Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Another 100,000 word anthology of short stories, from pulp and "slick"magazines, newspapers, and other sources, all in the Life+70 yrs public domain. 1: A Slow Match / William Babington Maxwell 2: When Boob meets Bob / James H. Baker 3: Monkey-Nuts / D. H. Lawrence 4: The Patent Gas Regulator / Charles B. Lewis 5: How Santa Claus Came to Simpson's Bar / Bret Harte 6: Double Trickery / Lemuel De Bra 7: The Dedham Mansion Case / Lemuel De Bra 8: Saturday Afternoon / Ellis Parker Butler 9: Gold Is Where You Find It / Beatrice Grimshaw 10: The Cibourne Trail / H. Bedford-Jones 11: A Bad Bit of Tro

PAST MASTERS 242

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

19 November 2025

Contents

1: A Slow Match / William Babington Maxwell

2: When Boob meets Bob / James H. Baker

3: Monkey-Nuts / D. H. Lawrence

4: The Patent Gas Regulator / Charles B. Lewis

5: How Santa Claus Came to Simpson's Bar / Bret Harte

6: Double Trickery / Lemuel De Bra

7: The Dedham Mansion Case / Lemuel De Bra

8: Saturday Afternoon / Ellis Parker Butler

9: Gold Is Where You Find It / Beatrice Grimshaw

10: The Cibourne Trail / H. Bedford-Jones

11: A Bad Bit of Trouble / Bertram Atkey

12: Murder With a Smile / Clarence Herbert New

13: The Madness of William Bull / Bertram Atkey

14: The Headswoman / Kenneth Grahame

15: The Sad End of Mr. William Starr / E. Phillips Oppenheim

16: The Unholy Experiment of Martin Shenwick / Ernest Favenc

17: A Relic of the Borgias / Richard Marsh

18: The Man Who Was Pawned / Sydney Horler

______________

1: A Slow Match

William Babington Maxwell

1866–1938

Collected in: Odd Lengths, 1907

IT was young Mr. Mountford's first day with hounds since he had come down from Oxford. He had enjoyed a prosperous career at the House— five flying years, during which he had made friends, learnt how to dress himself, ridden in a steeplechase; and gone within an ace of taking his degree. There can be little doubt that, if time had been no object, he would ultimately have done it. But there are more important things in life than academic honours: a man cannot afford to hang over his books for ever. So he had come down for good— to his home and his widowed mother— to rest and look about him.

He was monstrous smart in his swallow-tailed red coat, his narrow, band-like tops, and his white silk stock, bubbling beneath his chin like a well-cooked batter pudding— indescribably finer, braver, more spick and span than the ruck of the older load gentry.

"I say— I say— who is that girl on the grey?" he asked, with a roguish undergraduate smile.

"Why, Ellen Saunders of course. One can see you are a stranger, Robert."

"The old Colonel's daughter! Well, I am surprised." And he slapped his stick against his boot, and cantered onward, with the devil-may-care light-heartedness of a young swell who has a second horse out and likes to keep moving.

"Robert, I don't think you know my girl," said Colonel Saunders, and the introduction was made.

"We have met before," said Miss Saunders, smiling. "I wondered who you were," and then a faint, very faint, delicate, inner rose-petal tint of a blush crept into her young face, at the thought that she ought not to have said this— that the headmistress of the school at Boulogne, which she had just left, would not have approved of such a free-and-easy, unreserved form of remark.

"And I wondered too," said Mr. Mountford.

Yesterday, as he came from the station, they had met in the narrowest part of the long lane— he in his dog-cart; she in an old-fashioned phaeton, with a funny, little, toddling white pony. Her shabby old groom had led the pony, while the cart was pulled into the hedge, and the thing had been done without scraping. She was holding the reins in both hands, pretending to steer, and she had looked up with doubt in her grey eyes, and lips apart— a swift, doubtful, shy glance of acknowledgment to a stranger's courtesy. And the young man had taken off his hat, quick as lightning, prompt and decided, risking it, whether it might be right or wrong— an action impossible to many of the local gentlemen without a week's debate with the ladies of their families.

And strangely, not fiercely, but pleasantly, young Mr. Mountford's pulse had beat faster as he drove on. The soft grey eyes, the nice brown hair, the gentle lips, the firm oval of the pale face in the shadow of the big straw hat had given force to that one little glance, to flash it home— to his heart. The impression quickly faded, as he bowled along and his mother's woods, home farm, shrubberied drive, and then the flat stuccoed facade of his mother's house came into view; but, while it lasted, it was really and truly strong enough to make his heart diffidently inquire of his intellect— May I suggest something i Can this be what people call love at first sight?

"Your mother will be glad to have you at home," said Miss Saunders. "It's so lonely for her being quite alone. She has been awfully good to me, letting me go there whenever I like."

Miss Saunders was motherless, and her two elder sisters were married and settled, far, far away. Naturally Mrs. Mountford would be kind to her. But what astonished the young man was this. He knew everybody in the neighbourhood, had cousins and aunts all round for miles, had played as a child with all the young ladies of the district, still called them all by their Christian names— a local custom: the hunting-field rang with Dicks and Mauds and Jacks and Kates— and yet here had been an unknown child, unsuspected, undreamed of, under his nose, A little sprig in the familiar garden had grown up into leaf and bud; and had never been noticed, until it burst and bloomed as the prettiest flower in all the garden.

"You see, I have been away," she said. "At school at Eastbourne; then in Hanover; and for two years at Boulogne— to get finished. It is funny though— isn't it?"

"Robert," called Colonel Saunders. "Come here. I want to talk to you."

And, while the hounds drew the big gorse, the young man was compelled to listen to matters of load interest. Things were not quite as they should be, it seemed. To begin with: there was this revolutionary scheme for creating parish councils, or whatever they were to be called— a measure big with the possibilities of ruin and disgrace to the whole Empire. Then a lot of new people had been coming into the neighbourhood— buying and building and altering, shattering the old-world peace of the country-side. "The place is changing. It is not what it was, Robert— you'll notice it for yourself!" Then, too, old Varden, the Hunt secretary, was breaking up fast, wouldn't recognize the stern fact— poor old fellow— that a man can't last for ever. "It sounds unkind, Robert, but he really ought to resign," And, last of all, the conduct of the load Board of Guardians was becoming a positive scandal One or two tradesmen from the town had got the upper hand and carried everything before them— hectoring and bullying and over-riding the feeble old country gentlemen. "We want new blood, Robert— new blood."

To Robert, fresh from Oxford, with the breeze of the wide world still in his lungs, these load matters seemed of infinitely small importance; but he listened politely, twisting and turning in his saddle, praying that they would flirt, or that something would give him a chance of getting back to Miss Saunders.

"You know, I can't ride a bit," she said, later on, when the chance came. "But I am improving— I never had any practice till my sisters married."

She had a good square seat upon her horse; those small hands must be light; and he told her that all the rest would come— in time.

And so they rode together that day, and all the world— all the little load world— either observed, or heard tell of it.

"That's a match," said Lady Grouseley, sitting in her barouche with her chicks and their governess, watching the hounds draw the gorse, before going home to early dinner— "Mark my words," said her ladyship decisively, to Mademoiselle Todhunter. "That's a match!"

"Something in the wind over there, eh i" said Mr. Chough, the worthy Master. "Well— why not! As handsome a young couple as you'd see in a long day's journey."

BUT THE years, the heavy, silently revolving years, rolled over them, smoothing, dulling and obliterating; and the rustic moss, the smothering local lichen, was deposited upon them both, covering sharp outlines, blurring salient features, softening them down to the colour and the tone of the barks of the local trees, the surface of the load soil, until, from two bright butterflies flashing in the sunlight and the air, they were but as indistinguishable drab-hued grubs in the drab-hued earth.

Where does the moss come from? It is in the slow, sea-warmed breeze creeping across the drowsy pastures all through the long summer days; it is washed down in- the autumn rains; it is in the frost which stops the hunting and in the thaw which sets it going again. It is in all places— out of the way of the noise of cities, the throb and ache of brain effort, the sting of well-earned failure, the poisoned food of undeserved success— where the stone sticks fast in the mud and cannot roll.

It is always settling, growing, binding, burying; and you may know for a certainty that it is upon you, when you begin to find the load paper better reading than The Times, to discover more sense in the local magistrate's decisions than in the rulings of the Lords, to think that old clothes not only are as good, but look as good, as new clothes, to believe that your run of the season was quicker, longer, and a more severe test of men and horses, than anything seen in the midlands that year, to be able to name the winners in your point-to-point races from their inauguration, and to have to inquire who won the last Grand National.

MR. MOUNTFORD had ridden with Miss Saunders for two years.

This riding out with hounds was!a recognized local custom— and, like the walking out of the servants, it was supposed to lead sooner or later to matrimony. You rode by the side of the young lady nearly all the time that hounds were drawing. Everybody understood; nobody attempted to interfere with you. Directly hounds began to run— at the sound of a holloa, a blast on the horn— you left her, and, during the chase, paid her no further attention. You would, of course, warn her not to jump into wire, and refrain from letting heavy swing-gates fall back upon and break her legs. But to have;done more than that would have been to provoke unfavourable comment.

You rode out with her for one, two, or may be three seasons, and then cards were sent, the bellringers were engaged, the cake was cut; and, on the last day of the honeymoon, if you were a man of strong character, you said, quietly but firmly— "My dear, to-morrow our new life begins in our new home. Married life has its duties, its pleasures— each for each. The nursery is the nursery, and the stable is the stable.— I think it only right to tell you, at once, that in my new harness-room I do not intend to hang any side-saddles."

Such was the local custom.

"I am going to screw up my courage and ask you something," said Mr. Mountford, after two years. "Something I have thought about a great deal."

They were all alone, jogging home after a long day.

"I think you may ask it," said Miss Saunders, in a low voice.

"Then, is it always to be Mister Mountford and Mia Saunders? Don't you think it might as well be— Ellen and Robert? Mightn't we just as well call each other by our Christian names? Everybody else does."

"Why not?" said the girl, in a very low voice.

Perhaps she had fancied he was about to ask some other sort of question. She was stooping down, as though examining her horse's girths, and he could not see her face in the dusk.

"Anything wrong?" he asked. "Oh, I see. He has got a lump of clay stuck fast to his belly. I'll knock it off. There!— Ellen!"

So, henceforth, as they grew older, hunting together from September to April, they were Robert and Ellen.

The colonel hardly ever came out now, having become lazy in his old age— shirking the trouble of pulling on his boots and preferring a comfortable seat on the Bench to a long ride to cover and a cold morning in the rain— but he always sent out a groom with his daughter. Local opinion demanded this and was satisfied, though the old fellow was so poorly mounted that he made no pretence of following his mistress, but, keenly enjoying the sport on his own account, was soon a well-known and respected leader of the skirters.

With much practice, and as years passed, she came to be a sound and resolute horsewoman, keeping to hounds certainly as well as— many people said better than— young Mr. Mountford, whose weight was steadily increasing.

"Robert taught me to ride,"she always said. "Nobody else."

And, indeed, he had taken trouble with her, giving her hints and helping her as opportunity offered.

"Miss Saunders, if I may make bold to advise— Don't flick your horse on the neck when you're riding at a fence. If you want to rouse him, land him one fair on the hind quarters. Use your whip behind the saddle."

That was in the early ceremonious days, but she always remembered.

"Now then, Ellen— wake him up. I never saw such an old slug. Let me get behind him," or "Between you and I, Ellen, I believe you'll never do anything with that mare of yours, till you sit straighten You've got into a nasty trick of screwing round as you land. I've been talking to Pender and he sap there's a lump on her back-as big as an egg," etc., etc.

This was later, when use had worn away the gloss of gallantry.

"He has certainly spoilt her chances," said Lady Grouseley, at a Christmas dance in the Town Hall. "She ought to have made a good match— but I never saw a girl go off quicker than she has."

And she critically examined Mr. Mountford's partner, turning in the mazes of the dance.

The full oval was certainly not so perfect in shape; the ivory whiteness had been spoilt by the weather; her neck was getting hollow in places, and it and her ears had tints of mellow brickwork in them; her eyes had lost their softness in the steady scrutiny of doubtful places, and the far-off peerings across wintry fields when hounds had been lost.

"I.begin to think he is a good-for-nothing young man— idling at home with his fool of a mother. Why doesn't he go away and give the girl a chance."

"SIR— here— I say, sir."

It was Gould— his mother's old coachman, faithful retainer, stud-groom, trusted adviser, and privileged friend— calling to him from the saddle-room door.

"When am I to have them white gloves you was so full of last October? Same as you wanted me to drive the missis with. Never thought any more about 'em from that day to this, I suppose!"

"No, no— I haven't forgotten, Gould, but I never seem to have had time to write and order them."

"And there's another thing," said Gould. "Are you going to put that chap Purvis into livery, or are you not? In one way, it would be a convenience— to have him to ride on the box by me when Chivers don't want to spare the footman. In another way, there's the cost of his boots and his breeches— and his coat. Is it worth it? That's for you to decide."

"Well, I have thought of that too," said Mr. Mountford. "But I don't know. Perhaps we had better go on as we are."

"May be!" said Gould. "But I hope you're not going to let yourself drift into one of the never-do-nothing sort," he added severely. "Better make a mistake now and then than sit still. Look before you leap! Yes— but don't go round to look or you'll never leap at all."

This was the wise obiter dictum of Gould; yet, in truth, he, too, had become lamentably moss-grown. But he loved his young master, and his eye was quick to grasp the peril which he for himself ignored.

There was no time to do anything. The weeks, the months, the years, seemed to fly round on their heavy, silently gliding wheel. He had, at one period, meant to do so much— to set his mother's affairs in order, place their mode of life on a better system, introduce modern reforms into domestic routine— to save and to make money; and he had done nothing— nothing at all, except cut down the yew hedge and let more light and air into the stable yard.

It was characteristic of the local gentry that their work was of this negative and non-creative form.

"Come round on Sunday and I'll show you what I have done. I think you'll say it's an improvement."

The Sabbath visitor would look about him and see nothing new.

"What! Don't you remember that old lean-to against the end of the house? Well, I have pulled it down. Wonderful improvement, I think. I always wanted to do it in my poor father's time."

In their rare fits of energy, they laid the axe to trees, grubbed up shrubs, pulled down and cleared away out-buildings, etc., sometimes even corners off their houses, but they planted, built, added— never.

The years slipped by.

He always thought he had owned a horse for two seasons, when he had ridden him four or five. Sitting on the harness-room table, chatting confidentially with Gould, he would pause, pipe in hand, startled by the lapse of time.

"No, sir, you may say what you like, but I know it's nine years."

"Can't be, Gould. Can't be."

"Look here. You and me went to Rugby together to buy her."

"Yes."

"That night, we was in London, and we went to the Westminster Aquarium after dinner, and we see that Lucy Bates, as had had the trouble— dressed up to the nines. Now she left here nine year ago, and I know, because her father was in here, the other day, and he was counting it up. Nine year ago."

"Poor girl! Well. Well."

"You know you was suspected over Lucy at first."

"Never!"

"You was. But I knew it wasn't you. 'Not Ar,' I said."

Delivered in the tone which Gould unconsciously adopted, it was a doubtful compliment.

To young Mr. Mountford, weltering in his bed of sunny mornings, ere the cubbing had begun, great thoughts would come thronging.

One day he would rouse himself and begin life in earnest. There was plenty of time, but, sooner or later, he would carve out a career. The dreaded Parish Councils had been in existence for years. One day he would stand as a candidate, possibly run for the Board of Guardians as well, offer himself to the Hunt Committee as a successor to old Varden, look about him and get married.

Would she have him? Dear girl! It would be only natural for her to yield, if he made a bold attack. And where could he find a sweeter, kinder wife? Time enough for all that, though.

And his sleep-drowned mind floated away on the drowsy sunbeams to old days at Oxford— days obscured rather than lit up by love's smoky torch— and it seemed to him, that, through the haze of time, he saw a terrible lady-killer, a very devil of a fellow. Yes. Tea with the barmaid at Bullendon, and a water picnic with the ladies from the Frivolity!

Ah well, in the press and rush of his healthy, hard-riding, bustling, country life, Cupid had been crowded out And a good job too!

ONE MORNING, Mr. Mountford, coming out of a field over a ragged blackthorn hedge with bits of timber in the weak (daces, stood upon his head in a lane, and then subsided on the gravel with a broken collar bone. There was no doubt— he was not the same man across a country as the Christ Church jockey. He rode at his fences so sluggishly of late.

There was a paragraph in the load paper, entitled, "Alarming accident in the hunting field," which he learned by heart, while, propped up on pillows, he lay in bed and sullied the white sheets with the ashes from his pipe.

"I have brought somebody to see you," said his mother, tapping at the door of the sick-room. "A kind friend who offers to read to my poor injured boy. May we come in?"

Miss Saunders seated herself by the bed, with the demure self-composure of a professional sick-nurse. The invalid stretched a hand from beneath the mountain of clothes and pressed one of hers. Then the mother left them, and the girl began to read.

"Do you like what I am reading?" she asked presently.

He had been moving restlessly and was breathing hard— almost groaning.

"Too exciting," he confessed. "I think something I know would do me more good. Give me a taste of old Handley Cross. You'll find the book over there on the drawers."

Then his breathing grew regular and easy, and very soon he was sleeping like an infant; but she continued to read for some little time, to soothe his slumbers.

His mother softly opened the door, and found the visitor stooping over the deeping form. Miss Sher ladyship continuedaunders' face was flushed, as she laid her finger on her lip in a warning manner, and on tip-toe stole out into the corridor.

There was a perceptible change— or rather development— in the young lady's manner after the alarming incident and sick-room visits. Something motherly, protecting, had crept into her treatment of the young man which was new.

When he returned to the field, she was full of entreaties that he would, at any rate at first, ride with caution. She was quick to lead him out of difficulties, and always contrived to forge ahead when anything awkward presented itself.

After a scamper and a fox marked to ground, one day, she suddenly observed the perspiration rolling off his ample forehead.

"Robert! How dreadfully hot you are!" she cried in the motherly tone of solicitude and distress.

He took off his old-fashioned silk hat, and, while they rode side by side through the wood, she wiped his brow with her little silk handkerchief. There were very few people about.

Her lip was trembling, and she asked him searching questions about his health, imploring him to keep nothing back, to tell her every little symptom, no matter how insignificant it might appear to his strong masculine mind. And as they rode slowly, after the drawing hounds, beneath the fir trees, he told her everything— as to a famous consulting physician and old family friend.

He was alarmed about himself, but ashamed of his vague fears. After his illness, as he called it, he had shied away from his weighing-machine in horror. While he lay in bed, his weight had gone up so frightfully. Then too, he had queer sensations in the head— not to be called headaches exactly— but feelings. And what troubled him most was loss of appetite. He did not really relish his food— hardly cared what he ate.

In sober truth these were the delusions of convalescence. The poor fellow played an excellent knife and fork, and puzzled his mother when he looked up from an empty plate, with the face of a frightened child, crying that he could eat no more.

But the girl was alarmed; lay awake half the night reading books and thinking; and next day went over and communicated her alarm to the mother.

"It is probably liver; but something ought to be done/"

"He won't take medicine," said the mother, trembling.

"I know, I know. My father is just the same. Men are so reckless."

"I daren't call in the doctor again— because that would alarm him. He is so easily alarmed about himself, and Doctor Banks says that his mere presence appears to upset him."

After a long discussion by the drawing-room fire, Gould was summoned.

"My dear, dear girl, what should I do without you? You are so strong, so firm, so good."

"But how should one give it him, Gould?" asked Miss Saunders.

"Mix it in his food, miss. Same as I do for the dogs."

"But he would notice it."

"Not he, miss. I'll tell Chivers exactly how to wrap it in. Best give it him in a pudden."

And so the debate continued.

"Gould!'' called Miss Saunders, her nerve perhaps failing her as the man put his hand on the drawing-room door.

"Gould! Not so much as you would give a dog."

"More!" said Gould, authoritatively. "It stands to reason, miss. He's a big, heavy man. More than a dog. I know."

That night at dinner, there was an early rhubarb tart, with which were served two glasses of liquid custard. Chivers, the butler, assisted his mistress to one with his own hand. The young master took the other; poured it over his tart, and scooped the last drop off an empty plate in silence.

And thus, watched over, jealously guarded, thought for, mildly physicked now and then, unconsciously moving in an atmosphere languorous with feminine solicitude, young Mr. Mountford rode onward, down the grooves of time.

Until one winter's day, when dusk was falling, horses were blown and steaming, and hounds were ding-donging the bell-notes of their blood chorus after a rapidly sinking fox.

"Robert, let me go. My horse is freshest," said Miss Saunders— and she sat down; used her stick behind the saddle; and resolutely drove her flagging beast at the bank.

It was a rotten bank, with wattles on top— a marshy takeoff and a black morass to land in. The horse pegged his toes into the loose earth; carried the wattles with him; came down on the other side; rolled on his rider; got up, with his feet through his reins; dragged her a few yards; then fell again and lay still, with the last puff of wind out of his body.

"Ellen!" screamed the young man, abandoning his horse and clambering through the breach. " Ellen! Speak to me!" and he was down in the dirt supporting her.

It was near the road. By a miraculous chance, Pender, the old groom, was at hand to gallop away and fetch a fly from the inn.

She was really not hurt at all, ugly as the thing had looked, but she was woefully dirty— smothered from head to foot in black ooze and slime.

Holding her in his arms, as the brougham jolted and shook, he tried to clean her as much as possible— wiping her pale face and forehead with his big bandanna handkerchief. With tender care, lest there might be cuts beneath the mud, he wiped her cold cheek and trembling lips— and then he kissed them.

"My darling. I was so frightened," he stammered.

He had never once kissed her, in all those years; and now a slow strange fire began to creep through his sluggish veins; his heart began to beat, his pulse to throb, and, as the brougham jogged homeward, the fire raged. Like a thunderbolt, it had come at last: love, the devouring flame.

And she too, no longer guarding his coat from her miry bodice, responded to his caresses— yielding to the bold attack.

___________

2: When Boob meets Bob

James H. Baker
fl. 1922

Brief Stories, Oct 1922

Reprinted in Laughter, Dec 1926

This is the only story I can find by this writer, who is otherwise anonymous.

"PUT 'em up!" snapped the highwayman.

Henry Malcom's chest felt the muzzle of a revolver but his cerebration was somewhat tardy. Only a few hours before the world's most wonderful woman had promised to marry Henry, and since then he had existed in more or less of a celestial daze.

A brisk poke with the revolver brought him crashing down from the Parrish? tinted clouds of romance. His hands shot up without further orders.

"Keep em up; I'll do th' friskin'."

Already the footpad had found Henry's watch and wallet and was brushing one hand over his victim's pockets while the other held the revolver in emphatic readiness. Henry could not but admire the man's efficiency.

"What's this?" demanded the highwayman suddenly.

"That's— that's— that's my pay envelope," Henry stammered.

"Hum. And what you got here?"

"That's— You can't have that, mister. You can't have—"

"Say, listen to me, bo. I've got a gun in my hand an' you tell me I can't take— Why, some guys I know would shoot you for less 'an that!"

"But it's— it's no good to you."

"Keep your trap shut! I'll take it along just for luck. Now clear out an' don't look around— beat it!"

"I'll go; only please let me have the picture," pleaded Henry.

"Picture?" spoofed the man. "That's a new line but it don't get you nowheres. Beat it an' keep lookin' straight ahead or I'll—"

Again the revolver tapped menacingly on Henry's chest.

"It is a picture," Henry asserted with desperate courage. "Picture of the girl I'm engaged to!

"You engaged?" Some of the professional hardness left the man's voice.

"Yes, sir, replied Henry, hopefully. "And that's her picture you've got there."

"Huh!" The highwayman squeezed the tissue-wrapped object dubiously.

"How long you been engaged?" he demanded.

"Tonight—I mean she just took me tonight. I was coming from her house when you met me."

"Thought so," remarked the man. "Smelled perfume on you— they usually has a lot of it on 'em when they're first engaged."

In the darkness, Henry blushed unseen. "Please, please don't take the picture," he requested again. "I don't care about the rest, only leave me the picture."

"Ever been engaged before?"

"No, of course not," said Henry scandalized. "I've never loved any girl before."

"That's what they all say," observed the highwayman. "An' your girl— suppose she gives you th' same line?"

"I'm the only man she ever loved!" declared Henry, still overwhelmed by his recent discovery of this fact.

"An' you believed her?" asked the man iggredulously.

"Of course I did— I do," replied Henry loyally.

"Well, I'll be—!" ejaculated the highwayman.

"Hortense wouldn't deceive me," Henry insisted.

The man laughed tolerantly. His laugh was rather pleasant. "Man, don't you know that all women is born deceivers Why, that's their job just like cookin' an' keepin' house an' raisin' kids. They takes to it natural-like, just like they takes to chewin' gum an' gossipin'. Why, women couldn't get nowheres without deceivin' us men!"

"Well" Henry began weakly.

"Ain't you never caught your girl puttin' nothin' over on you?"

Henry thought a moment. "No," he answered. "No—that is, not yet."

"How long you knowed her?"

"Three months."

"Three months! That all?"

"I t's enough to know that she's the only girl for me."

"Danged short time, I'll tell th' world. Now, I'd knowed Sadie six years before I asked her."

"You're engaged too?" questioned Henry with new hope. "Then you know what that picture means to me. Please let me keep it, and— and I won't say a word about the other things."

"Sure, keep it. You'd be queered for life if you lost that."

HENRY'S self-respect returned with his possession of the picture. He fingered it lovingly, caressing it with his hands as he: awaited the highwayman's next move.

"Plannin' on bein' married soon?"

"The last of next month," said Henry.

"Hum— How much is they in this pay envelop?"

"Forty dollars," replied Henry proudly.

The man whistled and rubbed his rough chin reflectively. He had lowered the revolver but neither appeared to have noted this fact.

"That all you get?" he demanded suddenly.

"Forty— but I'm due for a raise the first," said Henry with more pride.

"An' you got th' nerve to tell me that you're goin' to get married on forty a week? That you're plannin' on takin' a girl from a nice home an' expectin' her to live with you on that car fare?"

"Why— why we can live on that, can't we?" demanded Henry anxiously.

"Look here, I'm goin' to tell you somethin', you— you poor boob!"

"Yes, sir, said Henry meekly. This was a most unusual highwayman. Henry could not recall ever having read about such a man.

"Forty dollars! Why, that won't pay th' rent an' th' grocer an' th' meatman, you're crazy!"

"Are you sure?" Henry questioned.

"Ain't it been tried on more? An' me, ain't I in hot water all th' time? Ain't I in trouble with everybody? Only tonight, th' dressmaker's husband comes round an' says if I ain't got Sadie's dress paid for by a week from today, he'd come an' take it if he has to grab it off'n her back! Says he can't afford to have his wife work without she's paid for it. Tried it? III say it's been tried! It can't be done!"

"Are dressmakers expensive?" quavered Henry.

"Expensive? Say, do you know how much I paid— how much I got to pay for that dress? Fifty-five dollars! That's what I got to pay, fifty-five dollars! That'd make your forty a week look like an old Bock beer sign! An' hats— my Gawd!"

The highwayman sighed weakly.

He leaned against a tree and thrust the picture into a pocket. This was a phase of matrimony which he had failed to consider. Always he had regarded Hortense as an asset, but this— this was different.

"Now I understand," he said dully. "Hortense— she wanted me to wait awhile so as to have some sewing done, but I talked her into getting married next month. She— she was trying to help by paying for those dresses herself."

"Maybe she's different from th' rest," admitted the highwayman. "An' you wanted to jump right in without knowin' the ropes or nothin', you poor boob!"

Henry accepted the rebuke without protest. Certainly he had been precipitate.

"Your girl wear silk stockings?" interrogated the man abruptly.

"Why, er, I don't know," replied Henry modestly.

"You got eyes, ain't you?"

"She— she does sometimes."

"Silk stockin's costs jack," observed the highwayman.

"Do they?"

"You ain't expectin' th' ones she's wearin' to last forever, do you?"

"Gosh, I hadn't thought of that!"

"An' them ain't all th' silk stuff you got to buy, either."

Henry gulped weakly. "Does that— that 'stuff' cost much?"

"Much?" snorted the man. "Say, if them things was made of yellowbacks, they wouldn't cost no more! Funny thing, no woman ain't happy without she's got em, even if th' rent ain't paid or nothin'. You can't have no peace in th' house till a woman's got an outfit of them things—you might as well know that, first as last."

Henry groaned.

"An' if you're thinkin' of gettin' anythin' for yourself, you better do it quick— before your jane gets her hands on your pay envelope!"

"Before she gets her hands on my pay—? Why, my pay is my own," protested Henry.

The man laughed tolerantly. "Not so's you'd notice it! Not after you're married!" he remarked.

Again Henry groaned.

"Every pay day, Sadie goes through my jeans an' helps herself to every cent— every red penny of it," continued the highwayman in a far-away voice. An' if they's anythin' missin', I catches the devil, Ido! Then she hands me a dollar a week for spendin' money!"

"That's not even car fare," asserted Henry indignantly.

"I'll say it ain't."

"Not enough for smokes and pool," bristled Henry. "It isn't right."

"An with th' woman goin' to th' movies every afternoon!" "Rotten deal, I call it! But but Hortense wouldn't do that, she wouldn't take my pay."

"Yes, she will," declared t he man with conviction. "They're all alike. They're born that way. That'swhy I'm out here tonight doin'— doin' this sort of thing. Naturally I'm as peaceful and law abidin' as th' next guy, but I can't make th' grade with Sadie an' th' old woman. "Say, your skirt got a mother?"

"Of course she has— all girls have," said Henry, surprised at the question.

"She goin' to live with you?"

"Why— why— nothing has been said about that," confessed Henry.

"She live with th' old woman now?"

"Yes—"

"Well?"

"Well—"

"Who pays th' rent?"

"Hortense. She's a stenographer and makes a lot of money—at least, I think she does."

"An' when she quits an' starts raisin' your kids—who's goin' to take care of her old woman then?"

"I— we haven't talked of that." Henry sank down on the curb. The man sat down beside him.

"Ain't nothin' been said about that yet, eh? Well, most likely they're waitin' to spring it on you easy-like. One thing at a time. Ill bet when you was askin' her tonight, her old woman was sittin' just outside ready to sing th' Doxology!"

"She's a nice, quiet old lady—"

"They makes th' worst mother-in-laws. Th' quiet kind goes wild when they gets a son-in-law to jump on! No mother ain't happy till she's got a son-in-law to blame things on; that's what they live for. I know; I've seen 'em!  She'll be eatin' you alive in less 'an a month!"

HENRY buried his face in his hands. Hortense was shifting over into the liability column.

"Ah, they runs th' place," continued the highwayman, still on the subject of mother-in-law. "You ain't got nothin' to say about it; not a thing. Why, I can't even vote th' way I wants to!"

"What?" cried Henry, glancing up in surprise.

"No, sir. Not even vote accordin' to my convictions! Why, last election day, Sadie's old woman took me to th' polls with her just like I was a kid and she says to me, 'Now you go in there an' vote th' way I told you or I'll pull every hair out of your worthless head!' An' that right before th' gang I'd knowed all my life! You'd ought to of heard em give me th' razz! An' when I comes out of th' booth, she ups an' says, 'Leave me look at that vote!' She was goin' to do it, too, only one of th' judges tells her she couldn't an' while she was lightin' into him, I puts it in th' box and beats it."

"That's an outrage!" exploded Henry.

"Maybe you think I'm strong for bein' kidded about that? Th' gang will never forget it— never. When I meets 'em on th' street, they yells, 'Lemme look at that vote!' I've had fights an' stood th' treats an' everythin' but 'taint no use."

"I'd like to see any woman do that to me," Henry snapped.

"Wait, you'll see plenty of it."

For a time, both men meditated on the injustices of the world. This silence was broken by the one with the forgotten revolver.

"An' I used to belong to th' Idle Hour Athaletic Club— used to be pretty fair with th' gloves. One night I says I was goin' to get a little exercise in th' gym, an' th' old woman says, 'If you wants exercise, get after th' carpet an' beat it! You ain't goin' to that loafer's joint any more!' That's th' way mother-in-laws raises the devil with a man's sociable affairs!"

"I'm an Elk," Henry offered.

"You won't be long. But I could forget all them things. It's th' way they runs a man's place that gets me. Why, I can't give Sadie a lovin' little bat in th' eye without her old woman takes after me with th' broom an' drives me out of th' house!"

"But I'd never strike Hortense— I couldn't," Henry protested.

"Lord, man, you've got lots to learn about women," sighed the other, mournfully. "All women got to be beat up just every so often an' th' more you beats 'em, the better they likes you! Why, women takes to gettin' beat up just like a bum used to take to free lunch. It's good for 'em. An' you got to beat em up when you comes home to a cold dinner or th' stew ain't right say, can your jane cook?"

"Why— why blamed if I know!" exclaimed Henry. "I never asked her!"

"Don't ask her," admonished the highwayman. "Of course she'll say she can. Anyway, a woman's no judge of good cookin'— takes a man to be that. You've let yourself in for somethin', I'll say."

"It seems that way."

"Too late to pull out?"

"I've a job offered me in Chicago and—"

"Grab it," advised the man. "Put your name in it an' clear out quick. Tell th' girl you made a mistake— tell her anythin', only beat it while the goin's good."

"By George, I believe I will!" asserted Henry savagely.

"That's th' idea—"

"What goes on there? Better move along— it's getting late."

Henry and the highwayman turned to face the policeman's flashlight. Henry evidenced no concern. The highwayman watched Henry's face and crouched, tense and prepared.

"Never mind, officer," said Henry calmly. "We're just getting a breath of air."

"Beg pardon, sir— no offense. There's been a couple of stick-ups reported tonight— I'd advise you not to stay out too long, sir."

"Thanks," said Henry in a tone of dismissal.

The policeman's footsteps echoed down the quiet street.

THE man wiped his forehead and regarded Henry wonderingly. "Wow! That was a close one!" he breathed. "You're certainly on th' level. You could of had me cold! I got all your stuff on me!"

"Forget it," snapped Henry. "I hope  I know my friends. I'm going to Chicago!"

"Now you're talkin', approved the highwayman. "You come clean when the bull was 'round— here, take your stuff an' light out!"

Henry accepted his property.

"You've made me see this thing in a different way. I've been deceived—deceived by a woman. I've been led into this against my will, against my better judgment. I'm going away! I'm going to be free! No woman is going to spoil my life!"

"You said a mouthful," the man began. He paused to observe Henry, who was tearing up an object. Bits of ragged tissue paper fluttered to the street.

The men rose and regarded each other in silence. Henry extended his hand. "You've pulled me out of a bad mess tonight," he said.

"Aw, shucks," protested the man.

"You've saved me from a designing woman and her mother. I'm free and I'm going to start over again. I'm done with women— I'm going to leave them alone. I've got money in the bank and you've got Sadie and— and her old woman. You take the forty! You need it worse than I do!"

Henry thrust his pay envelope in the man's hand and strode off.

"I'II be hanged!" muttered the highwayman. Then he sauntered off in the opposite direction.

Passing an alley, he espied a garbage can. Lifting the lid, he thrust his revolver into the can.

"Guess I won't need that no more," he said to himself. Let's see— forty, an' sixty from them other jobs makes a cold hundred. Sadie said she'd marry me when I had a hundred bucks!"

____________

3: Monkey-Nuts

D. H. Lawrence

1885-1930

The Sovereign Magazine, Aug 1922

AT FIRST Joe thought the job O.K. He was loading hay on the trucks, along with Albert, the corporal. The two men were pleasantly billeted in a cottage not far from the station: they were their own masters, for Joe never thought of Albert as a master. And the little sidings of the tiny village station was as pleasant a place as you could wish for. On one side, beyond the line, stretched the woods: on the other, the near side, across a green smooth field red houses were dotted among flowering apple trees. The weather being sunny, work being easy, Albert, a real good pal, what life could be better! After Flanders, it was heaven itself.

Albert, the corporal, was a clean-shaven, shrewd-looking fellow of about forty. He seemed to think his one aim in life was to be full of fun and nonsense. In repose, his face looked a little withered, old. He was a very good pal to Joe, steady, decent and grave under all his 'mischief'; for his mischief was only his laborious way of skirting his own ennui.

Joe was much younger than Albert— only twenty-three. He was a tallish, quiet youth, pleasant looking. He was of a slightly better class than his corporal, more personable. Careful about his appearance, he shaved every day. 'I haven't got much of a face,' said Albert. 'If I was to shave every day like you, Joe, I should have none.'

There was plenty of life in the little goods-yard: three porter youths, a continual come and go of farm wagons bringing hay, wagons with timber from the woods, coal carts loading at the trucks. The black coal seemed to make the place sleepier, hotter. Round the big white gate the station-master's children played and his white chickens walked, whilst the stationmaster himself, a young man getting too fat, helped his wife to peg out the washing on the clothes line in the meadow.

The great boat-shaped wagons came up from Playcross with the hay. At first the farm-men waggoned it. On the third day one of the land-girls appeared with the first load, drawing to a standstill easily at the head of her two great horses. She was a buxom girl, young, in linen overalls and gaiters. Her face was ruddy, she had large blue eyes.

'Now that's the waggoner for us, boys,' said the corporal loudly.

'Whoa!' she said to her horses; and then to the corporal: 'Which boys do you mean?'

'We are the pick of the bunch. That's Joe, my pal. Don't you let on that my name's Albert,' said the corporal to his private. 'I'm the corporal.'

'And I'm Miss Stokes,' said the land-girl coolly, 'if that's all the boys you are.'

'You know you couldn't want more, Miss Stokes,' said Albert politely.

Joe, who was bare-headed, whose grey flannel sleeves were rolled up to  he elbow, and whose shirt was open at the breast, looked modestly aside as if he had no part in the affair.

'Are you on this job regular, then?' said the corporal to Miss Stokes.

'I don't know for sure,' she said, pushing a piece of hair under her hat, and attending to her splendid horses.

'Oh, make it a certainty,' said Albert.

She did not reply. She turned and looked over the two men coolly. She was pretty, moderately blonde, with crisp hair, a good skin, and large blue eyes. She was strong, too, and the work went on leisurely and easily.

'Now!' said the corporal, stopping as usual to look round, 'pleasant company makes work a pleasure— don't hurry it, boys.' He stood on the truck surveying the world. That was one of his great and absorbing occupations: to stand and look out on things in general. Joe, also standing on the truck, also turned round to look what was to be seen. But he could not become blankly absorbed, as Albert could.

Miss Stokes watched the two men from under her broad felt hat. She had seen hundreds of Alberts, khaki soldiers standing in loose attitudes, absorbed in watching nothing in particular. She had seen also a good many Joes, quiet, good-looking young soldiers with half-averted faces. But there was something in the turn of Joe's head, and something in his quiet, tender-looking form, young and fresh— which attracted her eye. As she watched him closely from below, he turned as if he felt her, and his dark-blue eye met her straight, light-blue gaze. He faltered and turned aside again and looked as if he were going to fall off the truck. A slight flush mounted under the girl's full, ruddy face. She liked him.

Always, after this, when she came into the sidings with her team, it was Joe she looked for. She acknowledged to herself that she was sweet on him. But Albert did all the talking. He was so full of fun and nonsense. Joe was a very shy bird, very brief and remote in his answers. Miss Stokes was driven to indulge in repartee with Albert, but she fixed her magnetic attention on the younger fellow. Joe would talk with Albert, and laugh at his jokes. But Miss Stokes could get little out of him. She had to depend on her silent forces. They were more effective than might be imagined.

SUDDENLY, on Saturday afternoon, at about two o'clock, Joe received a bolt from the blue— a telegram: 'Meet me Belbury Station 6.00 p.m. today. M.S.' He knew at once who M.S. was. His heart melted, he felt weak as if he had had a blow.

'What's the trouble, boy?' asked Albert anxiously.

'No— no trouble— it's to meet somebody.' Joe lifted his dark-blue eyes in confusion towards his corporal.

'Meet somebody!' repeated the corporal, watching his young pal with keen blue eyes. 'It's all right, then; nothing wrong?'

'No— nothing wrong. I'm not going,' said Joe.

Albert was old and shrewd enough to see that nothing more should be said before the housewife. He also saw that Joe did not want to take him into confidence. So he held his peace, though he was piqued.

The two soldiers went into town, smartened up. Albert knew a fair number of the boys round about; there would be plenty of gossip in the market-place, plenty of lounging in groups on the Bath Road, watching the Saturday evening shoppers. Then a modest drink or two, and the movies. They passed an agreeable, casual, nothing-in-particular evening, with which Joe was quite satisfied. He thought of Belbury Station, and of M.S. waiting there. He had not the faintest intention of meeting her. And he had not the faintest intention of telling Albert.

And yet, when the two men were in their bedroom, half undressed, Joe suddenly held out the telegram to his corporal, saying: 'What d'you think of that?'

Albert was just unbuttoning his braces. He desisted, took the telegram form, and turned towards the candle to read it.

'Meet me Belbury Station 6.00 p.m. today. M.S.,' he read, sotto voce. His face took on its fun-and-nonsense look.

'Who's M.S.?' he asked, looking shrewdly at Joe.

'You know as well as I do,' said Joe, non-committal.

'M.S.,' repeated Albert. 'Blamed if I know, boy. Is it a woman?'

The conversation was carried on in tiny voices, for fear of disturbing the householders.

'I don't know,' said Joe, turning. He looked full at Albert, the two men looked straight into each other's eyes. There was a lurking grin in each of them.

'Well, I'm —blamed!' said Albert at last, throwing the telegram down emphatically on the bed.

'Wha-at?' said Joe, grinning rather sheepishly, his eyes clouded none the less.

Albert sat on the bed and proceeded to undress, nodding his head with mock gravity all the while. Joe watched him foolishly.

'What?' he repeated faintly.

Albert looked up at him with a knowing look.

'If that isn't coming it quick, boy!' he said. 'What the blazes! What ha' you bin doing?'

'Nothing!' said Joe.

Albert slowly shook his head as he sat on the side of the bed.

'Don't happen to me when I've bin doin' nothing,' he said. And he proceeded to pull off his stockings.

Joe turned away, looking at himself in the mirror as he unbuttoned his tunic.

'You didn't want to keep the appointment?' Albert asked, in a changed voice, from the bedside.

Joe did not answer for a moment. Then he said:

'I made no appointment.'

'I'm not saying you did, boy. Don't be nasty about it. I mean you didn't want to answer the— unknown person's summons— shall I put it that way?'

'No,' said Joe.

'What was the deterring motive?' asked Albert, who was now lying on his back in bed.

'Oh,' said Joe, suddenly looking round rather haughtily. 'I didn't want to.' He had a well-balanced head, and could take on a sudden distant bearing.

'Didn't want to— didn't cotton on, like. Well— they be artful, the women—' he mimicked his landlord. 'Come on into bed, boy. Don't loiter about as if you'd lost something.'

Albert turned over, to sleep.

ON MONDAY Miss Stokes turned up as usual, striding beside her team. Her 'whoa!' was resonant and challenging, she looked up at the truck as her steeds came to a standstill. Joe had turned aside, and had his face averted from her. She glanced him over— save for his slender succulent tenderness she would have despised him. She sized him up in a steady look. Then she turned to Albert, who was looking down at her and smiling in his mischievous turn. She knew his aspects by now. She looked straight back at him, though her eyes were hot. He saluted her.

'Beautiful morning, Miss Stokes.'

'Very!' she replied.

'Handsome is as handsome looks,' said Albert.

Which produced no response.

'Now, Joe, come on here,' said the corporal. 'Don't keep the ladies waiting— it's the sign of a weak heart.'

Joe turned, and the work began. Nothing more was said for the time being.

As the week went on all parties became more comfortable. Joe remained silent, averted, neutral, a little on his dignity. Miss Stokes was off-hand and masterful. Albert was full of mischief.

The great theme was a circus, which was coming to the market town on the following Saturday.

'You'll go to the circus, Miss Stokes?' said Albert.

'I may go. Are you going?'

'Certainly. Give us the pleasure of escorting you.'

'No, thanks.'

'That's what I call a flat refusal— what, Joe? You don't mean that you have no liking for our company, Miss Stokes?'

'Oh, I don't know,' said Miss Stokes. 'How many are there of you?'

'Only me and Joe.'

'Oh, is that all?' she said, satirically.

Albert was a little nonplussed.

'Isn't that enough for you?' he asked.

'Too many by half,' blurted out Joe, jeeringly, in a sudden fit of uncouth rudeness that made both the others stare.

'Oh, I'll stand out of the way, boy, if that's it,' said Albert to Joe. Then he turned mischievously to Miss Stokes. 'He wants to know what M. stands for,' he said, confidentially.

'Monkeys,' she replied, turning to her horses.

'What's M.S.?' said Albert.

'Monkey nuts,' she retorted, leading off her team.

Albert looked after her a little discomfited. Joe had flushed dark, and cursed Albert in his heart.

On the Saturday afternoon the two soldiers took the train into town. They would have to walk home. They had tea at six o'clock, and lounged about till half past seven. The circus was in a meadow near the river— a great red-and-white striped tent. Caravans stood at the side. A great crowd of people was gathered round the ticket-caravan.

Inside the tent the lamps were lighted, shining on a ring of faces, a great circular bank of faces round the green grassy centre. Along with some comrades, the two soldiers packed themselves on a thin plank seat, rather high. They were delighted with the flaring lights, the wild effect. But the circus performance did not affect them deeply. They admired the lady in black velvet with rose-purple legs who leapt so neatly on to the galloping horse; they watched the feats of strength and laughed at the clown. But they felt a little patronizing, they missed the sensational drama of the cinema.

Half-way through the performance Joe was electrified to see the face of Miss Stokes not very far from him. There she was, in her khaki and her felt hat, as usual; he pretended not to see her. She was laughing at the clown; she also pretended not to see him. It was a blow to him, and it made him angry. He would not even mention it to Albert. Least said, soonest mended. He liked to believe she had not seen him. But he knew, fatally, that she had.

When they came out it was nearly eleven o'clock; a lovely night, with a moon and tall, dark, noble trees: a magnificent May night. Joe and Albert laughed and chaffed with the boys. Joe looked round frequently to see if he were safe from Miss Stokes. It seemed so.

But there were six miles to walk home. At last the two soldiers set off, swinging their canes. The road was white between tall hedges, other stragglers were passing out of the town towards the villages; the air was full of pleased excitement.

They were drawing near to the village when they saw a dark figure ahead. Joe's heart sank with pure fear. It was a figure wheeling a bicycle; a land girl; Miss Stokes. Albert was ready with his nonsense. Miss Stokes had a puncture.

'Let me wheel the rattler,' said Albert.

'Thank you,' said Miss Stokes. 'You are kind.'

'Oh, I'd be kinder than that, if you'd show me how,' said Albert.

'Are you sure?' said Miss Stokes.

'Doubt my words?' said Albert. 'That's cruel of you, Miss Stokes.'

Miss Stokes walked between them, close to Joe.

'Have you been to the circus?' she asked him.

'Yes,' he replied, mildly.

'Have you been?' Albert asked her.

'Yes. I didn't see you,' she replied.

'What!— you say so! Didn't see us! Didn't think us worth looking at,' began Albert. 'Aren't I as handsome as the clown, now? And you didn't as much as glance in our direction? I call it a downright oversight.'

'I never saw you,' reiterated Miss Stokes. 'I didn't know you saw me.'

'That makes it worse,' said Albert.

The road passed through a belt of dark pine-wood. The village, and the branch road, was very near. Miss Stokes put out her fingers and felt for Joe's hand as it swung at his side. To say he was staggered is to put it mildly. Yet he allowed her softly to clasp his fingers for a few moments.But he was a mortified youth.

At the cross-road they stopped— Miss Stokes should turn off. She had another mile to go.

'You'll let us see you home,' said Albert.

'Do me a kindness,' she said. 'Put my bike in your shed, and take it to Baker's on Monday, will you?'

'I'll sit up all night and mend it for you, if you like.'

'No thanks. And Joe and I'll walk on.'

'Oh— ho! Oh— ho!' sang Albert. 'Joe! Joe! What do you say to that, now, boy? Aren't you in luck's way. And I get the bloomin' old bike for my pal. Consider it again, Miss Stokes.'

Joe turned aside his face, and did not speak.

'Oh, well! I wheel the grid, do I? I leave you, boy—'

'I'm not keen on going any further,' barked out Joe, in an uncouth voice. 'She hain't my choice.'

The girl stood silent, and watched the two men.

'There now!' said Albert. 'Think o' that! If it was me now—' But he was uncomfortable. 'Well, Miss Stokes, have me,' he added.

Miss Stokes stood quite still, neither moved nor spoke. And so the three remained for some time at the lane end. At last Joe began kicking the ground— then he suddenly lifted his face. At that moment Miss Stokes was at his side. She put her arm delicately round his waist.

'Seems I'm the one extra, don't you think?' Albert inquired of the high bland moon.

Joe had dropped his head and did not answer. Miss Stokes stood with her arm lightly round his waist. Albert bowed, saluted, and bade good-night. He walked away, leaving the two standing.

Miss Stokes put a light pressure on Joe's waist, and drew him down the road. They walked in silence. The night was full of scent— wild cherry, the first bluebells. Still they walked in silence. A nightingale was singing. They approached nearer and nearer, till they stood close by his dark bush. The powerful notes sounded from the cover, almost like flashes of light— then the interval of silence— then the moaning notes, almost like a dog faintly howling, followed by the long, rich trill, and flashing notes. Then a short silence again.

Miss Stokes turned at last to Joe. She looked up at him, and in the moonlight he saw her faintly smiling. He felt maddened, but helpless. Her arm was round his waist, she drew him closely to her with a soft pressure that made all his bones rotten.

Meanwhile Albert was waiting at home. He put on his overcoat, for the fire was out, and he had had malarial fever. He looked fitfully at the Daily Mirror and the Daily Sketch, but he saw nothing. It seemed a long time. He began to yawn widely, even to nod. At last Joe came in.

Albert looked at him keenly. The young man's brow was black, his face sullen.

'All right, boy?' asked Albert.

Joe merely grunted for a reply. There was nothing more to be got out of him. So they went to bed.

Next day Joe was silent, sullen. Albert could make nothing of him. He proposed a walk after tea.

'I'm going somewhere,' said Joe.

'Where— Monkey nuts?' asked the corporal. But Joe's brow only became darker.

SO THE DAYS went by. Almost every evening Joe went off alone, returning late. He was sullen, taciturn and had a hang-dog look, a curious way of dropping his head and looking dangerously from under his brows. And he and Albert did not get on so well any more with one another. For all his fun and nonsense, Albert was really irritable, soon made angry. And Joe's stand-offish sulkiness and complete lack of confidence riled him, got on his nerves. His fun and nonsense took a biting, sarcastic turn, at which Joe's eyes glittered occasionally, though the young man turned unheeding aside. Then again Joe would be full of odd, whimsical fun, outshining Albert himself.

Miss Stokes still came to the station with the wain: Monkey-nuts, Albert called her, though not to her face. For she was very clear and good-looking, almost she seemed to gleam. And Albert was a tiny bit afraid of her. She very rarely addressed Joe whilst the hay-loading was going on, and that young man always turned his back to her. He seemed thinner, and his limber figure looked more slouching. But still it had the tender, attractive appearance, especially from behind. His tanned face, a little thinned and darkened, took a handsome, slightly sinister look.

'Come on, Joe!' the corporal urged sharply one day. 'What're you doing, boy? Looking for beetles on the bank?'

Joe turned round swiftly, almost menacing, to work.

'He's a different fellow these days, Miss Stokes,' said Albert to the young woman. 'What's got him? Is it Monkey nuts that don't suit him, do you think?'

'Choked with chaff, more like,' she retorted. 'It's as bad as feeding a threshing machine, to have to listen to some folks.'

'As bad as what?' said Albert. 'You don't mean me, do you, Miss Stokes?'

'No,' she cried. 'I don't mean you.'

Joe's face became dark red during these sallies, but he said nothing. He would eye the young woman curiously, as she swung so easily at the work, and he had some of the look of a dog which is going to bite.

Albert, with his nerves on edge, began to find the strain rather severe.

The next Saturday evening, when Joe came in more black-browed than ever, he watched him, determined to have it out with him.

When the boy went upstairs to bed, the corporal followed him. He closed the door behind him carefully, sat on the bed and watched the younger man undressing. And for once he spoke in a natural voice, neither chaffing nor commanding.

'What's gone wrong, boy?'

Joe stopped a moment as if he had been shot. Then he went on unwinding his puttees, and did not answer or look up.

'You can hear, can't you?' said Albert, nettled.

'Yes, I can hear,' said Joe, stooping over his puttees till his face was purple.

'Then why don't you answer?'

Joe sat up. He gave a long, sideways look at the corporal. Then he lifted his eyes and stared at a crack in the ceiling.

The corporal watched these movements shrewdly.

'And then what?' he asked, ironically.

Again Joe turned and stared him in the face. The corporal smiled very slightly, but kindly.

'There'll be murder done one of these days,' said Joe, in a quiet, unimpassioned voice.

'So long as it's by daylight—' replied Albert. Then he went over, sat down by Joe, put his hand on his shoulder affectionately, and continued, 'What is it, boy? What's gone wrong? You can trust me, can't you?'

Joe turned and looked curiously at the face so near to his.

'It's nothing, that's all,' he said laconically.

Albert frowned.

'Then who's going to be murdered?— and who's going to do the murdering?— me or you— which is it, boy?' He smiled gently at the stupid youth, looking straight at him all the while, into his eyes. Gradually the stupid, hunted, glowering look died out of Joe's eyes. He turned his head aside, gently, as one rousing from a spell.

'I don't want her,' he said, with fierce resentment.

'Then you needn't have her,' said Albert. 'What do you go for, boy?'

But it wasn't as simple as all that. Joe made no remark.

'She's a smart-looking girl. What's wrong with her, my boy? I should have thought you were a lucky chap, myself.'

'I don't want 'er,' Joe barked, with ferocity and resentment.

'Then tell her so and have done,' said Albert. He waited awhile. There was no response. 'Why don't you?' he added.

'Because I don't,' confessed Joe, sulkily.

Albert pondered— rubbed his head.

'You're too soft-hearted, that's where it is, boy. You want your mettle dipping in cold water, to temper it. You're too soft-hearted—'

He laid his arm affectionately across the shoulders of the younger man. Joe seemed to yield a little towards him.

'When are you going to see her again?' Albert asked. For a long time there was no answer.

'When is it, boy?' persisted the softened voice of the corporal.

'Tomorrow,' confessed Joe.

'Then let me go,' said Albert. 'Let me go, will you?'

THE MORROW was Sunday, a sunny day, but a cold evening. The sky was grey, the new foliage very green, but the air was chill and depressing. Albert walked briskly down the white road towards Beeley. He crossed a larch plantation, and followed a narrow by-road, where blue speedwell flowers fell from the banks into the dust. He walked swinging his cane, with mixed sensations. Then having gone a certain length, he turned and began to walk in the opposite direction.

So he saw a young woman approaching him. She was wearing a wide hat of grey straw, and a loose, swinging dress of nigger-grey velvet. She walked with slow inevitability. Albert faltered a little as he approached her. Then he saluted her, and his roguish, slightly withered skin flushed. She was staring straight into his face.

He fell in by her side, saying impudently:

'Not so nice for a walk as it was, is it?'

She only stared at him. He looked back at her.

'You've seen me before, you know,' he said, grinning slightly. 'Perhaps you never noticed me. Oh, I'm quite nice looking, in a quiet way, you know. What—?'

But Miss Stokes did not speak: she only stared with large, icy blue eyes at him. He became self-conscious, lifted up his chin, walked with his nose in the air, and whistled at random. So they went down the quiet, deserted grey lane. He was whistling the air: 'I'm Gilbert, the filbert, the colonel of the nuts.'

At last she found her voice:

'Where's Joe?'

'He thought you'd like a change: they say variety's the salt of life— that's why I'm mostly in pickle.'

'Where is he?'

'Am I my brother's keeper? He's gone his own ways.'

'Where?'

'Nay, how am I to know? Not so far but he'll be back for supper.'

She stopped in the middle of the lane. He stopped facing her.

'Where's Joe?' she asked.

He struck a careless attitude, looked down the road this way and that, lifted his eyebrows, pushed his khaki cap on one side, and answered:

'He is not conducting the service tonight: he asked me if I'd officiate.'

'Why hasn't he come?'

'Didn't want to, I expect. I wanted to.'

She stared him up and down, and he felt uncomfortable in his spine, but maintained his air of nonchalance. Then she turned slowly on her heel, and started to walk back. The corporal went at her side.

'You're not going back, are you?' he pleaded. 'Why, me and you, we should get on like a house on fire.'

She took no heed, but walked on. He went uncomfortably at her side, making his funny remarks from time to time. But she was as if stone deaf. He glanced at her, and to his dismay saw the tears running down her cheeks. He stopped suddenly, and pushed back his cap.

'I say, you know—' he began.

But she was walking on like an automaton, and he had to hurry after her.

She never spoke to him. At the gate of her farm she walked straight in, as if he were not there. He watched her disappear. Then he turned on his heel, cursing silently, puzzled, lifting off his cap to scratch his head.

That night, when they were in bed, he remarked: 'Say, Joe, boy; strikes me you're well-off without Monkey nuts. Gord love us, beans ain't in it.'

So they slept in amity. But they waited with some anxiety for the morrow.

IT WAS a cold morning, a grey sky shifting in a cold wind, and threatening rain. They watched the wagon come up the road and through the yard gates. Miss Stokes was with her team as usual; her 'Whoa!' rang out like a war-whoop.

She faced up at the truck where the two men stood.

'Joe!' she called, to the averted figure which stood up in the wind.

'What?' he turned unwillingly.

She made a queer movement, lifting her head slightly in a sipping, half-inviting, half-commanding gesture. And Joe was crouching already to jump off the truck to obey her, when Albert put his hand on his shoulder.

'Half a minute, boy! Where are you off? Work's work, and nuts is nuts. You stop here.'

Joe slowly straightened himself.

'Joe!' came the woman's clear call from below.

Again Joe looked at her. But Albert's hand was on his shoulder, detaining him. He stood half averted, with his tail between his legs.

'Take your hand off him, you!' said Miss Stokes.

'Yes, Major,' retorted Albert satirically.

She stood and watched.

'Joe!' Her voice rang for the third time.

Joe turned and looked at her, and a slow, jeering smile gathered on his face.

'Monkey nuts!' he replied, in a tone mocking her call.

She turned white— dead white. The men thought she would fall. Albert began yelling to the porters up the line to come and help with the load. He could yell like any non-commissioned officer upon occasion.

Some way or other the wagon was unloaded, the girl was gone. Joe and his corporal looked at one another and smiled slowly. But they had a weight on their minds, they were afraid.

They were reassured, however, when they found that Miss Stokes came no more with the hay. As far as they were concerned, she had vanished into oblivion. And Joe felt more relieved even than he had felt when he heard the firing cease, after the news had come that the armistice was signed.

____________

4: The Patent Gas Regulator

Charles B. Lewis

1842-1924

From anthology Little Masterpieces of American Wit and Humor, 1903

Charles Bertrand Lewis was an American jounalist and humourist.  "M. Quad" was his major pseudonym, from the typesetting technical term "em quad".

"I WAS thinking to-day that it was about time!" observed Mrs. Bowser, as Mr. Bowser came home the other evening with a suspicious-looking package under his arm.

"About time for what?"

