden boldness. "I know you may— hope— everything."

____________

6: Bon-Bon

Edgar Allan Poe

1809 - 1849

Baltimore Saturday Courier, 1 Dec 1832, (as "The Bargain Lost")

Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac,

Je suis plus savant que Balzac—

Plus sage que Pibrac;

Mon bras seul faisant l'attaque

De la nation cossaque,

La mettroit au sac;

De Charon je passerois le lac

En dormant dans son bac;

J'irois au fier Eac,

Sans que mon cœur fit tic ni tac,

Presenter du tabac.

—French Vaudeville.

THAT PIERRE BON-BON was a restaurateur of uncommon qualifications, no man who, during the reign of ——, frequented the little café in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre at Rouen, will, I imagine, feel himself at liberty to dispute. That Pierre Bon-Bon was, in an equal degree, skilled in the philosophy of that period is, I presume, still more especially undeniable. His pâtés à la fois were beyond doubt immaculate; but what pen can do justice to his essays sur la Nature— his thoughts sur l'Ame— his observations sur l'Esprit? If his omelettes— if his fricandeaux were inestimable, what littérateur of that day would not have given twice as much for an "Idée de Bon-Bon" as for all the trash of all the "Idées" of all the rest of the savants? Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no other man had ransacked— had read more than any other would have entertained a notion of reading— had understood more than any other would have conceived the possibility of understanding; and although, while he flourished, there were not wanting some authors at Rouen to assert "that his dicta evinced neither the purity of the Academy, nor the depth of the Lyceum"— although, mark me, his doctrines were by no means very generally comprehended, still it did not follow that they were difficult of comprehension. It was, I think, on account of their self-evidency that many persons were led to consider them abstruse. It is to Bon-Bon— but let this go no further— it is to Bon-Bon that Kant himself is mainly indebted for his metaphysics. The former was indeed not a Platonist, nor strictly speaking an Aristotelian— nor did he, like the modern Leibnitz, waste those precious hours which might be employed in the invention of a fricassée or, facili gradu, the analysis of a sensation, in frivolous attempts at reconciling the obstinate oils and waters of ethical discussion. Not at all. Bon-Bon was Ionic— Bon-Bon was equally Italic. He reasoned a priori— He reasoned a posteriori. His ideas were innate— or otherwise. He believed in George of Trebizond—he believed in Bossarion. Bon-Bon was emphatically a— Bon-Bonist.

I have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of restaurateur. I would not, however, have any friend of mine imagine that, in fulfilling his hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted a proper estimation of their dignity and importance. Far from it. It was impossible to say in which branch of his profession he took the greater pride. In his opinion the powers of the intellect held intimate connection with the capabilities of the stomach. I am not sure, indeed, that he greatly disagreed with the Chinese, who hold that the soul lies in the abdomen. The Greeks at all events were right, he thought, who employed the same word for the mind and the diaphragm. By this I do not mean to insinuate a charge of gluttony, or indeed any other serious charge to the prejudice of the metaphysician. If Pierre Bon-Bon had his failings— and what great man has not a thousand?— if Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, had his failings, they were failings of very little importance— faults indeed which, in other tempers, have often been looked upon rather in the light of virtues. As regards one of these foibles, I should not even have mentioned it in this history but for the remarkable prominency— the extreme alto relievo— in which it jutted out from the plane of his general disposition. He could never let slip an opportunity of making a bargain.

Not that he was avaricious— no. It was by no means necessary to the satisfaction of the philosopher, that the bargain should be to his own proper advantage. Provided a trade could be effected— a trade of any kind, upon any terms, or under any circumstances— a triumphant smile was seen for many days thereafter to enlighten his countenance, and a knowing wink of the eye to give evidence of his sagacity.

At any epoch it would not be very wonderful if a humour so peculiar as the one I have just mentioned, should elicit attention and remark. At the epoch of our narrative, had this peculiarity not attracted observation, there would have been room for wonder indeed. It was soon reported that, upon all occasions of the kind, the smile of Bon-Bon was found to differ widely from the downright grin with which he would laugh at his own jokes, or welcome an acquaintance. Hints were thrown out of an exciting nature; stories were told of perilous bargains made in a hurry and repented of at leisure; and instances were adduced of unaccountable capacities, vague longings, and unnatural inclinations implanted by the author of all evil for wise purposes of his own.

The philosopher had other weaknesses— but they are scarcely worthy our serious examination. For example, there are few men of extraordinary profundity who are found wanting in an inclination for the bottle. Whether this inclination be an exciting cause, or rather a valid proof, of such profundity, it is a nice thing to say. Bon-Bon, as far as I can learn, did not think the subject adapted to minute investigation;— nor do I. Yet in the indulgence of a propensity so truly classical, it is not to be supposed that the restaurateur would lose sight of that intuitive discrimination which was wont to characterize, at one and the same time, his essais and his omelettes. In his seclusions the Vin de Bourgogne had its allotted hour, and there were appropriate moments for the Côtes du Rhône. With him Sauternes was to Médoc what Catullus was to Homer. He would sport with a syllogism in sipping St. Péray, but unravel an argument over Clos-Vougeot, and upset a theory in a torrent of Chambertin. Well had it been if the same quick sense of propriety had attended him in the peddling propensity to which I have formerly alluded— but this was by no means the case. Indeed to say the truth, that trait of mind in the philosophic Bon-Bon did begin at length to assume a character of strange intensity and mysticism, and appeared deeply tinctured with the diablerie of his favourite German studies.

To enter the little café in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre was, at the period of our tale, to enter the sanctum of a man of genius. Bon-Bon was a man of genius. There was not a sous-cuisinier in Rouen who could not have told you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat knew it, and forbore to whisk her tail in the presence of the man of genius. His large water-dog was acquainted with the fact, and upon the approach of his master, betrayed his sense of inferiority by a sanctity of deportment, a debasement of the ears, and a dropping of the lower jaw not altogether unworthy of a dog. It is, however, true that much of this habitual respect might have been attributed to the personal appearance of the metaphysician. A distinguished exterior will, I am constrained to say, have its way even with a beast; and I am willing to allow much in the outward man of the restaurateur calculated to impress the imagination of the quadruped. There is a peculiar majesty about the atmosphere of the little great— if I may be permitted so equivocal an expression— which mere physical bulk alone will be found at all times inefficient in creating. If, however, Bon-Bon was barely three feet in height, and if his head was diminutively small, still it was impossible to behold the rotundity of his stomach without a sense of magnificence nearly bordering upon the sublime. In its size both dogs and men must have seen a type of his acquirements— in its immensity a fitting habitation for his immortal soul.

I might here— if it so pleased me— dilate upon the matter of habiliment, and other mere circumstances of the external metaphysician. I might hint that the hair of our hero was worn short, combed smoothly over his forehead, and surmounted by a conical-shaped white flannel cap and tassels— that his pea-green jerkin was not after the fashion of those worn by the common class of restaurateurs at that day— that the sleeves were something fuller than the reigning costume permitted— that the cuffs were turned up, not as usual in that barbarous period, with cloth of the same quality and colour as the garment, but faced in a more fanciful manner with the particoloured velvet of Genoa— that his slippers were of bright purple, curiously filigreed, and might have been manufactured in Japan, but for the exquisite pointing of the toes, and the brilliant tints of the binding and embroidery— that his breeches were of the yellow satin-like material called aimable— that his sky-blue cloak, resembling in form a dressing-wrapper, and richly bestudded all over with crimson devices, floated cavaliery upon his shoulders like a mist of the morning— and that his tout ensemble gave rise to the remarkable words of Benevenuta, the Improvisatrice of Florence, "that it was difficult to say whether Pierre Bon-Bon was indeed a bird of Paradise, or the rather a very Paradise of perfection." I might, I say, expatiate upon all these points if I pleased,— but I forbear; merely personal details may be left to historical novelists,— they are beneath the moral dignity of matter-of-fact.

I have said that "to enter the café in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre was to enter the sanctum of a man of genius"— but then it was only the man of genius who could duly estimate the merits of the sanctum. A sign, consisting of a vast folio, swung before the entrance. On one side of the volume was painted a bottle; on the reverse a pâté. On the back were visible in large letters Oeuvres de Bon-Bon. Thus was delicately shadowed forth the twofold occupation of the proprietor.

Upon stepping over the threshold, the whole interior of the building presented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room, of antique construction, was indeed all the accommodation afforded by the café. In a corner of the apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An array of curtains, together with a canopy à la grecque, gave it an air at once classic and comfortable. In the corner diagonally opposite, appeared, in direct family communion, the properties of the kitchen and the bibliothèque. A dish of polemics stood peacefully upon the dresser. Here lay an ovenful of the latest ethics— there a kettle of duodecimo mélanges. Volumes of German morality were hand and glove with the gridiron— a toasting-fork might be discovered by the side of Eusebius— Plato reclined at his ease in the frying-pan— and contemporary manuscripts were filed away upon the spit.

In other respects the Café de Bon-Bon might be said to differ little from the usual restaurants of the period. A large fireplace yawned opposite the door. On the right of the fireplace an open cupboard displayed a formidable array of labelled bottles.

It was here, about twelve o'clock one night, during the severe winter of ——, that Pierre Bon-Bon, after having listened for some time to the comments of his neighbours upon his singular propensity— that Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, having turned them all out of his house, locked the door upon them with an oath, and betook himself in no very pacific mood to the comforts of a leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a fire of blazing fagots.

It was one of those terrific nights which are only met with once or twice during a century. It snowed fiercely, and the house tottered to its centre with the floods of wind that, rushing through the crannies of the wall, and pouring impetuously down the chimney, shook awfully the curtains of the philosopher's bed, and disorganized the economy of his pâté-pans and papers. The huge folio sign that swung without, exposed to the fury of the tempest, creaked ominously, and gave out a moaning sound from its stanchions of solid oak.

It was in no placid temper, I say, that the metaphysician drew up his chair to its customary station by the hearth. Many circumstances of a perplexing nature had occurred during the day, to disturb the serenity of his meditations. In attempting des œufs à la Princesse, he had unfortunately perpetrated an omelette à la Reine; the discovery of a principle in ethics had been frustrated by the overturning of a stew; and last, not least, he had been thwarted in one of those admirable bargains which he at all times took such especial delight in bringing to a successful termination. But in the chafing of his mind at these unaccountable vicissitudes, there did not fail to be mingled some degree of that nervous anxiety which the fury of a boisterous night is so well calculated to produce. Whistling to his more immediate vicinity the large black water-dog we have spoken of before, and settling himself uneasily in his chair, he could not help casting a wary and unquiet eye toward those distant recesses of the apartment whose inexorable shadows not even the red fire-light itself could more than partially succeed in overcoming. Having completed a scrutiny whose exact purpose was perhaps unintelligible to himself, he drew close to his seat a small table covered with books and papers, and soon became absorbed in the task of retouching a voluminous manuscript, intended for publication on the morrow.

He had been thus occupied for some minutes, when "I am in no hurry, Monsieur Bon-Bon," suddenly whispered a whining voice in the apartment.

"The devil!" ejaculated our hero, starting to his feet, overturning the table at his side, and staring around him in astonishment.

"Very true," calmly replied the voice.

"Very true!— what is very true?— how came you here?" vociferated the metaphysician, as his eye fell upon something which lay stretched at full length upon the bed.

"I was saying," said the intruder, without attending to the interrogatories,— "I was saying that I am not at all pushed for time— that the business, upon which I took the liberty of calling, is of no pressing importance— in short, that I can very well wait until you have finished your Exposition."

"My Exposition!— there now!— how do you know?— how came you to understand that I was writing an Exposition— good God!"

"Hush!" replied the figure, in a shrill undertone; and, arising quickly from the bed, he made a single step toward our hero, while an iron lamp that depended overhead swung convulsively back from his approach.

The philosopher's amazement did not prevent a narrow scrutiny of the stranger's dress and appearance. The outlines of his figure, exceedingly lean, but much above the common height, were rendered minutely distinct by means of a faded suit of black cloth which fitted tight to the skin, but was otherwise cut very much in the style of a century ago. These garments had evidently been intended for a much shorter person than their present owner. His ankles and wrists were left naked for several inches. In his shoes, however, a pair of very brilliant buckles gave the lie to the extreme poverty implied by the other portions of his dress. His head was bare, and entirely bald, with the exception of the hinder-part, from which depended a queue of considerable length. A pair of green spectacles, with side glasses, protected his eyes from the influence of the light, and at the same time prevented our hero from ascertaining either their colour or their conformation. About the entire person there was no evidence of a shirt; but a white cravat, of filthy appearance, was tied with extreme precision around the throat, and the ends, hanging down formally side by side gave (although I dare say unintentionally) the idea of an ecclesiastic. Indeed, many other points both in his appearance and demeanour might have very well sustained a conception of that nature. Over his left ear, he carried, after the fashion of a modern clerk, an instrument resembling the stylus of the ancients. In a breast-pocket of his coat appeared conspicuously a small black volume fastened with clasps of steel. This book, whether accidentally or not, was so turned outwardly from the person as to discover the words "Rituel Catholique" in white letters upon the back. His entire physiognomy was interestingly saturnine— even cadaverously pale. The forehead was lofty, and deeply furrowed with the ridges of contemplation. The corners of the mouth were drawn down into an expression of the most submissive humility. There was also a clasping of the hands, as he stepped towards our hero— a deep sigh— and altogether a look of such utter sanctity as could not have failed to be unequivocally prepossessing. Every shadow of anger faded from the countenance of the metaphysician, as, having completed a satisfactory survey of his visitor's person, he shook him cordially by the hand, and conducted him to a seat.

There would however be a radical error in attributing this instantaneous transition of feeling in the philosopher to any one of those causes which might naturally be supposed to have had an influence. Indeed, Pierre Bon-Bon, from what I have been able to understand of his disposition, was of all men the least likely to be imposed upon by any speciousness of exterior deportment. It was impossible that so accurate an observer of men and things should have failed to discover, upon the moment, the real character of the personage who had thus intruded upon his hospitality. To say no more, the conformation of his visitor's feet was sufficiently remarkable— he maintained lightly upon his head an inordinately tall hat— there was a tremulous swelling about the hinder-part of his breeches— and the vibration of his coat tail was a palpable fact. Judge, then, with what feelings of satisfaction our hero found himself thrown thus at once into the society of a person for whom he had at all times entertained the most unqualified respect. He was, however, too much of the diplomatist to let escape him any intimation of his suspicions in regard to the true state of affairs. It was not his cue to appear at all conscious of the high honour he thus unexpectedly enjoyed; but, by leading his guest into conversation, to elicit some important ethical ideas, which might, in obtaining a place in his contemplated publication, enlighten the human race, and at the same time immortalize himself— ideas which, I should have added, his visitor's great age, and well-known proficiency in the science of morals, might very well have enabled him to afford.

Actuated by these enlightened views, our hero bade the gentleman sit down, while he himself took occasion to throw some fagots upon the fire, and place upon the now re-established table some bottles of Mousseaux. Having quickly completed these operations, he drew his chair vis-à-vis to his companion's, and waited until the latter should open the conversation. But plans even the most skilfully matured are often thwarted in the outset of their application— and the restaurateur found himself nonplussed by the very first words of his visitor's speech.

"I see you know me, Bon-Bon," said he; "ha! ha! ha!— he! he! he!— hi! hi! hi— ho! ho! ho!— hu! hu! hu!"— and the Devil, dropping at once the sanctity of his demeanour, opened to its fullest extent a mouth from ear to ear, so as to display a set of jagged and fang-like teeth, and, throwing back his head, laughed long, loudly, wickedly, and uproariously, while the black dog, crouching down upon his haunches, joined lustily in the chorus, and the tabby cat, flying off a tangent, stood up on end, and shrieked in the farthest corner of the apartment.

Not so the philosopher: he was too much a man of the world either to laugh like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the indecorous trepidation of the cat. It must be confessed, he felt a little astonishment to see the white letters which formed the words "Rituel Catholique" on the book in his guest's pocket, momently changing both their colour and their import, and in a few seconds, in place of the original title, the words "Registre des Condamnés" blaze forth in characters of red. This startling circumstance, when Bon-Bon replied to his visitor's remark, imparted to his manner an air of embarrassment which probably might not otherwise have been observed.

"Why, sir," said the philosopher, "why, sir, to speak sincerely—I believe you are—upon my word—the d—dest—that is to say, I think—I imagine—I have some faint— some very faint idea— of the remarkable honour—"

"Oh!— ah!— yes!— very well!" interrupted his Majesty; "say no more— I see how it is." And hereupon, taking off his green spectacles, he wiped the glasses carefully with the sleeve of his coat, and deposited them in his pocket.

If Bon-Bon had been astonished at the incident of the book, his amazement was now much increased by the spectacle which here presented itself to view. In raising his eyes, with a strong feeling of curiosity to ascertain the colour of his guest's, he found them by no means black, as he had anticipated— nor grey, as might have been imagined— nor yet hazel nor blue— nor indeed yellow nor red— nor purple— nor white— nor green— nor any other colour in the heavens above, or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth. In short, Pierre Bon-Bon not only saw plainly that his Majesty had no eyes whatsoever, but could discover no indications of their having existed at any previous period— for the space where eyes should naturally have been was, I am constrained to say, simply a dead level of flesh.

It was not in the nature of the metaphysician to forbear making some inquiry into the sources of so strange a phenomenon; and the reply of his Majesty was at once prompt, dignified, and satisfactory.

"Eyes! my dear Bon-Bon— eyes! did you say?— oh!— ah!— I perceive! The ridiculous prints, eh, which are in circulation, have given you a false idea of my personal appearance. Eyes!— true. Eyes, Pierre Bon-Bon, are very well in their proper place— that, you would say, is the head?— right— the head of a worm. To you, likewise, these optics are indispensable— yet I will convince you that my vision is more penetrating than your own. There is a cat I see in the corner— a pretty cat— look at her— observe her well. Now, Bon-Bon, do you behold the thoughts— the thoughts, I say— the ideas— the reflections— which are being engendered in her pericranium? There it is now— you do not! She is thinking we admire the length of her tail and the profundity of her mind. She has just concluded that I am the most distinguished of ecclesiastics, and that you are the most superficial of metaphysicians. Thus you see I am not altogether blind; but to one of my profession, the eyes you speak of would be merely an incumbrance, liable at any time to be put out by a toasting-iron or a pitchfork. To you, I allow, these optical affairs are indispensable. Endeavour, Bon-Bon, to use them well; my vision is the soul."

Hereupon the guest helped himself to the wine upon the table, and pouring out a bumper for Bon-Bon, requested him to drink it without scruple, and make himself perfectly at home.

"A clever book that of yours, Pierre," resumed his Majesty, tapping our friend knowingly upon the shoulder, as the latter put down his glass after a thorough compliance with his visitor's injunction. "A clever book that of yours, upon my honour. It's a work after my own heart. Your arrangement of the matter, I think, however, might be improved, and many of your notions remind me of Aristotle. That philosopher was one of my most intimate acquaintances. I liked him as much for his terrible ill temper, as for his happy knack at making a blunder. There is only one solid truth in all that he has written, and for that I gave him the hint out of pure compassion for his absurdity. I suppose, Pierre Bon-Bon, you very well know to what divine moral truth I am alluding?"

"Cannot say that I—"

"Indeed!— why it was I who told Aristotle that, by sneezing, men expelled superfluous ideas through the proboscis."

"Which is— hiccup!— undoubtedly the case," said the metaphysician, while he poured out for himself another bumper of Mousseaux, and offering his snuff-box to the fingers of his visitor.

"There was Plato, too," continued his Majesty, modestly declining the snuff-box and the compliment it implied— "there was Plato, too, for whom I, at one time, felt all the affection of a friend. You knew Plato, Bon-Bon?— ah, no, I beg a thousand pardons. He met me at Athens, one day, in the Parthenon, and told me he was distressed for an idea. I bade him write down that 'ὁ νοῦς ἐστιν αὐλός.' He said that he would do so, and went home, while I stepped over to the pyramids. But my conscience smote me for having uttered a truth, even to aid a friend, and hastening back to Athens, I arrived behind the philosopher's chair as he was inditing the 'αυλός.'

"Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down. So the sentence now reads 'ὁ νοῦς ἐστιν αύγος,' and is, you perceive, the fundamental doctrine in his metaphysics."

"Were you ever at Rome?" asked the restaurateur, as he finished his second bottle of Mousseaux, and drew from the closet a larger supply of Chambertin.

"But once, Monsieur Bon-Bon, but once. There was a time," said the Devil, as if reciting some passage from a book— "there was a time when occurred an anarchy of five years, during which the republic, bereft of all its officers, had no magistracy besides the tribunes of the people, and these were not legally vested with any degree of executive power—at that time, Monsieur Bon-Bon— at that time only I was in Rome, and I have no earthly acquaintance, consequently, with any of its philosophy."

"What do you think of— what do you think of— hiccup!— Epicurus?"

"What do I think of whom?" said the Devil, in astonishment; "you surely do not mean to find any fault with Epicurus! What do I think of Epicurus! Do you mean me, sir?— I am Epicurus! I am the same philosopher who wrote each of the three hundred treatises commemorated by Diogenes Laertes."

"That's a lie!" said the metaphysician, for the wine had gotten a little into his head.

"Very well!— very well, sir!— very well, indeed, sir!" said his Majesty, apparently much flattered.

"That's a lie!" repeated the restaurateur, dogmatically; "that's a— hiccup!— a lie!"

"Well, well, have it your own way!" said the Devil, pacifically, and Bon-Bon, having beaten his Majesty at an argument, thought it his duty to conclude a second bottle of Chambertin.

"As I was saying," resumed the visitor— "as I was observing a little while ago, there are some very outré notions in that book of yours, Monsieur Bon-Bon. What, for instance, do you mean by all that humbug about the soul? Pray, sir, what is the soul?"

"The— hiccup!— soul," replied the metaphysician, referring to his MS., "is undoubtedly—"

"No, sir!"

"Indubitably—"

"No, sir!"

"Indisputably—"

"No, sir!"

"Evidently—"

"No, sir!"

"Incontrovertibly—"

"No, sir!"

"Hiccup!—"

"No, sir!"

"And beyond all question, a—"

"No, sir, the soul is no such thing!" (Here the philosopher, looking daggers, took occasion to make an end, upon the spot, of his third bottle of Chambertin.)

"Then— hiccup!— pray, sir— what— what is it?"

"That is neither here nor there, Monsieur Bon-Bon," replied his Majesty, musingly. "I have tasted— that is to say, I have known some very bad souls, and some too— pretty good ones." Here he smacked his lips, and, having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume in his pocket, was seized with a violent fit of sneezing.

He continued:

"There was the soul of Cratinus— passable: Aristophanes— racy: Plato— exquisite— not your Plato, but Plato the comic poet; your Plato would have turned the stomach of Cerberus— faugh! Then let me see! there were Naevius, and Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius. Then there were Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintus Flaccus,— dear Quinty! as I called him when he sang a saeculare for my amusement, while I toasted him, in pure good humour, on a fork. But they want flavour, these Romans. One fat Greek is worth a dozen of them, and besides will keep, which cannot be said of a Quirite. Let us taste your Sauterne."

Bon-Bon had by this time made up his mind to the nil admirari, and endeavoured to hand down the bottles in question. He was, however, conscious of a strange sound in the room like the wagging of a tail. Of this, although extremely indecent in his Majesty, the philosopher took no notice:— simply kicking the dog, and requesting him to be quiet. The visitor continued:

"I found that Horace tasted very much like Aristotle;— you know I am fond of variety. Terentius I could not have told from Menander. Naso, to my astonishment, was Nicander in disguise. Virgilius had a strong twang of Theocritus. Martial put me much in mind of Archilochus— and Titus Livius was positively Polybius and none other."

"Hiccup!" here replied Bon-Bon, and his Majesty proceeded:

"But if I have a penchant, Monsieur Bon-Bon— if I have a penchant, it is for a philosopher. Yet, let me tell you, sir, it is not every dev— I mean it is not every gentleman who knows how to choose a philosopher. Long ones are not good; and the best, if not carefully shelled, are apt to be a little rancid on account of the gall."

"Shelled!!"

"I mean taken out of the carcass."

"What do you think of a— hiccup!— physician?"

"Don't mention them!— ugh! ugh!" (Here his Majesty retched violently.) "I never tasted but one— that rascal Hippocrates!— smelt of asafoetida— ugh! ugh! ugh!— caught a wretched cold washing him in the Styx— and after all he gave me the cholera-morbus."

"The— hiccup!— wretch!" ejaculated Bon-Bon, "the— hiccup!— abortion of a pill-box!"— and the philosopher dropped a tear.

"After all," continued the visitor, "after all, if a dev— if a gentleman wishes to live, he must have more talents than one or two; and with us a fat face is an evidence of diplomacy."

"How so?"

"Why we are sometimes exceedingly pushed for provisions. You must know that, in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently impossible to keep a spirit alive for more than two or three hours; and after death, unless pickled immediately (and a pickled spirit is not good), they will— smell— you understand, eh? Putrefaction is always to be apprehended when the souls are consigned to us in the usual way."

"Hiccup!— hiccup!— good God! how do you manage?"

Here the iron lamp commenced swinging with redoubled violence, and the Devil half started from his seat;— however, with a slight sigh, he recovered his composure, merely saying to our hero in a low tone: "I tell you what, Pierre Bon-Bon, we must have no more swearing."

The host swallowed another bumper, by way of denoting thorough comprehension and acquiescence, and the visitor continued:

"Why, there are several ways of managing. The most of us starve: some put up with the pickle: for my part I purchase my spirits vivente corpore, in which case I find they keep very well."

"But the body!— hiccup!— the body!!"

"The body, the body— well, what of the body?— oh! ah! I perceive. Why, sir, the body is not at all affected by the transaction. I have made innumerable purchases of the kind in my day, and the parties never experienced any inconvenience. There were Cain and Nimrod, and Nero, and Caligula, and Dionysius, and Pisistratus, and— and a thousand others, who never knew what it was to have a soul during the latter part of their lives; yet, sir, these men adorned society. Why isn't there A—, now, whom you know as well as I? Is he not in possession of all his faculties, mental and corporeal? Who writes a keener epigram? Who reasons more wittily? Who— but, stay! I have his agreement in my pocket-book."

Thus saying, he produced a red leather wallet, and took from it a number of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a glimpse of the letters Machi— Maza— Robesp— with the words Caligula, George, Elizabeth. His Majesty selected a narrow slip of parchment, and from it read aloud the following words:

"In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is unnecessary to specify, and in further consideration of one thousand louis d'or, I, being aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to the bearer of this agreement all my right, title, and appurtenance in the shadow called my soul. (Signed) A...." (Here His Majesty repeated a name which I do not feel myself justified in indicating more unequivocally.)

"A clever fellow that," resumed he; "but, like you, Monsieur Bon-Bon, he was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow, truly! The soul a shadow! Ha! ha! ha!— he! he! he!— hu! hu! hu! Only think of a fricasséed shadow!"

"Only think— hiccup!— of a fricasséed shadow!" exclaimed our hero, whose faculties were becoming much illuminated by the profundity of His Majesty's discourse. "Only think of a— hiccup!— fricasséed shadow!! Now, damme!— hiccup!— humph! If I would have been such a— hiccup!—nincompoop! My soul, Mr.— humph!"

"Your soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?"

"Yes, sir— hiccup!— my soul is—"

"What, sir?"

"No shadow, damme!"

"Did you mean to say—"

"Yes, sir, my soul is— hiccup!— humph!— yes, sir."

"Did you not intend to assert—"

"My soul is— hiccup!— peculiarly qualified for— hiccup!— a—"

"What, sir?"

"Stew."

"Ha!"

"Soufflée."

"Eh!"

"Fricassée."

"Indeed!"

"Ragoût and fricandeau— and see here, my good fellow! I'll let you have it— hiccup!— a bargain." Here the philosopher slapped His Majesty upon the back.

"Couldn't think of such a thing," said the latter calmly, at the same time rising from his seat. The metaphysician stared.

"Am supplied at present," said His Majesty.

"Hic-cup!— eh?" said the philosopher.

"Have no funds on hand."

"What?"

"Besides, very unhandsome in me—"

"Sir!"

"To take advantage of—"

"Hic-cup!"

"Your present disgusting and ungentlemanly situation."

Here the visitor bowed and withdrew— in what manner could not precisely be ascertained— but in a well-concerted effort to discharge a bottle at "the villain," the slender chain was severed that depended from the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by the downfall of the lamp.

_____________

7: The Red Star

Fergus Hume

1859-1932

In: The Dancer in Red, 1906

THERE ARE some memories so terrible, that when they recur to the unthinking brain, they have the power to make one retrace its steps, and return once more to the moment when the events of which they are the tragic shadows took place.

They are portions of a man's life, and when he least suspects their presence, they suddenly display themselves to his shuddering gaze.

Every son of Adam, be his life ever so blameless, has, in his time, visited Hell, and brought from thence a memory which, filling the visionary scope of his mind's eye, haunts him for evermore. He shrinks back appalled, he would fain shut out the horrible phantom; but look he must, for by his side it remains, mocking his futile efforts to exorcise its ghastly being. At times it fades into the unseen, only to return at some untoward moment with troublous persistence.

My haunting memory is of a red star,— nay, no planetary splendour do I indicate by such a term, neither Mars nor Aldebaran, nor fiery Sirius, but an earth-begotten star which nightly burned from the topmost window of a tall tower. Behind, a clear evening sky; in front, a sombre mass of turret, and gable and battlement, clustering round the base of a lean minaret, which from its height gave forth a crimson gleam of angry seeming.

On the black waters of the morass encircling the building it flared with baleful savagery, piercing the sullen darkness of the night. Seated at the window of the inn, I could mark it dominating the whole scene with its malign influence. I saw it then, I see it now, and under its malevolence a man lying prone on the quaking surface of the marsh, gazing palid-faced wild-eyed at the ebon pool, on whose breast float traitor bubbles, telling of horror and of death.

The window of a chemist's shop, the commonplace signals of a great railway station, or the starboard lights of a channel steamer, each brings to my mind the memory of that red star. Then do I turn cold with fear. Then do I seek in theatre, in dance, in travel, a forgetfulness of that tall tower with its scarlet eye. In vain my quest for oblivion; for the horror thrusts itself unannounced before my mental gaze. I leave the present, I return to the past, there to find the red star burning like an unquenchable witch-light.

This bizarre episode of my life occurred some years since, when I was on a walking tour in Essex. An artist by profession I combined business with pleasure by sketching a great deal during my desultory wanderings, so when I arrived at the little village of E—— I was rejoiced that I had a good record to show to Hadrian.

He was an author. One whose pen (more graphic than my pencil) had brought him fame. I was delighted when he proposed that we should, in partnership, write and illustrate a small book of English strollings. Hitherto my ambition had been confined to mere dilettantism, but now the offer of Hadrian inspired me with the desire for a certain notoriety (scarcely to be called fame), and I impatiently awaited his arrival at our appointed meeting-place, the Golden Plover Inn.

Business had detained him in town, else had we journeyed in company; but as it was, I sauntered for a whole fortnight through the pleasant English counties, in the hope that he would join me ere I reached E—— . No such overtaking occurred, and at The Golden Plover I awaited his coming.

The landlord was an oddity, with a twist of originality in his character, and showed himself, notwithstanding a certain stateliness of demeanour, disposed to be companionable. At the conclusion of my supper I sat by the casement of the parlour with a consoling pipe, while the host— John Ruth was his name— stalked stiff as Malvolio about the room. This hinting at sociability being at the moment much to my taste, I invited him to crack a bottle of port in my company. Nothing loth he accepted the invitation. Thus having mutually arranged for a pleasant evening Ruth went off to his cellar, and I, in a pleasing state of weariness, begotten by a long day on my legs, viewed the landscape from the parlour window.

A prospect more wild, dreary and eloquent of desolation, could scarcely be conceived. In the uncertain light— for it was now the twilight hour— it took on an unwholesome look which struck a chill into my being. The village was not far from the sea, and the uncanny seeming of the outlook was the more accentuated by the hollow boom of unseen waves. I could hear but could not see these complaining breakers, and this hidden presence, betraying itself only by dreary moanings, seemed a fitting type of the intangible horror which environed The Grange.

The inn being at the end of the village, there was no dwelling beyond save this cumbrous mass rising portentously against the luminous sky. Past my window ran the hard line of the high road, beyond this a stretch of sullen marsh spreading like a witch garden in front of the mansion. On a slight rise it bulked disproportionately in the landscape, and from its blackness a tall, lean tower shot upward, as though the house were lifting a warning finger. As is the case with some faces, a history is suggested by some houses, and I felt sure that a gruesome story was attached to this sullen mansion lying betwixt marsh and sea. The dull roar of the waves might have told the story, or I might have gained some legendary fragments from the sighing wind, but unversed in nature's voices I could translate neither boom nor sigh, and was therefore compelled to apply for information to the landlord. At this period of my reflections he entered the room, with the port and candles, much to my relief, for the influence of that lonely house was depressing in the extreme.

"What is the name of the place?" I asked abruptly, as he set down his burden on the table.

"That, sir," replied Ruthy with stately slowness, "is called The Grange, where Lady Selwyn dwells."

"What! Is anyone bold enough to live in that tomb?"

"It is a tomb!" assented the landlord with a certain apprehension. "I only trust it is nothing worse."

"What do you mean?"

Ruth shook his head significantly, poured out two glasses of wine, and pushed one towards my end of the table.

"It is a God-forsaken place, sir, and they do say haunted. I am not superstitious myself, Mr. Faloise, but I feel the horror of that house. Something in that house," he added earnestly, "cries bitterly at night. It is neither of earth nor of heaven, and it moans— moans in the darkness like a lost spirit."

His words chilled me with a feeling of vague horror. I would have spoken but that he reflectively sipped his wine and pursued his speech.

"Why should a rich and beautiful lady shut herself up in that dreary house? Why should she live in solitude and only come out at night-time? She is young, she is beautiful; but long years of horror have aged her face and cursed her soul. What is the Thing that moans in the darkness? I have asked her when she has come here but she has made no reply. Yet, Mr. Faloise, at every visit I can see a fresh mark of hell on the beauty of her face."

"She comes out at night, you say?"

"Only at night! When the red star shines!"

"The red star?"

"Look!" he cried, clutching my arm with one hand, and pointing through the window with the other.

I felt a certain qualm of horror, and mechanically turned my eyes towards the Grange. There, from the height of the tower, burned a fierce red light, which in the gathering darkness did indeed look like an evil star.

"Every night it shines," resumed Ruth, wiping his brow. "Every night the Thing moans. No ones live there, save Lady Selwyn and her old servant, yet when they come to this place the red star shines, the Thing cries. Hark!"

A faint wailing cry swept past the house and died away in the distance. We looked at one another in silent dread, and once more Ruth wiped his brow.

"It goes on like that," he said, hastily finishing his wine, "constantly. For two years it has been going on. I will never get used to it, Mr. Faloise. I wish the whole of that accursed house would sink deep in the morass."

"The morass?"

"Ay! Facing the mansion is no firm land, but merely a quaking bog, the crossing of which means death to the unwary. Behind is the sea, in front is the marsh; so you see, Mr. Faloise, those who dwell in that house are well defended."

"Defended!" I echoed, puzzled, at the strangely chosen word. "Why should the house be defended?"

"You now know as much as I do," replied Ruth obstinately; "you have seen the red star, you have heard the Thing crying. There is some hellish secret about The Grange, Mr. Faloise, but no one can reveal it save Lady Selwyn—"

"Ah! what is that?" I cried, with a thrill of fear, as a dark figure flitted past the window, followed by the dancing light of a swinging lantern.

"It is Lady Selwyn and her servant," said the landlord, laying aside his pipe; "they come nightly for provisions— wine and such like. Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Faloise."

With this he vanished, and I was left alone to ruminate over the strange history he had told me— no history either, but rather a suggestion of mystery, of infinite dread. I looked at the menacing tower, at the red star flaring in the windy night. This hinting of nameless horrors was too much for my nerves. Suddenly, overcome by an overwhelming curiosity I left the window, I left the room, and sought the keeper of the secret— Lady Selwyn.

Draped in a long black cloak, she was standing in the porch with the lantern bearer, an old woman who I guessed was her servant. The yellow light of the candle held by the landlord struck full on her face. Beautiful exceedingly was that countenance, but on the lovely face and in the eyes lurked the apprehensive look of a hunted beast. Ruth hearing my steps, turned suddenly, thereby throwing the light on to my features. The next instant, with a strange cry, Lady Selwyn darted forward like a madwoman. Laying her thin hands on my shoulders, she devoured my face with her eyes. I felt her shaking through the whole length of her body, but so thunderstruck was I that the Medusa beauty of her face turned me, as it were, to stone.

"Who are you?" she asked, in a low, fierce voice, pressing hardly on my shoulders.

"Hugh Faloise— an artist," I stammered, thinking it best to humour her caprice. "I am here on a walking tour."

"Go away at once," hissed Lady Selwyn, shaking me like a reed. "Do you hear me? Go away."

On uttering these words she faced round abruptly as to depart, then snatching the light from Ruth held it to my face.

"His hair! his eyes! his mouth!" she muttered eagerly. "So like him once. Heavens! to think what he is now."

A convulsive shudder shook her from head to foot. Dropping the candle, she drew the hood of her cloak over her face and fled away into the night, followed by the woman with the lantern. We were left in darkness (for the candle had been extinguished), thunderstruck at the episode. Then past the house floated that moaning cry, and with one accord we dashed back into the parlour.

"I shan't stay here another week," said Ruth with an oath; "it's killing work."

The whole affair was so weird, that I could not blame him for his fear. Indeed I also was trembling, and it took two glasses of wine to restore my courage.

On recovering my nerve I pulled out my sketchbook.

"What are you going to do, sir?" asked Ruth, observing my action curiously.

"Draw Lady Selwyn's face from memory." While I did so, he looked over my shoulder, seemingly disinclined to leave my company. Two years had not reconciled him to the evil atmosphere of the place. I did not wonder at that, but I did wonder how it was he was not in a lunatic asylum. Two days would have been enough for me, not to speak of two years. I have no relish for devildom. Lady Selwyn's eccentric conduct had upset me thoroughly. I could hardly draw the portrait; not that I had forgotten the face, but because my hand was shaking. This sort of thing in a lone inn slackens a man's nerve and renders him incapable of doing justice to his profession. Mine was that of an artist, but no one would have thought so had they seen the portrait, drawn from memory, of Lady Selwyn. When I say no one I mean no cultured person, for Ruth said it was a speaking likeness. But then he was not an artist and I was; whereby I saw the faults and he did not. However, horrors considering, it was passable and pleased me mightily.

"Ruth," said I, signing my name to the drawing "I am going to stay here and investigate."

"Investigate what, sir?"

"This mystery. Light, voice, and woman. A most unholy trinity."

"You'll find nothing, sir," said the landlord, emphatically. "I have tried for a year and failed."

"Oh! well, I will try for a year also and shall not fail."

Ruth pointed towards the red star.

"It is like a danger signal," he said, solemnly. "Better leave it alone, sir."

I wish I had taken his advice— now.

I MADE a discovery that night; one which surprised me largely. When a man has reached the age of thirty years without knowing the inner meaning of the word "love" he has a right to feel surprised on acquiring that knowledge without study. I did not seek love, on the contrary love— in the person of Lady Selwyn— hunted me out: consequently I was not a free agent in the matter. At the time I hardly analysed the affair in this fashion for the discovery was somewhat overwhelming. I tossed on an uneasy pillow all night wondering what disease had seized me, and matters were hardly improved by my lighting the candle at intervals to look at the picture. All the horror of red star and wailing voice was forgotten by me, my brain being fully occupied by the thought that Lady Selwyn was a beautiful woman whom I adored. I offer no opinion on this matter, but simply set down the existing facts.

Being in this dazed condition I was naturally anxious to confide my troubles to someone. Ruth was scarcely an inviting repository. I knew nobody in the neighbourhood, and self-communion was unsatisfactory; therefore the most obvious course was to await the coming of Hadrian. Somewhere about noon he duly arrived, without any apologies for his tardiness; but this omission on his part I waived, being only too thankful to see his dour countenance.

By dour I do not mean exactly ill-natured, for Hadrian had some geniality in his disposition, though it did not show itself in his face. Fortunately I knew that this index to his mind was a bad one, else I had not made him my confidant. As it turned out, he did not receive my story so well as I had expected, but this I put down to his jealousy in the matter of friendship.

Hadrian was a good physiognomist, and anxious for his unbiased opinion I said nothing about Lady Selwyn, but slipped the portrait in with the rest of the sketches. In a few minutes Hadrian, as I expected he would, asked to see what work I had done, so I placed the whole lot before him and waited the result in silence. He went to work in his usual ungracious manner, making remarks complimentary and otherwise— mostly otherwise. In due course he came across the portrait and to my astonishment shewed an unexpected acquaintance with the original.

"Why Faloise," he said, turning towards me, sketch in hand, "where have you seen Lady Selwyn?"

"Do you know her, Hadrian?"

"Excellently well! She was the heroine of that queer story of two seasons ago."

"What queer story?"

"Oh, I forgot. You were in India at the time," said Hadrian, replacing the sketch in the portfolio. "However, I can tell you the whole history— but first let me hear how you came to make her acquaintance."

I would rather have heard the London history first, and then narrated the sequel; but Hadrian, as I knew of old, was as obstinate as a mule. Unless I gratified his curiosity he certainly would not gratify mine, so with quick dispatch I told him all that had taken place on the previous night. The important detail of my falling in love I withheld for the present. I might as well have told it at once, for I saw Hadrian guessed the truth from my tell-tale cheeks. However, he made no sign of such knowledge, but, when I had finished the story, looked out at the Grange intently through the window.

Naturally I expected to be directly addressed, but in place of this Hadrian began a monologue as though he were alone. At first I felt indignant, but as his soliloquy seemed pertinent to the subject, I listened.

"Apparently," observed Hadrian, to himself, "she saw the likeness between Varst and Faloise. That accounts for her emotion. She loved Varst deeply, and when he died buried herself in this tomb. Now a ghost in the person of Faloise has revived that love given to a dead man; so it is not unlikely she will transfer her affections to the living. Faloise resembles the non-existing Varst greatly. Doubtless she will love him. The question is— will Faloise love her?"

"Faloise does love her," I broke in impetuously, whereupon Hadrian, contrary to his usual gravity, burst out laughing.

"So! I have caught you in a trap, Faloise. Yes, I am aware that you love this woman. Your cheeks, your eyes were eloquent Now your tongue betrays you. Faloise," he added, touching my breast with an emphatic forefinger, "had I not tricked you into this confession you would have held your peace."

"Indeed, you are wrong. I intended to tell you as soon as you arrived." Hadrian, taking out his watch, glanced at the dial with a mocking smile.

"I have been with you close on an hour and you have told me— nothing. So much for your intention. You love this woman?"

"Yes, I do!"

"And you would marry her?"

"If she would have me!"

"You talk like a child!" said Hadrian, roughly, "marry a woman of whom you know nothing,— whose face you have hardly seen! A woman who, as you can see for yourself, conceals some shameful secret in that house. Don't be a fool, Faloise!"

"Calling me names will not alter my determination!" I rejoined, a trifle nettled; "tell me what you know about her and I will judge for myself."

Hadrian bit his fingers— a trick with him when annoyed— then, without further preamble, burst out into the story of Lady Selwyn.

"She is a young widow!" he began with a jerk of his head, by which I knew how angry he was. "A young widow not without attractions, as you know, nor without money, as you don't know. More than two years ago— I may say three— when I was in town, and you were in the East, she buried her first husband and fell in love with Paul Varst, artist. It was said she had been in love with him before she married Sir Peter Selwyn's title and fortune, but at all events, no sooner was the old man buried than she became engaged to Varst. He resembled you greatly, and like you, was an artist, which I think you must admit is a curious coincidence. During Lady Selwyn's period of mourning he went to the East as you did. Unlike you — and this is the first point of difference between you— he returned from thence afflicted with some disease.

I don't know the name of the disease, but it killed him, and may be said to have killed her, seeing how she has shut herself up in yonder tomb to mourn him. You, my friend, are very like Varst, so I should not feel surprised if she fell in love with you. In her eyes, remember, you are Varst redivivus. My advice to you is to escape her snares by immediate flight. As to your red star, I cannot divine its meaning, nor do I think it worth troubling about. All I know for certain is that Lady Selwyn loved Varst, and as you resemble Varst she will assuredly love you. So there you have the story. Sufficiently common-place, is it not?"

"Yes! and sufficiently reputable also," I interrupted hotly. "I see nothing to condemn in her conduct and much to praise. She must be a loving woman to mourn so truly for the dead. By your own showing my resemblance to Varst gives me a chance of success, and as I love her, I see no reason why I should not become her husband."

"I trust you will not be so foolish, Faloise."

"Pray do not argue further. My mind is made up."

"And so is mine," he rejoined, angrily springing from his chair. "If you intend to make a fool of yourself, I wash my hands of the whole business. Give up this idea, Faloise, or I leave you for ever."

"As you please," I answered, cutting short the discussion, and with that left the room.

When I returned Ruth informed me that Hadrian had gone.

Presumably it was jealousy which caused him to act in this foolish way. He could not bear to think that a woman should come between us; but as a woman had done so, he considered himself affronted, and departed in anger. It would be useless to deny that I was sorry for this breach between us. I do not make friends easily, and Hadrian was my closest companion. Notwithstanding my regret, I was too much in love to brood long over this severance, and dismissing Hadrian's folly from my mind, addressed myself to the task of solving the red star mystery.

I wonder if there is a perverse fate who ever makes things go contrary to what we wish. In my case I was inclined to take this view of Providence, for I wanted Lady Selwyn to visit the Golden Plover as usual, but she never made her appearance. The old woman came for such necessaries as were required, but Lady Selwyn remained in seclusion, I spent my days in walking up and down the high road in front of the morass and my nights in the parlour waiting for her coming, but neither by day nor by night did I see her. Ruth informed me that before my arrival she nightly paid a visit to the inn. Seeing that she did so no longer I was forced to blame either that suppositious fate, or my likeness to Paul Varst, deceased.

Each day I haunted the high road, watching that detestable house, each night I sat in the parlour eyeing that red star and listening to the Thing wailing. I got used to both in the end, showing that even horrors can become stale. Ruth usually kept me company, and we talked of many things— of Lady Selwyn among others— but I learned no more than I had been told on the first night. And all this time I was in a perfect fever of excitement

This unsatisfactory life went on for about a week. At the end of that time the old woman brought a letter in which Lady Selwyn implored me to go away. I took no notice of this, but haunted the high road as usual, whereupon the next night brought me another letter ordering me to depart. I heeded the command as little as I had done the entreaty. Then there ensued a perfect deluge of notes, imploring, ordering, requesting, beseeching. Lady Selwyn ran through the whole gamut of a woman's arts in wheedling a man to do her bidding.

It was all of no avail. I was as obstinate in staying, as she was in hiding. Neither of us would give in. At last she did. Towards the end of the second week she unexpectedly made her appearance in the parlour, ordered John Ruth out of the room, and gave me a warm quarter of an hour.

"If you are a gentleman, Mr. Faloise, you will leave this place," she said indignantly. "I have written you at least a dozen letters, of none of which you have taken any notice."

"Really, Lady Selwyn, I do not see why I should leave this place," I answered mildly. "Is it reasonable to expect me to do so?"

"You are driving me mad."

"How so?"

For answer she covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears. I advanced to soothe her, but on touching her shoulder she sprang up with a terrified gesture.

"No! No! Do not touch me. I cannot bear it. Oh! if you only knew my story!"

"I do know your story. That you loved Paul Varst, who is dead, and that I resemble Paul Varst."

"Who told you this?" she asked with a quick intake of the breath.

"I learned it inadvertently. Is it because I resemble Paul Varst that you wish me to go?"

"Yes! yes! You are so like him. You have his eyes, his voice. To me you are as a spectre. Paul Varst was like you, and now—"

"He is dead, and you mourn his loss in that dreary mansion. Surely you have suffered enough and can forget the past."

She shivered, spreading out her hands with a gesture of despair.

"No! I can never forget the past."

"Let me teach you to do so?"

"What do you mean, Mr. Faloise?" she cried, shrinking back from my outstretched arms.

"That I love you."

"For God's sake say no more."

I caught her to my breast before she could avoid me.

"I must speak, Lady Selwyn. I love you! I love you! The moment I beheld your face in the porch yonder I loved you. I drew your picture from memory— from the memory of my heart. I resemble Paul Varst. Love me for his sake if not for my own."

She thrust me back with such violence that I reeled against the wall.

"How dare you insult me!" she panted, clenching her hands. "You are a stranger. I know nothing of you and yet— and yet you dare to speak of love to me— to me," striking her breast with closed fist, "who am vowed to the dead."