"I suppose you've run across some more germ-killer, or a new kind of medicine chest, or a pocket fire-escape. How on earth you let people take you in as they do is a wonder to me! "

"Who has ever taken me in!" he hotly demanded.

"Everybody who had anything in the shape of a swindle."

"I deny it! You can't point to one single instance where I have made a poor investtnent! On the contrary, I have saved us hundreds of dollars per year in cold cash, not to mention sickness, suffering and doctors' bills, by the outlay of a few shillings now and then."

"What new idea is it this time?" she asked, as she resigned herself to the inevitable.

"Mrs. Bowser," he replied, after walking back and forth across the room three or four times, "if I can save one-half our gas bill just as well as not, I 'd be a chump not to do it, wouldn't I?"

"We can save it all by burning kerosene."

"Don't try to be funny, Mrs. Bowser. The gas bill is a serious thing. It" I can save anywhere from thirty to forty dollars per month by the outlay of a couple of dollars at the start, common sense dictates my course. If I didn't save to offset your waste, we should soon be in the poorhouse. The gas bill for last month was something appalling."

"It was four dollars and twenty cents, I believe!"

"What you believe has nothing to do with the matter. If it wasn't seventy-five or eighty dollars, it will be this month. Mrs. Bowser, do you know the principle on which a gasmeter works?"

"No."

"Of course not; and yet you assume to criticize my actions! There is a bellows inside the meter. The bellows is arranged to force the gas through the pipes faster than it can be burned, and thereby profit the gas company. We have paid out thousands of dollars for gas we never burned, and the time has come to call a halt."

"Well?"

"I have here a patent regulator. It is attached to the inlet pipe. With this on, the pressure is decreased and no gas wasted. Any child can attach it. It is simple, compact, and nothing about it to get out of order. By the expenditure of four dollars I save hundreds."

"Well, don't blame me if it doesn't work; and I'm sure it won't."

"Because I wish to save a thousand dollars instead of giving it to the gas company you are sure it won't work. Is it any wonder, Mrs. Bowser, that so many husbands throw their dollars away and pauperize their families? You object to my scheme. Of course, you'd object. Nevertheless, the attachment will be attached, and before nine o'clock to-night the president of our gas company will hear something drop."

After dinner Mr. Bowser armed himself with a monkey-wrench, a hammer, a pair of pincers, a hatchet, a saw, and other things, and disappeared in the cellar, and half an hour later came upstairs to rub his hands and chuckle and announce:

"The president of the gas company is already beginning to grow white around the mouth, Mrs. Bowser. He won't put in four weeks at the Catskills next summer on our cash. Can't you see the difference already?"

"I see no difference whatever," she replied, as she looked up at the chandelier.

"Of course not. I didn't expect you would. When a wife is determined to bankrupt her husband, she can't see anything intended to save a dollar. The regulator is regulating, however, and I feel as if a great burden had rolled off my back."

A dozen times during the evening Mr. Bowser got up to walk about and chuckle and refer to that regulator, and he went to bed figuring that the gas company would be financially busted in six months. He hadn't got to sleep when Mrs. Bowser asked him if he didn't smell gas.

"Not a smell!" he replied, as he turned over. "The president of the gas company probably smells a rat, but there is no odor of gas here."

It was daylight next morning when a policeman rang the door bell and banged away till he got Mr. Bowser downstairs, and said :

"I 've been smelling gas around here all night. You'd better look at your meter. The odor seems to come from that open cellar window."

He went down with Mrs. Bowser to investigate. The regulator and the inlet pipe had parted company, and for eight or nine hours the gas had been steadily pouring out of the open window and sailing around the corner of the house. At the breakfast table, after the plumber and the policeman and the crowd had departed, and the house had been aired, and the cook's wages raised fifty cents a week to keep her on, Mrs. Bowser looked up and asked :

"Mr. Bowser, if you call it eight hours, how much gas will have gone out of that window?"

He pretended not to hear, and hadn't a word to say until he stood at the door ready to go to the office. Then he turned on her with:

"You can figure it with your lawyer. You can give him the exact hour you sneaked down there and uncoupled that regulator to spite me and he can work it out. While you are not entitled to alimony, I am willing for the sake of our child that you should have a reasonable sum until you can learn to make straw hats or hickory shirts! Farewell, Mrs. Bowser; the worm has turned!"

But "the worm" returned home at the usual hour, and two days later, when Mrs. Bowser saw the patent gas regulator in the back yard and asked what it was, he quietly replied:

"It's probably an old beer faucet that Green heaved at those howling cats last night!"

________________

5: How Santa Claus Came to Simpson's Bar

Bret Harte

1839-1902

The Atlantic Monthly March 1872

Collected in: Mrs. Skagg's Husbands and Other Stories 1873

IT HAD BEEN RAINING in the valley of the Sacramento. The North Fork had overflowed its banks and Rattlesnake Creek was impassable. The few boulders that had marked the summer ford at Simpson's Crossing were obliterated by a vast sheet of water stretching to the foothills. The up stage was stopped at Grangers; the last mail had been abandoned in the tules, the rider swimming for his life. "An area," remarked the Sierra Avalanche, with pensive local pride, "as large as the State of Massachusetts is now under water."

Nor was the weather any better in the foothills. The mud lay deep on the mountain road; wagons that neither physical force nor moral objurgation could move from the evil ways into which they had fallen, encumbered the track, and the way to Simpson's Bar was indicated by broken-down teams and hard swearing. And farther on, cut off and inaccessible, rained upon and bedraggled, smitten by high winds and threatened by high water, Simpson's Bar, on the eve of Christmas day, 1862, clung like a swallow's nest to the rocky entablature and splintered capitals of Table Mountain, and shook in the blast.

As night shut down on the settlement, a few lights gleamed through the mist from the windows of cabins on either side of the highway now crossed and gullied by lawless streams and swept by marauding winds. Happily most of the population were gathered at Thompson's store, clustered around a red-hot stove, at which they silently spat in some accepted sense of social communion that perhaps rendered conversation unnecessary. Indeed, most methods of diversion had long since been exhausted on Simpson's Bar; high water had suspended the regular occupations on gulch and on river, and a consequent lack of money and whiskey had taken the zest from most illegitimate recreation. Even Mr. Hamlin was fain to leave the Bar with fifty dollars in his pocket,— the only amount actually realized of the large sums won by him in the successful exercise of his arduous profession. "Ef I was asked," he remarked somewhat later,— "ef I was asked to pint out a purty little village where a retired sport as didn't care for money could exercise hisself, frequent and lively, I'd say Simpson's Bar; but for a young man with a large family depending on his exertions, it don't pay." As Mr. Hamlin's family consisted mainly of female adults, this remark is quoted rather to show the breadth of his humor than the exact extent of his responsibilities.

Howbeit, the unconscious objects of this satire sat that evening in the listless apathy begotten of idleness and lack of excitement. Even the sudden splashing of hoofs before the door did not arouse them. Dick Bullen alone paused in the act of scraping out his pipe, and lifted his head, but no other one of the group indicated any interest in, or recognition of, the man who entered.

It was a figure familiar enough to the company, and known in Simpson's Bar as "The Old Man." A man of perhaps fifty years; grizzled and scant of hair, but still fresh and youthful of complexion. A face full of ready, but not very powerful sympathy, with a chameleon-like aptitude for taking on the shade and color of contiguous moods and feelings. He had evidently just left some hilarious companions, and did not at first notice the gravity of the group, but clapped the shoulder of the nearest man jocularly, and threw himself into a vacant chair.

"Jest heard the best thing out, boys! Ye know Smiley, over yar,— Jim Smiley,— funniest man in the Bar? Well, Jim was jest telling the richest yarn about— "

"Smiley's a —— fool," interrupted a gloomy voice.

"A particular —— skunk," added another in sepulchral accents.

A silence followed these positive statements. The Old Man glanced quickly around the group. Then his face slowly changed. "That's so," he said reflectively, after a pause, "certingly a sort of a skunk and suthin of a fool. In course." He was silent for a moment as in painful contemplation of the unsavoriness and folly of the unpopular Smiley. "Dismal weather, ain't it?" he added, now fully embarked on the current of prevailing sentiment. "Mighty rough papers on the boys, and no show for money this season. And tomorrow's Christmas."

There was a movement among the men at this announcement, but whether of satisfaction or disgust was not plain. "Yes," continued the Old Man in the lugubrious tone he had, within the last few moments, unconsciously adopted,— "yes, Christmas, and to-night's Christmas eve. Ye see, boys, I kinder thought— that is, I sorter had an idee, jest passin' like, you know— that may be ye'd all like to come over to my house to-night and have a sort of tear round. But I suppose, now, you wouldn't? Don't feel like it, may be?" he added with anxious sympathy, peering into the faces of his companions.

"Well, I don't know," responded Tom Flynn with some cheerfulness. "P'r'aps we may. But how about your wife, Old Man? What does she say to it?"

The Old Man hesitated. His conjugal experience had not been a happy one, and the fact was known to Simpson's Bar. His first wife, a delicate, pretty little woman, had suffered keenly and secretly from the jealous suspicions of her husband, until one day he invited the whole Bar to his house to expose her infidelity. On arriving, the party found the shy, petite creature quietly engaged in her household duties, and retired abashed and discomfited. But the sensitive woman did not easily recover from the shock of this extraordinary outrage. It was with difficulty she regained her equanimity sufficiently to release her lover from the closet in which he was concealed and escape with him. She left a boy of three years to comfort her bereaved husband. The Old Man's present wife had been his cook. She was large, loyal, and aggressive.

Before he could reply, Joe Dimmick suggested with great directness that it was the "Old Man's house," and that, invoking the Divine Power, if the case were his own, he would invite whom he pleased, even if in so doing he imperilled his salvation. The Powers of Evil, he further remarked, should contend against him vainly. All this delivered with a terseness and vigor lost in this necessary translation.

"In course. Certainly. Thet's it," said the Old Man with a sympathetic frown. "Thar's no trouble about thet. It's my own house, built every stick on it myself. Don't you be afeard o' her, boys. She may cut up a trifle rough,— ez wimmin do,— but she'll come round." Secretly the Old Man trusted to the exaltation of liquor and the power of courageous example to sustain him in such an emergency.

As yet, Dick Bullen, the oracle and leader of Simpson's Bar, had not spoken. He now took his pipe from his lips. "Old Man, how's that yer Johnny gettin' on? Seems to me he didn't look so peart last time I seed him on the bluff heavin' rocks at Chinamen. Didn't seem to take much interest in it. Thar was a gang of 'em by yar yesterday,— drownded out up the river,— and I kinder thought o' Johnny, and how he'd miss 'em! May be now, we'd be in the way ef he wus sick?"

The father, evidently touched not only by this pathetic picture of Johnny's deprivation, but by the considerate delicacy of the speaker, hastened to assure him that Johnny was better and that a "little fun might 'liven him up." Whereupon Dick arose, shook himself, and saying, "I'm ready. Lead the way, Old Man: here goes," himself led the way with a leap, a characteristic howl, and darted out into the night. As he passed through the outer room he caught up a blazing brand from the hearth. The action was repeated by the rest of the party, closely following and elbowing each other, and before the astonished proprietor of Thompson's grocery was aware of the intention of his guests, the room was deserted.

The night was pitchy dark. In the first gust of wind their temporary torches were extinguished, and only the red brands dancing and flitting in the gloom like drunken will-o'-the-wisps indicated their whereabouts. Their way led up Pine-Tree Canyon, at the head of which a broad, low, bark-thatched cabin burrowed in the mountain-side. It was the home of the Old Man, and the entrance to the tunnel in which he worked when he worked at all. Here the crowd paused for a moment, out of delicate deference to their host, who came up panting in the rear.

"P'r'aps ye'd better hold on a second out yer, whilst I go in and see thet things is all right," said the Old Man, with an indifference he was far from feeling. The suggestion was graciously accepted, the door opened and closed on the host, and the crowd, leaning their backs against the wall and cowering under the eaves, waited and listened.

For a few moments there was no sound but the dripping of water from the eaves, and the stir and rustle of wrestling boughs above them. Then the men became uneasy, and whispered suggestion and suspicion passed from the one to the other. "Reckon she's caved in his head the first lick!" "Decoyed him inter the tunnel and barred him up, likely." "Got him down and sittin' on him." "Prob'ly bilin suthin to heave on us: stand clear the door, boys!" For just then the latch clicked, the door slowly opened, and a voice said, "Come in out o' the wet."

The voice was neither that of the Old Man nor of his wife. It was the voice of a small boy, its weak treble broken by that preternatural hoarseness which only vagabondage and the habit of premature self-assertion can give. It was the face of a small boy that looked up at theirs,— a face that might have been pretty and even refined but that it was darkened by evil knowledge from within, and dirt and hard experience from without. He had a blanket around his shoulders and had evidently just risen from his bed. "Come in," he repeated, "and don't make no noise. The Old Man's in there talking to mar," he continued, pointing to an adjacent room which seemed to be a kitchen, from which the Old Man's voice came in deprecating accents. "Let me be," he added, querulously, to Dick Bullen, who had caught him up, blanket and all, and was affecting to toss him into the fire, "let go o' me, you d——d old fool, d'ye hear?"

Thus adjured, Dick Bullen lowered Johnny to the ground with a smothered laugh, while the men, entering quietly, ranged themselves around a long table of rough boards which occupied the centre of the room. Johnny then gravely proceeded to a cupboard and brought out several articles which he deposited on the table. "Thar's whiskey. And crackers. And red herons. And cheese." He took a bite of the latter on his way to the table. "And sugar." He scooped up a mouthful en route with a small and very dirty hand. "And terbacker. Thar's dried appils too on the shelf, but I don't admire 'em. Appils is swellin'. Thar," he concluded, "now wade in, and don't be afeard. I don't mind the old woman. She don't b'long to me. S'long."

He had stepped to the threshold of a small room, scarcely larger than a closet, partitioned off from the main apartment, and holding in its dim recess a small bed. He stood there a moment looking at the company, his bare feet peeping from the blanket, and nodded.

"Hello, Johnny! You ain't goin' to turn in agin, are ye?" said Dick.

"Yes, I are," responded Johnny, decidedly.

"Why, wot's up, old fellow?"

"I'm sick."

"How sick!"

"I've got a fevier. And childblains. And roomatiz," returned Johnny, and vanished within. After a moment's pause, he added in the dark, apparently from under the bedclothes,— "And biles!"

There was an embarrassing silence. The men looked at each other, and at the fire. Even with the appetizing banquet before them, it seemed as if they might again fall into the despondency of Thompson's grocery, when the voice of the Old Man, incautiously lifted, came deprecatingly from the kitchen.

"Certainly! Thet's so. In course they is. A gang o' lazy drunken loafers, and that ar Dick Bullen's the ornariest of all. Didn't hev no more sabe than to come round yar with sickness in the house and no provision. Thet's what I said: 'Bullen,' sez I, 'it's crazy drunk you are, or a fool,' sez I, 'to think o' such a thing.' 'Staples,' I sez, 'be you a man, Staples, and 'spect to raise h-ll under my roof and invalids lyin' round?' But they would come,— they would. Thet's wot you must 'spect o' such trash as lays round the Bar."

A burst of laughter from the men followed this unfortunate exposure. Whether it was overheard in the kitchen, or whether the Old Man's irate companion had just then exhausted all other modes of expressing her contemptuous indignation, I cannot say, but a back door was suddenly slammed with great violence. A moment later and the Old Man reappeared, haply unconscious of the cause of the late hilarious outburst, and smiled blandly.

"The old woman thought she'd jest run over to Mrs. McFadden's for a sociable call," he explained, with jaunty indifference, as he took a seat at the board.

Oddly enough it needed this untoward incident to relieve the embarrassment that was beginning to be felt by the party, and their natural audacity returned with their host. I do not propose to record the convivialities of that evening. The inquisitive reader will accept the statement that the conversation was characterized by the same intellectual exaltation, the same cautious reverence, the same fastidious delicacy, the same rhetorical precision, and the same logical and coherent discourse somewhat later in the evening, which distinguish similar gatherings of the masculine sex in more civilized localities and under more favorable auspices. No glasses were broken in the absence of any; no liquor was uselessly spilt on floor or table in the scarcity of that article.

It was nearly midnight when the festivities were interrupted. "Hush," said Dick Bullen, holding up his hand. It was the querulous voice of Johnny from his adjacent closet: "O dad!"

The Old Man arose hurriedly and disappeared in the closet. Presently he reappeared. "His rheumatiz is coming on agin bad," he explained, "and he wants rubbin'." He lifted the demijohn of whiskey from the table and shook it. It was empty. Dick Bullen put down his tin cup with an embarrassed laugh. So did the others. The Old Man examined their contents and said hopefully, "I reckon that's enough; he don't need much. You hold on all o' you for a spell, and I'll be back"; and vanished in the closet with an old flannel shirt and the whiskey. The door closed but imperfectly, and the following dialogue was distinctly audible:—

"Now, Sonny, whar does she ache worst?"

"Sometimes over yar and sometimes under yer; but it's most powerful from yer to yer. Rub yer, dad."

A silence seemed to indicate a brisk rubbing. Then Johnny:

"Hevin' a good time out yer, dad?"

"Yes, sonny."

"To-morrer's Chrismiss, ain't it?"

"Yes, Sonny. How does she feel now?"

"Better rub a little furder down. Wot's Chrismiss, anyway? Wot's it all about?"

"O, it's a day."

This exhaustive definition was apparently satisfactory, for there was a silent interval of rubbing. Presently Johnny again:

"Mar sez that everywhere else but yer everybody gives things to everybody Chrismiss, and then she jist waded inter you. She sez thar's a man they call Sandy Claws, not a white man, you know, but a kind o' Chinemin, comes down the chimbley night afore Chrismiss and gives things to chillern,— boys like me. Puts 'em in their butes! Thet's what she tried to play upon me. Easy now, pop, whar are you rubbin' to,— thet's a mile from the place. She jest made that up, didn't she, jest to aggrewate me and you? Don't rub thar.... Why, dad!"

In the great quiet that seemed to have fallen upon the house the sigh of the near pines and the drip of leaves without was very distinct. Johnny's voice, too, was lowered as he went on, "Don't you take on now, fur I'm gettin' all right fast. Wot's the boys doin' out thar?"

The Old Man partly opened the door and peered through. His guests were sitting there sociably enough, and there were a few silver coins and a lean buckskin purse on the table. "Bettin' on suthin,— some little game or 'nother. They're all right," he replied to Johnny, and recommenced his rubbing.

"I'd like to take a hand and win some money," said Johnny, reflectively, after a pause.

The Old Man glibly repeated what was evidently a familiar formula, that if Johnny would wait until he struck it rich in the tunnel he'd have lots of money, etc., etc.

"Yes," said Johnny, "but you don't. And whether you strike it or I win it, it's about the same. It's all luck. But it's mighty cur'o's about Chrismiss,— ain't it? Why do they call it Chrismiss?"

Perhaps from some instinctive deference to the overhearing of his guests, or from some vague sense of incongruity, the Old Man's reply was so low as to be inaudible beyond the room.

"Yes," said Johnny, with some slight abatement of interest, "I've heerd o' HIM before. Thar, that'll do, dad. I don't ache near so bad as I did. Now wrap me tight in this yer blanket. So. Now," he added in a muffled whisper, "sit down yer by me till I go asleep." To assure himself of obedience, he disengaged one hand from the blanket and, grasping his father's sleeve, again composed himself to rest.

For some moments the Old Man waited patiently. Then the unwonted stillness of the house excited his curiosity, and without moving from the bed, he cautiously opened the door with his disengaged hand, and looked into the main room. To his infinite surprise it was dark and deserted. But even then a smouldering log on the hearth broke, and by the upspringing blaze he saw the figure of Dick Bullen sitting by the dying embers.

"Hello!"

Dick started, rose, and came somewhat unsteadily toward him.

"Whar's the boys?" said the Old Man.

"Gone up the canyon on a little pasear. They're coming back for me in a minit. I'm waitin' round for 'em. What are you starin' at, Old Man?" he added with a forced laugh; "do you think I'm drunk?"

The Old Man might have been pardoned the supposition, for Dick's eyes were humid and his face flushed. He loitered and lounged back to the chimney, yawned, shook himself, buttoned up his coat and laughed. "Liquor ain't so plenty as that, Old Man. Now don't you git up," he continued, as the Old Man made a movement to release his sleeve from Johnny's hand. "Don't you mind manners. Sit jest whar you be; I'm goin' in a jiffy. Thar, that's them now."

There was a low tap at the door. Dick Bullen opened it quickly, nodded "Good night" to his host, and disappeared. The Old Man would have followed him but for the hand that still unconsciously grasped his sleeve. He could have easily disengaged it: it was small, weak, and emaciated. But perhaps because it WAS small, weak, and emaciated, he changed his mind, and, drawing his chair closer to the bed, rested his head upon it. In this defenceless attitude the potency of his earlier potations surprised him. The room flickered and faded before his eyes, reappeared, faded again, went out, and left him— asleep.

Meantime Dick Bullen, closing the door, confronted his companions. "Are you ready?" said Staples. "Ready," said Dick; "what's the time?" "Past twelve," was the reply; "can you make it?— it's nigh on fifty miles, the round trip hither and yon." "I reckon," returned Dick, shortly. "Whar's the mare?" "Bill and Jack's holdin' her at the crossin'." "Let 'em hold on a minit longer," said Dick.

He turned and re-entered the house softly. By the light of the guttering candle and dying fire he saw that the door of the little room was open. He stepped toward it on tiptoe and looked in. The Old Man had fallen back in his chair, snoring, his helpless feet thrust out in a line with his collapsed shoulders, and his hat pulled over his eyes. Beside him, on a narrow wooden bedstead, lay Johnny, muffled tightly in a blanket that hid all save a strip of forehead and a few curls damp with perspiration. Dick Bullen made a step forward, hesitated, and glanced over his shoulder into the deserted room. Everything was quiet. With a sudden resolution he parted his huge mustaches with both hands and stooped over the sleeping boy. But even as he did so a mischievous blast, lying in wait, swooped down the chimney, rekindled the hearth, and lit up the room with a shameless glow from which Dick fled in bashful terror.

His companions were already waiting for him at the crossing. Two of them were struggling in the darkness with some strange misshapen bulk, which as Dick came nearer took the semblance of a great yellow horse.

It was the mare. She was not a pretty picture. From her Roman nose to her rising haunches, from her arched spine hidden by the stiff machillas of a Mexican saddle, to her thick, straight, bony legs, there was not a line of equine grace. In her half-blind but wholly vicious white eyes, in her protruding under lip, in her monstrous color, there was nothing but ugliness and vice.

"Now then," said Staples, "stand cl'ar of her heels, boys, and up with you. Don't miss your first holt of her mane, and mind ye get your off stirrup QUICK. Ready!"

There was a leap, a scrambling struggle, a bound, a wild retreat of the crowd, a circle of flying hoofs, two springless leaps that jarred the earth, a rapid play and jingle of spurs, a plunge, and then the voice of Dick somewhere in the darkness, "All right!"

"Don't take the lower road back onless you're hard pushed for time! Don't hold her in down hill! We'll be at the ford at five. G'lang! Hoopa! Mula! GO!"

A splash, a spark struck from the ledge in the road, a clatter in the rocky cut beyond, and Dick was gone.

SING, O Muse, the ride of Richard Bullen! Sing, O Muse of chivalrous men! the sacred quest, the doughty deeds, the battery of low churls, the fearsome ride and grewsome perils of the Flower of Simpson's Bar! Alack! she is dainty, this Muse! She will have none of this bucking brute and swaggering, ragged rider, and I must fain follow him in prose, afoot!

It was one o'clock, and yet he had only gained Rattlesnake Hill. For in that time Jovita had rehearsed to him all her imperfections and practised all her vices. Thrice had she stumbled. Twice had she thrown up her Roman nose in a straight line with the reins, and, resisting bit and spur, struck out madly across country. Twice had she reared, and, rearing, fallen backward; and twice had the agile Dick, unharmed, regained his seat before she found her vicious legs again. And a mile beyond them, at the foot of a long hill, was Rattlesnake Creek. Dick knew that here was the crucial test of his ability to perform his enterprise, set his teeth grimly, put his knees well into her flanks, and changed his defensive tactics to brisk aggression. Bullied and maddened, Jovita began the descent of the hill. Here the artful Richard pretended to hold her in with ostentatious objurgation and well-feigned cries of alarm. It is unnecessary to add that Jovita instantly ran away. Nor need I state the time made in the descent; it is written in the chronicles of Simpson's Bar. Enough that in another moment, as it seemed to Dick, she was splashing on the overflowed banks of Rattlesnake Creek. As Dick expected, the momentum she had acquired carried her beyond the point of balking, and, holding her well together for a mighty leap, they dashed into the middle of the swiftly flowing current. A few moments of kicking, wading, and swimming, and Dick drew a long breath on the opposite bank.

The road from Rattlesnake Creek to Red Mountain was tolerably level. Either the plunge in Rattlesnake Creek had dampened her baleful fire, or the art which led to it had shown her the superior wickedness of her rider, for Jovita no longer wasted her surplus energy in wanton conceits. Once she bucked, but it was from force of habit; once she shied, but it was from a new freshly painted meeting-house at the crossing of the county road. Hollows, ditches, gravelly deposits, patches of freshly springing grasses, flew from beneath her rattling hoofs. She began to smell unpleasantly, once or twice she coughed slightly, but there was no abatement of her strength or speed. By two o'clock he had passed Red Mountain and begun the descent to the plain. Ten minutes later the driver of the fast Pioneer coach was overtaken and passed by a "man on a Pinto hoss,"— an event sufficiently notable for remark. At half past two Dick rose in his stirrups with a great shout. Stars were glittering through the rifted clouds, and beyond him, out of the plain, rose two spires, a flagstaff, and a straggling line of black objects. Dick jingled his spurs and swung his riata, Jovita bounded forward, and in another moment they swept into Tuttleville and drew up before the wooden piazza of "The Hotel of All Nations."

What transpired that night at Tuttleville is not strictly a part of this record. Briefly I may state, however, that after Jovita had been handed over to a sleepy ostler, whom she at once kicked into unpleasant consciousness, Dick sallied out with the bar-keeper for a tour of the sleeping town. Lights still gleamed from a few saloons and gambling-houses; but, avoiding these, they stopped before several closed shops, and by persistent tapping and judicious outcry roused the proprietors from their beds, and made them unbar the doors of their magazines and expose their wares. Sometimes they were met by curses, but oftener by interest and some concern in their needs, and the interview was invariably concluded by a drink. It was three o'clock before this pleasantry was given over, and with a small waterproof bag of india-rubber strapped on his shoulders Dick returned to the hotel. But here he was waylaid by Beauty,— Beauty opulent in charms, affluent in dress, persuasive in speech, and Spanish in accent! In vain she repeated the invitation in "Excelsior," happily scorned by all Alpine-climbing youth, and rejected by this child of the Sierras,— a rejection softened in this instance by a laugh and his last gold coin. And then he sprang to the saddle and dashed down the lonely street and out into the lonelier plain, where presently the lights, the black line of houses, the spires, and the flagstaff sank into the earth behind him again and were lost in the distance.

The storm had cleared away, the air was brisk and cold, the outlines of adjacent landmarks were distinct, but it was half past four before Dick reached the meeting-house and the crossing of the county road. To avoid the rising grade he had taken a longer and more circuitous road, in whose viscid mud Jovita sank fetlock deep at every bound. It was a poor preparation for a steady ascent of five miles more; but Jovita, gathering her legs under her, took it with her usual blind, unreasoning fury, and a half-hour later reached the long level that led to Rattlesnake Creek. Another half-hour would bring him to the creek. He threw the reins lightly upon the neck of the mare, chirruped to her, and began to sing.

Suddenly Jovita shied with a bound that would have unseated a less practised rider. Hanging to her rein was a figure that had leaped from the bank, and at the same time from the road before her arose a shadowy horse and rider. "Throw up your hands," commanded this second apparition, with an oath.

Dick felt the mare tremble, quiver, and apparently sink under him. He knew what it meant and was prepared.

"Stand aside, Jack Simpson, I know you, you d——d thief. Let me pass or—"

He did not finish the sentence. Jovita rose straight in the air with a terrific bound, throwing the figure from her bit with a single shake of her vicious head, and charged with deadly malevolence down on the impediment before her. An oath, a pistol-shot, horse and highwayman rolled over in the road, and the next moment Jovita was a hundred yards away. But the good right arm of her rider, shattered by a bullet, dropped helplessly at his side.

Without slacking his speed he shifted the reins to his left hand. But a few moments later he was obliged to halt and tighten the saddle-girths that had slipped in the onset. This in his crippled condition took some time. He had no fear of pursuit, but looking up he saw that the eastern stars were already paling, and that the distant peaks had lost their ghostly whiteness, and now stood out blackly against a lighter sky. Day was upon him. Then completely absorbed in a single idea, he forgot the pain of his wound, and mounting again dashed on toward Rattlesnake Creek. But now Jovita's breath came broken by gasps, Dick reeled in his saddle, and brighter and brighter grew the sky.

Ride, Richard; run, Jovita; linger, O day!

For the last few rods there was a roaring in his ears. Was it exhaustion from loss of blood, or what? He was dazed and giddy as he swept down the hill, and did not recognize his surroundings. Had he taken the wrong road, or was this Rattlesnake Creek?

It was. But the brawling creek he had swam a few hours before had risen, more than doubled its volume, and now rolled a swift and resistless river between him and Rattlesnake Hill. For the first time that night Richard's heart sank within him. The river, the mountain, the quickening east, swam before his eyes. He shut them to recover his self-control. In that brief interval, by some fantastic mental process, the little room at Simpson's Bar and the figures of the sleeping father and son rose upon him. He opened his eyes wildly, cast off his coat, pistol, boots, and saddle, bound his precious pack tightly to his shoulders, grasped the bare flanks of Jovita with his bared knees, and with a shout dashed into the yellow water. A cry rose from the opposite bank as the head of a man and horse struggled for a few moments against the battling current, and then were swept away amidst uprooted trees and whirling drift-wood.

THE OLD MAN started and woke. The fire on the hearth was dead, the candle in the outer room flickering in its socket, and somebody was rapping at the door. He opened it, but fell back with a cry before the dripping half-naked figure that reeled against the doorpost.

"Dick?"

"Hush! Is he awake yet?"

"No,— but, Dick?—"

"Dry up, you old fool! Get me some whiskey quick!" The Old Man flew and returned with— an empty bottle! Dick would have sworn, but his strength was not equal to the occasion. He staggered, caught at the handle of the door, and motioned to the Old Man.

"Thar's suthin' in my pack yer for Johnny. Take it off. I can't."

The Old Man unstrapped the pack and laid it before the exhausted man.

"Open it, quick!"

He did so with trembling fingers. It contained only a few poor toys,— cheap and barbaric enough, goodness knows, but bright with paint and tinsel. One of them was broken; another, I fear, was irretrievably ruined by water; and on the third— ah me! there was a cruel spot.

"It don't look like much, that's a fact," said Dick, ruefully.... "But it's the best we could do.... Take 'em, Old Man, and put 'em in his stocking, and tell him— tell him, you know— hold me, Old Man— " The Old Man caught at his sinking figure. "Tell him," said Dick, with a weak little laugh,— "tell him Sandy Claus has come."

And even so, bedraggled, ragged, unshaven and unshorn, with one arm hanging helplessly at his side, Santa Claus came to Simpson's Bar and fell fainting on the first threshold. The Christmas dawn came slowly after, touching the remoter peaks with the rosy warmth of ineffable love. And it looked so tenderly on Simpson's Bar that the whole mountain as if caught in a generous action, blushed to the skies.

____________

6: Double Trickery

Lemuel De Bra

1884-1954

The Phantom Detective  Oct 1941

"NOBODY," rumbled "Battler" Martine, "would ever think of lookin' for a trick inside a trick!"

"Anybody," retorted his wife, Selma, smiling, "who knew you, would expect just that— double trickery!"

Bat Martine's deep-chested laughter filled the richly furnished living room in their swank apartment atop San Francisco's fashionable Nob Hill.

Selma looked at her big, darkly handsome husband in his evening kit— they were going to a night spot later— and for an instant a fond light glowed in her deep violet eyes. It died quickly.

"Bat," she said in a tone of quiet resignation, "when I married you—  only a few years ago—  you were a rising young boxer with a splendid future. But you—"

"I still got a good future!" chuckled Bat. "But it's all behind me!"

"But you couldn't— or wouldn't—  keep straight," Selma went on as if Bat had not spoken. "First you pulled a trick that got you thrown out of the boxing game. Since then you've drifted from one sort of crookedness to another. I— I think, sometimes, that you love the crooked game more than you love me."

"Mebbe I do, Toots!' rumbled Bat, indifferently. "I know that I'd rather work hard all day to trick some sucker out of a dollar than sit at a desk ten minutes for ten honest bucks. I'm all bad, Selma. An' you're all good, You'd better gather up your toys an'— an' scram!'

Selma made no response to that. She was gazing at her husband as if she were really seeing him for the first time. Sudden tears glistened in her eyes. She turned her head quickly. Bat hated tears.

"What is this new trick?" she asked. "And just where do I come in?"

For a moment there was a quick gleam of admiration in Battler Martine's dark eyes as he studied his wife's trim figure sheathed in a lowcut green silk gown. Then he heaved to his feet, stepped to the wall by the built-in bookcase and touched a certain spot on the wainscoting. Slowly a section rose, disclosing six small shelves. Each shelf was packed with five-tael opium cans.

"No one," rumbled Bat, "would ever guess that all this was hid behind that wall. You're lookin' at sixty cans of first-grade Macao opium, worth over four thousand iron men. An' now for the trick inside a trick!"

Bat took a thick wallet from his pocket, extracted a crisp hundreddollar bill and tucked it between two of the opium cans.

"The century is yours, Toots," he said, "if you can see how this is done."

He touched the secret spring again and the wainscoting closed.

"I don't see anything much to that," said Selma, "You had something like that in our old apartment when you were bootlegging for—"

HE broke off abruptly. Bat had touched the secret spring again. The shelving was in full view; so were the opium cans. But the hundred-dollar bill had vanished!

"This," rumbled Bat, "is the trick inside a trick. You're now looking at sixty nice opium cans filled with black-strap molasses, worth about sixty cents. With them I'm goin' to swindle four grand out of Fang Choy!"

"Fang Choy!" The name burst in a terrified whisper from Selma's lips. "Fang Choy! No, Bat, no! He—"

"Aw, don't give me any o' that nonsense about how clever the Chinese are, and how terrible they are when they're riled. I'm smarter than any Chinese that ever pushed a slipper across Grant Avenue. An' I ain't afraid of any of them!"

"But Fang Choy!" Selma's violet eyes were wide, staring at some horrible picture conjured by her memory. "Have you forgotten what happened to Charlie Garlan? 'He tricked some Chinese that way. They say it was Fang Choy. Anyway, Charlie's wife came home one afternoon to their five-room cottage. Charlie was there, all right— a piece of him in each room. Oh!" Selma covered her eyes and shuddered.

"Cut it!" snarled Bat. "An' listen close! We're goin' to work this on Fang Choy! An' notice I said we! You hear?"

Selma looked up. "Yes, Bat," she said, barely above a whisper.

"Fang Choy will sit at that table," Bat rumbled on. "I'll tell you to open this secret closet. You'll do it. The Chinese will pick out a couple cans, open 'em an' test 'em. He'll find the stuff okay. See?"

Selma nodded.

"We'll haggle over the price. I'll make out like I'm gettin' mad. I'll order you to put the stuff back on the shelf and close the closet. You'll do it. An', with your back to Fang, you'll press this other secret spring. See here!"

As Bat talked, he had closed the wainscoting. Now he showed Selma another inconspicuous spot on the molding. He pressed this, stepped back, then again touched the first spring. The wainscoting opened. And there, right where Bat had put it, was the hundred-dollar bill.

"Of course," said Bat, "there are two sets of shelving exactly alike. An' on each set I've put sixty opium cans exactly alike— except that the cans on these shelves have opium in 'em, and those on the other shelves got only -molasses. Now when I make out I've got mad, you close the wainscotin'. Then as J said, with your back to Fang Choy, you press this other spring. That takes away the opium an' brings up the shelves full of the phonies. Then all at once I'll suddenly get over bein' mad an' will agree to Fang's terms. You open the wainscotin' again, an' Fang will leave with a suitcase full of something that he—"

"Won't forget— ever!" broke in Selma. "Oh, Bat, I wish—"

"I wish you'd shut up your fool whinin'! Think you understand the trick now? Better be sure 'cause Fang is due here any minute."

Selnia started. "You mean, he's coming tonight?"

Bat chuckled. "Sure! I wasn't goin' to give you any time to preach to me any more of that 'it pays-to-behonest' stuff. You're so... S-sh! That's Fang now!"

The door bell was ringing— two shorts, a long, two quick shorts.

Bat snatched the bill from between the opium cans, quickly closed the wainscoting.

"Remember, the opium's right here now!" he cautioned. "When I act like I'm mad, press that other spring and switch over the phonies. Understan'?"

"Yes, Bat." Selma turned and moved gracefully down the hall to open the door.

No one spoke until all three were by the big center table. Then Fang Choy's soft, purring voice broke the silence. It was a voice that contrasted strangely with his big frame, and round moon face with its deep-set obsidian eyes.

"Good evenin', Mist' Martine! Good evenin', Mis' Martine! You sent me word you are ready to talk business, Mist' Martine. -Thass good!"

"Sure!" rumbled Bat. "Sit down, Fang! Selma, bring Fang Choy a drink. What'll you have, Fang?"

"A drink?" Fang's heavy lips drew back in a smile. "Thass good! But I not drink much. Mebbe you got little wine. Huh?"

SELMA brought a decanter of port and glasses.

"Fang," rumbled Battler Martine, setting down his glass, "I'm givin' you a swell chance to clean up. Reason is that I'm quittin'. A man like me don't do so good handlin' this black stuff. If I do anything from here on out, Pll stick to the white goods."

"More better," agreed Fang, nodding his head. "Yes, thass good. How much black goods you hab got?"

"Hab got sixty cans," answered Bat, smiling. "Finest grade Number One, Macac. Selma, show Fang what we have!"

The two men watched as Selma crossed to the wall, touched the secret spring and disclosed shelving filled with opium cans.

"Thass good!" applauded Fang. "Yes, ver' clever. I like see!"

The Chinaman heaved from his chair and waddled over to the secret closet. After looking over several cans, he selected two and returned to the table. He opened the cans, looked at the contents closely, then smelled them,

"Look good, smell good," he purred, as if to himself. "We see now!"

He got out a small gold-handled penknife, thrust the blade into one of the cans and dipped up a small quantity of the black, gummy stuff. Lighting a match with his thumbnail, he held the flame beneath the blade, then took a deep inhalation of the heated opium.

"Thass good," Fang's sibilant whisper seemed to fill the room. "Not first grade, but ver' good. How much you want?"

He replaced the covers on the two cans, cleaned his knife and put it away.

"Well, Fang," rumbled Bat, "as I said, 'm goin' out o' the black goods business, so I'm glad to sell at a sacrifice. But you know the Narcotic Squad has been raisin' the devil lately. Opium is hard to get, In fact, there's a real opium famine on. I ought to ask a hundred bucks a can for that."

"Thass good!" purred the Chinaman. "You ask it— then you try to get it!"

"Oh, I'm willing to come down. I want you to make a nice profit on this deal for takin' all this stuff off my hands. How about seventy-five a can? I don't—"

"How about fifty dolla' a can? Huh?"

"What!" Battler Martine glared at the Chinaman. "You offer fifty bucks for this first-grade opium! An' I thought you came here on business, not to insult me! Selma, put this stuff away!"

Selma picked up the two cans of opium, crossed to the secret closet and replaced them from where Fang had taken them. She touched the spring; the wainscoting closed.

Bat ceased glaring at Fang long enough to look around at Selma. She was standing with her back to the wainscoting, her hands behind her. She met her husband's look with an almost imperceptible nod of assurance.

"Fang," rumbled Battler Martine, suddenly friendly again, "I'm a little nervous tonight. Let's talk business. Forget what I said, an' [ll forget what you said. You know you are gettin' a bargain at seventy-five a can. Take the stuff at seventy dollars."

Fang Choy appeared to consider that carefully.

"Thass lots money," he purred finally. "But time worth money, too. Mebbe you take sixty-five dolla'. Huh?"

"Not a cent less than seventy!"

Fang nodded slowly. "Thass good! Can do!" He took a thick bill fold from his pocket, began counting out the money.

"Okay, Selma," rumbled Bat. "Put the stuff in that suitcase I got ready for Fang!"

The Chinese glanced up from his counting long enough to see the wainscoting glide up, disclosing shelving filled with opium cans— apparently just as it had been but a moment before.

"Sixty cans," spoke up the Chinese, "at seventy dolla' a can is four thousand two hundred dolla'. You take this? Huh? Thass good!"

HE SHOVED a stack of bills across the table. Bat quickly riffled through the money.

"You're gypin' me out of two hundred!" he accused, smiling. "I'll get even with you some day!"

He opened the table drawer, dropped in the four thousand dollars and closed the drawer again. Selma was packing the last of the tins in the suitcase.

"Mebbe, Mist' Martine," purred Fang Choy, "more better I test opium again. Lots tricks. Huh?"

"Suit yourself, Fang!" Bat invited, "An' mebbe more better I examine them bills more carefully."

"Oh, money all right!" Fang assured him quickly. "An' I trust Mis' Martine, so I know opium all right. Yes, thass good!" He picked up the packed suitcase. "Good business tween good friends! Huh? Good night, Mist' Martine! Good night, Mis' Martine!"

The door closed behind Fang Choy. Selma turned a white, tense face to her husband.

Bat chuckled.

"Don't look so sick, old girl! That's the last you'll ever see of the big Chinee! Don't you know by this time that I'm full o' tricks? You just drift along an' never think of anything but the straight an' narrow. Remember Slim Gearing?"

"That— scum!"

"Right fond of my pals, ain't you? Well, Slim has a good racket. An' just to relieve your precious mind of any fears of Fang Choy, I'll tell you now that I hired Slim to pull his special trick. Want a drink? I notice you wouldn't drink with Fang."

"No," breathed Selma, still gazing at Bat with fear-filled eyes. "Thanks."

Bat poured a generous glass of the wine, sipped it luxuriously.

"Slim will tail the Chinee from the door of our apartment house to within a block or so of Fang's place of business," Bat went on. "Then he'll stop Fang Choy. He'll say, 'Federal,' an' he'll flash a phony buzzer. He'll pretend to search Fang for a gun or something. Then he'll ask what's in the suit-case. You don't understan' all that, of course. But that hooey is just to keep the Chinee from smellin' a rat."

Bat took another sip of port, then went on:

"Fang, of course, will say there's just old clothes, or something like that, in the suit-case. But by that tirae he'll be scared good and plenty. And when Slim bends over to open the keister, the Chinee will take it on the lam. Then"— Bat grinned— "Slim will bring the suit-case of phony dope right back to papa. That's why— "

"Oh, Bat!" cried Selma eagerly. "Do you think it will work? I'd be so glad if—"

"My tricks," rumbled Battler Martine, "always work. But you—"

Bat choked off as the doorbell broke in with its clanger— two short rings, one long, two quick shorts,

"The devil! That's Slim already! He musta stopped the Chinee just down the street!" For an instant fear was in the eyes of both as they started to their feet. Then Bat snapped: "Well, why don't you answer it?" :

Selma walked hesitantly to the door opened it. In stumbled a slim, pinchfaced individual with watery eyes. He carried a suit-case.

And close behind "Slim" Gearing came Fang Choy, herded along by two men whom Bat instantly recognized— Frank Draper, chief of the Federal Narcotic Squad, and his assistant, Agent Alan.

"Sit down!" ordered Draper, as Bat started to rise. "Don't take your hands off that table! Mrs. Martine, sit down over there by your husband! Alan, slip a cuff on Fang Choy and this phony detective."

Like a sleepwalker, Selma moved to a chair by the table and sank into it. Draper crossed quickly to where Bat was sitting, searched him and tossed an automatic to Agent Alan.

"Bat," said Draper, "we've had our eyes on you for a long time. And now we've got you right! Eh?"

"I don't know what you're talkin' about," rumbled Bat with cool assurance. "Snow a little so I can get the drift!"

"The drift is going to bury you, for at least five years," Draper told him grimly. "We were tailing that phony detective tonight, saw him stop Fang Choy and pull his old trick. When we closed in, Fang claimed he didn't know what was in the suit-case. They when we found it full of opium, he claimed that a white man had given it to him to check at the ferry building. It didn't take long to scare that worm, Slim Gearing, into telling us that the white man was you. You beginning to get the drift?"

WITH steady hand, Battler Martine picked up the glass and tossed off the rest of his wine.

"Draper," he said, with cocky familiarity, "this is one of them jokes that has turned out to be not so funny. But you still haven't anything on me. As for that bird you call Slim Gearing, I don't even know him. I—"

"He's a liar!" Slim contradicted angrily, moving closer to Agent Alan. "He hired me to hijack the Chinee. I was to pull the trick near Fang's joint, but I got nervous an'—"

The steady glare in Battler Martine's black eyes silenced the little crook.

Suddenly Draper jerked open the table drawer.

"Oh, ho!" he exclaimed. "This looks interesting! Fang Choy, you ever see this before?" He tossed the stack of bills onto the table.

"I nebba!" denied Fang emphatically. "That man—"

"Now he's lyin'!" charged Bat. "Mr. Draper, will you let me clear up this matter?"

"Shoot!"  Draper invited. "The rest of you keep quiet!"

Selma's white hands fluttered for an instant to her cheeks, dropped back again to her lap. Bat lighted a cigarette, took a deep inhalation.

"Fang Choy," he rumbled, smoke oozing from his mouth and nostrils, "is known to be the biggest opium dealer on the Coast. Somehow he got the crazy idea that I was runnin' junk up from the Border an' he— "

"That wasn't such a crazy idea, was it?" queried Draper, smiling.

Bat ignored the thrust. "He pestered the life out of me beggin' me to get stuff for him, Finally"— Bat flung a malicious glance at his wife— "Mrs. Martine suggested a way to get rid of him. You wouldn't suspect it, Mr. Draper, but my wife is as full of tricks as—"

"Don't try to pin any of your dirty work on your wife!" growled Draper. "Anything wrong that she's done, you made her do. Now go on, but stick to the truth!"

Bat looked uneasy for a moment, then managed a shrug.

"Well, through a friend, I got what I needed. I sent word to Fang that I was ready to deal with him. He came here tonight and paid me them four thousand iron men. I left the money right there because I knew he'd discover the trick and come back. Mr. Draper, them cans in that suitcase ain't got nothin' in 'em but blackstrap molasses!"

"Oh, ho!" exclaimed the Federal man.

He started toward the suitcase Slim had set down, but Fang Choy spoke up calmly.

"Thass lie!" He pointed an accusing finger at Bat. "He sell me good opium. I see, I smell, I—"

"Wait a minute, Fang!" interrupted Draper. "Are you telling me that you really tested some stuff and found it good opium?"

"Yes, Mist'? Draper," purred Fang. "Thass what I tell yeu." He pointed now te the wall that concealed the secret shelving. "Mis' Martine take opium from there. I see, I smell. No can trick me on opium!"

"Then there is—"

"Mr. Draper," Bat quickly intervened, "I tell you that the stuff Fang Choy tested is right in that suitcase an' that it's nothin' but molasses. He probably smelled a bit of opium that I had smeared on the top of the molasses. As for where I kept the stuff— Selma, show Mr Draper that old secret closet!"

Selma went to the wall, touched the hidden spring. The wainscoting rose, disclesing empty shelves.

There was a long silence.

"An' now!" rumbled Bat triumphantly, "if you'll just test that stuff in the keister, we'll wind up this foolishness right off."

"Fang," said Draper, "you must have made a mistake. We all do sometimes, Yeah, even I do! Alan, go ahead!"

Agent Alan set the suit-case on the table, took out several cans and removed the lids.

"It looks like opium," he said. "It smells like opium." He touched a match flame to the open cans and breathed of the warm vapor. "And by the seven-faced god, it is opium!"

"Thass good," purred Fang Choy.

SLOWLY Chief Draper turned to the ex-pugilist. He started to speak but, instead, looked quickly at Mrs. Martine. White-faced, she was shrinking from the piercing accusation in her husband's eyes.

"You fool!" Bat's rumbling snarl fairly throbbed in the room. "You blundered!"

With a desperate effort Selma got control of herself.

"No, Bat," she denied. "I didn't blunder— not like you think. I was so terrified at the thought of what Fang Choy would do to you when he learned how you had tricked him that I didn't change the shelving. I knew I'd have to face your terrible anger when you learned how I had tricked you, but I'd a thousand times rather do that than have you face Fang Choy's revenge."

She turned quickly and pressed the springs that changed the shelving.

"There, Mr. Draper," she said, pointing, "are the sixty cans of molasses with which my husband intended to swindle Fang Choy. In that suit-case are the sixty cans of good opium. I tried to save him from Fang, but—"

Her voice broke, she slowly bowed her head.

Out of a brittle silence, Draper said:

"A neat case of double trickery! But, Bat, the joke is on you!" He slapped a handcuff on Bat's wrist, linked him to the Chinese.

Battler Martine stared down at the glittering steel, then looked up at the Federal agent.

"Yeah, an' what a joke!" his deep rumble filled the room. "My wife was so afraid I''d die some day from the dagger of a Chinee that she pulls a fast one that sends me where each dawn I'll die a thousand deaths!"

__________

7: The Dedham Mansion Case

Lemuel De Bra

The Blue Book Magazine Nov 1929

FOR days I had been oppressed with the feeling that something was wrong at the house of Ford Dedham. Over the gloomy, rambling mansion shrinking back in its setting of dark pines there seemed to hover an air of mystery, of tragedy.

For days, too, I had gone earlier than usual to the front window of my bachelor cottage to watch for Sibyl Travis. Sibyl was Ford Dedham's niece. After the death of both parents during the flu epidemic she had come to live with her Uncle Ford. She was four years younger than I— nineteen, with wistful brown eyes and a sweet, sincere manner that made everyone love her. That she would some day fall heir to half the Dedham fortune had not spoiled her in the least; but it had kept me from telling her— what she already knew— that I had loved her ever since we were kids.

I remember I was thinking that morning that Sibyl would be late getting to college when, just as the big College Avenue car came crashing down the steep hill, I saw her hurry across the veranda and down the front steps. There she hesitated, half turning as if to go back for something; then she went tripping down the flower-bordered walk. With its usual deafening screech and groan of brakes the car came to a stop, Sibyl got on. The car went roaring on down the hill.

It could not have been more than a minute later, as I was about to leave the window that some premonition prompted me to look around at the Dedham mansion. Burt Dedham was hurrying across the unfenced yards toward my cottage. Something in his manner sent me flying to the front door to meet him.

Burt Dedham was old Ford Dedham's only nephew. His parents had died years ago, and Burt had lived ever since at the Dedham mansion. He was about forty. Like his uncle he was slender, tall, stiffly erect, and always immaculately dressed. He was a queer sort, cold and reserved. He seldom went out, and then only to the library or a book-store to get some scientific work. He spent less money in a year than I spent each month on cigarettes. That he would some day have half the Dedham fortune seemed to concern him no more than the fact that he had no friends.

AS he looked up at me that morning from the lower step of the porch there was a faint tinge of color in his usually pale face, an unaccustomed gleam in his cold eyes. Nevertheless, he spoke in his usual calm and precise manner.

"Good morning, Weeks. Would you come over to the house with me a moment? I am worried about Uncle Ford. He was restless all night. In fact, as you perhaps have observed, he hasn't been himself for several days. Just after Miss Travis left I went to Uncle Ford's room to speak to him. He is pacing the floor, muttering to himself. The door is locked, and he wont open it. Neither will he answer me. I am afraid—"

Abruptly Burt Dedham broke off. From the Dedham mansion had come a dull, muffled report.

Burt Dedham jerked around. For an instant the two of us stood motionless, staring at the house. Ford Dedham's bed. room was on the second story at the front; his study, where he spent most of his time, connected with the bedroom and was on the side facing my cottage. I remember thinking that the sound of that shot had come, not from the bedroom, but from old Dedham's study.

"My God!" groaned Burt Dedham. "He's done what I was afraid he'd do! Come on, Weeks!"

We ran swiftly across the lawn to the side door that Burt Dedham had left unlocked, turned toward the front of the house, then turned again and mounted the wide, deep-carpeted stairs. Just as we reached the second floor I saw, or thought I saw, in the gloom far down the hall by the rear stairs, a dark face, the gleam of eyes. Then— they were gone. Not sure that I had seen anything, I said nothing to Dedham.

For an instant we paused at the head of the stairs. At the end of the hall toward the front of the house was the door to Ford Dedham's bedroom; just before us was the door to his study.

"He was in his bedroom when I left," said Burt Dedham; "but that shot— "

He stepped to the study door, turned the knob, shook the door, pounded on it. "Uncle Ford!" he called out. "Uncle Ford! What's wrong?"

There was no answer.

I LEANED over and looked in the keyhole; but the key was inside. Stepping back, I glanced around. 'The house was old-fashioned, with an opaque transom over each door. The transom over the bedroom door was closed; the one over the study door was almost halfway open.

As if he had read my thoughts, Burt Dedham ran down the hall to his own room and came back with a chair.

"You look," he said. "I—" His voice died away in a shudder.

I stepped up onto the chair. Under the lower edge of the transom I could see the opposite wall of the study, the windows that looked out on the lawn between the Dedham mansion and my cottage. Looking past the one end of the transom I could see the door that opened into Ford Dedham's bedroom. It was standing ajar.

Then— I looked past the other end.

Ford Dedham lay on the floor by his writing-desk. His head was toward me, the white face upturned, blood oozing from a ghastly hole in his right temple.

On the rug, as if it had fallen from his right hand, lay an automatic pistol.

"He's shot himself!" I cried, getting down off the chair. "You'll have to call the police! And a doctor! And we'd better notify Sibyl!"

Burt Dedham raised a shaking hand and pointed to the telephone extension just back of the stairway.

"Please do it for me, Weeks," he said huskily. "Call Dr. Etcheson. The number is Merrivale 404. You know where Sibyl is. And call the police— if you think that it is necessary."

Burt Dedham stood beside me while I telephoned, his eyes staring at the floor, his long white fingers twitching nervously. He followed me when I left the phone and went down the hall to the bedroom door. I tried the knob, but the door was locked, as I had expected. Looking in the keyhole, I saw that the key was on the inside the same as in the study door.

We walked back to the study door. "Is there no way to get into your uncle's rooms except through one of these two doors?" I asked.

Burt Dedham shook his head. He pointed to a door on the left of the hall.

"That's the door to Sibyl's room. Her bedroom adjoins, but does not connect with, Uncle Ford's bedroom. My room"—  he pointed down the hall toward the rear— "adjoins Uncle Ford's study, but there is no connecting door. We'll have to break the lock— or get some boy to climb over the transom and unlock the door."

"Better wait for the police," I said.  "They'll know what to do."

And they did. Detective Sergeant Morris tried both doors, snapped out a few questions, then stepped to the study door and got cut a pair of long steel pincers. He inserted this in the keyhole, got a grip on the key, and after several attempts turned the lock. Throwing the door open, Morris and his assistant stepped in.

BEFORE we could follow them, Dr. Etcheson came up the stairs.

"Mr. Dedham, you and Mr. Weeks please stay by the door," Sergeant Morris directed. "Doc, this looks bad! See if you can do anything!"

Dr. Etcheson made a swift examination. He shook his head.

"He's dead, Sergeant. But only a few minutes." He straightened, shaking his head again. "Too bad!" he muttered. "But— I'm not surprised."

"You mean that he has threatened to do this?"' demanded the detective.

"N-o. Not exactly. But he's the kind that does."

"What kind is that?"

Through his thick glasses the doctor stared resentfully at the detective.

"I never discuss my patients with outsiders. You can see that this is a plain case of suicide. Why he did it, I don't know. If I did, I wouldn't tell you."

Sergeant Morris scowled, glanced at his assistant, then turned to Burt Dedham.

"Where were you when this happened?"

"I was over there'— Burt Dedham pointed out the window at my cottage—  "talking with Mr. Weeks. I was worried about Uncle Ford. He had been restless all night and— "

"How do you know he was?"

"Why, I— I could hear him, Sergeant. That's my room, you know, adjoining."

The detective swung around. His gaze swept over the wall as if seeking a connectng door, then came back to Burt Dedham's face.

'Go on!" he snapped.

"I— I was telling Mr. Weeks that Uncle had been restless all night and that he would not speak to me when I called to him from the hall; and I had just asked Mr. Weeks if he would come over here with me when we heard a shot. Then— "

"You heard the shot?" Sergeant Morris broke in, looking at me.

I told him I had heard it, and added what else I knew about the affair. It did not occur to me at the time to mention that face I had seen by the rear stairs.

SERGEANT MORRIS scowled down at the automatic. He stepped closer to the dead body and looked down into the white, upturned face.

"Mr. Dedham," he said, more kindly, "when did you last see your uncle alive?"

"Yesterday evening— at dinner-time. I came up to speak to him. He opened the door, growled at me, and slammed the door in my face."

"Did he treat you that way— often?"

"Never before! And that is why I was so worried. I could see that something was wrong,"

The detective nodded. "Who else lives in the house, Mr. Dedham?"

"Just my cousin, Sibyl Travis. She attends college and had just left when I went to call Mr. Weeks. We have sent for her."

"You keep servants, of course?"

Burt Dedham nodded.

"Well, how many? And where were they when this happened?"

"Why, I suppose they were all in the kitchen— on the lower floor at the rear. But they know nothing about this. Absolutely nothing."

An odd expression came over Sergeant Morris' florid face as he turned quickly to the other detective:

"Get your stuff, Edwards! You know just what to do."

Edwards, who looked more like a young doctor than a detective, nodded and left.

"Mr. Dedham," said Sergeant Morris, "I don't want you to misunderstand me. I'm not making any accusations. Nor casting any insinuations. Merely doing my duty by trying to get at all the facts. The plain facts— and those that are not so plain. As Dr. Etcheson says, this looks like suicide. But, damn it, man! Half the murders we have are framed to look like suicides!"

Slowly, Burt Dedham nodded.

"I think I understand, Sergeant. And I'll help you all I can, of course. You wish to question the servants?"

"I certainly do! But first tell me about them— all about them."

"My uncle kept three servants," Burt Dedham said. "Perhaps you've heard that. Mr. Dedham made his fortune in Mexican opal mines— fire opals. He—"

"I've heard that. And I've heard a lot about that big 'Bleeding Sun' opal. Been several attempts to steal that, eh?" Morris stared hard at Burt Dedham.

"Not lately. But about the servants: when Uncle Ford retired and came home here to settle down he brought with him three Mexican-Indians who had  served him in Queretaro— Ricardo Fernandez, his wife Rosa, and their daughter Eulalia.

"Ricardo serves as gardener and man-of-all-work; his wife, Rosa, is the cook: while Eulalia serves as general maid. You will notice that they are not particularly bright, but my uncle always considered them good servants. And as for them hearing that shot, even if they heard it, it wouldn't have made any particular impression on them."

At that juncture, the other detective returned, carrying two bags. Opening one, he got out an ink-pad, several stiff white papers, and a vial of powder. With the expertness— and indifference— of one accustomed to such work, he began to take a set of the dead man's fingerprints.

I watched him, curious and puzzled; but all the time a question kept prying at the back of my mind. I knew those Mexican-Indian servants, of course, although I had seen little of them. Eulalia was believed to be— well, slightly queer. She had a way of slipping about the house, in and out of the gloomy halls and corners, like a ghostly shadow. So I wondered: that dark face, those gleaming eyes, in the gloom by the rear stairs— was that Eulalia I had seen?

"Come on!" Sergeant Morris spoke up abruptly. "Mr Dedham, we'll get those servants up here and question them."

THEY left. Dr. Etcheson and I turned to watch the assistant. I was still wondering what possible motive he could have in taking the dead man's prints; but when I saw him dust a little powder over the pistol, then get out his fingerprint camera, I began to understand.

A moment later Sergeant Morris was unceremoniously herding the three servants into the room. Taking a position beside the dead body, he turned to watch their faces.

I too was eager to know how it would affect them to see their master, lying dead on the floor by that pool of blood.

Ricardo, a withered old man with muddy eyes, stood nearest me. I saw him stiffen and shrink back, horror in his face. His wife, Rosa, a dumpy, unemotional woman, showed the same startled agitation.

Then, quickly, I looked at Eulalia— and found her gazing calmly— not at the dead body— but at me!

Eulalia Fernandez was about twenty, slender, with raven-black hair and sullen black eyes. Had it not been for that sullen look in her eyes and her saffron skin, she would have been more than pretty.

As I met her gaze, Eulalia turned indifferently and looked down at the dead body— without the slightest emotion.

Sergeant Morris must have observed that; for, suddenly, he caught the girl by the arm, pointed to the gun lying by the dead man's hand.

"You've seen that gun before, eh?"

The girl did not look up, merely nodded.

"Where?"

Silently, Eulalia pointed to the writing desk.

Burt Dedham spoke up quickly: "It's his gun, sergeant. He always kept it in that desk— loaded."

Sergeant Morris appeared not to hear him. He was staring hard at the girl.

"You heard that shot a moment ago?" he demanded sharply.

Eulalia shook her head.

"Why not? Haven't you been on this floor this morning?"

"Senor," spoke up old Ricardo excitedly, "she know not'ing about thees trouble. Me an' Rosa— all morning we work in kitchen. Eulalia, she help us, an' sweep lower hall. She know not'ing about thees. Madre di Dios, I swear it!"

As the old man finished, his voice ringing through the room, he raised a trembling hand and made the sign of the cross.

I saw Sergeant Morris staring hard at him; and I remember wondering if the same thought was in the detective's mind— that old Ricardo seemed suspiciously eager to have us believe him.

Then, before more could be said, the assistant called to Morris. For a moment  the two officers stood by the window conversing in low whispers.

Presently the sergeant turned.

"Mr. Dedham," he said, his tone friendly, "what reason would you give for your uncle committing suicide?"

Burt Dedham hesitated, looked down at the dead body, then up at Morris.

"That's a hard question to answer. I am not at all surprised that he has done it; yet it's difficult to explain why I have—  been afraid he would— do this."

"Not been sick, has he?"

Again Burt Dedham hesitated. ''Well, not physically."

"Ah! Failing mentally, eh?"

"N-o. Not exactly that. Yet he has been acting queerly. He has talked a great deal lately about opals; been reading all the books he could get hold of that dealt with the history and romance of opals. He has talked to me for hours at a time on the subject. You know there is a belief that opals are unlucky— that is, that they bring misfortune to the one possessing them. Well, Uncle Ford kept trying to convince me that they are not— while all the time it was clear that it was his own fears he was trying to argue away. Like a boy whistles in the dark. You understand?"

Sergeant Morris nodded; but the look on his face belied the nod. For a moment he frowned down at the dead man.

"Well," he said finally, "'we've done all we can do for the present. I'll have to ask that all of you— you, too, Mr. Weeks— be ready to testify at the inquest. The evidence seems to indicate that this is a simple case of suicide; but the law requires—"

AT that instant there rose, just behind me, a shrill, piercing scream. I jumped around. Sibyl Travis stood in the doorway, her hands pressed 'to her cheeks, her tense body swaying as she stared with horrified eyes at the dead body of her uncle. Just in time, I caught her in my arms. "Take her to her room, Weeks," said Burt Dedham with a cool indifference that made me long to punch his white face. With Dr. Etcheson preceding me, I carried Sibyl to her room. As I gently laid her on her bed, she opened her eyes.

"She's not the fainting kind," muttered Dr. Etcheson. He took one of Sibyl's hands in his.

"Never saw you do that before, little girl! All right now, eh?"

Quickly, almost angrily, Sibyl withdrew her hand, but she said nothing.

"I'm sorry, Sibyl," I spoke up. "I intended to meet you at the front door and prepare you for— that. Now—"

"Jim," Sibyl broke in quietly, staring at the ceiling, "tell me just what has happened — everything."

I told her. Over the telephone I had said only that. her uncle had been hurt and that we thought it best for her to come home. Now I related all that I knew of the affair. Sibyl broke in with a few questions, which I answered as best I could. When I had finished, Sibyl continued to stare at the ceiling for a moment; then, slowly, her eyes closed. A tremor ran through her body.

"Guess I'd better fix her a little stimulant," muttered Dr. Etcheson.

He hastened out. And no sooner had he left the room than Sibyl sprang to her feet.

"Jim!" she whispered. "Stand by that door a minute! No, don't stare at me that way! Do as I say— quickly!"

MYSTIFIED, and not a little alarmed, I got to the door. Sibyl glided across the room to an old vargueño, a typical  Spanish cabinet mounted on an elaborately carved stand and richly inlaid with ivory and silver. From a recess at the back of the carved stand she took a key, unlocked the cabinet and let down the heavy door.

"Here, Jim— quickly!" she whispered, thrusting her hand far back in one of the pigeonholes.

I hastened to her side— just as she turned from the desk, one hand outstretched toward me. In her open palm was some round object wrapped in white tissue paper.

"Keep this for me, Jim!" she whispered. "Yes, it's that cursed opal— the Bleeding Sunt But don't ask questions now. And, for heaven's sake, don't leave me alone. I'm afraid that— "

She broke off, staring past me with startled, angry gaze. 24

I turned quickly, slipping the opal in my pocket. In the doorway, that same unconcerned, almost stupid, expression on her saffron face, stood Eulalia. How she had got there so quickly was a mystery to me. She was nowhere in sight just a second before when I left the doorway to join Sibyl at the cabinet.

'Can I do anything for you, señorita?" the girl asked in excellent English.

"No!" Sibyl said sharply. Then, of a sudden, the anger vanished from her eyes and in its place came a worried, troubled look, "Yes, Eulalia,' she said softly. "Come in. And close the door."

Eulalia stepped in; but before she could close the door, Dr. Etcheson came in from the hall, carrying his medicine-case. He gave Sibyl a look of mingled surprise and displeasure.

"I'm quite all right, Dr. Etcheson," Sibyl said, a bit coldly, I thought. "Eulalia—  and Mr. Weeks— will remain with me."

Through his thick glasses the big doctor flashed me a look of hostile suspicion. Then, his lips curling, he bowed and turned away.

Eulalia closed the door.

"Jim!" Sibyl turned to me quickly. "I must trust some one. And I know I can trust you. Did—"

'"Sibyl!" There must have been a world of meaning in my tone, for a warm light sprang into her eyes and she drew back from my half-raised arms.

"No, Jim, let me talk, now! There is something wrong, something very mysterious here. My uncle may have committed suicide, as I heard that detective say. But I— I am afraid it is something worse than that. Jim, did they find out that the opal had been stolen—"

"Señorita!'' Eulalia broke in in a warning whisper, pointed toward the hall.

SIBYL nodded her thanks and moved away from the vicinity of the door. I followed her.

"Nothing was said about the opal being stolen," I told her. "Sergeant Morris mentioned the Bleeding Sun, and said that there had been several attempts to steal it. Burt said there hadn't been lately. From his tone I got the impression that he was anxious to stay off that subject."

"He would be! About a week ago Uncle Ford missed the opal and accused: Burt of stealing it. They quarreled bitterly— and have quarreled every day and night since. Uncle was unjust because—" Sibyl paused, looking quickly at Eulalia. "Eulalia," she said kindly, "I am still your friend: but the truth must come out now. You had better wait outside."

Eulalia, her saffron face expressionless, bowed and left, closing the door softly behind her.

"Sibyl," I spoke up quickly, "it seems so plain to me that your uncle committed suicide. Before you tell me anything else, tell me why you think he didn't. Dr. Etcheson said he was— that kind."

"Did Dr. Etcheson say that?" Sibyl stared at me, amazed.

"He did, Sibyl. But he refused to tell Sergeant Morris why he believed that your uncle had killed himself."

FOR a moment Sibyl continued to stare at me, amazement, fear, unbelief mirrored in her brown eyes.

"Jim," she said presently, "you must help me think. First I will tell you that Uncle Ford has never once acted as if dissatishied with his life. Why, he has talked with me by the hour of his plans for traveling. He has told me repeatedly that just as soon as he could wind up his affairs and place everything in a trust fund, he intended to spend the rest of his life having a good time.

"As for Dr. Etcheson, I have never liked him, never trusted him; and [ don't believe that he was the real friend that my uncle thought he was. They knew each other in Mexico, years ago; and since they came here, Uncle Ford has loaned him, or given him, large sums of money. Moreover, not two weeks ago, Uncle Ford added a codicil to his will giving Dr. Etcheson a life income of a thousand dollars a month. That codicil also says that Dr. Etcheson is to be given, outright, the Bleeding Sun opal. Jim, Dr. Etcheson had a strange power over my uncle. If my uncle did kill himself, then I believe Dr. Etcheson put the thought in his mind and is guilty of murder

"But wait! I haven't told you all yet. One night about ten days ago, Uncle Ford was showing the Bleeding Sun again to Dr. Etcheson. Then they got into a discussion over mental diseases, and Uncle Ford forgot to put the opal back in the safe. He left the house early the next morning and did not think of the opal again until he returned that evening. Then, when he looked for it, the stone was gone.

"Yesterday afternoon, after quarreling for a week with Burt over the opal, Uncle Ford sent for Ricardo, told him the opal was missing, and accused Eulalia. Ricardo was furious. They called Eulalia and charged her with the theft. Eulalia denied it.

"Then Uncle Ford lost his temper. He swore that he would send Eulalia to prison, and would ship her mother and father back to Mexico. Ricardo cursed and said: "No, you wont! I'll kill you first!"

"This morning, just as I was ready to leave for college, Eulalia brought me the opal. She had seen it on Uncle's desk, and had taken it. In some ways she is very shrewd, but mostly she has the mind of a child. She told me everything that had passed between her father and Uncle Ford and begged me to return the opal and to intercede for her before her father could carry out his mad threat. I agreed to help her, of course; but since I didn't take Ricardo's threat seriously, I merely put the opal away and told Eulalia that I'd see my uncle at noon.

"AND now," Sibyl finished, again pressing her hands to her cheeks, "I come home and find that Uncle Ford has been killed. Do you wonder that I want you to help me think?"

"I certainly don't wonder!" I told her: and as I looked at Sibyl's tense, white face my sympathy went out to the plucky girl holding up so well under that tragedy. "I wish I could help; but it looks so much like plain suicide. Have you forgotten that your uncle was killed with his own gun—  and that both doors to his rooms were locked on the inside?"

"No; and I haven't forgotten that the transom over the study door was half open. Some one could have stolen— or borrowed— Uncle Ford's gun, shot him over the transom, then tossed the gun into the room. Remember the gun wasn't in his hand. And as for the door being locked, I understand there are several ways to lock a door and leave the key inside. Dr. Etcheson is clever enough to do it. By the way, was he at his office when you telephoned?"

"No. His nurse said he was making a call in this neighborhood and that she expected him to phone in any minute."

"In this neighborhood!" Sibyl looked at me strangely. "Jim, when I left the house, for all I know, Dr. Etcheson could have been in Uncle Ford's study. How did Ricardo act when he lying dead on the floor?"

"He was startled, horrified. So was Rosa."

Sibyl nodded. "They are stupid, but also they are good actors. What about Eulalia? I doubt if even that scene stirred her to show any emotion."

"It didn't. She acted just as if she knew all about it."

"Which, in Eulalia's case, means nothing. Jim,"— Sibyl turned her troubled eyes to me— "don't you see what a tangle it is? We can eliminate Burt because he was with you when that shot was fired; but all the others— "

There came a sharp, imperative rap on the door.

Sibyl, as if sensing some impending disaster, drew close to me, her trembling hand clinging to my arm. "Come in," she said, huskily.

The door was shoved open. Into the room strode Sergeant Morris. "Miss Travis," he said kindly, "you have had quite a shock today. I am very sorry that I have to add to your troubles; but I am obliged to tell you that your uncle did not commit suicide. He was—  murdered....And we have arrested the murderer."

I FELT Sibyl's body tense, heard the breath catch in her throat. Before either of us could speak, Sergeant Morris went on: "You knew about the stolen opal?.... Well, that's who killed your uncle. Will you come with me, please? And you, Mr. Weeks."

Sergeant Morris turned on his heel and strode out. Sibyl stood motionless, staring at the detective's broad back. Not until I spoke to her and took-her trembling hand in mine did she seem able to move.

We crossed the hall back into Ford Dedham's study. The body, the automatic, lay just as we had seen them last. In the room were Dr. Etcheson, Burt Dedham, Detective Edwards, and Eulalia. Eulalia stood near Dr. Etcheson, her head up, her sullen black eyes blazing defiance.

As I drew up a chair for Sibyl, Sergeant Morris closed the hall door.

"All right, Edwards!" he said.

"Very simple case," Detective Edwards began briskly. "Man shooting himself in temple holds gun in most natural position. Bullet ranges upward and slightly to front. Deceased was killed by thirty-eight bullet that ranged toward back of head, and downward —  very unnatural, almost impossible, position.

"Moreover, suicides invariably press the muzzle of the gun against skin. Exploding powder blackens skin, penetrates wound. No such wound on deceased's temple. Therefore, gun was held at a distance. How far? Well, a thirty-eight flashes about seven inches. Hold a gun more than seven inches from your head and try to shoot yourself as deceased was shot. Can't be done! Can't be done!

"Two conclusions from that: maybe the murderer intended to hold the gun closer but victim shrank back. More likely the murderer used a silencer. Well, I looked for a silencer, and found it. Careless work, Mr. Dedham."

Dedham! I started violently, as did Sibyl. Burt Dedham's face was like white marble, his cold eyes held a snaky glitter as he stared fixedly at the murdered man.

"See here, Sergeant!" I protested, scarcely realizing what I was doing; "are you accusing Burt Dedham? Why— he was with me, on my porch, when that shot was fired!"

"Precisely!" said Dr. Edwards, rubbing his hands like a man well pleased with his work. ''And that's the only clever thing about his crime. But, to get back to what I was about to say when interrupted:

"Fingerprints on the gun were those of the deceased. From that I knew that the murderer was intelligent, well-read, and had planned carefully to make the murder look like a simple suicide.

"Having concluded that it was murder, I began seeking the motive. Dr. Etcheson furnished me that. He and the deceased were old friends. Just recently have put up a half-million each to found hospital and clinic for study and treatment of mental diseases. Deceased thought a lot of Dr. Etcheson and said he was going to leave him the Bleeding Sun opal.

"Huh! Very next morning the opal is stolen. Ford Dedham accuses his nephew. They quarrel for a week, and deceased finally tells Burt Dedham that he's going to make a new will and disinherit him, leaving everything to Miss Travis. Next morning, before he can make that new will, Ford Dedham is murdered.

"Huh! Looks bad for nephew! I tell Sergeant Morris to clear everybody out so I can search Burt Dedham's room for the opal. I don't find the opal; but I find enough! Let's go, Sergeant!"

WE filed out, down the hall to Burt Dedham's room. Hazily, I realized that it was a large room fitted up more as a laboratory than as a living-room.

Against the left wall, the one adjoining Ford Dedham's study, was a long worktable with retorts, glass tubes, jars, and a litter of other apparatus. Detective Edwards led us to this table, pointed to several objects: a pencil with a long piece of string tied to one end; an oil-stained handkerchief; an apparatus like a miniature muffler that I learned soon was a silencer; and a revolver.

"Burt Dedham," said Detective Edwards sharply, "you watched at your door this morning and saw Miss Travis leave. You saw Eulalia go down the rear stairs. Then you went to your uncle's study rapped, and was admitted. Your uncle sat down at his desk. Right before his eyes, you picked up his automatic and fitted on that silencer. Just when that car was crashing down the hill, stopping for Miss Travis, just as your uncle, alarmed by your actions, started to rise— you shot him! The roar of the car drowned what little noise escaped the silencer.

"Then,"— pointing to the handkerchief,— "you removed the silencer and carefully wiped off your fingerprints, then put the gun in your victim's hand so his own prints would show. Rather clever of you, then, to leave the gun a few inches away so it would look as if the gun had fallen from his hand.

"Next you opened the transom, slipped your pencil through the hole in the key and tossed the other end of the string over the transom. Simple matter then, with the door closed, for you to stand in the hall, pull on the string, turn the key, then draw the pencil over the transom. Most kids know that trick.

"Now comes the stunt that strikes me as really clever! I admit I didn't get a clue to it until I made that girl"— pointing to Eulalia— "tell the truth. I made her contess that she had come back to that upper hall, that she was standing just opposite that study door when that shot was fired—  not the shot that killed Ford Dedham, but the second shot, the one that Mr. Weeks heard. Eulalia heard that shot, but she didn't hear the body fall.

"Huh!" With that characteristic grunt, Detective Edwards picked up the revolver. From a box on the table he took a blank cartridge. Breaking the revolver, he put the blank in, snapped the gun shut, then Stepped to one side of the table where I now perceived a small vise. Locking the gun in the vise, he took a piece of string, tied one end to a nail in the table, and looped the other end over the hammer so as to hold the hammer almost fully cocked. Then he picked up a short piece of fuse, twisted one end over the string, struck match and lighted the other end.

"That's the devilishly clever apparatus that was set here when Burt Dedham hurried back into this room," he said. "He threw the pencil and string on the table, shoved the silencer beneath papers in that table drawer, lighted his fuse, and skipped out, locking his door. He had crossed the lawn and was planting the suspicion of Suicide in Mr. Weeks' mind when—"

AT that instant the sputtering fuse burned out to the string. The string snapped. There was a deafening roar as the released trigger exploded the blank cartridge. Sibyl stifled a scream.

"When you ran to your room to get a chair for Mr. Weeks to look over that transom,' Detective Edwards went on calmly, ''you took the revolver out of the vise and hid it. Not having any idea that this room would ever be searched, you didn't hide anything carefully.

"One thing more: Mr. Dedham, this is a case of cold-blooded, first-degree murder, You didn't kill your uncle because he accused you of stealing that opal, or because he threatened to disinherit you. That silencer, and this other apparatus, shows that for a long time you've had murder in your mind. I'm convinced that you killed him because—"

Suddenly, savagely, Burt Dedham whirled on the speaker. "I killed him because I hated him!" he cried. "He stood between me and everything I wanted in life! He deserved killing; and I'm glad—"

He broke off. "Well," he went on, a bitter smile on his white lips, "you're damned clever; but you've overlooked one thing. Let me show you!" He went quickly across the room to a small wall cabinet.

I heard Sergeant Morris shout something, then all was confusion. A moment later the odor of bitter almonds was strong in the room, a shattered vial lay on the floor and beside it lay the crumpled figure of Burt Dedham.

"Dead!" muttered Dr. Etcheson. "Hydrocyanic acid!"

WELL, all that is now long ago and far away. We never told who actually took the opal; but we gave the thing to our good friend Dr. Etcheson, who sold it and used the proceeds in converting the old Dedham mansion into a hospital.

During the months just following the tragedy I spent a great deal of time with Sibyl, but somehow I just couldn't muster up the courage to tell her what was on my mind.

Then, one evening, we were sitting in a secluded nook in the park.

"Jim," she said, "do you remember that time I fainted— and you caught me in your arms?"

"I sure do!" I told her.

"Well, Jim," she said, sighing, "I— I guess I'll have to faint again!"

Gosh! That was plain enough, wasn't it?

_____________

8: Saturday Afternoon

Ellis Parker Butler

1869-1937

The Blue Book Magazine, July 1916

GRANDPA BUNKER, his bright, kindly eyes framed in his gold-rimmed spectacles, sat in his rocking-chair in his room in Mrs. Wimmer's boarding house in the city of New York, reading the newspaper. On the arm of his chair lay the small yellow paperbound booklet he found more interesting than the most exciting novel:

"The Complete Confessions of The King of Grafters. A Full Exposition of All the Methods of All the Most Celebrated Confidence Men. Price Twenty-five Cents." Not a day had passed since the dear old man, who was as honest as the day is long and as kind of heart as a man can be, had come to New York, that he had not spent an hour studying this admirable little work. He had come to New York from Oroduna, Iowa, some months earlier, to enter the respectable business of confidenceman and bunco-steerer. As Grandma Bunker often remarked: "Stingin' New Yorkers is a nice, clean, respectable business, Pa, and as long as these New Yorkers is bound to get stang anyway, they'd ought to be thankful to be stang by somebody honest and goodhearted."

It was now about eleven in the morning; Mrs. Wimmer had returned from her daily marketing trip and was at leisure, and Grandma Bunker had taken her knitting and Lad gone down one flight of stairs to sit awhile with Mrs. Wimmer in Mrs. Wimmer's own rooms and to discuss the remarkable case of Miss Druse and Mr. Prellick. It was of the case of Miss Druse and Mr. Prellick that Mr. Bunker was reading in the morning paper, for Grandma Bunker's reading of the article had been somewhat unsatisfactory, being broken by her interjected exclamations and remarks.

"My land's sake!" she had exclaimed. "Jabez Bunker, what is the world comin' to! If it don't say right here in this newspaper— I declare, a person don't know what to think of folks, no more! Just you listen to what they've got printed into this paper about Mr. Prellick!"

"Our Mr. Prellick?" asked Jabez.

"Our Mr. Prellick, and our Miss Druse," said Grandma with that sort of semi-joy we all feel when our good friends go wrong and get into print over it. "The paper says right out: '—for many years usher at Dr. Holyer's church, and heretofore one of the most respected members of the congregation.' "

"I swan!" exclaimed Jabez. "What has he gone and done, Ma?"

"My, my!" exclaimed Grandma Bunker. "And our Miss Druse, too! And her suing him for breach of promise and all! Jabez, I'm goin' right down and see Mrs. Wimmer!"

It will be seen from this that Mr. Bunker had gained from Grandma's reading no very exact idea of what had befallen Mr, Prellick, and now he read the entire article, headlines and all. From it he easily gathered that Mr. Prellick was in very considerable trouble.

MR. PRELLICK (as some who read how Mr. Bunker buncoed him in the German-spy wheat-deal may remember) was a tall, slender gentleman who, in a black frock coat, seated those who attended services at Dr. Holyer's fashionable church. He was an elderly bachelor and inclined to diffidence in the presence of ladies. He held a good position in the Stupendous Trust Company and drew an income sufficient to permit him to occupy a handsome bachelor suite in a fine apartment hotel on Riverside Drive, and even the two thousand dollars Mr. Bunker had taken from him in the wheat-deal caused no serious havoc in his admirable bank-account. Mr. Prellick's bank-balance at the Stupendous Trust Company was now larger than it had ever been, and his friendship for Mr. Bunker was quite as strong as ever. He understood that Mr. Bunker had suffered in the German-spy wheat-plot equally with himself.

Mr. Bunker found the newspaper article doubly interesting, because he was also well acquainted with Miss Druse, who had been for some time a boarder with Mrs. Wimmer, although she was now living elsewhere. When Grandma and Grandpa Bunker had come to Mrs. Wimmer's boardinghouse, Mrs. Wimmer and Miss Druse were in the throes of one of those intimately chummy friendships that spring up between a middle-aged boarding-house keeper and some guest, burn fiercely for a while and then die suddenly— and often violently. The very first time Mrs. Wimmer had carried Mr. and Mrs. Bunker to Dr. Holyer's church, Miss Druse had accompanied them. Like Mrs. Wimmer, she was already: acquainted with Mr. Prellick (who tried to be friendly to all those who attended Dr. Holyer's church), and that day Mr. Prellick had walked home with the four, as he often walked home with Mrs. Wimmer and Miss Druse.

Miss Druse had left Mrs. Wimmer's house rather suddenly, and all Mrs. Wimmer would ever say was that it was a good riddance and that she had "found her out." It would have been hard even for the most nearsighted person to say Miss Druse was one to excite a violently passionate love, and yet that was what she claimed, as the newspaper said, she had excited in Mr. Prellick's breast. Nature had not been kind to Miss Druse, who was thin and yellow, and she had done what she could, by allowing her temper to become as sour and bitter as an unripe grapefruit, to destroy the attractiveness that even a very homely woman may possess. Her eyes were watery and red-rimmed, and the peculiar effect of these was increased by reddish eyebrows and lashes, while her chin was at least two inches long and as flat as a butter-paddle.

In spite of all this, Miss Druse declared that Mr. Prellick, seeing her home from church one evening, had suddenly thrown his arms around her and had, in spite of her struggles and screams, kissed her violently. Several persons, hearing Miss Druse scream, had run to her assistance. One of these was ready to swear he saw Mr. Prellick kiss Miss Druse; and Miss Druse was now taking the matter into court, claiming several thousand dollars damages for-the injury to her feelings. As she announced when interviewed: "TI wouldn't sue the man if he would marry me, but to be kissed like that, all at once and of a sudden, is what I wont stand from any man living! If he kisses, he's got to pay!"

The newspaper seemed inclined, as is often the case when the parties to such a quarrel are past the bloom of youth, to make merry over Mr. Prellick and Miss Druse and the whole affair. The article was headed:

ANOTHER LOVE BANDIT!

Is Prellick Jack-the-Kisser?

Miss Druse Says He Is.

"He never done it," said Mr. Bunker positively as he finished reading the article. "If there's one man in New York that aint a free-and-easy kisser, that man is Prellick; and if there's one woman Prellick nor nobody else would want to kiss, it is Miss Druse. I swan, I would ruther kiss Mrs. Wimmer than Miss Druse, any day, and I'd just about as likely think of kissing Mrs. Wimmer as I would of kissing a wooden Indian that had had its face frost-cracked. A man that would be so anxious to kiss that he'd go around kissing Miss Druse or Mrs. Wimmer by force wouldn't be no Love Bandit; he'd be a lunatic!"

HARDLY had Mr. Bunker muttered these words before he leaped from his chair (as well as a plump, short man could leap) and jumped for the door. From the floor below, where Mrs, Wimmer and Mrs. Bunker were discussing the Prellick-Druse affair, came a series of blood-curdling screams, in a duet, as if some ambidextrous murderer were cutting the throats of two women at once. One of the screams Mr. Bunker knew at once as his dear wife's scream, for it was a thin, heady and agonized screech; the other was what may be best described as a series of yips,— although there is no such word,— and these Mr. Bunker guessed rightly to be coming from Mrs. Wimmer's mouth. As expressions of full-hearted fear, Mrs. Wimmer's yips left nothing to be desired either in volume or quality.

Probably no woman in the world had ever been able to put such agony and fear into her yips as Mrs, Wimmer put into them. One cannot imagine a position of danger into which a woman might fall that would not be amply expressed by the yips Mrs. Wimmer was uttering at that moment, but Mr. Bunker— in spite of the impression one might have gained that both ladies were being murdered in cold blood— paused at the door, turned and going to the far corner of his room, picked up a broom. He then hurried as rapidly as. he could to the floor below and opened Mrs. Wimmer's door.

Both ladies were standing on the bed. They were closely clasped in each other's arms, screaming and yipping at the tops of their voices. Mr. Bunker closed the door and began slapping at the floor with the brush-end of the broom. The mouse— for it was a mouse that had started the commotion — darted here and there in fear but in utter safety, for in speed, agility and generalship it was superior to Mr. Bunker in about the ratio of ten to one; and it finally darted out of sight, leaving Mr. Bunker panting and wiping his forehead. In the excitement of the chase he had lost both of his carpet slippers, and he now retrieved them and slipped his feet into them. He then assisted Grandma and Mrs. Wimmer to climb down from the bed. The moment Grandma's feet touched the floor, she swallowed a large breath of air and said:

"Jabez, I don't believe a word on it, and neither does Mis' Wimmer!"

"Hey?" inquired Mr. Bunker.

"About Mr. Prellick," said Mrs. Bunker. "We don't believe a mortal word on it."

"Well, it don't seem a mite like him," said Mr. Bunker.

"And it is not!' said Mrs, Wimmer. "He is a nice, church-going gentleman if ever there was one, and as for Miss Druse, I had my doubts of her from the first minute I set eyes on her."

"You and her and Ma was mighty friendly," said Mr. Bunker teasingly.

"And the friendlier I got, the more I had my doubts," said Mrs. Wimmer, with a woman's (and, often, a man's) privilege of seeing things in a different light after the event. "The way she set her cap for that poor man! I could tell him a few things!"

"I reckon you could," agreed Mr. Bunker. "Well, Ma, if you've settled everything and scared all the mice to death yellin' bloody murder at 'em, maybe you're ready to come back upstairs."

Mrs. Bunker gathered up her knitting.

"The worst of this Druse affair," said Mrs. Wimmer, with her hand on the doorknob, "is that it's going to be hard for Mr. Prellick no matter how it ends. Guilty or not guilty— and he's not,— a man that has got into such a mess is going to be talked about, and the better a man is, the more talk there always is about him. Just like I say when my boarders come wanting fresh wall-paper on their rooms: 'The whiter a thing is, the more it shows spots.' I shouldn't wonder if Dr. Holyer wouldn't let Mr. Prellick usher any more at his church."

"And him such a pleasant usher!" said Grandma Bunker regretfully. "Nobody ever ushed me so nice as Mr. Prellick ushes."

"And I reckon all his fair-weather friends will go back on him, now he's in trouble," said Mr. Bunker. "But I wunt! These here New York friends don't wear no better'n these here cighty-five-cent, marked-down-from-adollar shirts. 'Twa'n't like that in Oroduna."

"But you will not desert him in his trouble, Mr. Bunker!' exclaimed Mrs. Wimmer.

"Why, no, ma'am!" said Mr. Bunker, his little blue eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. "I was just thinkin', when you and Ma started your steam-calliope war-whoops down here, that I'd ought to do something about Mr. Prellick. I guess maybe I see my way clear to do it now."

"Jabez," said Mrs. Bunker, putting her hand on her husband's arm in the affectionate manner she often used, "I've said it before, and I hope to live to say it many a time more— you're a good man!"

"Well, I guess I aint no wuss than a lot of others," said Mr. Bunker philosophically.

When they reached their room, Mr. Bunker stepped out of his carpet-slippers and pushed them under the bed and drew his shoes over his blue yariv socks. It was not his habit to put on his shoes to go down to the diningroom to luncheon, and Grandma noticed this.

"You goin' out, Jabez?" she asked.

"Well, Ma," he said, "I reckon I been loafin' round the house about long enough. I figger a man that's in the bunco-business ought to git out and bunk once in a while. A confidenceman has got to do business now and ag'in or he loses confidence in himself. I been readin' in this 'King of Grafters' book, tryin' to figger out a good graft, until my mind is all balled up like a mare's hoof in a damp snow, but I guess I've got a notion now that I can figger on."

Mrs. Bunker kissed the top of his pink, bald head.

"That's right, Jabez," she said lovingly. "I always feel better workin' at the bunk-business. It aint right for a man to idle too much: the devil always finds work for idle hands to do...... And whilst you're out, Pa," she added, "mightn't you sort of stop in and see Mr. Prellick and tell him we aint goin' to act as if we never wanted to have anything to do with him again?"

"Why, yes, Ma!" said Mr. Bunker, with his cheerful, innocent, baby-like smile: "Yes! I was figgerin' on doin' that very thing myself!"

AND this was true. It is wrong to neglect a friend merely because he is in trouble, and Mr. Bunker had no intention of neglecting Mr. Prellick for that reason. It was because Mr. Prellick was in trouble, and because of the particular kind of trouble Mr. Prellick was in, that Mr. Bunker meant to see him.

After the light luncheon Mrs. Wimmer provided for her boarders, which was in the nature of a souvenir, or memory, of dinners that had gone before, and an excellent meal for stout women who wished to lessen their weight, Mr. Bunker took the subway and was soon in front of the enormous building known as the Stupendous, in which were the offices of that great financial institution, The Stupendous Trust Company. Inside the building he was obliged to wait some time before he was ushered into Mr. Prellick's particular sanctum. He was told that Mr. Prellick was "in conference," which was true, for Mr. Prellick was standing before the desk of the: president of the company in the attitude of a naughty schoolboy before the principal of his school.

"I take it for granted, Mr. Prellick," said the president, "that there is nothing whatever in this story about a Miss Druse that I saw in the morning paper."

"Nothing whatever!" declared Mr. Prellick.

"Just so!" said the president. "And it does not matter to us. whether there is or not. Buy her off and end this newspaper talk."

"She— she wont be bought off," stammered Mr Prellick. "I tried to buy her off. Right at first I knew it was blackmail, and I refused to have amything- to do. with: it or her or her lawyers. Then she brought this suit, and she— she will not take a money settlement."

"What does the woman want?" asked: the president.

Mr, Prellick blushed.

"She— she says she loves me," he stammered. "She— she wants me. to marry her, now. I can't do that. She isn't the kind I could marry. I never do. marry. You couldn't marry her yourself. Nobody could."

"Well," growled the president, "you ought to know! I don't know the woman, and you do. Then, if you wont marry her, and. she wont take a cash settlement, you've got to wim this suit! Got to, do you hear! As a matter of cold fact, Prellick,— and you know. it,— you haven't enough money in this company to amount to a row of pins. You've got barely enough. stock to let you qualify as.a director. You are only. here because of your church connections. You bring us a lot of churchmember business. On our board you stand— if I may say so— for sanctity and all that sort of thing. I need not say, Prellick, that this Druse affair is a mighty serious matter— for you! You draw a nice fat salary here, and if your reputation goes black, out you go! You'll not be worth ten cents a year to us. You've got to win that suit!"

"Yes sir," said Mr. Prellick meekly.

"And if there are.any more of these ladies," said the president, "you'd better buy them off before they start airing their troubles in the newspapers, If there are any others you've been trying to kiss by force, buy 'em off! Shut 'em up with money!"

"But—" Mr. Prellick interrupted.

"Oh! I know!" said the president impatiently. "There aren't any others! But if there are, you take my advice and buy 'em off. Two thousand dollars is nothing to. you, if you can keep one of those women from talking to the newspapers. You know. the juries in this town— they all read the newspapers. You let one or two more women begin: shouting abaut you to the reporters, and your jury will say, when they get the case: 'Oh, yes! we know Prellick— gay old hypocrite, going around kissing every dame in town! Soak the old rascal! Give the lady damages!' And, Prellick—"

"Yes?" said Mr. Prellick faintly.

"If another of these stories gets, into the newspapers, I don't know that I'll wait for the trial before I ask far your resignation."

"There'll be no more," said Mr. Prellick.

"There had better not be,' said the president. "That's all."

IT was in the state of mind naturally following such an interview that the luckless Mr. Prellick entered his office and saw Mr. Bunker's card on his desk. Wéith the leaping of the heart that comes with the realization that all the world is not against one, Mr. Prellick bade the office-boy to admit Mr. Bunker. He stood with hand extended as the plump little ex-farmer from Oroduna entered, and he clasped the hand Mr. Bunker gave him.

"Bunker," he exclaimed, "This is kind; this is really kind!"

"Me and Ma felt as how maybe you'd be glad to see some of us folks," said Mr. Bunker. "I thought maybe I'd sort of drop down here and let you know we don't believe in any shape or manner that there is any truth in what Miss Druse says."

"There's not!" exclaimed Mr. Prellick. "Mr. Bunker, I give you my word there is not an iota of truth in it!"

"I know there ain't," said Mr. Bunker. "I don't believe a word she says about you— only, Prellick, I want to give you a bit of advice."

"Yes?" said Mr. Prellick nervously.

"If you've been kissin' anybody else that way, buy 'em off!" said Mr. Bunker.

"Bunker," said Mr. Prellick earnestly, "I give you my word I have never kissed any woman—"

"O' course not!" declared Mr. Bunker. 'You don't need to say so; I know you didn't. But just the same, if you happen to have been kissin' any females, young or old, you buy 'em off. Pay 'em to keep their mouths shut."

"I tell you, I never did— "

"I know! I know!" said Mr. Bunker soothingly. "And to my notion it's worth a thousand dollars to keep a thing like that hushed up just now. A thousand aint much, when a man's got a job like you've got here. Keep your name out of the paper! That's the idee!  If—"

"But I never—"

"Well, you might, mightn't you?" asked Mr. Bunker, beaming on Mr. Prellick. "I know mighty well you aint goin' to go and kiss anybody whilst this suit is goin' on. You wouldn't be that foolish. But look out! Look out! And if— well, a thousand dollars aint too much!"

"Bunker," said Mr. Prellick tensely, "what do you mean?"

"Well," said Mr. Bunker thoughtfully, "I guess you didn't kiss Miss Druse, did you? And you didn't even try to kiss her! As I take it, you was walkin' home with her, and she grabbed you and hollered. That so? Well, you look out somebody else don't grab you and holler! I just thought I'd tell you to be careful, Prellick, and if you do get into any more hollerin' women affairs, buy 'em off!"

"Bunker," said Mr. Prellick, a little pale, "I thank you for this! I suppose, now that I have gained this unwelcome prominence, many persons will try to make money out of me."

"I reckon they will," said Mr. Bunker beamingly. "If I was you, I'd sort of hide somewheres, when I wasn't down here at the office. I'd go round in taxicabs, lookin' into them first to see there wasn't no ladies in 'em. I'd keep where my friends was and not trust to no apartment-hotel folks that might smuggle a lady into the elevator with me, or something."

"Bunker," said Mr. Prellick, "you are a true friend!"

"There's a room empty at my boarding-house," suggested Mr. Bunker, "and a nicer, quieter place couldn't be found. A man could slip in there, and no reporters nor anybody could find him. And you've got friends there. You've got me and Ma and Mrs. Wimmer—"

"She is a good woman, Mrs. Wimmer is!" said Mr. Prellick, and he was right. If there was a woman in New York in whose hands a man might well feel safe, that woman was Mrs. Wimmer. Like many boarding-house keepers in New York, Mrs. Wimmer had been married once, and that once had been such an unfortunate once that all men were thereafter safe so far as she was concerned. She had about as much flirtatiousness in her as there is in a cast-iron statue of Xantippe. She was about as eager for love as a cat is for a shower-bath.

"Well, I guess you can get a room at Mrs. Wimmer's if you want one," said Mr. Bunker. "If I was you, I'd drop round Saturday afternoon. Saturday afternoon 'most everybody to our boarding-house goes to the matinée, and it's a good time to come. I kin tell Mrs. Wimmer you're comin', and she'll be on hand."

"Thank you," said Mr. Prellick.

"And I'll be right there," said Mr. Bunker. "There aint no use takin' chances, even with a hard-boiled woman like Mrs. Wimmer."

"Bunker—" Mr. Prellick began, with tears in his eyes, but his emotion o gratitude was so great he could not finish. He pressed Mr. Bunker's hand.

"Three o'clock, then, Prellick," said Mr. Bunker, rising.

"Three o'clock, Saturday afternoon," agreed Mr. Prellick, "and I thank you from the bottom of my heart."

WHEN Mr. Bunker returned to the boarding-house, he spoke to Mrs. Wimmer, and that lady was well pleased to learn that Mr. Prellick was to take a room in her house. She admired Mr. Prellick and was sorry for him. After making the appointment for Mr. Prellick for Saturday afternoon at three, Mr. Bunker climbed the stairs to his own room.

"Well, Jabez," said Mrs. Bunker when he entered, "be you satisfied with the way the bunco-business has been goin' to-day?"

"Fair to middlin', Ma, fair to middlin'!" said Mr. Bunker as he removed his shoes. "Things is workin' along, as you might say. "Taint no use complainin', nohow. Seems like I was gettin' ahead all the while. I got down nigh to Wall Street to-day."

"Well, now, that's real nice," said Grandma Bunker. "Wall Street sounds real high-toned."

"So it does! So it does!" said Grandpa Bunker, puffing as he stooped to draw his carpet slippers from under the bed. 'Ma, I guess we're gettin' up in the world when we git down to Wall Street. Seems like we'd ought to be gittin' into society and all that. Ma, I want you should have some pleasure out o' life, now that I'm gettin' nigh to Wall Street. I want you should give a party or something."

"Oh, Jabez!" exclaimed Mrs. Bunker, her dear old face lighting with joy.

"You can, just as well's not," said Jabez. "Doughnuts, and sliced smoked beef, and lemon pie— like them nice parties you used to give out to Oroduna. We'll show 'em! None o' these cup o' tea and a couple o' sandwiches cut with a smoothin' plane. No ma'am! A real, hearty old Oroduna party! Saturday!"

"Saturday? Oh, Jabez!" exclaimed Grandma, her eyes beaming.

"Yes ma'am!" said Jabez heartily. "Half-pas' two o'clock, Saturday afternoon, an' hang the expense. You get the loan of Mrs. Wimmer's front parlor, and invite all the boarders and some of them folks that is so nice to you at

Dr. Holyer's church. Maybe Mr. Prellick will come." "And fried chicken! And bakin'-powder biscuits!" said Mrs. Bunker, like one in a trance.

Mrs. Wimmer was glad to help Mrs. Bunker with the arrangements for the party. About a dozen of the members of Dr. Holyer's church accepted the invitations, and not one of the lady boarders at Mrs. Wimmer's refused. The preparations went on apace, and the undertaker sent in twenty foldin chairs (for a dollar) and six all tables (for another dollar). The only unfortunate matter seemed to be that Mr. Prellick felt it impossible to attend. Of the party, it must be said, Mr. Prellick knew nothing whatever; but both Mrs. Wimmer and Mr. Bunker said it would be best not to invite him, Grandma Bunker, however, learned that Mr. Prellick would be at the house to arrange for a room at three o'clock Saturday, and she filled a tin biscuitbox with doughnuts and asked Jabez to see that Mr, Prellick got them when he came to the house. Mr. Bunker accepted the tin box with a gentle chuckle.

Mr. Bunker was fond of doughnuts, and Mrs. Bunker loved to have him eat them, but she would have been not a little displeased if, late Friday night when she was already asleep, she could have seen Jabez slide cautiously out of bed and open Mr. Prellick's box of doughnuts. Seating himself in the darkest corner of the room, Mr. Bunker ate Mr. Prellick's doughnuts to the last crumb. There were many of them, and toward the last he ate slowly and without the eager appetite he had showed when he began. In fact, he had to force the last three down his throat almost by main force. When the last crumb had disappeared, Mr. Bunker slipped quietly into the small hall-room that was part of the Bunker domain, and when he returned, the tin box was almost as heavy as it had been before, and was tied tightly with the shoe-lace with which Grandma had originally bound it. The next morning Grandma confided the box to Mrs. Wimmer's own hands to be given to Mr. Prellick when he should arrive at three o'clock.

THE party began promptly on time. Dear old Grandma Bunker, in her best flounces and ruffles, stood at the door of Mrs. Wimmer's front parlor and welcomed the ladies as they came. At five minutes of three Mr. Bunker stood by one of the tables and rapped on it with his plump knuckles.

"Well, folks," he said when there was silence, "I reckon everybody is goin' to have a nice time at Ma's party, the way it is startin' out, and I guess nobody needs no games and tricks to help have a good time. I guess we aint like the youngsters that has to play kissin' games. I guess I'd clear out mighty quick if anybody was to start kissin' games. One man to so many ladies is 'most too few, hey?"

Some one laughed.

"I know what you're laughin' at," said Grandpa Bunker merrily. '"You're thinkin' that sometimes one kissin' lady to one man is 'most too much."

Everyone thought of Mr. Prellick, and everyone laughed.

"Well, I aint goin' to start no kissin' games," said Mr. Bunker, "but maybe you aint seen the trick— only it aint no trick— we was always doin' at parties like this out to Oroduna when me and Ma was young, back in the seventies. Now, all of you come up here and stand around this table and put one finger onto it, and I'll show you."

"Oh! lifting the table from the floor by electro-magnetism!" exclaimed one of the ladies. "I've seen it done! Come on, let's try it."

"We got to keep plumb quiet," Jabez said when the entire party was gathered around the table. "Keep sober and don't laugh, and just sort of wish the table would rise up in the air. Now, has everybody got their fingers on the table?"

Mrs. Wimmer glanced at her watch and slipped from the room. It was exactly three o'clock.

"Don't giggle!" urged Mr. Bunker. "Don't whisper! Keep right still."

He heard a taxicab stop before the house. He heard Mr. Prellick come up the steps to the stoop.

"Now, nobody say a word!" he urged, and he himself became silent.

There was utter stillness. From the next room, Mrs. Wimmer's back parlor and bedroom combined, came the only sound: voices dulled by the intervening wall and door.

"Sh!" said Mr. Bunker.

No one spoke. No one moved. Absolute silence, and then, from Mrs. Wimmer's back parlor, came wild yips of agonized fear, the yipping of a woman in terror! On the silence the shrill screams broke suddenly, and every woman in the room stood transfixed. From Mrs. Wimmer's back parlor came, mingled with the shrieks, a man's voice. Mr. Bunker ran to the hall door.

"Stop!" he ordered, turning and holding his hand high, although not a woman in the room had moved. "Stop! I'll 'tend to this! You leave this to me!"

He went out into the hall. At Mrs. Wimmer's door he paused a moment—  then opened the door quickly and stepped inside and closed the door behind him as quickly.

"Prellick!" he cried. "Prellick! And us tryin' to help you!"

MRS. WIMMER, standing far back on her bed with her hands holding her skirts close against her ankles, was still uttering little yips of terror. "I— I— I—" stammered Mr. Prellick. "Yes, you!" declared Mr. Bunker, his voice in a hoarse whisper. "And shame on you! Tryin' to kiss Mis' Wimmer!" Mr. Prellick's face turned ashen gray.

"Mice!" he babbled. "Mice! mice!"

"You old rapscallion!" hissed Mr. Bunker. "Comin' and tryin' to grab a kiss from Mis' Wimmer, like you did from Miss Druse, hey? And a whole Bible class from Doc Holyer's church right there in the next room! A nice howdy-do this'll make in the newspapers. Men like you ought to be showed up in every newspaper in town. You'd ought to be run out of town, and I'll run you out!"

"Mice!" chattered Mr. Prellick. "Tin box! Mice!"

"Fiddlesticks!" declared Mr. Bunker. "I don't know what you're talkin' about. Kissin'? Mis' Wimmer— poor, helpless widow that she is! I'll tell on ye, fast enough!"

With a sob Mr. Prellick put his hands on Mr. Bunker's shoulders.

"Bunker! Bunker!" he pleaded. "Listen to me! Please listen to me. It was mice, Bunker! She— she handed me a box, and she— she said it was doughnuts from Mrs. Bunker. I— I opened the box. It was mice— the box was full of mice, and they jumped out, and Mrs. Wimmer screamed, and—"

Mr. Bunker looked at Mr. Prellick reprovingly.

"So that's all the story you can think up, hey? Grandma sent you a box of doughnuts, and they turned into mice and jumped out, hey? Id like to know what the ladies of Doc Holyer's church would think of a story like that! I'll let 'em in, and—"

"Don't! don't!" pleaded Mr. Prellick in a panic of fear as he saw the childishness of the true explanation. Who would believe that Grandma Bunker, dear old soul, would do up a box of mice to be given to Mr. Prellick?

"They were mice," said Mrs. Wimmer weakly from the bed.

"Well, I guess you'd say so, Mrs. Wimmer, ma'am," said Mr. Bunker in a kindly tone. "You don't want no scandal gettin' into the paper."

"But they were mice!" insisted Mrs. Wimmer.

In the hall several ladies were now knocking on Mrs, Wimmer's door. Mr. Bunker leaned his plump back against the door.

"I suppose," he said sternly to Mrs. Wimmer, "you've fixed it up with Prellick to say they was mice. I suppose he's offered you two thousand dollars to shut up and not make a scandal. I'm surprised at you, Mrs. Wimmer! I am indeed!"

"Oh!" gasped Mrs. Wimmer.

SLOWLY Mr. Prellick's eyes opened to their widest as he gazed at Mr. Bunker. The knocking on the door grew louder. Mr. Prellick slipped his hand into his pocket and drew forth a roll of money.

"Maybe," said Mr. Bunker goodnaturedly, "maybe I'm mistaken."

With a frown Mr. Prellick handed the roll of bills to Mr. Bunker. The bunco-man counted them rapidly.

"I am mistaken, Prellick,"' he said frankly. "When I come to think it over, I'm downright sure it was mice. You can climb out of that back window and down onto the shed and climb the fence into the back yard of the saloon. Yes sir, it was mice!"

"Bunker," said Mr. Prellick, "you are a rascal!"

Mr. Bunker held the money toward Mr. Prellick.

"Come to think of it," he said, "I aint so sure they was mice, after all!"

He put his hand on the doorknob,

"I'm wrong! I'm wrong!" exclaimed Mr. Prellick hastily. "You are a gentleman, Bunker!"

"Well, now you're sayin' the truth," said Mr. Bunker with a chuckle. "That's me, exactly— I'm a gentleman bunker. And now you'd better get!"

Mr. Prellick, without more ado, climbed out of the window and disappeared. The moment he was gone, Mr. Bunker opened the door.

"It's all right, ladies!" he chuckled. "Mrs. Wimmer got scared of some mice that was runnin' around. I reckoned you wouldn't want in until I'd chased 'em away."

"Land sakes, no!" exclaimed Grandma Bunker, backing hurriedly into the hall. "I declare, there is 'most too many mice in this house."

Mrs. Wimmer climbed down from the bed.

"I am entirely of the same opinion, Mrs. Bunker," she said severely, but she looked straight at Mr. Bunker. "There are far, far too many mice in this house."

Grandma Bunker put her hand affectionately on Grandpa Bunker's arm.

"If it hadn't been for Pa," she said, "you might have been skeered to death, Mrs. Wimmer; but he aint afeered of mice."

"Afeered of mice, Ma?" said Mr. Bunker. "You couldn't hire me to be afeered of mice— not if— not if you paid me two thousand dollars a box to be skeered of them!"

____________

9: Gold Is Where You Find It

Beatrice Grimshaw

1870-1953

Blue Book, Nov 1934

PERSIS CAMERON was coming up from her claim.

Every evening she came like this, when the swift cool evening of the high peaks began to fall— came walking slowly, slowly, up the thousand feet that separated the gold-bearing bed of the river from her home; slowly, not because she was old or feeble— she was in her early twenties, and as limber as a deer— but because each night she carried a bag of gold.

There are not many alluvial fields in the world where a girl may, in one day, gather gold enough to make her halt and stagger in the carrying of it; and even on such fields there are few claims as rich as that of Persis. On Finch's Field, high up the Laurie River, none of the miners— men, and tough, experienced men, all of them— had had such luck as this little slender girl.

They called it luck; and perhaps it was pure luck that had originally thrown the claim in her way. What people in general knew about it, after two or three years, was simply that Persis Cameron had quarreled with her lover Mark M'Cracken— best and most adventurous air-man of all the daring pilots who risked their lives in the New Barbary service— over the division of a find they had made together. That Mark, in the course of the quarrel, had pulled up his datum pegs, thrown them at Persis' feet, and told her to go to bed with her gold, since she seemed to love it better than anything else. Afterward he had gone back to the New Barbary Airways, and Persis remained on her claim, augmented by that of Mark. He had sent her a transfer, making her the richest miner on the field, but he sent her nothing else, not a letter, or a message, even; he had literally flown out of her life.

It was not supposed that Persis cared very much. She had her gold, her house — a marvelous thing, on that field where everything had to be transported by plane from the far-off burning coasts, where mirrors, chairs and tables, windows of real glass, represented each a separate miracle. She had her friends; most of the men were more or less in love with her, and all quite hopelessly. She had the best of everything that gold could buy, and she kept a Chinese cook, a Siamese cat, an Alsatian dog and a chaperon; the last quite wonderful, with gray silk frock of the fashion of nineteen ten, gray hair worn pompadour, knitting bag and plate-armor corsets.

Jane Pieman was perhaps a little more than a chaperon; she considered herself the conscience of Persis Cameron, and the benefactress, in a welfare-working sort of way, of various women and girls to whom a chaperon would have been as strange an appendage as a tail to a guinea pig.

On this especial evening, this evening of drifting mock-pearl cloud among the pines, of the mock-English coolness on the nights of Laurie and Koroni, of dews that lay mock-frosty upon the strawberries and raspberries and violets of the mining track— those scentless, flavorless mock-lovely things— Miss Pieman was enjoying all together the pleasures of chaperonage, welfare work, and high counsel.

The last of the evening light fell on a marvelous mass of raw clean gold that Persis emptied on the table of the dininghall as she came in. "Scales, please, Miss Pie," she said curtly, and then perceived that the chaperon was not alone.

There was a man in the hall, and a woman. The woman she knew; all the goldfield, all New Barbary, and a good part of the Pacific world, knew Sandra, commonly called Sandy— Sandy of no known surname, of beauty unrivaled, Sandy without fear, without care, without morals, and (in spite of the last) very often without money.

The man Persis knew by name only: Phil Sargent. Not common Phil; the Honorable Philip was his correct title, and an earl, deceased, and ruined before that, was his father. Philip Sargent had come to her with a letter of introduction in hand, and another in the post. Belonging to Persis Cameron, orphan, there were fine relations somewhere "down south," and they had handed the young Englishman to her, recommending her tor "put him on to a good thing."

This horrible ignorance of goldfields etiquette and custom on the part of her relations had almost decided Persis not to see the fellow at all; but he had arrived unexpectedly by plane, bouncing down on the little dangerous 'drome that lay like a drop of jade in the heart of the Laurie and Koroni gorges; and when Persis saw him, she forgot to think of him as a "fellow." Philip Sargent was extremely good to look at, and more than that, he had the stamp of breeding such as is seldom seen in, the backwaters of the world.

A tall man, with a small head, well set; with a merry gray eye, and a young bright mouth that could laugh as merrily as the eyes, cause given. With a certain steadiness, nevertheless, that shone out through the laughing eyes and the kindly lips. That made you feel— if you were a woman, and young, yet no man's fool— that you could trust him.

All that Persis said, however, was the orthodox, "How do you do?" And almost immediately she turned to Sandy, who was hanging around, somewhat doubtful (it seemed) of her welcome, and told her to take a chair while she, Persis, weighed out. "Always glad to see you," she said, "but business first."

Miss Pieman, needles flashing, said that Mrs. Sands (for so she would call Sandy) must be tired, and would like tea. That she hoped Mr. Sargent had not had a trying trip.

"Rather have a spot of whisky," Sandra said, yawning, and taking a good look at the newcomer. Persis poured a handful of gold into her scales, and began weighing.

"I banked twelve hundred and fifty last week," she told Miss Pieman.

"And you've two hundred there, I suppose?" There was an implied reproach in the tone.

"Good Lord," said the Honorable Philip, "you don't mean that you get two hundred pounds a day?"

"No," replied Persis, carefully pouring gold from the bag. "Ounces," she added, as she. filled the scale.

"How much is an ounce?"

"At present prices, and allowing for the silver, about five pounds nine."

Phil said, "My God!" and laughed. No other comment seemed possible.

"Do you think," he said presently, "I'll have such luck?"

IT was not Persis who replied; it was Sandra. "Not unless you run across something like the Golden Head," she said. "The big company has a grant of most of the good stuff about here, now."

"The Golden Head," Persis said, "was found, some months ago, by a miner called Cotter, who went prospecting up the Oro and Laurie rivers. He didn't come back. The natives sent his head down the river, with the mouth tied up, full of gold. It wasn't," she said with animation, "the class of gold you get here, mixed with silver. It was practically pure."

A man who had drifted in from nowhere in particular, an aged man with silver beard, thick silver hair, and limbs like the boughs of trees, remarked: "Six pounds ten an ounce."

Sandra said nothing and Persis went on weighing gold.

Phil Sargent, who was blessed, or cursed, with imagination, told himself that he must have somehow slipped over the edge of the known world, and fallen into another....

Flying up from the shining seacoast of New Barbary, that was bright as a painted snake, that like a snake would strike its poison into you, if you stayed long enough; up across the forests and the rivers, and the peaks ten thousand feet high, into the heart of the great island continent of New Barbary, that had been on the map of the South Seas for near four hundred years, but that was still in large degree untamed— flying over cannibal villages, gorges where giant crocodiles lurked and bellowed, straight to a house like the houses one had seen in Sydney town; finding in it a Victorian chaperon, a miner very like the miners of the stage, and two supremely beautiful girls, who weighed out gold by the handful, and spoke casually of people having their heads cut off!

This Persis Cameron, of whom he had heard so much, was certainly wonderful. She intrigued him, with her strange wax candle beauty; eyes that were golden flames, beneath dark curling hair; narrow face, colored like ivory; slim body, that one knew, somehow, to be as white and firm, beneath the rough mining dress, as a new candle set in an altar-sconce. They said she didn't care about men, had refused half the field; meant to be an old maid all her days.... Old maid! As soon apply the term to Sandra, sitting there on the corner of the table— Sandra, who was so very different, yet so like; since women loved of men are in essentials the same the world over.

This Sandy was not slim; she was big boned, handsomely made; she was, to look at, strong as a mule; she wore a single garment of rich silk that draped itself caressingly over arms and legs smooth with muscle, shoulders near as wide as Sargent's own. Her neck— of what did it remind him? Surely that passage in the Song of Songs— "Thy neck is like a tower of ivory; thy stature is like a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of grapes." ... Yes, and the rest of the passage, candid, forcible— it fitted Sandra as the calyx fits the flower. The girl— she was perhaps six or seven and twenty, perhaps more; one could not tell— had red-brown eyes, and amber hair so thick that its short masses stood out like a halo round her head. Her face, seen there in the half-dusk of the mountain house, seemed calm as the water in the pools of the Laurie River; but like that still water, it had known storms.

Phil looked at her, and she looked at Phil, and as she did so, all expression went out of her eyes, and her mouth set itself in a hard line. "Doesn't she like me?" he thought, with mortification. Persis, behind the table, weighing gold, sent him a glance that was criticizing and thoughtful. He had the idea that while she weighed the gold with her hands, her mind was busy weighing, valuing him.

The gold was finished, put away in small chamois bags, locked in the safe that stood in one corner of the room. Tomorrow's plane would carry it to the coast. The planes, from the Laurie and the Koroni, went daily loaded with gold— and sometimes with death. They had crashed in air-pockets over the whirling gorges; they had crashed in mists that hid the sides of mountains; they bad crashed when the single engines that were all they dared use, on the tiny 'dromes, conked out, and sent them thousands of feet to flaming hell. And they went on; and the people of the field went with them— for gold.

Work was over on the claims in the river below; the sound of clinking picks, the rustle of water through the races, was silenced. New Barbary laborers, naked, fierce-eyed, came pouring up the pathway to their camps. A long way off, one last shot from a distant claim tore the air.

"The Company's blasting," some one said. Three or four men in khaki clothing and thick boots had drifted on to the veranda of Persis' house— were sitting there drinking champagne and beer, served by Chinese boys, and talking gold.

"Blast the Company!" said another.

Pidgin, the old man with the silver beard, said: "That's right, if you could; but the law's there— the law gave 'em the ground, and what're ye going to do?"

"Go out and get more," Phil Sargent suggested. He had been introduced; the men had looked him over, sized him up; nodded to him, lifted their glasses, said: "Here's luck."