"I cannot help myself. I am a coward, acting as I do; but blame the lover, not the man. I should go away when you bid me! I cannot! I dare not! The sight of your face has ruined my life! If I leave you I die! You are killing me— yes, killing me. Can you not see how I suffer?"

The angry light in her eyes softened to the mild radiance of pity. Crossing the room she laid her hand on my bowed head.

"Poor fellow! You suffer. I also suffer. But we must both suffer in silence. I am under the ban of hell.

"What do you mean? That house—"

"I dare tell you no more. The red light warns me to hold my peace."

"What does it mean?" I said, again grasping her poor thin hands.

"It means the tortures of hell," she whispered with slow terror. "I have seen a soul writhing in the grip of fiends. Pray to God you may never look upon such sights as sear my eyes. We must meet no more, Mr. Faloise. Let me bear my curse alone."

"Nay, I will help you to bear it."

"You cannot. It is too horrible! Let me go, Mr. Faloise. I cannot! I dare not love you!"

"Then, you do love me?"

Without a word she bent forward and kissed my cheek. At that moment we heard the wailing of the accursed thing, whereupon, with a burst of hysterical laughter, she fled from the room. I followed with speed, but she had already vanished in the darkness, nor could my implorings call her back to my arms.

The next night she failed to appear, but the old woman brought me another letter. "Pity my weakness, and go," were the contents, and the paper was stained with tears. Those tears decided my course. Nothing now would induce me to leave the place without soothing this sorrow. I swore to enter the Grange, to enter that room from whence shone the red light, to discover what it was that wailed so horribly. I sacrificed my soul to keep that oath, but I kept it.

After a haggard night I walked up the road at dawn to examine the morass. If possible I desired to cross it and enter the Grange, but as I stood hesitating on the verge of the unsteady ground a woman cried aloud. On looking up I saw Lady Selwyn balanced above the black water, and in less than a minute she was by my side.

"Go away, Mr. Faloise," she panted, pushing me backward. "What do you wish?"

"To enter the Grange."

"Impossible. It is death to enter."

"Nevertheless I will enter."

"For what reason?"

I whispered my reply in her ear, as though it were too awesome to be spoken aloud.

"I wish to marry you. That house holds some horrible secret, which is blighting your life. Let me in. Tell me what it is, and I will free you from its influence."

"There is no secret," she denied, with downcast eyes.

"There is! I am determined to find out its mystery. Why does that red star shine from the tower at dusk? What is it that moans in the darkness?"

"You are killing me," she gasped, pressing her hand to her side. "Go away, I implore you, Mr. Faloise. I dare not tell you anything." Then, with sudden defiance, "I shall not tell you anything, nor will I see you again."

I would have folded her in my arms, but with a sudden spring she placed a portion of the morass between us.

"You will sink!" I cried, sick with horror, as the ground quivered under her light weight.

"No; I guide myself by the white stones!" she called back. "Good-bye, Mr. Faloise. Do not come here again. It means death to you and to me."

With this she vanished into the house, and daunted by that horrible marsh I dared not follow her. Slowly I returned to the inn. The east was red with the dawn, but redder than the east burned the star from the tall tower.

I DETERMINED to force my way into the Grange that night. Devoured alike by love and curiosity, my state of mind was favourable to the enterprise. That it was a desperate one I gathered from the hints thrown out by Lady Selwyn. The half hysterical life of the past two weeks, in place of destroying my nerve, had screwed up my courage to a point of reckless daring. I knew that such artificiality would sooner or later collapse, but before the collapse came I swore to discover the secret of the red star. Of such resolve I told no one, not even Ruth, but making some trivial excuse for talking a walk, strolled up to that morass which formed so effective a defence to the Grange.

In the soft June twilight the sullen marsh spread its sliminess before me. The inky pools of black water, the unhealthy green of the vegetation, the grave-yard richness of the mould, all filled me with repugnance. It was like a grave, and for aught I knew might be mine, seeing that I was ignorant of the secret crossing. Lady Selwyn had guided her course by the white stones, so for such land marks I looked. They dotted the blackness irregularly, but by following their eccentric curvings I made sure to arrive safely on the other side. I am not religious, but as I shivered on the edge of that possible grave, and noted the evil gleam of the red star, I put up a hurried prayer for protection. Then I set a cautious foot on the spot indicated by the first stone.

The treacherous ground quivered like a jelly as the black bog water oozed sluggishly round my feet. Prudently trying every resting-place in advance with my stick, I sprang from one stone to another, ever feeling the quaking of the quagmire. There was no sign of life about the house, and though I half expected Lady Selwyn to issue forth with warning cries, she did not make her appearance. Several times my heart was in my mouth as I slipped on the spongy soil; but in the end I was safely across, and found myself on firm ground. I now stood fairly committed to the adventure, for the morass was my rubicon, yet for the moment I felt qualmish. My body counselled retreat but my soul inclined to pushing forward in the teeth of danger. Urged on by this desire, I marched boldly towards the low brick wall of the house.

It ran the whole length of the facade, and the rusty iron gate in the centre was closely barred. By looking through the narrow railings I could catch a glimpse of the front door. It stood wide open, as though Lady Selwyn deemed the morass a sufficient protection from the outside world; so seeing that there was but one obstacle to overcome, I plucked up heart. One portion of the dilapidated wall afforded perilous foothold. Of this I took advantage, and not without some abrasions of the knees, managed to clamber over. I then found myself directly under the red eye of the tower. It seemed to my distempered fancy to follow my movements in a stealthy manner, but undaunted by the bogey of superstition, I hurried forward to the open door.

Within was a mighty hall, with a wide staircase ascending into upper glooms, and so ghostly did it look that for the moment my spirit quailed. On recollecting, however, that the house was but tenanted by two weak women, I felt ashamed of my momentary panic, and stole to the foot of the staircase. I did not know in which portion of this vast place Lady Selwyn resided, but judging that she would live above the unwholesome miasma of the morass, I decided to seek her on the first floor.

Just as I placed my foot on the stair, I heard the noise of descending feet and had barely time to draw back into the shadow, when a woman appeared on the landing. It was not Lady Selwyn, but her servant, going, as I judged from the basket on her arm, to the inn for provisions. She glided past me like a ghost, and having unlocked the iron gate, crossed the morass with an air of confidence which showed her to be thoroughly conversant with the dangerous way. The gate was left wide open; so here, if I chose to take it, was my chance of retreat; but I was bent on accomplishing my desire, and, giving myself no time for coward reflection, rapidly mounted the stairs.

Through the dingy windows filtered the doubtful light, creating within an atmosphere rather less luminous than was without. Still when my eyes became accustomed to the semi-gloom I managed to get about with considerable ease, but where I went I do not know to this day. My sole idea was to find Lady Selwyn; therefore I took no stock of my surroundings, but hunted blindly through room and echoing corridor. I descended stairs here, I went up others there, down long passages I ran, and hesitated in rooms bare of furniture, but I saw nothing. Up to this period of my life I had never felt the horror of loneliness, having been always within hail of my fellow creatures. I felt it now. Seated, through weariness, on the floor of an empty apartment, I was seized with a deadly feeling to which I can put no name. It made me shiver and turn sick. I felt myself environed by empty space. Methought there was no man in the world save I.

Then the Thing came. I can put no name to that either. It did not show itself visibly, but there it was, not at any particular spot but all round me. A faint sickly odour corrupted the atmosphere. My mouth was parched with nervous heat, and the perspiration rolled down my back. The twilight had condensed into a thick darkness, and I in the midst thereof was seated forlorn, forgotten of God and man. I could see nothing, I could hear nothing, but it was there, whatever it was, on all sides. I clutched my knees and shivered, while it moved invisibly around. Then I knew the sufferings of lost souls.

How long I was under this malign influence I cannot tell, but it seemed to me that I sat for hours shivering in the clinging darkness. The climax came when it began to whimper. I felt my flesh creep. At the second whimper I shrieked with horror.

Scarcely had my voice died away when I heard the sound of someone approaching, and Lady Selwyn entered the room bearing a lighted candle. The nerve of the woman was astonishing. Schooled, I suppose, by the horrors constantly surrounding her, she showed no fear, but moved swiftly towards me. I looked up, shaking like a leaf, and the light revealed my face.

"Mr. Faloise!" she cried, falling back a pace. "In God's name how did you enter?"

Paying no attention to her question, I clutched her dress in a paroxysm of fear.

"What is it that cries in the darkness? Hark!"

Again I heard that indescribable sound, and she heard it also, for her white face blanched still whiter.

"Go! go!" she whispered, dragging me to my feet. "Ask nothing. Go!"

"I will know your secret!"

The sound again, but this time in angry tone, like the snarl of a dog.

"If you don't go I cannot protect you," she cried in alarm, and seizing my arm hurried me from the room.

In her presence I recovered my courage, and would have spoken, but she shook her head for me to keep silent. Leading me through the lonely passages, she made no pause until we found ourselves in the entrance hall. It did not follow us, for when we arrived at the foot of the staircase I felt a certain sense of relief, as though the invisible presence had departed.

"The door and the gate are both open," said Lady Selwyn rapidly, "go at once and re-cross the marsh by the white stones."

"Tell me what it all means!"

"Since you know so much, you may as well know all, Mr. Faloise, but you will regret your curiosity to your dying day."

"It is too late now for regrets. Tell me all!"

"When I do, swear that you will leave this village at once and keep silence."

"I swear!"

"So much for your love," she said bitterly. "I see your curiosity has overpowered that feeling."

"Lady Selwyn—"

"Hush! speak no more on that subject. What is the matter?"

"Heaven's!" I whispered, looking apprehensively around: "it is here again!"

"I know that," she replied composedly, "but you will not see it."

"What is the thing that cries?"

"Paul Varst!" said Lady Selwyn, putting her hand to her breast.

"But he is dead!"

"No, he is not dead. He lives here. Shut out from the world for ever. The living dead."

"What is the reason?"

She put her lips to my ear and whispered one word. It curdled my blood with horror and I cried out.

Again I heard the Thing moan, but this time its moaning shaped itself into human speech.

"Paul Varst! Paul Varst!" It wailed pitifully. "Once he was like you. Pray God you may never become like him. A leper! A leper! An outcast! Oh, my punishment! My punishment!"

The voice died away in a heart-breaking sigh. Fear staying my speech, I interrogated Lady Selwyn with a look.

"Now you know the truth," she said, weeping bitterly. "He was my lover, but contracted this frightful disease in the East. On his return to England it manifested itself. I loved him too well to leave him. Spreading a report of his death I brought him secretly to this place and condemned myself to share his living death."

"But the red star?"

"He cannot bear the light of heaven to reveal his deformity, even to himself. The windows of his room are of red glass, through which the lamplight shines at night."

"Oh, my punishment! My punishment!" moaned the invisible thing. "I suffer in life what others suffer after death. Away! away! or you will become even as that which was once Paul Varst."

I clutched Lady Selwyn's arm, and tried to drag her to the open door. "Come away! come away from this accursed house."

The thing whimpered angrily, and a look of alarm overspread her face.

"I cannot! I dare not! Go! Go! There is danger."

"Leave that living corpse, I beg of you. It is accursed."

"Ah! Ah! Ah!" moaned the voice, "do not leave me— do not leave me. You loved me once— do not leave me."

The horror beat against the wall, and fearing lest it should reveal itself I dragged Lady Selwyn nearer the door by main force.

"Never mind it. Come away! Quick! Quick!"

"I dare not," she gasped, hanging back. "I dare not. He would kill me, and I loved him."

"Once, but not now. Paul Varst is dead. You love Hugh Faloise!"

The thing overheard my remark, and its voice arose in a howl of fury. With a cry of fear Lady Selwyn fell half fainting into my arms. In another moment I was out of the gate with my burden, trying to cross the morass.

I heard the whimpering of the Thing in pursuit but dared not turn my head. The cool air revived Lady Selwyn, and midway in the marsh she began to struggle.

"Let me go! Let me go! He wants me. Paul! Paul!"

It answered with the roar of a wild animal, and before I knew of its proximity Lady Selwyn was wrenched from my arms. She made a horrible noise, scarcely human, and I turned. Its face was looking straight at me.

"Oh, Heavens!" I screamed, and fell face downward on the quaking earth.

I must have fainted, but as my head had fallen partially into the water, I speedily recovered. All was still. A few bubbles on the near pool showed where it had sunk with its living burden. Wrapped in each other's arms the dead and the living had gone down into that loathsome quagmire.

I looked up with an ashen face. The Red Star was shining over their grave.

_______________

8: The Other Half

Edwin L. Sabin

1870-1952

Weird Tales Feb 1926

I HAD advertised that a passenger would be taken (for a price) on my return trip by air from Omaha to the coast, and awaited the responses with no little curiosity. A flying companion should be chosen carefully.

The very first applicant, therefore, startled me. He appeared almost as soon as the papers were off the presses —a spare, intense, elderly man, with gray mustache and imperial, and bushy brows shadowing singularly bright, restless eyes. His years, of course, were against him; his weathered, lean face and active step bespoke energy, nevertheless I judged him to be rising sixty.

"But, my dear sir!" I protested.

He proved insistent.

"Heart perfect," he snapped. "I'll leave that to any doctor you appoint. Heart, arteries and lungs, they're as sound as yours. ''

"Just why do you wish to make tho trip, may I ask?" said I. "Business or pleasure?"

"Business." He eyed me sharply. "There'll be no woman aboard?"

"Scarcely," I assured.

"All right No woman. I've been across time and again, by train— and there were women; by auto— drove my own car, alone, but there were the women, before, behind, and no way to avoid them." He grumbled almost savagely. "I'll go by air," he resumed. "I want to get to San Francisco at once. I want to look around. Do you stop at Denver? Salt Lake? Cheyenne?"

"Straight to San Francisco," said I. "We may have to land en route, perhaps Cheyenne, perhaps Reno; but not for long and I make no promises. ''

"All right. I'll look around San Francisco. I may have missed something. Then I can work back. I'm not through. You'll have to take me. I'll pay you double. I'm sounder than most of the younger men; I have no family-"

"You're not married, sir?" I queried.

"No, no! Thank God, no! You accept me?"

He noted me hesitate. Perhaps he sensed that I deemed him a trifle off center.

"I'll give you references," he proffered with dignity. "I'm not crazy— not quite. Look me up, for I mean to go. San Francisco, again: then I can work back. There's always the chance," he muttered. "Yes, there's always the chance." And he challenged: "If you find me sane and sound, it's a bargain, is it?"

"Possibly so, in case—"

"And we start at once?"

"Tomorrow."

He paused.

"You're a Westerner?"

"Born and raised in Leadville, Colorado," I assured.

He seized upon the fact.

"Ah! Leadville! We couldn't stop there?"

"Hardly."

"But it was a busy camp, once, wasn't it? A typical camp; a rendezvous, with dance halls, gambling dens, and men and women of all kinds gathered?"

"A boom camp, and wide open," I said. "That was before my day, however."

"Yes," he pursued. "So it was. I've been there. I must look into it again. It's one more place. You were born and raised there, you say?" Lived there some time? Wait! Did you ever happen to see the mate to this, in curiosity shops, say, or among relies of the old-timers?"

Thereupon he unsnapped a small protective leather case and passed me the half of a silver coin, pierced as if it once had been strung.

"An old half dollar?" I hazarded.

"Yes. If you've aviator's eyes you can read the lettering around the rim, young man."

So I could. "God Be With You—" was the legend, unfinished as if cut short. He was gazing anxiously at me, his lips atremble. I turned the piece over and passed it back.

"No," said I; "I never happened to see the other half. A keepsake?"

His face set sternly. He restored the half coin to its case.

"A keepsake. You are married, young man?"

"Not yet."

"Don't," he barked. "Don't. Pray God you may be spared that."

A woman-hater, he; odd in a man who should be mellowing. But upon looking him up I found that this was his only apparent defection. A strange, restless man, however, with few friends; antecedents unknown; personal history taboo with him; and wanderlust possessing him today as yesterday and the day before.

"Again?" his banker blurted. "Bound across again? He only just got back from San Francisco, by automobile, via Salt Lake, Cheyenne and Denver. Drove alone. So he's going through with you? That'll be his fifth or sixth trip this year. He's a regular Wandering Jew."

"And his business?" I invited.

"Business? None."

"On the trips, I mean."

"My dear man, nobody knows. He goes and comes, goes and comes. You'd think he was hunting a lost mine; or a lost child, only he says he isn't married. I believe he has covered the West from end to end and border to border. Did he show you his pocket-piece?"

"A half coin? Yes. And asked me if I'd ever seen the other half,"

"That's it. He asks everybody the same, especially if they're Western people. What he wants of the other half, no one knows. A fad, maybe; an excuse to keep moving. He'll not find it in the air, that's certain."

"Not in the air," I agreed. "He must have other reasons for going by that route. To avoid women, he intimated."

"And to get there quickly. He never comes home satisfied. No sooner gets here than something seems to call him; you'd think he had an S.O.S. wireless by the way he hustles out again, maybe over the very same trail. Always searching, always searching; that's the life of old John. And never finding."

"He's past sixty?" I asked.

"Past sixty! He's past seventy, but nobody'd guess it."

And I accepted John Brown as passenger. No one else offered as likely. I notified him to be ready. We hopped off in the morning.

THE iron rails crushed the romance of plains travel. With the airplane also the crossing of the West, like the crossing of the East, is business. In the long overland stretches the aviator pays scant attention to the dead epics that he violates with the drumming blast of his propeller when he bores through the atmosphere above those plains where the spirits still dance in little dust whirls that pivot and career with no breath of wind. But I've often wandered what imploring shades we dislocate when we ride in that half-world ether which is neither heaven nor earth.

My passenger and I made our first leg without event. Out of Cheyenne the motor began to buck, and a rudder control jammed annoyingly. There was only one thing to do. Spiraling and slanting like a wing-tipped bird we sought a landing place.

The country below, as revealed, was rugged, inhospitable desert—a bad-lands desert with deeply graven face upturned immutable. Plunging from high covert as we did, and bursting into full earth-view, we should have appeared like a prodigy from the nethermost. But no buffalo rocked in flight, no antelope scoured flashily, no red warriors hammered their ponies for refuge. I saw, however, far, far away toward the horizon, the smoke thread of a train, and I read in the signal a message of derision.

We skimmed above a flattish uplift. Fissures and canyons yawned for us. My passenger's voice dinned hollowly into my ear, through, our 'phone.

"A country God forgot. And there's nothing here. Useless, useless! We must go on."

But I had to do it. Passing with a great rush we turned into the wind, and breasting, fluttering, managed to strike just at the edge of a flat-top butte or mesa. We bounded, rolled, checked, halted, and there we were.

My passenger was out first, divested of his safety harness. He acted like one distraught. Our brief stop near Cheyenne had vexed him— he had wished to spend either more time there, or less time. Now this impromptu stop enraged him.

"What a place, what a place!" he stormed. "There's nothing here; there can be nothing here. We must get on. I'm wasting time. I paid to get on, to San Francisco; even Salt Labe. Then I can work back. But what am I to do here? And I'm growing old. How long will you be?"

"Not long. And meanwhile," I retorted, "you'll not be bothered with women. You can be thankful for that."

He snorted.

"Women! No women here; yes. A spot without woman: man and God. We've got to get on. I'll pay you well to get me on. Do you hear? To San Francisco— to Salt Lake; some center where I can look, look, and then work back. I must look again."

He strode frenziedly. A glance about as I stripped myself of incumbrances showed me that we were isolated. The mesa dropped abruptly on all sides; by a running start we might soar from an edge like a seaplane from the platform of a battleship. And I noted also that without doubt we should have to depend upon our own resources, for if this was a country God forgot it moreover seemed to be a country by man forgotten, granted that man ever before had known it. All furrowed and washed and castlemented, it was a region where we might remain pancaked and unremarked, as insignificant as a beetle.

I WAS HUNTING our engine trouble, when on a sudden he called, and beckoned.

"Here, you! What's this!"

I went over. Something quickened me, electric and prickling as when one's flesh crawls in contact with a presence unseen. Skull and skeleton lay eerie and mysterious, whitely gleaming, bleached by many weathers.

He stooped—

"Great God!" he stammered. "You've found it?" I asked: and I knew that he had, even while he was polishing it against his sleeve.

"I don't know, I don't know. Look at it. Tell me. I can't see. What is it?"

His hand shook as with palsy as he extended it to me; then the half of a silver coin, plucked from the loosened grip of skeleton fingers; the date—

"Give it to me," he cried, and snatched at it.

The date, 1860; and the legend, upon the side less tarnished, "—Till We Meet Again." He fumbled in his pocket. The two halves matched sufficiently—"God Be With You Till We Meet Again."

"What you've been looking for?" I prompted.

He stared dazedly at me.

"Looking for! A thousand times. A thousand years. No, no; not that long, but more than fifty years. Denver, Cheyenne, Salt Lake, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Helena, Laramie, Creede, Deadwood, Leadville, Dodge City— wherever men and women of her kind gathered in her day and his I've searched again and again. Not for her! She must be dead, and long dead. But for word of this; for this, or trace of this. It was mine. I gave it. And now, here! How came it here? Those bones won't speak." He angrily kicked them. "Speak! What were you doing with this half coin? Where was she? Were you man or woman?"

"Woman, Mr. Brown," said I.

His jaw tautened as he faced me full.

"You say woman? How do you know? What woman?"

"I know," said I. "And what woman? A young woman, a girl, somebody's wife who was supposed to have run away with a breed on the Overland Trail fifty odd years ago— but didn't."

He recoiled a step, tottering, countenance blanched.

"What? Supposed! Supposing I say there was such a woman— my own wife, sir— my bar sinister— my cross that has ruined my life and made me doubt God and man and woman for half a century. And this half coin! I vowed I'd have it back. When at old Fort Bridger I got word that she had deserted me— deserted me for a scoundrelly half-breed— I swore that I'd trail her down till I got back the only bond between us. It's been my passion; it's been something to live for. That was 1867; this is 1920. I am seventy-four years of age. I have covered the West, and cursed women while cursing her. And to what end? This forsaken spot, a mess of bones, and no word! Oh, God! I thought I didn't care— she deserved the worst that could happen to her. This is the keepsake token. Yes. But where is she? I loved her. I want to know."

He shut his face in his quivering hands.

I put my hand upon his shoulder.

"Come, come," said I. "The half of the coin and the half of the story have been yours. Shall I tell you the other half of the story, to match this other half of the coin? It says 'Till We Meet Again', remember."

Then he faced me once more.

"We halved the coin when we parted in the States, I for Fort Bridger as a government clerk there, she to wait till I should send for her. Yes, yes. Fifty and more years ago. 'Till We Meet Again'! And mine: 'God Be With You'! Ah! What do you know? How can you stand and tell me of her? Did you ever see her— did you ever see her?" He clutched me by the arm. "Did you ever see her, that hussy, that) scarlet woman, that— that— yes, and my own wife who made me lose faith in woman, man, and God; took my youth from me, sent me wandering about without home and without charity? Curse her! The end of the trail, and what do I find? Dry bones. Whose bones?" He faltered, and he implored, simply: "You guessed? You 're too young to have been on the plains in those days. Did you know him?"

"Pierre Lavelle?"

"Ah!" he quavered. He dashed down the half coin. "Are you going to tell me these bones are his ? No, no! Such men as he live long. And this keepsake! Tell me she died miserably; that will be something. You did know him? You did? Or do you dare to allege you can rebuild a past, from this dungheap? What?"

"You wrong her, Mr. Brown," I answered. "I never knew Lavelle, never saw him. I never knew her— I do not even know her name, except by yours. But— "

"Catherine," he murmured. "Kitty. A beautiful girl, and false as hell."

"You wrong her," I repeated. "You wrong those poor bones. Will you listen?"

"Go on." He steadied himself. "They won't speak. Can you?"

"I'll speak for them," I continued. "In 1867 a government wagon train was en route from Leavenworth for old Fort Bridger of Utah."

"Very likely," he sneered.

"There was a young wife with it, to join her husband at the post. And there was a train attaché named Pierre Lavelle, half Spanish and half Indian— a handsome scoundrel."

"I'll take your word for that. "

"He coveted the girl. She was innocent— she had no notion. One evening after supper he and she rode up into a narrow draw, here in western Wyoming, to seek flowers. He roped her and gagged her and left her while he returned to the camp, on one pretext or another. He succeeded in fastening a note inside her tent: 'Tell my husband I've gone with a better man.' "

"I got the note," nodded the old man grimly. "Well?"

"The note was a forgery and a lie," said I.

He sneered again.

"How do you know?"

"I know. This first night he rode with the woman tied to her saddle; the second night he freed her. He didn't fear pursuit, and the trail and the train were fifty miles behind. It was a lowering evening, and a wild land. He advanced upon her, she smiled as if she had yielded, but when he reached for her she struck him across the month and snatched his knife from his belt and defied him."

"Indeed? And how do you happen to know that, sir?"

"Wait. This stopped him for a moment. She fell upon her knees and prayed to God for help. He wiped his lips and laughed. Can you imagine that little scene, Mr. Brown? She in white, as she was-"

"She always loved white. There you are right," conceded the old man.

"And disheveled and at bay; he in his buckskins and greasy black Indian hair, his lips bloody and his teeth glistening; and all the country around promising no succor for her?"

"My imagination is dead," he said. "Yours seems much alive. Well, go on, go on."

"Lavelle wiped his lips and laughed. 'There's no God in this region, my lady,' he mocked. 'There's only you and me.' "

"God-forsaken, God-forsaken," the old man muttered. "A land Godforsaken it is, as I have been."

"Is it?" I challenged. "Wait. She prayed, and these are her very words: 'God, lift me from this fiend's hands, or give me strength to lift myself.' Lavelle taunted: 'Why not call upon your husband? He'll be hot to know. I left him just enough word to make him curious.' And he told her of the note. She cried: 'Oh! How I hate you! Some day he shall know, and know the truth. I hope he kills you.' 'Not for you, he won't,' Lavelle answered. 'He won't want you after you've lived in my Sioux lodge for a while.' "

The old man's hands had clenched. He gazed fixedly as if witnessing the scene.

"At this." I proceeded, "she saw something in the fellow's eyes that alarmed her. When he rushed her she dodged and lunged, and snapped the knife blade close to the hilt, upon his belt buckle. Then she ran, leaving a strip of her dress in his fingers. She ran for higher ground— ran like a hunted rabbit; sprang across a fissure, and gained the top of a butte— a flat butte or mesa. And he made after, jeering, for he knew that she had trapped herself. The mesa top ended abruptly. Further flight was barred. He came on slowly, enjoying her plight."

The old man rasped:

"You say all this. How do you know? Answer me that."

"Wait," I bade. "Then she again fell on her knees, panting like a nun of old Panama facing a buccaneer. But suddenly she called out, this time gladly, and flung up her two arms, to the sky. And Lavelle saw that which frightened even him. The north was strangely black and jagged; out of the black there issued a roaring, and a gigantic spectacle speeding very swiftly. It might have been the thunder bird of the Sioux, said Lavelle, or a winged canoe, or monstrous devouring demon— and it might have been an avalanching cloud of wind and rain. But to her it was as if God were riding m upon a thunderbolt chariot, and she had reached up her two arms to be taken into that, driving shelter."

"And this happened, you say; did it?" smiled my old man, sarcastically. "And you happen to know!"

"It happened, and I happen to know," said I. "Lavelle was stopped short again. The Indian in him recoiled. Then his ruffian courage surged back within him. Whether god or spirit, it should not have her. So he threw his rifle to his shoulder, and just as the blackness swooped roaring and whistling to envelop her he touched trigger. Then he ran headlong, in retreat out of the way. The cloud descended, it passed, the rush of air in its wake knocked him flat, the terror and the rain and the hail and the thunder and lightning plastered him, face to the ground, at the foot of the mesa.

"IN THE MORNING the sun rose clear. But Lavelle could not get atop that mesa again. The cloudburst had sheered away the approaches, like a hydraulic stream, and washed them down as mud and gravel. The mesa rose rimrocked and precipitous, like a biscuit to an ant. He hallooed and got no answer. One horse had broken its tether; he rode the other to a nearby ridge and gazed across. He could see the girl lying white and motionless. His hawk eyes told him that she was dead. So, being a coward in heart, he made off at speed. He quit the country altogether, changed his name, drifted down into border Arizona, and was shot at a gambling table in Tombstone some forty years ago. The girl, you see," said I, "has been lying here ever since, the half coin— that half coin of promise in her fingers, waiting for you and your understanding."

"But," he cried fiercely, "you say so. You weave a story. How am I to know? Where is your proof! Why should I believe? How does it happen—?"

"Because," I answered, "these bones and the half coin 'happen' to be here; and you 'happen' to be my passenger; and we 'happen' to land together upon this 'God-forsaken' spot. And my middle name," said I, " 'happens' to be Lavelle, from the line of my grandfather who in his private memoirs confessed to a great wrong."

My old man plumped to his knees; he groped for the half coin. I left him pressing it to his lips and babbling a name, and I went back to the plane.

______________

9: The Cats of Ulthar

H. P. Lovecraft

1890-1937

Weird Tales Feb 1926

IT IS SAID that in Ulthar, which lies beyond the river Skai, no man may kill a cat; and this I can verily believe as I graze upon him who sitteth purring before the fire. For the cat is cryptic, and close to strange things which men can not see. He is the soul of antique Egyptus, and bearer of tales from forgotten cities in Meroe and Ophir. He is the kin of the jungle's lords, and heir to the secrets of hoary and sinister Africa. The Sphinx is his cousin, and he speaks her language; but he is more ancient than the Sphinx, and remembers that which she hath forgotten.

In Ulthar, before ever the burgesses forbade the killing of cats, there dwelt an old cotter and his wife who delighted to trap and slay the cats of their neighbors. Why they did this I know not; save that many hate the voice of the cat in the night, and take it ill that cats should run stealthily about yards and gardens at twilight. But whatever the reason, this old man and woman took pleasure in trapping and slaying every cat which came near to their hovel; and from some of the sounds heard after dark, many villagers fancied that the manner of slaying was exceedingly peculiar. But the villagers did not discuss such things with the old mao and his wife; because of the habitual expression on the withered faces of the two, and because their cottage was so small and so darkly hidden under spreading oaks at the back of a neglected yard. In truth, much as the owners of cats hated these odd folk, they feared them more; and instead of berating them as brutal assassins, merely took care that no cherished pet or mouser should stray toward the remote hovel under the dark trees. When through some unavoidable oversight a cat was missed, and sounds heard after dark, the loser would lament impotently; or console himself by thanking Fate that it was not one of his children who had thus vanished. For the people of Ulthar were simple, and knew not whence it is that all cats first came.

One day a caravan of strange wanderers from the South entered the narrow cobbled streets of Ulthar. Dark wanderers they were, and unlike the other roving folk who passed through the village twice every year. In the market-place they told fortunes for silver, and bought gay beads from the merchants. What, was the land of these wanderers none eould tell; but it was seen that they were given to strange prayers, and that they had painted on the sides of their wagons strange figures with human bodies and the heads of eats, hawks, rams, and lions. And the leader of the caravan wore a headdress with two horns and a curious disk betwixt the horns.

There was in this singular caravan a little boy with no father or mother, but only a tiny black kitten to cherish. The plague had not been kind to him, yet had left him this small furry thing to mitigate his sorrow; and when one is very young, one can find great relief in the lively antics of a Wadi kitten. So the boy whom the dark people called Menes smiled more often than he wept as he sate playing with his graceful kitten on the steps of an oddly painted wagon.

On the third morning of the wanderers' stay in Ulthar, Menes could not find his kitten; and as he sobbed aloud in the market-place certain villagers told him of the old man and his wife, and of sounds heard in the night. And when he heard these things his sobbing gave place to meditation, and finally to prayer. He stretched out his arms toward the sun and prayed in a tongue no villager could understand; though indeed the villagers did not try very hard to understand, since their attention was mostly taken up by.the sky and the odd shapes the clouds were assuming. It was very peculiar, but as the little boy uttered his petition there seemed to form overhead the shadowy, nebulous figures of exotic things; of hybrid creatures crowned with hornflanked disks. Nature is full of such illusions to impress the imaginative.

That night the wanderers left Ulthar, and were never seen again. And the householders were troubled when they noticed that in all the village there was not a eat to be found. From each hearth the familiar eat had vanished; cats large and small, black, gray, striped, yellow and white. Old Kranon, the burgomaster, swore that the dark folk had taken the cats away in revenge for the killing of Menes' kitten; and cursed the caravan and the little boy. But Nith, the lean notary, declared that the old cotter and his wife were more likely persons to suspect; for their hatred of cats was notorious and increasingly bold. Still, no one durst complain to the sinister couple; even when little Atal, the innkeeper's son, vowed that he had at twilight seen all the cats of Ulthar in that accursed yard under the trees, pacing very slowly and solemnly in a circle around the cottage, two abreast, as if in performance of some unheard-of rite of beasts. The villagers did not know how much to believe from so small a boy; and though they feared that the evil pair had charmed the cats to their death, they preferred not to chide the old cotter till they met him outside his dark and repellent yard.

So Ulthar went to sleep in vain anger; and when the people awaked at dawn— behold! every cat was back at his accustomed hearth! Large and small, black, gray, striped, yellow and white, none was missing. Very sleek and fat did the cats appear, and sonorous with purring content. The citizens talked with one another of the affair, and marveled not a little. Old Kranon again insisted that it was the dark folk who had taken them, since cats did not return alive from the cottage of the ancient man and his wife. But all agreed on one thing; that the refusal of all the cats to eat their portions of meat or drink their saucers of milk was exceedingly curious. And for two whole days the sleek, lazy cats of Ulthar would touch no food, but only doze by the fire or in the sun.

IT WAS fully a week before the villagers noticed that no lights were appearing at dusk in the windows of the cottage under the trees. Then the lean Nith remarked that, no one had seen the old man or his wife since the night the cats were away. In another week the burgomaster decided to overcome his fears and call at the strangely silent dwelling as a matter of duty, though in doing so he was careful to take with him Shang the blacksmith and Thul the cutter of stone as witnesses. And when they had broken down the frail door they found only this: two cleanly picked human skeletons on the earthen floor, and a number of singular beetles crawling in the shadowy corners.

There was subsequently much talk amongst the burgesses of Ulthar. Zath, the coroner, disputed at length with Nith, the lean notary; and Kranou and Shang and Thul were overwhelmed with questions. Even little Atal, the innkeeper's son, was closely questioned and given a sweetmeat as reward. They talked of the old cotter and his wife, of the caravan of dark wanderers, of small Menes and his black kitten, of the prayer of Menes and of the sky during that prayer, of the doings of the cats on the night the caravan left, and of what was later found in the cottage under the dark trees in the repellent yard.

And in the end the burgesses passed that remarkable law which is told of by traders in Hatheg and discussed by travelers in Nir; namely, that in Ulthar no man may kill a cat.

_____________

10: Penitence

Mark Hellinger

1903-1947

Sunday Times (Perth) 15 March 1942

MARTIN opened his eyes the tiniest bit. He blinked, and then softly cursed the brilliance of the sunshine that was streaming through the window near his bed.

He propped himself up lamely on one elbow and glanced at his watch. Six-thirty. The last time he looked at it, it had said the same thing. He picked the watch up with his free hand and shook it. He listened carefully— but there was no sound. The watch had stopped.

He wondered vaguely what time it really was. In the distance, he heard chimes. That meant it was Sunday. Sunday morning— and pious people were going to church.

Martin could see them now. Smiling folk with scrubbed faces and prayer books in hand. Good people. He knew a lot of good people, too. Trouble was, they were all bartenders

He grunted, and coughed and growled. He yawned mightily, and put his feet on the floor. His eyes were only half-open and his hair, stood on end. but you could tell he was a nice-looking fellow. Youngish and well— nice

The pyjamas he was wearing were too big, and quacking ducks ran all over them. But Margie had liked both the pyjamas and the ducks. And not without reason. She had bought the pyjamas herself, and a woman can ask no finer reason.

She had made Martin put them on, and then she had clapped her hands happily.

"Martin," she had squealed, "they're— why, they're just delicious!"

"Sure," he had growled. "But I have my own ideas. A man who allows a woman to pick out his pyjamas or his ties ought to be put in an asylum."

But he wore them just the same. Religiously. His only respite came when those ducky pyjamas went to the laundry. Then he slipped into the ones he had bought himself. They were real class; dark green with a flaming-tongued dragon on the back of the coat

He liked those pyjamas. They were he told himself, very dignified.

Now he inched his toes into his house slippers and yawned again. He scratched his head with gusto. Then he stood, and his knees cracked He fumbled around the bed and trooped toward the kitchen.

"Coffee!" he bellowed. "That's what a red-blooded man needs. Coffee!"

There was no answer. He peeked expectantly around the kitchen door. Empty. Then he looked on the table.

There was the note

"MARTIN," it stated. "I'm leaving. You know how I hate dramatics— so I'm sneaking out while you're still sleeping. I told you many times that we couldn't go on, but you only laughed. So here's the real thing.

"I don't want alimony or the furniture. You keep everything, because all I want is freedom from you. Naturally, I'm going to mother's house. But please be a good sport and keep away, because I don't love you any more. Good-bye and good luck. Margie."

Martin rubbed his eyes. He chuckled, and he tried to tell himself that this was Just another of her stunts. But he knew he was lying. He knew she meant it. And he knew in his heart he had lost her forever.

He ran suddenly to her wardrobe and threw the door open. All empty. Nothing but a lot of hangers In the bottom. He must have slept soundly not to have heard her.

Now the anaesthetic of sleep wore off completely. The pain of reality flooded through him. He knew now what it actually meant.

No more Margie. No more sweet face with the naughty eyes. No more waiting until the company left, and then mimicking the others. No more going to football games and coming home high.

No more serious talks about "settling down and having a flock of babies." No more making fun of friends and laughing until you bent over double. No more fights. No more kick of making up. No more Margie.

He shook his bead slowly, as though he had a horrible headache. Then he felt his way along the wall until he reached the bathroom. After awhile, red-eyed, he stared in the cabinet mirror at himself.

He sighed explosively. Then suddenly, like a man determined, he pulled  back the catch and opened the cabinet. His expression was tired and lifeless as he studied the array of tubes and bottles.

He reached for the bottle he wanted. He paused for a second, and clenched his fist. He shook his head and pondered for a moment. Then, with renewed determination, he reached again.

This time, his hand closed over the bottle.

Stumblingly he retraced his steps. When he reached the kitchen again, he swallowed hard.

"Maybe," he muttered, "maybe she didn't mean forever. Maybe she'll come back in a day or two. Maybe—"

He snatched at the note and read it again. There it was, cold and complete.

"All I want is freedom from you."

All right, then. If that's what she wanted, he'd give her more than she bargained  for. She'd have her freedom— and much faster than she bargained on.

His hands shook palsiedly as he opened the bottle. His eyes were blurred as he read the instructions. "Take one." it said. Martin snickered. He dumped out four of the white tablets. They rolled abound on the porcelain table top. He went over to the closet and got a glass. He half filled it with water.

Then he pulled over a chair and sat down. For the final time, he read the note. It seemed harder to him this time, for more embittered. This was really the end. After, eight years of laughter and fighting and fun, this was the last fadeout. Curtain.

Martin wondered vaguely why Margie hadn't said anything when he arrived home last night. She had just smiled sweetly and said the tailor had called to say he couldn't lengthen the sleeves of the brown coat. Martin had said nuts to the tailor. And then he had gone to bed.

Well, too late to think any more about it now. He drew a deep breath. His jaw trembled slightly. He reached out suddenly, picked up the four tablets and tossed them into his mouth. Then he washed them down with water.

He leaned back in the chair.

"Thank Heaven," he murmured happily, "for hangover tablets— and for wives who know when they're not wanted!"

____________

11: The Wrath of the God

Arthur H. Adams

1872-1936

Sunday Times (Perth) 9 Oct 1904

I HAVE talked the thing over and over with Lady Chatterton, and yet neither of us has come to any conclusion about it. Candidly, I don't see how we could come to any satisfying solution of the affair. We don't know yet whether the thing actually took place or whether we both imagined it; and yet there is no record of two people being under the same hallucination at the same time in a West End drawing-room, too, on a bright sunny afternoon in the season.

And then there is the death of poor Penyris. Heart disease, the papers said. The evening papers had the thing in big type, "Shocking Death in a Duchess's Drawing Room!" And there were various veiled hints, suggestions from unknowns, queries semi-official, talks of the coroner's inquest, whisperings of a post-mortem— all very terrible to us, knowing what we did.

But it came to nothing. We took care of that, Lady Chatterton and I, or rather I did it all, for the poor woman's nerves went altogether under the strain, and when I was allowed to see her a month after she was just a trembling, pitiable thing of fear.

I had poor Penyris's body taken away, wired his relatives, and kept the thing from the public. And Penyris is buried— he died from heart disease, to which the doctors said he had always been subject— died in Lady Chatterton's cozy drawing-room, just after we three had had afternoon tea. I wonder what the doctors made of that mark on, Penyris's forehead?

But it is no use speculating. The thing is finished with— at least, I hope it is. Perhaps I am presumptuous to imagine that the unknown force or whatever it was that Penyris so unconsciously invoked could be so easily placated. And yet there is Penyris's dead body. Often I wake in the night with the conviction that it is in the room with me, playing with me, grimly waiting for me. And though Lady Chatterton is reticent, I sometimes catch a sudden terror in her glance— a frightened appeal, a cowering fear. Of what? I fancy I know. I dare not tell her. The terrible thing about it is that it is so outside ordinary experience that we have no weapons with which to combat it. And yet poor Penyris's body, with that mark on the forehead, ought to be sufficient expiation. But how can we Westerners, with our crude materialistic notions of the universe, tell what may be behind what we term sensation?

But let me tell the story as it happened. I break silence now because it is safe from discovery. Lady Chatterton might as well tell the truth about her once for all— Lady Chatterton is dying from some obscure nervous disease that has put that indescribable terror into her once beautiful eyes. She guesses what the end must be; but she never hints at it, even to she. We dare not take Lord Chatterton into our confidence. We feel so horribly isolated; we move about in our world— as far as we can see it is our only world— a world of drawing-room and yacht, of carriage and motor, of the ballroom and moor, and all the time we are conscious of that other world that lies so awfully close! But if I tell the thing plainly someone might suggest to us what to do. Only it must be soon— Lady Chatterton is dying, and there is my own case.

Well, here's the thing as it occurred.

IT HAD BEEN a cozy little affair. I had met Lady Chatterton in the park, and she had insisted on carrying me home with her to tea. When we got to her house we found Penyris there. I never cared much for Penyris. He was a strange, reserved fellow— a professor of some Eastern language at Oxford, quite a young man, too. A good looking fellow, with a great white, broad brow, reaching up like a dome.

For the rest, Penyris was a reserved man, buried in his books, poking round in the British Museum, and writing Oriental dictionaries in his spare time. In his vacations he used to go off to India alone; and the only occasion I ever suspected him of enthusiasm was when he told me the wish of his life was to penetrate Lhasa, the forbidden city of Thibet.

"One day," he said, "I'll make that journey. Wouldn't it be splendid to be the first white man to reach Lhasa and find out the last secrets of the Buddhist faith!"

I laughed. He disliked me from that day.

He explained to us when we came in that afternoon that he was really waiting for Lord Chatterton. It seems the Duke had just received some loot from China, taken by a cousin of his, an officer who had been through the Boor campaign. Among the collection was a number of articles taken from the great Buddhist temple at Paoting-fu, which had been blown up by the allies.

Penyris said that the Duke had communicated with him, referring to a rumour that this was one of the oldest temples in China, and that it had for centuries been m the closest touch with the divine Buddha at Lhassa.

Lady Chatterton asked him to stay to tea, adding that Bob would be in soon. And I asked him politely who was the living Buddha he seemed to know so well.

"The living Buddha," he said, with a glace of contempt at me, "is the most important personage in the whole Buddhist scheme. He represents in himself the reincarnation of the first Buddha. He's the Pope o£ the faith, and he lives shrouded in mystery in his unknown capital of Thibet. Nobody has ever seen him, except the high priests of his faith. When he dies, another Gagen, as he is called, is selected as chief of the hierarchy, and in him in turn the God is supposed to be re-embodied."

We were duly impressed.

"I'm sorry," said Lady Chatterton, "that Bob has not had all those things unpacked yet, but," rising and crossing the room, "here is a curiosity that perhaps you'd be interested in."

She lifted a little bronze Buddha from a table and brought it across to him.

"Bob was so taken with the placid ferocity in the poor chap's face," she laughed, "that he brought it in for me to see."

Penyris put down his teacup at once. And never took it up again. Afterwards, when his body lay in that horribly lax heap on the couch, I noticed that the tea in Penyris's cup had never been touched. It was still warm, I believe, then.

The, idol was a little figure of Buddha seated cross-legged on a pedestal. In his eyes, narrow, and heavy-lidded, was a look of calm, inhuman cruelty. It differed in this implacable gaze from other Buddhas I have seen, and— a more important peculiarity— instead of the arms being folded on the stomach one hand was raised— it seemed to me— threateningly. But perhaps that thought occurred to me afterward.

Penyris took the idol into his hands eagerly, and scrutinised the Chinese ideographs inscribed on the base of the pedestal.

"Why, this is really valuable!" he said, with a trace of excitement. "This is a Buddha of Lhasa, sent as a gift to the chief bonze of the Paoting-fu monastery from no less a person than the living Buddha himself!"

"Oh, how perfectly lovely," she fluttered.

"There is one thing though," added Penyris. "This living Buddha who sent the present must be a very dead Buddha by now, because the date on it is about our seventh century."

Meanwhile Penyris was examining the idol.

"Here's a curious thing," he said, unceremoniously turning the Buddha upside down and tapping the base with his finger. "This base is hollow and there's something packed inside it. I wonder if I might—"

"Open it?" laughed the hostess. "Of course. I wonder what it can be? I do hope it will be bars of gold, or diamonds, or-oh, do open it, quick!"

"You don't think the Duke would object?" began Penyris, though I could see him feeling in his pocket for his knife as he spoke, and his hands were trembling.

"No, no; be quick!"

"But there is some one who might object," I ventured.

Penyris wheeled round on me. "Who?" he snapped.

"The old chap himself, the Living Buddha, or the very dead Buddha, as I think you characterised him."

"One never knows," he began and broke off.

He had put the idol down on the table before him. It confronted him with uplifted hand, threateningly. I was surprised to see how grave Penyris had become. He was looking past the bronze image, past me, past Lady Chatterton— and Lady Chatterton is not a woman one usually looks past.

He seemed to be seeing something not apparent to me. I noticed his lips move, as it were in a question, and his hand passed caressingly across his broad white forehead.

Lady Chatterton's teacup suddenly slipped, and the clatter of the saucer woke us all from that little reverie. Penyris came to himself with a start.

"Anyhow," he said, almost in a tone of defiance, "I'm going to take the risk!"

With his penknife it was an easy matter to prize the base open. It was of thin metal. We crowded close, eagerly watching. The base came off, revealing a mass of chocolate-colored dust.

"Opium," he pronounced. Then, with a keener look at it, "No; I believe it's some kind of incense."

He poured the stuff out into a plate.

In the clotted mass was a little roll of bright yellow silk. It had evidently been packed in the head of the idol. Penyris, with a cry, took it up.

"It's a prayer," he explained, opening the silk covering and unrolling a long strip of paper, along which in red characters a legend was inscribed.

"This is the Thibetan language— the Thibetan language. Orientals are fond of printing their prayers; possibly it saves them the trouble of repeating them. Now this"— he inspected it very closely— "this is evidently very valuable, else it would not have been concealed so carefully in such a sacred place as the head of this precious idol. No Oriental would ever venture on the sacrilege of exploring this old gentleman's inner works. The bonze who packed this prayer away believed it would be safe from disturbance for eternity. And now we Westerners, with our blatant—"

He inspected it closely for a few minutes with a growing intentness. Even Lady Chatterton refrained from interrupting the silence.

"It isn't a prayer at all," he said at last. "It's an imprecation, a curse. And a pretty thorough-going curse, too! It deals with anybody who— I say, the curse is on me! It is directed against anybody who dares to displace this— Why, it's not incense at all: it says here distinctly that it is a bit of the sacred earth on which Buddha stood when— Why, this is one of the most sacred relics of the Buddhist faith! I've done something I'm sorry for. I had no right to meddle in this way with these things; they're sacred things to every Buddhist in the world, and we never know—"

He was in terrible earnest, speaking gravely in interrupted sentences, as if overmastered with his thoughts. Lady Chatterton and I looked at each other. Despite the feeling that we were, as it seemed, walking over graves, we both thought Penyris rather childish.

He read the scroll through to the end. Then he looked up, and in his eyes I saw— fear!

The thing was absurd, of course; here was a cultured Englishman of the twentieth Century afraid of an old idol in a London drawing-room with the afternoon tea on the table. And yet Penyris was really afraid. He rolled up the paper strip, and I carefully replaced it in its yellow covering.