"There's dozens after it now," Pidgin informed him. "All up the Oro and the Karaloi, and some of them's getting it, and some of them the natives are getting, maybe, same as they got Jim Cotter."

"I reckon Jim Cotter struck it on the Karaloi—"

"I reckon he got it on some of those creeks that run into—"

"There's gold everywhere in this country. We haven't begun to—"

"If you go right up the range, and follow the run of the big valley, I swear you'd get it in cartloads."

Everyone seemed to be talking at once; the room was thick with smoke of pipes, of good cigars; the tinkle of glasses, as the boys passed to and fro, was like the sound of wind-bells in a Chinese temple. Miss Pieman's flashing needles seemed by their emphatic twitter to cry out against the cost of all this hospitality.

"Persis doesn't touch liquor," Sargent, through the clatter of talk, heard her say. "She throws away her money on it. She's extravagant. She'll die poor, and so will Mrs. Sands. If they'd only keep a savings bank-book— like me!" She patted a lump, in her Victorian pocket.

"CLAIMS don't last forever," came the whispering, penetrating voice again. "And she worships gold. Can't have too much. Loves it. She ought to marry; that'd fill her head with something else. Eh ? What do you think?" Miss Pieman was staring hard at Sargent. It all seemed part of the absurd fairy tale. This woman was actually hinting to him, before he had been an hour in the house of the richest woman on the field, that he might make her beauty and her riches his own.

Well, she was a gentlewoman. She would not find it easy to mate among these fine rough fellows— all right as friends, fellow-prospectors, but as husbands, for all the rest of life, no.

He wondered if she had really been fond of the fellow who had, virtually, spat in her face and left her. He wondered if some one else couldn't show her, successfully, that every man was not such a mug as M'Cracken. It would not be hard to fall in love with that wax-candle beauty of hers, if one could swallow the humiliation of being prince-consort to her queen.

MOVING aside to let a Chinese waiter pass, he became conscious that some one was staring at him— Sandra.

She had been drinking; her red-brown eyes were misted with wine, and her fingers carelessly played with the cigarette that she couldn't keep between her lips any longer. She seemed to be half in a dream; not to know that the man who was sitting beside her— a better roomed, livelier and less weather-beaten gure than most of the others— had his arm around her waist. She was watching Sargent, looking at him in a kind of incredulous wonder. As if she had just found him, as if she had been looking for him, much and long.

Phil, boldly returning her gaze (for why should one mind manners with notorious Sandy?) found himself wondering what she might have been like, two or three or five years past, before she threw caps over windmills and came to the goldfields of New Barbary. If he had met her then, when she was, no doubt, the rebellious, unsatisfied wife of some uncomprehending fellow who didn't half deserve her,— if she had taken a fancy to him,— he could imagine that he would have been very ready to run away with her, make the fellow set her free. Yes. If she had taken a fancy.... One could well imagine that Sandra's fancies, to another woman's love, would be as "sunlight unto moonlight,"— or as flaming torch to the light of pale pure candle.

But he had come here to the perilous remote goldfields of New Barbary to make his fortune, not to make love....

Miss Pieman saw everything, it seemed. When you have no life left of your own, when you are nothing but the husk and ashes of what you were, you sit in corners, knit and knit and watch. Miss Pieman said: "That Mrs. Sandy— I do wish Persis wouldn't have her here; she's beyond reforming, if it ever was possible. That Mrs. Sandy would kill herself for a new thrill. Imagine what she's up to now."

Phil couldn't imagine.

"She and Linnhay, that man with her, are going off on a prospecting trip together. Among the cannibals I And the snakes. And the crocodiles. Out back. Madness! "

"Who," asked Phil, "is Linnhay?"

"Hmph," said Miss Pieman; "he's a Company man." She stared at the Company man as if she could have stabbed him with her needles.

"I don't suppose he can help it," Phil temporized. But he felt, nevertheless, that it was like the cheek of a Company man— no true miner— to monopolize lovely Sandra. He didn't like Linnhay— and he didn't dislike him. The man was a big beefy sensual-looking fellow, but somehow he looked honest. And he had drunk less wine than anyone else in the room, save Persis and Jane Pieman.

It occurred to Sargent that he himself had had enough, and he waved back the advances of the China boys. By and by the room cleared; the men Went off to their camps; Sandra and Linnhay seemed to melt away; and there was no one there but himself, Miss Pieman, and the rich young miner Persis Cameron. Persis had gone off and come back again, dressed in a white evening frock, and he supposed he'd better tidy up, since he was, for a few days, to be her guest.

IT was a week later. Phil Sargent was in the lounge of Persis' house, bending over a map: He had carried that map for long; poor as it was, and known to be incorrect, it was the only guide to the Laurie fields and the peaks of untamed Koroni. The difficulties of prospecting in this terrible country were known to him now, as they had not been known before.

And the map had taken on a new face; it seemed to sneer at him, as he and Persis scanned it. What was behind the Koroni range ? Where did the upper tributaries of the golden Laurie lead? "Find out," said the scrap of paper, that had lured so many to their death. "Find out— if you dare! "

Persis laid one hand on the map (it was a beautiful hand, if brown) and said: "Here, and here, is where you will go." She spoke with perfect confidence; and that was odd, for during the whole week, when men came up to her veranda after working-hours, little had been talked of but the gold to be won "out back," and no two men had been in agreement as to where it should be sought.

There was a moment's silence, while Persis' hand moved, while her pointed nails left tiny marks on the paper.

"There," she said, "or near it, is where Jim Cotter went."

Sargent did not ask her how she knew. He understood he was about to be told.

"Cotter," she went on, "was a friend of mine. I mean, he asked me to marry him, but I—"

"Yes, I understand."

"He told me what he thought about the upper Laurie. He said he believed the good gold was right on the summits of Koroni. He said they weren't the original summits, that it had all been much higher, once, and that the top of the big ridge now held the gold that had been washed down; and that all we get here, a long way off, came from that place. I don't know that I was much taken by the idea— but nothing's impossible about gold: gold's where you find it. And I grubstaked him. And I asked him if he'd told anyone else his idea. And he said no; there was only one person he would have told, and she was dead. So he went to look, and everyone knew he found it; but no one knew where."

"Carriers?"

"They couldn't tell; the Koroni tribes got them all. No one knows, but myself. And now you."

Silence again. A long way down, in the gorge of the Laurie, picks and shovels made little noises like the ticking of clocks. The pines of Koroni whispered; "Why trouble? Life is so brief, brief, b-r-i-e-f!"

PHIL SARGENT had never felt stronger, more like living. He understood, in a flash of excited comprehension*, that he was being offered a fortune—  two fortunes— if he could find and bring back the title to the best, which was the first, of the Golden Head. And he was being offered more.

Persis, at that moment, lowered her eyes, which had been looking from the map to the face of Phil and back again. Instinctively he followed their downward glance, saw her take a bit of lace and cambric from the belt of her dress, and slowly, deliberately, let it fall from her fingers. It dropped across the instep of Sargent's shooting-boot, and lay there like a strayed flake of snow. The princess had thrown the handkerchief....

He had never thought her more beautiful, in her strange exotic way, than now. He had never felt more respect for her lofty character, her purity, for the courage that had moved her thus to break down the barrier built up between himself and her, by gold. But he wondered, if she loved him at all, if he was not merely a convenience to her, a consort she was selecting on the advice of Jane Pieman. And he wondered if he—

Nonsense! Of course he did. After a week spent in the company of the most wonderful girl—

Halt there! What about the night when he and Sandra— Sandra who was now gone away with Linnhay— had stood together under the cedars at the rim of the Laurie Valley, and talked, for the first time? What about the strange thing she had said, when after few and insignificant words, she was leaving him, to go back to, a drinking party in the camp of a man who had newly struck it rich?

"If I'd known," she said, "I'd have waited!" Then she put her arms about him, kissed him slowly and without passion, stood for a moment while he kissed her back (he was shaken to the soul, if she was not) and left him.

Sandy, Sandy, of no known surname, Sandy who had flung her cap over countless windmills; Sandy with the neck like a tower of ivory, and the stature like a palm tree; Sandy who would never make a wife to any man; Sandy irresistible, yet to be resisted— the most wonderful girl in the world. But if she was, Persis was the next most wonderful; and—

He bent down; he had hesitated but the fraction of a minute. He picked up the handkerchief, and laid it in her hand, looking straight into those bright, courageous eyes of hers. "You may," they seemed to tell him. So he did.

SANDRA, in boots and breeches; Sandra grown thin, sallow; Sandra untidy, almost ragged— sat on the corner of Persis' table, while Persis made up, as usual, the evening's gold. You might have thought, had you looked only at one of the girls, that time, for many weeks, had stood still. That today was the day when Phil Sargent had arrived at the Laurie field; that Jane Pieman, knitting in the corner, had not moved since then; that Persis, like the princess in some fairy tale, had not ceased to sit there, counting out her gold.

But there was the mark of long hardship, fierce adventure, on Sandra; she seemed an older woman than the one who had left, gayly, to seek new thrills in the company of her latest lover.

Persis asked politely: "Have an interesting time?"

Sandra tucked her cigarette into the corner of her mouth. "We were chased for two days by a head-hunting party, but we got away," she said. "Evidently."

"We were nearly caught in a river-bed by a cloudburst. You know."

Persis nodded. She did know. Lives had been lost that way, before.

"Lin found a big crocodile right under his bunk, when we were camping on the edge of a swamp."

"A swamp isn't—"

"Yes, I know; but it was convenient. And Lin asked me to marry him."

Crocodiles, cloudbursts, head-hunters, paled before the interest of this. Persis looked up quickly. Jane Pieman said:

"You should be down on your knees, Mrs. Sands, thanking heaven fasting for a good man's—"

"Bunk," said Sandra. "Lin isn't a good man. But he's a damn' good prospector."

"When are you going to marry him?" asked Persis.

"When hell freezes over," Sandra said. "Give me some more cigarettes; mine are done."

Persis was silent for quite a minute; you might have thought her busy counting her gold, and perhaps she was. Presently she said to Miss Pieman: "Cigarettes, please, Pie." She made no comment regarding Sandra's statement.

BUT Sandra had more to say. "There's a rumor among the natives that Sargent's boys have deserted."

Everyone, on the Laurie, knew that that meant almost certain death. Persis looked up again; her face was a trifle paler, but not much. "You can't believe all the native gossip you hear."

"Isn't he due back?"

"Just about. Not time for anyone to worry— yet." The whole history of the Laurie was in those words; but neither of the women noticed it.

"Are you sending out?"

"What have I to do with it? And if I had, it isn't necessary. No one would say—"

Sandra laughed, not pleasantly. "I didn't know the bush before," she said. "But I do now. And I believe in— native gossip."

"What does Linnhay think?"

"He doesn't know. He went down to the coast yesterday, to see his chief about something."

Persis rose, opened the safe, put away her gold, and closed the steel door with a clang. "What do you propose to do?" she said. And in tone, if not in words, there was another query: "What business is it of yours?"

Sandra was standing erect, with her pith helmet in her hand. She placed it on her head, and said: "I'm going to look. Old Pidgin won't believe anything, but he'll go too."

Persis was busy with the lock of the safe; she did not turn around.

"Lock up," said Sandra, "and be careful how you do it, for you've shut your soul inside!"

Then she was gone, and for a little while after, the pat-pat of her boots echoed on the track' below the house— sounded, and faded, and died away.

VERY far off, in the places where no white man went, where not even the planes, piloted by Australia's most daring air-men, ventured their wings among drowning gorges and mist-covered pinnacles, the golden river of the Laurie seemed to die. Smaller and smaller it grew, till it was only a thread that dropped and failed, and rose and failed again, among the enormous masses of green brush and fern. Here the gold failed too; it might exist beneath the terraces and benches of the valley; but that, nobody knew, for nobody had ever been so far, save the man who died with his mouth stuffed with gold.

Phil Sargent had followed him, and like him, had been deserted by his carriers. He knew enough of New Barbary, now, to be fairly certain that that meant death, unless he could find the gold, and hurry back again before he starved. There was no food in these high wildernesses, in the wet jungles of bamboo and fern, where no butterfly floated, no bird ever sang. There was solitude, rain and rain and the chill of a fever country, mists, mosses fathom-deep. There were waterfalls, streams, precipices, fearful to climb. There was, at last, the stream and precipice that Persis had drawn out upon her map; and maybe Cotter had halted here, and maybe he hadn't. The map was half imagination— had to be.

But on the evening when he found the little cave, with ashes in it, and a metal matchbox, empty, he knew he was on Cotter's track at last. How far the man had gone to right or left he did not know. He was at the very top of the Koroni peaks, in a place where no one except Cotter had thought to find anything. If gold had been discovered, it might be anywhere in a rangd of miles.

And he was hungry, with only a biscuit or so between him and starvation. And for the last day or two his limbs had known a strange weakness; he had shivered and sweated alternately. It was the climate, he told himself repeatedly— nothing more....

On the top of the range, near Cotter's cave, he looked about him, tossed a coin, and followed it.

His pick, struck in where the coin fell, came out with gold upon the point. Tearing away the soil, he saw the roots of the grass all shining. To right, to left, every stroke of the pick brought gold.

He had won. The summit of the Koroni, as Cotter, that luckless fellow, wise for everyone but himself, had known, was gold-bearing all over.

After he had rested, he took out the pegs he had brought with him, and the notices— pegged what he judged to represent two claims in the heart of the best of it, and spent the rest of the day furiously working. Night found him chilled but sweating, cramped over a pocket of grainy gold like wheat, filling his own pockets from it. His nails were torn, his hands bleeding.

With dark, he crept into the cave, and wrapped his coat about him. All night he burned and shivered. There was water trickling in a corner of the cave. He crept near and drank from it. It was day now— and immediately it was night again. He stayed in the cave. Her could hear the sound of waterfalls, as they went splashing down the long flanks of Koroni. He could hear the hill winds raving in the trees. And by and by he ceased to hear at all, for a long time....

He was dreaming, talking to some one. There was something he had to say, as quickly as possible, before waking.

"You know," he told the tall figure, amber-haired, that had come from nowhere, and was there, hanging over him in the dusk of the cave. "You know, it was really you. Not— not—"

The figure moved a little; he thought it nodded, silently.

"Pegs," he said then, "I put them in. I found it. Gold. Good gold."

"Yes, that's right, you did." It seemed to him now that he must speak quickly, for he was very near waking up, and then the dream would surely vanish.

"You didn't wait for me," he said, "But I'll do the waiting-"

That was right; that was what a gentleman— a man— should do. He felt the hand of Sandy closing round his own; it was very warm; he tried to clasp it with cold fingers, and in the trying, woke.

A white-bearded man came into the cave, in answer to Sandra's sudden call. "Come away, Sandy," he said.

"I found him— I found him," she cried. "You did. Now leave him to me."

WHEN Pidgin got back, he was in no hurry to visit Persis. He was not one of the girl's admirers. "She's plenty without me," he thought. "And my news can keep."

But in a day or two he looked her up on her claim. She was there as usual, toiling up and down the slopes of the gorge, directing, ordering, watching every runnel of the sluices, every stroke of pick and shovel. No one, on the Laurie, worked harder for gold than the richest woman there.

"Ye've heard about Sargent," Pidgin began.

"I have. It was most unfortunate, that he should have gone down to fever like that. Nobody could have— "

"He found the gold. And I saw where he pegged out a claim in the thick of it— two claims, for himself and you."

"Yes?" said the girl, standing straight up. Her eyes looked very bright.

"I b'lieve he made a will before he left, in consideration of your giving him the tip?" Pidgin hurried on.

"He did."

"Well, I wish ye luck of the will. I think y'll find a gold watch in his swag, maybe a bit old-fashioned, an' some cufflinks— and there was a pair or two of good English boots that could be sold."

"What do you mean?"

"Ask Linnhay."

"Linnhay and— Sandra?"

He saw she understood, and he said: "That's right. They were on it days ahead of him, and he never knew, and they never knew he was about; it's a big country, and a wild one. The claim that Sargent pegged was inside the big claim that Linnhay pegged for the Company. Y'know the mining laws: they give the blasted companies every—"

"Yes, I know."

"There's plenty left, for them that come by and by, but Linnhay has the eyes of it. He's what she called him; he's a damn' good prospector."

Pidgin tramped away, without waiting for further talk. But Persis wanted more, and she hurried off at once to the little bush hut that was Sandra's.

SHE found Sandra lying indolently in a long bush armchair, with the eternal cigarette in her mouth. Sandy was dressed, painted, coiffed, perfumed to perfection. Sandy looked, in that environment, every inch a light woman.

But Persis, shrewdly reading her, knew that she was changed. It was as if a flame that once had burned furiously, leaping and flaring, now began to fail in the socket, threatened to go out.

Bodily there was nothing the matter with Sandy, she was sure. The woman was as strong as a mule; she could (Persis thought) have picked her up and carried her to the top of the Laurie gorge and back again, without losing breath. Nevertheless—

"Are you well?" she suddenly asked.

"Good-o," said Sandy. "Dream too much, that's all. What do you want?"

"I want to know," Persis said, "why you went with Linnhay."

"Because," replied Sandy, making wreaths of smoke, "I thought Phil Sargent a bit too good for you. And I knew he wouldn't be good enough, if he came back empty."

Persis was known as a shrewd guesser. She said: "How did you know— what you told Linnhay?"

"I had a husband, once upon a time," Sandra said. " 'I had a little husband, no bigger than my thumb, I put him in a pint pot and there I bade him— ' " She had been drinking, Persis saw. She sang the nursery rhyme in a sweet husky voice, laughing at the other woman, and waving her cigarette.

Persis waited; she was good at waiting. Sandra, suddenly falling grave, said: "I was Mrs. Jim Cotter— once. Followed him here, to annoy him. He hated me. Said I was dead to him. But before he ever came to the field, he'd doped it out about the Koroni. He told me, then."

Silence in the little hut, that contrasted so evilly, in its rough untidiness, with Sandy's dainty person. Koroni, high in heaven, began to grumble out its evening thunderstorm.

Sandra said presently: "I feel sleepy all the time, now. That's because I dream. Always the same. Looking and looking, traveling through all the bush of New Barbary, over mountains and gorges and rivers bigger and eviller than any in the real world. It's New Barbary, and— not. It's the soul of the country, if you understand, and it's a wicked soul. I keep looking for some one, and I never find him. If I did—" She paused.

Persis could not speak.

"D'you remember that bonzer story of Kipling's, about a man who didn't dare to go to sleep, because 'They' came and chased him every night, and he was afraid they'd catch him up? That's it. But it's different. I do the chasing. And one night," she said, staring out of the hut door, up at the brooding peaks of Koroni, "one night I'll— catch up."

"I should have been angry," Persis thought. "I should have been hating her." But she was not angry; she did not hate. There was a heaviness in her heart as she thought of the Koroni gold, not hers; a chilliness when the vision of Phil Sargent's face crossed her mind. What was it that was heavy and cold? What rhymed to that last word?

"Shut the door tight, for you've shut your soul inside."

The thought of Sandra's careless words went with her, as she climbed the hill.

"DO you know," said Jane Pieman, a day or two later, "that they've found that poor Mrs. Sands dead in her bed? It must have been heart or something. They say she looked just lovely, and as innocent as a child, and she was actually smiling."

"So she did catch up, after all."

"I don't understand you, Persis. I very often don't."

Persis looked at the old woman, sitting in the dusky corner that she usually affected, and clicking her eternal needles. When life is over, when love is laid behind, what is there for an old maid to do but knit and knit?

"Give me your needles, Pie," the girl said. "I think I'd better learn."

_______________

10: The Cibourne Trail

H. Bedford-Jones

1887-1949

Blue Book,  July 1926

I WAS passing along the boulevard before one of the large department-stores of Paris, not far from the Madeleine, when it happened. In front of me was a woman, obviously an American tourist, extremely frightened; a Frenchman had her by the arm; another was on her other side; a crowd was collecting. I butted in.

"What's the matter here?" I demanded. "Madame, can I be of any service?"

"Oh, you speak French! Please help—  I don't know what it is!" she exclaimed. The man at her arm gave me a look.

"Shoplifter," he said curtly. "Will you come along, monsieur?"

"You bet," I said. And to the woman, who was nearly in hysterics: "Better go with him and see what it's about, and Ill keep company. They think you're a shoplifter."

She was half angry, half frightened, protested the charge vehemently, but. we all went along to the office of the general manager, and things were sorted out. The manager demanded to know who I was.

"Jim Logan, assistant to Doctor Clancy, the dentist in the Rue Cambon—"

"Ah, we know M. Clancy very well!" he exclaimed. "Be seated, m'sieur."

They might well know Clancy, who had been located in Paris for years— because Clancy did more detective work than he did dentistry, and was one of the best known men in Paris in official circles.

The present affair was simple enough. The woman, a lady of position and culture from the Middle West, had been seen by three girls in the notion department to put several small toilet articles in her purse. She had not paid for them, had left the store, and the detective had promptly brought her back. Here were the articles — she had no receipt to show.

Her defense was that she was in a hurry, had given one shopgirl the money, had put the things in her bag as the girl told her to do, and had gone. She could not be sure which girl had waited on her; she could be sure of nothing— was in tears. Since I was acting for her, the manager took me to one side and expressed his regret.

"You know, my dear sir, how shoplifters are always women of position? Kleptomania, not theft! This is our first experience with an American lady; we find many Germans, Belgians, English, but never before an American. I regret it most deeply, I assure you!"

He was quite sincere. I asked what would be done, and he shrugged.

"Nothing. It is a matter of a few francs— not worth the trouble. Perhaps you will see the poor woman on her way?"

I did so, convinced that she was a kleptomaniac. She was furious— was going to appeal to the bank, to the consulate, to the police. I saw her to her hotel, and then went along to Clancy's office.

HE was disengaged when I entered, and thrust a cigarette at me. A queer little man, Clancy— very short in build, with gray mustache and imperial, shabbily dressed, absent-minded, his gray eyes clear and keen as crystal. Laughing, I gave him an account of my recent experience, and dismissed the matter.

"What's on for today? Got any cases in hand?"

"For a newspaper man, at present an assistant detective," said Clancy dryly, "you're a stupid sort, Jim Logan!"

"All assistant detectives are stupid," I chuckled. "That's why the senior partner shines— by contrast. What are you driving at?"

"Shoplifting," he said, puffing at his cigarette. "Did you see the girl who was supposed to have been paid?"

"Yes." I gave him a curious glance. "You're not going to open up the matter and defend our countrywoman, are you? It's useless."

"Of course it's useless."  And he nodded. "No, let her go her way in peace— she was neatly trapped and has no comeback. However, it might be worth our while to glance over the three shopgirls who witnessed her theft. Little things lead to big things. Of course."

"What do you mean by trapped?" I demanded. "It was a clear-cut case. You know a big store like that doesn't want to trump up false charges—"

He waved his cigarette with a derisive gesture, and I fell silent.

"Take the case of a shopgirl getting from one to two hundred francs per month wages," he observed. "Tourists flood around her, spending money regardlessly. She is tempted, and she finds one or two friends in the same department who are also tempted. Voila, as the French say! There you have the nucleus."

I smoked silently. After a moment he resumed:

"This it not an isolated case, Logan—  it happens every day, in every one of the big Shops here. It's one of the traps for tourists, but Americans seldom fall for it, because they're too sharp. A woman comes into the store; she's alone, a foreigner, unacquainted with the way things are done in Paris. Good! The shopgirl has a possible victim. She is in a hurry and buys one or two little things. The shopgirl tells her to put them in her bag, or perhaps she' does it without being told. Usually she is told— this is the trap. It's done every day in every shop.

"She pays the girl. She does not go to the cashier, so gets no receipt. The girl has not made a pencil-mark through the price-ticket. The woman starts to leave. The girl had already signaled her accomplices, to one of whom she slips the money given her. The detective is called, sent after the woman. Once the latter leaves the shop, he accosts her and brings her. back. Three witnesses against her— a plain case! There's nothing to show she paid the girl. You see? I'm surprised you're not on the dodge, Logan!"

"We live and learn," I commented. "By George! The store ought to be put wise to it—"'

"Bah! They stand by the employees, naturally. To check the game would be difficult— an endless system of espionage would be necessary. Well, you saw the three girls in question, did you? Good. We have a starting-point."

"For what?" I demanded. Clancy fingered his imperial and chuckled.

"For something bigger than you'd believe — perhaps. It's a long chance. You'll have a bit of real work to do, my young friend, and if you succeed there'll be some rewards in sight, I promise you!"

"Want me to get acquainted with the girl?" I said, and grunted. 'Fat chance! These French business girls are smart as steel traps. The very fact that I went there using your name would spoil—"

"Did the girl see you? Did she know you used my name?"

"No," I said reflectively. "Come to think of it, she didn't. And the woman said she'd not know the girl again— had paid her no attention. The manager was a wooden wall to her. If I'd not been there, they probably would have pinched her as an object lesson—"

OBVIOUSLY Clancy was paying no attention to anything I said. He had the far-away look of a man who habitually loses his umbrella or gets out at the wrong station. I waited for him to wake up again, wasting no more good words on the empty air.

"Coke," he ejaculated at length.

"By-product of coal," I commented. He gave me a wondering look, then chuckled.

"Oh! Sometimes. Hm! Logan, do you know anything about the little island across the Channel— home of labor unions, dole, non-workers and nobility?"

"I haven't the honor," I returned with a shake of the head. "Never saw England."

"There are several ways in." He spoke dreamily, as though all the while pursuing his train of thought far beyond the words. "If you take the air-route or Calais-Dover, you'll be fashionable— one way, no baggage is examined; the other, they go through the last item and your person to boot. Folkestone-Boulogne is nearly as bad. Newhaven-Dieppe is variable; you never know whether the Customs will be asleep or awake. But by Havre-Southampton, you dump down your grip, and the Customs man puts a chalk-mark on it while he's reciting the list of dutiable articles. Yes, it must be Havre-Southampton. The air route is never examined, but the people who fly are known after the second trip."

I looked at him in puzzled wonder.

"And what," I demanded, "has all this touring information got to do with a supposed kleptomaniac and a tourist trap in Paris?"

"I told you," responded Clancy absentmindedly. "Coke."

The connection was beyond me, and so I abstracted another of his cigarettes to assist me in puzzling it out. Clancy, with his mind on the other side of the world, sat looking like an opium fiend after the third pipe, until I shot a demand at him.

"Spill it!"

"Eh?" He started. "What?"

"The connection between kleptomania, tourist traps, and coke."

He laughed and reached for a cigarette himself.

"Sometimes I think you're something of a wizard at this game yourself, Logan," he observed, ''and at other times you develop a woodenness that's something amazing! I'd advise you to turn loose on your own, this time. Your use to me is your difference of outlook and your ability to act swiftly. Now, tourist traps go into all sorts of ramifications."

True enough, as I knew. From Deauville to Nice, pleasure-seeking tourists were the prey of the harpies, despite all the efforts at protection exerted by the French government. They had themselves to thank for most of it, naturally.

"Dope-smuggling is running the Government ragged," went on Clancy. "Go to it! You know the store; you know the city; finally, there's the Havre-Southampton route. These people work de luxe, by regular steamers. Want any money?"

I knew better than to ask him for particulars; but: "Does this blind alley lead to London?" I observed with heavy sarcasm.

Clancy gestured complete ignorance with his hands, French-fashion. Then he took a wad of notes from his breast pocket and tossed it over to me.

"There's ten thousand francs— big game, big money. Government rewards will pay us back, with a profit. Unless it's too much for you, go ahead and get busy."

"Too much? The job or the ten thousand francs?" I asked, scooping it in.

Clancy chuckled. "Get to work! And keep me posted. I've a straggling idea where it'll run, but nothing to go on; however, I sha'nt be idle. Don't forget I'm rather too well known in some quarters, and if we meet, don't speak to me first. Now run along, and all good luck go with you!"

I ran, but with only the vaguest idea of what I was about.

"YOUR USE to me," Clancy had said, "is your different outlook."

There was his reason for sending me blind out on the quest— of what? Drug runners, it appeared. Three shop assistants playing a crooked game for small stakes! How could this lead to big game, I could not see for the life of me. It might be there was a general organization of crooks running from large to small— this was the only possible hope of any solution. Perhaps Clancy thought I might run down the big game by working through the small fry.

There was, in fact, nothing else I could do, therefore I set about doing it.

The department-store in question being close by, I made for it, and presently found myself at the notion counter or counters—  a whole corner of the vast establishment, chiefly given over to women's articles and toilet goods. A girl came up and inquired what I wanted.

"Je ne sais pas," I told her, and she smiled.

This carefully pronounced sentence; instead of the usual "sais pas," was enough to tell her that I was a tourist. So was my accent. I can get along pretty well with French, though not well enough to fool any Parisian; seldom, indeed, can the foreigner manage such a feat. In this case the girl at once began to speak English, asking what sort of article I was after, and giving me a chance to study her.

Unhealthy, naturally, and as usual none too clean about the neck. Clever— watching the effect of every word on me, summing me up, evidently questioning what was behind my aimless manner. And she had the usual animal-like nostril of the lower-class French woman; pretty in a way, yet of the earth earthy. The French maxim that one need not be ashamed of anything the good God has made, leaves its mark.

Few shoppers were about, so my quest was unhurried. I bought a toothbrush and handed the girl a twenty-franc note, slipping the brush into my pocket. She was not to be so easily taken in, however— the little game was played only upon women, or perhaps one victim in a day was the maximum. She calmly led me to the cashier's desk and waited while I got my change. I had not finished with her, however.

"I'd like to look at some perfumes," I said.

She accompanied me to the proper counter and displayed the wares in a bored fashion.

"You speak English very well," I commented. 'Where did you learn it?"

"In Paris," she said. "And I am here to sell, not to listen to idle compliments from tourists."

"It is not a compliment, but an inspiration," I told her. "If you learned English in Paris, why shouldn't I learn French here? Perhaps you could teach me. I couldn't afford more than a hundred francs a lesson."

Mention of this staggering sum was enough to shake anyone. She eyed me sharply, for your French shopgirl may be an unwedded wife, but she has nothing to do with strangers. However, the hundred franc offer was a temptation.

"M'sieur," she said without anger, "my work begins at nine, and I am not out until seven. I fear you must seek another teacher. There are schools."

"And I do not like these schools," I said. "Now, I speak a little French, not much. You must, obviously, dine each evening. If you were to dine with me three evenings a week, and help with my terrible accent, it would be three hundred francs added to your wages."

She gave me another appraising look and evidently decided that I was not attempting any tourist flirtation but meant my words literally— as I did. Just then a floorwalker came along to see what all the talk was about, so I bought a cheap bottle of perfume, and the gentleman went on his way satisfied. My girl gave me a quick look and a smile, and I knew the day was won— not by me, however. It was won by three hundred francs a week.

"The first lesson?" she asked.

"Where and when you like," I replied. "It depends on your quarter of Paris, eh?"

She nodded, and yet hesitated. "You are very genteel," she said in French. "And yet, I do not know—"

I produced a hundred-franc note and handed it to her.

"For the first lesson, in advance," I said. "I leave the place of meeting entirely to you, mam'selle."

"You know the Boulevard St. Denis?" she asked, and I nodded. "Then, say, the Café Mairie, at eight tonight?"

"Very good," I responded, and paid for my perfume in a matter-of-fact manner, and so went my way.

I HAD done the obvious thing, naturally. It might lead me nowhere. These girls were sharp ones; perhaps, in their little tourist-trap that won a few francs from each victim, they were being sharpened still further for larger work— perhaps not. At the same time they might know more than they seemed to know, and I was out to buy information. Naturally they would not talk here in the store, and pumping would be easier work over a dinner-table.

Thinking it as well to take counsel with Clancy and perhaps worm some item of value from his stubborn lips, I looked in and found him busy cleaning instruments. He heard what I had done, and nodded.

"That's where youth and beauty score," he observed. 'Now, if I had suggested dinner and French lessons to the prettiest girl in sight— whew! I'd have caught it heavy. Not to mention the hundred francs per time."

"Well," I said, "one look at me, and she could see my intent was innocent—"

"It had better be, for your own sake," and he chuckled. "You might have a look at the paper there."

I saw an English paper lying on the table, and my eye was caught by the heavy headlines of an article on the dope-traffic. It was on what passes for the front page— in England the front page is stuck away where nobody can find it.

"It needs skilled labor," I commented. "The beggar who wrote this doesn't know the first thing about a lead, or about headlines—"

"No, nor about cocaine and allied products," said Clancy. 'He blames it all on Hamburg and Rotterdam, talks about hollow boot-soles and umbrella-sticks— bosh! Funny what the British public will swallow from Fleet Street. I expect this chap never heard of Cibourne."

"Who's Cibourne?" I asked.

"Mystery man," said Clancy. "He's a Frenchman, but has never been seen in France— and the English police can't set eyes on him either. However, Cibourne has landed about a hundred pounds of cocaine alone in the hands of London crooks, within the past two months— not to mention heroin and other such products."

"If they know his name, they can get him," I said. '"How'd they learn it?"

Clancy shrugged. "A name isn't a man, and gives no direct clue. Some little fellow squealed it, I suppose. A hundredweight of cocaine, Logan— some few hollow boot soles, eh? Of course. Quite a few."

He wiped the last pair of forceps, and laid them away, and chortled at me.

"The girl wont turn up. Somebody in the place saw you accompany that American woman to the office of the 'grand director,' as they call him. She'll be tipped off. Counting your perfume and toothbrush, you're a hundred and eighty francs out of pocket."

"I'll bet you the hundred and eighty she turns up," I said.

"Done. If you're going to keep the appointment, you'd better go!"

Glancing at my watch, I agreed with him, and went.

Naturally, I took the underground, or Metro, as it is generally known, to the Porte St. Denis station. This station has two entrances, like most subway stations in Paris. And as I came out of one exit, I saw the girl and knew my bet was won. She was pacing up and down before the side entrance to the restaurant.

Clever, all right— but I was on the lookout. She came toward me, alone; my glimpse of the man leaving her, diving hurriedly into the other Metro entrance, gave me only a fleeting impression of him. They had. seen me first. He wore the usual Parisian hat, a wide-brimmed black felt, and my hasty snapshot of his face showed it as furtive, ferret-nosed, pallid. Beyond doubt he was a drug-addict.

The girl came toward me. She looked different, here, wearing a little black dinner dress with touches of black lace. Cheap enough, yet the Parisian talent for making something out of nothing gave it a dainty touch, and she looked more attractive now. I offered my arm and complimented her on her appearance, in purposely clumsy French. She smiled a little, and we entered the restaurant.

As we came to a table, I checked her slightly, and put a card into her hand.

"One must always be polite," I murmured. "Especially pupil and teacher! Here is my card, mam'selle. You have not yet told me your name."

She laughed slightly, as though amused by my awkwardness.

"It is Marguerite," she answered readily, "—Marguerite Cibourne."

SELECTING an excellent dinner, I got rid of the waiter; then the wine-boy brought his card and I passed it to my visa-vis. Whether because she liked it, or from consideration for my pocket, Marguerite Cibourne picked a late vintage Vouvray.

Meantime I was hesitant between placing the blame on Clancy or on chance. Obviously it was impossible for Clancy to have known the identity of the girl I had selected as a French teacher; and yet these impossible things had a way of turning up, where Peter J. Clancy was concerned. Perhaps the little dentist had been amused by my way of worming information out of him. I was ready to venture a long bet that Clancy had been occupied for some time in quietly getting information about the dope ring, doubtless for the Government. And my little adventure with the American lady had come at just the right moment to let me into the game.

My partner was very happy over the outing, for she must have concluded by this time that I had no ulterior motives in the invitation; this was typical of her class. She started to work brightly enough, asking how she could best help with my accent.

"Suppose we talk about your work," I suggested. "It will give me new words, and I shall learn by hearing you talk."

She nodded to this, and I led off by asking whether she had always been in the same department-store.

"Always is a very long time," she returned demurely. "I am not that old! No, I've been there only a year, in the same department."

"And how many of you are there?"

"Three of us— oh, là, là! Does M'sieur Logan wish other teachers too? Well, there is Mile. Lebert, Mlle. Ockerts, and myself. And the buyer, Madame Lebrun."

"And you like your companions?"

"But yes! We are very good friends. It is necessary that we should be friends, working all day together, is it not?"

I agreed with this. She broke in upon the questions with the remark that I already spoke French very fairly.

"Perhaps," I assented. "Yet this fact does not prevent me from desiring to improve my knowledge, especially when I can dine with a charming companion!"

She laughed, and fell into a cheerful camaraderie. Presently our meal arrived, or at least the first essentials of it. When the waiter had departed, I reverted to questions.

"Yours is not a common name," I told. her. "Is there anyone else of the same name in the department-store?"

She shook her head. "No. You are right, it is not a common name."

I was stumped. Obviously enough, a girl such as this could not be the cocaine dealing Cibourne, the smuggler. She was a rather weak sort, with no great force of character— one reason I had selected her almost instantly as a victim. Yet she did not seem depraved, vicious in any way, or a police character: she was merely a clever, light-headed Parisian girl.

"Have you any relatives in the store?" I asked idly, and then was astonished by the sharp look I received.

"Why do you ask that?"

"To enlarge my vocabulary." laughed. She nodded.

"My uncle is buyer of woolen goods for the firm."

"Oh! And you got your position through him, eh?"

She nodded. ''He is very good to me."

"He would be— anyone would be! But didn't you say there was no one else of your name in the store?"

"But there is not!" and she laughed gayly. "He is my mother's brother— his name is Guilbert."

After this we both devoted ourselves to our meal.

I WAS exceedingly satisfied with myself, and small wonder— here I had the whole thing complete, cut and dried, except for details! Guilbert must make frequent trips to England in connection with his buying. The store catering largely for tourists, must carry English woolens. It would pay its employees meanly. So Guilbert could turn many a dishonest penny in his travels, without suspicion pointing to him— the more so as woolens destined for Paris or returned to England would be heavy. A regular traveler, with a definite standing, representing a large firm, the Customs officials would never dream of molesting him.

Why had Clancy called it "something big?" It was certainly one of the flattest cases we had ever tackled together. Obviously Guilbert would be known to his underworld associates, not by his own name, but by the first to come to mind—  that of his defunct brother-in-law. Everything was pat.

While Marguerite got on with the Chateaubriand, I was busy with mental calculations. Assuming the three clerks caught a kleptomania client once a week, which must be the limit of activity, it meant at most a hundred francs to divide among them. Despite her Uncle Guilbert, I had no doubt this girl was in on the little game.

It seemed a petty business, until the thought of blackmail came into my head. A tourist caught in Paris could be milked profitably at home— perhaps.

Was this the aim of the gang? Or as Clancy had hinted, was it an educational affair by which apt pupils were raised to greater heights of crime? Well, the girl must be made to talk. After seeing the pasty-faced man vanish down the Metro steps, I was morally certain she was in on the whole thing. Also, our pupil-and-teacher relationship would not last more than a lesson or two, and action must be prompt. I had no desire to be taking this girl out on interminable dinner-parties. Nothing ventured, nothing gained!

At the present moment she sat against the wall, facing me. She could not get away without making a scene, even if I startled her into flight. So, after vainly plying her with the Vouvray in the attempt to loosen her tongue, I started in abruptly.

"The American lady was badly frightened this morning, eh?"

Her swift glance showed she was instantly on guard, and she made no response. Leaning elbows on table and looking at her intently, I gave her a second shot.

"How much did your friend clear on the deal?"

She tried to look indignant, and failed. Bewilderment came next, and that failed. Fear glimmered in her eyes.

"I do not understand," she said, suddenly losing interest in her dinner. "What do you mean, m'sieur?"

I laughed and relaxed slightly.

"Oh, we all know how these things are done. In my opinion, it's not worth the risk. If, now, it were a matter of something like this—"

Quietly laying a folded thousand-franc note on the table, I met her gaze steadily. The implication of the purplish bit of paper was clear enough.

"M'sieur," she said coldly, "I am only a poor shopgirl, but even a shopgirl may be virtuous."

I allowed myself a grin at this.

"For the sake of Uncle Guilbert, and his admirable sister, may you long remain so!" I said. "But is it virtuous, mademoiselle, to conduct a campaign of petty thievery, rendering innocent people guilty in the eyes of others?"

She regarded me steadily, dangerously, alertly. Yet she was badly frightened.

"I have never done so," she said.

"You have connived at it," I stated calmly, banking heavily on Clancy's theory. "Those of you in the notions department work together, swear to each other's perjury."

Everything must have struck her like a blow— my seeking her out, bringing her to dinner, all the rest of it. She turned pale.

"What would you?" she demanded, without another attempt at denial. "I am junior to the other two there. If I did not assist them, they would see that I was discharged. And does it hurt anybody? The tourists, perhaps— bah! Who cares about a tourist, flinging money around like dirt? Everybody else gets their easy money. Should we poor folk not touch a bit of it, when it means so much to us?"

"I'm glad you admit it," I said dryly.

"I admit nothing, m'sieur," she retorted with sudden energy. "You have been kind, but now I understand the reason. See, here is your hundred francs. I will go, rather than be thus insulted."

She half rose, laying down my hundred franc note.

"If you go, mam'selle," I said easily, "you will find an escort awaiting you at the door— just outside the door, I think."

At this she sank back into her seat again, and her face was swiftly pitiful under its make-up. Then her eyes flitted from me, and drove past me, at the corner doorway, as though she could see gendarmes waiting there.

"Come, Mlle. Cibourne," I said, feeling sorry for this poor little victim of a rotten system. "Come! I wish information, that is all."

"That is all!" she said in an accent of irony.

"Certainly, and reason enough for my inviting you here. Let us suppose, now, that you were given full protection from those you fear,"— and in my pause, she started slightly—  "and were paid well for your trouble. Would you tell what you know?"

FOR an instant her eyes widened on mine, in startled fear, and her lips trembled. Then:

"I know nothing!" she exclaimed.

"And I, little," I responded. "Yet the penalties in France for traffic in illicit drugs are rather heavy. And the reward, if I learn what I wish, is equally heavy."

So speaking, I quietly put the hundred franc note under her bag, which lay on the table. The purplish thousand-franc note I half extended. She lifted her hand, but instead of taking the note, made a slight gesture.

I turned swiftly. There by the corner entrance of the restaurant stood the pasty-faced addict who had dived down the Metro entrance. He slipped away out of sight, but not before I had seen him. I turned back and smiled a little.

"Your friend was not quick enough," I said. 'Next time, don't wave him off, but invite him to join us. I shall be delighted to meet him."

All pretense of conversation or improving my accent was long since past and forgotten. Marguerite, sitting back to the wall, was trapped, and looked it. Her face became yet whiter, her eyes larger. She made no attempt to get away, but looked as though she had walked into a trap and were awaiting the closing of the jaws upon her.

"Will you answer the questions I put?" I asked sharply, putting thoughts of mercy aside, as I must.

"I dare not," she muttered; yet her nerve was going fast.

"I will guarantee you protection."

"Impossible. You do not know them, or you would not say such a thing. Let me go— let me go, m'sieur, before evil comes of it!"

The request was both a plea and a sign of returning self-control, which was the last thing I desired.

"It is for you to choose," I said coldly, "whether you go with my money, or with an escort whom you may not like."

Her eyes went to the thousand-franc note hungrily. It was down beside my plate on the table. The waiter came, and I ordered coffee and Benedictine for two.

"What do you want to know?" she asked nervously, when we were alone again.

Being none too sure myself of what I sought, I drew bow at a venture.

"When does your uncle go again to England?"

A shot in the dark— her expression told me instantly that it had gone amiss.

"But he does not go to England!" she said, surprised. "He interviews the travelers in woolens who come to the store!"

I tried again. "They send the stuff by Havre and Southampton, eh?"

This was better— Clancy was behind me this time, and to a certain extent the shaft went home. The waiter brought cups and glasses, and went away again.

"We do not trade with England," she said. 'The tourists come to the store to buy."

About this reply was a certain shakiness, a lack of surety, giving the girl away. I smiled, as though knowing all about it.

"We are not talking about the store any longer, mam'selle. Come! I am talking of what has made your friend by the door a human wreck. You comprehend."

She did; it got her, finished her completely. Tears came into her eyes.

"Will you let me go, m'sieur?"

"Not at all," I said firmly. "I should be sorry to see you go in company of the two police agents who await us. Then I should have to attend the proces verbal in the morning, and you would have an unpleasant night of detention. If you speak freely, you shall have full protection; and this,"— I tapped the thousand-franc note—  "is only part of the reward you will receive."

The pourer came with the coffee; another came with the Benedictine. Both saw the large bank-note on the table and grinned, drawing their own conclusions, which did not trouble me in the least. When they had gone, the girl changed suddenly— she leaned across the table and spoke with a new and definite decision.

"If it were possible— but it is not. If I tell you all, I should not live to profit by any reward. For this reason, even if I wished—"

She finished with a most expressive gesture, and it made me pause momentarily for thought.

Clancy must have been right— it was something big! Only something big could so terrify this girl, could so fill her with the fear of death itself. Yet I had ten thousand francs to play with!

"Have you friends outside Paris?" I asked thoughtfully.

"No nearer than St. Jean de Luz," she answered. "My mother lives there, in the south."

"The Spanish border— good!" I nodded at her. "The Sud Express leaves the Quai d'Orsay at ten every morning. If you comply with my request, you shall be on it tomorrow morning, with a through billet for St. Jean de Luz and two of these thousand franc notes in your pocket. They may be powerful in Paris, these unkindly friends of yours, but they would dare attempt nothing so far away."

Things hung in balance. Again I saw her look past me, and I glanced around toward the entrance, but there was no sign of her companion. I had not the least idea whether her information would be worth two thousand francs, but in these ventures of Clancy's I had found it always paid to take long chances. Then her name— it meant a lot!

"Three of those notes," she suggested, cupidity gleaming in her eyes.

This was the French in her showing through, and showed me she was hooked. If I fell for it, she would probably doublecross me, for I had no check whatever on her, except that of bluff.

"I can have your information for nothing," I responded, "by requesting the two agents to enter. You know, perhaps, how one tells at the prefecture— even when one does not want to tell? Well, choose between me and the prefecture!"

She gave in.

"What do you wish to know, then?"

"When the next consignment of drugs goes to England."

"It has already gone," she murmured, rather than spoke.

"No trifling. The next, I said!"

"But I do not know, m'sieur!" she exclaimed, white-lipped. "Only that one departed yesterday, and is now waiting."

"Waiting where?"

"That too I do not know. Only that Gambin, who will take it to England, has not yet left the city. Gambin is known to the police—" She hesitated and stopped, as though she had said too much.

"You gain nothing by evasions," I said coldly, though it was a hateful business to thus torture the poor creature. "Come! 'Already you've said enough to hang you. The rest, if you want to win all! Otherwise, you lose all. Where is that consignment at the moment?"

"I do not know!" she breathed, her eyes tragic.

"But it goes through Havre?"

She shook her head to this, as not knowing. Her eyes said otherwise.

"Gambin— where is he?"

She looked past me to the doorway. Her glance darted about.

"He leaves tomorrow."

"Come— out with it! Give me the process of action, how he manages it!"

"He— they are all suspect," she returned, breaking down. 'He goes to Le Havre, knowing he is watched. He goes to the wagon-restaurant and dines, and his baggage will then be searched. There will be nothing found in it."

SHE paused, her eyes flitting here and there about the room. I made a gesture, touching the crisp bank-note, and she shivered a little, then went on.

"At Havre he meets a man in an automobile— a man once imprisoned for such work." She wet her lips, and the words seemed dragged from her. 'His car leaves for Dieppe, and Gambin waves him off, then goes to a hotel. The agents follow the other to Dieppe, and find nothing. At the last minute, at midnight, Gambin leaves his hotel and goes aboard the Southampton boat. He takes nothing on the boat with him."

"Yet he must have a ticket and a berth," I put in.

"It has been bought in another name, some days ago," she answered. 'Search will be made of the other man at Dieppe, but it is Gambin— Gambin!" She insisted on the name, with such energy as to raise suspicion in me.

"And Gambin takes the cocaine on the steamer?"

"No." She shook her head, desperate now, as though determined to go through with it at any cost. "He receives it after he is on the steamer, for he is known to the police."

"He takes it ashore at Southampton, then?"

"No. There are three in all. One will see that Gambin receives it on board. In the morning, when they land, Gambin sees that another receives it to take ashore. But of this I know nothing— only that Gambin is the director for the consignment. He lands to make sure the money comes back. He will bring it back with him."

"And Gambin," I said, "is the man who left you just before I arrived— the man hanging around the door here?"

She started. "No, no!" she exclaimed sharply. "He is not Gambin— do not think it!"

She was a bad conspirator, this poor girl. Her eagerness to put me off gave me the idea this man was the one to get first, but for the moment I had my hands full. I had first to make sure of her.

"You will be at the Orleans station on the Quai d'Orsay at nine-forty-five tomorrow," I said. "I'll meet you there, with your tickets. At the same time I'll hand you two thousand francs. If you need anything else, tell me now. Can you give me other names than Gambin's?"

"No, m'sieur, I know none of the others."

"Where do you live?"

"Rue d'Austerlitz— Quarante bis."

"Then I will now escort you to Quarante bis, Rue d'Austerlitz. You'll be watched all the time, mam'selle. If you attempt evasion or duplicity, the end of it is the prefecture. If not, then happiness! You understand?"

She nodded in a pale and frightened way. I did not blame her for fear, knowing thus abruptly that the prefecture loomed above her. They are devils, those French police — very efficient devils, serving a devilishly efficient master! The French law is merciless, much more merciless than our American law— and holding about one hundred per cent more justice for all concerned.

I did not try to probe farther here. If she were not lying, we could reach her again when necessary. If she were lying, then it was not worth the trouble. So, satisfied with what had been accomplished, I summoned the waiter and paid the bill, and ordered a taxi called.

She accompanied me in silence to the Rue d'Austerlitz, and I watched her go past the concierge with a brief greeting— proof enough that she had not attempted deceit in this. So I departed— there was a place to book in the Sud Express, and there was a report to be made in the Rue Cambon.

It looked like a good game, this time, even if a trifle flat and smugglish.

"GAMBIN?" queried Clancy. "Wait a minute."

He telephoned to the prefecture. Early as it was,— not yet nine in the morning,—  Peter J. Clancy got action when he was on the line. If there was anything this American dentist wanted and could not get, it was only because the Paris police did not have it.

In fifteen minutes a special messenger arrived with a photograph and the particulars from Gambin's dossier. Here, at least, the girl had told the truth— the man was known to the police. He had done two years for housebreaking, since when nothing had come up against him. A large man for a Frenchman, he had an open, honest sort of face, easily recognizable. I had never seen him before.

"You'd better be hustling— it's past nine," said Clancy cheerfully. 'And best not come back here, Logan. You're apt to be followed; a girl who would talk like that to you is weak. She'll have talked to somebody else before this. Lose yourself, once you see her off, and get a train for Le Havre. Go to the Hotel Central, opposite the war memorial, at half-past eight tonight. I'll put a long-distance call through for you there at eight-thirty. If Gambin is on the Southampton boat-train, I'll know it."

This arranged, I went down to the street, caught a taxi, and made the Quai d'Orsay station well ahead of my appointment. Punctually at nine-forty-five Marguerite Cibourne appeared, carrying a modest suitcase and a hat-box.

"Good morning," I greeted her. 'You've no other baggage?"

"I have no other," she said, and I did not like her manner by half.

I gave her the ticket and reservation form, and conducted her to her seat on the train. We chatted, and she seemed anything but at her ease. At two minutes of ten I handed her the two thousand francs, which Clancy had termed wasteful in the extreme, and she said good-by.

I did not. Instead of getting out, I stayed aboard. The conductor came along, got into a snarl with some tourists, and we were off. The poor girl, I could see, was on tenterhooks.

We came into the Gare d'Austerlitz, where the express stops for ten minutes before leaving Paris. She was growing more and more worried, and her fingers worked nervously. When we came out of the tunnel, she was white in the face, and demanded anxiously if I meant to compromise her by staying further. I did. I remained, inexorably, until the train was on the move — and then I dropped out to the platform, slammed the door and saw the train off.

I saw some one else off, too— the pasty faced individual who had accompanied the girl the previous evening.

He had been waiting here. She had intended giving me the slip by getting off here at the Austerlitz station; Clancy was dead right, as usual! Now, however, the nearest stop of the train, as I remembered, was at Poitiers, and so thinking I made off after the gentleman of the pasty complexion. He had seen me first, however, and having also seen that Marguerite had not alighted, he tailed it for the exit. There I had to stop and explain why I had no ticket of entry to the station, with a bit of palm oil. By the time I got outside my man had vanished completely.

All this gave me pause— considerable pause! The girl had meant to double-cross me, and therefore I began to doubt her story of the previous evening. She had been in dire fear, but she was a good actress. Against this, I could set the identification of Gambin; all the same, I did not like it a little bit.

So I stopped in at a restaurant and there rang up Clancy, telling him of events and asking his view of the case. Was there enough in it, as matters now stood, to warrant my leaving Paris and going on to Le Havre? I already had my ticket, but—

"Hotel Central at eight-thirty tonight," said Clancy serenely. "Get on with it and don't borrow trouble."

He rang off, and I got on with it as ordered.

MINDFUL of instructions, I took a taxi out to Longchamps and enjoyed a walk in the Bois de Boulogne, a pleasant orderly forest. Nobody seemed to be following me, and I sauntered along until a stray taxi came past, when I hailed it and told the driver to make for the Etoile. Once in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe, I slipped into the Metro entrance, took the Italie line to the Trocadero, changed off there to the Chaussée d' Antin, and got out at Saint Augustin, satisfied that any possible pursuer had been thrown off the track.

I walked over to the Gare St. Lazare and was in time to catch the midday express for Le Havre, with only the one stop at Rouen ahead. At the last moment I almost changed over to the Deauville express for the sake of seeing the resort, which lies just across the bay, but decided I had best follow orders. I paid for it; too much fidelity is a bad thing sometimes.

I made the train with perhaps thirty seconds to spare, stood in the door of a first-class compartment, and gasped for breath— it had been a run. The train started, in the gentle way of French trains; and there before me, on the platform, appeared the pasty-faced man again.

No mistake about it. He saw me, and wild astonishment leaped into his face. He made a jump for the train, but his rush was too late; looking back, I could see him struggling in the arms of an official— who, no doubt, was nobly preventing the would-be suicide. Unfortunately the suicide did not take place. Nor did the pasty-faced man make the train.

I guessed at once he must have gone direct from the Austerlitz station to the Gare St. Lazare, without troubling his head about me; therefore my doubling must have been to no purpose. He was not interested in me, but in Marguerite. Past doubt, then, Marguerite had told me much of the truth! Well, she could not get back to Paris for some hours, and meantime I was gone.

Reposing in the compartment, which I had to myself, I wished I had thought to get a line on the girl's uncle, the unknown Cibourne. Too late now, yet I felt certain of recognizing Gambin if he turned up, and he would lead me to the others concerned, or some of them. It must be a pretty big gang, all told. Uncle Guilbert, the pasty-faced beggar, Gambin and three others all sharing the profits from this one load— well, it was a big affair, though it still seemed rather flat.

I had lunched in the dining-car by the time we came to Rouen, about two, and felt placidly comfortable, enjoying my pipe and a magazine from home the rest of the trip. Somewhat after three we rolled into Le Havre. I caught a tram at the station, and left it at the big square where the flower-market is dominated by one of the few magnificent monuments left to us by the war. The Hotel Central, I found, was one of the very good hostelries fronting the square, not too conspicuous.

I obtained a room, slept, bathed and dined. This brought me to eight-thirty, and going to the reception-desk I informed the madame there that I expected a telephone-call from Paris. She was incredulous. No calls came through from Paris. It was too expensive. And at such an hour—

The call came while she was protesting. Clancy's voice greeted me. "Any news at your end, Logan?"

"Not a scrap. What about you?"

"Our friend is not on the boat-train."

I grunted. Then I had my trouble for my pains.

"Can you hear me?" demanded Clancy.

"Yes. Shoot!"

"See the train in, then go right down and watch at the boat. I'll have the line cleared at eleven tomorrow and put through another call for you. I'm inclined to believe the consignment has gone, at least to Havre; they may delay a day or so to throw us off the scent. If so, sit tight. You'll hear from me at eleven tomorrow. Any queries?"

"None."

The click of the replaced receiver finished it. Clancy wasted nothing, especially words, unless he were in one of his absentminded fits.

I had to kick my heels for another hour or more, then went to the station and bought an entry ticket, watching the boat train slide up alongside the platform. The train was not very full. A few tourists, chiefly English, commercial travelers, and numerous French for the town. It was easy to see all who came down toward the exit, and also to watch the side exit leading off to the tram for the boat and quay.

I scanned them all. Clancy was right—  no sign of Gambin anywhere. Then suddenly I jerked wide awake. Among the last to emerge came my pasty-faced man. He was looking around anxiously enough as though for any possible watchers. I was not particularly surprised to see him, but must own to surprise at seeing, hanging on his arm, no other than Marguerite Cibourne.

he had left the Sud Express at Poitiers and had come to Paris in time to make this train, then!

NEAR a pillar were a couple of big bales covered with burlap, and around these I dodged to keep the girl and her escort from having sight of me. The pair did not turn out to the tram, but headed for the barrier and the main exit. Giving them plenty of time to emerge, I followed, for their appearance had quite driven Clancy's orders out of my head. Although I had no hold on either of them, and no reason to think they could have anything to do with the drug-shipment, they constituted a definite link, and I was after them at once.

Out in the square before the station I saw them bargaining with the driver of a four-wheeler. I slipped back to the platform and out to the tram entrance, where a couple of taxicabs were standing. No fear of losing my prey— the driver of their growler had the only gray horse on the rank. :

Instructing my driver to follow the gray horsed vehicle, I gave him ten francs in advance and climbed in. We came around to the square in time to see the four-wheeler turning the corner that leads to the quays, and dragged wearily along after them; not until one tries to keep after an ordinary cab-horse with a taxicab does the difficulty of the feat appear.

Presently our quarry bore away from the tram-lines off to the left, and crossed the bridge of the inner basin where the yachts tie up. They led us now into the quarter behind the Southampton quay— the quarter crammed with cabarets, with seamen's resorts, with petty hotels and worse. These narrow little streets, paved with rough cobbles, were dark except for occasional flickering lights and the gleam from lighted windows, but they were not at all silent.

I had a fair acquaintance with Le Havre, and felt glad of the pistol in my pocket. There was nothing nice about this part of town, in the shadow of the old church though it was. Ships of all nations crowd the port, and here, on pleasure bent, gathered men of all races and colors—  Hindus, Frenchmen, English, Americans, negroes, Algerians, Swedes. Our quarry halted before the widely lighted window of a cabaret or restaurant— these places were anything and everything, from hotel to boozing den.

My driver stopped, at a little distance. I watched the girl descend and enter the place; her companion stopped to pay his driver, then followed. I gave my driver a cigarette and another ten francs, telling him to wait. He nodded, lighted the smoke, and settled back in his seat. I was not sure of needing him, but if the need came, it would be in a hurry.

I walked on to the café, narrowly missing a bucket of garbage emptied from an upper window. Quiet enough outwardly, this quarter of town was no safer than Limehouse in London, Grey Street in Durban, or any other haunt where vice is preferred to virtue. However, I need not have worried much. Gaining the entrance and finding the windows curtained from sight, I opened the door and strode in, to find a very tame sort of place.

Three separate groups of seamen, all foreign, regarded me with semi-tipsy gravity, and a red-headed Norman turned from the aluminum-covered bar to see what the wind had blown in; of the pair whom I sought, there was no sign. I went up to the bar and ordered a demi of beer; whereupon the man behind the bar commented in English that it was a fine night, and one of the seamen said something about a blooming Yank.

I inspected the place. There was no exit, save behind the bar, and a narrow staircase at the back, leading upward. A light shone from somewhere above on the stairs, and the absence of shadows showed no one was lurking there. My two friends must have gone up those stairs, and they must have gone rapidly and without any questions being asked.

Therefore this joint was in the game too, and the man and girl were known here. I sipped my beer and reflected that I was very neatly blocked. A glance at my watch showed me it was just turned eleven. The Southampton boat left sharp at midnight, so if the consignment was to get off this night, little time remained. And then, suddenly and sharply, Clancy's orders hit me like a blow in the face.

"See the train in, then go right down and watch at the boat."

And here I was, wasting time that might be precious! I lifted my tall beer and was about to drain the last of it when my eye caught a shadow on the staircase. Following the shadow came a pair of feet descending— the feet of Marguerite Cibourne, bringing the girl herself... Now she carried a cloth-covered suitcase instead of her cheap cane article, an expensive and incongruous bit of luggage.

She came to the bottom of the stairs, looked up, saw me standing there. She reeled as though struck; in this instant the pasty-faced man descended the stairs after her, and then stood petrified at sight of me. The man behind the bar, seeing them stare at me, flung me a sharp word:

"What do you want? Who are you?"

"I'm through," I said, and flung down a coin to pay for my drink.

"A police spy!" shot out the pasty-faced man, then turned and bolted up the staircase with Marguerite Cibourne after him.

THE proprietor of the place reached down behind the bar, but froze into immobility as he looked into the barrel of my pistol. Feet pounded on the floor above— the pair were making off while I stood here, barred! For I knew well this pistol of mine would be of slight avail once I turned my back and dashed up the stairs.

"Come out of there," I said to the barman, gesturing.

He dropped the bottle he had seized, and moved to obey. Until now I had quite forgotten the red-headed Norman seaman, to whom my back was partly turned. I sensed a quick movement from behind, and half turned— but not swiftly enough!

"Look 'ere!" came in startled, angry fashion from one of the seamen, and a crash!' And that was all. The Norman had neatly crowned me with a heavy glass.

However, I was far luckier than I knew or deserved. There must have been a fine, quick little row. When I woke up, the proprietor was backed against the wall with two seamen holding him; the Norman was knocked out on the floor, and another seaman was lifting me.

"Did 'e 'urt yer, mate?" he demanded with beery kindliness. An Englishman, this.

I managed to sit up. "Some. You chipped in— eh? Why—" "Blimey!" he exclaimed. 'Think we was going to sit 'ere and see a blarsted frog knock yer out from be'ind? English, mate?"

"American," I said, dizzily getting to my feet.

"Told yer so!" said somebody. friend gave me a frowning glare.

"Goin' to tell me yer won the war?" he growled.

"Not much," I said, and laughed. "Those two who ran upstairs are a pair of crooks, and I'm after them. Dope-smugglers."

"Good enough," he responded. 'Want 'em, do yer?"

"I want their baggage."

IN reality I had nothing against either of the pair, and questioned the wisdom of detaining them, but those suitcases were different. The two bags might be— indeed, probably were— filled with cocaine or kindred stuff.

"Right," said my seaman promptly. He turned to his mates holding the landlord. "Bill, jack up 'is front wheel if 'e tries any parlor tricks! Right back."

In five seconds he was out of sight, pounding up the staircase. I looked at my watch— eleven-fifteen. None too much time to finish here and get down to the boat. One of the seamen came to me with a Blass.

"Brandy— it'll pull yer square, matey."

I sipped the cognac, and it did pull me together amazingly. From overhead came sharp cries and the heavy pounding of feet. The noise increased, lessened, and came on again. My seaman came clattering down the stairs.

"Skipped, and the bloomin' door locked!" he said. "What next?"

"Southampton boat— I've a taxicab waiting outside."

"Right! What say— want any 'elp? We got leave till midnight."

"Fine!" I returned. "Come along to the quay, then—"'

"Wot about this 'ere feller?" spoke up Bill, jabbing the landlord in the stomach. The Norman stirred and sat up, blood streaking from his nose.

"Let him go, and fetch this redhead along after us. I'll go after him for assault, if you'll witness against him."

"Righto," exclaimed my seaman. "Bill, let's make a lark of it— might be something in it, if it's only beer! Ill go down the quay with the Yank, and you can fetch the bleedin' joker along after us."

"Cheerio!" agreed Bill heartily.

In another moment I was in the taxi with my seaman, and we were speeding down toward the quay, not far away. Arrived there, I paid off my driver, and the seaman followed me into the entry shed and the oblong of the Customs benches. One or two tourists were being perfunctorily passed; another was having his passport examined. I turned to the agent on duty at the doorway of the shed, and described Marguerite and her companion.

"Have they gone aboard yet?"

The agent assured me they had not, while my seaman whistled. Two other agents strolled up, interested. At a sudden thought I pulled out Gambin's police photograph entrusted to me by Clancy. Its prefecture stamps and marks were at once recognized, and I was accorded a very sudden respect by the agents. I demanded whether they had seen the man.

"That man is aboard the steamer," said one agent promptly. "He went aboard half an hour ago, m'sieur."

AROUND the corner of the shed and into the light came Bill and another seaman, shoving the reluctant and bleeding Norman along between them. Immediately the agents betrayed a quick and active interest in all the proceedings. They called an officer, to whom I handed Clancy's card. He shrugged slightly, looked at Gambin's police photograph, and beckoned me to one side.

"Perhaps, m'sieur," he said loudly and accusingly, "you have a card of identity?"

"Certainly," I said, and produced it. To my astonishment, he only returned it with a slight smile, then spoke very softly.

"We have received instructions to co-operate with you, M. Logan," he said. "May I ask as to your errand?"

Good old Clancy! I might have known he would have arranged matters here for me in case of any hitch or mix-up. It may seem rather incredible that an American should go about France accredited with practically full powers from the prefecture in Paris— yet if this American were the assistant of Peter J. Clancy!

"Cocaine-smuggling," I said, and the officer nodded.

"It is a bad business, that," he said quietly. 'We have our own methods of cutting off the supply to the victims in France,— they center in Paris, Deauville and Nice,— but it is another matter of cutting off the supply that comes through France to England. Just what do you want, m'sieur?"

I indicated the Norman.

"I want this man detained on a charge of assault on me— these men were witnesses. Whether or not he can be implicated in anything graver remains to be seen."

He summoned two of the agents; notebooks were produced; and evidence was at once jotted down. I broke in with word that there might be other work aboard the steamer, but the officer turned to me with a gesture of helplessness.

"We have no jurisdiction aboard the steamer, m'sieur, Here we can give you all assistance, but there—"

"Very well," I said. 'Then arrange for me to go aboard."

HE accompanied me to the gangway, spoke to the agent on duty: there, and I was passed. I went on, and had a steward get me audience with the captain. This took some time, and time was getting perilously short. An automobile was being swung inboard to be stowed on the forward deck, and hatches were being battened down, the heavy loading being obviously finished.

The captain was an obdurate Briton, stoutly refusing to admit any French police aboard, although sympathetic enough in my behalf. He accompanied me to the purser's office, and they speedily found the man Gambin was aboard, occupying the lower berth of a promenade-deck cabin. The upper berth was not taken.

"Unless you can prefer a definite charge against this Gambin, Mr. Logan," said the captain, "I cannot allow you to interfere with him. The best I can do is to see that he gets special attention at Southampton — after what you've told me, he'll not be allowed to land. My authority does not include search of a passenger's property."

Another blank draw! However, I had it from Marguerite that Gambin himself would not bring the drug aboard, so I guessed it to be in the two expensive suitcases, which had not yet turned up. I thought to ask for a look at the passenger list, and it was produced. No Cibourne figured in it, but I put my finger on the name of Guilbert.

"Here we are. Do you know this man?"

The purser's brows went up.

"Regular traveler, sir. Represents one of the big Paris houses— comes over with us rather regularly."

This did not jibe with Marguerite's story. Yet there was no proof anywhere, nothing on which I could lay a finger. Neither Gambin nor Guilbert would bring the stuff aboard. Guilbert, known to the officials at both ends, following a known avocation for years, could easily enough land: it... Ah! I guessed the pasty-faced man and Marguerite had the task of getting it into the hands of Gambin, who would then turn it over to Guilbert at the end of the trip. But how? Unless I could discover the means employed, I could touch neither Gambin nor Guilbert.

"I'm afraid we cannot help you further, Mr. Logan," said the captain. 'You see how we are placed. And now, if you'll excuse me—"

He left the purser's office, and I followed helplessly. Going on deck, I stood at the rail and looked over at the quay under its high white lights.

It wanted eight minutes to midnight. Under the Customs shed were my three friendly seamen, with the Norman and the agents. A couple of tourists paced the deck by the first-class entrance. I hoped against hope to see Marguerite and the pasty-faced man coming through the Customs shed, but there was no sign of them. I felt sure they were charged with getting the shipment into Gambin's hands— yet they had not come. I decided to wait until the very last instant. Men were grouped about the gangway, awaiting the word to swing it away, but I could jump to the dock if need were, for the tide was running out and the ship was low against the quay.

Five minutes! I crossed over to the other side of the boat, desperate, utterly at a loss. Gambin was here, then, despite Clancy— had probably taken an earlier train, as I myself had done. Here, out across the black water of the Channel, was the mole, with the high lights of the farther quays stretching on to the left.

On this darker side of the deck was little movement. A man and a girl, apparently going through all the silent agonies of the old, old story, stood at the rail, arms entwined. A little farther forward, in a patch of deep shadow from the bridge, another single figure leaned over the rail, as though lonely, perhaps homesick for England. Ahead of us rose a sound of voices— some sort of work was being done to the ferry, tied up there, that plied across the Seine estuary to Deauville-Trouville. Down below, a dot against the black water, was a small skiff, probably coming from one of the many fishing-craft swinging at anchor. One of its occupants rowed; the other sat in the stern. It was coming toward the steamer.

I heard a bell ring, and looked at my luminous-dial watch. Three minutes more. An officer bawled something from forward, repeated from aft and bridge. The lonely man in the shadow leaned far out, looking downward—

Cursing my own blindness, I turned and raced for the bridge. A wheeler met me and called something about not being allowed; I brushed him aside and leaped up the ladder. His cry drove ahead of me, and the captain himself stepped out as I came to the top.

"Not ashore yet, sir? The gangway's off now— you'll have to jump for it—"

"Hold up your boat five minutes, Captain!" I exclaimed. "I've got the whole game now— the stuff is just coming aboard—"'

He looked over the bridge rail at the quay, where the gangway was just being lowered out.

"Coming by air, perhaps?" he said with heavy irony.

"No, by boat. Take my word for it—  bring along a couple of men! It's coming up the side now, I tell you—"

"Hold up for five minutes— hm! Want to get your man ashore, eh? Go ahead." He snapped an order, and two helmsmen came on the jump. "Your move, Mr. Logan—"

I lost no time moving.

Those two muscular sailors dropped on the man Gambin like a bolt from the blue, and I followed them closely. He had been hauling in a line, sure enough, and for a moment he gave all three of us a bad time. Knowing the game was up, Gambin fought like a fiend, but had no chance to get out a gun. It was hammer and tongs across the deck, all four of us.

From below came a startled cry in a woman's voice, and I darted to the rail to see the skiff go leaping away over the black water. Gambin was at length stretched out, senseless. A fine cord was tied to the rail, and the captain came up while I was hauling it in. Over the rail came a large cork float, followed by a heavier line, as the deck lights were turned on.

"Here we are!" I exclaimed triumphantly, feeling the dragging weight.

Next instant came in, of all things, a pair of footballs!

For an instant I stood holding them blankly, then comprehended the whole game. Another pair followed. Getting out my pocket knife, I stabbed one of the four inflated balls, and as it collapsed, a fine white powder came trickling out.

"Good work," commented the captain. "Now, sir, time's running short— what do you want done?"

"Run my man ashore, and give me your names as witnesses." -

"Willingly." The captain jerked out pencil and paper, flung an order at his men, scribbled down his name and theirs.

"But the man Guilbert— you've nothing against him?"

I shook my head regretfully. "All you can do is to tip off Southampton that he's a suspect. Afraid I can't touch him— yet. Thank you immensely for your help, Captain! If you'd play a searchlight around as you go out, we might pick up that skiff."

"Right. Good night!"

He went hastily for the bridge. Bearing my captured plunder, I followed the prisoner ashore— the agents had already pinned him, like terriers on a rat.

Here ensued a busy five minutes, while the steamer was pulling out. My Customs officer took charge of prisoner and evidence, with high praises for the way I had landed both, and then we stood on the quay searching the water, while the steamer's searchlight reached across the channel and flitted hither and yon. The skiff had vanished.

"No use, m'sieur," said the officer, disappointed. '"She's hiding somewhere— before the police boats could get after her, our birds would be flown."

I was forced to assent. We had captured the consignment; we had one and possibly two members of the gang— and no more. A flat little smuggling deal. Clancy's "something big" had not materialized, and there was no prospect of it in sight,

However, there remained Marguerite and the pasty-faced man, name unknown. They must have made for safety somewhere down the line of quays, and I had little doubt would come back to the tavern up the street. Since they had brought the stuff from Paris, we might as well gather them in— they could not get away from Havre in any case, with their descriptions known. I said as much to the officer, and he nodded.

"Very good, m'sieur. What do you suggest?"

"Suppose you come with me, and a couple of your men, and we'll see what we can see."

He agreed. I turned to my three seamen friends, and handed them five hundred francs beer-money— a cheap price for their assistance. They were loud in their joy, and at once made off up the quay.

The officer picked out two of his huskiest Normans, and we left the shed. As we were crossing the street, an automobile showed up bearing down on us with lights going full blaze— an infraction of all French ordinances. The officer exclaimed angrily, and stepped out with hands extended in signal to halt.

No danger— the car was already braking down. It was a big car, and as it drew beneath the street-lamp, I was astonished to see the insignia of the Paris police decorating it. Then it opened— and out stepped Clancy.

"Evening, Logan," he said. "Am I late for the party?"

CLANCY chuckled as he lighted a cigarette. A Paris prefecture man, who had accompanied him, was gesticulating and talking to my Havre officer.

"Very simple," said Clancy, after I had briefly sketched events here. "I could make better time in a police car than by train, especially at night, so I came along. We believed our men would all be here tonight— your activity in Paris had evidently put them on the jump. One of them came to Havre today— Solander, the Hungarian. He's supposedly a Pesth banker, who has a fine villa at Deauville and so forth."

I was staggered. "Your men?" I demanded. "Who the devil are your men, then?"

"Solander," said Clancy. "The unknown Cibourne. Last and not least, an American business man resident in Paris— his name is Coster. We've nothing against any of them, at the moment. You'd better move along if you want to get any action on Marguerite and her friend, Logan! I don't think they'll go back to that cabaret. They'll probably report direct to Cibourne and the other two, since Gambin is nabbed."

"I'm in out of my depth," I said. "What do you mean to do?"

"It's your game— play it!" snapped Clancy. "This business will put you in solid with the authorities, and I don't want to spoil your play. Find that crowd!"

Throw a chap head over heels into the water, and he'll swim if he has any duck blood— that was Clancy's motto. It made me angry, and I snapped him up on it.

"All right, confound you! Trail along." I turned to my Customs officer, and he joined me with his men, leaving the others to follow.

Judgment being lost in irritation, I headed straight for the cabaret or hotel, whichever it might be. As we approached, up the narrow little street, I saw the proprietor leaning in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. Quickening my pace, I went on ahead of the others, came up to him, and without a word took him by the collar and jerked him toward me. My knee in his stomach doubled him up before he could strike a blow or give a call.

Inside, the bar was empty. We hauled him in, and he came to his senses with uniformed gentlemen all around. He was a badly frightened man, also most unhappy in body. I leaned over him.

"Where is Solander staying in town?" I snapped. "Speak out, quickly!"

"He is upstairs now," stammered the man. "Second room back—"

"Is Cibourne with him? And Coster?" I staggered him anew with these names.

"Not Cibourne. Coster— yes. Mercy, m'sieur! I will tell everything—"

"Get him out of here in a hurry and let him tell," I said to my officer. 'Quick! So you didn't think the other pair would come back here, eh?" And I gave Clancy a triumphant look. "Well, they'll be back. Suppose we slide upstairs 'and see what we can see.'

Clancy and the Paris official, my officer and his one man, remained, after sending the proprietor of the place away under guard. Five of us were enough, obviously. Clancy, who was immensely delighted' by the way luck was playing into my hand, clapped me on the back and told me to lead on. We could safely leave the cabaret deserted, so that Marguerite and her pasty-faced man might walk into the trap unsuspecting.

I led on up the narrow stairs, walking very gently. This little den among the stews of the waterfront would be the last place where anyone would expect to find a Deauville celebrity, not to mention an American-Parisian business man; obviously they were the men higher up in the ring, and yet I was keenly disappointed over the whole affair. A smuggling game, even on a grand scale, seemed rather a petty affair to employ Peter J. Clancy.

AT the head of the stairs the door of the first room stood open— it was dark, evidently untenanted. I motioned the ethers in there. The second doorway was topped by a transom, showing light, and voices came from within. The remainder of the hallway was dark and empty. Clancy joined me; and for a moment we stood. by the second door, listening, his hand on my arm.

"That is all right," came a heavy guttural voice— Solander, no doubt. "The reports all seem excellent, my friend. By these accounts, we should clear a million francs this month, eh? But I do not like this cocaine business. It must be stopped. No more after tonight."

There was a short laugh, from Coster. "That's bad luck, in America," he said. "You're right about it, though. We'll quit it for a few months. So these reports from Nice suit you? Then jot down the figures and burn them."

Clancy's fingers tightened on my wrist. I obeyed a jerk of his head, and we softly left the doorway, going to the other in which waited the officers.

"Those reports— at all costs!" he breathed in my ear. "We must break in on them—"

"Wait," I said. "Duck in— quick!"

A swift shuffle of feet came from the sanded floor below, and steps on the stairs.

"I don't like it!" came a panting voice. "Where's Lebrun?"

"Probably closing up. for the night." This was Marguerite's voice. "Hurry!"

They hurried, while we slipped aside into the darkness of the first room and' waited. The two came up, went past our door, knocked on the second door. It was opened, and there was a babel of voices. I jerked out my pistol.

"All right, messieurs!"'

Before the second door could be closed behind the pair, I jumped into it with my pistol covering those in the room— Marguerite, her friend, a dark gentleman of heavy build, and a lean, wolfish American.

"Hands up!" I snapped.

The American took a chance and dived for me. I fired and missed— we came to the floor together. Next instant the place was pandemonium.

Another shot sounded, then a woman's keen scream, while I battled the furious Coster. We rolled across the floor, slammed into the wall, and I managed to get a short-arm jab to the throat that knocked him gasping. I followed it with another, laid him. out, and came to my feet.

Solander stood against the wall, hands in air, while Marguerite crouched beside him. The pasty-faced man was being handcuffed by the Paris official. My Customs officer was holding a gun on all concerned, while his man lay on the floor with a knife in his throat; the pasty-faced-man sprawled above him with blood: dripping from his shoulder. Clancy was calmly flipping over some papers he must have taken from Solander. A police whistle shrilled below, and feet were on the stairs.

"A fine business!" I said to Clancy in disgust. "We've got Marguerite's friend for murder— and your little smuggling ring is broken up. And that poor chap with the knife in his throat was worth more alive than the whole gang! This is the sort of police work I don't care for, by half."

"Yes?" said Clancy absent-mindedly, while police flooded into the room.

"Yes," I snapped at him. "And I'm a bit surprised at you mixing up in it, too!"

"Perhaps, perhaps! But this rather vitally concerns us, my friend. Who do you think we've landed, tonight?"

"Who? Your smugglers, of course."

"Not a bit of it." Clancy chuckled, took out a cigarette, and watched as our victims were taken from the room one by one. "Look, now! There's Marguerite Cibourne — her husband, that chap with the pasty complexion, is the mysterious Cibourne at the head of the coke traffic. He's in for murder as well, now. Count one."

I grunted. Clancy held a match to his cigarette, and jerked his head.

"There goes Solander— he's the big man in the blackmailing crowd, the head of that: section. Works badger-games, smuggling, and so forth, on our gentle tourists from America. Exit Solander. Coster follows; he's at the head of the gang in the south, with Nice for his headquarters. An accomplished blackleg, this Coster— he works gambling and other side-lines, gets the victims in shape for Solander to milk."

Clancy's sharp gray eyes bored into me maliciously.

"So you don't like smuggling work, eh?" he observed. "Well, I told you this was something big, and it is. The biggest organization of crooks in France, their activities directed against English and American tourists. And we climbed to them, Logan, from that petty training-ground of the department-stores in Paris— you see, now? Tomorrow there'll be a round-up of a couple of hundred gentry from Deauville to Nice, lesser members of this gang; we'll bag the whole works from soup to nuts. Feel better about it?"

I swallowed hard, and mechanically took the cigarette he extended to me.

"Well, this time," I said meekly, "you win."

"Exactly," said Clancy.

_____

11: A Bad Bit of Trouble

Bertram Atkey

1880-1952

Blue Book, June 1929

Another exploit of the Easy Street Experts

IT was about a week after their return to London from a month's grouse shooting from the bonny butts of Scotland— where they had been honored guests of their old friend Mr. Ebney Rush, the Ferro-Concrete Substitute millionaire of New York— that the Honorable John Brass and his partner in polite crime Colonel Clumber received an unexpected telephone-call from Mr. Rush himself.

It was so late at night that both the sharksome old bon viveurs had reached that genial, mellow and lenient-minded stage where all seemed for the best in this heavy-hoofed world, in spite of the fact that the old brandy had waned low in its decanter.

They had not quarreled for over forty minutes, and though Mr. Brass had explained at some length the reasons why his mentality was so superior to that of his pirtner, the Colonel had not disputed one word of it all. It is true'that he had twice almost waked up, but the long and soothing drone of the Honorable John's voice had lulled him off to sleep again before he gathered what his partner was talking about. So, as Mr. Brass droned himself to sleep almost immediately after, all was peace— when the telephone suddenly started into life.

John glared at the instrument, then rose, looked at the decanter, sighed, strolled across the room to another chair near the telephone, made himself perfectly comfortable, lit a cigar and finally unhooked.

The old adventurer's scowl of annoyance faded out as he learned that the caller was Mr. Rush. And by the time he hung up again, his lassitude had left him completely and his hard eyes were as keen and bright as if he had dined lightly off toast and spinach washed down with clear water.

FOR a moment he stood looking down at Colonel Clumber, who, partially roused by the imperious trill of the telephone, was slowly winning his way back to consciousness.

"Slow off the mark— he always was. He eats too much; that's the truth of it. He always did. Bad for the brains!" said Mr. Brass, talking aloud to himself, as he stared, not without a kind of indulgent affection, at the man who so long had been his partner.

The observation penetrated the Colonel's sleep-clouded understanding, and he sat up in his chair like a moose in his wallow.

"That's right— that's the style! Choose a time when I'm asleep and defenseless to make insulting remarks about me!" he began furiously, but Mr. Brass stayed him with an urgent hand.

"Later on, Squire, later on for the argument, if argument over a plain straightforward statement there is to be. Though Ill say that I don't see what objection there is in my observing— entirely as a friend— that the way you eat accounts perfectly for the state of your brains. Personally, I wish you wouldn't. It can but do you harm, man."

He beamed on his irritated partner in the friendliest way.

"Nunno, Squire, I'm not going to quarrel with a man in your condition. We're too old comrades for that. Nor am I going to insult you. I said you are slow off the mark— but we can't all be quick, anyway. I think none the worse of you for that. And if you feel you must solidify yourself every time you face a meal, why, so do, Squire, so do. You've got the food; you can afford to eat till it hurts; you're your own boss—  Good Lord, man, I should be ashamed to reproach you, an old friend, merely because what you gain on your bulk you lose on your brains— "

"But I don't, damn it— you're wrong— wrong, you insulting old glutton!" bawled the Colonel.

"Glutton, man— glutton! Me!" The Honorable John's eyebrows went up. "That's a hard word to use to a man who is notoriously one of the greatest epicures—  one of the daintiest, most fastidious gourmets in the country! Glutton! Me! Nunno," denied Mr. Brass warmly. "There may be one of this partnership commits the sin of glutting— gluttoning— every time he gets near the materials, but he's not me, Squire! No, sir, not me! .... However, later will have to do for that," he went on hurriedly, pressing the bell. "Our good friend Rush has just rung up, and he wants us to step round and see him. There's what sounds like rather an ugly bit of trouble taking place round there."

THE COLONEL forgot his grievances, for Ebney Rush was a man both partners admired, liked and respected. Some years had passed since they first made his acquaintance, and that of his daughter— then the Princess of Rottenburg, previously Mrs. Geoffrey Beauray, and now, thanks to the alchemy of love and the sleights of Mr. Brass, his partner and the divorce court, Mrs. Geoffrey Beauray again. That is to say, her first husband was also her third, legally speaking. Prince Rupert of Rottenburg had been her second until the lovely little lady realized that to be the wife of a Continental royalty of Rupert's class was not quite precisely the dream of happiness she had once imagined it was to prove.

For Rupert, in spite of his title, was a hairy-heeled scoundrel at his very best. At his worst, even strange dogs declined to bite him. In any case it had been a misunderstanding which had separated her from her first husband Geoff Beauray, and she had been as glad to get him back as he had been grateful to come.

It had been some fairly fast work by the Brass partnership which had made their reunion possible. And neither of the young folk, nor Ebney Rush nor his wife, had forgotten it— not even though there were now three delightful little Beaurays running around to distract their attention. ....

"Yes, a bit of bad trouble," insisted the Honorable John urgently. 'And the sooner we get around to Eaton Square, the better. It seems that Geoff Beauray is missing!"

"Geoff missing! That wont do for me," growled the Colonel. '"That's a nice boy, that boy Geoff, and if he's missing, then the sooner you get those swelled-up brains working, the better for all concerned!"

But Mr. Brass was already doing that.

SING, the Chinese chattel who had acted with great enthusiasm for the past ten years as the Honorable John's private and personal valet, cook, chauffeur, assistant-tough and all-round general dray-horse, was already bringing in their fur coats. Five minutes later they were on their way, having only paused at the sideboard to speed their brains into top gear with a stimulant so stiff that it would have blown out rather than have stimulated the brains of men less accustomed to what they termed ''the gifts of Providence to a world that doesn't deserve 'em."

The house of the Beaurays in aristocratic Eaton Square— a casual little third wedding gift to Clytie Rush from her god-papa Mr. Lehay, the lard czar, who was so dizzily rich that he could have bought Eaton Square if he felt like it— was only a short stroll from the quietly secluded but nevertheless central flat of the grim old adventurers.

CLYTIE BEAURAY, charming as ever, was undisguisedly glad to see them. Mrs. Rush was genuinely relieved that they had been available, and Ebney Rush himself insisted on the production of a bottle of the special wine which past experience had taught the Ferro-Concrete Substitute magnate was ever effective in clearing their massive heads.

Nobody knew better than the keen-eyed American that Mr. Brass and the Colonel were a pair of pretty sharp old customers. But they had never sharped Aim— on the contrary, Fate had decreed that on several occasions they should prove of seriously important and profitable service to him. And so, like a wise man, he took them as he found them. Moreover they amused him, and he admired their gift of getting life's little difficulties straightened out the way they wanted them.

"I see, plain enough," said Mr. Brass, putting down a totally empty wineglass, "I can see you've all been worrying yourselves again. Now, that isn't going to do, for a start. Let's take things easy— that's the word, easy. Geoff's missing. Well, maybe he is. But nobody's going to destroy him for destruction's sake. That would be folly. That would be silly. There are some pretty damned fools in this country, but not many quite so foolish as that. If he's missing, there's a reason. As it's not likely that he's missing by his own wish, it's obviously because somebody else wishes him to be missing— d'ye see that? You want to think these things out the way I do— "

The Colonel intervened.

"If you'd just get yourself under some sort of control and give friend Rush a chance to get a word in edgewise, man, maybe he'd tell us what has happened before yow tell us why and how it happened," he said flatly.

The Honorable Mr. Brass looked just a shade disconcerted.

"Hey? Huh! Well, maybe you're right. Perhaps it would be as well— in a way." He patted little Mrs. Beauray's arm. "Forgive the old man for hurrying on a little too fast, in his anxiety to help you, my dear," he said apologetically, and then listened intently to Ebney Rush as he made clear the exact situation.

It only took him a few minutes:

"Geoff went to a dinner at his club given the evening before last to some swell empire-builder who is a member of the club and is on leave here. The boy told Clytie he would be home just as soon as he could crawl out without attracting notice, when the political speeches started. He didn't return at all— hasn't been here since. Now, that's not like him, but he's a level-headed lad, Geoff, and none of us were worrying much— though Ill not deny that we weren't any slower getting to the telephone as time went on.

"It was beginning to get just a little on our nerves, maybe, when sure enough, about an hour ago there comes a note—  this note. It's from a party that this family figured it had finished with for good— that false-alarm husband that Clytie dropped into the discard some years ago— Prince Rupert of Rottenburg! Here's his note— better read it."

The partners did so.

EVIDENTLY Rupert was keeping his end up tolerably well in spite of the fact that Germany, not unwisely, had decided to stagger back to prosperity without the kind assistance and the ungenial presence of Rupert and his like.

For he wrote— or rather an underling of some sort wrote for him— from the Astoritz Hotel, thus proving that he had, or seemed to have, what the Astoritz invariably required in large quantities from its patrons, money. The letter was curt but condescending.

The secretary or gentleman-in-waiting or whatsoever the party writing styled himself, said that he had been commanded by His Very Serene High-born and Generally Exalted Royal Highness the High Prince Rupert of Rottenburg, to forward to Mr. Ebney Rush, if he deemed fit, the enclosed missive.

Mr. Brass was reading aloud, and here the hard-eyed Mr. Rush intervened.

"Here's the missive," he said. "Better glance at that before you read any more of Rupert's note."

Retaining the Prince's sheet in his left hand, Mr. Brass took in his right the "missive" offered him by Mr. Ebney Rush.

It was candid and flowery, and ran as follows:

To the Prince Rupert of Rottenburg:

The writer is well aware, in spite of the dog you put on, the swank you emit, and the general brazen front you carry round, that if the British Empire were for sale, price 2d, you could not buy as much of it as that bank of Thames mud called the Isle of Dogs. He knows, too, that the reason why you are in England is to try to borrow from your onceupon-a-time father-in-law Mr. Ebney Rush as much as you can persuade him to lend you for old times' sake! He knows that, too, the writer of this. He knows. Very well. You will probably remember Mr. Geoffrey Beauray, who was husband of Miss Clytie Rush before he was rather foolishly discarded by Clytie, who then married you, found you sadly wanting, threw you out on your ear, and wisely remarried Mr. Beauray, whom she now values above rubies. The writer has got said Geoffrey Beauray quietly laid by in cold storage, where he proposes to keep him until his wife or Mr. Ebney Rush, his father-inlaw, cares to buy him back. The price is a trifling £5000. For reasons which do not concern either you or Mr. Ebney Rush, the writer desires you, Rupert, to acquaint Rush with the foregoing facts, to ascertain whether Rush is prepared to pay said £5000 for the recovery of Geoffrey— who is in good health but will rapidly sicken-unless prompt attention is given to this— and to telephone North Central 996 (asking for Mr. Phoenix Balt) Mr. Rush's decision as soon as you get it. This telephone is an empty house, but Balt will get your ring all right. If you, Rupert, or Mr. Rush, try to be clever, Geoffrey will be injured some-what— scalded, maybe— cooked a little— some trifling retaliation of that kind. If you wonder why you are used, keep wondering hard — also Rush; and when you and he call to mind a man whom you have both injured in the past, you will probably guess as to the identity of the merry little kidnaper who signs himself.

— Phoenix Balt.

MR. BRASS passed the letter to his partner. "Humph! Pretty rum customer, this Phoenix Balt," he muttered, and resumed his reading of Prince Rupert's letter.

This was cold and uppish, but in its way candid.

The Prince did not deny that one of his reasons for visiting England was to discuss with Mr. Rush a matter with a financial aspect.

"And that means a bit of royal borrowing if possible,' murmured the Honorable John, sotto voce.

The letter went on to state that although Prince Rupert had personally thought a good deal about the matter and moreover had consulted with his secretaries and valet and others likely to know, he had not been able to identify the jaunty Phoenix Balt. He was not aware that he and Mr. Rush had ever jointly inflicted injury on any man, and he volunteered the information that he had not the slightest notion why Mr. Balt should select him, the Prince of Rottenburg, to be the intermediary between him and Mr. Rush.

The letter concluded with a rather unenthusiastic statement to the effect that if Mrs. Beauray or Mr. Rush should feel that the Prince's services were likely to be of any value to them, he, Rupert, would not be indisposed to oblige them, though he trusted that they would find it possible to arrange matters without involving him. He suggested, finally, that the police might profitably be consulted, and finally had the honor to be signed for as Rupert von Rottenburg.

Mr. Brass stared at the letter.

"Well, that was never written in what you might call frenzied anxiety to help," he said, and scowling, passed the letter on to his partner.

"At first glance it looks a worrying bit of work," he said, "'but come to think of it, I've got very little doubt that something can be done about it before many hours are past. Have you done anything yet?" he asked Mr. Rush.

Ebney nodded.

"I phoned the Prince at the Astoritz accepting his offer of help, and he behaved pretty well, I thought. He said he would call here at eleven o'clock. He seemed a little more cordial than in his letter. Offered to bring some Scotland Yard men with him if I thought it wise.

"Hah!" Did you?" demanded Mr. Brass.

"I did not— at present," said Ebney Rush.

"I think you were right." John glanced at the clock. "He'll be here in five minutes' time. Now, that's good and businesslike. I shall be very interested to see friend Rupert again, Rush. Shouldn't be surprised, to judge from his letter, to find him improved."

But there Mr. Brass was wrong.

The man who, punctual to the least little second, was presently shown in, was only a fine, imposing, almost distinguished-looking figure when glanced at swiftly in deep shadow. In any good light he showed as a tall, broad, fat upstander with a military carriage that was obviously the result of that stern and early training which forms a habit. But the red, square, deep-jowled, thick-lipped face was not so good. Nor were the cold, sunken grayish eyes, very small, closely set and, in spite of the ingrained arrogance of their owner, shifty. Prince Rupert of Rottenburg in the pride of his youth, in a brilliant uniform and at the head of his regiment (if any) of Rottenburg Guards, might have looked like Alexander the Great at a fancy-dress ball. Now he looked rather like a busted hotel-porter who has taken earnestly to drink.

Behind him hovered a curious, undersized party in rather shabby evening dress who looked like a croupier without references in search of a job. This was, claimed Rupert, Baron von Klick, his "gentleman." But he spoke English like an Oxford man gone to the dogs ages ago.

Ebney Rush greeted them civilly, introduced them to the partners— they had met before, but all seemed willing to forget it—  and invited them all to sit.

The ladies were no longer present. Mrs. Rush hated Rupert— always had. And Clytie despised him, though she had not always— to her sorrow.

It was at once evident that Rupert was civilly disposed. His opening observations proved that to all but Mr. Brass, who had left the room, more or less unobtrusively, as soon as he had nodded to the Prince. But he returned perhaps ten minutes later, in time to note that everything was going as merrily as a marriage bell— if indeed the knelling of that implement is any indication at all of merriment.

"I've mulled the thing over in my mind, Prince," Ebney Rush was saying as Mr. Brass came in again. ''But I can't place that man Balt. There are a few hundred crooks in this world who'd probably claim I've injured them, and maybe there actually are one or two folk that I have hurt inadvertently in my time. But I'm a business man— not a professional injurer; and in any case I don't recollect ever coupling up with you, Prince, to hurt a man! For all he means to me, Phoenix Balt might as well call himself Bill Smith."

"To me also, I have never heard of the ruffian," said the Prince. "And if it had befallen that his insolent letter had referred to any other man but the present husband of your daughter, I should have ignored it. But there is that between your family, Mr. Rush, and mine, which cannot be washed out, even though it belongs to the past; and for that reason I bestirred myself. Regard my services at your disposal in this serious affair!"

"Thanks," said Rush rather dryly.  "Have you any suggestions?"

"I have," replied the Prince, with a sort of dignity. "But I do not propose to advance them except personally and privately to you."

"I see. Well, no doubt that can be managed."

Ebney Rush glanced inquiringly at Mr. Brass, who waved a genial hand at him and the Prince.

"Take him to the library, Rush— or send us there, just as you please," boomed the cheerful old adventurer. "And the sooner you do one or the other, the less time will be lost."

So Mr. Rush, the Prince and his shady-looking "gentleman" disappeared.

Mr. Brass promptly locked the door and reached for the telephone. It was Sing, back at their own flat, whom he called, and he called that yellow speedwell in no uncertain manner. For three minutes he talked, then hung up and turned to Clumber, who was standing by the table, absently toying with the wine— though not too absently.

"My brains are snapping like electricity tonight," said the Honorable John. "Pour me a glass of that wine."

He thought, took a drink, and thought some more.

"Yes, like electricity," he decided. "It was a lucky day for you, Squire, when you decided to come in as partner with me!"

"Oh, was it? Well, prove it," snapped the Colonel, and chuckled. "That's it—  prove it!"

"I will so,"' declared Mr. Brass, his cheerful red face shining with faith, hope and charity. 'You heard me start to do it, didn't you?"

THE Colonel shrugged a pair of shoulders as broad as a big sideboard. "I heard you instruct Sing to bring round here to the door that old taxicab you bought last year at that motor sale you looked in at one afternoon when you must have been owl tight."

"Tight is as tight does," repartee-ed Mr. Brass rather confusedly. "I never made a better bargain in my life. I've proved it before— that time we met the daffodil dame — and I'm going to prove it again. .... What d'ye think of Rupert these days?"

"I rank him with the rotters," said Colonel Clumber bluntly. "I always did and I always shall. Still, I don't deny he's showing up very well, all things considered, in this business. That letter from Phoenix Balt was an insulting thing to receive, and I'll say frankly that I don't think any the worse of Rupert for having the decency to show it."

MR. BRASS pondered that for a moment, smiling quietly. Then he laughed softly, not without a touch of affectionate indulgence.

"You are a real reliable old blockhead, Squire, and you always run dead true to your natural form, don't you? I like you because I can always depend on you. When I want to find out how any particular thing strikes a man who can't see half an inch in front of his nose, and who thinks as if his head were full of cold ham-fat instead of brains, why, I always turn to y— "

But here, fortunately, Mr. Ebney Rush and the Rottenburgers reéntered, all looking quite satisfied.

The millionaire wasted no time.

"Well, my friends, we've gone into the thing very closely. I've got to get back to New York pretty soon,— spent too much time playing about over here as it is,— and I guess it's going to work out cheaper in the long run to pay up and look pleasant. Prince Rupert has been sort of arguing that we ought to have the police in and so forth, but that doesn't appeal to me. It will mean delay, and fuss and red tape, unless I badly miss my guess. And moreover it might be serious for Geoff. For I don't like that letter from Balt. It's ugly even if it is kind of funny— and it wouldn't surprise me if the man who wrote it is a little unbalanced. Now, you can trust a plain crook not to do anything foolish. He'll go for the money every time, every chance. He'll be consistent. But a man who has a grievance that has eaten into his sanity is different. He's likely to do something that we might regret. Is that so?"

The partners agreed that it was very much so.

"Well, I'm willing to pay to avoid that.

My little girl adores Geoff, and a few more thousands spent on her happiness aren't of much consequence. She and her matrimonial affairs have cost me something near a million of good United States dollars already, and I consider I'd be weak-kneed to shy at a few more of those same dollars. So I've accepted Prince Rupert's offer to get in touch with this damned scoundrel Balt just as quickly as he can and to make the best terms he can. What d'ye think of it, friends?"

Mr. Brass did not hesitate.

"You're right, of course," he said crisply. "Considering the foully insulting tone of the Balt letter, I think Prince Rupert is doing the truly sporting thing. I congratulate him! I'd like to drink a glass of wine with him."

That ceremony was duly carried out in spite of the fact that the Prince had totally destroyed a quart of that same hefty wine during his conference— out of a silver tankard, a romantic little custom of the huge Prussian.

Mr. Brass accompanied the Prince and Mr. Rush to the front door.

The butler had already called up a taxi — the Prince claiming to have left all his cars on the Continent this trip.

Mr. Brass and Ebney saw them into the cab. It was the Honorable John who cheerily said: 'Where to, Prince?"

"The Astoritz Hotel."

"Right!" Mr. Brass turned to the driver, a hard-featured, yellowish-looking person in a peaked hat that hid half his face. "Astoritz Hotel, my man, and get a move on."

The driver nodded, and the taxi slid away.

EBNEY RUSH and the Honorable John lingered a moment, looking after it.

"Well, what d'ye think of him these days, Brass?"

Mr. Brass laughed.

"Much as I did in the old days. Hog from his hair to his heels. Not quite so domineering as he used to be, perhaps. How much did you have to lend him to get him interested?"

Ebney Rush shrugged.

"You guessed it, did you? Oh, well, he was grateful— he said— for my promise of a couple of thousand. Continental royalties come cheaper than they used to. I suppose that man has run through a million in his day. Now he's glad to beg the loan of a couple of thousand."

"Prefers it that way— it's good pay for doing next to nothing,' observed Mr. Brass dryly. "When d'ye pay out?"

"Just as soon as the Prince can get into touch with this Balt hyena and bring Geoff home. He's going to try right away and telephone me the result."

"Tonight, huh?"

"If possible. It depends on whether Mr. Phoenix Balt is really at the end of his telephone line."

Mr. Brass nodded.

"Well, let's get indoors. No use standing about asking for a chill on the liver. We've only got one liver apiece. You're a quick man, Ebney Rush. Result of having all these big bales of money, I take it. I think my partner and I will wait around for an hour in case the Prince fixes up things for tonight. If he contrives it, I'd like to be one of the party that goes to fetch friend Geoff. But what about the ransom? You don't keep five thousand cash in the house, do you?"

Ebney Rush laughed as he entered the house.

"You've been reading fiction, haven't you? The sort of stuff which tells you that as soon as a man happens to make a pile, he stops carrying around more than two cents! I guess I can manage to chase up five thousand in currency without having to borrow much of it from the butler. Man, don't you know that occasionally in the life of a business man there occur chances of doubling or trebling a large sum— provided he can produce the cash instantly? I've known a man to buy the entire cargo of a big steamer for a fifth of its value simply because he could put that fifth down in cold cash— click— like that!"

"Yes, I knew it," said the Honorable John urbanely. "I just wondered if you knew it. Personally I always keep a large sum handy."

He chuckled. "When I've got one!" he added.

IT was less than a quarter of an hour later, just as Mr. Brass was explaining to the anxious Clytie that it was hardly worth her while to go to bed before Geoff, for the reason that Geoff would so shortly be home, that the telephone call from Rupert of Rottenburg came through.

Ebney Rush answered it, and it was instantly apparent from Ebney's observations that all had gone well with the royal negotiations.

"What's that? You got Balt on that number? Good— that's good, Prince.... Yes... Hey?... Yes, I say. Hard cash? Certainly— if clean new hundred pound bank-notes are hard enough for him. Here— now— waiting for you, Prince.... Insolent, was he?.... Well, some fine day maybe we'll find time to make him pay for that. Meantime, we do the paying..... Yes, I know, I'm grinning and bearing it..... You'll be around at once.... Good!"

EBNEY RUSH rang off and turned to the company, beaming.

"Rupert's no sloth when he can pay ready money," he ejaculated. "John's right, my dear. We'll be having Geoff home before they've time to get a little meal prepared for him— in case he calls for it."

He turned to the Honorable Mr. Brass.

"It seems to be just an ordinary hold-up. Rupert got hold of Balt at once, and Balt said that any time during the night he'd be ready to hand over Geoff with the left hand provided he received the cash in his right at the same moment."

"That's fine— good work and quick," said Mr. Brass.

"It might have been a whole lot worse," admitted the dour Colonel.

Mr. Brass spoke again.

"I'd like it, Rush, if you'll agree that this old, he-bear of a partner of mine and I should go with Rupert to fetch Geoff away from the place where Phoenix Balt has had him in storage. I think you'd be wise to agree— for we've only got Rupert's word that Balt will hand over when he's paid. I'll be frank enough to say: that, in spite of what he's just done for your family, I shall never get any inferiority complex on account of Rupert of. Rottenburg, and if you're going to let him loose with five thousand pounds of good valuable money, then you can do a lot worse than let two old watchdogs go along with him."

"That's true," growled the Colonel.

"I was going to ask you to do just that for us," agreed Ebney Rush. "I'd be glad to have you along."

Mr. Brass stared.

"And I'd be glad to have you not along," he said bluntly. '"There's no need for you, with your responsibilities, to run any risks. Is that right, Mrs. Rush? Here we are, going we don't know where, to meet with we don't know what kind of a criminal, or how many. You don't know London as we know it, and you're a rich man. It would suit our friends Balt and Co.— for I don't figure he works alone— to hand over Geoff and keep you. And it's just on the cards that we couldn't stop them. It's not necessary for you to hover round what may be a trap, Rush. Do you think it is, Mrs. Rush?"

"Most certainly not!" said Ebney's wife with an edge to it. "I think you are entirely right, Mr. Brass, and I appreciate enormously the sensible advice you offer. If Ebney goes, I shall go— and that settles it."

"Yes," said Mr. Rush, "it settles it. For I haven't any notion of allowing you to go along, my dear."

"Nor I, you."

"Good. That's settled, then," beamed Mr. Brass. "And now hadn't you better be getting out the money, Rush, for I fancy the Prince will be here in a few seconds; and," he continued, "if I am any judge of a man, he'll be perfectly willing to take one of his tankards of wine to kind of fettle him up before he starts."

The gentle John was entirely right. The Prince (and gentleman) arrived, beaming broadly, before Mr. Brass had finished.

"Except for only the insolence of the low-born Balt, there was no trouble," explained Rupert. "The man is an ordinary brigand who captures and holds to ransom."

Murmuring something about getting his overcoat, and leaving Mr. Rush to explain to Rupert why he needed said coat, Mr. Brass moved out of the room.

But he did not immediately get his coat.

He whispered a few words to the butler— who seemed to be waiting for him— and passed out of the house to the taxicab waiting at the door. He gave one glance at the saffron visage under the peaked hat of the driver and sighed with relief.

It was Sing.

Master and man whispered swiftly together for a few-seconds; then Mr. Brass reached for certain articles which the Chinaman drew from his pocket— twg of them—  a pair of articles with blued barrels, that looked big enough to blowean elephant into its future state with any one of the half dozen cartridges each contained.

"That's a good lad, Sing," said Mr. Brass. "Keep on as you're going, and Ill give you a rare good testimonial when you leave me— if ever you do."

He returned to the house, slipped one of the pistols into his partner's overcoat pocket, the other into his own, and then bustled briskly in to join the others.

"Well, come along, come along. Nothing like getting on with it. Got the money, Prince? Good— that's good."

He shepherded them all out to the taxicab. The Prince's "gentleman" instructed the saffron-featured driver to go quickly to Number Ninety Fitzgore Square, and Mr. Brass smiled an extremely contented smile as he listened.

"Not so far to go that we shall be kept out of bed half the night, Prince," he said cheerily. "Phoenix likes to operate from a pretty central position, hey, Colonel?'"

The Colonel grunted a sort of sour agreement. He was entirely devoid of any idea why his partner should seem so jolly about things in general, though he certainly knew that Mr. Brass had not slipped the big pistol into his overcoat pocket mainly as a sort of practical joke. He was content to sit in a species of sullen and slightly bewildered silence till he was required to arouse himself for action.

Prince Rupert of Rottenburg, on the contrary, was in a comparatively joyous moo — probably inspired by the fact that he had so, easily earned the two thousand pounds loan from Mr. Rush, plus the generous influence of the half-gallon of costly wine which he had un-tankarded that night.

He grinned at Mr. Brass like a big old bear who has found a few hundredweights of wild honey.

"Ach! I am accustomed to deal with every kind of desperado," he said. 'This Balt! Pah! He is nothing! He is only a what-you-call snipe— piker, eh? A pikesnipe— a petty villain— nothing serious. One gives him his trifle of money, and he no longer exists for one— quite like a taxi-driver, hein?"

HE laughed excitedly— and was still doing it, at intervals, when the taxi turned into dark, unfrequented, little-known Fitzgore Square— that small oblong of out-of-date houses, ill-lit, unfashionable, quiet, which only survives so near the heart of things in London because the owner cannot get the truly affrighting price he is asking or it. The taxi slid round to Number Ninety, which stood in a darkish corner, its front door facing the square. It was favored above the neighboring houses by possessing a side door opening onto a passage or superior alley, forming, for pedestrians only, an extra exit from the square.

Down this alley the Prince led them.

"The man Balt requested that we should take possession of Mr. Beauray at the side door," he explained. "He wished that we should enter without ringing."

The taxicab driver had left his seat, apparently to look at a suspected tire.

"He seems a trusting sort of kidnaper," said Mr. Brass, following Rupert and the "gentleman." Dropping back a few paces, he whispered sharply to the Colonel.

"Hey, there!" said that individual, like one inspired. "Right! I understand!" And he nodded violently.

The side door opened easily under the Prince's hand, and all entered a narrow hall so bare that it was practically unfurnished. There was nobody in the hall, but a door at the far side stood ajar.

The Prince looked surprised.

"The man Balt should be here— " he began, and broke off as the street door opened quietly and closed again behind the taxi-driver, who advanced with the sparse yellow grin that was peculiar to John's Chinese hireling, the inscrutable Sing.

"What is— " began the Prince, and broke off abruptly, as the large and powerful hand of Mr. Brass clamped itself about -his throat.

"Not a word, Rupe, or I shall hurt."

"Rupe" lashed out at the Honorable John's legs with his foot and made muffled sounds, but he got no further than that, for Sing, perceiving that the Colonel was dealing with the Baron Klick with complete ease, proceeded to enwrap himself about the Prince like a yellow octopus.

THERE was no use struggling; and in any case, in spite of his great size and formidable appearance, Rupert of Rottenburg was not a good struggler. He never had been— all his life he had employed professional strugglers to do his struggling for him.

"Easy— easy, Sing," warned Mr. Brass. "No need to strangle the shifty hound. Twist the cords round his hand— that's the style. Better take it quietly, Rupert—  quietly, I say, or Sing'll all-but tourniquet your greedy hands off your arms! That's better."

He slipped a deft hand into the Prince's pocket and brought out the bulging wad of banknotes which Ebney Rush had so cheerfully passed over.

"That's better— much better," said Mr. Brass, and put them in a safe place he knew of near his own great Chest.

"Secure him, Sing, my son. Then make Baron Klick safe, and cord 'em together so that you can guard them both."

He waited till that was complete, then invited his partner to join him in searching the house...

They had no trouble at all. In an ill-furnished back room with shuttered windows, on the first floor, they found Geoff Beauray, collarless but still in dress clothes, asleep on a cheap iron bedstead.

Quite obvious, on a table beside him, was a hypodermic syringe.

MR. BRASS looked at the Colonel and shrugged his shoulders as he moved to Beauray.

"He's probably not far from waking, Squire— Rupert will have timed things pretty close, if I'm any judge," he said.

The Colonel scowled.

"I suppose you know what you're talking about— but I don't," he growled. "Where's that hound Balt? That's the man I want to get my hands on."

Mr. Brass laughed.

"Balt?" he said. 'There's no such party — unless maybe it's that mute little blackguard downstairs who acts as Rupert's 'gentleman.' Probably that's the answer. Can't you see what's happened? Man, it's staring you in the face! Rupert and his pal got hold of Geoff Beauray as he was leaving that dinner— probably had been watching for a chance for days. This place was all ready. They shot a dose of some drug into him, waited a couple of days, composed that letter addressed to Rupert, and got in touch with Rush. You've seen what happened afterward, haven't you? It was a good scheme— the way that letter insulted Rupert and generally showed him up, the way Rupert advised calling in the police! Who would have guessed that Rupert was the man who wrote it, or, more likely, got that shifty 'gentleman' of his, (an Englishman, I should say, considering the tone of the letter) to write it? Rush believed that there really was a Phoenix Balt— as did you— so did everybody except the old man. Me, in fact— old Signor Wise-ulini! Hey?"

Mr. Brass laughed.

"The letter looked funny to me from the first word," he claimed. "And it was quite easy to see whether I was right or wrong. I telephoned to Sing to bring the old taxi, and I squared the butler to make quite sure that the Prince and his pal used that taxi when they went to 'get in touch' with Balt. They never even went near a telephone; they pulled up at a quiet little saloon bar not far from Eaton Square and had a couple of drinks. Sing watched them all the time. Then they came back to Eaton Square. Sing reported to me while Rush and Rupert were fixing up the money end of it, and then— why, then, even you could have seen the idea, Squire. A good idea, for a crook. Good business, it was, because it was so simple. Suppose Ebney Rush hadn't thought of ringing me up? Suppose you had just gone on dozing whilst I sat thinking back at our flat? Rupert would have come here, collected Geoff, and handed him in to the folk at Eaton Square. Probably they'd have given him just a small dose on the way— to last him till next morning, when they would have been well on their way to some hole on the Continent. D'ye see that, Squire?"

HE broke off as Geoff Beauray stirred.

"Hah! There you are! See to him, Squire," said Mr. Brass, hastily. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes."

He hurried downstairs.

Sing had the malefactors safe enough.

"Well, Prince, you've missed your haul by half an inch," said the old strategist genially. '"And it will cost you both about ten years apiece— maybe more, if you've injured Geoff Beauray with your drugs."

The Prince went white.

"He is not injured— at any moment he will awaken now. I swear to you— "

But the Honorable John ignored him.

"Have you searched them, Sing?" he asked.

Sing had. Only the Prince had been armed, and Sing now had his battery.

"Good!"

Mr. Brass stared thoughtfully at Rupert and his aide.

"Yes, ten years," he said at last, "and a good job, too!"

He examined the cords which linked them to certain of the fixtures in the room. Some he tightened— others he loosened.

"That will hold them till we send the police to collect 'em," he told the smiling Chink. "Now come and help get Mr. Beauray down to the taxi."

Together, he and Sing went upstairs.

At the top of the stairs Mr. Brass paused to listen. His smile broadened as he caught the sound he expected. The Prince and his pal were already struggling with their bonds.

"Well, well, they'll find it easy enough to escape if they put their backs into it."

Something snapped.

CHUCKLING happily, the smooth old craftsman moved into the room where Geoff Beauray was already sitting up, a little dazed and dull, but obviously not much the worse for his adventure.

The partners did not hurry him.

"No hurry— no hurry. Take it easy—  just nice and easy," advised Mr. Brass.

It was the Colonel and Sing who presently settled Geoff Beauray in the taxi, Mr. Brass lingering for what he called a last look round.

That inspection was brief but quite satisfactory.

The room in which he had left the prisoners was no longer occupied. The Prince and his gentleman had escaped quite according to John's plan— and as that far-sighted old crook had left in the Prince's pocket enough small notes to make fast traveling easy, no doubt they were traveling fast— and far. At any rate they never came back to deny it....

It was a great reunion at Eaton Square. Geoff Beauray was permitted to linger with the men-folk only long enough to explain that the Prince had caught him just leaving the Club, and on the plea of having something to tell him "vital to his and Clytie's happiness,"— something, he had hinted, to do with the period when Clytie had been Princess of Rottenburg,— had persuaded Geoff to accompany them to his sitting-room at the Astoritz. It had been simple enough to drug the coffee which Geoff had carelessly accepted, and to get him, already drowsy, into the taxi which put them down at Fitzgore instead of Eaton Square.

IT was told in a few-score words, after which Mr. Beauray was affectionately but firmly shooed out of the library in the care of his lovely little wife and his solicitous mamma-in-law.

"A good fellow— a sportsman, Geoff is! I always liked that lad— I always shall. You've got a plain Mister son-in-law there, Rush, that's worth fifty gross of royal highnesses of Rupert's altitude," said the Honorable John.

"I know it," agreed Ebney Rush. "Why didn't the Prince come back with you? There is his loan— that two thousand pounds— waiting here for him. Where is he?"

Mr. Brass laughed.

"Where? You can search me for the answer, Rush, but you wont find it. You need a clairvoyant. Rupert and his pal are probably streaking it for safety like greased rabbits. Listen— I'll tell you why. Just pour me a glass of wine and listen to the old man."

He drank his wine, lit a cigar and dumped on the shining table before him the big bundle of notes he had taken from Rupert of Rottenburg.

"Leave 'em lie there for a bit and listen," he said.

Ebney Rush listened to all the details to the very end.

The American's face was hard as Mr. Brass finished.

"I see," he said quietly. "Yes, I see. The man never was anything but a damned scoundrel. I knew it. But he slipped under my guard that time. I admit it. Clytie and her Geoff kind of sap my judgment. She's all the daughter I've got," he added simply.

"Well, old man, he didn't slip under mine, I'll trouble you to note. Here's the money," said the Honorable John.

He slid over the notes. Ebney Rush stared at them— and pushed them back.

"We know each other pretty well, we three folk, huh?" he asked coldly. "I paid those notes out to get Geoff back, didn't I? And I've got him back, huh?"

"It looks like it," agreed Mr. Brass with entire amiability.

"Well, then, what in hell have those notes got to do with me now?" demanded Ebney Rush flatly.

Mr. Brass picked them up in a leisurely sort of way.

"Nothing at all," he said. "I see what you mean exactly and"— he drove them home into the pocket of his dinner jacket like a person driving a sword into its scabbard— "I think you're right, Rush. Thanks for putting me right. Those notes, as you suggest, are a matter between Prince Rupert, friend of Phoenix, my partner and me. Right! I'll settle it with them! Leave it to me. Good health!"

_________

12: Murder With a Smile

Clarence Herbert New

1862-1933

Blue Book, Oct 1933

IN sketching for Lammerford the main points of the affair, some time afterward, Doctor Adams said that he seldom had been so thoroughly impressed with the sheer beauty and medieval fascination of an old family home as upon his visit to Grenellton Castle— for eight hundred years the seat of the Grenellton Barons, Viscounts and Earls— on the west coast of Cornwall.

"You know what that country is like, Lammy? Rolling moors covered with gorse and heather until you come to sheer precipitous drops of three or four hundred feet to surf breaking on the rocks below— with a horizon-line of the blue Atlantic.

"I'd known the Earl in the States—  I promised I'd look him up if I came this way. And when I turned up, he put in the whole afternoon showing me over the castle. That place is a museum, aside from its own mellow beauty. Paintings —  furniture —  bric-a-brac —  which are simply priceless. Other guests?... Oh, yes— several, including Grenellton's fiancée Alma Lee, and her mother. You know the Lee oil interests? Very wealthy family, the Lees. Of course Grenellton has plenty of money, too."

Doctor Adams went on to say that the twenty-four hours after his arrival were delightful. Everybody in the castle — both guests and servants— seemed of a cheerful disposition. Lady Helen, the Earl's sister, was acting as chatelaine until he married, and she was apparently very much attracted to Alma Lee, which wasn't in the least surprising...

After dinner on the second evening, Adams had gone for a chat with the Earl in the small private library which he used as a study at the rear of the ground floor, looking west over the cliffs and the sea. The room had a big triple window of Tudor diamond panes.