"Better put this all back, I think," he said quietly. "Perhaps that will placate, avert the calamity— whatever shape it takes."

"Nonsense," I said. "The old Thibetan who made the idol put that curse in to frighten off intruders. It's merely a sort of 'Trespassers will be prosecuted, beware of the dog' notice. You don't mean to say that you—"

Penyris's eye blazed.

"Look here," he said, "don't you laugh at things you don't understand. I tell you that"— He stopped there: that was the nearest that Penyris ever came to the disclosure of what he knew or feared.

Lady Chatterton laughed outright. "I don't believe the stuff is sacred earth at all," she said, picking up a pinch of the chocolate-hued dust. "I am certain it is incense. Let's see if it will burn."

I doubt if Penyris heard her. He seemed lost in gloomy thought.

She put a little heap of the brown earth on a plate, and held a match to it. It smouldered, giving off a faint smoke. A strange perfume came from it, and with the perfume there seemed to come into the room a faint and pleasant lassitude. I had the feeling of having dined well, and smoked a good cigar. Lazily I settled back in my chair. It occurred to me comfortably that this was the occasion for a doze.

As through a haze I looked at the others. A faint film of smoke swam slowly up from the little plateful of smouldering dust. Lady Chatterton was lying back in her chair, a faint smile on her face, her eyes heavy, as with a reminiscence.

And Penyris—

When the first hint of the fragrance reached him he stirred slightly. Then he seemed to pull himself together with an effort, looked sharply up, saw what she had done, and moved clumsily to his feet.

"I say," he said, slowly and dreamily, "what are you doing with that infernal stuff?"

Neither of us answered. I was too comfortable to think of stirring. Lady Chatterton's face looked as if she were lost in a dream.

"You know," said Penyris, and his voice seemed to come from an infinite distance, "you're taking awful risks, fooling with things you don't know anything about. One never knows— I'm afraid— afraid, I tell you!" Then his voice rose to a shriek, thin and childish. "Put that infernal stuff out! For God's sake, put it out!"

He took one step toward the table, stood swaying in the middle of the room, raised his hand in an astonished way to his forehead, and staggered back on to the couch. As he sank down he raised both arms as if to ward off something that followed him. Then his arms fell heavily to his sides.

I fancy I heard him mutter, speaking, as it seemed, to some one. He was staring at the stuff that still smouldered on the table. I was too drowsy to turn my head, but my eyes followed his gaze. Then I saw those faint whirling wreaths of smoke take on form— a vast indefinite figure that seemed to rise up into the room and spread great arms threateningly. Lady Chatterton confirms me in this vision. She saw it, too. It reminded her of a picture she had seen as a child in an edition of the "Arabian Nights" of a great genie whirling vastly out of a small bottle, overshadowing the wide seashore with its sinister bulk.

Suddenly Penyris shrieked— a thin cry, full of terror. And then he huddled back limply on to his couch, both his hands on his forehead.

The cry thrilled through the room, and the great smoking thing broke into shapelessness again. In a moment it was mere smoke.

A scientist to whom I told part of this story murmured something about the theory of atmospheric wave-lengths, and vibrations, and musical pitch. A more commonplace person said something vague about smoke-rings. I do not know. But the cry resolved that sinister presence with its threatening arms into utter formlessness. Only the thin wreaths lay level in the quiet, cool, secluded, drawing-room, and everywhere was that faint strange perfume.

In a moment all the langour had left me. I leaped to my feet, but Lady Chatterton was before me. With a frightened glance at each other we ran to poor Penyris. He was quite dead— a black, dragging mark, like the print of a great claw, disfiguring the white expanse of his splendid forehead.

_____________

12: The Woman in the Cage

Beatrice Grimshaw

1870-1953

In: The Valley Of Never-Come-Back and other stories, 1923

THIN smoke, smelling of all the forests, rose up from the mound of ashes that Ao had piled on the camp over. There was a thigh of young wallaby inside; as the native stirred the ashes and tilted up the oven lid ever so little with a long forked stick, odours of baked meat, warm and mouth-watering, slipped out.

"Smell that," said Gault, the Englishman, impatiently. "It must be done."

Irvine, the Australian, motioned to Ao, who dropped the oven lid again.

"Roast meat," said Irvine, "is like pineapples. You know it's ready when the smell gets so that you just can't keep your teeth out of it. It's endurable, still—"

Gault looked at the other. Though he had been travelling the forests of Papua with Irvine for six weeks he had never quite got over his first astonishment over the fact that the Australian— miner, bird hunter, sheller, anything and nothing as to profession, nothing at all as to birth— used excellent English. Gault was very fresh from "Home"; he could not help feeling instinctively that the man he had hired to run his expedition for him should have talked dialect or Cockney, rather than chosen, cultivated language a little better than his own. It was true that Irvine showed an undeniable gift of swearing on occasion; but any man could swear; Philip Gault could himself, if need were.

The typical bushman's liking for fine literature was not within his knowledge. Nor did Irvine volunteer bookish talk. He had been engaged in Port Moresby by this globe-trotting lad from England to take him through a part of the interior and let him shoot birds of paradise— this being before the days of protective laws. Irvine was willing to do all that he was paid for, but, as he had allowed to Mac Pidgin— biggest man and "hardest case" in Papua— during a "wet evening" at Ryan's Hotel, he didn't see that he was bound to act governess to the Kid, even if he did have to be nursery maid.

It was not within Mr. Philip Gault's knowledge that the town— and incidentally, the territory; for Papua is one big family— referred to him after that as "Irvine's Kid."

Gault was not quite so young as the name might have led one to suppose. He was twenty-two, a well-set-up fellow, with the public school stamp clear to see on his smooth, pleasant, inexpressive face. Gault had stayed late at school; it was a source of secret and inextinguishable laughter to Irvine to know that his employer had been "saying lessons and getting whacked" scarcely two years earlier.

Irvine himself, at two-and-twenty, had already gone through the separate careers of horse dealer, road contractor, foremast hand, pearl poacher, and sandalwood trader, had had his nose broken in a prize fight, strictly illegal and conducted without rules or gloves; had been engaged to two girls, and should undoubtedly have been married to several more; had seen the world, and fought the world, and fed and kept himself while doing it, without asking a pound note from any man in the world save Jim Irvine. He was thirty-five now; the tale of his wanderings and adventurings was Odyssean— and Jim could have told you what you meant by that; but would have added, quite without reverence, that he always did think that old bloke— meaning Ulysses— had too much yap about him....

Now, while he lifted the oven lid again, and sniffed the seven times delicious smell issuing therefrom— a smell that caused the woolly-headed heathen Ao to bring forward without further words the big enamel plate— he was thinking of the new-enlarged schoolboy who sat so comfortably on a folding chair beside him and waited to be fed. Irvine did not fancy it could be particularly good for young men just out of school to come into large fortunes, and set off to see the world travelling on velvet.

"They're bound to get into mischief," ran his thoughts as he speared the savoury roast on a long knife and landed it safely on the plate, " but the smacks they get won't be the kind to teach them and make men of them, as they'd be if there wasn't the money to reckon with. A bloke who goes on his own will be learning something every time he comes a cropper. Not these gilt-up kids. Now look at this kid of mine '

Ao was dishing up dinner; he had put the baking tin on the hot ashes and blown them to a glow, and made rich gravy with a splash of boiling water stirred in the tin; he had poured it over the meat, set the plate on a flat log, and grunted at his master to say that "dinner was served."

"Look at this kid," thought Irvine, as he sat down on his heels, bush fashion, and plunged a knife into the juicy meat. " He's gone through life, in a way, before he's begun it. Shacks of money, travel round the world, in all the regular places and now the irregular ones— seen all the big stage folk, all the big races and cricket matches that a fellow can want to see in his life— and tiger hunted, and buffalo hunted— with somebody to nurse him through every bit of it— eaten his cakes before he knew what a cake was— got engaged to be married, too, Lord save him, and with it all isn't more than a kid still." Upon which, having filled and emptied his capacious mouth a few times, he felt moved to repeat his thoughts aloud.

Phil Gault, with entire good humour, buttered a biscuit and replied:

"Awfully kind of you, old thing. Don't quite see what you're driving at, all the same."

Irvine fixed him with his blue keen gaze, which was to Phil's good-natured, impersonal look as chilled steel to hardwood. " What I'm driving at," he said, " is that it would do you a lot of good if something got up and hit you."

"Gold tried in the fire and all that sort of tosh. Don't particularly want any in mine, thank you. Where's the tea?"

"I don't mean you're likely to get it," said Irvine. "On the contrary, I think you'll even get out of this cursed country, that you think so romantic, without having your head jammed by any of its romance . There's your tea; I took mine first."

Gault drank from the pannikin, looking about him as the rim tilted slowly up. He was penetrated, more than he would have cared to say, with the romance that Irvine scorned. Night had shut suddenly down upon them a little while before; it was nearly seven now, and the flame of the cooking fire flung butterflies of orange light against the dark surrounding walls of forest. They were in a narrow clearing formed by an outcrop of rocky soil; a small stream slipped away silently at the foot of the rocks; the opening of sky above them, like the opening of a well, was full of stars. It was hot; they sat away from the fire and kept the necks of their shirts wide open and the sleeves rolled up, but sweat trickled down their arms and faces. There might be a breeze somewhere among the tops of the banyans and the cedars and the cottonwood trees, but down below in camp it was as still as the bottom of the sea.

Gault revelled in it all; he felt that he was seeing life and tasting adventure. Only that morning travelling on a forest track they had been attacked by cannibals— he had written a vivid account of it in his diary and meant to offer it to a newspaper when he got away again. (Three months later one of Irvine's "mates" down south received a letter mentioning the occurrence: "A party of (blanks) from the Babakiri tribe pegged spears at us as we were coming down the valley; they didn't mean anything particular and cleared as soon as we fired into the bush, but my Kid thought we'd just grazed the cemetery fence and has been singing hymns to himself about it ever since.") They had got a dozen or so of birds of paradise, and two giant cassowaries; they had shot alligators, seen native dances, and greatly daring, as it seemed to Gault, had visited and been politely entertained in a number of more or less cannibal towns, which seemed on the whole disappointingly like the towns that were not cannibal. They had had an attack of fever apiece— Gault 's, according to his own estimate, very severe; Irvine's trifling (the thermometer would have told a different tale if he had seen its readings) . They had peeped at the mysteries of the great devil-temples, seen the sorcerers handling, with horrid familiarity, their tamed deadly-snake familiars; prospected for gold, and found none (but the looking was the real fun), eaten strange fruits and foods, spent beads and stick tobacco upon native curios. They had, in Gault's opinion, been drinking romantic adventure deep at its very spring; the overdrawn black tea in the iron mug was the sweeter for it; the wallaby hindquarter was stuffed and spiced with romance. Even the fact that they were camping in the heart of the great forest instead of at some village delighted him; for Irvine had told him that he didn't think the Babakiri (blanks) were altogether delighted to have them in their district, and it might, therefore, be as well to get into the bush for the night. Which was, of course, adventure all the more....

THEY WERE both too hungry to talk much while feeding. It was not till Gault's plate was empty and Irvine was cutting himself a last junk of tinned plum-pudding that the Kid opened once more the question of his standing in the world of men. Irvine's remarks, thrown out carelessly enough, had left a scratch on his vanity.

"I'm essentially as old as I ever shall be," he declared, his pink, boyish face with the indeterminate dark eyes turned towards Irvine's teakwood countenance. Irvine, like so many bushmen, was almost ageless; you could not have told with any certainty whether he was an old twenty-six or a young thirty-nine; in ten years' time, when he would be forty-five, you would probably put him down as thirty or fifty or anything between....

"Sorry to hear it," answered the bushman. Behind him, in their own narrow corner of the camping ground, the carriers, naked and perspiring, sat round the fire, which they had built up high, apparently to make themselves still hotter, and passed the huge tooled bamboo tobacco pipe from mouth to mouth. It was a quiet night; no wind was stirring, but sometimes, in the pauses of the native chatter, one could hear some creature— pig or wandering village dog perhaps— move with an indefinite rustling through the bush.

"I'm going to be married in six months," played Gault, throwing down his ace. If that was not being grown up, what was? Why in a year and a half from now he'd probably be the head of a family.... Irvine, who was busy lighting his pipe, said nothing, and Gault, his pride growing rawer and more uneasy every moment, pulled a little case out of the swag that lay beside him on the ground.

"I suppose you don't believe me," he said.

"I do believe you, kid," answered Irvine, gravely, taking the first draw at his pipe, " I congratulate you, though you've told me before."

"You couldn't quite understand, I fancy," was Gault's comment, as he fought with a refractory snap.

"That sort of thing isn't much in your line. But there she is."

Irvine, pulling at his pipe and watching, thought perhaps he did understand, rather more than the kid supposed. That catch was rusted. ... He remembered a photo he had been in the habit of carrying with him thirteen years ago. It had been in a case too. He remembered that the catch was so weak that it would hardly hold. Use had weakened it.... The day he had snapped the case shut for the last time and flung it into the rapids of the Strickland River it had opened out as it went through the air; a face had looked at him from the boiling water, as the rapids sucked it down

He leaned over the picture of Philip Gault's wife that was to be. A nice girl. Yes, a nice girl. Interesting, distinguished-looking. The face that had gone down in the rapids of the Strickland River was not distinguished-looking. Its eyes clutched you by the heart; its mouth tore your soul from your body. But distinguished— no. Nice? Irvine laughed, silently, bitterly.

"Glad you like her," said Gault, taking the smile to himself. He shut the case again and tossed it in his swag-bag. He lit his pipe; it was bigger and blacker than Irvine's, a manly sort of pipe. Silence fell between the two. Gault was thinking: "I should fancy he'd respect me now." Irvine was saying to himself: "Kid, kid. You haven't even met love on the road— or off it. Well, that thoroughly nice girl will see to it you don't— on or off, ever any more."

"Irvine," said Gault, in a half whisper.

"Yes."

"Did you hear that?"

The bushman did not ask " What? " He jerked a word at the chattering carriers and silence held the firelit glade for a minute.

"Yes," he answered presently. "I heard it. I don't reckon it's anything to worry over."

"Why?"

"Because, when a nig is out for business, he doesn't let you hear him."

"Then you think," asked Gault in a low time, "that there's somebody hanging about?"

"I reckon so."

"What do you—"

Irvine pointed at the carriers. They were leaning forward, mouths open, eyes staring, each one of them " registering " curiosity and interest as vividly as if they had been brought up to the picture show business. Fear too, whatever fear had to do with it.

"Girl, for a tanner."

"A girl? What would she be doing about our camp?"

"I should suppose," said Irvine, calmly, "that she's either surveying for a projected railway or collecting taxes."

"I daresay you think that's funny."

"Well, what does your wide experience lead you to think a girl does want, hanging about a lot of men?"

"I suppose she wants one of the men."

"You seem," observed Irvine, leaning comfortably back against a rock, "to be growing up, Kid."

"Ask 'em about it," suggested Gault. The carriers were beginning to buzz among themselves like a hatful of flies.

Irvine asked a question or two, in one or two native languages.

"They say," he explained, "that there's a woman somewhere, because they smelled the flowers the women wear, and heard her moving."

"What are they looking so uncomfortable about?"

"Oh, that's because they think she's a ghost-woman, and up to mischief. If any of them follow her into the bush she turns into a fiend and eats them."

"Well, it's pretty simple; if they think that, they'd better stop where they are."

"But the trouble is," explained Irvine, "that they don't know till they find out. You see, the devils and the common or yam-garden girl look alike.... Seems to me I can remember dreaming of the same sort of notion among people who weren't black."

"She's let them go for this night," observed Gault, interestedly, his eyes fixed on the carriers, who seemed suddenly to have lost interest in the dusk wall of scrub and were turning their attention to the circling bamboo pipe.

One of the carriers nodded.

"Eo, Taubada" (yes, sir), he said, "Debil girl him go home. Me no like debil girl. Me flight along him."

"If you pay attention to all the yap of the carriers you'll not have much to spare for anything else," was Irvine's comment. "Did I think there was anyone really there? Yes. ... I don't know who or what she was.... No, village girls don't generally wander off to the bush when there's strange people about; they're too scary.... No, I don't believe in devils.... I don't think at all about it. Is this the longer or the shorter catechism? And are you going to turn in? "

From girl or devil no further sound was heard. The carriers laid themselves out, one by one, upon the stage of branches they had put up, each man wrapped, oblivious of the heat, in his blanket. The white men slung mosquito nets and crept beneath the tent that sheltered them both. The night went by.

Next day it appeared that birds of paradise were very plentiful in this area of dense forest, also that they were somewhat less wild, somewhat easier to stalk with Phil Gault's splendid bird guns than they had been hitherto. It was agreed that a stay of two or three days should be made. Irvine spent an hour or two reconnoitering, and came back with the news that there was a big village about three miles away, but that the people seemed to belong to the tribe who had attacked the expedition, and he thought, on the whole, it was better to leave them alone.

"We've got tucker enough to do till we get down to the coast again, "he said; "mixing with natives when you've a mob of carriers along means rows, and rows mean mischief. If we let them alone I reckon they'll let us alone."

Gault was well pleased to stay on in the forest; apart from the chance of sport he confessed to himself— though not to Irvine— that the ghostly happening of the night had waked his interest. He could not rest till he had found out the cause of it.

"Devil girl my eye," he thought. "It was a live woman, and I want to know what she was up to."

Something told him that Irvine would not encourage his curiosity. The bushman treated all forms of native superstition with fine contempt— even though he and Gault had on that journey been witnesses of "manifestations" among the sorcerers of the great towns that would have puzzled a circle of spiritualists and a team of professional conjurors combined. "Nigger rot," was all that Irvine had to say after translating and explaining as far as explanations could go. He would certainly call this rot.... Nevertheless, Gault was determined to find out, he didn't know what, but find out anyhow.

In the middle of the night he slipped quietly away from the tent and was gone a couple of hours. Irvine woke once or twice, and missed him.

"What bit you last night?" he asked suddenly as he was helping himself to bacon at breakfast. "There's yours," he added. "Don't want any? Rats. Fever again?"

"No, I'm all right," was Gault's reply. He did not answer the first part of the question and Irvine was not minded to press him. Nevertheless he noted the odd, pinched look that the face of the Kid seemed to bear that morning— a look that during the day scarce lessened at all.

"Not fever," thought the bushman. "Looks more like scare of some kind. I wonder what he thinks he's been up to?"

On the next night, being like other seeming simple men of the wilds, very full of guile, he lay still and pretended to sleep while secretly watching. Gault waited until he thought it was safe and then crept noiselessly out of the tent. Through a hole in the side canvas Irvine watched his shadow, dusk among shadows, melt into the ashy velvet of the forest wall. The bushman swore to himself, softly and with determination. Then he lay down and waited.

Near morning Gault came back, treading cautiously, but breathing hard with haste and exertion. He lay down very quietly and seemed to listen. Then he gave a sigh of relief and composed himself to sleep.

It was at this point that Irvine wrecked his comfortable persuasions of secrecy by remarking, in a characteristic drawl:

"What the etcetera dash do you etcetera well think you have been doing?"

"By Jove, you're awake, are you?" was all that Gault could find to say.

"Of course I'm (decorated and embroidered) awake. Where have you been? Playing the giddy goat about the village?"

Gault did not answer; his chest was heaving with some unexpressed emotion. One would almost have thought— had he not been a man, and a millionaire, and a prospective husband— that he was very near crying.

"Here, Kid," said Irvine, irreverently but kindly, " spit it out; this is a devil of a queer country, and if you got any sort of a scare you aren't the first. What's happened?"

Gault, rolling over so that his face was turned away from Irvine, muttered into his camp mattress:

"I saw a woman."

"Well, if you did? What was she doing?"

"She was in a tree."

"In a tree!" Irvine knew as well as Gault— better— that native girls do not climb trees. A thought crossed his mind. Gault might be going insane. In the Papuan bush ....

But the Kid had not done. "Honour bright," he said, suddenly rolling over and sitting up— Irvine could see his face in the clear, late moonlight— "I did see her. I've seen her two nights. And she was up in a tree. High up. And she looked at me down through the leaves. And her hair was all gold, like gossamer or silk; it stood out and flew. Her face was white."

"That's clean impossible," objected Irvine. "No white woman could possibly be in the country without everyone knowing. You dreamt it."

"Did I? Did the carriers dream there was someone about the other night when they said there was a girl in the bush? Why, you heard something yourself."

"Might have been a dog, or a pig," declared Irvine, who knew very well it was nothing of the kind. "And anyhow, if they did hear a girl, it must have been a nigger. And if there was a girl there, and if you really saw something or another up a tree what are you chewing the rag about? "

"Because I can't understand it."

"What can't you understand?"

"You won't listen till I tell you. She was in a cage."

"A how much?"

"A cage, I tell you. Barred in so that she couldn't get out."

"Well, if she couldn't, how was it she was walking about the camp in the dark?"

"She wasn't. I hid myself and watched. And I saw a woman come, a native woman in a grass petticoat, a black woman— or rather brown, that's what they are. She had a basket in her hand, and it was full of stuff, food I think, wrapped up in green leaves, and she had one of those bamboos they carry water in. She called out and the woman in the cage let down a bark ladder. So then the one who had the basket climbed up it, and I couldn't see her among the leaves. And by and by she came down, and the basket was empty."

"If you had a dream you had a blanky long one," muttered Irvine, who began to look puzzled. "Sounds almost as if there was something in it. I'll lay you saw a tree house— one of the ordinary tree houses, and the rest you fancied."

"I did not fancy it, I tell you. Yes, it seemed like what I've heard about tree houses, but she was caged in. And she was white— at least—"

"Yes— at least— now we're getting at it."

"She was so very white. More than a white woman. Our women are pinky, or sallow, or pale, or something— they're not white— paper colour. She was, and it didn't look— it didn't look alive."

Irvine, staring out through the triangular door of the tent into the moon-flooded clearing, seemed to consider things in general.

"Night— middle of the night's a bad time for thinking," was his verdict. "You go to sleep and I'll go to sleep, and we'll talk it over in the morning. Perhaps you can dream a little more before sun-up."

"It wasn't a dream," persisted the Kid, rolling over.

In the daylight, as Irvine had foretold, things looked different. Gault was inclined to allow— after breakfast and after a bathe in the creek with two carriers on the look-out for alligators— that the mysterious woman mightn't have been so very white after all. He even agreed, under protest, to Irvine's suggestion that she might have been in native mourning— which sometimes expresses itself by a face and body painted over with white wood ashes. But he was quite clear that he had seen her, and that she was beautiful.

"We'll leave the boys to look after our camp, and you can take me to the place," Irvine declared. "There'll be no peace till we know what the thing really is. It sounds like somebody gone crazy to me, but this country is full of things that can't happen— and do."

"This has happened, anyhow," said Gault, leading the way. Irvine noted that he was hurried and eager, in spite of his sleepless night; that he slashed at the lawyer vines overhanging the narrow track as if they were human enemies, and hurried up and down the gullies scanning the way at a pace that left both of them breathless and wet through. Yet the road was not long; in twenty minutes they came to a huge red cedar tree, beside which Gault turned off into the uncleared bush, motioning, as he went, for silence.

"It's quite close," he whispered. " Stoop down— under those bushes.... I found it by following the sound the other woman made; you could never see it.... Now, look up."

Irvine looked up, and, as he afterwards said, received the shock of his life. Some thirty feet above him, among the clotted leaves of a great Barringtonia tree, a face looked out and down. And it was, as Gault had said, white— white as stone— and it was beautiful. The eyes were large, half hid by very deep curved eyelids; he could not see their colour, but they were not dark. The mouth and nose were nothing in particular; the neck was glorious, a column of pure marble. In that, and in the deep curved eyelids, and in the hair— gold, sparkling, floating, so fine that it looked less like hair than mist— the woman's beauty lay. He could not account for the dead white colour; European, in whole or in part, he was certain she was not....

An idea struck him, and he slapped his leg, crying: " I have it, Kid ! " The woman drew in her head, as a startled bird draws back into its nest, but he did not heed her, though Gault nudged him indignantly and said in a hissing whisper:

"Now you've done it!"

"I'll tell you what she is," said Irvine. "She's a white Papuan."

"What! I don't—"

"Albino— same as a white mouse or white blackbird. They're very uncommon; I've never seen one myself, and, it's an odd thing, they're almost always men— but they have that dead white skin, and they have wonderful gold hair like feathers. See how hers grew— not hanging down, but standing up, like a—

"It doesn't stand up, it floats like— like the halo of an angel in a picture!"

"Oh, you're there, are you?" thought Irvine to himself; but aloud he went on: "It's a lot finer than the ordinary Papuan hair, but it does stand up, or would if it was stiff enough. Yes, she's an Albino all right. Looks as if they didn't fancy her much, sticking her up in a tree house by herself."

"She can't get out. I walked round the tree when the moon was shining right on it, and I saw the house has bars all round it, heavy bars lashed with bark rope, and the lashings are put so that they're out of her reach. She'd need an axe, or at least a good knife, to get out of that. It's a cage."

"That's queer— damned queer—" said Irvine, and he fell to thinking. "I don't know the ways of these tribes very well," he told the Kid. "Looks as if she'd made them wild over something or other.... But it might be they're keeping her for some big chief. I've known them to— and yet that was in a house in the middle of the village, with people on the watch all round. This is another business altogether. It interests me. Let's wait to see the woman come with her tucker to-night; we might find out something that way."

" Yes, let's," agreed the Kid, his eyes looking suddenly very big and bright. Then, after a moment's silence: " Irvine— would you mind going out of sight for a minute? You scared her— you— I want—"

Irvine nodded, without a word, and dived under the screen of bush. He did not see, so far but that he could see, while safely hidden, anything that might be going on at the foot of the great Barringtonia. He counted himself more or less responsible for the Kid, and it seemed to him that there were the elements of trouble, ripe for gathering, not very far away.

Gault, standing beneath the tree, began to call in his own language— for he knew no other— to the gold-haired creature hidden above. He used soft words; he whistled like a bird. There came no reply; the leaves brushed fingers with the winds; a locust, loud and wooden, chirred in a betel-nut tree. Else, in the pauses, there was silence.

"It's no go," he said at last, turning away. "Just close on dark is the time the other woman comes. I'll be there a little before."

"We will," corrected Irvine.

IN TELLING the tale years after, Irvine always used to say that the day they spent in waiting was the worst of the whole trip....

"We'd had leeches in the range," he said, "that hung all over us like bunches of tassels dropping blood— that was a nuisance— and in the sago-swamp country we were never dry night or day; that wasn't agreeable either. And when we camped a day and a night on the Angabunga, we were eaten alive with mosquitoes. There were bad days all those times— but the cap-sheaf of the lot was the day the Kid hung round waiting to see that girl. You see, he was dead mad in love with her, because he'd thought her a spirit or something at first, and because of her face and the goldy hair and the way she looked down out of the tree— oh, because of God knows what— it don't matter what, when a man's got it bad. Well, he had it bad for the first time, and it knocked him clean over. He wouldn't have his dinner, and he wouldn't have let me have mine if yarning and yapping would have kept me from it. He wouldn't stop in the camp, and he wouldn't stay out of it; he would take the carriers off shooting, and come back in a quarter of an hour with one old crow, and lie down on the ground and kick his toes, and say he wished he was dead; and get up again and start smoking, and let his pipe go out and throw it away. All day he went on like a poisoned dog; it just about made me sick. When it was near dusk he tried to get away without me, but I was on to him and went after, and I put his revolver and mine too into my belt, because when a white man gets to fooling round native girls in cannibal country— Well, you know..."

"Keep quiet," whispered the Kid. "There's the woman with the food at last. I can hear her."

Irvine nodded. The last spears of sunset were sinking low in the forest; huge violet mock-plums lying among dead leaves; red, poisonous mock-apricots; white toadstools, lily-shaped, green snakes of thorn-set creeper were, for a moment, enchanted into fruits, flowers, stems of magic gold, and blotted almost instantly by the dusk. You could still see, as a man sees swimming under the water, the shadowed stems of trees, the feathers of the ferns, motionless, outspread. Then came a moving shadow, and stood still at the foot of the great tree.

Like a cat watching a mouse-hole Gault watched his chance. It came when the basket of food had been taken up, and the woman descending to earth had just let go her hold. Then Gault sprang up out of his cache of leaves, and without hesitation or parley flung himself upon the end of the ladder. The woman let out a scream, and, crying, ran away.

Up in the tree, the white, caged creature pulled at the ladder, and when it refused to answer her hand leaned forth. The men could not see her, but they could hear her voice, asking, remonstrating. Gault answered her as if he knew what she was saying....

"It's all right. Don't be afraid of us. We only want to help you."

"Oh, do we? " muttered Irvine, in the background. "Some of us are a lot more concerned about helping ourselves— out of the mess you're likely to get us into."

The woman seemed to understand, at least, the tone of Gault's speeches. She murmured something indefinite, with a note of entreaty in it.

"She's asking us to set her free— I'll swear she is. Where's that axe?" demanded Gault. He had brought one with him; he found it in a minute, and was away with it in his teeth up the bark ladder before Irvine could do anything to stop him.

"Three miles to the village," thought that worthy, drumming a little tune on the butt of his revolver. "A native girl in a hurry will make half an hour of it. Native bucks in a damned hurry, with their fighting kit on, will make rather less. Something under an hour to get the carriers off and clear, if we don't want to make pot roast for the village.... What's he at? "

There was a sudden crash among the branches above; a heavy beam or two fell whooping through the dark. Irvine jumped aside.

"Done it now, evidently," he said to himself. "And what the several-unpleasant-things he means to do next I should very much like to— Hi, Kid, what are you up to? We'll have the whole village in our hair inside of an hour."

"I've made her understand," came triumphantly from the broken tree-house. (" I'll go bail," was Irvine's comment.) "She knows we want to help her. She's coming with us."

Irvine, to himself, down among the dank-smelling leaves and thorny creepers, swore as few of his friends had ever heard him swear. To the other he said not a word. He, who was above all things a fighter, knew when fighting was no use.

In another minute two came down the ladder— Gault first, scrambling and hanging by his hands; the girl after, moving with less activity than one might have expected from a native.

"She's stiff and cramped, poor little soul," said the

Kid, swinging himself to the ground and watching the descent of the half-seen, shadowy form above him. "My God, did anyone ever hear of such beastly cruelty? Whatever she's done— and it couldn't be much, anyhow— to shut her up like a bird in a cage, away by herself in the bush and, I suppose, to leave her till she died! Thank Heaven we came along."

"Is it any use," said Irvine, blocking the way before him, "to tell you that you've time, just time, still, to get out of the maddest trick you've ever played in your life? Any use telling you that you're probably throwing away your life, and mine, and the carriers', poor beasts, to help a damned little hussy of a native girl who just as likely doesn't want any help at all? Kid, put her back where you got her, and get on as fast as you can. Don't you see she can look after herself, since she's done it so far? She—"

"You can shut up," came sharply through the dusk. " She's coming. I— I don't believe what you said about Albinos, I— I believe she's white. I'm going to take her with us, and when we get to a Mission

"Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! " was Irvine's only comment.

There was no quiet sleep, rolled in blankets by the fire, that night for the carriers. Instead, they spent the hours from dusk to dawn going hard, relentlessly driven, along the narrow, root-encumbered track that led, by compass, towards the distant sea. Irvine calculated that it was just possible for the party to do the distance to the coast in a night, and he was determined that they should. They had the best part of an hour's start, and they had not encumbered themselves with heavy loads; Irvine, with pangs of regret, had ordered the abandonment of nearly all the stores. "Better starve to death, if we have to, than let those beasts in the village put our eyes on sticks, and gut us like fish before we're dead," was his silent comment, as they drove, hour after hour, through the tangling dark, the carriers ahead, Gault and the woman next, himself guarding the rear.

It was the woman, chiefly, who kept them from their highest speed. Most native girls, unencumbered by their usual heavy loads, can make as good a show as a man; but the girl from the cage— whether it was due to her recent caging or to her present fear— did not get along nearly as fast as they could have wished. Bush tracks in Papua are seldom wide enough for two; Gault could not give her his arm, but he cut a length of trailing bamboo, and put one end of it in her hand, hauling, as he went, upon the other; and so they progressed. Irvine, through the night, had time to wonder what might be the real cause of the imprisonment that the Kid had so violently ended. He knew that the Babakiri tribe, though savage and fierce, were in some ways further ahead on the road to civilization than any others of their kind; that their dances, ceremonies, tribal customs and taboos were very highly organized. He inferred that the girl, who had clearly offended in some way, must be an object of reverence to the tribe, through her colour, and that to this fact she owed her life. But what, among the Babakiri, could be the crime that doomed her to such close imprisonment he could not even imagine.

As for the Kid, Irvine considered that all was not yet lost. It might be possible, come daylight, to convince him that the girl, gold-haired and marble-skinned though she might be, was no more white in reality than the blackest of their mop-haired, grinning carriers. Yet he felt troubled when he thought of her, and the more he thought the more troubled he felt. He knew that Gault, impossible though it seemed— Gault, who had seen the world and had the best of everything— Gault, who was engaged to a "nice girl of distinguished appearance"— had met with Love, big Love, at last, in the person of the gold-and-marble woman whom the Babakiri had shut into a cage. What was to follow?

Dawn found them nearing the sea coast; the trees, on the impoverished soil, were growing sparse and poor. Ahead, pale lights struck though thinning foliage; the sound of humming surf, when they paused to take breath, made chorus with the rustling of the leaves. No one had pursued them— or, if they had been pursued they had not been caught. With the sea in front, and daylight waking, Irvine knew that, for the time at least, they were safe.

It was none too soon. The carriers were worn out and halting. Gault was grey with fatigue, and the girl, who had kept up bravely with his help, now seemed on the knife-edge of collapse. In the windy dawn, with the waves bursting red upon the beach, she sank upon a heap of sand. She was wrapped in her mantle of native-figured tappa cloth, which she had not taken off all night. Her hair, more wonderful than dreams, waved, half erect and gloriously gold, in the waxing light of dawn. One arm, white and bare, shone out from the brown folds of her garment; her feet beneath their stains of clotted mud showed delicately arched and small.

"Look at that," said the Kid. "Did you ever see a duchess with such a—"

"I haven't much acquaintance with duchesses, but I've seen some hundreds of native girls with very nice little feet," answered Irvine. "Did you ever see such a nose on a duchess, since you're keen on the

comparison?"

"Her nose is just like everyone else's!"

Irvine pursed his lips and whistled softly some frivolous sounding air.

Light was growing; the sea wind, after the dripping heats of the bush, blew gratefully on mouth and cheek. Two of the carriers, under Irvine's sharp command, had trailed their tired limbs along the beach to gather driftwood for a fire. The rest were lying flat on the sand. A little way from them sat the girl, her white face set and hard as the white coral blocks, thrown up from deep sea reefs beyond, that lay upon the beach.

Gault, sitting on a fallen tree beside her, was trying, with the help of a prostrate carrier, to make her understand the words he repeated over and over again. The carrier, it seemed, knew something of some language that the girl— imperfectly— knew. Through the mists of double interpretation, the strange wooing went on. Irvine, his back against a tree, lit his pipe and listened.

The Kid was telling her that he had set her free from her enemies. Vaguely, mangled and distorted, came back to him her thanks. But she still sat looking out, not at him, but at the sea, and her face was set and cold. Only the wonderful, deep-lidded eyes seemed to be awake; and what they were saying, Irvine, curiously on watch, could not even guess. But he sensed trouble, dark and not far off.

The Kid went on to say that there was a Mission some days down the coast, and that he was going to bring her there. That they would have a missionary to marry them. That he would ("Oh, Lord, Lord," said Irvine silently to his pipe) take her away to his country, and make a queen of her.... There was a ring in his voice that Irvine had never heard before.

"Well," he thought as he looked aside at the strong, sharp-lined countenance that had in one night taken the place of the Englishman's baby face: "I'll never call you the Kid again; you've grown up since we made camp last."

There was silence; Gault's hard- breathed, quivering words and the stumbling translations of the carrier died away. No answer came from the girl. But suddenly she sprang to her feet and the marble face broke up into passionate crying. She knelt down, laid her head, with its wonderful gold hair, for one instant upon Gault's muddy boots, and then broke away and ran wildly down the beach.

The two white men, each equally surprised, stared after her. Gault was the first to speak: "What's— what's the matter? " he asked, not of Irvine, but seemingly of the universe. His face was pale; he seemed as one seems who has been suddenly, treacherously struck.

"She's looking for something," offered Irvine. The girl had stopped, a good distance away. Her tappa mantle was gathered in one hand; with the other she was groping, hunting in a mass of rotten logs that lay piled one upon the other at the margin of the forest.

It was not the bushman with his keen, practised senses who first saw what the gold-haired girl was hunting for— what she had found. It was Gault, never more to be known as the Kid again. He had seen, had understood, somehow, without understanding, and had covered half the distance in a frantic rush before Irvine too understood, and, swearing as he only swore in moments of fiercest excitement, tore after him.

Both were too late to snatch the black snake from the girl before it had buried its fangs in her uncovered breast. Even after it had struck and let go she held it to her as a mother holds her child, and Gault could hardly tear the hideous thing away. In a desperate wrench he pulled it from her at last, flung it on the ground and stamped its head to pulp. Then, with hands that shook, he began fumbling in his pockets after the little first aid snake-bite case that never left either of the men during bush travel.

"Give her a whisky while I get at this," he choked.

Irvine, more slowly than one might have expected, felt for his flask and opened it... The girl seemed to understand; she moved a little from him, and shook her head.

"Quick, man!" ordered Gault, who had got his case now and was opening it. "It's her only chance."

The girl stood silent; she looked at the man who had risked his life for her, and beneath her deep-cut eyelids lay horror, love, tragedy beyond words. She did not move, but she let her half-held mantle fall, suddenly, into folds at her feet.

"Steady her while I try," said Gault, opening his case. " We can't let her— God, she mustn't—"

Irvine's hand came between him and the little phial.

Irvine's voice said, gravely: "Look."

Gault looked up. He saw the gold-and-marble girl still standing moveless in front of him, her mantle fallen down. He saw that her white body was marked.

"What is it?" he asked, his tongue dry between his teeth.

"Leprosy," said Irvine. And then, as if to himself: "I always did say the Babakiri were the most advanced savages in the country."

Gault, grey-faced but trying hard to hold himself, went on fumbling with his case.

"It's our duty," he said. "Not to let— She mustn't—"

Irvine's strong hand came once more between him and the case, and this time took it away.

"Have some mercy on her!" he said.

The gold-and-marble girl, drawing a long sigh, staggered a little and lay down. She drew the folds of her tappa mantle across her face.

____________

13: The Fowl in the Pot

Stanley J. Weyman

1855-1928

Temple Bar, Feb 1889

An Episode Adapted from the Memoirs of Maximilian de Bethune, Duke of Sully

WHAT I AM going to relate may seem to some merely to be curious and on a party with the diverting story of M. Boisrosé, which I have set down in an earlier part of my memoirs. But among the calumnies of those who have never ceased to attack me since the death of the late king, the statement that I kept from his majesty things which should have reached his ears has always had a prominent place, though a thousand times refuted by my friends, and those who from an intimate acquaintance with events could judge how faithfully I labored to deserve the confidence with which my master honored me. Therefore, I take it in hand to show by an example, trifling in itself, the full knowledge of affairs which the king had, and to prove that in many matters, which were never permitted to become known to the idlers of the court, he took a personal share, worthy as much of Haroun as of Alexander.

It was my custom, before I entered upon those negotiations with the Prince of Condé which terminated in the recovery of the estate of Villebon, where I now principally reside, to spend a part of the autumn and winter at Rosny. On these occasions I was in the habit of leaving Paris with a considerable train of Swiss, pages, valets, and grooms, together with the maids of honor and waiting women of the duchess. We halted to take dinner at Poissy, and generally contrived to reach Rosny toward nightfall, so as to sup by the light of flambeaux in a manner enjoyable enough, though devoid of that state which I have ever maintained, and enjoined upon my children, as at once the privilege and burden of rank.

At the time of which I am speaking I had for my favorite charger the sorrel horse which the Duke of Mercoeur presented to me with a view to my good offices at the time of the king's entry into Paris; and which I honestly transferred to his majesty in accordance with a principle laid down in another place. The king insisted on returning it to me, and for several years I rode it on these annual visits to Rosny. What was more remarkable was that on each of these occasions it cast a shoe about the middle of the afternoon, and always when we were within a short league of the village of Aubergenville. Though I never had with me less than half a score of led horses, I had such an affection for the sorrel that I preferred to wait until it was shod, rather than accommodate myself to a nag of less easy paces; and would allow my household to precede me, staying behind myself with at most a guard or two, my valet, and a page.

The forge at Aubergenville was kept by a smith of some skill, a cheerful fellow, whom I always remembered to reward, considering my own position rather than his services, with a gold livre. His joy at receiving what was to him the income of a year was great, and never failed to reimburse me; in addition to which I took some pleasure in unbending, and learning from this simple peasant and loyal man, what the taxpayers were saying of me and my reforms— a duty I always felt I owed to the king my master.

As a man of breeding it would ill become me to set down the homely truths I thus learned. The conversations of the vulgar are little suited to a nobleman's memoirs; but in this I distinguish between the Duke of Sully and the king's minister, and it is in the latter capacity that I relate what passed on these diverting occasions. "Ho, Simon," I would say, encouraging the poor man as he came bowing and trembling before me, "how goes it, my friend?"

"Badly," he would answer, "very badly until your lordship came this way."

"And how is that, little man?"

"Oh, it is the roads," he always replied, shaking his bald head as he began to set about his business. "The roads since your lordship became surveyor-general are so good that not one horse in a hundred casts a shoe; and then there are so few highwaymen now that not one robber's plates do I replace in a twelvemonth. There is where it is."

At this I was highly delighted.

"Still, since I began to pass this way times have not been so bad with you, Simon," I would answer.

Thereto he had one invariable reply.

"No; thanks to Ste. Geneviève and your lordship, whom we call in this village the poor man's friend, I have a fowl in the pot."

This phrase so pleased me that I repeated it to the king. It tickled his fancy also, and for some years it was a very common remark of that good and great ruler, that he hoped to live to see every peasant with a fowl in his pot.

"But why," I remember I once asked this honest fellow— it was on the last occasion of the sorrel falling lame there—"do you thank Ste. Geneviève?"

"She is my patron saint," he answered.

"Then you are a Parisian?"

"Your lordship is always right."

"But does her saintship do you any good?" I asked curiously.

"Certainly, by your lordship's leave. My wife prays to her and she loosens the nails in the sorrel's shoes."

"In fact she pays off an old grudge," I answered, "for there was a time when Paris liked me little; but hark ye, master smith, I am not sure that this is not an act of treason to conspire with Madame Geneviève against the comfort of the king's minister. What think you, you rascal; can you pass the justice elm without a shiver?"

This threw the simple fellow into a great fear, which the sight of the livre of gold speedily converted into joy as stupendous. Leaving him still staring at his fortune I rode away; but when we had gone some little distance, the aspect of his face, when I charged him with treason, or my own unassisted discrimination suggested a clew to the phenomenon.

"La Trape," I said to my valet— the same who was with me at Cahors—"what is the name of the innkeeper at Poissy, at whose house we are accustomed to dine?"

"Andrew, may it please your lordship."

"Andrew! I thought so!" I exclaimed, smiting my thigh. "Simon and Andrew his brother! Answer, knave, and, if you have permitted me to be robbed these many times, tremble for your ears. Is he not brother to the smith at Aubergenville who has just shod my horse?"

La Trape professed to be ignorant on this point, but a groom who had stayed behind with me, having sought my permission to speak, said it was so, adding that Master Andrew had risen in the world through large dealings in hay, which he was wont to take daily into Paris and sell, and that he did not now acknowledge or see anything of his brother the smith, though it was believed that he retained a sneaking liking for him.

On receiving this confirmation of my suspicions, my vanity as well as my sense of justice led me to act with the promptitude which I have exhibited in greater emergencies. I rated La Trape for his carelessness of my interests in permitting this deception to be practiced on me; and the main body of my attendants being now in sight, I ordered him to take two Swiss and arrest both brothers without delay. It wanted yet three hours of sunset, and I judged that, by hard riding, they might reach Rosny with their prisoners before bedtime.

I spent some time while still on the road in considering what punishment I should inflict on the culprits; and finally laid aside the purpose I had at first conceived of putting them to death— an infliction they had richly deserved— in favor of a plan which I thought might offer me some amusement. For the execution of this I depended upon Maignan, my equerry, who was a man of lively imagination, being the same who had of his own motion arranged and carried out the triumphal procession, in which I was borne to Rosny after the battle of Ivry. Before I sat down to supper I gave him his directions; and as I had expected, news was brought to me while I was at table that the prisoners had arrived.

Thereupon I informed the duchess and the company generally, for, as was usual, a number of my country neighbors had come to compliment me on my return, that there was some sport of a rare kind on foot; and we adjourned, Maignan, followed by four pages bearing lights, leading the way to that end of the terrace which abuts on the linden avenue. Here, a score of grooms holding torches aloft had been arranged in a circle so that the impromptu theater thus formed, which Maignan had ordered with much taste, was as light as in the day. On a sloping bank at one end seats had been placed for those who had supped at my table, while the rest of the company found such places of vantage as they could; their number, indeed, amounting, with my household, to two hundred persons. In the center of the open space a small forge fire had been kindled, the red glow of which added much to the strangeness of the scene; and on the anvil beside it were ranged a number of horses' and donkeys' shoes, with a full complement of the tools used by smiths. All being ready I gave the word to bring in the prisoners, and escorted by La Trape and six of my guards, they were marched into the arena. In their pale and terrified faces, and the shaking limbs which could scarce support them to their appointed stations, I read both the consciousness of guilt and the apprehension of immediate death; it was plain that they expected nothing less. I was very willing to play with their fears, and for some time looked at them in silence, while all wondered with lively curiosity what would ensue. I then addressed them gravely, telling the innkeeper that I knew well he had loosened each year a shoe of my horse, in order that his brother might profit by the job of replacing it; and went on to reprove the smith for the ingratitude which had led him to return my bounty by the conception of so knavish a trick.

Upon this they confessed their guilt, and flinging themselves upon their knees with many tears and prayers begged for mercy. This, after a decent interval, I permitted myself to grant. "Your lives, which are forfeited, shall be spared," I pronounced. "But punished you must be. I therefore ordain that Simon, the smith, at once fit, nail, and properly secure a pair of iron shoes to Andrew's heels, and that then Andrew, who by that time will have picked up something of the smith's art, do the same to Simon. So will you both learn to avoid such shoeing tricks for the future."

It may well be imagined that a judgment so whimsical, and so justly adapted to the offense, charmed all save the culprits; and in a hundred ways the pleasure of those present was evinced, to such a degree, indeed, that Maignan had some difficulty in restoring silence and gravity to the assemblage. This done, however, Master Andrew was taken in hand and his wooden shoes removed. The tools of his trade were placed before the smith, who cast glances so piteous, first at his brother's feet and then at the shoes on the anvil, as again gave rise to a prodigious amount of merriment, my pages in particular well-nigh forgetting my presence, and rolling about in a manner unpardonable at another time. However, I rebuked them sharply, and was about to order the sentence to be carried into effect, when the remembrance of the many pleasant simplicities which the smith had uttered to me, acting upon a natural disposition to mercy, which the most calumnious of my enemies have never questioned, induced me to give the prisoners a chance of escape. "Listen," I said, "Simon and Andrew. Your sentence has been pronounced, and will certainly be executed unless you can avail yourself of the condition I now offer. You shall have three minutes; if in that time either of you can make a good joke, he shall go free. If not, let a man attend to the bellows, La Trape!"

This added a fresh satisfaction to my neighbors, who were well assured now that I had not promised them a novel entertainment without good grounds; for the grimaces of the two knaves thus bidden to jest if they would save their skins, were so diverting they would have made a nun laugh. They looked at me with their eyes as wide as plates, and for the whole of the time of grace never a word could they utter save howls for mercy. "Simon," I said gravely, when the time was up, "have you a joke? No. Andrew, my friend, have you a joke? No. Then—"

I was going on to order the sentence to be carried out, when the innkeeper flung himself again upon his knees, and cried out loudly— as much to my astonishment as to the regret of the bystanders, who were bent on seeing so strange a shoeing feat—"One word, my lord; I can give you no joke, but I can do a service, an eminent service to the king. I can disclose a conspiracy!"

I was somewhat taken aback by this sudden and public announcement. But I had been too long in the king's employment not to have remarked how strangely things are brought to light. On hearing the man's words therefore— which were followed by a stricken silence— I looked sharply at the faces of such of those present as it was possible to suspect, but failed to observe any sign of confusion or dismay, or anything more particular than so abrupt a statement was calculated to produce. Doubting much whether the man was not playing with me, I addressed him sternly, warning him to beware, lest in his anxiety to save his heels by falsely accusing others, he should lose his head. For that if his conspiracy should prove to be an invention of his own, I should certainly consider it my duty to hang him forthwith.