Around three sides were shelved the Earl's reference-books, favorite types of fiction, and some first editions that would have sold for a thousand guineas each. There was a large Tudor fireplace with several feet of oak paneling at either side. Grenellton's desk, reconstructed from an old refectory-table, stood at one end of the triple window. Comfortable leather chairs and a divan were scattered about. Against the oak paneling over the book-shelves hung several portraits of Grenellton ancestors painted by famous artists. One portrait in particular, over the fireplace and facing the Earl as he sat at his desk, was that of a girl who must have been a famous beauty in her day— the Countess Edith at the age of twenty— painted by Velasquez during her honeymoon trip to Madrid in 1640. It was a charming face, with a lovely, mysterious smile just beginning to show in the curves of lips and cheeks.

Adams was about to comment upon this portrait when Miss Lee came into the room for a word with His Lordship. Presently she turned to the Doctor :

"You've not seen Francis since he was in the States, Doctor— don't you think he's looking exceptionally fit?"

Doctor Adams nodded in agreement.

"That's occurred to me more than once, Miss Alma— he looks to me like a good risk for any insurance company."

As she left the room, the Earl remarked:

"When I was up in town last month, I had Sir Charles Janeway go over me from head to foot, and he gave me an absolutely clean bill— no organic trouble of any sort— said I ought to see a hundred. And the joke of it is, that examination has some bearing upon an occurrence last evening. Never told you any of our family traditions and superstitions, have I? In this case, however, I'll have to mention the superstition connected with that Velasquez portrait of my ancestress, the Countess Edith. It was painted just after her marriage to Earl Eustace, with whom she was passionately in love— supposing his feeling for her was fully as strong. But quite a number of our men have been as helpless in any question of petticoats as a person with an insatiable craving for liquor.

"Well, she found him in compromising circumstances with a girl she supposed was her most devoted friend. She said nothing at the time, but that night she came into his room to ask if he no longer loved her. He protested that he did—  but simply couldn't promise her that he never would look at another woman. Eustace knew his weakness.

"Countess Edith stood looking at him, with a slow beautiful smile beginning to show around her mouth and in her eyes— the smile of a woman looking at the man she loves. Then she said— sadly but sweetly : 'You've not lied to me, Eustace— and for that I respect you. But you never will hold another woman in your arms— for at this time tomorrow night, you will die.'"

"By Jove! Did she kill him?"

"There was no evidence of it— not a shred! He just pitched off the top of the Norman Tower, landing on his head upon the stone flagging of the courtyard. Her last interview with him, and what she said, have been sufficiently well attested to leave no doubt as to its being authentic, How or why the superstition started is considerably more obscure. But it's been believed from that time that anyone of our house, man or woman, who ever saw that speaking, lovely smile come into the face of that portrait would certainly die at the same hour the following evening... . The amazing fact is that four Earls and one Countess of Grenellton have died exactly twenty-four hours after seeing that wistful smile of the Countess Edith! They were a stouthearted lot, too— couldn't help telling of what they'd seen, but made light of it — ridiculed the tradition— yet died just the same."

"FOR the same reason that Eustace did, presumably ?" asked Adams.

"In only two of the cases, as far as anyone knows. The other three were absolutely faithful— just why Countess Edith should have had it in for them nobody ever has found out. In my own case, I can't for the life of me imagine what I ever did to her! She always has had the place of honor here in my favorite room. I'm not married yet—  true— but since our engagem'nt I've not had a thought of any other girl but Alma. And there isn't a woman in the world who has any claim whatever upon me!"

"Then— the Countess actually has smiled for you? Or were you dreaming?"

His Lordship shook his head.

"I wasn't dreaming. I'd been working last night, over papers connected with the estate— a new will I'd blocked out, among other things. But I was impressed enough to drive my car into Penzance this morning— execute the will and leave it with my local solicitors! Along toward midnight my man Jarnock, whom you knew in the States, fetched the Scotch-and-soda I usually take for a nightcap. I was tired from writing and figuring all the evening, so I sat back, relaxed, and filled my pipe, fancying I'd finish a book I was half through, before turning in. I chanced to glance up at Countess Edith before getting out of my chair. As the only light in the room was this electric reading-lamp on my desk, the face was in shadow— so I tilted up the bronze shade and threw the light upon it. I fancy the picture never had appeared more lovely than it did at that moment. .As I was looking at it, I could have sworn the lips began to curve, and the eyes to turn until they were looking directly into mine. I was as positive of the change in those features into that lovely smile as I am that I'm talking to you at this moment! Of course the most likely explanation is that in my relaxed condition, with the stimulus of good whisky and tobacco, the throwing upon the picture of much stronger illumination than it usually gets may have produced something of an hypnotic condition, in which the old tradition would have suggested the smile until it seemed that I did see it. I've dug into modern science too much to take any stock at all in ghosts or supernatural phenomena, If my lovely ancestress does get me tonight for any one of a thousand reasons which may have been dormant in her head all these years, I'd wager that she does it by perfectly normal human means an' not by any sort of 'haunt' whatever!"

"Say! ... Look here, old chap! What you've given as a likely explanation is doubtless pretty close to the mark. It's simply got to be something along that line. But let's check up a bit and see if there may be a sidelight upon it. For instance, if Jarnock or one of the servants who could have had access to that bottle of whisky happened to have some grudge against you, and wanted to give you a jolt— even if he had no intention of going further than that—  it would be entirely possible to slip a drug into that whisky that would make you imagine a lot of things. A small bit of hasheesh or opium in your pipetobacco would have the same effect, only more pronounced. Is there anyone in the household who just by chance might have such a grudge?"

RENELLTON smiled confidently. "Not a soul! There isn't a man or woman who hasn't been with us at least ten or fifteen years— most of them are children of families who have served us for two or three centuries. There isn't a guest or retainer whom I wouldn't trust with my life or fortune. To the best of my knowledge and belief, I haven't an enemy in the world."

"Nevertheless, Grenellton," said Doctor Adams, "a rather sound idea would be for you to come up to my room in the south wing, barricade the door and windows, spend the night there with me. If you're alive in the morning that busts the old superstition, doesn't it? There are two excellent beds there, as you know. Come now! How about it?"

"Playing safe,eh? But there seems to be a mental quirk in all of us which makes it almost physically impossible to run from danger. Foolish, if you like — oh, quite so! But there it is, d'ye see. T'll sit here at this desk with my pipe an' a book, as I did last evening— just to see what happens. My service-gun is here in the drawer, at my hand— I'm by way of bein' a qualified marksman with either rifle or pistol."

They left it at that, and went out to dance or play cards with the guests. None of them were of the night-owl breed— so they went up to their rooms before midnight, and their genial host returned to his study.

IT was about three in the morning that Adams woke with an uneasy feeling of apprehension. He donned a dressing-gown and slipped out into the hall. Alma Lee, similarly garbed, was just coming along toward him from the door of her room. She spoke in so low a tone that it was scarcely above a whisper:

"Did you hear anything, Doctor— any unusual sound ?"

"Nothing but the distant murmur of the surf at the foot of the cliffs— and the slight creaking of timber which is common to all old buildings."

"What was it that made you get out of bed and open your door?"

"Just some vague hunch which I can't explain— an impression that something is happening, somewhere about the place. How about you?"

"Same thing! I'm worried— though I don't know of any reason why I should be!" And the girl shivered slightly.

"How are your nerves?" He took her wrist gently and tested the pulse. "Suppose something has happened— something which might be a pretty severe shock?"

"I'm out of doors too much to be bothered with nerves. — Why did you ask that, Doctor?"

"Simply because I can't seem to get rid of this fool hunch— that's all! I left Grenellton in his study when I turned in— he was going to finish a novel he'd been reading. You come down with me and stay in the hall while I have a look into that room. If there are burglars about, that's the place they'd make for — and if they hold a gun on me, you can rouse the house before they come out after you. Don't come into the study until I've found out whether anybody is there!"

He conveyed so entirely by his manner that it couldn't be anything save burglars who had aroused them, that she obeyed orders and stayed out in the main corridor— though she wanted to look into that room herself.

THOSE who know Doctor Adams best are firmly convinced there are always grounds for the amazing "hunches" he sometimes gets. This proved to be another case in the record.

The Earl was still in his swivel-chair—  tilted back with his feet upon one corner of the desk, with a book upon his lap. A drawer was pulled out from the desk at his left, and his gray-bronze reading-lamp was still burning, throwing the light upon the pages of his book, but leaving his face in the shadow. In a couple of seconds, however, the Doctor saw the bullet-hole in the center of his forehead and the trickle of blood which ran down across his left cheek and upon the front of his dress-shirt. Adams stepped carefully up to him and felt of one hand. There was no pulse.

Then Adams noticed that the eyes were not fixed upon the book in his lap but had been raised to the portrait of Countess Edith, opposite to him, not ten feet away— they seemed to have an alert, speculative expression as though some trifling sound had distracted his attention from the book. It was not in the least an expression of pain or alarm — death must have been practically instantaneous. Where the lamplight fell upon the Persian rug at his left, lay his service-pistol which had been in the partly opened drawer— his left arm hung down straight as though it had dropped when the shot took effect, relaxing the grip of the fingers upon the pistol. The pipe had dropped from his mouth on the other side of the chair.

Without disturbing anything at all in the room, Adams softly went out to the girl in the hall and drew her toward the telephone-booth at its rear end— asking her to stand guard as he closed himself in, and tap on the glass if she thought the sound of his voice could be heard ten feet away. She nodded understandingly— supposing there had been burglars at work.

Putting in a trunk-call for Sloane 9A-564, he opened the door a crack for ventilation, and they stood there fully fifteen minutes before he heard the warning click which preceded the operator's voice saying he was "through."

Chief Inspector Beresford sleepily answered the call from his West End apartment. The Doctor closed the door and said softly:

"This is Adams— speaking from Grenellton Castle, twenty miles north of Penzance, on the cliffs. Something has occurred here which you'll want to investigate whether you interfere with the County force or not— Sir Edward, also. I want you both here as soon as you can make it by plane; there's a good landing on the moor back of the castle—  ought to make it before breakfast at the outside. Fetch your dinner-kit. Understood ?"

"Hmph! .... Aye. You'd not make such a request without jolly good reason. Haven't had but two hours' sleep, but I'll prob'ly get a couple more while flyin' down. Very good, Doctor! .... Fancy you may depend upon us."

COMING out of the booth, Adams found the puzzled girl wondering whom he'd been talking to— she'd caught nothing of the conversation but occasional words.

His next question, however, began to alarm her.

"Do you know of any first-class physician in this neighborhood whom Grenellton occasionally consults, Alma?"

"Why, yes. Doctor Snaith, just outside of St. Ives— he's been the family physician for years. Man of fifty-five or so, I'd say."

"Right in his prime— he won't mind getting out of bed at this time of night. Fortunately, Grenellton has paid a night operator in this exchange out of his own pocket for several years— and some other peer has done the same thing at St. Ives. So we'll probably get a connection into Snaith's house."

"Why do you want him, Doctor? You've the reputation of being a fairly big specialist, yourself! Is anything wrong with Francis?"

"Alma, girl— get a grip on yourself for some mighty sad news. Frank's one from us. He saw the Countess 'dith smile, night before last— you've heard the old superstition, of course? He laughed at it, as we'd expect him to do. Insisted upon staying there in the study to see what would happen— though I tried to persuade him to come up and spend the night with me. And he's in there now, apparently reading in his chair— but shot through the forehead, with his service-automatic on the floor at his side."

"You— you mean— that he— shot himself? Oh, that's impossible! I can't believe it! Why should he?"

"He shouldn't— unless some old inherited family weakness got him with a sort of auto-suggestion that all his house are supposed to do it if they see that picture smile. But Francis Grenellton's brain was entirely too sound for that sort of thing! On the other hand, the first casual impression of the evidence in that study would convince nine persons out of ten, I think, that he committed suicide in a moment of temporary irresponsibility induced by some inherited weakness. That's why I'm determined that nothing in that room shall be touched until his own physician has seen him. If Snaith has any doubts, we'll call in the County police. Just on the chance that we'll have to call them in, I've talked with Chief Inspector Beresford of Scotland Yard— he'll be down here with the Deputy Commissioner by seven at the latest."

THE girl sank weakly upon a bench. "Can't I— can't I go in and— look at him, Doctor ?"

"Well— this is the way I see it, Alma. First place— if you get a look at him now, it will burn into your mind with a horror which will stay there as long as you live. Never get rid of it! Then—  there's a side to this which hasn't penetrated yet, with you. If Francis didn't commit suicide— as neither you nor I admit— then every human being in this castle is under more or less suspicion of murdering him— I myself, as well as the others. If you remain your usual clear-headed self, girl, you'll see that there are pretty sound reasons for your not going in there at present. You can do nothing for him."

"Oh, I— I suppose you're right, Doctor! Frank— gone! It seems incredible! But I won't believe he deliberately killed himself when we were so happy together. Oh, get Doctor Snaith quickly, can't you? Don't you see I'm trying to keep myself in hand? Hurry, please!"

Doctor Snaith promised to be at the castle in half an hour— and he did it. Adams had locked the study door to prevent anyone else from getting in there — and had roused Jarnock, who was heartbroken when he heard what had happened. As he knew more about his master's habits and tastes than anyone else, the two doctors took him into the study with them.

RENELLTON had told his man that the Countess Edith had smiled at him— and Jarnock had laughed at what he considered a moth-eaten joke. Now, seeing the master to whom he had been unselfishly devoted, dead in his chair while looking up at the portrait, Jarnock muttered :

"My word! ... So she did get 'im! Hypnotized 'im while the optic nerves were in a strained position, lookin' up at 'er, until he pulls open that drawer, reaches for 'is service-gun, an' does what she's eggin' 'im on to do!"

The two doctors glanced at each other and then at Jarnock in questioning surprise. This practical scientific theory hadn't occurred to either in just that way. In a moment Snaith remarked:

"I'd really not consider that impossible— with this old superstition runnin' through his mind every little while! Keeping the eyes fixed upon some object higher than the head until the optic nerves begin to feel the strain is the most favorable condition for hypnosis. Wouldn't you consider that an admissible theory, Doctor Adams?"

"If the person were not upon his guard against any sort of influence from that picture— yes. You'd consider it suicide, would you, Snaith?"

Doctor Snaith looked amazed.

"Why, what other explanation is there? The loyalty of the Grenellton servants is a byword in the County—  and the guests now in the castle are well-known persons— quite above suspicion of harming their host. When the gates an' doors of the castle are locked for the night, it would take an outsider some hours to get in, an' he'd make a bit of noise doin' it. There's the man's own service-pistol lyin' on the rug— recently fired. You both say he kept it in that partly open drawer.... If ever there was a Clearer case of suicide than this, I never heard of it!"

"You're willing to sign a death-certificate as suicide, are you, Snaith?"

"Why— of course! Why not? What else is there to do?"

"Then there really is no reason for calling in the County police?"

"Well— when a person dies from a stab or gunshot-wound, it's generally advisable for the attending physician to call in the Coroner for a look-see. If he's satisfied, there's no inquest an' it's not a police matter at all. If he fancies there is anything suspicious, he orders the inquest an' fetches in a few constables to examine the persons in the house at the time of death."

"If you're thoroughly satisfied, would you be expected to call in the Coroner at this time of night— or would it be all right to wait until after breakfast?"

"As long as nothing is moved in the room, I fancy he'd thank me to wait until after breakfast."

"Well, I was hoping the usual procedure would be something like that, Doctor— it gives us time to do a little investigating upon our own account. First — I want to ask our friend here a question: Jarnock, do you believe His Lordship shot himself— or don't you?"

"Well, sir— when I first looked about this room I'd 'ave said 'e did— without any 'esitation. Now— well, I'm not so sure! It's just about the last thing 'e'd do in any circumst'nces, because 'e was not flighty, d'ye see— proper cool-'eaded, 'e was. An' there's something about this that I just don't get. I fancy I'll 'ave it in another moment— an' then it'll slip me again."

"Suppose he held that pistol at arm's length— pointing at his forehead— pulled the trigger with his thumb? Would there be any powder-burns on his face, or wouldn't there— at that distance?"

"My word! I never thought of that! Possibly that was one of the things I couldn't grasp! Say the length of 'is reach to the butt of the pistol would be about two feet from 'is forehead. That would fetch the muzzle six or eight inches nearer— call it eighteen inches at the outside. Well, d'ye see, sir, at eighteen inches there'd be a reg'lar peppering of blackened dots from red-hot powdergrains all over 'is face, even with a twenty-two-caliber —  an' this servicegun's a thirty-eight! I know somethin' of guns— I was by way of bein' the best pistol-shot in our comp'ny, durin' the war, sir."

"Well, then, did His Lordship fire that shot at his forehead himself— or didn't he?"

"HE did not, sir— it would be quite h'impossible to do so without making any powder-burns!"

Adams turned to his colleague.

"There's another little point worth checking. All the indications are that the pe was held in his left hand. But he never used his left hand for anything except to hold something he was working on with his right— from any sort of tools to unscrewing a cover from anything. How about it, Snaith? Are you still quite positive as to its being suicide?"

"Faith— I'm not! You an' Jarnock have given that supposition a rare jolt! I've handled firearms sufficiently— have observed the Earl for years enough— to know that you're both quite right. But — dammit all— where does that leave us? If he didn't kill himself— what other supposition is there? You're parin' it down to a d'rect inference of— well— actual murder, Adams! An' that's rather impossible, you know! What?"

"Why? The man's dead, isn't he? We're satisfied that he couldn't have killed himself! Where does that leave you?

"With the inference that, in each case, the traditional deaths after seeing the Countess Edith's famous smile— or infamous, if you like— have been brought about by normal human enemies who did their work so craftily that they never once were suspected, an' bolstered up this crazy superstition by each infernal act. This of course supposes the existence of some enemy who hated Grenellton. Can you think of anyone like that, Jarnock ?"

"No sir. I've never 'appened to know a person who was better liked by h'everyone who knew 'im than 'Is Lordship, Francis of Grenellton! There's not a soul in this 'ouse'old who'd 'ave done it, Doctor— not even if they went suddenly balmy. An' it would be simply out of the question with any of the guests h'at present in the castle."

"H'MM—  After all, Adams, we'd best have the Coroner here as soon as we can get him!" said Snaith. "This affair is showing up in a vastly diff'rent coloring than it did at first appearance. Of course if it's murder, it's a police matter, entirely out of my hands.. Any loss of time is helpin' the murderer to escape!"

"Er— just a minute, Snaith. You said it would appear perfectly all right if you didn't call the Coroner before breakfast. If you call him now, that means we'll have the Chief Constable here within a couple of hours at the outside. Sir Borden Flommock, isn't he? I'm told that he's a martinet who thinks very highly of himself. Well, if a man like that takes charge, he'll go at it bullheadedly — fill this study with his constables until they're likely to destroy a lot of evidence which may be here, and possibly place everyone in the castle under arrest. Now— for half an hour after you got here you'd have sworn this was suicide. Chances are Sir Borden and the Coroner will take the same view—  for some time, anyway. So I can't see that you're taking much risk in waiting until breakfast-time. Meanwhile, the Deputy Commissioner and Chief Inspector Beresford are flying down from Scotland Yard— they'll reach the castle by seven, getting a chance to examine this room thoroughly before Sir Borden gets here. After photographing what they want to, and thoroughly going over the premises, they'll stand aside— appear as two of the Earl's guests— let Sir Borden take any course he wishes to with his County police, unless he oversteps his authority. Then we can call them in officially and get some action. How does this strike you?"

"Oh, if the Deputy Commissioner is coming down with Beresford, I can only compliment you on your foresight. Do anything you suggest, Adams!"

THE plane carrying Sir Edward Pelham and Beresford came down on the moor back of the castle at ten minutes before seven. None of the other guests or servants had been told as yet of the night's tragedy, so the household was functioning as usual. Jarnock merely informed the butler and chef that several guests were arriving by plane at an unusually early hour and they'd all appreciate a hot breakfast upon their arrival. It developed that Beresford had also fetched down his best photographer and expert fingerprint man on the conviction that they'd be needed in whatever the Doctor seemed to be messed up in.

After finishing breakfast, they went out on the cliff-brow for a conference. Here it was certain that nobody could overhear them. Without giving them any of the conclusions already reached, Adams rapidly sketched the Countess Edith tradition and his talk with Grenellton in the study concerning it; then of his going downstairs with Alma Lee in the middle of the night— and what he had found. Then he took them into the study, with the photographer and the fingerprint man, bolting the door to prevent interruption.

"Here you are, gentlemen, exactly as I found things. I'd like to have you examine the body and ask any questions which occur to you. Examine this room as thoroughly as if you scented an insoluble mystery— but do it as quickly as possible, in case Snaith wants the Coroner to come down for a look-see."

Beresford nodded.

"Aye— it's always best to do that in the case of gunshot or knife-wounds, so as to prevent subsequent misunderstanding or suspicion. Of course we're not down here officially, unless the Earl's family or the local police call us in. Sir Borden Flommock is a diffic'lt sort to work with— he never calls in the Yard on his own initiative. Well— we've been digesting what you've given us about the superstition connected with that portrait. Of course that old superstition would frequently recur to any Grenellton descendant. Diffic'lt to say how far we ever can admit auto-suggestion as a compellin' cause— but there's no question whatever that it's had to be taken into account in any number of cases. This would appear to be one of them. Two of you certify that the pistol is the one Grenellton habitually kept in that drawer. One shot has been fired— ejected shell on the floor— wound made by a 'thirty-eight'— pistol dropped from his fingers as he died. Any suggestions, Doctor, as to other points you fancy we should look for, here?"

"Well— I'd like to be dead sure that nobody came into this room during the night. See if you can find anything to indicate that."

"But— one doesn't precisely see—"

"For example. There were hickory logs blazing on those andirons when I left the Earl last night— quite a lot of charred embers and white ash upon the stone flagging of that fireplace. A faint trace of them is on the waxed floor at the right of it. Looks to me a bit small to have been made by the Earl's foot—  but it might have been. There may be other traces where I haven't looked. I've kept everybody out of this study until you got here, just so you'd find it absolutely undisturbed— made no attempt to examine it myself, lest I displace something."

WITH their flashlights, the officials minutely examined every inch of the woodwork, book-shelves, furniture and floor. They found and had photographed the fingerprints of different persons in several places— cigarette-ash of two different kinds— the sharpened stump of a cedar pencil with a round rubber on its end, lying against the foot of the wainscoting. at the right of the fireplace— a trouser-button behind the door leading into the hall— the only exit from the room. Under the leather divan was a scrap of manila wrapping-paper with a few lines of writing and figures penciled upon it— not the Earl's. As the entire castle was kept in a meticulously neat condition, all of these things, presumably, had been brought into the room since the maid had dusted it the previous day. At last there seemed nothing further worth photographing— no crack or corner which they hadn't examined.

So they went out and locked the door. The experts flew back in the plane and developed their negatives, while Sir Edward and the Chief Inspector had a wash-up in the rooms assigned them by Murdock the butler, then joined the other guests at their late breakfast.

DOCTOR SNAITH phoned for the Coroner. When this official reached the castle, he was accompanied by the Chief Constable, who had heard a rumor in St. Ives that Snaith had been sent for in the middle of the night, and thought it suspicious that he should now send for the Coroner. Snaith had been waiting in the great hall and took them at once into the study. Sir Borden promptly sent for Doctor Adams and proceeded to put him through an exasperating grilling, which the American took good-humoredly at first. Finally he said:

"I've answered your questions courteously, Sir Borden— told you exactly how I happened to come down here with Miss Lee during the night and what we did. Your manner and questions imply that you consider me a liar occasionally, if not all the time— yet I didn't shoot my good friend Lord Grenellton, and you don't even imagine I did. Now— you'll get at the facts a lot more quickly if you keep a civil tongue in your head. —Taking the situation as you see it, Coroner, what's your opinion?"

"Well— officially, Doctor, I really can't see anything but suicide, prob'ly caused by His Lordship dwelling too much upon this old superstition an' imagining he saw things he couldn't have seen. But of course if the Chief Constable isn't satisfied—" Brown said diffidently.

"Seems to be up to you, Sir Borden. If it's suicide, the police simply don't come into it. If not, we'll naturally give you all the assistance we can."

"Aye? .... Will ye so! An' what if I fancy it may be— murder?"

"Then the matter is in your hands, of course. But out of consideration for the Earl's family and his fiancée, you should decide as soon as possible. This is a pretty sad time for all of them, you know."

The Chief Constable, without having made any close investigation of the room or the body, decided to let the case go as suicide. But as he re-entered the hall, he saw the two Yard officials discussing the tragedy with the other guests, who were much too shocked to occupy themselves with anything.

Flommock's face was alridst purple as he remarked:

"We seem to be unusually favored, gentlemen— havin' expert assistance from the C.I.D. in a suicide-case before we even consider it a police matter at all!"

Sir Edward was suavely apologetic:

"We certainly will not offer assistance, Sir Borden, until you do ask for it— we didn't even know His Lordship was dead, until we flew down here this morning." This was literal truth— Adams certainly had mentioned nothing of the sort over the wire. "If it's a clear case of suicide, you're not ordering an inquest? I'm sure the family will appreciate that very much."

When Flommock and the Coroner had disappeared, Adams, Snaith, the two Yard men and Jarnock went into the armory for a discussion and lighted their pipes. The Chief Inspector had been doing a lot of concentrated thinking. In a moment, he brought his fist down upon the arm of his chair with a bang.

"What a blithering bat— to overlook a thing staring us in the face! The whole appearance of that room was so infernally conclusive that it seemed ridiculous to consider any other explanation! I've been wondering— trying fo figure out what Adams could have had in his mind when he sent for us to come down. My word! An' all the time it was as plain as my own nose! No powder-marks on Grenellton's face— there's the whole story, as far as the killing goes! The shot was fired from the side of the room he was looking at— somewhere along by the fireplace or book-shelving— from a distance of prob'ly eight or ten feet! Hmph! .... This is where Sir Borden would seem to have slipped a cog an' offered himself up for sacrifice! He had everything to see that we saw—  particularly, the absence of powdermatks. An' he's officially lettin' it go as suicide! When we get the case all sewed up we can eliminate Flommock without making a goat of the Coroner, Brown, who is a very decent sort— for you say Doctor Brown put it d'rectly up to Flommock for decision an' he accepted the responsibility. Now— what would be your suggestion, Sam? We're with you — all the way! It was murder— fiendishly clever an' damnable murder!"

Ros lighted his pipe reflectively. "As I see it, the whole affair hinges upon that devilishly beautiful portrait, which unquestiohany has been used for five murders before this one. Each of the murderers must have known, in his day and generation, some secret connected with that picture which enabled him to use it for his purpose. Such murderers, seventy or eighty years apart, scarcely could have been outsiders getting that secret by accident— could they ? No! .... It's much more likely that they were members of the household with an investigating turn of mind in each case. They figured, just as we are doing now, that there must be some secret connected with that portrait— and concentrated upon that detail until they found it. We must presuppose that in each case it has been some household retainer— some near or distant relative. The very fact that the absolute loyalty of everyone in the castle always has seemed above suspicion would be very materially in the murderer's favor. Of course I don't yet know your slant upon the affair— the way what we know so far will react upon the regular crime-investigating mind. But it seems to me there are only two main lines of investigation. Grenellton executed a new will yesterday morning down at Penzance and left it there with his solicitors. Know who they are, Snaith?"

"Aye— Forbes an' Wilkins— known 'em for years."

"Then they'll make no bones about giving you a copy of that last will for Lady Helen and Miss Lee if you drive down there this morning— tell 'em what's happened— and say the request comes from the Deputy Commissioner of the C.I.D. We'll get some clue from that will— depend upon it! Next— TI recall His Lordship's telling me the afternoon I arrived that he had among his most treasured possessions the architect's plans for additions to the castle in 1420 and also other restorations at later dates. Lady Helen will know where those plans are kept, and I'm betting we'll find something in them which will give us a clue as to where we might look for more or less direct evidence. He said that portrait has hung over the fireplace in his study for five generations to his certain knowledge— had old letters which mentioned its being there. If we can dig up data somewhere that it has hung there since Earl Eustace fetched it home from Madrid with his bride, a solution of this affair ought to be easier. One fact to keep steadily in mind is that we're not dealing with any ghostly fiend who reappears at intervals of half a dozen generations! I fancy examination of the records will show exactly who profited by the previous murders. If you can arrange to run down to Penzance, Doctor Snaith, and get that copy of the will from the solicitors, the rest of us will have a conference with Lady Helen. By the way, Jarnock— do you know where the Earl's safe is concealed, in the study?"

"Aye, sir. The Persian rug under his desk-chair covers a trap-door which is matched so closely to the oak strips of the parquetry floor that it doesn't show at all when you lift the rug. A section of the window-casing opens on hinges, an' there's a long steel lever be'ind it. Pull that out an' one edge of the trap lifts a couple of h'inches so one may grasp an' swing it up. Then there's a bit of a ladder down into the little stone room below, in which a steel door swings out from a steel frame set ten inches into the solid masonry. New combination locks were put on that thick steel door just before the war. Be'ind the door, the space is big enough to stand an' turn about in— shelves an' pigeon-'oles at the back. Doubtless the plans you speak of would be found down there, sir, although there are storage-boxes for jewels an' valuables in the master's private suite as well."

"That's almost directly over the study, isn't it?"

"Aye, sir— two baths an' three communicatin' rooms which are bein' done over as Miss Lee wished, in view of their approachin' marriage, which was to have ban next month. The painters an' plumbers finished three days ago,

"So there was actually nobody sleeping over that study— nowhere near over it, or around any side of it— at the time he was shot? No wonder none of us heard that shot! These walls are four or five feet thick— and even more than that in places."

LADY HELEN knew the combination for the strong-room under the study, though she never had unlocked the steel door herself. It took them but a few minutes to open it and look about for the old plans— which they found, drawn upon parchment and glued to thin wooden backing, stacked against one of the steel walls in an oilcloth wrapping. For nearly an hour they studied them—  finding dotted lines indicating secret passages and small chambers in the thickness of the masonry. Upon the old plan of the ground floor and study, there was a scrap of yellowed parchment— memoranda concerning the location of a spring in the oak wainscoting at the right of the big fireplace which opened a panel in it and gave access to a secret passage and small chamber which apparently must be six feet or more above the floorlevel and directly behind the Countess' portrait— the chimney-flue going up through the rear half of it. Without much confidence that the old mechanism would work after so long a stretch of intervening years, they presently located the strip of molding which covered the spring, and pressed hard upon it. To their amazement, the panel slid noiselessly into a socket at one side. They found that the steel levers and springs had been covered with a preservative grease, with evidence that a modern lubricating oil had been recently added to the moving parts.

From the chamber around the chimney-flue, they found another passage leading up through the wall to a large oak chest, richly carved, which was built into the wainscoting of the master's suite overhead and for that reason had not been disturbed by the decorators— the bottom of it lifting up on concealed hinges when the chest was empty.

Beresford was of the opinion that the murderer somehow had obtained the combination of the strong-room door—  studied the plans— and got down into the chamber through that chest— then cleaned and lubricated the mechanism of the study-panel from behind, at some time when the Eafl was away for a week or two.

WHEN they came to examine the wall of the secret chamber, back of the portrait, they found an opening cut through the stone a little smaller than the frame surrounding it, which seemed to be solidly set in— the canvas being glued to a laminated oak backing an inch thick. A narrow strip of this backing just behind the eyes of the portrait had been cut out, the ends shortened a quarter of an inch, and the eyeballs skillfully cut around the lids with a sharp knife—  evidently by some one who had stood on a ladder placed against the fireplace on the other side.

By sliding this strip of oak backing to which the eyeballs were glued, a fraction of an inch from side to side, the effect as seen from the study was that of living, moving eyes glancing from one side to the other. Just where the cutves of the cheeks deepened at the sides of the mouth, little round plugs had been cut out of the laminated backing and two loops of braided silk glued to the back of the canvas. When these were gently pulled back a little, the effect from the study-side was that of dimples in the painted cheeks which seemed to enlarge and deepen the smile. The big ruby depicting the pendant of the necklace had been very neatly cut around its setting and a plug cut from the backing to which it was glued. When this plug was pulled out, it left a hole an inch-and-three-quarters in diameter, through which everything in the study could be distinctly seen— particularly, any person seated at the desk, nine feet away. The edges of this hole behind the big ruby were blackened with powder-burns— bearing mute witness to the way the last three victims had been killed. From the study, there was no indication whatever of the cutting and fitting which had been done— the laminated oak backing, with the strip and plugs, prevented any sinking or indentation of the canvas, especially as seen from a level several feet lower.

Upon a table and shelving in this little cubby-hole were a supply of tinned foods and bottles of wine— in the opposite corner, a mattress and blankets on the floor, badly in need of washing. Of course after the panel-mechanism had been put in working order anyone who holed up it that secret chamber could pet in or out through the study and let himself in or out of the castle any night, if he had duplicate keys... .

In the afternoon, Doctor Snaith returned from Penzance with a copy of the last will. Lady Helen invited them to join her, with Alma Lee, in het attractive living-room on the second floor — and asked Doctor Adams if he would read the will to them. When he had finished, she remarked that there seemed to be nothing in it beyond what her brother Francis had had in mind to do for some time. As most of the beneficiaries, aside from household retainers and family connections, were known to them, neither Pelham, Beresford nor Snaith could spot anything in the will that seemed to indicate a possible murderer. But after considering a moment, Adams said:

"Let me read one of these paragraphs over to you— seems to me the clue we're after may be in it:

After due consideration, some discussion with Lord Rantoul, and hearty agreement upon his part, in consideration of the lump sum of fifty thousand pounds for which I gave him a check six weeks ago— I have decided to break and cancel the entail-provision in the wills of the Grenellton Peers during the last three hundred years in regard to the temporary succession, for one lifetime only, of descendants of the Bastard of Dregarthen to the Grenellton fortune, title and estates, which at the death of said inheriting descendant again reverts to the Grenellton heir in the direct line. While this Dregarthen inheritance has only occurred a few times when the Grenellton succession failed of a son or daughter, I feel, as my father and grandfather did, that it is a survival of traditional medievalism which has no place in modern life and always constitutes a potential injustice to my collateral heirs. As Lord Rantoul is in comfortable circumstances and is in this generation merely a distant connection of my family, he quite agrees with me that this old traditional provision in the entail should be abolished. So I hereby abolish it for all time and instruct my solicitors to file the necessary document to that effect.

"Now," Adams went on, "as this cancellation appears to be entirely satisfactory to Lord Rantou!, who I understand is a well-known personage, there would appear to be no object whatever in his killing Grenellton before this will could be executed. Yet somehow I can't get rid of the hunch that the clue to the murder is in that paragraph. What's the story, Lady Helen?"

"Countess Mary Grenellton stabbed herself, at about the end of Elizabeth's reign, and while dying confessed to the priest that her son was not the child of Earl Richard, to whom she was said to be very much attached, but was the son of Sir Robert Dregarthen. The son, Robert, swore she was out of her mind— but Richard asked why, if that were true, Countess Mary should kill herself, eighteen years afterward. Of course there could be no proof either way— but the son was known thereafter as the 'Bastard of Dregarthen' and neither he nor his descendants ever had any legal claim upon us. But just because there was no proof, the Earl of the next generation put this proviso in the entail, and it has been there ever since."

A SUDDEN recollection struck Sir Edward.

"But— I say, you know! That old provision couldn't affect Lord Rantoul one way or the other! It just occurs to me that the news-sheets mentioned his dying of heart-disease while his son was motoring down with him from Scotland, at the beginning of this week. The son is by way of bein' a speed-maniac an' has a car which does over a hundred, at times. Rantoul's heart had been wonky for two or three years— an' the medicos said that some of the youngster's narrow shaves at high speed quite possibly jolted his father until the old heart went out of business. Were they here with you occasionally, Lady Helen?"

Lady Helen nodded. "Frequ'ntly. Rantoul and my brother were by way of being very good friends. None of us care so much for the Honorable James. He's clever— not much good at sports, hut a capital shot and rides well when anyone cares to risk a horse with him. I fancy he inherits a cruel streak from his Greek mother, as well as her good looks, for he seems to enjoy tormenting any dumb animal, and he has an ungovernable temper. Our servants are well-trained, of course, but they dislike him extremely. The father and son were recently down here for a month."

"Wait a bit— let me get this properly. You say they're both down here frequ'ntly— doubtless they know this castle from one end to the other. If Lord Rantoul died of heart-disease a week ago, this son must be now Lord James' recollection struck Sir Rantoul. An' if he was the de facto Lord Rantoul at the time of Earl Francis' death last night, without a direct heir, unquestionably he would have inherited the Grenellton title, estates and millions to do with as he pleased durin' his lifetime, as lineal descendant of the Bastard of Dregarthen— if Grenellton hadn't cancelled that entail-proviso in this last will, which James saw no possibility of his having time to execute and which the Earl wouldn't have executed, if it hadn't been for Countess Edith's 'death smile.' (As it is, you inherit, as Countess Helen of Grenellton.) James knew the condition of his father's heart— drove him down from Scotland like a crazy man, no doubt knowing it was likely to kill him! Oh—  I say! Look here, Lady Helen!   Have you seen any of these things before?"

Beresford drew from his pocket half a dozen objects and laid them on a small table before her.

"Why, of course— many times! This is James Rantoul's stub-pencil— his miserly streak never would let him use one that cost more than a ha'penny. And everyone about the place has seen him use this cheap pocket-knife. The figures and writing upon this scrap of wrapping-paper are James'. This outline of a footprint is about the size of his shoe— though of course I couldn't be positive about that."

THE Chief Inspector drew a long breath of mingled amazement, disgust and relief. He had anticipated a thoroughly baffling mystery in the affair — had feared to order an inquest because of the practical certainty that a verdict of suicide would be given.

"The Doctor was right— as he so frequntly is! I'll put through a trunk-call to arrest Lord James Rantoul wherever found! We'll have Doctor Brown get a Coroner's jury together at once and hold an inquest here before we move the Earl's body. They're practically certain to call it suicide— which will be in the London news-sheets on every breakfasttable and make Rantoul consider himself absolutely safe; so we'll have no trouble in finding him— prob'ly at his club or his town diggings. My word! .... I'm not bloody-minded— but I mean to see that fiend hanged! And next time the Countess Edith smiles upon any Grenellton, let's hope he goes up at once to find who's been camping in her private room!"

____________

13: The Madness of William Bull

Bertram Atkey

Blue Book July 1928

MR. MERLIN O'MOORE was in high spirits. He had been in such a really charming mood all day that even his glum, big-headed valet Fin MacBatt had no serious complaints to make about him at the moment, and indeed had gone so far as to say so to his especial crony Henri, the head-waiter at the Astoritz Hotel— when Henri had chanced to look in upon Mr. MacBatt for a chat, a cigarette and a little stimulant prior to girding himself up for his evening rush of business.

"He's been as sweet as a nut all day, Honroy," said the gloomy MacBatt. "And it's full-moon time, too, when he goes completely off his burner, as a rule. I suppose it's because him and little Blackberry Brown are off on a moonlight motor mouch tonight. Going down to our hat factory I think. We own a big hat factory down Reading way. And there's some sort of trouble going on there— strike or something."

"It is extremely oll-right to hear you expressing your satisfaction with him," said Henri pleasantly.

"Oh, don't you get any idea that I'm satisfied with him," the dour MacBatt hastened to say. "I'll own he's been as good as a doll today— but it's only a flash in the pan— if that. Let any little thing sting him, and he'll be on me like a leopard on a lamb. Still— it makes a nice change to et a civil word now and then," concluded the blue-jawed valet, holding a glass of his master's remarkable Burgundy to the light.

Henri nodded.

"That is a pretty one— the little Blackberry. H'm?" he said, referring to Merlin's delightful friend Miss Blackberry Brown, the famous white-black comédienne, whose coon flapper representatives at the Paliseum and the Colladium theaters of variety were said by critics to be the talk of the town that year.

"Yes— pretty enough. Not bad," said MacBatt. "But streaky-tempered— very streaky. Give you a quid at two o'clock and give you the bird at two-twenty.... Still, she aint bad, in some respects. Have you seen her turn?"

"Oh, but yes," said Henri enthusiastically. "It is very chic— very ravishing. She is like drinking champagne, is she not?"

"Not bad," agreed MacBatt. "I've known worse."

"Yes indeed," said Henri, emptying his glass in that deft French way of his, and rising. "I go now to execute my duties."

THE door-bell of the suite of rooms which Mr. O'Moore tenanted whirred as Henri rose, and MacBatt accompanied him. One of the hotel servants was occupying the mat, with a telegram in his hand, trying to look as though he deserved a tip.

"For Mr. O'Moore," he said.

"All right," replied MacBatt, and conveyed the telegram to his master.

Molossus chanced to get in the way, and MacBatt hoofed the awe-inspiring dogue de Bordeaux halfway across the room.

Merlin, who was enjoying a half-hour with Swinburne and tobacco, prior to dinner, looked up at the blood-curdling growl with which it was the custom of his fearsome dogue de Bordeaux, Molossus, to greet every entry of MacBatt.

"Well, Fin, what's this?" inquired the millionaire affably.

"Wire, sir." MacBatt passed it on a salver, waiting while Merlin opened and read it. It was very short, but decidedly to the point:

MEN VERY MUCH OUT OF HAND. GLAD HEAR YOU COMING. DELAY IN SETTLEMENT MAY BE SERIOUS.

It was signed by Forsythe, the general manager of the hat factory.

Merlin put down Swinburne with a jolt, and rose. His affability went suddenly.

"Now, MacBatt, my man, get interested. Don't dawdle! Do something besides smoking my cigars and drinking my drinks. Send a telegram to Forsythe saying 'Coming at once;' see Henri and countermand dinner, and tell him to conspire swiftly with the chef to put up a traveling dinner-basket fit to invite a lady to share; ring up the garage and tell them to have the car— the fast two-seater— ready in twenty minutes; ring up Miss Brown— and let me know when you are through; give Molossus something to eat; fill my cigar-case; lay out a tweed suit, soft shirt and collar for me! Hurry up, my dear good man! Don't stand staring there! Don't you realize that a strike is a serious matter?"

With a muffled snarl the valet plunged heavily to the door, while Merlin, slipping off his dinner-jacket as he went, turned into his dressing-room.

FOR the ensuing twenty minutes the activities of Mr. MacBatt, boiling with badly suppressed fury, were reminiscent of an extremely spirited encounter between a youngish Irish terrier and an old, tough and worldly-wise London tomcat. He whirled; he dashed; he swore. Once Molossus chanced to get in his way, and he did what not one man in a thousand would have dared to do— that is, he hoofed the awe-inspiring dogue de Bordeaux halfway across the room before Molo quite realized what was what. It was like kicking a surly tiger; and if the flustered and fuming MacBatt had not instantly and bravely defended himself with a piano stool, until Merlin came out in his underclothing to quell the dogue, there would assuredly have been serious bloodshed.

"He deliberately got in my way, sir— did it a-purpose, sir, as I was hurrying across to tell you Miss. Brown was at the phone waiting, sir!" lied the perspiring MacBatt, indicating the hanging telephone receiver, and hastening out to get the hamper from Henri, and put it in the already waiting car.

But all good things come to an end, and within five minutes of the specified time Merlin, duly arrayed for motoring, was leaving the suite, with Molossus slouching at his heels, .

Merlin was pleased hastily to express his satisfaction with the valet's energetic handling of the mobilization; and MacBatt, shedding for a moment his sullenness, mentioned that he had a small favor to ask.

"Quickly, then— what is it?" said Merlin.

"Beg pardon, sir— I should like to ask you to let off one of the forewomen fairly light if she's mixed up in this— young woman named Wimple, sir. She's a wellmeaning young woman, sir."

Merlin smiled.

"Ah, another of your numerous and everlasting amours, I suppose, Fin? Is she engaged to you? Man, you ought to be called Don Juan MacBatt! How do you do it? You wouldn't appeal to me if I were a lady!"

MacBatt blushed bluely.

"Oh, not engaged, sir. But we happened to go for a stroll when you were staying a few days near the works last month. She's a very nice girl— in some respects— and I thought I'd put in a word for her. She's engaged to one of the engine men there."

Merlin nodded.

"All right— I will deal with her as she deserves."

Henri appeared at the head of the stairs, a bottle of wine in each hand.

"Pardon, sir— I overlooked the Moselle for Miss Brown."

"All right, Henri. Take it down, MacBatt."

"The dinner for tonight is countermanded, sir?" inquired Henri. "The chef wishes me to express his regret. He had excelled himself— even has he created for this evening two magnificent inspirations, the caneton à la Merlin O'Moore, and yet again, sir, the superb Péches à la Coon—  in honor of the charming Mademoiselle Blackberry!"

"I am very sorry, Henri, very. Please convey my compliments and thanks— and regrets— to Monsieur Casserole— " began Merlin hurriedly.

"Not at all, my dear boy, not at all!" broke in a refined voice close by.

THEY looked round to behold, advancing down the corridor, an old gentleman with a fine head of silvery hair, wearing an extremely racy silk hat with a broad wellcurled brim, and a black, deep-caped Inverness overcoat— none other, indeed, than Merlin's good friend and financial protégé, Mr. Fitz-Percy, that evergreen and totally indestructible doyen of all the deadheads in London. He had evidently overheard Henri's plaint, and he advanced with outstretched hand.

"You issue forth once again to your moonlight revels, I perceive, Merlin mine— and doubtless you are impatient to be gone. Go then, with the blessing of one to whom your happiness and welfare is as important as his own. Leave the creations of the highly gifted Monsieur Casserole to one who will appreciate them not less than yourself and your little friend, my ward, Miss Blackberry Brown— I refer, needless to say, to myself, dear laddie. With your generous approval, I will attend to the dinner. Come then, dear boy, I will speed you with good wishes." Gracefully he linked his arm in that of Mr. O'Moore and descended the wide stairs with him, merely pausing to remark over his shoulder to Henri that he would return to the dining-hall shortly.

A few moments later Merlin had gone—  planning to pick up Miss Brown en route — and the Deadhead and MacBatt turned into the hotel again, the one to enjoy the dinner he had so fortunately inherited, the other to return to Merlin's suite and rest for a while from his labors.

It was perhaps an hour and a half later when the Deadhead, having steered himself with great skill through the dinner which Merlin, Henri and M. Casserole had so scientifically thought out in honor of Miss Brown, and now waiting for Henri to make his Turkish coffee and pour out his liqueur, perceived, making his way across the crowded dining-room, Mr. Fin MacBatt, bearing a telegram in his hand and quite obviously looking for him— Mr. FitzPercy.

Gracefully removing one of the best cigars that the Astoritz could provide him with, the ancient Deadhead smiled.

"Ah, MacBatt, my good fellow, what have we here?" he asked.

"A telegram for Mr. O'Moore, sir," replied the valet with a bleak grin. "He said nothing about opening any wires; and I don't know that I care for the responsibility of opening it. He's in a funny mood— streaky-tempered— full-moon time, Mr. Fitz-Percy."

The Deadhead nodded.

"Very right, Fin, my man— very proper," he said, reaching up for the telegram. "I will accept the responsibility of opening the wire on behalf of my young friend Mr. O'Moore. In these matters of delicacy one must always trust to one's instincts— and the experience gained during an extremely checkered career has taught me that my instincts are rarely, if ever, at fault in these matters."

He slipped a silver dessert knife under the flap, opened the envelope and withdrew the telegram. His refined, handsome old face grew grave as he read it. Then he looked up at MacBatt.

"I am very glad indeed that my instincts led me to open this wire," he said. "For it is a warning. Listen!" And he proceeded quietly to read aloud:

ONE OF STRIKERS NAMED BIG BILL BULL LEFT HERE BY SIX-THIRTY TRAIN FOR LONDON STAING HIS INTENTION OF ASSAULTING YOU. STUPID MAN BUT TOOL OF DANGEROUS CHARACTERS. URGE YOU TAKE PRECAUTIONS. FORSYTHE.

"When— and what— is Forsythe, MacBatt?" inquired the Fitz-Percy.

"Manager at our hat factory," said the valet.

"Ah, yes." Fitz-Percy nodded thoughtfully. 'Well, I think that we must arrange without delay to receive Mr. Bull. Do you, therefore, my good MacBatt, return to the citadel and await my coming. Do not worry, and do not be nervous— for I shall be with you almost immediately."

The dour MacBatt moved off.

"Worry?" he snarled under his breath. "Me worry about a half-witted ham from the hat factory that thinks he's only got to threaten with his mouth to frighten us!"

The old Deadhead, meantime, with that complete savoir-faire which invariably characterized his every action, whether it was "raising" a half-crown from a reluctant "parter" or eating a multi-millionaire's dinner, sent for M. Casserole, and in felicitous terms, complimented him upon the duckling à la Merlin O'Moore, expressed his admiration of the peaches à la Coon, insisted upon the gratified chef having a liqueur with him ("on" Merlin), and then, bestowing upon Henri a very worn shilling with the air of one who passes at least a sovereign, finished his coffee and accomplished a distinguished-looking exit, ex route to Merlin's suite.

Handing his hat, stick and coat to MacBatt, he entered Merlin's den, inviting the valet to follow him in there to hold a council of war ve the imminent advent of the ferocious Mr. Bull.

HARDLY had the Deadhead settled down in the most comfortable of the many comfortable chairs before a ring at the door invited MacBatt's attention.

He went out and opened the door rather skillfully with his left hand. In his right hand, which he kept a little behind him, he held ready for immediate use a lead-headed baffy— a "crank" invention long discarded by Merlin as being about twice as heavy as any golfer could ever need, but put aside by the far-sighted MacBatt in view of just such a contingency as this, A very large man, indeed, was standing at the door— a giant of a man, with a singularly small head, and a dull, heavy face, which was totally devoid of any signs of intelligence.

"Yes, what?" said MacBatt curtly.

"Does Mr. O'Moore live here?" asked the visitor heavily.

"Yes— why?" snapped the valet, his jaw protruding.

"And a man name of MacBatt?" continued the giant.

"That's me! What for?" answered MacBatt crisply and contemptuously. He saw that he had to-do with a strong man, no doubt, but slow, he thought— painfully slow.

The man surveyed him a moment in silence; and then, without the least sign or warning, and with unexpected quickness, he slung an upper-cut to the valet's jaw. It was short but so remarkably stiff that it made MacBatt's teeth grate quite noisily, and lifted him clean off his feet to a sitting position upon the floor.

The giant stared down at him dully, without the slightest change of expression.

"Take that, MacBatt, see?" he said slowly. "And the next time you try to cut me out with Bessie Wimple, Ill knock your neck off. Where's your boss? I'm Big Bill Bull, I am, and I want a word or two with him. I'll learn him to cheat the engine-men that works for him. Go on— get up and fetch him."

The temporary dizziness had departed from the badly rattled MacBatt's brain now, and he got up, even as the engine-man requested him. But he did not go for Mr. O'Moore— instead he went for Mr. Bull, with the speed of an infuriated lynx and the howl of a semi-maniac in the rage of his life. The shaft of the baffy caught Mr. Bull on the iron-muscled arm which he had raised to protect his head, and snapped like a carrot, so that the lead head of the club flicked down fairly upon the beetling brow of the revengeful Bull. It did not fracture his skull, but it felled him like a buffalo struck by lightning.

The Fitz-Percy, roused by the sound of the combat, emerged just in time to prevent the maddened MacBatt from doing as the bull-moose is said to do, hamely, jumping heavily upon the prostrate carcass of his fallen foe.

"Let us not totally obliterate the ruffian from off the face of the earth, MacBatt," said the Fitz-Percy. "Now that you have so deftly rendered him practically unconscious, it may be that, when he recovers, he will be in a milder mood, and more open to reason."

With a certain appearance of weariness, Mr. Bull rose to his feet, staggering slightly.

"Those who appeal to physical battle, my good man, must be prepared to abide by the result," said the Deadhead.

"Yes," said the giant dully, and suddenly swung a knotty fist to the near-by MacBatt's ear, refelling him.

The valet bounded to his feet again with a howl, but by this time many of the hotel servants had arrived, and they intervened.

The Fitz-Percy, thinking rapidly, decided that it would be well to lure Mr. Bull out of the hotel. He thought— rightly— that Merlin O'Moore would prefer that rather than the man's arrest, with subsequent police-court proceedings and the inevitable newspaper publicity.

"Come. Let us go forth and have some beer," he suggested cooingly, with his unerring instinct. "Beer— I know a grot where the beer is glorious. Come, then, Mr. Bull. Why fight— against heavy odds— when good British beer, nut-brown, comforting, zestful, served by deft-fingered houris in large cool cans or gleaming tankards, awaits us. Beer, Mr. Bull! Over it we can discuss matters, talk over your grievances against my young friend Mr. O'Moore, and await at our leisure his return. Forward to the beer!"

And thus crooning, the Deadhead skillfully led the bewildered Mr. Bull downstairs and beerward. He was a wonderful judge of men, the Deadhead.

The crowd dispersed, and save only for one stealthy figure which followed them—  that of the vengeful MacBatt— the couple departed, alone, for a near-by hostelry.

LEAVING the diplomatic Fitz-Percy busily engaged in his noble endeavor to drown the ire of Mr. Bull in unlimited quantities of beer, and leaving the dour MacBatt watching for his chance to rebatter the engine-man, let us glance briefly at the activities of Merlin O'Moore and Miss Blackberry Brown.

Something like two hours after leaving London the couple reached their destination, after what, moon-slaves as they were, they decided was a very pleasant run, broken about midway by what they sincerely believed to be a delightful moonlight picnic, which clearly was entirely their own affair and need not be described in detail.

Late in the evening though it was, Merlin found that the hat factory, a big place on the outskirts of the town, was by no means deserted. On the contrary, it presented a pronouncedly busy aspect— some three hundred or so of the more dissatisfied workmen having decided, after grave and profound deliberation, that quite the simplest way to extract from their employer the increase of wages they desired would be to smash up about seventy-five per cent of the machinery in the place. Armed with the necessary tools for this operation, they advanced upon the factory in a body, reaching it a few moments before Merlin and Miss Brown drove up.

The manager, Forsythe, a shrewd, capable Scot, with an auger-shaped brain, a steel-lined will and rubber-reinforced soul, had collected many police beforehand and formed them as it were into a reception committee for the strikers.

He was haranguing them from a lofty place upon a pile of crates, as Merlin's car came into sight.

"Here," he said, "comes the boss. And if ye'll have the sense to be patient for ten minutes, yell discover that he'll settle it one way or the ither within ten minutes. If ye take my advice, ye'll wait. Ye have no fool to deal wi' now, d'ye ken! He'll treat ye fair, and if ye aren't all out of yer minds, ye'll abide by his decision."

The crowd stared with interest at the fair-haired, thin-featured young man, at his pretty lady friend, and especially at the glaring, furrow-faced, pale-eyed, growling beast that stood on the big dicky seat behind— Molossus, who was surveying the multitude with every symptom of displeasure. His teeth gleamed in the gaslight like steel.

Merlin leaned out, talking to Forsythe. He already knew 'the main points of the strike— for instance, that this was not a unanimous strike, but was largely confimed to a section of men comprising perhaps a third-of the hands. All the women workers were well paid and satisfied, as well as many of the men— indeed it was well known that all O'Moore's workers, everywhere, were reasonably paid and well housed. But a section of them 'had lost their heads a little, thanks to athe activities of certain discontented individuals, and these comprised the strikers. Mostly they were engine-men, stokers, and what were lucidly described as "craters, twisters, catchers and tankers."

Briefly, then, all that Merlin had to deal with were the engine-men, the stokers, and their quaintly named comrades.

"The bulk of the crowd, sir, are here for curiosity," said Forsythe. "I think ye should be firm. These men should be fired out— " He handed a list. "The rest of the strikers are too well paid as it is."

"I see. How much too much?" asked Merlin quietky. The Scot scribbled some figures upon a sheet from his notebook; and Merlin, who rightly had implicit faith in the judgment of his manager, stood up on the seat of the car and faced the crowd.

Doubtless, judging from the gentle appearance of Mr. O'Moore, they expected a soothing speech, in which he would yield to their demands.

They were disappointed— very.

"Men!" said Mr. O'Moore in a voice that, clear and distinct and with an odd ring if not of gayety, certainly of exhilaration in it, reached every person, striker and nonstriker, there. "I understand that about a third of you are dissatisfied— mostly the engine-men, stokers, craters, twisters, catchers and tankers— I don't know what the last four are, but no doubt they are very interesting— and demand a raise."

"Yass! Yuss! Yes! That's it, boss— a good raise!" they bawled. s

"And the remaining two-thirds are satisfied!"

"Yah! The dirty blacklegs!" howled the strikers.

"Very well," continued Merlin. "I have made inquiries of Mr. Forsythe— in whom I have perfect trust— and I am satisfied with the result of my inquiries. Now I want, my dear friends, to break an item of news to you. This— I am not interested in hat factories— I don't care for hat factories— I don't require any hat factories. I have so much money that I have never noticed whether this hat factory makes a profit.or a loss. I.don't know; and, my friends, I don't 'care. Personally I think this is an ugly hat factory— ugly and smelly— and I assure you that I would far rather see it leveled to the ground and turned into a really pretty golf-links. After all, what is the good of hats? Things that people put on heads which have already been provided by nature with a very reasonable thatch. Personally, I don't beleve in hats or hat factories, and if there are a proportion of you who don't want to work in an ugly hat factory, I am sure I don't blame you. I wouldn't myself— should not think of it. Most uncomfortable notion. Still, we'll put that aside... . . About this money. Let me say at once that the wages of the nonstrikers remain as they are— they are satisfied, and I am sure I am. The wages of the strikers will be reduced ten per cent all round. Do you get that, my friends? Ten per cent, all round— and you will still be the best paid hat-factory artists in the world! Those who don't care about staying on can leave. It makes no difference at all to me. If they want to wreck the factory, they can— some other evening. It will not agitate me. I shall never miss it — in fact, I shall be glad to be rid of it."

HE smiled benignly upon the rather puzzled crowd. The police, Forsythe, and a few of the sub-managers and so forth were looking uneasy, but Merlin did not appear to notice it.

"Ten per cent cut until you behave yourselves better," he said, rubbing it in. "And you have my sympathy; but you will never get more of my money than I want to give you, until you learn to ask for it a little more civilly than you have on this occasion. And now, what are you going to do about it? Wreck the factory, or accept what I have offered you— namely, ten per cent cut all round? Turn it over in your minds."

He lifted a small bag from the seat and opened it.

"I ought, perhaps, to say that it is not entirely convenient to have the factory wrecked this evening." He began passing things from the bag to Forsythe and his supporters. "And I am not prepared to allow my friends or myself to be attacked to any extent. Consequently I have taken the precaution of arming us all for purposes of self-defense. These little instruments which you perceive in our hands are specimens of the unique talent of a fertileminded gentleman named Browning— Mr. Browning. They are known as automatic pistols, and they fire much more swiftly and effectively than revolvers. They are very pretty little things, and with the best intentions in the world, I assure you, my good friends, that the first dozen or so of you who lead the assault will inevitably sample them."

He smiled again, as they muttered sourly among themselves, still a little puzzled.

Then with a sharpness that startled them, the millionaire's voice and whole manner changed extraordinarily.

"Why, you greedy blackguards," he said, with a cold and stabbing contempt. "Haven't you brains enough to understand that you are too well paid already, and that if I were a poor man, the factory would have been shut down years ago? If not, go to the women and learn from them how to be satisfied, and how to get out of the way of thinking that the law's right when it backs you up and wrong when it doesn't. And now, clear out, or I'll cut your wages ten per cent per minute from now onward!"