He heard me out, but nevertheless persisted in his story, adding desperately, "It is a plot, my lord, to assassinate you and the king on the same day."

This statement struck me a blow; for I had good reason to know that at that time the king had alienated many by his infatuation for Madame de Verneuil; while I had always to reckon firstly with all who hated him, and secondly with all whom my pursuit of his interests injured, either in reality or appearance. I therefore immediately directed that the prisoners should be led in close custody to the chamber adjoining my private closet, and taking the precaution to call my guards about me, since I knew not what attempt despair might not breed, I withdrew myself, making such apologies to the company as the nature of the case permitted.

I ordered Simon the smith to be first brought to me, and in the presence of Maignan only, I severely examined him as to his knowledge of any conspiracy. He denied, however, that he had ever heard of the matters referred to by his brother, and persisted so firmly in the denial that I was inclined to believe him. In the end he was taken out and Andrew was brought in. The innkeeper's demeanor was such as I have often observed in intriguers brought suddenly to book. He averred the existence of the conspiracy, and that its objects were those which he had stated. He also offered to give up his associates, but conditioned that he should do this in his own way; undertaking to conduct me and one other person— but no more, lest the alarm should be given— to a place in Paris on the following night, where we could hear the plotters state their plans and designs. In this way only, he urged, could proof positive be obtained.

I was much startled by this proposal, and inclined to think it a trap; but further consideration dispelled my fears. The innkeeper had held no parley with anyone save his guards and myself since his arrest, and could neither have warned his accomplices, nor acquainted them with any design the execution of which should depend on his confession to me. I therefore accepted his terms— with a private reservation that I should have help at hand— and before daybreak next morning left Rosny, which I had only seen by torchlight, with my prisoner and a select body of Swiss. We entered Paris in the afternoon in three parties, with as little parade as possible, and went straight to the Arsenal, whence, as soon as evening fell, I hurried with only two armed attendants to the Louvre.

A return so sudden and unexpected was as great a surprise to the court as to the king, and I was not slow to mark with an inward smile the discomposure which appeared very clearly on the faces of several, as the crowd in the chamber fell back for me to approach my master. I was careful, however, to remember that this might arise from other causes than guilt. The king received me with his wonted affection; and divining at once that I must have something important to communicate, withdrew with me to the farther end of the chamber, where we were out of earshot of the court. I there related the story to his majesty, keeping back nothing.

He shook his head, saying merely: "The fish to escape the frying pan, grand master, will jump into the fire. And human nature, save in the case of you and me, who can trust one another, is very fishy."

I was touched by this gracious compliment, but not convinced. "You have not seen the man, sire," I said, "and I have had that advantage."

"And believe him?"

"In part," I answered with caution. "So far at least as to be assured that he thinks to save his skin, which he will only do if he be telling the truth. May I beg you, sire," I added hastily, seeing the direction of his glance, "not to look so fixedly at the Duke of Epernon? He grows uneasy."

"Conscience makes— you know the rest."

"Nay, sire, with submission," I replied, "I will answer for him; if he be not driven by fear to do something reckless."

"Good! I take your warranty, Duke of Sully," the king said, with the easy grace which came so natural to him. "But now in this matter what would you have me do?"

"Double your guards, sire, for to-night— that is all. I will answer for the Bastile and the Arsenal; and holding these we hold Paris."

But thereupon I found that the king had come to a decision, which I felt it to be my duty to combat with all my influence. He had conceived the idea of being the one to accompany me to the rendezvous. "I am tired of the dice," he complained, "and sick of tennis, at which I know everybody's strength. Madame de Verneuil is at Fontainebleau, the queen is unwell. Ah, Sully, I would the old days were back when we had Nerac for our Paris, and knew the saddle better than the armchair!"

"A king must think of his people," I reminded him.

"The fowl in the pot? To be sure. So I will— to-morrow," he replied. And in the end he would be obeyed. I took my leave of him as if for the night, and retired, leaving him at play with the Duke of Epernon. But an hour later, toward eight o'clock, his majesty, who had made an excuse to withdraw to his closet, met me outside the eastern gate of the Louvre.

He was masked, and attended only by Coquet, his master of the household. I too wore a mask and was esquired by Maignan, under whose orders were four Swiss— whom I had chosen because they were unable to speak French— guarding the prisoner Andrew. I bade Maignan follow the innkeeper's directions, and we proceeded in two parties through the streets on the left bank of the river, past the Châtelet and Bastile, until we reached an obscure street near the water, so narrow that the decrepit wooden houses shut out well-nigh all view of the sky. Here the prisoner halted and called upon me to fulfill the terms of my agreement. I bade Maignan therefore to keep with the Swiss at a distance of fifty paces, but to come up should I whistle or otherwise give the alarm; and myself with the king and Andrew proceeded onward in the deep shadow of the houses. I kept my hand on my pistol, which I had previously shown to the prisoner, intimating that on the first sign of treachery I should blow out his brains. However, despite precaution, I felt uncomfortable to the last degree. I blamed myself severely for allowing the king to expose himself and the country to this unnecessary danger; while the meanness of the locality, the fetid air, the darkness of the night, which was wet and tempestuous, and the uncertainty of the event lowered my spirits, and made every splash in the kennel and stumble on the reeking, slippery pavements— matters over which the king grew merry— seem no light troubles to me.

Arriving at a house, which, if we might judge in the darkness, seemed to be of rather greater pretensions than its fellows, our guide stopped, and whispered to us to mount some steps to a raised wooden gallery, which intervened between the lane and the doorway. On this, besides the door, a couple of unglazed windows looked out. The shutter of one was ajar, and showed us a large, bare room, lighted by a couple of rushlights. Directing us to place ourselves close to this shutter, the innkeeper knocked at the door in a peculiar fashion, and almost immediately entered, going at once into the lighted room. Peering cautiously through the window we were surprised to find that the only person within, save the newcomer, was a young woman, who, crouching over a smoldering fire, was crooning a lullaby while she attended to a large black pot.

"Good evening, mistress!" said the innkeeper, advancing to the fire with a fair show of nonchalance.

"Good evening, Master Andrew," the girl replied, looking up and nodding, but showing no sign of surprise at his appearance. "Martin is away, but he may return at any moment."

"Is he still of the same mind?"

"Quite."

"And what of Sully? Is he to die then?" he asked.

"They have decided he must," the girl answered gloomily. It may be believed that I listened with all my ears, while the king by a nudge in my side seemed to rally me on the destiny so coolly arranged for me. "Martin says it is no good killing the other unless he goes too— they have been so long together. But it vexes me sadly, Master Andrew," she added with a sudden break in her voice. "Sadly it vexes me. I could not sleep last night for thinking of it, and the risk Martin runs. And I shall sleep less when it is done."

"Pooh-pooh!" said that rascally innkeeper. "Think less about it. Things will grow worse and worse if they are let live. The King has done harm enough already. And he grows old besides."

"That is true!" said the girl. "And no doubt the sooner he is put out of the way the better. He is changed sadly. I do not say a word for him. Let him die. It is killing Sully that troubles me— that and the risk Martin runs."

At this I took the liberty of gently touching the king. He answered by an amused grimace; then by a motion of his hand he enjoined silence. We stooped still farther forward so as better to command the room. The girl was rocking herself to and fro in evident distress of mind. "If we killed the King," she continued, "Martin declares we should be no better off, as long as Sully lives. Both or neither, he says. But I do not know. I cannot bear to think of it. It was a sad day when we brought Epernon here, Master Andrew; and one I fear we shall rue as long as we live."

It was now the king's turn to be moved. He grasped my wrist so forcibly that I restrained a cry with difficulty. "Epernon!" he whispered harshly in my ear. "They are Epernon's tools! Where is your guaranty now, Rosny?"

I confess that I trembled. I knew well that the king, particular in small courtesies, never forgot to call his servants by their correct titles, save in two cases; when he indicated by the seeming error, as once in Marshal Biron's affair, his intention to promote or degrade them; or when he was moved to the depths of his nature and fell into an old habit. I did not dare to reply, but listened greedily for more information.

"When is it to be done?" asked the innkeeper, sinking his voice and glancing round, as if he would call especial attention to this.

"That depends upon Master la Rivière," the girl answered. "To-morrow night, I understand, if Master la Rivière can have the stuff ready."

I met the king's eyes. They shone fiercely in the faint light, which issuing from the window fell on him. Of all things he hated treachery most, and La Rivière was his first body physician, and at this very time, as I well knew, was treating him for a slight derangement which the king had brought upon himself by his imprudence. This doctor had formerly been in the employment of the Bouillon family, who had surrendered his services to the king. Neither I nor his majesty had trusted the Duke of Bouillon for the last year past, so that we were not surprised by this hint that he was privy to the design.

Despite our anxiety not to miss a word, an approaching step warned us at this moment to draw back. More than once before we had done so to escape the notice of a wayfarer passing up and down. But this time I had a difficulty in inducing the king to adopt the precaution. Yet it was well that I succeeded, for the person who came stumbling along toward us did not pass, but, mounting the steps, walked by within touch of us and entered the house.

"The plot thickens," muttered the king. "Who is this?"

At the moment he asked I was racking my brain to remember. I have a good eye and a fair recollection for faces, and this was one I had seen several times. The features were so familiar that I suspected the man of being a courtier in disguise, and I ran over the names of several persons whom I knew to be Bouillon's secret agents. But he was none of these, and obeying the king's gesture, I bent myself again to the task of listening.

The girl looked up on the man's entrance, but did not rise. "You are late, Martin," she said.

"A little," the newcomer answered. "How do you do, Master Andrew? What cheer? What, still vexing, mistress?" he added contemptuously to the girl. "You have too soft a heart for this business!"

She sighed, but made no answer.

"You have made up your mind to it, I hear?" said the innkeeper.

"That is it. Needs must when the devil drives!" replied the man jauntily. He had a downcast, reckless, luckless air, yet in his face I thought I still saw traces of a better spirit.

"The devil in this case was Epernon," quoth Andrew.

"Aye, curse him! I would I had cut his dainty throat before he crossed my threshold," cried the desperado. "But there, it is too late to say that now. What has to be done, has to be done."

"How are you going about it? Poison, the mistress says."

"Yes; but if I had my way," the man growled fiercely, "I would out one of these nights and cut the dogs' throats in the kennel!"

"You could never escape, Martin!" the girl cried, rising in excitement. "It would be hopeless. It would merely be throwing away your own life."

"Well, it is not to be done that way, so there is an end of it," quoth the man wearily. "Give me my supper. The devil take the king and Sully too! He will soon have them."

On this Master Andrew rose, and I took his movement toward the door for a signal for us to retire. He came out at once, shutting the door behind him as he bade the pair within a loud good night. He found us standing in the street waiting for him and forthwith fell on his knees in the mud and looked up at me, the perspiration standing thick on his white face. "My lord," he cried hoarsely, "I have earned my pardon!"

"If you go on," I said encouragingly, "as you have begun, have no fear." Without more ado I whistled up the Swiss and bade Maignan go with them and arrest the man and woman with as little disturbance as possible. While this was being done we waited without, keeping a sharp eye upon the informer, whose terror, I noted with suspicion, seemed to be in no degree diminished. He did not, however, try to escape, and Maignan presently came to tell us that he had executed the arrest without difficulty or resistance.

The importance of arriving at the truth before Epernon and the greater conspirators should take the alarm was so vividly present to the minds of the king and myself, that we did not hesitate to examine the prisoners in their house, rather than hazard the delay and observation which their removal to a more fit place must occasion. Accordingly, taking the precaution to post Coquet in the street outside, and to plant a burly Swiss in the doorway, the king and I entered. I removed my mask as I did so, being aware of the necessity of gaining the prisoners' confidence, but I begged the king to retain his. As I had expected, the man immediately recognized me and fell on his knees, a nearer view confirming the notion I had previously entertained that his features were familiar to me, though I could not remember his name. I thought this a good starting-point for my examination, and bidding Maignan withdraw, I assumed an air of mildness and asked the fellow his name.

"Martin, only, please your lordship," he answered; adding, "once I sold you two dogs, sir, for the chase, and to your lady a lapdog called Ninette no larger than her hand."

I remembered the knave, then, as a fashionable dog dealer, who had been much about the court in the reign of Henry the Third and later; and I saw at once how convenient a tool he might be made, since he could be seen in converse with people of all ranks without arousing suspicion. The man's face as he spoke expressed so much fear and surprise that I determined to try what I had often found successful in the case of greater criminals, to squeeze him for a confession while still excited by his arrest, and before he should have had time to consider what his chances of support at the hands of his confederates might be. I charged him therefore solemnly to tell the whole truth as he hoped for the king's mercy. He heard me, gazing at me piteously; but his only answer, to my surprise, was that he had nothing to confess.

"Come, come," I replied sternly, "this will avail you nothing; if you do not speak quickly, rogue, and to the point, we shall find means to compel you. Who counseled you to attempt his majesty's life?"

On this he stared so stupidly at me, and exclaimed with so real an appearance of horror: "How? I attempt the king's life? God forbid!" that I doubted that we had before us a more dangerous rascal than I had thought, and I hastened to bring him to the point.

"What, then," I cried, frowning, "of the stuff Master la Rivière is to give you to take the king's life to-morrow night? Oh, we know something, I assure you; bethink you quickly, and find your tongue if you would have an easy death."

I expected to see his self-control break down at this proof of our knowledge of his design, but he only stared at me with the same look of bewilderment. I was about to bid them bring in the informer that I might see the two front to front, when the female prisoner, who had hitherto stood beside her companion in such distress and terror as might be expected in a woman of that class, suddenly stopped her tears and lamentations. It occurred to me that she might make a better witness. I turned to her, but when I would have questioned her she broke into a wild scream of hysterical laughter.

From that I remember that I learned nothing, though it greatly annoyed me. But there was one present who did— the king. He laid his hand on my shoulder, gripping it with a force that I read as a command to be silent.

"Where," he said to the man, "do you keep the King and Sully and Epernon, my friend?"

"The King and Sully— with the lordship's leave," said the man quickly, with a frightened glance at me—"are in the kennels at the back of the house, but it is not safe to go near them. The King is raving mad, and— and the other dog is sickening. Epernon we had to kill a month back. He brought the disease here, and I have had such losses through him as have nearly ruined me, please your lordship."

"Get up— get up, man!" cried the king, and tearing off his mask he stamped up and down the room, so torn by paroxysms of laughter that he choked himself when again and again he attempted to speak.

I too now saw the mistake, but I could not at first see it in the same light. Commanding myself as well as I could, I ordered one of the Swiss to fetch in the innkeeper, but to admit no one else.

The knave fell on his knees as soon as he saw me, his cheeks shaking like a jelly.

"Mercy, mercy!" was all he could say.

"You have dared to play with me?" I whispered.

"You bade me joke," he sobbed, "you bade me."

I was about to say that it would be his last joke in this world— for my anger was fully aroused— when the king intervened.

"Nay," he said, laying his hand softly on my shoulder. "It has been the most glorious jest. I would not have missed it for a kingdom. I command you, Sully, to forgive him."

Thereupon his majesty strictly charged the three that they should not on peril of their lives mention the circumstances to anyone. Nor to the best of my belief did they do so, being so shrewdly scared when they recognized the king that I verily think they never afterwards so much as spoke of the affair to one another. My master further gave me on his own part his most gracious promise that he would not disclose the matter even to Madame de Verneuil or the queen, and upon these representations he induced me freely to forgive the innkeeper. So ended this conspiracy, on the diverting details of which I may seem to have dwelt longer than I should; but alas! in twenty-one years of power I investigated many, and this one only can I regard with satisfaction. The rest were so many warnings and predictions of the fate which, despite all my care and fidelity, was in store for the great and good master I served.

______________

14: Take the Case of Dear Old George

Sydney Horler

1888-1954

In:  Dying to Live and other stories, 1935

MANY A BRIGHT YOUNG FELLOW, clanking about heavily upholstered in coin of the realm, wouldn't be here to-day but for those merry little twins Pep and Perseverance.

Take the case of George Royce, for instance. You know what dear old George is doing now, I suppose? You don't! Well, good old George, under an alias, is drawing down two hundred of the best every week as principal comedian in the revue "Not so Much of It, Charlie!" That'll show you.

There was a time, not so long ago either, when George would have willingly sold himself to a shilling raffle. Absolutely down and out and stepped on, he was. It really was a very sad story. George, who was battling along on a thousand a year— you know what a struggle it is nowadays to keep body and soul and Sports Rolls together— had been induced by some joker with an Ancient Mariner eye to invest his capital in some gold mines. At least, the fellow called them gold mines.

After a week or so, poor old George fell down the chute and landed with a horrible thud at the bottom. When they picked up the body, he had practically nothing but what he stood up in. That would have jarred some fellows. It jarred George as a matter of fact, but he didn't stay jarred. Not a bit of it. It happened that he was dining with Clarissa Stevens that night. He had been in love with Clarissa for a long time— quite a while, in fact—and if only he could have made that thousand a year of his grow into five, they would have married long before. As it was, they were secretly sworn to each other and acted up to it.

"That represents the last of the line, old thing," he said broodingly, as he handed over a crinkly fiver to the head waiter at Rimini's. "Now I shall have to hunt up one of those coves who work at night forging 'em."

Clarissa drew a deep breath. She was one of those girls who could draw a deep breath and still look beautiful. "George," she said tremulously, "I have an Idea."

"Honestly?"

"Don't be silly! This is really good!"

"Bon! Uncork it, old dear."

"We want a new chauffeur. George, what's to prevent you getting the job?" She went on hurriedly: "We could see quite a lot of each other every day then. Wouldn't that be better than going out to that dreadful place in Mexico, or whereever it is?"

George made non-committal noises.

"Of course, the wages will not be very much, darling, but 'Better a dish of herbs where Love is'," came back old George. "All right; lead me to the sacrifice. You won't say who I really am?" he asked suddenly.

There had been a regrettable lack of enthusiasm on the part of Lady Berenice Stevens, Clarissa's mother, before; and where she had given no encouragement worth the mentioning when George was pocketing twenty quid a week out of his dividends, she could hardly be expected to fling her hat up and dance for joy now that he had lost his all.

"You will go disguised !" said Clarissa, in a thrilling whisper.

"Toreador or deep-sea fisherman ?"

"Don't be silly. You can take another name... now let me see— yes, Sharp. A little moustache— and mother would never recognize you. She is advertising in The Times to-morrow. If you call on Monday, I'll see that you get the job."

George, as already indicated, was a pretty swift worker, and at the end of sixty-eight hours he had grown quite a respectable moustache. Attired in this and a suit that he had borrowed from Jenkins, the valet at his chambers, he gave the impression of solid worth struggling against adversity as he faced the lorgnette of Lady Berenice.

"You are a careful driver, Sharp?"

"Very careful, your ladyship," stoutly replied George, who had done his one hundred and twenty miles an hour at Brooklands in Danny Frush's twelve-cylinder Mercury.

"Very well. My daughter tells me your references are quite good. I will engage you subject to your proving satisfactory."

"Thank you, your ladyship."

And that was that.

That was that, in fact, until the day that the vicar called.

The family had gone to the country seat in Surrey, and naturally good old George had tooled along with them. He was in great demand at Heatherlands. All the girl visitors raved about his good looks and all the other guests raved about his careful driving. George was listed high. Even Lady Berenice, little recking the truth, would smile as George held open the door for her.

"Good morning, Sharp!" she would say; and, "Good morning, your ladyship!" old George would pipe back. Ha! Ha!

Well, as I was saying, that was until the vicar called.

The Rev. Oswald Oppingley was a very zealous and proper person, and when, cycling through a quiet country lane, he came across the daughter of his most notable parishioner kissing the family chauffeur— and kissing him, moreover, as though she meant every bit of it—he considered it expedient to hurry straight on to Heatherlands and unburden the bosom.

"Lady Berenice! Lady Berenice!" he twittered.

"My dear vicar,"' replied Lady Berenice, who resented being aroused from her post-luncheon nap, "are you endeavouring to give me an imitation of flute-playing?"

"No, Lady Berenice. However unpleasant a task may prove, I trust I am not the man to shirk it. That is why I hurried here ; indeed"— wiping the bedewed brow— "I did not lose a minute. Perhaps there may be time yet for irreparable harm to be prevented."

"Does the subject of your conversation refer in any way to someone in my house?" demanded Lady Berenice.

"My dear Lady Berenice,"' said the vicar of Upshatt-onthe-Hill, "I was cycling through Thickitt's Lane just now when I saw your daughter— ah— embracing the chauffeur. And I always considered Sharp such an excellent fellow too!"

His audience of one assumed the proportions of a Jubilee celebration crowd when she drew herself up.

"Do I understand you to say that you saw my daughter Clarissa acting in the— er— manner you state, with Sharp, our chauffeur? Er— may I ask what you had for lunch ?"

"My dear Lady Berenice, I have not yet lunched. I was on my way home to lunch when— and I assure you I could not help noticing the singular, the highly singular occurrence. thought it my plain duty to inform you of the fact immediately. It was something which I felt you ought to know, especially as Sharp did not seem to resent the familiarity."

"Thank you for taking so much trouble," said Lady Berenice frigidly. As they drove back very slowly, George brooded like a man who knows his end is near.

"I'll bet you the parson pup has drawn your mother into a corner by this time and told her what he believes to be the worst," he said.

"Let him, if he wants to!" replied Clarissa brightly.

"That's all very well, but you know what your mother is. Your mother, darling, is one of those sterling characters who imagine that everyone is a darned sight more mouldy than they could ever possibly be; undoubtedly she will believe that you were kissing me, old thing!"

"And wasn't I?"

"Of course ; but—"

"You looked so dear just at that moment that I simply had to! There, now! Any woman would have done the same. Even mother—"

"Oh, I say!" protested George. "The thing is, what are we to say ?"

"I shall say that I was seized with sudden faintness and that I put my arms round your neck not thinking what I was doing. And mind you back me up."

"I refuse to be compromised," was the craven answer. "Remember, it was you kissing me, not me kissing you. I've got my job to look after. The push means parting for ever."

Clarissa indignantly kissed him again.

"I shall do that just as often as I like— so there!" she declared. "One day J shall leave the big house and come down and live with you in your little chauffeur's cottage."

"On a fiver a week?"' asked George.

Clarissa refused to be downhearted. "If the worst comes to the worst." she started.

"It will!" declared poor old George emphatically.

GEORGE was no slouch as a prophet.

"I am stunned and bewildered by something I heard about your conduct this afternoon, Sharp," said his beloved's mother, when he was summoned to the Presence. "No, please do not trouble to put up any defence. The evidence of your guilt, so I am assured by a most responsible person whose word cannot be doubted, was convincing. The only other thing I need say, I think, is that you must leave my service at once. Here is a cheque covering your money to date, and a sum in lieu of a month's notice."

While George was leaning against the ropes under the influence of this crushing upper-cut, the door burst open and in rushed Clarissa.

"Mother, the most terrible news! Phil Armitage has met with a motor accident and broken his leg! I know—" eagerly. "Let Sharp play the part! I say, Sharp"— tipping old George the wink to stand by— "have you ever done anything at amateur theatricals?"

"I used to belong to an amateur dramatic club, miss," replied old George, without a tremor. The Tootham Players, we called ourselves. I used to do the lovers' parts, miss," he went on, causing Lady Berenice to stamp her foot impatiently.

"You must transfer your dramatic abilities elsewhere, I am afraid, Sharp," she said, with her most paralysing sneer. "Here is the envelope I spoke to you about just now."

Clarissa looked innocent. "What's the matter with Sharp, mother?" she inquired. "What has he done?"

"I refuse to discuss the matter, Clarissa," said her mother in a voice of doom. "At least, before Sharp."

"Wait outside, Sharp."

"Yes, miss. May I say, my lady—?"

"You may not!'' snapped the Holder of the Glacial Orb Championship.

After five minutes of frightful doubt, the door was opened.

"Quietly!" whispered Clarissa. "Mother doesn't believe me, I can tell, but she's willing to let you stay on for another week on condition that you help us out with this dramatic stunt. Phil Armitage was to have made love to me in this play, but I'd ever so much rather have you."

"You show admirable taste, old thing. And now, is it necessary for me to see the dragon?"

"Yes; she wants to read you a lecture."

"What— another?"

"Carry on, dear; it won't last very long."

To George it seemed to last several years.

"My daughter has made a statement to me, Sharp. I am willing to believe, in consequence, that the account of certain circumstances was greatly exaggerated. It is because of that, and for no other reason whatever, that I am willing to reconsider my decision to the extent of allowing you to remain here a little while longer. During that period, however, you will be most carefully watched, and if anything in the nature of familiarity is observed in your conduct, you will be sent packing at once. Do I make myself sufficiently clear?"

"Quite, your ladyship. But may I observe—?"

"You have already said too much, Sharp. That will do. You may go."

George pirouetted.

But, like many another ruthless character before her, Lady Berenice was up against Fate. A noted patroness of the more severe type of histrionic art— she was a well-known attendant at all the Sunday shows— Lady Berenice had spent much time and thought recently in arranging the details for a performance at Heatherlands of "Shadows'', the favourite— and gloomiest—  stage work of that immortal pessimist Gustav K. Hippson, the Icelandic dramatist. "Shadows" was such a powerful drama that when it was first performed at the Odeum Theatre, several members of the audience went straight out after the final curtain and died swiftly of galloping depression.

The snag, so far as Lady Berenice was concerned, had come with the news that Philip Armitage had broken his leg. Philip Armitage was to have played the part of Erik, the youth with the sad soul who in the play made impassioned moaning noises to Clarissa Stevens under the pretence of being in love with her. Erik had all the fat in the piece. On him the whole thing depended. It was too late to rope in anyone else, because the rehearsals were so far advanced. The news of Armitage's accident had been a bitter blow to Lady Berenice, and she clutched at the chance of Sharp, the chauffeur, being able to fill the breach like a hot and bothered woman snatching at a powder-puff.

" 'The artistic chauffeur', she murmured to herself. 'People will be quite envious of me."

It would not be strictly truthful to say that dear old George was envious of himself, however. On the contrary.

"I say, you don't expect me to mug up all this rot, do you!" he groaned to Clarissa, after one look at his typewritten "part".

"Have a heart, old thing !" Clarissa chuckled happily. "We can sit up late coaching each other— in the drawing room after everyone else has gone to bed."

That altered the situation considerably, of course. To be able to sit holding Clarissa's hands after hours, and in the dark, too, was a reasonably pleasant prospect.

"Why didn't you tell me that in the beginning, old girl ?" he said.

"I always had it at the back of my mind," Clarissa assured him.

The trouble with poor old George, however, was that he never could miss his rest. He was one of those coves who was distinctly partial to sleep. He could do with a bit of shut-eye at practically any hour of the day or night. Keeping these late hours soon began to tell upon the lad. He looked haggard and washed out; there was a suspicion of bags under the eyes.

Clarissa was delighted with the wreckage.

"Mother is awfully pleased with you, George,'' she told him. "Already— even before you have put on any make-up, I mean— you're Erik to the life. Mother only said this morning that you were becoming very interesting-looking."

"I feel like a mud pie!" yawned George. "Oh, but you must pull yourself together, darling. I know it's the most frightful sweat, but if you only make a success of the part and the thing goes off well, no one knows what mother may not do for you. She might even forgive you— on terms. It's such a frightfully important thing to her, you see; people from all over the country are coming. It's one of the big nights in the mater's life."

"Yes— yes. I can quite see that. But I tell you what: if I forget my lines, I shall simply have to start gagging. There's nothing else for it."

"You mustn't, George; think of mother's face if you did!"

"The chap I'm thinking about is little me," replied poor old George.

LADY BERENICE, as the acute reader will probably have already gathered, was a woman to whom it was almost impossible to say no. This was probably the reason why, although a retired admiral— "Honest Tom" Draycott had the reputation of fearing neither devil nor man— sent his apologies over the telephone, the rest of the invited guests turned up. Most of them bore an expression which said fairly plainly: "If the dinner is only passable, I don't care a strawberry ice what happens afterwards." As earnest students of the Icelandic Drama, most of them could scarcely be said to exist.

Lady Berenice buzzed round bestowing smiles and kind words upon all. "Who is taking the part which Philip was to have played? My dear, it's a great secret, but I have made a real discovery— yes, undoubtedly a genius! I think I can promise you that the part of Erik will be played to-night as it has never before been played!"

Naturally everyone expressed a desire to see this genius right away, or at least hoped that they would have a chance of watching him feed the face before the show started.

But George was not allowed to mix with the throng. What sustenance he required was allocated to him in a small room off the butler's pantry. He brooded over the slight.

The consequences of this thick concentration of thought was that the hazy recollection which he had had before of his lines completely left him once he found himself on the stage. Until then he had never been in the position to realize what the newspaper reporters meant when they referred to "a sea of faces".

Every face he set eyes on, moreover, seemed to be goggling at him. The immediate result was that he felt he had suddenly developed smoker's heart; his legs started to do things entirely on their own; while his head, without any warning, absentmindedly left the rest of his body.

Clarissa did what she could. Clarissa, it may as well be stated without any further delay, played the part of Stringa in "Shadows". Stringa enjoyed a chronic tough time, poor lass! There was Insanity on one side of the family and Drink on the other; and she herself had just brought off a double murder and was looking round for a quiet spot in which to end it all when— according to the stage directions: Enter Erik.

There was a snappy bit of dialogue at this point. It ran something like this:

STRINGA (showing knife): "The blight is on me! Thrice cursed am I! Drink deep of my love, Erik, for I go—I go!... ."

(Gustav K. must have written that bit after his chronic rheumatism had got mixed up rather badly with his deep-seated dyspepsia.)

Erik should have chanted back: "O love, together we will fly to that dark bourne where our souls shall be slaked of their sadness. Give me the blade to kiss." That's what he should have said. What he actually said— in an audible whisper— was this: ''My head's like a boiled egg, old thing— can't remember a line— absolutely. Suppose I tell 'em a few stories? There's a perfectly purple colonel down below who looks as though he'd enjoy something fruity."

"George, don't!" But George did.

Advancing to the footlights, he said, in a breezy, confidential tone: "Ladies and gentlemen, we did intend to give you a real spine-tickler to-night, but I'm such an absolutely absent-minded ass, I've forgotten my part, don't you know. Anyway, what does it matter? The cove I was supposed to be was a complete woozer, so it really wasn't worth wasting the time. Now, as we're all here, looking pretty and sitting matey, I think it's a good opportunity to ask if you've heard that story about the golfer who..."

At this point the vicar of Upshatt-on-the-Hill was seen to rise unsteadily to his feet and stagger in confusion to the door.

"I'm sorry," commented George; "the reverend gentleman evidently knows that one. It's really remarkable how these things get about. Well, if you won't have a story, let's get on with a song."

"Cuddle Up Closer, Baby!" is a good song. It is a popular song. Something like five million copies had been sold at the last royalty reckoning. Butchers' boys croon themselves to sleep to the witching words. In the revue "Let It Go, Girls!" it never failed to appeal. There is a catchy, not to say a salty, flavour about this ballad which has been known to drive the languor out of the tired business man's eyes and set him rocking in his stall. Undoubtedly a song with a swing.

Yes, quite. But you know how conservative some people are. Also, it must be remembered that Gustav K. Hippson had never been played with interpolated songs to imitation saxophone music before.

While the ripish-looking colonel showed his appreciation by joining heartily in the chorus, quite three-quarters of the rest of the audience rose from their seats in a combined icicle movement and drifted towards the door. And all the time, dear old George was singing his manly heart out for the bounders.

When it was over: "Oh, George," said Clarissa, in a strangled voice, "what have you done? Mother will never forgive you!"

"That's roughly the conclusion I have come to myself, old thing. But still, it was worth it. Wasn't the colonel cove a scream?"

Dark was the hour, gripped in the tempest's power— you know the sort of thing. But after poor old George had stumbled away from the direful presence of Lady Berenice Stevens, he stumbled across a man in the corridor.

"You're a perfect fool!" exclaimed the other, and laughed. While he was chuckling, George recognized him as the colonel person. George stared. He could understand the first part, but the second instalment puzzled him.

"I don't mean anything offensive, old chap," went on the other. "When I say you're a perfect fool, I don't want you to take it personally, you understand. As a matter of fact, I intend it for a compliment. Now, my name's Odell— Colonel Odell. Billy Greyson, who runs the revues in town, is a very great friend of mine. He badly wants a principal comedian who is really funny— and you, as I say, are a perfect idiot. Come up to Town with me to-morrow and see him, will you?"

YOU ought to see good old George in his skit on a Hippson play. He's simply great. Even Lady Berenice acknowledged he was very good— but that was after she heard Clarissa say that her husband's salary was two hundred of the best a week.

_________

17: The Duchess and Lady Torrent

A. E. W. Mason

1865-1948

Harper's Bazar, Sep 1926

Harper's Bazar changed its name to Harper's Bazaar in 1929.

A SOUNDING phrase which merely states a case will often be accepted as an explanation in other fields besides politics. Thus, if one person said, "Extraordinary affair, that of Lady Torrent: it's just a case of social suicide," the reply was certain to be, "Yes, my dear, that's just what it was."

Social suicide indeed! Toby Manister, whenever he heard the words— and he heard them pretty often during one season— shrugged his shoulders and smiled contemptuously. They were the mere husk and shell of the affair, and he wanted the kernel.

But he said nothing. For he was a dangerous little busybody with a sharp edge of malice to his mind as well as to his words; and here was, he felt sure, the very puzzle to amuse him, so long as he moved with sufficient discretion. Discretion was necessary, for he had a glimpse of big names, and he at all events had no intention to commit social suicide.

In the end, by putting this and that fragment of conversation together, by analysing little incidents, which he had witnessed without realizing their significance— he was present, for instance, at Lady Torrent's party— by a deft question here and there, and finally, when he was fairly sure of his facts, by a bold visit to Lady Torrent herself in her retreat near Dieppe, he got the story complete.

And years afterwards, when the principal actors had safely disappeared from the scene, he told it.

It was at a dinner-party where topic chased topic across the table and out of sight like so many feathers of cloud across a sky; a party of young people for the most part, amongst whom Toby Manister was beginning to feel uncomfortably out of date. Then someone dropped a reminiscence of Lady Torrent, and Toby Manister sat up in his chair.

The old phrase leapt out, reminted:

"The most inexplicable affair! After twenty solid years of untiring effort to achieve social success, twenty seasons when the gilt rout-chairs went out of the house every morning to return to the house every evening, when every new reputation was chased and caught and sooner or later exhibited in the drawing-room at Emperor's Gate, and was there thenceforward to be known as Eddie or Archie or Mona or Dollie, as the case might be— after all the boredom, and patience, and humiliation which such a life must mean, suddenly Lady Torrent goes off at the deep end and commits social suicide. Why?"

Toby Manister replied:

"She saw red suddenly and nothing else mattered. She became a woman instead of a machine like a hostess. She acquired a violent life of her own, or she had always possessed it and now let it rip. She was out for blood, and prudence, ambitions, Society could go to blazes. Poor dear, it was she who went to blazes."

Toby was so pathetically eager to re-establish himself, that no one of the kind, gay party could gainsay him. They were rewarded with a curiously sinister little story of a duel to the death between a great lady and a little lady in which the little lady very nearly won.

"I sat through the trial, of course," said Toby Manister, "and I noticed, as all the newspapers noticed, Lady Torrent's quick, bird-like glances towards the doors at the back of the court whenever they swung open, as they so continually did, to admit one more spectator to the already congested benches. The newspapers put those glances down to fear— fear of what in the end did happen. But I felt certain that not for the first time the papers had observed and misread.

"Fear, after all, is unmistakable; and I couldn't discover any sign of fear in Lady Torrent; not even, indeed, any anxiety. What I saw was a sly, confident expectation of triumph. The appearance of the little jeweller from Brighton with the necklace in his hand was, I believe, the greatest shock she had ever received in her life. She thought herself safe; she was already gloating, when in an instant— "

Toby Manister lifted his hand and brought the palm of it flat upon the table with a bang as though he crushed an insect.

"We may look forward, it appears, to a charming story," said the hostess with a note of mockery.

Toby Manister needed no further encouragement.

"The Duchess of Saxemundham was sitting with her secretary," and he smiled complacently at the little start of astonishment which was universal in his audience. "Yes, the Duchess of Saxemundham was the great lady in the case."

THE DUCHESS of Saxemundham was of an unsullied reputation. She possessed enormous wealth, a great political influence, and a reprobate husband who in Paris, and Monte Carlo, and Venice, and Aix, in fact anywhere except in London, might be seen to shake his head muzzily and say, "Cynthia's miles too good for the likes of me. She's a classic filly, I am the most contemptible of the Platers."

Of all these advantages the Duchess was well aware. She carried her charmingly tip-tilted nose high in the air, narrowed her intimate friends into a very small circle, and stood graciously aloof— a figure to which State and Church both clung as a proof that, after all, the world was not wholly lost.

In this particular June when she sat with her secretary in her study overlooking the Green Park, she had reached the age of thirty-one and the very perfection of her delicate, rosebud, rather appealing and pathetic beauty. The Duchess was greatly helped to keep her balance upon her pedestal by a natural look of spirituality which hung like an aura about her small head with its heavy coils of dark hair. This look and her little wistful smile were indeed among her most important assets; for apart from their effect upon the people who didn't know her, they made her very human and racy comments upon people and things seem attractively bizarre to those who did.

"There's another letter from Lady Torrent," said Muriel Chalmers, the secretary, as she tore open the envelope with the laugh which in so many houses greeted Lady Torrent's invitations. "She expects you to dine with her on Thursday week."

"Expects me?" exclaimed the Duchess— she was altogether Duchess at that moment. "Why, I have refused to go."

"I know. I wrote the letter," said Muriel.

She spoke slowly with a note of perplexity in her voice as she read this second invitation from Lady Torrent.

"I asked you to mention that I hadn't so far the honour of her acquaintance."

"And I did mention it. But— it's quite impossible, of course— but this letter reads to me like a threat."

She turned to Cynthia Saxemundham with the letter in her hand.

Cynthia took it with a trill of amusement. Yes, there it was, a threatening letter— oh, very cleverly worded, not a phrase but could be made to look innocence itself— yet, taken altogether, a pistol held quite definitely to the Duchess of Saxemundham's head.

Muriel Chalmers awaited another delicate outburst of amusement, but it never came. She turned about again with a gleam of anxiety in her eyes. But it was nothing to the anxiety which was now visible in every feature of Cynthia Saxemundham's face. She sat very still and spoke rather to herself than to her young secretary.

"She would never have dared to write like this unless—" The Duchess did not finish the sentence but rose abruptly and ran out of the room. The windows were all open and Muriel heard her humming a gay little tune as she moved about her bedroom just above. Muriel drew a breath of relief.

But though the Duchess returned to the study still humming, she was doing it absently and her face had quite lost its colour.

"Muriel," she said abruptly, "you remember that maid of mine, Nellie Webster, whom I dismissed for drinking?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what became of her?"

Muriel Chalmers shook her head.

"No. She never wrote for a character."

"She didn't need one," the Duchess returned dryly. "She went straight off to Lady Torrent. I have asked my housekeeper. She took with her something much more valuable than a character."

She sat down and smoked a cigarette and faced the position of affairs.

"Lady Torrent wishes to push that very ponderous husband of hers into the Cabinet, of which she hasn't a chance. Partly for that reason, partly because I have always refused to know the woman, she wishes to exhibit me in her house."

A sudden vision of Lady Torrent's good-looking little face, hard as iron under its pretence of bonhomie and vivacity, made the Duchess shiver. "She's a poisonous little devil too," she concluded lamely.

Muriel Chalmers, no less her friend than her secretary, turned to her aghast.

"Oh, Duchess, you are not going to go!" she exclaimed.

Cynthia Saxemundham smiled.

"No, my dear, I won't. I can see the butler announcing me, the guests smirking, Lady Torrent hurrying forward, her smile of welcome struggling with a little snarl of triumph, and the captive Duchess trying to conceal her handcuffs and to be spoken of from that evening on as 'Cynthia Saxemundham.' No! No!— whatever happens!"

"But must anything happen?" Muriel Chalmers asked timidly. "Can't I do something?"

Cynthia Saxemundham's face lost its look of defiance, and softened.

"Yes, my dear, you can ring up the Guards' Club and ask if Colonel Marchmont is there. If so, I should like to speak to him."

In a few moments Muriel handed the instrument to the Duchess.

"He is on the line."

The Duchess spoke three sentences:

"Henry, will you please come to luncheon with me to-day at half-past one? I shall be alone. I want your help."

It was like her to hang up the receiver without waiting for an answer.

"He will help me out of my scrape," she said, and she added, with a grimace which altogether failed to hide a very genuine regret, "but at the same time I shall lose for good something which I have treasured for a long while. On the whole— yes— damn Lady Torrent!"

LIEUT.-COL. HENRY MARCHMONT, with a long tail of decorations to his name, had just returned from an expedition in the deserts of Asia, and should consequently have furnished the Duchess with an hour's amusement and interest. But nothing in the world at the moment could have done that. Cynthia Saxemundham ate a deplorable luncheon.

For she had to confess that she, the one woman on a pedestal, had once taken a lover. And she had to make the confession to a man whom she had very nearly married, who on her account had remained a bachelor and become a wanderer over the face of the earth, and who, besides, worshipped her as a snow-white martyr bearing up courageously in a very speckled world.

The task was not very pleasant for the Duchess of Saxemundham, but she managed to stumble through it over the coffee. She saw her friend's face harden and a flush of anger deepen the tan of his cheeks.

"Who's the man?" he asked bluntly as soon as she had finished.

"Yes, of course, he would ask that," thought the Duchess, wringing her hands beneath the table. There was no escape for her, however. She mentioned a name beneath her breath. The Colonel grew redder than ever.

"That fellow!" he exploded. "Ronald Chepstowe! Cynthia! He's hairy-heeled."

"Oh, Henry, I never looked at his heels," cried Cynthia in despair. "He was artistic, and sympathetic— and he played polo divinely— and it only lasted the tiniest bit of time— and I was most unhappy— it was just a year after I was married and things were most hateful— and"— she stole a glance at Henry Marchmont— "and you were miles away on the other side of the world— and, anyway, you put me up on a pedestal and wouldn't have— and so it didn't seem to matter whom so long as—"

"So long as it was someone," interrupted Marchmont.

"Henry, you are hating me," she cried.

"I am disappointed," replied the Colonel gruffly, and he rose and looked for a long time out of the window.

The Duchess looked pathetically at his broad shoulders; they were rather attractive, without an ounce of spare flesh, she was suddenly diverted to recognize, but her own woes seized upon her again the next moment. She saw herself a white alabaster statue lying on the grass beside a pedestal, all in pieces. Would he put the pieces together again, or would he look out of the window for ever and ever?

He turned back at last.

"You wanted some help, Cynthia," he said in a gentler voice.

"Yes. Your return to London was announced in The Times yesterday. So you are certain to be asked to a party by Lady Torrent."

"That has already happened," said Marchmont.

"Oh, you haven't refused?" cried Cynthia, a new anxiety seizing her.

"Of course not," said Marchmont. "I have accepted. I am dining with her to-morrow."

Cynthia Saxemundham was relieved, of course; yes, undoubtedly she was relieved. But the answer caused her a little shock, nevertheless. It had almost the air of a desertion.

"Why?" she asked, in a rather chilly voice.

"Because I amuse myself there," he answered. "People do. It's an amusing house. I never could understand why you must go shouting all over London that you wouldn't go inside her door."

"She calls people whom she doesn't know by their Christian names," said the Duchess stubbornly.

"Well, you needn't keep slapping her face all the time just for that."

"Oh, Henry, I don't slap her face," cried Cynthia, and suddenly her fingers tingled. "But I should like to," she added with a heartfelt fervour.

Colonel Marchmont looked at her curiously.

"What in the world has Lady Torrent done to you?" he asked.

Cynthia Saxemundham told him of the invitation which was a threat.

"She has got a hold over you, then?"

"Yes, Henry."

"What sort of a hold?"

Cynthia Saxemundham trod very delicately, like a person on the edge of a quicksand.

"Do you remember that old lawyer, Sir Hugo Cope, who was such a good friend of mine when I was a child?"

Marchmont nodded.

"A wicked old devil," said he.

"But such a darling," replied Cynthia. "The day I was married, at the reception after the ceremony, he said to me, 'My dear, I have given you a handsome present, but I am now going to give you three pieces of advice which are much more valuable. First, if you have to go and stay at an hotel, take care you always stay under your own name. Second, never keep any letters. Third, if in spite of one and two you still get into trouble, come and see me at once!'"

For the first time since the confession had begun Henry Marchmont laughed.

"Well?"

"The third piece of advice, of course, I can't follow, because Sir Hugo's dead— and also," she added quickly, "because you are here. The first I certainly did— I mean I should have if— well, once I did— that time— in the Isle of Wight."

The statement, confusing though it sounds, was clear as crystal to the Colonel. He nodded grimly.

"The second piece of advice is where I went wrong," the Duchess resumed.

"You didn't follow it?"

"No," said the Duchess.

"You wrote some letters?"

"I kept some letters," the Duchess corrected.

"From Hairy-heels?"

Cynthia Saxemundham in her predicament did not think it worth while to challenge the name. She passed on.

"And a maid whom I dismissed took them. The maid's now in Lady Torrent's service."

Colonel Marchmont whistled.

"I see. Awkward, eh? Lady Torrent's going to turn the screw a bit, eh? It's not to be expected that she would do anything else. But what can I do about it, Cynthia?"

Cynthia Saxemundham looked at him with displeasure. She remembered that he never would wrap things up decently, and just do what he was wanted to do without asking what it was.

"You are going to amuse yourself at Emperor's Gate to-morrow, aren't you?...Well, then!"

Marchmont whistled again. Then he grinned with a cynical enjoyment, as he contemplated the wistful, slender angel in front of him.

"You want me to steal 'em, eh?"

Cynthia looked hurt.

"'Steal' isn't the right word to use. Lady Torrent stole them. I want you to recover them."

Colonel Marchmont's grin broadened. He was, after all, being offered a form of sport which would certainly have its difficulties and might have some thrills.

"I'll try. How many days have we got?"

"I am expected to dinner on Thursday week. Lady Torrent won't move before then."

"We have ten days, then. I'll examine the ground to-morrow night," said Colonel Marchmont. He shook hands with his hostess and amusement suddenly twinkled in his eyes. "Cynthia, what a fool you have made of me!" he cried.

He went out of the house, and Cynthia Saxemundham heard him laughing aloud to himself as he went down the steps. She in her turn began to giggle. After all, she was not so sure that she had lost so much by her confession as she had predicted to her secretary. On the whole she was inclined to like him better as her cynical partner in the chase after her vanishing reputation than as the blindfold adorer in front of the snow-white statue.

She found her secretary in the study.

"I think he'll do it, Muriel," she said gaily.

Muriel clasped her hands together in relief.

"What a thing it is to have a man like that on his knees to you," she exclaimed.

"He has got up off his knees," said the Duchess dryly.

COLONEL MARCHMONT found his quest so easy of accomplishment that he could not suppress an uneasy feeling that somewhere there must be a catch in it. He went to the big house in Emperor's Gate early, and excusing himself to the butler on the ground that he had misread the time on his card of invitation, was shown into a quite empty drawing-room. His hostess had not yet come down from her dressing. On the other hand, she had left some evidence of how she had been engaged before she had gone up.

For lying open upon a couch was a large and luxurious illustrated volume bound in vellum and gold.

Marchmont glanced at the open page and laughed. Lady Torrent was altogether too easy an antagonist. For the book was The Tales of Edgar Allan Poe, and the particular tale which lay open was that famous story of diplomacy and the police, "The Purloined Letter." Colonel Marchmont knew it almost by heart: how the Minister D got the whip hand of a Royal Personage by stealing a letter, and how he concealed it successfully against the minutest investigations of the police by placing it in an obvious position under their very noses. These details flashed at once into his mind. The conclusion from these premises was as obvious to Marchmont as the hiding-place of the Purloined Letter had been to Poe's anlytical investigator. Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin.

"Lady Torrent has taken a leaf out of this book," he said to himself, "and the love-letters of Hairy-heels are not hidden in some locked cabinet or secret drawer where a clever burglar might find them, but in some commonplace receptacle in a public place where no one would for an instant think of looking for them— the dining-room, for instance, or here."

He began to move about the room, not touching anything, but taking note of everything. Hunting expeditions in thick jungles had not merely sharpened his vision, but given to it accuracy. His survey, therefore, was as complete as it was rapid.