The police braced themselves for what they thought was coming. But nothing came.

The strikers knew, in their hearts, that they were in a big minority, and that their strike had been inspired not by honest need but by a desire to take advantage of an employer they fancied was "soft."

They had discovered now that he was unsoft. Oaths, yells and mutterings there were in plenty— but some one set the fashion of "clearing out," and it speedily became a craze. Everybody was doing it almost immediately. It was within a space of minutes, quite the thing to edge out of the range of vision of Mr. O'Moore and the needle-eyed Scot standing close by him.

The strike was settled, and within half an hour Merlin, Miss Brown and Molossus were speeding at a leisurely pace homeward, to where Messrs. MacBatt, Fitz-Percy and Bull were waiting to receive them.

MR. FITZ-PERCY, meantime, had made quite a number of mortifying discoveries, mostly relating to the quaint giant who called himself, with perfect truth, Big Bill Bull. And since it had been the Deadhead's praiseworthy plan to drug Mr. Bull into at least friendliness and forgetfulness of his mission with practically unlimited quantities of beer, not the least mortifying of his discoveries was the knowledge that William could absorb all that was set before him, apparently without the least effect upon his physical or his mental— if any—  equilibrium. Further, after tankards terribly innumerable, it was borne in upon the Fitz-Percy that the lapping of many waves of beer upon the shore of Mr. Bull's consciousness, so far from soothing his anger and weakening his intent well-nigh to slaughter Mr. O'Moore, merely intensified and steeled it.

Not that Mr. Bull became quarrelsome—  not at all. He became merely anatomical. Between beers he favored the Deadhead, himself laboring gallantly with a terrifical cargo of inferior beer blended with the magnificent wines he had taken at dinner, with a detailed account of how he purposed practically to tear Mr. O'Moore limb from limb. It was all very grisly indeed, and was not rendered less so by the occasional descents upon the pair of Mr. Fin MacBatt, who came into the place at regular intervals, a little more "lit up" each time, presumably to see that his gigantic prey did not escape him. The valet carried a large brassy with a dreadnought head.

Not one of the Fitz-Percy's many attempts to soften the fell determination of Big Bill had the least effect, and at about ten o'clock the Deadhead rather dizzily realized that Mr. Bull had not sufficient brain-power to accommodate his suggestions. Ideas, tact, persuasion, veiled threats, all slid off Mr. Bull's brain-case like water off a slab-roof. It was impenetrable by any art of even such an artist as Mr. Fitz-Percy.

So, recognizing that he had done his best, and failed, the Deadhead, still dimly conscious that Merlin would regard the calling in of the police as a sign of weakness, presently fell in with the suggestion of the still quiet but now perfectly cannibalistic Bull that they should have one final tankard and return to the hotel in the hope of finding that Mr. O'Moore was now at home.

"You are doubtless aware, my good friend, apart from Mr. O'Moore himself, MacBatt, his completely iron-clad valet, and Molossus his man-eater, you will have to deal with large numbers of huge porters, commissionaires, —  er —  bouncers and so forth, if you start anything at a place like the Astoritz!" he said.

Big Bill Bull grinned a slow grin, which, oddly enough, had something remotely winning about it.

"The more the merrier, mate," said he cheerfully. "I'll half kill them all!'

"Very well," said the Deadhead, seeing that the man must be humored until he was rendered completely unconscious. 'Let it be as you wish!"

They went up to Merlin's suite.

MacBATT met them at the door with the grin of an enraged death's-head.

"Come in," said the valet, keeping at comfortable brassy length. "Mr. O'Moore has returned and is expecting you."

Big Bill Bull took off his coat and waistcoat and put them on a hall chair near him. Also he spat upon his hands.

"This way," said MacBatt, and steered them toward Merlin's favorite room.

"Mr. William Bull," he announced, and entered behind them.

Merlin, who was alone, and still in his motoring things, turned to them.

"Well, Mr. Bull, what can I do for you?" he asked. Molossus, standing near and, to judge by his exhibition of teeth, giving an admirable representation of a dogue in an ivory mask, seemed to be asking the same question.

"Do, mate!" said Mr. Bull. "You got to raise all wages down at the hat-factory by half, being as how you're a blood-sucking capitalist an' human shark!" he added, with a parrotlike mechanical simplicity that made it abundantly evident that he was merely repeating a lesson. "Or else I shall smash you and your house and furniture and everything else," he concluded, knotting his fists.

Molossus gaped imploringly at Merlin for permission to devour the big dunderhead.

But Merlin looked curiously at the man.

"Do you honestly believe you can do anything my man?" he asked. "You are big, but that is all, and I have no doubt that by touching this bell I can have half a dozen men as big as— or bigger than— you, here, in a few seconds." (The Astoritz is noted for its huge retainers.) 'You have come to the wrong place— and— "

"And your name is Daniel in the lion's den, see?" hissed MacBatt bloodthirstily, entirely incapable of restraining himself.

Big Bill Bull scratched his head, remoistened his palms, and knotted his fists again.

"If you was earthquakes and lightning, and your little dog was lions and tigers, it wouldn't matter to me. I should put you through it, just the same," he said simply, and quite obviously meaning it.

Mr. Bull was plainly one of those men who honestly does not know what fear is—  one of those unimaginative gents that, staring into a loaded revolver, cannot for the life' of them believe there are bullets inside.

"Well, mates, look out!" he grunted, on the verge of attack. Merlin, who did not desire a scene, reached to the bell; MacBatt got a comfortable grip on his brassy; the Deadhead picked a solid, clublike slab of heavy carved ivory from the wall; and Molossus, instinctively realizing danger, began to foam at the jaws.

But none of these symptoms seemed to affect Mr. Bull in the least. He glanced round, marking the lay of the land— looking like a grizzly. But on the very edge of his rush he suddenly stiffened as the door opened and Blackberry Brown, who had been to her flat to change prior to supper with Merlin, entered, followed by a pale, rather pretty, bright-eyed diminutive girl.

"I met this child inquiring for you, Merlin, on my way up!" said Miss Brown. "Her name is Miss Bessie Wimple, and I think she is hunting for a gentleman named William Bull!"

"This is Mr. Bull," said Merlin politely.

AND then an amazing— or, so it seemed — thing befell.

Miss Wimple's sharp, bright eyes flickered round the room, at the men, at Molossus, who was still dribbling and rumbling within himself, and finally at Big Bill Bull. A quick, angry flush spread over her pale cheeks; her lips seemed to go thinner, and her eyes sparkled. She was still pretty, but there was a faint, far-off hint of the nagger and the shrew about her.

She moved swiftly to the mountainous Mr. Bull and stared at him. She seemed about as high as his lowest rib.

"William Bull," she said, with a crisp snap, "you have been misbehaving yourself again! Look at you! In this hotel in a gentleman's room without your coat on! Where's your manners? Just look at you! Glaring and staring there like a great ignorant ninny! Look at your great red hands! Aint you heartily ashamed of yourself, William Bull? The ignorance! Why don't you bow to the lady? Haven't you got any manners? Look at your great, dirty lumpering boots— on the gentleman's carpet and all!" She sniffed at him keenly.

"And you've been drinking beer! After your promise! What do you think people will think of you! Why didn't you shave yourself before you came to London? Ugh! Look at you. In your working shirt, too!" She drew breath. Evidently this was merely the preface.

BUT it had worked a miracle in that room, preface or not. Five seconds before, Mr. Bull had closely resembled a musth elephant. Now he resembled a punctured push-ball. He stared open-mouthed, goggleeyed, at the little hornet buzzing about him. He looked dazedly at his "great red hands," at his "great lumpering boots"; he bobbed awkwardly to Blackberry Brown all as ordered. He blushed to the roots of his hair; he was utterly crestfallen.

Miss Wimple was tugging at a ring on her finger. Horror and desperation were made plain upon his face as he realized what she was doing.

"I can't bear bad-mannered men," she said angrily, "and I'll never lower myself to marry one!"

Mr. Bull gazed imploringly at Merlin, at the Deadhead, at MacBatt, even at Molossus. Evidently he loved the girl, and was in agony lest she meant what she said. All the fight was gone out of him.

The unfortunate man opened his mouth to speak and failed. Either his beer or his emotion choked him. He only succeeded in hiccoughing most alarmingly— and that, as Mr. MacBatt afterward said to "Honroy," put the lid on it. Like a tiny cyclone the girl whirled upon her gigantical fiancé and bitterly and contemptuously hustled him out of the room— as a twittering tomtit might (if it could) hustle a barnyard rooster off his favorite rubbish heap.

And the giant went like a lamb. They heard her voice, shrill and penetrating and extraordinarily copious, hounding the man into his coat, across the hall, through the door, down the stairway, and finally die away.

THE men stared at each other, with an odd, comradely look in their eyes.

"And that is the man who five minutes ago would have fought the entire male population of this hotel— and reveled in it!" said Merlin in a quiet, almost awed voice.

The Fitz-Percy shook his head slowly and a little sadly.

"And that's the girl I took for a walk last month!" said MacBatt raptly.

________________

14: The Headswoman

Kenneth Grahame

1859-1932

The Yellow Book,  Oct 1894

Author of the celebrated tale "The Wind in the Willows".

IT WAS A BLAND sunny morning of a mediæval May— an old-style May of the most typical quality; and the Council of the little town of St. Radegonde were assembled, as was their wont at that hour, in the picturesque upper chamber of the Hotel de Ville, for the dispatch of the usual municipal business. Though the date was early sixteenth century, the members of this particular town-council possessed some resemblance to those of similar assemblies in the seventeenth, eighteenth, and even the nineteenth centuries, in a general absence of any characteristic at all— unless a pervading hopeless insignificance can be considered as such. All the character, indeed, in the room seemed to be concentrated in the girl who stood before the table, erect, yet at her ease, facing the members in general and Mr. Mayor in particular; a delicate-handed, handsome girl of some eighteen summers, whose tall, supple figure was well set off by the quiet, though tasteful mourning in which she was clad.

“Well, gentlemen,” the Mayor was saying; “this little business appears to be— er— quite in order, and it only remains for me to— er— review the facts. You are aware that the town has lately had the misfortune to lose its executioner— a gentleman who, I may say, performed the duties of his office with neatness and dispatch, and gave the fullest satisfaction to all with whom he— er— came in contact. But the Council has already, in a vote of condolence, expressed its sense of the— er— striking qualities of the deceased. You are doubtless also aware that the office is hereditary, being secured to a particular family in this town, so long as any one of its members is ready and willing to take it up. The deed lies before me, and appears to be— er— quite in order. It is true that on this occasion the Council might have been called upon to consider and examine the title of the claimant, the late lamented official having only left a daughter— she who now stands before you; but I am happy to say that Jeanne— the young lady in question— with what I am bound to call great good-feeling on her part, has saved us all trouble in that respect, by formally applying for the family post, with all its— er— duties, privileges, and emoluments; and her application appears to be— er— quite in order. There is therefore, under the circumstances, nothing left for us to do but to declare the said applicant duly elected. I would wish, however, before I— er— sit down, to make it quite clear to the— er— fair petitioner, that if a laudable desire to save the Council trouble in the matter has led her to a— er— hasty conclusion, it is quite open to her to reconsider her position. Should she determine not to press her claim, the succession to the post would then apparently devolve upon her cousin Enguerrand, well known to you all as a practising advocate in the courts of this town. Though the youth has not, I admit, up to now proved a conspicuous success in the profession he has chosen, still there is no reason why a bad lawyer should not make an excellent executioner; and in view of the close friendship— may I even say attachment?—existing between the cousins, it is possible that this young lady may, in due course, practically enjoy the solid emoluments of the position without the necessity of discharging its (to some girls) uncongenial duties. And so, though not the rose herself, she would still be— er— near the rose!” And the Mayor resumed his seat, chuckling over his little pleasantry, which the keener wits of the Council proceeded to explain at length to the more obtuse.

“Permit me, Mr. Mayor,” said the girl, quietly, “first to thank you for what was evidently the outcome of a kindly though misdirected feeling on your part; and then to set you right as to the grounds of my application for the post to which you admit my hereditary claim. As to my cousin, your conjecture as to the feeling between us is greatly exaggerated; and I may further say at once, from my knowledge of his character, that he is little qualified either to adorn or to dignify an important position such as this. A man who has achieved such indifferent success in a minor and less exacting walk of life, is hardly likely to shine in an occupation demanding punctuality, concentration, judgment—all the qualities, in fine, that go to make a good business man. But this is beside the question. My motives, gentlemen, in demanding what is my due, are simple and (I trust) honest, and I desire that you should know them. It is my wish to be dependent on no one. I am both willing and able to work, and I only ask for what is the common right of humanity— admission to the labour market. How many poor toiling women would simply jump at a chance like this which fortune lays open to me! And shall I, from any false deference to that conventional voice which proclaims this thing as “nice,” and that thing as “not nice,” reject a handicraft which promises me both artistic satisfaction and a competence? No, gentlemen; my claim is a small one— only a fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work. But I can accept nothing less, nor consent to forgo my rights, even or any contingent remainder of possible cousinly favour!”

There was a touch of scorn in her fine contralto voice as she finished speaking; the Mayor himself beamed approval. He was not wealthy, and had a large family of daughters; so Jeanne’s sentiments seemed to him entirely right and laudable.

“Well, gentlemen,” he began, briskly, “then all we’ve got to do, is to—”

“Beg pardon, your worship,” put in Master Robinet, the tanner, who had been sitting with a petrified, Bill-the-Lizard sort of expression during the speechifying; “but are we to understand as how this here young lady is going to be the public executioner?”

“Really, neighbour Robinet,” said the Mayor somewhat pettishly, “you’ve got ears like the rest of us, I suppose; and you know the contents of the deed; and you’ve had my assurance that it’s— er— quite in order; and as it’s getting towards lunchtime—”

“But it’s unheard-of,” protested honest Robinet. “There hasn’t ever been no such thing— leastways not as I’ve heard tell.”

“Well, well, well,” said the Mayor, “everything must have a beginning, I suppose. Times are different now, you know. There’s the march of intellect, and— er— all that sort of thing. We must advance with the times— don’t you see, Robinet?— advance with the times!”

“Well I’m—” began the tanner.

But no one heard, on this occasion, the tanner’s opinion as to his condition, physical or spiritual; for the clear contralto cut short his obtestations.

“If there’s really nothing more to be said, Mr. Mayor,” she remarked, “I need not trespass longer on your valuable time. I propose to take up the duties of my office to-morrow morning, at the usual hour. The salary will, I assume, be reckoned from the same date; and I shall make the customary quarterly application for such additional emoluments as may have accrued to me during that period. You see I am familiar with the routine. Good morning, gentlemen!” And as she passed from the Council chamber, her small head held erect, even the tanner felt that she took with her a large portion of the May sunshine which was condescending that morning to gild their deliberations.

ii

ONE EVENING, a few weeks later, Jeanne was taking a stroll on the ramparts of the town, a favourite and customary walk of hers when business cares were over. The pleasant expanse of country that lay spread beneath her—the rich sunset, the gleaming sinuous river, and the noble old château that dominated both town and pasture from its adjacent height— all served to stir and bring out in her those poetic impulses which had lain dormant during the working day; while the cool evening breeze smoothed out and obliterated any little jars or worries which might have ensued during the practice of a profession in which she was still something of a novice. This evening she felt fairly happy and content. True, business was rather brisk, and her days had been fully occupied; but this mattered little so long as her modest efforts were appreciated, and she was now really beginning to feel that, with practice, her work was creditably and artistically done. In a satisfied, somewhat dreamy mood, she was drinking in the various sweet influences of the evening, when she perceived her cousin approaching.

“Good evening, Enguerrand,” cried Jeanne pleasantly; she was thinking that since she had begun to work for her living, she had hardly seen him— and they used to be such good friends. Could anything have occurred to offend him?

Enguerrand drew near somewhat moodily, but could not help relaxing his expression at sight of her fair young face, set in its framework of rich brown hair, wherein the sunset seemed to have tangled itself and to cling, reluctant to leave it.

“Sit down, Enguerrand,” continued Jeanne, “and tell me what you’ve been doing this long time. Been very busy, and winning forensic fame and gold?”

“Well, not exactly,” said Enguerrand, moody once more. “The fact is, there’s so much interest required nowadays at the courts, that unassisted talent never gets a chance. And you, Jeanne?”

“Oh, I don’t complain,” answered Jeanne, lightly. “Of course it’s fair-time just now, you know, and we’re always busy then. But work will be lighter soon, and then I’ll get a day off, and we’ll have a delightful ramble and picnic in the woods, as we used to do when we were children. What fun we had in those old days, Enguerrand! Do you remember when we were quite little tots, and used to play at executions in the back-garden, and you were a bandit and a buccaneer, and all sorts of dreadful things, and I used to chop off your head with a paper-knife? How pleased dear father used to be!”

“Jeanne,” said Enguerrand, with some hesitation, “you’ve touched upon the very subject that I came to speak to you about. Do you know, dear, I can’t help feeling—it may be unreasonable, but still the feeling is there— that the profession you have adopted is not quite— is just a little—”

“Now, Enguerrand!” said Jeanne, an angry flash sparkling in her eyes. She was a little touchy on this subject, the word she most affected to despise being also the one she most dreaded— the adjective “unladylike.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Jeanne,” went on Enguerrand, imploringly: “You may naturally think that, because I should have succeeded to the post, with its income and perquisites, had you relinquished your claim, there is therefore some personal feeling in my remonstrances. Believe me, it is not so. My own interests do not weigh with me for a moment. It is on your own account, Jeanne, and yours alone, that I ask you to consider whether the higher æsthetic qualities, which I know you possess, may not become cramped and thwarted by ‘the trivial round, the common task,’ which you have lightly undertaken. However laudable a professional life may be, one always feels that with a delicate organism such as woman, some of the bloom may possibly get rubbed off the peach.”

“Well, Enguerrand,” said Jeanne, composing herself with an effort, though her lips were set hard, “I will do you the justice to belive that personal advantage does not influence you, and I will try to reason calmly with you, and convince you that you are simply hide-bound by old-world prejudice. Now, take yourself, for instance, who come here to instruct me: what does your profession amount to, when all’s said and done? A mass of lies, quibbles, dodges, and tricks, that would make any self-respecting executioner blush! And even with the dirty weapons at your command, you make but a poor show of it. There was that wretched fellow you defended only two days ago. (I was in court during the trial— professional interest, you know.) Well, he had his regular alibi all ready, as clear as clear could be; only you must needs go and mess and bungle the thing up, so that, as I expected all along, he was passed on to me for treatment in due course. You may like to have his opinion— that of a shrewd, though unlettered person. ‘It’s a real pleasure, miss,’ he said, ‘to be handled by you. You knows your work, and you does your work—though p’raps I ses it as shouldn’t. If that blooming fool of a mouthpiece of mine’—he was referring to you, dear, in your capacity of advocate—‘had known his business half as well as you do yours, I shouldn’t a bin here now!’ And you know, Enguerrand, he was perfectly right.”

“Well, perhaps he was,” admitted Enguerrand. “You see, I had been working at a sonnet the night before, and I couldn’t get the rhymes right, and they would keep coming into my head in court and mixing themselves up with the alibi. But look here, Jeanne, when you saw I was going off the track, you might have given me a friendly hint, you know— for old times’ sake, if not for the prisoner’s!”

“I daresay,” replied Jeanne, calmly: “perhaps you’ll tell me why I should sacrifice my interests because you’re unable to look after yours. You forget that I receive a bonus, over and above my salary, upon each exercise of my functions!”

“True,” said Enguerrand, gloomily: “I did forget that. I wish I had your business aptitudes, Jeanne.”

“I daresay you do,” remarked Jeanne. “But you see, dear, how all your arguments fall to the ground. You mistake a prepossession for a logical base. Now if I had gone, like that Clairette you used to dangle after, and been waiting-woman to some grand lady in a château— a thin-blooded compound of drudge and sycophant— then, I suppose, you’d have been perfectly satisfied. So feminine! So genteel!”

“She’s not a bad sort of girl, little Claire,” said Enguerrand, reflectively (thereby angering Jeanne afresh): “but putting her aside,— of course you could always beat me at argument, Jeanne; you’d have made a much better lawyer than I. But you know, dear, how much I care about you; and I did hope that on that account even a prejudice, however unreasonable, might have some little weight. And I’m not alone, let me tell you, in my views. There was a fellow in court only to-day, who was saying that yours was only a succès d’estime, and that woman, as a naturally talkative and hopelessly unpunctual animal, could never be more than a clever amateur in the profession you have chosen.”

“That will do, Enguerrand,” said Jeanne, proudly; “it seems that when argument fails, you can stoop so low as to insult me through my sex. You men are all alike—steeped in brutish masculine prejudice. Now go away, and don’t mention the subject to me again till you’re quite reasonable and nice.”

iii

JEANNE passed a somewhat restless night after her small scene with her cousin, waking depressed and unrefreshed. Though she had carried matters with so high a hand, and had scored so distinctly all around, she had been more agitated than she had cared to show. She liked Enguerrand; and more especially did she like his admiration for her; and that chance allusion to Clairette contained possibilities that were alarming. In embracing a professional career, she had never thought for a moment that it could militate against that due share of admiration to which, as a girl, she was justly entitled; and Enguerrand’s views seemed this morning all the more narrow and inexcusable. She rose languidly, and as soon as she was dressed sent off a little note to the Mayor, saying that she had a nervous headache and felt out of sorts, and begging to be excused from attendance on that day; and the missive reached the Mayor just as he was taking his usual place at the head of the Board.

“Dear, dear,” said the kind-hearted old man, as soon as he had read the letter to his fellow-councilmen: “I’m very sorry. Poor girl! Here, one of you fellows, just run round and tell the gaoler there won’t be any business to-day. Jeanne’s seedy. It’s put off till to-morrow. And now, gentlemen, the agenda—”

“Really, your worship,” exploded Robinet, “this is simply ridiculous!”

“Upon my word, Robinet,” said the Mayor, “I don’t know what’s the matter with you. Here’s a poor girl unwell— and a more hardworking girl isn’t in the town— and instead of sympathising with her, and saying you’re sorry, you call it ridiculous! Suppose you had a headache yourself! You wouldn’t like—”

“But it is ridiculous,” maintained the tanner stoutly. “Who ever heard of an executioner having a nervous headache? There’s no precedent for it. And ‘out of sorts,’ too! Suppose the criminals said they were out of sorts, and didn’t feel up to being executed?”

“Well, suppose they did,” replied the Mayor, “we’d try and meet them halfway, I daresay. They’d have to be executed some time or other, you know. Why on earth are you so captious about trifles? The prisoners won’t mind, and I don’t mind: nobody’s inconvenienced, and everybody’s happy!”

“You’re right there, Mr. Mayor,” put in another councilman. “This executing business used to give the town a lot of trouble and bother; now it’s all as easy as kiss-your-hand. Instead of objecting, as they used to do, and wanting to argue the point and kick up a row, the fellows as is told off for execution come skipping along in the morning, like a lot of lambs in Maytime. And then the fun there is on the scaffold! The jokes, the back-answers, the repartees! And never a word to shock a baby! Why, my little girl, as goes through the market-place every morning— on her way to school, you know— she says to me only yesterday, she says, ‘Why, father,’ she says, ‘it’s as good as the play-actors,’ she says.”

“There again,” persisted Robinet, “I object to that too. They ought to show a properer feeling. Playing at mummers is one thing, and being executed is another, and people ought to keep ’em separate. In my father’s time, that sort of thing wasn’t thought good taste, and I don’t hold with new-fangled notions.”

“Well, really, neighbour,” said the Mayor, “I think you’re out of sorts yourself to-day. You must have got out of bed the wrong side this morning. As for a little joke, more or less, we all know a maiden loves a merry jest when she’s certain of having the last word! But I’ll tell you what I’ll do, if it’ll please you; I’ll go round and see Jeanne myself on my way home, and tell her— quite nicely, you know— that once in a way doesn’t matter, but that if she feels her health won’t let her keep regular business hours, she mustn’t think of going on with anything that’s bad for her. Like that, don’t you see? And now, gentlemen, let’s read the minutes!”

Thus it came about that Jeanne took her usual walk that evening with a ruffled brow and a swelling heart; and her little hand opened and shut angrily as she paced the ramparts. She couldn’t stand being found fault with. How could she help having a headache? Those clods of citizens didn’t know what a highly-strung sensitive organisation was. Absorbed in her reflections, she had taken several turns up and down the grassy footway, before she became aware that she was not alone. A youth, of richer dress and more elegant bearing than the general run of the Radegundians, was leaning in an embrasure, watching the graceful figure with evident interest.

“Something has vexed you, fair maiden?” he observed, coming forward deferentially as soon as he perceived he was noticed; “and care sits but awkwardly on that smooth young brow.”

“Nay, it is nothing, kind sir,” replied Jeanne; “we girls who work for our living must not be too sensitive. My employers have been somewhat exigent, that is all. I did wrong to take it to heart.”

“ ’Tis the way of the bloated capitalist,” rejoined the young man lightly, as he turned to walk by her side. “They grind us, they grind us; perhaps some day they will come under your hands in turn, and then you can pay them out. And so you toil and spin, fair lily! And yet methinks those delicate hands show little trace of labour?”

“You wrong me, indeed, sir,” replied Jeanne merrily. “These hands of mine, that you are so good as to admire, do great execution!”

“I can well believe that your victims are numerous,” he replied; “may I be permitted to rank myself among the latest of them?”

“I wish you a better fortune, kind sir,” answered Jeanne demurely.

“I can imagine no more delightful one,” he replied; “and where do you ply your daily task, fair mistress? Not entirely out of sight and access, I trust?”

“Nay, sir,” laughed Jeanne, “I work in the market-place most mornings, and there is no charge for admission; and access is far from difficult. Indeed, some complain— but that is no business of mine. And now I must be wishing you a good evening. Nay”— for he would have detained her— “it is not seemly for an  unprotected maiden to tarry in converse with a stranger at this hour. Au revoir, sir! If you should happen to be in the marketplace any morning—” And she tripped lightly away. The youth, gazing after her retreating figure, confessed himself strangely fascinated by this fair unknown, whose particular employment, by the way, he had forgotten to ask; while Jeanne, as she sped homewards, could not help reflecting that for style and distinction, this new acquaintance threw into the shade all the Enguerrands and others she had met hitherto—even in the course of business.

iv

THE NEXT MORNING was bright and breezy, and Jeanne was early at her post, feeling quite a different girl. The busy little marketplace was full of colour and movement, and the gay patches of flowers and fruit, the strings of fluttering kerchiefs, and the piles of red and yellow pottery, formed an artistic setting to the quiet impressive scaffold which they framed. Jeanne was in short sleeves, according to the etiquette of her office, and her round graceful arms showed snowily against her dark blue skirt and scarlet tight-fitting bodice. Her assistant looked at her with admiration.

“Hope you’re better, miss,” he said respectfully. “It was just as well you didn’t put yourself out to come yesterday; there was nothing particular to do. Only one fellow, and he said he didn’t care; anything to oblige a lady!”

“Well, I wish he’d hurry up now, to oblige a lady,” said Jeanne, swinging her axe carelessly to and fro: “ten minutes past the hour; I shall have to talk to the Mayor about this.”

“It’s a pity there ain’t a better show this morning,” pursued the assistant, as he leant over the rail of the scaffold and spat meditatively into the busy throng below. “They do say as how the young Seigneur arrived at the Château yesterday— him as has been finishing his education in Paris, you know. He’s as likely as not to be in the market-place to-day; and if he’s disappointed, he may go off to Paris again, which would be a pity, seeing the Château’s been empty so long. But he may go to Paris, or anywheres else he’s a mind to, he won’t see better workmanship than in this here little town!”

“Well, my good Raoul,” said Jeanne, colouring slightly at the obvious compliment, “quality, not quantity, is what we aim at here, you know. If a Paris education has been properly assimilated by the Seigneur, he will not fail to make all the necessary allowances. But see, the prison-doors are opening at last!”

They both looked across the little square to the prison, which fronted the scaffold; and sure enough, a small body of men, the Sheriff at their head, was issuing from the building, conveying, or endeavouring to convey, the tardy prisoner to the scaffold. That gentleman, however, seemed to be in a different and less obliging frame of mind from that of the previous day; and at every pace one or other of the guards was shot violently into the middle of the square, propelled by a vigorous kick or blow from the struggling captive. The crowd, unaccustomed of late to such demonstrations of feeling, and resenting the prisoner’s want of taste, hooted loudly; but it was not until that ingenious mediæval arrangement known as la marche aux crapauds had been brought to bear on him, that the reluctant convict could be prevailed upon to present himself before the young lady he had already so unwarrantably detained.

Jeanne’s profession had both accustomed her to surprises and taught her the futility of considering her clients as drawn from any one particular class: yet she could hardly help feeling some astonishment on recognising her new acquaintance of the previous evening. That, with all his evident amiability of character, he should come to this end, was not in itself a special subject for wonder; but that he should have been conversing with her on the ramparts at the hour when— after courteously excusing her attendance on the scaffold— he was cooling his heels in prison for another day, seemed hardly to be accounted for, at first sight. Jeanne, however, reflected that the reconciling of apparent contradictions was not included in her official duties.

The Sheriff, wiping his heated brow, now read the formal procès delivering over the prisoner to the executioner’s hands; “and a nice job we’ve had to get him here,” he added on his own account. And the young man, who had remained perfectly tractable since his arrival, stepped forward and bowed politely.

“Now that we have been properly introduced,” said he courteously, “allow me to apologise for any inconvenience you have been put to by my delay. The fault was entirely mine, and these gentlemen are in no way to blame. Had I known whom I was to have the pleasure of meeting, wings could not have conveyed me swiftly enough.”

“Do not mention, I pray, the word inconvenience,” replied Jeanne with that timid grace which so well became her: “I only trust that any slight discomfort it may be my duty to cause you before we part, will be as easily pardoned. And now— for the morning, alas! advances— any little advice or assistance that I can offer is quite at your service; for the situation is possibly new, and you may have had but little experience.”

“Faith, none worth mentioning,” said the prisoner, gaily. “Treat me as a raw beginner. Though our acquaintance has been but brief, I have the utmost confidence in you.”

“Then, sir,” said Jeanne, blushing, “suppose I were to assist you in removing this gay doublet, so as to give both of us more freedom and less responsibility?”

“A perquisite of the office?” queried the prisoner with a smile, as he slipped one arm out of the sleeve.

A flush came over Jeanne’s fair brow. “That was ungenerous,” she said.

“Nay, pardon me, sweet one,” said he, laughing: “’twas but a poor jest of mine— in bad taste, I willingly admit.”

“I was sure you did not mean to hurt me,” she replied kindly, while her fingers were busy in turning back the collar of his shirt. It was composed, she noticed, of the finest point lace; and she could not help a feeling of regret that some slight error— as must, from what she knew, exist somewhere— should compel her to take a course so at variance with her real feelings. Her only comfort was that the youth himself seemed entirely satisfied with his situation. He hummed the last air from Paris during her ministrations, and when she had quite finished, kissed the pretty fingers with a metropolitan grace.

“And now, sir,” said Jeanne, “if you will kindly come this way: and please to mind the step— so. Now, if you will have the goodness to kneel here— nay, the sawdust is perfectly clean; you are my first client this morning. On the other side of the block you will find a nick, more or less adapted to the human chin, though a perfect fit cannot of course be guaranteed in every case. So! Are you pretty comfortable?”

“A bed of roses,” replied the prisoner. “And what a really admirable view one gets of the valley and the river, from just this particular point!”

“Charming, is it not?” replied Jeanne. “I’m so glad you do justice to it. Some of your predecessors have really quite vexed me by their inability to appreciate that view. It’s worth coming here to see it. And now, to return to business for one moment,— would you prefer to give the word yourself? Some people do; it’s a mere matter of taste. Or will you leave yourself entirely in my hands?”

“Oh, in your fair hands,” replied her client, “which I beg you to consider respectfully kissed once more by your faithful servant to command.”

Jeanne, blushing rosily, stepped back a pace, moistening her palms as she grasped her axe, when a puffing and blowing behind caused her to turn her head, and she perceived the Mayor hastily ascending the scaffold.

“Hold on a minute, Jeanne, my girl,” he gasped. “Don’t be in a hurry. There’s been some little mistake.”

Jeanne drew herself up with dignity. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand you, Mr. Mayor,” she replied in freezing accents. “There’s been no little mistake on my part that I’m aware of.”

“No, no, no,” said the Mayor, apologetically; “but on somebody else’s there has. You see it happened in this way: this here young fellow was going round the town last night; and he’d been dining, I should say, and he was carrying on rather free. I will only say so much in your presence, that he was carrying on decidedly free. So the town-guard happened to come across him, and he was very high and very haughty, he was, and wouldn’t give his name nor yet his address— as a gentleman should, you know, when he’s been dining and carrying on free. So our fellows just ran him in— and it took the pick of them all their time to do it, too. Well, then, the other chap who was in prison— the gentleman who obliged you yesterday, you know— what does he do but slip out and run away in the middle of all the row and confusion; and very inconsiderate and ungentlemanly it was of him to take advantage of us in that mean way, just when we wanted a little sympathy and forbearance. Well, the Sheriff comes this morning to fetch out his man for execution, and he knows there’s only one man to execute, and he sees there’s only one man in prison, and it all seems as simple as A B C— he never was much of a mathematician, you know— so he fetches our friend here along, quite gaily. And— and that’s how it came about, you see; hinc illæ lachrymæ, as the Roman poet has it. So now I shall just give this young fellow a good talking to, and discharge him with a caution; and we shan’t require you any more to-day, Jeanne, my girl.”

“Now, look here, Mr. Mayor,” said Jeanne severely, “you utterly fail to grasp the situation in its true light. All these little details may be interesting in themselves, and doubtless the press will take note of them; but they are entirely beside the point. With the muddleheadedness of your officials (which I have frequently remarked upon) I have nothing whatever to do. All I know is, that this young gentleman has been formally handed over to me for execution, with all the necessary legal requirements; and executed he has got to be. When my duty has been performed, you are at liberty to re-open the case if you like; and any ‘little mistake’ that may have occurred through your stupidity you can then rectify at your leisure. Meantime, you’ve no locus standi here at all; in fact, you’ve no business whatever lumbering up my scaffold. So shut up and clear out.”

“Now, Jeanne, do be reasonable,” implored the Mayor. “You women are so precise. You never will make any allowance for the necessary margin of error in things.”

“If I were to allow the necessary margin for all your errors, Mayor,” replied Jeanne, coolly, “the edition would have to be a large-paper one, and even then the text would stand a poor chance. And now, if you don’t allow me the necessary margin to swing my axe, there may be another ‘little mistake’—”

But at this point a hubbub arose at the foot of the scaffold, and Jeanne, leaning over, perceived sundry tall fellows, clad in the livery of the Seigneur, engaged in dispersing the municipal guard by the agency of well-directed kicks, applied with heartiness and anatomical knowledge. A moment later, there strode on to the scaffold, clad in black velvet, and adorned with his gold chain of office, the stately old seneschal of the Château, evidently in a towering passion.

“Now, mark my words, you miserable little bladder-o’-lard,” he roared at the Mayor (whose bald head certainly shone provokingly in the morning sun), “see if I don’t take this out of your skin presently!” And he passed on to where the youth was still kneeling, apparently quite absorbed in the view.

“My lord,” he said, firmly though respectfully, “your hair-brained folly really passes all bounds. Have you entirely lost your head?”

“Faith, nearly,” said the young man, rising and stretching himself. “Is that you, old Thibault? Ow, what a crick I’ve got in my neck! But that view of the valley was really delightful!”

“Did you come here simply to admire the view, my lord?” inquired Thibault severely.

“I came because my horse would come,” replied the young Seigneur lightly: “that is, these gentlemen here were so pressing; they would not hear of any refusal; and besides, they forgot to mention what my attendance was required in such a hurry for. And when I got here, Thibault, old fellow, and saw that divine creature— nay, a goddess, dea certé— so graceful, so modest, so anxious to acquit herself with credit— Well, you know my weakness; I never could bear to disappoint a woman. She had evidently set her heart on taking my head; and as she had my heart already—”

“I think, my lord,” said Thibault with some severity, “you had better let me escort you back to the Château. This appears to be hardly a safe place for light-headed and susceptible persons!”

Jeanne, as was natural, had the last word. “Understand me, Mr. Mayor,” said she, “these proceedings are entirely irregular. I decline to recognise them, and when the quarter expires I shall claim the usual bonus!”

v

WHEN, an hour or two later, an invitation arrived— courteously worded, but significantly backed by an escort of half-a-dozen tall archers— for both Jeanne and the Mayor to attend at the Château without delay, Jeanne for her part received it with neither surprise nor reluctance. She had felt it especially hard that the only two interviews fate had granted her with the one man who had made some impression on her heart, should be hampered, the one by considerations of propriety, the other by the conflicting claims of her profession and its duties. On this occasion, now, she would have an excellent chaperon in the Mayor; and business being over for the day, they could meet and unbend on a common social footing. The Mayor was not at all surprised either, considering what had gone before; but he was exceedingly terrified, and sought some consolation from Jeanne as they proceeded together to the Château. That young lady’s remarks, however, could hardly be called exactly comforting.

“I always thought you’d put your foot in it some day, Mayor,” she said. “You are so hopelessly wanting in system and method. Really, under the present happy-go-lucky police arrangements, I never know whom I may not be called upon to execute. Between you and my cousin Enguerrand, life is hardly safe in this town. And the worst of it is, that we other officials on the staff have to share in the discredit.”

“What do you think they’ll do to me, Jeanne?” whimpered the Mayor, perspiring freely.

“Can’t say, I’m sure,” pursued the candid Jeanne. “Of course, if it’s anything in the rack line of business, I shall have to superintend the arrangements, and then you can feel sure you’re in capable hands. But probably they’ll only fine you pretty smartly, give you a month or two in the dungeons, and dismiss you from your post; and you will hardly grudge any slight personal inconvenience resulting from an arrangement so much to the advantage of the town.”

This was hardly reassuring, but the Mayor’s official reprimand of the previous day still rankled in this unforgiving young person’s mind.

On their reaching the Château, the Mayor was conducted aside, to be dealt with by Thibault; and from the sounds of agonised protestation and lament which shortly reached Jeanne’s ears, it was evident that he was having a mauvais quart d’heure. The young lady was shown respectfully into a chamber apart, where she had hardly had time to admire sufficiently the good taste of the furniture and the magnificence of the tapestry with which the walls were hung, when the Seigneur entered and welcomed her with a cordial grace that put her entirely at her ease.

“Your punctuality puts me to shame, fair mistress,” he said, “considering how unwarrantably I kept you waiting this morning, and how I tested your patience by my ignorance and awkwardness.”

He had changed his dress, and the lace round his neck was even richer than before. Jeanne had always considered one of the chief marks of a well-bred man to be a fine disregard for the amount of his washing-bill; and then with what good taste he referred to recent events— putting himself in the wrong, as a gentleman should!

“Indeed, my lord,” she replied modestly, “I was only too anxious to hear from your own lips that you bore me no ill-will for the part forced on me by circumstances in our recent interview. Your lordship has sufficient critical good sense, I feel sure, to distinguish between the woman and the official.”

“True, Jeanne,” he replied, drawing nearer; “and while I shrink from expressing, in their fulness, all the feelings that the woman inspires in me, I have no hesitation— for I know it will give you pleasure— in acquainting you with the entire artistic satisfaction with which I watched you at your task!”

“But, indeed” said Jeanne, “you did not see me at my best. In fact, I can’t help wishing—it’s ridiculous, I know, because the thing is hardly practicable— but if I could only have carried my performance quite through, and put the last finishing touches to it, you would not have been judging me now by the mere ‘blocking-in’ of what promised to be a masterpiece!”

“Yes, I wish it could have been arranged somehow,” said the Seigneur reflectively; “but perhaps it’s better as it is. I am content to let the artist remain for the present on trust, if I may only take over, fully paid up, the woman I adore!”

Jeanne felt strangely weak. The official seemed oozing out at her fingers and toes, while the woman’s heart beat even more distressingly.

“I have one little question to ask,” he murmured (his arm was about her now). “Do I understand that you still claim your bonus?”

Jeanne felt like water in his strong embrace; but she nerved herself to answer faintly but firmly: “Yes!”

“Then so do I,” he replied, as his lips met hers.

EXECUTIONS continued to occur in St. Radegonde; the Radegundians being conservative and very human. But much of the innocent enjoyment that formerly attended them departed after the fair Chatelaine had ceased to officiate. Enguerrand, on succeeding to the post, wedded Clairette, she being (he was heard to say) a more suitable match in mind and temper than others of whom he would name no names. Rumour had it, that he found his match and something over; while as for temper— and mind (which she gave him in bits)— But the domestic trials of high-placed officials have a right to be held sacred. The profession, in spite of his best endeavours, languished nevertheless. Some said that the scaffold lacked its old attraction for criminals of spirit; others, more unkindly, that the headsman was the innocent cause, and that Enguerrand was less fatal in his new sphere than formerly, when practising in the criminal court as advocate for the defence.

________________

15: The Sad End of Mr. William Starr

E. Phillips Oppenheim

1866-1946

Cosmopolitan, Jan 1928

Collected in:  The Human Chase, 1929

One of a series of 12 short stories about Inspector Benskin of Scotland Yard

THERE WERE TIMES when Benskin almost hated his profession, when he felt himself filled with an intense loathing of the sickening details of the various crimes which he was called upon to investigate. The room in the Euston Road Temperance Hotel to which he had been hastily summoned, its barren disorder, the pitiful, unclean meagreness of the whole setting, perhaps rendered more terrible still by the sight of the lifeless body crumpled up across the iron bedstead, at first filled him with nothing but disgust. Police Constable Collier, summoned from his beat to take charge of the room until one of his superiors should arrive, looked at the matter, however, differently. It was a gala morning for him, whose taste for sensation had usually to be appeased by the arrest of a white-faced pickpocket or the stopping of a drunken brawl.

"Copped it fair, he did, sir," he remarked, as he pointed to the small blue hole in the man's forehead.

"Was he dead when they fetched you?" Benskin asked.

"Dead as mutton, sir."

The detective stood a little away from the bed and studied the room. A single cane chair was lying on its back, with a broken leg, a worn strip of linoleum was rolled up and disarranged. The bed-clothes were in disorder, a broken glass which smelt of spirits lay upon the floor. There was a handful of loose money on the mantelpiece and, curiously enough, a gold watch and chain, apparently of considerable value. Benskin, conquering an aversion from which he had never wholly succeeded in freeing himself, came a little closer to the bed, and examined the dead man. The latter was apparently of middle age, clean-shaven, wearing the shirt and trousers of a labouring man, but presenting many indications of a superior station in life. On the floor by the side of the bed was a modern-looking revolver from which one cartridge had been discharged.

"What about the doctor?" the detective enquired.

"The waiter's gone round for Doctor Jacob, sir. His surgery's in the next street. The woman as keeps the house she's downstairs waiting for you."

"Bring her up," was the prompt command.

Police Constable Collier departed upon his errand, and in due course there were heavy footsteps upon the stairs, and he ushered in a lady whom he announced as the proprietress of the hotel. Except that she was rather inclined to be fat instead of thin, she conformed very faithfully to type. She was untidy, nervous, and almost incoherent. Early though the hour was, she gave one the impression that she had already had resort to some alcoholic stimulant.

"Do you know the name of this poor fellow?" Benskin asked, pointing towards the bed.

"Mr. Brown, he called himself, sir. Don't know whether that's his right name or not."

"How long has he been staying here?"

"Three nights— leastways he slept here three nights. He hasn't been in much during the daytime."

"Do you know anything about him?"

"Nothing, except he's paid a week's rent in advance for the room. There's a couple of beers sent out for owing, and a bottle of ginger beer he had last night when he came in after the pubs were shut."

"Was he staying here alone? Had he any visitors?"

"None that I know of," the woman replied. "I ain't always about, of course, but there was no one with him permanent."

"Was this all his luggage?" Benskin asked, pointing to a shabby kit-bag from which the initials seemed to have been scratched away, and a cheap green canvas portmanteau.

"All that I know of," she assented. "He had a trunk when he come but he took that away the next day."

"Did he say what his occupation was?"

"Something out of work. He wasn't fond of talking about himself, but he did let that slip. Kind of clerk, I should think he was, or something of that sort."

Benskin looked at the body thoughtfully. "Did you hear a shot in the night?" he enquired.

"Not a thing."

"Do you know what time he came in?"

"Not an idea. I never spies upon my lodgers as long as they behaves themselves. Besides, I sleeps in the attic."

"Anyone nearer than you likely to have heard him?"

"Not last night," the woman decided, after a moment's reflection. "There's no one in the two lower rooms. These big, cheap hotels near the station take all the people."

There was a knock at the door and Doctor Jacob entered. He was a pale, weary-looking man, with hooked nose, thinning grey hair, and a tired stoop of the shoulders. He deposited his little black bag on the edge of the bed, greeted the proprietress, and looked enquiringly towards Benskin.

"Inspector Benskin of Scotland Yard," the latter announced. "I was fetched here by telephone call from the constable on point duty. You can see the cause."

He indicated the figure upon the bed. The doctor put on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and made a brief but singularly cold-blooded examination.

"Bullet wound through the head," he remarked. "Close quarters, I should say. Case of suicide, I suppose. Wait a moment."

He unfastened the man's waistcoat. A tittle expression of surprise escaped him.

"What is it?" Benskin asked, drawing nearer.

The doctor pointed downwards.

"The clothes of a poor man outside," he observed—"but pale blue silk underclothes. Seems queer!"

The detective leaned a little farther over the bed. The doctor was right. The man's vest was of thick spun silk. He felt round the back of the neck. Inside was the name of a famous Bond Street hosier.

"Some one in hiding I imagine," the doctor propounded indifferently. "That's your job, not mine, anyway. Cause of death that bullet wound, without a doubt."

"How long should you say he had been dead?"

The doctor occupied himself with the body for a few minutes.

"About six hours," he decided.

He took up the revolver, shook out the cartridges, and held the weapon to his own forehead.

"Very simple," he observed. "I'll just do what's necessary, and then I suppose it will be the mortuary."

He bent over the bed once more and Benskin continued his search of the room. The gold watch had the maker's name in it, and there were the torn fragments of several letters which he carefully placed in the breast pocket of his coat. The markings had been removed from the few other articles of clothing. There was nothing in the shape of cards or papers by which immediate identification was possible. The doctor stood up and wrote a few lines in his memorandum book.

"Any fresh discoveries?" Benskin enquired.

"Nothing to discover," was the weary reply. "I'll give you the certificate when necessary. I suppose my fee—"

"That will be all right," the other assured him.

The doctor took his leave, followed a few minutes later by his fellow investigator.

SOON after the appearance of the evening papers, a middle-aged man, accompanied by a young lady in a state of considerable agitation, presented themselves at Scotland Yard, and were ushered into Benskin's room. The young lady, who was good-looking in a somewhat ordinary way, addressed him at once.

"Miss Hammond, my name is," she explained. "I'm private secretary to Mr. William Starr. He's been missing for several days. We thought he'd gone abroad, but we saw in the paper...."

She broke down for a moment. Her companion interposed a word.

"I'm Mr. Starr's servant, sir," he announced. "It's quite right what the young lady says. Mr. Starr went off last Thursday— we thought he was going to Boulogne for the week-end, but there've been a lot of people trying to see him since and we ain't heard anything of him."

"Of course it doesn't seem possible," Miss Hammond went on, "but when I read in the evening paper about a man having been found in the Euston Road, and the description and everything, it gave me quite a shock. I showed the paper to Furnell here, and he thought we ought to go there and make sure."

"Couldn't have rested quietly unless we had, sir," the man concluded. "When we got there, a policeman told us the body had been moved to the mortuary, and that we couldn't get in to see it without an order."

Benskin took down his hat.

"I'm sorry," he said to the girl. "You won't find it a very pleasant place to visit, but I will take you down there. First, however, in order to prepare yourself a little, do you recognise this?"

He produced the gold watch. The man turned it over in his hand with an exclamation of dismay.

"It's the master's, sir," he confided. "Was that found with the— with the body of the man who shot himself?"

"It was, and there is another thing— with whom did your master deal— say for his underclothes?"

"Beale and Inman in Bond Street, sir."

"Did he ever wear light blue silk ones?"

"Nearly all the time," the young lady cried.

"Then I am afraid you must prepare yourself for the worst," Benskin warned them. "The sooner we get it over the better perhaps...."

IT was an unpleasant errand, but brief enough. The girl gave one glance at the dead man's face and burst into sobs. Her companion looked away with a shiver.

"That's the master, sir," he announced—"that's him without a doubt. As good a one as ever I shall find again in this world; and what he wanted to do it for, when there's heaps of his friends he's helped himself who'd have given him a hand if he only hadn't been too proud to ask for it! I was kind of suspicious," he went on, "when he gave me my wages six months in advance, in case he didn't get back."

Benskin escorted them to the police car which was waiting and handed them in.

"I shall be staying here a few minutes," he said. "There are still one or two formalities. Will you give me your names and addresses, please."

The girl handed him a card and wrote the servant's name on the back.

"Was Mr. Starr in business?" Benskin asked her. Miss Hammond nodded.

"He was a financial agent," she exclaimed, "and company promoter. He's floated some wonderful companies in his time. Just now he wasn't doing quite so well and he seemed very queer and irritable. What Furnell says is quite true, though. There's plenty would have helped him if he'd been a little more confidential."

"You knew that he was hard up, I suppose, then?" The girl hesitated.

"I couldn't help knowing it," she admitted. "Everyone seemed to be tumbling over themselves to get money out of him. Will there be an inquest?"

Benskin nodded.

"Naturally. You will have to give evidence, I am afraid, but as it is such a simple case, it will only be a matter of a few minutes. You will get your subpoenas in due course."

"And the funeral?" she faltered, her eyes again filling with

"The day afterwards, I imagine. By the by, what was Mr. Starr's address?"

"Number 7a, Clarges Street," the man replied.

"You are staying there?"

"Yes, sir. I've had no order to leave. I suppose someone will come along who'll look after affairs as soon as the news gets about."

"7a, Clarges Street," Benskin repeated. "Please be there in an hour's time, if you don't mind. There are one or two little formalities to be attended to, and I might have to go through some of his papers."

"I will be there too," the young lady promised; "I shall be able to tell you anything you want to know."

She spoke almost eagerly. Benskin took off his hat and waved the car onwards. His eyes were on the girl's face until the last moment.

THE Sub-Commissioner had never been more surprised than when Benskin presented himself in his room early on the morning fixed for the inquest and asked that an application for a formal adjournment should be made.

"What on earth are you going to say, Benskin?" he demanded. "What reason could there possibly be for an adjournment? It seems to me that never in my life have I seen a clearer case."

"I thought so at first," the other admitted. "Sometimes I think so now, and yet there are one or two very peculiar points about it."

"The long and the short of the matter is, I suppose," the Sub-Commissioner remarked, "that you think the man was murdered instead of having committed suicide?"

His subordinate avoided a definite response.

"I really am completely in the dark at present, sir," he acknowledged. "You know how one has to trust to instinct sometimes."

"Your instinct has been worth following more than once," the Sub-Commissioner allowed, leaning back in his chair. "Let's hear a little more."

"Well, I didn't like the doctor," Benskin confessed. "He seemed to take everything much too much for granted. Then there was another thing, When he took off the vest I saw distinctly on the man's arms the marks of hypodermic injections. The doctor too must have seen them. He made no remark, failed to call my attention to them, or to examine them for himself. He just took up the revolver and showed me how he thought the thing was done."

"What about the motive?" the Sub-Commissioner asked. "There's a very serious motive for suicide; none whatever that I can see for murder. The man had lost all his money. His bankers had called in his overdraft and his creditors were clamouring around him. The little cash he had in his pocket and the gold watch were untouched. Of course, he may have had complications in his life we know nothing about yet. Have you stumbled across one of them, by any chance?"

"I can't say that I have," Benskin admitted. "There is no doubt that he was on very friendly terms with the secretary, to whom apparently he had left anything that may be saved from the wreck of his estate. Beyond that, I gather that he led the ordinary life of a middle-aged man about town."

"How would his financial position pan out exactly?"

"Badly, without a doubt. I called upon the young lady secretary again yesterday to see whether I could pick up any further information and I must confess I was astounded."

"In what way?"

"He seems to have dealt largely in stocks and shares and property," Benskin explained, "without keeping any account of his transactions except what the entries in his bank-book disclose. Then, this last year especially, he has been drawing considerable sums of money from his bank just on the day before any of the great race meetings."

"But still," the Sub-Commissioner urged, "why do you want the inquest adjourned?"

"Because there is something behind the whole affair I can't quite figure out. I should like a little more time to enquire into his private life. We are taking it for granted now that he committed suicide because he was undoubtedly in desperate straits and there appears to be not the slightest motive for any one to have shot him. That may be because we know so little of his private life. A man living as he did must naturally have had enemies. I only want a few days."

"We shall be damnably unpopular," his Chief grumbled, "but of course if you really want it, we'll apply."

"I must have it," Benskin insisted. "I hate making myself a nuisance, but I think the coroner will forgive me some day— at least, I hope so."

"If he ever does," the Sub-Commissioner remarked incredulously, "I'll stand you the best dinner I've ever ordered in my life."

So, at the end of that dreary, formal function, which took place on the day arranged, a thunderbolt flashed into the court. The doctor's evidence, followed by Miss Hammond's, seemed so conclusively to point to suicide that people took scant interest in the case. The general public deserted almost in a body before the coroner addressed himself to the jury. Then, quite unexpectedly, Benskin got up in his place, and on behalf of the police, made formal application for an adjournment. The coroner looked at him in amazement.

"An adjournment?" he exclaimed. "But for what reason?"

"The police have had very little time to make enquiries," Benskin pointed out. "They admit that the evidence as to suicide is, on the face of it, conclusive. On the other hand, they feel that in view of the fact that a large portion of the deceased's assets have apparently disappeared, they should like an opportunity of making a few enquiries before the matter is absolutely closed. A man who deals in large sums of money without keeping proper books in which their disposal could be traced, is, as you must admit, one of the most possible victims for a cleverly constructed crime."

The witnesses, Furnell, the doctor and Miss Hammond, were all seated in the well of the court, together with a lawyer who was understood to be representing them. The latter rose to his feet.

"It has occurred very seldom in my lifetime, Mr. Coroner," he said, "that I have found myself in the position of protesting against such an application as has just been made, especially when it has been made under the auspices of Scotland Yard, but I cannot for the life of me see the use or the advantage to anybody of the proposed adjournment. A clearer case of suicide, I venture to say, was never laid before you, sir. Why should my witnesses be inconvenienced, the poor fellow's funeral postponed, for no reason whatsoever?"

The coroner cleared his throat.

"Mr. Ellis," he admitted, "I feel a considerable amount of sympathy with what you have just said. At the same time, it has never been my custom to disregard an application made by a responsible person on behalf of the police. The inquest is adjourned until a week from to-day."

The few stragglers in the court rose to their feet, and made towards the exit. The girl remained in her seat for a moment, her eyes fixed upon Benskin. The doctor, on the other hand, shambled up to him.

"I can't imagine why you wish to waste our time in this manner, sir," he protested sharply. "The whole affair is so simple. From the moment I saw the body, I realised exactly what had happened, and the whole of the evidence has only confirmed my conviction. Adjourn the inquest, indeed! I have never heard of anything so foolish! You police can't have enough to occupy yourselves with,"

"I am very sorry if it inconveniences any of you," Benskin replied politely. "You see there are just one or two more enquiries which should be made before a serious matter like this is concluded. The jury's verdict once given is final, you must remember."

The doctor hurried off, with a little grunt of disgust. Somewhat to Benskin's surprise, when he reached the pavement he found Miss Hammond standing by his side. She was looking a little pale, but she was quite collected.

"Shall I see you again before the adjourned inquest, Mr. Benskin?" she asked. "There are letters every morning which of course you can see if you like— nothing very cheerful so far though, I am afraid. A young man from the Official Receiver's comes in and takes them away, but I always open them first."

"I'll look around, if I may," Benskin promised. "I'm sorry to bother you all with this adjournment."

"You ought to know whether it is necessary," was the quiet rejoinder. "If it is, then we have nothing to complain about."

"It will only be for a week," Benskin reminded her. "I am afraid I'm rather unpopular with all of you, especially the doctor, but one gets ideas, you know."

She looked at him keenly.

"I wonder what yours is?"

"Probably a mare's nest."

BEFORE the week was up, Benskin received a call from Miss Hammond. She was wearing a little more rouge than when he had at first seen her and she had apparently used her lipstick freely. She entered the office boldly, as one who has a grievance. Her manner was, if anything, a little over-confident. Nevertheless, there was no concealing the disquietude of her eyes.

"I want to know, Mr. Benskin," she said, as soon as he had provided her with a chair, "why I am being followed?"

"Followed?" he repeated. "By whom?"

"That is what I came to ask you," she rejoined. "All that I know is that twice during the last three days I have started out to pay a visit to a friend and discovered that a person whom I have seen loitering upon the other side of Clarges Street has dogged my footsteps."

"That seems very queer," Benskin observed. "If the person annoys you in any way, I should appeal to the nearest policeman."

"Are you sure that it is not the police who are responsible?" she demanded.

Benskin looked at her with those very innocent blue eyes of his wide open.

"My dear young lady," he exclaimed, "why on earth should the police take any particular interest in your movements?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," she admitted, "but there it is. Wherever I go, this man follows me. Twice I've given up the idea of going to visit my friends."

"Why change your plans because you were followed?" Benskin asked swiftly.

The girl was momentarily at a loss.

"No particular reason why I should," she confessed, "but I don't like people prying into my concerns."

"Miss Hammond," he assured her, a little more gravely, "I don't think that anyone wants to pry into your concerns. At the same time, you must remember that your late employer, although his suicide seems to be a reasonable enough action considering the state of his finances, died under very peculiar circumstances. He was reputed to be a wealthy man. He has left behind him nothing but debts. He is known to have been possessed of considerable property, stocks and shares. There is no evidence at all, not even in his banking accounts, of how he has disposed of these. You are the only person who might have thrown light upon the situation and you profess yourself unable to do so."

"But how can I?" she protested. "Mr. Starr kept no books— his was a one-man business— he didn't need to. If he had kept books, as he always said, he would have been liable to income tax."

"Just so," Benskin agreed. "Well, I am afraid I can't help you, Miss Hammond. I should advise you to speak to anyone whom you are sure is following you on any future occasion, and find out by whose instructions he is acting. You must remember that Mr. Starr had some very heavy creditors. Any one of them might be interested in your movements."

Miss Hammond took her leave without obtaining any further satisfaction, and Benskin, as soon as she had gone, glanced through the report of her movements on the previous day.

THE adjourned inquest opened without any indications of the sensation in which it was to result. The jury once more viewed the body. Miss Hammond and Furnell, the servant, again gave their evidence of identification. The doctor's evidence followed, almost word for word to the same effect as on the previous occasion. The coroner, however, instead of at once addressing the jury, referred to some papers by his side, and one or two observant people in the court noticed a distinct change in his manner. He nodded to the sergeant, who threw open the door of the witness box.

"Police Surgeon Harding."

The police surgeon stepped into the box. Doctor Jacob, who was seated just below, started slightly and leaned forward in his place. The coroner addressed the new witness, and after the ordinary preliminaries, again consulted his notes.

"You did not at first examine the body of the deceased?" he asked.

"I did not, sir," the surgeon acknowledged. "In the face of the testimony of Doctor Jacob, who was called in and who is a fully qualified man, it was not thought necessary. I had two inquests that day on the other side of London."

"You have since, however, at the request of the police, made an examination of the body?"

"I have, sir."

"Tell us what conclusions you arrived at." The surgeon hesitated.

"I will admit the possibility of error, sir," he said, "but I came to the conclusion that the deceased had been dead for several days longer than the period stated, and that death was due to morphine poisoning. The deceased was obviously a drug fiend."

There was a ripple of sensation in court. News that something strange was happening, or likely to happen, spread like wildfire, and people came streaming in on tiptoe.

"What about the revolver shot in the forehead?" the Coroner continued.

"I formed the opinion, sir," the witness replied, "that the shot had been fired into the head of the deceased some time after death."

Silence was impossible. There was a babel of whispering voices throughout the court. Doctor Jacob, it was noticed, was livid. Miss Hammond was rubbing her face with her handkerchief. The trembling fingers of her other hand held a stick of lip salve.

"That is a most extraordinary statement of yours, Surgeon," the coroner pointed out gravely.

"It is the result of my very careful examination of the body," the police surgeon announced.

The coroner waved him away and his place was taken by a well-dressed, portly-looking gentleman. The coroner turned towards him.

"Your name is Doctor Marriott, I believe, house physician to St. Luke's Hospital, Euston."

"That is my name and position."

At this point, Doctor Jacob was seen to rise stealthily to his feet. A burly-looking man in plain clothes, who was standing immediately behind, touched him on the shoulder, however, and he resumed his place.

"You have seen the body of the deceased?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you able to identify it?"

"Certainly. It is the body of Sidney John Mason, who died in one of my wards last Thursday week from morphine poisoning."

The murmur of voices rose until the coroner was forced to tap sharply upon the table before him. As soon as silence was restored, he turned back to the witness with an exceedingly pertinent question.

"Can you account in any way for the body of one of your patients, who died in your hospital, and who should have been buried under its auspices, being found in a temperance hotel in the Euston Road, surrounded by evidences of another personality?"

"If my answer to your question involves no contempt of the Court," the witness replied, "I should say at once that the fact can only be accounted for by the existence of a cleverly exploited and carried out conspiracy. Mason's body left the hospital for burial at two o'clock on the day arranged for. A coffin was deposited in the grave prepared before three o'clock."

"You know," the coroner asked, "that the grave has been dug up and the coffin found to contain nothing but bricks?"

"Such is my information."

Three times the coroner was forced to appeal for silence. At last he rose to his feet.

"Gentlemen of the jury," he said, "your unnecessary presence here, as you have now gathered, has been due to a conspiracy with which another Court will have to deal. You are discharged immediately from the present case and relieved from all future services for two years. Any further proceedings in connection with the deceased," the coroner added drily, with a significant glance in front of him, "will take place elsewhere."

The burly-looking man leaned forward and again touched Doctor Jacob upon the shoulder. Two policemen appeared from the back of the court. It took half a dozen men to make a lane through which Miss Daphne Hammond, Doctor Jacob and William Furnell were conducted to the police van which awaited them outside.

THE Sub-Commissioner kept his word. He entertained Benskin that night to the best dinner his club could provide. The first glass of wine he drank to his companion almost formally.

"Benskin," he said, "the Chief desires me to present to you his compliments. You have done the Force a remarkably good service. All the evening papers have laudatory articles concerning the establishment, but we will see that you get the credit to which you are entitled. I don't want all the details. I've picked up a few already, but just give me an idea how you tumbled to the thing. Here's your very good health!"

"Well, it began like this," Benskin explained, setting down his glass and helping himself to caviar. "I thought it extraordinary that Doctor Jacob made no remark about the numerous scars on the man's body from the hypodermic injections, and then, too, I noticed that the body bore marks of the injections sometimes made at a hospital to ensure that death has actually taken place. Then all sorts of little suspicious things cropped up. First of all, the cunning way the man was supposed to have crept into hiding, and yet in the matter of his underclothes and gold watch left evidences as to his identity. Then there was the disappearance of all his ready money, leaving nothing but debts behind. I couldn't make head or tail of his bank-book, so I had a long talk with the bank manager who was very sympathetic, chiefly because he dislikes Starr. We arrived in due course at a pretty clear idea of the man's financial position. He'd been a rich man once, without a doubt, but he lost fifty thousand pounds in rubber two years ago, and that started him on this game. Whenever he got a chance, he paid in money which he received from various quarters to a bank account abroad, and as he couldn't build up fast enough that way, he kept on drawing large sums through his own bank and pretending he'd lost them at race meetings. All this time, of course, he paid nobody, and he entered into every speculation where he could get a few months' credit and draw in a certain amount of cash. In this fashion he drained away the whole of his assets and built up a reserve of something like seventy thousand pounds in hard cash, all deposited in the United States. As soon as I had arrived at these facts, I put aside all idea of suicide and worked upon a theory of my own, which turned out to be the correct one. I looked up Doctor Jacob's past and I didn't think much of it. I paid a visit to the hospital and discovered that a patient, attended by Doctor Jacob, had died there three days before of morphine poisoning and had been buried at a certain cemetery nearby. A few more enquiries and I discovered that Doctor Jacob was paying off some pressing debts, and was ordering in whisky by the case, instead of by the bottle, that two men from the undertaker's establishment with whom the hospital had a contract had been drunk for two days, and that Miss Hammond was dividing her time between buying a trousseau and trying to get down to Tilbury. It didn't need much more, you see, sir. Starr had thought the scheme out carefully enough. He had got hold of a crook doctor, spent money freely, squared the landlady at the Temperance Hotel— three hundred pounds, she got paid— and up to a certain point the whole thing worked out according to plan.

"And what about Starr?" the Sub-Commissioner asked.

"Well, we shall know in a few minutes," Benskin replied, looking down the crowded room.

An official-looking messenger, preceded by one of the club officials, was making his way towards them. Benskin, with a word of apology to his Chief, tore open the envelope of the note which was handed to him. He dismissed the messenger with a little wave of the hand.

"Starr was arrested this afternoon at Tilbury," he announced "He and Miss Hammond were off on the Ortana to-night for the South Sea Islands."

The Sub-Commissioner was very human.

"Poor rascal!" he sighed, as he watched his glass being filled.

______________

16: The Unholy Experiment of Martin Shenwick,
and What Came of It

Ernest Favenc

1845-1908

The Town and Country Journal, 17 Dec 1898

I KNEW that Shenwick had been studying the occult for a long time, but being a hardened sceptic, I was not prepared to accept the wonderful progress and results that, he said, had so far rewarded him. All the experiments he essayed for my conversion had turned out failures. Therefore, when he came to me and stated that he had discovered how to resuscitate the dead, provided they were not too long deceased, I frankly told him that I did not believe him.

He was used to my blunt way of speaking, and did not resent it, but proceeded to explain how, after death, the soul hovered about the body for some time, and if you could induce the soul to re-enter the body, the late departed would be given a fresh lease of life.

Several difficulties suggested themselves to me, which Shenwick would not listen to. What, for instance, I said, if a man were blown into fragments by a dynamite explosion, how will you find and unite the pieces? If he were hanged, and his neck dislocated, how would you fix his spine up again? If he had his head chopped off—

Here Shenwick interrupted me to state that he meant only cases of natural death, the decay of the vital forces, not mangling and mutilation. He explained that the emancipation of the spirit for a short period inspired it with fresh vigor, and it came back rejuvenated and strong.

"How are you going to try your experiment?" I asked. "Corpses are not knocking about everywhere."

"I admit that is a stumbling block," he said, "but it may be got over. Would you object to putting a temporary end to your existence in the cause of science?"

I told him in language more forcible than polite that I would put an end, final, not temporary, to his existence first.

He accepted this seriously, and informed me that that would not avail, as I would not be competent to conduct the experiments.

We parted for the time, and I believe he spent most of his time searching for a fresh corpse. I know he applied at the hospital, and was ejected with scorn and derision. He also visited the morgue, but as most of the bodies that came there were "demn'd damp, moist, unpleasant bodies," they were no use to him.

"I've got him," he said, one day, stealing into my room on tiptoe as though he thought that the corpse upon whom he had designs would hear him.

"Got whom?" I asked, "the corpse you have been looking for?"

"No, he's not a corpse yet; I'm not going to make him one. Don't stare like that. He's dying, and I have agreed to keep him in comfort till he dies. He's got a churchyard cough, and drinks colonial beer by the gallon. Will you come and see him this evening?"

I said I would, and went on with my work, as he closed the door, softly and mysteriously, for what reason I know not. I went to Shenwick's that evening. He occupied three residential chambers in a large building, and found that he had given up his bedroom to the subject, who was established in comfort and luxury. As a subject, the man was probably as good as any other, but he was by no means prepossessing, and the language he used to Shenwick was painful to listen to.

"It's unfortunate, you know," said my poor deluded friend, "but since he has been taken care of and doctored, I am afraid he's getting better. Now, he would have been dead by this time if he had been left in the Domain. There was a drenching rain last night that would have finished him off out of hand."

A voice was heard from the next room, demanding beer, adjective beer, in a husky whisper.

"This is my only hope," said Shenwick, as he filled a pint pot from a keg. "The doctor says he is not to have it, but I take the liberty of differing from the doctor."

He took the beer in to his subject, and got cursed for his pains.

"He was quite resigned to death when I picked him up," said Shenwick sadly, when he came back; "but since he has been made comfortable he wants to live."

"Small wonder," I returned, laughing.

"It's no joke; by my agreement for his body I am bound to keep him as long as he lives."

"Well, we must try to upset that, if he does live. I have not seen your agreement; but, speaking as a lawyer, I should say it was not legal."

About three weeks after this Shenwick opened my office door, put his head inside, uttered the mysterious words, "Be prepared for a message this evening," and disappeared. I concluded that the subject had caved in after all, and was on the brink of the grave.

The message duly arrived before I left my office, and after dinner I went to see Shenwick. True enough the subject had departed this life, and his mortal, and very ugly, frame was in the possession of my friend, together with a doctor's certificate. He was now at liberty to conduct his experiments and prove the truth of his theory. He asked me to remain, and witness the result, to which I consented, and as he informed me that the small hours of the morning were most favourable, I took the opportunity of having a sleep on a sofa in the outer room, while Shenwick watched his beloved subject.

Shenwick woke me at about two o'clock. I got up stiff and cross, as a man generally is after sleeping in his clothes on a sofa.

"Hush!" he said, in that mysterious whisper he had affected of late. "I am now sure of success. I tried some passes just now, and I am confident that a spark of animation followed."

I muttered a tired swear word, and followed him into the bedroom. Shenwick lowered the light, and commenced his mesmeric or hypnotic hocus pocus over the dead subject. In the dim light it was a most uncanny exhibition, and the more excited Shenwick grew the more antics he cut with his hands, waving and passing and muttering.

Now what happened is almost incredible, had I not seen it myself; but that grim and ghastly corpse on the bed rose up in a sitting position, gasped and choked once or twice, and then broke out into the vigorous cry of a healthy, lusty infant. For an instant the most cowardly terror assailed me, and I confess that I had it in my mind to cut and run for it, when I noticed Shenwick, after swaying to and from, pitched headlong on the floor in a dead faint. That restored me to my proper senses, and I went and picked him up and tried to restore him.

Meanwhile the hideous thing on the bed still kept blubbering and crying. If you shut your eyes you would swear that here was a baby of forty-lung power in the room.

Shenwick at last recovered. "It was a success," he gasped.

"If you call that row a success, it was," I answered.

He listened intently, and a pained look came into his face. He was evidently greatly puzzled. "Let me go into him by myself," he said at last. I cordially agreed, and he went into the bedroom, and I solaced my nerves with a good strong nip of whiskey. Gradually the crying stopped, and Shenwick came tiptoeing out and told me that the subject had fallen into a nice, quiet sleep.

"It's awkward, very," he said; "but at any rate the experiment succeeded."

"What's awkward?" I asked.

"I left it too long. I told you that the spirit rejuvenated, grow young, after its release from the body. This spirit has grown too young— it's gone back to infancy."

"Then you'll have to rear it as an infant; but you won't find anyone to look after it in its present state."

"I'm afraid not; I'll have to bring it up by hand myself. It's hungry now, poor thing. Isn't there a chemist who keeps open all night?" I directed him to one, and he asked me if I would mind looking after it while he went out and bought a feeding-bottle and some food. "If it cries, try and amuse it," he said, as he left the room; and I heard his footsteps go down the stairs, rousing strange echoes in the great empty building. I called myself all the fools I could think of for having anything to do with Shenwick and his confounded experiments, and settled down to my dreary watch.

Sure enough, the horrid thing woke up, and commenced to cry again. Not being a family man, I had not the remotest idea how infants were to be soothed and beguiled to rest and silence. I had an inane notion that you said, "Goo, goo," or "Cluck, cluck," to them, and snapped your fingers and made faces at them. I tried all these in succession, but the more I goo goo-ed and cluck cluck-ed and made faces, each one more hideous than the last, the more that thing cried and sobbed.

At last, when daylight came, there was a loud knocking at the outer door. I went and opened it, and there stood the caretaker and his wife, the last much excited.

"Where's Mr Shenrock?" she demanded. "What's he doing of with a baby in the room, and ill-treating it, too?"

"There's no baby," I said; "it's a sick man."

"No baby, when I can hear it crying its dear little heart out! You've been smacking and beating of it." She pushed past me and went to the bedroom, saying, "Hush now, my pet; mother will be here directly."

She got as far as the door; then, at the sight of the black-muzzled ruffian sitting up in bed bellowing, she fell down in kicking hysterics. Her husband went to her assistance, but he, too, was struck speechless, with his mouth wide open. In the midst of it, Shenwick came back with a feeding-bottle, patent food, and some milk, having been lucky enough to stick up an early milk-cart. We recovered the woman and Shenwick told her that the patient had just had brain fever, and now imagine himself a baby, and the doctor said he was to be humoured. The woman was only too glad to get away. She had had what she termed a turn, and was not desirous of stopping any longer near this unnatural infant.

It was horribly grotesque to see the man-baby seize hold of the nozzle of the feeding bottle and suck its contents down. When it was satisfied, peace reigned, and the thing slept.

"Shenwick," I said, "you see what comes of interfering with Nature's laws. You will now have to adopt and rear that object in the next room. You were thinking of getting married, I know; but will your wife consent to your bringing home a baby 50 years old! No, she will not— you can consider that settled."

Shenwick groaned, "You needn't rub it in so," he answered.

"Perhaps not, for that little innocent darling asleep in the next room will be a constant reminder."

"Can't you give me some advice on the subject? Although you cannot deny the success of the experiment; yet between ourselves it is of no avail for any purpose. I thought and hoped that the spirit would come back charged with knowledge of the great hereafter. As it has unfortunately turned out, a baby has come back who will grow up with as little knowledge of the past as any other baby does." A long hungry wail came from the other room, emphasizing his statement, and proclaiming that the infant desired further nourishment. Shenwick went and filled the bottle up again.

"There's one chance you have," I said, when he came back. "This aged baby will, most likely, have to go through all the many ills that babies have to endure. I should take care that he died of croup, or scarlet fever, or whooping cough or something or other of that sort."

"What do you mean by 'taking care?'" said Shenwick, looking aghast.

"Nothing at all but what anyone but a fool would understand. I mean, take care of him if he is ill. Now, goodbye, I'm tired." I went home for a bath and breakfast, fully determined to have no more to do with Shenwick, and his dark experiments.

A fortnight afterwards, he came to the office. "I have got rid of him," he said, dropping on to the chair, as though wearied out."

"Buried him?" I asked.

"Oh, no! I called to the doctor who certified his death, and I told him that he had revived, but had come imbecile, imagining that he was an infant. So, after studying the case for some days, he called in another doctor, and he has been removed to an asylum."

"Do you pay for him?"

"Yes, a small sum weekly."

"Well, he will be a pensioner on you all your life, for, according to you, he has another span of years to live. Have you told Miss Colthrope about it?"

"Heavens! no; what would be the good?"

"Best to be open in these matters, however, I won't tell anyone; provided you swear never to have anything to do with this foolery any more."

"That I'll readily do," he said, and he did.

Shenwick married, and years passed, and he had a growing family, when he received a communication from the asylum, stating that the patient had improved so much that they thought he ought to be removed. The fact being that he had grown up into a boy and became more sensible.

Shenwick came to me in despair. "Just fancy, he has the soul of a boy, reared amongst lunatics in an asylum. Of course, he has not been taught anything; what on earth shall I do with him? Will you come out with me and see him? His appearance may suggest something."

I went out with him; ten years had passed since the fatal night of the experiment, and the body containing the boy's soul was that of an old man of sixty-six, looking older on account of the exposure and hardships the body had suffered. It was a regular puzzle. It was evident that he could not take the patient home. And it was pitiful, too. The soul, or spirit, whatever you like to call it, was full of life and vigor, which the palsied, doddering old body could not second. I could think of nothing but a benevolent asylum, and Shenwick agreed to it. The subject never reached it, however. There was a railway accident, and he was badly injured. We went to see him at the hospital. He was unconscious at the time, but death was very near, and he came to his senses just before we left. He recognised Shenwick, and growled out in the husky voice of old, "Hang you, are you never going to fetch that adjective beer?" Then he expired.

Shenwick told me that the last words he uttered at the period of his first death was an order to him, in flowery language, to go and get some beer.

___________________

17: A Relic of the Borgias

Richard Marsh

1857-1915

Collected in: Between Dark and Daylight, 1902

VERNON'S DOOR was opened, hastily, from within, just as I had my hand upon the knocker. Someone came dashing out into the street. It was not until he had almost knocked me backwards into the gutter that I perceived that the man rushing out of Vernon's house was Crampton.

"My dear Arthur!" I exclaimed. "Whither away so fast?"

He stood and stared at me, the breath coming from him with great palpitations. Never had I seen him so seriously disturbed.

"Benham," he gasped, "our friend, Vernon, is a scoundrel."

I did not doubt it. I had had no reason to suppose the contrary. But I did not say so. I held my tongue. Crampton went on, gesticulating, as he spoke, with both fists clenched; dilating on the cause of his disorder with as much freedom as if the place had been as private as the matters of which he treated; apparently forgetful that, all the time, he stood at the man's street door.

"You know he stole from me my Lilian— promised she should be his wife! They were to have been married in a month. And now he's jilted her— thrown her over— as if she were a thing of no account. Made her the laughing stock of all the town! And for whom do you think, of all the women in the world? Mary Hartopp— a widow that should know better! It's not an hour since I was told. I came here straight. And now Mr. Vernon knows something of my mind."

I could not help but think, as he went striding away, as if he were beside himself with rage— without giving me a chance to say a word— that all the world would quickly learn something of it too.

The moment seemed scarcely to be a propitious one for interviewing Decimus Vernon. He would hardly be in a mood to receive a visitor. But, as the matter of which I wished to speak to him was of pressing importance, and another opportunity might not immediately occur, I decided to approach him as if unconscious of anything untoward having happened.

As I began to mount the stairs there came stealing, rather than walking down them, Vernon's man, John Parkes. At sight of me, the fellow started.

"Oh, Mr. Benham, sir, it's you! I thought it was Mr. Crampton back again."

I looked at Parkes, who seemed sufficiently upset. I had known the fellow for years.

"There's been a little argument, eh, Parkes?"

Parkes raised both his hands.

"A little argument, sir! There's been the most dreadful quarrel I ever heard."

"Where is Mr. Vernon?"

"He's in the library, sir, where Mr. Crampton left him. Shall I go and tell him that you would wish to see him?"

Parkes eyed me in a manner which plainly suggested that, if he were in my place, he should wish to do nothing of the kind. I declined his unspoken suggestion, preferring, also, to announce myself.

I rapped with my knuckles at the library door. There was no answer. I rapped again. As there was still no response, I opened the door and entered.

"Vernon?" I cried.

I perceived at a glance that the room was empty. I was aware that, adjoining this apartment was a room which he fitted up as a bedroom, and in which he often slept. I saw that the door of this inner room was open. Concluding that he had gone in there, I went to the threshold and called "Vernon!"

My call remained unanswered. A little wondering where the man could he, I peeped inside. My first impression was that this room, like the other, was untenanted. A second glance, however, revealed a booted foot, toe upwards, which was thrust out from the other side of the bed. Thinking that he might be in one of his wild moods, and was playing me some trick, I called out to him again.

"Vernon, what little game are you up to now?"

Silence. And in the silence there was, as it were, a quality which set my heart in a flutter. I became conscious of there being, in the air, something strange. I went right into the room, and I looked down on Decimus Vernon.

I thought that I had never seen him look more handsome than he did then, as he lay on his back on the floor, his right arm raised above his head, his left lying lightly across his breast, an expression on his face which was almost like a smile, looking, for all the world as if he were asleep. But I was enough of a physician to feel sure that he was dead.

For a moment or two I hesitated. I glanced quickly about the room. What had been his occupation when death had overtaken him seemed plain. On the dressing table was an open case of rings. Three or four of them lay in a little heap upon the table. He had, apparently, been trying them on. I called out, with unintentional loudness— indeed, so loudly, that, in that presence, I was startled by the sound of my own voice.

"Parkes?"

Parkes came hurrying in.

"Did you call, sir?"

He knew I had called. The muscles of the fellows face were trembling.

"Mr. Vernon's dead."

"Dead!"

Parkes' jaw dropped open. He staggered backwards.

"Come and look at him."

He did as I told him, unwillingly enough. He stood beside me, looking down at his master as he lay upon the floor. Words dropped from his lips.

"Mr. Crampton didn't do it."

I caught the words up quickly.

"Of course he didn't, but— how do you know?"

"I heard Mr. Vernon shout 'Go to the devil' to him as he went downstairs. Besides, I heard Mr. Vernon moving about the room after Mr. Crampton had gone."

I gave a sigh of relief. I had wondered. I knelt at Vernon's side. He was quite warm, but I could detect no pulsation.

"Perhaps, Mr. Benham, sir," suggested Parkes, "Mr. Vernon has fainted, or had a fit, or something."

"Hurry and fetch a doctor. We shall see."

Parkes vanished. Although my pretensions to medical knowledge are but scanty, I had no doubt whatever that a doctor would pronounce that Decimus Vernon was no longer to be numbered with the living. How he had come by his death was another matter. His expression was so tranquil, his attitude, as of a man lying asleep upon his back, so natural; that it almost seemed as if death had come to him in one of those commonplace forms in which it comes to all of us. And yet—

I looked about me to see if there was anything unusual which might catch the eye. A scrap of paper, a bottle, a phial, a syringe— something which might have been used as a weapon. I could detect no sign of injury on Vernon's person; no bruise upon his head or face; no flow of blood. Stooping over him, I smelt his lips. There are certain poisons the scent of which is unmistakable, the odour of some of those whose effect is the most rapid lingers long after death has intervened. I have a keen sense of smell, but about the neighbourhood of Decimus Vernon's mouth there was no odour of any sort or kind. As I rose, there was the sound of some one entering the room beyond.

"Decimus?"

The voice was a woman's. I turned. Lilian Trowbridge was standing at the bedroom door. We exchanged stares, apparently startled by each other's appearance into momentary speechlessness. She seemed to be in a tremor of excitement. Her lips were parted. Her big, black eyes seemed to scorch my countenance. She leaned with one hand against the side of the door, as if seeking for support to enable her to stand while she regained her breath.

"Mr. Benham— You! Where is Decimus? I wish to speak to him."

Her unexpected entry had caused me to lose my presence of mind. The violence of her manner did not assist me in regaining it. I stumbled in my speech.

"If you will come with me into the other room, I will give you an explanation."

I made an awkward movement forward, my impulse being to conceal from her what was lying on the floor. She detecting my uneasiness, perceiving there was something which I would conceal, swept into the room, straight to where Vernon lay.

"Decimus! Decimus!"

She called to him. Had the tone in which she spoke, then, been in her voice when she enacted her parts in the dramas of the mimic stage, her audiences would have had no cause to complain that she was wooden. She turned to me, as if at a loss to comprehend her lover's silence.

"Is he sleeping?" I was silent. Then, with a little gasp, "Is he dead?" I still made no reply. She read my meaning rightly. Even from where I was standing, I could see her bosom rise and fall. She threw out both her arms in front of her. "I am glad!" she cried, "I am glad that he is dead!"

She took me, to say the least of it, aback.

"Why should you be glad?"

"Why? Because, now, she will not have him!"

I had forgotten, for the instant, what Crampton had spluttered out upon the doorstep. Her words recalled it to my mind. "Don't you know that he lied to me, and I believed his lies."

She turned to Vernon with a gesture of scorn so frenzied, so intense, that it might almost have made the dead man writhe.

"Now, at any rate, if he does not marry me, he will marry no one else."

Her vehemence staggered me. Her imperial presence, her sonorous voice, always were, theatrically, among her finest attributes. I had not supposed that she had it in her to display them to such terrible advantage. Feeling, as I did feel, that I shared my manhood with the man who had wronged her, the almost personal application of her fury I found to be more than a trifle overwhelming. It struck me, even then, that, perhaps, after all, it was just as well for Vernon that he had died before he had been compelled to confront, and have it out with, this latest illustration of a woman scorned.

Suddenly, her mood changed. She knelt beside the body of the man who so recently had been her lover. She lavished on him terms of even fulsome endearment.

"My loved one! My darling! My sweet! My all in all!"

She showered kisses on his lips and cheeks, and eyes, and brow. When the paroxysm had passed— it was a paroxysm— she again stood up.

"What shall I have of his, for my very own? I will have something to keep his memory green. The things which he gave me— the things which he called the tokens of his love— I will grind into powder, and consume with flame."

In spite of herself, her language smacked of the theatre. She looked round the room, as if searching for something portable, which it might be worth her while to capture. Her glance fell upon the open case of rings. With eager eyes she scanned the dead man's person. Kneeling down again, she snatched at the left hand, which lay lightly on his breast. On one of the fingers was a cameo ring. On this her glances fastened. She tore, rather than took it from its place.

"I'll have that! Yes! That!"

She broke into laughter. Rising she held out the ring towards me. I regarded it intently. At the time, I scarcely knew why. It was, as I have said, a cameo ring. There was a woman's head cut in white relief, on a cream ground. It reminded me of Italian work which I had seen, of about the sixteenth century. The cameo was in a plain, and somewhat clumsy, gold setting. The whole affair was rather a curio, not the sort of ring which a gentleman of the present day would be likely to care to wear.

"Look at it. Observe it closely! Keep it in your mind, so that you may be sure to know it should you ever chance on it again. Isn't it a pretty ring— the prettiest ring you ever saw? In memory of him"— she pointed to what was on the floor behind her— "I will keep it till I die!"

Again she burst into that hideous, and, as it seemed to me, wholly meaningless laughter. Her bearing, her whole behaviour, was rather that of a mad woman, than a sane one. She affected me most unpleasantly. It was with feelings of unalloyed relief that I heard footsteps entering the library, and turning, perceived that Parkes had arrived with the doctor.

WHEN VERNON'S death became generally known, a great hubbub arose. Mrs. Hartopp went almost, if not quite, out of her senses. If I remember rightly, nearly twelve months elapsed before she was sufficiently recovered to marry Phillimore Baines. The cause of Vernon's death was never made clear. The doctors agreed to differ; the post-mortem revealed nothing. There were suggestions of heart-disease; the jury brought it in valvular disease of the heart. There were whispers of poison, which, as no traces of any were found in the body, the coroner pooh-poohed. And, though there were murmurs of its being a case of suicide, no one, so far as I am aware, hinted at its being a case of murder.

To the surprise of many people, and to the amusement of more, Arthur Crampton married Lilian Trowbridge. He had been infatuated with her all along. His infatuation even survived her yielding to Decimus Vernon— bitter blow though that had been— and I have reason to believe that, on the very day on which Vernon was buried, he asked her to be his wife. Whether she cared for him one snap of her finger is more than I should care to say; I doubt it, but, at least, she consented. At very short notice she quitted the stage, and, as Mrs. Arthur Crampton, she retired into private life. Her married life was a short, if not a merry one. Within twelve months of her marriage, in giving birth to a daughter, Mrs. Crampton died.

I had seen nothing since their marriage either of her or her husband. I was therefore the more surprised when, about a fortnight after her death, there came to me a small package, accompanied by a note from Arthur Crampton. The note was brief almost to the point of curtness.

Dear Benham,—

My wife expressed a wish that you should have, as a memorial of her, a sealed packet which would be found in her desk.

I hand you the packet precisely as I found it.

Yours sincerely,

Arthur Crampton.

Within an outer wrapper of coarse brown paper was an inner covering of cartridge paper, sealed with half a dozen seals. Inside the second enclosure was a small, duodecimo volume, in a tattered binding. Half a dozen leaves at the beginning were missing. There was nothing on the cover. What the book was about, or why Mrs. Crampton had wished that I should have it, I had not the faintest notion. The book was printed in Italian— my acquaintance with Italian is colloquial, of the most superficial kind. It was probably a hundred years old, and more. Nine pages about the middle of the volume were marked in a peculiar fashion with red ink, several passages being trebly underscored. My curiosity was piqued. I marched off with the volume there and then, to a bureau of translation.

There they told me that the book was an old, and possibly, valuable treatise, on Italian poisons and Italian poisoners. They translated for me the passages which were underscored. The passages in question dealt with the pleasant practice with which the Borgias were credited of having destroyed their victims by means of rings— poison rings. One passage in particular purported to be a minute description of a famous cameo ring which was supposed to have belonged to the great Lucrezia herself.

As I read a flood of memory swept over me— what I was reading was an exact description, so far as externals went at any rate, of the cameo ring, which I had seen Lilian Trowbridge remove after he was dead from one of the fingers of Decimus Vernon's left hand. I recalled the frenzied exultation with which she had thrust it on my notice, her almost demoniac desire that I should impress it on my recollection. What did it mean? What was I to understand? For three or four days I was in a state of miserable indecision. Then I resolved I would keep still. The man and the woman were both dead. No good purpose would be served by exposing old sores. I put the book away, and I never looked at it again for nearly eighteen years.

The consciousness that his wife had spoken to me, with such a voice from the grave, did not tend to increase my desire to cultivate an acquaintance with Arthur Crampton. But I found that circumstances proved stronger than I. Crampton was a lonely man, his marriage had estranged him from many of his friends; now that his wife had gone he seemed to turn more and more to me as the one person on whose friendly offices he could implicitly rely. I learned that I was incapable of refusing what he so obviously took for granted. The child, which had cost the mother her life, grew and flourished. In due course of time she became a young woman, with all her mother's beauty, and more than her mother's charms: for she had what her mother had always lacked— tenderness, sweetness, femininity. Before she was eighteen she was engaged to be married. The engagement was in all respects an ideal one. On her eighteenth birthday, it was to be announced to the world. A ball was to be given, at which half the county was expected to be present, and the day before, I went down, prepared to take my share in the festivities.

In the evening, Crampton, his daughter, Charlie Sandys, which was the name of the fortunate young gentleman, and I were together in the drawing-room. Crampton, who had vanished for some seconds, re-appeared, bearing in both his hands, with something of a flourish, a large leather case. It looked to me like an old-fashioned jewel case. Which, indeed, it was. Crampton turned to his daughter.

"I am going to give you part of your birthday present to-day, Lilian— these are some of your mother's jewels."

The girl was in an ecstacy of delight, as what girl of her age would not have been? The case contained jewels enough to stock a shop. I wondered where some of them had come from— and if Crampton knew more of the source of their origin than I did. Wholly unconscious that there might be stories connected with some of the trinkets which might not be pleasant hearing, the girl, girl-like, proceeded to try them on. By the time she had finished they were all turned out upon the table. The box was empty. She announced the fact.

"There! That's all!"

Her lover took up the empty case.

"No secret repositories, or anything of that sort? Hullo!— speak of angels!— what's this?"

"What's what?"

The young girl's head and her lover's were bent together over the empty box. Sandys' fingers were feeling about inside it.

"Is this a dent in the leather, or is there something concealed beneath it?"

What Sandys referred to was sufficiently obvious. The bottom of the box was flat, except in one corner, where a slight protuberance suggested, as Sandys said, the possibility of there being something concealed beneath. Miss Crampton, already excited by her father's gift, at once took it for granted that it was the case.

"How lovely!" she exclaimed. She clapped her hands. "I do believe there's a secret hiding-place."

If there was, it threatened to baffle our efforts at discovery. We all tried our hands at finding, it, but tried in vain. Crampton gave it up.

"I'll have the case examined by an expert. He'll soon be able to find your secret hiding-place, though, mind you, I don't say that there is one."

There was an exclamation from young Sandys.

"Don't you? Then you'd be safe if you did, because there is!"

Miss Crampton looked eagerly over his shoulder.

"Have you found it? Yes! Oh, Charlie! Is there anything inside?"

"Rather, there's a ring. What a queer old thing! Whatever made your mother keep it hidden away in there?"

I knew, in an instant. I recognised it, although I had only seen it once in my life, and that once was sundered by the passage of nineteen years. Mr. Sandys was holding in his hand the cameo ring which I had seen Lilian Trowbridge remove from Decimus Vernon's finger, and which was own brother to the ring described in the tattered volume, which she had directed her husband to send me— "as a memory"— as having been one of Lucrezia Borgia's pretty playthings. I was so confounded by the rush of emotions occasioned by its sudden discovery, that, for the moment, I was tongue-tied.

Sandys turned to Miss. Crampton.

"It's too large for you. It's large enough for me. May I try it on?"

I hastened towards him. The prospect of what might immediately ensue spurred me to inarticulate speech.

"Don't! For God's sake, don't! Give that ring to me, sir!"

They stared at me, as well they might. My sudden and, to them, meaningless agitation was a bolt from the blue. Young Sandys withdrew from me the hand which held the ring.

"Give it to you?— why?— is it, yours?"

As I confronted the young fellow's smiling countenance, I felt myself to be incapable, on the instant, of arranging my thoughts in sufficient order to enable me to give them adequate expression. I appealed for help to Crampton.

"Crampton, request Mr. Sandys to give me that ring. I implore you to do as I ask you. Any explanation which you may require, I will give you afterwards."

Crampton looked at me, open-mouthed, in silence. He never was quick-witted. My excitement seemed to amuse his daughter.

"What is the matter with you, Mr. Benham?" She turned to her lover. "Charlie, do let me see this marvellous ring."

I renewed my appeal to her father.

"Crampton, by all that you hold dear, I entreat you not to allow your daughter to put that ring upon her finger."

Crampton assumed a judicial air— or what he intended for such.

"Since Benham appears to be so very much in earnest— though I confess that I don't know what there is about the ring to make a fuss for— perhaps, Lilian, by way of a compromise, you will give the ring to me."

"One moment, papa: I think that, as Charley says, it is too large for me."

I dashed forward. Mr. Sandys, mistaking my purpose, or, possibly, supposing I was mad, interposed; and, in doing so, killed the girl he was about to marry. Before I could do anything to prevent her, she had slipped the ring upon her finger. She held out her hand for us to see.

"It is too large for me— look."

She touched the ring with the fingers of her other hand. In doing so, no doubt, unconsciously, she pressed the cameo. A startled look came on her face. She gazed about her with a bewildered air. And she cried, in a tone of voice which, long afterwards, was ringing in my ears.

"Mamma!"

Ere we could reach her, she had fallen to the ground. We bent over her, all three of us, by this time, sufficiently in earnest. She lay on her back, her right hand above her head; her left, on one of the fingers of which was the ring, resting lightly on her breast. There was the expression of something like a smile upon her face, and she looked as if she slept. But she was dead.

____________

18: The Man Who Was Pawned

Sydney Horler

The Grand Magazine, Aug 1919

Collected in: Dying to Live, and other stories, 1935

SAM MEEKS' start of surprise might have been real.

"Blowed if I ain't gone an' left all me money 'ome," he said.

" 'Ome— what d'ye mean, 'ome?" rumbled Joe Peters. "If a stinkin' dog-kennel like the Lazy Liza is your idear of a 'ome, you was brought up worse'n wot I thought. An' stop that funny business. A man who's got to eat the grub you ill-treat ain't in a fit state to stand it."

Sam Meeks, who as cook of the schooner the Lazy Liza should have resented this reflection on his art, allowed the affront to pass by in silence. He felt he could afford to. The deception on his part had been neatly done; Peters evidently had no idea he would shortly have to pay for four seats at the Aldgate Empire instead of two.

" 'Ow I could 'ave bin so thoughtless, I can't think," Meeks went on to reproach himself. "There the money was, as plain as could be— seven shillin's in silver, thrippence in coppers, and a French penny, wot I thought we could push off on the tram-boy on the way back. An' there I goes an' leaves every bit o' it behind."

He lapsed into silence, shaking his head sadly as though ashamed of himself. Then, resolved to see the bright side at whatever cost, he remarked: "But there, money ain't no object to a man like you, Joe, when you're out wiv friends. Why, only las—"

A large hand placed violently over his mouth cut short the sentence.

"I told you to stop bein' funny, didn't I?" barked his companion threateningly.

Wriggling himself free, Meeks did his best to look aggrieved.

"Funny!" he echoed bitterly. "I don't call it funny when a man ses the gospel trooth, an' his pal don't believe him. I tell you I've lef' all me money 'ome."

"That's strange," grinned Peters, " 'cos I've done it too!"

"Done wot?"

"Why, lef' all me money 'ome, as you calls it."

Meeks threw his hands above his head and uttered a despairing cry which caused a passing policeman to regard him with professional interest.

"Yes," continued Joe Peters, "I mus' 'ave forgotten it when I was changin' me trousers. I thought 'twas time you 'ad a go at payin' for somethin'."

Sam Meeks stepped into the Commercial Road at the earnest request of a large hand-truck to which was attached a small but extremely voluble boy.

"Do you mean to tell me, Joe Peters," he asked, rubbing the damaged shin, "that you allowed yersel' to sink so low as to play a trick like that off on a man who 'as never wished you any 'arm in the whole of 'is life? I've bin deceived in you, Joe!"

Peters threw away the end of his cigarette and moved forward frowning.

"An' so you dragged me out to-night to make a fool o' me, eh?" he enquired.

In springing backwards, Meeks was completely successful in upsetting a coster's barrow. The cook of the Lazy Liza scrambled to his feet to receive the unexpected gift of an orange. It was a small orange, but what it lacked in size it made up in colour— the vivid green shadings on the side nearest to Meeks when it hit him were distinctly visible. It fitted into the cook's left eye like a new fashion in monocles. Even for the Commercial Road it was a sight quite out of the ordinary, and the large crowd which had collected expressed their disappointment when Peters, catching hold of the other's arm, cut short the entertainment.

"Wasn't it seven o'clock we promised to meet the gels?" he asked, as the public-minded coster commenced to give some more of his fruit away.

"Meet 'em!" replied Meeks, moodily abstracting the last fragment of orange from his eye. "An' wot's the good of meetin' 'em now? We've got no money, an' there ain't time to go back to the Liza."

He stopped, his face twisting in an alarming manner.

"You ain't goin' to be ill, are you?" angrily cried Peters, who was anxious to push on.

"Ill? No," was the fierce retort; "I'm thinkin'."

Thoroughly amazed, Peters waited with what patience he could muster until the cook's face should assume its everyday aspect.

"I've got an idear!" at length announced Meeks, flushed with triumph. "You'll 'ave to pawn somethin', Joe."

"Pity you didn't keep that orange!" replied the second hand of the schooner with unexpected brightness. "Pawn somethin'— I'd pawn you if I thought I could get anythin' on you!" he went on scathingly.

"That's my idear!" was the startling reply. "We must toss up to see who shall pawn the other!"

Joe Peters stood for a moment deprived of speech. Then he poured forth such a flood of invective that a passing drayman stopped his horse to listen. The second hand rounded off his comments with two succinct words. "You're barmy!" he declared with conviction.

"If you'd only listen to wot I 'ad to say," replied the cook in an injured tone, ''you'd thank me, instead o' usin' sich 'orrible language as makes me feel ashamed to be seen about with you. Now listen; 'old your 'ead 'ard between your two 'ands, an' you'll grasp it. Anythin' that is valooble can be pawned, I s'pose ? Well, ain't we valooble to the Old Man? 'E takes the Liza out with the tide at 'leven o'clock to-morrer mornin', don't 'e? If 'e knew that 'is cook or 'is second 'and was being kep' under lock an' key by some pawnbroker, wouldn't 'e be up 'ere first thing in the mornin'? Any pawnbroker who knows the Old Man— an' ther' ain't many that don't round these parts— would pay out 'arf a quid on either of us.

"My plan is," went on the ingenious Merks, gathering confidence at the unexpected silence of the second hand, "that which one of us wins the toss, arter goin' to the music 'all with the gels, would of course slip off to the Liza, get some money, an' come back straight away. We could both be in our bunks by 'arf past 'leven wiv nobody any the wiser, dreamin' about the nice time we've 'ad."

"You've got it all planned out so well that 'twould be a pity to spoil your pleasure," said Peters, after a long silence; "though I ain't expectin' to get very much on an undersized swab like you," he added resignedly. " 'Owever, you seem determined on it. I'll tell your girl you was kep' cookin' a dinner for an admiral."

"Fair's fair," said Meeks, endeavouring not to look crafty.

"We'll toss for it, as I said afore. Why, I've got a penny, arter all. That'll do. What is it, 'eads or tails, Joe?" He spun the coin and caught it neatly on the back of one hand. Then he sagged sideways.

"Can't 'ave any gamblin' 'ere," said the constable with what struck Peters as unnecessary brusqueness, "an' if I sees any more suspicious goin's-on between you two I shall run you both in. Now, get a move on there, an' no back answers."

With the air of being responsible for keeping the other out of mischief, the cook led away his prospective victim.

"Shop!" shouted Sam Meeks, banging his fist on the counter. "Keep yer pecker up, Joe; it'll be all over in about a minit— the worst of it, I mean," the cook whispered soothingly; "an' it's so nice an' dark in 'ere, 'e won't be able to see you blushin'."

Before Joe Peters, always a slow talker, could put his disordered state of mind into words, a long bamboo cane, apparently wielded by a ghostly hand, hit him over the head.

"If I catch you, you young varmints, I'll skin you alive— that I will!" wheezed a voice from behind a pile of linoleum. The next minute a face showed itself cautiously round the side of this retreat. It was a large red, moist face, fringed sketchily with whiskers. These, upon seeing the contorted visage of Peters, quivered like the gills of a sensitive fish.

"Can't say 'ow sorry I am, gen'l'men," remarked the pawnbroker, disclosing a figure running principally to stomach and skull-cap. "I thought 'twere they brats of boys again. I 'ave to keep a cane for 'em. 'Ullo, Mister Meeks," he went on, recognizing the leering cook. "Wot can I do for you?"

"Well, Mister Grimmles,"' replied Meeks a good six seconds before his companion, who was so full of words that he couldn't get a start, "it's like this: my friend 'ere, Mister Peters, who is second 'and on the Lazy Liza, finds 'imsel' in a bit of a 'ole, an' so, knowin' what a good 'eart you've got, I brings 'im along to you. 'E wants me to pawn 'im."

After shaking tremulously, the pawnbroker's pale whiskers almost succeeded in standing on end.

"I ain't allowed to 'ave drunks on my premises— you know that as well as I do, Mister Meeks," was the severe response; "nor loonies, either. If your friend ain't quite right in 'is 'ead, you'd better take 'im along to the 'orspital. 'E looked queer to me when I first saw 'im. You ought to 'ave knowed better than bring 'im 'ere."

" 'E would come," declared the cook; "said 'e'd never forgive me unless I put 'im in pawn."

"Much more of this," bellowed the maligned Peters, "an' you'll both go to the 'orspital in bits. It ain't me that's goin' to be pawned, at all— it's 'im."'

Sam Meeks, upon being pointed at, shot a meaning glance at the befuddled pawnbroker.

" 'E's a bit ashamed— that's why he's carryin' on like this,"' he started to explain, "although I will say it does 'im credit. I've done a lot for 'im one way an' another an' 'e's doin' this to pay me back. You see, I've got a lady friend to meet in a few minutes, but unfortunately I lef' all me money 'ome. When I told this to Mister Peters 'ere, nothin' would content 'im but that I should put 'im in pawn straight away an' raise 'alf a quid that way.

"Now, don't take on so," the cook continued. "If you'd only stop an' think a minit, Mister Grimmles, you'd see I was puttin' a decent bit of business in your way."

"A decent bit o' business— payin' out valooble money on a sailor wot's 'arf daft!" wheezed the pawnbroker. " 'E'd be wuss'n rabbits. Who'd pay for 'is grub? That's what I'd like to know!"

"If you'd only listen,"' said the cook as though he were addressing a fractious child.  "I said you'd be doin' a good bit of business, an' I meant it. Look 'ere, we sails to-morrer mornin'. Now then, spose the Old Man got to 'ear that 'is second 'and was locked up in pledge, wouldn't 'e be up 'ere as fast as 'is legs could carry 'im? Wouldn't 'e pay you anythin' almost to get Joe 'ere out of pawn? That's what I meant when I said I was puttin' a good bit of business in your way— our sailin' in the mornin' is your secoority, as it was. "In course, I kin quite understand that you don't want to 'ave a face like old Joe's 'angin' round your place ; it would give it a bad name— but 'twill only be for a few hours. I shall be back at 'arf past ten for cert'n with the money. Now then, I can't waste any more time— let's 'ave the money, Mister Grimmles ; I've got to be off. 'Arf a quid ain't too much to advance on a big strappin' feller like this 'ere, is it?"

He accompanied the words with such a look of significance that Mr. Grimmles, whose keen eye to business, and a willingness to depart from the strict letter of the law now and then had led to his present prosperity, commenced to fumble beneath the counter. He had laboriously put on a pair of horn spectacles, when Peters made his last desperate attempt to save himself.

"We'll toss for it !'' he said in a choking voice. The pawnbroker looked at him in pained surprise. Then he cast a professional eye over the unpronounced frame of the cook.

"Toss for it, if you like, of course," he said; "but you don't think I'm such a fool as to advance anythin' on a 'eap of bones like Mister Meeks, do you? 'Twould be money thrown away. Ship's cooks is alwis five a penny, and skinny ones cheaper'n that," he added, winking at the delighted Meeks.

" 'Ere you are; anythin' to please you," cried the cook, pulling his hand out of his pocket.

"What is it, Joe, 'eads or tails ?"

" 'Eads!" roared the second hand, bending forward and breathing fiercely. Meeks made a quick movement of the hand that covered the coin.

"Sorry, Joe— it's tails," he announced in a tone of regret. "Make out the ticket, Mister Grimmles."

To the accompaniment of strange explosive noises, the pawnbroker bent to his task.

" 'Ere you are, Mister Meeks,"' he said at length, " 'ere's the ticket an' ten shillin's. Now, you go off an' enjoy yoursel'. Come on," he continued, addressing Joe Peters, "I shall 'ave to wrap you up in a nice tight parcel to keep you from the dust."

Possessed by feelings of a violent nature, the second hand of the Lazy Liza sat on a chair much too small for him and clenched his hands as the sound of low but distinct laughter came to him from outside. It was a small room and very dark, so dark that when he got up suddenly he failed to notice the low roof, and bumped his head so hard that an egg-shaped swelling immediately appeared on his scalp.

"Stop that swearin'," came a strangled voice from outside, "or I shall 'ave the polis on me."

Realizing the complete futility of life, Peters accommodated as much of himself as was possible on the small chair once more, and thought longingly of a sharp knife and the cook's naked body. He did not know what time it was, but guessed it must be about half past seven. He had to spend another three hours in that musty rabbit-hutch. Apart from swearing, which only made his mouth dry, he had nothing else to do but think. And the more he thought, the more he was convinced that he had been the victim of a deep-laid plot.

Stories about a certain penny of ill-fame with which Sam Meeks had never been known to lose a toss came back to him.... From the ill-favoured cook his thoughts naturally went to Florrie Bigham, by the side of whom he should have been sitting at that very minute. The first night he and the cook had "taken out" Florrie and her friend, he had noticed that Meeks had behaved in a very singular manner.

From time to time he would leave his own partner and engage in earnest conversation with Florrie. It was true, Peters remembers, that the philanderer had got a very business-like smack in the face for his pains, but the recollection made everything clear to him— he had been made a fool of!

Time is said to heal all wounds, but when ten o'clock came round Peters told himself that if he got off with a verdict of manslaughter, he'd be lucky.

The clock from some neighbouring church had only just finished striking when a knock sounded on the door.

" 'Ow're feelin'?" asked a husky voice. "If you promise to behave yersel' an' not run away, I've got a glass of beer an' a crust of bread-cheese out 'ere."'

In his present condition the thought of beer was almost too much for Peters. When the door was carefully opened by Mr. Grimmles he staggered out of the room as though it were a condemned cell.

"Ain't 'ad such a laugh— no, not for ten years!" announced Mr. Grimmles, the pawnbroker, as he poured out a glass of beer, and looked at the disconsolate second hand. "It's done me more good than a bottle of physic—ah, two bottles. I must tell my niece Florrie, p'raps she'll write a bit, an' send it up to one of the pipers.'

"Who's that taking my name in vain?" cried a feminine voice brightly. The next moment the door of the pleasant little sitting-room which opened out on to the street flew wide, and a girl came into the room.

Peters, feeling the urgent need for sustenance, was hurriedly disposing of his second glass of beer when he laid his glass down with a croaking noise.

The girl was Florrie Bigham!

"This is a friend of mine, Florrie," chuckled the pawnbroker. " 'E was in a bit of a 'ole to-night, but I was glad to say I was able to give 'im some 'elp."

The girl's pretty face blanched.

"He hasn't been committing any terrible crime, has he, uncle?" she asked. ''He— he looks so shamefaced that— that— he isn't hiding from the police, is he, uncle?"

Mr. Grimmles creaked in his chair.

"Not from the polis, me dear!" he wheezed, winking at the horror-stricken Peters. "Fact is, me dear, he's— he's pledged !''

"Pledged?" echoed the girl in a rising voice. '"Pledged to drink you out of house and home, I suppose!"

Peters, who had unconsciously helped himself to a third glass, thereby emptying the bottle, placed his tumbler on the table as though it had suddenly become red-hot, and tried to look indifferent. This endeavour played such havoc with his features that the girl suddenly screamed, placing her hands before her face and bowing her head.

"Oh, look at his eyes !'' she screamed. "I'm sure he's a bad man, uncle. Send him away!"

"I can't!" cried the pawnbroker, purple in the face. " 'E's got to stay with us! Ain't you, Mr. Peters?"

"For ever!" replied the second hand of the Lazy Liza, grinning maliciously at the girl who had disowned him. "Ain't you got some more beer in the 'ouse?"  he demanded sharply of his host.

"Not exactly forever,'' amended Mr. Grimmles, forgetting to laugh, and rising with difficulty as he noticed the eye of his strange guest was still upon him.

"You must excuse me, me dear," the pawnbroker remarked to the girl. "I'm jes' goin' down to the cellar to fetch up another bottle of beer."

The girl made no reply.

"Wonder you ain't afraid to stop alone with such a des'prate character," proffered Peters, rendered bold by despair.

The girl chose to ignore the sarcasm, but, advancing a few , eyed the speaker intently. "I had to say that so that my uncle shouldn't guess we knew each other. Why didn't you turn up to meet me to-night?" she added accusingly.

Peters choked. "I couldn't," he stammered. "Didn't Sam Meeks tell you?"

"Oh," answered the girl, breaking into a shrill laugh, "Mr. Meeks told me a lot of things." Her laugh became even more penetratingly shrill. "I shall never forget what Mr. Meeks told me."

The harassed Peters was about to put a few searching questions, when the téte-a-téte was interrupted by the return of Mr. Grimmles with the consignment of beer. The mirth had gone from the pawnbroker's face; a joke was one thing, but when a man who hadn't any money started ordering beer as though he had a perfect right to it, it was time a foot was put down. That was Mr. Grimmles' view. The pawnbroker was so abstracted that he would have given his guest only half a glass if Peters had not called his attention to it.

"Only another five minutes of this," the pawnbroker remarked with a profound sigh of relief after looking at his watch. "Sam Meeks promised to be back by 'arf past ten."

"Who's Sam Meeks?" asked Florrie Bigham innocently.

"Sam Meeks," replied Mr. Grimmles ponderously, ''is the man who's responsible for this 'ere feller. I'm afraid you was right, jes' now, Florrie, when you said 'e looked like a bad character. I've been disappointed in 'im."

The second hand of the Lazy Liza was by this time well through a fourth glass, and making a hasty calculation Mr. Grimmles reckoned that so far he was over a shilling to the bad. A clock chimed.

" 'Arf past!" announced the pawnbroker. "I shall soon be able to clear you out now, me lad!"

"But, uncle, I thought you said Mr. Peters was going to stay with us," said Florrie Bigham, smiling prettily at the second hand, and making his head swim as she came and stood over his armchair.

"That was only my joke," replied the pawnbroker. "Do you think I'm goin' to 'ave a lazy good-for-nothin' common sailor orderin' me about in me own 'ome ?"

"Mr. Peters didn't mean any harm," said this unexpected ally; "and in any case, uncle, I don't think Mr. Peters can go home just yet."

The attitude his niece had taken up so puzzled the pawnbroker that when a knock was heard on the front door he forgot himself to the extent of going in person to see who it was.

"Don't be afraid,' whispered the girl, bending down. The second hand felt himself filled with audacity. Turning the pretty face round with one hand he planted a hearty kiss on the girl's ripe lips.

"How dare you !'' cried Florrie Bigham; but she did not seem to mean it.

" 'Avin' a nice little game on your own, eh?" asked a disagreeable voice. "Why, Florrie—I didn't know you lived 'ere."

"There's a lot of things you'll know, one day or another, Sam Meeks," replied the girl cryptically.

"Well, I can't stand jawin' 'ere," cried the cook, eyeing the girl moodily as she started to stroke Joe Peter's hand affectionately. "It's only bekase of me good natur that I'm 'ere now. Come on, Joe Peters, out of that chair; it's time we was goin'."

"If you've run all the way to the Liza an' back," returned Peters, "you'll want a rest; sit down an' 'ave a drop of beer along wi' me. Besides, I ain't so keen on goin' as I was. Florrie an' me's got a lot of things to talk about, ain't us, Florrie?"

The girl's reply was quite distinct, in spite of the loud coughing of the pawnbroker.

"Mr. Peters can't go yet; he's got to stay with us," she said, sitting on an arm of the second hand's chair.

"But I've come to— to take you out!" roared Meeks. "What'll the Old Man think?"

"I 'ad nothin' to do with it," said Peters, pouring himself out another glass of beer, and pretending not to hear what the pawnbroker was trying to say. "Remember, it was all your doin', Sam— I shall 'ave to tell the Old Man that if it comes to the point. An' now I come to think of it, the las' thing he said to me when I lef' was: 'If that fool of a cook ain't back by 'leven sharp, I'll stop a week's money.' You've only got ten minutes, but if you run 'ard, you might be able to do it. Don't mind me; I'm not goin' to hurry now I'm 'ere."

"Of course not," laughed the girl, looking, with twinkling eyes at the bewildered Meeks.

The latter counted out ten shillings and banged the money on the table.

'"There's your money, Mr. Grimmles," he said sourly, "an' now I wash me 'ands of the whole business."

"Thrippence on the ticket— an' a bob's worth o' beer— a good bob's worth— is one-an'-thrippence. I wants another one-an'-thrippence, if you please, Sam Meeks," muttered the pawnbroker.

Rendered speechless at this exorbitant demand, the cook was about to fling himself out of the room when he heard the low but happy laughter of Miss Florrie Bigham. Feeling that no price was too dear if he could only drag his rival away, he laboriously counted out fifteen coppers and placed them on the table by the side of the silver.

"An' the ticket, Sam," guffawed the second hand. "You can't git me out o' pawn without the ticket!"

"Yes, you must have the ticket, Mr. Meeks; I know enough about the law to know that," corroborated Miss Bigham. "What, do you mean to say you haven't got it?" she went on to enquire, as the cook turned out pocket after pocket without success.

"I've— I've lost it!" gasped Meeks at last.

"Well, the only thing you can do now," advised the girl with exasperating readiness, "is to go before a magistrate and swear that the pawned property belongs to you."

"Belong to 'im!"' scoffed the man who had been pawned. "Why, I wouldn't ackernowledge 'im if I was to pass 'im in the street !"

"I don't care a darn if 'e's lost the ticket or not!" exploded Mr. Grimmiles, finding his voice after several attempts. "Do you think I'm goin' to keep a great 'ulkin' feller like that about my place, eatin' my food, an' "— with a glance of rage at Peters— "an' drinkin' my beer?"

"Uncle, you're not going to break the law after all these years, are you?" said his niece reproachfully. "The best thing Mr. Meeks can do is to go back to his captain and make a clean breast of it. And don't you wait up, uncle; I'll look after Mr. Peters."

The pawnbroker felt the need to kick somebody. Sam Meeks was the nearest to him.

"Get out," he choked, "before I break every bone in your body!"

"Will he get into trouble?" asked Miss Bigham, as the front door was heard to slam.

The vision of the skipper of the Lazy Liza being told that his second hand had been pawned, and that the man who had done it had lost the ticket, was so overpowering that Mr. Peters shook in his chair.

" 'E'll probably be put into irons!'' he replied in a weak voice.

"Serve him right!" remarked the girl with conviction. ''He's a mean little worm, that Meeks. When we were at the lay to-night he told me all about the trick he had played on you. ought he had been clever, I suppose. Fairly made my blood boil, it did; how to sit there I didn't know! But I got my own back."

" 'Ow ?" asked the delighted Peters, squeezing her hand.

"When he got up to buy a programme something dropped out of his pocket. Directly I saw it I knew what it was. If I hadn't disliked him so for laughing at you I might not have looked, but when I saw it was a pawn ticket I felt as though I was bound to see what it was he had put away. Well, when I did see it I thought I should have died. But I knew that Meeks would get into a row with uncle if he lost it, and soI put it into my own pocket. And"— triumphantly— "here it is !"

Miss Bigham placed a green ticket into the hand of Mr. Peters, who regarded it intently. The amazing document bore testimony that some hours previously "one abel boddied seeman named Joseph Peters" had been placed in pawn for the sum of ten shillings.

"An' now I s'pose I shall 'ave to go," said the second hand.

"I'll come into the passage with you," replied the girl encouragingly, "and I shall be out by myself to-morrow night. Don't bother if you haven't much money— I can always borrow some off uncle."

End

Table of Contents

- 1: A Slow Match / William Babington Maxwell
- 2: When Boob meets Bob / James H. Baker
- 3: Monkey-Nuts / D. H. Lawrence

- 4: The Patent Gas Regulator / Charles B. Lewis

- 5: How Santa Claus Came to Simpson's Bar / Bret Harte

- 6: Double Trickery / Lemuel De Bra
- 7: The Dedham Mansion Case / Lemuel De Bra
- 8: Saturday Afternoon / Ellis Parker Butler

- 9: Gold Is Where You Find It / Beatrice Grimshaw

- 10: The Cibourne Trail / H. Bedford-Jones

- 11: A Bad Bit of Trouble / Bertram Atkey

- 12: Murder With a Smile / Clarence Herbert New

- 13: The Madness of William Bull / Bertram Atkey

- 14: The Headswoman / Kenneth Grahame

- 15: The Sad End of Mr. William Starr / E. Phillips Oppenheim

- 16: The Unholy Experiment of Martin Shenwick / Ernest Favenc

- 17: A Relic of the Borgias / Richard Marsh

- 18: The Man Who Was Pawned / Sydney Horler