There were between twenty and thirty of the incriminating letters. Clearly the ordinary little toys and porcelain boxes of a drawing-room would not contain them. There remained two other objects— a handsome onyx cigarette-box on a side-table by the fireplace, and another, a cheap affair of painted wood, fashioned in the shape of a tiny travelling-trunk and fastened with a trumpery lock. It needed just the inscription "A Present from Switzerland" to complete it.

"Now, what in the world is a thing like that doing here?" he asked.

It stood in the centre of a round rosewood table which was pushed into a corner of the room, and about it were arranged a miniature, a tortoiseshell paper-knife set in gold, some silver ashtrays, a second cigarette-box, this time of silver, and one or two small pieces of Battersea enamel. Marchmont took a seat on the opposite side of the room.

"She has followed the example of Monsieur D— too faithfully," he reasoned. "That wooden box is too commonplace, too inconsiderable. She has given her self away by it. If the letters are in this room at all, they are there."

He was confirmed in his belief a moment afterwards when Lady Torrent on entering the room saw the book, and made a perceptible movement of annoyance. She closed it and put it away whilst Marchmont once more made his excuses, and her eyes glanced guiltily towards the Swiss wooden box and back again to his face.

"The great thing is that you are here," she said, "and I hope that you are not going to run away after dinner; for a good many amusing people are coming in, and the garden will be lit up."

Marchmont once more felt that the gods were smiling upon his adventure; for this room at odd moments in the evening would certainly be empty, and a throng of guests would make it difficult for his hostess afterwards to select the criminal.

He had no further conversation with her until after dinner, when she sat down beside him and, with the dreadful habit which ruled her out of the company of great ladies, asked him eagerly what he had been doing, and, whilst he answered, gave her attention to the movements of her other guests.

"It must have been charming," she said as he told of an encounter with a crocodile.

"It was indeed," said he, and she rose abruptly and crossed the room; for two young people were standing by the rosewood table and bending over the miniature by the side of the Swiss box.

In a few minutes the lanterns began to glow in the garden, and the increasing throng began to seek the coolness of the summer night.

It was just a London garden— a square of lawn, a stone-paved path, a few lilac bushes and shrubs, and a border of flowers; but the lanterns were so arranged that a pleasant sense of great space was given, and the dingy walls which surrounded it were lost in shadows. Marchmont followed with the rest of the company, and noticed with satisfaction that from the house-door to the stone pavement four steps led down. The windows of the drawing-room were then well above the level of the garden, and Marchmont made sure that only from the far side of the lawn could the interior of the room be seen. He was safe, then, for Lady Torrent was busily engaged at the very bottom of the steps in receiving the fresh groups of people who had come on from theatres and dinners.

Marchmont slipped back into the house at a moment when Lady Torrent was surrounded.

The drawing-room was empty. In a second the wooden box was under his coat and he in the passage. His heart was beating now quickly enough to satisfy his thirst for adventure. He felt a mad desire to thrust his way out of the house just as he stood. But he must control himself to nonchalance; he must fetch his overcoat and his hat without haste. He must stand in front of the little counter, hiding the box beneath his arm, and wait his turn whilst other guests who were coming had their coats folded and packed away. It seemed a century before his were found and handed to him.

He sauntered upstairs again with his coat over his arm and was approached by the butler. But the butler only said:

"Shall I get you a taxi, sir?"

"I'll pick one up," Marchmont replied, and hoped that the man had not noticed his gasp of relief.

Twenty yards from the front door, he stopped a passing cab and gave the Duchess's address.

"That's that," said he as he tucked the box away in the folds of his topcoat; and ten minutes later he produced it in the Duchess's study.

"I think they're in that box," he said.

Cynthia Saxemundham seized upon it.

"It's locked," she said, and she shook the box. "There's something inside. We must break it open."

"No," said Marchmont. "Any little key will open it; and if it's not broken, we can return it through the post."

A bunch of little keys was found in a drawer of the bureau. With eager fingers Cynthia Saxemundham tried them.

"Oh, I'll never be such a fool again," she said, and as she tried the third key the lock yielded, the lid flew open.

Cynthia uttered a little cry of delight. A sheaf of letters tied up in a carefully sealed ribbon met her gaze.

"Yes, they are here, untampered with," she cried, and she turned the box upside down and shook them out on to the table.

But she shook something else out too, something which rattled, and both of them stared at it, shocked out of all their glee. Under the letters at the bottom of the box had lain a string of pearls. It was now on the top of them on the table, milkily gleaming— dangerous to both of them as some white adder.

Cynthia for the moment understood only the embarrassment of finding the pearls there.

"They are valuable— they must be returned, of course," she said; but she looked up and saw Marchmont staring at her with a look of consternation in his eyes.

"It's a trap, you see, Cynthia," he said, "and I have walked straight into it."

"A trap?"

"Yes. I found it so ridiculously easy to locate your letters. I was meant to find it easy. Lady Torrent knows I am your friend. She expected me to come early. The open volume of Poe, her annoyance when she found it open, her quick glances towards the box, her anxiety lest anyone should touch it— they were all meant for me, all meant to persuade me to do just what I did, slip the box under my coat and bolt with it. I am a real thief now, you see. I have stolen her necklace. I can be arrested, tried, imprisoned."

"No!" cried Cynthia, "I have only to come forward and explain— "

"Exactly— that's what she's after; that you should explain in the witness-box before a crowded court that you had sent me to recover the letters which had passed between you and your lover. She's out for blood, Cynthia. She doesn't want you in her house on Thursday week. She wants you smashed for good and all."

Cynthia Saxemundham threw up her hands in the air.

"The impudence of the woman!" she cried scornfully.

"Yes, that won't help us," returned Marchmont.

Cynthia's thoughts took another direction.

"She daren't risk it! She would have to admit that she was blackmailing me to come and dine with her."

Colonel Marchmont shook his head gloomily.

"Would that stop her?" he asked. "There are lots of women who, once they see red, wouldn't mind coming an almighty crash if they could bring their enemy down with them."

"Enemy!" Cynthia exclaimed. It was doing altogether too much honour to Lady Torrent to allow that she could consider the Duchess of Saxemundham as her enemy. She fingered the gleaming necklace. "Couldn't you go back now and quietly return it?"

"She has laid her plans so thoroughly, that she must have foreseen that I might try to do that," Marchmont answered. "I am willing to bet that there's a policeman already waiting outside the house. I should never be allowed to enter the house. I should be arrested in the street with the damned thing in my pocket."

"Anyway, Henry," said the Duchess stubbornly, "I am not going to let you go to prison on my account."

"And I'm not going to let you go into the witness-box," he returned. "So there we are!"

There they were indeed. They sat in a miserable silence, each one casting about vainly for an escape from their predicament, when they heard a car stop at the door, and a latchkey turn in the lock.

"Muriel!" said Cynthia Saxemundham. "There's no reason why she should see these things."

She threw the letters into the grate and set fire to them.

"Muriel," said Marchmont in quite a different note. He went to the door of the room and opened it.

Muriel Chalmers, in an evening gown, was already half-way up the stairs. She turned and asked:

"Do you want me?"

"Badly," said the Colonel.

Muriel Chalmers ran down again eagerly. She was to be allowed to help after all.

"What can I do?" she asked.

The letters were blazing and curling up and turning black, while the Duchess on her knees beat them into tattered fragments with the poker. The necklace and the wooden box still stood upon the table.

"Let's consider," said Marchmont.

The three of them sat about the table.

"Do you know Lady Torrent?" he asked of Muriel.

"No."

"But you have written to her?"

"I have answered invitations."

"In your own name?"

"No."

Here the Duchess interrupted. She saw the way out too, and her face was alight.

"Muriel can take a false name."

"No," Marchmont expostulated. "This time we'll remember Sir Hugo's advice. Let her go in her own!" He turned again to Muriel Chalmers. "Do you know really well any of these people?" and he recited the names of the guests at Lady Torrent's party.

In a moment or two Muriel stopped him.

"Yes, Mrs. Daventry. She's a friend of mine."

"Good!"

Marchmont looked at the clock. The hands pointed to midnight. The party at Emperor's Gate would be in full swing. Muriel was to take the box and the necklace and drive to the house. She would be shown upstairs to leave her cloak. She was to tuck the box and the necklace away somewhere— anywhere— in the room into which she was shown. She was to come down again. She was to give her real name to the butler, who would lead her into the garden. If Lady Torrent was still at her post she was to say boldly that Mrs. Daventry had asked her to join her there. If Lady Torrent wasn't still on duty, then Muriel must find Mrs. Daventry for herself, and persuade her to say that she had asked Muriel to join her.

"Will she do that, without asking you questions?" Marchmont asked.

"Certainly."

"Otherwise I'll give you a note to her. For I know her very well myself," said the Duchess, beginning to rise from her chair.

But once more Henry Marchmont interposed.

"No, for heaven's sake! No letters! Let's stick to Sir Hugo. The only real danger is that Muriel may be presented to Lady Torrent when she is actually talking to Mrs. Daventry. But we must leave it to her to make the best of it."

That catastrophe, however, did not occur. Muriel drove off to Emperor's Gate in a taxi. She was shown upstairs to an empty room heaped with cloaks. She found a knee-hole writing-table in a bay-window, and into the bottom drawer on the left-hand side she thrust the box with the necklace. Coming downstairs, she gave her name to the butler and followed him into the garden. The butler looked round the dim garden, with its groups of people mingling and changing like a kaleidoscope.

"Her ladyship is, I think, in the supper-room," he said.

"I'll find her, then, sooner or later," said Muriel lightly, and she sped across the lawn. For she had seen Mrs. Daventry shaking hands with a man as though she was bidding him farewell.

"You asked me to join you here," said Muriel, with determination.

"I did, no doubt," answered Mrs. Daventry, who was not easily surprised; "but I am going away now."

"That is all to the good," said Muriel; and five minutes later she had left the house in Mrs. Daventry's motor-car.

Thus the restitution was made, and not a soul in Lady Torrent's establishment was ever aware that the Duchess of Saxemundham's secretary had been present that night as an uninvited guest.

But Lieut.-Colonel Henry Marchmont, with a tail of decorations at the end of his name, was arrested the next morning for the theft of a valuable pearl necklace.

HE WAS BROUGHT before the Chief Magistrate at Bow Street. Lady Torrent had the most convincing story to tell.

"I wore my pearls in the afternoon," she said, "and whilst I was having tea the clasp got loose and the pearls dropped from my neck on to the floor, I picked them up and placed them in a little wooden box on the table, which I locked. I meant to take the box upstairs when I went up to dress, but some friends came in and made me late. I ran upstairs in a hurry, forgetting about the box. When I descended, Colonel Marchmont was in the room. I told him of my misadventure whilst we were waiting for the other guests. Later on, when we were all in the garden, he was seen by two of my servants to enter the drawing-room. One of them watched him through the crack of the door and saw him with the box under his coat. He left the house immediately afterwards."

Lady Torrent had her witnesses at hand, the friends who had kept her late in the afternoon and the two servants. Colonel Marchmont, on the other hand, disappointed his friends. He contented himself with reserving his defence. He was accordingly committed for trial at the next Old Bailey Sessions, which were to take place in a week, and admitted to bail.

During that week, of course, the scandal was immense and pleasurable. A season otherwise unremarkable received a tremendous fillip. The applications for seats at the trial made to Judges, High Sheriffs, Under-Sheriffs, Barristers and Cabinet Ministers, exceeded the applications made to the management at Covent Garden when Madame Jeritza was to sing.

Meanwhile Lady Torrent sat in her house in Emperor's Gate, dramatising the wonderful moments when the Duchess of Saxemundham would take her stand in the witness-box and admit in low and broken tones that she had sent Colonel Marchmont to recover the compromising letters of her lover. For the hundredth time she reviewed her own position. She would be recalled to the witness-box.

"Letters? Certainly the Duchess's love-letters were in the box too. I didn't mention them, for the Duchess's sake. How did I come to have them? I took them from a maid who had left the Duchess's service and clearly meant to use them for blackmail. I expected the Duchess to dine with me on Thursday week, and I kept them locked in the box in order to return them to her with my own hand. Of course, if the love-letters were what Colonel Marchmont was after, let him return my necklace and I shall be happy to withdraw the charge against him."

Her attitude would be incontestably magnanimous; and she would be repaid— how she would be repaid!— for twenty years of trying to become the real thing and not quite becoming it, for all her rebuffs, those witticisms at her expense, the little slaps in the face which she was going to return with one resounding smack which would bowl the beautiful idol of the day altogether off her pedestal and dismiss her to the obscurity of her island in the Hebrides.

Thus rejoicing, on the third day before the trial, Lady Torrent opened by chance the lowest drawer in the left-hand side of her knee-hole writing table; and sat like one turned into stone, and felt as cold as stone.

"Of course, I have been thinking of it too much," she whispered to herself. "I see that box everywhere."

But she could not convince herself by that argument. She dived for the box. It was real. It was locked. She shook it. Something rattled inside of it. She fetched the key and unlocked it. Her pearl necklace gleamed at her, but the letters were gone. She had been outwitted after all.

There was really only one course for Lady Torrent to take, to call for her motor-car, drive to her solicitor, and withdraw the charge of theft in terms as little humiliating as possible. But she could not do it. The triumph so earnestly prayed for— yes, she had dared to pray for it on her knees— must not be lost.

She consulted no one. She looked at her clock. It was three o'clock. She burnt the box, wrapped up the necklace, slipped on a cloche hat which came well down over her eyes, flung some furs about her shoulders, took a cab from the corner of the street to Victoria Station, travelled by the first available train to Brighton, pawned the necklace at a small jeweller's in the King's Road, and was back again at Emperor's Gate in time to sit down to dinner with her husband.

"Three more days, my dear," he said, looking at her tired face, "and this trial will be over, and we can get away to Switzerland for a holiday and a rest!"

"Yes, that will be pleasant," she said. She added, with a timid glance: "Do you know, I think I can guess what Colonel Marchmont's defence will be. He will say that the necklace is mislaid somewhere in the house."

Sir William Torrent leaned back in his chair and blew out his lips, a sign with him of serious reflection.

"I hadn't thought of that. We ought to have the house searched in the presence of witnesses; for that would be a suggestion, of course, that you had stolen it yourself to pay some secret debt," he said, and he saw her face turn as white as the table-cloth.

A gasp of relief broke from her. She was thinking, "What a stroke of luck that I found the necklace to-day."

While the knowledge of the shipwreck she had escaped was still overwhelmingly new to her, there came a knocking upon the door. A most polite inspector of police had come to make sure that the necklace had been nowhere mislaid.

"The positions in the world of yourself and Colonel Marchmont make this, of course, a most serious case, my lady," he explained. "It is the intention of the Crown to take over the prosecution."

The inspector's statement troubled and even frightened Lady Torrent. This was a private feud between herself and the Duchess of Saxemundham. She had not calculated that since she had chosen to fight it out in the public courts, with a charge of theft against a third person as her weapon, the Crown would inevitably interfere.

Even when the inspector had departed satisfied that the necklace was not in the house, she was not altogether at her ease. She almost confided the truth to her husband. She began, and hesitated, and refrained; and this probably was the most fatal of all her mistakes in the affair.

For he was proud of the necklace. He had bought the pearls one by one, he had selected the design of the clasp, and when he went into the witness-box he was able to give so complete a description of it that any attempt to dispose of it undetected was quite out of possibility.

The little jeweller in the King's Road read the description in his evening paper at Brighton. Now, he amongst jewellers was as Lady Torrent among Duchesses of Saxemundham. He too wanted prestige and recognition and the very best customers at his establishment; and here was his opportunity.

The next morning he tucked the necklace into his pocket, travelled up to London, and sent his name and the nature of his evidence in to the counsel for the defence.

TOBY MANISTER gave a glowing account of the sensation in court when, standing in the witness-box, he identified Lady Torrent as the woman who had pawned the necklace; of the modest demeanour of Colonel Marchmont; and of the collapse of Lady Torrent.

"But from what I could gather," he added, "the Torrents are really much happier in their villa near Dieppe than they ever were while they were climbing. And as for the Duchess of Saxemundham, though she had lost the adoration of her Colonel, she received her compensations too; for the pair of them remained on the most affectionate terms for many years, and were often to be seen dining together at Claridge's. Thus, as you will see, everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds."

___________

16: The Man Called Smith

Thornton Lonsdale

fl 1928-30

Sunday Times (Perth) 21 May 1933

Probably a pseudonym or house name. Thornton-in-Lonsdale is a village in North Yorkshire. This author's stories appeared originally only in "20 Stories Magazine."

THE man called Smith sat tense. Beneath his disguising beard there came a gnawing throb. At moments of agitation the wound athwart his chin ached distressingly. A strange' crescent shaped pucker, that wound, the heritage of a bursting shell at Ypres.

Norman Hauptmann's smile was yellow-toothed. Merciless. His eyes, cold, dispassionate. Eyes whose pale placidity were of unwinking quality bespeaking but ashes where once may have burned human fires. If ever such fires had known the kindling.

The man who faced the money-lender in his shabby office drummed nervous fingers upon the arm of his chair. Such fires had never burned, he was convinced. The usurer— and worse— was a ghoul surely un-paralleled in the spectre ranks whose spoils were the souls of men and women; their debasement his jubilation. And the haunting of the spectre vulture-like in his cold ferocity of purpose as his helpless victims supplicated impotently in his remorseless grip.

The man called Smith shifted in his chair. His throat contracted painfully.

"Norman Hauptmann" spelled dingy, black lettering upon the yellowed panel of his door, "Financier." For "Financier" lends dignity unknown to the hyphenated token of the Shylock, even though the pound of flesh knows no less the toll of blood. But what are words? The man who had pleaded in utter desperation searched the fleshy face for any sign of relenting. But there was no relenting in that face. The mouth was a fortress.

"Time presses," said Hauptmann, silkily. "I am expecting another client at any moment, my dear—"

"Not my name, please!" Haggard eyes held the usurer with a sudden return of courage.

"As you will." The smooth, white hands of the money-lender rose delicately with his shoulders. Only his lips smiled. "We will observe our compact and call you Mr. Smith! After all you have till midday to-morrow to find the money. I emphasise, however, that you furnish two hundred pounds by noon to-morrow or the fat will be in the fire!"

"You filthy blackmailer!"

The thick lips pursed, reproachfully. The plump hands rose again in a suave gesture expressing diffidence.

"My dear— er, Mr. Smith! A harsh term. I am a business man. I have knowledge to sell. There is but one buyer— yourself! Usually, my dear friend, when a thing is unsaleable, it is a thousand pities to treat it as refuse. If one cannot sell then one accepts the inevitable, and generously makes a present of what can no longer be transacted at a profit. You buy knowledge—"

"Buy it!" The other man laughed, bitterly. "I have gone on buying your silence for seven years. I shall go on buying it to the end, if you have your way. But I cannot pay you any more. I'm through. I can't raise fifty, much less two hundred of the blood-money you demand. I cannot, I tell you."

Hauptmann lit a cigar, and smiled through blue smoke as he leaned back In his chair.

"They always talk like that," he mused. "Always they cannot find the money! But, always they do— for they learn that I never use idle threats, my friend. You shall bring the purchase price of my knowledge to-morrow."

"You will ruin me. My wife—"

"If you do not wish to exercise your option of purchase," said Hauptmann, smoothly, then your wife and your superiors shall learn of that little affair abroad in which you figured eight years ago. There is no drawing back from my decision!"

A buzzer sounded on the desk.

"My wife is very delicate," said Smith, thickly. "It will kill her."

"And the disgrace will brand you," agreed Hauptmann, dispassionately. He rose. "I must ask you to excuse me now. The expected client has arrived. I repeat, there is no drawing back from my decision. After all, my dear fellow— what is two hundred pounds against your honor— and a wife you love."

The man called Smith got to his feet, unsteadily. He swayed a little as he stood.

"I cannot," he said, brokenly. "I simply cannot pay any more. Possibly if you granted me time—"

Hauptmann bowed and glanced at his watch.

"You are a rising man in your profession," he said, a little lifting at his mouth-corner. "There is, of course, an element of humor in the situation. Only you and I realize it at the moment. Time— yes. I will give you till twelve o'clock to-morrow. You will not fail."

A narrow-browed youth opened the door and stood, owl-like, staring straight to his front through enormous spectacles. His appearance definitely closed the interview.

The man Smith sank his bearded chin more deeply within the protecting shelter of his coat collar. He passed out without a word. In the outer office, seated forlornly in a corner, he glimpsed a pallid-faced man who was evidently awaiting audience with the human spider in the next room. Even in this own turmoil of mind, the man called Smith knew his sympathy to go forth to the wretch whose sunken cheeks and haggard eyes bore a testimony so eloquent to the mental sap the coming interview involved.

The eyes met Smith's for a fleeting moment. Strange, hunted eyes. Vaguely they impressed Smith as being in some way not unfamiliar. But in the two succeeding hours that the man called Smith spent upon the Thames Embankment the memory of the other man receded, swallowed in the welter of his own misery.

For seven long years Hauptmann had levied his price. A toll always but to renew the silken thread holding off the sword of exposure. A sword that would fall chiefly upon an invalid wife from whom he had kept that mad escapade and striven to thrust it permanently into the limbo where lie the skeletons of the foolish and reckless past. A foolish, boyish mistake. But the consequences, should the past be raked, would spell disgrace. The world judges harshly and is slow in extenuation.

The man called Smith rose to his feet. He felt he could no longer bear to sit in contemplation of the inexorable flow of the river, silently flowing with thoughts equally turgid and unrestrainable. "It will kill Sybil," he muttered. With face working he saw, too, the utter ruin of his career. But that was secondary. It was Sybil's face that rose always. He saw the pain in it. The disillusionment. How could he make her understand? His wife, delicate, fragile, without knowledge of the witless and unthinking follies of the war-crazed manhood of other years.

The man called Smith left the Embankment. By midday to-morrow— two hundred pounds. Impossible! He knew it to be impossible. Recently, he had raised such sums. But no longer was he able to find reasons or even methods for tapping resources.

Without knowing it, the man called Smith directed his footsteps once again to the squalid neighborhood in which Hauptmann's office was situated. He stood at the opposite side of the street, and stared with dull eyes at the lighted oblong of yellow that was Hauptmann's window on the second floor. The window was set in a quaint angle of the building so that it faced up-street. The man called Smith stood, heedless of the biting wind that soughed along the squalid street from the Thames. His shoulders drooped.

Suddenly a figure emerged from the street level entrance to the shabby suite of offices opposite. Smith started. By the feeble rays of a street lamp he recognised the pallid face of the man who had waited upon Hauptmann's pleasure. Who had been sitting, hunched, desperate-eyed in the outer office even as his own interview with the money-lender had closed.

The man left the office entrance and went rapidly up the street. Smith hesitated momentarily. Then, following an impulse, he sauntered along in the other's wake, keeping well out of sight and to his own side of the street

His quarry turned a corner. With no impulse save that of unnamed comradeship to a fellow equally in the toils of a common enemy, the man called Smith quickened his footsteps. But the man he had followed had disappeared. The warehouses loomed  at either side. Bleak, desolate; in some cases utterly deserted. Dispassionate sentinels of a nocturnal No Man's Land in real truth. Smith shivered a little. His head throbbed violently under the stress of a mental strain that was becoming more unbearable.

To-morrow. At midday. And there was no way out.

Smith stood for many minutes in state bordering on coma. Why had he come here? Ah, yes— the man he had followed. The man with the strange hunted eyes that stirred some vague memory. Half carelessly he wondered where the fellow had gone to. Perhaps some haunt in the neighborhood. Easy to lose a man here, so dark, so dismal. A world of black warehouses unpeopled by any but rats that knew their nightly playgrounds.

Smith started suddenly. A faint cry had reached his ears. A cry that was succeeded immediately by a dreadful thud. Silence followed, silence broken only by the heedless wail of a distant tug towing indifferently its string of prosaic barges down the sullen swell of the Thames.

The man called Smith finally found him. A huddled, broken figure lying amid derelict and rusting oil-drums at the back of a warehouse some thirty paces away. By the light of hasty matches he beheld the livid face of the man who but recently had followed in his turn to seek audience of Hauptmann, the usurer and blackmailer.

Even in the light of the matches the hunted eyes struck afresh upon Smith's memory.

"Don't touch me," whispered the other, as Smith bent over him. "I'm— through. Finished. Back broken. I know. I know. Few minutes at most— fell just as I got within reach of the second window."

Smith turned to stare up.

"If only I had. If only I had— got in." The voice was but a thin whisper. "That pipe— I climbed up—"

"Why?" asked Smith, mechanically. "You were in there before I came into Hauptmann's. The blood-sucker! The human leech! Blackmailer, traitor! He swore to give me up. I could pay no more. No more." The whisper held a sob. "I have paid all I had. He swore to send me back. I can't go back and face it—Better it had been the gallows."

"Cropper!" ejaculated the man called Smith.

The other was wandering a little, his voice was very feeble. He accepted his identification without any question, nor did it appear to strike him as anything unusual.

"Cropper. That's me. They reprieved me. Life sentence... instead I escaped twelve years ago. He knew. He knew— Hauptmann! Damn his black heart! He knew, and I have paid him ever since for his knowledge to be kept secret. He has letters identifying me. He got them— how? I dunno. What matter? He has them. To-morrow he will give them up. I have neither kith nor kin, but I couldn't face that living death again. That was why I tried to get in at that window. But it doesn't matter now. Another few minutes and I'll be out of—out of—"

His voice trailed away weakly.

"Murderer," he whispered a moment later. "They called me murderer. But what of him? What of Hauptmann? How many human souls has he murdered? Yet the law cannot touch him. Too clever. Too clever. Never murders with his hands and marks men's bodies in evidence. He murders men's brains, and he is allowed to live. He is allowed to live to murder at will. To go on murdering!"

The man called Smith bent on his knee and bit his working lips. Sybil.  Allowed to live and so on murdering. Cropper had said.

But Cropper was speaking again. They were his last words.

"Two laws," he croaked slowly "The Law which is of machinery and ponderous, and the Law of Man, which is even more inexorable— and will function where the first won't—or can't—"

He breathed painfully.

"I'm going," he muttered almost inaudibly. "But I'd be happier if I could have put that bullet in Hauptmann's brain first—"

A FEW MINUTES later the man called Smith rose to his feet The man Cropper was dead beyond all hope. Indeed from the first there had been no hope. He bad fallen from the second storey and landed among the steel drums littering the warehouse yard. He lay among them now, huddled— but in peace.

Smith examined something that had been strung inside Cropper's coat apparently to leave his hands free for the climb up the slender pipe running up the blank wall at the back of the warehouse.

Curiously, shielding the names. Smith examined the find with the aid of his matches.

A small rifle with an attachment to the stock. A peculiar attachment. The man called Smith narrowed his eyes in thought. He was thinking of the second window up above. His mental vision told him that the second floor of this warehouse faced down the street in which was situated Hauptmann's office, and that Hauptmann's office, set at an angle, directly faced down the street and directly opposite to this warehouse, about 200 yards distant. And Hauptmann's window, being also on the second floor, would be directly in line from the second floor above...

The man called Smith stood in thought. The attachment on the vicious-looking little rifle was quite familiar to him. Telescopic sights! Similar to those used by snipers daring the war time. Sights which brought the object aimed at almost to the end of the barrel. It was not easy to miss, using such sights! Further, the weapon was equipped with a very effective silencer.

Smith left the yard. He dissolved into space to reappear with a length of stout rope. A coil of many such to be found about the yards. The rope was in good condition. Smith stowed it about his body and slung the rifle so that it hung over his broad shoulders and in no way impeded his progress.

His hands gripped the slender pipe firmly. His feet found a purchase. The man called Smith started his upward climb, his athletic frame mounting steadily in the darkness.

With a muttered prayer of thankfulness he gained a narrow sui The second floor. The cobwebbed and filthy glass was long shattered, and in two panes totally absent. Smith gained the inside of the warehouse, dropped lightly to his feet and stood for many moments to get his eyes acclimatised to the gloom. Deliberately he leaned out and forced the pipe away from its mooring close to the sill. A faint glimmer opposite bespoke other windows. He gained one of them and stared with hard eyes at a cameo 200 yards up the narrow street.

A tiny oblong of yellow. A window. Seated, en profile at the window was a man at a desk. Head and shoulders were readily discernible even at this distance. The man called Smith gritted his teeth as the fleshy face and cold pale eyes of the money-lender enlarged upon his vision.

"The Law of Man," he said, softly. "Yes— you were right, Cropper! Perhaps, in the eyes of the greatest Judge, the Law of Man counts."

With his cheek slung against the weapon, its butt tightly into his shoulder, the man called Smith stared steady-eyed through the telescopic sights. Hauptmann's head grew miraculously. It seemed to have sprung almost to within touch of the barrel. Smith could envisage the man turning unexpectedly and starting back in surprise at a rifle-muzzle almost under his nose. He chuckled mirthlessly as his imagination conjured those pale eyes with expression lighting them for once. The expression of deadly fear.

Smith knew many thoughts as his finger nestled smoothly and surely about the trigger. The many visits he had been forced to make to that very office in which the prey now sat. Prey? No, not prey— the murderer in the eyes of the man, who awaited execution.

Many, visits there had been " Always he had gone with face altered out of all recognition to those who knew him professionally. For the man called Smith blessed his own undoubted skill in the art of disguising himself. It had stood him in good stead in hiding his real identity from any who might have seen or learned of the visits to the notorious Hauptmann. He released his hold on the rifle now to finger the thick beard which disguised the lower structure of his face. Beneath that beard was a crescent-shaped pucker which once seen would always identify him. The heritage of a bursting shell on the ramparts of Ypres back in the early days of the war. A crescent wound that was now a puckered seam. The beard had been an essential.

Smith stroked the false beard then glanced again along the sights of his rifle. Before taking definite aim again, he thought quickly— the poor fellow down below was directly beneath the back window. And the rope— that was loosely looped over a floor projection, and dangled down to the yard below. The pipe now carefully broken close beneath the window.

And Hauptmann held no letters of any description from himself, no evidence to suggest a motive! Hauptmann held only knowledge: and unwritten knowledge dies with the flesh.

The man called Smith smiled a little sadly.

"For both of us, Cropper," he murmured. "And all the others. The Law of Man. And the execution in the eyes of the greatest Court."

The man called Smith levelled the rifle with steady hands, resting it upon the sill. The sights took line immovably. The cold features, fleshy, of the vulture two hundred yards away were transformed, a tableau target of gigantic proportions hung upon the night

The rifle whispered a savage imprecation as though vicious at the picture it beheld.

The fleshy face took upon itself an expression of strange surprise. As the gross features dropped forward suddenly upon the expanse of the desk, the man called Smith darted from his sniper's post with urgent haste. In a flash he had gained the window over-looking the yard. Deliberately he leaned out and let the rifle drop.

Working swiftly with keen perception, his hands and feet functioning under a controlling brain that seemed packed in ice, he was over the sill and letting himself quickly down the rope.

He reached the yard again in a matter of moments, paused, and heard running feet in the distance. Standing with feet apart, he sent the rope quivering and curling in snaking undulations that would suffice to bring the looped, end up over the projection around which it lay. After several patient attempts, the rope came festooning down. The man called Smith coolly surveyed the broken rifle lying close to the quiet form of Cropper. The broken pipe up above, silhouetted against the sky and beneath the fateful window seemed irrefutable evidence and a link in the chain of tragic drama that was tableau-like.

The man called Smith looked down at the silent form of Cropper. He bared his head a space and then replaced his hat The darkness swallowed him. A coil of rope rejoined its fellows in a farther yard.

THREE HOURS LATER a telephone-bell whirred a sharp summons. The police doctor crossed his hall from the cosy fire in his study and took up the instrument

"That you. Mr. Masterson?" It was Inspector Grant's voice. Doctor Masterson closed his eyes and re-opened them slowly.

"You don't want me at this hour, Jimmie Grant!"

"I do, Mr. Masterson! Murder case. Money-lender shot. I just want you to come and examine the body of the murderer."

"The murderer?"

"Yes. Clear case. Nothing involved. Hauptmann shot— and the murderer fell, after using a rifle, from a warehouse window. Wall piping broke under his weight. Just come along and make the necessary report on the body."

Police Doctor Masterson listened to directions, placed the receiver back and sighed, softly.

He stared at the fire in the next room. Within its glowing heat was a charred mass that had once been a beard.

The doctor donned his coat. Gently he stroked his chin. An absent gesture which caressed a scar athwart his jaw. A peculiar crescent-shaped wound that was the heritage of a bursting shell on the ramparts of Ypres.

______________

17: The Third Chair

Edward Dyson

Punch (Melbourne), 27 Dec 1917, 3 Jan 1918

MY DEATH was wholly unforseen. It was the result of miscalculation. The man I intended to kill, killed me. I was so intent on killing him that I did not notice he had killed me.

Possibly all people who die are as surprised and incredulous as I was on finding, myself dead and translated into the Ever Ever. Perhaps those sensations are peculiar to certain people who die sudden and unexpected deaths.

I was eventually conscious of great change; yet disbelieved, resisted, refusing to admit that I was finally and forever cut off from my kind. This talk will appear preposterous to people who have never been dead. I can say with authority that quite a number of men and women in every large community have been temporarily dead, and have inhabited the Ever. Ever at one time or another, in some cases have a full realisation of the fact.

There was the case of Steven McEvoy, the well-known Irish poet of Australian birth. For seven years Steven insisted that he had on one occasion been absolutely drowned. He had been immersed some time; he had experienced all the pangs of dissolution, during which process his sins had been made manifest to him in a sort of five-reel phantasmagoria. He had come to some understanding with his Maker. His spirit had forsaken the flesh. Only when the rules of expeditious resuscitation had been vigorously operated for three and a half hours did he show symptoms of returning vitality. Meanwhile he had been in the Ever Ever.

Steven McEvoy, no doubt, entered into a transitionary state reserved for emotional poets. I have felt myself close against such a state and such elements; but in the Ever Ever we are divided by modes of thought, not by distances. I am no poet. I was a school teacher, a creature of routine. It is very likely I have ten thousand years to go before attaining that stage to which Steven stepped straight from his mortal shape. He had a fine, kaleidoscopic mind, but was an unqualified rascal. The longer I am dead the more surprised I am at the disproportionate value people put upon mere morals.

On the second evening after my death I found myself entering by the front door of the small shingle house at Clayball at precisely half-past six. During the last five or six months of my life I had gone daily from my living room at the school to this two-roomed shingle hut across the creek to take dinner. I had no longer any need of dinner, but I was still in a large sense a creature of my mortal habits.

When I entered the ugly man and his young wife were already seated. Tommy's head was bent, as if intent on his plate, but through his thick, dark eyebrows, like goblins in ambush, his burning eyes were fixed on Evelina's face. She was looking out of the window towards the path from the schoolroom. Was she expecting me? She was pale and worn, as if with nights of weeping. Her clenched hand on the table had drawn the white cloth into its grip. The atmosphere of a recent horror was over the pair.

It irritated me that I was not noticed. Roughly I clutched at my chair, still by the wall. My hand failed to grasp it. I stood in consternation. Once again I tried. My hand fell upon the back like vapour. I was powerless to lift it. Sudden anger welled in me.

Here was further evidence of my immaterial state. I could have danced with rage, but such conduct must appear very unbecoming in a well, a dematerialised being. I controlled myself, and in cooler moments consciousness of my power came to me. I could not lift the chair; but I commanded a force that might as easily have toppled the house over. The force was not magnetic, it was not the power of the vacuum, but I can bring it no nearer the human understanding than by comparing it with these.

I drew the chair noiselessly from the wall, and set it in my accustomed place at the table. I seated myself in it. There was no revengeful motive in this; I was merely doing a customary action, prompted by a desire to be what I had been to appear the thing I formerly was.

There was cold salt beef on the table. I drew a plate across the cloth, and was reaching for a knife, when I became conscious of the man's thought. He was staring fixedly at the plate, with the agony of a peasant nature in the pre-sence of the inexplicable. He had seen the plate move without beholding the agency that moved it, and immediately supernatural terror pos-sessed what trifling intellect was his.

Wantonly I drew the bread, I broke it, I raised a piece to my mouth. Tommy's attitude was feline; he suggested a crouching leopard, but an agony of unreasoning fear was substituted for brute ferocity. His eyes went to the chair.

"The chair!" he said. He spoke, out of a dry mouth. He arose, approached the chair, and passed a stretched, quavering hand over the seat, covering his face with his left arm.

Tommy fell back into his seat. The hand he pointed across throbbed on the table, making an audible knocking. "The chair!" he said, fiercely. "The chair! The ch—" Power of articulating left him. He sprawled upon the coarse cloth, his writhing face livid.

"I didn't !" The voice was Evelina's. "It was against the wall. I didn't move it. You did it yourself. You must have. You did! You did!" She screamed at him, beating the hand in her plate, seeking to convince herself.

The man littered a gurgling sound, and worked his chair back into a corner, his arm's covering his face, his body cowering as if from expected blows.

Suddenly the situation struck me as extremely ludicrous. I faced the poor breeder of turkeys. I laughed immoderately till it struck me that an invisible man laughing noiselessly was a crass absurdity itself.

Then I realised. This was the man who killed me. It had seemed of so trifling consequence I had not taken it into account. He it was who beat me to death with a stick among the rocks on the west slope of Little Mt. Long.

The fool thought I was haunting him!

In a spirit of mischievousness almost childish I drew a cup and saucer slowly, silently across the cloth.

Evelina screamed. With a yell Tommy sprang to his feet. "The lamp!" he cried. "The lamp ! Quick, for Good's sake; light the lamp !"

He threw the door wide open, he snatched a long-handled, bush broom from the wall, and began a vigorous sweeping of the room. He whirled his broom in a sort of frenzy, making a "shooing" as he did when urging his turkeys. He swept the air and the ceiling. The frantic simpleton was seeking to sweep out the ghost of his victim. He passed through me several times in mad pursuit of the invisible, intangible thing, chanting a childish incantation as he ran:

"Mother, and Father, and Saints of the Host,

Rid us of goblin, and demon and ghost !"

He dashed the crockery from the table, he developed incredibly agility. Not a corner, not a crack must escape his besom:

"Mother, and Father, and Saints of the Host,

Rid us of goblin, and demon, and ghost !"

Having made a final, terrific sweep, he hurled himself against the door, crashing it to and locking it. With the mat of sacking he stopped the crack under the door. With soft bread he plugged the keyhole.

"Mother, and Father, and Saints of the Host—"

From the next room he dragged his bedding. "He'll come down the chimbley!" he said and stuffed the mass up the flue among the thick soot.

"Rid us of goblin, and demon, and ghost!"

The lamp was now burning brightly upon the table. Tommy turned it higher. He lit two candles. Then he seated himself, still piteously tremulous, his back hard against the plastered stones of the wide fireplace, his ghastly face to the room, his huge, pitted, pendulous nose white as a toadstool.

Tommy watched the furniture with unabated apprehension, his quivering heels beating a tattoo on the hearth. The woman, stated low in the opposite corner, her apron over her head her hands pressing it to her eyes, wept noisily, foolishly.

I had no interest in this woman— her troubles were nothing to me. Yet it was for the sake of her red lips I had undertaken the killing of her husband. It was because of her small breasts that her husband had seized the opportunity, and entered so gladly into the killing of me.

I was seeing this fellow with a new sense— no, longer as a grotesque of God, but as a valuable entity in a well-knit world, a unit with an appointed function which he enacted to perfection, a man extraordinarily skilled in the management of turkeys, one who entered into a finer understanding of turkeys, a kindlier sympathy with turkeys, and a more generous regard for the needs of the turkeys he herded than I had ever entertained for the children herded in my hot school-house every day. I saw Tommy honest in his relations towards his fellow-men. I saw the ramifications of his faithful service extending to a hundred households in far-away places.

I perceived also that perfect knowledge must be wholly destructive to the comic spirit.

Even while sympathy surged towards my murderer, I had done an impish thing. His eyes were upon his wife. For the moment I was not uppermost in his perturbed mind, and I had drawn the third chair forward, and set it be-tween them, as I had done many times when we three lived. I sat facing the fireplace, the woman on my right, the man on my left. I cocked my leg, I reached for a pipe, asserting our common humanity.

She had dropped the apron from her tear-stained face. She first saw the third chair at the ingle, and cried out like a frightened child. The man made no sound, but as he looked his eyes were slow-blinking haunts of horror. He spread his arms against the walls behind him, slowly he drew up his knees, as if dragging the least part of him from this fearful thing. Yet he saw nothing but an empty chair and a wooden pipe suspended in space!

So we remained for I cannot say how long. My conceptions of time had grown hazy. But eventually, in the whiteness and terror of my friend's face, grew a new consternation, another nausea of dread. His mouth worked like that of a man in a paralytic seizure, the awfulness of his eyes took on a tragedy more poignant, more cruel.

He could see me! What shape I took, what menace was in the apparition Almighty knows, but I was visible. The fact gratified me. I felt an impish glee. I was still an object, an item, a man among men. I tried to place the pipe jauntily in my mouth, but it fell to the floor, and broke to piece's on the stones.

With a yell more like the scream of a man beset by flame than any human cry, Tommy rushed across the floor tore open the backdoor, and precipitated himself, into the darkness. The woman was cowering in a heap on the floor, her face pressed into the corner.

I went out from the house. The school-house drew me; but as I passed the big slab-fenced enclosure I saw a curious thing— Tommy sitting on a low stone, haunched, with his head almost between his knees, in the centre of a flock of turkeys. The still birds stood all about him— a refuge and a rampart.

Wandering about the dark school-house, I was perplexed by pedagogic worries. I sat on the high stool, resenting, as I had done for years, the Sisyphean task of eternally rolling scholastic stones up the same knoll, and ever finding the same stones at the foot again. But I clung to my duties.

Grey day was drifting down the slope of Little Mt. Long, when I found myself speeding along the hillside from Clayball, drawn by a dog-like instinct. Something was happening to me up there— something I feared. Among the larger granite boulders about three miles from the creek a man was working.

A great resentment swelled within me. Here was a final act— a treachery that threatened to cut me off definitely and for ever from companionable and beloved things. I flew at the worker as a valiant mother bird might fly at a trespasser assailing her young, beating my ethereal limbs against his solid body. Again I forgot the power that was mine, and fought, impelled by lingering human instinct, with a strength I no longer possessed.

He was unaware of my presence. But now he dug with a short-handled pick, then cleared away the loose stones, and dirt with the energy and action of a burrowing dog. At hand, standing among the moss-caked, fantastic granite rocks, was a herd of turkeys, as still as the stones themselves.

Once the digger looked up at the coming day. He was wet with the sweat of terror, his eyes were haunted. But he went down desperately to his task again. Close by him something lay huddled on the ground; something I wished to save from the earth, the terrible alchemist; something I fought for, feeling in my struggles like thin smoke blown against the wall.

Tommy dragged the dark mass into the shallow hole he had made, piling little earth and flat stones upon it, and how I felt that here was the end without doubt.

My murderer was burying me.

I HAD BEEN chief mourner at my own funeral. I had wept by my grave side. There under a small mound of stones I lay, my resting place marked with a little dead bracken loosely scattered over the fresh-made grave to hide it from the eye of any curious chance wanderer in those solitudes, and down the slope of Little Mount Long, his pick on his shoulder, went a live man, skulking among his turkeys, sweating with fear, yet hugging a sick joy bred of the hope that now he had disposed of his enemy for good and all.

He is a strange man to look upon, this turkey-herd, with his longish, lean legs and short, somewhat misshapen body, his narrow face of such exaggerated length that the chin lies habitually on his chest, his complexion like the inside of a sun-dried lambskin, and his hair that was once dark, but is now the hue of scorched grass, the result of daily hatless excursions on the bleak, or blazing, hills with his herd of mournful birds.

According to accepted ethics, the poor wretch was quite justified in killing me; but he was a simple soul, no more subtle than the turkeys he herded, and lacked the perspicacity to nut the matter in that light to the ghost that haunted him.

Besides nobody argues with ghosts. There is too great a respect for ghosts. If people re-alised that the spirit plaguing them is in all probability nothing more than a snivelling waif, divided from humanity only because of its inability to incorporate itself with material things, miserably, heltlessly drifting about familiar associations as a foolish cat goes meowing around a burnt house, they would meet the wraith in a rational temper, and something really helpful might be the outcome. But the senseless fear of death has bred this insane dread of the thing beyond death— the deathless thing.

I wished the turkey-herd no ill until he discovered his intention of burying me away from the world. It was thus he hoped to rid himself of the spook besetting him. There is that belief among men. While the body lies tainting the air the restless spirit will walk the earth. Curiously enough, there was in my case some truth in this seemingly absurd supposition. I hated the thought of being buried. It threw me into a curious state of flurried excitement. I felt passionately resentful; but my anger was accompanied by a more than childish impotence, and now that all was over, I sat on a rounded stone and wept; while Weegull went off in the morning mists among the huge boulders, gathering his turkeys about him, cowering among them as if to so hide his identity or to share out his guilt.

The day was almost upon us. I sat there, gazing with non-existent eyes at my poor grave, weeping immaterial tears, feeling all the pangs of the flesh where no flesh was. A man who has lost a leg may be troubled by the aches of an old corn or the twinges of his familiar gout. A ghost, it would appear, retains, for some time, at any rate, in a similar vague way the sensations of his discarded flesh. But I knew my loss; I longed for my body; I would not let it lie there in the earth to rot. I merely waited, with sly caution till Weegull should be gone.

Suddenly, as I gazed I felt the presence of a new danger. A great, grey beast came slinking between the boulders, a wraith himself in the dull light of the new day. He stretched his nose and sniffed the air, then went forward, snout to the ground, smelling his way. He came to the grave and pushed his muzzle among the earth, and with a powerful paw raked a stone away.

The brute was a wild dog, mastiff like, one of a number in the hills, escaped from domes-ticity and returned almost to the wolf. He clawed again, and thrust his nose into the hole, sniffing eagerly. I attempted to use the absent organs of articulation in a cry; I snatched at a stone; but ghostly cries are inaudible, ghostly fingers do, not grasp material things. I stood over the beast, whimpering foolishly for quite a minute, while he scratched at the shallow grave.

Then came the consciousness of my new power, and I laughed as heartily as a poor ghost may. The force I exerted was not unnatural (there are no unnatural forces— there are no unnatural laws), but it came from no source compatible with the dog's instinct. At first, feeling the strain on his hindquarters, he turned and snapped viciouslv, and endeavoured to resume his digging. Again I drew at him, and again he snapped back right and left. I drew him further and further away. He fought with terrific ferocity, snatching furiously at the thin air, tumbling and rolling in the dirt, biting himself in his passion, tearing his lean flanks, contending with the unseen in a proxysm of un-governable rage.

Only when on the point of exhaustion did the dog yield, and then he lifted himself painfully on his quavering legs, and stood a moment with heaving sides flecked with froth, bleeding from a dozen wounds, his fangs bared in a hideous snarl, his eyes rolling from side to side, seeding his enemy. He limped away, still snarling, looking to this side and that, and was lost to view among the boulders.

I went to the grave, and sucked the stones from their setting. I scattered the loose earth, and drew my body from the hole, couching it upon the bracken in the full light of day. Crouched by it, I peered into the pale face with a sort of mothering love. I yearned over my own poor flesh, fondly protective. A rust of hair had grown on the chin and thin cheeks in the last few hours; there was much dirt in the long dark hair, and above the temple a broken wound, black with clotted blood, stood out like a symbol.

A quavering cry interrupted me. Weegul had come back. He was standing off from the corpse, looking down at it in terrible amazement, his almost toothless mouth open, his twitching eyebrows lifted into his wrinkled forehead, his hands clawing against his breast. Presently he began to speak, but only to utter the words, "God !" and "Christ" in frantic whispers. His turkeys stood ahout him, the sleepy birds making no sound, but craning their necks foolishly, an occasional bird lifting his wings with a curious hint of dull weariness that was almost a yawn.

So the sun found them, falling first on the dead man where he lay, lighting up his palor, making play on the black brand seeming to glide into his thick hair.

"He's up from his grave!" said Weegull. "He's raised hisself. My God! he's raised his-self." He lifted clenched hands to heaven, and in this attitude he advanced slowly, as if fascinated by his own terrors, the ungainly birds at his heels craning their thin necks after him.

Tommy Weegull bent to the body, and let one hand fall gingerly upon it. "Dead!" he whispered. "Oh, he's dead— he's quite dead!"

His eye encountered a paw print in the broken soil. He went upon his knees, peering at the tracks, following them up, his nose almost in the dirt. He arose in an ecstasy, capering like a child.

"Dogs!" he said. "Dogs! Dogs! Dogs!" He made a sort of song of it. His turkeys moved sedately aside, repudiating, his foolish levity. "Dogs! dogs! dogs!" Tommy chortled. He had found an explanation of the disinterment that was simple and natural, one that left open to him still a chance of escaping from his recent terrors, and his sudden glee was apeish, yet pitiful. "We'll bury him deep," he said. "Very deep. We'll pile stones on him to keep him down— big stones. We'll fill his grave with 'em. So many, he'll never comes up again.

Weegull went to the grave, and set to work within it. He toiled upon his knees, using the short pick with extraordinary vigour, clawing the dirt and stones away with his calloused fingers. From a distance I watched him at his strange task, feeling again a fever of trepidation for the fate of my bones, forgetful again for the moment of the force at my command.

The sun hung above Eagle Head, deluging the valley in hot light, and Tommy Weegull had disappeared in the grave he was digging with fearful industry, I saw only the dirt and stones spring up as he threw them from the excavation. Meanwhile the turkeys stood scattered among the boulders, brooding drowsily making no attempt to find sustenance on that arid patch, uttering no sound, yet in some strange way suggesting an eerie sympathy with the digger.

Tommy came up from the grave. He had almost forgotten his terrors in the violence of his energy. He was drenched with perspiration. Pausing not for a moment he ran to and fro, bearing large stones to the edge of the ex-cavation, and piling them there.

Now my murderer was prepared for me. He paused for a moment on hands and knees, gazing at the body. Compunction grew in his face. He looked piteously on trees and sky, seeking a god for the prayer in his heart, and then he crept nearer, and laid a hand on the dead man that was I. I fought with him, holding the slim corpse with superhuman power.

Weegull put forth his strength, and sought to drag the body to him. I resisted with scarcely an effort, and Tommy tried again, putting all his strength into the endeavour. Surprise and consternation sprang into his eyes, and he drew away a moment to rest himself, breathing deeply, staring fixedly at the dead, cold terror creeping back into his heart. I was five feet eight inches only, and lightly built; the turkey-herd had the strength of a fatless athlete, toughened by a hard, open-air life on the steep hills and the exercise of primitive tillage. He rested a full two minutes, and then, taking the body by both ankles, he pulled with a steady strain. There was no responsive movement. It was as if all the strength had gone from his limbs, or the weight of the great, grey granite boulders had been given to the dead thing in his hands.

With dry tongue Weegull sought to moisten his cracked lips, and a fearful greyness stole through the tan of his streaming face. Once more he tried to move the body. Again he failed, and, springing to his feet with an anguished cry, he faced the situation in a flare of utter desperation. Standing across the prone figure of William Clint, he grappled it about the waist, and lifted with all his might. I put my force against him, and he failed. A riot of madness seized him, and he struggled ferociously with the dead thing, tearing at it with his iron fingers, blaspheming in a low voice, the blood flowing down his chin from deeply-bitten lips, every thew showing sharply in his tense arms and his rigid neck.

Again he failed to shift the body, and in his wild fury he fell upon it, and taking the dead man's throat in his two hands, he put all that was in him into a frantic endeavour to choke out of the body the uncanny life with which he believed it still to be invested. The murderer was seeking to slay his victim yet again.

I threw my power against him, and forced Weegull to his feet and back from his victim, step by step. He fought me all the way, strug-gling as if with a tangible foe, straining himself till the blood sprang from his muscles, and cursing all the time in a barking, bestial way. It was only a repetition of the struggle with the wild dog; the man was as blind, he was as irrational. He tore at his clothing, he lascerated his own skin, and from his throat welled guttural sounds of fury such as any brute might make fighting for its life.

Straining forward towards the corpse, Weegull was urged away, striving distractedly till he floundered into the open crave. He no longer resisted, but lay where he had fallen, shrunken together at the bottom of the hole, a quivering, shapeless thing.

I watched, and Weegull grovelled there for many minutes. Presently he appeared from the ground again, peering towards the body. He drew himself out of the hole, and scrambled away, going some yards on hands and knees. Rising to his feet, he fled, with an arm hiding his face, and the turkeys, grouping together, flowed after him, with the mincing gait of dancers, but still impassable and genteel.

There was a fear that he might return, and I stayed with my dead. Did ever another ghost employ itself as I did during the following hours? I was infused with a pitiful longing to return into my flesh, to feel again the stability of my bones, to have the warmth of blood and the sensations of the body. Have you ever seen a small bird, bred in captivity released from its cage, struggling to get back into its barred prison, fluttering in an agony of apprehension from one side to the other, desisting only when beaten into helplessness by its vain efforts? So I strove about my body, seeking ingress, woefully eager to regain mortality. So I failed. There was no response to my appeal, no way, no hope.

It was an hour after noon when I drifted away down the side of Little Mt. Long, drawn back to humanity.

As I went through the boulders and warped trees like crutchless cripples, a sudden shower struck the range-side, veiling the sun, and setting a vivid rainbow astride the valley. The rain was not more than enough to drench the trees, and start the lichen-covered boulders steaming, veiling the near distances in a faint purple vapour.

I came on him unexpectedly. The vision was a curious one. He hung, as it were, silhouetted under the arch of glory, something of the rainbow's tints filtered into the mists about him— a queer, misshapen object dangling by the neck from the limb of a sprawling gum, suspended on his own waist belt.

On the flinty soil a large flock of turkeys gathered, lifting weary wings, making occasional low, guttural complaints, but loyally awaiting the pleasure of Tommy Weegull, permanently up a tree.

_______________

18: The House Party at Smoky Island

Lucy Maud Montgomery

1874–1942

Weird Tales, Aug 1935

Author of "Ann of Green Gables" and other novels, and also many short stories

WHEN MADELINE STANWYCK asked me to join her house party at Smoky Island I was not at first disposed to do so. It was too early in the season, and there would be mosquitoes. One mosquito can keep me more awake than a bad conscience: and there are millions of mosquitoes in Muskoka.

'No, no, the season for them is over,' Madeline assured me. Madeline would say anything to get her way.

'The mosquito season is never over in Muskoka,' I said, as grumpily as anyone could speak to Madeline. 'They thrive up there at zero. And even if by some miracle there are no mosquitoes, I've no hankering to be chewed to pieces by black flies.'

Even Madeline did not dare to say there would be no black flies, so she wisely fell back on her Madelinity.

'Please come, for my sake,' she said wistfully. 'It wouldn't be a real party for me if you weren't there, Jim darling.'

I am Madeline's favourite cousin, twenty years her senior, and she calls everybody darling when she wants to get something out of him. Not but that Madeline… but this story is not about Madeline. It is about an occurrence which took place at Smoky Island. None of us pretends to understand it, except the Judge, who pretends to understand everything. But he really understands it no better than the rest of us. His latest explanation is that we were all hypnotized and in the state of hypnosis saw and remembered things we couldn't otherwise have seen or remembered. But even he cannot explain who or what hypnotized us.

I decided to yield, but not all at once.

'Has your Smoky Island housekeeper still got that detestable white parrot?' I asked.

'Yes, but it is much better-mannered than it used to be,' assured Madeline. 'And you know you have always liked her cat.'

'Who'll be in your party? I'm rather finicky as to the company I keep.'

Madeline grinned.

'You know I never invite anyone but interesting people to my parties'— I bowed to the implied compliment— 'with a dull one or two to show off the sparkle of the rest of us'— I did not bow this time— 'Consuelo Anderson… Aunt Alma… Professor Tennant and his wife… Dick Lane… Tod Newman… Senator Malcolm and Mrs Senator… Old Nosey… Min Ingram… Judge Warden… Mary Harland… and a few Bright Young Things to amuse me.'

I ran over the list in my mind, not disapprovingly. Consuelo was a very fat girl with a BA degree. I liked her because she could sit still for a longer time than any woman I know. Tennant was professor of something he called the New Pathology— an insignificant little man with a gigantic intellect. Dick Lane was one of those coming men who never seem to arrive, but a frank, friendly, charming fellow enough. Mary Harland was a comfortable spinster, Tod an amusing little fop, Aunt Alma a sweet, silvery-haired thing like a Whistler mother. Old Nosey— whose real name was Miss Alexander and who never let anyone forget that she had nearly sailed on the Lusitania— and the Malcolms had no terrors for me, although the Senator always called his wife 'Kittens'. And Judge Warden was an old crony of mine. I did not like Min Ingram, who had a rapier-like tongue, but she could be ignored, along with the Bright Young Things.

'Is that all?' I asked cautiously.

'Well… Doctor Armstrong and Brenda, of course,' said Madeline, eyeing me as if it were not at all of course.

'Is that— wise?' I said slowly.

Madeline crumpled.

'Of course not,' she said miserably. 'It will likely spoil everything. But John insists on it… you know he and Anthony Armstrong have been pals all their lives. And Brenda and I have always been chummy. It would look so funny if we didn't have them. I don't know what has got into her. We all know Anthony never poisoned Susette.'

'Brenda doesn't know it, apparently,' I said.

'Well, she ought to!' snapped Madeline. 'As if Anthony could have poisoned anyone! But that's one of the reasons I particularly want you to come.'

'Ah, now we're getting at it. But why me?'

'Because you've more influence over Brenda than anyone else… oh, yes, you have. If you could get her to open up… talk to her… you might help her. Because… if something doesn't help her soon she'll be beyond help. You know that.'

I knew it well enough. The case of the Anthony Armstrongs was worrying us all. We saw a tragedy being enacted before our eyes and we could not lift a finger to help. For Brenda would not talk and Anthony had never talked.

The story, now five years old, was known to all of us, of course. Anthony's first wife had been Susette Wilder. Of the dead nothing but good; so I will say of Susette only that she was very beautiful and very rich. Luckily her fortune had come to her unexpectedly by the death of an aunt and cousin after she had married Anthony, so that he could not be accused of fortune-hunting. He had been wildly in love with Susette at first, but after they had been married a few years I don't think he had much affection left for her. None of the rest of us had ever had any to begin with. When word came back from California— where Anthony had taken her one winter for her nerves— that she was dead I don't suppose anyone felt any regret, nor any suspicion when we heard that she had died from an overdose of chloral; rather mysteriously, to be sure, for Susette was neither careless nor suicidally inclined. There were some ugly rumors, especially when it became known that Anthony had inherited her entire fortune under her will; but nobody ever dared say much openly. We, who knew and loved Anthony, never paid any heed to the hints. And when, two years later, he married Brenda Young, we were all glad. Anthony, we said, would have some real happiness now.

For a time he did have it. Nobody could doubt that he and Brenda were ecstatically happy. Brenda was a sincere, spiritual creature, lovely after a fashion totally different from Susette. Susette had had golden hair and eyes as cool and green as fluorspar. Brenda had slim, dark distinction, hair that blended with the dusk, and eyes so full of twilight that it was hard to say whether they were blue or gray. She loved Anthony so terribly that sometimes I thought she was tempting the gods.

Then— slowly, subtly, remorselessly— the change set in. We began to feel that there was something wrong— very wrong— between the Armstrongs. They were no longer quite so happy… they were not happy at all… they were wretched. Brenda's old delightful laugh was never heard, and Anthony went about his work with an air of abstraction that didn't please his patients. His practice had fallen off awhile before Susette's death, but it had picked up and grown wonderfully. Now it began dropping again. And the worst of it was that Anthony didn't seem to care. Of course he didn't need it from a financial point of view, but he had always been so keenly interested in his work.

I don't know whether it was merely surmise or whether Brenda had let a word slip, but we all knew or felt that a horrible suspicion possessed her. There was some whisper of an anonymous letter, full of vile innuendoes, that had started the trouble. I never knew the rights of that, but I did know that Brenda had become a haunted woman.

Had Anthony given Susette that overdose of chloral— given it purposely?

If she had been the kind of woman who talks things out, some of us might have saved her. But she wasn't. It's my belief that she never said one word to Anthony of the cold horror of distrust that was poisoning her life. But he must have felt she suspected him, and between them was the chill and shadow of a thing that must not be spoken of.

At the time of Madeline's house party the state of affairs between the Armstrongs was such that Brenda had almost reached the breaking-point. Anthony's nerves were tense, too, and his eyes were almost as tragic as hers. We were all ready to hear that Brenda had left him or done something more desperate still. And nobody could do a thing to help, not even I, in spite of Madeline's foolish hopes. I couldn't go to Brenda and say, 'Look here, you know, Anthony never thought of such a thing as poisoning Susette.' After all, in spite of our surmises, the trouble might be something else altogether. And if she did suspect him, what proof could I offer her that would root the obsession out of her mind?

I hardly thought the Armstrongs would go to Smoky Island, but they did. When Anthony turned on the wharf and held out his hand to assist Brenda from the motor-boat, she ignored it, stepping swiftly off without any assistance and running up through the rock garden and the pointed firs. I saw Anthony go very white. I felt a little sick myself. If matters had come to such a pass that she shrank from his mere touch, disaster was near.

Smoky Island was in a little blue Muskoka lake and the house was called the Wigwam… probably because nothing on earth could be less like a wigwam. The Stanwyck money had made a wonderful place of it, but even the Stanwyck money could not buy fine weather. Madeline's party was a flop. It rained every day more or less for the week, and though we all tried heroically to make the best of things I don't think I ever spent a more unpleasant time. The parrot's manners were no better, in spite of Madeline's assurances. Min Ingram had brought an aloof, disdainful dog with her that everyone hated because he despised us all. Min herself kept passing out needle-like insults when she saw anyone in danger of being comfortable. I thought the Bright Young Things seemed to hold me responsible for the weather. All our nerves got edgy except Aunt Alma's. Nothing ever upset Aunt Alma. She prided herself a bit on that.

On Saturday the weather wound up with a regular downpour and a wind that rushed out of the black-green pines to lash the Wigwam and then rushed back like a maddened animal. The air was as full of torn, flying leaves as of rain, and the lake was a splutter of tossing waves. This charming day ended in a dank, streaming night.

And yet things had seemed a bit better than any day yet. Anthony was away. He had got some mysterious telegram just after breakfast, had taken the small motor-boat, and gone to the mainland. I was thankful, for I felt I could no longer endure seeing a man's soul tortured as his was. Brenda had kept her room all day on the good old plea of a headache. I won't say it wasn't a relief. We all felt the strain between her and Anthony like a tangible thing.

'Something— something— is going to happen,' Madeline kept saying to me. She was really worse than the parrot.

After dinner we all gathered around the fireplace in the hall, where a cheerful fire of white birchwood was glowing; for although it was June the evening was cold. I settled back with a sigh of relief. After all, nothing lasted for ever, and this infernal house party would be over on Monday. Besides, it was really quite comfortable and cheerful here, despite rattling windows and wailing winds and rain-swept panes. Madeline turned out the electric lights, and the firelight was kind to the women, who all looked quite charming. Some of the Bright Young Things sat cross-legged on the floor with arms around one another quite indiscriminately as far as sex was concerned… except one languid, sophisticated creature in orange velvet and long amber ear-rings, who sat on a low stool with a lapful of silken housekeeper's cat, giving everyone an excellent view of the bones in her spine. Min's dog posed haughtily on the rug, and the parrot in his cage was quiet— for him— only telling us once in a while that he or someone else was devilish clever. Mrs Howey, the housekeeper, insisted on keeping him in the hall, and Madeline had to wink at it because it was hard to get a housekeeper in Muskoka even for a Wigwam.

The Judge was looking like a chuckle because he had solved a jigsaw puzzle that had baffled everyone, and the Professor and Senator, who had been arguing stormily all day, were basking in each other's regard for a foeman worthy of his steel. Consuelo was sitting still, as usual. Mrs Tennant and Aunt Alma were knitting pullovers. Kittens, her fat hands folded across her satin stomach, was surveying her Senator adoringly, and Miss Nosey was taking everything in. We were, for the time being, a contented, congenial bunch of people and I did not see why Madeline should have suddenly proposed that each of us tell a ghost story, but she did. It was an ideal night for ghost stories, she averred. She hadn't heard any for ages and she understood that everybody had had at least one supernatural occurrence in his or her life.

'I haven't,' growled the Judge contemptuously.

'I suppose,' said Professor Tennant a little belligerently, 'that you would call anyone an ass who believed in ghosts?'

The Judge carefully fitted his fingertips together before he replied.

'Oh, dear, no. I would not so insult asses.'

'Of course if you don't believe in ghosts they can't happen,' said Consuelo.

'Some people are able to see ghosts and some are not,' announced Dick Lane. 'It's simply a gift.'

'A gift I was not dowered with,' said Kittens complacently.

Mary Harland shuddered. 'What a dreadful thing it would be if the dead really came back!'

''From ghoulies and ghaisties and lang-legged beasties

And things that go bump in the night

Good Lord, deliver us,'' quoted Ted flippantly.

But Madeline was not to be side-tracked. Her little elfish face, under its crown of russet hair, was alive with determination.

'We're going to spook a bit,' she said resolutely. 'This is just the sort of night for ghosts to walk. Only of course they can't walk here because the Wigwam isn't haunted, I'm sorry to say. Wouldn't it be heavenly to live in a haunted house? Come now, everyone must tell a ghost story. Professor Tennant, you lead off. Something nice and creepy, please.'

To my surprise, the Professor did lead off, although Mrs Tennant's expression plainly informed us that she didn't approve of juggling with ghosts. He told a very good story, too— punctuated with snorts from the Judge— about a house he knew which had been haunted by the voice of a dead child who joined in every conversation bitterly and vindictively. The child had, of course, been ill-treated and murdered, and its body was eventually found under the hearthstone of the library. Then Dick told a tale about a dead dog that avenged its master, and Consuelo amazed me by spinning a really gruesome yarn of a ghost who came to the wedding of her lover with her rival… Consuelo said she knew the people. Ted knew a house in which you heard voices and footfalls where no voices or footfalls could be, and even Aunt Alma told of 'a white lady with a cold hand' who asked you to dance with her. If you were reckless enough to accept the invitation you never lost the feeling of her cold hand in yours. This chilly apparition was always garbed in the costume of the Seventies.

'Fancy a ghost in a crinoline,' giggled a Bright Young Thing.

Min Ingram, of all people, had seen a ghost and took it quite seriously.

'Well, show me a ghost and I'll believe in it,' said the Judge, with another snort.

'Isn't he devilish clever?' croaked the parrot.

Just at this point Brenda drifted downstairs and sat down behind us all, her tragic eyes burning out of her white face. I had a feeling that there, in that calm, untroubled scene, full of good-humored, tolerably amused, commonplace people, a human heart was burning at the stake in agony.

Something fell over us with Brenda's coming. Min Ingram's dog suddenly whined and flattened himself out on the rug. It occurred to me that it was the first time I had ever seen him looking like a real dog. I wondered idly what had frightened him. The housekeeper's cat sat up, its back bristling, slid from the orange velvet lap and slunk out of the hall. I had a queer sensation in the roots of what hair I had left, so I turned hastily to the slim, dark girl on the oak settle at my right.

'You haven't told us a ghost story yet, Christine. It's your turn.'

Christine smiled. I saw the Judge looking admiringly at her ankles, sheathed in chiffon hose. The Judge always had an eye for a pretty ankle. As for me, I was wondering why I couldn't recall Christine's last name and why I felt as if I had been impelled in some odd way to make that commonplace remark to her.

'Do you remember how firmly Aunt Elizabeth believed in ghosts?' said Christine. 'And how angry it used to make her when I laughed at the idea? I am… wiser now.'

'I remember,' said the Senator in a dreamy way.

'It was your Aunt Elizabeth's money that went to the first Mrs Armstrong, wasn't it?' said one of the Bright Young Things, nicknamed Tweezers. It was an abominable thing for anyone to say, right there before Brenda. But nobody seemed horrified. I had another odd feeling that it had to be said and who but Tweezers would say it? I had another feeling… that ever since Brenda's entrance every trifle was important, every tone was of profound significance, every word had a hidden meaning. Was I developing nerves?

'Yes,' said Christine evenly.

'Do you suppose Susette Armstrong really took that overdose of chloral on purpose?' went on Tweezers unbelievably.

Not being near enough to Tweezers to assassinate her, I looked at Brenda. But Brenda gave no sign of having heard. She was staring fixedly at Christine.

'No,' said Christine. I wondered how she knew, but there was no question whatsoever in my mind that she did know it. She spoke as one having authority. 'Susette had no intention of dying. And yet she was doomed, although she never suspected it. She had an incurable disease which would have killed her in a few months. Nobody knew that except Anthony and me. And she had come to hate Anthony so. She was going to change her will the very next day— leave everything away from him. She told me so. I was furious. Anthony, who had spent his life doing good to suffering creatures, was to be left poor and struggling again, after his practice had been all shot to pieces by Susette's goings-on. I had loved Anthony ever since I had known him. He didn't know it— but Susette did. Trust her for that. She used to twit me with it. Not that it mattered… I knew he would never care for me. But I saw my chance to do something for him and I took it. I gave Susette that overdose of chloral. I loved him enough for that… and for this.'

Somebody screamed. I have never known whether it was Brenda or not. Aunt Alma— who was never upset over anything— was huddled in her chair in hysterics. Kittens, her fat figure shaking, was clinging to her Senator, whose foolish, amiable face was grey— absolutely grey. Min Ingram was on her knees and the Judge was trying to keep his hands from shaking by clenching them together. His lips were moving and I know I caught the word, 'God.' As for Tweezers and all the rest of her gang, they were no longer Bright Young Things but simply shivering, terrified children.

I felt sick— very, very sick. Because there was no one on the oak settle and none of us had ever known or heard of the girl I had called Christine.

At that moment the hall door opened and a dripping Anthony entered. Brenda flung herself hungrily against him, wet as he was.

'Anthony… Anthony, forgive me,' she sobbed.

Something good to see came into Anthony's worn face.

'Have you been frightened, darling?' he said tenderly. 'I'm sorry I was so late. There was really no danger. I waited to get an answer to my wire to Los Angeles. You see I got word this morning that Christine Latham had been killed in a motor accident yesterday evening. She was Susette's second cousin and nurse… a dear, loyal little thing. I was very fond of her. I'm sorry you've had such an anxious evening, sweetheart.'

______________

19: The Golden Windmill

Stacy Aumonier

1877-1928

Pictorial Review Oct 1919

AT THE TOP OF THE HILL the party halted. It had been a long trek up and the sun was hot. Monsieur Roget fanned himself with his hat, and his eye alighted on a large pile of cut fern-leaves.

"But this will suit me admirably!" he remarked, and he plumped his squat little figure down, and taking out his large English pipe he began to stuff tobacco into it.

"My little one," said his stout wife, "I should not advise you to go to sleep. You know that to do so in the afternoon always gives you an indisposition."

"Oh, la la! No, no, no. I do not go to sleep, but—this position suits me admirably!" he replied.

"Oh, papa, papa!... lazybones!" exclaimed his pretty daughter Louise. "And if we leave you, you will sleep like a dormouse."

"It is very hot!" rejoined the father.

"Leave him alone," said Madame Roget, "and we will go down to that place that looks like an inn, and see whether they will sell us milk. Where is Lisette?"

"Lisette! Where should she be?"

And of course it was foolish to ask. Lisette, the younger daughter, had been lost in the wood on the way up, with her fiancé, Paul Fasquelle. Indeed, the party had all become rather scattered. It is a peculiarity of picnics. Monsieur Roget's eldest son, Anton, was playing at see-saw with his three children on the trunk of a fallen tree. His wife was talking to Madame Aubert, and occasionally glancing up to exclaim:

"Careful, my darlings!"

Monsieur Roget was left alone.

He lighted his pipe, and blinked at the sun. One has to have reached a mature age to appreciate to the full the narcotic seductiveness of good tobacco on the system, when the sun is shining and there is no wind. If there is wind all the pleasant memories and dreams are blown away, but if there is no wind the sun becomes a kind, confidential old fellow. He is very, very mature. And Monsieur Roget was mature. He was fifty-nine years old, given to corpulence, rather moist and hot, but eminently comfortable leaning against the pile of ferns. A glorious view across the woods of Fontainebleau lay stretched before him, the bees droned in the young gorse, his senses tingled with a pleasureable excitement, and, as a man will in such moments, he enjoyed a sudden crystallised epitome of his whole life. His struggles, and failures, and successes. On the whole he had been a successful man. If he died to-morrow, his beloved ones would be left in more than comfort. Many thousand francs carefully invested, some house property in the Rue Renoir, the three comestibles establishments all doing reasonably well.

Things had not always been like that. There had been long years of anxiety, worry, and even poverty. He had worked hard and it had been a bitter struggle. When the children were children, that had been the anxious time. It made Monsieur Roget shudder to look back on it. But, God be praised! he had been fortunate, very fortunate in his life-companion. During that anxious time, Madame Roget had been patient, encouraging, incredibly thrifty, competent, resourceful, a loyal wife, a very— Frenchwoman. And they had come through. He was now a proud grandfather. Both his sons were doing well, and were married. Lisette was engaged to a very desirable young advocate. Of Louise there need be no apprehension. In fact, everything....

"Name of a dog! that's very curious," suddenly thought Monsieur Roget, interrupting his own pleasant reflections.

And for some minutes he could not determine exactly what it was that was curious. He had been idly gazing at the clump of buildings lower down the hill, whither his wife and daughter had gone in search of milk. Perhaps the perfume of the young gorse had something to do with it, but as he looked at the buildings, he thought:

"It's very familiar, and it's very unfamiliar. In fact, it's gone wrong. They've been monkeying with that gable on the east side, and they've built a new loft over the stables."

But how should he know? What was the gable to him? or he to the gable? He drew in a large mouthful of smoke, held it for some seconds, and then blew it out in a cloud round his head. Where was this? When had he been here before? They had driven out to a village called Pavane-en-Bois, and from there they had walked, and walked, and walked. He may have been here before, and have come from another direction....

"Oo-eh!"

Monsieur Roget was glad that he was alone when he uttered this exclamation, which cannot convey what it is meant to in print. Of course, across there on the other side of the clearing was the low stone wall, and the reliquary with the figure of the Virgin, and doubtless at the bottom of the slope the other side would be— the well!

It was exactly on this spot that he had met Diane— God in heaven! how long ago? Ten, twenty, thirty.... Exactly thirty-seven years ago!

And how vividly it could all come back to one!

HE WAS TWENTY-TWO, THEN, a slim young man— considered elegant and rather distinguished-looking by some people— an orphan without either brothers or sisters, the inheritor of a quite substantial competence from his father, who had been a shipbroker at Marseilles. He had gone to Paris to educate himself and to prepare for a commercial career. He was a serious young man, with modest ambitions, rather moody and given to abstract speculations. Paris bewildered him, and he used to escape when he could, and seek solitude in the country. At length he decided that he must settle down to some definite career, and he became articled to a firm of chartered accountants: Messrs. Manson et Cie. He took rooms at a quiet pension near the Luxembourg, and there fell in love with his patron's daughter, Lucile, a demure and modest brunette. The affair was almost settled, but not quite. Monsieur Roget, even in those days, was a man who never put his leg over the wall till he had seen the other side. He was circumspect, cautious, and there was indeed plenty of time.

And then one day he had found himself on this identical hillock. He could not quite clearly remember how he came to be there. Probably he had come for the day, to escape the clamour of Paris. He certainly had no luggage. He was seated on this spot, dreaming and enjoying the view, when he heard a cry coming from the other side of the low stone wall. He jumped up and ran to it, and lo! on the other side he beheld— Diane! The name was peculiarly appropriate. She was lying there on her side like a wounded huntress. When she caught sight of him she called out:

"Ah, monsieur, will you be so kind to help me? I fear I have sprained my ankle."

Paul Roget leapt the wall and ran to her assistance (the thought of leaping a wall now made him gasp!) He lifted her up, trembling himself, and making sympathetic little clucks with his tongue.

"Pardon, pardon! very distressing!" he murmured, when she stood erect.

"If monsieur will be good enough to allow me to rest my hand on his shoulder, I shall be able to hop back to the auberge."

"With the greatest pleasure. Allow me."

On the ground was an upturned pail. He remarked:

"Would it distress mademoiselle to stand for one minute, whilst I refill the pail?"

"Oh, no, no," she exclaimed. "Do not inconvenience yourself."

"Then perhaps mademoiselle will allow me to return for the pail?"

"Oh, no, if you please! My father will do it."

She leant on his shoulder and hopped a dozen paces.

"How did it happen, mademoiselle?"

"Imbecile that I am! I think I was dreaming. I had filled the pail and was descending the embankment when I slipped. I tried to step across the pail, but caught my foot in the rim. And then— I don't know quite what happened. I fell. It is the other ankle which I fear I have sprained."

"I am indeed most desolated. Is it far to the inn?"

"You see it yonder, monsieur. It is perhaps ten minutes' walk, but twenty minutes' hop."

She laughed gaily, and Monsieur Roget said solemnly:

"If I might suggest it— I think it would be more comfortable for Mademoiselle if she would condescend to place her arm round my neck."

"It is too good of you."

They proceeded another hundred paces in silence, and then rested against a stile. Suddenly she gave him one of her quick glances, and said:

"You are very silent, monsieur."

"I was thinking— how very beautiful the day is."

As a matter of fact, he was not thinking anything of the sort. He was in a fever. He was thinking how very beautiful, adorable, attractive this lovely wild creature was hanging round his neck. He had never before adventured such an experience. He had never kissed Lucile. Women were an unopened book to him, and lo! suddenly the most captivating of her sex was clinging to him. He felt the pressure of her soft brown forearm on the back of his neck. Her little teeth were parted with smiles, and she panted gently with the exertion of hopping. Her dark eyes searched his, and appeared to be slightly mocking, amused, interested.

"If only I might pick her up and carry her," he thought, but he did not dare to make the suggestion.

Once she remarked:

"Oh, but I am tired," and he thought she looked at him slily.

The journey must have occupied half-an-hour, and she told him a little about herself. She lived with her father. Her mother had died when she was a baby. It was quite a small inn, frequented by charcoal-burners and woodmen, and occasionally by visitors from Paris. She liked the country very much, but sometimes it was dull— oh, dull, dull, dull!

"Ah, it is sometimes dull, even in Paris!" sighed Monsieur Roget.

"You must come and speak to my father, and take a glass of wine," she remarked.

In the forecourt of the inn the father appeared.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed. "What is all this?"

He was a rubicund, heavy-jowled gentleman, who by the wheezy exhalations coming from his chest gave the impression of being a chronic sufferer from asthma. Diane laughed.

"I have been through fire and water, my dear," she said, "and this is my deliverer."

She explained the whole episode to the landlord, who shook hands with Paul, and they led the girl into a sitting-room at the back of the café. Paul was somewhat diffident about entering this private apartment, but the landlord wheezed:

"Come in, come in, monsieur."

They sat Diane down on a sofa, and the landlord pulled off her stocking. In doing so he revealed his daughter's leg as far as the knee. She had a very pretty leg, but the ankle was considerably swollen.

"The ankle is sprained," said the landlord.

"Will you allow me to go and fetch a doctor?" asked Paul.

"It is not necessary," replied the landlord. "I know all about sprained ankles. When I was in the army I served in the ambulance brigade. We will just bind it up very tight with cold linen bandages. Does it hurt, little one?"

"Not very— yet. It tingles. I feel that it may. Won't you offer Monsieur— I do not know his name— some refreshment?"

"Monsieur Paul Roget," said that gentleman, bowing. "But please do not consider me. The sufferer must be attended first. Later on, I would like to be permitted to partake of a little lunch in the inn."

While the landlord, whose name was Jules Courturier, was binding up his daughter's ankle, Paul slipped out and returned to the well, filled the pail, and brought it back to the yard of the inn.

"But this is extremely agreeable of you, monsieur," exclaimed the landlord, as he came bustling through the porch. "She will do well. I know all about sprained ankles. Oh, yes! I have had great experience. I beg you to share a little lunch with us. We are quite simple folk, but I think we may find you an omelette and a ragoût. Quite country people, you know; nothing elaborate."

The lunch was excellent, and Diane had the sofa drawn up to the table, and in spite of the pain she must have been suffering, she laughed and joked, and they were quite a merry party. After lunch he helped to wheel her out into the crab-apple orchard at the back, and he told her all about himself, his life and work, and ambitions. He told her everything, except perhaps about Lucile. And he felt very strange, elevated, excited.

When the evening came he left it till too late to catch the train back to Paris, and the landlord lent him some things and he stayed the night.

He stayed three nights, and wrote to Messrs. Manson et Cie, and explained that he had gone to Pavane-en-Bois, and had been taken ill. He wrote the same thing to Lucile. And during the day he talked to Diane, and listened to the landlord. Sometimes he would wander into the woods, but he could not bring himself to stay away for long. He brought back armfuls of flowers, which he flung across her lap. He touched her hands, and trembled, and at night in bed he choked with a kind of ecstasy and regret. It was horribly distracting. He did not know how to act. He was behaving badly to Lucile, and dishonourably to Manson et Cie. His conscience smote him, but the other little fiend was dancing at the back of his mind. Nothing else seemed to matter. He was mad— madly in love with this little dark-eyed huntress.

At the end of three days he returned to Paris but not till he had promised to come back at the earliest opportunity.

"Perhaps I will go again in August," he sighed in the train. It was then the seventh of June.

On the fifteenth of June he was back again in the "Moulin d'Or." Diane was already much better. She could hobble about alone with the help of two sticks. She was more bewitching than ever. He stayed three weeks, till her ankle was quite well, and they could go for walks together in the woods. And he called her Diane, and she called him Paul. And one day, as the sun was setting, he flung his arms round her and gasped:

"Diane... Diane! I love you!"

And he kissed her on the lips, and her roguish eyes searched his.

"Oh, you!" she murmured. "You bad boy... you!"

"But I love you, Diane. I want you. I can't live without you. You must come away with me. We will get married. We will build a world of our own. Oh, you beautiful! Tell me you love me, or I shall go mad!"

She laughed that low, gurgling, silvery laugh of hers.

"What are you saying?" she said. "How should I know? I think you are— a nice boy. But I cannot leave my father."

"My dear, he managed all the time you had to lie with your foot up. Don't torture me! Oh, you must love me, Diane. I couldn't love you so much if you didn't love me a little in return."

"Perhaps I do," she said, smiling.

"What is it, then, Diane?"

"Oh, I don't know. I do not want to marry. I want to be free, to see the world. I am ambitious. I have been to the conservatoire at Souboise. They say I can sing and dance. My father has spent his savings on me."

"Darling, if you marry me, you shall be free. You shall do as you like. You shall dance and sing and see the world. Everything of mine shall be yours if only you will love me. You must, you must, Diane!"

"Well... we shall see. Come; father will be anxious."

In July he left his pension and moved out to Montmartre. He had never definitely proposed to Lucile, but his expressions of affection had been so definite that he felt ashamed. He spent his holiday in August at the "Moulin d'Or." And Diane promised to marry him "one day."

"Diane," he said, "I will work for you. You have inspired me. I shall go back to Paris and think of you all day, and dream of you all night."

"That won't give you much time to make your fortune, my little cabbage."

"Do not mock me. Where would you like to live?"

"In Paris, in Nice, in Rome, in Vienna. And then, one day, I would like to creep back here and just live in the 'Moulin d'Or.' "

" 'The Moulin d'Or?' "

"Oh, we could improve it. We could build an extra wing, with a dancing-hall, and more nice bedrooms, and a garage. We could improve the inn, but we could not improve these beautiful hills. Isn't that true, little friend?"

"Nothing could be improved where you are. You are perfection."

"Yes, but—"

In September Diane came to Paris. She stayed with an aunt in Parnasse, and attended a conservatoire of dancing. And every evening Paul called on her, and took her flowers and chocolates and trinkets. And in the daytime, when the image of Diane's face did not interpose between his eyes and his desk, he worked hard. He meant to work hard and become a rich man, and take Diane to Nice, and Rome, and Vienna, and make the structural alterations to the "Moulin d'Or."

In a few months' time Diane made such progress that she was offered an engagement in the ballet at Olympia. She accepted it and Paul was consumed with a fever of apprehension. Every night he went to the performance, waited for her, and escorted her home. But he disliked the atmosphere of the music-hall intensely, and the other girls, Diane's companions— Heaven defend her!

And then she quarrelled with her aunt, and Paul besought her to marry him so that he might protect her. But she prevaricated, and in the end he took some rooms for her, and she consented to allow him to pay for them. She lived there for several weeks alone, only attended by an old concierge, and then she took a friend, Babette Baroche, to share the rooms with her, and Paul still continued to pay. Paul disliked Babette. She was a frivolous, vain, empty-headed little cocotte, and no fit companion for Diane. On occasions Paul discovered other men enjoying the hospitality of the rooms, and they were always of an objectionable sort. And Diane got into debt, and he lent her four hundred francs.

At Christmas-time she was dismissed from her engagement, and in a pervicacious mood she promised to marry him in the spring. Paul was delirious. Nothing was good enough for his Diane, and he engaged a complete flat for her, with the services of an elderly bonne. Diane was very grateful and loving, and in the transition Babette was dropped. However, a few weeks after he had signed the lease, she was offered an engagement for a tour, and after a lengthy dispute and many tears, she had her way and accepted it. She was away three months, and Paul was consumed with dread, and doubt, and gloomy forebodings. On occasions he dashed down to Lyons, or Grenoble, or wherever she happened to be, for the week-end. And he thought that the company she was with were a very fast lot.

"But, my angel," he would exclaim, "only another month or two, and all this will be over. You will be mine for ever and ever."

He was still paying the rent of the flat in Paris, and it was necessary to send Diane flowers and presents wherever she was. It was an expensive time, particularly as, owing to Diane having had her purse stolen just when she was paying off a debt, he had to send her another four hundred francs. She returned at the end of March, and so great had been her success on tour that an egregious, oily manager named Bonnat offered her a part in a new revue. She received a good salary, but the management would not supply her frocks. It was necessary to dress well for this part. It was her first real chance. She ransacked shops in the Rue de Tivoli, and Paul accompanied her. Eventually she spent twelve hundred francs on them, and Paul advanced the money. She only allowed him to do so on the understanding that she paid him back by instalments out of her salary. It is needless to say that she never did so. However, the frocks were a great success, and Diane made a hit. She was undoubtedly talented. She danced beautifully, and she had a gift of imitation. She very quickly became a star, and of course a star could not scintillate in the poky little flat she had so far occupied. She moved to a more fashionable quarter, and occupied a flat the rent of which was rather more than her salary alone. She developed more expensive tastes, and nearly always kept a taxi-cab waiting for her at stage-doors and restaurants.

At this time Paul began to realise that he was living considerably above his income. It would be necessary to reduce it by breaking into his capital. He sold some house property and paid Diane's debts and bought her a pearl pendant.

"Next month she will be my wife," he thought, "and then I shall be able more easily to curb these extravagancies."

But when the next month came Diane was at the height of her success. She had been given more to do in the revue, and her imitations were drawing the town. The management raised her salary. Her head was completely turned.

"Oh, no, no, no! dear heart," she exclaimed. "Not this month. At the end of the season. It would be imbecile when I have all Paris at my feet."

Paul begged and urged her to re-consider, but she was obdurate. She continued the same life, only that her tastes became more and more extravagant. And one day Paul took her to task.

"My angel-flower," he said, "we must not go on like this. All the savings for our wedding are vanishing. I am eating into my capital. We shall be ruined."

"But, my little love," replied Diane, "I spend so little. Why, you should see the electric brougham Zénie at the Folies Bergères has. Besides, next year, or perhaps before, they will have to double my salary."

"Yes, but in the meantime—?"

"In the meantime your little girl shall kiss away your naughty fears."

And of course Diane soon had an electric brougham of her own. The more salary she had, the more it seemed to cost Paul. He was receiving merely a nominal salary himself from Messrs. Manson et Cie, where he was little more than a pupil. However, at that time he managed to get a small increase, and invested a good bulk of his patrimony in a rubber company that a very astute business friend advised him about. If the shares went up considerably he might sell out, and reimburse himself for all these inroads on his capital.

In the meantime a disturbing element crept into his love affair. A depraved young fop, the Marquis de Lavernal, appeared on the scene. He was one of these young men who have plenty of money and frequent stage-doors. He was introduced by Babette, whom he almost immediately forsook for Diane. He called upon her, left more expensive flowers and chocolates than Paul could afford, and one day took her to Longchamps in his car.

Paul was furious.

"This man must not come here," he exclaimed. "I shall kill him!"

"Oo-oh! but why? He is quite a nice boy. He is nothing to me. He is Babette's friend."

"I don't trust him. I won't have him here. Do you understand, Diane? I love you so, I am distracted when that kind of person speaks to you!"

"Oo-oh!"

Diane promised not to see him again alone, but Paul was dubious. The trouble was that he did not know what went on in the daytime. In the evening he could to a certain extent protect her. But in the daytime— that raven! that ogre! that blood-sucker! He was the kind of man who had the entrée of all theatres, both the back and the front. He went about with parties of girls. Diane explained that it was impossible sometimes not to meet him. He was always with her friends.

At the end of July Paul had a stroke of fortune. The rubber shares he had bought went up with a great boom, quite suddenly. He sold out and netted a considerable sum. And then he had a brilliant inspiration. He would tell Diane nothing of this. He had plans of his own.

One day he took the train and went down to see his prospective father-in-law at the "Moulin d'Or." The old man was wheezier than ever, but very cordial and friendly.

"Well, my boy, how goes it?" he asked.

"Excellently," said Paul. "Now, father-in-law, I have a proposition to make. Diane and I are to be married after the summer season. It has always been her ambition to live at the 'Moulin d'Or.' But she has spoken of improvements. I want to suggest to you with all respect that you allow me to make those improvements. I would like to do it without her knowing it, and then to bring her down as a great surprise."

"Well, well, very agreeable, I'm sure. And why not? It would be very charming!"

"I suggest building a new wing, with a dancing-hall and several nice bedrooms, and a garage; and laying out the gardens more suitably."

"Well, good! It would be very desirable, and conducive to good business. You may rely upon me to assist you in your project, Monsieur Paul."

"I am indeed grateful to you, Monsieur Couturier."

Paul returned to Paris in high spirits. He made plans of the suggested alterations on the back of an envelope, in the train. The next morning he went to an eminent firm of contractors. So feverish was he in his demands that he persuaded them to send a manager down that very day to take particulars and prepare the estimate. The work was commenced the same week.

In the meantime, Diane had bought some expensive little dogs, because Fleurie at the Odéon kept expensive little dogs, and a new silver tea-service because Lucie Castille at the Moulin Rouge had a silver tea-service. And Paul was surprised because neither of the accounts for these luxuries was sent to him. Diane said she had paid for them herself, but the little demons of jealousy were still gnawing away at his heart.

The revue was to terminate at the end of the third week in August, and Paul said:

"And then, my love, we will marry quietly in Paris, and then we will do the grand tour. We will go to Nice, and Rome, and Vienna, and commence our eternal honeymoon at the 'Moulin d'Or.' "

Diane clapped her hands.

"Won't that be beautiful, my beloved!" she exclaimed, and she twined her sinuous arms around his neck. "Fancy! just you and I alone at the dear 'Moulin d'Or'! Ah! and then we will go to Venice, and to Munich. Good gracious! it will be soon time to think about the frocks and trousseau!"

Paul's heart swelled. The trousseau! Diane was becoming serious. There had been moments when he had doubted whether she meant to marry him at all, but— the trousseau! Why, yes, the matter must be attended to at once. They spent three weeks buying Diane's trousseau. Nearly every day she thought of something fresh, some little trifle that was quite indispensable. When the bills came in they amounted to twenty-two thousand francs! Paul was aghast. He had no idea it was possible to spend so much on those flimsy fabrics. And furniture had yet to be purchased. He went to his astute business friend again, and begged for some enticing investment. He was recommended a Nicaraguan Company that was just starting. They had acquired the rights of a new method of refining oil. It was going to be a big thing. With the exception of a sum of money to pay for the improvements at the "Moulin d'Or" Paul put practically the whole of his capital into the Nicaraguan Company.

Nearly every day he called at the contractor's, or sent frenzied telegrams to Monsieur Couturier to inquire how the work was progressing. At length he received a verbal promise that the whole thing would be completed by about the twentieth of September.

Excellent! That would fit in admirably. It would give him a month's honeymoon with his beautiful Diane, and then, one glorious September evening, he would drive up the hill, and jumping out of the car in the new drive he would be able to exclaim:

"Behold! Do not all your dreams come true?"

And Diane would fling her arms round his neck, and the old father would come toddling out and find them in that position, and he would probably weep, and it would all be very beautiful.

A few days later there was a rather distressing incident. Quite on her own responsibility Diane ordered a suite of Louis XVI furniture. They were fabulously expensive copies. Paul had nothing like enough money to pay for it. He did not want to sell his Nicaraguan shares. In fact, he had only just applied for them. He protested vehemently:

"But, my dear, you ought not to have done this! It is ruinous. We cannot afford it."

"But, my Carlo, one must sit down!"

"One need not pay fifteen thousand francs to sit down!"

"Oo-oh!"

Paul knew the evidence of approaching tears, and he endeavoured to stem the tide. In the end he went to a money-lender and borrowed the money at an abnormal rate of interest, and then he went to Diane and said:

"My beloved, you must promise me not to spend any more money without my consent. The consequences may be serious. My affairs are already getting very involved. You must promise me."

Diane promised, and the next day drove up to his office in a great state of excitement. Bonnat had been to see her. They wanted to take the revue for a two months' tour to Brittany and Normandy, commencing at Dinard on August 22nd. He had offered her dazzling terms. She simply must go. It might be her last chance. The wedding must be postponed till the end of October. Paul protested, and they both became angry and cried before two other clerks in Messrs. Manson's office. They parted without anything being settled. When he saw her at night after the theatre, she had signed the contract. And Paul returned to his rooms, and bit his pillow with remorse and grief.

On the twenty-first of August Diane locked up her trousseau, and the furniture, and left with the company for Dinard. And Paul wrote to her every day, and she replied once a week, and occasionally sent him a telegram announcing a prodigious success. Only occasionally did he get an opportunity of going to her over a week-end. The journeys were very long and he resented spending the money. In only one way did he derive any satisfaction from that tour. The building work— like all building work— could not possibly be completed in the time specified. If they had arrived there on the 21st September, his beautiful Diane would have found the place all bricks and mortar and muddle. As it was, it would be comfortably finished by the middle of October.

When not going to Diane he would spend Sunday with Monsieur Couturier, who was keenly excited about the improvement to his inn. It was going to be very good for the business. All the countryside spoke of it. The patron of the "Colonne de Bronze," further down the hill, was furious, and this was naturally a matter of satisfaction to Monsieur Couturier. He was proud of and devoted to his future son-in-law.

At the end of September came the great blow. Paul heard of it first through the newspapers. The Nicaraguan Company had failed. The refining process had proved efficient, but far more expensive to work than any other refining process. The company was wound up, and the shareholders received about 2½ per cent on their investments. Paul was practically ruined. He would have to pay for the building of the "Moulin d'Or." Beyond that he had only a few thousand francs, and he had to meet the promissory note of the money-lenders. He wrote to Diane and confessed the whole story. She sent him a telegram which simply said: "Courage! courage!"

He wore the telegram inside his shirt for three days, till it got rather too dilapidated. Then he concentrated on his work. Yes! he would have courage. He would build up again. Diane trusted him. In any case, they could sell the furniture and go and live at the "Moulin d'Or." He wrote her long letters full of his schemes. On October the twelfth the work was completed, and he went down and spent two days and nights with Monsieur Couturier. Diane was to return to Paris on the fifteenth. Monsieur Couturier was full of sympathy and courage. They talked far into the night of how they would manage. With the increase of business assured, the inn would no doubt support the three of them. There were great possibilities, and Paul was young and energetic. Nothing mattered so long as his Diane believed in him.

The night before he returned to Paris he went for a walk in the woods by himself. He visualised the days to come, the walks with Diane, the tender moments when they held each other's hands; he could see their children toddling hand in hand through the woods, picking flowers. In an ecstasy he rushed to a thick bush, and picked a bunch of red berries. He would take them to Diane. They would be the symbols of their new life. Wild flowers from their home, not exotic town-bred things. It was all going to be joy... joy... joy!

He ran back to the inn, and spent a sleepless night, dreaming of Diane and the days and nights to come.

In the morning came a letter from Messrs. Manson et Cie. His dealings with the money-lenders had been disclosed. His services were no longer desirable.

Well, there it was! It would take more than that to crush him in ecstatic mood. He would start again. He would begin by helping Monsieur Couturier to run the inn.

He returned to Paris late in the evening. He would go to Diane's flat after she had returned from the theatre. She would be a little sleepy, and comfortable, and comforting. She would wear one of those loose, clinging, silky things, and she would take him in her arms, and he would let down her beautiful dark blue-black hair, and then he would make her a coronet of the red berries. He would make her his queen....

He was too agitated to dine that evening. He walked the streets of Paris, clasping the red berries wrapped in tissue paper. He kept thinking:

"Now she is resting between the acts. Now she is dancing a pas seul in the second act. Now she is giving her imitation of Yvette Guilbert. Now she is taking a call. Now the manager speaks to her, congratulating her— curse him! Now she awaits her cue to go on again."

He was infinitely patient. He restrained his wild impetus to rush to the theatre. He hung about the streets. He meant to stage-manage his effect with discretion. He waited some time after the theatre was closed. Then, very slowly, he walked in the direction of her flat. As he mounted the stairs, he began to realise that he was very exhausted. He wished that he had not foregone his dinner. However, after the first rapturous meeting with Diane, he would take a glass of wine. Very quietly he slipped the key in the lock, and let himself in. (He had always had a key of Diane's flat, which was in effect his flat.) Directly he had passed the door he heard loud sounds of laughter. He swore inwardly. How aggravating! Diane had brought home some of her friends! There were evidently a good many of them, from the noise and ribaldry. In the passage were several bottles and glasses. He crept along silently to the portière concealing the salon. He could hear Diane's voice. She was speaking, and between each sentence the company screamed with laughter. Ah! she was entertaining them with one of her famous imitations. He stood there and listened. He made a tiny crack in the curtain and peeped through. Diane was doing a funny little strut, and speaking in a peculiar way. He listened and watched for three or four minutes before he realised the truth of what he saw and heard. And when he did realise it, he had to exert his utmost will-power to prevent himself from fainting.

The person that Diane was imitating was— himself!

The realisation seemed to be bludgeoned into him, assisted by a round of ironic cheers. People were calling out:

"Brava! brava! Diane!"

He heard Babette say:

"Where is the little end-of-a-man?"

And Diane's voice reply:

"Oh, he is coming back soon, I believe. I forget when."

A man's voice— he believed it was the Marquis de Lavernal's— exclaimed:

"And when is our Diane going to marry it?"

Diane, very emphatically:

"Do not distress yourself, my dear; he's lost all his money."

A roar of laughter drowned conversation, and Paul groped his way along the passage, still clutching the red berries. He reached the door. Then he re-considered the matter. He crept back to her bedroom. He placed the berries under the coverlet, and taking a sheet of paper, he wrote one word on it: "Good-bye."

He placed this on the berries, and then stole out into the night.

Paul was then twenty-two, and his life was finished. He was a crushed and broken man. He wandered the streets of Paris all night. He spent hours grimly watching the enticing waters of the Seine, the friend and comforter of so many broken hearts. At dawn he returned to his own apartment. He slept for several hours, and then woke up in a fever. He was very ill for some weeks.

But one must not despair for ever. At the end of that time, he pulled himself together, and went out and sought employment. He eventually got a situation as a junior clerk in a wholesale stores, and he went back to live at the old pension near the Luxembourg, and he resumed his friendship with Lucile. And in two years' time he married Lucile. And then his life began. His life began. His life began. And lo! here was Lucile walking slowly up the hill, arm in arm with her daughter Louise. Yes, his life began....

"AH! THERE YOU ARE! What did I say?" exclaimed Louise. "He's been asleep!"

"And we've had such an interesting time," added Madame Roget, panting with exertion. "We've been to the inn."

"And there's such a pretty girl there," continued the daughter. "You'd fall in love with her, papa."

"Is she very dark?" asked Monsieur Roget.

"Yes; she has blue-black hair and beautiful dark eyes."

"Good God!"

"I knew he would be interested. She gave us some milk, and she has been telling us her story. She's quite young, and she owns the inn, although it's very hard work to run it, she says. She only has one woman and a potman. Her mother was a famous actress, who made a lot of money and bought the inn and improved it. She died when Mademoiselle was fifteen."

"Who was her father?"

"I don't know. I rather gather that her father was a bad lot. He died, too."

"How old is she?"

"Not much more than twenty."

"Then her mother must have been thirty-nine when she died."

"What makes you say so?"

"Of course she must have been. What happened to the old man?"

"What old man?"

"Her grandfather."

"What are you talking about, papa? I don't believe you're quite awake yet."

"She must have had a grandfather. Everybody has a grandfather."

"Well, of course. But—"

"Then he must be either dead or alive."

"How tiresome you are! We must be going. The others are waiting for us lower down the hill."

Monsieur Roget struggled to his feet, and shook the little dead fronds of fern from his clothes, and his wife dusted him down behind.

"We shall be going back past the inn," she said.

"The inn! Why can't we go the other way? The way we came?"

"Don't be so absurd. What does it matter? The others are awaiting us."

They went slowly down the hill, and came in sight of the "Moulin d'Or."

"Isn't it disgusting," remarked Louise, "how these speculative builders are always spoiling these old inns?"

"I don't see it's spoilt," answered her father petulantly.

"You are ridiculous, papa! Anyone can see the inn isn't half so nice as it was."

As they approached the forecourt of the inn, a girl came out carrying a pail. She had dark eyes, blue-black hair, and a swinging carriage. Yes, yes, there was no doubt about it. She was the spit and image of her mother.

As she approached she smiled pleasantly, and said:

"Good evening, mesdames; a pleasant journey. Good evening, monsieur."

The ladies returned a friendly greeting, and Monsieur Roget suddenly turned to the girl and said:

"Is your grandfather alive or dead?"

She continued smiling, and replied:

"I do not remember my grandfather, monsieur."

No, perhaps not; it was thirty-seven years ago, and old Couturier was an old man then. Perhaps not.

"Papa, can't you see she's going to the well to fetch water? Why don't you offer to help her?"

"Eh? No, I'm not going. Let her fetch it herself!"

"Papa!"

They walked on in silence till well out of hearing, when Louise exclaimed:

"Really, papa, I can't understand you. So ungallant! It's not like you. You ought to have offered to fetch the water for her, even if she refused."

"Eh? Oh, no! I wasn't going. Very dangerous. You might fall down and sprain your ankle. Oh, no! Or she might fall down, or something. It's very slippery up there by the well. You're not going to get me to do it. Let her fetch her own water. Oh, no! no, no, no, no!"

"Louise, dear," remarked Madame Roget. "Let us hurry. Your father is most queer. I always warn him, but it is no good. If he sleeps in the afternoon he always gets an indisposition."

____________

20: The Black Cat

Fred M. White

1859-1935

The Sunday Times, (WA)  6 Sep 1903

FROM the East Kent Standard:—

A TRAGIC affair, resulting in the death of Mr. Mortimer Colles, the well-known scientist, took place at Reculvers on Monday. It appears that the deceased gentleman and his friend, Mr. Philip Lyne, Professor of Physics at University College, were making a series of experiments on heat with the aid of magnifying glasses. Whatever the peculiar nature of the experiment might be matters little. In the course of the proceedings it became necessary for the two gentlemen to separate, Mr. Colles proceeding some six hundred yards away from his companion in the direction of the sea, the whole business taking place on the cliff.

Nobody appeared to be moving, the cliff line thereabouts being particularly flat, sterile and uninteresting. It would have been difficult for a rabbit to pass without notice. On the verge of the cliff towards which Mr. Colles made his way stand the ruins of a martello tower. The tower is not more than six feet high, and nothing but the bare circular walls remain. At this moment the passing of the sun behind a cloud checked the progress of the trifling experiment. Doubtless in a fit of idle curiosity, Mr. Colles peered into the tower. Ten minutes elapsed, and he failed to emerge. Naturally Mr. Lyne grew somewhat impatient. After hailing his friend without avail, he entered the tower, and thereupon was horrified to find Mr. Colles lying there dead, his throat cut from ear to ear in three distinct places. The clothes of the deceased were torn from his shoulders, or rather cut off in some strange fashion. Death must have been instantaneous. An inquest will be held in due course.

The inquest connected with the above case was held at the Lion Hotel, Reculvers, on Tuesday evening. After evidence of identification and the usual official routine, Mr. Philip Lyne was called.

Questioned by the Coroner, he said that he had known deceased many years. He had always been regarded as a genial and entertaining man, and one, moreover, of great physical and mental strength.

The Coroner: Was Mr. Colles as cheerful lately as usual?

The witness replied that he was bound to say no. He had every reason to believe that the deceased gentleman was worried over a knotty problem of considerable scientific importance, and that he had complained of want of sleep. The nerves of an imaginative man were easily upset.

Dr. Heather was the next witness called. He deposed to the nature of the wounds, and was emphatic in his declaration that they could not have been self-inflicted.

By the Coroner: Were they all fatal wounds?

Witness: Undoubtedly. The cartoid artery was severed in three places. The deep slashes across the throat might have been planned out with a ruler and compass, so mathematically regular were they.

The Coroner: Done with some sharp instrument, doubtless?

Witness: Not particularly sharp. The wounds gave me the impression of having been inflicted by a dull razor handled by some one who possessed great muscular force. More I cannot say. I am strongly of opinion that this is a case of murder, and that this is not the first time an attempt to take the life of the deceased has been made.

The Coroner: You see the importance of proceeding further?

Dr. Heather: Quite so, sir. On examining the body the right breast of the deceased reveals three longs scars, healed some time ago, but evidently the remains of deep scars. There are three of them and the lines have the same mathematical regularity of those which subsequently resulted in death.

The Coroner: Can you tell us any more?

Witness: Unfortunately no. I am as hopelessly fogged as anybody else.

At the conclusion of the inquiry, which lasted upwards of four hours, the jury brought in a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.

TWO YEARS PASSED away, and the public had forgotten the tragic death of Mortimer Colles; indeed, I trust I shall not be accused of callousness when I confess that I had almost forgotten it myself. It remained for Benham Carter to bring the matter back vividly.

He had written to me proposing a visit, with a corollary to the effect that the offer was off provided I had taken to myself a wife in the meantime. The proper assurances being vouchsafed, Carter came in due course. On the very first evening over the walnuts and the wine Colles's name came up.

"It was a great shock to me when I heard it in Paris," said Carter. "I was very fond of Colles. And the poor fellow died before his great discovery could be made public. What a thousand pities!"

"Did you know anything of it?" I asked eagerly.

"No I didn't, I'm sorry to say. Colles promised to tell me everything when he had worked it out to his satisfaction. He dragged me from Wady Halfa to Paris by way of Rome and Berlin searching for Stemitz, the eminent authority on bacteria, whom he desired to see. Give me the details of his death."

I responded at considerable length. Long before I had finished Carter had moved from his seat and was pacing up and down the room.

"Phil," he asked suddenly, "how far is it from here to Reculvers? Could we drive over to-morrow and inspect the scene of the murder?"

"We could— certainly; but what good would that do?"

Carter came over and tapped me significantly on the shoulder.

"To-morrow night," he said impressively, "if things are as I assume them to be, I shall tell how and by what means our friend Colles met with his death."

"You mean to say you know the man?" I cried.

"I am practically certain. I have been face to face with the murderer," said Carter. "No wonder the police have failed to solve the problem. This thing is outside their ken entirely."

Carter's eyes sparkled, and he laughed in a creepy kind of way vastly unpleasant to the ordinary listener. Then he turned to me abruptly.

"The more I think of it the more certain am I that I have solved the mystery," he said. "To-morrow I shall know definitely. Still, so sure of my ground am I, that if you like I will tell you the first volume of the romance this evening. What do you say?"

That my reply was an eager affirmative goes without saying.

"Then I will begin," said Carter, as he proceeded to light one of his peculiar ill-flavored cigars. "It is some two years and odd months ago that Colles came to me with the information that he had made a discovery. We had pushed on some way up the valley of the Nile— we were quite alone— in fact we were prospecting in the idle fashion of men taking a holiday. Colles had wandered off alone from our little camp only to return in the evening in a state of considerable excitement.

" 'Carter,' he said, 'I have found the tomb of King Ramin.'

"Now, as you are probably aware, Colles was not in the habit of making rash statements. Neither need I enlarge to you upon the importance of the discovery. The next morning found us in the little valley where stood the pyramids— a miniature copy of the great pyramids— after which Colles proceeded to adduce reason why the pile contained the ashes of King Ramin. The arguments were cogent enough to convince any Egyptologist.

" 'And what do you propose to do now?' I asked.

" 'Make the best of our opportunity and explore the place,' Colles responded. 'We'll burgle the tomb and ask permission afterwards if necessary.'

"At the end of an hour we had loosened the stones that sealed the entrance, Colles's unerring judgment picking this out at once, and then we proceeded to crawl along the dark tunnel leading to the heart of the pyramid. Instead of being close and stuffy, the air was quite fresh and sweet.

"When we reached the central chamber the reason for this became apparent. The apex of the pyramid had been left open, so that a circular shaft of light struck down and faintly illuminated the place. On a raised stone pile was a kind of brazen cage, and under this there rested, swathed and bandaged what is known to be the body of King Ramin. What a find! Colles' eyes fairly blazed as he regarded the illustrious mummy.

" 'We must have these at any cost!' he muttered.

"Meanwhile I was gazing somewhat curiously around me. One thing that struck me as peculiar was the number of rats creeping like brown shadows over the floor. How did they get there, and still more pregnant question, how did they manage to exist? I could only account for it by the suggestion that there were small unseen egresses from the pyramids which we had not noticed.

"I could get Colles to take no interest in anything but the illustrious mummy inside the brazen cage. Already he had commenced a vigorous attack upon the stonework into which the metal was welded, and in a short time it was possible to move the brazen sarcophagus from its place.

"I was bending forward to assist in this operation when with a loud hiss something big and black and furry shot past me with the force of a catapult, and landed lightly on the summit of the cage.

"It was a huge black cat, Lyne, the biggest I have ever seen. It was certainly as large as a collie dog, and then I recognised that the mystery of the skeleton was solved. The animal that confronted us with almost devilish menace must have been born and bred in the pyramid, the descendant of a pair doubtless placed there thousands of years ago.

" 'A dangerous and repulsive brute,' said Colles. 'Just as well to see if there are any more before proceeding further.'

"A careful investigation failed to discover another cat. As we returned to our charge, the brute on the cage hoisted her tail and swore horribly. Colles shot out his arm, and like lightning she was upon it. I was fairly quick with my knife which I promptly buried in the creature's body, but not before she had torn Colles' coat into ribands as if severed with scissors. Then the creature dropped with an almost human cry of pain and vanished into the darkness.

"At the end of an hour the tablets were in Colles' possession. They were indeed a precious find, far the most important ever discovered. In the excitement of the moment, I had almost forgotten that fiend of a cat, and as I live, at the minute Colles laid hand on those tablets, a long howl came out of the darkness, and I saw two great eyes glow like coals.

" 'Clap the stone to, and shut the brute in,' said Colles, when at length we emerged from the tomb. 'It seems to have got on my nerves. We'll just do our best to make the place look as if it had not been disturbed. This find is too precious to be spoken of this side of Cairo.'

"Needless to say I heartily agreed. At the end of an hour we removed all traces of our work, and well pleased turned towards our camp. By this time we had forgotten all about the black cat when Colles happened to give an involuntary glance behind him."

" 'Look here,' he said, 'give the beast one with your revolver.' Sure enough some 30 yards behind us was the black cat.

"A spasm of rage possessed me. I fired two shots at a fair range, and I saw a black mass of fur bound into the air and roll over into the feather grass along the side of the track.

" 'He's settled, thank goodness,' said Colles."

WE DROVE over to Reculvers the next morning, and there we made a close examination of the scene of the mystery, resulting in Colles' lamentable death. Carter left no stone unturned, he asked a thousand questions, he paced off the distance for some hundred yards round the Martello Tower, after which he finally strode away in the direction of the cliffs.

"Are you perfectly satisfied?" I asked.

"That everything is correct, yes," Carter responded without hesitation. "I am absolutely certain of it. Can we get down these cliffs?"

"Certainly not for quite half a mile either way," I said.

"All the same, I'm going to try," said Carter. "These chalk cliffs are a bit dangerous, but I am skilled at this sort of thing. I am a light weight, and I shall come to no harm. Don't be anxious about me."

Still I was anxious till Carter returned. And I was glad to see him safe on terra firma again. There was a subdued but certain triumph on his face that aroused my curiosity. My inquisitional nerve remained on the stretch till after dinner.

It was with a feeling of relief almost that I saw Carter light one of his unspeakable cigars and lean back in his Chair.

"You are doubtless on tenterhooks to hear the completion, of my story," he began. "I should have confided it to you last night, only I could not be absolutely certain of the facts as I am now."

"Then no doubt any longer exists?" I asked.

"None whatever," Carter replied emphatically. "I have solved absolutely beyond question the mystery of poor Colles's death, and the evidence to clinch it I discovered during my climbing expedition this morning.''

"Go on, go on," I cried impatiently.

" 'Festina lente,' old man. Before going on I shall have to retrace my steps a little; in fact, I shall have to go back to the time in Paris when I joined Colles, when he was hunting Stemitz. We were staying in a small, old-fashioned hotel not far from the Rue de Rivoli, as both Colles and myself have a rooted dislike to the modern 'Caravanserai.'

"The place was dark and somewhat gloomy. Indeed, along the corridors and in the big dingy bedrooms a score of murders might have been committed with impunity. Colles and I were going upstairs one evening when we found on the landing a waiter or two with a couple of chambermaids simmering with excitement. The cause of the hubbub was found to be the invasion of the house by a huge back cat, which finally had been driven out on the roof by a courageous garçon.

" 'But, such an awful brute, monsieur,' said the chambermaid. 'As big as a dog, ma foi, and eyes like pale blue saucers. It must have escaped from the show.'

"'We must lay a trap for the creature,' I said, 'and see that next time we don't make a mistake.'

"I sat on the edge of my bed a little later, lighted a cigar and fell into a reverie. Just as my cigar had burnt down to my fingers and I was drawing the last fragrant whiff, I was startled by a queer, strangled scream. Almost before I could rise to my feet the sound came again. Then I recognised both the voice and the direction of the cry.

"They came unmistakeably from Colles's bedroom!

"Like a flash I tore across the corridor and burst open Colles's door. Colles, stripped to his pyjamas, lay upon his bed fighting and clutching at some black object rolled upon his chest.

" 'For heaven's sake, hurry,' he gurgled. 'You'll find my revolver under my pillow. The brute's throttling me.'

"Directly I had that weapon in my hand the cat jumped to the floor, swearing horribly. It came as a great relief to me to find that Colles was not greatly injured.

"The loss of blood was not much to speak of, but Colles was shivering and trembling, his face had the ghastly, blue look of one who has received a great shock, and, as you know, Colles was anything but a coward.

"Colles was not able to leave Paris for a day or two, and in the intervening hours we discussed the black cat from every point of view. How the brute had contrived to follow Colles to Paris was not so much of a mystery after all. A cat can find its way anywhere. It could travel easily on the axle of a railway engine, in the darkness it could easily slink aboard a steamer, and live on the mice and rats in the ship's hold. That part of the problem we had no difficulty in solving.

"I did not accompany Colles to London because you already know I had business elsewhere. I said good-bye to my friend, and his last words were that I should never see him again. I began to fancy so myself when the day before I left Paris I had a brief cable from Colles:—

" 'Saw it night Hyde Park. Goodbye, old friend.' "

"The black cat killed Colles?" I asked.

"Assuredly. The brute had followed you on that fateful morning. It must have been lurking behind the Martello tower. A crouching cat does not occupy much room, you understand. Once Colles entered the ruined tower his fate was sealed. That cat must have dropped right on his shoulders, and with those razor-like claws cut his throat in three places, severing the carotid artery instantly. Don't you remember that there were three parallel cuts, exactly similar to those healed ones on the body."

Mine was the silence of consent, and Carter continued.

"At the inquest you stated that you saw, or fancied you saw, a shadow flitting over the cliffs. That shadow was the black cat. To be quite sure of that I made a close investigation of the spot where the murder took place. I even descended the cliffs, and there I was lucky enough to make a remarkable discovery. What do you think it was?"

"My dear fellow, how could I possibly tell?"

"Well, it was nothing more nor less than the skeleton of the black cat."

_______________

21: A Deep Water Dude

Capt. A. E. Dingle

1879-1947

Blue Book, Oct 1917

NEW crews usually fell into the error of judging Mr. Hopkins by outward appearance. He certainly showed none of the earmarks of an efficient chief mate. But a new crew always awoke abruptly to a sense of error within twenty-four hours of picking watches.

Captain Bruce, the new skipper of the full-rigged ship Hankau, was not very favorably impressed with Mr. Hopkins at first; his doubts had given place to a comfortable feeling of implicit confidence, at the precise moment when the illusions of the crew also vanished. At the end of the first week at sea, Captain Bruce had to admit that never before had he seen so perfectly exemplified the old sea saw: a place for everything, and everything in its place. And the fo'c'stle crowd, not yet realizing the why of it, grumblingly conceded: "That perishin' rag-bag uv a mate shorely does get a ruddy pile uv work outa the hands wit'out croakin' nobody!"

And the crew's concession was right —both ends of it. The mate did get an amazing amount of work done; and he was a rag-bag. Mr. Hopkins' personal slovenliness, contrasting so startlingly with his rigid rule of neatness and precision about the vessel's gear, contrasted yet more jarringly with the personal habits of Captain Bruce— to such an extent, in fact, that, in spite of the sailorly qualities of the mate, and the equally patient navigating ability of the skipper, a barrier of mutual contempt was raised between them— until the scurvy came and revealed both in a truer light.

THE comparison between Captain Bruce and his chief officer may best be made as they stand on the poop, ten paces apart, ogling the sun a moment before noon to get a meridian altitude. And the keen observer will not wonder at the grin of relish on the face of the man at the wheel.

Mr. Hopkins stood on widely spread legs, as is the old seat style, his shoulders hunched, a gnarled fist clutching the sextant index as it might a marlinspike, his face puckered painfully, his body swaying clumsily to the lift of the deck. His disreputable old cheese-cutter cap was jammed down upon his head with the peak behind, and a wisp, or rope-yarn, of hay-colored hair that looked as if it had never known a brush hung straight down from the band of his cap to the junction of his ragged eyebrows. His rusty old Cardigan jacket met at the waist-line a pair of greasy, tarry, shapeless trousers, which in turn almost met a pair of faded carpet-slippers. The intervening inches served to display to more or less advantage a pair of bony ankles, as ugly, and as powerful, as twin camel legs.

Captain Bruce certainly looked as though he had dropped out of the clouds into the wrong ship. Slim, handsome of features, with almost boyish grace of figure, he was dressed with the .exactness of a battle-ship's commander receiving a visit from the Secretary of the Navy. His sextant glittered with every new attachment known to nautical science; he handled it with the delicacy of an old-time watchmaker adjusting the striking mechanism of a fivehundred-dollar repeater.

His uniform cap lay on the skylight ; one glove lay inside the upturned rim, and its fellow still adorned the Captain's right hand; one immaculately shod foot rested easily on the lower bar of the poop-rail, and his body responded to the ship's motion as if an intimate part of the fabric. In one sleeve was tucked a spotless white linen handkerchief ; from the breast pocket of his smart jacket protruded a goodly corner of another kerchief of tastefully colored silk, with which, in the intervals of his occupation, he fastidiously flicked wholly imaginary specks of dust from his glossy patent-leather shoes.

"MAKE eight bells, Mr. Hopkins," desired the skipper, as the sun commenced to dip, and both sextants registered the fact simultaneously. The mate motioned to an apprentice, who replied by banging out four double strokes on the poop bell and promptly scuttling down the ladder and into the half-deck where his dinner awaited him. The Captain carefully clamped fast the index of his instrument, placed his cap as carefully upon his head, picked up his glove and moved toward the cabin companionway. The second mate appeared as the last stroke of the bell died away, and Mr. Hopkins gave him the course and prepared to follow his commander below. Captain Bruce waited until the two mates were together, then remarked softly:

"Mr. Hopkins— and you too, Mr. Jones— I wish you to understand that discipline is most desirable, even in a sailing vessel. You have men enough; the ship's work is carried out satisfactorily; but— there is no reason that I know for the boys' leaving the deck before they are relieved, and no reason why the forecastle bell should not be struck immediately the poop bell sounds the time. Please see to these things, gentlemen." :

He disappeared down the stairs, and Mr. Jones' chubby visage swelled like a big red apple, bursting with restrained merriment. Mr. Hopkins slowly laid his sextant down, plucked off his cap, and dashed it on the deck. Then he stuck both hands into his trousers pockets, and swore in utter disgust.

"Thirty year, man an' boy, I been a-sailin' in deep water, and not never, by no means wuz I ever spoke to that fashion! I come aboard by the hawsepipe, I did, Mr. Jones, and 'ammered me way aft on me own 'ook, and I knows how to make this old hooker sail, no matter whether 'er bloomin' fo'c'stle bell's struck proper or not! What in thunder do that siggify !"

"It does sound sort of funny, just now," replied Mr. Jones, who well knew the rugged worth of his senior as a seaman, "But I suppose skippers like Captain Bruce will be plentiful enough presently, now the great clipper-ship firms have turned their vessels into training-ships for officers. When we salt-horse disciples get used to it, a bit more order aboard wont hurt. Already you can see some result from the skipper's ideas, in polished brass-work and things like that; and the notion of giving the men Saturday afternoon to make and mend and wash clothes, navy-style, hasn't damaged the ship's appearance at all, that I can see."

Mr. Jones had profited by his commander's example more than he was aware of. As he concluded, he brushed an invisible atom from the sleeve of his jacket, and his eyes roved unconsciously over the untidy form of the mate. That worthy picked up his sextant again and slouched off below to get his dinner, growling sullenly:

"Silk 'ankercher and shiny shoes! Brass buttons, and gloves, and please strike the bloomin' fo'c'stle bell prompt, Mr. 'Opkins! And when we gets a 'owlin' teazer, strike me blue if I don't think as Captain Bloomin' Bruce'll bend a humbereller! Trainin' sailors! And polishin' brass-work in a bloomin' deepwater heart-breaker!"

AT the dinner-table in the comfortable little cuddy, the revolutionary ideas of the new skipper were still more apparent. The steward's sallow face shone with soap; a symmetrical curl of hair was carefully plastered to his forehead with more soap; he wore a neat black alpaca jacket and black shoes; his hands were clean.

The Captain too had performed a complete toilet before taking his seat at the head of the table; he used a napkin without embarrassment, and appeared to experience no trouble in avoiding the use of his knife as a shovel for provender. And though he cast a disapproving glance at the mate's soiled and tumbled ensemble, he studiously refrained from remarking upon either that or the mate's more intimate professional duties. Instead, he conducted a chatty discussion, almost a monologue, on star navigation, great-circle sailing, compasserror, and the like.

Only when Mr. Hopkins entered the Captain's room with his worked-up observation for comparison, after dinner, did Captain Bruce touch on a subject very near his heart. He offered his cigar-box, and reaching over to his bunk, pulled out a new Cardigan jacket.

"I wish you would take this, Mr. Hopkins," he said, proffering the jacket. "It's a new one—one of half a dozen I bought when I joined my last ship as mate—and I've never used it. You may find it useful."

"Much obliged, sir, but I aint in want o' noo clo'es," growled the mate, declining to touch the offering. 'The mate of a windjammer aint got no time to be a dude, not if he looks arter his work as he oughter. Give it to Jones, sir. He's beginnin' to take more interest in the set uv his pants than he do in the set uv a tawps'l."

FOR a fleeting instant the Captain's face clouded, a red patch appeared at each cheek-bone, and his lips parted slightly over clenched teeth. Then he raised his eyes to the mate's face, and saw there the same thing that every new crew saw, sooner or later, mostly sooner: the eyes, pin-points of steely fire, set in a mesh of weather-wrinkles, that hinted at volcanic power and also told of a supreme self-confidence that rarely had to rely on a display of that power. Captain Bruce's face slowly melted in a smile; he folded the jacket very exactly, laid it carefully on the bed and began to compare the mate's calculation of the ship's position with his own, remarking quietly: "Yes; the younger generation of officers are beginning to see the possibilities of their profession, Mr. Hopkins. They, as a rule in these fast-moving days, look forward to something better than life in these old sailing ships, excellent schools though they undoubtedly are. "I don't hold the opinion that a smart uniform makes a smart seaman; but neither will I believe that it is necessary for a man to neglect his personal appearance in order to be a good officer. I've always found that a man can handle an emergency as well in a clean collar as without."

The skipper picked up a handsome pair of binoculars, and pointed to an inscription thereon, which expressed. the appreciation of a foreign government to Captain Bruce for his courage and resource in saving the crew of a gale-battered ship.

"Huh! snorted Mr. Hopkins, picking up his calculations and making for the door. "I got three o' them in my cabin, right now, and I never wore a collar at sea in me life, sir!" Then he vanished, muttering beneath his breath.

It was no idle boast of the mate's. He did possess those tributes to his seamanship; and though he did not admit, or, indeed, know it, only his slovenliness of person had made it impossible for admirers of his qualities to. establish him well on the road to the top of his profession. After quitting the Captain's cabin, he shut himself up in his own berth and prayed for dirty weather, which he heartily hated, in order that he might show this gingerbread skipper that other things went into the make-up of a seaman besides brass buttons and shiny shoes and yellow gloves.

THE foul weather was long in coming, but when it came, it came all of a heap, as seamen say. After several days of calms and baffling zephyrs, and a sultriness of atmosphere that pressed upon the body like too much air in a diving-suit, a fresh breeze blew out of the north, bringing with it a haze that blotted out the moon. Along with the breeze, too, rolled up a heavy swell from the eastward, combining with the forerunning heave brought by the wind to tumble the sea into hideous confusion.

By night the breeze had veered to east, and was blowing a gale. Through two watches, in which all hands plunged at the heels of the mates from task to task, Mr. Hopkins reveled in his opportunity. From single-reefing the topsails, he drove the harried crew to the harder job of close-reefing them— thence, without a let-up, as the gale increased with truly awful swiftness, to the herculean labor of furling the main- and mizzen-courses, and reefing the foresail. And still further, up to the point where the old Hankau lay to under a goose-winged main-topsail, with a vicious cross sea breaking aboard and giving a precarious tenure on life to every man, the mate's disheveled figure was to be seen, leading the way to every rope that required a pull. His ancient oilskins flapped in the wind, unrestrained by buttons, the makeshift ropeyarns long carried away; disdaining a sou'wester, he bound his old cheesecutter cap down to his chin by half a fathom of flat sennit; jets of water squirted from his rusty old sea-boots at every squelching step. Yet through. it all his eyes shone with the enthusiasm of a true salt ; he knew exactly what was to be done, without waiting for any specific orders ; when the last man dropped from aloft, and the last rope was coiled and securely made up on the pin, clear of the weltering deck, Mr. Hopkins knew that he had done well. He cast a last glance around before bidding the watch go below, and clawed his way aft, muttering with grim satisfaction:

"Now let's see what Shiny Shoes has to say! I bet his bloomin' humbereller's blowed hinside out— if he aint curled up in his bunk!"

AS the ship plunged bows under, lifting her stern high on the crown of a thundering surge, he caught one glimpse of a figure aft that made him dash a grimy fist across brine-rheumed eyes in blank unbelief. It was a solitary figure. When the gale struck down, two men had been needed at the kicking wheel: now there was none. Clad in faultless black oilskin coat, glistening with wet, buttoned close around the neck and meeting the flaps of a snug sou'wester that fitted like a made-to-measure silk hat, his sure, firm legs incased in shapely rubber boots, Captain Bruce stood at perfect ease, peering fair into the eyes of the storm, his face as void of anxiety as when he would shake out the folds of a clean table-napkin at dinner.

A forty-ton gray-back slopped over the rail, making the ship quiver right down to the keelson, and the mate leaped up the ladder as the hissing crest licked at his boots. He expected to see the skipper dash madly to the unattended wheel; he himself darted aft, fearful that the ship would be-cast on her beam-ends. Neither of his expectations was fulfilled. Instead, the ship came up handsomely, shook herself like a great sea-dog, and fell to bowing the seas again. Captain Bruce advanced to meet the mate, with a hand extended, and a smile of honest approbation on his face.

"Good work, Mr. Hopkins," he shouted, gripping the mate's fist. "Never saw a ship snugged down in smarter style, or quicker. Is it your watch below, or Mr. Jones'?"

"Don't matter much, do it?" bawled the mate, still gazing in amaze at the untended wheel. "Wont be no watch below for either of us till this blows out, I s'pose. And, beggin' yer pardin, sir, she aint a-goin' to stay on top long if she's left to herself. I knows this old cow !"

This was the moment to show this theoretical, training-ship, brass-bound, deep-water dude that seaman's sense outweighed in actual test all the newfangled schoolroom nonsense ever brcught to sea in the noddle of a dreamer. But if Mr. Hopkins hoped to shake this queer skipper's sublime confidence in himself, his hope was shattered. Captain Bruce smiled indulgently and waved a hand backward toward the steering-gear, in mute invitation to the mate to satisfy himself as to the ship's safety.

It required but a glance of his keen seaman's eye to convince Mr. Hopkins that in this case, at least, theory put into practice left little to be desired. He also realized, with something of a shock, the length of time the job of snugging down had taken, for the skipper must have rigged his elaborate relievingtackle single-handed in order to spare both helmsmen to assist in the heavier work. And, since he knew that the small, powerful bronze blocks, and the fine, flexible wire ropes had formed no part of the ship's equipment, it was evident that the strange apparatus belonged to the Captain, and doubtless was rigged according to some new idea of his own.

And as he noted how the tiller was allowed just so much play on either side, how easily the tackles rave through the blocks, with what infallibility a heavier swing of the ship's bows to windward was met by an extra half-foot of tiller-sweep, given with stubborn resistance by two twelve-inch cylinders, no bigger than pieces sawed from a handspike, which connected the tackle hooks with the ringbolts, he felt some of the admiration that an honest man feels for another man's achievement.

"WELL, what d'you think of it, Mr. Hopkins?" smiled the skipper as the mate rose from his scrutiny. "Successful— eh? Just watch that now !"

"That" was a mile-long sea that seemingly had traveled ten miles out of its way for the express purpose of breaking right under the Hankau's laboring bilge. Its crest roared aboard, tearing away all three sheer-poles to windward, and filling the streaming decks waistdeep; the body of the sea passed under the ship, giving her a tilt over to leeward that sent the deck water thundering in the same direction, burying the dee rail in a smother of whirling fury.

The Hankau shivered and lay down. The thrill of her stress quivered along her length from stem-head to sternpost as she fought to come up to the wind. The mate looked along the waist, then at Captain Bruce, whose attitude remained unruffled. Presently the fabric of the ship shuddered more violently ; her bows struggled up to windward with a slow, rhythmic sweep, until the main-topsail shook, she lost way and steadily fell off again into her old steady motion.

"Well, what d'you think of it?"

Mr. Hopkins resumed his old attitude of antagonism at the query. That pretty invention might do very well until something parted; but in such a hell-broth of elements as now beset the ship he preferred to rely on the oldfashioned notions.

"Huh!" he snorted ungraciously. "She'd do just as well with a becket over the wheel, an' me or Mr. Jones a-watchin' of 'er. That gadget of shiny blocks and dinky wires is only fit for a model yacht on a park pond. It's my watch, and, by yer leave, sir, I'll call a hand to the wheel!"

THE breeze lasted three days; three howling days in which black seas rolled up like mad battalions under a sky of steely gray; when hissing foamcrests were picked up in lumps, not spray, and volleyed against the ship's stout sides with a noise like sand upon iron. And during the whole anxious spell, that astounding skipper kept the deck, growing, perhaps, a trifle grayer under the eyes as watch succeeded watch; a trifle haggard, maybe, about the pink cheeks of him; but alert, smiling, utterly at ease.

The mates relieved each other, as did the watches, at the Captain's peremptory command: he would not hear of all hands being kept about the decks— uselessly, he said— when the ship was snug, and doing well. Mr. Jones made no secret of his admiration for this newschool commander; its expression in words was only limited by his vocabulary. And, in spite of himself, the surly mate fotind himself warming too, until he happened to come out of his berth into the main cabin just at the moment when Captain Bruce was donning a new, glossy oilskin coat, to replace his first one, which had received a small rent by flirting with a brass belaying-pin.

All the old contempt surged back into the mate's soul, in such volume as to completely overwhelm such grudging appreciation as had found lodgment there.. And it was increased, watch after watch, by Mr. Jones, perhaps unconsciously, trying to follow the skipper's example. But, far from feeling the force of the added example, Mr. Hopkins only experienced a deeper degree of bitterness. He still held stubbornly to the opinion that, clothes or rags, uniform or dungarees, he was worth the two of them when it came to a question of real seamanship. It remained for the climax of the gale to show unmistakably that Captain Bruce was a real two-handed sailor, and not a poop-ornament, clever in theory alone.

The third day of the storm found the decks roped fore-and-aft and athwartships, with life-lines, without holding to which no man could venture a fathom either way. Everything movable had long ago parted company with the ship and gone cruising on its own account. The galley and the booby-hatch alone, of objects that might be shifted, were yet held fast by double lashings to the ringbolts, and it seemed inconceivable that any force of water and wind could move those.

BUT the climax of the storm revealed a new resource of the elements; something as strange and terrifying to the hard-bitten mate as to his less experienced skipper. Broad to windward, the horizon lay glinting evilly under a pall of rolling, smoky clouds. Behind that pall the sun held sway. Its only effect upon the raging sea was to rule out a gleaming streak of blinding light that gave the impression of grinning teeth in the lipless mouth of some sardonic Imp of Hate.

Suddenly the brightness was obliterated as by a deluge of ink. A solid black wall seemed to detach itself from the tumbling ocean, and, reinforced by screaming cohorts from the wracked sky, swept down across the surges, straight toward the Hankau. And, as by magic, all the noises and shock of the straining vessel were silenced in one awful moment of anticipation. Mournful clank of scupper-ports, sullen crash of blocks upon spars, the distressed squeal of sturdy, overtaxed chain-sheets confining the fighting clews of the goosewinged main-topsail, the myriad tiny, protesting voices of the wood and steel structure, ceased with an abruptness that jarred. All giddy motion, too, was suspended; the Hankau came to an even keel and poised on the summit of a foamless breast of black-shining water that subtly rose, and rose, until she appeared to be leaving her element for good.

And, as that black wall advanced, other noises replaced those that were stilled. First was heard a dull, low moan, as of a beast in agony. Above it presently shrilled a chorus of rising shrieks, which blended with, but did not smother, a whirling, hissing, thrashing slap and whip of tormented sea. And now, within fifty fathoms of the ship, a milky head of boiling foam rushed forward at the base of the threatening black wall.

Captain Bruce gazed curiously at the weird sight, as at something he had long wished to experience. One of the watch on deck had come out of the lee galley door, where his mates were huddled to escape the flying wet. He sensed the imminent danger, took one scared look to windward and bolted back into the galley; and the clang of the iron door as he crashed it shut resounded like a signal gun. Mr. Hopkins alone appeared to realize the absolute peril in that. charging wall.

He flew to the wheel, cast off the turns of the skipper's fancy apparatus, and hove up the helm with all the power of his well-seasoned arms.

"Loose the fore-topmast-stays'l!" he bawled. "Show a corner of it! Round in weather-main-tops'l-brace! Shake a leg there! Hey! You—"

He turned toward the place where the Captain had stood, respecting no persons in the emergency, intent only upon the safety of the ship. The skipper.had vanished. Mr. Hopkins noticed the skipper's absence with a shiver of disgust. The brass-bound training-ship sailor had dived below, doubtless, to escape the catastrophe that might be met only by seamanship.

THEN came the crisis. That black wall of threat rushed over the last ten fathoms of watery waste like the coming of ultimate disaster. The whine and hiss and moan of it rose to a roar that made its previous efforts sound as a whisper of consolation to a dying man. And, in an avalanche of murderous malignity the sea poured aboard filling the decks to the rails, above which the masts alone spiked skyward to show that the ship still floated.

For two heartbreaking moments the mate fought with the stubborn wheel, to bring the ship's head away from the black death that threatened. In his heart he cursed the skipper, and all his works, to the ultimate degree of perdition, for educating a deep-water crew to uselessness. Sweat poured from him as he strove at that wheel; as far as he was able, he prayed that she would fall off under the sail she carried. No hope had place in his breast that his orders would be obeyed.

Then, as he fought, far forward in the enveloping murk he heard a crashing, and slatting, and volleying, that told a reassuring tale to his sailor's sense. Sail was loosed! Some one had ventured into the swirling hell of the forecastle-head, and loosed the only sail that could aid the ship.

Then, above all other sounds, he heard the rattle of hanks upon an iron stay; and a black cloud of canvas rose above the bows, tearing at its fastenings with vicious straining, to which the thrashing and hammering of sheet-blocks lent its note.

But the wheel was eased. The ship's head fell off before the blast, and the second mate dashed forward from his berth into the hurly-burly of the maindeck, and hauled men to the braces to square away the goose-winged topsail as the fore-topmast-staysail blew away in threads of useless cloth to leeward.

The next instant the decks were full of black fury. Sliding down the declivity of that terrific sea, the ship'rolled over, and over, until it seemed that she was bent upon spiking her masts into the ocean bed. But as she paid off, and pieces of the bulwarks tore from her, the decks were eased. She lightened herself from the overwhelming burden, and swept to the top of the next surge like the splendid old ship she was.

Now out of the welter forward a figure clawed its way, and came straight aft to where the mate fought at the wheel. Mr. Hopkins knew instinctively that this man was the one who had given the ship that corner of headsail, the only thing that could have saved her. But his jaw set grimly; his eyes hardened again, as he saw that figure halt at the top of the poop-ladder, draw the skirt of his oilskin coat around in front, and shake his head over a ragged tear in the hem of it.

"And if the bloomin' 'ooker drownd's 'erself," he muttered, "I bet 'e'll arsk to 'ave 'is perishin' pyjarmers pressed afore she goes!"

But, as he confided to Mr. Jones, that evening, when the ship was out of danger, and the mates resumed regular watches with no fear of interrupted sleep:

"I aint ezactly a sailor, Jones. Damfino wot to call it. But I can't say as 'e's useless, altogether. 'E loosed that bloomin' stays'l, and halfway set it, just when I wanted it; but I bet 'twas only from fright 'e done it. 'E can't a-done it out a seamanship!"

WHEN the gale had passed, as so often happens at sea, the Hankau had a respite in which her damages might be made good. Further than that, the winds became breezes, the breezes airs, the airs calms, and within five days of the height of her trial she swam idly on a glassy sea of running oil, under a copper sun, as if such a thing as wind only existed in the imaginations of fabulous navigators and ancient geographers.

For ten days she sat motionless upon the watery plain: ten days in which Captain Bruce put into practice all his newfangled ideas of shining brass-work, scouring paint, pipeclaying man-ropes, and rubbing down bright-work until: even the fo'c'stle hands grew weary of it. Ten days ensued of light, baffling airs, that dragged the arms out of the men hauling on braces to every shift of direction. This period the skipper thought propitious to install bo's'n's calls; every maneuver must be done, not shipshape and Bristol-fashion, but strict navy-style, to the shrill of the pipes. Through it all, too, Captain Bruce's personal appearance was immaculate. He changed his uniform religiously once a day; never was he seen on deck, or indeed below, without a jacket, and that jacket always met at the throat a spotless linen collar.

Mr. Jones followed his commander in these things, until dour Mr. Hopkins was charged to bursting with righteous indignation. He alone, of all the afterguard, looked the part of a storybook deep-water sailorman. His old Cardigan jacket grew more dilapidated, day by day; his ancient, greasy cheese-cutter cap acquired more grease, and an added droop of peak, in corresponding degrees as the Captain's ensemble attained higher brilliance.

Ten days of baffling airs were succeeded by two weeks more of stagnant calms. The ship was well to the westward, now, and the last spell of light breezes had carried her into that expanse of ocean bordering on the Caribbean Sea where calms or hurricanes attain their highest pitch of damnableness.

LONG before the two weeks were out, trouble came upon the Hankau that brought a shade even into the face of Captain Bruce. Two of the hands came aft, one broiling noon, and reported unfit for duty. Mr. Hopkins said, "Sojerin'!" But the skipper looked at the men, felt their arms, their legs, which responded like dough to the touch; glanced at their gums, which were swollen, parting from the teeth and bleeding, and uttered one word:

"Scurvy!"

By the first dog-watch, four more men showed the symptoms of the dreadful scourge of the sea, and the boys were turned out of the half-deck and sent into the forecastle, to leave their own quarters free for use as a hospital.

Here was yet another newfangled notion, which deepened the growl in Mr. Hopkins' throat. In all his years at sea, he had seen fo'c'stle scurvy cases treated as such: given the prescribed doses out of the medicine-chest, and permitted to recover or die in the squalid surroundings that were plenty good enough for the likes of them, in the opinion of most windjammer skippers.

And shock was piled upon shock. By morning, half the crew were down, and the mate waited in vain for'a relief at eight bells in the middle watch. When relief at last came, it was the skipper himself who came on deck, quietly imparting the news that Mr. Jones had developed scurvy spots. But the shock that really stagged Mr. Hopkins was the skipper's appearance.

The mate had almost become used to seeing Captain Bruce flick dust that wasn't there from clothes that shone from brushing. After that experience with the staysail in the gale, he had almost admitted the skipper's value as a real sailorman; in his inrier consciousness, be it said, Mr. Hopkins was all but ready to grovel at his commander's feet and cry him best, if only, for once, he could detect some untidiness that proclaimed him human.

But now, with half the crew not only out of business, but in dire straits, with the second mate gone under, too, and the hourly expectation of a booming breeze that would bring a call for full watches of men— this amazing man calmly relieved the deck, not only immaculately attired, but attired in a long white linen coat such as the mate had only seen when, years ago, he had been an inmate in some seaman's hospital.

"We must do the best we can, Mr. Hopkins," the skipper said, and a sad sort of smile accompanied the words. "I've made Mr. Jones as comfortable as possible; sent the cook into the port watch, to help out; told off the steward to handle both jobs— cook, y'know— and between us, you and I will keep watch and watch, and also keep an eye on the patients. :

"This unfortunate visitation is in a measure my fault. I've been so intent upon establishing a new régime in the ship, that I clean forgot to order the steward to commence issuing lime-juice, and nobody reminded me. But we'll manage. Go helow, now, Mr. Hopkins; and as you pass my room, take a dose of the medicine you'll find in a bottle in my glass-rack. We mustn't take any more chances."

MR. HOPKINS went below. The more he allowed himself to think, the greater his anger became. He poked his head inside the door of the Captain's room for an instant, then popped out again and opened the door of the second mate's cabin. He had no intention of permitting his stomach to become an experimental tank for a crazy skipper's weird notions; the bottle of medicine was left undisturbed.

Through the whole watch, when he should have slept, the mate heard at regular intervals the skipper's step as he visited Mr. Jones. During the last wakeful hour before breakfast, when sleep had fled utterly, and he ranged his small cabin, smoking his vile pipe, he stood frequently with his face glued to the little square window opening on to the main-deck. And, as seven bells were struck, he saw the skipper, in his long, surgeon's coat, enter the half-deck to minister to the needs of the stricken seamen.

The mate walked the poop with nervous steps, muttering through set teeth at what even so tough a sailor as he must call rank foolishness. But he saw that, in the rush of wearisome pulley-hauling incident to trimming the ship to her course, the skipper respected his own hands no more than those of Mr. Hopkins or the men. A rope must be swung upon— the skipper's weight was the first applied; a brace or sheet needed to be sweated in— Captain Bruce's hands were at the head of the pull.

And through it all, the scurvy patients lacked not a thing that might aid their cases. The steward was excused from attending them; it would help nothing at all to have him laid up with the scourge. Mr. Hopkins flatly refused to play nurse. To the skipper's hint that he might give an eye to the half-deck, while on watch, he had said:

"I'm a sailorman, Captain Bruce, and no sick-nurse, with respec' to you, sir. I'm willin' to stand double watches, and leave you free to play doctor. But I aint no hand at coddlin' sick sailors. They'd get well quicker, I say, if they wasn't treated like payin' patients."

CAPTAIN BRUCE shook his head, and the old soft smile flitted across his lined face. But he did not press his request. Mr. Hopkins found that watches were relieved with religious punctuality; the bell had never ceased to vibrate before the skipper was on deck to take his spell of deck duty. Further,— and it came upon him slowly, but none the less irresistibly,— the mate saw watch after watch of the Captain's rest time spent in arduous attentions upon whining, grumbling, sick sailors.

Yet, with the pitifully short-handed working force, it was but rarely that all hands were called.

Insidiously, and hard fought against, the suspicion crept into the mate's breast that he was playing a mean part. As watch followed watch, and the skipper grew more haggard, more gray and lined and fiery-eyed, and the ship sped to the south'ard under a press of sail that would lift the sticks out of her at the least increase of wind, Mr. Hopkins found himself nursing a feeling of resentment against himself. At every change of watches he was on the point of going up to Captain Bruce and blurting out a rough but sincere apology for his bearish behavior, and offering to take his turn in the hospital.

Each time the good resolution was half formed, it was killed at sight of some new neatness in the skipper. In spite of his worries, his sleepless days and nights, Captain Bruce's linen coats remained as spotless as had been his ordinary uniforms. And that point was truly the last obstacle to the mate's conversion to the gospel of personal pride.

"If 'e'd only wear aprons and frilly caps, an' bend on a little chain to his . belt wi' scissors, and a lookin'-glass, and a powder-rag, and say to me, 'Mister 'Opkins, you're the sailorman in command— I'm in charge o' the 'orsepital,' damme if I don't think I'd admire 'im!" growled the mate, for the twentieth time. But his growl was lacking in sincerity now— and he knew it. He couldn't watch that new-school commander, going uncomplainingly about a task brought about partly by his own forgetfulness, and sharing, too, in full degree, the hard toil of a short-handed ship, without seeing the man beneath the dude.

FINALLY there came the day when the second mate was able to stagger on deck for an hour's sunning; the day when the good, wholesome wind, besides blowing out of the ship the steamy dampness acquired in those days of stagnant calm, threatened to blow the t'gallant-masts into Brazil if the light sails were not speedily stowed.

With the appearance of Mr. Jones, in a fair way toward complete recovery, a little of the deathly weariness left the skipper's drawn face, and he rubbed his hands in satisfaction. Then his eye flashed aloft, and he unbuttoned his long white coat. It was the mate's watch, and as Captain Bruce carefully folded the linen garment, and laid it on the skylight, the second mate's pain-shot eyes followed his every movement.

"Have the royal halyards let go, Mr. Hopkins," said the skipper briskly. "We'll furl all three of them, now."

"Better take charge, sir," growled the mate, stepping toward the poop-ladder. "I'll bear a hand to stow 'em."

"No, no," replied the skipper, rolling up his trousers. "It's your watch. Let's have things shipshape, Mr. Hopkins. It'll wake me up to take a run aloft again."

With a queer expression on his dour face, the mate bawled his orders, and the royal-yards settled slowly, with the sails billowing beyond and above the slender spars. The lee-sheets were started, and the clews hauled up; one after the other the weather clews rattled to the yard-arms, and one man took the fore-rigging, another the main, to furl the sails. Captain Bruce, with a little laugh, lurched to the mizzen-rigging and caught a grip on the sheer-pole to help himself into the ratlines.

Mr. Hopkins took the wheel, to allow the helmsman to get forward and help his mates, and his mind was in a tumult at this new trick of the inexplicable skipper. Mr. Jones' voice brought him to the right-about in a flash.

"Hopkins! Catch him! Jump, man!"

The mate swung about in time to see Captain Bruce loose his grip on the shrouds, and sway dizzily. His eyes were closed; his face was ashen; his head sagged limply forward; and his hands, white-fingered and gripless, hung down at his sides.

Mr. Hopkins sprang to the rigging, saw the second mate crawl painfully to the wheel, then jumped onto the rail and seized the Captain's arm as he collapsed into a helpless heap and plunged from the rigging.

The helmsman had been arrested by the second mate's cry, and ran aft again to lend a hand. Between them, he and Mr. Hopkins got the skipper aboard and carried him down to his berth. Calling the steward to attend him, the mate hurried back on deck, where he found Mr. Jones hanging onto the wheel with a grip of desperation.

"Hey, Mr. Hopkins," gritted the second mate, "you get me a stool, or something to sit on. I can keep a trick now. I aint going to skulk in my bunk while a man like that shows the way to a man's work!"

"He must 'a' got giddy," remarked the mate, keenly inspecting his junior, to assure himself as to his fitness for duty. "He had no right to start up there. 'Nother of his new ideas, I s'pose."

"New ideas — giddiness — nothing! Hopkins, that man's spent every minute of his watch below for the past two days, watching over me! He's just plumb dead o' weariness, that's what! And you aint going to be any the worse a man if you get hold of some of his new ideas, as you call 'em!"

MR. HOPKINS went below, saw that the steward was doing all that was possible for the skipper, then slipped into his own cabin. Fifteen minutes later, the steward knocked at his door, and told him that Captain Bruce had recovered consciousness and wished to see him. And as he concluded his message, the steward looked harder at Mr. Hopkins, put a hand over his mouth and snickered audibly.

The mate's face was purple; his neck threatened to burst, as he struggled violently to bring together the points of a stiff collar that had lain in the tray of his chest since leaving port. The two ends of a flaming tie drooped artistically over either shoulder, and his breath came from his chest in stertorous blasts. But he showed no anger at the steward; rather his eyes twinkled unwontedly, as he growled:

"You git to blazes outa 'ere, you grinnin' hape! Go git me a wad o' fat; I want to black my bloomin' boots. Then please hinform Cap'n Bruce I'm hat 'is sarvice, with my compliments, stooard!"

____________

22: A Wireless Outfit

J. M. Walsh

1897-1952

Bulletin, 20 Nov 1919

AT the first streak of down the Mambare had stood out from her berth at the mouth of the Jacatra River, and already the Batavia Roads had dropped hazily into the distance. Only the chain of the Brambanan Mountains, to the rear of the town, showed shadowy and cool in the pallid glare of the morning sun. Captain Cordova strode to the rail and spat impressively towards the receding coast of Java.

His mate, who owned to the name of Smith, eyed him reflectively.

"To be perfectly frank," said Mr. Smith earnestly, "I don't half like this job. I don't, really."

Cordova wheeled on him. "Who the hell asked you to like it?" he demanded.

"Nobody that I'm aware of," said Mr. Smith hastily. "I'm only telling you what I think."

"I don't want to know what you think," said Captain Cordova. "If I care to run into trouble I don't see that it's got anything to do with you."

"Maybe it has and maybe it hasn't," replied the mate cautiously. "I'm not afraid of trouble— nobody knows that better than you—but I haven't got any hankering for limelight."

"I can quite understand that," said Cordova dryly. "I suppose you didn't leave Sydney in a hurry for the fun of the thing?"

"That's my affair," snapped the mate. "As for yourself, I suppose you never wondered why we're taking agricultural machinery out to the Bismarcks?"

"Can't say I have."

"Well, I have. And I happen to know a bit more than most people about telegraphy, wireless and otherwise, and that machinery is the most complete wireless plant I've ever seen."

"That's interesting," said the other with a contemplative eye on the mate.

"It's more than interesting," asserted Mr. Smith. "It's disturbing."

"Admittedly— if you intend to worry over it. I don't. We've got to deliver the cargo, not to worry over any fancy names they give it.''

"But"— began the mate.

"Forget it," Cordova cut in, and turned to the rail again. The discussion was at an end. Mr. Smith looked at his chief, started to say something, hesitated, and thought better of it.

"This damned sun would fry an egg, it's that hot," said Mr. Smith.

Captain Cordova wiped his streaming brow with the sleeve of his coat and swore softly to himself.

The Mambare lay at anchor in a small bay in the north coast of New Britain, midway between Dampier Strait and Cape Rault. The place was uncharted and apparently uninhabited; it was by merest guess-work that Cordova had found his way to the appointed spot. But, then, a South Sea navigator who does not rely on instinct rarely gets anywhere save to the bottom of the sea. Most South Sea charts are unreliable; even the Admiralty ones in places are polite fictions.

The weird bulk of the Hunstein Mountains rose in the distance, tier on tier, like the monstrous grandstand of some Gargantuan racecourse. Blue they were, and they faded imperceptibly into the deeper and franker blue of the cloudless sky. Between the mountains and the shore the green dusk of the jungle sank all individual things into invisibility. But deep in that matted, uncanny tangle there were savages, who, themselves unseen, by day and night kept watch on the strange vessel that lay at anchor in the bay. Cordova and Smith would have known nought of this silent, invisible espionage, but the Motuan boys, wise with the wisdom of generations of head-hunting, man-eating forebears, saw that which could not be seen and were uneasy.

"I wonder how much longer those sons of dogs are going to keep us waiting?" Cordova said suddenly. "We've been here four days now and nothing has happened."

"What would you expect to happen?" Smith asked.

Cordova shrugged his shoulders. "I don't expect anything to happen, Smith, but I'd be more at ease if it did."

And almost at that instant the unexpected put in an appearance. Cordova had fancied that they would be met by a steamer; at the least it would be a schooner that would take off their cargo, he presumed. But out of the distance came the smooth, even "plop-plop" of a motor-engine.

Up against the faint blue of the hazy distance there showed a little black dot, a dot that broadened and came on with an almost incredible speed. Soon its lines were visible, and the frothing trail of cliurned-up sea showed white against the blue.

"Some boat that," Mr. Smith opined.

"Some engine," said Cordova.

For a time neither of them spoke. The noise of the little engine increased; the boat itself grew in size. It slashed the water with the precision of a sword. Now the figures of men were visible, and soon the watchers could discern what manner of men they were.

Cordova looked at his mate and Mr. Smith looked at his skipper. There was that in their glance which went beyond the power of words to express.

"Uniforms," said Mr. Smith laconically.

"German naval men," Cordova added.

"Agricultural implements, which turn out to be wireless apparatus destined for German naval men," Smith said reflectively.

"You're right for once," Cordova told him.

Smith ignored the remark; he did not feel inclined for hot words at that juncture.

Lieutenant Paul Flurm eyed Cordova in a way that made the captain anxious to wring someone's neck.

"Captain Cordova," he snapped, "schooner Mambare?"

His English was good; there was in it just the faintest tinge of the guttural. Cordova eyed him with disfavor.

"That's my name," he said shortly. "And as for the schooner— her name's written plain enough."

"You have a cargo for me," the officer asserted.

Cordova raised his eyebrows in affected surprise.

"Have I?" he said pleasantly.

"Answer me!" he commanded. "You come from Van Dronk?"

"I do," Cordova admitted. "Anything else you'd like to know?"

Lieutenant Paul Flurm rattled his sword. He would dearly have loved to smite this insolent trader to the deck, but somehow did not deem it wise. He knew of Captain Cordova— who in the South Seas did not?— and he was well aware that he was a dangerous man to deal with. Cordova might have the frank countenance of a school-boy and the wide blue eyes of a babe, but he had a direct way that was famed from the Louisades to the Galapagos, from the Marshalls to Lord Howe.

"I shall be greatly obliged if you find it convenient to deliver the cargo at the earliest moment," the officer said in a less arrogant tone.

"That's better," said Cordova pleasantly. "Why didn't you ask like that at first? It would have saved a lot of trouble."

The German shrugged his shoulders; there was no sense in arguing with an intolerable pig of a trader who knew not the meaning of reason and had no respect for side-arms and a naval swagger. But Flurm wanted the cargo and wanted it badly, so he swallowed his pride and soothed the frank-faced sea-rover into a state of apparent amiability.

Then case after case was brought on deck by the native boys, examined carefully by the lieutenant himself, and transhipped to the motor-launch.

With the landing of the first part of the cargo certain mysterious activities took place on shore. From a space cleared in the jungle an attenuated mast of steel rose gradually into the sky, and filmy wires wove themselves about it.

The morning of the third day saw the last case delivered, and the German commenced to dismantle the engine of the launch.

"You may go," said Flurm magnanimously. "I do not desire your further services. As for payment— Van Dronk, I understand, has already paid you."

"Quite correct," said Cordova. "But as for going—well, I want to ship some water. We're rather short of it."

"I shall send some aboard by my men," Flurm informed him.

"Thanks," said Cordova, as if it were to him a matter of indifference.

Lieutenant Paul Flurm took his departure in a native dugout, and later in the day his men returned and replenished the water barrels of the Mambare.

Now, if things had fallen out as Lieutenant Flurm had planned, the Mambare would have sailed out of the bay and into the infinite, leaving him to pursue his work in peace. But the Fates that play havoc with men's lives were wide awake and hard at work that summer afternoon. The breeze that should have wafted the Mambare out of the bay died away, and the schooner, not being equipped with an auxiliary, had to await a favoring wind.

Throughout the night blue lights flickered and flared about the tangle of wires on shore, and a "plop-plop" came faintly to the schooner. Smith, who knew much about such things, told Cordova that the dismantled launch engine was supplying power for the wireless station. Cordova offered no comment, but relapsed into a silence pregnant with possibilities. He continued silent and thoughtful all the next day, answering his mate in monosyllables when he answered him at all. Smith felt that something of a dangerous and difficult nature was maturing in Cordova's brain, and wondered just what it could be.

Evening came and the coppery sun dropped into the western sea beyond Cape Dampier. There was no dusk. One moment the sky was streaked with wild crimson, with delicate shades of salmon pink, and the greenness of the tropic sea was touched with the reflection of the sun; the next moment darkness heavy and oppressive hid all things. Only the yellow gleam of the schooner's binnacle lamp and an occasional flash of blue flame from the wireless station slit the night.

Cordova called Smith to him and for 20 minutes they talked earnestly. At the end of that time they lowered the dinghy silently and dropped into it.

As Cordova had predicted so things turned out. No sentry had been posted on the seaward side of the power-house; evidently no attack was expected from any save the men of the wood. Nevertheless Cordova and Smith trod with extreme caution; their passage from the dinghy up to the wireless house would have been to the credit of the most daring head-hunter in all the Bismarcks. It is not often that a white man achieves the supreme woodcraft gift of noiselessness; the two sailors somehow came within an ace of it.

For a space they crouched beneath the shadow of the shack that did duty for the wireless house. Everything was very still; even the steady tramp of the sentry seemed to have died away.

Suddenly the launch's engine explosively broke the silence. Faintly to the ears of the two sailors came the faint tick-tack of the transmitter, and at the same instant the wires above their heads began to crackle.

"My God!" Smith ejaculated. "The— the cows!"

"Can you read what they're sending?" Cordova questioned in a thick whisper.

"It's like big print to me," Smith answered, and swung his head round to watch the flicker of the wires.

"That's Sydney's code call!"

In the half-light of an island night Cordova's face showed ashen. He knew just exactly what such a signal meant coming out of the infinite on to the receiver of a warship at sea. Both he and Smith had been other things before they took to trading. In the peaceful, everyday world a thousand miles away he had answered to another name than Cordova; and "Smith" had been something more sonorous.

The door of the hut stood wide open to the night, marked by a square of light from the storm-lantern that lit the building. Unhesitatingly Cordova walked through the doorway. The operator's back was turned to him, but as Cordova's shadow fell across the machine the man twisted round to view the disturber of his work.

Cordova held his revolver lightly in his right hand, but there was that in his eyes that showed him to be in deadly earnest. He advanced softly, with something panther-like about his gait, right up to the table on which rested the wireless instruments, drew out the second chair and seated himself. Lieutenant Flurm watched him intently, just the vaguest suggestion of the wonder he felt creeping into his eyes. A cry from him would bring half a dozen of his men to his aid, would certainly alarm the supposedly watchful sentry. But somehow Flurm could not utter that cry; he knew as surely as if he had been told of it that it would be his last word on earth. There was about Cordova a certain magnetism that held him, an easy confidence, a suggestion of a power that knows its own sufficiency.

He ran his tongue over his lips.

"Well?" he said huskily.

Cordova pointed to the window cut in the far wall of the building. It boasted no glass; it was simply an air-vent. Flurm looked wonderingly at the black square and in an instant he saw. A dark figure, indefinite in its outlines, lounged on the sill, but the hands of the figure held a magazine rifle.

"You see," said Cordova calmly, "resistance is useless. I have not come unsupported. Now, you and I are going to have a quiet talk and if we are interrupted— unnecessarily— there will be trouble. You understand?"

Flurm nodded. But he did not understand. There was something about this strange sea-rover that troubled him vaguely, that awoke memories of days gone by.

"What you mean by sending out Sydney's call?" Cordova asked him.

The other shrugged his shoulders. "That is my business," he said.

"It doesn't matter much," Cordova smiled. "But I'd father be told than have to find out. I'm rather curious to know just what message you were sending."

The wide blue eyes gazed at him steadily.

Under the scrutiny Flurm grew uncomfortable; his eyes wandered from the set face in front of him and strayed to a pile of papers on his right.

There came a quick step outside. Across Flurm's face flitted a momentary sign of relief.

"One of your men," said Cordova briskly. "Tell him to come in."

Flurm barked a hoarse guttural sentence, and the man answered him.

"I understand German," Cordova remarked dryly.

Flurm threw out his hands in a gesture of despair. At that moment there came the sound of a scuffle, a faint gasping sigh and silence.

"What was that?" he said.

Cordova was gazing towards the window; Flurm followed his glance. The rifleman was no longer there. He saw instead but a square cut out of the blackness of the tropic night. His head was turned only an instant, but in that brief space of time Cordova's hand shot out, closed over a sheet of paper and drew it swiftly towards him.

One glance showed him its purport.

"I'm afraid," Cordova said slowly, "your man will not come back. That explains the absence of my friend. I'm afraid there has been a 'regrettable incident'."

The German swore softly, glaring at Cordova with eyes of hatred.

"It was a pity that I had to leave Heidelberg before I quite completed my studies," Cordova remarked suavely.

Slowly recognition dawned in the other's eyes. "You are not Captain Cordova," he said. "That has not always been your name. You are—"

The sailor restrained him with a gesture.

"That," he said in the tone of a man who deals with an unpleasant subject— "that is a tale that must be given to the world in some other way. Not through you, at any rate. Still, I'm pleased you recognise me. It makes my task easier. I can't forget how you befriended me— unfortunately. Otherwise I would have killed you outright."

The other said nothing, but there was in his face a growing respect for his captor.

Cordova ran on in the same suave tone.

"I said that I was sorry I had not completed my studies," he said. "I feared that you had written your message in German, but fortunately as you had to send it in English you wrote it in English."

Again the other's eyes travelled slowly to the pile of papers.

Cordova laughed softly. "A good plan," he appraised ; "an excellent plan if it had succeeded. But it didn't: it won't. Now, sit down quietly and tap off a message saying that your call was a mistake. You are at liberty to use Sydney's call.

"I don't understand you," said Flurm dully.

Cordova flourished the paper in front of his eyes. "Isn't that an order to the Southern Squadron to proceed to Canna Bay at once?" he asked,

Flurm nodded his head,

"I suppose you had the place mined or something of the kind?"

"Mined," said Flurm briefly,

"All right. Now you send this message: 'All previous messages cancelled. Await further orders.' Are you going to do it?"

"There is nothing else for it," said Lieutenant Flurm bitterly.

He placed his fingers on the key, gave the code-call, and ticked off the message. Mr. Smith, the mate, heard the crackle of the wireless, and read and checked the message.

"Now," said Captain Cordova, "I'm reluctantly compelled to tie you up while I retreat,"

"ONLY one casualty, Mr. Smith remarked as they gained the open sea some half an hour later. "I had to do it. It wouldn't have done to let him get away knowing what he did. By the way, did you put that thing out of action?"

Captain Cordova, in answer produced from his jacket pocket a twisted piece of metal which had once been portion of the transmitter.

Mr. Smith smiled.

Cordova wheeled on him. "What the hell are you laughing at?"

"I was just thinking," said the mate, "that they might have some spares."

Cordova drew his brows together. "If they have, all our work's for nothing."

"By no means. They've got no power."

"There's the engine," Cordova reminded him.

"There was an engine," the mate corrected.

_______________

23: The Mystery of Craven's Party

C. E. Dowell

fl 1899

Western Champion and General Advertiser for the Central-Western Districts

(Barcaldine, Qld), 10 Oct 1899

I can find out nothing about C. E. Dowell other than three short stories, which appeared in "The Western Champion" in the second half of 1899.

THE exploration of strange regions has always had a fascination for fearless, adventurous men, desirous of fame and possessing a craving for excitement; and many have journeyed with an intrepid spirit and bright hopes into the Unknown, and some have never returned. More than one Government party has been swallowed up and left no trace behind, and parties despatched by private enterprise have been lost among the desert sandhills and the swamps, or have returned thinned in numbers, starving and bleeding, and bound down by the chains of dreary failure and disappointment. Others have returned elated with success, and related tales of suffering and weary wanderings ere the goal was reached.

Undeterred, expeditions have gone out in succession, filled with the certainty of glorious success and making light of, or ignoring, the possibility of failure.

When Barlow and his ten companions turned their faces north-west each man was filled with determination and hope. Never before, it was said, had an expedition been so well equipped, and the leader had his followers' confidence and respect and shared their hope, and though a quiet, unassuming man was experienced as a leader and possessed indomitable energy, perseverance and courage.

For two weeks the party journeyed rapidly forward, and it was like one long picnic to the work-hardened explorers. But one day the expedition passed the last tree and plunged into a silent waste, where the horses and camels sank deep into the fine sand, tormented by insects and the heat, and staggering under the heavy loads it was necessary for them to carry.

On the fourth day of travel through this desert one of the poor animals collapsed under the strain, and Barlow brought the expedition to a rocky line of low hills and ordered a week's rest.

Wells were dug, good water obtained, and the party again set forth refreshed and prepared to face whatever lay in front. Soon a dreary, impossible swamp stretched before them, and a weary detour was made. Then another desert was crossed, sandy like the first and strewn with gnarled boulders, and here vegetation found no existence. The remaining sheep were killed and the expedition pushed on.

Through swamps and over wildernesses of desert, and wastes of never-ending sandhills, where the sun blazed with unbearable fury, and no living thing could exist, thirsting and worn out, but with eyes turned straight ahead, Barlow and his party proceeded on their way, unaware that they were taking much the same route as that of an expedition which had set out ten years before and gone to swell the army of the lost, for not one member ever returned.

Barlow was nearing a high rocky range, bristling with volcanic peaks. Beyond that barrier, he hoped, were the rich, grassy plains and abundant rivers of which he had thought and dreamed for years, and the presence of these, somewhere north, he regarded as certain. The possibility of whites inhabiting this country of his dreams he considered most unlikely.

Gilbert Barlow, though in most respects a practical man of the world, clung strenuously to this belief respecting a hidden country of large extent, and he had organised bis expedition for the express purpose of ascertaining the truth of his theory. But many weary days of travel yet lay before the adventurers.

At last two of the horses were killed and the flesh dried, and Barlow, startled at the rapid decrease of the stores, sent two men back to bring up fresh supplies. Their comrades gave them a feeble cheer, and watched their departure until they became dots on the horizon.

On again through the awful solitudes, tormented by thirst, for the supply of water was very precarious, dazzled by mirages, which receded as the party advanced, and suffering more at every step.

After four months weary travel Barlow found himself within forty miles of the range, and at dusk one night pitched his camp among some sandHills. Wearily they dug a well and drank deeply of the water as it slowly oozed up. Then, stretching their aching limbs on the sand, oppressed by the awful loneliness, the explorers talked monotonously in low tones of what they had accomplished and of what remained.

The night was pleasantly cool, and millions of stars twinkled calmly in the great dome of the skies, and a full moon shed its pale light upon the wanderers, perhaps in faint surprise that human beings should penetrate so far into such a land of barren desolation. The horses and camels, or rather the few that remained, stood or by about the well, waiting patiently to satisfy their thirst, or aimlessly wandering about in search of the rcant herbage.

Suddenly every man sprang to his feet in amazement. Borne on a puff of hot air came the sound of voices talking loudly; but not a word could they hear distinctly, for the rattle of cart wheels and harness and the grunting of camels confused the words uttered. Nothing conld be seen, either, for the expedition was encamped among the sand-ridges, which stretched in billowy confusion on either side. It was awesome and startling to hear those sounds coining faintly across the desert, when, to the explorers strict belief, no Europeans were within hundreds of miles.

"Well I'm d——d!" said one of the men, as he dropped to the ground, overcome with astonishment at this extraordinary incident. Meanwhile the sounds were dying away, and soon not a murmur flould be distinguished. Without a word Harlow picked up a rifle, and, running up a steep sand-hill, peered eagerly around. Owing to the formation of the country, however, his range of vision was limited, and he returned to his companions bewildered and puzzled. That another party was pursuing the same investigations as himself was improbable, he felt, but certainly possible.

Tormented by doubt the leader determined to reach the goal, if possible, before liis apparent competitors, and started at dawn without milking any search for the tracks of the supposed party, or otherwise attempting to solve the mystery. Throughout their slow advance that day Barlow and his companions kept a careful lookout, but the sun again dropped behind the grim, black range before them, and they were still in doubt. Eagerly they listened for a repetition of the last night's strange incident, and with indescribable awe and and surprise their ears again absorbed the sounds which, on the previous night, had roused their curiosity; and, evidently, the party which occasioned the noise was passing the explorers, though hidden behind the great sand-billows of the desert.

"We must find out who they are, men!" exclaimed Barlow. "Shout for all you're worth!" They shouted till their dried lips cracked, and the echoes multiplied the sounds, until it seemed to the exhausted men as though the spirits of the desert were mocking their efforts. They at last desisted from their vain efforts, and again the solitude and quiet were unbroken. The mysterious travellers had passed on, and their voices were lost in the distance. Barlow attributed the manifest uneasiness of their beasts of burden to the noise they had been making or the vicinity of others of their species.

One of the men thought of Leichhardt, and of the ill-fated expedition with which Craven had passed into oblivion, and shuddered at the grim theory suggested by the thought that their phantoms traversed the desert, restless and accursed. Barlow, though his own theories were unreal and far-fetched occasionally, smoked his pipe and listened with a feeling of scornful amusement to the fanciful, vague conjectures expressed by his companions, and sought out from the tangle of thought some more suitable solution of the problem.

At dawn, with two companions, he pressed on, leaving the others to travel more leisurely. After several futile casts over the desert in search of tracks the man who was leading gave a cry and dismounted close by something white lying on the sand. The heat-haze and the glare made it appear indistinct, and not until he was within a few yards did he see that it was a human skeleton, bleached to a spotless white, probably the remains of a man who had died alone and in agony, with not a fellow creature in sight, and the crows hovering aloft awaiting his last moment with greedy interest. A few fragments of clothing still clung to the skeleton, and close by, imprinted deep in the yielding sand, were the naked footprints of a man. His two subordinates were whispering together and pointing to the tracks, when Barlow bade them cover up the bones and proceed.

Silently the men rode forward, half blinded by the glare, following the trail  which led on straight towards the mountains. At dusk they had crossed the edge of the desert, and were within a short distance of the range, camped by a muddy lagoon, and with the leaves of the gum trees rustling softly above than, the exhausted men took their well-earned repose. Nor were they disturbed throughout the night, and arose refreshed and hopeful soon after dawn, prepared for another day of labor.

The explorers were now in scrubby country, and hills and swamps beset their path. The trail they had been following on the preceding day was now lost, and so the party veered towards the north-east in search of an easier path across the range, than that which lay in front.

No incidents of any moment occurred during, the next forty-eight hours, but late in the third night every member of the expedition awoke to hear the mysterious party, which had before surprised them, blundering and stumbling among the rocks to the right, and making a fearful hubbub, shouting and cursing at their loudest pitch. It was a dark night, oppressively hot and cloudy, and nothing could be seen, and though Barlow and his men repeatedly hailed the strangers no reply was tendered, and the voices died away as before into a deep silence.

Grouped round the fire in picturesque ease the explorers talked of ghosts and spirits in low voices, and with uneasy glances at the surrounding blackness whispered that the noises they had heard were made by phantoms and not by men. And Barlow, suffering under the three months' strain and anxiety, began to think they might be correct. Such things might be pondered in such a God-forsaken land as this, and he shivered as he thought of the expeditions that had been lost, and recollected the tale of Craven and his party, lost for ever in these desolate regions.

As another day dawned the leader set out with one companion to find a pass across the barrier suitable for the passage of the animals. All hope of finding the man whose tracks they had traced was now abandoned, and, as Barlow stood at the foot of a great hill and measured its height with his eye, he was astonished to see a figure climbing over a huge boulder some distance up the mountain. Shouting to attract his attention the explorer and his companion commenced the ascent, slipping and stumbling in their haste, and came up with their quarry in a state of exhaustion.

But such haste was unnecessary. The stranger, leaning on a stick, quietly waited their approach. He spoke no greeting, and the two explorers recovered breath, and scrutinised the man's appearance for some moments. To their amazement they perceived that the man before them was white, tall, gaunt, aud withered, with a great grizzled beard, and long matted hair, his half-naked body bearing the marks of injury and exposure, for his clothing consisted merely of a skin tied round his waist. But the face of the stranger shocked them— so terrible and unexpected was the sight. His features bore the impress of misery and suffering, and were wrinkled and withered; and the black, sunken eyes glittered with the light of madness, filled and dilated with horror indescribable.

"Who are you, my man?" asked Barlow, after a long silence.

The man clapped a hand to his forehead, and muttered incoherently. He appeared to be thinking. Suddenly he cried out hoarsely, "John Craven!" and fixed his eyes upon Barlow's face.

Barlow recoiled, "What?" he exclaimed.

"I am Craven! Craven the lost! Craven the tortured!" shouted the madman, his manner growing excited; and then the firo died out of his eyes, his figure seemed to shrink and shrivel, and before the explorers stood an old man, I bowed and trembling, muttering brokenly in unintelligible words.

Barlow thought for a moment. He soothingly persuaded the unfortunate man, who was very weak and exhausted, to return to the camp with him. The excitement therein was great when the trio arrived. After a bath in the lagoon, and some food, the man who called himself Craven appeared more rational. Barlow sent him to lie down, and he slept for many hours, closely watched by two of the party.

About nine o'clock that night the rescued man awoke and came out of the shadow into the light of the camp fire. Seated beneath a great gum-tree, with the explorers grouped around, he told his story, sometimes muttering vaguely and losing the thread of his narrative: occasionally ceasing to speak and sullenly brooding, with many uneasy glances around into the darkness, speaking, sometimes in accents of fear, and again in great excitement; while the wanderers beside the fire listened in breathless silence and awe.

The camp-fire flickered in the warm breeze, and from the darkness came a sound of whispering and soft movement, as if the very trees were bending forward to hear the strange story. The Lost Expedition of whom the tale was told bereft of its leader made no sound.

"YOU TELL ME," said Craven, turning his face to Barlow, "that I have been lost ten years. Ay, lost! Ten years of suffering and misery unequalled." He shuddered, and passed his hand across his forehead. "I remember the day we started from our station and passed into the deserts, and went through months of peril, and privation. How we hungered and thirsted; how the horses dropped exhausted, and how we struggled on regardless of difficulties and danger. We approached a water hole nearly dried, when almost dying, and a few miserable blacks staggering towards it. We feared we should lose it-the precious fluid— and we were mad! mad! We fall upon, and killed them! How we dashed into the mud and ooze, and ravenously drank the putrid fluid for which we had lost our souls. And then we went forward, ever forward, accursed and doomed!

"Our suffering increased as we advanced but we dared not turn. Doggedly we pushed on, without food or drink. We were devils at the end of two burning days, without water, and stumbled on, cursing and blaspheming ; urged on to further exertions by the fear of death. Blood-guilty as we were, we dare not die!"

Craven paused for breath, a dull glow in his eyes, and panting heavily with excitement.

"Then one fell, and we jeered at him and left him! Oh! God! it was an awful deed and sight! How the sun blazed, and the sand glittered, and our tongues rattled against our cracked lips, black and dry." Craven rose to his feet in terrible excitement. "Behold! a range of mountains ahead. Madly we struggled towards them and Ross, raving, and dying, crawls after us, writhing and screaming. We left him far behind, and his bones lie there in the desert, bleached and white."

The unfortunate explorer paused overcome by emotion, but presently continued his story; talking disjointedly, but with less excitement. "We reached water and the range at last. The sensation of feeling the cool waters of a creek flowing over us were like heaven. But devils cannot have heaven, and thereafter life was a burden to me."

Craven stopped and stared fixedly at the fire for some time. His confused and weakened brain had been unable to retain a full recollection of his terrible experience.

"Well, we crossed the mountains, I do not know how. There were eight of us— no, nine; I cannot think now, but we crossed the range. And there we saw grass and trees and water, and birds fluttering on the branches above us. But we were starving and we could not kill, for we had no fire-arms. We struggled on and at dusk saw a black, a huge man, with a string of fish. We were reckless, and starving, and we crept after him and flung him down. He fell heavily on a stone and was dead in a few minutes! We left him there and marched on. Soon we came to villages and were well received, and worshipped as gods. They had never een white men before, so we told them that we had come from the stars. They had a priest, an old and fearful man. whom they reverenced even before us! They said he had magic and we had none to show. He hated us bitterly, we knew, and one day we went into their church or temple and destroyed their idols.

The priest— they called him Kabooa— came in and tried to thwart us. I knocked him down, eager to show my power, and contempt for him. He cursed us, with the blood running down his beard, and swore to destroy us. I laughed, utterly reckless, and struck him again! Our doom was sealed. If we had fled all might have been well, for the natives feared us more than they hated us. But one day the body of the man we had killed was found, and the priest, Kabooa, came, armed with a poisoned spear, and accused us. His little eyes gleamed with hate, and he shook his spear in menace as he turned away. How I longed to kill him, but dare not.

"And that night I woke to find myself bound! My men were helpless also, and in the hut were many natives who kicked and mocked us. Soon Kabooa come holding a blazing torch, hut said no word. They dragged us into the temple before the three mutilated images. The place was large and was lit with many torches, and crowded with armed blacks, and women and children. Clouds of foul-smelling smoke from the torches floated in the temple and we could see cruel eyes watching us on every side. We knew our time was come. Helpless and bound we waited in agony for death!"

Craven shuddered, and continued his tale with gestures of fierce excitement. "They forced us to stand up, with our hands bound, and when I essayed to speak their priest struck me in the mouth! The scar remains, I think?

"Then Kabooa cursed us and said that all but I should die! With screams and curses my companions fell beneath the spears and clubs! I was dragged away, bruised and bleeding, and the savages took me back over the hills and left me in the desert. But before they went, Kabooa cursed me! It was a terrible curse, dooming me to wander in misery until I died, pursued by the spirits of my men, to have no rest at night and little by day; to endure hunger and thirst, and suffering unutterably until the end! And if I return and cross the mountains I shall die by torture!"

The outcast ceased speaking, and glared at the darkness in evident apprehension. "I vainly endeavor to escape from the phantoms of my party! I climb high hills and they follow, I hide in caves but they gather round me, and where ever I go, I am pursued! See!" he exclaimed, stabbing at the darkness with one withered finger; "they stand there now, waiting! They beckon, I tell you! Let me go! Let me go!"

Struggling with maniacal strength, the madman tried his utmost to break away from the detaining arms of the explorers, but weakened by what he had endured, he soon became exhausted, and sank into a Iwary sleep.

A thunderstorm broke over the party, the lightning flickered unceasingly, and mingled with the thunder of voices of the Lost Explorers seeking their leader were faintly audible.

The darkness at last vanished, and the sun shone out. Barlow ordered an advance, and after two days of arduous climbing, the top of the range was gained. With an expression of triumph on his sun-burnt, care-worn face. Barlow looked down on the country of his dreams, and to find which he had endured so much. Great forests, wide, grass-covered plains, creeks, lagoons, and tree-clothed hills were out before him, and he could with difficulty repress a shout of joy.

Then he went down the mountain with his party and pitched his camp in a pretty gorge, filled with high grass and flowers, and with a clear spring rippling past. Here they lighted a fire to roast a wallaby they had killed, and sank into sleep without a thought of danger.

Craven, who had remained in a kind of stupor since his outburst of fury after the conclusion of his narrative two days before was left unwatched. Some hours had passed and the fire was burning low when Barlow, vaguely startled by he knew not what, suddenly awoke. His companions were asleep, and it was a very dark night.

The fire was almost out but a few shining coals threw a faint glow around. Suddenly, a man stepped into this glow and Harlow sitting up, rubbed his eyes in amazement, unable to believe his senses.

The stranger was a native, with a great quantity of white hair falling on his shoulders, and a body fearfully attenuated, and painted a bright, darling white. His face was grotesque and wrinkled, his lips were shrunken, and his jaws toothless, and his small beady eyes lived on Barlow with a look of devilish malice and cunning, gleamed red in the glow. The midnight visitor stepped lightly towards the explorer who sprang to his feet in alarm, and dropped a bundle of dried grass upon the ashes of the fire. The stuff flared up and illuminated the sides of the gorge, and also a great number of armed and fantastically painted blacks surrounding the party. Every man now awoke and looked about in bewilderment and terror.

Barlow was the first to realise their peril and called out to his men to close up and get their weapons ready. The hideous aboriginal, who had first startled the explorers now stepped back a little, and with animated gestures to emphasise his words, addressed a long speech to his companions.

The firelight flickered up and down, shining on the faces of the grim warriors around, and on the furious, convulsed, face of the speaker. When he had finished his arms dropped to his sides while a low murmur ran along the ranks of the savages. In perfect unison they struck their spears and shields together thrice. There was a sharp, guttural exclamation, a rush, and Barlow and his men were fighting and struggling in the midst of the horde of yelling blacks. Weakened as they were, their resistance was useless. They was speadily overpowered and bound.

Throughout the remainder of the night they were left pinioned while the blacks gathered around their fires, ate, and drank, and talked exitedly until dawn. Then they rose, and the weary, anxious explorers were supplied with food and water, and were then roughly dragged to their feet. The few horses and camels that remained were loaded with the camp utensils and small stock of provisions, and the cavalcade set out, fully two hundred of the aboriginals surrounding the small body of white men. Craven, in a paroxym of insane fury cursed and raved vainly, trying to burst his cords and attack the terrible-looking leader of the blacks, whom he had recognised as his enemy Kabooa, the priest.

Two days of rapid travel, of pain, anxiety, and fatigue,and the explorers were again at their old camping-place at the edge of the desert. There the blacks left them with their hands still bound, shouting a few fierce words as they departed. Barlow dare not disregard the evident warning those words implied, and saw with bitter regret, that it would be impossible to return to the region from which they had just been expelled, well-knowing that death would be their reward if they did so.

Accordingly, he prepared for the return journey, and with many forebodings of evil, faced the terrible swamps, and deserts which sat between him and civilisation. They set out, Craven still in their company, but with his mind now totally gone.

For days and weeks the explorers travelled, killing their miserable beasts of burden for food as they proceeded, and on one occasion even drank the blood of a slaughtered animal. And each night Craven would awake from the stupor in which his brain was plunged, and cry out that his lost companions were beckoning him from the darkness and that be must go! he would go! and raved and struggled to escape, until his strength was exhausted, and he slept. Barlow's one hope of salvation for himself and party, was the return of the two men whom he had sent back for provisions.

Fortunately when the supply of dried horse was consumed, the relief party arrived. They were received with faint cheers, and, a little water having been found, they camped for the night, and Barlow sat late relating his experiences to the leader of the relief party.

The noise and bustle of that afternoon had apparently awakened Craven from his stupor and he talked a little. But there was a cunning expression in his dark, wild eyes, and that night his customary struggles to escape were not so prolonged, he speedily became still and seemed to sleep.

When Barlow laid down to rest, the madman was sleeping quietly, to all appearance. But near dawn a sound of wild laughter, shouts, and the noise of horses' and camels' hoofs rattling against the stones of the desert, awoke the sleeping explorers. They listened in surprise aud terror for a moment, and then someone asked, "Where is Craven?"

He was gone, and Barlow, listening to the weird, fading voices, thought that he could distinguish that of Craven amongst them. The Lost Explorers had regained their leader, and when the sun rose above the edge of the desert, nothing living was visible on the waste of sand.

Craven was again lost for ever.

_____________

24: The Hold-Up

Harold Mercer

1882-1952

Bulletin, 4 Nov 1936

A PALL of midnight silence blanketed the suburban street; the shuffle of uncertain feet made a disturbance that was almost startling. The hesitancy of the man who lurched through the night was not altogether that of intoxication. He paused, now and again, swaying, as if unwilling to advance at all; and he talked to himself of his sorrows.

The troubles were feminine. "If a man wassen drunk," he told an electric-light standard, "he woulden go home at all; yet she'll nag, nag, nag about it until all he wants is to get drunk again to-morrow!" He pulled himself together. "Got to be done, I s'pose," he sighed; and he lurched forward again.

A shadow detached itself from the blackness of a wall.

"Put 'em up! All I want is your cash; I'm desp'rit. Put 'em up or I'll shoot."

The words came in an incisive, determined whisper. Involuntarily the drunk's arms began to move up; then they dropped again. He blinked at the shadow that confronted him.

"Go on, old man," he said, "shoot! Tha'sh besht shing you could do! End of all my mish —mishery. An' I'm in—  inshured."

The bandit was embarrassed. The hearty welcome to his threat was totally unexpected. It sounded like a joke. By way of hinting that it was no joke on his part, he pushed the nose of his revolver into his victim's waistcoat.

"Come on!" he commanded. "I've got no time to waste. Hands up! "

"Well, don' waste time! Go on! Wha' d'you want to keep me waiting for?" moaned the drunk querulously.

It was a deadlock. When the bandit repeated "Come on!" all the command had gone out of his voice.

"If you hadder wife like mine," wailed the drunk, "you'd want me to shoot, if you wash me!"

His bluff called, the robber eyed the drunk for a moment, calculating his chances of a sudden spring and a knock-out. The other, however, was a sizable man and might be more trouble than he was worth, seeing that he had a nagging wife and had been spending what money she might have left him. With a snarling "Go to hell!" he commenced to back away.

"Wai' a minute," urged the drunk, following up, and putting a fearless hand on the bandit's arm. "Wha'sh your hurry? I'll tell you about it. I wanner talk. I musht talk to shomeone!"

ALERT for any movement dangerous to his liberty, the bandit listened impatiently to the man who staggered beside him, babbling of matrimonial troubles. The shaky one grazed a seat placed for waiting tram passengers, and slumped into it, extending a clutching hand to induce the bandit to sit beside him.

"If you had shot me, ash you shaid," he complained, "I would be out of me mishery. Sit down, an' I'll tell you about it."

The bandit hesitated, and did sit down. The garrulous fool might become sleepy, if allowed to talk; that would give the opportunity to "rat" him without risk.

"Trouble ish," mourned the drunk, "I'm fond of th' wife, inner way. I wanner look after her; but she nagsh, nagsh, nagsh! I don' wanner get drunk every night, but if I go home shober I've gotter lissen to her about wha' I did when I wash drunk. I alwaysh have shome drinks to help me bear it. An' in the mornin' I feel ash if I musht have a whishk— whishky; sho it all startsh again."

"I've hadder missus meself. Women are rotten!" commented the bandit bitterly. Surprised, he found the drunk's hand sympathetically on his arm.

"You pore schap! But you didden have ash bad a wife ash mine. No one could have ash bad a wife ash mine. I'll tell you abou' wha' she doesh."

The bandit became restive.

"Why the hell don't you leave her?" he cut in, attempting to rise, but finding himself detained.

"Fond of her, I sh'pose. She was alone in th' worl'; she wash—" ... The drunk threatened to lapse into sentimentality, but remembered his sorrows. "Why didden you shoot me? Tha' wooda been besht way. I'm inshured; she's gotter good home ; no troub— troublesh but me; a quiet life"

"I'd give 'er some excitement if I was 'er 'usband!" remarked the bandit harshly. "That'd cure 'er!"

"Would you?" the drunk asked admiringly, and he went on, musing. "Exshitement? Tha'sh an idea! A jolly goo' idea!"

THE bandit, alarmed for a moment until he found that it was only an expression of suddenly-born enthusiasm, found his arm gripped by two hands.

"I know! Goo' idea. You be a burglar! Scare hell out of her. Then she finds me home; you get away; an' she'sh too shankful to shay anyshing to me!"

"A burglar? No blanky fear I won't."

"I know where there'sh a quid fer you. Got to hide my money to keep it. lt'sh yoursh if you jusht come home, let me wake her up, and let me push you out. I'll give you the quid d'rectly we get home."

A quid is a quid. Unwilling at first, the burglar found himself walking beside a man whose spirits were now buoyed up by the prospect of peace for at least a night; the man who had intended to rob him become a bosom pal, a real friend in need. The drunk deplored with one breath that he knew of no more than one hidden pound with which to reward his pal; with the next he exulted in contemplating the success of his scheme.

The approach to the bungalow was made with due caution, and the bandit was handed the key so that the door might be opened without fumbling. As silently as it was opened, the door was closed again; and the drunk, dropping on his knees, fumbled along the edge of the linoleum. When he rose, the bandit felt something that was certainly a note, and seemed like a pound-note, pushed into his hand.

"There! All I wan' you to do is to wait long enough to scare her. When I shay 'get out' go for your life," whispered the drunk.

"Who's there?" demanded a voice from the interior. "That you, Peter? Of course! Coming home after midnight again."

The two men kept a close silence.

"Answer me, Peter! Who's there?"

There was now a quiver of fear in the voice. The springs of a bed creaked, and an electric button clicked, the globe throwing a thin stream of light under the door on the left of the hall. Then the handle of the door rattled, and the door itself opened, cautiously.

"WHAT the devil are you doing in this house? I warn you, I have you covered. Put your hands up!"

Peter, considering his state, had mastered his voice well, and thundered the words excellently. The woman squealed fearfully as she heard them; and the light in the hallway was switched on sharply.

The woman, obviously terrified, stood in the doorway; by the front door the bandit held his arms in the air; further up the hall, with pipe in hand to represent a revolver— he would be able, afterwards, to boast of that quick-thinking bluff as well as giving it as a reason for allowing the burglar to escape— Peter made a really fine figure.

"It's all right, May," he said reassuringly. "I'm here. So I came just in time to catch you, my fine fellow! Any exshplan— explanation?"

"It's a cop," said the burglar sullenly.

"It is!" retorted Peter masterfully. A brilliant thought came to him. "I'd say you could go, myself, but what I can't forgive is the way you have frightened my wife."

He moved towards her protectively but with a gasped "Oh, my gracious!" May had fallen faintly against the lintel of the door, staring, pale-faced, at the intruder. Both the jaw and the arms of the latter went down.

"May! Jumping cats, May!"

"WHAT the hell's this?" snapped Peter. The sudden tenseness of the  situation, completely different from the mock one he had planned, had swept the intoxication from him. He moved heroically to support the drooping May.

"Well, this is a go!" remarked the bandit. A look of fear came into his eyes. He moved towards the door.

"Get out!" thundered Peter quickly. He had almost forgotten that cue.

He got a surprise when May's faint turn dropped from her. She became violently herself again; and she sent him backwards with a push as she advanced.

"No! Now you are here, you stay while I talk to you, you worm!" she cried. The burglar was like a man petritied, and allowed her to cut off his retreat to the door, where she stood facing both of them.

"So you are still alive; and you have come here! I thought you were dead!"

"I couldn't help it, May," said the intruder feebly.

Even as he felt the ascendancy going to the vimful May, Peter thought he did hold some points over her. This, then, was the model husband May had so often held up to him— a footpad and burglar and not dead after all! But the thought faded quickly. May had not discovered his trick, perhaps, but she might guess at something worse— a league between him and Tom.

There was going to be trouble. Panic seized Peter. At a moment when May's attention was on the man who had returned from the dead, Peter slipped out through a back door.

Coming round the house he heard the front door bang and then the sound of it opening again, and a feminine voice smote on the air.

THE man he had left to his fate was beside him as he turned at a run up the street. They kept together, doubling round a corner and making a beeline for a laneway, then to the right, and to the right again.

"Keep going," panted Peter as Tom showed signs of slackening. "She sometimes gives chase."

"Don't I know it!" the other panted in reply,

They turned every corner, sometimes doubling on their tracks, as men who knew they had to foil a cunning pursuit, but still working further and further afield. At last sheer exhaustion stayed them to a walk, and eventually they rested on the doorstep of a hotel.

"We ought to be right here," said Peter. "You can get a drink at this pub, sometimes, at five in the morning."

"Gawd! I could do with a drink!" exclaimed the bandit. "May! Jest fancy your missus being May!"

"Thank heaven I gave you that quid!" said Peter. "I'll need some of it; but if you come to town with me—"

"What? 'Aven't you any money?" demanded the bandit.

"Only a copper or so."

The bandit laughed hoarsely,

"But there's that quid," said Peter anxiously.

"That quid! May saw it sticking out of my pocket and she grabbed it. She said it would go towards some of the maintenance I hadn't paid her."

The two relatives by marriage sat dejectedly on the doorstep facing a hopeless dawn.

End

Table of Contents

1: The Crowded Hour / J. J. Bell

2: The Foil / Fred M. White

3: The Fugitive / Cicely Fox Smith

4: The Missing Will / Edwin Pugh

5: The Hand at the Window / Lilian Quiller-Couch

6: Bon-Bon / Edgar Allan Poe

7: The Red Star / Fergus Hume

8: The Other Half / Edwin L. Sabin

9: The Cats of Ulthar / H. P. Lovecraft

10: Penitence / Mark Hellinger

11: The Wrath of the God / Arthur H. Adams

12: The Woman in the Cage / Beatrice Grimshaw

13: The Fowl in the Pot / Stanley J. Weyman

14: Take the Case of Dear Old George / Sydney Horler

15: The Duchess and Lady Torrent / A. E. W. Mason

16: The Man Called Smith / Thornton Lonsdale

17: The Third Chair / Edward Dyson

18: The House Party at Smoky Island / Lucy Maud Montgomery

19: The Golden Windmill / Stacy Aumonier

20: The Black Cat / Fred M. White

21: A Deep Water Dude / Capt. A. E. Dingle

22: A Wireless Outfit / J. M. Walsh

23: The Mystery of Craven's Party / C. E. Dowell

24: The Hold-Up / Harold Mercer